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You fold another shirt, the fabric still smelling of detergent but also carrying a faint scent of Levi. You pause with it halfway over your lap before smoothing your palm over the crest stitched near the chest, pressing your thumb over the raised threads. It’s your way to reach him across the city, through the traffic and the rain and whatever pre-match obligations have kept him away since morning.

It’s Saturday. The sky outside the windows is pale and watery grey. Your coffee has gone lukewarm on the table. A half-edited batch of client photos waits on your laptop from your recent wedding shoot. You keep telling yourself you’ll get back to them after you finish matching socks. 

Then your phone buzzes. Three times.

You look at it absently, expecting a reminder, a group chat text, maybe your friend asking whether you’re still on for lunch tomorrow, but the first message on your screen nearly makes you drop the shirt in your other hand.

Are you okay?

Another one follows.

Please don’t look at Twitter.

Then another.

I know it’s probably bullshit, but I wanted you to hear from me first.

When the link appears beneath your friend’s next message, you stare at the thumbnail without opening it, because there is Levi outside a hotel, his face turned away from the camera, and beside him is a woman you don’t recognize at first, slender and pretty and wrapped in his black jacket as she ducks her head against the flash of cameras.

All sound drowns out from your senses, then it rushes back with your pulse pounding in your ears. The headline is worse than the photo.

LEVI ACKERMAN SPOTTED LEAVING HOTEL WITH MYSTERY WOMAN

You open it, even though you know you shouldn’t. It’s the same as touching a hot pan, looking down from a great height, or reopening a wound just to check if it’s still capable of bleeding. You tap it anyway, and suddenly the article flashes across your screen.

There are three main photos. In the first, Levi is stepping out of a side entrance with one hand lifted toward the reporters, not waving or greeting, but blocking his face. In the second, the woman is closer to him, his jacket around her shoulders, her blouse visibly stained by what looks like wine. In this third, his hand is at the small of her back, guiding her toward a waiting car. Even though you know Levi, know that touch is anything but intimate, it doesn’t stop the twisting of your stomach.

Your phone rings. Levi’s name fills the screen.

You consider not answering. He hasn’t done anything wrong, really, and you definitely don’t believe the article, but hearing his voice might be the thing that breaks you. Because you know he’s going to try to explain, and explanations will only deepen the wound. You answer anyway.

“Don’t read it,” Levi says immediately. No hello. Not even an are you okay?

You close your eyes. “Little late for that.”

You hear him breathe out, quietly with a hint of frustration. You can picture him perfectly, one hand on his hip, the other holding his phone to his ear, probably glaring at nothing in particular while his expression sours.

“It’s bullshit,” he says.

“I know.”

“It was Erwin’s sister.”

“I know,” you repeat, though you didn’t until this exact second.

“She got cornered after dinner,” Levi says, as if he’s explaining this to his PR manager. “Some bastard knocked into her, wine went all over her blouse, reporters were swarming the front entrance. Erwin asked me to get her to the car through the side.”

“Levi—”

“My jacket was because of the spill. My hand was because she was about to walk into a camera. That’s it.”

“I believe you.”

Silence falls. Those three words should erase the photos, destroy the headline, pull the sickness out of your stomach, because trust is the hard part, isn’t it? The thing all the songs and movies and relationship advice columns treat like the center of it all. But instead, the words just hang there, while your eyes keep drifting back to the photo of another woman wearing Levi’s jacket.

His voice changes, low now, the first hint of uncertainty breaking through the anger. “Then why do you sound like that?”

You look down at the shirt in your lap and realize you’re gripping it like a vice. “Because believing you doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Levi says nothing for a moment. You can hear him trying to solve the issue within a minute, trying to decide whether he can outrun this, whether he can force these headlines to disappear.

“My PR manager is putting out a denial,” he says at last.

“Okay.”

“I’ll call Erwin. He’ll confirm it if they need him to.”

“Okay.”

“It’ll pass.”

You sigh. You refresh the article. There are already dozens of comments. “Yeah,” you say, though you don’t believe it. “Probably.”

Levi exhales your name. “Don’t look at the comments.”

You laugh once. Too late again. After you hang up, you sit there with his shirt in your lap and do exactly what every rational part of you is screaming at you not to do. You scroll.

She looks better with him anyway.

Your breath hitches.

His girlfriend always seemed boring.

Your thumb moves before you can stop it.

imagine fumbling Levi Ackerman. 

He’s been playing worse since he went public with her.

She’ll stay. Girls like that always stay.

That one stops you. A smug little hand of a stranger reaching through your screen to pat your head and tell you what kind of woman you are, what kind of woman you will always be, how much humiliation you’re built to swallow. Suddenly, your eyes burn so badly that you lock your phone, toss it onto the couch, and press the heels of your hands against your eyes.

You believe Levi. So why does this hurt so much?

.

By the time Levi comes home, the laundry is folded, your coffee is cold, and the apartment has become eerily silent. He enters as he always does, key in the lock, shoes off at the door, jacket hung on the hook, hands washed before he touches anything else. There’s something almost ridiculous about watching him set his keys in the little metal tray you bought at a street market while half the world is deciding whether he loves you. 

He looks at the folded laundry. “You didn’t have to do mine.”

“I was already doing laundry,” you say. A nothing sentence. A nothing answer.

Levi has never needed much to read a room. It’s one of the things that makes him terrifying on the field, the ability to see an opening before anyone else knows it exists, but now you hate how quickly he notices just how nervous you are, how his eyes are glued onto your hands keeping busy with a pair of socks that have already been folded.

He walks closer but stops before he reaches the couch, as if an invisible line has appeared between you. He doesn’t know whether crossing it would be comfort or trespass.

“You saw the statement?” he asks.

“Your PR manager’s?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw it.”

“It says the rumor is false.”

“I know.”

“It says I was assisting a family member of a teammate.”

“I know.”

“It says—”

“Levi,” you interrupt, and he stops. He looks at you with glassy eyes. “I believe you.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Then what’s the problem?” The words don’t land right. You can see the second he knows it, but your hurt is faster than his regret. 

“The problem is that everyone is talking about me like I can’t see what they’re saying,” you say, standing so quickly that one of the folded shirts slides off your lap and onto the floor.

“I told them it was bullshit,” he says.

“You told them you didn’t cheat.”

“Because I didn’t.”

“I know that.”

“Then what else do you want me to say?”

You laugh again, this time with too much pain in it. You’ve spent too much of the afternoon reading strangers comparing your body to another woman’s and your personality to a blank wall. “I don’t know, Levi, maybe something about the fact that people are calling me stupid and ugly. Maybe something about the fact that they’re blaming me because you had a mediocre game last week. Maybe something about the fact that now my name is trending for the wrong reasons. I didn’t ask to be in this scandal.”

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he says.

“For who?”

“For you.”

“And you think that’s your decision to make alone?”

Levi looks away first, down toward the shirt on the floor. He bends to pick it up, almost careful in the way he moves close to you. Guilt crawls up your throat. You love him. You know him. You know he’s able to protect people he loves from pain. 

“I’m trying,” he says.

“I know.”

“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t sound like you do.”

“And it doesn’t feel like you’re listening.”

That one hurts him. You see it before he hides it. In this moment, you’re nothing more than two people who are standing on opposite sides of the same wound, both bleeding, both too proud or frightened or exhautsed to move first.

That night, you sleep in the guest room. Levi doesn’t argue when you take your pillow from the bed, though he stands in the doorway with his arms at his sides and watches you like he wants to tell you to stop, to stay, to tell you he doesn’t want you to be apart from him, even for a night.

You lie awake for hours. On the other side of the wall, Levi does too. You eventually hear him wander into the kitchen. You hear the floor creaking, the sound of water running, the opening and closing of a cabinet. You imagine him making tea you know he won’t drink right now, staring at nothing because he’d rather be angry than afraid.

You don’t want to admit to him you’re afraid too.

.

The next match comes three days later. You watch from home. You don’t want to be a distraction—that’s what you tell yourself. But you truly can’t bear the thought of cameras finding your face in the stands, can’t bear commentators saying your name, can’t bear thousands of people pausing the broadcast to decide whether you look heartbroken enough, loyal enough, pretty enough, strong enough. So you sit on the couch in one of Levi’s old shirts and watch him walk onto the pitch.

The match goes badly almost from the beginning. You can tell within minutes that something is wrong. A pass goes wide. He mistimes a run he would normally make in his sleep. Then, in the second half, he misses a shot he would have easily made, and the commentator says, as if pretending not to enjoy the car crash, “You do wonder whether the off-field noise has followed Ackerman onto the field tonight.”

Later, he snaps into a tackle too aggressively and gets booked, yellow card lifted above the referee’s head while the camera zooms in on Levi’s face, all anger and dark eyes. By full-time, he’s walking off with his head slightly lowered, and you can already feel the internet sharpening its claws.

And because you can’t help it, you look.

she ruined him hahahaha

imagine playing like that after your girlfriend forgives you for cheating.

Bro has been washed since getting into that relationship.

maybe if she showed up, he’d remember how to score.

good thing she’s not there. she’s bad luck.

You set the phone down as if it burned you. When the game ends, the broadcast cuts to a post-match panel where three men discuss Levi’s “mental distraction,” as if he’s not a human being but just a broken machine they’re watching malfunctioning.

You want to comfort him. Even though you’re humiliated and your pride is hurt, the wanting comes so fast that it scares you. Your heart still reaches for him, even now. You pick up your phone, open your messages with him, and type:

Are you okay?

You stare at it. You imagine him reading it in the locker room, still sweaty, still angry, surrounded by teammates and staff, and you imagine him looking at your message and either throwing his phone down or fighting back tears. You shake the thought and delete the message. Then you sit there with your empty hands, feeling worse than before.

.

Levi doesn’t come home after the match. At ten thirty-seven, your phone buzzes. It’s not him. It’s Erwin. 

He’s with me. He didn’t want to make things harder for you tonight.

You know why he made that decision. You can already picture him sitting in the passenger seat of Erwin’s car, refusing to look at his phone, deciding that absence is kindness because his presence has become complicated. Love is sometimes best proven by removing himself from the room before he becomes another burden, in his eyes. It’s so him, but it’s so wrong.

The house feels enormous without him. His teacup is still by the sink, rinsed but not washed. His running shoes are still near the door. His black scarf is thrown over the back of a chair, and when you touch it, you nearly tear up at how cold it is.

You go to the bedroom, but you don’t sleep.

Across the city, Levi sits in Erwin’s spare room. He hates himself. He catalogues every mistake from the match, every misplaced pass, every headline he’s dragged to your door, every comment he can’t erase. He’s angry at the press. Angry at the fans. Angry at the photographers who came too close to Erwin’s sister. But mostly, though he would rather bite through his own tongue than admit it out loud, he’s angry at himself.

He can defend a ball under pressure from three defenders, can read an entire field in a second, can turn a hostile stadium into background noise, and yet, he can’t figure out how to stand between you and the public.

Your phone rings just after midnight. It’s Levi. Your thumb hovers over the screen. In the space of one ring, you think of the articles, the comments, his empty side of the bed, his face after every missed shot, Erwin’s message, his jacket around another woman’s shoulders, his habit of handing you tea while you’re editing photos, his mouth on your forehead on mornings when he leaves before dawn, his gentle whispers to you when he thinks you’re asleep.

You answer. Silence falls between you for a moment. Then Levi says, “You awake?”

It’s such a stupid question that you almost laugh. “Yes.”

Another pause.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says. He breathes in, and you feel the rawness of the guilt coursing through him just through the shakiness of his breath. “I can take them saying shit about me. I’ve had worse. But they’re saying things about you because of me.”

You close your eyes. The anger you’ve been carrying all day weakens just slightly, not disappearing completely, but softening enough that you don’t feel it pulsing through your veins anymore like a second heartbeat.

“Levi—”

“I thought you needed space,” he says. “I thought being there was making it worse.”

“You leaving made it worse.” He goes quiet. You sit up slowly, pushing the blanket away from your legs. “You didn’t have to leave. I didn’t need that.” Your voice trembles, which annoys you, but you keep going because if you don’t say this now, you’re afraid you’ll both keep mistaking silence for mercy. “I need you to be on my side.”

“I’m always on your side.”

“Then come home.”

The knock comes twenty minutes later. You know because you spend every one of them standing in the living room, sitting down, standing again, checking the time, hating that you checked, then pacing to the window when headlights pass across the ceiling. 

When you open the door, Levi is there in a dark shirt and wrinkled joggers. He looks so tired that for a second, all of the ugliness from the last few days becomes small, and all that you can think of is how worried you are for his mental wellbeing. He looks completely destroyed. 

He swallows, then says your name. The sound nearly breaks you. You step aside. He comes in, takes off his shoes, hangs his jacket over the back of a chair, then washes his hands because he’s still Levi. You make a sound that might be between a laugh and a cry. He turns from the sink.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say, wiping one eye with the heel of your hand. “You’re just ridiculous.”

“I’m just washing my hands.”

“Exactly.”

“People should do that more—”

“I know, Levi.”

You both end up sitting on the living room floor, backs against the couch, because the kitchen table feels too much like an interrogation, the bedroom feels too intimate for right now, and the couch feels too casual for what’s sitting between you right now. The floor is neutral enough territory for the both of you. He sits close, but not touching. You notice.

“I never thought you cheated,” you say. “Not for a second.”

His throat bobs. “I know.”

“No, I need you to really understand that. That wasn’t why I was upset.”

His gaze drops to his hands, loosely clasped between his knees. “I understand that now.”

You exhale slowly, looking toward the dark television screen, where both of you are faintly reflected side by side. “It was seeing everyone talk about me like they knew me. Like I was stupid or pathetic or some boring placeholder you were going to get rid of. And then seeing people comparing me to her—a-and she didn’t do anything wrong either but she was dragged into this. I just—I felt humiliated.”

Levi’s hands tense. You keep going before he can turn that anger outward and miss the point again.

“And I know our lives aren’t private. I know your life isn’t private the way mine still is. But I’m not built like you, Vi. I don’t have a PR manager. I don’t have a team. I don’t have a locker room to disappear into. I’m just me, and suddenly my face is online and people are deciding what kind of woman I am because of one stupid photo.”

“You shouldn’t have to be built like me,” he says. You look at him. He’s staring down at his hands. “I thought if I said too much, they’d just go after you harder. The internet is a vulture. A leech. If I made it personal, if I said your name, if I looked angry or desperate for control, they’d dig. Find your work, your clients, your family. I thought shutting it down through PR would keep you out of it.”

“Why did you make that decision without me?” He’s silent. “You left without asking me.” You exhale sharply. “You keep trying to protect me by making choices for me, and then you leave me alone with the consequences. Do you understand what that does to me?”

“I’m sorry,” he says. No defense, no explanation, just that. You swallow.

“I’m sorry too.” He looks up at you. “For shutting you out. For expecting you to know what I needed when I didn’t know how to say it. For not texting after the match when I knew you needed it.”

He frowns slightly at the mention of it. The game is still sitting under his skin, a deepening bruise. “You watched?”

“Of course I watched.”

“I played like shit.”

“You were hurting.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Because professional athletes famously stop being human once they sign a contract?”

He gives you a flat look. You give it right back. Eventually, he looks away first, which you count as a victory because you’re petty and wounded and still in love.

“I hated that you weren’t there,” he admits.

“I hated not being there,” you say.

“But I didn’t want cameras on you.”

“I didn’t want that either.” You shift a little closer. His eyes come back to you. “We need rules.”

“Rules?”

“Agreements. Whatever. It’s better than both of us guessing wrong and hurting each other.” Levi nods. “No reading comments alone.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “No reading them at all would be better.”

“I’m a person, Lee. Not a saint.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You nudge his knee with yours. His gaze drops to where your legs touch, then returns to your face. You half-smile. “No comments alone,” you repeat. “If one of us spirals, we tell the other.”

“Fine.”

“And if people attack me, you tell them to leave me out of it. Don’t just deny the rumor.”

“I should’ve done that already.”

“Yes.”

“I will.”

“And stop making decisions ‘for my own good’ without asking me first.” He nods. “I mean it. Space is different when I ask for it. It feels like I don’t have a choice when you leave because you just assume I’m better without you.”

“You always get a choice.”

“Then let me have it.”

“I will.”

You breathe in slowly. “And I’ll tell you when I need comfort instead of space. Or space instead of comfort. Even if I’m embarrassed. Even if I don’t know how to say it perfectly.”

“You don’t have to say it perfectly.”

“Neither do you.” His mouth presses into a thin line. “Levi.” He looks at you. “You’re allowed to be hurt too.”

For a long moment, he says nothing, just shifts slightly and sighs. Then, very quietly, he says, “I don’t like what it does to you.”

“I don’t like what it does to you either.”

“They blamed you for the match.”

“They blamed me because they’re all idiots and have no one else to blame.”

“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, that was me being bitter.”

“Good. I was worried.”

You laugh, and Levi’s face eases as he watches you. Through the guilt, through the exhaustion, something tender moves through him. He reaches for your hand slowly. You don’t pull away. His fingers slide between yours, the first reach touch after days of distance. You look down, blinking hard. It’s scary how a hand can feel like home even when home has been hurting.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. You squeeze his hand. “I love you.”

You feel your chest practically cave in. Levi rarely ever says those words. He says them in gestures instead, in breakfast served in bed, in laundry he folds himself when you’re too tired to do it, in pastries and desserts he brings home after he’s been gone all day. For all the world has tried to make a spectacle of him, of you, of the life you’ve built together, this part is still yours.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

He leans in slowly, and you meet him halfway, your lips making contact softly. His mouth brushes against yours once, then again, a question asked twice because the answer matters. When you lift your free hand to his cheek, his breath catches so quietly you feel it more than hear it. He kisses you like he’s coming home—or maybe like he’s asking whether he still can.

You answer by staying.

.

The next morning, you wake in your own bed with Levi’s arm around you and sunlight slipping through the curtains, gold spread across the sheets. You don’t move at first, just breathing and living in the quiet.

Behind you, Levi mutters, “You’re awake.”

“You’ve been awake longer,” you say.

“You were drooling on my arm.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“And you didn’t move me off?”

He pauses, then answers, voice rough with sleep, “Didn’t want to.” You stare at the wall and feel a smile creep onto your face before you can stop it. He scoffs. “Don’t start now.”

“I’m not starting anything. Who’s starting?”

“You are.”

“You’re so bad at this.”

“Don’t make me regret coming back here.”

You turn in his arms. His hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking out everywhere. His face is bare and tired. You hate the public and press all over again for ever believing they could understand Levi from a photograph. 

Then his stomach growls. Loudly. You blink. He stares back, expression blank.

“Was that you?” you ask.

“No.”

“There’s only two people in this room.”

“Then it was you.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I gathered.”

So he makes breakfast. Technically, he makes tea and toast that’s slightly darker than intended and eggs that are slightly overdone. You sit at the kitchen counter island dressed in his shirt, watching him move around the kitchen. 

Then your phone buzzes beside you. You glance at it warily. 

“Don’t,” Levi says.

“It might be work.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t know that,” you say, glaring at him. He answers by sliding a mug of coffee in front of you.

“Drink.”

“Still bossy in the mornings.”

“I’m bossy all the time.”

“True.”

Your phone buzzes again. This time, Levi reaches into his pocket and takes out his own. Something about the way he looks at the screen makes you straighten your spine.

“What?” He hesitates, not for long, but long enough. “What did you do?”

“I posted something,” he says.

You reach for your phone before he can stop you. When you open his profile, there it is at the top of his page, the pinned post, plain white text on a black background, no logo, no PR formatting, no professionalism.

The rumors are false. More importantly, the comments directed at my partner are disgusting. Leave her out of it.

You read it again, then again. It’s nowhere near professional or poetic or even lengthy. No one would look at this and swoon over romance and boyfriend behavior, or maybe someone will, who knows. But it’s not that that makes your heart beat faster. It’s the fact he said it. Not his manager. Not the club. Him. Levi, who hates exposing himself and his vulnerabilities to the public, who treats cameras and paparazzi like pests and interviews like torture, has stepped into the spotlight and drawn a line with your name behind him, protected.

When you look up, he’s watching you like he’s braced for impact. “I can delete it,” he says.

You laugh, and it breaks in the middle. “No, you idiot. I…” You wipe your eye quickly, annoyed by the tears. “I needed this.”

His face changes. The relief is subtle, but you see it, feel it, and love him for trying not to show too much and failing just enough. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looks down at his tea. “I should’ve done it sooner.”

“Probably.” His mouth twitches. You reach across the counter island and take his hand, which he lifts to reach for yours. “But you did it.”

His thumb moves over your knuckles once, then again, and then the quiet stretches between you, no longer empty. After a while, Levi says, “Next match is Friday.”

“Mhm.”

“You don’t have to come.” You look at him. He holds your gaze, serious now. “If you want to watch from home, watch from home. If you want to come, come. If you want to skip it completely, I’ll live.”

“Will you?”

He exhales through his nose. “Probably.”

You take a sip of coffee to hide your smile. “I might come.”

“Might?”

“Might,” you say, setting the mug down. “But only if you play better, because I refuse to get blamed for another disaster.”

Levi stares at you for one full second, then says, dry as dust, “How motivational.”

“I try my best.”

“Honestly, it was closer to a threat.”

“Motivation wears many faces.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You love me.”

His expression softens before he can stop it. He comes around the counter, and when he bends to kiss you, one hand braces lightly against the back of your chair, the other cupping your cheek. You feel the smile he tries to hide against your mouth. 

“Friday, then?” he murmurs.

You brush your thumb along his jaw.

“Maybe.”

He squints at you. You laugh and kiss him before he can complain, and this time, when he sighs against your mouth, the sound is almost peaceful. You don’t know what the next headline will say, or whether the next match will hurt, or how many times the world will try to make your love feel like public property, but Levi looks at you like he’s ready to choose you out loud every single time. 

The world can keep talking if it wants to; here, you have everything that matters.

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tags: @saccharinefool @bunbun6casp @hoebuns @levkuna @strangeeaglepost @how-interesting-wow @d1leviglazer @y44washere4somereason  @slaytherinthoughts @levishart @gloomyveil @levislolita @elegantmakercoffee @444anya @miaszt @naxymoon @bxcketbarnes @caliope13 @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @starfallenlevi @altpsyche @tea-rae @starryscara @sleepykittycx @leviholics @angelbearknyyy @tallvanillalatte @uchihabbynic @angsty.reader @kacasplaca @christmaswarlock @jmmasstuff @peace-for-levi

divider by: madamesocs

The melodic plucking of a harp fills the warm, dry air as you lounge across your cushioned divan. It mimics birdsong as you recline, the heat of the Dornish summer clinging to your bare skin, your dress a mere bundle of sheer ribbons across the curves of your body. You reach for your strongwine, sipping lazily from the cup as a servant enters the open-air room and bows where he stands.

“My lady,” he greets quietly, eyes darting briefly around the empty room. Sweet smelling incense pools in a thin, white wisp from a golden thurible suspended overhead, and he politely bats the smoke away from his head as he speaks. “Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar have arrived.”

You spare a glance through the sheer curtains that billow lightly where they frame the paneless windows. The sun sits high in the sky, blazing hot. Taking a deep breath, you smell blanched sand and ryegrass beneath the flowery incense.

You turn back to your servant, licking strongwine from your lips. “Is it that time already? I was quite enjoying my solace.”

Your servant offers you a sympathetic smile. “Apologies, my lady.”

With a groan, you place your cup aside and get to your feet, smoothing down the layers of your dress. You gesture to your harpist, whose fingers freeze against the strings, before you follow your servant through your residence. Your skirts flutter around your ankles as you walk, kicking up a breeze that cools the backs of your calves and knees. The movement of your arms has the bracelets there jingling together, and with each window you pass and with each beam of sunlight you cross through, the metals glint and sparkle.

A pair of solid doors give way to the main reception hall, ceilings high, windows curved. Sunlight dances in mottled spheres along the smooth floor, heat churning with the bodies that move to accommodate the recently arrived princes. But such bodies freeze when you enter, dropping into polite bows and curtsies until ultimately, it is you dropping into a curtsy as you find yourself before Baelor and Maekar.

The airy fabric of your dress shifts across your body, moving with the bend of your knees and the swell of your breasts as you greet them individually. “Prince Baelor, Prince Maekar.”

Maekar grunts in acknowledgement, but his eyes are considerably more telling than his brothers as they drop down the curves of your body.

You ignore it, smiling softly at Baelor and extending a hand decorated in rings—which he takes in two of his, strong and rough and worn down through weeks on the road. He grasps your hand firmly before bringing it to his mouth and placing a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

“My lady,” he says, mismatched eyes gleaming. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you,” you reply, finally casting your eyes over Maekar, who stands idly with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His eyes raise when he realises your attention has shifted, and he offers you a curt nod. You smile in return. “I wasn’t expecting to see you both so soon.”

You slink up beside Baelor and take his riding cloak from him, noting the fine film of golden dust settled in the black fibres. Your hands slide over his shoulders.

“We left a few days ahead of schedule,” Baelor tells you as you remove his cloak and hand it off to a nearby servant. Both he and Maekar remain rooted to the spot as you glide behind them, the tips of your fingers dragging across his upper back before you settle behind Maekar and unlatch his cloak as well. Baelor clears his throat. “I hope our arrival hasn’t interrupted you too severely.”

“Not at all,” you say as you take Maekar’s cloak and hand it off, your fingers feathering over the back of his neck briefly before you move and stand before them once more. Both men stare at you, attention rapt. You smile. “It’s always a pleasure hosting you both.”

You crook a finger then, spinning on your heel. They follow obediently, and you lead them back through the grand double doors and down the long, open-air hall. Your combined footsteps echo through the solace of your castle, and you can’t help the heat that seems to transfer from the air around you to the pit of your stomach.

“When are you expected at Sunspear?” You throw the question over your shoulder as you walk, several nearby servants bowing as the three of you cross through a room lush with ornamental plants.

Maekar responds with a displeased huff. “Too soon.”

“What my brother means,” Baelor interjects, falling into stride with you. His hand brushes yours as you walk. “Is we are expected, but not by a certain time.”

You turn and smile at the prince, wriggling your fingers into his. Visible relief passes across his face and his hand clamps down firmly, his rings clacking against yours.

“Good,” you reply, before turning to Maekar, who walks with his hands clasped behind his back and at least one step behind you. You offer him your other hand, bracelets coming together like chimes. “Why must you sulk, your grace?”

Maekar frowns at you, but takes your hand without protest. His hand is cooler than his brothers, but the sword callouses along his upper palm are more pronounced. His grip is tighter, too.

“I’m not sulking,” Maekar grumbles, lifting your hand to press the words against your skin. “It is too hot, and we have been riding for too long, and I am fucking annoyed.”

You laugh, and the sound floats up towards the ceiling as you lead the princes back into the portico where you had been prior to their arrival. The harpist perches quietly on her seat in the corner of the room, and you send a smile across to her. She returns it and begins her strumming, the sounds louder and more pronounced.

“You are far too Targaryen,” you comment humorously as you remove your hand from both men’s grasps, turning solely to Maekar now. Your fingers find the hem of his padded doublet, tugging it pointedly. “Your mother was Dornish. Where did that go, your grace?”

Maekar grumbles again as he raises his arms and allows you to lift the doublet from his torso. You toss it aside, then lift a hand to Maekar’s cheek, stroking a thumb against the pink-tinted skin marred with pox scars and coarse white hair. His grumbling ceases, and you turn to Baelor then, seeing him already ripping the thick doublet from his body.

“Baelor’s always been better in this wonderful Dornish heat,” you say to Maekar as you rest a hand at the base of his throat. You feel him swallow, feel the working of his throat as you press your palm there. You address Baelor then, hand running up his chest. “Isn’t that right?”

Baelor’s next blink comes at the same time as a particularly flourished strum of the harp.

He nods, gaze heavy as he traces the lines of your face while you slowly withdraw your hand from his chest. “Yes.”

You smile, then spin around, skirts fluttering, movements like the rolling of water. You settle yourself onto the cushioned divan then, beckoning them with a pat of your fingers either side of you as you recline like a cat. Maekar, despite the dip in his brow, is the first to relent: collapsing down beside you with a pained grunt. Baelor follows not long after, lowering himself more slowly, more gently to your other side, but you don’t miss the relieved exhale as he leans back into the cushions.

As the princes settle, resting their wings, you call for your servant, who enters the room not long after with a tray of cups and strongwine. He places it on the small table before you, and you thank him, insisting on pouring the cups yourself.

Maekar makes a face, complete with narrowed eyes and a curling of his upper lip as you uncork the decanter and pour the wine. “Strongwine? Of all wines?”

You gasp, feigning disappointment. “You insult your Dornish heritage, your grace.”

He rolls his eyes, but accepts the cup you offer him. You hand Baelor his cup too, and he thanks you quietly before taking a generous sip. With your own full cup in hand, you relax back into the cushions, listening to the harp. 

As you sit, Maekar’s free hand shifts to one of the thin, silky layers of your skirt, fidgeting with the material, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. Much like this brother, Baelor’s unoccupied hand finds the bracelets that stack at your wrist, running the pad of his finger along the smooth metal and the bumps of gemstones he finds there.

“How long has it been since you were last here?” You ask after a while, eyes drawing through the slight haze over your head, each inhale smelling faintly of floral incense and sun-soaked earth.

Baelor removes his hand from your bracelets, instead placing his palm firmly on your knee. The pressure is warm, almost branding, even through the material of your dress.

“Many moons now,” he tells you, thumb touching lightly to the dip on the side of your knee. “We’ve both been waiting long enough to return—haven’t we, brother?”

Maekar makes a noise, wet with wine and deep from the back of his throat as he continues stroking his fingers along the material of your dress. But his hand has shifted higher now, touch sliding up and onto the soft mass of your thigh. It dips inwards too as he sips slowly from his cup, and you turn and meet his gaze as his touch drops, drops, and drops even more until he can press his fingers into the covered fat of your inner thigh.

“The last time you were here,” you recall, reclining further into the cushions and drawing your cup to your lips. You speak around the rim before taking a sip, “It took the better part of an hour before I could even get you to sit with me. Now look at you both…”

You place your strongwine aside then grasp both princes by the chin, fingers firm against their jaws. They both stare at you with the same gloss over their eyes, pupils swelling over the colour of their irises as you hold their attention.

“So what’s changed?” You continue with Baelor’s hand tight on your knee and Maekar’s inching further between the split of your thighs.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes glance down your body briefly. He notes his brother’s hand, then notes his own, before he looks at you once more.

“The heat does interesting things, doesn’t it?” He whispers, then presses forward, battling past the grip of your hand and planting his mouth squarely on your cheek.

It’s not quite a kiss. An intimate, nearly domestic touch. Lips softened by the sweet, well-ripened strongwine, peppering slow kisses along the warm skin of your cheek. You let go of his chin, sliding your hand down his throat then pushing your palm flat against his chest. You feel the beating of his heart. It thuds heavily beneath his thin black tunic, and you wonder if it’s beating in time with yours.

But you turn your head when you hear Maekar grumble something beside you. Baelor lets the contact slip, his mouth drawing down the column of your neck as you face his brother. Maekar takes hold of your wrist, guiding your hand to his mouth. The heel of your palm receives touch first, and you quell the giggle that threatens to leave you as you watch him stamp the pink stain of wine from his lips to your hand. You watch him closely, Baelor nosing the pulse thrumming hot beneath your ear, as he traces the lines of your palm until he kisses around the side of your hand and cups it to his cheek.

Maekar has you cradling the side of his face as he gazes at you. “I have missed you.”

“I can tell,” you reply with a small, airy laugh. 

A dip forms in his brow, the beginnings of a frown, but you pull him to you before it can grow. Gently, your mouth finds his, and the sound that leaves him is a deep groan of relief. You taste the intense berry-sweetness of the strongwine as he opens for you, tongue flat to yours. The hand on your thigh digs deeper like a hand to clay, pawing at the flesh like he means to tear you apart.

The lulling strum of the harp blurs with distant birdsong as Baelor’s mouth slides down the slope of your neck and finds the junction of your shoulder. His teeth scrape, ivory along the intricately stitched hemline of your dress, as his hand slides up from your knee, gathering beneath your skirts. You draw in a breath, mouth still moving with Maekar’s, as Baelor’s hand draws higher and higher, bundling your skirts near the top of your thighs.

You pull yourself away from Maekar just as Baelor lifts his head. He leans in first, and you meet him halfway, mouth sliding to his effortlessly. Maekar takes your hand back into his, and you feel his mouth begin a trail from the bump of your wrist towards your elbow as Baelor’s tongue shoves heavily against yours, desperate and searching. Like his brother’s, a film of strongwine clings to it, drawing little gasps from the back of your throat as he licks across the points of your teeth.

But after a moment, sweat gathering at the back of your neck, you pull away. Maekar mouths at the pulse in the crook of your elbow, dark violet eyes watching you as you pant. Two large hands, each belonging to a prince of the realm, sit heavily on your thighs. Made of steel, they anchor you to the divan as an involuntary tremor racks through you.

You offer both men a coy smile. “I don’t suppose you’d both join me in my chambers?”

Maekar peers at you like you’ve insulted him. He places one last kiss to the inside of your elbow, muttering, “What kind of question is that, woman?”

And then he’s getting to his feet, his cup long discarded and long forgotten as he urges you to stand. You can’t help the smile that clings to your face as you let him move you, and Baelor follows immediately after, movements aligning with the final strums of the harp. As both princes lead you towards the door, you smile at your harpist, mouthing your thanks and nodding to the remaining bottle of strongwine on the low table. She smiles back, sending you off with a knowing wink.

—✿—

Your chambers are cool where fresh coastal air flows through the windows, sheer plum-coloured curtains fluttering softly with the movement. You draw the prince’s inside, with Maekar fisting one of the layers of your skirts, while Baelor wraps his fingers around your forearm. Once inside, you wriggle yourself free from their grasps and spin around, arms already working their way out of your flowing sleeves.

Maekar is undoing his tunic, eyes following where your dress drops away from your shoulders and slips past your elbows, the fabric falling away from your breasts. He groans, pleased, and shucks his tunic off. His abdomen is pale and well-stocked, both pox and battle scars mapping across the skin.

“Our sweet girl,” he mutters, more to himself than you as he steps closer. But you step back, smiling still as you push your dress over the curve of your hips and arse. It drops to the floor and pools at your ankles. Maekar groans, his hands finding the ties of his trousers as he stares at you. “Oh, gods above…”

You kick the garment away, now completely bare. Your eyes find Baelor then, who has managed to rid himself of his shoes, linen chausses, and now his tunic. Both princes’ clothing was scattered across the floor of your chambers.

“We’ve missed you,” Baelor admits as his brother closes the gap between you.

Maekar’s arms circle you tightly, and you let him press you firmly to his front. His trousers hang open but sit loosely on his hips. The imprint of him sits snug against the curve of your thigh and you moan loudly before his mouth melds to yours.

The kiss is forceful. It’s a continuous push, a forcing of dominance as his tongue swipes hot against yours. His hands are stone-solid on your hips, and he gently ruts against you as you kiss the taste of strongwine from each other. The Dornish summer heat seems to accumulate in the base of your stomach, spreading wide across your womb as Maekar backs you towards your bed.

That is, until you step backwards into the solid heat of another body. Baelor’s hands feather lightly across your ribs as he leans into you, his mouth dropping straight to your ear. You whine into Maekar’s mouth, hands tightening at the back of his neck, as Baelor’s bare abdomen plasters hot and sweat-slick to your back.

“Our prettiest girl,” Baelor whispers, lips dragging over the shell of your ear. 

His hands find the sides of your breasts, palming at the flesh before the roughened pads of his fingers swipe slowly across your nipples. You whine again, trying to pull from Maekar’s mouth, but he doesn’t let you—dipping his head lower to kiss you harder, the coarse hair of his beard scraping against your skin.

You’re pinned between them. Three bodies burning hot in the middle of your chambers.

Sweat sits damp at Baelor’s temples as he kisses down the side of your neck, and Maekar breathes hard when he breaks the kiss, sliding his mouth over the curve of your jaw. You crane your neck, head lolling back onto Baelor’s shoulder, allowing both men to trace red-hot lines down either side of your throat. You can barely keep your eyes open, blurred sunlight catching in your eyelashes as you blink through the rush of pleasure that grows hot within the confines of your skull.

You’re dizzy with it. Sick, feverish with need. Your core beats with your heart, aching between your thighs, and Maekar’s hands on your hips and Baelor’s hands on your tits—and both of their covered cocks pressing against you—threatens to pull you apart. And their words fan the flames inside you. Baelor mutters, all sweet and lilting, as he kneads your breasts and rolls his hips against the curve of your arse: sweet girl, our sweet girl, gods we’ve missed you. And Maekar’s hissing out between clenched teeth, hands trawling from your hips to the bottom of your arse, squeezing the flesh as he bites down the desire to sink his teeth into your shoulder: fuck, you’re beautiful—gods, just look at you, sweetheart. Un-fucking-believable.

And they bundle you towards the bed beneath a flurry of moving hands. Baelor sits on the edge of the feather-stuffed mattress, far enough that he can spread his legs wide and settle you between them. Maekar detaches from you as Baelor pulls you down, perching you on the lip of the bed, caught between the mass of his thighs.

A few strands of white hair fall across Maekar’s forehead as he huffs and lowers himself to his knees. He groans, joints popping as he hits the thickly spun carpet. You bite your lip, holding back a whine as two hands find your knees and spread you apart.

One of Baelor’s hands is still pawing at your tits, while the other slides up and wraps gently around your throat. He guides your head to the side, sliding your mouth to his—and the kiss is deep. Slow. Barely even moving as he palms your thundering pulse.

Carefully, Maekar begins trailing a line of kisses from your inner knee towards your core. His beard scratches along the skin as he moves up your thigh. Your stomach clenches in anticipation, muscles in your thighs jumping as you whine into Baelor’s mouth.

Baelor pulls away just a centimetre or two. You’re connected by a thin string of spit, and his pupils are wide, eyes nearly appearing the same colour. He holds you like this, holds the eye contact, as his brother kisses further and further up the inside of your thigh.

“More?” Baelor whispers, the string snapping.

His tone is hoarse, nearly a whimper.

The nod you give him is small, but he sees it. Slowly, he dips his head and slots his mouth back to yours in a rolling kiss that draws the breath from your lungs. And as that happens, Maekar groans: a rattling sound from behind his sternum as his mouth finds the split of your cunt.

He kisses you once, twice where the warmth of you grows hotter, wetter, before he’s hefting his hands below your knees and pushing your legs up. You gasp out of the kiss, head spinning in Baelor’s grasp as Maekar hoists your legs onto his broad shoulders, pinning you even further into the dark-haired prince.

Maekar doesn’t say anything as he wraps his arms around your thighs and presses his face between them. His mouth opens against your slit, tongue sliding down, then up; a long, continuous stroke until his lips find the bead of your clit and he can taste you in the back of his throat. Another groan escapes him. It’s harsher, more leonine, and his eyes fall closed as he angles back down to repeat the motions again.

A few seconds pass before Baelor gently coaxes your attention back to him. His palm rests against your throat still, his thumb stroking the tendon down the side. His eyes flit down to his brother for a moment, before he looks at you.

“He’s missed you,” Baelor mutters, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. You whine, and he shushes you with a scattering of kisses to your warm cheek. “He has, sweet girl. We both have.”

Something tugs deep in the pit of your womb as Maekar’s tongue works inside you: it’s a thick, blunt push of muscle, paired with the press of his nose against your clit. And the sound of it is obscene: wet and vulgar, the sucking of nectar from ripened fruit. He moans with it, the vibrations cutting right through you and tearing a sob from your throat.

Baelor continues to work his hand across your chest, alternating in rolling your nipples between two fingers. He holds your throat still too, clutching you, helping you watch as Maekar rocks his head between your thighs.

“Listen to that,” Baelor says against your ear, hips bucking almost involuntarily. You can feel the hard press of his cock through his trousers against the small of your back. He hums, low in his throat, listening to the sounds Maekar pulls from your cunt and the little whimpers escaping your parted lips. “So wet, hm? You’ve missed us too, haven’t you, sweet girl?”

You nod. A hushed yeah finds the warm air, but you’re not sure you even said it as your vision seems to white at the edges as the pressure in your womb stretches through your pelvis. It’s hot and heavy as Maekar’s tongue curls inside you, his groans pushing vibration after vibration through every single one of your nerves. You mewl, and his eyes open, finding where you lean back against Maekar, one of your hands gripping Baelor’s thigh.

The white-haired prince lets go of one of your thighs and slides the hand higher. Moaning quietly, head resting back against Baelor’s shoulder, you get the hint. You drop your free hand into his and he clasps it firmly.

Baelor hums, pleased. “There we go, that’s it. Hold onto him, sweetheart.”

His hand shifts from your chest as he speaks. Rough with years hardened around the hilt of a sword, but still soft enough to raise goosebumps across your skin, he drags it between the valley of your breasts and over your belly. He feels you swallow beneath his palm as his hand ghosts over your mound before two fingers find your clit.

“Baelor,” you moan, head falling back now as your sounds reach the beautifully tiled ceiling.

Maekar squeezes your hand, peering at you through white lashes as his head moves. His tongue splits your pussy open, breath hot against you as he pants. He grunts too: muffled keens lost in the heat of your cunt, matching the fickle whimpers that leave you.

“Maekar,” you whisper as your thighs begin to tremble.

Baelor’s mouth finds the side of your head as he holds you against him, lips pressed open against your temple as he pants, his fingers moving in short, even circles across your clit. It’s the perfect pressure. The perfect speed.

The dark-haired prince smiles against you. He breathes you in, smelling the soap in your hair and the perfumed oil rubbed deep into your skin. As he holds you like this, this close, he feels you tremble, entire body shuddering with bottled pleasure.

You moan, and he’s answering you before the sound has completely left your mouth: “I know, I know, I can feel you, sweetheart, I can feel you.”

Maekar grunts as if acknowledging his brother’s words. His other hand moves from your thigh as your legs clench up around his shoulders, and he pushes his hand between his face and your core. He pulls back briefly, face wet, beard glistening, as he takes one finger and, without warning, pushes it into you. You gasp out, choking on a sob as a second follows not long after, before his mouth slides back against you.

It’s too hot. Too good.

Maekar’s fingers spread then curl, finding that perfect spot inside you straight away. No preamble, no search—the tips of the prince’s fingers are a blunt nudge against you, and the pressure in your womb pulls so tight that the shadow of a cramp passes through your calves as your toes curl.

Baelor’s fingers continue moving as he speaks lowly, “Give it to him, love.”

Your orgasm fissures through the base of your spine and the pit of your stomach like a crack through stone. It splits you apart, and you curl back into Baelor’s hold as a loud moan echoes around your chambers. Your cunt squeezes tight around Maekar’s fingers, clit thrumming hard and hot with blood beneath the rhythm of Baelor’s continual movements. It’s a hot, cloying release as a shudder racks through you, your thighs clamping tight around either side of Maekar’s head, and you feel the warmth that floods your stomach as real as the sun that streams through your open windows.

Maekar pulls his face from you first, wiping his wet beard along the inside of your thigh. You whine softly, limp where you lie against Baelor, whose fingers come to a stop but rest firm against your swollen clit.

“Brother,” Baelor warns, more tender than reprimanding, as the white-haired prince continues to pump his fingers into you. 

In… out… slow, methodical movements as your pussy flutters around him lazily. You let out another whine, a dull ache settling deep in your core.

“Maekar,” Baelor says, louder this time. More stern.

Maekar huffs, but obeys, pulling his fingers from you with a satisfyingly wet schlick that makes his ears burn red. Something swoops low in your tummy when you hear it too.

Slowly, Baelor removes his hand from your throat. He pats you on the cheek before both of his hands find your sides, resting there. Maekar helps you settle your feet back onto the floor.

“You ready?” Baelor asks, touching along your ribs, then over your waist.

You open your mouth to reply, but your words are stolen from you: Maekar gets to his feet and surges forward, taking your chin with a sticky hand and slamming his mouth to yours. The kiss is hungry, almost angry with the force he moves against you, his tongue finding yours like a wave crashing onto rock. You taste yourself as you dissolve into it, a hand shooting up to thread through his hair.

Behind you, Baelor huffs out a laugh. “Come now, brother. Fetch the oil.”

Maekar grumbles when he parts from you. He kisses you once more before pulling back and shooting his brother an annoyed look. “You fetch the fucking oil.”

Shaking away the haze of your bliss, you pull yourself out of their grasps and teeter to your feet. There’s a light tremble in your knees as you right yourself, your hand sliding down Maekar’s chest as you look at Baelor over your shoulder, trying your best to ignore the obvious tent in the front of his trousers.

“It’s beside the basin,” you tell the dark-haired prince, then turn back to Maekar. 

You lift your head and kiss him gently as your hands dip downwards to unthread what remains of the ties on his trousers. Baelor exhales a bemused laugh, and you hear movement as he gets off the bed and pads across your chambers towards the copper basin.

Maekar is practically purring as you let his trousers drop, then busy yourself with his breeches. The ties come apart easily, and you take his cock in hand as he kicks the garments away, a thick groan lodged in his throat. He’s warm and velvet-soft against your palm as you blindly wrap your fingers, jerking him lightly as you lead him towards the bed.

You break the kiss and let go of his cock as you climb up onto the mattress. But you catch a finger beneath his chin, grinning as you urge the prince onto the bed, watching proudly as his pupils swell even wider and he crawls to you on his hands and knees. 

You kneel against your multicoloured bed linens as he drags himself up to you, mouth finding yours again. You kiss him for a moment, before turning your head. The white-haired prince groans and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse beneath your ear as you watch Baelor return to the bed with a bottle of oil.

Your hand finds Maekar’s cock again, the tip red and flushed and leaking as you give it a firm squeeze while you address Baelor: “And how exactly do you want me, your grace?”

The smile on Baelor’s face is knowing. Amused, even, as he, with one hand, undoes the clasps and ties of his own trousers before shucking them down his legs. He does the same with his breeches, and he doesn’t answer you until he’s bare before you and the silence has stretched long enough to have you whining at him.

“Like that is fine, my lady,” he says, and the title is just as mocking as the way you had addressed him just moments ago.

Maekar lifts his head as Baelor clambers onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hands draw around your body as your hand leaves his cock, and he situates you in front of him, your chest flushing against his.

And then he’s kissing you again. Cock heavy against your thigh, he holds you close as his tongue splits your lips apart for him to slide deeper. His hands are on your hips, holding you tightly against him, and you give into it with a small moan, your hands wrapping around his shoulders.

Baelor falls into place behind you, and something sparks in your core hearing the popping of a cork. You kiss Maekar, and your body moves without much thought—you’ve done this before, many times, and you shift your hips, lifting yourself slightly as your back arches and your arse pushes out towards the dark-haired prince.

Thick oil, warmed by the temperature of the room, pours out around two of Baelor’s fingers. He watches it seep like honey, a similar colour too, slightly earthy in smell as he slips the cork back into place and places the bottle aside. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades as his fingers feather down the split of your arse before finding your hole.

Anticipation rolls in your gut as you break the kiss and shift your head. Baelor catches the movement, tipping forward to replace the absence of Maekar, kissing you at a slightly awkward angle as one finger pushes past the tight ring of your hole. A small, breathy sound escapes you as your head rolls back onto his shoulder, and he levels a kiss to your temple.

“It’s alright,” Baelor whispers, other hand massaging the fat of your arse as he holds you open. He kisses your temple again. “You know what to do, sweetheart. Just let me in.”

He lures the tension from your muscles with the softness of his words. You relax into him as Maekar’s hands trace the curves of your body.

The press of Baelor’s finger inside you is not foreign, but the initial sensation will always be strange. His movement is slow and methodical, and the oil smoothens it out until he’s working himself into the first knuckle, then the second. An airy moan, consonants lost, leaves your throat as his finger crooks, then pushes, then pulls, then crooks again.

You feel the second take its place and push in beside the other just as Maekar grabs your face, impatient, and slams your mouth back to his. He kisses you as his brother works two fingers into your arse, and he guides one of your hands back onto his cock.

His hand is over yours as he moves it up and down, mumbling against your lips, “That’s it, just like that—y’such a good girl, aren’t you? Prettiest girl, too…”

You moan, scorching hot.

Maekar kisses you again and you feel like you’re drunk off of it. Your chambers swelter around you, smelling faintly of incense and oil and the press of bodies. Heat swims low in your belly, the ghost of that familiar pressure lingering in the base of your spine, curling through the marrow of your bones as you’re pressed between both princes.

As you slowly stroke Maekar’s cock, his other hand dips between your thighs and finds your puffy clit. He taps it once, then draws a tight circle, and you sob into his mouth as your cunt pulls tight around nothing. Behind you, Baelor groans, your hole clenching around his rucking fingers.

Then, Baelor’s fingers leave you. You moan loudly, the emptiness jarring as your head rolls out of Maekar’s kiss. You hear the pop of a cork, then the pouring of oil, and a few beats of your heart pass before Baelor is shushing you, three fingers now slowly, slowly pushing inside you.

“I know, I know,” Baelor mutters, kissing along your shoulder as you sob out in pleasure, nails digging crescents into Maekar’s bicep, which you grip tightly for support. The dark-haired prince curls his three fingers, and suddenly you feel impossibly full. He kisses up the side of your neck as your sobs devolve into impatient whines. He tuts. “We’re almost there, sweet girl—come on, don’t start that. You’re doing so well. M’just opening her up a little more, okay?”

You can’t reply. Maekar’s drawing rough shapes on your clit and Baelor’s fingers are rubbing deep inside you and another orgasm is brewing inside you. It churns like the sea, and you rock with its wake as it builds and builds. Maekar holds you steady, panting as he watches you begin to shake, chest shuddering with your laboured breathing.

“You like that?” He asks quietly, dipping his head to talk to you. You’ve tipped forward, eyes barely open.

But you manage to nod, whispering a timid “y–yeah, Maekar.”

His fingers work and work, as does his brother’s, and some long, sun-bleached seconds later, you’re toppling into your second orgasm. It seems harsher than the first: piercing through you sharply, your legs twitching hard where you kneel. Your pussy clamps around nothing, but you feel the muscles of your hole pull around Baelor’s fingers as you release. Maekar eases you through it, and only removes his fingers when you hiccup his name, your tremors subsiding as the warmth of pleasure dissipates once more.

Maekar looks at his brother over your shoulder as you slump into his arms. “Have you finished, or are you just wasting my time?”

Baelor smiles in return, shaking his head slightly as he pulls his fingers from you. His cock twitches against his thigh at your small, breathy whine. Then, he gives his brother a nod as he’s pouring more oil out of the bottle—dripping it over the length of his cock, watching it drool across the head as Maekar settles you higher on your knees.

You whine again, tired, your hands finding Maekar’s shoulders. He has one hand on your side, holding you against his chest, while the other guides his cock between your legs. Your eyes snap open when you feel him, the warmth of his head, slick and bruising with heat, slide through your folds. Up, down, a torturous glide.

Baelor shuffles in close behind you, and you exhale a shaky breath as you’re pinned between both princes. The air around you swelters, hot and sticky and smelling of sweat and rose water as they close in on you.

“Missed this,” Maekar grumbles first when the silence becomes stifling. You spread your thighs, whimpering quietly as he bullies the tip of his cock into your cunt.

“Missed you,” Baelor adds as his own cock finds your hole and slowly pushes in.

Your head tips back, falling onto Baelor’s shoulder as both men enter you at the same time. Both slow. Both gentle as they split you apart, nerve by nerve, the thick stretch of their cocks pulling you apart from the inside out. Maekar groans loudly as your pussy wraps tight around him, and the feeling of Baelor’s cock sliding into you, separated only by a thin wall of muscle, has him groaning again.

Baelor dips and presses his mouth against your neck, panting like a dog as he slides into you. The stretch settles a dull ache deep inside you, like the press of a thumb to an old bruise. But you rock back into him anyway, your body craving. The need that circulates is near constricting as your nails draw crescents on Maekar’s shoulder, sweat sliding down your spine and over the hairs on Baelor’s chest and abdomen.

“That’s it, fuck—gods, you’re tight,” Maekar mutters when he bottoms out. The walls of your cunt flutter as he rests up against the base of your cervix, a meager sting shooting through you before it settles, his hand coaxing across your ribs. He presses forward for a second, kissing you tenderly. “I love it when you take us like this.”

You breathe out, not realising you had been holding your breath. “Maekar.”

He shushes you, kissing you once more on the lips before pulling away. 

He peers again at his brother, brows furrowing. “Can I move?”

“No,” Baelor replies quickly. He’s still slowly, slowly feeding his cock into you. His brows pinch together, and a thin sheen of sweat has gathered high on his forehead. “Not yet.”

Maekar huffs, but doesn’t say anything else. He busies himself instead with a hand across your chest, palming the mounds of your breasts as you shudder, body relaxing into their combined touch.

Another minute passes before Baelor is seated comfortably inside you, and he gives an experimental roll of his hips. Air fills your lungs too quickly as you gasp, feeling the way both princes rub against one another. So close.

Baelor kisses your cheek. “Our sweet girl. So patient, hm?”

You nod, eyes barely open. You don’t know where you begin and they end. You’re so impossibly full and it never gets old: feeling their combined mass in your tummy, confining you between their strong, battle-hardened bodies.

“Now can we fucking move?” Maekar grits out, the muscles in his jaw jumping.

Baelor doesn’t reply with words, but he pulls out, then shoves back in.

And that gives Maekar his answer.

You cry out, too empty, and then too full, as the dark-haired prince ruts his cock into you in one deep, rolling thrust. And then those thrusts don’t relent: his hips slamming against your arse, flesh rippling, the feather mattress groaning with the movements as he thrusts into you.

Maekar doesn’t want to get left behind. With his hands firmly on your hips, he drags his cock out of you—sparing a glance down to watch the way his cock slips from you, wet and glistening in a way that hits him straight in the gut—then rucks back in. It’s forceful, not nearly as gentle as Baelor, and the tip slams up towards the plug of your womb like he means to brand you. The bed shakes when he and his brother fall into the same rhythm, an uncanny level of unison, and the groan that leaves his throat has you clenching around both of them.

“Fuck, you were made for this,” Maekar utters, hair falling across his forehead. His cheeks are pink, and the same colour crawls up his bare chest. Vice-like hands knead the flesh above your hips. “Made for us. The gods have—oh, fuck—”

He moans when your pussy tightens around him again, drawing him deeper.

But Baelor finishes his sentence. “The gods have made you for us, haven’t they, sweetheart? Why else would—uh, uh—w–would you take us like this?”

The dark-haired prince stutters through his pleasure as he holds you up. The oil drips down the length of his cock, runs along the seam of his balls as he thrusts into you. It’s messy and loud and he’s missed this feeling more than anything.

Your tits bounce as they heft you between them, speared across both. A human scabbard draped in jewels and littered with bite-marks, skin slick with sweat and spit. You moan loudly as Maekar hits that perfect spot, made even more euphoric by the rub of Baelor against the posterior wall inside you.

One hand still anchored to Maekar’s shoulder, you reach behind you and curl your fingers against the back of Baelor’s head, fisting the short, dark hair and catching his head beneath the crook of your elbow. His chin rests near your shoulder as he rolls his hips against you, cock hitting deep, the angle battling the air from your lungs.

He moans softly, right by your ear as one of his arms wraps around you. His hand rests between you and his brother, resting over your stomach.

“Tell me how full you are,” he whispers. His hand presses down.

You mewl, and the words that leave you don’t even sound like they belong to you. “M–M’so… m’full, Baelor, s’just—oh, gods.”

Baelor’s head moves and his lips draw against your neck, sucking briefly before he speaks again. His hand bears down, palm over your navel. “D’you feel us here?”

Us.

Maekar grunts, obviously pleased. The word has you moaning too, and it sets a spark across the burning-hot pressure seeping back into your womb. Another orgasm crawls from the ashes of the second, fanning out across the base of your pelvis as both princes fuck into you hard and fast.

You feel dizzy as you manage to mutter out a pathetic, “Yeah…”

Baelor grins lazily against the side of your neck as he continues his even thrusts. But Maekar’s, on the other hand, are growing more and more erratic. He huffs above you, hands near white-knuckled at your hips as he pulls you onto his cock over and over, hips snapping to meet the movements with such force that the bed creaks with each motion.

“Need to feel you,” the white-haired prince is muttering as he fucks you, eyes on your face. He looks down at you like you’re the prettiest thing in the entire world.

“M’so—” You cut yourself off with a whine, but continue, fighting through the pleasure stretching taut beneath the press of Baelor’s hand. “M’so close. Maekar, I just—please.”

“I’m here,” Maekar utters, surprisingly tender as his cock splits you apart. Baelor mumbles something against your neck, and you miss the subtle roll of the eyes Maekar gives him. He relents for his older brother, “We’re here.”

You’re caught between the hammer and the anvil; wedged between both the tail and maw of the serpent ouroboros, and you’re falling apart. Heat simmers, then flares, burning hot in your belly as your third release grows. And it grows, soaking through the marrow of your bones as you shake and tremble. You’re not a weak woman, but they have you boneless between them, and there’s no place you’d rather be.

So you call for them when the heat peaks and the pressure snaps inside you. You moan for Maekar as you come, body rivalling the tautness of a bowstring. Your pussy tightens around the thick of his cock as he fucks you through it, and you swear you see stars dancing across the mosaic on your ceiling. And you’re sobbing Baelor too when the release keeps coursing through you, unrelenting as your muscles tighten. He groans into the side of your neck as his thrusts turn to rolls, the soft, velvet ridges of his cock rubbing perfectly against you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Maekar rambles as he thrusts. It’s messy and uneven and you can feel his cock twitch inside you just as you begin to fizzle down from your high. Your breathing is laboured as he leans forward to mouth at the dewy skin of your forehead. “Oh, fuck, fuck, sweet—my sweet girl, oh f–uh–ck.”

Just like the last time you were together like this, Maekar comes first. He bullies his cock right up against the plug of your womb and comes deep. Every time without fail. He moans your name, breathing more hound-like than man, as his cock jerks and his balls draw up and his cum fills you thick and warm.

And Baelor feels the shift inside you. Feels the added heat, the fluttering of your muscles as you take his brother so well. 

He doesn’t spit out a mocking jibe of lasting longer. He doesn’t comment on the way Maekar completely unravels with his cock inside you, his mouth proving faster than his brain.

“Are you going to take me all in here?” He asks you instead, nose rounding the shell of your ear. His hand pushes against your tummy, and both you and Maekar share a soft moan. Baelor huffs, too tired to smile as his own release finds him willingly. “‘Course you are, sweet girl.”

Then, he’s coming, hips snug against your arse. He fills you just the way Maekar had: with his cock deep inside you, jerking with the effort. The sensation has your hips bucking away involuntarily, but both men hold you still, sitting you down until there is nothing you can do but sit there and take it.

Baelor empties himself with a moan, and when he twitches, milked dry, he stays inside you, plugging you full.

You puff, heart racing. “Ha… gods…”

Both princes kiss you at the same time: Baelor twisting your head to kiss you squarely on the mouth, and Maekar dipping down to lick the sweat from the lower portion of your neck.

“You’re so good to us,” Baelor says when he parts from you, taking your chin and holding you still so his mismatched eyes can trace the lines of your face. “So good, sweet girl.”

You smile, small and tired.

Maekar agrees, humming as his nose and beard drag up your neck, over your jaw and cheek, until he can steal a kiss from the corner of your mouth. “Our best girl.”

———

i want to go to there

The lord he was talking to cleared his throat and Baelor felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment at his wondering attention being caught. “My apologies, Lord Tully. Please, continue.”

The lord repeated what he has said just moments ago with the same passion desperate to impress the Crown Prince but once again Baelor heard none of it as he watched the subtle bounce of your chest as you rode through the gates of the Red Keep. Any worry he had about your ride melted away when he saw you ride down the dirt path like it was second nature, you could handle yourself better than most and he would be sure to show you much he appreciated that later.

Maekar stood by you in the stables as you prepared Blueberry for riding. He hovered when he was anxious. Hed never admit it but having you go out alone so soon after the recent birth of your son Aemon made his skin itch.

“My love,” You sighed, tightening the straps of the saddle a little. “I will be fine. I swear you enjoy making your self stressed.” You walked up to him, cupping his cheek and rubbing your fingers lightly over his pox-scarred skin.

“I dont want you to get injured.” He says gruffly, eyes locked on yours.

“Do you have such little faith in my riding abilities?” He screws his eyes shut in frustration but you stop him before he can say a word. “I am joking Maekar. I just need a moment away from… this. Not you, not the kids- well actually definitely the kids. But just the chaos of the castle, I wish to clear my mind. I wont be gone more than an hour. I promise.” You finish with a tender kiss placed on the tip of his nose.

“The stable boy was staring at your ass.” Avoiding vulnerability as ever. You laugh at your husbands stubbornness and he fights a smile of his own.

“Well I fear it is hard not to in these clothes. My pregnancy may be over but it has left lasting effects.” You mutter the last bit and he immediately picks up on the insecurity in your tone, one he’s all too familiar with himself.

“It has. You are as beautiful as ever, I have found it difficult to keep my hands to myself as of late.” He leans down to kiss you and you smile against his lips.

“I best get going before I am pulled into other activities. Do not stress about me husband, I will be safe.” You give him one last kiss before mounting Blueberry and exiting the stables.

You held the bassline steady, anchoring the sheer chaos he created as he rode on the edge of a musical disaster.

He stepped back from the edge of the stage, stalking toward you with long, deliberate strides.

The fans screamed louder as he closed the distance. This was the part of the show they ate up—the manufactured tension, the way he crowded your space, the way his fingers grazed the neck of your bass while he leaned into your microphone.

"Don't rush the tempo," he murmured into the mic, the words meant only for you, disguised as a breathless ad-lib to the crowd.

"Play on beat, and I won't have to carry you," you shot back, leaning away just enough to let the cold air hit the space between you.

He laughed, the sound swallowed whole by the wall of distortion, and slammed into one last, shattering chord.

For half a heartbeat, the arena held its breath.

Then the place exploded.

The roar crashed over the stage like a tidal wave. Thousands of voices screamed your band's name, stomping feet shaking the risers beneath you. Phones glittered like stars beyond the blinding spotlights. They wanted one more wave, one more bow, one more chance to worship the chaos they'd just witnessed.

Yet You'd had enough.

The moment the house lights dropped, you shrugged the heavy leather strap off your shoulder and thrust your bass into the waiting hands of a stagehand without breaking stride. Behind you, the applause only grew louder as the rest of the band lingered for the curtain call. Aerion would be eating it up already—arms spread, flashing that grin that could convince an arena every cheer belonged to him.

You didn't look back.

You ripped the sweat-soaked wristbands from your arms and flung them onto an equipment crate as you shoved through the heavy backstage doors. The muffled thunder of the crowd chased you down the concrete hallway, fading with every hard strike of your platform boots.

You needed space.

More than anything, you needed to get away from him before you snapped in front of forty security guards and a camera crew.

You shoved open the dressing room door and stepped inside.

The soundproof door swung shut behind you with a heavy thunk.

Silence.

The deafening roar of sixty thousand fans vanished as if someone had cut the power to the world. One second your ears rang with applause; the next there was only the quiet hum of the mini-fridge tucked beneath the counter and the slow, relentless ticking of the wall clock. The sudden stillness felt almost violent after the chaos outside.

You hooked the toe of one platform boot against the heel of the other and kicked it loose. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. The second boot followed a moment later, skidding beneath the makeup station.

The dressing room lights were merciless. Every fleck of silver glitter glued to your cheekbones caught the bulbs overhead, sparkling as if the stage had followed you inside.

You snatched a makeup wipe from the plastic packet on the vanity hard enough to tear two out at once.

"Perfect."

You crushed one into your fist and dragged the other across your face.

The first pass barely made a dent. Glitter smeared instead of lifting, leaving your skin raw and shining. You scrubbed harder, the wipe turning black with eyeliner and streaked with crimson lipstick until your reflection looked less like a rock musician and more like someone trying to erase herself.

The handle behind you gave a quiet metallic rattle.

You froze.

The door eased open.

Aerion slipped inside, still carrying the heat of the stage with him. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, his hair was a mess from ninety minutes under stadium lights, and the familiar charge of reckless energy rolled into the room a heartbeat before he did.

Of course he hadn't stayed to bask in the applause.

The crowd could chant his name until sunrise. If you'd walked off in a mood, that would always win.

He knew you well enough to recognize the signs. You hadn't waited for the bows. You hadn't looked at him after the last chord. You'd handed your bass to the nearest stagehand like it was on fire and disappeared.

Message received.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Without a word, Aerion shrugged the Stratocaster from his shoulder and let it fall onto the velvet sofa with far less care than the instrument deserved. The strings gave a protesting twang. He didn't so much as glance at it.

Typical.

He snagged a towel from the back of a chair and scrubbed it beneath one eye, smearing away black eyeliner already running from sweat. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, the sheer black mesh plastered to his skin. The adrenaline hadn't left him yet. It never did—not right away. He looked like he could've walked straight back onto the stage for another hour.

You, meanwhile, were still attacking the glitter glued stubbornly to your cheekbone.

The wipe had started to pill under your fingers.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was practiced—a razor-sharp edge honed over years of shared dressing rooms and unsaid promises. You knew precisely how long he could tolerate the quiet before he struck the first match and set the entire room ablaze.

Behind you, the dull thump of the towel landing on the glass coffee table echoed through the heavy air.

"You were glaring holes into the back of my head for half the set."

You met his blue eyes in the mirror, holding his gaze without a single flicker of hesitation.

"Someone had to remind you we were playing a concert," you said smoothly, tossing the ruined makeup wipe into the trash before leaning back against the vanity. "Not hosting a meet-and-greet for the front row."

One corner of his mouth twitched.

There it was.

That infuriating little smile.

Not apologetic.

Not defensive.

Satisfied.

You'd walked off before the encore applause had even faded and he knew exactly why.

Aerion crossed the room in three strides, not botherint to stop until he was standing right behind you, towering over your chair.

The smell of his cologne, sharp cedar and something smoky, mixed with the stale air of the room. He reached out, his cold rings grazing your collarbone as he adjusted the lapel of your jacket—a jacket he had stolen from your duffel bag three cities ago.

"They love it when I put on a show," he countered, his voice dropping an octave, losing the stage-performer edge and settling into something far more dangerous. "And they love it when you pretend to hate me."

"Who said I'm pretending?" You swatted his hand away from your jacket and stood up to face him.

Aerion caught your wrist mid-air.

The silence in the green room stretching between you like a taut bowstring—ready to explode.

"If you actually hated me, you would have quit the band in London," he purred as he tilted his head. "But you are still here. Playing my rhythm. Wearing my eyeliner."

You held his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a flinch.

Slowly, your eyes trailed down the razor-sharp plane of his cheekbone to the faint smear of black carbon still staining his lower lash line—a single flaw in his otherwise terrifying perfection.

"You really rehearsed that one, didn't you?"

Aerion blinked, the subtle crack in his veneer lasting for only a fraction of a second.

Without breaking eye contact, you reached past him, plucked the damp towel from the marble vanity, and pressed it into his chest.

"You missed a spot."

His brow furrowed.

"...What?"

"Beneath your left eye." You nodded toward his reflection. "Try again."

For the first time all evening, he broke eye contact.

His fingers were already rubbing furiously beneath his left eye before the thought had even finished crossing his mind.

"Is it smudged?"

You said nothing.

You were busy shrugging into your jacket.

Only when he glanced back at the mirror and found nothing but clean skin did he realize you'd played him.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low gravel.

"Valarr."

The question that followed didn't come as quickly as the others.

"...Valarr?" he repeated, the name tasting foul on his tongue.

That alone was enough to send a bitter, dark flame through his veins… You were leaving because you were simply choosing someone else's company over his.

"He asked me to show him what to do with the wireless packs after a show," you said, your hand resting on the brass door handle.

"That's the guitar tech's job."

"So's buying your eyeliner."

You pulled the door open, the faint roar of the corridor spilling into the quiet room.

"Apparently, he explains everything with the words 'thingy' and 'magic.' I figured someone should give the kid a fighting chance."

Smoothly, you crossed the threshold into the hallway, refusing to offer him the satisfaction of a backward glance—or another second of your time. Behind you, the silence swelled like the holdover before a storm—dense, oppressive, and long enough to tell you that the strike had landed. For the first time all night, he had nothing left to say, but you were already moving, completely unbothered by whatever realization was currently crashing over him.

You had somewhere better to be.

You found Valarr near the loading dock, away from the chaos of the venue. He was bent over a heavy road case, a tangle of quarter-inch cables slung over one shoulder as he wrestled with a stubborn power strip. Sweat clung to his hairline, but unlike his cousin, there was no performative swagger to it—just quiet, focused effort.

"Need a hand, or are you planning to fight that rack unit all night?" you asked, leaning against the metal framing.

Valarr looked up, a quick, genuine smile cutting through his exhaustion. "Honestly? If you don't take these cables, I might throw them into the alley."

You chuckled, stepping in to relieve him of the tangled bundle and expertly coiling them down the length of your forearm. For a few minutes, the two of you worked in a easy, rhythmic harmony, swapping out battery packs and securing the heavy wireless units into their flight cases.

"Great set tonight, by the way," Valarr said, wiping his hands on his jeans as he clicked the last latch shut. He paused, shooting you a sideways glance that held a sharp, observant glint. "Though the tension on stage was... high. Even for you two."

You let out a soft, humorless huff, setting a receiver box into its foam cutout. "Aerion was driving the tempo off a cliff just to see if I’d drop the groove."

"He's been that way since we were kids," Valarr said, rolling his shoulders with a quiet sigh.

"It's exhausting."

"It's drastic," Valarr agreed, a faint, amused tilt to his mouth. "He's always been one for theatrical misery. But you... you actually hold the line against him. I don't know how you survive it."

"Honestly? Some days I wonder the same thing," you admitted, resting your hands on the edge of the road case.

As the sound of rolling equipment and shouting stagehands hummed in the background, the conversation shifted, softening into something surprisingly grounded.

"So why the bass?"Valarr asked, wiping his palms on a grease-stained shop towel as he leaned back against a stack of amplifier heads. "And don't give me the PR line about it looking cool under the purple gels."

You scratched the back of your neck, setting down the wireless pack you’d just re-cased. "Because it weighs as much as a refrigerator, obviously."

Valarr let out a soft, genuine laugh, shaking his head.

"I'm serious," you said, a slight tilt of your mouth breaking through your usual guarded demeanor.

"So am I," he countered, eyes bright with humor. "Though I’m pretty sure a four-string weighs a bit less than a Kenmore. Come on—what made you pick it?"

You leaned back against the cool metal lip of a road case, looking down at your hands. "It's the low end. Everyone in the crowd is staring at the front of the stage, watching the flash, the guitar solos, the theatrics. But the bass? That’s the pulse. You don't just hear it—you feel it right in the center of your chest." You glanced up, meeting his steady gaze. "I like being the backbone. The force that actually holds the entire room together while someone else takes the credit."

Valarr nodded slowly, the easy amusement giving way to a quiet, deep understanding. "The hidden architecture."

"Exactly," you said. "What about you? Why are you lugging heavy cases and wrestling cable nests in dark loading docks when you could be sitting in VIP?"

He offered a sheepish, lopsided smile, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly? I hate the spotlight. I’ve watched Aerion chase it his entire life, and it just looks... exhausting."

"It is," you murmured.

"I like the invisible clockwork," Valarr said, gesturing around the cavernous, shadowy back-of-house. "The logistics, the tech, the sheer human effort it takes to build a temporary world, burn it down, and rebuild it in a new city twelve hours later. Making the magic happen behind the curtain feels a lot realer than standing in front of it."

It was a welcome change from the constant tug-of-war you'd left behind in the dressing room. For the first time that night, the conversation didn't feel like a competition. And You caught yourself smiling.

"Look," Valarr said, checking his watch before glancing back up at you with a gentle expression. "I know the label expects us to show face at the lounge down the street for the post-show press stuff. I'm heading over in twenty minutes. Let me buy you a drink? Just a quiet corner and a cold glass."

"I'd like that," you said, offering him a genuine smile. "Give me ten minutes to freshen up in the dressing room and wash off the stage grime, and I'll meet you by the back exit."

"Deal," Valarr replied softly.

You turned and headed back down the corridor, feeling a strange, light relief in your chest. For once, the night wasn't going to be a battleground. You were going to get your drinks, satisfy the photographers, and enjoy a rare, quiet evening—completely on your own terms.

The pulse of the bass thrashed through the floorboards of the neon-drenched club, a thick, suffocating beat that you felt more in your teeth than your ears. The label had secured a plush leather booth for the band in the elevated VIP section, complete with bottles of high-end vodka sweats and a relentless parade of sharp-eyed sycophants.

Down on the floor, Aerion was in his element. He was slouched on a velvet sofa surrounded by a halo of predatory beauty—three or four groupies vying for his attention, their hands tracing the leather of his jacket while he exhaled a lazy plum of smoke. He was laughing, loud and hollow, but every so often, his dark eyes cut through the haze of the club to track you.

You pointedly ignored him, tipping back your fourth drink of the night and letting the burn settle into your chest. Beside you, Valarr was an absolute breath of fresh air. He had traded his loading-dock grit for a dark button-down, leaning in to yell jokes over the roar of the crowd. He wasn't playing a role. He was just present, matching your laughter drink for drink, treating you like a person instead of an ornament.

A small cluster of fans suddenly braved the VIP ropes, flush-faced and clutching silver Sharpies, pleading for photos and autographs.

"Go on," Valarr nudged you with his elbow, offering a warm, easy smile. "Give the people what they want."

You rolled your eyes playfully, stepping away from the booth to sign a couple of phone cases and pose for a dizzying flash of phone cameras.

When you turned back around, you caught Valarr being pulled toward the edge of the floor by a gorgeous girl in a sparkling slip dress, who was laughing and coaxing him to join her. He shot you an amused, helpless look over his shoulder before letting himself be dragged into the rhythm of the music.

Before you could even step back toward the table, a shadowy figure slid into your space.

"Looking for a partner?" a voice slurred against the side of your neck.

He was tall, wearing an expensive jacket that smelled faintly of stale bourbon and heavy cologne. You didn't know his name, but you knew his type—rich enough to buy his way past the bouncers, entitled enough to think the club owned him everything in it.

"I'm good," you said smoothly, taking a deliberate step back.

He didn't take the hint. Instead, he closed the distance, his hand dropping to your waist with a wet, heavy grip. "Come on, don't be like that. Just one dance for a fan."

He pulled you onto the crowded floor, his body pressing too close, his fingers digging into the small of your back with an invasive, possessive pressure. You tried to twist out of his hold, but his hand slid lower, gripping the fabric over your hip, his thumb pressing uncomfortably hard into your flesh.

"I said no," you snapped, your voice dropping into a razor-sharp glare. You brought your heel down hard onto his shoe and shoved his chest with both hands. "Touch me again and I’ll break your fingers. Fuck off."

The guy stumbled back, his face twisting into an ugly, alcohol-fueled rage. "Who the fuck do you think you are? You're just a—"

He never finished the sentence.

A blur of black leather and raw, unadulterated fury collided with the man, throwing him backward into a table of high-stemmed glasses that shattered on impact.

Aerion stood over him, breathing heavily, the groupies completely forgotten. His jaw was set like granite, his knuckles already white as he loomed over the guy.

"What did you just say to her?" Aerion’s voice wasn't just loud—it was a low, terrifying growl that cut right through the booming bass of the club.

The guy scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his lip and lunging forward with a sloppy right hook. "Mind your own fucking business!"

Aerion dodged it with a violent, practiced ease, his left hand snapping out to catch the guy by the collar while his right came across in a brutally clean strike that laid the man flat on his back.

Chaos erupted in an instant. The guy's friends surged forward, shouts echoing over the music as drinks flew and security detail frantically tried to tear through the panicked crowd. Valarr was already sprinting back toward you, his eyes wide as he threw himself into the fray to keep two other men from blind-siding his cousin.

Through the flashing neon, amidst the screaming crowds and the crushing sound of shattering glass, Aerion turned his head. His eyes locked onto yours across the madness—dark, chest-heaving, and entirely consumed by a dark satisfaction. He had been looking for a reason to burn the night down, and he had finally found it.

Through the flashing neon, amidst the screaming crowds and the crushing sound of shattering glass, Aerion turned his head. His eyes locked onto yours across the madness—dark, chest-heaving, and entirely consumed by a terrifying, dangerous satisfaction. He had been looking for a reason to burn the night down, and he had finally found it.

Before long, red and blue strobe lights cut through the thick haze of the venue as the police finally breached the front doors. Sirens wailed outside, and heavy boots crunched over the debris field of shattered bottles and splintered mahogany. Batons were drawn, shouts echoed over the dying hum of the club’s speakers, and the reality of the disaster hit you like a bucket of ice water. This wasn't just a bar scuffle—it was a full-blown crime scene. Blood smeared the polished floorboards, a bouncer lay groaning by the VIP ropes, and the threat of handcuffs, mugshots, and cancellation hung heavy in the air.

If the press got wind of this, or if a single mugshot hit the internet before the festival contracts were finalized, the entire tour was dead in the water.

When the officers shoved their way into the VIP section, the lead cop took one look at Aerion’s face—bloodied, unbothered, and sneering—and the air completely shifted. Recognition flashed across the officer's face. Within minutes, the aggressive stance melted into eager, sycophantic grins. Sharpies were pulled from patrol jackets, phone cameras flicked on for discreet backstage requests, and the cops brushed off the devastation with a laugh, chalking it up to rock-and-roll antics. No charges were filed. No holding cells were filled.

They were escorted out the back alley and driven straight back to the tour bus, the silence in the vehicle suffocating.

The moment the bus doors hissed open, Valarr stepped up the narrow aisle, his face pale and eyes full of genuine concern as he reached out to check on you. "Hey, are you alright? Did he touch you?"

Before you could answer, Aerion pushed hard past him, his shoulder shoving Valarr back toward the front lounge.

"Fuck off, Valarr," Aerion growled, his voice thick with raw malice. "Go sit up front and manage the logistics. I'm handling this."

Valarr's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he didn't argue. He knew that look. He'd seen it before.

Blood tasted like pennies and cheap tequila, but the real filth was the noise.

It hadn't started with a scream. It had started with the sickening crack of bone yielding beneath iron ring-knuckles—a wet, ugly sound that somehow cut through the club's relentless bass. Crimson strobes flashed across splintered mahogany, shattered crystal, and bodies scrambling over one another to escape. The room had become a slaughterhouse.

Aerion moved through the carnage like a mad dog slipped off its chain. His eyes burned black beneath the lights, his lips peeled back over blood-slick teeth in something too savage to call a grin. Every swing landed with brutal certainty. Every step forward sent another body crashing into overturned tables and broken glass.

Valarr swore under his breath and lunged after him.

"Aerion!"

He never even looked back.

But by the time the local police stormed the club, their boots crunching over broken glass, the fight was already over.

Flashing blue lights spilled through the haze of cigarette smoke. Batons were drawn. Officers shouted for everyone to get on the floor. Men bled across the sticky hardwood, groaning amid overturned tables and splintered chairs. A bouncer clutched his ruined jaw near the VIP ropes. Another man lay curled around a pair of broken ribs.

By every reasonable measure, someone was going to jail.

Then the lead officer got a clear look at the faces standing in the wreckage.

His expression faltered.

Recognition replaced suspicion almost instantly. The hard edge left his voice, traded for the awkward enthusiasm of a fan who'd just realized he'd stumbled into a backstage meet-and-greet instead of a crime scene.

Someone produced a Sharpie.

A few uneasy laughs followed. Blood was wiped onto denim. The officers settled for muttered warnings about keeping the peace, reminding them to leave town before sunrise. No cuffs. No arrests. No trip to county lockup.

Just a request for autographs... and backstage passes at the next stop.

Now, inside the tour bus, the silence felt heavier than the fight itself.

You sat on the worn leather couch, staring at the cold rain lashing against the tinted glass of the window. Across the narrow aisle, Aerion was slumped in an armchair, casually dabbing a ice-pack to his split knuckle, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

The rage inside you wasn't the hot, messy kind that had just painted the club floor; it was cold, heavy, and lethal.

"You complete and utter idiot," you said, your voice dropping so low it cut straight through the hum of the idling engine. "You think that was a victory? You think because some small-town cop wanted your autograph, we just got away with it?"

Aerion didn't even flinch. He just offered a lazy, crooked smirk, tossing the ice pack onto the table between you. "Relax. Nobody's in jail, bass player."

"The label is going to lose their minds by morning," you snapped, leaning forward, the tension in your shoulders tight enough to snap a cable. "There were thirty phones filming that room. If one video hits the press before the festival bookers lock in our headlining slot, they’ll pull the plug on the entire run. You almost scorched our whole year of work because your fragile, bloated ego couldn't handle a drunk at a bar."

You stood up, towering over him in the cramped space of the bus, your fist clenched so tight your nails bit into your palm.

"You didn't protect me, Aerion," you spat, glaring down into his dark, unbothered eyes. "You just wanted an excuse to bleed, and you don't care if you drag the rest of us down to hell with you."

The lazy smirk vanished from Aerion’s face, replaced by a dark, dangerous scowl. He spat into a paper towel, a bright crimson smear staining the white ply, his jaw working as he swallowed the metallic taste of his own blood.

"Fuck it," he snapped, his voice rough and laced with venom. "If I didn't jump in, that bloated bastard would've had his greasy hands all over you."

"So fucking what?" you shot back, not backing down an inch, your eyes narrowing into slits.

Aerion blinked, a flash of genuine disbelief breaking through his anger. "Seriously? So fucking what?"

He glared up at you, the rage in his chest blackening by the second. All he could hear was the bastard's slurred, entitled voice echoing over the roar of the club, muttering about how you were practically begging for it—wearing that sheer lace jumpsuit, cut down to your waist, showing off every inch of skin like an invitation. The guy had thought because you dressed in nearly nothing, he owned the right to touch whatever he wanted.

Shaking his head, Aerion reached blindly for the half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting on the small table between you, desperate to drown out the noise in his head and burn away the lingering sting in his knuckles. He tilted it toward his mouth.

Before the glass could even touch his lips, you swung your arm in a blinding flash of movement.

SMACK.

Your hand struck the glass neck with brutal precision. The bottle flew from his grip, shattering against the bus floor in a sharp explosion of amber liquid and jagged shards.

Aerion froze, staring at the wet mess, his eyes wide with dark, simmering shock.

Aerion stared at the dripping pool of bourbon on the floor, his eyes dark with a dangerous, quiet heat. He slowly looked up, his jaw clenched tight.

"Oops," you said, not an ounce of remorse in your voice. "Just be glad the bottle didn't hit your face."

That was the spark. Aerion surged up from the leather seat, towering over the small space of the bus, the air between you suddenly thick with tension. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"You," you snapped, stepping right into his space, refusing to give up an inch. "You are my fucking problem, Aerion. I am so exhausted from dealing with your endless, arrogant bullshit."

"I just saved you from a touchy bastard—"

"I had it under control!" you roared, shoving a finger into his chest. "I don't need you playing the brooding protector. I am sick of you flaunting your self-destructive parade every single night. The grandstanding, the chaos, the constant need to burn everything to the ground just to see if people will watch you bleed! You act like the rest of us are just props in the Aerion Targaryen show, here to clean up your goddamn messes!"

Aerion let out a dry, harsh laugh, wiping the trace of blood from his chin with the back of his hand. His eyes narrowed, slicing right through your fury with lethal precision.

"Is that what this is about?" he sneered, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. "Or are you still carrying a grudge because you couldn't handle how things went down? Because the last time you threw a little tantrum like this, it was in London."

The air left your lungs.

"Careful, sweetheart," he said, leaning down until his voice barely carried beyond the room. "We both remember London."

His smile was thin.

"You packed your bags before sunrise."

Your jaw tightened.

"Because of you."

"No." He shook his head once. "Because I told you to leave..."

He held your gaze.

"...and you almost listened."

The silence that followed didn't just fall between you—it settled, heavy and suffocating, thick enough to choke on. The roar of the bus engine fading into background noise, leaving only the sharp, shallow rhythm of his breathing and the steady drip of bourbon hitting the floorboards.

A sharp, cold blade of pain cut through the heat of your rage. He wasn't just bringing up London; he was weaponizing it.

He was taking the single worst night of your life—the night you had felt utterly small, rejected, and broken enough to pack your bags—and reframing it as proof that you were weak. That you were soft.

When you spoke, your voice wasn't raised. It was low, quiet, and razor-sharp.

"You don't get to rewrite that night."

Aerion’s eyes narrowed, but he didn't back away. "I remember every second."

"Do you?" You took a slow, deliberate step toward him. "You shoved me out of your hotel room."

"Because if I hadn't..."

He stopped himself.

The air pulled tight. The sudden hesitation hung in the narrow space between you like a suspended wire. Aerion’s jaw locked, the muscle ticking under his pale skin, his dark eyes flickering with something raw and exposed that he instantly tried to kill.

You caught it. You felt the shift in the room, the sudden tilt of the earth under your feet.

"Because if you hadn't... what?"

He was trapped, and he knew it. A dark, quiet beat passed before he threw his head back and let out a dry, breathy laugh.

"Still trying to get me to say it?"

Neither of you moved. You were standing far too close now, the heat radiating off his chest brushing against your exposed skin, but neither of you stepped back. The fight had changed. The anger about the venue, the cops, the press, the band—it all evaporated, replaced by a desperate, dangerous need for the truth. You weren't trying to win anymore. You were trying to understand.

Aerion leaned in just an inch, his voice dropping so low it was almost a hum against your collarbone.

"You think I wanted you gone?"

"You told me to leave," you whispered.

"Because if you'd stayed another five minutes..."

He swallowed, his throat working hard, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that burned.

"...I wasn't going to stop myself."

He let the heavy, dark implication hang in the space between your lips, thick with years of unspoken ruin.

A new kind of fury bloomed in your chest—hotter, deeper, and far more lethal than before.

"So you threw me out."

"Yes."

"You let me believe you hated me."

"That was easier."

The words struck you square in the chest. Three simple words that dismantled every wall, every defensive lie you had constructed since that rain-soaked night in England.

You closed the remaining distance between you. Not out of surrender, and not out of desire, but out of a fierce, desperate need to look into his eyes and see if he was lying to you even now. Your hand shot out, your fingers twisting violently into the front of his soft, worn t-shirt, yanking him down toward you.

A single, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

"You're a coward."

He answered almost immediately, his voice completely devoid of his usual arrogance.

"I know."

Neither of you noticed how close you'd drifted until your knuckles were twisted tight in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him so close you could feel the erratic kick of his heart against your wrist. His breath caught in his throat.

"Tell me I'm wrong," you whispered, your thumb brushing against the center of his chest.

His eyes dropped to your mouth for the first time that night.

But he didn't.

 Aerion’s silence was heavy enough to crush the air right out of your lungs. His gaze stayed glued to your lips, dark and unreadable, while your fingers remained tight against his shirt, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart beneath the thin fabric.

He didn't move. He didn't pull away. For the first time since you’d known him, the loud, chaotic armor he wore was completely gone, leaving only the raw, volatile core of him exposed in the quiet of the bus.

"You're a bastard, Aerion," you breathed, the anger in your voice softening into something far more dangerous, far more fragile.

His hand came up slowly—almost hesitating, as if he expected you to strike him again—and his long fingers brushed against the side of your neck. His skin was warm, his thumb resting gently over the pulse beating wildly at your throat. His touch was surprisingly steady for a man whose knuckles were scraped and bloody.

"I know," he rasped, his eyes dragging back up to meet yours. The distance between you shrank until his breath was warm against your cheek, tasting faintly of bourbon and copper. "I'm the worst thing that ever happened to you. But don't you dare act like you didn't feel it too."

He slid his palm up to cup the back of your head, his thumb trace along your jawline, tilting your face up just enough that your lips brushed when he spoke. The friction was electric, sending a sharp, familiar shiver straight down your spine.

"Say it," he murmured, his voice dropping to a gravelly, quiet demand. "Say you hated me for leaving."

"I hated you," you whispered back, closing the last fraction of an inch between you, your lips pressing against his with a desperate, bruised intensity that felt less like a surrender and more like a collision.

Aerion let out a low, ragged sound against your mouth, his arm sweeping around your waist to yank you flush against his chest. All the space in the world vanished in an instant. The kiss wasn't gentle—it was hungry, sharp, and laden with every unspoken word, every jealous look, and every bit of ruin you had dragged each other through from London to tonight.

His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you so close you could feel the shudder that went through his whole frame. He wasn't playing the rockstar anymore. He wasn't posturing for a crowd or fighting a stranger in a dark club. It was just him, drowning in the one person he’d been trying to run from for years.

When you finally broke the kiss, it felt like pulling air back into a vacuum. The sudden gap between your lips was suffocating, the cold air of the back lounge instantly rushing in to replace the heat of him.

Neither of you pulled away far. Aerion’s forehead rested against yours, his deep, ragged breaths fanning across your skin in short, hot bursts. His hand was still tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers clenched tight, as if he was convinced that if he let go, the spell would snap and you'd vanish.

You opened your eyes. His violet gaze was right there, wide, dark, and utterly wrecked. The arrogance had completely drained from his face, leaving behind a raw, naked vulnerability that you hadn't seen since the nights before the fame, the arenas, and the noise took over.

It had been years. Years of icy silence, bitter glances across the tour bus, brutal fights, and pretending the fire between you had burned out into ash. Years of building walls and convincing yourself that London was the end.

And yet.

The second his lips had touched yours, every single year melted into nothing. That same terrifying, electric jolt had hit you instantly, crashing through your pulse like a live wire. Underneath the metallic taste of blood from his split lip, the burn of cheap bourbon on his breath, and the lingering residue of sweat, leather, and hard rock—it was still just him.

Fuck.

You hated him for what he did. You hated him for London, for the chaos, for making your life a constant, living storm. But as you stared into his dark, searching eyes, feeling the hard kick of his heart pounding against your ribs, the terrifying truth settled heavy in your chest.

After everything, all you wanted was him.

You wanted a promise. You wanted him to look you in the eyes and swear that he would never walk away again, that he would never lock you out, that London was a nightmare that would never repeat itself. But asking Aerion for a guarantee was like asking the storm to stop rolling over the horizon. He was built on chaos, and a promise from him would just be another lie to burn through.

He couldn't give you forever. But he could give you this.

He could give you tonight. He could give you the quiet hours of the early morning, the space between tour dates, and maybe—just maybe—he could give you the next day, and the day after that, to start tearing down the mountain of bullshit he had built between you.

Aerion seemed to read it in your eyes. The shift from desperation to a fierce, quiet surrender. His hand slid down from the back of your head, his calloused thumb tracing the line of your jaw before hooking beneath your chin to tilt your face up.

"I can't undo it," he murmured against your mouth, his voice low, dark, and thick with an honesty that cut deeper than any smooth-talked vow ever could. "I can't promise you tomorrow, or the next tour, or whatever the hell comes after. But I'm here right now. I'm yours tonight. Take it."

"Then give it to me," you breathed.

And that was all the invitation he needed.

Aerion’s mouth claimed yours again, but the restraint was completely gone. It was a hungry, possessive wreck of a kiss, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting of dark liquor and the metallic tang of his own blood. He lifted you effortlessly, your thighs instantly wrapping around his waist as he backed you up against the narrow wall of the lounge. The wood groaned under the weight, but neither of you cared.

His hands were everywhere at once—rough, desperate, and heavy. One hand slammed against the wall beside your head to anchor you, while the other slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises through the lace of your jumpsuit. You pulled him tighter, your fingers knotting into his dark, messy hair, dragging his face deeper into the curve of your neck.

He let out a low, rough growl, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse. A sharp, electric shiver shot straight down your spine.

"Tell me this is what you want," he rasped, his hot breath fanning across your collarbone as his hand moved to the front zipper of your stage gear. "Tell me to stop, or tell me you're taking all of it."

"Don't you dare stop," you whispered, reaching down to grab the front of his shirt, tearing at the fabric until it gave way.

Aerion shed his shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it into the dark corner of the bus, leaving his broad chest bare, heavy with sweat, and marked by the faint line of his ribcage rising and falling with every ragged breath. He didn't wait. His fingers hooked into the neck of your lace jumpsuit, pulling the fabric down over your shoulders, exposing you to the cool air of the room—and to the dark, consuming heat of his gaze.

His eyes swept down your body, dark with an unholy kind of reverence. "Fuck," he muttered, his knuckles brushing over your bare skin, sending goosebumps rippling across your flesh. "You're going to destroy me."

"Good," you choked out, pulling him down by the back of his neck.

His mouth hit yours again, hard and unyielding, as he slid a knee between your legs, pressing his weight fully into you. The friction through the thin layer of lace was unbearable, a white-hot spark catching in the pit of your stomach. You arched into him, a soft gasp breaking into his mouth, and Aerion groaned, his hips hitching forward to match your rhythm.

His hand slid down, pushing the lace past your hips until you were completely bare to him in the dim light of the tour bus. He didn't offer a gentle touch; his calloused palm cupped you directly, his fingers slick and warm, finding the precise center of your ache with a pressure that made your knees go weak in his grip.

"Aerion—" you gasped, your head snapping back against the paneling as he began to move his thumb in slow, agonizingly tight circles.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a dark thread in the quiet room.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his heavy, violet gaze. He watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face, taking ownership of every ragged breath you drew. He lowered his head, his mouth tracing down your throat, over your chest, taking one hardened peak into his mouth while his hand worked between your thighs.

The combination of his hot, wet mouth and the sharp, rhythmic rhythm of his fingers drove you over the edge of sanity. You clamped your legs around his waist, your nails digging deep into the bare skin of his shoulders, leaving red crescents in their wake.

"Aerion, please," you begged, the word escaping you before you could stop it.

He smiled against your skin—a dark, dangerous tilt of his lips. He reached down, unbuckling his belt with one swift, practiced motion, pushing his jeans down just far enough to free himself. He lined himself up at your entrance, the broad tip pressing against your wet heat, stalling for just one torturous second.

"Say my name," he growled against your lips, his hips hovering at the precipice. "Say who you're doing this for."

"Aerion," you sobbed out, leaning forward to press your forehead to his. "You. Always you."

With a low, gut-wrenching groan, he drove himself all the way inside you in one long, devastating thrust.

The sensation was so intense it stole the breath right from your lungs. You were completely filled, stretched tight around him, the years of separation, anger, and longing collapsing into a single point of blinding heat. Aerion froze for a beat, his eyes closing as a shudder ran through his entire frame, his muscles locking tight as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

"Fuck," he choked out, his voice wrecked. "You feel... god, you're so tight."

He began to move. At first, it was slow, deep, and agonizingly thorough—pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in, setting a rhythm that rattled the very frame of the bus. Every slide of his skin against yours was an electric current, a silent confession of everything he had tried to run from.

You met him thrust for thrust, your hips lifting to swallow every inch he gave you. The friction was unbearable, a tight, coiling tension building in the lower half of your body, threatening to snap you in two. Aerion shifted his grip, sliding his hands under your thighs to hoist you higher against the wall, changing the angle so he hit deeper, harder, striking that exact, sweet spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Aerion—I'm—" you gasped, your voice breaking as the coil pulled impossibly tight.

"I've got you," he rasped, his pace turning wild, chaotic, and completely unrestrained. His chest slammed against yours with every deep, punishing drive, his mouth finding yours to drink in your cries as you shattered beneath him.

The climax hit you like a physical wave, crashing through your nerves and wringing a sharp, high cry from your throat that he swallowed whole. Your walls contracted violently around him, pulsing in rhythm with the shockwaves running through your blood.

The tight, helpless grip of your body was the final straw for him. Aerion buried his face in your shoulder, letting out a raw, guttural groan as he drove into you one last, deep time, his body going rigid as he came inside you, his hot release filling you completely while he held you pinned to the wall.

For long minutes, the only sound in the back lounge was the heavy, ragged sound of your shared breathing and the distant hum of the highway tires.

Aerion didn't pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against yours, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, gently, he slid you down until your feet touched the floorboards, though his arms remained wrapped tightly around your waist, refusing to let an inch of space come between you.

He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, and finally your bruised lips—a soft, lingering touch that felt unnervingly sweet compared to the storm that had just passed.

"Tomorrow," Aerion whispered against your mouth, his hand gently smoothing back the damp hair from your face. "We talk about the bullshit tomorrow."

You closed your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face in his warm skin. "Tomorrow."

The quiet of the bus wrapped around you both, heavy and strangely still.

Aerion’s chest rose and fell in slow, steady surges against yours, his heart still hammering a furious rhythm against your ribs. He didn't pull away, nor did he slip back behind the smirk, the sharp banter, or the untouchable, chaotic armor he usually wore like a second skin.

He stayed right there, present and completely exposed in the dim, amber light of the lounge. His calloused hand lingered at the small of your back, his long fingers gently tracing the curve of your spine in quiet, rhythmic sweeps—a tender, grounding touch that had nothing to do with stage presence or bravado.

For years, everything between you had been a game of leverage, a battle of wills, or a high-octane show put on for an audience of thousands. Every kiss was a challenge; every push was meant to test your limits.

But as his thumb brushed over your pulse point, soft and steady, you felt the subtle shift in the air.

The wedding breakfast was proving every bit as boisterous as the reception had been the night before.

Morning sunlight poured through the tall arched windows and open doors of the great hall, turning the pale stone almost golden. Beyond the balcony, the castle grounds were washed in the clear light of late morning, though inside there was little of the quiet one might have expected at such an hour. Servants moved briskly between the long tables with steaming pots of tea, silver jugs of cream and great platters piled with bread, fruit, smoked fish, eggs, honeyed ham and little sugared pastries.

Half the wedding party looked as though they had not slept at all. You were fairly certain some of them hadn't. Lyonel Baratheon's dark hair was decidedly flat on one side, as though he had only recently lifted his head from a pillow, or perhaps a table and his doublet looked remarkably similar to the one he had worn to the ceremony. One of its golden clasps had been fastened incorrectly. He was currently leaning heavily against the back of a chair while listening with grave concentration to a story that appeared to have no ending.

You hid your smile. Giddy. Baelor's hand settled against the small of your back as he guided you down the shallow steps from the balcony.

It had been there almost constantly since you had left your chambers; he seemed incapable of passing more than a few moments without touching you. His palm rested warm against the fabric of your gown, fingers spreading whenever you slowed, gently steering you between chairs and sleepy courtiers.

"We shan’t be here long" he murmured near your ear as you reached the high table. "...I will have you back to our bedroom and beneath me as soon as breakfast is done."

Your breath caught in your throat as you gazed up at him, the soreness between your thighs a reminder of that delightful stretch you felt when he pulsed within you, his hips grinding against yours, his rough hand pinning your thighs wide and open. Each roll of his hips pulling you closer and closer to the addictive feeling that splintered your body.

‘’Now my love, let me feed you. You will need your energy for what I have planned.’’  he grinned his eyes flickering to the distracted crowd before bringing his hand down to give you a sharp rap on your rear. A breathy whimper falling from your parted lips. Ravenous eyes, near black, held you captive. 

‘’Move my innocent wife, before I brag you back to the room in front of the whole court and give you a lesson on how a dragon claims his wife. I will have your screaming in pleasure.’’ his eyes glint, ‘’Go greet your family, my love while you still have the a voice.’’ he ushered you foward.

You turned sharply to greet those already gathered. Your father was first. He chortled as you bent to kiss his cheek, catching your hand before you could retreat and squeezing it affectionately. "Look at you."

Your mother was less easily satisfied. She kissed you and then immediately cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing beneath your eye as she studied your face with the ruthless attention you had long been accustomed to hear. You knew precisely what she was looking for. She said nothing, though the corners of her mouth curled downward knowingly.

Behind you, Baelor had already taken your abandoned place in the greetings. He clasped your father's shoulder with enough warmth to make the older man laugh before turning to your mother and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Good morning, Mother." he greeted

She immediately stiffened, Baelor withdrew with a strained smile before retreating, letting back beside you once more letting your mother glare at him.

"Hmm." 

His smile widened, if only strained.

The Queen received your kiss far more graciously, taking both your hands and squeezing them before releasing you. The King, however, caused a spectacle. He pushed himself enthusiastically from his chair the moment you approached.

"Ah! My new daughter!"

"Your Grace…" Before you could finish, he seized you warmly by the shoulders and planted a resounding kiss upon one cheek and then the other.

"Father," Baelor called, laughter threaded through his voice. Baelor stood with one arm loosely around his mother's shoulders as she embraced him, though his attention remained entirely upon you. His father's playful eyes flicked towards him. "Do not startle my wife."

"Your wife?" the King repeated. "My daughter now and I will startle her as often as I please.’’

You escaped the King's lingering hands before he could decide upon another embrace and continued around the table.

Aemon and Egg appeared to have already escaped into the crowd. You caught the briefest glimpse of pale hair disappearing between two groups of guests before losing them entirely. But Dunk was slightly harder to miss, he loomed off at the distance smiling following the boys, in his new pretty white clack. Maekar, unfortunately for him, had not been so quick to escape with his sons. He sat hunched over a cup of something dark and steaming, shoulders stiff, looking as though he deeply resented the existence of mornings, weddings and cheerful relatives in equal measure.

You bent and kissed his cheek. Maekar grumbling at your kiss, recoiling the instant your lips touched his cheek as though you had committed some terrible offence against his dignity. His shoulders drew up and his face twisted into such exaggerated disgust that you could not help but laugh. He immediately scrubbed the back of his hand across the place you had kissed, muttering something thoroughly uncharitable beneath his breath. Unfortunately for him, the performance was entirely undermined by the warm flush creeping over his golden skin. It began high upon his cheekbones before spreading towards the tips of his ears, and when he noticed you looking at him, his scowl deepened.

"Do stop smiling, it does not befit a Targeryn princess."

That, naturally, only made your smile grow. You might have lingered to torment him further had your handmaids not descended upon you in a flutter of skirts and concerned hands. One caught the trailing edge of your gown before someone could step upon it, while another fussed unnecessarily with the fall of your sleeve. Between them, they managed to shepherd you back towards your mother and the Queen, both of whom had already settled near the centre of the high table. Behind you came the scrape of chairs, the clink of silver against porcelain and the steady murmur of a hall still recovering from the excesses of the previous night.

Maekar watched his brother approach through narrowed eyes, his cup balanced between both hands as though the warmth of it might soothe his temper. It evidently did not.

"I did not think we would see you before dinner, brother."

Baelor, who had been reaching for the back of your chair, stopped. Slowly, he turned his head. Maekar met his gaze over the rim of his cup. His expression was wonderfully bland, though the slight curl at one corner of his mouth betrayed him. "The servants are nearly ready to serve tea. We thought we might have to send out a search party."

The silence between the brothers lasted only a moment, but you had already begun biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Baelor's eyes narrowed upon Maekar with the particular look of an elder brother deciding precisely how cruel his retaliation ought to be. Then his expression softened into a smile so pleasant that Maekar immediately looked suspicious.

"My apologies, brother. Had I known you were so desperately wanting for company, I would have attended to you as soon as possible."

Baelor stepped behind your chair and rested both hands upon its carved back, apparently giving the matter serious consideration. "Though perhaps a more constant companion would be better. Someone capable of enduring your moods without requiring the rest of us to suffer them. A wife, perhaps." Baelor continued, plainly delighted with himself. "She might even make you pleasant."

At the mere mention of a wife, the King, who until then had been occupied with buttering a thick piece of bread, looked up with sudden interest. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Oh, I quite agree."

"Father," Maekar warned.

The King ignored him completely. "A wife seems to have put your brother in an exceptionally good mood."

Baelor's eyes flickered towards you. You caught the glance. So did Maekar. His expression became even more miserable.

The King leaned back in his chair and regarded his younger son thoughtfully. "Perhaps my new daughter has a friend? Or a cousin? May perhaps one of her ladies, then?" his eyes travelling towards the collection of young women who had been fussing around you since the previous evening. Breannei Lannister, Carlys Mollen, and Mysa Dayne all gathered a short distance away, speaking quietly amongst themselves while occasionally glancing towards the high table. "They have certainly been hovering around you since last night." The King's smile suddenly faltered as he looked towards the ladies. Then back at Maekar. His brows rose "Unless there is something I ought to know, son.’’ The King leaned forward. "I am not to acquire another three daughters, am I?"

"For fuck's sake." Maekar muttered it directly into his cup before taking a long drink, his cup came down against the table with rather more force than necessary.

Your father choked upon a laugh and hastily disguised it as a cough. The Queen closed her eyes for a moment, her lips tightening in the unmistakable expression of stifling a laugh. Baelor, meanwhile, had abandoned any attempt at dignity. His shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter as he lowered his head.

You decided Maekar had suffered enough. "I do hope you are not terrorising my dear brother."

Baelor's attention shifted immediately towards you. The wickedness in his expression disappeared beneath something altogether softer as he came around the table.

"Never, my love."

He pulled your chair out before you could reach for it yourself, one hand resting upon the carved back while the other extended towards you. You placed your fingers in his and allowed him to guide you into your seat. He pushed the chair carefully towards the table, only to pause, glance at the distance separating your chair from his, and drag it several inches sideways until the two were nearly touching.

"Oh, gods spare us." Maekar growled.

Baelor paid him no attention. The moment he was seated, his hand disappeared beneath the edge of the table and found yours. His fingers slid between your own, his gold rings cold against your skin,  his thumb beginning a slow stroke across the side of your hand while he surveyed the breakfast spread with his other.

You watched as a piece of warm bread appeared upon your plate. Then some eggs. A portion of smoked fish followed. Then berries. Then strawberries.

"Baelor." You glanced meaningfully at your increasingly crowded plate. "I am capable of feeding myself."

Baelor did not stop till your plate was piled high before he lifted your intertwined hands and pressed a kiss against your knuckles before returning them beneath the table.

Across from you, Maekar watched this display with the expression of disdain. "It is sickening."

"You seem unusually invested in our marriage this morning," Baelor observed, calmly breaking a piece from his bread with one hand.

"I am unfortunately required to witness it. Along with the whole of the realm.’’ Maekar's eyes dropped pointedly towards the place where your hands disappeared beneath the table. His gaze rose again to his brother, his mouth twisting. "It might have been better if the two of you had simply stayed in bed."

You reached for your plate, Baelor's thumb continued moving lazily over your knuckles. "I did try to persuade him." You arranged your features into an expression of perfect innocence. "I was rather enjoying myself."

Baelor slowly turned his head towards you, eye wide and burning. You refused to look at him. Instead, you reached for one of the strawberries he had placed upon your plate, turning it delicately between your fingers. "But I thought it prudent not to wear out my husband on our first full day as husband and wife."

Maekar spat his wine. Red Arbor erupted across the white tablecloth in a spectacular cloud. He doubled forward coughing, one hand striking against his chest while the other blindly searched for something with which to wipe his mouth. A servant several paces away startled so badly that the silver jug in his hands rattled against its tray.

You calmly bit into your strawberry. When you finally looked up, Maekar was staring at you with enormous eyes. His horror was surpassed only by Baelor's expression.

Your husband looked genuinely speechless. His hand remained wrapped around yours beneath the table, but otherwise he had gone completely still. His lips had parted slightly and his brows had risen as though he could not quite reconcile the sweetly smiling woman beside him with the words he had just heard leave her mouth.

The King broke first. His laughter exploded across the high table with such force that several conversations farther down the hall faltered. He threw his head back, one broad hand striking the table as he laughed, entirely heedless of the Queen's increasingly disapproving stare. Your father was staring determinedly at his plate, though the trembling of his shoulders betrayed him. Your mother was the only one entirely untouched by the comment, instead she just glared out at the guest staring at the top table.

Baelor's surprise faded first. Then his eyes narrowed, amusement warming them as the corner of his mouth began to curl upwards. That familiar, dangerous smile slowly returned. He leaned towards you until his shoulder brushed yours, lowering his voice enough that his words were meant only for you.

"You are going to regret that later. When I get you back to our chambers my lovely, if you thought you were sore before you will have to think again. Minx.’’

Warmth climbed your neck, your thighs rubbed together, a now familiar wetness coating them. The dull ache you had  You turned your face towards him, meeting his gaze with a sweetness you did not remotely feel.

"Promises, promises."

Maekar made a strangled sound from across the table.Fortunately for what remained of his patience, footsteps sounded near the high table.

"Father. Princess." Valarr approached  with Princess Kiera upon his arm, "Good morning," Valarr ventured cautiously. "Myself and Princess Kiera, wish to extend another congratulations. I hope we can spend the day celebrating."

"Save yourself, nephew." Maekar's warning came with such weary sincerity that Valarr stopped.His brows drew together. He looked at Maekar. Then at the King. Then at the Queen. Then towards his father.

Baelor, who had regained most of his composure, was sitting rather too close to you and looking entirely too pleased with himself. Valarr's confusion deepened. Princess Kiera followed the direction of his gaze and appeared to understand enough of the situation to know that ignorance might be preferable.

She gave Valarr's arm a gentle pat. "Do not worry, husband. I shall explain it to you after you have eaten."

Valarr allowed Kiera to guide him towards their places, though he continued glancing between the members of his family as though careful observation might eventually reveal what had happened. 

Baelor held your gaze as he reached into the bowl himself. He took his time examining the fruit before selecting the largest, ripest strawberry and bring it to your lips 

"Behave," he murmured as you took a bite.

For several seconds Baelor merely regarded you. Then a low laugh escaped him, warm and helpless, and he shook his head. His hand slipped back beneath the table to find yours once more, fingers threading through yours as naturally as before.

Across from you, Maekar watched your hands disappear beneath the table. His shoulders sagged. ‘’Baelor kindly retrieve your hands from underneath the table, people are eating.’’

xxxxxx

The courtyard had become a confusion of farewells by the time your parents were finally ready to depart. What had begun as an orderly procession of servants carrying trunks and travelling chests had gradually dissolved into embraces, forgotten parcels, last-minute instructions and horses stamping impatiently against the stones. The morning had grown pleasantly warm, sunlight spilling over the pale walls and catching upon buckles, polished breastplates and the bright-painted sides of the wheelhouse waiting near the gates. Servants hurried back and forth beneath the watchful eyes of your mother's household steward, while guards checked saddles and harnesses for what seemed the third time.

Your father appeared entirely unconcerned by the chaos. He stood before you with his travelling cloak thrown back over one shoulder, looking from your face to the castle behind you with a fondness that made his smile deepen.

"You are glowing dear, I hate to part with you again but we must return. Your aunt is traveling from the Riverlands and your mother is rather keen to gossip. I fear that the celebration she is planning will ruin us," your father laughed. He kissed your forehead and squeezed your hands before allowing your mother to claim you.

She did so almost immediately. Your mother's hands settled upon your arms, smoothing the fabric there despite there being nothing wrong with it. She had been fussing over you for most of the morning, straightening your sleeve, checking the clasp at your throat, brushing an invisible piece of lint from your shoulder and you had begun to suspect that each unnecessary adjustment was merely an excuse to touch you once more before leaving. Now that the moment of departure had actually arrived, the stern composure she had maintained throughout the morning was beginning to falter.

Her eyes travelled carefully over your face. There was something searching in the way she looked at you, as though she were attempting to discover in your expression all the things you had not told her. Her fingers tightened slightly around your arms before her voice dropped low enough that the question was intended for you alone.

"Was he good to you...he didn't force you or rip you…"

Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks. You glanced instinctively towards the gathering of people nearby before returning your attention to your mother. Her expression held no teasing curiosity; she was entirely serious, concern pulling her brows together as she waited for your answer.

"Very mother."

Something in her face relaxed. Her shoulders lowered and the grip upon your arms softened, though the relief that passed across her features was swiftly followed by an emotion she was considerably less successful at concealing.

"Well then.." a tear filled her eyes "I know I have been difficult but I do truly want you well and safe."

The sight of that tear robbed you of whatever irritation her questioning might otherwise have inspired.

"Mother I am safe can be here with Baelor." you smiled.

Your mother's mouth tightened. "Baelor will not always be by your side. You would have been much safer as Lord Baraethon bride."

"Mother…" you hissed.

Your eyes immediately darted beyond her shoulder.Baelor stood several paces away with his back to you, speaking with your father and one of the knights accompanying your family home. At least, he had been speaking with them. Now he was very noticeably silent.

You knew at once that he had heard. His back had become as straight as a spear. His shoulders were squared beneath his dark doublet and his head had tilted just slightly to one side, not enough to turn towards you but enough to make it painfully obvious that every ounce of his attention had shifted to the conversation behind him. Your father appeared to notice the change as well. His eyes flickered briefly towards you and your mother before returning to Baelor.

"I know…I worry…it is a mother's job. Just because you have run off and got married does mean I will stop." The defensiveness in her voice softened towards the end.

You sighed, your irritation fading as quickly as it had come, and reached for her hands. "I know, mother."

Her fingers closed tightly around yours. For several moments she simply looked at you, taking in your face as though committing every feature to memory despite knowing perfectly well that she would see you again before long. Then she drew herself upright and summoned some of her usual authority.

"Till home then. I will have a banquet fit for a future queen ready for you. I hope the journey is good and the road treats you well."

Before you could answer, your mother pulled you into her arms. She crushed you against her with enough force to make you stumble half a step forward, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. Her cheek pressed against your hair and when she spoke again, the command in her voice could not entirely conceal its tremor.

"Be cautious my dear. Trust few and be wary of everyone."

"I will be a mother. I love you, see you soon."

She held you for another moment before finally forcing herself to release you. Even then her hands lingered upon your shoulders. She kissed one cheek, then the other, inspected your face one final time and turned sharply towards the waiting wheelhouse before her emotions could betray her further.

Your father gave you one last affectionate smile before following. The wheelhouse door was closed. Within moments the driver called to the horses and the procession began moving towards the gates, wheels grinding over the courtyard stones as mounted guards fell into formation around it.

You stood watching until the wheelhouse began to disappear beneath the shadow of the gatehouse.

Beside you came a suspiciously rough sound. Maekar, you had come to realise, did not laugh so much as produce increasingly strange variations of grunts whenever something genuinely amused him. This particular noise emerged from somewhere behind his beard as he stood a short distance away, arms folded firmly across his chest. To anyone who did not know him, his expression might have appeared as dour as ever. You were beginning to know better. There was a faint crease beside his eyes that had nothing whatsoever to do with irritation, and although the beard concealed most of his mouth, you were almost certain there was a grin hiding beneath it. More tellingly, he was not watching the departing wheelhouse. He was watching his brother.

Baelor remained rigid beside you, his severe frown fixed upon the vehicle carrying your mother away. His eyes followed it with such concentrated displeasure. Even after the wheelhouse passed beneath the gate and vanished from sight, Baelor continued staring after it.

You gave Maekar a warning glance before turning towards your husband. Sliding closer, you rested one hand against Baelor's chest, feeling the burning heat through the embroidered fabric of his doublet.

"Husband, she means well." you smiled up at his hand resting on his chest.

Baelor's face lowered towards yours, though his eyes stubbornly remained upon the gate for several moments longer. His jaw shifted once, irritation still evident in the hard line of his mouth. Only when the last of your family's escort disappeared from view did his gaze wonder to your features, his expression softened almost immediately.

"I am sure she does but if she mentions that prancing stag again I will have her thrown in the dungeons." he smiled as he placed kisses to your cheek.

You giggled. "Well perhaps I could persuade you from doing that" you look up at him through your lashes going with the button of his doublet.

Your fingers found one of the small buttons running down the front of his doublet and toyed idly with it. Baelor's gaze followed the movement for an instant before returning to your face. Whatever lingering irritation Lord Baratheon's name had inspired disappeared beneath an entirely different expression. His eyes darkened with unmistakable desire, the corners of his mouth curling as he covered your hand with his own and gently drew it away from his doublet.

"Shall we retire, my love." he eyes hungrily dark eyes devouring you as he brought your hand to his lips and kissed them, purring as you laughed and ushering up the steps.

Baelor raised your hand slowly, pressing his mouth against your knuckles without once taking his eyes from yours. You laughed beneath your breath, suddenly very conscious of the number of people still occupying the courtyard, but Baelor appeared to have forgotten they existed. His hand settled at the small of your back as he turned you towards the steps, guiding you ahead of him with an eagerness he made very little attempt to conceal. Ser Duskendale and Crakehall followed at a considerably more respectful distance. Neither looked towards their prince and his new wife if they could possibly avoid doing so.

Maekar remained exactly where he was. His expression had returned to its usual scowl. The sound of hurried footsteps approached from behind him, accompanied by the fluttering of robes and the faint wheeze of someone who had crossed the courtyard more quickly than was advisable.

Maester Yormwell bumbled along. "They make a fine couple. It will make a wonderful start for my history."

The old maester came to a stop beside the prince with several scrolls clutched precariously beneath one arm, his chain bouncing against his robes from his hurried progress. He followed Maekar's gaze towards the staircase, apparently oblivious to the look upon the prince's face to lost in his own delight to think to deeply into the sight of Baelor, future king of the kingdoms, practically chasing his new wife back to their chambers had provided him with invaluable information to be recorded.

Maekar did not look at him. "Disgustingly so. What do you want, Yormwell, I am busy being violently sickened."

Yormwell blinked at him, uncertain whether the prince was joking. Maekar's face offered absolutely no assistance in determining the answer. After a moment, the maester evidently decided it was safer to proceed with his business.

"The ravens are ready to be sent. Are there any last minute adjustments you wish to add to my prince." Yormwell thrust the small scroll towards the prince.

Maekar made no immediate attempt to take the scroll. His gaze remained fixed upon the staircase. The last glimpse of your skirts disappeared through the doorway, closely followed by Baelor. Several moments later Ser Duskendale and Crakehall reached the top themselves, maintaining the careful distance of men who had absolutely no desire to discover how affectionate their prince intended to become once he was beyond the courtyard.

Only then did Maekar turn towards the maester. His gaze dropped to the scroll being held expectantly beneath his nose waiting for approval of the final arrangements for the royal progress: which houses were to receive them, where the travelling court would stop, how many attendants each castle could accommodate and countless other details Maekar had spent far too much of his morning considering. His eyes travelled over several lines before drifting back towards the empty staircase.

"Yes. Instruct the hosting houses to situate the Prince and Princess as far away from others as possible, lest we have those to offend the known kingdom, I am far too old for another rebellion…though a war might be a blessed release from any children my brother seems hell bent in unleashing on us."

''Yes my grace. Won't it be wonderful''

Soooooo what did you think? Poor Maekar. His life on the road with them is gonna be unbearable. But don't worry I will make it worth it for him. Next but the Kingsroad and Baelor has a lot to teach his beloved bookworm wife...lets just say she won't just be thirsty for knowledge... *insert suggestive eye wiggle* hahaha.

More to following soon.

Side note would anyone be interested in a three parter Ormund Hightower fiction obviously being ruled by a Redwyne reader as he needs to be taken down a peg...or several.

You’d spent the last forty-eight hours trying to find a way to change your schedule. 

You went to the scheduling department for the School of Psychology and asked almost every single worker if there was any loophole that would make it so you didn’t have to take Professor Ackerman’s class. All of them said the same thing — No. There was absolutely no way that you would be able to get out of this, not unless you were willing to extend your studying by another semester. 

The class was a required seminar for your concentration, and Professor Ackerman was the only faculty member teaching it this semester. Professor Davis had to step down unexpectedly only two weeks ago like Levi said. There was no other section.

You were stuck. 

Which was how, on Thursday, you found yourself climbing the stone steps that led towards the psychology building. The cooling temperature of early September had replaced the scalding heat of August, the excitement of a new school year was beginning to wear off, leaving students rushing in between buildings with coffee cups in their hands and tired looks in their gaze. Everyone was settling into their own routine and you were too, normally though, you loved this time of year. It was a fresh start, a new year, new you. 

You adjusted the strap of your tote bag hanging on your shoulder, pushing open the door and making your slow march to Room 314, his lecture hall. The same girl who you saw speaking to Professor Ackerman on Tuesday was leaning against one of the wooden pillars talking to another girl you recognized from one of your classes last spring. 

“I’m telling you, he’s brutal,” she said, fingers typing on her phone, barely looking up. “I asked him if I could be his TA so I could get a resume boost and he shot me down, barely even looked at me!” 

Her friend shrugged. “He probably already has one.” 

“No, he said he didn’t want one,” the blonde stated. “It’s so annoying.” 

“Do you think he’s married?” 

You nearly tripped over your own footsteps when it caught against the edge of a floor tile, casting your gaze down to the floor that suddenly became very interesting instead of the conversation you were overhearing. Because you knew that Professor Ackerman wasn’t married, you knew this very well. There hadn’t been another toothbrush sitting beside the sink or another pair of shoes in the front door, and there was no way he would’ve slept with you if he had a wife — or at least you hoped. 

The realization settled somewhere inside you that you knew things about Professor Ackerman that no normal student should know, small and harmless at first and then something deeply intimate. You knew which side of the bed he slept on, how he alphabetized his books, and he preferred warm lighting over white. On the other hand, you knew exactly the type of noises he made when your lips wrapped around his dick for the first time, or the way his hands gripped your thighs open while he licked a thick stripe from the entrance of your cunt to your clit. 

It was better to just push the door open to the lecture hall before you could hear the rest of the conversation, your footsteps echoing in the partially empty lecture hall as you made your way towards the seat you had been in before. Levi was already standing at the front, one hand bracing against the edge of the lectern while the other was fidgeting with the lighting of the projector casted in the front of the room. 

He was dressed similar to how he was on Tuesday, donning a charcoal colored sweater with dark slacks pressed without a wrinkle. His sleeves were rolled nearly to his forearms, showing a silver colored watch that matched the thin-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose. 

You grabbed your notebook and pen from your bag and set it down on the desk in front of you. 

Levi looked up and for the shortest moment imaginable, his eyes met yours without hesitation. Afterwards he simply looked away again, organizing the notes on his desk until they were perfectly straightened at the edges, using the same detached professionalism he had promised you on Monday. 

Students filed in and settled down, the sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and conversations that you couldn’t quite make out filled the space. 

At exactly nine o’clock, Professor Ackerman cleared his throat. 

“Okay, good morning. Today we’re going to discuss what I lectured about Monday: attention and executive function. You’ll all be expected to participate in this discussion for the established seminar portion of your grade,” he announced, clicking a button to show the beginning slide of his presentation. “Before we begin, I have a departmental announcement.” 

A few students sat up a bit straighter. 

“Tomorrow evening at seven, the Department of Psychology is hosting its annual graduate welcome mixer. Faculty members, graduate students, and research coordinators will be in attendance. If you are planning on conducting research or being a part of a research group, I suggest you come to meet faculty outside the classroom and foster potential research interests.” 

A student raised his hand near the front of the hall. “Is it mandatory?” 

Professor Ackerman sighed, pressing the button to the next slide that showed the event flyer with the location and time. “Do you want to get a job after school?” 

“I mean . . . yeah.” 

“Then you can probably answer your question yourself. You’re all adults, if you’d like to make your lives more difficult, don’t come to network. It doesn’t affect me at all.” 

You heard a few laughs behind you and for a brief moment you saw the corner of Levi’s mouth twitch up in an almost smile. 

“There will be food, if that sways your choice more than potential research opportunities.” 

“I’ll go,” the student said a little bit too quickly after Professor Ackerman's comment. 

Levi rolled his eyes, clicking the presentation forward to the beginning slides of lecture content. “Great to know where your priorities lie. Now, can we get started?” 

Clusters of faculty members and other graduate students stood scattered throughout the big event space, warm light spilling from the lights above. Glasses of wine and plates of hors d’oeuvres sat neatly on long tables. You could hear drifting conversations of research funding, dissertations, and conferences between people dressed in business casual. Thankfully, the cream colored blouse and black trousers you chose an hour earlier matched some of the others’ outfits with ease.

To your right was Armin Arlert, your friend who you had survived two years of graduate school with. He was studying the room with the same hesitation and curiosity that you were, blue eyes looking between professors to mentally map where people were to talk to later. 

“You know you won’t be able to talk to everyone,” you said to him, nudging your shoulder against his own. 

Armin glanced to his side. “Yeah, maybe, but I can try.” 

“Hm,” you conceded. “Enlighten me, where are we going first?” 

Armin gestured his cup toward the side of a particular group, a tall blonde man stood relaxed but commanding the conversation he was having without needing to try. Every few seconds someone else would wander over to greet him, shaking his hand of calm authority. “Professor Smith, he’s my faculty sponsor,” he said. “We’re going there first.” 

“Armin—”

Before you had any time to protest, Armin already started to weave through the crowd. You followed, staying close to him so you didn’t get swept up into a random conversation with a stranger. 

More pieces of Professor Smith’s conversation began to drift into earshot as you continued closer with Armin. 

“ . . . we finally got the research grant from the government.” 

Professor Smith’s eyes widened. “Congratulations, does that mean that you start soon?” 

“Hopefully September.” 

He nodded, gaze lifting when Armin approached, a smile beginning to grow on his face. “Armin,” he said. “I was wondering when you were going to join us.” He reached out to give Armin’s shoulder a light squeeze. “And you brought company.” 

You walked to stand at Armin’s side. 

“We started graduate school together,” he said, motioning to you. 

Professor Smith extended his hand gracefully. “Erwin Smith, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“You too, Professor,” you replied. 

“Please, outside of the classroom it’s Erwin,” he replied, turning his attention back to Armin. “Did you start the proposal for our study? I want the variables determined by the end of next week.” 

Armin gave him a nod. “Yes sir, I’m about halfway finished.” 

There was a quiet pride in Erwin’s voice that reminded you less of a professor and more of a mentor watching his mentee grow into their own. You were proud of Armin for doing so well, though, it probably helped that he didn’t sleep with his professor for the class that he needed in order to graduate. 

Erwin turned back to you. “And how are you finding your first week?” 

“I survived it,” you said with a laugh. 

“A noble aspiration,” Erwin commented. “Which seminars are you taking this semester?” 

You listed them off one by one, watching him nod in recognition and when you got to your Cognitive Psychology course, his expression brightened a touch more than with the others. 

“With Levi?” He asked. 

Your shoulders stiffened imperceptively. “Yes.” 

“We worked at Trost University together a few years ago,” Erwin said. “And he’s also one of my oldest friends.” 

Great.

Just great. 

“Does he seem like he’s settling in?” He asked. 

“He seems . . . fine,” you managed. 

A quiet laugh left him. “I’ve known Levi for a long time, he always seems like he’s doing fine. He’s an excellent researcher but teaching has always mattered to him just as much. I don’t think he’d ever admit it aloud, of course.” 

You blinked. Levi liked teaching? It seemed in his lectures that he merely tolerated it, especially with his no nonsense attitude with how he ran his class. You’d assumed he was only teaching because the department demanded it in order to run his research projects. “He likes teaching?” You asked, trying not to sound so shocked. 

Erwin sensed your surprise and chuckled. “He has a unique way of showing it.” 

Before you could prod him for more information, another voice cut into the conversation. 

“Erwin.” 

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you turned to watch Levi walk towards the group. He approached with a glass of red wine in one hand, dressed in a charcoal colored blazer over a black button down. He looked less like Professor Ackerman and more like the man you’d met at the bar nearly a week ago. Only now, there wasn’t a smile waiting for you or the blatant flirting and eye fucking he’d given you that was able to charm you enough to go home with him. 

Levi’s gaze landed on Erwin first, then to Armin, and lastly to you, which he spent less than a second looking at. If someone had walked by, they would assume that this was the first time you had ever talked to Levi outside of the classroom and from the looks of it, that was exactly what Armin and Erwin believed 

There wasn’t the slightest bit of recognition or hesitation or anything that suggested anything beyond professor and student happened between the two of you. Whatever had existed between the two of you, in Levi’s mind, had been locked away behind that same face that stood at the front of a nearly packed lecture hall. 

Erwin glanced between the two of you, blissfully unaware. “I was just asking her how your seminar’s been going. You’re not being too hard on the students the first week, right?” A knowing smile tugged at Erwin’s features, a harmless tease towards his more stoic friend. 

Levi’s expression didn’t change, turning his face fully towards Erwin as though the look of your face was irrelevant to him. “It’s graduate school,” Levi spoke simply, a matter of fact tone like it was the most obvious question he’d been asked. “They’re adults.” 

Erwin laughed, his hand slapping softly on Levi’s shoulder. It seemed like this wasn’t out of the ordinary for Levi to act this way. It made you wonder why he’d shown such a different side of himself with you that night, or perhaps that was a performance as well. Here, he fit with the professor persona who organized every thought before speaking it aloud and carried himself with quiet confidence. 

That night, he’d leaned against the bar with his sleeves rolled up his forearms, nursing a drink and laughed under his breath when you commented on how he alphabetized his textbooks with meticulous precision. 

“Did you go here for your undergraduate degree?” Erwin asked you, taking a sip from his glass. “Since Armin did, I assume you did as well.” 

You nodded. “Yeah, I did. I wanted to stay here when I learned how good the graduate department is here.” 

“Smart girl, very wise decision” Erwin praised. “Well since you’re so familiar with campus, you should join Levi’s research group so you can show him all the good places. He’s trying to find the place that serves the best tea.” 

Your smile froze and you could see Levi unblinking from your peripheral view. His expression remained composed, but you could see the way that his fingertips whitened as he clutched his glass, grey eyes trying so hard not to squint in scrutiny towards the friend who was trying to help him in all the unspoken wrong ways. 

You opened your mouth and realized you didn’t know what to say, you wanted to get out of this conversation as soon as possible so you didn’t have to feel as though a spotlight had been lit right on top of you. Join his research group? Spend hours together multiple days a week? Meetings, data, conferences, office hours . . . you had barely survived sitting through two of his lectures so far pretending that you hadn’t woken up in his apartment less than a week ago. 

Armin, blissfully unaware, sweetly nudged your shoulder and smiled. “That would be a good fit, wouldn’t it? Your research interests do line up pretty well with Professor Ackermans.” 

Levi’s eyes settled on you for the first time since joining the conversation, nothing intimate behind his gaze nor soft. It was measured, as though he was taking the consideration seriously. “I’m not sure I’m looking for anyone else right now for the research,” he said plainly. “The project’s already well underway.”

“Levi, you were talking about needing someone else to sift through all the data just a few days ago,” Erwin said. “You should just give her a chance. Armin has been wonderful on my team, and I’m sure he vouches for her.” 

“I do,” Armin spoke, nudging you again. “She’s a really good student.” 

Normally, you would accept the praise with open hands. Armin had seen you at your best and was one of the best students in your cohort, praise from him meant something. But now you wanted nothing more than to yell that you were actually the worst student in the world and would actually be horrible on Levi’s team. 

I’m actually terrible. My statistical analysis is fraudulent and I can’t code and I can’t even read English!

The worst part was that Armin did really believe every word that he was saying, he had no idea how much you were drowning in this conversation. If the earth opened beneath your feet you would happily climb into it and never come out. 

“It’s settled then,” Erwin said. “You’ll think about it?” 

A quiet beat passed and Levi didn’t answer immediately, instead tracing his thumb along the stem of his wine glass. “I’ll consider it.” 

“Good, Levi. You might be surprised how much work you can get done with some help.” 

You took a very long and thorough sip of your glass, the burning of alcohol down your throat a temporary reprieve from the pit in your stomach.

On the first day of the fall semester in the second year of your graduate degree, you were sure the last thing you expected was to see the man from last night standing behind a lectern in your lecture hall.

It was the first thought that yes, it was definitely the same guy, but the more you looked at him, sitting in the back middle of the room, maybe it wasn't him after all. You were being crazy, still a bit hungover. The lecture hall began to fill to the brim with students for this class, conversations buzzing around while you dug around in your backpack for a pen.

Your head still ached from the drinks you had last night.

"Okay everyone, settle down."

The room began to quiet until silence.

"Welcome to Cognitive Psychology. Since apparently introductions are necessary," he said, voice dry. "My name is written on the board along with my email. Structure your emails correctly or you won't get a response."

You looked up to see your professor motion to the whiteboard behind him, and your stomach dropped.

Professor Levi Ackerman.

The neon sign on one of the walls of the bar flickered while you looked down at your third or fourth drink of the night.

"You never told me your name," you said, leaning your hand on the elbow propped up on the table.

The man gave a grin, taking a sip of his whiskey, before saying into the cup, "Levi."

"Just Levi?"

He set the glass down with a clink. "Levi Ackerman."

Professor Ackerman continued to speak despite your spiral, pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard while he explained his syllabus that was projected. "Attendance is mandatory and if you're looking for an easy advanced credit, you're welcome to drop the course."

His gaze grazed across the crowd of students, obviously looking to see if there were people going to walk out of the room. You watched his face, a hint of amusement on it until it scanned across the row you were sitting in.

Professor Ackerman was staring right at you, eyes looking a little bit too long.

You felt sick, the events of last night coming into full force in your mind.

"Do you want to get out of here, Levi?"

"Your car or mine?"

You could see recognition in his eyes and his speaking faltered for a moment, his mouth parted before he hid it behind the same unreadable expression he had since the lecture had begun. He started talking again about the syllabus, mentioning the clauses about late attendance and late turn-in assignments and all you could do was look down at your notebook so quickly, staring down at the blank page as if it was going to have all of the answers of what you were supposed to do. 

Out of every single professor in the university, every single graduate seminar, and every single bar in the city — it had to be him. When you met him last night, you didn’t know that he was a professor. All he said was that he did research, you hadn’t put two-and-two together that he would do research here. 

“This class will run under the presumption that you retained most of what you learned in your undergraduate cognitive psychology course,” Professor Ackerman said. “If not, refresh your memory before our next class on Thursday. Please utilize office hours if you feel you need more help with past material, but I will not hold your hand throughout the entire course. It’s above my pay grade.” 

Looking back up, you stared at the slides on the projector but the words held no meaning for you, they blurred into hazy lines, meaningless. Your mind couldn’t stop racing, replaying every single moment of last night until you felt your headache come back. 

Stepping into the modern-esque apartment, you hung your coat on one of the hangers near the door. It was decorated simply, the signs of someone who had just moved into the space. 

“Did you just move here?” You asked, walking deeper into the apartment. To your right was the kitchen which was cleaned impeccably, so much so that there wasn’t even any water stains in the sink. Did he even live here, or did he just have an amazing cleaning lady? Low lights hung from the bottom of the cabinets, illuminating the space only enough for you to see the shape of his face when you looked back at him. 

Levi nodded. “A week ago.” When you swiped your finger against the counter, seeing no evidence of any dust or crumbs, he laughed. “It bothers me when things are out of place.” 

“Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?” 

You wondered how you had missed it. There were psychology books lining the bookshelves in the living room and you had even commented on them while he stood behind you. Maybe you had been too tipsy to think twice, or maybe it was because after you had he pushed your hair to your other shoulder and started pressing warm kisses to the back of your neck. It was a phantom feeling, you could still feel them as you sat here now. 

“Now that that’s over with, does anyone have any questions?” 

The lecture hall was silent, a few exchanged glances here and there. Professor Ackerman waited for a moment, and then another, eyes scanning the lecture hall once again for hands raised. All of the hesitation and recognition that you’d caught earlier was buried under a guise of practiced professionalism. If you hadn’t spent hours with him last night from the bar all the way into the early hours of the morning, you would believe that he always looked like this. Untouchable and unreadable, a professor that addressed his graduate students with indifference. 

Levi gave a single nod, reaching for his laptop to change the slides over to the first official lecture material. “Good, then let’s get started.” 

Despite your best efforts to keep up with the material, most of the lecture was unsuccessful in terms of learning. Every time Professor Ackerman said something even remotely similar to what he said to you last night, you freezed, blinking hard enough to blur your vision, forcing yourself to stare at the projector so that you couldn’t focus on anything else. 

The dry cadence of his voice brought you back to that apartment, tugging another memory to the surface. His hand would graze against the wooden edge of the lectern and you would remember the way that it felt running against your bare thigh, body pushing you deeper into his firm mattress. 

“You can take more, can’t you?” Levi whispered against your ear from behind, hand pushing against the small of your back to arch your ass up. He slid into your warm heat again, a low, raspy groan leaving his lips when your cunt accepted him without any restraint. “Just like that, good girl. Already so wet for me.” His words sounded broken, ragged, like he was tearing at the seams. 

By the time the lecture ended nearly ninety minutes later, your notebook only contained a few bullet points of information you weren’t even sure was relevant. Students began to sit up and leave the classroom while you sat there, watching Professor Ackerman talk with some girl who walked up to the desk. She was wearing a frilly pink top, already bargaining with him about attaining extra credit if she could be his teaching assistant. By the looks of it, he didn’t seem amused, shaking his head and saying something you couldn’t make out. 

You wanted to go up to him, to tell him that you didn’t know he was the professor for your class. If you had known you never would have come onto him last night. You wouldn’t have gone home with him, kissed him, fucked him into the early hours of the morning. 

But there were other students beginning to crowd his desk as well, and the last thing you wanted to do was create some type of scandal between the two of you on the first day of school if someone was to overhear. 

Standing up from your seat, you grabbed your things, shoving them into your backpack and beginning to scoot past the chairs and desks of the row you were in to reach the steps that led outside. Maybe if you got out of the room quickly enough, you could go to the scheduling department and ask if there was any other course you could take in order to satisfy the credits you needed. Maybe you wouldn’t have to confront him and could drop out of the class before—

You made it to the top of the stairs when a voice cut through the murmurings of the last group of students to walk out of the classroom through the other doors to your right. You stopped in your tracks, slowly turning around to see him looking directly at you. 

The door thumped, echoing in the hall between the two of you alone. He kept staring while you walked down the stairs, holding your bag against your side. Up close, you could see the familiar shape of his jawline, the tiny scar beneath his lip that you had kissed more than enough times now. 

He studied you for a moment now that you were a few paces away from him, grey-blue eyes watching your every move like he was trying to figure out the right thing to say. 

“I didn’t know,” you said, words tumbling out faster than you had hoped they would. “I promise I didn’t know. My advisor told me that someone else was going to teach this course.” Which was the truth, your advisor told you that a Professor Davis was teaching this semester, she was the only professor that taught this course on campus for the past five years. You knew the schedule like the back of your hand, there was no Professor Ackerman anywhere in it. 

“I accepted the position two weeks ago,” he said. “The department had already posted the lecture with the previous professor. They were planning on sending the updated information today.” 

You sighed in relief now that you knew he believed you. You didn’t want him to think that this was some type of trap, that you had specifically planned this. It could’ve gotten you into big trouble in terms of getting your graduate degree, hell, it could’ve cost your entire enrollment in university.

It had just been a coincidence. 

A cruel, unfortunate coincidence. 

You took a deep breath, relief flooding through your entire body. “Thank god,” you whispered. “I thought you’d think that . . . I don’t know. Planned this. I truly had no idea.” 

Levi’s brows knit together before he raised one of them. “I never considered that. I’ve only been in town for two weeks, I didn’t know I was teaching this seminar until three days ago.” 

An awkward tension crept back up between you both, both of you reaching the same conclusion silently. You were still his student, he was still your professor. 

“What happened last night,” Levi said, swallowing so hard you could see his Adam's apple bob. “It happened before we knew who each other were.” 

“I know.” 

“We can’t discuss what happened with anyone,” he continued. “Unless you already did, and then we have another problem.” 

You shook your head immediately. “No, I haven’t. My roommate doesn’t even know where I went after I left the bar.” 

Levi held your gaze for a moment, searching for any hint that you weren’t being truthful. Satisfied with what he didn’t find, he gave a small nod. “Good.” 

“And you?” You asked, though you were sure you already knew the answer. 

The corner of his mouth twitched up for a moment. “I don’t discuss my personal life with colleagues.” 

You wanted to laugh at how he said it in such a matter-of-fact way, but you bit the inside of your cheek instead. 

“I don’t want this getting out any more than you do,” he added. “The university has policies, as I’m sure you’re aware.” 

As is the case with all universities, relationships between faculty and students within their own classes and departments weren’t just taboo and frowned upon, they were the things that warranted investigations and disciplinary hearings. It didn’t matter that neither of you had known before it happened or before he officially became your professor. All of those would be considered things that were just inconvenient details to the advisory board. 

“It wouldn’t end well,” you said quietly. “They’d just know I slept with my professor.” 

You’re so tight, fuck, you take me so well.

Heat rushed to your face, prompting you to look away, your eyes focusing on a crack that ran through one of the hall tiles. 

Levi’s eyes casted down to the floor like he was thinking the exact same thing you were. “Yes, they won’t care about the details. So we draw boundaries.” 

Boundaries, right. Like you couldn’t remember the way his mouth felt while he kissed the soft skin of your inner thighs, or how bruising his hands felt against your wrists while he held them above your head. It felt stupid, knowing that no matter how many boundaries the two of you spoke of, it wouldn’t change the past. 

“Outside of the classroom, we don’t know each other,” Levi stated clinically, almost as though it was a fact. You almost believed it even though it wasn’t true. “What happened before this morning stays between us. I’m just your professor.” 

The words sounded like rejection even though it wasn’t. It was practical and it was necessary, probably the smartest thing that either of you could do in this situation if you couldn’t switch sections. Still, that didn’t stop it from feeling like rejection. 

“No personal texts or calls,” Levi continued. “If we happen to run into each other off campus, we keep the interaction brief or have none at all.” 

“You’ve really thought about this.” 

“I’ve been thinking about it since the second I saw you sitting in my lecture.” 

Levi’s expression softened then, realizing that what he said probably sounded harsher than he meant. “I don’t want to put your degree at risk or my job,” he said. “If circumstances were different . . .” He trailed off, glancing over at the door like someone was going to come through, not finishing what he wanted to say. “It doesn’t matter. They aren’t.” 

You could fill in the blanks, you didn’t need a psych degree to do that. If you hadn’t enrolled in his seminar, it would be different. If he worked at the neighboring university or if you had already graduated, it would be different. Maybe there could be something there between the two of you. 

Instead you were standing in an empty lecture hall. 

Someone had the bright idea to get him up at the crack of dawn, to stand in the camp’s most arid patch of shorn grass and teach the older kids archery. It’s been about three hours since that gruelling morning but he can’t stop grumbling, won’t stop scowling at anyone who makes the unforgivable mistake of standing in his line of sight. To make matters worse, because of course things can always get worse for Aerion, he’s out of sweets. 

Everyone lets his complaints roll, offering faux-concern in their nods and mumbled apologies, though Aerion isn’t stupid. He knows when people are laughing at him, because he’s a grown man who maintains bleached roots and wears spiked jewelry. They always are. Most people, though, are at least afraid of him enough to try and pretend they take him seriously. You offer him no such deference. 

“It can’t be that bad,” you tease, swinging your feet on Dunk’s empty bunk. Opposite you, laying on his own bed upside down, head hanging over the edge, Aerion scowls. 

“You wouldn’t know, would you?” 

“Alright then, enlighten me.” 

He expected more arguing but this, your curiosity, shuts him up for a long, heavy moment. You do this often, remind him of how easy it can be to know someone, to care for them. Clenching his jaw shut, he contemplates. 

“I suppose…” He shrugs. “I don’t know, I just feel…weird. Bad.” 

“And sugar will fix it?” You chuckle to yourself. “God, you and Valarr really are related.”

He swings upright, leaning towards you with his elbows on his knees, though he avoids looking you in the eye. “Sorry, some people actually need something to put them in a good mood. We can’t all just be sunshine and fucking rainbows.” 

It’s your turn to shrug. “I don’t know, if all it takes is a fizzy drink, I’d say you’re pretty sunshine-y already.” 

With that, you stand, heading for the window to fan yourself then, when that proves insufficient, the front door. Aerion’s eyes rove over your body the whole way. “It’s not just fizzy drinks, though. You get that, right?” 

You turn to him, door already ajar. “When’s the last time you caved?” 

“Well I’ve been here all summer, haven’t I?” 

“Exactly,” you say with a growing smile. “So that’s what, at least a month?” 

“Alright,” he shakes his head, “you don’t have to do that.” 

“Do what? State the cold, hard facts?” You skip, hop and jump your way down the cabin steps and Aerion is prepared to spend the four hours between now and dinner thinking of this, of your easy smile and your completely unflappable optimism. Maybe if he replays it enough times, he can figure out what he did to deserve being on the receiving end of it. He can map the circumference of your warm, radiant light, come up with the exact distance he needs to be on its radar without the searing desperation he has to feel when he looks it–looks you–in the eye.

“Are you just gonna sit there staring, or are you coming with?” 

You drag him into the woods. Or rather, deeper into them, since every square inch of this dump for miles is the fucking woods. Apparently, there’s a blackberry grove nearby because apparently, among all your other inimitable quirks, you’re also randomly adept at foraging. While you trample over a blanket of dried pine needles, you assure him: if there’s a fix for his gnawing, endless appetite, it’s going to be out here. 

“Sorry,” he says, swatting a paranoid hand around the empty air and stumbling to be in step beside you, instead of trailing behind. “I don’t think I made myself clear. This isn’t actually about the taste. It’s the craving. I need something that’s gonna give me a dopamine hit.”

“And do you know that picking blackberries won’t give you a dopamine hit?” 

“I wouldn’t bet on it, no.” 

“Well then.” You duck under a low-hanging branch and Aerion only just misses it, ducking so fast he trips. “It’s a good thing we’re both skint then, huh?” 

“Right.” 

You walk for a while in peaceful, green-tinted silence. It gives Aerion time to bask in how lovely the weather is when it’s being diluted by a towering thicket of trees, and how he actually doesn’t mind the layer of humidity when it comes without sunlight that burns. He likes the crunch of woodland debris under his boots and he likes the constant scuttling of life around him. The swooping, tiny insects that have him smacking the entire length of his arms is still a major pitfall, but this is nice, he thinks. 

It’s especially nice from where he’s standing. Right behind you but still with enough distance to trail his gaze up and down your legs, watch the way your calves contract and the swish of your hips. 

“Oh, hey,” he begins, jogging to be at your side again. “You have, uh…” 

He reaches around you, pretending to pick something out of your hair and then letting his arm settle around your shoulders. You look up at him, unimpressed but still obviously fighting off a smile. 

“I have what?” 

Keeping his arm on your shoulders and looking down at you with his most persuasive bedroom eyes, he lets his fingers toy with your hair again. “The most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.” 

Instantly, you roll them and shake your head. “Alright, man.”

“Don’t ‘man’ me.” 

Whatever snide thing you want to say in response gets stifled when you notice the first blackberry bush. You squeal with excitement and scurry out from under his arm, immediately scouring for the plumpest, ripest fruit. When you find it, you drop it into your mouth and groan. 

“So good.” You pick another and offer it to him. “Just try and tell me this doesn’t make your dopamine receptors go fucking crazy.” 

They are good, he acquiesces. He acquiesces a second time, then a third, until he’s chewed his way through an entire handful and has started ordering you to find him more of the best ones. You get distracted and start searching for other plants, eagerly announcing the scientific name of what has to be every leaf and blade of grass in your path. Aerion tires of this pretty quickly and calls you over, pretending to have a question. 

“Can you–Hang on.” He pops a berry in his mouth and holds one out to you. Still chewing, he beckons you closer and closer, until your face is right in front of his hand. His eyes flit away from yours and towards your lips, as he pushes even closer, parting them with the berry. Tilting your face up with his other hand until you’re forced to open up and take it into your mouth. For a moment, Aerion forgets his own game and gets lost in it. Your eyelids drooping and your wet, pink tongue. The ghost of your breath on his hand, his finger just shy of dipping between your lips. Then you pull away. 

“What, exactly, are you doing?” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” He says it like he’s feigning innocence but really, he’s half-certain you’re about to reject him and already deciding to be appalled by that. 

“Are you…” your face splits into a broad grin, “flirting with me?” 

He doesn’t expect the smile. It stops him in his tracks, jaw clenching to hold back one of his own. Leaning back, he gives you a slow once over and scoffs. “Don’t tell me you want me to stop.” 

“No, I’m not saying that,” you shrug, looking up at him with skeptical but still smiling eyes. “I guess I just…didn’t expect it.”

He tilts his head, urging you to go on. 

“I don’t–I guess I didn’t think I was your type, or whatever.” 

Again, you’re surprising him. He’s so used to being beautiful and adored for it even when he’s no good for anything else; he often forgets people have doubts about this sort of thing. It’s especially dumbfounding that someone who looks like you would have those doubts. He blinks and looks at you straight on, stepping closer. 

“Well, that was stupid.” Without breaking eye contact he reaches past your head, plucking another berry and slowly, as if afraid to startle you, puts it in his mouth. 

“So what do you…Like, what do you actually want?” 

He tilts his head again and smirks. 

 You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, okay, figures. That was stupid. Dumb question.” 

He shakes his head, reaching for another berry. “Perfectly reasonable question. I have one, too.” 

“Which is?” 

He leans close enough for your noses to brush, whispers a hairs-breadth from your lips. “Are you going to let me have it?” 

Your breath rushes out and you stumble backwards. Part of Aerion wants to take it back, insist he was only joking, there’s no need to gawk at him like that, of course he would never, not with you. Instead, his hand shoots out and wraps around your forearm, catching you just as you’re about to stumble over a gnarled, raised tree root.  

Both your gazes shoot to the point of contact and though everything in Aerion screams at him to let go, spare himself the humiliation, his grip tightens. His nails dig and you hiss, and it’s only then that logic wins out over desire and he lets go as if you’ve burned him. 

“Why’d you do that?” 

“I didn’t mean–” As his fist opens and closes around empty air, he stares at it as if it belongs to someone else. “I wasn’t trying–” 

“No,” you shake your head, “why’d you let go?” 

His gaze snaps upwards. There you are again; full of surprises. Slowly, carefully, with your eyes on him at all times, you lead him towards one of the biggest trees, lightly pushing his back against the trunk. With an impish smile, you help him swat away flies and then step forward, face crowding his so closely that there is no hope of even the tiniest gnat swooping past. 

“So,” you begin, “still need that dopamine rush?” 

Truthfully, Aerion thinks, not anymore. The thudding in his chest and the strained, buzzing sensation cavorting around his skull is plenty familiar. But all you’re doing is standing there, chest barely brushing his. If nothing else, the man has a reputation to uphold. So when you raise your eyebrows expectantly, he leans in, hand immediately coming up to rest on your waist. 

He burrows his tongue into your mouth and licks like a snake searching the air. At your soft moan, he goes lightheaded, literally feels his knees go weak. When he’s sliding his palms up the length of your spine, the pressure he holds you with is mostly to quell his shaking hands. You curl your fingers against his scalp, scratching and tugging on the prickly, overgrown ends of his bleached buzzcut. 

Overwhelmed and in serious danger of letting out his own keening, eager moans, Aerion pulls away. He stands, panting, with his hands on your waist and his eyes flitting all over your face. 

“See something you like?” you joke. 

He keeps quiet, because what could he say? Of all the senseless flings and hookups that exist only in hazy half-light in the back of his mind, none of them compare to what he’s feeling right now. His entire body is still shaking, a hopeless sense of falling in his chest. As he stares down at you, he can only think one thing. 

“I’m so fucked.” He whispers it but it’s coming out absently, without his permission, still locked in this inexplicable, love-stricken daze. 

Your head tilts and a small, teasing smile tugs at your lips. “Why’s that?” 

He shakes his head and starts to pull away. Before he can get very far, you grip his t-shirt in your fist. Not pulling, just holding him in place. “I don’t–I’m gonna go.” 

The smile turns to a pout, still teasing. “Already had your fill?” 

“Perhaps,” he answers, cool and snide, as if you can’t feel the way he’s quivering under your touch, like a dog poised to take off after traffic. 

“Oh my God, it’s just kissing, Aerion. I’m not expecting a promise ring later.”  

Even just hearing you say the word ‘ring’ makes him melt. His body slackens but his heart rate only picks up and as you’re pulling him closer, he’s thinking less of kissing you and more of devouring you whole. You wrap your arms around his neck and he tilts towards you, smirking. 

“Just kissing, huh?” 

You roll your eyes. “Of course, if you can come up with something better–” 

“Much better.” He brings his lips closer, to brush against yours, then plants decisive, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. Down your neck, one on each shoulder, like he’s mapping your entire body for future reference. Which, of course, he is. Now that he’s kissed you once, he intends to do it again and again and again. 

He pushes you against the tree and grinds his hips into yours. A shuddering breath escapes him and he stifles it by bringing your mouths back together, though as he slides his tongue over yours slowly, a long groan comes from deep in his chest. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, clutching your jaw in one hand and angling the kiss deeper. His other hand slides over your back, the curve of your ass, then comes back up to fondle your chest. Through your t-shirt, he toys with your nipples and only pulls away when you’re whining into his mouth. Short, breathy sounds that go straight to his head, and which he returns with an approving grunt. 

His hand goes from your chest to your hips, slowly tracing the waistband of your shorts a few times, before even he’s fed up with the teasing and just needs, more than anything else, to touch you. He fumbles with the button on your shorts and tugs you forwards, bodies flush as his hand slips against you. 

A quiet gasp fans against his cheek but he can’t bear to look you in the face, not even as he drags a teasing finger back and forth, getting you wetter and wetter. He can already imagine the look in your eyes, dazed and full of longing, for him. The real thing would be enough to totally break him, he’s sure of it. 

“God, Aerion,” you whisper, half-gasp, half-moan. Your hips roll forwards, chasing more of his touch, but he keeps himself just out of reach.

“Easy,” he taunts, smirking. “Anyone walking by would think you’re the one who needs this.” 

“Fuck,” you moan. “Fucking of course you’re thinking about someone walking by. You whore.” 

He chuckles with his face buried against your neck and lets his fingers dip slightly deeper. The sound it draws out of you makes him take a deep breath and kiss you more messily, teeth grazing skin as he fights off the urge to bite down. Your hips are still rolling towards him and your breaths are shallow, and he’s so lost in it that it almost doesn’t hit him. His face flushes and his kisses get more aggressive, in a desperate bid to ignore what he’s just implied. That he needs this, needs you. 

Even just the idea that you, too, are realising this, makes panic surge in his chest, tightening in his throat. He inhales like he’s surfacing from deep underground and shoves his fingers inside you without giving himself any more time to think or tease, or mess with you. Again, you make a sound that shuts out all his thoughts, irrational and cogent alike. He adds a third finger and–with strenuous effort–drags his lips away from your neck to speak into your mouth. 

“You’re taking me so well, it’s almost like you expected this to happen.” Despite himself, he can’t tear his eyes away as you bite down on your bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. Thank God your eyes are closed. “Hm? Is that true? Is that why you brought me out here? So I could fuck you with my fingers against this tree?”

“Believe it or not–” You’re cut off as he curls his fingers inside you, and out comes another gasp. “We’re not all thinking of sex all the time.” 

Aerion purrs, nodding. As he speaks, his fingers push even deeper, curling again. “Sure, but you’re just so wet for me.”

“So?”

“You’re telling me none of this is from anticipation?”

“No Aerion.” You fix him with a look that he only sees peripherally and which still threatens to topple him, stern and clear-eyed but still heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted in a perpetual, silent moan. “I was not thinking of fucking you in the woods today.” 

He purrs again, chuckling darkly. “So this is all me?” 

As he pulls out, he once again crooks his fingers, trying to gather as much of you onto him as possible. He shoves all three fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean, moaning under his breath and still refusing to make eye contact. 

“If I make you that wet,” he pauses to grin as you roll your eyes, “I think I deserve a reward.” 

“Oh, do you now?”

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he backs you up farther against the tree, kissing deeply and grinding his hips against yours. 

“You have such a pretty mouth,” He whispers into your lips. Another kiss, another roll of his hips, then another whisper. “And such a wet pussy.” 

“Aerion–” 

“I just can’t decide,” he goes on, nuzzling his nose against the side of your neck, your face. “Which one would be more fun to fill with my cum.” 

With your chests pressed together, he can feel your breath shudder, the quickened rise and fall as you no doubt drip all over your underwear. He thinks about cleaning that up for you, sucking them dry the way he did his fingers, then licking into you until your thighs are shaking around his shoulders and he’s made sure his entire mouth will taste of you for the rest of the day. Just the thought of it has him twitching in his boxers, fingers gripping your waist with a bruising pressure. At some point–he’s sure of it–he decided it wasn’t supposed to get this far. If he could taste you like that, all of you, all over his face like that. Even just once. He decides, casting a drooping, longing stare down at you in his arms, that would be too much. Yet still, he can’t bring himself to pull completely away. He kisses you deeply again, clutching you to his body as if it’s the last time he’ll ever get to kiss anyone again. 

“On your knees,” he orders hoarsely, into your mouth again. Smirking and eyes rolling, you do it, hands already running up his bare legs before he’s given you any further instruction. 

You don’t do much else, just run your hands up and down, smirking up at him and biting back a bout of giggles. Both of you are still fully clothed, yet this might be the sexiest thing Aerion has ever seen. 

“Take off your shirt.” Really, it works sorely against his favour to have any more of you on display. But even after getting you on your knees, he’s scrambling for control.

You scoff. “Are you kidding? What if–”

“No one will see, it’s just the two of us out here. Come on.” He reaches down to grab your hand as it slides back up over his hips, bringing right over his rock solid, aching bulge. “You don’t feel what you’re doing to me?” 

You squeeze and he drops your wrist, head falling back as a soft groan escapes him. He expects you to go back to your coy teasing, is honestly waiting for you to get up and tell him there’s no way you’re blowing him in a fucking forest. A quiet moment passes, broken only by the rustling of the woods and your shifting on the ground.

“Well, to see me, you’re gonna have to open your eyes, right?”

When he does, Aerion’s mouth falls open. His eyebrows don’t so much raise as collapse inwards in an expression that could be described as dismayed as much as stunned. He feels that way, too; the sinking disbelief as you look down at a gunshot wound. It’s already killing you before it hurts, already draining you dry. Blood gushing out and all your defenses caving in, your body wilting. Again, you squeeze him through his shorts, forcing him to look down at the blooming wet patch already seeping through them. 

He forces himself to speak, though it comes out sounding less like his signature purring drawl and more growling, teeth-gritted and pissed off. “You look so fucking good down there.”

You grin and he has to throw his head back again, even though you still aren’t really doing anything. Just slowly palming him through his clothes, squeezing lightly when you get to the base and shuffling closer and closer, until you’re pressing gentle kisses onto his clothed tip. 

“Fuck,” Aerion whispers. “Put it in your mouth. Now.” 

“Well, that’s not very polite.” But you tug down his shorts and boxers in one swift motion, letting out a giggling gasp as he bobs free. You hum and run your lips along the underside. “Of course it’s fucking huge.”

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” 

Honestly, he doesn’t know. Just the sound of your voice, that close to his pulsing, hard dick. Your lips and your breath whispering up his sensitive skin, making him twitch against your face. He can’t tell if you’re humouring him, lightly teasing, or if you really do think he’s just that big. Part of why he can’t settle on one is because there is no merciful answer. There’s no version of this moment that doesn’t send him spiraling, weakened beyond the point of reason. As you take him into your mouth, he’s already so overwhelmed that he’s afraid he’ll cum right then and there and yet still, he can’t stop. 

You keep teasing him, even with your lips wrapped around him. Transfixed, he’s finally forced to make eye contact as you swirl the tip in your mouth, lips stretched around him and eyes cheekily cast upwards, catching his every humiliating reaction. 

His back is pressed hard against the tree trunk as if he means to pull away, but his hips can’t stop twitching forwards, silently urging you to take him deeper as your tongue swipes just below the tip. Somehow, he’s managing to keep from moaning but it’s a small mercy. His breathing more than makes up for it, steady but audible, broken up by hisses when you go deeper or graze his most sensitive spots. Eventually, he throws an arm over his face because the moans can’t be held back, and an endless, babbling string of words he’s barely conscious of spool out.

“So fucking good, knew that pretty mouth would feel like this. So fucking pretty.” You pull away and he swears, continues muttering as if to himself.  “Don’t stop, baby. Put me back in your mouth, come on.” 

“If I’m so pretty, then why won’t you look at me?” There’s just enough genuine uncertainty in your voice that his head snaps forwards. As soon as he does, he swears again. You’re peppering his dick with kisses and looking right at him through a coy, smiling gaze. He has to bite his tongue to hold back the far more insulting name he wants to call you, and settles for your real one instead. 

“Yes?” 

“Evil.” He shakes his head and reaches down to thread his fingers into your hair. “You’re evil. Do you know that?”

You hum. “I’ve had a sneaking suspicion.”

As you take him back in your mouth, his eyes slide shut and you stop again. “Hey, hey. Pretty, remember?” 

He wants to tell you he can’t. Already, he’s so close the teasing is starting to hurt and your eyes blinking up at him, your hand and lips wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like you do this all the time, like maybe you’d want to–

“It’s getting late,” he says instead. Almost takes it back when your eyebrows raise and that teasing smile stretches across your face again. 

“So, I’ll be quick.” You punctuate this by licking a stripe up the length of him, and he groans so harshly it’s almost a growl. Even as his hips stutter forward, he clenches his teeth and shakes his head. 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“I can’t.” 

 “Oh yeah,?” You pout. “And why’s that?” 

Your lips, hands, gentle moans, so soft. The way you led him out here so easily, that before he knew why, he was so utterly willing. You could’ve brought him out here just to stand in the dirt and swat at flies, and the same burst of excitement would’ve filled his chest. You’re the one on your knees but you’ve got him right where you want him. And he has to believe that you want him, or else what the hell is supposed to do with himself? 

“I’m bored,” he tries. You blanche and glare at him, still on your knees. 

“You don’t seem bored.” 

“Well, I am.” He swears when you swirl your tongue around his tip again, with a knowing smile. Now that you know how, you’ll ruin him. If he lets you. “Get up. Put your fucking clothes back on..” 

You take your time letting him go, wearing that infuriating, mind-bending smirk the whole time. When you’re both fully dressed, you grab his hands to stand and steady yourself on his shoulders. 

“Alright,” you say, dusting stray blades of grass from your knees. “I guess that’s us done, then.”

“Guess so.” 

You nod slowly, repeating his own words as if he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Though, when he catches up to the gawking stare he’s giving you, it’s no wonder you’d think that. He had you on your knees, for Christ’s sake, and he’s the one blushing like a pastor’s son caught waking from a dirty dream. Your smile broadens and he realises–for the second time–that he’s still staring.

“Lunch soon,” he offers. You humour him with more nodding, tilting your head quizzically. 

“You’re still hungry?” You lean in to whisper. “Even after all those berries?” 

He knows what you’re trying to do, so he shrugs and shoulders past you silently, rushing straight for the stifling, quiet dim of his cabin. Of course he’s still hungry. Of course he’ll never be able to taste sugar again without thinking of you pulling his fingers inside you or your lips stretched around his dick. In the two hours between now and dinner, it’s all he can think about. He still doesn’t know why you’d do this for him, or how to want it back without feeling like he’s handing you his entire brain, and most of his vital organs, to do with as you wish. He’ll get it back, though. Even if it really does mean he has to learn how to look you in the eye. 

Silence ruled everywhere around. With each step you took behind Baelor, prying eyes tracked your move. One of those stares was Maekar, who sat near the end of the table.   

“Princess?” The grand maester calls out. “I’m afraid the council has matters to attend to, and you’re—” 

“You are mistaken, Grand Maester.” Baelor cuts off. “My sister will join us today.” With that, he pulled out the chair next to his own place. You sat as the council gaped their mouths open in surprise. 

“On what grounds?” said Maekar bitterly. 

“Marital grounds.” Baelor proudly replied, taking his own seat beside your father, King Daeron. “I intend to make her my wife. The King has already allowed the arrangement. It is only right for the future Queen Consort to be present.” Every man at the table immediately snapped their eyes on your direction. A sweet. mischievous smile formed on your lips at their shock. No one in the room, however, was more surprised beyond measure than Maekar. 

“Isn’t it a bit early to be making wedding accords?” Maekar called out from afar. His indifference filled the whole room’s energy. “Not a month has gone by since your wife—”

“Choose your words wisely, brother.” Baelor’s voice sliced like a sharp sword. 

“And you have agreed to this?” You opened your mouth to object, but Baelor’s sharp words cut you first.

“You ask as if she has no agency of her own.” He scrunched his eyebrows, distinctly raising his voice. 

“Alright, enough.” King Daeron spat back, making his presence known at the head of the table. Everyone in the table jolted, including you. The two brothers gazed at each other menacingly from far away, their tension creating an uneasy air. “We have other concerns to heed.”

Your father turned to you, losing his enraged expression and now had a soft smile. “Thank you for joining us, my dear girl.” Greeting home with the same warm smile, he faced head-on the matter with a positive attitude. 

This made Maekar even more irritated, the way the King looked at you in the same way he looked at Baelor: pride and passion. Meanwhile, every word he spat out, regardless of whether it was sensible or not, was met with bothered glances. 

He felt even smaller than he did now that you were present, beside Baelor, than he did on any other day before.

“Shall we proceed?” asked Baelor of his father. After confirmation from King Daeron, the grand maester prepared himself to scribble. The men fixed their posture, arranging themselves to speak their own concerns. 

Just as you leaned back on your seat, you felt a warm hand on your thigh beneath the heavy oak table. Subtly looking downwards, you saw Baelor’s right hand creeping up on your left thigh. Gripping your knees for a moment, he casually bunched up the fabric of your skirt, enough to place his hand on your skin. 

“The foundations for the east wing of Summerhall just finished, Your Grace”, said the Master of Coin. 

His warm hand sent a chill down your spine, coiling your body upwards from the back of your chair. You gripped the edges of your chair, doing your best to maintain composure as his fingers reached your core. He pushed away the thin fabric to the side, and you swallowed a gasp. 

Glancing at him, he showed no signs of his intentions under the table. 

“But the stonemasons have made it known that they demand a higher wage. I’m afraid the treasury has already been stretched thin.” 

Baelor kept his eyes locked on the Master of Coin. He didn’t flinch even under close inspection, and instead wandered his fingers on your folds, rubbing them gently. “Why not offer a fifth share? Upon completion, of course.” He said as he applied a firm, agonizingly perfect pressure right against your center. 

Their words were contorted on your end, unable to ignore the oblivion that happened inside your skirts. Before you knew it, the matter was settled, but your high was just beginning. You kept glancing back and forth from Baelor to your father and to the council members. 

“Seems like a reasonable compromise.” King Daeron affirmed, lightly grinning to the man pleasing you unbeknownst to anyone in the room. The Master of Coin nodded in relief, dipping his quill and scribbling in his own scroll. You could see Maekar roll his eyes nearby. 

You felt Baelor’s finger abruptly enter you, and a sharp gasp got caught in your throat, instantly strangling the breath in your lungs. You choked down the whimper before it could leave your lips, your shoulders trembling as you stared straight ahead at the maps, completely frozen. 

Suddenly, your left hand grasped at his right thigh. Evidently, you could make out a subtle smirk on the corner of his lips. 

“Are there any other concerns?” King Daeron asked, scanning the room for other manifestations. Maekar cleared his throat, shifting their eyes to him. Baelor squinted his eyes, watching him carefully. 

“We have received complaints from the borders.” Maekar spoke sharply. “Dornish outlaws were said to be raiding their crops, and they now worry for the turnout of their livestock. They demand for a show of royal force.” 

Baelor nodded, not flinching for even a bit. His speed fastened with his fingers sliding in and out, and you had to lift your arm to the table, covering your lips as they trembled. “Send for men to arrange peaceful terms.” 

“You think diplomats will solve this?” Maekar retorted with a scoff. 

“Sending an army will only tear apart the fragile peace our father has built.” Your grip on Baelor’s thigh only tightened, and in the same way your pussy tightened around his finger. Maekar scoffed and stopped, his gaze dropping to the subtle tremor in your shoulders. Travelling his gaze down to Baelor’s his hand was concealed beneath the table. 

Maekar’s jaw clenched. “And what does the future Queen Consort have a say on the matter?” Your eyes snapped to him. “You have been awfully quiet today, sister.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs as Baelor’s other finger entered your folds, effortlessly sliding in from your wetness. You were trapped between high-risk rhythm right under the King’s attention and Maekar’s watchful glare. 

“I…” You form your words properly in your head, attempting to ignore the nearing bliss on your stomach. Clearing your throat, you sat up straight, highly aware of the eyes waiting for your response. “I agree with the Hand, Maekar. Peace so fragile should not be trifled with.” 

Baelor could not help but allow his lips to smile slowly of themselves, as he finally led you towards your release. Maekar stared at you, his eyes burning with dark suspicion as he noticed the flush creeping up your neck and your chest heaving up and down. 

“Peace,” he muttered bitterly, leaning back in his chair. “How convenient for you both.”

Baelor excused himself from the usual dinner you all had together, leaving you alone with Maekar once more. Unlike before, you actually entered the dining room with a slight grin, still in the cloud of your adrenaline from releasing on Baelor’s fingers. 

Maekar already sat in his usual place, right across from your place. You sat down, actively and willfully denying his presence in front of you. 

The meal laid out in front of you was something he would usually complain about, but his words were absent tonight. Not a single word was uttered by him, and you did not bother breaking the silence, feeling amused by your betrothed’s actions before dinner. 

All that could be heard was the knife grinding on the plate’s surface and the servants entering to pour wine in your cup. Once they fled to the door, aware that Maekar’s silence is usually more dangerous than his usual verbalized sentiments. In the corner of your eye, you noticed the absence of the guards in the room and the empty chairs that would usually have Maekar’s sons.

You reached for your cup, sipping wine. Maekar glanced to Baelor’s empty seat beside you. 

“He is too grand to dine with us, it seems. The Hand has more important matters than his own blood. Or perhaps he simply finished his business with you earlier today, sister?” Maekar chewed his food, sharply gazing at you. 

Gulping down your wine, you set it down on the table with a soft thud. Licking your lips, you finally acknowledged his presence and threw him a glance. “I do not know what you speak of.” 

He slammed his knife to the table, causing you to flinch in your place. “Fucking fingering you under the table? During a small council meeting with our father?” He chuckled mockingly. “My! He has got some nerve.” 

You chewed on your inner cheek, ignoring his remarks. Your eyes travelled to anywhere around you but him. 

“He might as well have fucked you right there on the table for us to watch!” That was when you slowly turned your head to Maekar in disbelief. His disgusting, vile words struck you right to your core. 

You scoffed, throwing the cloth on your lap to the table and hastily getting up to flee to the door. Just as you reached for the door, you felt a tight grip on your waist. 

Maekar dragged you away from the door, his strong arms gripping your entire body without effort. You twisted your body in any way possible. 

“Unhand me!” You exclaimed, kicking and lifting your feet. But he was way more powerful than you. He groaned as you tried to resist, and turned you around before pressing your body up against the wall. 

“What’re you doing?” Maekar trapped your arms, binding them to the wall by holding them down. His eyes raked all over your body from top to bottom. His eyes were far from what you had ever seen before, and it did not bode well for you.

“If I knew…” He whispered, his voice dropping to a fatal tone as he closed in on your face. You could feel his breath on your cheek, so you turned your face to the side to avoid his eyes. “If only I knew that such an arrangement could be asked of our father. I would have had you years ago.” 

Your eyes locked on him in an instant. “What? I can’t marry both of you!” Tears stung your vision as you watched him show terrifying force on your body. 

Maekar laughed at your innocence. “Who says I intend to share?” 

Frankly, you made a mistake in turning your head to him, for he took this chance to press his lips to yours. You yelled through the kiss, refusing to move your lips. Maekar, however, continued in pursuit and forcefully tried to move your lips with his. His lips burned you in a way, his beard brushing against your chin. 

His other hand went to bunch up your skirt, and you swatted his arm away. No amount of force could stop him from entering your garments. You widened your eyes as his fingers went over your soaking folds, sliding them up and down. 

Maekar broke away from the kiss, a smirk plastered on his lips from your wetness. He placed his thigh in between your legs, opening them enough to have access. With all your power, you pushed his hand out of your skirt but failed. 

He saw the tear that left your eyes. “Let me do this. Please, let me. I reckon you’ll enjoy it as much.” Maekar begged before entering your folds and starting with a rapid rhythm. It felt different compared to how Baelor did it, in a bad way and a pleasurable way. 

Your mouth flew open, and your body tensed up at the speed but trembled at his fingers. Closing your eyes, you winced both with discomfort and pleasure. Maekar watched as you fell apart in his hands, a vulture closing in on its prey. He felt his cock harden through his trousers. You were tighter than he imagined, and it only made him want to have you right there.

Your moans mixed with your cries, your free hand still trying to drive him away. Maekar pulled his finger out, looking at his glistening finger from your wetness. You sobbed silently as you watched him place his finger in his hand, licking it all off before pressing your lips together again. 

Clumps of tears dropped to your cheeks, and you couldn’t do anything but close your eyes. Maekar held down the hand that kept trying to thrust him away. Turning your body around, he pressed his crotch against your ass. He bound your hands behind your back, depriving you of any chance to flee.  

Lifting your skirt, the cold air met the flesh of your ass, and you trembled from helplessness. 

“Please…Please…” You wailed, catching your breath. You heard him unbuckling his trousers, breathing heavily behind you. He lined himself up in your entrance and pushed his cock inside. 

Feeling your womb fill with his length, you yelled at the top of your lungs for help nearby. Maekar only covered your mouth, gripping your face with his entire palm. 

Your cries were muffled by his palm, and your tears fell to his hand. His thrusts started slow but eventually became harder and faster. He groaned, keeping one hand on your waist to keep you in place. 

You did not want to linger on the thought, but he felt different compared to Baelor. He filled you up more than Baelor did; his length was inconceivable. You could vaguely feel his tip pressing up in your womb, hitting a state of bliss you never knew possible until now.

“We’ve always been the ones together,” Maekar whispered in your ear. “You accompany me during dinner, you listen to me. No one listens to me but you.” He trailed kisses from your ear to your neck. Shrugging your shoulder to block him, you bit his palm and heard an audible shriek of pain. 

Instead of letting you go, Maekar growled with anger and wrapped his hand around your throat. 

“Y-You've misplaced my affection for you, M-Maekar.”  You tried to let out words cut out of your throat by his hand pressing down on it. He only continued his thrusts passionately, ignoring your words. It was true that you did not want to leave his side since you were children, afraid he would wander into a state where he lacked moral clarity. But even with you beside him, he still entered that headspace and brought you down along with him. 

“Shush…feels good?” He whispered, cursing under his breath now and then. “I told you it would be. How come Baelor gets to enjoy you this way and I can’t?” 

You felt him tense up, and his thrusts became sloppier. His grip on your throat only got tighter, and you were on the verge of passing out from the lack of air but it no longer stood as a pressing concern. A tight knot was forming inside you, whether you wanted it or not. 

Eventually, Maekar gave way with one final thrust. The grip on your throat hardened before finally loosening up. His release poured inside of you, dripping down your thigh as he pulled himself out. 

Retreating his hand from your throat, you coughed and caught your breath. Rubbing the flesh of your neck, you pant. 

“If I can’t have you, then there’s no reason for him to have you,” Maekar said under his breath, towering over your vulnerable figure. “You will not marry him, not if I have anything to do with it.”

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