Summary: What starts as friendship built on inside jokes and late-night takeout slowly turns into something messier, heavier, and impossible to ignore. From the first meet through the birthday party, jealousy, confessions, and one hangover later—you and Yoongi finally cross the line you’ve both been toeing for far too long.
Content/Warnings: Explicit sexual content (smut), jealousy, alcohol use, language, angst with eventual comfort, friends-to-lovers, oral (f receiving), fingering, protected penetrative sex, multiple positions, creampie (with condom), aftercare(barely), many many confessions. Please tell me if I missed anything!
Playlist: We can’t be friends by Ariana Grande // Tears by Sabrina Carpenter
A/N: This story got away from me in the best way—it’s long, indulgent, and absolutely filthy but also stupidly tender. Yoongi really said “dreams do come true.” God I love him😭 thank you @sorilyae for being my positive enabler 🫶 I love you
The first time you meet Yoongi, you’re not even supposed to be there.
Namjoon is an old friend from college—the kind who pops in and out of your life like seasons, but always feels like home when he’s around. He’s in town for a few days, texts you last-minute with, “come out tonight, I’ve got people you should meet.”
You almost say no. It’s been a long week, and you’re not in the mood for new faces. But it’s Namjoon, and you’ve missed him, so you drag yourself out anyway.
The little get-together isn’t what you expect. Not a packed bar, not a fancy dinner. Just a corner booth in a half-empty lounge, dim lighting and a low playlist in the background. Namjoon waves you over, grinning, introducing you one by one to the friends crammed into the booth with him.
And then there’s Yoongi.
He doesn’t smile when your eyes meet. He barely looks up from his glass. But when Namjoon says your name, Yoongi repeats it under his breath like he’s testing it out, then gives you the faintest nod.
You slide into the booth across from him. Conversation flows easily with the others—Jimin’s brightness, Taehyung’s chaos, Jin’s effortless banter—but every so often, you catch Yoongi’s eyes on you. Not in a way that feels rude. More like he’s quietly assessing you, deciding if you’re worth the effort.
It isn’t until someone makes a dumb joke—something dark and a little twisted—that you instinctively add a one-liner of your own. The table goes silent for half a beat, surprised. And then Yoongi huffs out a laugh. A real one, quick and sharp, before he shakes his head and mutters, “finally, someone with decent humor.”
That’s it. The thread is tied.
For the rest of the night, you find yourself leaning into his side comments, his dry observations. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands—and you volley it right back. The others notice, of course. Namjoon gives you a knowing look, like he planned this all along.
And by the end of the night, you and Yoongi are sharing a basket of fries across the table, comfortable in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all. When you leave, he doesn’t ask for your number. He just says, “you’ll be around again, right?” And somehow, you know you will.
After that first night, you figure it’s a one-off. You’ll catch Namjoon next time he’s in town, and Yoongi will stay in your memory as the guy with the sharp laugh and sharper humor.
Except—two days later, your phone buzzes.
A new group chat.
Namjoon: Squad expansion pack unlocked. Everybody say hi to [Y/N].
Taehyung: ooooh new friend
Jin: more people to roast me, great
Yoongi: …
Yoongi: who let her in here
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, smirking. You type back:
the bouncer at the booth last night liked me more than you, sorry.
And just like that, it’s on.
From then on, Yoongi isn’t just Namjoon’s friend—you start seeing him at every casual hang. Movie nights, random bar meet-ups, late-night drives when Taehyung insists everyone needs ice cream at 1 a.m. Somewhere in the shuffle, Yoongi stops feeling like “Namjoon’s brooding friend” and starts feeling like your favorite person to stand next to at parties.
You don’t notice it right away, but the others definitely do. The way you two end up sharing snacks. The way Yoongi actually texts back in the group chat if it’s you he’s answering. The way his humor sharpens whenever you’re around, like he’s performing for an audience of one.
It takes weeks before you realize: you’ve been texting Yoongi directly. No big moment, no “can I get your number”—just the natural bleed from group chat to late-night one-on-ones. Memes, song recs, dumb observations. A thread that winds tighter without either of you naming it.
And somehow, without noticing, Yoongi becomes the person you look for first when you walk into a room.
It doesn’t take long before you and Yoongi develop your own rhythm.
At first, it’s little things—dry commentary during group hangs, a quiet laugh shared while everyone else is too loud to notice. But soon, it becomes a whole thing. Inside jokes stitched together from throwaway comments, looks you can read without words.
Once, at a party, someone suggests a cheesy icebreaker game. You and Yoongi exchange a glance, already mocking it in your heads.
He leans closer, murmurs just for you:
“if I have to list two truths and a lie, I’m going with ‘I buried a body once’ as a truth.”
You snort into your drink, choking on laughter. When you wheeze out your own response—“make sure you don’t pick the basement, that one’s already mine”—Yoongi nearly spits out his beer.
Everyone else at the table just stares. Jungkook looks genuinely concerned. Jin mutters something about “what the hell is wrong with you two,” while Hoseok squints like he’s not sure if you’re kidding. You and Yoongi, meanwhile, are doubled over in the corner, entirely unbothered.
It becomes a pattern:
You’re the only one who laughs when Yoongi mutters his driest, darkest lines.
He’s the only one who notices when you deadpan something outrageous under your breath.
The others stop asking, eventually, because it’s your brand of humor—private, sharp-edged, and weirdly intimate.
In between the jokes, though, it’s softer things that stitch you together.
Falling asleep on his couch after a late-night hang, and waking to a blanket tossed over you.
Him sending you half-finished demos at 3 a.m., knowing you won’t judge.
You picking up takeout when you know he hasn’t eaten all day.
You become constants in each other’s lives—reliable without ever saying you would be. And maybe that’s why no one teases you about it; because for all the dark humor and the sharp laughs, everyone can see the gentleness underneath.
Of course, you don’t call it that. Neither of you do. It’s just friendship. Comfortable. Easy. Unshakable.
At least, until it isn’t.
It happens on a Saturday night, the kind of night that’s quietly become yours.
Most weekends end this way—takeout boxes on Yoongi’s coffee table, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background, you two tucked into opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter; the routine is what matters.
So when you casually say, “I can’t do next weekend—I think I’ve been asked on a date,” you don’t even look up from your carton of noodles. It’s offhand, thoughtless, like mentioning the weather.
But Yoongi hears it like a record scratch.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets down his chopsticks, leans back, stares at the TV like it suddenly got interesting. His pulse thuds in his ears, steady and unwelcome.
A date.
“Cool,” he says finally, voice low, flat enough you almost don’t notice it’s sharper than usual.
You glance at him, puzzled. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Have fun.”
You wait for him to make a joke, to say something snarky about your type or the guy probably being boring. That’s how it usually goes—you throw the ball, he bats it back. But this time, Yoongi doesn’t even lift his eyes from the screen.
The silence feels heavier than it should.
You don’t press, because Yoongi gets like this sometimes—quiet moods, long stretches of silence. You’ve never pushed too hard when he walls himself off.
But for Yoongi, it’s different. He’s sitting there, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his hand tighten around the beer bottle in his lap. He knows it’s stupid. You’re not his. You’ve never been his. He has no claim to feel anything at all.
And yet, the thought of you smiling across a table at someone else makes his chest tighten in a way he absolutely does not want to look into right now.
When you finally lean back and sigh, half-smiling at him like nothing’s changed, Yoongi manages to nod, force out a faint smirk.
But later, when you leave, his apartment feels too quiet. And Yoongi realizes—for the first time—that the idea of losing your Saturdays hurts a lot more than he’s ready to admit.
You swipe a layer of mascara onto your lashes, blink at your reflection, and try not to think about how strange Yoongi has been all week.
Normally, Saturdays are yours. Movie nights, half-eaten takeout cartons, his sarcastic commentary muffled against the couch cushions. But tonight you’re in front of your mirror, curling iron still hot, lip gloss still tacky, because you told him you had a date.
The word had landed heavy between you, like a rock in a still pond. Yoongi hadn’t teased you, hadn’t grumbled about your taste, hadn’t even made a joke at your expense. Just that flat cool and nothing else. And that—not the date, not the guy—has been tugging at your thoughts ever since.
You smooth the hem of your dress and pause, because another memory presses forward, uninvited.
It’s from months ago. A night you weren’t even supposed to stay late, but the group hang bled into Yoongi’s apartment, and then bled into just the two of you, cross-legged on his floor with a half-empty bottle between you.
Yoongi doesn’t drink often—not enough to get loose, anyway. But that night, he let himself unravel just a little. Enough that the words spilled out softer, slower, like he’d been holding them back too long.
“You know…” He’d swirled the last inch of whiskey in his glass, eyes half-lidded, mouth quirking like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. “…you’re… fuck. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”
You laughed then, awkward, ready to brush it off. But Yoongi hadn’t let you.
“No, seriously. You don’t get it.” His gaze had been steady, almost too much to bear. “You bring… light. To people. To me. Like—you’re funny as hell, yeah, but it’s more than that. You make shit feel… less heavy. You make people feel lucky just by being around. Anyone would be blessed to have you in their life. And if they don’t see that? They’re idiots.”
The words had settled in your chest, glowing, impossible to forget. But you couldn’t answer. You just sat there, staring, memorizing the way his voice dipped low on lucky.
He smiled after, small and crooked, and took another sip like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down.
The next morning, when you teased him about it—“you get weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Min Yoongi.” He’d blinked at you, blank-faced, and muttered, “don’t remember a thing.”
You’d laughed it off then. But now, pulling on your jacket and glancing at your phone, you wonder if maybe that’s why his silence stings so much.
Because even if he doesn’t remember saying it, you do.
And some stupid part of you wishes he meant it.
You find yourself at the restaurant. And you don’t even really want to be here.
His name is Daniel. Works in accounting two floors down from your office. Nice enough—clean shoes, polite smile, remembered to hold the door when you walked in. You only said yes to this date because he asked twice and because somewhere in the back of your head was Yoongi’s voice from months ago, telling you to put yourself out there. To let people see how “light” you are.
You thought Yoongi would be proud.
But twenty minutes into the date, you already know how this ends. Daniel talks about office politics like it’s a full-contact sport, and when he laughs at his own joke, it’s just… loud. Not sharp, not dry, not shared with a sly glance across a crowded room.
Not Yoongi.
You poke at your pasta, nodding at the right times while he continues talking, but your mind betrays you. Imagining what Yoongi would say about the way Daniel uses the word “synergy” three times in one awful story. How he’d smirk across the table, mutter something dark under his breath just for you, and you’d choke trying not to laugh too loud.
With Yoongi, there’d be inside jokes and banter, even in silence. With Daniel, it’s small talk and forced smiles. And you’re not really hitting it off.
By the time dessert comes, you’re already exhausted. You tell yourself, at least you tried. At least you showed up.
When you get home, you peel your makeup off in the bathroom, watching mascara smudge into raccoon eyes. Relief sinks into your bones when you pull on your favorite hoodie and curl up in bed.
The date wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t him.
Your phone buzzes. One name.
yoon: How was the date?
You stare at the screen. Wonder where he is right now. On his couch, knees tucked up, TV on low? Or stretched out in bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard the same way yours is?
You type:
you: it wasn’t… horrible.
Your thumb hesitates, then moves again. The truth itches under your skin until it spills out in the way only Yoongi will get:
you: next time I’ll just ask my Uber driver to drag me behind his car through traffic—probably less painful than sitting through another date like that.
There’s a pause. Then:
yoon: lmao
yoon: finally, some honesty
And just like that, the tightness in your chest eases. Because no matter how awful the night was, at least you get to end it with him.
Jin’s apartment is loud, the kind of loud that comes from seven different conversations stacked on top of each other. The coffee table is a graveyard of takeout boxes, Taehyung is half-off the armchair like he doesn’t understand gravity, and Jungkook is shoveling fried rice into his mouth like it’s a competition no one else signed up for.
You’re curled into one corner of the couch, drink in hand, Yoongi beside you with his usual air of disinterest. It’s comfortable, the background noise, until Jimin suddenly cuts through it.
“Hey—your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”
You blink, startled. “…How do you even know that?”
Taehyung chimes in, “Because I make it my business to know everyone’s birthdays.” He sits up, grinning. “And we’re throwing you a party.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “What? No. You’re not.”
Jin yells from the kitchen doorway, without missing a beat, “Yes, we are! I’ll bake the cake!”
Hoseok, from an armchair, “I’ll handle the playlist.”
Jungkook with his mouth full, “I’ll bring snacks.”
You hold up both hands, shaking your head. “Guys, seriously—don’t. I don’t want a party. It’s not a big deal.”
Taehyung gasps. “Not a big deal? It’s your birthday! That’s literally the definition of a big deal.”
The room hums with agreement. You try to smile, but your chest tightens. The idea of being the center of attention makes your skin prickle. “I’m fine with just… hanging out. Like we always do.”
Beside you, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. The way he sees past the casual shrug, the way his gaze sharpens at the way your fingers worry the rim of your glass. He knows you’re tense—of course he does. He always does.
Jimin continues, “Nope, too late. We’re making this happen. We’ll invite everyone. Work friends, too.”
Your stomach drops. “That’s—no, you don’t have to—”
“What about that guy… Daniel, was it? Im sure he’d come.”
The name hangs heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi’s shoulders go rigid, his thumb pausing against the armrest.
You force a laugh. “He’s… really not party material.”
Ever the ‘party-material-maker’, Taehyung reassures you: “Then we’ll vet him. If he’s boring, he’s out.”
Yoongi finally says something, voice low, snarky enough to offend. “Then half the people you invite won’t make the cut.”
The group bursts into laughter, but you hear the edge under his tone. You glance sideways—his expression is neutral, almost bored, but the tension in his jaw is undeniable.
You take a sip of your drink, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest. You told yourself you didn’t want a party. But now, with Yoongi sitting so close you can feel the shift in his mood, you can’t help wondering if what you really don’t want is him seeing you with anyone else there.
The laughter from Yoongi’s jab is still bouncing around the room when the bathroom door creaks open. Namjoon steps out, fanning the air behind him like he’s trying to chase away a demon.
“Do not,” he says, voice solemn, “go in there.”
A collective groan rolls through the room.
Jin throws his head back. “Again?”
Jungkook groans through a mouthful of rice. “Hyung, get your life together.”
Hoseok presses a hand to his chest, already laughing. “I told you not to eat the extra kimchi.”
Namjoon just lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sparing you, trust me.”
The chaos bubbles up, Jimin clutching his stomach, Taehyung dramatically collapsing onto the armchair like he’s fainting from the stench. You laugh, shaking your head, but the sound catches in your throat when you feel the shift beside you.
Yoongi stretches an arm lazily across the back of the couch. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Except he hasn’t—not once in the year you’ve known him.
Your heart kicks against your ribs. The distance between his hand and your shoulder is nothing, barely inches, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the space you’re taking up.
He leans just slightly toward you, voice pitched low enough to skim under the noise. “You really don’t want a party?”
You glance at him, caught off guard. “Not really.”
His eyes flick to your face, steady, unreadable. “Even with people who actually matter?”
The question knots in your chest. You swallow. “It’s not about that. I just… don’t like being the center of attention.”
Yoongi hums, quiet. “Fair. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. Letting people celebrate you.”
The words are gentle. Too gentle. For a second, it feels like the whole room fades—Taehyung whining dramatically about Febreze, Jin telling Namjoon he’s banned from kimchi forever—and all you can hear is Yoongi, sitting close enough that his warmth skims along your arm.
You manage a small smile. “You sound like drunk-you again. Semi-inspirational.”
That earns you the barest twitch of his lips. “Maybe sober-me means it too.”
The air shifts, heavier than it should be, and your breath catches before the moment’s swept away because Hoseok suddenly narrows his eyes at you and Yoongi.
“Look at these two,” he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Whole room of people and they’re having their own private conversation again.”
Taehyung perks up immediately. “It’s every hangout. Soulmates, clearly.”
Namjoon sighs and mutters under his breath, clearly feeling sorry for the teasing about to take place. “Here we go, again.”
Jin smirks from the kitchen doorway. “They’re so locked in, I’m surprised they even hear us.”
You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “We do not—”
“Yes, you do,” Jungkook cuts in, grinning around his drink. “Half the time you’re whispering and laughing and the rest of us are just sitting here like chopped liver.”
Yoongi doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch, either. He just takes a slow sip from his glass, face unreadable.
But then Jimin, always the instigator, leans forward with a wicked smile. “You’re sitting close enough to kiss right now.”
Oh, he knows what he just did.
The room erupts with laughter, wolf-whistles and fake gagging sounds.
Your entire body ignites. Heat flares across your cheeks, your ears, all the way down your neck. You choke on your drink and duck your head, suddenly incapable of looking anywhere near Yoongi.
And still, Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he usually does.
But you feel it—a shift. A subtle double take, the weight of his gaze flicking toward you and then lingering, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t quite add up.
You don’t have to look to know he’s studying you, puzzled, maybe even a little thrown. Because you turned red. You.
And if you’re blushing like that… what does it mean?
The laughter from Jimin’s jab keeps bouncing around the room, Taehyung dramatically fanning himself like he just witnessed something scandalous.
“Save it for after the cake,” Jin calls from the kitchen, smirking as he disappears back to check the oven.
“Cake?” you echo, desperate for any subject change. “There’s no cake.”
“There will be,” Jin sing-songs.
Hoseok leans forward, grinning. “Bet Yoongi already has flavors picked out for you.”
That earns another round of oohs and whistles, the group loving the way your face heats even more.
“I do not,” Yoongi mutters, voice flat as stone. But his arm stays stretched casually along the back of the couch, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze still lingering on you even as the conversation shifts.
Jungkook slaps his thigh, cackling. “This is my favorite game. Tease them until one of them breaks.”
“I’ll give it a month before they admit it,” Jimin adds, wiggling his eyebrows. “Soulmates can only play dumb for so long.”
“Stop calling us that,” you groan, pressing your palms to your cheeks.
Taehyung gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, she didn’t deny it this time!”
The room explodes again, everyone talking at once—bets being made, exaggerated wedding toasts being shouted, Jungkook offering to DJ your “first dance.”
You bury your face in your drink, wishing the floor would open up and swallow—just you—whole. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: Yoongi’s lips twitch. Not a laugh, not really—but something close.
And though he doesn’t say a word, you can feel the undercurrent humming between you, sharper than it’s ever been.
But the chaos doesn’t really settle until Jin emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and announces, “Alright, everybody out. I’ve got to work in the morning and you’re all too loud.”
Groans and protests ripple through the room, but one by one the boys start gathering their things. Hoseok is still humming an obnoxious melody about soulmates, Namjoon rubbing his temples as he walks to the door, Taehyung swears he’s bringing balloons to your “surprise-not-surprise” party, and Jimin smirks like he’s got ammo for the next week.
You stand, smoothing your shirt, trying to will the redness from your cheeks. Yoongi rises beside you, stretching lazily like none of this touched him at all.
But inside?
Inside, he knows the truth.
He’ll never admit it—not to them, not to you—but he doesn’t actually hate it when the group teases you both. He pretends to roll his eyes, pretends he’s annoyed, but secretly… secretly he loves it. Loves the way they say “soulmates” like it’s obvious, loves the way you fluster and stumble through denials.
Because maybe that’s what it would be like if you were his.
If he didn’t keep everything locked behind his ribs. If he could reach out and claim what he wants without losing the comfort of what you already are. The way the others laugh and tease—it’s the closest glimpse he’ll ever get at what life might look like if he was allowed to have you.
And so he lets them tease. Because dreaming is safer than losing you.
On the way out, your shoulders brush in the narrow doorway. Your sleeve skims his arm, and the static crackles all the way down to his fingertips. You look up, meeting his eyes for half a second before glancing away, flustered again.
Yoongi swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust the way the words might come out.
But when you turn to him at the door, pulling your jacket tighter around you, you give him that small smile—the one that always cuts through him—and say softly, “Goodnight, Yoongi.”
His throat works, tight, but he manages a low reply. “Night. Get home safe.”
You nod, slip out into the breezeway of Jin’s complex, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind you feels louder than it should.
Yoongi lingers there for a beat longer, staring at the space you just occupied. He needs to breathe for a second. He inhales deep, then exhales slow and quiet, and heads out into the night with one thought looping through his head.
If blushing means you like me… then maybe I’m already too far gone.
It’s Wednesday night when your phone buzzes. You’re curled up on your bed, laptop open but untouched, scrolling mindlessly until the notification flashes.
yoon: You figured out what you’re wearing yet?
You blink, reread it twice. Yoongi doesn’t usually care about that kind of thing.
you: For what?
yoon: …your birthday. The one Tae’s been yelling about all week.
you: Oh. That.
you: I’m not picking out anything special.
yoon: Why not.
you: Because it’s not that serious.
There’s a pause. You can almost see him on the other side of the screen, thumb hovering, brow furrowed like he’s trying to phrase something without giving too much away.
yoon: You should. Pick something that makes you feel good.
you: You sound like Hobi.
yoon: Hobi would tell you to wear sequins or some shit. I’m saying just… don’t downplay it.
Your chest tightens. He always sees it, the way you try to shrink yourself.
you: Are you seriously texting me about clothes right now?
yoon: Somebody has to. Don’t want you showing up in your office hoodie.
You bite back a smile, fingers tapping before you can stop yourself.
you: That hoodie is a classic.
yoon: It’s fucking tragic.
You laugh, low in your throat, and set the phone down for a second to breathe. It’s not much, just a string of texts about nothing. But the warmth in your chest lingers long after the screen goes dark.
The Birthday Party
Namjoon pulls up to the curb like your chauffeur, killing the engine and getting out to walk around and open the passenger door for you. He looks half amused, half resigned as you climb out, tugging at the hem of your dress.
“Just so you know,” he says, offering his arm with mock formality, “I briefed you in the car, but… I’m apologizing again in advance. Jimin and Tae went feral with this party.”
You laugh, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “How bad can it be?”
The answer greets you the second your heels hit the red carpeted stairs.
It looks like New Year’s Eve collided with a music video shoot. Glittering lights spill down from the awning, a velvet rope corrals guests into the entrance, and inside the glass doors you can already see the crowd—everyone dressed to kill, champagne glasses flashing under the chandeliers.
Your jaw slackens. “This is… a birthday party?”
“Your birthday party,” Namjoon corrects, grimacing. “Tae literally said, ‘If she doesn’t walk in and feel like the hottest girl in Seoul, then what’s even the point.’”
You bite back a nervous laugh, tugging your dress down again. The dress you picked is short, tight, the kind of outfit your parents would faint over. But you’d looked in the mirror earlier and thought of Yoongi’s words—pick something that makes you feel good—and this was it. Bold, a little reckless, enough skin showing to make you feel powerful.
As you walk up the stairs, gripping Namjoon’s arm for balance, he leans down with a smirk.
“You know he’s gonna freak, right?”
Your stomach flips. You don’t even have to ask who. But you do anyway. “What?”
Namjoon chuckles, low. “I mean… he won’t show it. Not on his face. But internally? Yoongi’s gonna be strangling himself when he sees you in that dress, Y/N.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face toward the glittering doors before he can notice. You tell yourself he’s exaggerating, teasing like always. But the flutter in your chest won’t stop.
Because part of you wonders—maybe hopes—he’s right.
The second the doors open, sound swallows you whole. Music pumps from hidden speakers, bass rattling in your chest, laughter and voices layered so thick it’s dizzying. Chandeliers glitter overhead, catching on sequins and champagne glasses, and everywhere you look there are people—people you don’t know, people dressed like they’re waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square, people who definitely don’t belong at a party for you.
It’s too much. Too big. Exactly what Taehyung and Jimin would think is perfect.
You paste on a smile as Namjoon steers you through the crowd, murmuring greetings to familiar faces. But your eyes keep wandering, scanning, searching every corner. You don’t even realize how obvious it is—the way you’re subconsciously hunting for him. For Yoongi.
Your Yoongi.
Instead, you’re intercepted first by Hoseok, who comes practically skipping across the room, sequined jacket catching the light with every step. “Birthday girl!” He pulls you into a hug that smells like cologne and champagne, then holds you at arm’s length. His grin widens. “Damn, you look good.”
“Too good,” another voice chimes in, and Jungkook slides up with a glass in each hand. He passes one to Hoseok before adjusting the lapels of his sharp black suit like he knows he looks incredible. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”
You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks as Jungkook tips his glass toward your dress in approval. “Wow. You two actually clean up nice.”
Hoseok gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse you—I always look good.”
Jungkook just smirks, boyish and smug. “But admit it. We’re killing it tonight.”
You shake your head, laughing again, but your gaze is already drifting over their shoulders, past the glitter and noise, through the sea of strangers.
Still no sign of him. What the fuck.
And that unsettles you more than you want to admit.
Namjoon still hasn’t let go of your arm, playing the role of dutiful escort as he weaves you through the crowd of bodies toward a literal tower of champagne flutes stacked high like something out of a luxury gala.
How hard did Jimin and Tae go for this party?
You let out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not my idea,” Namjoon mutters, steering you into the line. “I told you—I’m just here as damage control.”
He plucks two glasses from the table and hands you one. The bubbles tickle your nose as you take a careful sip, the taste sharp and sweet on your tongue.
And then—
“Birthday girl!”
The greeting comes in stereo, Jimin’s high-pitched cheer layered with Taehyung’s deep drawl. They appear together like they rehearsed it, grins wide and eyes bright.
Jimin immediately pulls you into a hug, nearly sloshing champagne down both of your outfits. “Happy birthday, gorgeous!”
You hug him back, “Thank you, guys.”
“Look at you,” Taehyung adds, spinning you lightly by the wrist so he can take in your whole outfit. “Short, shiny, and scandalous. And honestly? Exactly what I envisioned.”
You laugh, cheeks heating, trying to tuck yourself back under Namjoon’s arm like a fucking shield. “This is… insane. All of this.”
“Insane in a good way,” Jimin insists, bouncing on his toes. “Tell me you love it!”
You look around—at the chandeliers, the glittering crowd, the champagne tower sparkling in the light—and your chest squeezes. It’s too much. But they did it for you. Because they care.
“I do,” you admit, soft and honest. “I love it. Thank you.”
Jimin beams. Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. And for a moment, the noise of the party fades under the weight of how lucky you are to have them.
Still, as you take another sip of champagne, your eyes wander past their shoulders, scanning the crowd again. Looking for the one person who hasn’t shown up yet.
Where could he be? Is he even here? Why isn’t he with the guys?
You’re half-caught in your head and Taehyung’s theatrics when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
“There’s my birthday girl.”
Jin appears with a glass in hand, tailored blazer sharp enough to make him look like he owns the place. He leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of your head, then straightens and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Joon. Thanks for keeping her in one piece.”
Namjoon huffs a laugh. “Doing my best.”
Jin’s eyes drop to your dress, and he sighs the way only Jin can—long-suffering, dramatic, equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is what you wore?”
You flush, tugging at the hem. “Don’t start. It’s fine.”
“It’s your birthday, so I’ll allow it,” he says, lips twitching. “But if your parents ever see photos… I don’t know you.”
You laugh, shaking your head, but then the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Hey, have you seen Yoongi?”
Beside you, Namjoon tenses—so subtle anyone else would miss it, but you don’t. You feel it in the shift of his arm under your hand. Like he wasn’t expecting the question.
Jin’s smile falters just slightly. His eyes flick to Namjoon, then back to you, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Not yet,” he says after a beat. “But… don’t worry about him. Just keep enjoying your party, okay?”
Your stomach twists. The easy warmth of the moment curdles, a faint unease threading through it.
That was fucking weird.
The night spins forward in a blur.
You let Jimin and Taehyung drag you to the dance floor, Hoseok already in the center hyping the crowd like it’s a concert. Namjoon groans but still sways dutifully beside you, Jin waves a champagne flute overhead like he’s at a wedding, and Jungkook spins you until you nearly trip over your own heels.
It’s ridiculous. Chaotic. Too much. And yet, with your friends circling you in glitter and laughter, you feel lighter than you expected.
Then—a shiver down your spine. The sense of eyes on you.
You glance up, scanning past the lights, past the crowd. And then you see him.
Yoongi.
He’s on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually on the rail, a champagne flute hanging from one hand. His long dark hair curls around his face, catching in the glow of the chandelier, and his gaze is locked—glued—to you.
Your chest stutters. It feels like time itself stutters. The music, the noise, the laughter—it all dims under the weight of his stare.
And you smile. The biggest smile you’ve smiled all night, wide and uncontainable. Like gravity pulling you in one direction only.
Your smile is already lifting when something inside it snags.
Because you see him—and then you see her.
She’s half-turned toward him, shoulder angled into his space like she belongs there, a thin gold chain glinting at her throat. Close. Comfortable-close. The kind of close that says this isn’t the first minute they’ve been standing like that.
Yoongi is looking at you.
But he’s talking to her.
His mouth moves—something low, something easy—and she watches him like she’s used to the gravity he creates, like it doesn’t pull her apart the way it threatens to pull you apart right now. When she laughs, it’s a soft curve of sound you can’t hear over the bass, and his lips answer with the ghost of a smile.
He doesn’t look like he doesn’t want to be there.
Your stomach goes cold, then hot, then cold again.
Taehyung spins you by the wrist, oblivious. “Birthday girl! Stop zoning out, you’re killing my groove.”
You snap your gaze away from the balcony so fast your neck twinges. “I’m not zoning out.”
“Liar,” Jimin sings, popping up at your other side and fitting his palms to your shoulders from behind, swaying you on beat. “This is your party. Eyes on us, miss ma’am.”
“Yeah,” you say, too bright, too quick. “Eyes on you.”
You force your body to move. To laugh at something Jungkook says. To let Hoseok spin you out into a loop you nearly botch because your heels are not designed for this much enthusiasm. You let Jimin tilt your chin and quip about how you’re “glowing” and “devastating” and “a menace,” and you pretend the whole time that the top of your skull isn’t buzzing with the exact shape of the woman’s hand where it rests on the balcony rail, three inches from Yoongi’s wrist.
Ignore him. Ignore that.
The music surges, a chorus that rattles the floor, and you pour your attention into the only thing you can control: the way your head tips back when you laugh, the way your hips find the bass line, the way your dress catches the light like it’s armor.
Namjoon leans in at your ear, voice pitched under the noise. “You okay?”
You don’t hesitate. “Of course.” Your smile stretches just a little too tight. “It’s great.”
He studies you for a beat—he always has been annoyingly perceptive—but then he nods like he’s not going to pry here, not now. “If you need air, tug my sleeve.”
“I won’t,” you say, and you mean it like a challenge to yourself.
You don’t look back up at the balcony. You do not.
Except your body betrays you in small ways: the way your pulse stutters when the chandelier light shifts; the way your head tilts a fraction, as if lining up your peripheral vision with the stretch of the upper rail. You keep your focus fixed on Hoseok’s ridiculous body roll and Taehyung’s scandalized gasp at Jungkook’s footwork, and still you feel it—a prickling heat along your cheek like a spotlight.
He’s still looking.
You won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Shots,” Jimin declares, because he’s a menace and because the universe has a sense of humor. “It’s illegal not to do birthday shots.”
Before you can protest, a tray materializes—Hoseok works miracles—and you let them press a glass into your hand. Clear. Mean. The kind of burn that will either cauterize the jealousy or make it liquefy and pour out your eyes.
“To the hottest girl in Seoul,” Taehyung intones, scandalously sincere.
“To sequins,” Hoseok declares, glittering under the lights.
“To,” Jungkook smirks, “telling anyone who flirts with you that they’re not on the guest list.”
“Please stop,” you groan, but your grin slips in anyway, helpless.
You fling your gaze straight at the bottom of the shot glass and tip it back. The burn is instant, bright, a clean white-out that blurs the edges of your thoughts. When it hits your stomach, the heat spreads. It helps.
“Again,” Jimin threatens.
“No,” Namjoon says, parental. “Later.”
“Traitor,” Jimin pouts, already winking at the bartender for later.
You move. Harder now. It’s easier to outrun a feeling than to look it in the face. You dance like you owe your body something, like you can sweat this out, like the bass can be a wall.
Someone bumps your shoulder in the crowd and murmurs an apology; someone else asks if you want a drink; a stranger in a too-tight shirt tries to sidle in closer until Jungkook simply appears, big-brothering him with a smile that’s all teeth. Your friends orbit you, constellation-steady, but even with all that, there’s a slice of cold aware in your ribs—because you can feel him, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.
You do not look.
You laugh at something Jin says when he finally decides to return to the dance floor, his hand slicing through the air as he reenacts Namjoon banning kimchi, and you let that laughter sit bright on your mouth, weaponized. You’re fine. You’re glittering. You’re busy.
“Back in two,” you shout to nobody in particular, tapping your chest and miming a sip. You need water. The good kind—flat, unassuming. Something to anchor your mouth around that isn’t his name.
At the edge of the floor, the air thins a little. The bar is a line of elbows and straws and clinking glass, but the bartender spots your wave and slides you a highball of blessedly clear water like you’re a favorite regular. You take two grateful pulls and press the cold glass to the underside of your jaw.
“Happy birthday,” someone says at your left.
You turn your head. It’s the woman from the balcony.
Up close, she’s even more composed. Winged liner like a threat, lipstick that doesn’t dare smudge, a dress that looks like it was sewn on. She’s taller than you by a breath in her heels, and her perfume is a soft, expensive thing that settles around you like a verdict.
You find your manners where you dropped them. “Thank you.”
“Taehyung outdid himself,” she says, amused. Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward the floor, past it. Not calculating—cataloguing. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks,” you answer, neutral, careful. “Enjoying the party?”
Her mouth tilts. “I am now.”
You take another drink of water to cover the sound your throat makes.
“I’m Sori,” she adds, offering her name like a business card.
You give her yours, because what else are you going to do? Pretend names don’t exist?
She nods, as if checking a box in her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Your heartbeat trips over itself. “From…?”
“From everyone,” she says lightly. “Small universe.”
You let out a sound that is not a laugh but would like to be when it grows up. “Yeah.”
Silence stitches between you, quick and neat. She doesn’t fill it. She just lets it sit there, poised, like she knows exactly how long to wait before it starts to itch.
“Yoongi mentioned the humor,” she says finally, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “He was right.”
The glass sweats against your palm. “He talks a lot for someone so quiet.”
“That’s the trick.” She lifts her own drink—champagne, of course—and tips it toward you, gaze steady. “Happy birthday.”
You clink without looking away. “Thanks.”
She leaves you there—mercifully—with her perfume and the ghost of her smile, threading back toward the stairs with an unhurried confidence that makes you want to kick something. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know if he’s still where she left him. People like that never do.
You exhale hard, set the water down, and march yourself back into the heat of the dance floor like it’s a battlefield. Namjoon clocks your expression in a second and lifts a brow. You shake your head, a tiny, surgical movement. Later.
Jimin latches onto your hand and spins you again, yelling something about “chorus!” and “arms!” over the music, and you let him, because this is what you can control: the angle of your wrist, the slice of your smile, the decision to keep your eyes anywhere but up.
You feel Yoongi like static earlier; now it’s a low-voltage hum under your skin. You don’t have to see him to know he’s moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s closer.
You won’t look.
“Yo,” Jungkook shouts in your ear, breathless, grinning. “You’re on fire. Whoever breaks your heart is gonna die.”
“Bold of you to assume it’s breakable,” you throw back, dry, and Jungkook howls like you just body-slammed a line of defense.
Hoseok plants a feather-light kiss to your temple when he passes behind you. Jin shouts, “Shots later, water now,” like a dad. Taehyung declares that he’s stealing you for a “birthday twirl,” and you let him tug you three steps left, pivot, laugh, pivot again—
—and then you stop.
Because you know the shape of that stillness. It has a weight all its own.
You can feel him at the edge of your orbit before he says your name.
“Hey.”
It lands low, built for just you, a thread through the noise. You don’t turn for a full heartbeat. You finish the step you’re in, hand still in Taehyung’s, then you let go and face him because pretending to be oblivious in a three-foot radius is a different kind of embarrassing.
Yoongi stands there in a black suit that fits like a decision, hair ink-dark and loose around his face, the chandelier picking out lines of silver at his wrist and throat. The room could vanish and it would still feel too bright.
His eyes are on your mouth, then your dress, then your eyes, and he does not disguise the part where he has to swallow. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you see it in the cut of his throat.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
Your smile is neat. Unbothered. “Thanks.”
A beat. You don’t ask why he’s late. You don’t ask who she is. You don’t ask anything. You’re not giving him that.
He studies your face like he’s trying to solve a song he’s heard a thousand times and can’t quite play.
“You look…” He searches for a word and discards five. “…good.”
“Yeah?” you say, and let your mouth tilt. “Must be the lighting.”
It lands and he almost smiles—almost—but something shadows his eyes when he realizes you’re not stepping into the usual rhythm, not handing him the joke and the soft landing. He shifts, just enough that your shoulders almost brush.
“You met Sori,” he says finally. Not a question.
You look over his shoulder at nothing at all. “She met me.”
“She’s—” He stops, tiny, and you watch him pick between truths. “—Jin’s friend.”
“Everyone’s friend tonight,” you say lightly. “You’re popular.”
His jaw flexes like he wants to bite the word in half before it gets to you. “It’s not like that.”
You lift your brows. “I didn’t say it was.”
Another beat. The bass thumps. Taehyung spins by with a finger-gun and zero chill. Jin is arguing with the bartender about cake plates. Jimin is mouthing, Tell him he’s hot, at you across three bodies because he wants to die.
Yoongi tilts his head, searching your face. “You’re mad.”
You laugh, genuine and bright and a little sharp. “It’s my birthday, Yoongi. I don’t have time to be mad.”
“Jealous, then,” he says quietly.
Your smile doesn’t change. “Of who?”
He flinches at that—not visibly, not for anyone else, but you feel it like a ripple under your feet. For a heartbeat his mouth opens like he’s going to say something he can’t unsay. Then he closes it, looks down, looks back.
“Dance with me,” he says.
You let the smallest silence bloom. You weigh everything inside it—his eyes, the ghost of the balcony, the woman’s perfume, your own stupid heart, the fact that all of your friends are absolutely watching this from the corners of their eyes and pretending they’re not.
You tip your chin toward the crowd, neutral as gravity. “I’m busy.”
It’s soft. It’s nothing. It hits him like a door.
He nods, once. Slow. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.
“Okay,” he says, and steps back.
You turn away before your mouth can do something reckless. You catch Namjoon’s gaze over Hoseok’s shoulder, and he only inclines his head—once, commander-calm, we’ll talk later written in the lines of his mouth.
Jungkook reappears like a wall, grinning, hands up. “C’mon, birthday menace. Show me that murder footwork.”
You do. You move. You laugh too loud at something that isn’t funny and throw your arms up when the chorus hits and let Taehyung spin you until you’re dizzy. You let Jimin scream-sing into your ear and Hoseok beam like a lighthouse and Jin scold you for forgetting hydration. You pretend the entire time that you cannot feel the heat of a gaze trailing the edge of your orbit like a planet that refuses to admit it’s caught.
You don’t look back up at the balcony.
You don’t look when he disappears into the crowd.
You don’t look when, two songs later, the lights dim for cake and everyone howls your name and Jin marches forward with a confection so extra it probably has a birth certificate.
You breathe in. You breathe out. You lean into the noise and the sugar and the sparkler-bright chorus of voices.
You make a wish you refuse to name. And you keep your eyes closed a second longer than you need to, because for one more second, you don’t have to see who’s standing where when you open them.
The garden hits like a slap—cold air and the smell of damp earth, hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, fairy lights strung in polite arcs that make everything look softer than it feels. The bass from inside is a heartbeat through the walls. Your own heartbeat is doing its own fucked-up drum solo.
Bench. Cold. Good. You drop onto it like you’ve been thrown, palms on either side of your thighs, eyes squinting up at a sky that refuses to stand still.
“Motherfucker,” you mutter to no one in particular, lips tingling where that stranger’s mouth was a minute ago. Did you say yes? You said “mmm.” That’s not yes. That’s… not words. Your stomach flips. You swallow it down with the aftertaste of liquor and sugar and something bitter you refuse to name.
Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Then:
“Y/N.”
Namjoon’s voice folds around your name like a blanket you didn’t ask for but kind of needed anyway. He steps into the spill of fairy lights, tie loosened, blazer open, worry etched neat between his brows.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket.
You try for breezy and land somewhere near winded. “I’m communing with nature.”
He drapes the jacket over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm from his body; you burrow without meaning to. “Why didn’t you come find me?”
You roll your head toward him, slow with the spin of the stars. “I didn’t want to cockblock your… whatever that was with the bartender about poetry.”
He huffs, half a laugh, mostly exhale. Then he crouches in front of you so you don’t have to chase his face with your eyes. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” you lie, perfectly, beautifully.
“Try again.”
“Some dude asked if he could kiss me,” you say, airy, like it was weather. “And I said ‘mmm.’ And then he kissed me.”
Namjoon’s jaw does a thing. “Where is he.”
“Relax, Kim Heights. He’s probably back in there telling his friends he blessed the birthday girl.” Your laugh scrapes your throat. “I’m fine.”
“Are you.”
“Yep.” You pop the p. “Just needed air. And fewer mouths.”
His eyes search your face—smudged lipstick, glitter on your cheekbone, the stubborn set of your mouth. “Do you want me to get him thrown out?”
You shake your head. Regret that decision immediately because the sky cartwheels. You catch the bench with both hands, breathe through it. “No bouncers. No scene. Please.”
He nods once, shifts, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small plastic bottle like he’s a magician. “Water.”
“Have you been hoarding hydration?”
“Jimin will over-serve you just to prove he can. I plan ahead.” He twists the cap and hands it to you. “Sip.”
You do. It’s blessedly cold, the kind of clean that slices through fog. You let it sit on your tongue before you swallow, like you can wash the taste of someone else’s decision out of your mouth.
Namjoon watches you drink, then tilts his head. “Jimin told you.”
“About?” You keep your eyes on the hedge line like it’s very interesting.
“Balcony? Sori?”
You shrug, small under his jacket. “He tells me lots of things.”
“Does it bother you?” he asks, gentle, like someone picking up a glass shard with two fingers.
You snort. “No. Why would it. It’s his life.”
“Right.”
You scrape your heel against the gravel, little crescent moons appearing where your shoe skids. “She has very sharp eyeliner,” you add, as if that’s neutral. “Could cut a man.”
Namjoon’s mouth twitches. “You’re allowed to be pissed.”
“I am allowed to be unbothered,” you counter, too fast. You tip the bottle back again. “Look at me. Unbothered.”
He lets the lie sit down beside you without challenging it. That’s the thing about Namjoon—he knows when to hold a mirror and when to cover it. He shifts from a crouch to sitting at your side, angled so you don’t have to move.
“You want to go home?” he asks after a beat. “I’ll get the car.”
Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with glitter or alcohol. “It’s my party.”
“And we can leave it,” he says, steady. “You don’t owe the room your body.”
You stare at the fairy lights until they double, then settle. “Maybe… in a minute.”
He nods, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, the picture of patience. The bass inside thrums through the soil; a night breeze lifts the hair at your temple, cools the heat at your throat.
Gravel again. Another set of footsteps. You don’t have to see him to know; your bones clock him like weather changing.
Yoongi stops at the mouth of the garden path, darkness and chandelier glow cutting him into edges. Black suit. Hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. His eyes find you first, then flick to Namjoon’s jacket on your shoulders, then drop quick to your mouth. Something tightens, minute, in his face.
“Joon,” he says, a greeting that’s also a question.
“Hey,” Namjoon answers, just as neutral. Then he stands, a wall that’s also a door. “She needed air.”
Yoongi nods. His gaze tracks back to you, lingering like he’s bracing for impact. “You okay?”
You take your time answering. Lift the water bottle. Tip it like a toast. “Peachy.”
He absorbs the dryness without flinching. “You disappeared.”
“People do that when they’re magicians,” you say. “Or when they’re bored. Or when a stranger confuses a non-vowel sound for consent.”
Silence slices clean. Namjoon’s head whips toward you. Yoongi goes very, very still.
“Who,” Yoongi says. Not loud. Stripped.
“I handled it,” you reply, eyes on the hedge. “With my legs. I walked away. See? Fully functional.”
Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding a thought down to powder. “What did he look like.”
“Like a man I won’t think about again,” you say, flat. “Drop it.”
Namjoon lifts a hand, a quiet stall. “We’ll deal with it if you want us to.”
“I don’t,” you snap, and regret the snap, and let the sigh chase it out. “I don’t want this to be a thing. I want to sit on this cold bench and not be a headline at my own party.”
The men exchange a look. A whole conversation passes between them in the tightness around their mouths.
Namjoon inhales, decides something. “I’m getting the car,” he says, and when you open your mouth, he adds, “You can decide in sixty seconds if you’re getting in it. If you want to go back in, I’ll walk you. If you want to leave, I’ll drive. Either way, I’m retrieving it because the valet system here is a hellscape.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Coward’s way of giving me an out.”
“Guilty.” He squeezes your shoulder over his jacket, a pressure that says I’ve got you either way. Then he steps past Yoongi, pauses just long enough to stare him down with brotherly menace, and disappears up the path.
The garden hums. Distant laughter. A bottle clinks somewhere inside. A moth flutters idiotically at a light.
Yoongi doesn’t sit. He steps closer, then stops like the air itself is a boundary he’s not sure he can cross. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says, low, like it’s a fact and not a feeling.
“Welcome to women,” you reply, dry. “We get party favors.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to be sick. “I’m—” He cuts off, jaw working. “I should’ve—”
“Been glued to my side all night?” You tilt your head, smile like a blade. “You seemed busy.”
He takes that hit, doesn’t try to dodge. “I was an idiot.”
“Cool,” you say, light. “Add it to the list.”
He finally moves, sits on the far end of the bench like he’s respecting a no-man’s-land only you can cross. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fairy lights buzz faintly, a sound you’ve never noticed until now.
“I saw you on the balcony,” you say after a beat, because alcohol makes a coward brave and a brave person reckless. “Jimin says you went up there the second you got here.”
He exhales through his nose. “I did.” A beat. “I saw you first.”
You bark out a laugh. “Romantic. You saw me, then went the other way.”
“I panicked,” he says, honest in a way that makes your blood run hot and cold. “You looked—” He stops. Shakes his head. “I didn’t trust myself not to say something I can’t take back. Sori said hi on my way to the stairs. That’s all.”
You force yourself to ignore the way your heart flutters hearing the confession he quickly buried.
You stare at the gravel. A moth finally gives up on the light and flutters to the hedge. “She met me, too.”
His head snaps, eyes sharp. “What did she say.”
“That you talk about me,” you say, careful. You roll the cap of the water bottle between your fingers. “That I’m funny.”
He looks at the ground, then at you, like the angle might change the truth. “I do talk about you.”
Your laugh is softer this time, and it hates you for it. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t say shit like that when I’m drunk,” you murmur, tipping your head back against the bench slat. The stars blur into smeared city glow. “I’ll think it means something tomorrow.”
He goes quiet. Not empty—full. Brimming with all the words he keeps barricaded behind his teeth. When he speaks, it’s careful, like stepping across thin ice. “It means something tonight.”
Your throat works. You swallow, water useless against that kind of heat. “You’re late.”
“I know.”
“And you’re stupid.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not a back-up plan.”
His voice doesn’t waver. “You never were.”
You look at him then. Really look. The shadowed cut of his jaw. The suit that fits like he put it on to keep himself together. The way his hands are fisted in his pockets because if they weren’t, he’d be reaching.
“Namjoon’s gonna be back in, like, thirty seconds,” you say, because time is a thing you can hold when everything else slips. “He’s going to ask me if I want to leave.”
Yoongi nods once. “Do you?”
You let the question sit in the cold, let it fog, let it clear. You think of Sori’s perfume. Of a stranger’s mouth. Of the bench and the fairy lights and the way your name sounded when he said Hey in a room that was screaming.
“I want to not be in there,” you admit. “I don’t know what I want beyond that.”
“Okay,” he says, immediate, no argument threaded anywhere in it.
You look back at the path, the slice of light where the building breathes out party heat. “If I go,” you add, voice low, “I’m not doing it so you can play knight. I’m doing it because I don’t want to be watched while I figure out whether I’m allowed to be mad at you.”
His mouth tips, bruised at the edges. “You’re allowed.”
“Cool,” you say, eyes stinging with something you refuse to call anything. “I’m mad.”
Gravel again. Namjoon appears, keys raised like a flag. “Valet miracle,” he announces softly, taking in the scene with a general’s calm. “Car’s out front.”
He looks at you. Not at Yoongi. You.
“What’s the move, birthday girl?”
You breathe in. You breathe out. The bench is cold. The stars are still spinning, but slower now.
“I’m going home,” you say. “With Joon.”
A flicker crosses Yoongi’s face—pain, quickly leashed. He nods like it’s the only correct answer. “Text me when you’re safe.”
You slide Namjoon’s jacket tighter around you and stand. Your knees wobble; Namjoon is there without making a fuss of it. You take two steps, then pause, turn, and find Yoongi’s eyes in the half-light.
“Tomorrow,” you say, the word heavy as a promise you haven’t decided if you’ll keep. “Don’t be late.”
His exhale is almost a laugh, almost a prayer. “Okay.”
You turn and let Namjoon guide you up the path. Behind you, Yoongi sits very still on a bench that remembers your weight, fists his hands tighter in his pockets, and stares at the fairy lights until they buzz like a confession.
The night air is cool against your flushed skin, the thud of bass from the party muffled now, like it’s trapped inside a different universe. Namjoon keeps pace with you, his strides long and steady, his voice filling the quiet.
“…like, honestly, who needs three champagne towers? It’s not a wedding. And don’t get me started on the playlist—Taehyung thinks he’s a DJ but he only knows five songs. Five. Songs.” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The bartender was cute, though. Kept quoting poetry at me when he poured—can you believe that? Like, Rilke over rum. Wild.”
You let him talk, words washing over you, but your mind isn’t with him.
It’s back in the garden.
On the bench.
On Yoongi.
You tell yourself you’re not mad—what right do you even have? He doesn’t owe you anything. He came, he mingled, he spent time with people. He was allowed to smile at someone else. Allowed to stand too close to someone else.
But it was your night. Your birthday.
And he wasn’t really with you.
He wasn’t at your side for the cake. He wasn’t laughing in the circle of friends when Jimin made you blush. He wasn’t with you when Jungkook spun you so hard you nearly fell. All the little pieces that were supposed to add up to tonight—the you-and-him pieces—he wasn’t in them.
And maybe that’s what hurts.
Because it feels like the night was supposed to be about you. But you’re walking away feeling like it wasn’t.
You blink, and suddenly the silver gleam of Namjoon’s car door is right in front of you. Three steps away. Namjoon is still talking, now about stanza breaks and the bartender’s dimples, and you realize you’ve barely heard a word.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But you said you wanted to leave. You just said goodbye to everyone.”
Your stomach drops. You did? When? The thought slips through the fog of champagne and vodka like a knife—you don’t remember saying goodbye to your friends. You were too busy in your own head, running laps around the hollow ache in your chest.
“I need to tell him, Joon.”
Your voice cracks on the words, thin and begging.
Namjoon doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to. He’s known. He’s known since you bought Yoongi that guitar, since you remembered a birthday you never should’ve remembered, since you started saving your best one-liners for him and him alone.
But he shakes his head, steady, gentle. “Not tonight, Y/N. You need to go home and get in bed.”
The devastation crushes you in a sigh. Your throat burns. Your eyes prickle. “Namjoon—” your voice breaks again, and then the tears come hot, unbidden, “Please, I—”
“I know.” He cuts you off, but his tone is soft, like he’s carrying the weight for you. His eyes glint in the dim parking lot light. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”
The words make your chest splinter. You want to say it anyway. Want to shout it out loud just to hear what it feels like leaving your mouth. But the look on Namjoon’s face tells you everything: save it. Save it for Yoongi.
You swallow hard, wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Maybe I can text him then?”
Namjoon exhales, long, patient. “If you do, you’ll regret it in the morning.”
“But—”
“No buts. Not like this. Not drunk, not half crying in a parking lot. You’ll hate yourself if those words land the wrong way.”
You sag against the car door, shoulders trembling under his jacket, phone heavy in your hand like it’s burning a hole straight through your palm.
And still, the ache won’t let go. Because the truth is there, heavy and undeniable:
You don’t want to go home.
You want to go back.
Back to the garden.
Back to him.
You wake up and your head is pounding, pounding, pounding—
Fuck, what time is it?
You glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand. 11:52 a.m.
You groan, ready to roll back into the abyss, when the pounding comes again. Not from your skull this time—from somewhere out in the living room.
Dragging yourself upright is an Olympic event. You crawl to the door, use the handle to haul yourself up, and silently thank the blackout curtains for saving you from spontaneous combustion. The apartment is dark, mercifully quiet—until you unlock the front door and crack it open.
Blinding light sears your eyes. You hiss, slapping a hand up to shield your face. “AGH—fuck.”
Blink, blink, blink. And then—
Yoongi.
He’s standing there, hair swept back casually, black hoodie, dark navy jeans, and somehow he looks so fucking hot your hungover brain considers dragging him inside and—wait. Why is he here?
“Can I help you?” Your words come out sharper than intended.
“Uh. I got your text. Thought you might need some water and stuff from the store.”
You blink again, this time at the plastic bags in his hands. Two of them, filled to the brim. Groceries. Supplies. Nourishment.
Text?
“I… texted you?” You step aside to let him in, then speed-walk back to your room, heart pounding harder than your head.
Your phone is right where you left it. You snatch it up and scroll.
You [9:48am]: might be dying. send me nourishment.
yoon [9:49am]: be there soon.
Your stomach sinks. Because you remember saying it out loud this morning. Into the void. To Siri. “Hey Siri, text Joon.” Not Yoon.
The universe, apparently, had other plans.
You shuffle back, sheepish, clutching your phone like it’s the smoking gun. “Ahh. My phone texted you on accident. Siri was supposed to text Joon. Not Yoon.”
He stares at you. Unreadable.
“Sorry, Yoongi.”
But he just shrugs, unbothered. “All good. I’m here now.”
And that’s the end of it, at least for him.
The grocery bags rustle as he sets them down on your counter like he’s done this a hundred times before. Bottled water, Gatorade, bananas, a loaf of bread, instant ramen, some kind of canned soup. Practical. Quietly thoughtful. So Yoongi it hurts.
You hover near the hallway like a feral animal half-ready to retreat. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know.” He doesn’t look up, just lines the bottles on your counter. “But you asked.”
Your throat tightens, because technically? No, you didn’t. Not him, anyway. But the evidence is glowing on your phone, timestamped, undeniable.
“Thanks,” you murmur, rubbing your temples.
He glances at you then—sharp, assessing—and points at your couch. “Sit.”
It’s not a suggestion.
You shuffle over, flopping onto the cushions with a groan. The pounding in your head has synchronized with your heartbeat, steady and merciless. Yoongi appears a moment later with a cold water bottle and two painkillers, pressing them into your hands without ceremony.
“Drink.”
You obey, swallowing around the lump in your throat, wincing when the pills scrape down. The water’s blissfully cold, shocking you back into your body.
Yoongi sits on the other end of the couch, angled toward you, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. Casual, except not at all—because his eyes never leave your face.
You shift under the weight of it. “You really didn’t have to come.”
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “Guess I wanted to.”
The room is too quiet after that. Only the hum of your fridge, the faint city noise leaking through your blackout curtains. You fiddle with the bottle cap, unscrewing and rescrewing it, until the words tumble out before you can stop them:
“Sorry about last night.”
Yoongi’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t move. “What are you sorry for?”
You bite your lip, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. Being weird. Disappearing. Getting too drunk. Take your pick.”
He leans forward, forearms on his knees, finally breaking his stillness. His voice is low, deliberate. “You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”
You risk a glance, and it’s almost worse—the softness in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to be fragile. You don’t want him to carry you like glass. You want to be wanted.
Your pulse hammers. You clear your throat. “Still… thanks. For showing up.”
“All good,” he says again, simple, final.
But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. He just stays there, steady as ever, like he has all the time in the world to sit on your couch and wait for you to stop spinning.
You tip the water bottle back again, the plastic crackling against your palm. “The room’s not moving anymore,” you say, voice rough, “just… swaying.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Means your stomach hates you a little less.”
He’s still angled toward you, one knee on the cushion, hoodie soft where his forearm brushes the back of the couch. From here he smells like detergent and whatever clean thing lives in the dark fabric of his clothes—cool, familiar, a scent your body recognizes faster than your head does.
“You brought a whole survival kit,” you add, nodding at the lined-up bottles and the bananas he peeled and then un-peeled because you said the stringy bits were “criminal.”
“You texted,” he answers like it’s math.
“I texted Joon,” you correct, then wince. “Apparently.”
“Lucky for you Siri can’t spell.”
“You’re annoying.”
His mouth twitches; he lets it die. “You okay?”
“Define okay.”
He watches you. Not the hungover kind of watch—no pity, no soft head tilt. He tracks your eyes, your mouth, the way your fingers worry the ridges of the bottle cap like you’re trying to sand yourself smooth.
“I should’ve been with you,” he says.
The sentence lands heavy and simple, no preamble, like he ripped a stitch so it wouldn’t fester.
You blink. “At the party.”
“Yeah.”
“You were there,” you say, because that’s the safe version.
“Not with you.”
It scrapes something raw. You chase it with water; it doesn’t help. “Why weren’t you?”
He drags a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the coffee table like he can line his thoughts up next to the Gatorades. “I walked in, saw you on the floor, and—” He exhales a quiet, stuttering laugh with no humor in it. “—my brain just… shorted. You looked—” His gaze flicks back to you, sticks for a second on your mouth. “—and I got stupid. I went upstairs to get it together and then people kept talking and—”
“And Sori said hi,” you say, neutral as a knife laid flat.
His throat works. “She said hi.”
Silence folds in around you. The clock on your microwave stutters out a soft electronic tick every minute; the apartment’s old pipes clink somewhere in the wall like they’re chewing on ice.
He leans in, forearms on his thighs now, voice low enough you feel it in your ribs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t where I should’ve been. I’m sorry you blew out candles without me next to you. I’m sorry you went outside alone. I should’ve been with you.”
You want to deflect—aim a joke at his chest and watch it bounce—but the way he says it pins you to the cushion. “Why say it now?”
“Because you asked me last night not to be late,” he answers, eyes steady. “And I don’t want to be late for this.”
“For what?” Your mouth is dry again. But you don’t reach for the water.
“For the part where I stop pretending this doesn’t matter,” he says, and the words are so bare you almost flinch. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re my best friend.”
Your laugh comes out thin and mean to hide the way your pulse kicks. “Congratulations, you and Namjoon can share custody.”
He almost smiles. But he doesn’t. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I hurt you yesterday.”
You look at the floor, the gray weave of the rug you bought on sale because the reviews said it hid red wine. “I hate that you can tell.”
“I hate that I gave you a reason.”
Something loosens in your chest and tightens at the same time. “Then don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that like you can control the future. Like it’s easy.”
“It’s not.”
You sit with that and so does he. The fridge hums in the kitchen, a car door thunks somewhere on the street. You can feel the apology vibrating in him, the unsaid parts pressing hard against the back of his teeth.
Your phone, abandoned face-down on the coffee table, gives a useless little buzz of an insignificant notification. His, tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, is quiet.
“You know,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t even want a party.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“But the one thing I did want was…” You stop yourself, throat hot, eyes stinging. Feeling a little ridiculous right now.
“Me there,” he finishes, no triumph in it, only truth.
You meet his eyes and hate that they’re careful. “Yeah. That’s what I was looking forward to. And where were you?”
He shakes his head, slow. “Not there.”
“Then say it again. Properly this time,” you push, because you want to hear him choose it twice. “What you’re sorry for.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,” he says, steady. “I’m sorry I let the party swallow me when I should’ve found you. I’m sorry that I made you wonder if you mattered more than the people I was with.”
Your living room holds the words like they might break if it breathes too hard.
You drag a fingertip along the sweating ridge of your water bottle. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“It’s a start.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, tension leaking out like air from a pinhole. “I’ll take a start.”
“Hey! Don’t get cocky.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
You’re about to say something reckless and small and yours—something about how you would have let him hold the sparkler while you made your wish—when a low vibration murmurs against denim.
He glances down. The sound is so quiet it could be the building creaking, but you feel the shift in his focus like a draft under a door. He fishes his phone out, checks the screen with that same careful face he wears when he listens to a half-finished demo.
He hits decline.
The buzz dies.
You watch his thumb hover a second too long over the glass, as if his finger can erase a name. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, looks up at you, opens his mouth—
The phone vibrates again. Louder now, insistent, trapped in fabric. He doesn’t move at first, like not acknowledging it might starve it of oxygen. It keeps ringing, patient and relentless.
“Do you need to get that?” you ask, voice very calm, like you’re asking if he needs a coaster.
“No,” he says, just as calm.
The ring keeps threading between you.
“Who is it?” You tip your head, trying for breezy, landing on brittle.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Humor me.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. The buzz goes on, familiar rhythm looping, and something inside you decides it’s done being polite. You reach forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist where the cuff of his hoodie meets warm skin.
“Let me see.”
He stills. Not resisting—shocked still. The privacy reflex hits late; you’ve already slid your hand down, already dipped your fingers into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like you own the right, already brushed knuckles to glass.
The screen flares up against your palm.
It’s only four letters. White text, black background, neat little vibration under your hand like the phone itself is smug about it.
Sori.
You don’t even really know her. Didn’t know she existed until last night. Don’t know if she’s an old friend, a new one, or just a passing shadow to Yoongi. You don’t know if she’s someone who laughs at his sarcasm the way you do, if she knows the way his voice drops when he’s serious, if she’s ever had him smile at her the way he smiles at you like you’re his.
But you know this: the second you see her name, your stomach twists sharp and painfully mean.
It’s nausea, hot and cold at once, like you’ve swallowed something that doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, climbs high, catches at the back of your throat. Your pulse stutters, and suddenly the whole room feels too small, too loud—even though it’s just you, him, the hum of the fridge.
Why should it matter? He can have friends. He can have whoever-the-hell Sori is. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not his anything. You don’t get to have a say.
And still—you hate it. Hate the way her name looks lit up in his pocket. Hate the way it rang twice, like she knew he’d ignore her once and was ready for round two. Hate the way your hand trembled when you pulled it out, like you were already bracing for the blow.
It’s pathetic, you think. It’s not even her. It’s the not-knowing.
Where she came from. Why she knows him. How close they are. If she knew him before you did.
That last thought lands like a sucker punch. You swallow hard against the bile.
You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t—
“Y/N.”
His voice cuts through your thoughts. Low and so careful.
You look up, and he’s already watching you. Watching the exact way your jaw tightens, the exact way your fingers still press against his wrist like you forgot to let go.
He sees it all.
And the worst part? You see him see it. The flicker of realization in his eyes, quick and sharp, like a spark hitting kindling. He knows.
He knows you’re jealous.
Yoongi tilts his head, still caught under your fingers where they’ve wrapped around his wrist. His mouth curves, faint, the kind of smirk that says he’s decided not to let the silence swallow you whole.
“So,” he says, slow, amused, “we’re just grabbing people’s phones now? That a new birthday tradition or…?”
You blink, throat tight. “I wasn’t grabbing, I was—” You stop. Heat crawls up your neck. “—I don’t know what I was.”
“Investigating?” His smirk deepens, but his voice softens with it. “That’s bold. Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”
The word hits too close. Your stomach flips. “I’m not jealous.”
“Mm.” He leans back, wrist still loose in your hold, like he’s giving you the chance to let go and not making a big deal out of the fact that you don’t. “Sure. Totally. That’s why you look like you’re about to fight Siri for connecting Sori’s call.”
Her name on his lips does something ugly to your insides and you suddenly feel like throwing up again.
You groan and drop his wrist like it burns all the sudden. “Shut up.”
He chuckles, low and warm, no sting in it. “I mean, you didn’t even ask who she was before you went full detective. Kind of flattering, actually.”
Your chest squeezes. “It’s not—” You rub your temples, voice wobbling at the edges. “I just… I don’t even know who she is, Yoongi. I don’t know how you know her, or if you knew her before, or if she’s—” You bite the words off, sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”
His smirk eases, eyes steady on yours now. “You really want to know?”
You freeze. The question hangs there, heavy, tempting, terrifying.
“…No,” you say finally, lying through your teeth. “I don’t care.”
Yoongi hums, like he hears the truth tucked under the denial. Not pressing, not pushing—just sitting with it. Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dipping quiet.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, simple, sincere, “you’re the one I’d have rather been with last night. Not her. You.”
Your throat works, traitorous. You want to laugh it off, toss the line back, make it light. But the words sit heavy, glowing, and you can’t quite find the air to move them.
So instead, you look down at your lap, tugging at a loose thread on your blanket, and mutter the safest thing you can manage.
“You’re annoying.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling now. “But I’m your annoying.”
You half-smile, acknowledging his words that make your heart flutter more than they should.
He looks down at his lap before finding your eyes again. “And you have nothing to worry about.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “What does that even mean.”
“It means,” he says, confident and steady, “I could never replace you. If that’s why you’re… jealous.”
Your chest goes tight. “I’m not worried about being replaced,” you shoot back, too fast. “I’m worried about—”
You hear yourself hit the edge and slam on the brakes. No. Not like this. Not with last night still in your throat, not with someone else’s name still buzzing in his pocket.
“Worried about?” he asks, softer now. Patient, like he’s learned your tells and is offering you a way down.
You take a breath that doesn’t go anywhere. Then the words arrive all at once, tripping over each other like they’ve been queued for hours.
“Look. I don’t care if you’re having fun and going on dates or fucking around and just looking for casual sex.” Your voice is too bright, too sharp. “But last night I was super fucking annoyed that all your attention was on someone I don’t even know and never even heard of, when I wanted to be having the time of my life with you. You. My hot best friend. The one person I could joke with about that horribly fantastic party. But you weren’t there. And I know you said sorry, and I guess I forgive you, but I’ll be hurt for a little bit, but my point is… I wore that dress for—”
BZZ-ZZZZ.
You flinch like the sound touched your skin. His phone rattles in his hoodie pocket again, insistently, as if the universe just cannot help itself.
You’re halfway to smacking it out of him when you see his face.
He’s looking at you like you just said something holy by accident. Like you hung the moon and he’s been figuring out how to thank you ever since. Warm, startled, wrecked all at once. It’s not a look you’ve ever seen him aim at anyone else.
BZZ. BZZ.
He doesn’t even glance down this time. He reaches into his pocket without breaking eye contact, pulls the phone out, hits decline, and sets it face-down on your coffee table like he’s putting a lid on a pot before it boils over.
Silence spreads, thin and shimmering.
“You wore the dress for who,” he says, voice low, as if he’s afraid of scaring the truth back into its hole.
“For—” The word tangles. You swallow, hate the quake in your throat. “For feeling good,” you say, cowardly. Then quieter: “For… me.”
His mouth twitches—there and gone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and searches your face like it’s the only sheet of music he knows how to read.
“I didn’t give Sori my attention,” he says, measured. “I stood upstairs because I panicked. She said hi because Jin dragged her over. I nodded through a conversation I didn’t hear because every time you laughed, it was like the floor moved. Nothing happened. I left the balcony because I couldn’t stay one more second where I couldn’t touch you.”
Your pulse stumbles, catches, sprints. “You didn’t touch me downstairs either.”
“I tried,” he says, winces at himself, corrects quietly, “I asked. You said you were busy. You were right to say it.”
“I was mad,” you admit. It feels like handing him your throat. “I wanted you next to me and you weren’t. Then there was this… person. This name. And I—” Your voice roughens. “I hated not knowing if you were choosing her over me.”
His eyes soften like that’s the one hit that lands. “I wasn’t choosing anyone over you.” He taps a knuckle against the table, once, a valve for something hotter. “Sori is… Jin’s friend. She works A&R. Last night she wanted to talk about a feature for an artist. I told her no. Twice.”
“But she’s calling,” you say, because the facts are stacked on the table blinking up at you in bold font.
He drags a hand over his jaw. “She’s calling because I texted her at 2 a.m. to give her my number because Jin told me to.” A brief, humorless laugh. “She told me I was insane for texting her so late. Then she said happy birthday to you. Then she left her coat upstairs and thinks I can magic it out of the very locked building.”
“Oh.” The word is light; the drop in your stomach is not. “That’s… anticlimactic.”
“I’m sorry it isn’t salacious enough for your spiral,” he murmurs. “Want me to pretend I eloped?”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll plan the reception out of spite.”
He smiles properly this time. Small. Real. Then it fades, not because it’s gone but because he’s turning the volume down to say the rest.
“You said you don’t care if I’m dating,” he says. “I’m not.”
“That’s a convenient coincidence.”
“It’s an inconvenient truth,” he replies, and if he were anyone else he’d be grinning at his own line. He isn’t. He’s looking at you like the next choice will rearrange the room.
Your heartbeat is a clumsy thing in your chest. “So what am I worried about, Yoongi?”
He tips his head, patient. “You tell me.”
You stare at him. At the hoodie you’ve seen a hundred times, the one you’ve stolen twice. At the hands he keeps hiding from the space between you like they might give him away. At the mouth that has laughed with you, cut with you, said things drunk that sober-you memorized and buried.
“I was worried,” you say, each word picked out like it’s lying under glass, “that I was the only one who felt… how I feel. And if I say it out loud, and I am the only one, I won’t get to have the part I already have.”
He inhales, slow, the kind of breath you take before you step onto thin ice. “The part where we’re… us.”
“Yeah.”
“And if you weren’t the only one?” he asks, so gentle you want to shake him.
“Then I’m still mad about last night,” you say, because your brain is a wild animal that insists on bargaining even with the door cracked open. “But maybe not… terrified.”
His gaze flicks, quick, to your mouth and back. “You wore the dress for me.”
It isn’t a question this time. It’s a mercy.
You let your eyes drop to your hands, the faint half-moons your nails pressed in your palm. “I wore it hoping you’d look at me and—” You bite down on the rest. Enough honesty for one breath.
“I looked,” he says. “I haven’t stopped.”
BZZ-ZZZZ.
The phone on the table makes a valiant attempt at resurrecting itself, skittering once against the wood. You glance at it, then back at him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.
“Let it ring,” he says softly. “Please.”
You do. For once you let something that isn’t him wait.
He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, enough that his knee brushes the cushion seam next to your thigh. The hoodie smells like detergent and something that’s just him; your stupid body registers all of it like facts it’s been starving for.
“Say the rest,” he asks. “The part after ‘I wore that dress for—’”
You breathe out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “God, you’re greedy.”
“I learned from the best.”
You look at him, and it’s like the party, the garden, the bench, the whole world has been a long hallway pointing here.
“For you,” you say. Quiet. True. “I wore it for you.”
His eyes close for a second like the sentence hits bone.
When he opens them, there’s nothing careful left.
“Come here,” he says.
You move first—not because he told you to, but because the space between you has been lying this whole time. You shift across the cushion, knees knocking, and his hand comes up like gravity to your jaw, thumb gentle at the corner of your mouth where last night smudged something you didn’t want.
He pauses, searches your face for a no you aren’t giving.
“Yoongi,” you warn, a wry smile trying to save you both and failing. “If you ask me if this is okay I might combust.”
He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Then save us both.”
You do.
And when your lips touch, it’s not fireworks. It’s not a car crash. It’s the simple, devastating relief of something finding its right place. He kisses you like he’s been waiting at a red light for a year and it finally turned green—he’s careful, then not, then careful again because he knows the shape of your edges. Your hand fists in the front of his hoodie. His fingers slide into your hair like they were always meant to be there.
The room doesn’t sway anymore. It stills.
When you pull back, barely, it’s only to breathe his name against his mouth and see the way it lands. He’s smiling, small and rueful and respectful in a way that makes your ribs ache.
“I’m still mad,” you whisper, because some small, stubborn part of you needs to plant a flag.
“I’ll earn my way out,” he murmurs. “Stay mad. Stay.”
“I planned to.” Your forehead tips to his. “For a long time, actually.”
BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.
You both glance at the table like you’re looking at a mosquito that thought it was a hawk. Yoongi reaches out without looking, flips the phone over with two fingers, and finally silences it.
“I’ll block her later,” he says, almost amused. “Tell her Jin has her coat but she has the wrong number.”
“Please do not drag the coat into your lies.”
“It’s not a lie.” He kisses you once, quick and devastating. “I’ll change my number.”
You snort, breathless, and he grins against your mouth like he just solved something complicated. The headache behind your eyes is a faint pressure now, not a drum. Your stomach is quiet. The buzzing is gone.
“Yoongi,” you say, and he hums, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw like he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops touching you. “I want to be stupid with you for a while.”
“Good,” he says, like he’s been waiting for someone to hand him permission to breathe. “I’m great at stupid.”
“Prove it.”
He leans back just enough to look at you, really look, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes go soft. “I’ll start by making you soup and holding your hair if you throw up.”
“Hot.”
“And then I’ll spend the rest of the day telling you every version of ‘nothing happened’ until even your jealousy gets bored and falls asleep.”
“Ambitious.”
He kisses your temple. “And after you nap, I’m going to apologize again for last night. Better. With sentences that aren’t trash. Then I’m going to ask you if I can take you on a date that doesn’t end with you wanting to fight Siri in the street.”
You blink. That word sits different now. Not heavy. Possible.
“And if I say yes?”
He smiles, quiet, certain. “Then I’ll try not to be late.”
You search his face for a loophole you can hide in. You don’t find one. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”
He exhales like a man who’s been underwater and finally broke the surface.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, and you do, tucking yourself into the corner of the couch with him like it’s been waiting for this exact geometry. His hoodie is soft under your cheek. His heartbeat is stupid and steady against your ear. The city hums. Somewhere in your kitchen, a Gatorade bottle sweats itself into a little ring on the counter.
When your phone buzzes on the table, it’s a text from Namjoon.
Joon: alive?
You smile into cotton and type with one hand.
you: yeah
you: soup incoming
you: don’t worry about the coat
Three dots. Then:
Joon: …what coat
You huff a laugh you didn’t know you had left. Yoongi doesn’t ask what’s funny. He already knows. He just kisses the top of your head like he intends to make a habit of it.
“Tomorrow,” you murmur, eyes already slipping shut despite yourself, “don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” he says, and the way he says it makes your body believe him before your brain does.
The phone on the table stays quiet. The soup pot waits. The dress is hanging somewhere in the dark of your closet like a witness.
You think about the way he looked at you before he kissed you, like the moon finally turned around and noticed who’d been holding it up.
And you reckon no one has ever looked at you that way before.
The soup tasted better than it should’ve.
Maybe it was because you were hungover and half-dead, maybe it was because Yoongi had leaned against your counter in that hoodie, scowling at the recipe on his phone like broth was a personal enemy, maybe it was because he kept sliding glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.
Whatever the reason, you ate it. Slowly, gratefully. He made you drink water in between bites, muttered something about “keeping electrolytes up” like he wasn’t the one who showed up with a bag of bananas and Gatorade in the first place.
You laughed at him. He kissed you quiet.
Later, you curled up on the couch with a blanket big enough for two, his arm slung heavy and sure around you. Movies played half-forgotten in the background, your head on his chest, his thumb tracing idle circles against your arm. The kisses came soft and unhurried, the kind you could fall asleep in.
At some point, you must’ve.
Because when you open your eyes again, it’s morning.
Your room is flooded with pale light that slips past the blackout curtains, painting everything in soft gray. Your head doesn’t hurt anymore; your body feels loose, weightless. For half a second you let yourself drift, float in the warmth cocooned around you—until you realize that warmth isn’t the blanket.
It’s him.
Yoongi is behind you, his chest pressed firm against your back, his breath slow at your nape. His arm is heavy over your waist, tucked under your shirt just enough to graze bare skin. And when you shift, careful, testing—
Oh.
Your ass fits right up against his front.
Every nerve ending in your body lights up like fireworks.
You freeze. Absolutely still. Wide awake now in a way that feels criminal. Your brain, traitorous, starts cataloguing everything at once: the heat of him pressed along your spine, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight against your hip that tells you exactly how real this is.
Shit.
Slowly—so slowly—you breathe in. Out. You try to convince yourself you can relax, that it doesn’t mean anything, that this is just what happens when two people fall asleep in the same bed. Gravity. Logistics. Biology.
But then his fingers twitch at your waist. Just the barest curl, like even in sleep his body knows it wants you closer.
And you realize: you’re not going back to sleep. Not like this.
Your heart is in your throat, your pulse hammering loud enough you’re afraid it’ll wake him. You tell yourself not to move. You tell yourself you can stay perfectly still until he wakes up first. You tell yourself—
Then his breath shifts, deeper, warmer, nosing the back of your neck.
Oh, fuck.
“Yoongi…” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure you meant for him to hear it.
He stirs, the smallest sound in his throat, voice thick with sleep. “Mm. Still dreaming.”
Your chest tightens. “Of what?”
He shifts, breath warm against your neck, words barely brushing your skin. “You. Always you.”
The confession hits you harder than his body pressed against yours. Your pulse spikes, your body aching with the knowledge of how close he is—how hard he is—and how much you want him.
You twist carefully in his hold until you’re facing him, and he looks wrecked in the soft light—hair a mess, lashes heavy, lips parted. Beautiful. Real. Yours.
Your hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, clinging. “We should…” you murmur, breathless, “brush our teeth first.”
That earns the faintest crook of his mouth, still half-asleep. “Practical.”
You slip out of bed on wobbly legs, padding toward the bathroom. He follows a moment later, dragging a hand through his hair, hoodie slouched off one shoulder cause he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.
The two of you stand at the sink, shoulders brushing, toothbrushes moving in quiet sync. He’s always had an extra toothbrush at your place. It should feel ordinary, domestic. Instead, the air between you hums, electric, sharp with what you’re not saying.
When you spit and rinse, lifting your gaze to the mirror, you catch him watching you—awake now, eyes dark and unflinching.
You set your toothbrush down, breath caught. “Yoongi—”
But he closes the space before you can finish, hand cradling your jaw as his mouth finds yours, cool mint still fresh on his tongue, and suddenly you’re gone—burning, melting, needing him like air.
It’s not the soft, careful kiss from last night—it’s greedy, impatient, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally decided to inhale.
You gasp, hands fisting in his hoodie, and he uses that tiny opening to lick into you, tongue sliding against yours until you’re dizzy. The counter digs into the backs of your thighs before you even register he’s moved you, his hands braced firm at your hips, lifting, setting you down on the cold marble like it’s nothing.
The world tilts, and then it doesn’t matter—because Yoongi is standing between your knees, kissing you like the end of everything. Hard. Hot. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.
Your fingers claw into his hair, tugging, desperate. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating straight through you.
You break for air only long enough to see him—lips red, pupils blown, hoodie collar bunched in your fists. His forehead tips against yours, breaths ragged. “Fuck, Y/N,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’ll never get enough.
His hands roam—up your sides, over your waist, sliding beneath your shirt to find bare skin, warm palms branding every inch they touch. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer until you feel the solid, unmistakable press of him right where you need it.
The sound you make is shameless. His answering groan is worse.
“Been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your mouth. “About you. For so long.”
You kiss him harder, swallowing the confession whole, because if you don’t, you’ll beg. And you’re already half a second from begging anyway.
The kiss doesn’t slow. It only deepens—messier, hungrier, your lips swollen, teeth clashing as his tongue tangles with yours. His hands grip your thighs like he’s terrified you’ll slip off the counter, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there as if reminding himself of the fact that this is real.
“Fuck,” Yoongi groans into your mouth, breaking away just long enough to drag his lips across your jaw, down your throat. “You taste… fuck, you taste better than I dreamed.”
Your head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud, a whimper spilling out before you can swallow it. “Yoongi—”
“Say it again,” he murmurs against your skin, lips hot at the hollow of your throat. “Say my name like that.”
“Yoongi.” It’s desperate this time, broken open.
He bites down gently, sucking a mark into your skin that will brand you tomorrow, and the sound you make has his breath hitching. His hands slide higher, skimming beneath your shirt until his thumbs are brushing the underside of your breasts, not quite touching, just teasing, making your body arch toward him instinctively.
Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging him back up so you can crash your mouth against his again. He takes it, gives it back tenfold, kissing you like he’ll starve without it.
“I wanted this,” you pant against his lips. “Last night. The night before, at the party.” You dive in for more kisses. “All night. You—”
“Me too,” he cuts in, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you so bad I couldn’t breathe. Thought I was gonna lose it if I touched you.”
You whimper, and his grip on your thighs tightens. He kisses you once more, then pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. His eyes are dark, blown wide, but there’s something steady under it, something careful.
“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough but low and respectful. His thumb strokes against your skin, grounding. “Let me go down on you.”
The question hangs in the air, heavy, sparking against every nerve in your body.
Your breath stutters. Heat pools low in your stomach, your legs already parting without thought, like your body made the decision before your mouth could.
You nod frantically, hips jerking forward, the word tumbling out of you on a broken pant. “Please.”
Something in his face twists—like he’s both wrecked and relieved at once. He kisses you again, hard and quick, stealing your breath before dropping to his knees on the cold tile.
The sight alone nearly undoes you. Yoongi, kneeling between your thighs, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, dark hair falling into his eyes as he pulls off your sleeping shorts and presses your knees wider. Like you’re something to be opened. Something to be savored. But he leaves your lacy panties on.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and gravely, hands sliding up the insides of your thighs. His thumbs trace soft circles there, teasing closer, closer, until you’re arching toward him without shame.
He glances up once, eyes locking with yours, dark and steady. “I need to taste you.”
You moan just at the sound of it, head tipping back against the mirror, and then he leans in—pressing one hot, open-mouthed kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The wet heat of his tongue seeps through, and you jolt, a whimper breaking free.
“Yoongi—”
He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “So sweet already.” His fingers hook under the edge of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs with agonizing slowness, eyes never leaving yours.
When the fabric hits the floor, he nudges your knees apart wider, settling in like he belongs there, and lowers his mouth to you.
The first stroke of his tongue has your whole body jerking off the counter. He grips your thighs firmly, holding you open as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning you by taste.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans against your cunt, tongue circling your clit before flattening to lap at you with long, unhurried strokes. “How do you taste so fucking good?”
Your hands slam against the counter edge, searching for stability. You’re panting, gasping, every nerve ending set on fire as he works you open with his mouth. His tongue teases, licks, sucks, alternating pressure until your thighs tremble around his head.
“Please,” you whimper again, tugging his hair without realizing it, and he moans into you like he likes the desperation, like he needs it. The sound shoots straight through you, white-hot.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth wet, lips red, eyes molten. “Yeah? You want more?”
You nod frantically, words spilling out ragged. “Don’t stop—please, Yoongi, don’t stop.”
His smirk is faint, wicked. “Wasn’t planning to.”
And then he dives back in, tongue relentless, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking until your vision blurs out.
You choke on a moan, your whole body arching, thighs trembling around his head, and Yoongi just holds you steady, eating you like he could live here forever. Like he’s been starving for this exact moment, for you.
You’re so fucking close.
And Yoongi doesn’t let up. His tongue works you with steady, devastating precision—long, slow licks that drag all the way through your folds, sharp flicks against your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until you’re keening, your hips jerking helplessly against his hold.
“Yoongi—fuck—” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling without thought.
He groans like your desperation is feeding him, his mouth sealing over you tighter, tongue pressing into you with purpose. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice wrecked but steady. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.”
Your thighs tremble around his head, every nerve firing, heat winding tight in your belly. He feels it—of course he does—because his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you open as his pace grows just a fraction more deliberate.
He draws lazy circles over your clit with his tongue, building, building, relentless in the way only he could be. You’re panting, breaking apart, teetering on the edge—
“Yoongi, I—I’m—”
“Yeah,” he rasps, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth. “Come for me.”
And right before you do, he slides his middle finger inside you and curls it perfectly.
You gasp, “Fuck—YOON—“
It rips through you sudden and hard and sharp, your whole body arching off the counter as pleasure detonates in waves. Your cry echoes against the bathroom tiles, thighs clamping around his head while he groans into you, pumping and curling his finger just right inside you. His mouth still on your clit, licking you through it, slow and unhurried, savoring every twitch and pulse.
Your grip in his hair turns shaky, your body slumping back against the mirror as aftershocks roll through you. You’re wrecked, panting, dazed—and Yoongi finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, eyes dark and glowing all at once.
“Fuck,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re gorgeous like this.”
You barely manage a whimper before his arms are sliding under you, lifting you off the counter like you weigh nothing. You bury your face against his shoulder, still trembling, as he carries you out of the bathroom.
Each step toward your bed feels surreal, dizzying. The sheets are cool against your back when he lowers you down, settling between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging you in.
He leans down, kissing you deep—mint, salt, and you—and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He doesn’t let you look away, doesn’t give you space to doubt.
“Round one,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hot on your skin. “Now let me ruin you properly.”
His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, slow and chaste even as his hands are shaking with urgency. He kisses you as if he wants to memorize every inch of your skin before he dares take more.
Then he leans back, tugging his hoodie over his head. It falls to the floor in a heap, followed by his t-shirt, leaving him bare chested above you—lean muscle, pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady as he stares down at you.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I?”
You nod, frantic. “Please.”
The shirt comes off, your bra following, and for a long moment he just… stares. His mouth parts, his chest heaves, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe this is real.
“Beautiful doesn’t even come close,” he says, voice raw, almost angry at the limitation of language. “Fuck. I wish I had a better word, but you—” He swallows hard. “You make me stupid.”
Heat floods your face, your chest, all the way down to your core. You reach for him, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing him messy, urgent, because if he keeps looking at you like that, you’ll combust.
His sweats are loose at his hips, and your hand slips down, tugging at the waistband until you find him. Hard, hot, heavy in your palm. You wrap your fingers around him, pumping slow at first, and the moan he lets out into your mouth nearly undoes you.
God, he’s thick. Not the longest, but girthy, solid, filling your hand so completely you know the stretch is going to wreck you in the best way. You stroke him again, thumb swiping over the damp slit, and his hips jerk helplessly against your hand.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, kissing you harder, tongue pushing deep like he can’t control himself. His whole body shudders above you as you pump him, and it makes your stomach twist with heat knowing you’re unraveling him this fast.
But then he breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Stop—”
You freeze, eyes wide. “Did I—?”
“No,” he blurts, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. “It’s not that. It’s—” He exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he looks at you again, raw and unguarded. “This is too much. You’re too much. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, and now it’s actually happening, and if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna last. Not the way I need to. Not the way you deserve.”
Your heart thuds, your chest tight. He’s not joking. He’s deadly serious, like the gravity of this moment is messing with his entire body.
Yoongi kisses you again, slower this time but with more passion. “Let me take it slow first. Let me make it last.”
For a moment, time itself slows down.
You’ve imagined this—fantasized about it in quiet, shameful corners of your mind—but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of Yoongi above you, stripped down and wrecked, telling you he’s waited for this as long as you have. It feels unreal. Like the universe pressed pause just so you could see him clearly: your best friend, the man who knows your darkest jokes and your softest silences, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re so in love with him it feels like your body can’t contain it. Every heartbeat is a reminder: you’ve waited for this. You’ve lived for this. And now it’s happening, right here, in his hands.
Yoongi’s mouth returns to yours, slow and languid, even as his hands tug at the last barrier between you. He peels his sweats and underwear down, dragging them over his hips without disconnecting the kiss. When he’s completely bare, he pulls back just enough to look at you beneath him—really look—and the sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest.
“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes dark, hungry, but shining with something more. “You’re… god, I don’t even have the words. You’re everything.”
Heat floods through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively. But he’s already there, easing them apart with gentle hands, sliding down the bed until he’s between them again. He kisses along your inner thigh, slow, worshiping your skin, then presses one finger inside you, careful but firm.
You gasp, back arching. He groans at the sound, eyes locked on your face as he works you open, sliding deep, curling just right until your hips jerk. “So tight,” he mutters, kissing your knee. “Need to get you ready for me.”
Another finger joins, stretching you more, and the pressure builds deliciously. You clutch at the sheets, moaning helplessly as he pumps them steady, scissoring you open while his thumb circles your clit. He watches you unravel, his lips parted, his breathing rough. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”
When your thighs start trembling again, he pulls back, dragging his fingers out slowly, leaving you empty and whimpering. He’s already reaching into the pocket of his sweats, pulling a condom out and tearing it open with his teeth.
Your eyes widen. “You—?”
“Always prepared,” he rasps, rolling it down his cock with practiced hands. He catches your expression and gives a small, crooked smirk. “What? You think I didn’t come over here prepared after seeing you in that dress?”
And then he’s there—thick and hot and heavy in his fist, lining himself up against your entrance. He pauses, hovering over you, one hand cupping your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours. His voice is low, almost shaking. “This is it. Are you okay?”
Your body is already begging, already slick and open for him. You nod frantically. “Yes. Please, Yoongi. I need you.”
He exhales sharply, hips rolling forward, and you feel it—his cock pushing into you, slow, careful, stretching you inch by inch. Your jaw falls open, a broken cry spilling out as the stretch burns in the best possible way. He’s thick, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.
“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder, his voice raw. “You feel—shit—you feel so good.”
The stretch has your body clenching tight around him, every nerve alight. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, not in length but in sheer girth, the kind of fullness that makes you dizzy, makes your thighs shake. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in as he bottoms out, burying himself fully inside you.
“Yoongi—oh my god—”
He holds still, chest heaving, giving you time to adjust. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, peppering kisses like he can’t stop himself. “Tell me when,” he pants. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You shift, rolling your hips experimentally, and the shock of pleasure rips a moan out of you. “Now,” you whisper, desperate. “Move, please.”
He pulls back, slow, then thrusts in again, and the world tilts. The drag of his cock against your walls is overwhelming, toeing the line between pain and ecstasy, and you cling to him, panting his name.
“Fuck—” he grits out, thrusting again, harder this time, the rhythm building as he loses his control. “So tight, so perfect—been dreaming about this for so long. About you.”
Your heart lurches, tears stinging your eyes at the rawness in his voice. You kiss him hard, swallowing his moans, your body clenching around him with every deep, deliberate thrust.
He fucks you slow but rough, every push in like a confession, every pull out dragging another plea from your lips. His grip on your hips is bruising, his mouth a litany against your skin: beautiful, mine, always wanted you, fuck, I love the way you feel.
The world shrinks down to this—the stretch, the heat, the sound of his moans in your ear, the way he’s finally, finally inside you.
Yoongi thrusts into you again, slow and deep, and then suddenly pulls out, chest heaving. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, flipping you gently onto your stomach.
“Want to see you like this,” he mutters, voice rough, guiding you onto your hands and knees.
And then he’s pushing back inside, thick cock sliding into you from behind, and the angle makes you cry out, the stretch sharper, deeper. You drop your head forward, moaning his name as you rock your hips back into him.
“Yoongi—fuck, yes—”
His grip tightens, and he drives into you harder, each thrust making the headboard slam against the wall. The sound is obscene, wet and desperate, the slap of skin against skin echoing in your ears.
“Holy fuck,” he groans, and then he stops—just stops moving. His hands hold your hips while you keep grinding back on him, fucking yourself on his cock like you’ll die if you stop. The stretch is brutal, dizzying, but you don’t care—you need it, you need him.
And then his hand reaches around to find your clit. His middle finger makes contact with your bundle of nerves, drawing tight circles on you, and your whole body jolts back, forcing his cock even deeper as you cry out.
“Ahh! Yoongi—mmm—”
He watches you, totally entranced by your sounds alone. Then he rocks his hips—just a little—and he has you aching for more.
You whine, voice wrecked. “Want to ride you.”
He groans, ragged, and pulls out just long enough to shift. “Come on, then.”
He falls back against your headboard, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, cock hard and gleaming. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and take him in hand, guiding him back to your entrance.
The second you sink down, both of you moan in unison—loud, broken, unrestrained. The angle is deeper like this, his cock spearing you open until you feel him in your gut.
“Oh my god,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders. “So—so deep—”
He fists your hips, holding you steady, but it’s your body doing the work, bouncing on him, taking him in over and over as your tits sway with every movement. He leans forward, mouth hot and desperate against your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing.
You cry out, arching into it, and he switches to your other breast, leaving marks on your skin, kissing and sucking like he wants to brand you. Because he does.
Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alive. The words almost spill out—I love you, I love you, I love you—but you choke them down, terrified it’s too soon, terrified it will shatter this moment.
But the way he looks up at you as you ride him—eyes wide, blown, gazing at you like you’re his epiphany—almost gives him away. Like he’s holding back the same words. Like he’s already yours. And you both know it.
“Yoongi,” you gasp, hips bouncing faster, harder, chasing the edge.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, head falling back against the wall, jaw clenched as he watches you take him. “You’re perfect—you’re fucking perfect—”
The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm crashes through you, violent and consuming. You scream his name, clenching tight around his cock, body shaking as you ride it out.
“Shit—” he groans, hips thrusting up into you desperately, chasing his own release. “Can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”
You grip his hair, pulling his face against your chest as he unravels beneath you, spilling hot inside the condom with a guttural moan of your name. His whole body shudders, his cock pulsing inside you as he rides it out, holding you down on him like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.
You collapse against him, both of you panting, trembling, sweat-slicked. His arms wrap around you, tight, like he’s gluing you to him.
And in the quiet that follows, the only sound your ragged breaths, you realize the truth you almost said out loud: you love him.
And maybe, just maybe, the way his lips press against your temple, lingering, passionate, means he feels the same.
But then—his hands shift. One trails down your spine, settling at your ass, squeezing lightly as if testing the weight of you. He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your collarbone.
“Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Even after that.”
You jolt, still full of him, your body clenching reflexively around his cock where he’s still buried inside you. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on your hip tightening.
“Yoongi—” you gasp, shivering.
“Yeah,” he grits, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot on your lips. “You feel that? Can’t even move without—fuck.”
And just like that, the aftercare melts right back into heat.
You shift in his lap, rocking your hips the slightest bit, and his eyes roll back, a groan tearing out of him. “You’re insane,” he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth clashing, desperation bleeding into every stroke of his tongue.
“Can’t stop,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t want to.”
He grabs your ass with both hands, grinding you down against him, his cock twitching inside you as if his body agrees. “Good,” he growls. “’Cause I’m not letting you off me yet.”
You moan into the kiss, your thighs trembling as you start moving again—slow, steady rolls of your hips that have him swearing, begging under his breath. His lips find your neck, sucking fresh marks into your skin, as if he needs to leave proof that this really happened, that you’re his now.
Every touch, every kiss feels like aftercare and hunger at once—his hands soothing over your back while his cock drags deep inside you, his mouth worshipping your skin while his teeth nip and claim. It’s overwhelming, addictive.
And as you ride him again, slower this time but no less intense, you realize you could live in this loop forever—heat and tenderness, hunger and care, his arms around you and his body inside you, the two of you unable to stop because stopping would mean admitting this isn’t a dream.
You keep moving until your thighs ache, until your chest is heaving and his hands are clutching you like he’ll die if you stop. He kisses you through it, messy and hot, every groan spilling into your mouth until finally your body gives up and collapses against his chest.
Yoongi doesn’t let you go. He rolls with you, easing both of you down until you’re sprawled across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, still connected, still pulsing with aftershocks. His hand drags lazy circles along your spine, his breath ragged against your temple.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice rough with awe.
You laugh weakly into his chest, too exhausted to form words, your smile pressed against his damp skin. He tightens his arms around you in answer, burying his nose in your hair.
The room is quiet but charged, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, your bodies still humming. Every shift of your hips makes him groan, and every groan makes your pulse kick up again.
“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, teasing, though your voice is thin and shaky.
“Pot,” he mutters, squeezing your ass lightly, “meet kettle.”
You laugh again, softer this time, and let yourself melt into him. His hand drifts down to your hip, his thumb stroking absent patterns into your skin like he’s playing the piano.
It should feel like the aftercare part—gentle, winding down. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because beneath the laziness, beneath the sweat cooling on your skin, there’s still that ache, that pull. The knowledge that if either of you moved just right, it would start again.
You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his collarbone, and his body jerks, breath catching like the touch alone could get him hard.
Any feedback is always welcome and appreciated🫶 your comments motivate and inspire me to write more and even the smallest words go such a long way💞💞Thank you for reading🙏
Summary: Falling for your brother’s best friend is already a terrible idea. Falling for John Logan, while Garrett Graham watches the two of you like a security threat, is even worse.
Pairing: John Logan x Graham!Reader
A/N: hii! this is actually the first thing i’ve ever published, which is both exciting and terrifying honestly 😭 i’ve always been more of a reader than a writer, so this is very new to me, but i had so much fun writing it.
if you end up reading, please let me know what you think! i’d really love to hear your thoughts.
also, im taking requests, so if you have any requests you can send it to me
okay bye, hope you enjoy <3
Garrett and you were born three minutes apart. Only three. You've done the math a thousand times, turned it over like a coin, trying to understand how three minutes could possibly account for the way he acts. The only explanation you've ever landed on is that Garrett must have gone through some Interstellar type of thing on his way out, where those three minutes stretched into three decades, aging him into the world's most exhausting older brother before he even took his first breath.
You two were never the kind of twins people expected. No matching outfits, no finishing each other's sentences, no eerie identical habits. From the very beginning you were sorted into different boxes. Garrett's box had ice skates and early morning practices. Your box had dolls and tea sets and the vague, uncomfortable feeling of being dressed up for something you hadn't agreed to.
It was a common complaint "why does Garrett get to do something while I just sit here?" Your mother would smooth your hair and change the subject. Your father never even registered the question. It took years before you understood that Phil Graham simply operated in a world where the answer was obvious. Garrett got to play hockey because Garrett was his son. You got the dolls because you were his daughter. Feminist icon was not a title Phil Graham was ever in the running for.
Growing up, you and Garrett were close in the way that kids who share a wall and a last name and a particular kind of household tend to get close,out of necessity as much as love. It was a good closeness, mostly. Until high school, when it curdled into something more complicated.
The prom thing was the first real incident. Aaron Michaels showed up at your door junior year with his hair combed and his hands in his pockets, and before he even finished the sentence you said yes. Not because you were swept away by him, you barely knew him, honestly. But you had caught Garrett watching from the top of the stairs with that particular expression on his face, the one that meant he was calculating something, and the thought of letting him anywhere near your prom night was enough to make you say yes to virtually anyone.
You think about that sometimes. How early it started.
In college, things loosened. Distance helped. You found your place in a sorority a house full of girls who were loud and warm and didn't ask you to be anything specific. Garrett found his place off campus, in a house with three teammates that quickly became something closer to family.
You were glad for him. You meant that sincerely. He had always been the kind of person who needed people around him, and for a long time the only person around had been you.
What you were less glad for was the way his protectiveness followed you across town like a second shadow. He knew your schedule. He knew your friends. He had a habit of appearing places whenever a boy seemed too interested. You had once watched him dismantle an entire almost-relationship simply by being in the same room, asking questions that were technically friendly and somehow completely lethal.
The thing was, and this was the part that made it complicated, you understood where it came from.
Growing up, Garrett's protectiveness hadn't been suffocating. It had been necessary. Your father's anger was the kind that lived in the walls of the house, that changed the air pressure in a room when he walked in. For a long time you were almost oblivious to it, the way children learn to not see things that are too large and too frightening to look at directly. But then you got old enough that it became impossible to pretend.
What you remember most is not the sounds. It's Garrett, how he would find you, and sit with you, and press your head gently against his chest without saying anything, his hands patient and steady, turning himself into a wall between you and whatever was happening on the other side of it.
He never talked about it. Neither did you. You're not sure you ever will.
Your mother died when you were young. After that, there was just you and Garrett and your father and a house that felt too big and too quiet. Garrett stayed close to you that whole year in a way that asked for nothing and gave everything, and you never once had to ask him to.
So no you didn't resent the protectiveness, not really, not at its root. You understood it.
You just wished it wasn't currently ruining your love life.
It's college, you thought, more than once, lying on your sorority house bed staring at the ceiling. Why can't I get some?
When Garrett moved into the house off campus at the end of freshman year, the relief was quiet and immediate and guilty enough that you didn't mention it to anyone. You visited often it was an easy excuse to get out of the sorority house, and Dean and Tucker were genuinely funny, the kind of company that required nothing from you.
But there was something about Logan that was different from the start. Something you noticed before you had the language for it.
The first time you really registered him was after the team's first game of the season. You had gone to the arena with Rowan, more out of obligation than enthusiasm, expecting to do your dutiful twin sister routine and leave. You found Garrett near the locker room, already mid-conversation with Logan, still in half his gear, laughing at something.
Logan turned when Garrett said your name. That's what you remember: the turn, the way his attention moved to you. He reached out to shake your hand and said something, something normal, something you have completely forgotten because you stopped processing words the moment his hand closed around yours.
His hands were warm. That's what you thought. Just warm. And large. And you were aware of them in a way that made the rest of the sentence disappear entirely.
You let go. You said something back. You moved through the rest of the conversation on autopilot, smiling at the right moments, and the whole time you were thinking about his hands.
On the drive back, Rowan looked at you sideways and said, you have about five seconds to tell me what that was.
You told her.
She was quiet for a moment. Then: make a move before they get any closer. Because once Logan becomes one of Garrett's people, you're done.
You had laughed at the time. But Rowan was right.
That was two years ago. Logan and Garrett were now the kind of friends that finished each other's sentences and covered for each other without being asked. Which meant that every time you let yourself think about Logan, really think about him, about his hands and his voice and the way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you weren't paying attention ,Garrett materialized in your mind immediately, like a warning, like a wall.
Two years. And you were no closer to doing anything about it.
This morning Logan had texted, and the moment his name appeared on your screen that feeling arrived with it the one that lived somewhere between your ribs and your stomach and had no polite name. You had stopped calling it a crush a long time ago. Crushes were light things, easy things. This was two years old and had roots.
He needed help with an assignment. A professor, a deadline, the usual disaster.
You had started tutoring at the beginning of sophomore year, a natural extension of the waitressing you'd picked up at Malone's when you first realized college was expensive and pride was not a payment method. Tutoring paid better and smelled less like fried food. Logan was the one client you had never once considered charging. You weren't sure what that said about you. Probably something embarrassing.
You got a ride to the house and let yourself in without knocking, everyone did, that was just how it worked here, and followed the stairs up to Logan's room, where you found him on his bed with his laptop open and his reading glasses on.
You took a moment.
"Hey, you," you said, walking in and knocking on the door after the fact, in the way you had trained yourself to do ever since a series of unfortunate incidents involving Dean that you were never going to think about again.
Logan looked up and smiled.
"Hey." He moved to make room. "I was waiting for you."
The assignment was for his sports management elective and it was, structurally speaking, a crime scene.
"Walk me through what you're trying to argue," you said, pulling the laptop toward you.
"That collegiate athletic programs need better mental health infrastructure."
"Say that in the paper."
"I did."
You turned the screen to face him. He read it. He had the grace to look slightly ashamed.
"...that's not what that says."
"No. It really isn't."
You started from the top. Logan sat beside you and explained himself in sentences that were clear and direct and completely unlike anything on the page, which was its own kind of frustrating because it meant the ideas were good. They were just trapped under writing that was trying too hard to sound like writing.
"Stop trying to sound smart," you told him. "You already are. Just say the thing."
He looked at you. "You're kind of mean when you tutor."
"You're paying forty dollars an hour for this."
"You're not charging me."
"Then you're getting exactly what you paid for. Keep going."
He kept going. You kept pushing. Somewhere in the middle of restructuring his third paragraph he had migrated from the desk chair to the bed beside you, and at some point after that the laptop had ended up in your lap, and the space between you had gradually, unremarkably, ceased to exist. His arm was against yours. His knee was against yours. He smelled like cedar and something warmer underneath it, which you were actively choosing not to think about.
Once, leaning over to point at something on the screen, he turned his head and found you already looking at him. Neither of you said anything. You looked back at the screen.
By the time you finished it was late afternoon, the light in the room had gone gold and low, and Logan was leaning against the headboard with his legs stretched out and you were beside him, close enough that moving away would have required a decision neither of you had made.
"Thank you," Logan said, and the way he said it was quieter than his regular voice. "Genuinely. You didn't have to do this."
"I know," you said.
"You're kind of incredible, you know that?"
You laughed, which was the only safe response available to you.
"You are very welcome, Johnny," you said, shaking your head, which brought you even closer than you already were.
The room was very quiet.
You had thought about this moment approximately four hundred times over the past two years. You had imagined it in detail. Talked yourself out of it and back into it and out of it again, and every single time Garrett had materialized in your head like a stop sign and that had been enough.
But Garrett was not here. And Logan was looking at you like that, his eyes dropping, just briefly, to your mouth, and coming back up. And two years was a very long time to wait for a moment that kept almost arriving.
You closed the distance.
The seconds that followed were the slowest of your life. You were aware of everything the warmth of him, the sound of your own pulse, the fact that his eyes had closed, which meant something, that had to mean something..
His eyes opened.
He pulled back, just slightly, and looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before and couldn't name.
"Oh," he said. "Are we finished?"
The words landed like a door closing.
You heard yourself say yes. You heard yourself say something about studying, about being busy, about having to go. You were already reaching for your bag. You were already standing.
Every embarrassing moment you had ever lived through, every misdirected wave, every bon appétit thrown at a waiter who had not asked for it, every autocorrected text sent to the wrong person, shrank to nothing. Microscopic. Irrelevant. Amateur hour.
This was the real thing.
There should be a world record for how fast you left that house. You would have broken it.
Arriving home, there was only one thing on your mind.
The almost-kiss.
You prayed on the entire walk back. Prayed that something would take you lightning, a sinkhole, the apocalypse, anything. Because there could not be a world in which you had just tried to kiss John Logan and he had literally swerved. This could not be happening. You felt like you couldn't breathe, and yes, it was dramatic, but how, how could something like this happen to you?
I have to hide forever, you thought.
So hide was what you did. Three days of pretending to be too busy to check your phone, sending texts that said busy, call later to everyone who tried to reach you and yes, that included Logan. He had texted to thank you for the tutoring session and ask how your day was going, which was its own specific kind of torture. It was genuinely difficult to decide which was worse: him not mentioning the almost-kiss, or him not mentioning the almost-kiss.
Your sorority friends decided not to let you sulk indefinitely. You hadn't told them the truth, it was too embarrassing,but they had collectively decided that you needed to go out. Luckily, Dean and Beau's birthday bash was happening that weekend. Rowan had appointed herself costume director. You and her were going as Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen in New York Minute — which was a generous description of what amounted to tiny red shorts and an I ♥ NYC shirt.
Walking into the party, you spotted your brother almost immediately. He was standing with a girl: Hannah, you realized after a second. You had heard the rumors that Garrett was seeing someone but hadn't paid much attention. Garrett with a girl was like rain in the Amazon. Unremarkable. Constant. A feature of the landscape.
You already knew Hannah from Malone's. She was sweet, genuinely, almost confusingly sweet, and you had always had a hard time understanding why a girl like her would give the time of day to someone like your brother. You grabbed a drink and kept glancing at them, and spotted the exact moment Garrett stepped away and Jules moved in with that particular look on her face that meant she was about to conduct a full background check.
Time to intervene.
"Hi, Hannah," you said, inserting yourself smoothly. You turned to Jules with a look of mock severity. "Jules. This is a party. Stop the questionnaire."
They both laughed, because that was exactly what Jules had been doing. She threw her hands up and wandered off.
"Hey, (y/n)!" Hannah said cheerfully. "I haven't seen you at Malone's in a while — how have you been?"
"Busy. Tutoring." You shrugged. "How about you? I heard you were dating my brother."
Hannah looked startled. "Oh, not dating. Just a fling."
"Nice. A fling is nice." You tilted your head. "But since when do you do flings?"
"It's new. Experimenting." She seemed to run out of words.
"You can tell me the truth, you know," you said, softening your voice. "I'm not going to say anything. I thought you had a thing for that guy Justin,the one with the band?"
"I did," Hannah said, and then lowered her voice. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone."
You made the motion of zipping your mouth shut, locking it, and throwing away the key.
"Garrett is helping me," she said. "He said guys aren't interested in girls who are too available. So he's helping me seem less available so Justin will come around."
You stared at her. "He's fake-dating you to make another guy jealous."
Hannah nodded.
"That's—" you started, then stopped. Actually not the worst plan. "Okay. Solid strategy."
As if summoned, Garrett appeared carrying a can of beer for Hannah, which was objectively cute even if you would never tell him that.
"Hey, (y/n)." He pulled you into a side hug. "Why have you gone MIA? I was getting worried."
Because I tried to kiss your best friend and he dodged me like I was a pothole in the middle of the road.
"Just busy," you said pleasantly. "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone." You winked at Hannah, who turned pink, and made a beeline for the kitchen.
The thing was, you couldn't stop turning it over. What Garrett had said to Hannah guys aren't interested in girls who are too available. Was that it? Was that why Logan had pulled back? Had you made it too obvious, been too present, too easy to read?
It was the kind of question that only one person at this party could answer.
Dean was in the kitchen taking shots with Tucker, Beau, and,of course, Logan. He was dressed as Maverick from Top Gun, which was doing entirely too much for everyone in the vicinity. The navy jumpsuit was one deep breath away from falling off his shoulders entirely, to the visible appreciation of roughly half the party.
Your heels announced you before you got there. All four of them looked up.
"Dean." You used your most businesslike voice. "I need to talk to you."
Logan, who until that moment had been carefully avoiding looking at you, looked at you.
"In private," you added.
Beau and Tucker made a coordinated oooooh sound. You took Dean by the hand and led him to a quieter corner, and from the edge of your vision you could feel Logan watching the whole way there.
"Do you think guys go for girls who aren't available?" you asked, skipping any kind of introduction.
Dean blinked. "What?"
"Just answer it. Do guys prefer women who are harder to reach?"
He studied you for a moment with the particular expression of someone who was not fooled even slightly.
"(y/n)."
"Dean."
"It's Logan."
"It's not…"
"It is literally Logan." He glanced over his shoulder and back at you. "He's been staring at this corner since you dragged me away from the shots he was pouring, by the way. So I hope this is worth it."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
"He swerved me," you said finally, quietly, in the tone of someone confessing a crime.
Dean's eyes went wide. "He what—"
"Don't make it a thing."
"I'm not making it a thing, I'm just" He stopped, visibly recalibrating. Then something shifted in his face. The confused expression dissolved into something far more dangerous. A Dean I have an idea smile. "Okay. I know exactly what to do."
"That face terrifies me."
"Let me make him jealous."
You stared at him. "What."
"Think about it." He leaned against the wall, warming to the plan in real time. "You and me, rest of the night, very cozy, very close. Logan spends the whole party watching. By midnight he either says something or he implodes. Either way you get your answer."
"That is insane."
"That is genius and you know it." He held out his hand. "What do you say, Graham?"
You looked at his hand. You looked across the room at Logan, who was very deliberately not looking in your direction, which meant he was absolutely looking in your direction.
You took Dean's hand.
"If this blows up," you said, "I'm telling everyone it was your idea."
"It is my idea." Dean grinned and pulled you back toward the party. "Come on. Let's go be very convincing."
Dean was, it turned out, an excellent co-conspirator.
He had led you back into the main room with his hand on the small of your back, a small gesture, casual enough to be deniable, obvious enough to be noticed, and steered you toward the couch where Tucker and Beau had set up camp. You settled in close to him, closer than you normally would, and let the conversation wash over you while you tracked Logan from the corner of your eye.
It took approximately four minutes.
Logan had migrated from the kitchen to the edge of the living room, arms crossed, drink in hand, wearing an expression you had never seen on him before. Not angry exactly. Something tighter than that. Something controlled, but only barely.
Dean said something in your ear something about Tucker's costume, and you laughed and leaned into him, and across the room Logan's jaw tightened.
Good, you thought, and then immediately felt terrible about it, and then thought good again.
The night continued like that. Dean was committed to the bit in the way that only someone who was genuinely enjoying himself could be his arm around your shoulders, finding excuses to tuck your hair back, laughing at everything you said like you were the most interesting person in the room. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. Dean was funny and warm and completely unthreatening, which made it easy.
What was not easy was Logan.
He didn't leave. That was the first thing you noticed he had every opportunity to drift to another room, another conversation, and he didn't take a single one. He stayed in the periphery of wherever you were, a fixed point, his drink barely touched. He had stopped pretending to talk to people. At some point Tucker said something to him and he responded without looking away from you, which Tucker clearly clocked because he glanced between the two of you with an expression of dawning comprehension and wisely said nothing.
Once, you made direct eye contact with Logan across the room. Neither of you looked away for a long moment. Then Dean said your name and you turned, and when you looked back Logan had moved closer.
He was close enough now that you could hear him when he spoke, which he had started doing small insertions into the group conversation, technically friendly, with an edge underneath them that you recognized because you had never heard it from him before.
When Dean refilled your drink, Logan was suddenly beside him. "I'll get it."
"I've got it," Dean said pleasantly.
"I said I'll get it."
Dean looked at him. Logan looked back. The silence lasted exactly long enough to be uncomfortable.
"She likes more ice than you think," Logan said finally, which was such a specific and unguarded thing to say that Dean had to look away to keep from smiling.
He brought you the drink himself. Set it down in front of you without a word and went back to his position across the room, jaw tight, arms crossed, watching.
You picked up the drink. You took a sip. You did not look at him, which cost you more than you were prepared to admit.
Okay, you thought. So it's working.
The makeout was a decision.
You made it around midnight, when the party had gotten louder and the lights had gotten lower and Dean had pulled you onto the makeshift dancefloor with the easy confidence of someone who had committed fully to a plan and intended to see it through. You were dancing close, and it was working you could feel Logan's attention like a hand on the back of your neck and then you looked up at Dean and he raised an eyebrow, a question, and you thought about Logan swerving you on a quiet October afternoon and something in you made a decision.
You kissed Dean.
He kissed you back, because he was Dean and he was committed to the bit, and for a moment it was just that a kiss, warm and uncomplicated, Dean's hands steady on your waist.
You didn't hear Garrett coming. Nobody ever did.
"What the fuck?" His voice came from directly behind you, loud enough to cut through the music. You pulled back from Dean and turned around.
Garrett was standing there looking like he had just witnessed something that had personally offended him on a cellular level. Behind him, a few feet back, standing very still, was Logan.
"(y/n)." Garrett's voice had dropped into that register the one that meant he was trying very hard to be calm. "What is happening right now."
"I'm at a party, Garrett."
"You're…" He gestured at Dean, who had the presence of mind to take a small step back. "That's Dean."
"I'm aware of who it is."
"He lives in my house."
"Also aware."
"(y/n)"
"Garrett." You crossed your arms. "I am an adult at a college party. I don't need your commentary right now."
"I'm not — I'm just—" He stopped. Dragged a hand through his hair. Then, with the particular tone of someone who had not thought through what they were about to say before saying it: "Thank God. Logan went to get me — I thought something was actually wrong—"
The sentence landed in the middle of the room like something dropped from a height.
You went very still.
Logan went to get him.
Logan, who had been standing across the room all night with his arms crossed and his drink untouched and his jaw tight, had watched you kiss Dean and gone to get your brother instead of coming over himself.
You turned, slowly, and looked at Logan. He was looking back at you with an expression that was carefully, completely neutral, which was somehow the most infuriating thing you had ever seen on a human face.
"Garrett." Your voice came out quieter than you intended. "You want to talk about boundaries? Let's talk about boundaries. Let's talk about the fact that you have spent the last three years treating me like I'm something that needs to be managed. Like I'm a problem to be solved. I am your sister, not your assignment."
"I know that—"
"Do you?" You were properly angry now, the kind of angry that had been looking for a door for a long time and had finally found one. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like you don't trust me to make a single decision about my own life without you swooping in to fix it. I kissed someone, Garrett. At a party. Like a normal person."
"I just—"
"You sent Logan to get you." Your voice cracked slightly on his name, which you hated, and pushed past. "Like I was a child who had wandered too close to the street. I'm twenty years old."
Garrett opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked, for the first time in the conversation, genuinely uncertain.
"I need some air," you said, and turned and walked toward the door.
You made it to the front porch before you heard footsteps behind you.
"(y/n)."
Logan's voice. Of course.
You kept walking down the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold, and didn't turn around.
"Hey." He was closer now. "Can we—"
"Logan." You stopped walking but didn't turn. "Please don't."
"I just want to—"
"I said please." Your voice was steady, which surprised you. "I can't do this right now. I need you to leave me alone."
A long pause. The sounds of the party filtered out through the walls of the house, muffled and distant.
"Okay," Logan said quietly.
You heard him stop. Heard him not follow you. Stood there in the cold for a moment with your eyes closed, and then kept walking.
The week after the party, you became a ghost.
Not dramatically, you didn't make an announcement, didn't post anything, didn't give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they had gotten to you. You just quietly became unavailable. Texts went unanswered for hours, then days. You skipped the house visits. You stopped showing up to things you normally showed up to.
Garrett called twice. You let it ring both times and sent a voice memo that said I'm fine, just busy in a tone that made it very clear you were not interested in discussing it further. He texted after that, a long one, full of run-on sentences and no punctuation, and you read it three times and didn't respond.
Logan texted once. Just your name. A single word, no punctuation, no follow-up. You stared at it for a long time, lying on your bed in the dark, and said none of it. You set your phone face-down on the desk and went to sleep.
Or tried to.
The only people you talked to with any regularity were Hannah and Dean. Hannah because she never pushed, never pried, just showed up with iced coffee and terrible reality television and the quiet uncomplicated warmth of someone who liked you without needing anything from you. Dean because he was the only person who knew the full story and had the decency not to turn it into a conversation every time he saw you.
He did try, once.
"You can't hide forever," he said, sitting on the edge of your bed one afternoon while you stared at the ceiling.
"Watch me," you said.
He watched you for approximately eleven more days before he stopped saying anything about it at all.
The car situation came to a head on a Tuesday, which felt appropriate. Tuesdays had always had a particular talent for making things worse.
You had always known, in a vague and carefully unexamined way, that the car thing was unfair. Garrett had gotten one junior year of high school a practical, slightly dented Honda Civic that Phil Graham had handed over with a clap on the shoulder and a speech about responsibility that lasted four minutes. You had gotten a lecture about how young women didn't need to be driving alone at night, delivered in the measured, reasonable tone your father used when what he actually meant was something he knew better than to say out loud.
In college it hadn't mattered much. Campus was walkable, rideshares existed, and you had quietly become very skilled at organizing your life around other people's cars without ever quite admitting that was what you were doing.
And then the interview came up and the system collapsed.
The position was tutoring coordinator at a learning center in Boston — real money, flexible hours, the kind of thing that could genuinely change the shape of your year. Friday at nine. Boston. Forty minutes away on a good day.
You needed a car.
Which meant you needed to call your father.
Phil Graham suggested lunch, because Phil Graham always suggested lunch. It was his preferred format for any interaction he wanted to feel like generosity rather than transaction, a restaurant, a table, the performance of a normal family.
You took Dean with you without asking permission, which your father noticed immediately and acknowledged with a slight tightening around the eyes that lasted less than a second before his public face reassembled itself. He shook Dean's hand with the particular warmth he reserved for audiences and said it was nice to see one of Garrett's friends, and Dean smiled and you watched them take the measure of each other across the table.
Dean was good at this. You had not known, before today, exactly how good. He had a way of being present without inserting himself filling silences before they became uncomfortable, asking your father questions that were just interested enough to be flattering without being so specific that they required anything real. He ordered the second cheapest thing on the menu, sat up straight, and spent the meal being quietly, almost imperceptibly perfect, and you watched your father recalibrate in real time.
"I need a car," you said, when the food arrived. Straight to it.
Your father looked up from his plate. "A car."
"I have an interview in Boston on Friday morning. I need reliable transportation."
"You could take the train."
"The timing doesn't work for the train."
A pause. Your father cut into his steak with the precise unhurried movements of a man deciding how much something was going to cost him versus how it would look to say no in front of company.
"I'll look into it," he said.
"I'd prefer to sort it out today."
Dean took a sip of his water and looked pleasantly at the middle distance, which was exactly right.
Your father bought you a car three days later. A white Subaru, two years old, clean interior. He texted you the details with no preamble and no sentiment, and you picked it up from the dealership with Dean in the passenger seat reading the car manual out loud in a documentary narrator voice until you were laughing so hard you had to pull over.
It was, all things considered, one of the better days you'd had recently.
The tire went two weeks after the party, on a Friday morning, on a stretch of road so unremarkable it felt like an insult.
You heard it first a dull, percussive thud that traveled up through the wheel and into your hands, followed immediately by the lurch of the car pulling hard to the right. You steered onto the shoulder and sat there for a moment with both hands still on the wheel and the hazards blinking orange into the grey morning air.
Boston was forty minutes away. The interview was in just under two hours. You were wearing your good blazer.
You got out and looked at the tire. Flat. Completely, aggressively, unapologetically flat.
You got back in the car and called Dean.
"Tell me you know how to change a tire," you said, when he picked up.
"Good morning to you too."
"Dean. I have a flat tire and an interview in Boston in less than two hours."
A pause. The sound of someone sitting up. "Where are you?"
You told him. There was a longer pause the kind that meant he was deciding something you weren't privy to yet.
"I can't come," he said finally. "I'm on the other side of town and I don't have the truck. But I'm going to fix this. Give me ten minutes."
"If you send Garrett—"
"I'm not sending Garrett." His voice had gone careful. Deliberate. "Ten minutes. Stay put."
He hung up before you could argue.
You sat on the hood of your car in your good blazer and watched the morning traffic pass and tried very hard not to think about who else Dean might send. You had a short list. The list had one name on it.
Fourteen minutes later, a familiar dark truck pulled onto the shoulder behind you.
You closed your eyes briefly.
Dean, you thought. I am going to kill you.
Logan got out without hurrying, because he never hurried. He was in a worn grey shirt with the sleeves pushed up and dark jeans, carrying a jack and a spare tire with the easy competence of someone who had done this many times before, and the morning light was doing something completely unreasonable to the line of his jaw.
You crossed your arms.
"I didn't ask for you," you said, before he reached you.
"Dean called me." He crouched beside your tire and assessed the damage.
"I know Dean called you. I'm saying I didn't ask for you."
"I know." He ran his hand along the tire. "You've got a nail in the sidewall. It's not patchable."
"Logan—"
"You can be angry at me the whole time." He looked up at you briefly, and there was something in his expression that wasn't quite an apology and wasn't quite a plea but sat somewhere in between. "But you have an interview in an hour and forty minutes, so let me do this."
You looked at the road instead.
He worked quickly and without commentary loosening the bolts, positioning the jack, the methodical progression of someone who understood machines in a way that was almost meditative to watch. You tried not to watch. You watched anyway.
Once he glanced up and found you looking. You looked away first.
"This is a temporary spare," he said, after a while. "It'll get you around town but not highway speeds. Not safely." He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. Then he reached into his pocket. "Take my truck."
"Absolutely not."
"Your interview—"
"I'm not taking your truck, Logan."
"Why not?"
Because taking his truck meant owing him something, and owing him something meant having a reason to come back, and coming back meant another conversation where you said something you couldn't take back and he looked at you with that expression and didn't say anything.
"Because it's your truck," you said.
"And your interview is in less than two hours." He held out the keys. "Take it. I'll stay here. Come by the house when you're done and we'll swap back."
"I can call a rideshare—"
"(y/n)." Just your name. Just that, quiet on the side of the road, and something about the way he said it made all the arguments feel very small. "Please."
You looked at him. He looked back, steady and patient, keys extended, and you were so tired of fighting things that weren't worth fighting anymore.
You took the keys.
"I'm paying for the tire," you said.
"You're not."
"Logan—"
"Go." The corner of his mouth moved, almost. "You're going to be late."
The interview went well. You thought about Logan the entire time.
You drove back in his truck, which smelled like cedar and old coffee and something else you couldn't name, and you sat in the driveway of the house for a moment before going in.
Logan was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water, and he looked up when you came in.
"How'd it go?" he asked.
"Good. Really good, actually." You set his keys on the counter. "Thank you. For the truck."
"Of course."
A silence settled. The television murmured from somewhere in the house. Tucker's laugh, distant and easy.
You should leave. You had told yourself on the drive over that you were going to return the keys and go clean and simple, no openings.
But you were so tired.
Tired of the almost-conversations and the loaded silences and the two years of carrying something that got heavier every time he looked at you like that and said nothing.
"I like you," you said.
The words came out quieter than you intended. Steadier than you expected. You watched them land.
Logan went very still.
"I know that's complicated," you continued. "I know about Garrett. I know that's why. I'm not asking you to do anything about it." You paused. "I just needed to say it out loud. I've been carrying it for two years and I needed to put it down somewhere."
Logan looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before — open and unguarded and almost pained. His mouth opened.
"(y/n)—" he started, and his voice was different, lower
The back door opened.
Garrett came through it pulling off his jacket, mid-sentence about something to Tucker, and nearly walked into you before he registered you were there.
He stopped. For a moment he just looked at you. Then something cracked open in his expression relief and guilt and two weeks of missed calls all arriving at once.
"(y/n)." His voice was careful. "Hey. I didn't know you were here."
"Just returning the truck," you said. Perfectly normal. You were getting very good at it.
"Okay." He nodded slowly. Then, quieter: "Can we talk? It's been weeks and I—"
"I'm kind of in the middle of something," you said.
Behind you, almost inaudible, Logan said: "It's okay. Go."
You turned.
He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and his expression carefully arranged into something neutral, and he met your eyes for exactly one second before he looked at the floor.
"Logan—"
"Go talk to your brother." His voice was even. Controlled. "It's fine."
You stared at him. The word sat in the kitchen between you like something neither of you wanted to pick up.
Fine.
"Okay," you said. And turned away.
The conversation with Garrett lasted longer than ten minutes. They always did.
He sat across from you on the couch with his elbows on his knees and said: "I'm sorry about the party."
"Okay," you said.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you. I was worried."
"I know."
"I know you're an adult. I know you don't need me to—"
"Garrett." You looked at him. "I know you know. That's never been the question."
He was quiet. In the kitchen, the low sound of Tucker and Logan talking, the refrigerator opening and closing.
"Then what's the question?" he asked.
You thought about it. About his hands pressing your head against his chest in the dark. About the house that felt too big after your mother left. About the whole year he had stayed close without ever being asked.
"I think you learned to protect me at a time when I really needed it," you said carefully. "And I think you don't know how to stop. And I think—" your voice went slightly unsteady "—I'm always going to love you for the first part. I just need you to work on the second part."
Garrett looked at the floor. His jaw worked.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, okay."
It wasn't a resolution. It wasn't a fix. But it was the most honest thing you'd said to each other in years, and when you stood up to leave he pulled you into a hug that lasted long enough to mean something.
Logan was in the hallway when you came out.
Not waiting, exactly leaning against the wall with his phone in his hand, doing the convincing impression of someone who just happened to be there. He looked up when he heard you.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey." You picked up your bag. "I should go."
"(y/n)—"
"I meant what I said." Your voice came out gentler than you intended. "I'm not asking you for anything. You don't have to—"
"I know." He said it quickly. "I know you're not. I just—" He stopped. Something moved across his face. He pressed his mouth closed and looked at the ceiling briefly. "I heard you. What you said in the kitchen. I need you to know that I heard you."
You stood there with your hand on the door and the cold night air coming in.
"Okay," you said quietly.
And you left.
The guy's name was Eric.
He was in your economics lecture tall, easy smile, the kind of person who made friends without trying. He had asked to borrow a pen three weeks ago and somehow that had turned into sitting together, and sitting together had turned into coffee after class, and coffee after class had turned into texts that had nothing to do with economics.
You liked him well enough. He was uncomplicated in a way that felt, after everything, like something you might need.
You mentioned him to Hannah on a Thursday. Hannah mentioned him to Garrett on a Friday. Garrett mentioned him to the house on a Saturday, in the way Garrett mentioned things casually, as information, with the studied neutrality of someone who had learned to deliver news without editorializing.
Dean watched Logan's face when Garrett said the name.
Later, he would describe it as watching someone step on a piece of glass they hadn't seen coming.
Logan lasted four days.
Four days of being completely normal. Of practice and class and the house and dinner and conversations that had nothing to do with you. Four days of his phone on the table, not checking it, of going to bed at a reasonable hour and lying there for a long time.
On the fifth day, Dean knocked on his door.
"You have about forty eight hours," Dean said.
Logan looked up from the bed. "What?"
"Before she decides Eric is actually a good idea." Dean leaned against the doorframe. "She's not in love with him. She's barely interested. But she's trying, and she's good at trying, and if you wait much longer she's going to try herself right into actually meaning it."
"She deserves to be happy—"
"She deserves to be with someone who's been in love with her for two years, actually." He said it simply, without drama, the way you said things that were just true. "But that's just my opinion."
The word landed in the room and sat there.
In love.
Logan didn't correct him.
"Garrett—" he started.
"Talk to Garrett first if you need to," Dean said. "But do it tonight. Because forty eight hours is generous and I'm not known for being generous."
He left the door open when he walked out.
Logan found Garrett in the kitchen an hour later.
It was the conversation he had been avoiding for two years the one that lived in the back of his head every time you walked into a room, every time he had talked himself back from the edge of doing something about it.
"I need to talk to you about (y/n)," he said.
Garrett turned from the refrigerator. His expression moved through several things quickly before settling into something careful and still.
"Okay," he said.
"I like her." Logan held his gaze. "I've liked her for a long time. I should have said something to you before now and I'm sorry I didn't. But I'm saying it now because I can't not anymore."
The kitchen was very quiet.
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. Long enough that Logan had time to fully contemplate what losing his best friend would feel like, to turn it over, to decide that he was going to say it anyway.
"I know," Garrett said finally.
Logan blinked. "What?"
"I've known for a while." Garrett set his drink down. "I was waiting to see if you'd do something about it or if it would just go away."
"It didn't go away."
"No," Garrett said. "I can see that." He was quiet for a moment. "She's not easy to know. You know that."
"I know."
"And if you do this and it goes badly—"
"It won't."
"Logan—"
"It won't." He held Garrett's gaze. "I promise you it won't."
Garrett looked at him for one more long moment. Then he picked his drink back up and said, in the tone of someone changing the subject entirely: "She's probably at the sorority house."
You were on the porch when he pulled up.
You had come outside for air, just that, and you were sitting on the steps with a mug of tea going cold in your hands when you heard the truck. You knew the sound of that engine. Your stomach did the thing it always did.
He got out. Crossed the front path. Stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at you with an expression that had nothing careful about it — no composure, no distance. Just Logan, standing there looking like he had driven over without thinking it all the way through and wasn't sorry about it.
"There's a guy," he said. "Eric."
"I know who Eric is," you said slowly. "He's in my economics class."
"I know." His jaw worked. "I know, and I have no right to say anything about it. But I've been sitting in that house for four days and I can't—" He stopped. Tried again. "I can't watch you choose someone else because I was too much of a coward to say something."
You were very still.
"I talked to Garrett," he said.
"You—" You stared at him. "When?"
"Tonight." He took a step up, closing some of the distance. "I should have done it a long time ago. I should have done a lot of things a long time ago." He looked at you with an openness that was almost difficult to look at directly no walls, no distance, just the thing underneath all of it, which was apparently enormous. "I like you. I have liked you since the first time Garrett introduced us and you shook my hand and looked at me like you were trying to figure out what I was. And I have been handling it badly ever since and I'm sorry."
The street was quiet. The mug in your hands had gone completely cold.
"Eric is fine," you said. Your voice was slightly unsteady. "He's a perfectly nice person."
"I know."
"I'm not in love with him."
"I know that too." Logan's voice dropped slightly. "Is it too late? Because Dean said—"
"What did Dean say?"
"That I had forty eight hours."
You looked at him.
"Dean gave you forty eight hours," you said.
"He said it was generous."
"He's right, it was." You stood, which put you on the same level as him, close enough that you didn't have to look up anymore. "I was going to give you until the end of the month."
Something broke open in his expression. "Yeah?"
"Don't make it a thing," you said, and kissed him.
He kissed you back immediately, no hesitation, one hand coming up to the back of your neck and the other finding your waist, and it was nothing like October — none of the uncertainty, none of the held breath. This was certain. This was two years of accumulated patience finally running out, from both directions at once.
When you pulled back he was smiling — a real one, unguarded, the one you had always liked best on him.
"For the record," he said, "the first time you shook my hand I thought about it for three days."
"I know," you said. "I could tell."
He laughed. You smiled. Down the street a light came on in someone's window, and the night was cold, and two years of almost finally became something else entirely.
Summary: Fueled by the betrayal of your betrothed, you tumble into bed with the worst person you can think of- Aerion of House Targaryen. Whilst you may see it as a one time mistake, Aerion Brightflame does not.
Warnings: 18+, cheating (not by Aerion), vaginal fingering, Aerion calls reader a whore, biting with blood, slightly oc Aerion?, blood play, canon divergence, obsessive behaviour, slight dub-con, loss of virginity, hunting, canon typical violence, vaginal sex, no protection, unedited
Word Count: 10k+
targaryen masterlist
The air in the corridor was cooler than usual. With a shiver, you tucked your hands under your armpits after checking that you were quite alone, and began to make your way to the hall for dinner.
Ashford Meadows was different to your home. Grayer, colder, busier. It seemed an unusual time to hold a tourney until you had found out it was Lady Gwin Ashford’s birthday. Lord Ashford himself had invited your family down to join in on the celebrations and your elder brother, Leon, had been eager to join the lists.
It was rare you got to spend time with your family. Your elder brother Edwyn was the heir to your father’s title and, as such, the pair of them spent a great deal of time overseeing the land and renters. Leo, as a second son, was antsy and often busied himself on adventures that you could only dream of. Your sister Marian had been married some six months ago and you missed her dearly. When you had heard than she and her lord husband would also be in Ashford, you had been more than content to brave the long ride down just to see her.
And then there was the matter of your betrothal to Lord Frey’s son, Owen.
You hummed to yourself as you navigated the dark corridors, slippers padding along the stone floor. The only sign of life you could hear was from yourself. There was a good chance that you had gotten yourself turned around so you stopped and began to retrace your steps.
The pair of you had met at your sister’s wedding and both Lord Frey and your own father had been delighted at the way you seemed to draw together. Owen Frey was handsome enough, and not unkind, and he knew all the right things to say. When your father had told you of the potential for an arrangement, you had agreed without really thinking about it.
Owen Frey seemed a sensible enough man, and you certainly tried to be a sensible woman. Lord Frey was said to be an honorable and loyal man, and he and his wife genuinely seemed to care for one another. You hoped that with them as an example, Owen would also come to care for you as a husband should.
You paused, huffing a breath as you scanned your environment. It all looked the same. You were just about to turn on your heel again when you heard something ahead. Some kind of scuffling, and a laugh.
Pressing your lips together, you debated turning around. But by now you were likely already late for dinner and your father would not be pleased. Not when the Ashfords were such accommodating hosts – and not when the Targaryens were also staying.
With a nervous breath, you made your way forward and peeked around the corner. Immediately you sucked in a breath, clapping your hand over your mouth as you registered what was before you.
At first you saw only two lovers entwined. Hands beneath shifts and unbuttoned trousers and choked gasps. Then you recognised the clothes on the woman – a household servant of the Ashfords. You cringed at the way she scratched down the male’s back, moaning into his neck as his hands did something down the front of her dress.
You were not ignorant to the ways of man and woman. Well, not entirely, anyway. But you knew enough to know that it was incredibly bold of the pair to be so intimate so out in the open. You stifled a laugh and turned to dip away – and then you heard it.
“Oh, Owen, please!”
You stalled, mouth popping open with a silent ‘oh’. Shaking, you peered round the wall once more, just to confirm. Neither of the pair had spotted you. This time you saw what you had been previously blind to. The sword at the man’s hip, the Frey sigil on the pommel. The hair, an unassuming shade of brown, that only now you recognised. The man’s hand moved to grip the girl’s hip and you saw the rings adorning his fingers.
You stayed for only a moment longer, a headache forming between your brows. You did not confront them. Instead, you raced away, as quietly as you could, turning blindly down corridors until you bumped into a maid who was, by chance, looking for you.
You trailed after her until she reached the dining room, slipping by her as she held the door open for you. Your father stood to greet you and you heard yourself explaining that you had been lost. So silly of you! Your father laughed boisterously and made some joke about you being distracted due to your engagement.
“For a moment, daughter, we thought you had snuck away with Owen,” he chuckled, “Lord Frey told us the boy is ill.”
Baelor Targaryen offered you a polite smile as he responded to your father. Distracted once more, your father sat down and began conversing with the heir. Feeling that all attention was once again off of you, you made your way to the table and found yourself a seat.
You sat down at your brother’s side without looking up. It was only after your brother had pushed a steaming plate in front of you that you glanced about. You found yourself squeezing at your utensils, something hot and uncomfortable brewing in your stomach as you picked at your beef.
After a particularly vicious stab, you set your cutlery down. Tucking your hands beneath the table, you squeezed at your thighs until you were sure you drew blood. Your eyes stayed dry. You searched yourself for despair, for sadness, and instead found red hot fucking fury.
A shiver wracked through you and finally you looked up. Aerion Targaryen met your gaze. He did not blink as he stabbed a hunk of beef and brought it to his mouth. He chewed it nicely but his eyes were anything but.
You knew about Brightflame. About his propensity for anger and cruelty. You had made a game of avoiding him all week, despite the fact your family took meals with his almost daily. And now, with him sitting across from you, this was the closest you had ever been.
It must be exhausting, you thought, to be so angry all the time. You could feel your own righteous rage swirling in your chest, taking violent swipes at your heart every time you attempted to push what you had seen from your mind.
Aerion stopped chewing and stared openly. You blinked as you realised your lips had curled in something like a snarl. Your anger burned hotter than you knew what to do with. You slouched back in your chair, ignoring the way your brother coughed at your ill manners, and stared right back.
It was stupid. You knew that but you did not look away. Let him be cruel, you thought, let him spit and curse at you for your disrespect. You discovered that you anger enough to return the fire. It needed to go somewhere, did it not?
Your brother stilled, hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing in warning. And still, you did not move. To your surprise, it was Aerion that moved.
He cleared his throat and set his fork down. He leaned forward and you readied yourself for the fall out of your disrespect.
“Woman,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”
Your brother nudged you to answer. Distantly, you wondered if Owen remembered your name. If you thought about you at all as he fumbled with the maid girl in the corridor, where anyone could come across them. Did he feel guilt as he humiliated you? As he made you look like a foolish, sheltered girl?
“You do not recall my name,” you said slowly, “despite the fact that our families have dined together all week?”
Your brother choked on his wine. Aerion’s eyes widened, something chaotic and wild fluttering in his pupils. It looked like fire.
“I do not,” he answered just as slowly, chin dipping as he waited for your response.
You should tread carefully. You should apologise. You should lower your gaze and speak only when spoken to. You should pretend you never saw Owen and the girl and marry him anyway, settle for a life long of betrayal and disappointment.
“Then I do not wish to tell you,” you hissed, slamming your palms to the table as you shot up out of your chair. All eyes landed on you. “Father, I am unwell. I wish to retire.”
Aerion’s eyes made your skin burn. They drilled into the side of your face as you stoutly ignored him, dipping your head as your father stammered out an excuse and the host bid you well.
You walked quickly from the table, wrenching open the door before the guard could do it for you. Once alone in the corridor, the cool air brushing at your heated cheeks, a hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. To Aerion and Leon, it probably looked as though you were running. But it was not fear that had driven you from that hall.
Alone in your room, you waited for the tears to come. When the hours dripped on, and the tears still did not come, you resorted to pinching your thighs until bruises welled beneath your nails. Your eyes remained dry.
The anger would not leave. Seething, you threw yourself across the bed, tempted to tear at the sheets like some wild animal. You did not feel like the lady you had been raised to be. But where had that gotten you? Reeling and thoroughly humiliated, you felt lost.
What Owen had done was not out of the ordinary. You were sure that even your father had fathered a bastard or two in the village. But it was not what you wanted for yourself, and as a fourth daughter, you had more choice than most.
Owen had seemed like the safe choice. The sensible choice. You were vexed at your own naivety, annoyed at your own surprise and subsequent disgust. You had been willing to settle for the first man that seemed reasonable and now you were stuck. Did a right choice even exist?
There would be no wedding. You were sure that you could get your father to agree once you told him of what you had witnessed. Your father would not take kindly to his daughter being embarrassed in such a way. The Freys were going to benefit from the wedding more than your family so it would be no great loss.
You sighed. So much had changed in so little time. The tourney was over tomorrow and you would be making your way back home by mid-afternoon. Once on the road, away from the Freys, you could tell your father what you had seen. He would send word of the cancelled arrangement to the Freys, all without you having to set eyes on Owen ever again.
As the sky began to darken further, a maid came in to light your candles and the fire in the grate. Idly you wondered if she was the one you had seen with Owen earlier. Once she had left, you sat up and went to the window, peering out with boredom.
Anger still kindled in your stomach. You rested a hand over your lowed belly, half expecting to feel heat.
The castle was quiet. The gardens below were quiet, too. Your father would kill you for walking around in the dark without a guard but the room was beginning to feel stifling.
When you were young, you had been an unruly child. Eager to escape your finishing lessons and play with your brothers or roam the grounds alone. Your father had assumed you had grown out of it and maybe you had.
Now, though, all you wanted was to leave the suffocating grip of the castle. Owen was under the same roof as you, somewhere, sleeping soundly or perhaps not alone. If he was going to flout the rules so blatantly, then so would you.
Like earlier, you got turned around several times before you eventually found your way outside. The ground was slightly damp from the earlier rain. You would have to clean your slippers before dawn.
You wound your way around bushes and flower beds until you found your way to a hidden alcove. The moon was bright enough to guide your path and you kept carefully out of sight of the castle. The wall was slanted enough for you to rest against it, almost sitting.
The air was soothing against your harried flesh. You closed your eyes and imagined it cooling further, eager to shake the weight of emotion from your chest.
The garden was enclosed in high walls. Beyond them you could hear raucous laughter and singing. The final night of the tourney was just as loud as the first. What would it be like to be among the smallfolk? To laugh, to dance and to drink as they did? As men did?
What would it be like to fuck as they did?
The word was so crass that you open your eyes and looked around, half expecting your father to appear and scold you for the mere thought. Satisfied that you were indeed alone, you settled back and closed your eyes once more.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed when you heard it. Your name, cutting through the careful silence you had cultivated, drawing a shocked yelp from your lips.
Aerion Brightflame stood five feet in front of you, hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was not threatening – or maybe it was. It was difficult to tell when everything about him was threatening.
Aerion silver hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes appeared hastily thrown on, as though he had gotten ready for bed and then changed his mind. Perhaps the night air cooled his temper, too.
He repeated your name again, and you realised that someone else must have told him it. He looked smug and you wanted to smack him clean across the face for thinking he had won whatever stupid game it was that he thought you were playing.
“Do you make a habit of sneaking about alone?” he asked, stepping closer.
You squinted at him and did not reply. Was this the same man you had been avoiding all week? Whatever fear you had previously felt had been eaten away by fire and now fatigue as you slumped back against the wall.
Aerion’s lip curled at your silence; displeasure dotted in the creases of his face. You tilted your head a little. He was not unpleasant to look at, even when he scowled. He was handsome, you admitted, as all Targaryens tended to be.
“Answer me, woman,” he finally snarled, “or I’ll drag you before your father.”
Aerion had stepped closer. If you reached out a hand, you would be able to lay it on his chest.
What would it be like to fuck as they did?
It was a terrible idea. Downright stupid. When was the last time you had been stupid? Been anything other than the lady you were supposed to be?
You reached out and laid your hand on the dragon’s chest.
Aerion stilled. You met his eyes steadily, attempting to gauge interest. He did not stop you when you stepped closer, tilting your head until your eyes landed on his lips. They looked red and bitten already.
Aerion did not stop you when your hand slid up his chest and into the short hair at the base of the back of his neck. His lips parted and his breath puffed out when you tugged a little, curious. Owen had tugged that woman’s hair. It seemed like something that was done.
“Woman,” Aerion finally said, “are you stupid?”
“No,” you murmured, “but I think I’d like to be. Just for tonight.”
You were not sure who moved first; only that, one second you were thinking how similar a shade Aerion’s hair was to the moon, and the next you were pressed up tight in the alcove.
Aerion used his body to pin you there. At first, the kiss was clumsy and unpracticed. It was your first, after all. But you had always been a quick learner.
Aerion’s mouth was firm and unforgiving. Your lips parted under his like they had done so a thousand times, tongue reaching out to brush silkily along Aerion’s and earning a surprised groan. His hand came up to squeeze your face, holding you still as he had you how he liked.
It felt good. The kissing and the rebellion of it all. Throughout it all, your hands remained in his hair, tugging hard whenever he did something you particularly liked. He nipped at your lips, pulling sweet gasps and moans from them as he went. That push and pull of his tongue in your mouth, smoothing softly over yours – was that what fucking was like?
Aerion pulled away and you almost hissed. His hair looked messier than previously, the front of his clothes ruffled from where you had been pressed together. His lips were red and wet from the kiss and you watched as his tongue darted out and smoothed over them.
The anger had given away to something impossibly hotter. Something molten and desperate was welling in your core. It was nothing you had ever felt or even considered feeling when it came to Owen. You tilted your head back against the stone wall and waited for the prince to make a move.
“Foolish girl,” he finally said, dragging his eyes from where your breasts heaved against the ribbon of your dress. “Is that what you wanted? To act like a whore for the night? Are you satisfied, then?”
You laughed quietly, the sound ringing through the garden. “I think whores do a great deal more than kiss, my Prince.”
Before you could think too much, you reached down to rest your hand over the hard outline of Aerion’s manhood. He made a choked sound and jolted forward, no doubt surprised at your boldness. Instead of laughing at the shock on his face, you pressed your nose to his chest, seeking out the sliver of bared skin you had seen then.
And then you bit down. Hard.
Aerion groaned long and loud, hand coming up to grip the back of your head as he allowed you to sink your teeth into his flesh. It felt powerful. You did not relent until blood welled beneath your teeth, copper leaking onto your tongue as you laved it over his wounded flesh.
You kept your hand firmly on his cock, rubbing the heel of your palm over where you assumed the head was. Aerion’s grip grew tight before he let you go, chest heaving, staring down at you with blow pupils.
He said your name again, quietly this time, and with no mocking. His hands had fallen to grip your wrists but he let go of one, reaching up the place his palm over the spot you had bitten.
“And yet,” you sighed, “I still do not feel like a whore.”
You kept your mind switched off as your hands dropped and began tugging at the strings on his trousers. Your own core throbbed with every little move. It was different from the lazy self-exploration of yourself you had previously indulged in. Was this feeling normal or was it to do with the dragon before you?
“Fuck,” Aerion swore as you popped his cock from his trousers, the heated flesh pulsing in the cooler air.
It looked big – but that did not matter. You had no intention of taking it inside of yourself. Instead, you smoothed your palm over the head, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. You squeezed experimentally and smiled at the sound it produced from Aerion.
Aerion cursed again and then his hands were on you. You yelped as he held you firmly against the stone wall, damp rock pressing into your back, and began to ruck up your dress until it was fluffed around your waist. He kicked your legs apart and shoved his hand down the front of your garments until his fingers met the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.
This was not the plan. Not that there had been one in the first place – but this definitely was not it.
Aerion’s fingers met the soft, pillowy flesh on your cunt with little ceremony. His eyes were glued to your face, chest rising and falling swiftly as he parted you with his fingers and ran his index over the tight flesh of your hole.
“Even whores do not get this wet,” he growled, cupping your tender flesh. “Put your hand back on my cock. Now.”
You resented the bite in his voice but your mind was surprising gentle exploration of his fingers. Instead of sliding inside, they ventured up, up, until they met the soft ball of flesh that would surely make you lose your fucking mind.
Aerion buried his face in your neck, tongue licking over the exposed flesh as your hand found his cock and began to move. When he stopped, you stopped. You would not let him come away from having had more than you. You were determined to satisfy your earlier curiosity.
His fingers rubbed tight circles over your swollen flesh, faster and then slower. He rutted into your palm with hard thrusts, breath hissing in your ear as he approached his peak.
He was not the only one. You could feel your own fast approaching. For the first time, clarity began to clear your mind. You understood why Owen, why that girl, had gotten so caught up. Initially you had wanted to do this to experience what you felt you were missing out on, to be reckless as they had been. Now you felt the urge for control. The urge to prove that you were better than them.
Still you allowed Aerion’s fingers to rub you. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His hips bumped yours as he fucked your hand, orgasm tearing through him in a way that made you dizzy and thirsty for your own.
You yelped when Aerion’s head bent down, nuzzling into the pillowy tops of your breasts before he bit down. Hard enough that you were sure he immediately drew blood. You whimpered and yanked at his hair, teetering on the edge of your own orgasm.
If I go over the edge, you thought, I do not know if I can come back.
With surprising strength, you shoved Aerion away. Your dress came tumbling back down and the whisper of fabric over your skin was enough to almost have you orgasming anyway. Unprepared, Aerion staggered before righting his stance.
His still hard cock was still peeking out of his breeches and you tore your eyes away before you abandoned all common sense. You could feel his seed on your hand, warm and sticky. There was blood smeared all over his mouth and when he snarled at you, you could see it in his teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “You are not done here – we are not done here.”
You breathed heavily and swayed a little on your feet. You could see your own arousal on Aerion’s fingers, glittering in the moonlight. It looked rather pretty.
Aerion took a step forward and it shook you out of your reverie. Before he could say anything else (or use his fingers and command you to stay) you tore past him and ran inside. In some miracle, perhaps as reward for your restraint, you found your way back to your room in a matter of minutes. If Aerion called your name, you did not hear it.
The next morning was nothing memorable. You were beyond tired and still mildly irritated, but glad to be rid of the place. You had stayed up late cleaning your shoes and the conspicuous wet spot the prince had left on your dress. If the maids noticed anything as they packed your trunks, they did not say.
Your father was in a good mood. It was a good thing to spent time with the heir to the kingdom; it reflected well on the house. You smiled blandly as he and your brother Leon recounted their days, commenting on who had done well and the favourites.
The Targaryens had supposed to have been leaving early, but as you and your family made their way down, you discovered that they had not. You kept your gaze averted and curtsied when necessary, thanking Lord Ashford for his hospitality and Balor and his family for their company.
When you reached Aerion, you curtsied as before. Aerion surprised you by lifting your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your inner wrist. You felt his tongue on your skin and bit your lip, praying that your father would not notice.
Aerion pulled back and smiled. Your mouth dropped open. Your blood was still smeared across his lips and teeth.
Within days of arriving home, your father had contacted Lord Frey and told him the engagement was off. He was horrified by what you had reported. His poor darling girl, witness to such depravity!
As he had ranted and raved, you had subtly tugged at the high collar of your dress. You had taken to wearing such high collars and avoiding help from the maids since arriving home. The mark that Aerion had left on you was shocking. Blue and purple tinged with red. It was still sore and throbbed when touched firmly, which you did often.
You had managed to muster tears in your eyes and a tremble in your voice as you recounted the events of that evening. Perhaps you exaggerated a little. It did not matter; your father was thoroughly on your side.
Some days later, after some back and forth with Lord Frey, your father told you that Owen had left The Twins and was no doubted headed here, to your home. Your father had almost had an aneurysm at the sheer assumption of hospitality.
“Do not worry, father,” you had patted his hand, “perhaps he will come to apologise. I will hear him out, but I have no intentions of marrying him.”
“You are kind, daughter,” he nodded, “and wise. You deserve more than foolish young boys.”
Wise. You had nearly laughed. A week ago, you had been the stupidest person in the entire seven kingdoms. Stupider now, perhaps, since you did not regret it.
A week and a half after the tournament, you were sitting in the library when you heard the sound of a party arriving. You set your book down and straightened your spine before marching from the library and heading for the hall.
You paused outside, sharing a look with your ladies’ maid when you heard your father’s laughter from within. That was certainly not the reception you had envisioned for Owen Frey. Confused, you opened the door and stepped within, ready for an explanation.
Your father was stood there, arm in arm, with Maekar Targaryen. And to the left of him, tall and polished, was his son, Aerion.
You froze. For a moment you debated edging your way back out of the room but then your father caught sight of you.
“Ah!” he threw up his arms and came to grab your arm, pulling you further into the dragon’s nest. “My Princes, you remember my youngest daughter?”
“Certainly,” Aerion interjected before his father could speak. He dipped his head, mocking. “My Lady.”
You assumed you responded appropriately. You could not be sure. Maekar nodded stiffly, something like curiosity in his eyes as he looked you up and down. How much had Aerion told his father? Was he, in turn, going to tell your father?
“Why are you here?” you asked bluntly.
Your father said your name, surprised. “You did not know? I invited them here whilst we were all at the tourney.”
“Yes,” Aerion smiled, “I am here to hunt.”
The ground felt like it was dropping out from beneath you. Even the air felt thin. Whilst you swayed on your feet, vehemently regretting that night, your father chattered on to Maekar.
He had no fucking idea what he had agreed to. And, truthfully, neither did you.
Unwilling to leave your father and the princes alone, you found yourself getting ready for a hunt. You yanked on your riding dress and, once your front was covered, turned to allow your maid to lace up the back.
You did not know what Aerion had told Maekar, nor what his plans were with you father. You were worried that, at the first chance he had, Aerion would tell him of your indulgent and careless behaviour. Why else would he come all this way?
It seemed insane that he would do all this just to torment you. Or perhaps it would, if he were anyone else. Out of all the boys to fool around with. . .
You descend from your room and head for the stables. Yanking on your riding gloves, you find the stall of your horse, Silver. She was a precious thing and fickle with anyone other than you. You smoothed your hand over her mane and waited for the stable boy to arrive.
Aerion arrived first.
You scowled at the flash of silver hair you saw from the corner of your eye and did not bother greeting him. It was not him you feared; it was what he might tell you father. You should probably consider attempting to butter him up. Your lips thinned at the idea and you continued to ignore him.
Heat was radiating from his body as he stepped up bedside you, bumping your arm with his. Without asking, he reached out to pet Silver. You hoped she would bite him. Instead, she huffed and leaned down to nose at his palm. You frowned.
Distracted, you did not notice Aerion’s other hand creeping up toward the collar of your dress. You squeaked when you felt his fingers on the hem, yanking it down until the ugly spot he had left on your upper breast came into view.
The flesh was still unhealed. Whenever you looked closely in the mirror, you could still see the outline of Aerion’s teeth.
“Good,” he hummed, “yours has not healed either.”
He did not let go of your clothing, instead leaning closer as though he might bite again. Outraged, you slapped the prince across his face. Aerion let go at once, hand coming to rest on the quickly darkening flesh of his cheek.
Your chest was heaving, eyes wide and blinking furiously. You wanted to shout, to slap him again, to demand the real reason as to why he had come. You had finally been getting back to normalcy when he and his father had shown up.
You snarled still as Aerion reached out again, raising your hand as though you might strike him once more. This time he did not try to tear at your clothes. He tugged them back into the rightful position, brushing the wrinkles from your bosom as though his fingers were not leaving trails of fire behind as they went.
“I knew you had fire in you,” he finally said, brushing his fingers over your bared collarbones.
Before you could respond, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. You whirled around, horrified to see Maekar waiting by the stable doors. Aerion did not seem alarmed. He met his fathers gaze and inclined his head before going to his own horse.
Maekar did not say anything. His gaze bounced from his son and then back to you, as though he was putting something together. He did not speak and seemed surprised. Had he seen you slap his son? It was nothing he had not deserve.
Markar must have agreed because he offered you a soft nod and then turned his attention to Aerion. You went back to Silver and pretended that neither of them were there. The two of them were having some kind of hushed conversation and you could not make out what they were saying.
Eventually your father and the stable boy arrived, and the hunt began.
Your father and Maekar rode ahead, crossbows hanging by their sides. It was the most serious you had seen your father. Neither of the men spoke, which you preferred.
Aerion rode at your side, which you did not prefer. He had his own crossbow but seemed to have little interest in it. His gaze was firmly fixed on the side of your head. Occasionally he would come close and kick softly at your calves, or reach out to pull your hair when he knew neither of your fathers were looking.
One particularly hard pull had you swearing and slapping at his hands. Aerion laughed quietly so as not to draw the attention of your fathers. Yours was particularly oblivious. Maekar, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes sliding from Aerion to you. He seemed bewildered. Perhaps you were not the only one who did not know what Aerion was up to.
After several hours with no sign of game, you began to wish you had remained home. Let Aerion say what he would. It was not worth you distress.
Suddenly everyone seemed to still. You shivered at the sudden change. Even Aerion was silent. You peered out into the dense forest, trying to see whatever it was that had captured everyone’s attention. The only sign that anything was there was a slight rustling in the bush, and then a dull ‘thunk’ as Aerion fired from his crossbow quicker than you thought possible. Then a thud, as whatever it was hit the ground.
Aerion dismounted and disappeared into the brush, returning with an impressively large stag. Your brows raised at the clean shot. It was something even your brothers would have struggled with. Aerion held it up by the antlers and stared in your direction. You smoothed your expression and looked away as though you were bored. You did not want to encourage further ridiculousness.
You stayed on Silver as the men tied the poor creature between their horses and began to head home. Bloodlust satiated, Aerion mostly left you alone, and for that you were thankful.
At dinner, Aerion had the honor of the first serving. It had been divided into manageable chunks, cooked and seasoned in the preferred way of your guests. The scent of venison was thick on the air and you were hungry after the ride.
Your eldest brother Edwyn joined you at dinner. His lady wife was unwell and remained abed. If he was surprised by the royal visitors, he did not show it. He settled into pleasant conversation with your father and Maekar. To his credit, he attempted to include Aerion but the prince seemed determined to make him uncomfortable.
Rather than take the first cut for himself, Aerion slid it your way. All the men at the table went silent. Aware of the gaze of your father and brother, you smiled sweetly and acted surprised.
“For the lady,” Aerion said, smirking at your obvious discomfort.
The meat was rare and bloody. Not your favourite but you would manage. Aerion tucked in to his own with little fanfare, blatantly ignoring his fathers’ eyes. Greasy blood dripped over his lips and he chased the flavour with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with you.
Conversation resumed and you ate your own food whilst wishing for the ground to open up beneath you. Did Aerion even have to say anything? One look at him and your father would surely learn of your behaviour that night. Aerion was hardly subtle.
For the first time since they had arrived, you wondered about Owen. He had been on his way here, had he not? You cringed inwardly at the thought of Owen and Aerion interacting. Not that Aerion would care about Owen, but during the Ashford tournament, Owen had been practically tripping over himself trying to impress the Targaryen guests. You dreaded to think of enduring that behaviour within your own home.
Aerion chose that moment to kick you under the table. Your knee bounced against the underside, drawing the attention of everyone once more. You laughed uneasily and apologised, waving away your father’s concerns.
You waited until all attention was back on the food, and then you kicked Aerion right back.
The next few days went by in a similar fashion. Maekar continued to hunt with your father, returning empty handed most days, and Aerion remained at the castle with you.
Everywhere you went, he was there. More often than not, the pair of you ended up alone. The servants were scared of him and you could not blame them. You overheard him barking at them on several occasions, and he had even thrown something at one of the maids who had come to wake him one morning.
Miraculously, none of these incidents seemed to make their way back to either of your fathers. If the staff trembled when they refilled Aerion’s cup, they did not notice. Neither did Aerion, for his attention was usually fixated on you.
You kept waiting for that temper to turn on you but it never did. So, you continued to bite back, though not literally, and convinced yourself you were doing it on behalf of all the servants.
After several days, you realised that the only thing that seemed to genuinely irritate him was you ignoring him. So, naturally, that was exactly what you did.
No longer did you glance up when he entered the room. At mealtimes, you arranged yourself carefully in your chair so that his legs could not reach you. You had your ladies’ maid, Silena, wind your hair into intricate braids so that there was nothing he could easily pull.
Aerion’s fury built. You pretended not to notice when he sniped at the servants and scowled at your father. Maekar, eager to soothe over any tensions caused by his wild son, was always quick to distract your father with conversation.
One day, Aerion went out hunting with Maekar and your father. Once again, he presented you with the first cut of meat that he had caught. You thanked him politely and nibbled at it as though dissatisfied. Aerion jerked about in his chair as though he might jump up and start shouting.
Would that be enough to get your father to send him away? Probably not. You were beginning to understand that Targaryen princes got away with everything.
Four days trickled past, and there was still no sign of Owen. Not that you thought of him often. A raven had arrived from Lord Frey, asking if his son had arrived. It was odd and you had felt sorry for the man, worried for his son. No doubt he would turn up soon, but not so soon that you had to bear with him and Aerion under the same roof.
On the fifth day, you were thoroughly exhausted. You had begun to avoid Aerion as much as possible – and it mostly wasn’t. The man seemed to have eyes on you at all time.
He had spent most of the day with you in the library. When he wasn’t thumbing through books, he was digging his dagger into the table that had been in your family for generations. His blatant disrespect was unsurprising and you had snuggled further in your chair and tried to pretend like you were actually reading the words on the pages.
After an hour or two of the stifling silence, Aerion had got to his feet and torn the book from your hands. He had torn into it, throwing pages over you like confetti. You had been furious and ready to deliver another swift smack to his cheek. A servant had entered that time, saving you from breaking your silence, and you had both gone down for lunch.
Your father was not the most observant man, but even he could see that you were beyond taxed by the end of the day.
Rather than indulging in evening drinking and games, he suggested that you retire early and have a bath drawn by the staff. You were more than happy to do just that.
You lounged on your bed with a book you did not read as the servants prepared your tub. The water was steaming hot and inviting. Once it was full, they scattered petals into the water and added drops of some scented oil that had you relaxing almost instantly.
Your ladies’ maid waited to help you undress but, as you had every day since returning, you waved her off.
“I’d like some time to myself, Silena,” you smiled softly, “I’ll call for you once I am finished.”
You waited until the door was shut, and then several minutes more for good measure, before undressing. You tried to avoid looking at the bruise on the swell of your breast. Your eyes were drawn there automatically.
Pressing a hand over it, you hissed at the memory of pain and ignored the sparks it sent between your legs. Piling your hair on your head, you arranged it until you were satisfied it would not get wet. Once you were completely bare, you stepped into the tub and settled down, letting your head fall back against the high edge.
The water was verging on boiling, as you liked it. It was milky from the oils and soap. You grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and began to run it over your shoulders and behind your ears.
You let your mind go blank as you cleansed yourself several times over until all you could smell was lavender and something almost smoky. Once more you sat back, content to relax until the water turned cold.
The sound of the door opening had you sighing and dipping lower into the water to hide your bruise. “Silena, I have no need of you yet –“
“But I have need of you.”
You shot up straight, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. Aerion let the door fall shut, reaching behind himself to click the lock into place. His eyes were dark as the fixed on you in the tub and you shivered, cold despite the hot water.
“I’ll scream,” you warned him.
“I’ll tell your father what we did together,” he countered.
He toed off his shoes as though these were his rooms and began to make his way towards you. You had no weapon, nothing with which you might fight him off with, and he seemed to know it.
You dared not take your eyes off of him. When he settled on his knees next to the tub, you became painfully aware of your naked state. It was strange; he had had his fingers on you, almost inside of you, and yet he had not seen you. Not really.
Aerion seemed to be thinking the same thing. He seemed displeased at the milky state of the water. It concealed you from him. You drew your knees up to your chest and waited for him to speak.
Aerion dipped his fingers into the water and hissed. “Hot.”
“I like it that way,” you defended. Then you shut your lips tightly, wishing you had not spoken at all.
Aerion smiled and touched your bare knee beneath the water. You tried to jerk away but he gripped you tight, nails biting into your softened flesh. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I am not here to entertain you, prince.”
“I thought that, too, at the tournament,” he said, “but then you were so wonderfully entertaining in the garden that night. I want more. Have wanted more, since then, and yet you deny what was once so freely given. Why?”
Your mouth felt dry. “I am a lady.”
“And yet,” he repeated, “you betrayed your betrothed that night, with me, didn’t you?”
You stilled, barely registering his words before they hit you full force. “He betrayed me first!” you snarled, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.
Aerion squeezed your knee tighter, ignoring the water creeping its way up his sleeve. It soaked into the golden embroidery that was pattered there, darkening the fabric until it looked like it had been flecked with blood.
“Betrayed you?” Aerion repeated. “Vengeful little thing.”
“He is no longer my betrothed,” you added weakly. “I told my father about what he did.”
“But he was coming here to see you regardless,” Aerion said, mostly to himself.
“How do you know about that?” you asked, finally tearing his hand from your knee. Blood welled from the indents he had left in your flesh with his nails. You shivered at the sting as the warm water washed over them.
Aerion’s eyes dropped low, searching for that mark he had left on your skin over two weeks ago. Then they dipped lower still, fixing on the tips of your breasts that were barely visible beneath the water.
He let out a muted groan, dragging his eyes upward until they were once again on your face. “I believe I said that we were not finished.”
It took you a moment to remember what he was talking about. “Aerion, no.”
“You think you know what you want,” he murmured, “and maybe you did, all those weeks ago. But your mind has become clouded. Allow me to clear it for you.”
You gasped when Aerion leaned over the tub, hands grasping your shoulders as he pulled you forward and arranged you to his liking. He had you with your back to him, against the tub, allowing him to peer over your shoulders and down your body.
You tried to move forward but he would not allow it. You stopped moving when you felt his teeth at your neck. If he left a mark there, it would be visible to everyone, including your father.
“Good girl,” he praised. “Let me finish what we started.”
Beneath the water, Aerion cupped your breasts with a firmness that had you whimpering. You could feel his warm breath puffing over the shell of your ear and you squirmed, searching yourself for your earlier reluctance. It was not there.
When Aerion rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, you nearly dissolved into the bath water. He kneaded them gentle, rolling the tips between his fingers in a way that had you gripping at his arms and shoving your face against his shoulder.
One hand abandoned your breast, instead snaking down and over the swell of your stomach, searching for the wetness between your legs. You let your thighs fall open without a second thought, eager for that feeling from those weeks ago.
Aerion sucked in a breath. “Sweet girl.”
He pressed a kiss to your cheek at the same time as his fingers made contact with your aching clit. This was dangerous, you tried to remind yourself, for this you might do anything.
Like before, Aerion’s fingers began to propel you toward orgasm quicker than you typically could alone. Your clit seemed more than eager for whatever he wanted to give and each touch felt devastatingly soft, as though he was punishing you for not allowing him to give you this back in the garden.
Distantly, you wondered if he was trying to prove something. You could not find it in you to care, so long as he kept doing whatever it was that he was doing.
You almost didn’t notice when his fingers began to slide lower until one was nudging at your entrance. It was not something you typically did alone. You were always too worried of spilling your own blood. You opened your mouth to protest but, before you could, Aerion had you spread apart on his fingers as he gently fucked you with his hand.
You choked on your breath. “Aerion, please – you can’t –“
“Shhh,” he whispered, surprisingly tender as he took you apart. “Do not worry. Just feel.”
All it took was one swipe of his thumb over your clit. You had to plaster your hands over your mouth to mask the sound that was spilling from your lips. Aerion did not stop and instead continued to stroke you through your orgasm, to the point of painful sensitivity. He did not stop until you physically pulled his hands from you, and even then he seemed reluctant.
You sagged against the tub, entirely breathless and shaken. Aerion grabbed your face with one hand, turning you this way and that, as though he were admiring his own work. You waited for some snarky comment.
Aerion hummed to himself, letting his hand drop until it was hovering over the bite mark. His bite mark. He did not touch it, instead he pulled back and got to his feet, stepping somewhat unsteadily away from the tub.
“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. “Never ignore me again.”
With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out as though he was never there. The only sign that he had been was a churning in your stomach and an ache between your thighs.
Once you were sure he was gone, you dunked your head under the water and did not come up until your lungs were screaming for air.
Despite his words, you did not see Aerion the next day. Nor the one after that. You father, brother and Maekar also seemed to have disappeared. Uneasy, you assumed they had some official business that needed seeing to. Maybe the princes had even left.
No, you knew they hadn’t. It felt silly to say but you could feel Aerion, still lurking in your home, despite staying out of sight. Fire seemed to burn hotter with him in the building.
At night you found yourself sweaty and cross, abandoning your blankets and tossing and turning until you were able to pass out. You never slept for long.
On the second day, after hiding in the library and dining alone, you felt unusually anxious. All your clothes felt tight and ill fitting. Had Aerion told your father about the bath? It was all you could think about all day. You picked at your food and didn’t read a thing until it was time for bed, at which time you went up alone and dismissed Selina in favour of dressing yourself.
You tugged on a sleep gown, relishing the soft loose fabric in comparison to your day clothes. The fire in the grate was out and you felt too warm to fetch Silena so you left it alone, allowing the candles lit to guide the way to your bed.
You shoved all the sheets down until they were not touching you. Then you positioned yourself like an X, trying to cool down and banish the day’s anxieties from your brain. You had to stay in control. It would not do to let your guard down when Aerion was around.
Sleep would not come. Even when you trained yourself to stay perfectly still, taking even and deep breathes, it seemed to taunt you from the darkest corners of your room. Eventually the candles went out, leaving you in almost complete darkness.
The moon still shone in through your window. It allowed you to see vague shapes and the outline of your own body. You squeezed your eyes shut and begged the seven for sleep.
Just when you were ready to jump up and begin lighting candles, there was a noise. For a moment you did not recognise it for what it was. Your heart shot into your throat as you realised it was the sound of your door opening and shutting, then the lock falling into place.
You remained still, tense and silent as you peered into the darkness, heart hammering in your chest. It was not until the moonlight glinted off of something silver that you relaxed.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed, sitting up as Aerion approached your bed. “You can’t be in here.”
“Scared?” he asked, settling himself on the edge of your bed.
“This is highly improper,” you warned, eyes bulging from your head as Aerion began to shed his clothes as though the room were his own.
He did not respond. He continued shucking his clothes until only his braies remained, the outline of his cock already half hard between his legs. You swallowed and commanded yourself not to stare. Eventually he shed those too.
“You can’t be in here,” you repeated weakly.
Aerion’s hand found your ankle in the darkness. You yelped as he yanked you, your back hitting the mattress as he dragged you further down the bed. You were near winded as he climbed on top of you, knees on either side of your hips as he rested his weight softly on your stomach.
It wasn’t until he began to snatch at your wrists that you remembered yourself and began to struggle. With a yell, you set your teeth to the first line of flesh you saw.
Your teeth sank into his bicep much like they had sank into his chest all those weeks ago. Blood trickled into your mouth and you bit harder.
Aerion’s hand came to cradle the back of your hand. “That’s it, just like that.”
Immediately you let go, hissing up at him with bloodied teeth. “There is nothing sweet about this. Now get off.”
Aerion leaned down and licked the blood from your mouth, moaning every time you nipped at him with already bloodied teeth. It was insanity, madness, and it was making you unbearably fucking wet.
“My turn,” Aerion said, and then his teeth were burying into your neck so deeply that you faintly wondered if you would scar.
Your hips bucked upward, driving his cock into your stomach as he sucked at your neck, teeth pinching and tongue soothing as he went. You were done. There was no way you could cover whatever mark he had left this time. Had this been his plan all along?
When Aerion pulled away, there was blood smeared across his face just like before. More of it, even. He ran his fingers over the mark you had left and hissed, fisting his cock with his other hand.
“Enough with waiting,” he muttered, “I have been a patient man.”
You did not protest as Aerion shoved your night dress up until it was bunched under your armpits. You nearly moaned when he parted your thighs, baring you to him fully for the first time.
He pressed his fingers to your entrance and groaned. “So fucking hot. Are you sure you are not blood of the dragon?”
He ran his fingers through your arousal and brought them to his lips, letting your slick mingle with the blood before licking his fingers clean. Your cunt throbbed with each pass of his tongue over his fingers and it took you a moment to realise you were whimpering aloud.
“No matter,” he said, “you’ll have a dragon inside you, one way or another.”
Placing one hand on your stomach, Aerion used his other to notch his cock at your entrance. The heat coming off him was intense. Sweat beaded on your hairline as you tried to focus on the consequence, on why you should not be doing this, but your mind refused to focus on anything but the thick feel of Aerion sliding into you.
There was a flash of pain as he nudged up against something inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, instead thrusting forward and taking your maidenhead with little compassion. You winced at the bite of pain.
Aerion kept your thighs pinned wide to accommodate him. His eyes darted from your face to the obscene sight between your legs. His hips began to shift as he thrust in earnest. All thoughts of pain fell away as you became accustomed to the thickness of him.
Aerion Brightflame was fucking you and you were letting him.
Everyt ime your eyes fell shut he would stop until you were focused back on him. The wet sound of your union had your ears burning as you mewled beneath him, greedily chasing every little feeling he was introducing you to.
You could feel yourself twitching around his length as his nails dug into the meat of your thighs. The scent of sweat and sex was a heady thing, heavy on your tongue as Aerion fucked you steadily with deep thrusts of his cock.
Your jaw dropped open when his hand dipped between your legs, collecting blood there and bringing it to his chest, smearing it there as he gazed darkly down at you.
You watched as he smeared the blood in a line over his lips, and then as he reached down and made the same motion over yours. You could taste the copper and sweat and felt almost dizzy with the arousal that hit you.
Aerion was not finished. His hand went down again, this time with his thumb finding your clit. He wasted no time. He began rubbing in the way he had learned that you liked, driving you toward orgasm faster than you could keep up with.
Your thighs clenched around his hips, trying to slow him down, but he was relentless. Between the quick passes of his thumb and the way he was fucking you, you were helpless. Your orgasm splintered through you like physical thing, wiping your mind blank until all that tied you to earth was the cock breaking you open and the hands gripping your face.
“Yes, yes,” Aerion chanted, hips driving into yours with vigor. “Come around me, wife.”
His words made no sense and yet – your orgasm washed over you, stronger than ever, until you were left writhing beneath him on the bed. You recognised your own voice, begging for a break as Aerion wrang every drop of relief from you.
It was only then that his hips began to lose rhythm. He leaned down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, tongue chasing the combination of blood, sweat and arousal that coated both your lips. You felt him moan into your mouth, felt his hips stutter as he emptied himself inside you.
You were still aware enough to know that it was a bad thing. Visions of yourself, unwed and with child, threatened to break the bliss. You tried to push Aerion off but he was having none of it.
“Be still,” he grumbled, arranging you in his arms until he had you pinned to his chest, cock still inside you. He pinched your ass when you would not stop moving.
“Aerion,” you cried, pushing at his chest. “You – you have ruined me! I could be with child –“
“Good,” he yawned, fingers pinching, “it will reflect well on me when you are with child in less than a year after the wedding.”
You paused, remembering his earlier words. “Wedding? I am not getting married, Aerion.”
“Oh, but you are,” he grinned, all sharp and poision, fitting his teeth to the mark he had already made on your neck. “You are to be a dragon’s bride. My bride.”
“My father would not allow it,” you said weakly, disbelieving.
“He already has,” Aerion bit down, “he will tell you of your good fortune tomorrow morning.”
“My father would not make me –“
“Make you?” Aerion repeated, pulling back slightly so that he could see your face. The movement reminded you that his cock was still very much inside you. “Who is he to refuse a dragon?”
“Besides,” he continued, “you are well suited to me, wife.”
“Wife,” you said numbly, shivering when Aerion tilted his hips and rubbed his cock against a particularly inviting place inside you.
“What do you think I came all this way for?” he smiled wolfishly. “Look how you blossom beneath me. My wife. Call me husband. I demand it.”
a/n - when the cookie is so good he stalks you across Westeros and his father is so tired of him that he goes along with it
I worked so hard on this 😭 please let me know if you enjoyed it! Every like, reblog and comment is deeply appreciated
A/N: Part two in the ModernAU AKOTSK based off this post. I am so so excited by the amount of people that enjoyed this and will work on a masterlist and maaaaybe a moodboard (more chances with a spotify playlist tbh). As usual, if anybody wants to be tagged in the next parts, please let me know!
- summary: You're worried that Egg doesn't seem to have any friends his own age and he spends his time either with you at the studio or, to Maekar's dismay, with Dunk at his farm.
- part 1 can be found here
- pairing: modernAU ceo!maekar x artist!reader
- characters: Egg, Maekar, LYONEL BARATHEON
- word count: 1.8k
- content: a few curse words, established relationship, slice of life, small age difference (30-32 to Maekar’s 43-44), reader is curvy/plus size, Lyonel is very fun to write, Maekar is always one step away from an aneurysm, evil Lannister, private school mothers continue to be the bane of my existence.
Since moving in at Summerhall, you made it a point to have breakfast together in the garden with him and Rhae, instead of the dining room, where it was usually just the three of you seated at a table that could fit twelve. Egg, when managing to keep him still for five minutes, enjoyed munching on his food in the kitchen with the household staff and bombing them with questions in between bites. It was a mystery when Daeron and Aerion kept themselves fed.
Today the Oldtown Private School and Weirwood Day School were having an event at the botanical gardens where children and parents from both schools could socialise and ‘strenghten community through academia’ - or at least that was what the newsletter said. Maekar rolled his eyes when he saw the message, muttering something about how ‘only a bunch of hippies’ could send their kids there.
“Maybe not every parent wants their child to wear a beret as part of the uniform,” you mused over your breakfast, remembering the great lenghts Egg went to avoid wearing it. Thank the Gods the school didn’t require a dress code today.
“I don’t see anything wrong with that beret,” Maekar protested, taking off his reading glasses and throwing them on top of the newspaper beside his plate of food. “He will grow into it.”
“That’s not the point, love. He looks like a mini tyrant.”
“All children his age are tyrants,” Maekar complained.
“How are you feeling about today, Egg?” you asked the boy as you drove to the city, leaving behind the open fields and wooded groves of the countryside where Summerhall was situated. Maekar insisted you take his car, a sleek black Mercedes, to the event; a subtle way of saying yours was not even nearly up to standard for a school function. “There’s another school invited. That means more chances of getting to know someone even if those mothers don’t warm up to me.”
Aegon shrugged his shoulders, but gripped the box of pastries tighter in his lap. He insisted holding onto it during the ride like precious cargo, afraid something would happen to the ‘peace offering’ along the way. “Great expectations bring bigger disappointments.”
“Ouch. Have a little faith in me, buddy.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not concerned about you.”
You, on the other hand, woke up at the crack of dawn panicking what to wear in order to make the best possible first impression. Maekar found you in the dressing room around an explosion of clothes and made sure to fuck away all your anxiety in the shower. Twice.
“Take that Hermès bag I gave you for your birthday,” he said as you were both getting dressed for the day. As usual, he was struggling with his cufflinks. “Those witches care more about brands than personality.”
After parking the car and taking the box out of Egg’s hands, you walked side by side down the gravel path to a clearing where children were playing, making sure to survey the place for any parents that were obviously from his school. Your eyes landed on a table with refreshments and, not far from it, a handful of women standing close to eachother, whispering occasionally between themselves. The rest of the parents were scattered around with other children or on their phones.
Bingo.
Egg tugged on your blazer and you bent down enough for him to whisper in your ear. “That’s them.”
“I figured as much… Now are you ready to mingle while I try to charm their extensions off?”
He made a face. “I make no promises.”
“Promise me you will at least try? I’ll buy you waffles after.”
“For waffles,” he vowed solemnly. You ruffled his short hair and sent him on his way.
Anxiety creeped over as you got closer to the table. You decided to grab a glass of lemonade and arrange the box along with the other treats parents brought to buy some time.
“Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air,” a voice startled you. You put on a smile and turned to greet her. She wore her golden hair braided around her head in a crown, a few wavy wisps escaping the updo. The clothes screamed Ralph Lauren ad – an impecable blend of function and casual elegance, styled effortlessly with subtle gold creoles and a leather strap tank watch.
You introduced yourself, shaking her hand. Her ring finger almost blinded you. “I’m Cerelle Lannister, head of the Parent Council.” Her features put her closer to Maekar’s age than yours.
“It’s nice to meet another parent from Aegon’s school.”
She was studying you, just like her clique was doing from a few feet away. You could feel their eyes staring holes into you even with your back turned. They didn’t even bother to move farther away while they whispered.
...must be an au pair…
Don’t be silly, I think she’s the girlfriend. She doesn’t have a ring.
Not for long. Give her more time to know him better.
You know I don’t like to gossip, but that Kelly is fresh out of the box. It’s not about personality.
Well, she’s working for it today.
“It’s a shame Maekar doesn’t have the patience for these gatherings. How else are we to catch up and discuss new initiatives?”
You took a sip of lemonade. “He’s just very busy.”
Cerelle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re such a darling for helping him. Gods know those children need a female influence in their life after what happened with Dyanna. You do know about her, right?”
You bitch.
“I’m aware.”
Holding your own in a conversation with her felt more like a game of smokes and mirrors – every sentence had an underlying message and pleasantries masked stinging remarks.
“Don’t tell Maekar I said this, but we were getting worried about little Aegon. I heard he’s a bit shy and introverted at school. A boy his age should socialise more.”
“Must be a school thing,” you mused. “Aegon is plenty sociable in his other activities.”
She hummed, clearly not pleased with your message when reading between the lines. “Well, I have to go tell the girls all about you. We should get better aquainted over tea sometime,” Cerelle said with a well practiced smile and left you alone at the refreshment table.
Translation: fuck off.
You needed to put some distance between yourself and those women. The open field did nothing to ease with the caged in sensation Cerelle left you with.
Why did I quit smoking? I could use a cigarette right now.
The rest of your time was spent under the shade of an old oak tree, sipping lemonade and keeping an eye on Egg as he played with some kids and their dogs – most likely from the other school. He searched for you in the crowd of people scattered around the field and you gave him a wave and a thumbs up. From the corner of your eye, a tall silhouette of a man was getting closer and closer. A man who was wearing the most obnoxious yellow silk shirt you had even seen in your life.
“Tell me, what does a lovely woman like you do in a place like this? By the Gods, I’ve seen funerals with more potential!”
You rolled your eyes into the back of your head.
“I’m making sure a ten year old is socialising enough,” you muttered.
“The Targaryen boy,” he stated.
“That one.”
You could feel his eyes dancing between you and Egg while he chose his next words. The earlier exchange with those aweful women left you in no mood to play nice with another arrogant parent. Maybe Egg could meet a new friend at Tanselle’s painting class if you convinced him to give it a chance.
“Baelor’s offspring are too old to be in school,” Lyonel trailed off, hands buried in his pockets as he leaned sideway against the tree. He had that laissez-faire air about him with his wind swept curls and lazy smile. “I’m not even going to bother with the other two brothers, so that leaves good old Maekar. Which of them is this one - number four or five?” he grinned, very pleased with himself.
“Six,” you mumbled, eyes following Egg around as he found a spot on the grass next to another kid with eyes glued on a screen. They started exchanging a few words from time to time, between game levels no doubt. Baby steps.
He let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, he’s been busy.”
You shot Lyonel a look that didn’t have any effect on him. In fact, his interest soley focused on you. “You know eachother?”
“Our families do business. So… Where did he keep you hidden away all this time?’
“Oh, you know… Tucked away in one of his desk drawers. Don’t worry, he makes sure I have enough water and sunlight.”
Nothing could have prepared you for the booming laugh he let out, head thrown back and completely unashamed by some startled parents nearby. You found yourself laughing with him under the shade of the oak tree as the leaves swayed slowly in the breeze.
“I like you. I bet you keep that old grump on his toes.”
“Six children do the job just fine, trust me,” you said, the trace of a smile lingering.
“I’m perfectly aware! I have four of those myself,” he mused with a smile on his face. “In fact, the shy one next to your boy is mine.”
My boy.
All things considered, the day ended on a good note. Like you, Lyonel was pleased his offspring had an interaction that didn’t involve dogs and you exchanged numbers to set up a playdate for them. He even introduced you to the Starks; a polite couple with few words to say, but sincere in their manner of speaking.
Egg stuffed his face with waffles, as promised.
By the time you parked in front of the entrance you were ready to throw yourself into a couch and nap. Egg on the other hand stormed inside the house, running straight to the garden. Maekar greeted you in the hallway with a kiss that had you melting into him. “Aegon’s in a good mood,” he muttered against your lips and captured them in another kiss, this time applying more pressure as his hands rested on your hips.
“He’s high on sugar. I loaded him with chocolate waffles.”
“Was your plan a success?”
You let out a groan, remembering Cerelle. “Those women are vile! But Egg got along with another boy his age from Weirwood Day School.”
“I won’t have Aegon running around barefoot and hugging trees, woman. Whose child are we talking about?”
“His name is Lyonel Baratheon. I understand you do business together.”
Maekar closed his eyes, feeling a headache washing over his temples. “Fuck me…”
Professional Boundaries - Part 2 (ModernAU!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
Masterlist | Part 1
Summary: You thought remote work was dangerous, but turns out shared office space was worse. Proximity is a different battlefield, and today, he can see you, hear you, but not touch you.
This was supposed to be professional.
Word count: 9K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Modern AU, power dynamics, age gap(reader is in her late 20s, or early 30, Baelor in his mid-40s), established relationship, explicit smut, unprotected sex (p in v), vaginal fingering, exhibitionism if you squint, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, corporate lingo, best friend Lyonel, English is my second language, proof read like 2 times
Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
Author’s note: Did I sit down after work and actually finish this properly because I was busy the entire previous week with life and could not write as much as I wanted?? Yes I did, and we call that proper adulting hahah I love modern Baelor with all my heart, that I could not stop myself from writing part 2, even though that was not the plan! No self control in this house hahahh
If you enjoyed the story, please like, comment or reblog :)
P.S. Be on the lookout for part 2 of “In the Shadows of the Red Keep” later this week (finally, I know hahah)! And potentially a modern Maekar one shot that’s been languishing in my drafts, it just needs a bit of a polishing…
You should not have arrived at the office with Lyonel. That was your first mistake. You knew it the second you slid into the passenger seat of his car and shut the door. You knew that this was going to be a complicated day from the start.
Lyonel adjusted the mirrors like he was preparing for a battlefield.
“This is ridiculous.” You muttered, fastening your seatbelt.
“What is?” He asked mildly, pulling away from the curb.
“The dramatics.”
He glanced at you. “You mean the part where I am saving you from walking in with your manager-slash-”
“Finish that sentence and I am getting out of the car.”
He grinned. “I am being a good friend. Optics matter.”
“Optics?” You scoffed. “Since when do you care about optics?”
“Since my best friend decided to enter into a relationship with our manager.”
You smacked him loudly in the arm. “Lower your voice!”
He winced, rolling his eyes. “Who is going to hear us? We are alone in a moving car!”
“You are still loud.”
He laughed freely, as he usually did. “Relax. I told you it is better if we walk in together. Definitely less suspicious than you arriving alone. Or worse… with him.”
Crossing your arms, you turned to look at the moving road, before checking your reflection in the visor mirror. “We were never going to arrive together.”
“Mhm…” He hummed, unconvinced. “Sure.”
You glared at him. “We are professionals, Lyonel.”
“You are terrible liars, that’s what you are.” He corrected you.
The office building came into view, growing larger, and Lyonel turned into the underground entrance of the parking lot.
The company had announced a “trial return”, one mandatory in-office day a week, and your team had been ordered to go in this week as one of the first. The announcement had been drenched in corporate phrasing, with words such as visibility, leadership presence, and team cohesion. All of which translated into one thing: be seen.
Lyonel parked and turned off the car, then looked at you pointedly. “Be honest with me, are you really okay?”
“Of course.” You did not sound that convincing, even to your own ears.
“You sure? Because you checked your reflection in the visor mirror four times now.”
“That is just normal.”
“No. That’s spiraling.”
You exhaled sharply, unbuckling your belt. “I am not spiraling.”
“You are walking into a building where the man you have been-”
“Lyonel!”
He held up his hands. “Fine. You are walking into a building where your very professional superior happens to have very unprofessional… feelings for you.”
You pressed your lips together to stop the reaction that threatened to betray you, not looking at him.
He studied you for a second, softer now, his hand squeezing yours. “Are you sure you can do this?”
You did not answer immediately, because that was the problem. You were not sure. For the past few months, Baelor had not just been your manager.
He had been yours.
The relationship was still new to feel addictive, still unfolding in quiet moments between work calls, dates and early mornings, you and him still learning about one another. You worked from his kitchen island, laptop open while he moved behind you, brushing a hand over your waist as if it were second nature. He knew how you liked your coffee during the day, and you knew how his voice sounded in the morning when he had just woken up, low and rough, his arm heavy and possessive around your waist.
Remote had made this period manageable, easy, and safe. It was easy to simply turn off the camera to compose oneself, easy to hide the stolen kisses. But being in the office was different. There were no controlled camera angles, no safe distance. And there were witnesses.
You sighed for like the tenth time as Lyonel led you to the elevator, pressing the buttons for the last floor, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles along your collar..
“Can you try and relax a little?” He asked, looking at you from the corner of his eyes.
“I am relaxed.”
“For your information, you adjusted your shirt three times since we parked.”
“It is called being presentable.”
“I am saying it again, it is called spiraling.”
You shot him a look, but your eyes drifted back to the mirrored elevator doors anyway. Your reflection stared back at you, a silk blouse on your frame. It was structured, but soft enough to move when you did. Its color was a deep red, almost wine toned.
It happened to be Baelor’s favorite colour on you. Not that you had chosen it for that reason, obviously. It just was a good colour on you.
As you smoothed the invisible creases, you noted how the black pencil skirt sat perfectly at your waist, clean lines, and knee-length. Paired with black heeled shoes, you looked elegant without being dramatic.
“You look fine, your hair has not moved an inch.” Lyonel said, before adding softly: “You are overthinking it.”
“I am not.” You disagreed. You did not want to look fine, you wanted to look unaffected.
“You are going to be fine.” He bumped your shoulder affectionately, while looking at the numbers climbing.
You could not help but look at your reflection again, when the doors of the elevator opened.
“And stop looking guilty.” Lyonel muttered as you stepped out in tandem. “You are starting to look like someone who left his apartment today at 6am.”
“Keep your fucking voice down.” You hissed, as you passed a row of, thankfully, empty desks.
His eyes widened, a grin spreading across his face. “You did?!”
Heat crept up your neck as you shushed him.
Yes, you had gone to Baelor’s last night, for dinner and to discuss how you would handle your day in the office, the boundaries, the distance and the professionalism required from both of you. The discussion had dissolved within minutes of it starting. It had been impossible to sit close to him at the dining table and talk about restraint when his hand kept drifting to your thigh, when your mouth kept finding his. After dinner you had soon found yourselves sinking into his couch, lips locked in a heavy and passionate kiss, his fingers pressing and prodding your entrance as he brought you to your release twice before sinking in you. You were supposed to go home after, but you did not, unable to find the strength required to separate yourself from him.
Lyonel made a low, knowing sound but mercifully let it go as you settled at a desk near Baelor’s office, close enough for collaboration, far enough to appear coincidental.
“You know, I never thought I would see the day Baelor Targaryen would risk HR.” Lyonel said, chuckling, as he started up his laptop without sitting down.
“He is not risking anything.” You replied too quickly, busying yourself with organising your desk while standing.
Lyonel hummed, unimpressed. “And even if people suspect…” He went on, screen flickering to life. “They're far too professional to say it.”
And that was the fragile safety net, that was the unsettling part, because no one had said anything. But you knew they looked, not in an obvious or crude way, just the awareness. They noticed the way your debates in meetings edged a little too sharp, a little too personal. The way his gaze found you instinctively, and the way it sometimes lingered.
Now the open office held that same awareness, only sharpened by proximity, harder to ignore.
As if summoned by thought, the door to his office opened and Baelor stepped out.
He was wearing your favourite shirt on him, a dark grey tailored to perfection. He looked immaculate, expression composed, authority in every line of his posture. But there was a faint crease between his brows that was not there last night. You noticed it immediately, heart clenching. Was it the stress of hiding? The strain of keeping distance? The effort of pretending nothing had changed between you? Probably all three.
His gaze scanned the room first, noting the next batch of arrivals, before it found yours, lingering half a beat too long, warmth behind his mismatched eyes. Not enough for proof, just confirmation if one knew to look for the signs.
“Good morning Baelor.” Lyonel said smoothly, far too smoothly for your liking.
“Lyonel. Morning.” His tone was even, neutral, his gaze flickering to Lyonel before he looked at you again.
“Good morning.” He almost smiled softly, when your name escaped his lips.
“Good morning Baelor.” You replied steadily, giving him a small smile back.
You were grateful Lyonel did not comment on the microsecond pause before Baelor tore his eyes away from you, and back to the room.
“Team meeting in 20 minutes, in the main conference room.” He announced to the floor. “Be prepared."
The moment his office door shut, Lyonel leaned toward you.
“Seriously…” He murmured. “The tension between you could power the whole building.”
You elbowed him without looking at him, eyes still fixed on the office door.
But he was not wrong, as you had felt it too, that shift in the room when Baelor was present, the way the air seemed to tighten whenever you spoke to one another. The way your pulse refused to settle.
Oh, this was going to be a problem.
Even with his door closed, you were aware of him, of the distance between you, of the restraint humming beneath your skin. It felt sharper, more deliberate, like both of you were holding a line that was never meant to be drawn in the first place.
You were not just trying not to touch him, you were trying not to react to the fact that you wanted to. Subtlety was something you and Baelor had not been good at when you were alone. Conversations had a way of drifting closer, heated discussions had a way of ending with hands where they should not be. Both of you were incapable of occupying the same space without touching.
It was simply how the two of you existed around one another.
Both of you were fundamentally incapable of occupying the same space without touching. There was always some unconscious reach for the other, a hand at the small of your back, your fingers brushing his arm, shoulders leaning together as though the distance between you was an inconvenience that needed correcting.
And now, surrounded by other people, every instinct you had was screaming to do exactly that. But you could not.
Twenty minutes later, the team was gathered in the main conference room. It had glass walls, frosted halfway up, with a long oak table stretching beneath suspended industrial lights. The city spread wide behind Baelor at the head of the table. The room had minimal decor, clean lines, everything was precise and controlled, like him.
Except today, the control looked tighter than usual. Baelor was sharper with everyone, answers were clipped. His corrections were immediate, he did not waste words, and did not have patience for imprecision.
There was also something unyielding in Baelor’s eyes, a severity that had not been there last night, and it made something twist painfully in your chest. You wanted to smooth it away, wanted to brush your thumb over that crease between his brows. You wanted to drag your fingers through his hair, press your palm against his temple the way you did when he overworked himself. You wanted to make it go away. But, again, you could not, so you had to concentrate on the meeting.
It began cleanly enough, the team touching on metrics, KPIs, and projections, slides flickering in measured rhythm. You sat three chairs down from him, not close enough to raise eyebrows, yet not too far either. Lyonel had very deliberately taken the seat between you, as if he was a physical buffer to your tension.
But then, the moment came, when you pushed against the data. His data.
You leaned forward slightly. “The retention numbers in Q1 are inflated.” You said calmly. “If we isolate the repeat contracts from legacy clients, the growth is not as strong as it appears.”
The shift was immediate, a few heads turned towards you. Baelor’s eye flickered to you in a calm and controlled manner.
“They are not inflated.” He replied evenly. “They are contextual.”
“Yes…” You agreed, unflinching. “But presenting them without separating those categories could mislead the board.”
The air thinned. Baelor’s posture was composed and perfectly measured on the surface. But his eyes were anything but. Underneath, they were a raging storm, testing. The same look he had given you across muted video calls when you challenged him just to see how far you could push. The same look that had unraveled into something far less professional once the meeting ended.
“Don’t.” Lyonel murmured only for you, a warning, a reminder that you were in the office, and it made this even more dangerous. But you ignored him, because if you could not touch Baelor, could not close the distance, could not let your hands say what your body had grown used to saying, then this was what you had left. The challenge, the push. And because his gaze on you was enough to drown out everything else.
Even Lyonel’s muttered “I swear to God” beside you.
“Are you suggesting-” Baelor asked, voice calm but edged. “That I misrepresented data?”
A lesser version of you might have backed down, but you held his stare. “I am simply suggesting clarity would strengthen your argument.”
The team shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
And then, a corner of his mouth twitched, barely there.
“Noted.” He said. “Revise the slide for the board deck. Add the separation.”
The resolution was clean, professional, and the meeting continued on.
But something electric had passed between you, sharp, dangerous, intimate in a way no one else would understand. And when the meeting ended, he did not even look at you.
Nine minutes after you made your way back to your desk, your Teams notification chimed. Your stomach dropped the second his name lit up your screen.
Baelor:
Come to my office, now.
The message was brief, direct, the same as it always was. You stared at it a second longer than necessary, as if that might slow the way your pulse had started to race. There was no buffer now, no way to pretend you were in another call, no convenient excuse.
It was just you, and the fact that he wanted you in his office.
You closed your laptop with more composure than you felt, ignoring the way Lyonel’s gaze slid toward you, sharp, perceptive, entirely too aware.
You stood, smoothing your shirt, schooling your expression into something neutral. Measured steps carried you across the floor, but your heartbeat refused to cooperate, thudding hard enough you were certain it showed.
You knocked once.
“Come in.”
His voice was controlled. Far more controlled than you were used to.
Baelor was already standing when you stepped inside, shirt loosened at the neck, sleeves rolled up to show the tension on his forearms.
His office was quiet, dark wood shelving lined the walls, neat rows of reports and awards behind him. A wide desk positioned deliberately between him and the city skyline, a couch next to it. There were no glass walls, no visibility from the corridor. It was private and dangerous.
The office smelled like him, making your knees tremble.
He moved past you, shutting the door with a heavy click. And then you heard it, the unmistakable sound of the lock turning.
“Is that necessary?” You asked, placing your laptop on his desk, your voice barely steady.
He did not answer immediately, instead he walked towards you in measured and deliberate steps.
“If we are going to have this conversation…” He stopped in front of you. “Then yes.”
Instinctively, you pressed yourself at the edge of his desk.
“You think I did not see it?” He murmured, his eyes, one brown and one light blue, roaming your face. “How you looked at me after you challenged me?”
“You know that’s just me being confident.” You whispered back, our gaze flicking between his exposed neck, lips, and eyes.
His gaze held yours, searching, sharp. There was no anger in it, only heat.
“You were provoking, darling.” He said quietly.
Your lips parted slightly. “I was not-”
“And you knew exactly what you were doing.” His jaw flexed.
The air between you thickened. He stepped closer, close enough that you felt the warmth of him without being touched. Your body reacted instinctively, pulse thudding in your throat.
“You looked at me…” He continued, voice low. “Like you wanted me to break.”
Your composure wavered for half a second. “I was just making a point.”
“You were testing my restraint.”
“So?” You asked, breathless. “It is not the first time I have done that.”
“There’s truth in that…” He closed the remaining distance, his body pressing against yours. His thigh slotted between your legs, his warmth enveloping you.
“But this is an office, dear.” He continued. “With our entire team on the other side of that door.”
Your eyes flitted to his lips, your tongue darting out to wet yours. “Then unlock the door Baelor…” You whispered.
The challenge hung between you. But instead of stepping back, his jaw tightened, a second of a decision passing through his eyes. He finally touched you, his hand settling firmly on your waist. Giving you a little bit of room, he turned you slowly so you faced the desk, the movement deliberate, claiming space rather than rushing it. Your palms met the polished surface, cool against heated skin. Your heart thumped loudly against your chest at the implication. A low whimper escaped you as he pressed himself against your back, his hard cock settling between your buttocks, and his hand settling back to your waist.
You knew this was wrong, so wrong, but you could not stop yourself. And you did not want to stop him.
His other hand came up to your neck, craning your head gently to look at him, his thumb caressing your jaw, his presence consuming your senses.
“If anyone knocks…” He was trying to keep his voice under control. “You compose yourself immediately. Understood?”
You nodded, body tingling with anticipation as his thumb caressed your lower lip.
“Use your words, darling.”
“Yes…” You sighed.
His other hand travelled from your waist to the zipper on the side of your skirt. He swiftly pulled it down and shifted the skirt lower, gaining more access to you. He cupped the heat between your legs, groaning softly. Heat flooded your face, your head falling back on his shoulder as you felt your dampened panties press against you, his fingers pressing hard.
“Baelor-” You groaned, embarrassed at how wet you already were for him, without him even having touched you.
His hand at your neck tightened in warning.
“Careful…” He pressed a kiss to your neck, his fingers deftly moving your panties to the side. His trembling breath ghosted your neck as his middle finger parted your folds, gathering your slick arousal along the length of it. He hushed you gently as you swallowed a moan, his finger circling your clit in slow, languid strokes that made your thighs tremble. The pressure built with each pass, his touch teasing the sensitive nub, flicking lightly before rubbing in firm circles that sent sparks of pleasure up your spine.
Every sound felt amplified, the rustle of clothes, the shift of breath, the scrape of your nails on his desk.
“My beautiful girl… You just had to push me in public.” Baelor whispered heatedly. “You just had to challenge me.”
“And you respond…” You closed your eyes, concentrating on savoring his fingers on your clit and staying quiet. “And you like it every time I do that.”
A quiet, almost amused exhale brushed against your skin, and he pressed a kiss and licked a hot trail up your neck.
“Yes…” He admitted, adjusting his hand to slide his middle finger deeper, pushing it inside you with a deliberate thrust. The intrusion stretched you just enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching around the single digit as he began to pump it in and out, slow at first, letting your wetness coat him fully.
This was different from all the other times he has fingered you. The tension was higher. There were no screens, cameras, or distance protecting you, just a locked door.
His hand moved from your neck to breast, squeezing it tight. Your head fell forward, slack, your hips bucking against his hand, chasing the friction. A second finger joined the first, and Baelor scissored them inside you, stretching your entrance wider. The wet sounds of his fingers sliding through your slick walls filled the air, obscene and barely muffled, making your cheeks burn hotter. He curled them upward on the next thrust, hooking against that spot deep inside that makes your knees buckle. His thumb found your clit, pressing and rolling it in tandem with the thrusts. You bit your lip hard to stifle the moan building in your throat, your body arching back into him. He groaned as your ass rubbed against his hard cock.
“You will be the end of me, my dear…”
His eyes darkened further as he felt you tighten around his fingers, your walls fluttering and gripping his fingers like a vice. You were so close, the coil in your belly winding tighter with every plunge of his fingers, deeper and faster, his thumb grinding against your clit while his digits twist and stroke that sensitive inner wall.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, breath ragged as he whispered. “That's it darling… take it quietly for me.”
The command pushed you closer, your slick dripping down his hand, coating his wrist.
Suddenly, a muffled laugh passed outside in the hallway. And reality crashed back in all at once. Baelor’s restraint snapped back into place. He stepped away abruptly, withdrawing his fingers from you with a wet pop that made you whimper in frustration. You both stood there like that for a moment, in the silent aftermath.
You turned to look at him, lips parted and chest heaving, trying to steady your breathing. Though his restraint was back, his eyes betrayed him completely. They were dark and heated with the remnants of what had just happened.
Without a word, he stepped closer. He helped you adjust your clothes, smoothing the worst of the wrinkles with careful hands. You stood still while he did that, steadying yourself with one hand on the edge of the desk. His hand lingered briefly on your waist, giving it a squeeze before he stepped back. After he was sure you were presentable, he focused on himself, rebuttoning his shirt where it had come undone and running a hand through his hair to tame the worst of it.
Soon there was almost nothing left to betray what had just happened here. Except the faint warmth still lingering between you.
“Next time…” He said, executive composure back in place. “Do not challenge me like that in front of everyone.”
Your legs felt unsteady as you stood straighter, your walls throbbing emptily from your denied release.
“And you…” You said softly, grabbing your laptop. “You will have to consider whether you actually want me to stop.”
Before he could answer, you leaned and pressed your lips to his cheek. You then crossed the room, unlocking the door and walking out.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
Another team meeting followed a couple hours later and it barely ended without disaster.
You spoke only when necessary, keeping your tone measured. You did not look at him unless you had to, and even then, it was only brief and professional. But every time you shifted in your chair, every time you leaned forward to make a point, you felt it, the way his attention tightened, snapping back to you like a wire pulled too taut. He did not show it, but you could feel the strain in him anyway.
A new disruption arrived just past noon. The elevator doors opened, and the energy across the floor shifted almost instantly.
Maekar Targaryen arrived.
The company’s chief legal counsel, the family’s enforcer, the man who had dragged them through hostile acquisitions, regulatory investigations, and more than one lawsuit that should have buried them. If Baelor ran strategy, Maekar protected the empire.
And the empire belonged to the Targaryens.
Before you saw him only in press photos, at galas and board announcements. Now you had seen the occasional candid picture in Baelor’s home, where his trademark scowl was replaced by a softer look, sometimes even a smirk. But in person he was sharper, taller than you expected, wearing a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than your monthly rent. He moved like the building answered to him, which, technically, it did.
Conversations dimmed as he stepped onto the floor, people straightened instinctively.
“Baelor!” He called, ignoring everyone else.
Baelor’s office door opened almost immediately.
“Brother.” Baelor greeted, smiling, stepping forward and clasping his sibling’s shoulder in a brief, firm gesture.
Maekar glanced around the floor. “Back in the fucking office, huh?”
Before Baelor could respond, Maekar’s attention shifted and landed on you. You did not realise you were staring until that exact second, with Duncan and Lyonel just behind you, them also pretending not to be watching. Maekar was not looking at you in a crude way, but openly curious. The way one studies a variable they did not account for.
Beside him, Baelor’s posture shifted subtly. His back was a little straighter and he moved a fraction closer.
“This the new associate?” Maekar asked, looking at his brother briefly before returning to you.
“Not new anymore.” Baelor replied evenly, introducing you. “She also leads our strategy.”
“I’ve heard.” Maekar said, his eyes on you, calculating. “Impressive work.”
“Thank you.” You answered smoothly, aware of Lyonel practically vibrating with interest behind you.
Maekar studied you for a moment, then his blond brows lifted slightly as he glanced at his brother.
“Fucking hell.” He murmured under his breath.
“Office. Now.” Baelor said sharply.
Maekar gave a short laugh but followed him in without argument.
Inside, he dropped onto the low couch with a groan, stretching out like he owned the room, silent. Baelor knew that silence. He’d watched it level men twice his size across negotiation tables, in courtrooms, in boardrooms moments before Maekar dismantled them piece by piece. He remained standing behind his desk, shoulders squared, expression severe.
“So…” Maekar began conversationally. “That explains a few fucking things.”
Baelor’s eyes narrowed, the faint crease between his brows deepening. “Why are you here, Maekar? You or your team are not scheduled to be in the office today.”
His brother didn’t miss a beat. “You have been… different for the past three months.”
Baelor’s gaze lifted, unimpressed. “Have I now?”
“Yes…” Maekar leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “For months, you’ve been… off. Shorter fuse, more controlled than usual… which, for you, is saying something. I assumed it was pressure.”
“It is pressure.”
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah… Not the kind I fucking thought.”
Baelor’s mismatched eyes hardened slightly. “Say what you’re implying.”
Maekar studied him more carefully now. “At first I thought it was stress. Then I thought maybe you were working some angle and just not looping me in yet.” He exhaled through his nose. “Did not cross my mind it would be this. With her.”
Baelor’s voice dropped a degree. “I advise you to choose your next words carefully Maekar.”
“Fuck me.” Maekar's mouth curved. “So there is something.”
Baelor exhaled slowly, controlled, unable to hide it from his beloved brother. “There… has been something.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough.”
Maekar barked a quiet laugh and leaned back into the couch. “I have never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Unsettled.” He said. “Like you are on the verge of losing control.”
That got a reaction out of Baelor, subtle, but there, a tightening in the jaw.
“This has never happened to you.” His younger brother continued, gesturing vaguely around the office. “I have seen you in real crises. Clients threatening to pull hundreds of millions, deals collapsing at the last second. You do not blink, you always stay calm!”
“And?”
“I have never seen you this distracted Baelor!”
Blue eyes held his gaze, the word lingered in the silence between them. Baelor moved around his desk with deliberate calm and sat down, folding his hands as if that settled the matter. “You are exaggerating.”
“Am I?” Maekar countered easily. “For fuck’s sake, the second I looked at her, you moved.”
“I did not.”
“You did!” He smirked. “Subtle, but you moved half a step closer. Like you were anticipating something.”
Baelor’s expression did not change, he said nothing. And that silence was louder than denial.
“You know what the funniest part is?” Maekar continued, standing and stretching. “I walked onto the floor not knowing anything. And within thirty seconds I knew something was there. And not because of her.”
He pointed squarely at him. “Because of you.”
Baelor did not react, but he did not deny it either.
Maekar watched him for a moment, then huffed a breath. “And why the fuck did you think bringing this into the building wouldn’t fucking affect you?”
“It does not.” Baelor replied evenly, adjusting his collar. He ignored the way his mind betrayed him, reminding him of the way you felt around his fingers. How both of you nearly unravelled. “It is contained.”
“Contained?!” His brother scoffed loudly. “You cannot stand to be in the same space without looking like you are calculating how fast you can clear it.”
That earned him a glare. But he was not wrong. At home, Baelor controlled everything, the pace, the distance between you, when to close it, when to let it burn. There were no interruptions, no witnesses but the four walls of your homes. Here, he heard your voice across the floor, watched other people lean in when you spoke, and saw you smile at someone else.
And he could do nothing about it.
Maekar’s expression shifted, the mockery fading into something more perceptive. “You are taking this worse than you thought.”
“I am fine.”
“Liar. You are possessive.” Maekar corrected. “And you hate not acting on it.”
Baelor sighed. “It is not about that.”
“No?” Maekar stood and stepped closer to the desk. “Then what is it about?”
It was the fact that he had meant what he told you from the very beginning. He did not do things halfway. Not work, not loyalty, and certainly not desire. So when he had told you he wanted you, he had meant it with the same certainty he applied to everything else in his life. What he had not expected was how quickly this would grow into something else, something heavier. What had started as tension and mutual liking had deepened before he fully realised it was happening, until your presence became something constant. And something necessary.
Now the thought of you not being close to him, especially when you were within reach, felt wrong in a way he had not anticipated. And Baelor Targaryen did not like discovering things he had failed to anticipate.
Maekar watched his expression carefully before exhaling and rubbing a hand down his face. “You should have told me. I am your brother.”
“And If this goes sideways.” Maekar added more practically. “I am the one who gets to clean up the mess.”
Baelor held his gaze, offense flashing in his multi-coloured eyes. The implication sat wrong with him immediately. You would not do that to him, and he would never do that to you.
“It will not go sideways.” He said with certainty, because Baelor knew himself, and now he knew you too.
Maekar's expression was unreadable as he weighed the certainty in Baelor’s voice. After a moment, he gave a short, decisive nod. “Right. We’re leaving.”
“For what?” Baelor’s eyes furrowed.
“For a drink.”
“Maekar, it is noon.” He replied exasperated.
“Exactly.” Maekar said, fixing his suit. “You need air. And I need to determine whether you are about to implode or just experiencing feelings like a normal human being.”
“I am not imploding.”
“Well, you are so fucking close that I am not gambling on it.”
Baelor hesitated only a second before reaching for his own jacket. As they stepped back onto the floor, his gaze found you immediately. You were seated at your desk, composed, focused on your screen, a faint smile curved your lips at something Lyonel said.
Coming back into the office had been meant to prove something, that he could manage this, manage his thoughts and needs for you, compartmentalize whatever existed between you two.
Instead, it was proving the opposite.
Maekar smirked faintly, shaking his head. He reached for Baelor’s shoulder and both headed towards the elevators.
“Drinks and lunch.” He said as they entered it, the elevator doors closing. “You are buying. And you are explaining how the most controlled man I know let himself get this far gone.”
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The afternoon dragged, not slowly but painfully. Time had slowed down to a crawl, thickened into something heavy and uncooperative, every minute stretching until it felt almost deliberate, almost hostile.
Every email took twice as long to read. Numbers blurred together, every data impossible to concentrate on. You typed the same sentence three times before deleting it again, irritation simmering beneath your skin.
Across the floor, Baelor had not left his office since returning from lunch with Maekar. Not even once. The door had opened when he came back, closed behind him, and that had been it.
You could feel it. His restraint, his discipline, his deliberate choice not to step out, not to walk past your desk, not to invent some thin excuse to call you in, not to look.
It should have relieved you, but instead, it did the opposite. There was something intoxicating about it, about knowing that the same tension clawing under your skin was likely coiled just as tight in him. The thought that you could affect him like that, especially that much, sent another sharp spike of heat through you.
A chair rolled closer. Lyonel stopped beside your desk, coffee cup in hand, glancing at your screen.
“You have opened that spreadsheet three times now.”
“I am reviewing it.”
“Oh please!” He scoffed immediately. “You are just staring at it.”
You did not answer, pretending to work, scrolling through the file.
Lyonel leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you with quiet amusement.
“You know…” He said thoughtfully. “For someone who claimed she would be fine, you look about one message away from spontaneous combustion.”
You shot him a look, but that was all the confirmation he needed.
His grin widened. “He has not messaged you?”
“No…” You sighed.
“That’s worse for you isn’t it?”
You hated that he was right. The entire day felt like being suspended midair. Every time someone walked into Baelor’s office you had to physically stop yourself from looking up, every time the door opened your heart kicked hard against your ribs.
Eventually Lyonel pushed himself up from his chair.
“Come on.” He murmured. “I just have to show you the view from the terrace.”
You frowned at his enthusiasm but followed him anyway, as the look on his face suggested this was not about showing you the view. He had to tell you something.
The terrace was quiet when you stepped outside, afternoon light spilled across the concrete, the air crisp and cool against your skin. For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Lyonel lowered his voice. “Duncan asked me something earlier.”
Your stomach tightened and heat rushed to your head. “What?”
“After the morning meeting.” Lyonel glanced at you. “He asked if you and Baelor have something going on.”
“Fucking hell…” You covered your face with your hands, voice muffled. “He did not.”
“He did.”
You dared to look at him between your fingers. “What did you say?”
“I laughed.” Lyonel replied calmly. “Told him he watches too many K-dramas. Said if you were sleeping with Baelor you would at least negotiate us a bigger coffee budget.”
“That is not funny.”
“It worked for now.” He shrugged. “He backed off.”
You exhaled slowly, lowering your hands. The tension still coiled tight in your chest. “What else did he say?”
“Nothing.” He said too quickly.
“Lyonel.”
“Alright, alright.” He scratched his beard with mild irritation. “He said the eye contact during the meetings was intense.”
You opened your mouth to argue.
“He also said-” Lyonel continued, interrupting and watching you carefully. “That Baelor looked like a man trying very hard not to cross the room.”
The words landed harder than they should have, panic seeping into your bones.
“Relax.” He said quickly, squeezing both your shoulders, grounding you. “I denied everything. Told him when two competent people challenge each other in meetings it does not mean they are sleeping together. If that were the case the entire company would be in chaos.”
He paused, then added more quietly: “But if Duncan noticed… people are definitely starting to get suspicious.”
Your voice dropped almost to a whisper. “We were careful.”
Your mind betrayed you immediately, flashing back to the office earlier, Baelor behind you, his hand between your thighs, the way you had barely kept quiet.
Lyonel gave you a long look.
“You were careful remotely.” He corrected gently. “In here? You are trying, but both of you are fraying at the seams.”
You swallowed.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course.” Lyonel’s tone softened, smiling as he squeezed your shoulders again before letting his hands fall to the side. “You know I always got your back.”
You both stood there for another moment, the quiet stretching between you.
“Just so you know… He is taking it worse than you are.”
Your head snapped towards him. “What?”
“I have known the man for years,” Lyonel said. “He is controlled to a fault. Today?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh, he’s definitely not operating at full capacity.”
You did not respond, because you already knew, you already noticed.
You and Lyonel returned inside after a few minutes of silence, walking back toward your desks as if nothing had changed.
By the time 5pm rolled around, the office began to empty. People started packing up their laptops, the murmur of end-of-day conversations rolling across the floor. Goodbyes, complaints about traffic, someone promising drinks somewhere else.
The energy that you had felt all day did not leave with them. On the contrary, the quieter and emptier the office became, the more the tension felt in your chest.
Lyonel lingered by your desk, already packed.
“You coming?” He asked casually. But the look on his eyes showed that he already knew your answer.
“I will leave in a bit.” You said, and looked up at him smiling. “I need to finish something.”
“Sure. You need to finish… something.” He snorted and nodded. He then squeezed your shoulder. “Do not do anything I would not do.”
You narrowed your eyes at his back, as he walked away. “That eliminates very little!”
Lyonel looked back at you, winked and stuck his tongue out before disappearing inside the elevator.
The office grew quieter, emptier, a handful of people left finishing up their tasks. You waited a few minutes, long enough that it would not look suspicious. You pretended to send emails that you did not care about, your pulse refusing to slow down.
The entire day had been a test of endurance. It felt like walking through fire, not being allowed to move to a safe haven.
Finally you stood, making your way to his office. You knocked once before pushing the door open.
Baelor looked up immediately, watching you as you stepped inside and closed the door behind you.
“I just wanted to confirm some projections with you before I go.” You explained, entirely too formal.
His brow lifted high, and he leaned in his chair, head tilting to the side. He watched you with quiet intensity.
“Hmm…” He murmured. “Is that so…?” Your name rolled off his tongue, dangerously intimate.
“Yes.” You swallowed, the lie thin and obvious.
Baelor stood, coming around his desk and stopping a few steps away from you. Close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him, but still not close enough to touch.
“You could have sent an email.”
“You know me.” You shrugged lightly, offering him a smile. “I prefer clarity."
That almost-smile appeared on his mouth. The silence between you was heavy, no team, no witnesses around you anymore. Just the two of you, in his office, separated from the rest of the world.
“You’ve been avoiding me all day, Baelor.” You said quietly.
“I’ve been maintaining appearances." He whispered back, his multicoloured eyes roaming your face. “Like we were supposed to from the start.”
You stepped closer. Your fingers drifted to the front of his shirt, toying with one of the buttons. As if the gesture was purely harmless.
“Is that what you are calling it?”
He sighed, and brushed a strand of hair away from your face gently, the touch lingering. “You have no idea what today required of me, dearest.”
Your eyes lifted to his.
“And what makes you think it was just you?”
For a moment something raw flickered across his expression, and then his hand slid to your lower back and pulled you flush against him.
Your breath caught, your hands resting on his chest. After an entire day of distance, the sudden closeness felt almost overwhelming, the familiar way your bodies aligned without thinking.
“You think this was easy?” He murmured. “Watcing you across the floor, listening to you talking to other people, you challenging me brazenly, not being able to-”
He stopped himself, his eyes on you, burning.
“Not being able to do what Baelor?”
His hand flexed against your lower back.
“This.”
And the distance finally disappeared. The kiss was not gentle, it was deep, passionate, carrying the weight of the entire day.
One of his hands cradled the back of your head, tilting your head. The kiss deepened, hungry in a way that made your head spin. It had been less than ten hours since your last kiss, but how much you had missed this! The way he tasted, the way his hand slid instinctively along your back as if he was waiting all day to do exactly that. You pushed him back until he was pressed against the hedge of his desk.
“This is a bad idea…” You breathed against his lips, but your fingers tightened in his shirt, heat spreading across your lower stomach. “This is not us being careful…”
He hummed in agreement, but did not slow down at all.
“People are noticing…”
At that he parted from your lips, eyes lidded, forehead pressed against you.
“And you still came in here…” His gaze darkened.
“Yes…”
He chuckled, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your jaw. “Such a good girl.”
The words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly as his breath fanned hot against your skin. Then, in one smooth movement he turned you, guiding you back until the desk pressed against your hips. His fingers deftly found the zipper to your skirt, opening it. Both of your hands pushed it down. You let it fall between your legs and Baelor moaned at the sight of garters on your thighs, the thin straps fastening just above them, holding your stockings in place.
He moved to lift you onto the desk as if the decision had already been made hours ago, amplified by what he just saw. He stepped between your open legs, hands sliding down to your thighs, gripping them firmly. Your legs crossed behind him, pulling him closer, the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently against you through the fabric of his pants.
You whimpered, the sound muffling as he captured your lips again. His tongue brushed against yours in a heated dance, sucking lightly before plunging deeper. You felt your walls clench at nothing, as he mimicked with his tongue what you both craved. Your nipples hardened against your bra, aching as you arched into him, desperate for more.
His fingers swiftly worked the buttons of your blouse open, exposing your neck first and then the lace of your bra. His lips trailed lower, kisses trailing down your neck. He gently sucked at the pulse point on your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp softly.
“My confident girl, so responsive…” He murmured approvingly, his hand cupping one of your breasts, squeezing it. “Look at you now, melting for me. That is exactly what I adore about you.”
The words wrapped around you like velvet. He dipped his head, mouth closing over the swell of your breast, before flicking his tongue against the fabric covered nipple, until it peaked hard. With his hand on your other breast, he pinched your nipple softly. You arched into him, your hand going to his hair, holding him in place, the heat between your legs growing insistent.
“Baelor…” You whispered, half a plea. He abandoned your breast, moving to claim your mouth again as his fingers traced the line of your lace panties, before brushing against the damp crotch. Both of you groaned at the contact, and he pressed his fingers, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the thin barrier.
“Already so wet for me…” He praised, his hand slipping beneath the fabric. Two fingers parted your lips, sliding through your slick before circling your entrance teasingly. Your breath hitched as he pushed one finger inside, followed by a second immediately after, stretching you with a deliberate curl that hit that sweet spot within. He pumped them slowly at first, building the pressure just the way you liked it, his thumb pressing firmly on your clit, following his movements. The wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out filled the office, obscene against the hum and small chatter outside. You moaned against his lips, barely able to stifle it.
“You are taking my fingers so well.” He breathed, his mouth returning to your neck, nipping and soothing with kisses. “You are dripping down my hand love. Imagine if someone heard you like this, saw you like this.”
Your walls clenched around his fingers at that, pleasure coiling tighter, and he groaned. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing your release, and he rewarded you with a deeper plunge of his fingers crooking them to stroke that deep spot over and over.
“Please… Baelor…” You gasped, voice breaking as your orgasm was building fast. Your thighs were trembling as you gripped his arm for support.
“Come for me darling.” He hummed. “Quietly now, show me how good you are.”
The command tipped you over the edge, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck to muffle your cry. Your walls spasmed hard around his fingers, your body shaking in his hold as your release crashed like a wave.
Baelor worked you through it, slowing his movements until you were limp against him. He withdrew his fingers with a slick pop. A blush crept up your neck as he brought his fingers to his lips, sucking them cleaned, eyes locked on yours with a possessive heat.
“You always taste so sweet.” He said, his voice rough. “But let’s see how careful we can really be.”
With a gentle push, he spun you around, his hand guiding your body to bend over the desk, your hands baking on the polished surface.
Baelor pressed his body along yours, his chest heaving against your back. His cock nestled firmly between your buttocks, separated by the thin layer of your panties. He rocked once, twice, letting you feel him.
“Do you feel what you do to me?” He whispered, his mouth close to your ear. “What you have done to me the whole day?”
With deliberate slowness, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, and dragged them down, the cool air kissing your heated skin. You stepped out of them swiftly, spreading your legs wider instinctively. Baelor hummed in approval, dragging your wetness and release between your slit. You pushed back against his hand, wanting more, and he chuckled, the sound low and affectionate.
The soft thud of his belt unbuckling hit your ears, followed by the rasp of his zipper. His pants shuffled down just low enough, and he pulled his hard cock free, the head already leaking pre-cum. He rubbed the blunt tip up and down your lower lips, coating himself, teasing your entrance with shallow dips, making you whine.
“Tell me, darling.” He coaxed, his other hand firm on your hip. “Have you ever thought about being fucked like this?”
“So many times…” You whispered, feeling it would be pointless to lie to him. So many times, before and after you had begun your relationship.
He groaned at your answer. “So have I.”
Aligning himself, the head of his cock breached your entrance and he pushed in with a slow, controlled thrust. You mewled at the delicious burn of you stretching around him as he sunk deeper, until he was fully buried to the hilt. Your inner walls fluttered, gripping him tightly, and you both moaned at the fullness.
After a moment of letting you adjust, Baelor began to move, pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in. Each thrust dragged his cock along your sensitive walls, the ridge of him catching that spot that made stars burst behind your closed eyes. He covered your body with his, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady, his lips to your ear. His other braced on his desk. Your head rested against his shoulder.
“You are so greedy, taking me so deep…”
Pleasure coils within you with every plunge, his pace building gradually, your hips meeting his erratically. The desk creaked under the force of his thrusts, the items on it shifting slightly as his hips met yours in rhythmic slaps. He reached down between your legs, fingers finding your clit, swollen and slick. He began to rub in tight, firm circles, the added stimulation making you clench hard around him, your low moans spilling out unchecked. His thrusts deepened, hips snapping forward to bury himself fully in you each time. You feel every ridge, every pulse as he fucked you.
“My beautiful girl…” He whispered, kissing and nipping at your neck, groaning. “Challenging me all the time, and yet earning this reward. You are everything…”
The coil within you snapped without warning, your release ripping through you, thundering in your ears. Your walls convulsed around his cock as you cried out his name, body trembling between him and the desk. Your release soaked his length, and Baelor groaned deeply, pace faltering for a second before he redoubled his efforts, whispering praises against your shoulder. After a few more deep thrusts, he moaned your name as he reached his peak, slamming deep one final time. His cock pulsed, his cum painting your walls deep. He continued to grind against you, prolonging the bliss.
He held you through the aftershocks, his body a warm shield over yours. Carefully, he eased out of you, a soft groan escaping your throat, a trickle of his own release leaking down your thigh, but he did not let you go. Turning you in his arms, he cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks. His mismatched eyes searched yours, dark and affectionate.
“You were magnificent darling.” He whispered. “Absolutely flawless, taking me like that. Giving me everything.”
The praise landed low and warm, settling deep within you, his voice still rough around the edges in the way you loved. Baelor leaned in and pressed his lips against yours, moving lazily against your mouth. It was nothing like the kisses that he had given you today, now there was only softness. Tongues brushing in gentle and lazy swirls, the kind of kiss that lingered because neither of you felt like pulling away.
Eventually you did, although reluctantly.
As always, Baelor helped you put yourself back together. There was a practised ease to it now, smoothing creases, quietly fixing what the two of you had so thoroughly done. His fingers were careful and almost reverent as he brushed the wrinkles and adjusted the collar of your blouse.
You leaned back against the desk, breathing slowly, basking in the afterglow, watching him adjust his shirt with an almost calm demeanour. His composure was already returning, every movement precise and unhurried, as if the last half hour had not happened.
“This…” You sighed, tilting your head slightly. “This was very dangerous.”
Baelor’s mouth curved faintly. He walked back to you, reaching up, smoothing a stray strand of hair back into place, fingers lingering.
“You were the one that walked into my office.” He replied calmly.
“And you could have not kissed me.” You said, nuzzling against the palm of his hand. “You could have sent me back out.”
His gaze flicked to yours, soft and affectionate.
“You know I would never do that.”
The office fell still for a moment, the fading light outside casting long shadows across the floor. On the other side of the door, the floor was empty now, only the distant hum of the air conditioning breaking the silence.
“If Duncan notices again…” You said, lowering your voice. “We are going to have a problem.”
Baelor leaned back to look at you. “He will not say anything.”
“And if someone else does?”
A quiet beat passed.
“We will deal with it.” He said simply.
The calm certainty in his voice should have reassured you, but instead it made your stomach flip in a way that felt suspiciously like anticipation instead of dread.
“We should get going…” You said, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.
“Yes.” Baelor agreed, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Let’s grab dinner.”
He glanced at you, eyes warm with amusement. “I suddenly feel very hungry.”
You laughed softly, before pressing another kiss to his lips. “I wonder why.”
Professional Boundaries (ModernAU!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
Masterlist | Part 2
Summary: You work remotely for a high-performing consultancy firm, and you absolutely do not have a crush on your infuriatingly charming manager. Baelor Targaryen does not flirt with employees. But he does welcome challenges. And unfortunately, you keep giving him one.
Corporate, Teams messages, even late at night, and the kind of eye contact that should come with its own HR disclaimer.
Word count: 12K (damn, i really went overboard with this haha)
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Modern AU, power dynamics, age gap(reader is in her late 20s, or early 30, Baelor in his mid-40s) explicit smut, masturbation (f), unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (m and f receiving), vaginal fingering, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, corporate lingo, flirting through Teams chat, best friend Lyonel, English is my second language
Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
Author’s note: Did anyone ask for this? Nope, but I just had to write it hahaha Did I go overboard? Absolutely! This started out as a drabble while I was outlining and drafting the next chapters of my other two stories, after I saw this pic of Bertie Carvel. And then whenever I tried to write the second chapters for ‘The Lady of Summerhall’ and ‘In the Shadows of the Red Keep’, my mind kept going to this, because in this house we cope with modern AUs and smut! And apologies for the corporate lingo in some places!
So, yeah, here you have it! I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it :)
From a young age, you had always been exceptionally good at managing your crushes.
Not avoiding them, that was never realistic, but containing them. Filing them neatly into the corners of your mind where they could not and would not interfere with productivity, judgement or even dignity. You believed that such feelings could be controlled. And you were always successful in that endeavour.
Until the manager at your new job turned out to be the infuriatingly charming Baelor Targaryen.
Now, let's be clear, you did not develop a crush on him. What you felt for him was professional admiration, entirely reasonable and appropriate. Baelor was composed, precise and unnervingly competent at his job, and anyone would respect that. So what if your stomach performed an inconvenient somersault every time he said your name during a meeting? That was a perfectly normal reaction, a biological response to authority and competence. It had absolutely nothing to do with the measured cadence of his speech, or the confidence in his voice, or the way his mouth sometimes curved when you challenged him, or the fact that he was a very, very handsome man, objectively speaking.
Truly, none of this would have been an issue if Lyonel Baratheon had not insisted you apply for the job in the first place.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It had been a Sunday, both of you enjoying the remnants of your brunch, and you were complaining to Lyonel for what felt like the hundredth time about your current job.
“I think you are just bored.” Lyonel said, stirring his coffee with an exaggerated calm.
“I am not bored.” You retorted, sipping your own coffee.
“Oh please!” He said. “You reorganised your team’s work process for fun.”
“Not for fun! It was inefficient.” But he didn’t hear you, continuing on.
“You built a performance tracker no one asked for.”
“Well, they use it now.”
“You are just proving my point.” He laughed. “You have been complaining about this position for months now. I think you just need a change of pace.”
At that, he opened his phone and after finding what he was looking for, he slid it across the table to you.
“You know I am not looking for a new job.” You said.
“Just read it!” He said, exasperated. “I think that it’s just what you need! And you get to work with yours truly.”
You took the phone, ignoring how he wiggled his brows, and skimmed through the job listing: Senior Strategy Associate in a competitive consultancy, high pressure, high visibility, remote work.
“Who would I report to?”
Lyonel hesitated, just slightly. “Baelor.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately, leaning on the table. “As in Targaryen?”
“As in Targaryen.”
Baelor Targaryen was a legend in his field. Not in the loud, self-promotional way some senior executives tried to be. He did not post LinkedIn essays about leadership philosophies or speak in rehearsed soundbites. He just… won. Campaign pivots, that other firms had declared unrecoverable? He turned them around in a quarter. Clients that were impossible? He retained them. He had built a reputation on precision, strategic recalibrations so clean they felt surgical. People did not describe him as creative, they described him as dangerous.
“I think you’d like him.” Lyonel said casually.
“If I apply, I will apply for the job Lyonel. Not to date him.”
He rolls his eyes. “That is not what I meant.”
“That is exactly what you meant.”
Lyonel grins, ignoring her remark. “Do you want to know more about him?”
“Fine.” You folded your arms, leaning on the chair. “What is he like?”
“Composed.” Lyonel mused, scratching his beard in thought. “Irritatingly controlled. Intense. He listens more than he talks, but he likes to challenge people. Push them to their maximum potential.”
He took a large sip of his coffee. “He is very much a ‘I have a five-year strategic vision with a colour coded spreadsheet’.”
“That just sounds like he is very competent.” You remarked. “He is, after all, one of the best in his field.”
“Understatement of the year.” He smiled wide. “He also hates mediocrity. And he detests yes-men.”
Your brow lifted. “So that made you think of me?”
“Immediately.”
You kicked him under the table, ignoring his yelp.
“Look…” He added, rubbing his hurt leg. “You need someone who pushes back. And he needs someone who won’t fold. It’s like the perfect alignment.”
You sighed, changing the topic before he could push you more. But later that night, you applied. Mostly because you refused to let Lyonel be right about you being bored. And partly because you wanted something new.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The first couple of weeks at your new job were spent completing the onboarding and training courses. Your first one-on-one meeting with Baelor was scheduled for a Thursday morning, for thirty minutes, the calendar invite simply reading ’Introductory alignment’. It was perfectly timed with when you completed the onboarding process, and just before the team meeting in the afternoon.
You joined the meeting a minute earlier, wanting to make a good first impression. And also to make sure that the background was blurred, and that you looked good on camera.
Baelor joined exactly at 9am sharp. You told yourself you only noticed out of habit, assessing punctuality, presentation, authority, which was normal, professional.
The crisp grey shirt fit him too well to ignore, structured and intentional, the kind of detail that suggested control rather than vanity. His hair was styled with the kind of precision that looked effortless, and his beard, neatly trimmed, threaded faintly with grey, only made him more handsome in a way that felt unfairly deliberate.
You mind catalogued all of it automatically. You reasoned with yourself that it was all because it was your first impression of him, an assessment of his leadership presence. That was all.
But then, he looked directly into the camera. The heterochromia was subtle at first, very easy to miss unless the light caught it the right way. But when it did, the difference became unmistakable, one shade deeper than the other. Not dramatic enough to feel mystic or theatrical, just enough to feel arresting. You felt your attention linger a second too long on them.
It was just nerves, you told yourself. Anyone would be a little hyperaware of a new manager, or new expectations, or new dynamics.
It had nothing to do with the way he held himself, or the steadiness of his gaze, or the small smile he gave you, or the quiet confidence in the simple act of saying: “Good morning.”
Yeah, nothing at all.
“Hello.” You smiled back at him, ignoring how clammy your hands felt.
“Welcome to the team.” He said, as if you had always been expected. “I am happy that you decided to join us. We are very much looking forward to your perspective.”
You ignored the way your stomach involuntarily flipped the more you listened to his voice. It was just nerves, you told yourself again.
“Happy to be here.” You said to him instead.
He spent the first few minutes talking about the company, the team he led and that you would be a part of, before turning the conversation back to you.
“I would like to understand your long-term objectives.” He said, looking at his notes before returning to look at you through the camera lens. “Where do you see your skill set expanding and where do you expect friction?”
You blinked. “Friction?”
“I believe that if you are not encountering resistance…” He explained calmly. “You are not operating at your edge.”
You felt yourself lean forward slightly. “I do not mind going against the resistance if I believe, and I know, that my position is correct.”
“I assumed you wouldn’t.” There was a small pause, and the faintest shift in his expression. Approval perhaps? Or at least, you hoped it was that.
He continued by asking you about your previous projects, challenging a few of your conclusions here and there. He was neither aggressive or dismissive in his line of questioning, everything felt deliberate. When you explained why you had pushed back against a former team lead at your old job on a campaign positioning, Baelor listened without interrupting.
“And did you win?” He asked, his voice melodic, with an almost teasing lilt.
“I wasn’t trying to win.” You replied.
“That wasn’t my question.”
You held his gaze through the camera, feeling goosebumps trailing from your neck to your spine.
“Yes.” You answered.
The silence that came over you was measured, not awkward at all.
“Good.” He finally said, making a note of something. “You will not find much tolerance for mediocrity here.”
“I do not do mediocre work.” You replied evenly, not feeling the need to diplomatically dress it as something else.
There was another pause, and his eyes found yours again.
“Good.” He repeated, quieter this time.
The call ended after precisely thirty minutes, and you sat there a moment longer than necessary. There had been nothing inappropriate, flirtatious or personal. It was just a manager meeting and assessing a new hire. And yet, the way he had said ’Good’ the second time, something lingered.
Before you could give it some more thought, your Teams chat pinged with a new message.
Lyonel:
So?
You stared at the message before replying back.
You:
He seems competent at his job
Lyonel:
That’s not what I meant
You ignored him.
Your first proper team meeting began at exactly 1:00 pm later that day. Baelor appeared on the screen without much fanfare, sharply on time again with the same crisp grey shirt, dark hair perfectly in place.
“Good afternoon all.” He said, voice even, measured. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce our new team member.”
Your name sounded different in his voice, a faint blush covering your cheeks.
“She joins with a competitive strategy background. I expect she will challenge us in useful ways.”
There was that word, challenge. And he didn’t look at his notes when he said it. He looked directly into the camera, at you. There was something… assessing in his gaze. You straightened instinctively, smiling.
“Welcome!” A few voices chimed in and you recognised Lyonel’s voice easily, your eyes naturally searching for him in the grid.
The meeting moved on after, the team going through updates efficiently. When there was silence, it was always intentional, when someone rambled or went off course, Baelor redirected them with surgical politeness.
During the entire meeting, you remained aware of him. You could not deny it, you thought, he was a handsome man. Not in the effortless or careless way of someone who relied on it. His attractiveness and charm were precise, composed posture and controlled expressions combined. He was the kind of man who was aware of the space he occupied and how he chose to fill it carefully.
You pushed these thoughts to the back of your mind, focusing on the meeting. They were irrelevant, you told yourself, entirely irrelevant.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
By the fifth week, you understood the rhythm of the team. What Baelor expected from the team was structure, clear outcomes, arguments backed by numbers and not just instinct. He also preferred to give his opinion last, which usually meant that everyone adjusted to his opinions.
The meeting that morning was about repositioning a major client campaign. You listened to everyone’s thoughts, took notes. The keywords being thrown out were risk mitigation, conservative rollout, with at least two team members echoed variations of the same caution.
You felt everything was played safe. Too safe actually.
Baelor hummed, before summarising. “So, we’re talking about phased release and controlled messaging. No deviation from the tested framework at all?”
A chorus of yeses followed. Pursing your lips, you decided you had to speak up. And just before you did, there was a small tightening in your chest. The friction he had asked about in your first one-on-one came to mind.
“If we do that…” You said evenly. “We will lose momentum by Q4.”
The silence that followed your statement was heavy. Baelor’s eyes shifted to yours immediately, no hint of annoyance, just curiosity.
“Explain.”
Inhaling deeply, you noted how he did not move on the defensive, or dismissive stance. He took your opinion as a challenge, not defiance, just as Lyonel had told you.
And speak of the devil, a Teams message flitted at the top right corner from him.
Lyonel:
Go get them :)
Pulling your presentation slides, because of course you had prepared one just in case, you shared your screen.
“As you can see from the data gathered from the last two quarters, it shows response spikes during higher-variance content cycles.” You explained. “Instead of adapting, we are proposing to react to this volatility by ignoring it.”
A few people shifted in their chairs. One of the analysts frowned slightly. Baelor didn’t interrupt you and leaned back on his chair.
“If we slow the release…” You continued. “We signal uncertainty. And our competitors will exploit that.”
After that, you canceled your share screen, letting the argument stand. Baelor tilted his head, looking at her directly. You noticed Lyonel’s eye brows had shot up, and you knew it was not because of your words. But you decided not to focus on that, waiting for Baelor to say something.
“So, you are suggesting an accelerated rollout?” He asked, his eyes intensely on you.
“Yes.” Your pulse echoed in your ears. You convinced yourself it was the nerves that you went against Baelor and the team. And not because he was looking at you like… that. Well maybe it was both. Thank God your voice was steady at least.
“What you propose comes with higher exposure risk.”
“But with higher engagement probability.” You were quick to reply.
“Are you comfortable carrying that risk?” He asked after a moment.
Your eyes narrowed. The phrasing was deliberate. You knew what was coming.
“Yes.” You finally answered.
The room suddenly felt warmer. Heat spread through your neck.
“It’s a substantial gamble.” Baelor said calmly.
“It’s a strategic decision.” You replied, just as calm.
His captivating eyes did not leave your gaze. He studied you in that same assessing way from your first one-on-one, except this time there was something sharper behind it.
Your phone started vibrating with messages, but your focus was solely on him.
“You are proposing deviation from established protocol in your fifth week.” He said.
“I am proposing growth.”
A ripple moved through the team, subtle, but there.
After a fraction of a second, his mouth curved. Not in a smile, not quite that. Approval maybe?
Baelor looked around the virtual room. “Any thoughts?”
There were a few cautious ones, a few predictable ones. He listened, nodded and took notes, deliberating. Then he looked back at the camera, at you.
“We will pilot y/n’s model,” he said, his word final. “Limited segment, full metrics tracking. If performance dips below baseline, we revert immediately.”
He did not break eye contact as he added: “You’ll lead it.”
Your pulse jumped again, and you felt light headed. “Understood.”
The meeting moved on from that, but something had shifted. It was not just that he had sided with you, but it was the way he had done so. Public and deliberate, trusting you with something high-visibility instead of barring you from it.
After the call ended, you stood up to go to the kitchen, to grab some water. You finally checked your phone, not surprised that it was Lyonel who spammed you with messages.
Lyonel:
Didnt take you too long to challenge him in a full team meeting
Oh my god! He did the thing!!
The posture!!!
You:
What are you talking about?!
His replies came in very quick succession.
Lyonel:
The posture
The lean
The head tilt
That is his I am intrigued pose
I’ve not seen him do that in more than a year
You telling me you did not notice that??
Of course you had noticed, but you did not think it was a big deal at first. But now…
You:
You are making this bigger than it is. He was just being a competent leader
Lyonel:
Yeah just… a competent leader
You were about to reply to him when you heard Outlook ping with a meeting invite from your manager.
Follow-up: Campaign Acceleration Pilot in 15 minutes. When you joined, he was already there.
“You anticipated resistance.” He said without preamble. “You came prepared.”
“Yes.”
“You enjoyed causing friction.” It wasn’t an accusation, instead Baelor said it more as a conclusion.
You held his gaze. “I enjoy showing my competence.”
He had that almost-smile again. “Be careful.” He said.
“Of what?” You asked, slightly confused. Wasn’t he the one who always pushed for this?
“Of winning too quickly.”
Your stomach dropped. “And why is that?”
“Because,” He said, before taking a deep breath. “It changes the way people look at you.”
The silence that followed was different from the others. It was thicker, no longer just professional, no longer safe, no longer hidden behind corporate talk.
“And how do you look at me?” You asked before you could stop yourself.
He did not answer immediately, but he didn’t deflect, didn’t change the topic.
“With interest.” He said at last.
That could be a professional answer. After all, he could just be interested in your career progression, as a manager would and should be. But it was ambiguous enough, for the voice inside your head to go that dark and dangerous route, to that dark corner of your mind.
Truly, you thought, it was undeniably intentional.
“Execute the pilot. Send projections by Thursday.” He said abruptly and the call ended.
Leaning back in your chair, you just sat there, your heart steady, but your mind not. Because that had not been flirting. But it also was.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The second time you contradicted him, it wasn’t planned.
The discussion was about reallocating the budget after early pilot results, your pilot results, and Baelor proposes tightening the expansion until the next quarterly review. You impulsively challenged his cautious and controlled plan to delay the expansion, interrupting him and arguing that hesitation would kill momentum. He methodically dissected your argument, asking you to outline worst case scenarios and reputational risks. In the end, he did not concede to your answers, did not endorse them. He set a condition, send him with a full risk breakdown by the end of the week, making approval contingent on proof.
You were searching for some reports for his ask, when a private Teams message came in nine minutes later after the call. Your eyes widened, as you opened the chat window. He had never reached out by direct message before, he preferred emails and meeting invites to chats.
Baelor:
Well argued.
But you should not have interrupted me.
Your ears thrummed, still staring at the screen, longer than necessary. You started typing a reply, deleted it, then typed it again.
You:
Thank you. And I am sorry for doing that
But was I wrong?
You would not let it go so easily. Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared and then reappeared.
Baelor:
No.
But you challenged me in front of the room.
And there it was, the line that wasn’t quite a reprimand, but it was something sharper than just feedback. You pursed your lips as you wrote your reply, hitting enter before you could regret it.
You:
The numbers needed to be clarified.
Baelor:
You could have waited.
Your jaw tightened as you typed your reply.
You:
And just let the assumption stand?
A longer pause from him this time. The three dots appeared almost instantly, stopped, reappeared…
Baelor:
You assume I would not have corrected it.
You:
Respectfully, I wasn’t trying to undermine you
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly, stopped and returned.
Baelor:
I know.
If you were, I would have handled it differently.
Your stomach flipped at that. It was not a threat, but a simple fact. You typed before you lost your nerve.
You:
I just don’t wait when I’m certain
Baelor:
I’ve noticed.
Your pulse stuttered, but you did not get a chance to compose yourself when the next messages hit the chat.
Baelor:
It is one of the reasons I keep you in the room.
Next time, let me finish the sentence.
And then challenge me.
No don’t, just later.
And that was it. You closed the chat window, pushing yourself to forget what he wrote and focus on the reports. He did not reach out to you for the rest of the day, no emails or meeting invites. But the boundary felt less like a wall now, and more like a line drawn in chalk.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It was close to midnight, and you were still up finishing that risk breakdown he asked for. You still had a day before the deadline was up, but you had gotten so honed in on it that you just had to finish it. You emailed it to Baelor and went to take a shower.
When you came back to your home office to grab something, you saw a notification on Teams.
Baelor:
I expected you to send that tomorrow.
You stared at the timestamp, 11:47 p.m., and he was still online.
You:
You asked for it at the end of the week
A pause, then:
Baelor:
Most people interpret that differently.
You:
Well, I am not most people
The reply came faster than it should at that hour.
Baelor:
No. You are not.
The three dots appeared again, lingering longer this time. Your breath was caught in your throat. What was he writing?
Baelor:
Your downside modeling is thorough. In section 3, you assumed a 12% volatility ceiling. Why not 15?
You exhaled slowly. Of course he read the report already, and of course the message was going to be about that. And not something else, something that would make your stomach flutter.
You:
At 15% the narrative collapses regardless of pacing
It took him three seconds to reply.
Baelor:
Good.
You think ahead.
It was not praise exactly, but it was recognition. You closed your laptop five minutes later, your mind still very much awake.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The observation came up casually. You were halfway through your brunch, at your usual table, Lyonel watching you with an expression that meant that he had already decided on something and was waiting for you to catch up to it.
“Do you know what’s worse than the posture?” He asked.
You groaned, embarrassed. Every time Baelor did the posture during a call, which lately it had been every time you spoke, Lyonel would ping your phone.
“Do you have to mention it every time we hang out?” You complained. “And there is nothing worse than the posture.”
“Oh there is.” He leans over the table. “He lowers his voice when he talks to you.”
You look at him for a second, before laughing loudly. “No, he doesn’t!"
“Yes, he does!” Lyonel leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Everytime he addresses the team, it’s one tone, controlled. The standard issue.” He tilts his head a bit. “When he talks to you though? It drops.”
“You are just teasing me now.” You tried to deflect.
“I am not.” He retorted, offended at the insinuation.
“You are projecting.”
“I am observing.”
You shook your head, taking a sip of your coffee.
“You really didn’t notice?”
“No.” You hated how you sounded, so uncertain.
Lyonel did not push you further. He just smiled, his eyes teasing. “Oh you’ll hear it now.”
Rolling your eyes, you replied. “I will not.”
But when you had to review a recorded meeting, a routine procedure for you, you remembered his words when Baelor’s voice filled your headset. Even through them, his voice carried that steady, measured tone: composed, deliberate, never rushed. Then, you reached the segment where you had challenged his position about reallocating the expansion metrics. He had been mid-sentence when you interjected. You noted how he turned towards his camera, his mismatched eyes serious.
“Explain.”
Your stomach tightened, rewinding the recording a bit, playing it again. When he was addressing the team, his voice was firm and with clear authority. When you interjected and he spoke to you… It was definitely lower.
You straightened in your chair, skipping ahead and finding another moment, later in the meeting, when you clarified a data point.
“I understand your position.”
There it was again, lower, quieter. Intimate was not the right word, but it was closer than anything else.
Your pulse drummed in your ears. You skipped ahead again, this time to a moment where he addressed another analyst.
“Duncan, walk us through the variance.”
Baelor’s voice was a higher register, firmer. But when he addressed you?
“Y/n, what would you adjust?”
There it was again, the subtle drop, as if the air changed when he spoke to you. You paused the video, staring at the frozen frame of his face.
You are imagining this, you told yourself. You just want to hear it, because you are walking that tight rope between professional admiration and unrelenting crush. It’s nothing! You’d never notice it if it wasn’t for Lyonel.
Blushing furiously, you shot the culprit a text.
You:
I hate you
Lyonel:
??
Oh you heard it, didn’t you?
When you left him on read, he texts again.
Oh my god. You did hear it!!!
You typed back slowly, biting your lip.
It’s probably unintentional.
Immediate reply.
You know that’s worse, right?
You sighed sharply. That was the problem, because if it was intentional, it would be a choice. But if it’s unconscious…
You played one last segment, not knowing what you were hoping to achieve.
“Good…” Baelor said in response to your analysis. Again lower, measured.
Stopping the recording, you pressed your hands to your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth that spread below your stomach. There was no denying it, when Baelor spoke to you, the room disappeared from his voice.
This moved beyond theoretical now, as voice was harder to control, harder to fake, harder to justify. And when the next meeting came, you knew exactly what you were going to listen for.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
You were in bed, phone dimmed, doom scrolling mindlessly before sleep when the notification appeared.
Baelor:
Are you awake?
There was absolutely no reason why he should be asking that. And you really should not reply, it was after work afterall. But your fingers did not listen, as they opened the chat and replied.
You:
Yes
The typing indicator appeared immediately.
Baelor:
Revising the expansion deck. Quick question.
If we reframe the pilot as controlled disruption, does that weaken your original argument?
You propped yourself up against your pillows.
You:
Only if you position disruption as instability.
Call it evolution instead?
Three dots appeared, disappeared and reappeared.
Baelor:
You are good at this.
Honestly, his compliments were starting to feel addictive. But this one settled differently. Maybe it was the hour, the quiet, suspended feeling of being awake when the rest of the world was not. Or maybe it was the way the conversation had narrowed, stripped of meetings and agendas and witnesses. The chat window felt smaller somehow, more intimate, like the world outside it did not exist, leaving only the two of you and the glow of the screen.
You:
That’s why you hired me
This time the pause stretched, long enough that you wondered if you overstepped.
Then:
Baelor:
I hired you because you are capable.
Followed by:
I keep you because you are exceptional.
Your pulse quickened in a way that has nothing to do with career validation. There was pride there, sharp and bright, but threaded through it is something more dangerous. Because the “I hired you” was business, the “I keep you” was not.
Baelor:
And because I like watching you work.
Heat climbed up your neck before you could stop it. Because liking your work was one thing, liking watching you do it was something else entirely.
The chat went still after that, and you sighed softly. You set your phone down on your stomach, the quiet pressing in around you.
His last three messages replayed in your mind, not as text, but in his voice. Especially the way it dipped when he spoke to you, subtle, controlled, as it always happened.
You closed your eyes and saw him, his expressions, immediately. The steady eye contact through the camera, the slight tilt of his head when you made a point he had not anticipated, the almost-smile he gave you whenever you challenged him and refused to back down.
You turned onto your side in a huff. This… crush was getting ridiculous. He was your manager, your boss. You had prided yourself on the way you managed your crushes, on your ability to control your emotions, on never blurring the lines.
But…
I keep you because you are exceptional.
You shifted under the sheets, restless, annoyed at yourself, annoyed at him. At the way his last messages burrowed in your mind, under your skin, making your blood sing. Your thought about his gaze, the way lately lingered a second too long in meetings. The way his voice lowered whenever he spoke to you, the way he said your name.
You really should not think about that, you should not imagine how your name would sound like on his lips if you were alone in a room. But your body did not care, heat pooling down between your legs, heavy and impossible to ignore.
You breathed slowly, deeply, trying to think about anything else. And failed spectacularly at it, because your mind betrayed you immediately, conjuring an image of Baelor leaning closer than necessary, one hand braced on the desk beside you, close enough that you would feel his warm breath upon your neck, close enough that his voice would not need to carry, close enough that his quiet, measure control would slip, just slightly.
This moved beyond professional admiration, or seeking to impress him, or earning his approval, or enjoying the intellectual sparring. This was about want. And you wanted him, plain and simple. Not just hypothetically, not just intellectually, but physically as well. That thought alone sent another wave of heat through you, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively.
“Fucking unbelievable…” You whispered into the dark. But you did not stop thinking about him.
You imagined the way he would look if that composure fractured, if he stopped choosing restraint, giving way to raw need. Your breath quickened, your hand sliding down the covers, past the waistband of your panties, fingers ghosting over your swollen clit.
You moved slowly at first, testing the edges of your fantasy, dipping into the wetness between your thighs before pressing two fingers firmly against your clit. You imagined his strong hand gripping your waist, thumb tracing your lower lip. You envisioned the way he would say your name when no one else was there to hear it, the way his lips would feel on yours, crashing against yours in a hungry kiss. The way his fingers would feel in you, stretching you, filling you.
Your back arched slightly before you could stop it, a curse falling from your lips. You slid one finger inside your tight heat, pretending that it was his claiming you.
You bit your lip to stifle any sound threatening to escape, as if Baelor could somehow hear you through the silence of the night, sense your secret through the darkness. As if he would know exactly what he had done by ending the conversation the way he did.
You imagined him being there in the room with you, eyes locked on you, guiding you through your pleasure, voice low with approval, praising you.
“That’s it…” His voice echoed in your mind. “Just like that…”
The thought of his controlled gaze snapping, hunger flaring, as he saw the power he had over you, how completely you yielded to him, sent a sharp pulse through your body.
You did not take long to reach your peak after that, your hips bucking into your palm, your fingers moving faster, your soft whines and gasps filling the room, as waves of your orgasm crashed over you, your body shuddering in release.
Spent, you laid there, chest heaving and breath uneven, staring at the ceiling, reality slowly seeping in.
This obsession was going to be a problem, you thought. Because tomorrow, during the calls, you knew exactly what your body would remember, how it would react, when Baelor says your name.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
You could not pinpoint exactly when it started. Or perhaps you could, but you did not want to admit it. After that night, after lying in the dark with his voice in your head and your body still warm from it, something switched.
Sweatshirts and simple blouses disappeared from the rotation, substituted with tailored blouses and shirts that fit just a little too well. Your hair was styled every morning now, nice and neat. A subtle, but deliberate lip colour was on you before any meeting, not bold enough to invite comment, just deliberate enough to matter.
This is normal, you told yourself, you had always been polished. Baelor set a standard for the team, in work and presentation so you had to reflect that. That was professionalism.
It had nothing to do with how aware you were of the exact moment he joined a call. Nothing to do with the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary whenever you spoke. Nothing to do with the quiet drop in his voice whenever he said your name. And it certainly had nothing to do with the memory of how easily your body responded to the thought of him.
It was just about standards, you told yourself, about presence. You were allowed to look good.
Adjusting the collar of your shirt, you clicked on the one-on-one meeting link. Today, you had decided to wear a dark red shirt, the fabric having a subtle sheen, and the open collar framing your neck and collarbones. A delicate gold necklace rested lightly against your skin.
You felt good, you knew you looked good. And you tried, very hard, to ignore the somersaults your stomach did while you waited for Baelor to join the call.
By the time he did, you had composed yourself somewhat, greeting him with a smile. He returned it, greeting you in a polite and professional manner. Then his gaze shifted, first to the shirt, then the curve of your neck, lingering just enough to make you conscious of every detail, that smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Your breath hitched, and you barely heard him for the first moments of the call. But still, you told yourself that it was not anything more than him noticing your shirt.
You wore it again the following week. It was an ordinary Tuesday, and it was the usual team during the call. Yet, there was no reason for your pulse to spike but it did. You told yourself it was because the quarter was intensifying, and leadership visibility was increasing. Of course it was not about Baelor, not him.
When the meeting began, it was the usual routine, team updates, forecast adjustments. You tried your best to focus. Lyonel pinged you on Teams instead of your phone, because he knew you would ignore his texts.
Lyonel:
Why are you dressed like ur about to negotiate a merger?
You still ignored him, keeping your attention on the meeting. Midway through the meeting, someone asked you to walk through the revised projections. As you spoke, you noticed Baelor’s eyes dip, from your face, to your collar, and then back again. Subtle, barely noticeable if you had not been watching him. Your mind screamed: You imagined it, it was nothing, you are projecting…
When you shifted slightly, he looked away. He had stopped, it had been a conscious decision.
When the meeting ended, your Teams pinged. You assumed it was Lyonel again, but your breath caught when you saw the sender.
Baelor:
Your revised projections were well structured.
You were about to reply, fingers hovering over the keyboard, when another message followed.
Baelor:
The dark red suits you.
Your heart lept. For a second you stared at the screen, re-read the message. The words seemed harmless, casual even. But your body reacted before your brain could compose something rational.
You had told yourself it was not about him, you had told yourself you just liked looking put together. But he had noticed. Not the updates, not the projection, not the work. You. And he wanted you to know that he had noticed.
You swallowed and forced your fingers to move.
You:
Thank you
A perfectly simple and neutral response, but your heart was anything but. Now, it’s no longer just the posture, or just the tone of his voice when he addressed you directly. It was a pattern.
The late night messages, lingering eye contact, compliments that stepped half an inch beyond necessary.
Patterns were harder to deny, harder to dismiss as coincidence, harder to explain away as nerves, harder to pretend you were not participating. You leaned back in your chair slowly, heat spreading low and steady.
You could not lie to yourself anymore. He was watching… And you did not mind, because you wanted him to.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
It was 12:03am when your phone lit up. You knew who it was, who had texted, before you even looked.
Baelor:
You were right about scaling.
Your stomach flipped, that quiet, familiar drop that had nothing to do with work or analytics. You stared at the phone screen for a moment, before quickly replying.
You:
Metrics came in?
Baelor:
Yes.
A moment passed.
Baelor:
You were confident before the numbers justified it.
Your throat tightened slightly. You could almost hear the way he would say it, calm, measured, faintly impressed.
You:
That is part of the job sometimes
A longer pause this time, you watched the typing indicator appear, disappear, return.
Baelor:
No. That is instinct.
And you trust yours.
The words settled low and warm in your chest. He was not just validating the outcome, he was validating you. Silence stretched between you, charged and deliberate.
You:
And you? Do you trust yours, always?
After a long pause, the three dots flickered, then vanished.
Baelor:
I trust my instinct most of the time. But sometimes it is influenced… by certain details.
Your pulse jumped and your fingers twitched.
You:
Details?
Baelor:
The kind that are not on a slide deck. The kind that cannot be measured.
You bit the inside of your cheek, as you replied. The screen suddenly felt closer, more intimate.
You:
I am not sure what you mean
Baelor:
You do.
Your chest tightened, your mind flailing. He’s joking, you thought. He is being professional, just joking. Keep it clean. Be calm. Focus on slides.
You:
Care to clarify?
Baelor:
I could. But… I think you like discovering some things on your own.
You did not know whether to type or just stare at the words, letting them sink in. Instead you replied:
You:
And here I thought we were talking about work
Baelor:
We are. Mostly. But… work is not just what happens on a slide deck. You have noticed, have you not?
This whole conversation had nothing to do with the pilot, nothing to do with projections or ceilings or controlled disruption anymore. It was unmistakable now, and you both knew it.
You:
I am not sure what to say…
Baelor:
Say nothing. Just think.
You blinked at the screen, his words lingering, teasing, deliberate.
Baelor:
Confidence is rare.
But restraint is rarer.
The digital glow of the screen felt like the only light in the world. Your pulse was racing now, the heat in your chest warm and insistent. This was about him, and you, and the way a single line of text could make your heart trip over itself.
You:
It is late, you should sleep
Baelor:
I could say the same to you. But I suspect neither of us will.
You forced your fingers to move.
You:
Goodnight, Baelor.
The reply came less than a minute later.
Baelor:
Goodnight, Y/n.
The next morning, Lyonel did not even bother to greet you when he sent over two images by text. It was a screenshot of your Teams’ status from last night. And another one of Baelor’s.
You:
You tracking my status?
His too?!
Lyonel:
I’m observing patterns
You:
It was about work
Lyonel:
At midnight?
You:
YES
Lyonel:
Mhmm, midnight chats with your manager
You did not respond. Because that was the problem, it was about work, and slides, and projections and risk ceilings. But it was also:
I hired you because you are capable.
I keep you because you are exceptional.
And because I like watching you work.
And those were not comments about slides, they never were.
You:
It was not like that
You did not immediately send it, because you are not sure what part you were defending. The content of the conversation from the night before, or the way you felt breathless every time when his typing bubble appeared. Or the way your body reacted before the rational part of your mind could. Or the way midnight had started to feel like something to anticipate.
But you knew one thing with uncomfortable clarity, that if tonight your screen lights up again, you would look, and you would respond.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
This meeting was not part of the routine Baelor and you had. It was sudden, adhoc, framed as performance alignment but not you knew it was not just that. He had been acting very strict in the previous two meetings, brows furrowed. He had been short with other team members, and definitely had acted differently towards you.
You joined first this time, and he entered a minute later.
“I’ve reviewed your revised projections.” Baelor jumped straight into the main topic of the call, no pleasantries. “You expanded the risk ceiling again.”
“I refined it.” You retorted.
“You escalated it.”
“Because the data supported it.”
His jaw shifted slightly. “You are comfortable increasing exposure without full predictive modeling.”
“I am comfortable recognizing momentum.” Your voice had risen an octave, and you were breathing hard.
Baelor leaned forward, forearms resting on his desk. “You interrupt me in meetings.”
“I thought you liked a challenge.”
“You assume I would allow it every single time.”
“And here I assumed you respected competence.”
His mismatched eyes sharpened, the air tight. “You enjoy testing me.” He concluded.
“And you enjoy it when I do.” You were not going to let him forget it.
That stopped him in his tracks. Not because your assessment was wrong, but because you said it outloud. He studied you, not anymore as a manager evaluating an employee, but as something else, something more deliberate.
“You are very confident in everything you do.” He tilted his head when he said that.
“Of course.” You all but huffed. “I have to be.”
“And you think that gives you liberty to do as you please?”
“I think my results so far do.”
He looked long and hard at you, before saying quietly. “You think this is about results?”
“What is it about then?” You ask, ignoring the way your hands got clammy and your voice trembled at the end.
Baelor’s nose flared, as he leaned towards the camera more.
“You push me in public.” His voice was dangerously low, sending goosebumps down your spine. “You challenge every controlled decision I make.”
“And you respond every time.” You said.
His gaze to your lips, lingering. The silence that enveloped you was no longer part of the corporate world, it was charged, dense, warm.
“If the circumstances were different-” He began, his mismatched eyes back to yours.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. But he stopped, he did not continue. Yet you did not let him get away with that.
“Different how?”
Baelor exhaled slowly, like a man choosing restraint by force.
“You are ambitious.” He said instead. “And ambition can blur lines.”
“That is not what you were going to say.” You almost whined.
His jaw tightened. “You are pushing it. You are testing boundaries now.”
“I was not aware you set them!”
Your room felt smaller, as if he was in there with you.
“Careful…” He murmured.
“Or what?”
He held your gaze steady now, another deep and slow exhale coming from him.
“Or I stop being patient.”
“You think I want you to be patient?” The words left you before you could stop them.
He inhaled sharply at that, something raw flickering in his expression. “No, I think you do not.”
And that was the closest either of you had come to naming it. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, and you could see it clearly, the confession forming. The line neither of you would be unable to uncross.
But then the steel returned, and he stepped back, the distance rebuilt.
“Send me the finalised projections by six.” He said, voice restored to the executive calm. The shift was surgical.
When the call ended moments later, your hands were not steady at all. Because you finally had the confirmation that both of you were in the same boat. And that he wanted to say it. But he was choosing not to, for now.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The following Monday, an HR email went out, inviting everyone for the yearly party, to celebrate the company achieving excellence in the past year. It was mandatory attendance for leadership and selected teams to attend in person, one of them being yours.
You had no chance to digest the fact that you had to be there in person, when Lyonel called you immediately.
“No.” He said.
“Hello to you too.” You sighed. “It’s just a company event.“
“It is not just a company event.” He corrected you. “It’s weeks of unresolved tension, in a physical location.”
You tried to sound unaffected. “Everything will be professional.”
“Oh really?” He asked dryly.
Before you could reply, you heard the Teams notification sound. “I have to go.” You told him, opening the chat.
Baelor:
You will be attending.
Not a question, but not an order either. Just confirmation.
You:
Of course
Baelor:
Good.
It landed differently now, because the both of you knew that remote made it manageable, remote made it abstract. The party was going to be anything but that.
Lyonel texted you, because he knew why you had ended the call.
Lyonel:
If he lowers his voice in person, I am going to file a report to HR
His message almost made you laugh, almost. But something electric hummed under your skin.
For the first time since this what you had considered to be a harmless crush, there will be no screen, no digital barrier.
You would share the air. And the unfinished sentence would hang between you.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The party was louder than you expected. It had been organised in the restaurant on the highest floor of a glitzy hotel a town over, with rooms paid for you and anyone who travelled to attend.
It felt weird seeing people in close proximity, no screens to buffer anything, no one frame in small rectangles.
You were wearing a silk dress in your favourite colour, a cocktail in your hand as you spoke to Duncan. You told yourself you would not look for him. But you still noticed when he appeared.
You saw him before he saw you. He was across the room, wearing a black suit, tailored to perfection, a black turtleneck beneath it. His hair was styled masterfully, and his beard trimmed.
He was real, so very real, real height, real presence. Not framed in a rectangle, not compressed by speakers.
Your stomach flipped in ways it had never done before, your throat seizing.
You looked away, telling yourself that you will not seek him out, even if it meant fighting against every fiber of your being. You continued to talk to Duncan, or at least tried to.
But you did not have to wait long, because within fifteen minutes you felt it. The subtle gravitational pull of someone entering your orbit. And when you turned, he was there, close. Not touching, not close to cause any scandal, but close enough.
He greeted everyone, saying your name last, his voice lower, sending shivers across your spine.
“Baelor.” You said in return, trying to keep yourself under control.
“You made it.”
“So did you.”
Something akin to amusement crossed his features. Before any of you could speak, colleagues passed around you, someone clapping Baelor on the shoulder, someone complimenting you on your pilot results.
When your eyes returned to him, a blush crept in when you saw that he had been looking at you. You stood like that for a long moment, the space between you felt separate from the rest of the room.
“So this is you outside of Teams?” He said, sipping his whiskey.
You laughed, a little breathless. “Disappointed?”
“Not even a little.”
The words settled between you, heavier than they should’ve been. He held your gaze, unflinching, like he was curious how long you would let him.
“I did not realize you were this tall.” You said before you could stop yourself.
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You did not realize a lot of things.” His voice had a teasing lilt.
You took a sip of your drink, trying to be calm.
“Hmm.” He made a sound after noticing your drink.
“What?”
“That’s unexpected.” He replied.
“What is?”
“That.” He pointed at your drink with his. You took a long sip, not moving your eyes from his.
“You disapprove?” You smiled a little.
His gaze drifted slowly from your eyes, to the glass and back. The corner of his mouth lifted into that almost smile.
“Not at all.”
It didn't feel like you were talking about the drink anymore.
Across the room, Lyonel was openly staring at you like he was watching a live disaster unfold. You ignored him, or at least tried to.
You were pulled into different conversations, separated. But the pattern from remote work and calls continued here too.
Every time you moved across the room, you became aware of him again. Every time he laughed at something someone else said, his eyes found yours afterward.
After a while, you slipped out to the terrace for air. Your body felt warm, your pulse unsteady, your mind hazy from being in his presence, from having to be in control. Exhaling, you press yourself against the railing, staring at the city skyline.
You heard soft footsteps trailing behind you, stopping just a little away.
“You have been avoiding me.” Baelor said softly.
You did not turn to face him, cheeks ablaze. “I was networking."
He stepped beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat emanating from him.
“Is that what you are calling it?” He asked, amused. “Well, you have been networking in the opposite direction of wherever I was.”
You fully turned towards him, a small smile on your lips. “You are imagining patterns.”
“Am I now?” He asked, voice husky.
The city lights flickered in the silence that came over you. There was no audience here, no grid of face, no corporate pretense to hide behind. Baelor stepped closer, his mismatched eyes gleaming under the light, his expression unreadable.
“I think I’ve been patient long enough, don’t you think?” He asked quietly, his gaze dropping to your mouth.
Your breath faltered, realising what he was saying. You realized that he was close, close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly more…
Baelor said your name, his voice sounding like a plea and a warning.
You did not give yourself time to think. You stepped forward, closed the distance and pressed your lips firmly upon his.
The kiss was not chaste, nor careful, nor tentative, weeks of restraint collapsed into it. Baelor’s hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer, groaning in your mouth. Your hands grabbed onto the lapel of his suit, whimpering when his mouth pressed harder against yours.
His other hand gripped your waist, anchoring you there as if he had already decided you were not going anywhere. The kiss deepened, his tongue prodding your mouth, and your thoughts scattered, your knees threatening to follow.
You felt the shift in him, how his control thinned at the edges, his composure gone, replaced by hunger. He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand resting at the base of your neck, as if letting you go required a decision he did not want to make.
“This…” He said, his breath ghosting against your lips, voice rougher than you had ever heard it. “This is exactly what I was trying to prevent.”
“Do you regret it?” You hated how your voice trembled, scared at his answer.
“No…” He groaned. “And I am done pretending I do not want it.”
He captured your lips in another kiss, which was slower, deeper than before. When he pulled away again, his eyes were almost black with hunger. His thumb brushed along your jaw, your lips tingling and swollen.
“Come with me.” He said, the words hovering between a plea and a command. Your heart was pounding so hard, so loud, that you were sure he could feel it, hear it. You looked at him, feeling the restraint that was barely holding, the choice sitting between you.
“Yes…”
He studied you for one final moment, making sure he heard you right. Then nodded.
You left separately. He went out first, smoothing his hair and suit as he walked away. You followed five minutes later, ignoring the way Lyonel’s eyes widened from across the room, ignoring your phone vibrating as you neared the elevators.
You were certain your heart was about to leap from its cage as the elevator doors closed, his hand wrapping around yours. The air was tense, and thick, but he did not kiss you, he did not touch you otherwise.
When you reached his floor, he all but dragged you across the corridors. And the moment the hotel room door was shut, he was on you.
This kiss was nothing like the ones before. It was deeper, hungrier, stripped of any restraints. Weeks of charged glances, sharp exchanges unravelled in seconds. He backed you against the door with a soft thud, his hands on your waist. You pushed the jacket off of his shoulders, moaning as his tongue touched yours,before he dove it deeper into your mouth.
He bit your lower lip, spurring you to grab his shoulders, pushing him towards the bed. And he let you.
“Off…” You mewled into the kiss, breaking it so you could remove his turtleneck before diving for his lips again, like a drowned man would dive for air.
His hand cupped your breast, squeezing it firmly, sending a jolt straight to your core. You moaned low, trailing hot, open-mouth kisses along his jaw and neck, tasting the salt of his skin. With a gentle shove, you pushed him to sit on the bed. He watched you with a dark, measured focus as you stepped between his knees. You continued kissing him, lips brushing against his collarbone, continuing your descent until you reached his belt, nipping at the skin above it.
“You do not have to do this.” He said, his voice in a gravely rumble. One hand rose, cupping your face as your fingers worked his belt. His thumb dragged across your lip in a slow and deliberate stroke that made your pulse race. You parted your lips and captured the thumb between them, giving it a soft, teasing, lick before sucking it. He hissed sharply at that.
“I want to…” You said, releasing his thumb with a soft pop. “I really do…”
With his help, you pulled his pants and boxers down, shoving them aside. His cock sprang up, standing proud against his stomach, precum leaking at the tip. The sight of it, the size of it, made your mouth water.
Wrapping your fingers around the base, you dragged your tongue along him before guiding him past your lips, his taste blooming on your tongue. The effect you had on him was immediate. His composure frayed just enough to show you the edge of it. His hand moved to your hair, not forcing, not controlling, just holding, steady and warm against the back of your head. His thumb stroked in silent encouragement.
You continued, taking your time with him, savouring every inch, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm. Heat spread through you like wildfire at his sounds, thighs clenching instinctively instinctively.
“That’s it…” He moaned, his head tipping back in a groan. “Take me deeper…”
You obeyed without hesitation, took him deeper until the head bumped the back of your throat, your jaw stretched. A muffled moan escaped, the sound humming along his length. He made a sound that was something between a moan and a sigh, fingers curling in your hair as he pushed you down, jaw tightening, hips shifting instinctively before he reins himself in. You felt the shift in him, the way control becomes effort.
“You look very good on your knees…” He murmurs, voice rougher now. “Have you been thinking about this?”
You did not answer directly, letting the swirl of your tongue and the hollow of your cheeks do the talking instead. The sound he made this time is lower, less controlled, his fingers flexing in your hair, not pushing, just grounding himself. Just before he lost the last of his restraint, he stopped you, tugging you off with a firm pull, his cock slipping free from your lips with a slick pop.
A glistening strand of saliva stretched between your swollen mouth and his cock. You looked up at him, eyes hazy, utterly drunk on him, his voice, his taste, his presence consuming every sense.
Using the grip on your hair as leverage, Baelor pulled you up into a kiss that was almost punishing in its intensity, his mouth claiming, his breath uneven, all teeth and tongue as he devoured you. He broke away to pull your dress off, a satisfied sigh escaping him at the sight of your dark red lingerie.
His hands cupped your breasts possessively, thumbs brushing over the lace. He dipped his head, pressing hot kisses at the top of your breasts, before he shoved the fabric down, freeing on to the cool air. You back arched as he captured your nipple between his fingers, pinching with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from your throat, rolling the hardened peak until it ached deliciously.
One of your hands slid against his hair, tugging him closer, a silent demand for more. Baelor chuckled against your skin, kissing up your neck before slotting his lips against yours.
His other hand slid down your body, deliberate and unhurried, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it found the heat between your thighs. His palm pressed flat against you, moaning as he felt the damp fabric. With a swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and dragged them down, you kicked them off eagerly. His middle finger delved between your thighs, parting you slowly. You moaned into his mouth as his finger coated itself in your arousal. He exhaled slowly against you, his finger circling your entrance teasingly, clearly pleased by what he felt.
Looking at you through heavy-lidded eyes, he said. “Sit on my face.”
That was not a request. It was an invitation laced with command.
Your breath got caught in your throat, not from shock, but from the certainty in his tone. He was not asking out of impulse, he was testing whether you would yield the way you had been daring him all this time. You whined softly as he removed his finger and hand from you, and he leaned back on the bed, mismatched eyes never leaving yours. Desire burned in them, tempered by a deliberate patience.
“Come here.” He adds, softer now, but still having that authoritative edge. You hesitated just long enough to let him see the effect he had on you.
Then you moved.
His hands found your hips, guiding you with a firm grip. His thumbs dug into your skin, as if etching the texture of it into his memory. The shift in power is immediate, you were above him, but he was the one in control.
“Trust me.” He murmured against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss on your inner thigh.
You did.
When he pulled you down toward him, his focus was absolute. His hands splayed across your thighs, holding you in place, while his tongue delved between your folds, parting them with a slow, deliberate stroke. A loud moan escaped your throat, your hand moving to his head, your fingers threading into his hair for support. You had thought about his tongue on you so many times over sleepless nights, but you were never prepared for it to be this divine. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue flicked against it, making you see stars.
“Oh fuck, Baelor…” Your cries filled the room, your hips grinding instinctively against his mouth.
“That’s it.” His voice was muffled, the words vibrating against your slick skin. “You don't have to hold back with me.”
With one hand he grabbed your hip ferociously, pinning you in place, exactly where he wanted, while his other hand explored and teased your folds. As his tongue circled your clit with relentless precision, his fingers prodded your entrance, one finger slipping in easily at your wetness, the second following soon after. He crooked them upward, syncing the motion with the pressure of his tongue, hitting that sensitive spot deep within. You could not help but moan brazenly. Every reaction you gave him, each gasp, each shudder, drew a quiet, satisfied sound from his chest, low, approving.
And when your fingers tightened in his hair, when your breathing turned uneven and broken, he tightened his grip more, ensuring you stayed locked against his mouth.
“That is it…” He said again, moaning. “Let me feel you…”
The control in his voice is what undid you. Your hips jerked wildly, chasing your release, his name chanted like a fervent prayer, your walls clamping hard around his thrusting fingers. He did not relent, lapping and sucking through your release, his own groans mingling with yours.
Finally, you clutched his hair, tugging him away from your throbbing core, your hips lifting away from his glistening mouth. He allowed you to move, but not before dragging his tongue along your folds one final time, pressing one last deliberate kiss to your inner thigh, slow and possessive.
Baelor sat up immediately after, pulling you into his lap. Your bodies pressed together seamlessly, skin to skin, heat to heat, his hard cock pressing insistently between your thighs. His hands trailed up your spine, then back down again, deliberate and claiming. Your eyes met his, heavy, with lingering heat, before capturing his mouth in a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.
“You did so well.” He whispered.
“I need more Baelor… please…” You begged, rolling your hips, seeking his length.
“Tell me what you need.” He ordered gently, his lips grazing your neck, tongue tracing the junction where it met your shoulder, sucking it gently.
“I… fuck me… Baelor, please…” You moaned, pressing your lips on his forehead in desperation.
He shifted, rolling you onto your back beneath him, reclaiming the upper hand without breaking eye contact. He settled between your thighs, his hard cock nudging against your entrance, coating itself in your wetness.
“Still confident?” He asked, trailing his mouth along your jawline.
You nodded, breathless.
“Say it.”
“Yes.”
His control finally fractured, and he claimed your mouth in a fierce kiss, like he was done waiting. Like every restrained meeting, every late-night message, every almost-confession had been building to this exact moment. And when he entered you, it was deliberate and unhurried at first, inch by inch until he buried himself fully inside you. He watched the way your face contorted in pleasure, a low groan escaping him as your walls stretched around his length.
His forehead rested against yours as he began to thrust, one arm braced beside your head. He set the rhythm, deliberate, unyielding strokes that built gradually, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. You could not help but arch up to meet his thrusts, cries spilling out as you clutched his shoulders, the pace intensifying with each collision.
The sound of his hips meeting yours filled the room, his grunts accompanying your moans and whimpers like a raw harmony. His fingers dug into your hip hard and tight, and you were sure it would bruise.
“You are doing so well…” Baelor praised you, his breath fanning your lips. “You are taking me so well… like you were made for me…”
Words failed you, your mind blanking as the thick drag of him filled and withdrew from your core. Baelor chuckled lightly, very pleased with your reaction, your surrender, moaning deeply when your walls clenched tight and warm around him in response. He angled his hips sharper, driving deeper to strike that hidden spot. His free hand slipped down to rub your clit in firm, circling motions that matched his deep thrusts.
Heat built steadily through you, coiling tighter with every deliberate movement, every whisper, every brush of his touch. Your breath hitched and your heart raced, a rhythm that seemed to echo his own.
“Baelor…” You gasped his name, teetering on the edge of desperation and release.
Climax ripped through you, intense and all-consuming, your body quaking as you clenched around him, leaving you trembling and breathless.
“You are so perfect…” Baelor said, riding the wave of your release with you. “So flawless…”
His composure frayed as he pursued his own peak, his control slipping. He moaned at the tightness around him, his breath turning uneven, his rhythm faltering into erratic thrusts.
A few more powerful strokes and he came, spilling deep inside of you, your name a ragged chant on his lips. You stayed like that for a while, his body heavy and comforting atop yours, trying to catch your breath. He kissed you tenderly then, his thumb brushing your cheek, murmuring and praising you.He pulled back just enough to brush his fingers lightly over your skin, tracing the heat still lingering along your arms and shoulders.
His voice was low, grounding you when he asked. “Are you okay?”
When you nodded, he let a small, almost imperceptible smile touch his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. The two of you drew in sharp breaths, and you moaned lowly when he eased his cock out from you, the sudden emptiness making your inner walls flutter desperately around nothing.
His fingers combed through your hair soothingly, before going to the bathroom to fetch a towel and run it under warm water. Returning, Baelor knelt beside you, dabbing the towel gently against your sensitive folds, every movement filled with deliberate care, a contrast to the fire and intensity you had just shared. He finally joined you under the covers, his heat enveloping you, your bodies shifting together, limbs entwining, tangled in sheets that would not stay in place.
He kept you close, hand resting possessively at your hip, thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin.
“You are,” He said quietly into your hair. “Exceptionally dangerous.”
You smiled against his chest, pressing a kiss just above his heart. “You started it.”
A low hum of disagreement passed through him.
“No.” He replied. “You did.”
The sheets are half twisted around your legs, the air thick and warm and still humming with what you had just done. Baelor stayed exactly where he was, not rolling away, or reaching for his phone. You lifted your head slightly to look at him. His hair was a mess, his beard still slick with your release, his breathing finally steadying. But his eyes, when they met yours, are clear, focused.
“You are being very quiet.” You whispered.
“I’m thinking.”
“Hmm… dangerous.” You snuggled close to him.
A faint chuckle escaped him. “Yes.”
There was no awkwardness, no embarrassment between you. Just a charged stillness that felt almost more intimate than what came before.
He moved slightly, rolling you more fully against him. His palm slid up your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping you by touch alone.
“You surprised me…” He said quietly.
“Well, that was the intention.”
His gaze sharpened, his fingers grasping your chin, making you look at him. “No. Not that.” His thumb traced your lower lip. “You trusted me.”
The weight of that landed heavier than anything else tonight.
You did not joke this time. “I would not have come upstairs if I did not.”
Something changed in his expression then, almost imperceptible. His dominance softened, not disappearing, just settling into something steadier. He brushed his nose lightly against your temple.
“You should know…” He said, voice low, “If we continue this… I will not be casual about it.”
Your pulse jumped, eyes widening a little. “That sounds suspiciously like a warning.”
“It is.”
He leaned back just enough to look at you fully.
“I do not divide my attention easily. And I don’t compete.”
“Are you staking a claim?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
The honesty in which he said it stole your breath. He kissed you then, slower, less urgent, like a seal pressed onto something neither of you intended to undo.
You slid your hand slowly up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.
“So you are not going to pretend this did not happen on Monday, are you?” You asked quietly.
A soft, amused exhale escaped him, his eyes warm. “Absolutely not.”
Your blood sang at that, at that confirmation, not knowing how much you needed it.
“You do realize…” You said lightly, though your voice was not entirely steady. “This makes work infinitely more complicated.”
“I am aware.”
“And?”
“And I have decided it is worth it.”
The certainty in that answer was almost more dangerous than his touch had been. Then his hand tightened slightly at your waist.
“Come here.” He murmured.
You were already pressed against him, but he pulled you closer anyway, tucking you beneath his chin. His fingers threaded lazily through your hair now.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Outside, somewhere below, the city moves on like nothing monumental just shifted. But it had, because this was not just physical. This was weeks of tension turned real.
“You should sleep.” He said softly.
“Is that an order?”
“It is care.”
You huffed indignant, but did not stop the wide smile that spread on your lips.
And when the lights finally dimmed and the room fell quiet, he kept one hand anchored at your waist like he expected you to stay.
You had already decided that you would.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
Come Monday morning, you were back in neat squares, screens aligned, everything professional and composed.
Baelor’s voice cut through the grid, low as he called your name. “Your thoughts?”
You held his gaze through the camera, long enough to feel the pull. You smiled at the subtle shift that came in as he leaned in and tilted his head.
“I think we should be bold.”
A faint smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I agree.”
As the meeting moved on to other topics, a notification blinked in the corner of your screen. Your stomach fluttered, every nerve alert, you could not ignore the way he seemed to unravel you with just a message.
Baelor:
We need to discuss boundaries at work.
You:
We do
Three dots lingered, before the message came.
Baelor:
Dinner tonight?
You:
Yes, I’d love that
You stared at the chat, smiling widely. Across the grid, you did not notice Lyonel’s camera had fully turned on, and he was watching you like he could read everything before you even typed it, a big grin on his face.
You did not need to pretend it was professional anymore.
A Dangerous Distraction (Modern!Maekar Targaryen x reader)
Masterlist
Summary: You get stood up on a date and decide the night will not be going to waste. At the bar, you spot a brooding older man with a permanent scowl and decide to flirt with him.
Word count: 6.1K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Modern AU, porn without plot basically, age gap(reader is in her mid 20s, Maekar is in his early 40s), explicit smut, rough sex (kinda?), unprotected sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, spanking, hair pulling, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, English is my second language, proof read twice
Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
Author’s note: Okay, so this was going to be a longer story, with actual plot, maybe multi-chapter, and with maybe some angst thrown in. I worked sporadically between my other stories and life on this, but after a while I just decided to rewrite parts of it and publish it as a one shot. To be fair, it did become a bit overindulgent hahaha I may write part 2 in the future, but no promises for now! :)
As always, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!
You checked your phone for the fourth time in three minutes. The screen glowed accusingly in your hand, the time flashing obscenely loud.
7:59pm.
You had arrived at 7:20 for your date, even though the reservation was for 7:30. Early, but not too early, just enough to look punctual without seeming too eager. You really wanted to make a good impression.
You even chose the dress with more care than you wanted to admit. It was black, of course, because black was safe, and effortless, and never tried too hard. The cut was simple, skimming your figure without clinging too much. The neckline was heart shaped, a gentle curve that showed off your cleavage. The waist was cinched just enough to give the dress shape, and when you moved, the skirt shifted lightly around your legs, easy and unbothered. Paired with a thin gold chain at her neck and simple heels, it made you look polished and cute, in the most effortless way.
It was all because this was your first date in a while, and the first one in months that had actually excited you. The guy who you had matched with in the dating app had been funny, sarcastic, and the conversation had flowed effortlessly for days.
The restaurant both of you had decided to meet was one of those places that tried very hard to be both modern and intimate, one of those dimly lit places with too many low light bulbs and exposed brick walls, with soft jazz music barely audible over the hum of conversations.
Around you, couples leaned close to each other in conversations. Someone laughed softly at the next table. A waiter moved gracefully between guests, topping off glasses of wine and water.
It could have been a lovely night. Yet your phone remained void of any messages, stubbornly silent.
Sighing, you unlocked it again and opened up the app, scrolling to the chat you had with him. The last message stared back at you.
Cant wait to finally meet you properly😉
It had been sent three hours ago.
You started typing, wanting to let him know that you were there, that you were waiting.
Hey hey, Im here ☺️
Pursing your lips, you stared at the emoji for a moment before deleting the message all together. You did not want to appear too eager. Instead, you typed:
Hey, are you close?
But you hesitated, before deleting that too. Again, you did not want to appear too eager, or confused, or worse: desperate.
A polite cough pulled your attention away from your phone. A waitress stood beside your table, offering you a careful, sympathetic smile, but she could not hide the polite, pitying look in her eyes.
“Are you ready to order?” She asked gently. “Or would you still like to wait for a few more minutes?”
You looked down at your phone again.
8:08pm.
“No.” You decided, the realisation settling slowly. He was not coming. “I am leaving.”
Grabbing your purse, you walked out of the restaurant with your spine straight and heels steady. You refused to rush. Only once the door was closed behind you and you were outside, the humiliation bloomed properly.
He did not cancel, he did not apologise, he simply… did not show.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, and your stomach flipped treacherously as you opened it. But it was not him.
It was Rowan, your best friend.
Rowan:
Hows the date going? All good?? 🤩
Sighing deeply, and hating how your breath trembled, you shot her a reply.
Got stood up 🥲
Her response came instantly.
Rowan
What??!?!
That fucker
Where are you now?
We are at Meadow and Ash, come over
You stared at the street for a moment, contemplating. You could go home, wash your makeup off, change into something comfortable and put on one of your favourite tv shows, pretend you never cared in the first place, pretend that the evening had never mattered.
Instead you typed:
Im on my way
You were not going to let this night end on a sour note. If the night was already ruined, you might as well salvage a drink from it.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
Meadow and Ash was the total opposite of the restaurant. It was loud enough to drown any thoughts.
The moment you stepped inside, the sound swallowed you whole, loud enough to drown out any thoughts. The air smelled faintly of spilled beer, and perfumes. The place was crowded, and alive with the messy energy of a Friday night, voices overlapping in loud bursts of laughter and conversation.
You find Rowan easy enough by her bright red hair practically glowing under the bar lights. She waved you over with enthusiasm. And when you reached the table, she greeted you by pulling you in a tight hug.
“I ordered your favorite.” She said, sliding a glass toward you as you sat down. Raymund lounged across from you, already halfway through his drink.
“So-” He said with theatrical curiosity. “What happened to ‘Mr. Perfect Jawline’?”
He hissed loudly as Rowan smacked his arm. You took a sip of your drink.
“I do not care.” You replied, a bit more harshly than intended. “He is dead to me.”
Both demanded details anyway. You told them what happened, your tone a bit too light, trying to convince yourself as though it was a mildly funny inconvenience rather than the first date you were genuinely hopeful about in months.
Rowan hissed in outrage at your behalf. Raymund offered to key his car.
“No one even knows what he drives!” Rowan pointed out.
“That will not stop me!” Raymund said solemnly.
You laughed despite yourself, already feeling lighter.
The easy rhythm of your friends’ company, the drinks, and even the noise helped. You asked about Duncan, Raymund’s best friend, but he would not be able to join you.
“He is not coming tonight.” Raymund shook his head. “He has rugby practice tomorrow morning.”
He had a look on his face, the unmistakable expression of a man holding on to gossip, and only needing the smallest bit of encouragement to share it with you. Rowan noticed it immediately.
“What?” She demanded, clutching his arm. “Tell us!”
He waited a second before talking, a wide smile on his lips.
“Apparently-” Raymund began conspiratorially, glancing between the two of you. “Duncan thinks that one of the managers is definitely sleeping with someone on his team. ”
“Definitely?” You asked wide eyed.
“Oh my gosh!” Rowan giggled, intrigued by the gossip. “You cannot just say that and stop there.”
Raymund lifted his glass, with a small smirk. “Dunk swears it is obvious.”
“Obvious how?” Rowan pressed.
“He says they are trying to be subtle. Professional, all that bullshit.” He took a gulp of his cider before continuing. “But apparently after just one day back in the office he could tell something was off.”
“Off how?” You asked, leaning in.
“Things like looks, the way they talk to each other.” Raymund gestured vaguely. “You know, like they think they are hiding the tension from people, but are failing spectacularly.”
Rowan gasped dramatically. “Ooh, office scandal.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head, amused. “Or Duncan has watched too many dramas.”
“Also highly possible.” Raymund chuckled.
Rowan leaned closer across the table, eyes sparkling. “Okay but, manager and team member? That’s just messy.”
Raymund nodded. “Extremely.”
“That is HR paperwork waiting to happen.” You added.
Your conversation drifted after that, dissolving into laughter and half-serious speculation about office scandals. You were already done with your drink when you noticed him.
Not because he was the loudest man in the bar, but quite the opposite. He sat alone at the far end of the bar, a still point in the chaos of Meadow and Ash, wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearms, and a glass of amber liquid sitting before him. His hair was pale blond, neatly kept but not styled, with a few strands having escaped into quiet disorder. A short beard framed a strong jaw that looked permanently set in disapproval.
But what caught your attention most was the expression he wore on his face. He looked like he was profoundly irritated by existence, deeply unimpressed with the world and everyone in it.
He looked older than you, maybe by a decade or so. Not that old really, just settled, entirely uninterested in impressing anyone.
He glanced up once, scanning the bar with sharp blue eyes, before looking back down. And that was enough for you.
Just what you needed, a man. Not a boy, who had stood you up.
Rowan followed your gaze.
“Oh no…” She said immediately. “Do not."
“Do not what?” You asked, already sliding off the stool. “I am just going to get a drink.”
She leaned closer, squinting at him.
“Oh, he is a tall glass of something.” She admitted. “But no, seriously, that man looks like he sends emails that start with ‘Per my last email’.”
You snorted. “He is exactly what I need right now. A man.”
“You literally said you wanted to get serious about dating!”
“And look where that got me.” You retorted.
Rowan sighed, looking at you with care. “So… what’s your plan then?”
“I am going to flirt with that man.” You said calmly, adjusting your dress. “And if he bites, I am going to fuck him.”
Raymund groaned, but you ignored him.
“Fine…” Rowan sighed. “Just be safe and text me if you need help.”
You nodded and walked toward the bar. He did not even glance at you when you sat in the empty stool beside him. Flagging the bartender for another drink, you studied the man openly. Up close, the scowl was even more impressive.
“You know…” You began conversationally, crossing your legs. “If you glare at the glass like that any longer, it might actually apologize.”
He did not respond at first, a flicker of confusion passing over him. Then slowly turned his head toward you, his blue eyes were sharp enough to cut.
“Are you speaking to me?”
“Do you see anyone else sitting here?” You teased, smiling.
He looked at you for a long moment, his eyes swept over you assessing, not lingering, calculating, as if trying to figure out if you speaking to him was a joke.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to.” You said easily, thanking the bartender for the drink. “And because I think you needed the distraction.”
He turned towards you, then, slowly. “I do not fucking think so.”
“Mhm, sure you do.” You said, sipping your drink. “Your scowl is impressive though.”
“My scowl?” He frowned slightly. Oh, you found him so handsome.
“Yes, I think it… lacks nuance.” You tilted your head to the side. “Have you considered adding a hint of existential dread maybe?”
He blinked once, trying to decide how to reply.
“You have had too much to drink.” He finally said.
“I have had exactly enough to tolerate being stood up.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. You did not mean to say it out loud, but you did. Something shifted in the air, subtle, almost imperceptible.
He finally picked up his glass, and took a slow slip.
“You are loud for someone humiliated.” He said.
Your chin lifted, pride wounded. “I am not humiliated.”
He snorted. “You came over here to fucking prove that.”
You narrowed your eyes. He was observant, annoyingly so.
“And you are sitting alone in a crowded bar...” You retorted. “Radiating hostility like it is a public service.”
“I am not fucking radiating anything.” He growled.
“Oh, you absolutely are! I could feel it from across the room. That is why I came over.”
“To fix me?”
“Well, to entertain myself mostly.” You took another drink, smiling widely at him.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“You are too old to be this reckless.” He said, pointedly looking at you.
A brow lifted elegantly from your face, leaning closer to him. “And I think you are not that old to be this grumpy.”
Silence stretched once again. The tension was no longer purely combative, it tightened and warmed as his eyes roamed over you again, focusing on your cleavage before coming back up to your eyes.
“Go back to your friends.” He said finally. “You do not want to be talking to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am not whatever it is you are looking for.”
“And what would that be?”
“A distraction.”
His eyes held yours now, steady, unreadable.
“What if I want you to be something more?” You asked breathlessly.
“Then you are barking up the wrong fucking tree.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
The way he looked at you made your pulse stutter. But instead of backing down, you leaned back.
“This is good.” You said softly, making a show of getting comfortable in your seat. “I was worried tonight was going to be boring.”
You offered your hand, introducing yourself. He looked at it as if it was a trap, but then after a moment he took it. His grip was warm and firm, his big hand completely swallowing yours.
“Maekar.”
And that was the moment the night shifts, not because he said his name, or you touched, but when neither of you let go immediately.
He released your hand a heartbeat too late, as though he had meant to let go sooner. You noticed and smiled.
“So… Maekar…” You said lightly, folding your hands on the bar, letting his name roll slowly off your tongue. “Are you always this welcoming, or am I getting special treatment?”
“You are getting tolerated.” He said flatly.
“I feel honored.” You nodded solemnly in return.
He took another sip of his drink.
You glanced at the amber liquid. “Whiskey?”
“Yes.”
“You do not even pretend to like fun, do you?”
His eyes slid toward you, unimpressed. “Fun is overrated.” He deadpanned, but you were not sure if he meant that in amusement or not.
“Spoken like a man who has never had any.”
His jaw tightened slightly, but this time there was the faintest trace of amusement behind it, something controlled rather than irritated.
“And what…” He asked. “Would you consider fun?”
You let your eyes wander his body.
“Teasing you…” You said. “You look like someone who needs to lose control once in a while.”
“And you look like someone who mistakes recklessness for depth.”
That one landed harder than you expected, but you ignored the sting. Tilting your head, you smiled faintly. “You do not know me.”
“No.” He agreed. “But I know patterns.”
“Ah!” You exclaimed. “You are one of those.”
“One of what?”
“Men who think they are immune to being surprised.”
He studied you for a long moment, properly, as if reassessing the situation he had somehow found himself in.
“And you are trying very hard...” He finally said. “To convince yourself you do not care about that man who did not show up.”
The air was taut between you. You forced a careless shrug. “He saved me from an evening of polite disappointment.”
“And now you are here trying to provoke a stranger.”
“Yes.”
“Fuck me.” He shook his head, sounding exasperated.
“I am trying.” You laughed, licking your lips, your eyes going down to his legs.
That stumped him for a second, and he huffed. “Well… at least you are honest.”
A bartender approached. “Another round?”
Maekar glanced at you. “Are you driving?”
“No.” You arched a brow. “Are you?”
“No.”
“Great.” You turned to the bartender. “We will have another one of each.”
The bartender nodded and moved away.
“You do not hesitate.” Maekar observed.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
You smiled faintly. “I hesitated for forty-something minutes in a restaurant staring at my phone. I think I am done hesitating for tonight.”
Something about that made him go quiet, thoughtful.
“You should not be here.” He said again, softer this time.
“And yet.”
“And yet.” He echoed.
Your drinks arrived, and you took a long sip without breaking eye contact.
“You keep telling me I’ll regret this…” You mused. “Why?”
“Because I am not a fucking distraction.” He retorted. “And you are treating me like one.”
“Maybe I just think you are interesting.”
“You do not know anything about me.”
“Well, you are alone in a crowded bar.” You counted on your fingers. ”Drinking expensive whiskey. Scowling like someone personally offended you before dessert.”
Your hand dropped back to the counter. “That is at least three interesting things.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, almost laughing. “You are persistent, I will give you that.”
“I get that a lot.” You smiled widely, wetting your lips.
“I am older than you.”
“I noticed.”
“And that does not bother you?”
You leaned slightly closer, lowering your voice as your fingers brushed lightly against his arm. “If you were boring, it would.”
That did it, his composure slipping just slightly. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth for a fraction, then lower for a second, before returning to your eyes.
And you felt it, felt the shift, not just the attraction, but something like curiosity from him.
“You are playing a dangerous game.” He murmured.
“You are the only one calling it dangerous.” You replied in the same tone.
“That is because you do not see the risks.”
“Then show me.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and charged. Across the room, Rowan and Raymund were pretending not to watch. Maekar noticed them.
“You came here with people.”
“Yes.”
“They will assume things.”
“Oh, they already are.” You looked over your shoulder and winked at Rowan. “But they do not care as long as I am fine.”
He studied you again, as if he was weighing something internal, like he was arguing with himself.
“You will wake up tomorrow…” He said, voice low now. “And decide this was a mistake.”
“You are very sure of that.” You said, your fingers still tracing slow circles on his arm.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I am not charming. I am not easy.” He took a slow breath. “And I do not do things halfway.”
Your breath caught slightly at that. “Maekar… That was not the warning you think it was.”
His fingers tightened around his glass, his eyes hovering over your lips once more. He said your name for the first time since the introduction, as a warning. It landed heavy on you, heat blooming low in your stomach.
“You are upset.” He continued. “You are impulsive. That’s a fucking volatile combination.”
“And you are controlled to the point of suffocation.” You replied softly. “That can also be a volatile combination.”
The music in the bar swelled, laughter erupted loudly somewhere behind you. The world continued, completely unaware that something precarious was forming between two people at the edge of it.
You finished your drink in one smooth motion, and set the glass down.
“Walk me out.” You said, sliding off the stool, close enough now that your knee brushes his.
His eyes narrowed. “That is not happening.” Though he did not sound as convincing.
“Walk me out.” You leaned over, your breath warm against his ear, your breasts subtly brushing against his arm. “Please.”
He went very still, and looked at you for a long moment. This was the exit point, he could end it here, should end it, tell you goodnight, send you back to your friends, and return to his controlled solitude. Instead, he stood. He was taller than you expected, broader, the space between you shrinking instantly.
“You are going to regret this,” He grunted, but it no longer sounded like a warning. More like a promise.
“Ask me about it tomorrow morning.” You smiled.
He reached into his pocket, paying for your drinks without even checking the amount, you walked back to Rowan and Raymund’s table.
“Oh my god.” Rowan whispered, as you grabbed your jacket and bag.
“I will call you tomorrow.” You told her goodbye, moving towards Maekar. You walked to the exit together, not touching, but aware of every inch of space between them.
Outside, the night air was cooler and quieter than the bar. For a moment, you just stood there under the streetlight.
“This…” Maekar said evenly, his eyes roaming over your body. “Is the part where you reconsider.”
You stepped closer instead.
“No…” You replied, pretending to adjust the lapel of his coat. “This is the part where you stop pretending you do not want to kiss me.”
That was the final crack in his restraint, his hand coming to your waist, firm and decisive, like he was done debating with himself.
“You are impossible.” He muttered, pulling you closer.
“I know.” Your nose brushed against his. “And I think you like it.”
He did not argue. Instead, he closed the small space between you.
When his mouth met yours, there was nothing hesitant about it. The restraint he had held all evening disappeared, shifting into something focused and deliberate. The kiss was firm, controlled, like a man finally allowing himself something he already decided he wanted.
Then you kissed him back.
The careful edge of the kiss unraveled instantly. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepened. You exhaled softly against his mouth, not surprised by the intensity of it, only satisfied that you had been right about him all along.
When you part, barely, he searched your face one last time.
“Last chance.” He said quietly, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“For what?”
“To walk away.”
You smiled. “Fuck no.”
And this time, he did not hesitate and kissed you again.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
His apartment door clicks shut behind you with a heavy, decisive sound. Maekar pressed the lights on, dim light filling the place.
For a moment you simply stood there. Everything about his apartment was neat, deliberate, dark furniture, clean lines, not a thing out of place. There was a wall filled with pictures, at the far end, every frame perfectly aligned. It suited him, you thought.
You turned slightly, wanting to say something clever. But you never got the chance.
Maekar reached for you like a man whose restraint finally snapped. His hand found the back of your neck, drawing you forward. The kiss was everything but tentative.
It was heat and hunger all at once. His mouth moved against yours with a certainty that stole the air from your lungs. You answered him just as fiercely, fingers sliding up into his hair, tugging hard. You pressed closer, feeling the solid line of his body through the layers between you. He groaned in your mouth, tasting of whiskey and something darker, and pulling you firmly against him.
For a moment you remained there in the hallway, kissing like strangers who suddenly forgot the world exists.
“Bedroom, please…” You mewled against his lips and that was all the permission he needed.
His impatient hands removed the coat from your shoulders and you shrugged out of it, giggling softly, as you did the same to him, both falling somewhere behind you.
He pushed you through the short hallway and past the living room. His hands were warm on your back, yours wandering over his broad shoulders and down the length of his strong arms. Each touch sent a pulse between your legs.
The bedroom door nudged open beneath his hand. Inside, the light was softer still. Moonlight spilled through the half-drawn curtains. But you barely noticed.
Your kisses deepened as you stumbled inside his bedroom.
“Fuck…” His lips found your neck, biting gently between the sensitive points that made you gasp, sending shivers racing down your spine. The zipper came undone under his deft fingers, the fabric of your dress shifting and slipping away beneath his restless hands, pooling at your feet. Each small barrier felt like an unnecessary delay, heightening the ache building low in your belly.
He paused only once, his eyes almost black and looking at the lace of your bra. He hooked his finger into the elastic band.
“Take it off…”
You smiled, taking the bra off and throwing it somewhere in the room. You did not let him look at you long, closing the distance again, your hands tugging at his shirt to feel the heat of his skin.
The rest of the clothes found the floor in careless stages as you moved toward the bed, and you pressed against him, skin to skin, the friction igniting sparks wherever you touched.
His hands roamed your body as you tumbled onto the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. Maekar's eyes were darkened with hunger. They locked onto your breasts, full and exposed now that he stood above you. He cupped them immediately. His thumbs circled your nipples until they hardened under his touch, a moan escaping your throat, your thighs pressing together, seeking any sort of friction.
“God, these…” He groaned, leaning down to take one peak into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make you arch into him.
You gasped his name, fingers threading through his pale hair, pulling him closer. He teased your nipple with his tongue, before sucking it again. He moved on to your other breast, but not without roughly squeezing it.
But he pulled back slightly, releasing your nipple with a wet pop, his expression serious amid the fire in his gaze.
“Before we go any further…” He said, kneading your breast possessively, relishing at your moan. “I need a safe word.”
You looked at him through hooded eyes, smiling a little. “Cake.”
Maekar chuckled, shaking his head before giving your nipple another suck. “Well then, let’s see if you are just as sweet.”
His head dipped lower, placing kisses between your breasts and along your stomach, until he reached lower and parted your thighs. Fingers hooked on the lace of your panties, he pulled them down roughly before settling between your legs.
His fingers parted your slick folds, his breath hot on you before his tongue dragged a slow deliberate part against you. A loud moan escaped your lips as Maekar lapped at your entrance with hungry strokes. He sucked your clit into his mouth, firm and unyielding. His tongue flicked against it in tight, relentless circles while his hand gripped your hips to hold you steady. With the other, he stroked your folds before plunging two fingers inside you, curling them against that sensitive spot that made you see stars. He pumped them steadily, tongue pressing against your clit in tight circles, watching your face as your hips bucked in pleasure.
“That’s it…” He growled, moving his other hand from your hip to your breast, squeezing it and pinching the nipple until you moaned his name.
Pleasure coiled tight in your core, his touch relentless, building you higher with every thrust of his fingers. You writhed beneath him, your walls clenching on his fingers, moans spilling from your lips as pleasure built sharp and fast, his mouth devouring you like he could not get enough of you. Your climax ripped through you, intense and all-consuming, your body quaking as you clenched around his fingers.
Maekar groaned as he pulled away from you, his beard and lips glistening with your arousal. He removed the last articles of clothing, his cock springing free. Thick and hard, precum leaking from the tip, painfully hard because of you. Your mouth watered at the sight of it, and you reached for him, eager to feel his thick cock and to wrap your lips around it. But he caught your wrist.
“No.” He commanded, voice low and unyielding. “I need to fuck you now.”
The words sent a fresh wave of lust through you, your walls clenching on nothing. You stared at him, pulse racing as he positioned himself between your legs. He brushed his cock over your folds, coating himself.
“Beg for it.” He squeezed your thigh.
“What?” You asked, dazed.
“I said…” He nudged the tip of his cock in a little, chuckling at your frustrated sigh when he retreated. “Beg for it.”
You did not wish to do so, but the want and need of him won.
“Fuck me…” You begged, your voice breaking with need. “Fuck me Maekar. Make me forget everything.”
His eyes flashed with dark promise, and he leaned over you, bracing on his arm. He thrusted forward, burying himself deep in you in one powerful stroke, moaning loudly. You cried out, your hands clawing at his back as he filled you completely, bottoming out. He did not let you adjust to him, already moving, each drag of his cock along your walls pulling whimpers and moans from your lips.
“Good girl.” He rumbled, pace quickening, his hips snapping harder as your nails raked his back. Pleasure fogged your mind, but you did not wish to submit fully. You pressed your palms against his chest, breaking his rhythm just long enough to push him on his back and sinking down onto his length with a deliberate roll of your hips.
You rolled your hips slowly at first, your hand braced on his chest. His hands found your hips as you started bouncing on him, your moans filling the air.
“Think you can keep up, old man?” You teased, nails digging into his skin just enough to sting. “Do not tire out on me now.”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed and his nose flared. Your words lit him like fire. His hands gripped your hips bruisingly tight, slamming you down harder on his cock, meeting your rhythm with strong thrusts from below.
“Keep talking.” He warned, voice gravelly, one hand sliding to smack your ass hard. “I will show you exactly what this old man can do.”
Your breathless laugh turned into a moan as he proved it, pounding up into you relentlessly, hitting deep inside you with every move. His hand spanked your ass again.
But his patience ran dry and he flipped you into all fours, your arms and knees sinking into the mattress. His hand fisted your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch your spine. He delivered another sharp spank to your ass, before thrusting in you again. You let out a scream, the new angle allowing him to go deeper, his hips slamming against your reddened cheeks with each punishing stroke.
“Feel that?” He growled, spanking you once more, the crack echoing in the room.
This is what happens to girls who tease.”
Another spank, then his pace faltered, groans mixing with your cries as he drove harder, chasing his release while pushing you toward yours. His free hand reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in firm circles.
The world around you faded. You could only feel the slap of skin, the burn of his handprints, the thick slide of his cock stretching you. You came first, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, walls pulsing around him as you sobbed his name. He followed seconds later, burying deep and spilling inside you, his growl primal as he held you there, bodies locked in trembling ecstasy.
You collapsed forward, spent and sated, your body still warm from the intensity of your coupling. Maekar’s weight settled over you before he shifted slightly to brace himself, both of you breathing hard in the quiet that followed.
his weight pressing you down gently as he caught his breath, lips brushing your shoulder in a rare moment of tenderness amid the intensity.
Neither of you said anything. The room was warm, everything else reduced to a distant murmur, and the steady rhythm of your breathing slowly began to match. Somewhere in that quiet, with the tension finally spent and the night catching up to you both, sleep claimed you.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
The morning came quietly. Thin light slipped through the tall windows of the bedroom, stretching across the floor in long silver bars.
You woke up slowly, your mind still caught somewhere between sleep and memory. The sheets were warm, and the room unfamiliar. Then you remembered.
The failed date, the bar, his scowl, his hands on you.
Lips curling faintly, you turned your head. Maekar lay beside you, still sleeping. He looked less severe than the night before, the hard edges of his expression softer. In the dim morning light he looked younger… somehow. Not carefree, you thought he probably has not been carefree in years. But he looked less guarded than he had been at the bar.
Exhaling softly, you pushed yourself upright. This was the part where you left.
That was always the understanding in situations like this, two strangers meet at a bar, spend one reckless night and a clean exit is made before breakfast.
You slipped carefully from beneath the sheets, gathering your scattered clothes quietly, putting them on piece by piece.
Part of you felt oddly reluctant at the process, which was ridiculous. You barely knew Maekar. This one night stand, the whole of last night, was supposed to be spontaneous, impulsive, fueled by a bruised ego and too much stubborn curiosity.
Still, the thought of simply walking out left an unexpected hollow feeling in your chest. You shook your head, trying to ignore it as you made your way to the door.
Behind you, the bed shifted.
“You are leaving.” His voice was rough with sleep.
You turned and saw Maekar, awake now, propped slightly on one elbow, watching you from the bed. The morning light cut across his face, sharpening the lines of it again.
“That was the plan.” You gave him a smile.
Maekar looked at you in silence for a moment, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Even half-awake, and naked, he carried himself with that same authority you noticed the night before. He crossed the room towards you, your eyes shamelessly looking down at his half-hardened cock.
He grabbed your chin and tilted your face up. Then he said: “Have dinner with me tonight.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Dinner.” He repeated. “Tonight.”
You wrinkled your nose. “You are joking.”
“I am not.”
“We just met.”
“Yes.”
“We had one night.”
“Yes.”
“You barely tolerated me. And now you want a date?”
Maekar leaned closer, his body brushing yours.
“Yes.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “This is not how this works.”
“How does this work?” His eyes held a teasing gleam. “Englighten me.”
“Usually?” You started. “The mysterious stranger disappears into the sunrise and both people pretend they are very cool and emotionally detached about it.”
“Are you?”
You opened your mouth to retort. But had nothing clever to say. When you approached him last night, you had a plan, had decided how the morning would go. You would walk out of his apartment, forget his name, and talk about it later with Rowan. You supposed that it was the easy version.
Now he stood there, calmly dismantling it.
“You think after I had you last night.” His fingers brushed your jaw. “After I had a taste of you, that I would just let you fucking go?”
Heat spread through your cheeks, lust singing in your veins.
“I warned you.” His nose brushed yours. “I do not do things halfway.”
Maekar pressed his lips hard upon yours. His hand went to your hair, fisting it. He pulled you closer as you wrapped your arms around his neck. The kiss deepened instantly, hungry but less desperate than the night before. You shifted closer without thinking, your thigh pressing against his cock. His mouth moved against yours with controlled intensity and slow at first, before becoming more insistent. His other hand slid to your lower back, pulling you firmly against him as your lips parted, the kiss turning breathless and consuming.
You only pulled back because you had to breathe.
“Dinner…” He repeated, teeth tugging at your lower lip. “Tonight.”
You hummed, part of you suspecting this was a terrible idea. But the other part, the reckless part that had walked up to him in the bar in the first place, was already curious.
“Fine.” You finally said, moving in his tight hold to take your phone from your purse.
Smirking, he took it, saving his phone number and sending himself a message. Your fingers brushed briefly as he handed it back.
“Well…” You said lightly, holding your phone. “This was unexpected.”
Maekar snorted. “You started it.”
“By flirting with a grumpy stranger?”
“Yes.”
You laughed, and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, still smiling. “I will see you tonight.”
“I will come pick you up.” Maekar said, kissing you one last time before you left his apartment.
As you walked into the hallways and towards the elevator, you shook your head with a small, incredulous smile. You had fully intended, and expected for this to be just one night.
Instead you now had dinner plans with the sexiest, most stubborn man you had ever met.
Summary: A tournament for a Prince’s name day spells trouble for you and your husband. AKA Maekar is easily ragebated and needs to find a way to blow off steam.
Warnings: smut, kinda rough sex, hair pulling, the armor stays ON
AN: Cannot tell you how many pictures I looked at of Maekar in his armor while I was writing this 👀
4.3k Words
*****
There was a certain excitement you always felt when a tournament arrived.
The sounds of trumpets and fiddles from traveling bards, the smells of roasted meat cooking over open flames, and the colorful tents from all corners of the realm, every sense was taken up by something new. You would practically skip through the thrall of onlookers, eyes caught on exotic fashions, smiling dancers, and feats of bravery.
Maekar did not feel the same way.
To your husband, a tourney was a waste of time and skill, a performance for lordlings to show off skills they’d never used in battle. He had no problem loudly voicing his opinion whenever you and your family were invited.
“And why should we attend? One son can barely stay astride, the other more likely to stick his opponent’s horse than the rider.”
It was rare times like these when Baelor stepped in and insisted; the family needed to be seen as a united front. Valarr’s Name Day, a celebration that would ring out across King’s Landing. The boy would be king one day, and there was no end to the long line of lords and ladies eager to gain his favor.
Maekar had grumbled the entire way from Summerhall. First, at rounding up all five of his children (Aemon of course was still at the Citadel), packed and dressed, the finest red velvets and black leathers. Daeron had to be pulled from a brothel, which had earned him a long lecture the first day of travel. Then it was the rain, which did not affect you and the girls in the wheelhouse, but caused the Prince to be achy and cantankerous each night when you rested. His only release, it seemed, was finding his way into your arms, his nose pressed to your throat as he held you firmly against him.
The last straw had been the day before you arrived.
The inn was dry and warm, and you had insisted that your husband and stepchildren dine together. How delighted you were, when even Aerion did not say a word against it when you made the suggestion. It may have helped that Maekar stood behind you, daring the boy to remark.
It was then at supper Aerion, of course, made his remark.
“Father,” The young Prince smirked, “Shall we expect to see you ride in the tourney? I suppose not.”
The table fell silent. Egg halted his joke beside you, clutching your forearm and leaning against you. You wrapped a protective arm around him before you turned to Maekar beside you, deadly still, wine goblet halfway to his mouth.
“Why do you suppose not, boy?”
You slowly reached out, fingers wrapping around your husband’s wrist in a silent plea of mercy. Aerion was not finished.
“You’ve grown old now, father. Years away from battle may have dampened your skills you know; and six children, surely that's enough to wear you out?” He gestured to you, “A pretty young wife certainly doesn’t help in that regard.”
Oh he’d really done it now.
The faces of the other four children made your heart hurt. Wide eyes, open mouths, and a sense of unease across the table. Even Daeron, ever one to sit back and watch the world go by, was leaning forward in his seat, attempting to grab his brother’s doublet.
On any given day, there was no way Aerion would have ever spoken to his father this way. While he had no shortage of terror for footmen, chambermaids, and even his own siblings, there was an unspoken rule not to press too far against the Anvil. Even you were usually spared, if only to appease the older Prince. But that night, far from home, deep in his cups, there was no mistaking the sinister gleam in his eye.
“Listen well boy, all of you.” Maekar’s voice was low, a sound that usually made your thighs damp but tonight only tightened your grip on his arm. “I will not hear of this again. Not from green boys who have never seen real bloodshed, who could not unseat anyone with any real combat experience.”
He looked pointedly at Aerion. Who, to his credit, sat with his shoulders back and his head high; though his trademark smirk was noticeably absent.
“We are here to show the strength of house Targaryen, and I will not have any of us bickering like fishwives while the realm watches. You can start acting with the respect your title grants you, or you can spend the next week traveling home.”
Maekar sat back in his chair when he was done. Conversation did not start back up as the rest of you slowly finished your meal. The pitter patter of rain the only sound in the dining room.
*****
You sat on the best bed the inn could offer. It was soft enough, the woolen blankets a little scratchy, but warm enough to keep out the chill. You watched as Maekar angrily paced the length of the room.
“My darling, please, come to bed. Do not fret over the words of a child.”
He stopped and turned to you, eyes on your hand patting the bed beside you softly. Ever the obedient soldier, he stalked toward you, plopping down and tugging the blankets up over the pair of you. You could see how tense he was, shoulders ridged and brows pulled together in his most lethal scowl, despite laying down in the warm bed.
“Truely, my love, you cannot be troubled over his words. He is only trying to get under your skin.” You said softly, turning to slide a hand up his chest to rest above his rapidly beating heart. Maekar sighed. His arm came around your waist to tug you against him, your head resting on his broad chest.
You were surprised when he answered.
“I am not troubled, only thinking.”
“Of what?”
“It has been a long time since the realm has seen me ride.”
You did not like where this was going.
“Maekar, you cannot be serious. It is dangerous! What would I do if you were hurt?”
Maekar looked down at you, glare still evident.
“You doubt your husband’s ability to knock green boys from their ponies?”
You huffed out a humorless laugh.
“I have every confidence in your strength and prowess, but even those who prevail can still be injured. How could I go on if something happened to you?”
He pulled you closer, your leg sliding between his.
“My love, sleep well knowing that the gods themselves cannot take you away from me.” Maekar was not one for flowery words, but he was absolute in his devotion. You snuggled closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth, his jaw, and then over the silver hair on his chest.
“Maybe it is time they had a reminder of why they call me the Anvil.”
*****
Despite your husband’s insistence on putting himself in danger, you were still gleeful at the sights and sounds around you. The King had spared no expense when it came to celebrating the young Prince.
You walked through the field of tents, eagerly searching for the one with your husband’s sigil emblazoned on the side.
You’d been kept up multiple times on your journey. There was a man who could breathe fire who called himself a dragon, dancers who could stand on their hands and bend in ways that made your spine hurt, and girls selling spun sugar that was light enough to float in the breeze.
There was also the matter of stopping to wish Ser Dunk and Egg good fortune. Egg tried to seem serious, back straight and face stern as you praised the two of them for the skills they've gained together, but had thrown his skinny arms around your neck after you’d pressed a kiss to his forehead. You’d have given Dunk a kiss for luck as well, but you worried he’d keel over in embarrassment. His ears were already tipped in red when you told him to go easy on the older Prince. You laughed to yourself as you finally found the bloodred tarp of the Targaryen tent.
You entered without announcing yourself, only to discover Maekar in a state of anger rarely seen. He hadn’t noticed you yet, busy pointing and commanding squires and pages to fasten his armor just so.
“No, the clasp needs to be tighter. Do you think I want my plate to slide down while I ride? Idiot, I should have you sent away.” Maekar pointed at a particularly scrawny boy, the son of a Lannister, if you recall correctly. Your heart went out to him, he bore a striking resemblance to Maekar’s youngest boy.
“And where the fuck is my wife?”
You decided it was time to spare the poor squires.
“I am here, my love, do not worry.”
Maekar spun around to look at you.
“Out, everyone out. Now.”
Suddenly you were alone with him. He stomped to you, stopping to reach behind you and tug the flap of the tent closed.
“Where have you been?” He demanded, gauntleted hand coming up to skim over your cheek. Despite his harsh tone, his touch was as soft as you’d ever felt. You leaned against him.
“I was distracted by the splendor, Maekar, nothing more. I was always coming to find you, I assure you.” You punctuated your statement by raising up on your toes and pressing a kiss to the exposed skin above his gorget. He visibly relaxed. You looked up at him in question:
“Why did you want me here so fervently?”
Maekar’s eyes cut away, and you swore you could see warmth creeping up under the white of his beard.
“Can a man not wish to see his wife before he rides in battle?”
You rolled your eyes playfully.
“You said yourself that this was barely more than child's play, and now it's a full blown battle?”
It was his turn to roll his eyes. Yes, he was definitely blushing. You slid your hands up to grip the metal on his shoulders.
“Even so, I- I must ask something of you.”
“Of course Maekar, anything.”
He let out a deep breath, his voice gravely.
“It is only proper, of course, that the wife of a prince offers her favor.”
Ah.
This was what had the man in such a twist. In the time you’d been married, you had learned many things about the Prince. He was difficult at the best of times, quick to anger, always had a harsh word to spit. He also craved the warmth and affection you readily gave him like nothing else. The only hang up was that he would never, never, ask after it. You had learned that the only way to ease him fully was to gently take him in your arms and press a kiss to his marred cheek. He would grumble, a half-assed retort about how unprincely it all was, and he was putty in your hands.
Of course he could not just ask for your favor.
A wide smirk spread across your cheeks.
“Well, if it's the proper thing to do, I’m sure I can find something for you.”
You stepped away, slipping your hand into the pocket of your gown. You took your time, wiggling your hand around as if looking for something. He turned his head away from you, arms crossing across his chest and heat rising across his face. You laughed at his petulance.
“Oh Maekar, here my love.”
You finally let him up from your teasing, producing a slip of pale pink ribbon, the color of your gown. You gestured for him to come closer. He stepped forward, taking a knee before you and lowering his head to you. You slid the ribbon around his left arm, tying it tight so he had no chance of losing it on the field.
Maekar let out a low growl, fisting the back of your gown at your thigh and tugging you close to him. You took his face between your hands, tilting his head up to look him in the eye.
“Maekar please, for the love of the gods, don’t die.”
He saw the glisten of tears in your eyes and tugged you down to sit on his thigh.
“Come now, there's no need for that. You have seen me in the training yard, you know of my history on the battlefield, what makes you think today will be any different?”
Maekar leaned his forehead down to press against yours. Your hands found his hair, and his eyes squeezed shut at the pull.
“I only worry for you, you know that.”
He pressed a kiss to your nose, and then lips, with a tenderness that surprised you out of your gloom.
“You will sit up in the stands with my brother. You will watch as I unseat every young man who dares to ride against me. You will give me a lovely smile when I place the crown of roses on your head. And when I am finished, you will sit on my cock until I am satisfied.”
You hit his chest, letting out a choked giggle. He did not laugh, but that was his way. You pressed another kiss to his lips, and then moved to kiss the planes of his face. Across his jaw, down his sharp nose, through his beard, his forehead, his cheeks, over his eyelids. He looked as content as you’d ever seen him.
“Alright, alright woman. That's enough.” He mumbled out, though he made no move to stop you.
“Promise me one thing, my Prince.”
“Anything for you.”
You bit your lip to hide a grin.
“If you ride against Aerion, do not hurt him. The shame of his father knocking from his saddle will sure be pain enough.”
You were rewarded with a genuine bark of a laugh against your neck.
*****
The thrill of the win was still fresh on your mind.
It wasn't even your win, not really. Only the crown of white roses atop your head connected you to the victory.
Maekar had been terrifying.
You did not truly fear him, but the ferocity in which he rode against his opponents was enough to have you turning your head into your brother-in-law’s shoulder. A particularly bloody turn had you stepping away for a moment. You understood the brutality of the sport, and your husband’s torrid history with bloodshed, but it was still difficult to watch.
You’d found Egg behind the stands, giggling with a group of young squires and playing jacks. His joy reinvigorated you, and you chose to leave him be instead of making him listen to your worries. When you returned, it was for the final tilt.
Father and son.
There was a palpable tension in the air. Fear must have been plainly written across your face, as Daeron, in a rare moment of sobriety, extended a hand for you to grab.
“Have no fear. Father rides as well as any man I’ve ever seen.”
That was exactly what frightened you.
One lance, and then two, as each ride they broke against the ferocity of the Anvil and his boy.
Your face found a home in Daeron’s shoulder, hands gripping his hard enough that it must have hurt, but he sat still, strong, princely. It was clear both men were tiring on the yard, hits weaker as the horses wined.
Then, suddenly, it was over.
The crowd fell silent as Aerion Brightframe hit the ground. Maekar immediately slowed his ride, jumping down from the steed and moving to his son. He extended his hand, the boy taking it wearily and finding his footing. It was clear both men hurt, your Prince holding his side as he walked his son to the dais. Aerion limped beside him, face twisted in both anger and embarrassment.
It was one thing for your father to knock you from your seat, it was another to be carried off. He shook his father off when they stopped before you, Baelor, and the rest of the family.
The announcer called out the victory.
“Our champion! Prince Maekar Targaryen!”
Screams and shouts from the crowd muffled any other words of praise the man had for your husband. It didn’t matter, you were too focused on Maekar pulling his helm from his head. There was blood dripping from his nose, and a bruise forming on his cheekbone, but he otherwise looked his same, rugged, handsome self you loved. He knelt, bowing his head to his father before rising again.
A young man ran out to the field, ring of roses in hand, to present to the Prince. Maekar found your eye immediately. While you had no doubt he would crown you, it still made heat grow between your legs and a shiver run down your spine. You rose, stepping down to the yard.
Your husband bowed to you, pressing a firm kiss to the back of your hand before gently placing the wreath on your head. Your smile blinded him, and Maekar had a momentary moment of chagrin at himself for not riding in tourneys sooner, if only to crown you and make you smile at him again. He was not a man to show affection in front of anyone, much less the hundreds of onlookers, but he couldn’t resist lifting a shaking hand to your cheek. You took it, pressing your face further into him and kissing the cool metal on his palm. A low sound reverberated from his chest, eyes squeezing shut.
All too soon, he was whisked away, maesters insistent on checking him for wounds and cleaning the blood from his face.
You rushed after them, eager to ensure Maekar kept his word.
*****
You pulled the tent flap aside to find your husband surrounded by maesters and healers. He was still in his slate grey armor, each piece still clinging to him save his helm. His lavender eyes met yours above the throng. The blood from his nose was gone, but the bruise was turning a deep, vicious purplish black.
“Out.”
One word, and you were stepping out of the way for bustling servants getting out of their liege lord’s space.
Then you were alone.
There was a crazed look in Maekar’s eye, one you only ever saw when his blood was up. One of his hands was firmly pressed to his side, holding what you hoped was just a bruise, but it didn’t stop him from commanding the room.
“Come here, girl. Let me see you.” His voice was unwavering, and sent a sharp pang of heat to the apex of your thighs as you hurried before him. He reached out with his other hand, tracing down the front of your gown. Candlelight rippled across the gauntlet as a finger twisted in the laces.
“Take this off, all of it.”
You did what he asked, clumsily kicking off your slippers before tugging at the ties. Your outer gown fell, and you stood before him in your thin shift. Maekar let out a guttural sound as he gestured to your body. Following his command, you gripped the skirt, tugging the linen over your head.
Finally you were bare for him. Your hands found the wreath of leaves on your head, but a raised hand stopped you.
“No- no, leave that on.”
The thought of him wanting you in nothing but the crown of roses, the crown he won for you, made your nipples hard. Maekar’s eyes were locked on the tightened peaks; gaze never wavering as he stepped back, slowly lowering himself into the armchair behind him with a groan.
“Come here, wife. I told you what would happen once they named me champion, I want my prize.” Maekar growled out, patting his thigh.
You wasted no time climbing into his lap and straddling his hips. The metal was cool on your skin. The prince relished in the shiver down your spine, pulling you close to press your nakedness to him fully. The force of his hands made you squirm, ridges on the armor digging into your tender flesh and rubbing the tender spot between your legs.
Maekar chuckled.
It was not a sound you heard often.
He kissed you fiercely, then. Wild, unyielding, your teeth clashed with his. His mouth was warm, a sharp contrast to his armor. You slid your hands up his strong arms, one catching on the ribbon still tied snug against him. You smirked against his lips.
Your arms wound around his neck, angling your head to get as close to him as possible. It was messy, wet, and you could feel spit drip down your chin; unknown if it was his or yours. Those large hands of his moved across your body, grasping your thighs, your ass, sliding up your spine, tangling in your hair. You may have been on top of him, but he was in control.
You felt Maekar wrap his fingers around your arms. He slowly tugged them back until your hands pressed to his knees and your back arched. He huffed a laugh at your confused face. A hand slid up the front of your body, fingers wrapping around your neck hard enough to pull a whimper from your lips.
“What kind of a valiant knight would I be if I did not ready my lady for my cock?”
Maekar’s other hand squeezed your hip, rubbing a covered thumb across your stomach before moving down to your dripping cunt. Surely the wetness was bad for the armor, but if he didn’t care, why should you?
His fingers found your clit, slowly circling the nub as you whined out. Your hips shot forward, moving wildly against his fingers before he pulled them away.
“Maekar, please, please my love.”
“Stop moving.”
You stilled, and his fingers returned to your aching clit. It was agony, the cool metal, the slow circles, his lavender eyes piercing into your watery ones. Your arms shook as you held yourself up for him.
“Do you think you can handle more, hmm?”
You nodded furiously, or as much as you could with his hand at your throat. He obliged you, dipping the tip of a finger into your sopping cunt. The scream you released was music to his ears. His lips turned up at the corner, and he thrust his finger back in deeper. In and out, he pumped the digit as you moaned above him. A perfect beauty, legs shaking, sweat dripping down between your soft breasts. He slid his hand down to grip one, a harsh grope before his finger pressed against your nipple. Slowly he circled the tortured flesh as you crept closer to your high.
His name released from your lips, and he abruptly stopped.
“Maekar, what- what are you-” You could barely form a sentence, trying desperately to stay still but sobbing at the absence of him.
Finally, his arms came around your waist, tugging you against his chest again. You held onto him for dear life, whimpering as you rubbed your hips against the ridges of his armor.
A hand on your ass stopped you, but he quickly lifted you up to free himself beneath you. He slid the head of his cock back and forth against your folds, the precum dripping from the tip mixing with your dripping wetness. Your arms were snug around his neck as he slowly sunk you down onto him.
You threw your head back in a guttural moan. The delicious stretch of his cock pierced into your warm cunt. You wiggled your hips, seeking the friction of his body but unable to lift up enough to fuck yourself down on him. He let out a chuckle.
“Eager for your champion, are you?” The waver in his voice betrayed his arousal. The wet squelching noise as he bounced you on his cock betrayed yours. Over and over, he brought you down on him, cries of his name leaving your lips as he pummeled your weeping pussy.
A hand found your hair, tugging it back to expose your neck and jiggling breasts. His mouth latched onto your neck, wet kisses trailing down your pulse and across your collarbone before finding a nipple. He bit down gently, and you gripped his hair. He gave the nipple a harsh suck before licking over the peak. You were weak in his arms, completely at his mercy. Heat grew in your stomach, a twisting feeling you knew so well. He felt you clench around him, and pulled you down to sit snuggly on his cock as you came.
Maekar’s lips found the shell of your ear:
“To the victor go the spoils.”
He gave you a few more harsh thrusts, bullying into your quivering hole before filling you with his spend. He let out an animalistic groan, head leaning back and eyes squeezed shut. His warmth spread through you.
The hand fisted in your hair spread to pull you against his chest, and heavy breathing from both your lips echoed throughout the tent.
Maekar petted your hair as you held tightly to him. How full you felt, impaled on his softening cock and stuffed with his hot seed. You whimpered out a sob from the overwhelming feeling of him, all around you.
“Hush now, my queen of love and beauty, I have you now.”
You looked up at him through your lashes, his face was relaxed, no sign of his usual furrowed brow, and his jaw slack. He reached up, adjusting your crown atop your head, thrown askew from his thrusting.
“Surely you are the loveliest woman to ever wear this crown.” Maekar’s voice was gravelly, hoarse from moaning. You leaned up, humming as you pressed a kiss to his lips.
“My handsome husband, a tourney winner. And at his age, what a marvel. Must have been my favor that did it for you.”
Maekar rolled his eyes, shifting back into the chair so that you could lie fully against his chest.
“Youre lucky you have your charm and beauty, my love. Though I may need to claim my prize again.” He emphasized his statement by gently thrusting back up into you. A yelp left your lips before you snuggled closer, pressing your nose to his neck.
okay im shooting my shot here but all i can think about is what would be your interpretation of a modern au!maekar x reader 🤍 i must know!!! because im frothing at the mouth for winterhall even tho starkspeare is my day one!!
OH YOU'RE SHOOTING YOUR SHOT AND I'M CATCHING IT. Okay so assuming this is the verse where the Targaryens make weapons, this is juicy.
You meet Maekar in the worst possible context: cleaning up one of family's messes. Baelor is the face of the company—charming, diplomatic, handles all the PR and humanitarian pivots, but someone needs to actually run things. Someone needs to handle operations, deal with the contracts nobody wants to talk about, make the hard calls that don't photograph well. That's Maekar. He's COO or VP of Operations maybe, doesn't do press, doesn't smile for the cameras, just keeps the machine running while his older brother gets all the glory.
You're brought in because there's a problem, maybe defence contract gone wrong, allegations about weapons ending up in the wrong hands, internal security issues, something that makes you necessary and puts you in close proximity to Maekar specifically. First meeting is in some conference room. You're presenting your findings and recommendations. Maekar is sitting at the head of the table, utterly silent, taking notes, and when you finish he just looks at you with those cold eyes and says, "That's it?" Not dismissive, not even rude. Just unimpressed in a way that makes you want to prove yourself rather than bristle.
"Unless you have better ideas," you say coolly.
"I might." He stands, walks to the board, and proceeds to pick apart your plan with surgical precision. Not wrong, exactly, but incomplete. He's thought three steps ahead of you and it's infuriating because people rarely do. You push back. Hard. Because you're not intimidated by Targaryens, even cold ones, who think they know everything. And something flickers in his expression at that. Not quite a smile, but subtle approval.
"Good," he says finally. "I need someone who won't fold the second I question them. You're hired."
You end up working closely with him and it's all professional tension that slowly, inevitably bleeds personal. Late nights in his office going over security protocols. High-pressure situations where you're both running on coffee and too little sleep, and you realise this man never stops working. He's at the office before everyone else and leaves after everyone's gone. Takes calls at midnight, even reads reports over breakfast. Carries the weight of the entire operation on his shoulders and never complains.
You learn through office gossip that his wife died three years ago. Dyanna. Cancer, someone whispers. Six kids, another adds with a sympathetic headshake. He raised them mostly alone after that, juggling single parenthood with running half a weapons empire. Nobody knows how he manages it.
"Don't you ever take a break?" you ask once, finding him in his office at 11 PM.
"Could ask you the same thing."
"I'm on your schedule."
"Then I guess we're both fucked." He doesn't look up from his screen but there's the ghost of something that might be dark amusement in his voice.
The dynamic is all arguments about strategy, challenging his decisions, him respecting you for it because most people are too intimidated by him to actually push back. You learn to read his moods from the smallest changes in his expression. The way his jaw tightens when he's frustrated, the slight narrowing of his eyes when he's impressed but won't say it, and the rare almost-smile when you've managed to surprise him with your insight. He trusts you with information he doesn't share with anyone else. Asks your opinion on things that matter and actually listens when you disagree with him.
There's this one meeting where some executive tries to talk over you and Maekar just stops mid-sentence and says, ice-cold, "She wasn't finished." And the entire room goes silent. Later, you corner him about it and he just shrugs. "You were making a good point. He was being an asshole." Like it's that simple.
He's gruffer than his brother in every way. Where Baelor is smooth and diplomatic, Maekar is blunt to the point of rudeness. "This is fucking stupid," he'll say about some proposed marketing campaign. "We're not doing that." No softening, no corporate speak, just direct and harsh. People either respect it or hate him for it. You find yourself oddly charmed by it, at least you always know where you stand when it comes to him.
The professional starts cracking into something else during a site visit. Long flight where you're sitting next to each other and he's working as usual but at some point he falls asleep—actually falls asleep, which feels like a small miracle honestly—and his head tips slightly toward your shoulder. You don't move, don't wake him. Just let him rest for once because god knows he needs it. When he wakes up he's embarrassed, stiff, muttering "Fuck, sorry" under his breath. You just hand him coffee and say, "You looked like you needed it." Something in his expression softens before the walls come back up.
Hotel bar after a brutal meeting where you both have too much to drink and talk about things you never talk about sober. His childhood growing up in Baelor's shadow. Your family pressures. The weight of expectations. "Six kids," he says at one point, shaking his head. "I've got six fucking kids and some days I don't know how I'm managing any of it."
"You're doing fine."
"Am I?" He laughs, a bitter sound. "Half the time I feel like I'm failing at everything. Work. Parenting. All of it."
"You're not failing."
"You don't know that."
"I work with you fourteen hours a day. You're not failing." You lean forward. "You're different than I thought you'd be."
"Different how?"
"I thought you'd be colder. More... unapproachable."
"I am unapproachable. Ask anyone."
"I'm not anyone."
"No." And he looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "You're really not."
And that's when you start noticing things you shouldn't. The way his sleeves are rolled up when he's concentrating, strong forearms on display. The rare times he loosens his tie and you can see his throat. The way he moves. Controlled, but there's strength underneath the expensive suits. You catch yourself staring and have to look away before he notices.
But he notices other things. The way his eyes track you when you enter a room. The way his jaw tightens when other men in the office flirt with you. You're in a meeting once and some executive from a partner company is being too friendly, too familiar, and afterward Maekar pulls you aside. "You don't have to tolerate that."
"I can handle it."
"I know you can. Doesn't mean you should have to." And there's something protective in his voice that has nothing to do with professional courtesy.
It builds and builds. Working late and your hands brush reaching for the same file and neither of you moves away immediately. Him standing behind you when you're at the computer showing him something and you can feel the heat of him, smell his cologne, and your focus fractures. Conference calls where you're both remote and you can see him on screen, see the way he looks at you through the camera, and it feels more intimate than it should.
There's a company event, some gala or investor dinner where attendance is mandatory. You've seen Maekar in suits every day but there's something about the formal context, the black and crimson, the way he moves through the crowd with that particular Targaryen authority. Baelor is working the room as usual, all charm and warmth. Maekar is at the bar, alone, and you join him.
"Not a fan of these things?" you ask.
"Fucking hate them." He takes a drink. "Baelor's better at it anyway."
"Baelor's better at performing. You're better at everything else."
He looks at you then, really looks, and there's something guarded and raw in his expression both. "You don't have to say things like that."
"I'm not saying it to be nice. I'm saying it because it's true." You lean against the bar next to him. "You know you're just as essential as he is, right? More, maybe."
"I'm not him. I'm never going to be the charming one, the one people like, the one who makes this all look fucking easy."
"Good."
Silence follows, heavy and charged. The gala continues around you but you're both standing in this bubble of tension that's been building for months.
"What do you want?" His voice is lower now, dangerous in a completely different way.
And that's the question, isn't it? Because somewhere between the arguments and the late nights and the moments of unexpected vulnerability, this stopped being professional. You want to close the distance between you and see what happens when that legendary control finally cracks. Want to know what his hands would feel like, what he'd kiss like when he stops holding back.
"I want..." You hesitate because saying it out loud makes it real. "I want you to stop comparing yourself to someone you're nothing like."
"You don't understand what it's like. Growing up in that shadow."
"No. But I understand what it's like to be underestimated." You turn to face him fully.
Something in his expression cracks. Just slightly. "Fuck." He runs a hand through his pale hair. "You mean that."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
He's still looking at you like he's trying to solve something inside his head. "Fuck."
"I know."
"We work together."
"I know."
"And I've got six kids at home and a dead wife and I'm not—" He stops himself. "This would be a fucking mess."
"I know that too."
But neither of you moves away. The tension is suffocating, electric, this pull between you that gets harder to ignore every day. Someone calls his name from across the room—probably Baelor needing him for something—and the moment breaks. He straightens, that cold professional mask sliding back into place. "I should—"
"Yeah." You step back, put proper distance between you. "Me too."
But as he walks away you catch him looking back once, and the want in that glance nearly undoes you.
It gets worse after that. Or better. Depending on how you look at it. Because now you both know it's not one-sided, this thing between you. And that makes every interaction charged. Every late night working feels like temptation. Every time you're alone in his office the air gets thinner. He's more careful about touching you—no more accidental brushes, no more standing too close—which somehow makes it more obvious that he's trying not to.
You start testing it. First with small things. Leaning over his desk to point at something on his screen when you could just tell him verbally or asking his opinion when you're both in the break room at odd hours and it's just the two of you. Catching his eye across conference rooms and holding it a beat too long. He never breaks first but you see the effort it takes him not to.
There's this one night where you're both working late—actually working, there's a genuine crisis that needs handling. Some security breach that could expose sensitive contracts. You're both running on adrenaline and coffee and at some point around 2 AM he makes a mistake. Just a small one, nothing critical, but he catches it and swears—"Fuck, fucking—"—genuine frustration bleeding through that legendary control.
"Hey." You touch his shoulder without thinking. "We'll fix it. We've got time."
He looks at where your hand is resting on him and something in his face just... gives. "I'm tired."
It's such a simple admission but coming from Maekar it feels like an explosion. You squeeze his shoulder gently. "I know. But we're almost done. And you don't have to do this alone."
"Don't I?" And there's something bitter in his voice, something that speaks to years of carrying things by himself. "Dyanna used to—" He stops, shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."
"It does matter."
"She used to tell me I work too much. That I'd burn out. She was probably right." His hand comes up, covers yours. "Seems like I'm still proving her point."
"You're doing the best you can. Six kids, this job, everything else. that's not nothing."
"Feels like nothing some days." But he hasn't let go of your hand.
"Not to me." You mean the work. You mean everything else, too.
He stands, turning to face you, and suddenly the space between you is minimal. "This is a bad idea."
"You said that already."
"Bears repeating." His hand comes up, cups your face with a gentleness that seems impossible from someone so gruff, so hard-edged, so controlled. "You should go."
"I should," you agree, but you don't move.
"I'm trying to do the right thing here."
"I know."
"Stop making it so fucking difficult."
"I'm not doing anything." But you are. You're standing too close, looking at him too openly, letting him see exactly what you want without shame.
His thumb brushes your cheekbone, a rough caress, all fire, and your eyes close involuntarily at the contact. "Yes, you are. You're making this impossible."
"Maekar—"
And then he's kissing you. Not gently, but desperate and intense and nothing like the controlled man you know. His hand slides into your hair, forcing your head back, and you make this sound against his mouth that would be embarrassing if you weren't too busy fisting your hands in his shirt and pulling him closer. It's months of tension finally catching fire, every professional boundary dissolving, and when your back hits his desk you don't even care.
He breaks away first, breathing hard. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Yeah."
"This is—we can't—"
"I know."
"I've got kids. Six fucking kids who don't need their father getting involved with—" He stops himself but you hear what he's not saying. Getting involved with someone from work, someone younger, someone who isn't their mother.
"I know that too." But you kiss him again anyway because now that you know what this feels like, stopping seems impossible.
It becomes this thing between you. Not a relationship because neither of you will call it that because that would mean admitting something you're not ready to admit. Just stolen moments. Late nights when you're both working that turn into something else. The way he looks at you in meetings now, the heat barely disguised. Learning each other in fragments, the way he kisses like he's starving, the sounds he makes when you touch him certain ways, the surprising gentleness afterward when he thinks you're not paying attention.
But it's complicated because it's Maekar and nothing with him is simple. He pulls away sometimes, goes cold and professional for days because he's trying to do the right thing, trying to maintain boundaries. "I can't do this," he'll say, gruff and final. "I've got too much. The kids, the job, I can't fucking complicate it more." And you let him because you understand that guilt, that sense of duty. But then something will happen—a crisis, a long night, a moment where the walls come down—and you're back in his office or yours, trying to be quiet, trying not to leave marks, trying to pretend this is just physical when you both know it stopped being just physical months ago.
The worst part is how well you work together. How you've become this unit that nobody questions. His second-in-command, the person he trusts with everything that matters and layered underneath is this other thing, this connection that's professional and personal and physical and emotional all tangled up until you can't separate where one ends and another begins.
"I'm not my brother," he says once, after, when you're both catching your breath and trying to get your clothes back in order.
"Thank god for that." You fix his tie, smooth his collar. "I don't want him."
"What do you want?"
And that's the question you can't fully answer because what you want is complicated. You want this: the challenge, the respect, the way he sees you clearly and doesn't flinch. You want the tension and the arguments and the rare moments when that gruff exterior cracks and he's just a man who feels deeper than most. You want the controlled man who falls apart in your hands, who trusts you with his vulnerability, who looks at you like you're something precious even when he's trying to maintain distance. You want the widower with six kids who swears too much and works too hard and carries the weight of everything without complaint.
You want Maekar. All the complicated, difficult, intense parts of him. But saying that feels too big, and too real, so instead you just kiss him again and let it be enough for now.
A/N: This request comes from @scarletwolfxox and an anon request. The story starts just before the incident in the original part one and diverges from there
Warning: Cursing, drowning, mentions of blood, poor self image (reader is delulu) - Never Proof Read
His hand settled at your waist as the dance began.
“You are quiet” he murmured, feeling too close to you.
“I am focussed on not tripping” you said, eyes not meeting his, staring resolutely at his doublet in concentration.
“I would not let you fall” he replied easily, slight amusement in his tone despite the way his hand flexed at your waist.
“You are very confident” you muttered, suddenly aware of how close he stood. How plainly dressed you were. How unremarkable you must seem close up.
A faint smile touched his mouth “You think me arrogant”
“I think you certain of yourself” you say, eyes finally meeting his.
“And you are not?” He challenges, amusement clear in his tone.
You almost laughed at that “You have me there” you say smiling slightly.
His hand tightened at your waist just slightly, enough that you felt it. He held your gaze as the dance turned you in a slow circle.
“You must be glad” you said after a moment “That tomorrow everything will be settled”
“Settled?” He says, voice lower now.
“When my sister becomes your betrothed. When we return home after the wedding” You forced a polite smile. “You will have peace again. No more interfering sisters” you joke lightly.
But he does not look amused as you expect. You falter a step, quickly correcting yourself.
“Have I misspoken?” you asked quietly, unsettled by the seriousness in his face.
“Return home?” he repeated, as though testing the words.
“Yes” you said lightly “Once you are wed, my presence will hardly be required. I imagine you wont miss our arguments” you say teasing.
His hand at your waist tightened, not playful, startled ”You mean to leave Storm’s End” he said like he could not absorb the words.
“Of course” You gave a small shrug “I was never meant to remain”
He stared at you as though the notion had never occurred to him “You will return to your father’s keep” he pressed.
“Yes” you say slowly your eyebrows scrunching in confusion of how he was not getting this.
“And then?” He prompted
You blinked “And then, nothing” you say confused.
The word settled between you, simple and unadorned.
You attempted a smile “I shall manage the household as I always have. There is no shortage of work for an unmarried daughter past her prime” you joke ,aware of your spinster title.
His expression darkened at that “You are not past-”
“It is hardly a tragedy” you interrupted gently “Not everyone is meant for grand romance” you say referring to him and your sister.
The music shifted, the dance drawing you closer again “You speak as though it is decided” he said, something rough in his tone.
“It is decided” you replied with quiet certainty “My sister is the beauty. It was always my duty to see her settled”
“And you?” he asked again, voice lower now.
“I am content” It was a well practiced lie. You delivered it smoothly, almost convincing yourself.
Lyonel however, did not look convinced, his eyes searching your face. The music came to its final note.
You stepped back at once, or at least you tried.
Lyonel did not release you, his hands remaining firm at your waist.
Your brow furrowed in confusion looking up at him. His gaze fixed on you, intent in a way you had never seen before “My lord?” You begin to ask, unsettled by the change in him.
His eyes moved over your face as though committing something to memory. Deciding something.
He opened his mouth to speak, when your gaze slipped past him, distracted by the silver swirl of your sisters dress.
You found her at once, slipping toward the side doors, laughter bright and careless, a young household knight leaning far too close as he murmured something in her ear.
Your stomach dropped, she was flushed with wine and attention “Excuse me” you said quickly, trying again to pull back.
His grip tightened, stopping you “What is it?” his voice deeper than it was before.
“My sister” you say, trying once again to step away. He did not let you go.
You huffed “My lord, surely what you were about to say can wait” meeting his gaze, thinking this was all again a game to him. His way of teasing you.
For a moment, he held your eyes. Then he nodded once. But instead of releasing you, his hand slid from your waist to your arm, firm and unyielding. “Then I’m coming with you, my lady” he said, tone lighter, but not quite the same as usual “Especially since you have just threatened to abandon my keep”
You blinked at him, annoyed that he was still making jokes “That is hardy necessary”
“It is” he said simply, his arm linking yours.
You open your mouth to argue further but see your sister already disappearing. You sigh and head after her, Lyonel Baratheon now firmly attached to you.
——————————-
The corridor was cooler than the hall. Music dulled behind stone walls.
Ahead, you heard your sister’s laughter echo up the stairwell that led toward the battlements.
You quickened your pace, muttering under your breath “Stupid, foolish girl” not noticing the man next to you smile.
When you emerged into the night air, the harsh wind struck your face at once, sharp and bracing. Lyonel’s arm steadied you without thought.
Your sister stood far too near the edge of the battlements, sea swirling below, her skirts gathered in one hand, the knight beside her pointing into the darkness.
“It is beautiful” she was saying, her wine soaked voice carrying through the wind.
“It is dangerous, you silly girl, have you lost all hold of your senses!” you snapped, striding toward her.
She startled “Oh, sister do not begin scold me” say says, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy “Oh Lord Baratheon!” She stated, her eyes dropping to your linked arms.
“You will come inside at once” you said, reaching for her.
Lyonel moved faster “My lady” he said to your sister, voice stripped of all playfulness “away from the edge”
The young knight straightened, embarrassed “My lord, I assured her the footing is safe”
“You assured her wrongly” Lyonel cut in sharply.
Only then did he release you, stepping past to take your sister’s arm. With practiced ease, he climbed the low rise of the stone and guided her down from the edge.
Your sister huffed but did not resist. For a moment all was well.
Then her slipper slid. She shrieked as her balance tipped backward toward the void.
Lyonel reacted instantly. He twisted, pulling her forward, turning his body between her and the drop, forcing her weight safely toward the knight, wind surged. A violent gust struck the battlements, catching him at the wrong moment, the wrong angle, pushing him back.
Your sister stumbled into safety and Lyonel tipped the other way.
You watched it all with sickening clarity “Lyonel!” you lunged, hand shooting out, fingers straining and missing his by mere inches,
For one terrible moment you watched him slip from your grasp.
Then the sickening crack as the sea swallowed him whole.
Your sister screamed, your eyes refusing to move from the dark water.
“Come on Lyonel” you breathed, as though will alone might drag him back to the surface. Moments pass and nothing just the swirling sea.
“Get help!” you snapped at the stunned knight, your voice cutting through the panic.
He hesitated only a moment before running. You did not wait to watch him go, already moving toward the edge.
Your hands caught the cold stone as you climbed the battlement, the wind tearing at your skirts, your heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.
You did not think. You jumped.
Your sister screaming behind you.
The sea hit you like a blow, dragging you down in an instant, your skirts tangling around your legs, pulling in you down. You kicked hard, fighting upward, breaking the surface with a sharp gasp before the water could take you under again.
“Lyonel!” The name tore from you, lost to the wind.
You spun, searching, spotting a shape just below the surface being dragged by the current.
You sucked in a breath and dove.
The water burned your eyes as you forced them open. Your dress billowed around you like a trap, the weight of it dragging at your limbs, slowing you.
He was unmoving and sinking.
You reached out to him, your fingers catching his arm. You hooked your arm beneath his and kicked, but the pull of your skirts dragged you back, stealing what little strength you had.
You broke the surface again, gasping, barely keeping his head above water. Your legs kicked uselessly beneath you, the fabric twisting tighter.
You could not move him like this. Your hand fumbled blindly beneath the water, fingers finding the ties of your underskirt. You yanked, slipping the knot free. The heavy fabric loosened and slid free, sinking instantly beneath you, dragging your outer skirts with it just enough to free your legs.
“Come on, Lyonel, stay with me” you rasped, though the words barely formed.
You shifted your grip, forcing his face above the water, your arm braced beneath his chest.
Then you kicked. Hard. It was not graceful, nor skilled. You were no swimmer, but you were too stubborn to let either of you die.
Every movement burned, your lungs screamed and the current fought you at every turn.
But you did not stop. You would not.
You angled toward the narrow strip of uneven shore just beyond, where the waves broke softer against the stone. You half dragged, half collapsed against the rock, hauling him with you inch by inch until his weight finally shifted onto solid ground.
You fell beside him for one brief, useless second. Then forced yourself up again “Lyonel” you say shaking him, praying to the old gods and the new to hear a stupid remark fall from his lips.
No response. His chest did not rise.
Your hands trembled as you pushed wet hair from his face, blood pouring from where he bashed his head on the rocks “Lyonel” You say again, your stomach dropping.
“No, no, no” you whisper panicked. You immediately rub and press his chest, recalling movements from the stable yard, a foal dragged from water, the stablehand forcing breath back into it.
“Breathe” you order voice shaking, pressing harder “Breathe!”
You pressed again and again.
Until suddenly, he coughed violently. Water poured from his mouth as his body jerked beneath your hands.
You froze. Then let out a breath that broke somewhere between a laugh and a sob “Lyonel” you say sofly, hands returning to cup his face, grounding yourself in the fact that he was alive.
His eyes fluttered open. Unfocused at first. Then found you.
For a moment, he simply stared. At your soaked hair. Your shaking hands. The way you hovered over him like something wild, desperate and beautiful.
“You” he tried, voice wrecked.
You shook your head quickly, breath uneven “Shhh do not speak, you had quite a fall”
He did not listen. Of course he didn’t
“You saved me”
————————————————
Darkness came first. Then pain. A dull, pounding ache at the back of his skull, pulsing with every heartbeat.
Lyonel groaned low in his throat, his brow furrowing as he dragged himself back toward consciousness. The world felt distant. Heavy. He felt like he had the realms worst hangover.
His eyes opened slowly, blinking at the familiar sight of his chambers, vision swimming, dragging itself into focus.
There was a figure beside the bed. A woman.
Relief hit first, instinctive and immediate “You” he rasped, voice rough from salt and swallowed water.
The figure leaned forward quickly “My lord, you are awake!”
The voice was not the one he hoped to hear.
Your sister came into focus. Hair loose, eyes red, relief plain across her face.
Something in his chest tightened, sharp and wrong. He frowned faintly, trying to push himself up. Pain flared instantly through his head and shoulder, forcing him back against the pillows with a low curse.
“Careful” she said quickly, reaching for him “The maester said you must not move too quickly”
He barely heard her. His gaze had already shifted, searching the room. Looking for you.
His jaw tightened “Where is she?” he asked, voice still rough, but steadier now
Understanding flickered across her face “Oh” Something in that small word made his stomach drop.
“She is resting” she said quickly “The maester insisted, she was quite shaken, of course, after”
“She was in the water” Lyonel cut in sharply.
“Yes” she said more quietly now “She went after you”
His mind dragged itself back, slow and fractured. The fall. The impact. Dark water closing over him. And then hands. Your hands. Holding him up when he should have sunk. Refusing to let him go.
His breath caught slightly. The memory came clearer now. Your face above him, soaked, shaking, furious and beautiful.
Lyonel exhaled slowly, something shifting deep in his chest. Something settling into place that had been restless for weeks.
He pushed himself up despite the protest of his body, jaw tightening as the room tilted briefly “I need to see her”
“My lord, the maester said” your sister started.
“I do not care what the cunt of a maester said” Lyonel snapped, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The movement sent a wave of dizziness through him, but he ignored it.
“She pulled me from the sea” he said, more to himself now than to her “Dragged me to shore” He glanced down at his hands, flexing them slightly as though testing something. “She had no business being in that water”
Your sister’s voice softened slightly “She did not hesitate”
That stopped him. Just for a second.
Of course she hadn’t. Something almost like a smile threatened at the corner of his mouth at your stubborness “Of course she didn’t” he muttered.
Lyonel did not wait for anything further. He was already moving.
—————————————-
You had been told to rest. Ordered, rather. The maester had fussed, your sister had hovered, servants had come and gone with dry clothes and broth you had not touched.
You sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in your nightgown, your hands still trembling if you held them too still. You told yourself it was the cold.
Not the memory of the sea. Not the feel of him slipping from your grasp. Not the way his body had lain too still beneath your hands. You pressed your fingers together, willing the tremor away.
There was a knock.
You did not turn, thinking it was the maids again “I said I do not require anything”
The door opened anyway. You turned sharply, irritation already rising, ready to send whatever servant had ignored you away.
The words died in your throat.
Lyonel stood in the doorway. Pale, a bandage tied carelessly at his temple. He should not have been standing. He certainly should not have been here.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then, because you could not seem to stop yourself, you snapped, “You should be in bed” already moving toward him, catching his arm and guiding him toward the nearest chair before he could collapse outright.
His brow lifted slightly, though he let you move him, leaning into your touch “So should you”
“I was in bed” you replied sharply, gesturing to the room as you pushed him down into the chair.
“You are arguing and fussing around me like a nursemaid” he returned, shifting with a groan “Hardly restful”
Your irritation flared, bright and immediate, easier than anything else you were feeling “If you have come to lecture me, my lord, I assure you I have already been thoroughly scolded by the maester, my father and my sister alike”
“I have not come to lecture you” he said, though his tone suggested he very nearly might.
“Then what have you come for?” you demanded, dropping into the space beside him, folding your arms despite the way your hands still shook.
His gaze dropped briefly to them. You immediately hid the tremor, tucking your fingers tighter into your sleeves.
His jaw tightened “You jumped into the sea after me” he said.
You blinked at him, thrown slightly by the bluntness of it “Yes,” you replied “That tends to happen when people fall from battlements”
“You could have gotten yourself killed” he challenged, not wanting to think about what could have happened.
“I managed well enough not to drown immediately” you shot back.
His eyes flashed “That was not managing”
“Oh forgive me” you snapped, temper flaring properly now “Next time I will pause to consider my technique while you crack your skull open on the rocks”
“There will not be a next time” he bit out.
You stared at him “I should hope not. It is not a habit I intend to form”
“You could have died” he said, voice lower now, rougher.
Something in your chest tightened, but you refused to let it show “So could you”
“I am a strong swimmer” he argued.
“You were unconscious” you returned immediately.
That shut him up for half a heartbeat.
Then his jaw set “You had no business risking yourself like that”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “No business?” you echoed. “You fell from a cliff, my lord. I did not think it an appropriate moment to weigh whether it concerned me or not”
“I am serious!” he said.
“So am I!” you shot back.
You stared at each other, both breathing a little too fast.
Then he said, more quietly “Why?”
You blinked, caught off guard
“Why did you jump?” he pressed.
You frowned slightly “Because you fell”
“That is not an answer” his voice still carrying that edge.
“It is the only one you are getting” you snapped, crossing your arms. Not wanting to admit what was going through your head when he fell, when you saw him disappear into the black of the dark sea.
His eyes narrowed, studying you like he was trying to pull something from you by force “You barely know me”
That struck somewhere you had not expected. Your chin lifted slightly, your voice cooling “I know enough”
“Do you?” he challenged.
“Yes” you said sharply. “I know that you are reckless, and loud, and incapable of keeping your footing on your own battlements apparently, and that if I had not gone after you, you would be dead”
His mouth almost twitched at that, but whatever amusement might have come died quickly “That is not what I meant” he said.
“I am aware” you replied, too quickly “And now it will be made into something else entirely”
His expression shifted slightly “And what, exactly, do you think it will be made into?”
You laughed, but there was no humour in it. “A compromise. An obligation. A convenient solution to a problem no one wishes to name aloud”
His eyes darkened. “That is not”
“It is exactly that” you cut in “My father will insist upon it. Your household will expect it. And you” your voice faltered for half a second before you forced it steady again “you will agree because it is the honourable thing to do”
Lyonel stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said “You think I would marry you out of obligation”
You swallowed, hating the way your throat tightened “It would not be the first time a man has done so”
His expression went very still “You think so little of me,” he said quietly
You flinched, just slightly “I think realistically”
“No” he said, sharper now “You think wrongly”
You shook your head, frustration boiling over. “Then enlighten me, my lord, because from where I stand, you are to marry my sister”
“I was” he said.
Your breath caught “That is not how this works”
“It is how I say it works” he said, learning closer now, presence overwhelming.
“You cannot simply decide” you voice softer than you mean it to be, as he moves closer you.
“I can” he simply
You stared at him “You cannot simply discard one sister for another as though”
“I did not discard anything” he snapped cutting in, temper finally flaring to match yours “I chose”
The word hit you like a blow. You blinked at him “You chose” you repeated faintly.
“Yes” his dark eyes meeting yours.
Your head shook automatically, rejecting the idea he would ever want someone like you “No”
He laughed “No?”
“No” you said again, more firmly now “You do not get to rewrite this into something grander than it is. This was an accident. A fall. A rescue. Nothing more”
His gaze burned into you “Nothing more?”
“Yes” you said, even as your chest tightened painfully “You needed saving. I happened to be there”
Something in him snapped. He moved fast, his hands closing around your arms and pulling you forward until you were pressed against him, half seated against his lap, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your gown.
“You jumped into a storming sea for me” he said, voice low and fierce “You dragged me to shore with barely the strength to stand. You are shaking now and you still stand here arguing with me as though it were nothing”
“It was nothing” you insisted, though your voice wavered.
“It was not nothing” he grinned
“You are making it into something it is not!” You argued
“I am telling you what it is” he shot back.
“And what is that?” you demanded.
“That I was not going to let you leave Storm’s End” he said, the words rough and certain and far too honest.
You froze.
“I had already decided that” he continued, his voice dropping, losing none of its intensity “Before you ever stepped onto those battlements”
Your heart slammed against your ribs “No” you said, shaking your head again, because that was easier than believing him. “No, you did not. You were courting my sister”
“I was tolerating a courtship arranged by your father” he corrected.
Your breath came faster now, your thoughts scrambling “You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you…..”
“That I what?” he challenged.
“That you would choose me” you finished, the words finally breaking free.
Lyonel stared at you like you had just said something incomprehensible “Why not you?” he asked.
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh “Do not mock me”
“I am not mocking you”
“Yes, you are” you snapped, heat rising behind your eyes now, anger and something far more dangerous twisting together. “This is exactly the sort of game you enjoy, is it not? Teasing, provoking, seeing how far you can push me before I snap”
“I am not playing a game” he said, sharper than you had ever heard him.
You stopped. Because that tone was new.
“I have never been less amused in my life” he continued, his voice lower now, steadier but no less intense “And you are telling me that I would only marry you out of duty”
“What else would it be?” you demanded.
He stared at you for a long moment, Then he moved, his hand came up, firm against your jaw, tilting your face toward his before you could pull away, and his mouth crashed against yours.
The kiss stole the breath from your lungs. Fierce and certain. When he pulled back, it was only barely, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice rough against your lips “What part of this feels like duty to you?”
Your breath caught. Your heart hammered. Because you knew. You knew exactly what this felt like. And it was not duty.
Okay guys so this is my first What If based on anon request I received, plus an excuse to use my one bed trope! However, being me I could not just write a short story and instead did 3 - your welcome - these diverge off the Main Series Part One’s just before the incidents and rescue.
Lyonel - What If: Reader returned home before the scandal?
Spinster Series Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Baelor - What If
Maekar - What If
Warnings: Cursing, kissing, innuendo - Never proof read do feel free to point out my mistakes
He held your gaze as the dance turned you in a slow circle.
“You must be glad” you said after a moment “That tomorrow everything will be settled”
“Settled?” He says voice lower now.
“When my sister becomes your betrothed. When we return home after the wedding” You forced a polite smile. “You will have peace again. No more interfering sisters” you joke lightly.
But he does not look amused as you expect. You falter a step, quickly correcting yourself.
“Have I misspoken?” you asked quietly, unsettled by the seriousness in his face.
“Return home?” he repeated, as though testing the words.
“Yes” you said lightly “Once you are wed, my presence will hardly be required. I imagine you wont miss our arguments” you say teasing.
His hand at your waist tightened, not playful, startled ”You mean to leave Storm’s End” he said like he could not absorb the words.
“Of course” You gave a small shrug “I was never meant to remain”
He stared at you as though the notion had never occurred to him “You will return to your father’s keep” he pressed.
“Yes” you say slowly your eyebrows scrunching in confusion of how he was not getting this.
“And then?” He prompted
You blinked “And then nothing” you say confused.
The word settled between you, simple and unadorned.
You attempted a smile “I shall manage the household as I always have. There is no shortage of work for an unmarried daughter past her prime” you joke aware of your spinster title.
His expression darkened at that “You are not past-”
“It is hardly a tragedy” you interrupted gently “Not everyone is meant for grand romance” you say referring to him and your sister.
The music shifted, the dance drawing you closer again “You speak as though it is decided” he said, something rough in his tone.
“It is decided” you replied with quiet certainty “My sister is the beauty. It was always my duty to see her settled”
“And you?” he asked again, voice lower now.
“I am content” It was a well practiced lie. You delivered it smoothly, almost convincing yourself.
Lyonel, however, did not look convinced. His eyes searched your face as though trying to understand something you had already accepted.
The music came to its final note. You stepped back at once, despite the slight flex in his hands almost like he didn’t want to let go.
The feast swelled around you once more after the dance, music and laughter surging back in as though nothing had shifted at all.
Yet something had, you felt it in the heat still lingering at your waist where Lyonel’s hands had rested. In the way his words had struck somewhere too deep to examine. In the way your pulse had not yet settled.
You had barely returned to the edge of the hall when the herald called for silence.
Your father stood first, looking fearsome and proud, your sister was brought to his side, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. Yet something in her expression gave you pause, a flicker of hesitation.
Your father’s voice rang through the hall “I am pleased to announce that Lord Baratheon and I will join our houses, with the marriage of Lord Baratheon and my daughter” The hall erupted in cheers before the final syllable had landed.
Your sister laughed, though her smile tighter than you expected. You smiled too, because that was what you were meant to do. Because this was right. Because this was fitting. Because the sharp, stupid burn in your chest at the sight of Lyonel’s hand in hers, had no proper name and therefore no right to exist, your feelings were not important.
Across the hall, Lyonel did not lift his sister’s hand the way you expected. His smile remained, but he did not beam at her like a man triumphant, his gaze moved once through the crowd.
You ducked behind a pillar, even if your mind scolded you for being so delusional to think he was looking for you.
You spent the rest of the feast making yourself useful, because usefulness had always been the cure for foolish feeling.
You directed servants, settled your sister when she grew overexcited. So when your father sent for you later that evening, you went at once, expecting some practical matter.
He stood in the solar with a letter in his hand, eyebrows scrunched in concentration.
“You sent for me, Father?” You ask simply, hands folded behind your back.
“I have received word from home” he said evenly “There is an issue with the west granary accounts and a dispute among the lower household servants, that has grown far out of proportion. It seems that the steward was ill equipped to even perform a simple task whilst we were away” he spoke voice getting angrier
You stood very still “I see” your eyes not leaving him as he decided his next action.
“You will return tomorrow” he ordered
The words struck harder than they should have “Tomorrow?” you repeated, before you could stop yourself “But the wedding”
“Will proceed as planned” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for sentiment.
Your jaw tightened “I had thought to remain” you said carefully despite your rising anger “until my sister was settled”
“She will be settled” he replied, clearly not believing you where necessary here “And you are needed elsewhere”
Needed, the word sticking in your throat. Of course, the only word he ever truly afforded to you. His needed dutiful daughter.
You drew in a careful breath “She is my sister, a girl I raised from birth, it was my duty to see her married”
“Your duty is to your house” he reminded sharply, his expression hardening into something like impatience “And now you will do what you have always done. You will be useful where you are required”
Silence pressed in around you.
You had imagined many things in your life. A wedding of your own once, long ago, before you learned better. Then later you had imagined your sister’s wedding, all the little details she would forget, all the things you would quietly put right and watch her walk down the aisle.
It had never occurred to you that you would not even see her wed.
Your father misread your silence as obedience “Good” he said clapping his hands together “Your carriage will be ready at first light” dismissing you with the same ease one dismissed a servant.
“Yes Father” you say tightly, your hand in a fist behind your back. You never did say no to him.
You made it down the corridor and into your chambers before you let out a scream of frustration. You pressed your forehead against the cold wood of the door and forced yourself to breathe.
Tomorrow. You would leave before the wedding, before your sister married. Before Lyonel married her.
The last thought was the one you shoved away first.
———————————————————
You said nothing to anyone that night, not your sister and certainly not Lyonel.
You packed up yourself, there was little enough to gather, only one trunk of clothing there was no point bothering the handmaid. She would be staying with your sister anyway.
Once packed, you went to bed early, but sleep did not come easily. Finally drifting off to the sound of rain.
Not a soft misting, but a proper Stormlands rain. Hard and slanting, bashing against the stone and windows. It was a soothing sound. You realized suddenly you would miss it.
The next morning, you woke before the rest of the house, dressing in your simple blue dress and cloak.
Your father had arranged for the household carriage and its driver to accompany you. The man was skilled with a sword, so your father saw no need to send further guards.
The trunks were loaded, the horses were harnessed in the early morning darkness. Part of you felt like a thief in the night parting without a word, part of you felt it was better this way. You were not sure for whom.
Your sister found you in the courtyard moments before departure, still in her nightdress beneath a hastily thrown cloak “What is this?” she demanded, sleep and panic mingling in her voice.
You forced a small smile “Father has had word from home. I am needed”
Her face fell “Today?”
You nodded, reaching up and fixing the tie of her cloak, because your hands needed something to do.
Her lower lip trembled in a way that made her look suddenly much younger “But the wedding”
“Will still be beautiful and happy without me” You assured with forced cheer, despite the words sitting heavy in your chest “You will be beautiful and if you cry before the septon reaches the vows, I shall hear of it and never forgive you” you teased.
She let out a watery laugh and hugged you, sudden and fierce. You held her just as tightly. You stayed like that for a moment, holding eachother in the dim morning light.
When she pulled back, her eyes were red, that odd look coming to her face, the same one as the night before “Have you told Lord Baratheon”
You tried not to still and forced lightness into your voice “I am sure he will not care if the spinster sister of his bride departs before the vows”
She studied you carefully then took a breath like she was about to reveal something long carried “I think he-“ However you father appeared before she could say any further.
“It is time. You best make headway before this storm hits” he stated.
You nodded, hugging your sister tightly once more. The unsaid words hanging in the air.
You climbed into the carriage without once looking toward the keep, unable to watch as Storms End faded into the distance.
—————————————————
The storm worsened by the hour
Wind howled, pulling at tree branches, rain hammered the roof in relentless sheets, and the sky had gone from iron grey to something darker, heavier, meaner. Your mood seemed to match.
Your mind went over your last conversations, how you should have fought your father, your sisters unsaid words, the uncertainly on her face at the marriage and how you should have said goodbye to Lyonel.
That last through twisted your gut above the others. You where not a weak woman, your were skilled, capable and practical.
So why did you stall outside his door that morning, your hand raised but never knocking.
The memory of his eyes and his hands at your waist burned through you. It was foolish to think that way, he did not want you, he simply enjoyed the game.
So why did you run from him?
You were still asking yourself that question when the carriage lurched violently.
You caught yourself against the wall with a gasp as the horses screamed outside, harnesses jangling wildly. The whole carriage lurched at an angle and stopped so suddenly your heart leapt into your throat.
“What in seven hells” you started, but before you could finish, the door was flew open.
Rain poured in at once and there, drenched to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving from the ride, stood Lyonel Baratheon.
For one stunned heartbeat you simply stared at him. Then you found your voice “Have you gone mad!”
He was already turning from the carriage, shouting something over his shoulder to the driver about the road ahead.
Only then did you see what had happened, his horse stood directly in front of yours, forcing the sudden halt. The carriage team danced in panic, whites of their eyes showing as the storm lashed them
Lyonel turned back toward you, rain running down his face “You left” the accusation was simple, blunt, and far angrier than you expected.
You stared at him in disbelief “That is your defense!” you demand, climbing down from the carriage into the storm before anyone could stop you. Your boots sank into the mud immediately “You stop my carriage in a storm, nearly kill yourself and your explanation is that I left!!!”
“Yes!” he bellowed back over the rain “You left without saying a damned word to me!”
“I was not aware I required your permission!” You shot back, marching toward him.
“That’s not what I said!” He replied coping your movement.
“It is very much the point!” You challenge uncaring about the sudden proximity, your chest nearly brushing his.
The driver, poor man, was trying desperately to soothe the horses while also examining the back wheel, now lodged nearly to the axle in the mud.
“My lady” he tried weakly.
Neither of you heard him, too busy staring each other down.
“You were going to vanish!” He accused.
“I was going home!” You shout back.
“You were going without telling me!” He let out, sounding almost hurt.
“What should I have said?” you shouted, rain streaming down your face “Farewell, my lord, enjoy marrying my sister while I return to balancing grain stores and servant squabbles?”
His face changed at that, not softening, if anything, it grew wilder “Yes! he snapped “You should have said farewell. So I could stop you and tell you where being a damned fool!”
The words hit harder than they should have. Your breath caught, but your anger held “You have no right, to tell me what a should and should not do!”
“Like hell I don’t!” He returns his eyes pinning you to the spot.
The driver cleared his throat louder this time “My lord”
“Not now!” Lyonel barked without looking away from you. The driver wilted.
You stepped closer to Lyonel, close enough now that rain rolled from the end of his nose and onto your bodice “You cannot simply chase after women through storms because you dislike their departure” ignoring that warmth building in your chest, that same warmth from the feast.
His eyes flashed “I can if the woman is you”
The rain seemed to vanish for one stupid, impossible second as you stared at each other.
Then the carriage gave another awful lurch behind you. All at once reality returned.
“My lord!” the man finally shouted, voice cracking with desperation “The wheel is stuck fast!”
You both turned.
The back wheel had sunk deep into the mud, half swallowed by the road. One of the horses was trembling so violently the driver keeping them from bolting altogether.
The road behind leading back to Storms End, had half collapsed where the rain-swollen river had burst its banks. What had once been passable ground was now little more than a churned slope of mud and racing black water.
Lyonel dragged a hand over his face “Seven fucking hells”
You folded your arms, rainwater dripping from your sleeves “Well done!” you said acidly “You have stranded us”
For one reckless second he looked as though he might laugh. That only made you angrier.
The driver straightened with visible dread “My lord, there is an inn up the road. Not far, walkable in this terrain. If the horses are taken to the stables there and the wheel seen to once the rain eases, the carriage may be freed by morning”
Lyonel looked toward the road, then back at the sinking wheel.
You looked too. The inn stood dimly visible through the curtain of rain, a squat shape of yellow lamp light at the crest of the rise.
You took a breath, trying to steady yourself.
Lyonel exhaled sharply “Fine”
The driver looked relieved enough to weep “I’ll take the horses to the stables, my lord, if you and my lady go ahead”
Lyonel nodded once and started walking.
You, however, did not move “You cannot possibly think I am walking there with you as though this is a perfectly ordinary evening!”
He looked at you, drenched and furious and somehow still infuriatingly handsome “My lady” he said, voice dropping into that awful teasing warmth that usually made you want to hit him “we are already soaked through, stranded in a storm. I fear ordinary has left us behind”
You glared at him “And whose fault is that!”
He said nothing and held out his hand.
You stared at it and then at him. Then, because the rain was freezing and the horses were trembling and the road was now more river than road, you slapped your hand into his with bad grace.
“Say one smug thing” you warned “and I will push you into the mud”
His mouth curved “You have threatened me with worse.”
“I mean it” you replied, ignoring the heat of his hand in yours.
His hand tightened around yours as he started up the road beside you, dragging you into the rain “I mean to keep you where I can see you”
“Lyonel!” you say not thinking.
But he only kept walking and because your hand was trapped in his, and because the warmth of his grip refused to disappear despite the storm, you had no choice but to follow him toward the inn with your temper unraveling step by step.
Behind you, the driver muttered a desperate prayer and led the miserable horses toward the stables.
———————————————-
By the time you reached the inn, you were both dripping onto the floorboards.
The innkeeper took one look at the pair of you and wisely asked no questions at all. He merely bowed nervously and apologised that the storm had driven every traveler for miles under his roof and informed you there was only one room left.
You laughed in disbelief. Lyonel looked delighted.
You rounded on him at once “If you grin at me one more time, I shall smother you”
He seemed to smile even wider.
The innkeeper went very still. Then, with the instinct of a man who valued his continued survival, he handed over the room key without another word.
——————————————-
The inn room was small, painfully small.
A narrow bed pressed against one wall, a little hearth with fire, a washstand and a single chair that had clearly dated back to the time of the conqueror.
You stopped just inside the doorway, dripping onto the floorboards. Behind you Lyonel shut the door firmly.
The room immediately felt even smaller.
You turned on him at once “This” you started, gesturing to the soaked state of both of you “is entirely your fault!”
He leaned back against the door, rainwater still running down his jaw, looking entirely too relaxed “My fault?” he repeated mildly.
“Yes!” you snapped.
“You were the one leaving storms end” he accused his eyes not leaving you.
You stared at him in outrage “I was returning home!” You began, fully prepared to continue the argument when the cold finally seeped through your dress. You shivered violently.
Lyonel’s expression shifted at once “You need to change”
You blinked “I beg your pardon?”
“Your clothes” he said, already stripping off his soaked coat and tossing it over the back of the chair “You’re freezing, you will catch your death”
You stared at him like he had lost his mind “And into what exactly do you suggest I change?”
He paused, seeming to remember your trunk was still on the carriage. Then slowly ran a hand through his wet hair “Ah ”
“Yes” you said sharply “Ah”
There was a small trunk at the foot of the bed containing spare blankets and linens.
He pulled one free and held it out to you. You stared at it for a moment, wanting to refuse but the cold drips of water down your spine made you think twice.
You snatch it out of his hand, throwing your own cloak on top of his. You began untying your dress laces and immediately noticed he was still watching you, amused but something else in his eye “Turn around” you demand.
His brow lifted in amusement “You distrust me that much?”
“Yes” you challenge, not wanting to acknowledge the spike in your heart rate.
“Fair” he smiled, then he turned around, with one last quick look.
You changed as quickly as possible, peeling the soaked dress away till you where only in your shift. You wrap yourself tightly in the rough wool blanket, pulling it over your shoulders “Done” you say.
He turned back, his eyes casting over you looking darker somehow. Your eyes dropped from his intense gaze, but your breath caught, your eyes fixing on how his shirt clung to his chest, soaked through, hair still dripping down his neck. He caught you looking “Your turn to turn around” he said with a smile.
You did not move at first, then flushed clearing your throat and spinning at once.
You heard the rustle of fabric as he stripped his damp shirt and boots. A moment later the bed creaked as he sat “You can turn back now”
You turned back and froze. Because Lyonel Baratheon was sprawled comfortably across the entire bed. Shirtless.
Your face flushed instantly and your eyes flew to the ceiling. He laughed.
“Move” you snapped trying to cover up your embarrassment as he pulsed the blanket loosely over himself.
“Where?” He challenged with a smile.
You lowered your gaze slowly, fixing him with a glare that could have set the mattress alight “You are occupying the entire bed and you will move”
He stretched lazily across the mattress as though he had every right to it, eyes never leaving you.
“You chased me halfway across the Stormlands, stranded my carriage, and now you are stealing the only bed in this miserable inn” you argue.
“That seems an unfair summary of events” he starts mildly, looking far too amused “Where exactly did you expect me to sleep?”
“The chair” you state with a grin.
He glanced at the chair. Then back at you and laughed “You are serious”
“Yes” you say getting angry again
He leaned back on his elbows, still not getting up “You are very determined to fight me about every single thing”
You marched forward and shoved his shoulder “Move”
He grinned but did not move “You are remarkably strong” he rolled slightly to one side, though his grin only widened “There, no don’t accuse me of not sharing” a challenge in his tone.
Unfortunately you could not help but take the bait. You stared down the empty space next to him “That is barely a quarter”
“You are very difficult to please” he replied, despite sounding very pleased.
“I am very cold” you complain
At that his amusement faded a fraction. He pushed himself up onto one elbow “You are still shaking”
You hated that he noticed “Well whose fault is that?” you snapped.
He did not answer right away, You opened your mouth to continue the argument, then stopped seeing the almost guilty look on his face.
You studied him suspiciously for a moment longer before climbing stiffly onto the far edge of the mattress, keeping as much distance between you as physically possible.
You wrapped the blanket around yourself like armor.
He lay back on the other side, hands folded behind his head. For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then another shiver ran through you.
He noticed immediately “Gods” he muttered.
Before you could react he reached over, grabbing the edge of the blanket and tugging it away from your shoulders.
“Lyonel!” you snapped, trying to pull it back.
He ignored you completely. In one smooth motion he pulled you closer, pulling the blanket off so you were just in your shift, turning slightly so your back was pressed against his chest. The blanket was then dragged over both of you.
You stiffened in outrage “What are you doing!”
“Stop fighting” he said calmly, settling the blanket around you both.
“This is highly inappropriate!” You say trying to wiggle away.
“You’re freezing” he smiled behind your back.
“I was perfectly fine!” You say feet kicking him
“You were shaking like a leaf” he argues, arms settling around your waist to hold you still.
You tried to shove his arm away “Lyonel”
“This is an old hunting trick” he said after a moment. “Share body heat under the blanket. Works better than freezing to death”
You glared at the wall, settling down your movements “I was not freezing to death” you mumble, despite enjoying the warmth seeping into you.
“You were on your way” he mumbles, seeming too close to your hair.
You hated that he was right. Gradually the shaking in your limbs began to ease. The warmth of him seeped through the blanket and into your bones.
For a while neither of you spoke. Only the sound of the storm and the crackle of the fire filled the room.
Then, quietly, he said behind you “You left me”
You stared at the wall “I was simply going home”
“You didn’t say goodbye” that hurt coming into this voice again.
Your jaw tightened “You were celebrating your betrothal, I did not wish to ruin that”
“I was looking for you” he whispered
You went still “That seems unlikely”
“It’s not” his voice lower, his arm tightening slightly.
You hesitated, for once you where glad you could see his face “Why?”
His chest rose slowly behind you “Because when you told me you were leaving Storm’s End” he said quietly “you said it like it didn’t matter”
You frowned slightly “It doesn’t”
“It does to me” he says sounding far too honest.
You suck in a breath but do not answer.
After a moment he continued “You weren’t just leaving the castle” His arm shifted again tightening just a fraction, like he was making sure you could not escape “You were leaving me”
The words settled into the quiet room. You swallowed “That is ridiculous”
His lips brushed faintly against your hair “Is it?”
You did not reply.
But you did not move away either.
——————————————————
Morning arrived quietly.
The storm had burned itself out sometime in the night, leaving only pale grey light filtering through the shutters. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and wood smoke.
You woke slowly, feeling a lovely warmth. For a moment you simply lay there, eyes closed, enjoying the rare comfort, your body felt heavy and relaxed. It was, you realized vaguely, the best sleep you had had in years.
You shifted slightly. Something tightened around your waist.
Your brow furrowed, not yet able to grasp what the unfamiliar weight was.
Slowly, cautiously, you opened your eyes blinking at the unfamiliar room. For a moment you did not understand what you were seeing.
Then you pulled the blanket down slightly and saw the broad arm draped around your waist
You turned your head slowly. Lyonel Baratheon slept behind you, his chest warm against your back, his arm loosely wrapped around you.
He was shirtless. You were very aware that you were wearing nothing but a thin shift beneath the blanket.
For a brief, dangerous second your traitorous mind wondered if perhaps the entire night had been some strange dream. Then the memory returned all at once “Oh gods” you say slapping a hand over your face.
Lyonel stirred immediately with a low groan, blinking awake as he pushed himself up onto one elbow, his arm falling away from you “What” he starts confused by the loss of your warmth.
You were already scrambling away from him, clutching the blanket around yourself like armor “This is a disaster!”
He squinted at you through sleep heavy eyes “Good morning”
“A disaster!” you repeated, pacing the small room in growing horror.
He rubbed a hand over his face, still waking “Why?”
“Why!” You spun on him, aghast “Because I have spent the night in an inn room with my sister’s betrothed!” You gestured wildly between the two of you “You are half dressed, I am half dressed, and we have spent the entire night in the same bed!”
He sat up fully now, watching you pace the length of the room.
“If anyone discovers this” you start to ramble, as he yawns completely unconcerned, eyes following you.
“Come back to bed before you freeze” he said with a lazy grin, clearly missing the warmth of you.
You spin on your heel, your eyes pinning him “You do realise” you say dangerously “that if anyone discovers this, the only possible solution is marriage”
You expected him to laugh. To get angry. To recoil at the thought of being forced to marry the spinster sister. Yes, you had expected all of those things from a lord you were still convinced did not want you.
Instead he simply shrugged “Fine”
You blinked, he said it like you had just suggested breakfast. “Fine? Fine! That is not an acceptable response!”
“Yes it is” he replied, stifling another yawn.
“You are betrothed to my sister!” You yelled “And you think marrying me instead of her is FINE!”
“Yes” he said easily, a slow smile spreading across his face as his eyes raked over you.
You stared at him in disbelief “You are enjoying this”
“A little” he smiled
You groaned and pressed your hands over your face “My sister will be devastated”
“She won’t” he replied simply
“What does that mean?” You asked confused.
He smiled like he knew something you didn’t. He leaned back slightly on the bed, looking entirely untroubled “It seems like a very simple solution to me” yhe replies not answering your question.
“I have ruined everything!” you mutter, dropping your head back into your hands.
“I was the one stopped you leaving” he replies gently getting up and taking your hands away from your face so you will look at him
“It is not the same” you mutter, eyes locking with his.
“It is to me” he says with a small smile, thumbs tracing back and forth on your wrists.
You stared at him, completely exasperated And realized, with mounting horror.
He had never looked calmer in his life.
You stared at him, completely exasperated.
“Lyonel” you said slowly, dangerously “this is not amusing”
“I’m not amused” he replied easily.
“You are speaking of marriage as though it were a tavern wager!” You argued
His grin softened slightly “No” he said. “I’m speaking of it as though it were inevitable”
You blinked at him.
“I chased you through a storm” he continued mildly. “Stranded your carriage. Ruined my boots. Slept in an inn with you half the night” His hands slid gently around your waist again before you could retreat. “I think at this point it would be rather foolish not to marry you”
Your breath caught
“I should have said it last night” he interrupted, voice roughening slightly “But you were shaking and I was busy keeping you warm”
Your cheeks burned “You cannot possibly mean”
“I mean exactly what I said” His thumbs brushed slowly along your waist “I am not letting you go back to that keep to manage grain stores and servant quarrels like none of this mattered”
Your heart hammered painfully.
“You were leaving” he said quietly “And I discovered I had no intention of letting you”
You swallowed “You cannot simply decide such things”
“Watch me” He smiled
And before you could summon another argument, he pulled you forward and kissed you. A reckless, breath-stealing kiss that felt exactly like the storm he had ridden through to reach you.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting briefly against yours, his voice was warm with satisfaction.
“Well” he said with a laugh “You did say the only solution was marriage”
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