Hooney

[serdunkalot]

Through Stone and Shadow

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen Cousin!Reader (ft. Aegon)

Description: You're a Targaryen princess with a dragon, a seat on the small council, and a hole in your wall that looks directly into the Crown Prince's chambers. You should seal it. You should forget what you've seen. You should definitely stop watching your cousin fuck his way through King's Landing's noblewomen.

But you don't. And when Jacaerys starts looking at you like he knows, like he's been waiting for you to break—well. That's when things get complicated.

Genre: voyeurism, jace likes to fook, he definitely knows you're watching, fucking your cousin (it's targaryens what did you expect), why does everyone want to marry him, angst with your hand between your thighs, oblivious pining except he's not oblivious at all, im not sorry, SLOW BURN, VERY VERY SLOW, he hasnt even kissed you and its been 30k words, that type of slow, why do u want to fuck. every cousin........... porn with heavy plot

WC: 28k (100k projected) also on ao3 (where it will be updated!)

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

You hadn't meant to discover the hole in the wall—a gap where the stone had crumbled between your chambers and his. It was small, barely the width of your  index and middle fingers, hidden behind the carved wooden screen that stood in the corner of your room. You'd only found it when you'd moved the screen aside to retrieve a dropped pearl earring, and there it was, a sliver of forbidden sight directly into the heir's private quarters.

You stared at it for a moment longer, crouched onto the floor with the pearl still in your palm.

Rotted mortar, you thought. Old stone. The Red Keep is falling apart in places no one bothers to look.

The right thing would have been to call for the servants, have it sealed with fresh mortar. To forget you'd ever seen it, like a proper lady would. 

That first night, however, curiosity won. Just a glance, you kept telling yourself. Just to see if it truly looked into Jacaerys's room or if your eyes had deceived you in the dim candlelight.

They hadn't, and your breath caught in your throat as soon as your eye found the gap. His bed was perfectly visible—the heavy posts of dark wood, the deep crimson coverlet embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And there, tangled in those sheets, was your cousin.

Worst of all, he wasn't alone.

Turn away. The thought flickered through your mind even as you stayed perfectly still, silver hair spilling over your shoulder and onto the floor in waves as you leaned closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew what the right choice was. You simply weren't making it.

The woman beneath him was dark-haired, flushed, with her mouth open as Jacaerys pounded into her from behind, and you realized with a strange twist in your stomach that this was far from his first time. The rumors that swirled through the Red Keep were true, then. The Crown Prince, for all his duties and noble bearing in the daylight hours, was as much a creature of appetite as any Targaryen before him.

You, on the other hand, had never even been kissed. Never been touched. Good noble ladies waited for their wedding night, and common fucking was for the common whores—thank you for that wisdom, cousin Aemond.

His hand fisted in her dark hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her cunt with a rhythm that was almost borderline brutal. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by her breathy moans and his low groans of pleasure. You could see the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"Fuck," he growled, and the vulgarity of it—hearing such words from the lips of the Crown Prince—sent a forbidden thrill down your spine. "You take me so well."

The woman whimpered something you couldn't quite hear, and Jacaerys laughed—dark and satisfied. He leaned forward, pressing her face into the pillows as he changed his angle, and her muffled cry of pleasure made heat pool low in your belly.

Your hand had somehow found its way to your throat, fingers pressed against your racing pulse. This was wrong, so utterly wrong. You sat here, watching your cousin rut like a beast in heat, and worse—far worse—your body was responding to it. Your thighs pressed together on their own accord, seeking friction you had no right to want.

Leave. Now.

You started to pull back from the gap, but then Jacaerys pulled out suddenly, flipping the girl onto her back with easy strength, and you caught a glimpse of him fully—his flushed cock, hard and completely shameless. He spread her thighs wide and thrusted back into her cunt in with one smooth stroke, and a gasp tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Your hand flew to your mouth, palm clamping hard over your lips. The pearl earring—forgotten, still clutched in your other hand—slipped from your fingers and hit the stone floor with a soft clink that sounded deafening in the quiet of your chamber.

You froze, heart hammering, terrified the sound had somehow carried through the wall.

But Jacaerys didn't pause, didn't look toward the gap. He was too focused on the woman beneath him, and you—gods help you—you couldn't look away.

"Look at me," he commanded, and something in his voice—the authority, the certainty, the  want—made your breath catch. The woman's eyes snapped to his face. "Good girl," he murmured, and thrust deeper.

The words sent heat flooding through you, pooling low into your belly. You felt it between your thighs—a pulse, an ache, something you had no name for. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but you couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely breathe—

The sharp knock at your chamber door made you jerk back from the wall as though it burned you.

"My lady?" came Lysa's voice, muffled through the heavy oak. "We've come to prepare you for supper."

You stumbled back from the screen. Your hand pressed against your cheek—Seven Hells, you were boiling. "A moment," you called out, breathless, hating how your voice wavered in the otherwise silent room.

You smoothed your skirts with trembling hands and tried to compose yourself before crossing to open the door. Your three ladies-in-waiting filed in—Lysa, Maryse, and young Elaena, their arms full of silks and jewelry boxes. They were good girls, all of them. You'd chosen them yourself—daughters of minor houses who actually seemed to like you rather than seeing you as a political opportunity. The last thing you needed were the usual vultures, daughters of great lords who'd spend more time reporting back to their mothers than actually being useful.

"You look flushed, my lady," Maryse observed you with immediate concern, setting down the silks onto the dressing table. "Are you well?"

"Quite well," you lied, settling into the chair before your mirror. Your reflection was damning, your silver hair mussed, falling loose from where you'd been pressed against the wall. Your cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide and dark, emphasizing the violet haze. You looked exactly like what you were, a woman who'd been watching something she had no business seeing. "The fire was burning too hot. I've only just opened the window."

Lysa moved to begin unpinning your hair, her fingers gentle, yet ever so clever, as they worked. "I see my lady. The cook's boy told me the funniest story today," she began, and you felt yourself relax into the familiar rhythm of their chatter.

This was safe. This was normal. Unlike whatever madness had possessed you just moments ago.

Elaena brought forward the gown, it was a beautiful collection of pale red silk that caught the candlelight like dawn breaking over the Narrow Sea. The bodice was fitted, the neckline modest but elegant, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves that fell into drapes. It was a gown befitting a princess of dragon blood, though you sometimes forgot that's what you were.

As your ladies worked, Lysa plaiting your hair into an intricate crown of braids, Maryse threading deep crimson rubies on fine silver chains to weave through the silver, Elaena carefully lacing you into your gown—your mind wandered despite your best efforts.

You could still see it. The flex of Jacaerys's shoulders, the way his head had fallen back in pleasure. The sound of his voice, rough with need and desire. 

Seven hells. 

"Tilt your head, my lady," Lysa murmured, and you obeyed, watching in the mirror as she secured the final braid with a dragon brooch of white gold and rubies, its eyes tiny chips of garnet that seemed to glow due to the candlelight.

Your hair fell in a waterfall of silver down your back, nearly to your calves, the braids creating an ornate crown that framed your face. The rubies caught the light like drops of blood, and for a moment you understood why men wrote songs about Targaryen women. More specifically, why their chantee’s were filled with tales of you.

"Beautiful," Maryse breathed, stepping back to admire their work.

You were beautiful. You knew this, had always known it—it was simply a fact, like knowing the sky was blue or fire was hot. But beauty felt like a strange, useless disease when your mind was still full of images it shouldn't hold.

When your thoughts were consumed by your cousin, the heir to the Iron Throne, and the way he'd looked lost in pleasure with a woman who wasn't you.

The private dining hall was already warm and loud when you arrived, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of serving plates. This was your favorite meal of the week. no courtiers to impress, no performers to sit through, no need to smile politely while some lord droned on about his son and why he’s worthy of your hand. Just family. The table could have seated fifty people easily, but tonight it was just the twelve of you, which somehow made the hall feel bigger and emptier at the same time.

Rhaenyra sat at the head in a gown of black and red, her crown set aside for the evening, silver hair braided simply. Daemon lounged beside her, looking more like a dangerous cat than a prince consort. Down the table, Alicent sat with her children scattered among Rhaenyra's, Aegon laughing at something Jace had said, Helaena showing Baela her embroidery. A year ago, they'd been on the brink of war. Now they broke bread together like it had never happened.

"There she is," Aegon called out as you entered, already half in his cups despite the early hour. "Our lovely cousin, late as always."

"I'm not late," you replied, taking your usual seat between Helaena and Baela. "You're simply too eager for the wine, Aegon."

Aegon clutched his chest in mock offense while Helaena reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing—she rarely did in company—but her smile was soft and genuine. You squeezed back, wishing she'd been born your sister instead of your cousin. She understood silence, understood that sometimes you just needed to exist quietly in a world that never managed to simply shut the fuck up.

"You look beautiful tonight," Helaena murmured, so quietly only you could hear. Her green eyes—so unlike the rest of the Targaryens—studied your face with an intensity that only she had. "Red suits you. Like fire. Like blood."

Before you could respond, the servants began bringing out the first course, and your attention was pulled elsewhere. You reached for your wine, grateful for something to do with your hands, and that's when you saw Jacaerys sat across the table and down two seats, between Luke and Joffrey. He was dressed formally in a black doublet with red embroidery, his dark hair still damp as though he'd bathed recently. He looked every inch the Crown Prince—composed, attentive, laughing at something Luke said.

He looked nothing like the man you'd seen less than an hour ago, flushed and shameless, fucking a woman whose name he probably didn't know. Or didn't care to remember. 

Your cheeks heated at the memory, and you quickly looked down at your plate.

Gods, were you that much of a prude?

"How was your afternoon, my dear?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked you, her voice carrying easily down the table. She'd always been kind to you, treating you more as a daughter than a niece. Your father's sister, mourning the brother she'd lost, had perhaps seen something of him in you.

"Quiet, Your Grace," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "I spent most of it reading in my chambers."

"Always with your books," Daemon observed with amusement. "You're worse than the damn Maesters."

The conversation flowed easily after that—talk of the day's small council meeting, Aegon's latest exploit (falling asleep during a petitioner's complaint), Helaena's new collection of butterflies. You participated when required, but part of your attention kept sliding back to Jacaerys despite your best efforts.

He caught you looking, which was more embarrassing than usual. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrible second you were certain he knew. Knew what you'd seen. Knew you'd watched. Your stomach dropped and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and looked away. When you risked another glance, he was already talking to Luke again, the moment forgotten.

It wasn't until the second course that Rhaenyra cleared her throat in that way that meant an announcement was coming. The table quieted immediately, all eyes turning to their queen.

"I've been thinking," she began, glancing at Jacaerys with obvious affection, "that our heir is now two and twenty. More than old enough to take a wife."

Across the table, Jacaerys kept his expression perfectly neutral and composed. But you saw his jaw tighten, saw the way his hand clenched briefly around his fork before he forced himself to relax.

"It's time we began seeking suitable matches," Rhaenyra continued. "I've already received inquiries from several great houses—the Arryns, the Starks, even a letter from the Triarchy expressing interest in an alliance."

"The Triarchy?" Daemon barked a laugh. "What would they offer, a wife who smells of spices, counts coins and wouldn't know what to do with a cock if you handed it to her with instructions?"

"They offered three ships of gold and exclusive trading rights," Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Which is more than most houses can promise."

"I won't marry for ships," Jacaerys said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him once more. His expression was still composed, but there was a hardness around his eyes. 

"You'll marry where it serves the realm," Rhaenyra said, though not unkindly. "As I did. As all rulers must."

"You married for love the second time," Jace pointed out.

"The second time, yes." Rhaenyra smiled at Daemon. "But first I did my duty. And you will do yours."

The tension at the table was palpable. Alicent looked uncomfortable, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Aegon was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee—always happy when someone else was being pressed into marriage talk instead of him.

"We'll host a series of feasts," Rhaenyra continued, her tone allowing no argument. "Let the eligible ladies of the realm come to court. Let Jacaerys meet them, dance with them. Surely among them there will be someone suitable."

"How many feasts?" Luke asked, grimacing. "I hate feasts."

"As many as it takes," Rhaenyra replied. "We'll begin preparations the following morrow."

Your stomach dropped. Feast after feast, watching Jacaerys dance with simpering ladies who would fall over themselves for the chance to be queen. Watching him smile that charming smile, knowing what you now knew—that he was skilled at pleasing women, that he knew exactly how to make them fall at his feet.

"How exciting," Baela said beside you, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "More opportunities to wear uncomfortable gowns and make pleasant conversation with people who hate us."

"They don't all hate us," you murmured, though your heart wasn't in the defense.

Across the table, Jacaerys stared at his wine cup like it might provide him with answers. You almost felt bad for him. If anyone at this table had no chance of marrying for love, it was him. Not that he seemed particularly interested in finding one person to settle down with, but still, your point stood.

"Well then," Aegon raised his cup. "To Jace's upcoming nuptials. May his future wife have the patience of a saint and the deafness of a stone."

Despite the tension, several people laughed, and Rhaenyra shook her head with exasperated fondness. "Perhaps we should have music," she suggested, gesturing to the musicians who always waited in the shadows during these intimate suppers. "Clear some space. Let us remember we're still young enough to enjoy ourselves."

"An excellent idea," Daemon agreed, already rising. He offered his hand to Rhaenyra with a theatrical bow that made her laugh.

The servants quickly moved the table back, creating a space for dancing as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was informal, nothing like the rigid court dances you'd endure at the upcoming feasts—this was just family, moving together without judgment or ceremony.

Luke grabbed Rhaena's hand first, spinning her into the space with more enthusiasm than grace. She laughed, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. Joffrey tried to convince Helaena to dance, but she demurred with a gentle shake of her head, content to watch from her seat.

"Dance with me," Baela demanded, pulling you up before you could protest. "Before one of the boys asks and proceeds to step on our feet."

You let yourself be drawn into the movement, falling into the familiar pattern. Baela was a good dancer—all the Targaryen children were taught from youth that grace in the ballroom was as important as grace on dragonback. You switched partners as the song changed, first with Aegon, who was surprisingly light on his feet despite the wine, then with Luke, who apologized three times for nearly stepping on your hem, which you found adorable.

"You're doing fine," you assured him with a smile, and he grinned back, boyish and sweet.

When that dance ended, you found yourself passed to Jacaerys.

Your breath caught as his hand found yours, the other settling at your waist. His palm was large and warm against your back, steadying you. You could smell him now, clean linen and spice. Could see his eyes up close, brown with flecks of amber in the firelight. Could see, really see, how stupidly beautiful he was.

"Having fun?" he asked as he led you through the steps, his tone pleasantly neutral and polite. The exact same way he'd speak to any cousin at a family gathering.

"Yes," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "It's nice, having everyone together like this."

"Mm," he agreed, spinning you smoothly. "Rarer than it should be. Though I suppose it'll be even rarer once I'm shackled to some lord's daughter who'll expect me to sit through needlepoint demonstrations."

He was trying to make it sound like a joke, but it came out flat. Like he'd already accepted this was happening and hated every second of it.

"Maybe you'll find someone you actually like," you offered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

A laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe. Though I doubt the great houses are sending their daughters for love matches. They want a crown, not a husband."

"Then perhaps you should look for someone who wants neither," you said before you could stop yourself.

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, something that might have been interest flickering across his face. "And where would I find such a creature? They seem to be in short supply."

Before you could respond—before you could make an even greater fool of yourself—the song ended. Jace released you with a small bow, perfectly proper, and turned to offer his hand to Rhaena for the next dance.

You stepped back, your heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. He'd been so normal. So completely indifferent. There was no awareness in his eyes, no sign that he saw you as anything other than his cousin, someone to dance with at family gatherings and exchange pleasantries with at supper. Which was as it should be. You should be relieved and instead, you felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

"You look troubled," Helaena's soft voice came from beside you. She'd moved so quietly you hadn't noticed her approach. "Like a bird that's flown into a window."

You turned to her, finding those strange green eyes studying you. "I'm fine," you said automatically.

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured, her gaze distant in that way it sometimes got after one of her vision spells. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

"Helaena—"

But she'd already drifted away, drawn by something only she could see, leaving you standing at the edge of the dancing with her cryptic words echoing in your mind.

The spider watches from the corner. Seven hells, your poor, dear, earnest cousin knows you’re a pervert. 

You watched Jacaerys spin Rhaena through the steps, laughing at something she said. Watched him dance with Baela next, then with his mother, the perfect dutiful son. He never once looked your way again and you told yourself that was exactly what you wanted.

The dancing continued for another hour before Rhaenyra finally called an end to the evening. "Early council meeting tomorrow," she announced with apologetic warmth. "And I need at least some sleep if I'm to endure Tyland Lannister's complaints about the damned grain tariffs."

The group began to disperse—Aegon stumbling slightly as Aemond steadied him with the patience only a brother could have, Luke and Joffrey arguing about something as they headed toward their chambers. You walked back to your chambers with Helaena and Baela, their soft conversation a comfortable buffer against your own churning thoughts. When you finally reached your door, you bid them goodnight and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy oak with a shaky exhale.

Your ladies had been by earlier, the room was tidy, the fire banked low, your nightgown laid out across the bed. Everything was peaceful and ordinary. Your gaze immediately drifted, unbidden, to the corner where the carved screen stood.

You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. But your feet carried you forward anyway, your hands moving the screen aside with trembling, eager, perverted fingers.

Empty. Fuck. 

His room was dark save for a single candle burning on the bedside table. The crimson coverlet was smooth and undisturbed. The heavy curtains drawn back from the windows to let in the moonlight. No Jacaerys. No woman writhing beneath him. Nothing but silence and shadows.

You sat back on your heels, a strange mix of relief and something else—something you refused to name as disappointment—settling in your chest.

Where was he? 

It was late, well past the hour when most of the castle had retired. Perhaps he'd gone to the Street of Silk, unwilling to bring his entertainment into the Red Keep on a night when the family had gathered. Perhaps he was in someone else's bed entirely, some lady's maid or kitchen girl who'd caught his eye.

Perhaps he was being discreet, something he clearly hadn't bothered earlier today. The thought dissipated as quickly as it came, no, maybe he was being discreet. Thoughtful, even. Of course, he'd been perfectly discreet earlier too, it was your fault for being a creep. 

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, staring at that empty bed as though it might offer answers. The image from earlier was still burned into your mind—the flex of his shoulders, the sound of his voice rough with pleasure, the casual way he'd commanded that woman's body like he owned it.

Your cousin. The heir to the Iron Throne. The boy you'd grown up with, who used to let you win at cyvasse when you were children, who'd shown you how to skip stones across the fountain and laughed when you both got yelled at for it.

When the fuck had he turned into that? When had he learned to move like that, to take someone apart with his hands like it was easy?

And why, by all the Seven, couldn't you stop fucking thinking about it?

You pushed away from the wall, suddenly furious with yourself. This was madness. Dangerous, stupid madness that could only end in humiliation or worse. You needed to forget what you'd seen. Needed to seal that hole in the wall and pretend it had never existed.

Starting tomorrow. You'd call the servants first thing in the morning and have it filled with mortar. Tonight, tonight, though,  you would sleep, and you would not dream of your cousin's hands, or his voice, or the way he'd looked so beautiful while lost in pleasure.

You climbed into bed still wearing your red silk gown, too tired to call your ladies back to unlace you. The rubies in your hair pressed uncomfortably against the pillow until you pulled them free with impatient fingers, letting your silver hair spill loose around you.

Sleep was slow to come. When it finally did, you dreamed of dragons and fire, of flying on Cannibal's back while something nameless chased you through the clouds. And in the dream, when you finally turned to face it, it had Jacaerys's eyes.

You did not look through the hole the following morning.

The temptation was there—gods, it was there, a constant itch beneath your skin as your ladies dressed you. But you kept your eyes firmly away from that corner, focusing instead on the monotonous task of standing still while they laced you into your gown.

It was white today, or perhaps the palest blue, the color seemed to shift in the light like a sort of moonstone. The bodice was scaled like dragon armor, each piece of fabric layered and stitched to create the illusion of protection. Gold chains draped across your shoulders and down your bare arms, cold against your skin. More chains hung from your waist, swaying gently when you moved. The sleeves were sheer and flowing, doing little to ward off the morning chill.

"You look like a goddess," Elaena breathed as she stepped back to admire their work.

"I look like I'm about to freeze to death, thank you very much," you replied, though without any real complaint. 

Your hair was left mostly loose today, falling in silver waves down your back, with only two small braids pulled back from your face and secured with a dragon clasp of white gold. It was simple and appropriate for a small council meeting where you needed to be taken seriously.

The walk to the council chamber was embedded into your brain, your slippered feet silent on the cold stone floors. Guards nodded as you passed, servants stepped aside with murmured greetings. You were known throughout the Red Keep as kind, perhaps too kind for a Targaryen. You stopped to ask the head cook about her daughter's fever, remembered the name of the stable boy's new puppy hound, listened when the washerwomen complained about the state of the linens.

Your father had been like that, or so Rhaenyra told you. Loved by the smallfolk, remembered fondly even years after his death. You hoped it was true. You hoped you carried something of him beyond just his silver hair and violet eyes.

The council chamber was already half-full when you arrived. Lord Corlys sat at Rhaenyra's right hand, his age showing more each moon but his mind still sharp as any of the younger council members. Daemon lounged in his seat with typical irreverence, picking at his nails with a dagger. Grand Maester Gerardys shuffled through papers, and several other lords whose names you'd long since memorized filled out the remaining seats.

Rhaenys was there too, your mentor in all things draconic and strategic. She caught your eye as you entered and gave you a subtle nod of approval. She'd been instrumental in convincing Rhaenyra to let you train, to let you learn the ways of war despite your aunt's maternal protests.

"Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," you replied, ignoring the knowing look Daemon shot you. He always seemed to know when someone was lying, the bastard.

You'd earned your place at this table through years of study—history, law, trade routes, military strategy. While other noble daughters learned needlework and song, you'd buried yourself in the library, devouring every tome you could find. Knowledge was power, and you'd wanted to be useful. Wanted to matter beyond being another pretty Targaryen to marry off for alliances.

And then there was Cannibal. Your sweet baby boy, Cannibal. 

You'd claimed him at two and ten, a feat that had shocked the entire realm. The wild dragon, the one who'd killed and eaten other dragons, who'd never been ridden—you'd walked up to him on Dragonstone's smoking beaches and simply asked. And he'd lowered his massive black head and let you climb onto his back.

The bond between you was unlike anything the Dragonkeepers had seen. You could feel him, always, a presence at the back of your mind, dark and fierce and free. Sometimes you knew his thoughts, or at least his intentions. When he wanted to hunt. When he wanted to fly far from the castle and its confining walls. When he missed you, though he'd never admit it, that damned proud creature.

He was out there now, somewhere over the Bay of Blackwater or perhaps the Kingswood. You could feel him, distantly, content in his solitude.

Vhagar was different—ancient, massive, slow with age but no less deadly. Aemond insisted he had full control of her, but you'd seen the truth when you flew near them. Vhagar tolerated Aemond. She hadn't fully accepted him, not the way Cannibal had accepted you. It would take years, perhaps decades, before that bond truly solidified.

If Aemond lived that long. Vhagar was known for her temper.

And Cannibal—Cannibal was larger still. Nearly the size of Balerion the Black Dread himself, or so the Dragonkeepers whispered when they thought you couldn't hear. Black as a night sky with none of the stars, with eyes like green flame and teeth as long as swords. He'd never accept the Dragonpit even if he could fit, which he couldn't. He roosted where he pleased, in sea caves along the coast, in the ruins of old Valyrian outposts, anywhere that gave him space and freedom and solitude.

"Shall we begin?" Rhaenyra's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She waited until everyone had settled, then gestured for Grand Maester Gerardys to start with the day's business.

The first hour was tedious, grain shipments from the Reach, trade disputes with the Free Cities, a complaint from House Royce about border incursions from mountain clans. You paid attention, offered your thoughts when asked, but your mind kept drifting.

Don't think about it. Don't think about him.

"There is one more matter," Rhaenyra said as the meeting drew toward its close. She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before moving on. "I've decided that Jacaerys should begin attending these meetings regularly. Starting the following morrow, he'll be joining us."

A few eyebrows raised, but no one protested. It made sense, he was two and twenty, the acknowledged heir, soon to be married. He needed to understand the workings of the realm he would one day rule. 

"Will he be given a formal position?" Lord Corlys asked, ever practical, ever scheming. 

"Not immediately," Rhaenyra replied. "Let him observe first. Learn our ways, then we'll see where his talents might be best utilized."

Daemon snorted. "His talents are best utilized in the training yard and the—"

"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut him off with a warning look, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

You felt your cheeks heat and kept your eyes fixed firmly on the table. In a week’s time Jacaerys would be here, sitting in one of these chairs, probably directly across from you. You'd have to see him regularly, maintain professional courtesy, pretend you hadn't watched him fuck a woman senseless.

Gods have mercy.

"Any objections?" Rhaenyra asked, looking around the table.

Silence. What could anyone say? He was the heir and none of you were about to tell the Queen that her son wasn't allowed in the Small Council. That seemed like a great way to lose your head.

"Good. Then we're finished for today." She stood, and everyone else rose with her. "Same time in three days. Try not to let the realm burn down before then."

The council members began to file out, but Rhaenys caught your arm as you moved to leave.

"Walk with me," she said, and it wasn't really a request.

You followed her out into the corridor, down a side passage that led into the city and the Dragonpit. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never quite lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem distracted," she finally said.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying." She stopped, turning to face you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"

For a wild moment, you considered telling her. I accidentally discovered a hole in my wall that looks into Jacaerys's chambers, and now I can't stop thinking about what I saw, and I think I'm losing my mind.

Instead, you said, "I'm just tired. The dancing went rather late last night."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but eventually she nodded. "Very well. But if something is bothering you—truly bothering you—you know you can come to me."

"I know," you said softly. "Thank you."

She squeezed your shoulder once, then continued down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of dragons roaring in their pit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondered how in seven hells you were going to survive sitting across from Jacaerys in council meetings. Wondered if he'd look at you the same way he'd looked at you while dancing—politely indifferent, completely unaware of the effect he had.

Wondered if that was better or worse than the alternative.

You found yourself wandering toward the kitchens, drawn by the familiar sounds of clattering pots and raised voices. The rest of the castle felt too quiet after council meetings, too full of people watching their words. The kitchens were honest, they were steaming hot, loud and smelling like fresh bread and meat.

"My lady!" Jessamyn looked up from the massive hearth, her round face flushed from the heat. She'd been head cook for as long as you could remember, ruling her domain with an iron ladle and a sharp tongue. "What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be off doing princess things?"

"Princess things are dreadfully boring," you replied, stealing a piece of candied lemon from a nearby tray. "I'd much rather be here."

"Oi, those are for tonight's supper!" But Jessamyn was smiling, swatting at you halfheartedly with her wooden spoon.

The kitchen staff had long since grown accustomed to your presence. You'd been sneaking down here since you were a child, preferring the warmth and chatter to the formality of the upper floors. Here, no one cared that you were a Targaryen. Here, you were just the girl who always burned her tongue on the stew and asked too many questions about how to make proper gravy.

"How's Mara's fever?" you asked, hopping up onto a cleared section of the work table.

"Broke this morning, thank the gods." Jessamyn's expression softened. "That tea you brought from the Maester helped, I think."

"Good. I'm glad." You watched as two scullery maids argued over the proper way to pluck a chicken, their debate growing increasingly heated. "Should you be concerned about that?"

"They'll sort it out," Jessamyn said dismissively. "Or they'll stab each other with the bloody kitchen knives, and I'll have two fewer girls making my life a misery. Either way."

"You staying for midday meal?" one of the kitchen boys asked hopefully. "We're making that venison stew you like."

"Can't today. I'm going to the Dragonpit."

"Your beast finally coming back?" Jessamyn asked, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. "Haven't seen him in what, near a fortnight?"

"Twelve days," you confirmed. Cannibal preferred his freedom, and you'd never been one to cage him. He came when he wanted, and you would not have it  any other way. "He's out past Blackwater Bay somewhere. I can feel him."

"Feel him," one of the maids muttered. "Still sounds like madness to me, my lady."

"It is madness," you agreed cheerfully. "But it's a very useful madness."

You stayed a while longer, listening to the kitchen gossip, who was bedding whom, which lordling had insulted which servant, the general consensus that the upcoming feasts were going to be a right fucking nightmare to prepare for. Apparently, Rhaenyra had requested swan for one of them, and Jessamyn was already composing angry speeches about the impracticality of cooking swan.

"Tough as old leather and mean as sin," she complained, gesturing violently with her ladle. "But does Her Grace care? No. She wants swan because it's elegant. I'll give her elegant—I'll serve it so tough she'll break a tooth on it."

"I'll speak to her," you offered. "Suggest something else."

"You're a good girl," Jessamyn said, patting your cheek with a flour-dusted hand. "Too good for this lot of pompous cunts, if you ask me."

Eventually, you took your leave, stealing one more piece of candied lemon on your way out just to hear Jessamyn's exasperated shout behind you.

The walk to the Dragonpit took you through the city streets, and you pulled your cloak up to hide your distinctive hair. The smallfolk knew you by sight anyway—you came this way often enough—but it was easier not to draw any attention. A few people nodded as you passed, and you nodded back, trying not to think about how different you were from most nobles who never set foot outside the Red Keep's walls without a full escort of gold cloaks.

The Dragonpit loomed ahead, ancient and crumbling in places despite the best efforts to maintain it. The Dragonkeepers bowed as you approached, their respect tinged with something like awe. They still spoke in hushed tones about the day you'd claimed Cannibal, about the wild dragon who'd finally accepted a rider.

You came here even though your dragon never would. Cannibal was too large. He'd never fit through the Dragonpit's entrance even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not.  But you came anyway, to see the other dragons, to speak with the Dragonkeepers who understood what it meant to be bonded to such creatures.

"My lady," the eldest keeper greeted you. "Still no sign of your beast?"

"He's hunting in the Kingswood," you replied, moving past them into the cavernous space. 

Some of the other dragons were here, Vermax in his usual corner, Arrax further back, Syrax sunning herself near the entrance where the light streamed in. They all shifted as you entered, great scaled heads turning, sensing you the way dragons always sensed Targaryen blood.

But none of them called to you the way Cannibal did. None of them were yours.

You could feel him now, distant but present in your mind. He was flying over the Kingswood, hunting deer or perhaps wild boar. Satisfied. He sent you an impression—not words, but feeling—of wind and height and the joy of the chase.

Umbās lenton, ñuha riña, you thought at him in High Valyrian, not knowing if he could truly hear your thoughts the way you felt his intentions. Māzigon lo jorrāelagon. 

Stay free, my boy. Come if needed.

You stood there in the Dragonpit for a while, watching the other dragons, feeling the heat of their breath and the weight of their ancient eyes. Vhagar wasn't here either—she was too massive, kept in the fields outside the city where she had room to spread her wings without crushing half the buildings in King's Landing. But even Vhagar was smaller than Cannibal. 

"He burns green, doesn't he?" one of the younger keepers asked, approaching cautiously. "Your Cannibal. Green flame."

"Yes," you confirmed. "Like poison made fire."

The keeper shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. Most dragons burn orange or red, sometimes gold. But green and his size. Seven hells, my lady, he's near as big as Balerion was."

"Bigger, perhaps," you said softly. "He's still growing."

The thought should have terrified you. Instead, it filled you with something like pride.

Supper that evening was a grander affair than the intimate family meal from the night before. The great hall was filled with lords and ladies of the court, the high table crowded with Targaryens and their most favored bannermen. Musicians played from the gallery, servants moved between the tables with platters of roasted boar and honeyed duck, and the wine flowed freely.

You sat between Baela and one of the Velaryon cousins whose name you could never quite remember, making polite conversation and trying not to let your gaze wander too obviously across the hall.

Jacaerys, much to your surprise, wasn't there.

His seat at the high table sat empty, and when you'd asked Rhaenyra about it as casually as you could manage, she'd simply said he was indisposed. Daemon had smirked into his wine cup at that, and you'd felt your cheeks burn.

Indisposed. Right, your arse.

The meal dragged on, course after course, toast after toast, Lord Whoever droning on about trade agreements until you wanted to scream. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, all while your mind churned with thoughts you had no business thinking.

Where was he? Out in the city again, finding another willing woman to warm his bed? Or perhaps he'd brought someone here, to his chambers, and simply hadn't wanted to risk being seen at supper with the smell of sex still clinging to him.

Gods, you needed to stop. This needed to stop, permanently, and immediately. 

By the time Rhaenyra finally dismissed the court for the evening, you were wound tight as a crossbow string. You said your goodnights to Baela and Helaena, declined Aegon's slurred offer to continue drinking in his chambers, and practically fled back to your own rooms.

Your ladies had already been by, the fire was lit, your sleeping shift laid out. You should call them back to help you out of your gown. Should prepare for bed like a sensible person and get some actual sleep before tomorrow's duties.

Instead, you found yourself moving toward the corner where the carved screen stood.

Don't, you told yourself firmly. Don't be a fool.

But your hands were already pushing the screen aside, your knees hitting the cold stone floor as you pressed your eye to the gap.

Empty. Again. Damn, damn, damn.

The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through the windows. The bed undisturbed, the coverlet smooth. No candles lit, no sign of life. You sat back, frustration coiling in your chest. Where in the seven hells was he?

You should go to bed. Should stop this madness before it consumed you entirely. But instead, you paced. Back and forth across your chamber like a caged animal, your silk skirts swishing against the floor. Every few minutes you'd stop, kneel down, check the hole again.

Still empty.

This was pathetic. You were pathetic. Waiting like some lovesick girl for a glimpse of a man who didn't even know you existed beyond being his cousin at family suppers.

He danced with you, a small voice whispered in your mind. He smiled at you.

He smiled at everyone. That was what princes did. And once again, you checked.

Empty.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead against the cool stone. This was going to drive you mad. You needed to seal this hole, needed to forget you'd ever found it, needed to—

The door to his chamber opened and you froze, eye pressed to the gap, heart suddenly hammering.

Jacaerys entered first, and he wasn't alone. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you told yourself to look away, to be decent for once. Instead, you pressed harder against the gap, like that might somehow get you closer.

The woman who followed him through the door was decidedly not a servant or a whore from the Street of Silk. Her gown was fine silk, deep green with gold embroidery at the sleeves. This was expensive, well-made, the kind only highborn ladies wore. Her dark hair was pinned up elaborately, though a few strands had come loose, and when she laughed at something Jace said, the sound was refined. 

You recognized her after a moment—Lady Cassandra Baratheon, one of Lord Borros's daughters. She'd been at court for the past month, ostensibly to foster closer ties between Storm's End and the crown.

Apparently, she'd been fostering ties of a different sort.

"Wine?" Jace asked, moving to the table where a pitcher sat waiting.

"Please," Cassandra replied, and there was an ease between them that spoke of familiarity. This wasn't their first time together. Not even close.

Something hot and ugly twisted in your chest. Jealousy, perhaps, though you had no right to it.

Jace poured two cups, handed her one, and they stood there for a moment just talking. You couldn't hear the words through the stone, but you could see the way Cassandra touched his arm, fingers trailing down from shoulder to elbow with the intimacy of someone who'd done it before. The way Jace leaned in closer, his head tilted as he listened to whatever she was saying, a small smile playing at his lips.

And then he kissed her, and you inhaled sharply, pulse suddenly pounding everywhere, your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

It started slow—almost tender, really. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw as their mouths moved together in a way that suggested they'd learned each other's rhythms. Cassandra made a soft sound, stepping into him, and her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging slightly.

Pervert, pervert, pervert.  

Your eye stayed pressed to the gap in the stone. Your hand, seemingly of its own accord, had drifted to press against your stomach, just above where heat was beginning to pool low and insistent. 

Jace backed her toward the bed, still kissing her, his hands starting to work at the laces of her gown. She helped him, both of them fumbling slightly in their eagerness despite clearly having done this dance before. You watched as layer after layer of silk fell away and onto the floor, first was the overdress, then the underdress, then the stays—until she stood in just her shift, the thin fabric clinging to curves that made your throat go dry.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jace murmured and you could read the words on his lips even if you couldn't quite hear them through the stone.

Cassandra smiled, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. "You say that to all of them, my grace."

Your jaw clenched. So you were right. There were others. Many others, probably.

"I mean it with you," Jace said, and you wanted to scream at Cassandra not to believe him, that those were just pretty words he knew how to wield. 

But Cassandra seemed to believe him, or at least didn't care if it was true. She pushed his doublet off his shoulders, her hands running over his chest, fingernails scraping lightly over skin, and Jace groaned—a sound you felt echo between your own thighs. He pulled her shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was naked before him.

She was beautiful, that you could admit that even through the haze of jealousy burning in your chest. Full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that Jace's hands immediately claimed, skin like cream in the candlelight. Dark hair spilled down her back as Jace turned her around, pressing kisses down her spine, and you watched his mouth trace the path of her vertebrae one by one.

"Jace," she breathed, arching back against him, pressing her bare arse against where you could see he was already hard beneath his breeches.

Your own breathing had gone shallow. Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, wanting to move lower but not quite daring. Not yet.

Jace took his time with her. His hands mapped every curve, every dip and swell of her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked and she gasped. Kissed the side of her neck, teeth scraping against the tendon there in a way that made her shiver. Slid one hand down her stomach, between her thighs, and even from here you could see how she bucked against his touch.

"Please," Cassandra whimpered, and the desperate edge to her voice made your breath catch.

"Patience," Jace murmured against her skin, but there was dark amusement in his tone. He was enjoying this—enjoying making her wait, making her beg.

When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went willingly, eagerly, spreading herself out on the crimson coverlet like an offering. Her thighs fell open without prompting, shameless in her want, and you could see the glistening evidence of her arousal even from your hidden vantage point.

Jace shed the rest of his clothes—unlacing his breeches with quick movements—and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. You'd seen him before, that first night, but somehow this felt different. More intimate. You could see every line of muscle in his stomach, the dark hair trailing down from his navel, the thick length of his cock jutting proudly from his hips as he climbed onto the bed.

Your hand finally, finally, slipped beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.

Jace settled between Cassandra's thighs, bracing himself above her on his forearms, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then he pushed his cock deep inside her—slow, so agonizingly slow—and Cassandra's head fell back with a moan that you felt echo through your own body.

“Your grace—-hhhhh,” she moaned.

Your fingers found the wet heat between your legs, already slick and aching. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.

"Fuck," Jace groaned, his hips rolling in a steady, measured rhythm. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet for me."

"Harder," Cassandra gasped, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red marks. "Please, your grace, I need—"

He gave her exactly what she wanted.

The gentleness evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something raw and almost brutal. Jace pulled nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her, and Cassandra cried out—pleasure and pain mixing in her voice in a way that made your fingers circle faster over your clit. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat, and his teeth found the skin there, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jace growled, his voice low and dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. Not gentle, princely Jace. This was something darker. "This what you've been thinking about all through supper? Sitting there with your father, making polite conversation, while all you could think about was having my cock inside you?"

"Yes," Cassandra sobbed, her body arching to meet each brutal thrust. The obscenity of the words, the rawness of it, sent liquid heat flooding through you. "Gods, yes, don't stop—please don't stop—"

Your fingers worked faster, your other hand coming up to muffle any sounds threatening to escape your throat. You could feel your own wetness coating your fingers, could feel the tension building low in your belly as you watched Jace fuck Cassandra with single-minded intensity.

"Greedy little thing," Jace muttered, but there was dark satisfaction in his tone. His free hand moved between their bodies, and you knew exactly what he was doing when Cassandra suddenly cried out sharply, her whole body going rigid. He was circling her clit with his thumb while he pounded into her, giving her pleasure from two directions at once, and the thought of it—the thought of him doing that to you—made your legs tremble.

"Jace, I'm going to—oh gods, I'm going to come—"

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you, sweetling."

She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer. You could see the way her cunt clenched around him, could see the exact moment the pleasure crested and broke over her.

Your own fingers moved desperately, chasing the same release, imagining it was Jace's hand between your thighs, Jace's cock filling you, Jace's voice in your ear telling you how good you felt. But Jace didn't stop. He kept fucking Cassandra through her peak, relentless, using her body to chase his own pleasure as she whimpered and clutched at the sheets beneath her. Her sensitivity must have been overwhelming, but he showed no mercy, just kept driving into her with brutalness. 

He was so undeniably good at this, at fucking whores, noble ladies, at driving his cock into their cunts and making them squeal beneath him from the pleasure.

"Too much," she gasped, but her hips were still rising to meet his, her body betraying her words. "Y-your grace, it's—fuck—it's too much—"

"You can take it," he said, and there was something almost cruel in his certainty. "You always take it so well for me."

His rhythm grew erratic, desperate. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his arse flexing with each thrust. He was close—so close—

Your own pleasure was building, that familiar tightening, that pressure mounting—

Jace pulled out suddenly, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking once, twice, before he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. His seed spilled across Cassandra's stomach in thick ropes, marking her, claiming her, and the sight of it—the raw, animalistic possession of it—sent you tumbling over the edge.

You bit down on your palm hard enough to taste blood, muffling the sound threatening to tear from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your fingers didn't stop, working you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and barely able to see through the haze.

When you finally came back to yourself, gasping and trembling, Jace was cleaning Cassandra with gentle touches that seemed almost absurd after the brutality of moments before. She was boneless against the pillows, looking thoroughly debauched, her hair a tangled mess and her skin flushed pink.

"Stay," Jace said quietly, pulling her against his chest.

"I shouldn't," Cassandra murmured, but she was already nestling into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "If someone finds out—"

"Let them find out. I don't care."

You wanted to laugh at the lie of it. Of course he cared. He just didn't care enough not to fuck her. Within minutes, Cassandra's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body going lax in his arms. Jace stared at the ceiling for a long while, his expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand stroked absently through her hair, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.

Then he turned his head slightly—and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to land exactly where you knelt. Directly at the wall. Directly at your hiding place.

But that was impossible. He couldn't see you through solid stone. Couldn't know you were there, hand still between your thighs, lips swollen from biting back your moans, watching him like some desperate, pathetic creature.

You jerked back from the hole anyway, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. Your whole body was trembling—from the release, from the fear of discovery, from shame so acute it felt like it might choke you. You'd just brought yourself to peak while watching your cousin fuck another woman. While imagining it was you in that bed, you he was whispering filth to, you he was making come apart on his cock.

This was sick. Wrong. You were sick and wrong and yet, deep down, you knew, with terrible certainty, that you'd be back tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until this madness either consumed you or destroyed you entirely.

You barely slept that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his shoulders, his body, his thick cock, the way his hand had fisted in Cassandra's hair, the rough timber of his voice as he'd commanded her to come. And beneath it all, the shameful memory of your own hand between your thighs, chasing pleasure you had no right to feel.

When dawn finally broke, you were grateful for it.

Your ladies dressed you in silence, perhaps sensing your foul mood. The gown today was the palest blush pink. The bodice was fitted with embroidered silver thread in delicate patterns that caught the morning sun. The neckline dipped low, modest enough for court but still flattering, drawing the eye. Long flowing sleeves of sheer silk hung from your shoulders, gossamer-thin, moving like water with each gesture. The skirts were layers upon layers of the same pale silk, creating an almost dreamlike effect as you walked, the fabric seeming to float around you.

The walk to the council chamber felt longer than usual. You nodded to the guards, smiled at passing servants, and tried not to think about the fact that Jacaerys would be here today. His first small council meeting. Sitting across from you for hours while you pretended you hadn't watched him fuck Lady Baratheon into the mattress last night.

Gods give you strength.

The council chamber was already filling when you arrived. "Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat.

"Your Grace." You settled into your chair, arranging your skirts, trying not to look at the empty seat that would soon be occupied.

Others filtered in quick waves, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Master of Coin; Ser Steffon Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch; a handful of other lords whose presence was required. The table filled, voices murmuring in low conversation.

Then the door opened again, and Jacaerys entered.

He looked... gods, he looked perfect. Rested and put-together in a way that seemed deeply unfair given what you knew he'd been doing until late into the night. His doublet was his usual black with red embroidery, his dark hair neatly combed, and when he smiled at his mother, it was warm and genuine and completely utterly unbothered.

"Apologies for my lateness," he said, taking the empty seat directly across from you.

Of course. Of course he'd be directly in your line of sight.

His eyes met yours for a brief moment—polite, pleasant, utterly indifferent—before moving on. No recognition. No awareness that anything was amiss. He had no idea what you'd witnessed. No idea that you'd spent the night with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was you in Cassandra Baratheon's place.

"Let us begin," Rhaenyra said once everyone had settled. She gestured to Grand Maester Gerardys. "The reports from the North, if you would."

Gerardys cleared his throat and began reading, something about increased wildling activity beyond the Wall, requests from the Night's Watch for additional men and supplies. You forced yourself to pay attention, to nod at the appropriate moments, to look anywhere except at Jacaerys.

It was going to be a very long meeting. The discussion moved from the North to the Stepstones, where Daemon's efforts to hold the islands remained precarious at best. Then to trade disputes with Pentos, grain shortages in the Reach, and a particularly tedious debate about tax collection methods that made you want to throw yourself from the nearest window.

Jacaerys contributed thoughtfully when asked, his observations intelligent and well-reasoned. He'd been well-trained for this, you realized. Rhaenyra had made sure her heir would be ready to rule, ready to navigate the complexities of statecraft. Of the Realm. 

Ready to be the perfect prince while fucking half the women in King's Landing in his spare time.

"There is another matter," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. She was looking at you, and there was something in her expression that made your stomach clench. "The matter of our dragons and their war-readiness."

The table went quiet.

"The realm is at peace," Lord Corlys pointed out carefully.

"For now," Rhaenys replied. "But peace is a fragile thing, as we all learned during the—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—recent troubles. We cannot afford to be complacent."

"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

"That we ensure our dragons are battle-ready. That we train them for war, even if we pray that war never comes." Rhaenys turned her sharp gaze fully on you. "Cannibal, in particular, has never been tested in true combat. He's large, powerful, but wild and untested."

Your jaw tightened. "Cannibal doesn't need testing. He's—"

"A wild dragon who's only known freedom," Rhaenys interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not questioning your bond with him, child. I'm suggesting that bond needs to be forged stronger and that will only come through discipline."

"You want me to train him for war," you said flatly.

"I want you to prepare him for the possibility of war." Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. "With drills and formation flying with the other dragons. Learning to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. These things take time and practice."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Cannibal would never tolerate such constraints, that he'd sooner eat the other dragons than fly in formation with them. That forcing him into drills and formations would break something fundamental in the bond between you, the trust that came from respecting his need for freedom.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you said carefully. "Cannibal isn't like the other dragons. He's larger, older in his ways. Trying to force him into formations could be potentially dangerous."

"Dangerous for whom?" Daemon asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than mocking. "For you, or for the other dragons?"

"Both," you admitted. "Cannibal doesn't play well with others. He never has. That's why he lived alone on Dragonstone for so long, why he—" you stopped yourself before saying ate the other dragons, because that seemed impolitic in the moment. "Why he prefers solitude."

"All the more reason to socialize him now," Rhaenys countered. "Before we're in the middle of a battle and he decides another dragon looks appetizing."

A few uncomfortable chuckles around the table. It wasn't really a joke, not one you found particularly funny. 

"What about Vhagar?" you asked, grasping for any argument. "She's larger, older. Is Aemond expected to fly formation drills with her?"

"Vhagar is already battle-tested," Rhaenys replied. "She fought in Aegon's Conquest, in the wars since. She knows what's expected. Cannibal has only ever known hunting sheep and being left alone."

It stung because it was true. For all his size and power, Cannibal had never been to war. Had never been asked to do anything more demanding than fly when you called and let you sit astride him while he soared through the clouds.

"What does Her Grace think?" you asked, turning to Rhaenyra. Let the Queen make this decision, let it not be your choice to potentially damage the one pure thing in your life.

Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment, her expression deep in thought. "I think Rhaenys makes valid points. But I also trust your judgment when it comes to your dragon. If you truly believe this would be harmful rather than helpful, I'll take that into consideration."

It was a careful, political answer. She was giving you an out, but also making it clear that refusing would require solid justification, not just childish objection. 

"I'll think about it," you said finally. "Perhaps we could start small. Test his tolerance before committing to full formation drills."

"A reasonable compromise," Rhaenys agreed, though she didn't look entirely satisfied. "We'll begin in a week's time. Simple exercises first."

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you nodded anyway.

"What about Vermax?" Daemon asked, his gaze sliding to Jacaerys with lazy interest. "The heir's dragon should certainly be included in this training."

"Vermax and I train regularly," Jace said, and there was the slightest edge of defensiveness in his tone.

"In the training yard, yes," Rhaenys replied. "But have you ever taken him into simulated combat? Flown him through fire and smoke? Tested his response time when startled?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "No."

"Then you'll join us as well," Rhaenys said, brooking no argument. "All dragonriders of fighting age. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon if we can pry him away from his cups long enough."

"Then it's settled," Rhaenyra said, her tone making it clear the discussion was closed. "Rhaenys will oversee the training regimen. All dragonriders are expected to participate." Her eyes found yours. "Including you, niece. I know Cannibal prefers his solitude, but this is necessary."

You bit back a dozen more arguments and simply nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, more reports, more discussions, more decisions that needed to be made. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Jacaerys sitting across from you. The way he listened intently when others spoke. The way his fingers drummed absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he looked so effortlessly princely while you sat there trying not to remember the sound of his voice, rough with pleasure, commanding Cassandra to come for him.

Finally, finally, Rhaenyra called an end to it. "Same time in three days. Try not to let anything catch fire before then."

You stood quickly, eager to escape before—

"Walk with me?" Rhaenys said, appearing at your elbow.

Of course because the gods clearly thought you hadn't suffered enough today. You fell into step beside her, following her out of the council chamber and down a side corridor. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem troubled," she finally said.

"I don't think Cannibal will take well to this training. I'm worried it will damage our bond."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced that was the whole truth. "He'll adjust. The bond between you is strong enough to weather some discomfort."

"It's not just discomfort. He's not like the other dragons. He's—"

"Wild. Yes, I know. But wildness can be channeled, shaped, without breaking it entirely." She squeezed your shoulder gently. "Trust me, and more importantly, trust him. Trust that your bond is stronger than a few training exercises. He did choose you, at the end of the day."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

"Now," Rhaenys said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I believe Helaena was looking for you earlier. Something about her insects?"

Right. Helaena. Safe, sweet Helaena who wouldn't ask probing questions about why you looked like you hadn't slept properly in days.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For everything, Aunt."

Rhaenys smiled, though there was something sad in it. "Go. Spend time with your cousin. The gods know there are precious few people in this world who'll love us without wanting something in return."

You found Helaena in her chambers, which were somehow both cluttered and organized in a way only she could manage. Jars and terrariums covered every surface, each containing some specimen or another, there were butterflies, beetles, spiders, things you couldn't even name. It was entirely Helaena. 

"You came," Helaena said, looking up from where she was carefully transferring a large iridescent beetle from one container to another. Her silver-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of pale green that brought out the unusual color of her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course I came." You settled onto the cushioned bench beside her workspace, careful not to disturb anything. The layers of your pink gown pooled around you like flower petals. "What have you found, dear cousin?"

Helaena's face lit up in that rare, genuine smile she reserved for the things she truly loved. "A stag beetle. Look at his mandibles, aren't they magnificent?"

You looked. The beetle was indeed impressive, its horn-like mandibles nearly as long as its body, gleaming black with hints of deep purple when the light hit them right. "Beautiful," you agreed, and meant it.

For the next hour, Helaena showed you her collection, explaining in her soft, sometimes disjointed way about each specimen's habits and characteristics. You listened, grateful for the distraction, for the simplicity of her enthusiasm. Here, there were no council meetings or dragon training or inappropriate thoughts about cousins. 

"Lord Cregan Stark sent me a letter," Helaena said suddenly, interrupting her own explanation about moth wing patterns.

You blinked. "Did he?"

"Yes. He's coming to court for the feasts. The ones for Jace." She was studying a moth wing with intense focus, not meeting your eyes. "He asked if he might call on me. To discuss insects."

Something in her tone made you pause. "Ah, I see, insects."

"He's interested in the wildlife of the North. The creatures that survive the cold. The ice spiders." Helaena finally looked up, and there was something almost vulnerable in her green eyes. "Do you think that's really why he wants to call on me?"

Oh. Oh.

Cregan Stark was young, newly Lord of Winterfell after his father's passing two years past. By all accounts he was honorable, strong, kind, everything a northern lord should be. And if he was expressing interest in Helaena...

"I think," you said carefully, "that Lord Cregan would be very fortunate if you agreed to speak with him. About insects or anything else, dear cousin."

Helaena's cheeks flushed pink. "He's very kind in his letters. Patient and he doesn't mind when I ramble about things most people find boring. He even sent me a preserved ice spider specimen from beyond the Wall. Said he thought I might like to study it."

Your heart softened. A man who would hunt down rare specimens for Helaena's collection was a man worth considering. "That's incredibly thoughtful, Hel."

"Mother says I should consider marriage eventually. That I can't hide in my chambers with my insects forever." Helaena's voice was quiet, tinged with something like resignation. "But most lords look at me like I'm mad. Like I'm something to be pitied or fixed."

"Then they're fools," you said firmly. "You're brilliant, Helaena. Anyone with half a brain can see that."

"Lord Cregan doesn't look at me like that. At least, not in his letters." She turned back to her moths, a small smile playing at her lips. "He asks questions. Real questions about my observations and theories. He doesn't just humor me."

"Will you see him when he arrives?"

"I... I believe I might." She looked back down at her specimens, fingers gentle as she adjusted a butterfly's position in its case. "It's strange. I never thought—I mean, I never imagined someone might actually want to court me. Not really."

"You're a princess of the blood," you pointed out. "Half the lords in Westeros would trip over themselves for the chance."

"They'd trip over themselves for the crown and the alliance," Helaena corrected softly. "Not for me. But Lord Cregan, he talks to me like I'm a person. Not a prize to be won or a madwoman to be managed."

You reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then I hope he lives up to his letters. And if he doesn't, I'll feed him to Cannibal."

Helaena laughed, a rare, bright sound that made you smile despite everything. "The wolf meets the spider in the dark. The spider weaves while the wolf watches. But which one catches which?"

Another one of her strange pronouncements. You'd long since given up trying to decipher them.

"What about you?" Helaena asked, suddenly aware of her surroundings again. "Will you dance with any lords at the feasts?"

Your stomach dropped. You'd almost managed to forget about the upcoming feasts, the parade of eligible ladies who would be throwing themselves at Jacaerys while you watched from the sidelines.

"I doubt it," you said lightly. "You know I prefer the edges of the room to the center of attention."

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured again, and something in her tone made you look up sharply. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

Helaena suddenly moved on, returning her attention to her beetles, humming softly to herself. Leaving you to wonder if she'd just made an innocent observation or if she somehow knew exactly what you'd been doing in the dark corners of your chambers.

You stayed with Helaena until the sun began to set, letting her soft voice and gentle presence soothe the jagged edges of your thoughts. Here, at least, things made sense. Here, you could almost forget the madness consuming you.

Almost.

When you finally took your leave, pressing a kiss to the top of her silver head, she caught your hand.

"Be careful," she said quietly. "Webs are sticky things. Hard to escape once you're caught."

You had no answer for that. The walk back to your chambers was quiet, most of the castle beginning to prepare for the evening meal. When you reached your door, you found your ladies already waiting.

"We've prepared a bath, my lady," Lysa said with a smile. "Thought you might want to wash before supper."

Gods, yes. Perhaps hot water and lavender oil could wash away the tension coiled tight in your shoulders, the restless energy that had plagued you all day.

"Thank you," you said, letting them usher you inside.

The tub had been set up near the fire, steam rising from the water in lazy curls. Your ladies helped you out of the elaborate pink gown, unlacing the bodice and lifting the layers of silk away until you stood in just your shift. Then that too was removed, and you stepped into the blessed heat of the bath with a sigh.

"We'll be just outside if you need anything, my lady," Maryse said. "Call when you're ready to dress for supper."

You nodded, already sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover you up to your shoulders. The heat seeped into your muscles, and for the first time all day, you felt some of the tension begin to ease.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of lavender, trying to empty your mind of everything, council meetings, dragon training, Helaena's cryptic warnings, and most especially the memory of brown eyes and dark hair and hands that knew exactly how to make a woman fall apart.

Stop, you told yourself firmly. Just stop.

For a few blessed minutes, you succeeded. The water, the warmth, the quiet—it was almost peaceful.

Then something moved at the edge of your vision. You opened your eyes and looked toward the rim of the tub. A spider. But not just any spider, this thing was massive, easily the size of your palm, with thick hairy legs and a body that seemed to pulse as it crept along the wooden edge of the tub. Moving toward you.

The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it, pure, primal terror that echoed off the stone walls.

You shot to your feet, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, your whole body shaking as you tried to scramble away from the creature. But the tub was slippery, your feet finding no purchase, and you nearly fell before catching yourself on the edge.

"My lady!" You heard Lysa's voice, muffled through the door, and then—

The door burst open, but it wasn't your ladies who came through first.

It was Jacaerys. He must have been passing in the corridor, must have heard your scream and thought, what? That you were being murdered? Attacked? He rushed in with his hand on his sword hilt, eyes wild, clearly ready to face down whatever threat had made you scream like that.

And then he froze. Because you were standing there, in the middle of the tub, completely and utterly naked. Water streaming down your body, your silver hair plastered to your back and shoulders, every inch of you exposed in the firelight.

For one endless, horrifying moment, neither of you moved.

His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly as his gaze traveled down and then snapped back up to your face. You could see the exact moment his brain caught up with what he was seeing, the way his cheeks flushed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

"I—" he started, his voice rough. "I heard you scream, I thought—"

"SPIDER!" you shrieked, pointing at the creature that was still making its way around the rim of the tub, seemingly unconcerned with the chaos it had caused. "There's a massive fucking spider, Jace!"

Jace's gaze followed your pointing finger, and you watched him take in the admittedly impressive specimen currently terrorizing you.

"That's, yes, that's a spider," he said, somewhat stupidly.

"I KNOW IT'S A SPIDER!" you yelled, still frozen in place, acutely aware that you were naked and he was staring and your ladies were probably right behind him in the corridor and this was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to you.

Your ladies burst in then, Lysa and Maryse and Elaena, their faces panicked, clearly thinking you were dying. They took in the scene, you, naked in the tub. Jacaerys, standing there looking like he'd been struck by lightning. The spider, innocently crawling.

"My lady!" Lysa gasped, immediately grabbing a linen cloth and rushing forward to wrap it around you.

But the damage was done. Jacaerys had seen everything. Every curve, every inch of skin, every part of you that should have remained hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety. 

Damn the Gods. Damn you, this is your punishment for being a pervert. 

"I'll just—" Jace stammered, backing toward the door, his face now bright red. "I'll—the spider—sorry—I thought—"

He practically fled, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, wrapped in the linen cloth, shaking for entirely different reasons now.

"Oh gods," you breathed. "Oh gods, he saw me. He saw—"

"It's all right, my lady," Maryse said soothingly, though she looked rather scandalized herself. "It was an accident. He heard you scream and thought you were in danger."

"I AM in danger!" you gestured wildly at the spider, which had now made it halfway around the tub. "That thing is massive!"

"It's just a spider, my lady," Elaena said gently, moving toward it with a cloth. Within moments she'd captured it and was carrying it toward the window. "See? Harmless."

Harmless. Right. Unlike the memory now burned into both your and Jacaerys's minds of you standing bare-arsed naked in a bathtub while he stared at you like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

"We need to get you dressed," Lysa said firmly, already moving to pull out clothes. "Supper will be starting soon."

"I can't go to supper," you said, your voice rising. "I can't face him after—after he just saw me naked."

"You have to go to supper, my lady," Maryse said, not unkindly. "If you don't, everyone will wonder why. And rumors will start."

Worse rumors than "the princess screamed bloody murder over a spider and her cousin saw her naked"? You doubted it. But she was right. You had to go. Had to face him. Had to somehow sit through an entire meal pretending that nothing had happened while knowing that Jacaerys now knew exactly what you looked like without clothes. While knowing that you'd seen the look in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something heated that had flashed across his face before embarrassment took over.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath.

"Language, my lady," Lysa chided gently, but she was already helping you out of the tub.

This was going to be the longest supper of your entire life.

The great hall was already filled with lords and ladies when you arrived, late enough that most people were already seated. The musicians were playing something lively from the gallery, servants moved between tables with wine and platters of food, and the general hum of conversation and laughter filled the space.

You wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.

Somehow you made it to your seat at the high table without tripping over your own feet, a minor miracle considering how unsteady you felt. You'd been dressed in a gown of deep purple silk, your ladies working quickly to make you presentable. Your hair was still slightly damp at the ends, but they'd managed to braid it back in a way that hid the worst of it.

Baela was already seated beside you, laughing at something Rhaena had said. On your other side, Helaena was staring at her plate with that distant expression she sometimes got. And across the table Jacaerys sat beside Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

He was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh, that refined, ladylike laugh you'd heard through the stone wall. His hand rested on the table close to hers, not quite touching but near enough to be intimate. He looked perfectly composed, perfectly at ease, like he hadn't just seen his cousin naked less than an hour ago.

You grabbed your wine cup and drank deeply.

"You have no idea," you muttered into your cup.

The meal began, course after course of roasted meats and honeyed vegetables and fresh bread. You pushed food around your plate, barely tasting anything, hyperaware of every movement Jace made across the table. The way he smiled at Cassandra. The way she touched his arm when she spoke. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of more than one night together. 

"All right, what's wrong?" Baela asked finally, setting down her fork and turning to face you properly. "You've been sulking since you sat down. Did something happen at council?"

"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.

Baela's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

You glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. Then you leaned closer and whispered, "Jace saw me naked."

For a moment, Baela just stared at you. Then she burst out laughing—loud enough that several people turned to look.

"Shut up, this is not funny!" you hissed, your face burning with shame. 

"It's a little funny," Baela managed between gasps. "How in the seven hells did that happen?"

You covered your face with your hands, mortified beyond measure. "There was a spider. A huge one. He was in my bath and then I screamed and he must have been in the corridor and he came running in thinking I was being murdered or something and I was just—standing there—completely bare-arsed—hh"

Baela was practically crying with laughter now, her hand pressed to her stomach. "A spider," she wheezed. "You're telling me the mighty dragonrider who claimed Cannibal, who sits on the small council, screamed loud enough to bring the heir running because of a spider?"

"It was a very large spider," you said defensively, though your own lips were twitching despite your mortification.

“And, so, he saw everything?"  Her voice went low and suggestive, bringing a finger to her mouth and biting the tip of it as her lips curved into a smirk.

"Everything," you confirmed miserably. "Full frontal view. Nothing left to imagination."

"Oh gods," Baela wiped at her eyes. "And what did he do?"

"Stood there like a fish for about three seconds, went bright red, stammered something about the spider, and then fled like the castle was on fire."

"That's amazing," Baela said, still grinning. "That's the best thing I've heard all week."

"I'm glad my humiliation amuses you," you said sourly, but you couldn't quite hold onto your irritation. It was sort of funny, in a horrifying, want-to-die sort of way.

"Look at the bright side," Baela said, taking a sip of her wine. "Now you know he's definitely seen you naked. That's more than most ladies can say about the heir before marriage."

You kicked her under the table.

"Ow! I'm just saying—"

"Well don't," you muttered, risking a glance across the table.

Jace was still deep in conversation with Cassandra, his attention completely focused on her. He hadn't looked your way once since you'd sat down. Was probably trying very hard not to look at you, considering what he'd seen.

Your stomach twisted, he'd seen you naked—completely, utterly exposed—and less than an hour later he was here, flirting with the woman he'd been fucking just the night before. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Which of course you didn't. You were his cousin, a political piece on the board, same as everyone else.

The fact that you'd watched him through a hole in the wall, that you'd brought yourself to come while imagining his hands on you instead of Cassandra—that was your problem. Your shame to carry, your degenerate shame.

"You're doing it again," Baela said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Looking like you want to kill someone, dear cousin." She followed your gaze across the table. "Ah. Lady Cassandra."

"You know she's not the only one, right?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Jace." Baela kept her voice low, casual, as she cut into her meat. "He's got quite the appetite, from what I hear. Half the ladies at court have warmed his bed at some point or another."

Your stomach twisted even though you already knew this. Had seen it.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Baela shrugged, a wicked grin playing at her lips. "Just saying, if you ever wanted to... you know. Sample the goods before he's shackled to some boring highborn wife, now's your chance. He's not particularly discriminating."

You nearly choked on your wine. "Baela!"

"What? I'm just saying.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm told he's very talented, Lady Cassandra certainly seems satisfied."

"I am not having this conversation with you," you hissed, your face burning.

"Your loss." Baela sat back with a laugh. "Though honestly, I don't blame you for looking. He's annoyingly pretty for someone with such common blood. Those brown eyes, that hair, he’s very brooding hero of a song, isn't he?"

"You're drunk, Baela."

"I'm tipsy," she corrected, "and you're deflecting."

"I'm not interested in Jace," you said firmly. "Not like that anyways."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You weren't interested in romancing with Jace. You didn't want his love or his devotion or whatever pretty words he whispered to the hoards of women in his bed. You just wanted, gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. To stop thinking about him, probably, most likely. And certainly to stop seeing his fucking gorgeous face every time you closed your eyes.

"Whatever you say," Baela said breezily, clearly not believing you but willing to drop it. "I'm just saying, the man's going to be married off soon. If you wanted a taste, the window's closing."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "You're impossible."

The conversation moved on, Rhaena leaned over to tell you both about some drama involving a lady-in-waiting and a stableboy, and you forced yourself to laugh, despite your gaze kept drifting across the table.

You didn't look through the hole that night.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed, but you left that carved screen exactly where it was and climbed into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even call your ladies back to help you undress properly. Sleep came fitfully, plagued by dreams of brown eyes and smirks and the memory of standing naked in a bathtub while your cousin stared.

When you woke, sunlight was streaming through your windows and someone was pounding on your door.

"My lady!" Lysa's voice, urgent and harried. "You need to wake! The lords are arriving and you're expected in the courtyard within the hour!"

Right. The festivities. The celebration of Jacaerys coming of age, of finding him a suitable bride. A full day of feasting and tournaments and watching eligible ladies parade themselves in front of the heir to the throne. Wonderful, just wonderful. Despite yourself, you managed to drag yourself out of bed and let your ladies descend upon you like a flock of determined birds. They stripped away yesterday's rumpled gown, scrubbed you with rose-scented soap, and set about the elaborate process of making you presentable as they did every morning. 

The gown they'd chosen was magnificent, it was a midnight blue silk that seemed to shimmer between black and deepest sapphire depending on how the light hit it. But you shook your head.

"No. The white one with the gold and red."

Your ladies exchanged glances but didn't argue. They brought out the dress you'd requested, white as fresh snow, with gold embroidery that traced patterns of dragons and flames across the bodice and down the flowing sleeves. Red accents caught the light like drops of blood, rubies sewn into the neckline and waist. The skirts were layers upon layers of silk and gossamer that moved like water, the train long enough to pool behind you like a bride. 

It was a statement, really, like Alicent’s green gowns. A reminder of who you were, a Targaryen, a dragon rider, not someone to be overlooked even as every other woman at court tried to catch the heir's eye. Your hair was left mostly down, falling in silver waves to your calves, with elaborate braids woven through and secured with gold and ruby pins shaped like dragon claws. By the time they finished, you looked like something out of a song. 

You barely heard the compliments ringing from your ladies tongues. You were already moving toward the door, trying to steel yourself for whatever fresh hell today would bring.

The courtyard was flooded when you arrived. Banners from a dozen different houses snapped in the morning breeze, there was Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, more. Lords and their retinues filing in through the gates, their daughters dressed in their finest, all of them here for the same purpose.

To win the favor of the Crown Prince.

You spotted Cregan Stark immediately—he was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. He was a gorgeous man, and currently  he was speaking with Rhaenyra, his manner respectful but not obsequious. A good sign, if Helaena was genuinely considering him. But it wasn't Cregan who made you pause. It was the way every male head in the courtyard seemed to turn as you descended the steps.

Lords, knights, visiting dignitaries, they all looked. Some with open admiration, others with more subtle interest, but they looked. You were used to attention, had grown up beautiful and aware of it, but this felt different. Or perhaps you were just more aware of it now, after everything.

"Seven hells," you heard someone mutter—one of the Tully boys, you thought. "Is that—"

You kept your chin high and your expression serene as you made your way through the crowd. Lords bowed as you passed, their sons stared, and you pretended not to notice any of it. Rhaenyra stood on the dais with Daemon beside her, already holding court. Jacaerys was there too, looking infuriatingly well-rested in black and red, his attention on whatever Lord Corlys was saying to him.

"Cousin," Aegon appeared at your elbow. "You're causing quite the stir. I think Lord Tyrell's son just walked into a pillar because he was too busy staring at you."

"Good," you said flatly.

Aegon laughed. "That's the spirit. Make them all suffer, my dear cousin. "

"Come," Aegon said, tugging at your elbow. "We're expected to stand there and look pretty while Father's old bannermen parade their daughters like prize mares. Should be entertaining enough."

You let him guide you to where the rest of the family was gathering. Rhaenyra sat in the place of honor with Daemon beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Helaena was tucked between Baela and Rhaena, already looking overwhelmed by the crowd. And Jacaerys stood at the center of it all, the sun around which this entire day revolved.

"How many do you think there are?" Aegon asked, settling in beside you with his cup. "I'm counting at least fifteen eligible ladies, and those are just the ones I can see from here."

"Shouldn't you be paying attention?" you asked. "You're supposed to be looking for a wife too."

"Gods, don't remind me." He took a long drink. "Mother's been at me for months about it. Apparently being six and twenty and unmarried is some sort of tragedy."

"Is it not?"

"It's called having standards," Aegon replied airily. "Low ones, admittedly, but standards nonetheless."

Rhaenyra stood, and the courtyard quieted. "Lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying across the space. "We are honored by your presence here today as we celebrate my son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, and his coming of age. Many of you have traveled far to be here, and we welcome you all to King's Landing."

Polite applause. Jace smiled that princely smile, gracious and warm.

"Today marks the beginning of festivities that will last the fortnight," Rhaenyra continued. "Tournaments, feasts, and celebrations in honor of the Crown Prince. And perhaps, by the end, we will have even more to celebrate."

Meaning a betrothal. 

"But first," Rhaenyra gestured to where several young ladies stood with their fathers, all of them dressed in their finest, "we have been honored by requests from several noble houses to present their daughters to the Prince. We welcome them now."

"Here we go," Aegon muttered. "The parade of the desperate."

"Aegon," you hissed.

"What? I'm not wrong."

The first girl stepped forward, a Lannister, judging by her crimson gown and golden hair. She was beautiful in that polished, perfect way. You’re certain her Father, and all the other lords of Casterly Rock  told her she was destined for greatness. She curtsied deeply before Jace, her father presenting her with all the pomp and circumstance House Lannister could muster.

"Lady Cerelle Lannister," the herald announced. "Daughter of Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock."

Jace took her hand and kissed it, saying something that made her blush and smile. You watched him be charming, watched him perform the role of interested suitor with practiced ease.

"She's pretty," Aegon observed. "Bit too much like looking in a mirror for my taste, all that gold hair and self-rightesnous."

"She seems nice enough."

"Nice and boring are often companions," Aegon replied. "Trust me, I know from experience."

The next girl was from House Tyrell, tall and willowy with dark curls and a nervous smile. Then a Tully girl with auburn hair and freckles. Then another, and another. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one curtsying and smiling and trying desperately to be memorable.

"This is torture," Aegon said after the sixth introduction. "How is Jace keeping that smile on his face? I'd have run screaming by now."

"It's called duty, you idiot."

"It's called martyrdom." He drained his cup and gestured for a servant to refill it. "You know what the problem is? They're all the same. Pretty, accomplished, perfectly trained to be queens. Where's the personality? The fire?"

"You want fire, marry a dragon rider," you said absently, watching as yet another lady—this one from the Stormlands—was presented to Jace.

"Excellent idea. Marry me."

You turned to look at him, startled. "What?"

"Marry me," Aegon repeated, gesturing expansively with his cup. "You're a dragon rider, you're beautiful, you already know all my worst qualities so there'd be no nasty surprises. We could get drunk together and ignore all our duties. It'd be perfect."

"You're not serious."

"I'm never serious. But the offer stands." He took another drink. "If all else fails, if the realm goes to shit and we're all desperate—you and me. We could do much worse."

You studied him for a moment. Aegon was handsome, you could admit that. Pretty in the way Targaryens often were, with his silver hair and sharp features. The drinking was a problem, and the complete lack of ambition, but he was kind in his way. Honest, at least, which was more than most lords could claim.

"If all goes to hell," you said slowly, "and we're both desperate and alone. I suppose I could do worse than you."

"High praise," Aegon said with a grin. "I'm touched. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm already planning our wedding. We'll serve nothing but wine, scandalize the Faith, and let our dragons eat anyone who complains."

Despite everything, you laughed. It felt good, like releasing some of the pressure that had been building in your chest since yesterday. Then, another lady was presented, a Manderly girl from White Harbor, plump and pink-cheeked and clearly terrified. Jace was gentle with her, you noticed. He was patient and kind.

"He's good at this," you said quietly.

"He's had practice," Aegon replied, and there was something almost bitter in his tone. "Perfect Jace. Perfect heir. Does everything right, fucks everything that moves, and somehow still manages to look like a hero from a song."

"Jealous?"

"Absoloutely." Aegon studied his cousin across the courtyard. "I love Jace, don't get me wrong. But he's playing a game he doesn't even realize he's in. All these ladies throwing themselves at him, and he thinks it's because he's charming. Because they like him."

"That's not why?"

"They like his crown," Aegon said flatly. "They like the idea of being queen. Jace himself? He's just the pretty vessel holding the thing they actually want."

You said nothing, watching as Jace smiled at the Manderly girl, made her laugh despite her nervousness. Was Aegon right? Did all these women only want the crown?  Did you? No. You wanted—gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. But it wasn't his crown. It was him. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he looked when he was lost in pleasure. That had nothing to do with thrones or politics.

Which somehow made it worse.

"Lady Floris Baratheon," the herald announced, and your attention snapped back to the courtyard.

Another Baratheon girl, younger than Cassandra but with the same dark hair and sharp features. She curtsied beautifully, and Jace took her hand with the same courteous attention he'd given all the others.

"How many fucking Baratheon daughters are there?" Aegon muttered. "Lord Borros must spend half his time just keeping track of them all."

"Four, I think."

"Four. And they're all here trying to land the heir. Ambitious bastard, isn't he?"

You watched Floris smile up at Jace, watched him be charming and attentive. Was Cassandra here somewhere, watching this? Did she care that the man who'd been in her bed two nights ago was now entertaining her younger sister?

Did Jace care?

"This is going to be a very long fortnight," you said.

"Agreed." Aegon raised his cup in a mock toast. "To surviving it with our dignity intact."

"I'll drink to that."

He grinned and passed you his cup. You took it and drank deeply, letting the wine burn down your throat. It was going to be a very, very long fortnight indeed.

Several torturous hours later, you and Aegon were both well into your cups and had devolved into something resembling badly behaved children.

"I'm sorry," Aegon wheezed, barely containing his laughter, "but did that last one actually curtsy to his horse first before approaching Jace?"

"She did," you confirmed, your own shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. "She absolutely did. I saw it, cousin."

"Maybe she thought the horse was the heir. Can't blame her—Vermax has better hair than Jace does."

You snorted wine through your nose, which only made Aegon laugh harder.

"You two are being disgraceful," Baela hissed from your other side, though her lips were twitching. "Show some decorum."

"Decorum is for people who aren't dying of boredom," Aegon replied, reaching for another cup from a passing servant. "We're performing a public service, really. Someone has to make this bearable."

"By getting drunk before noon?"

"Exactly. See? She understands."

You were about to respond when movement at the courtyard entrance caught your eye. Another arrival, late enough that most of the formal presentations had concluded. But this wasn't some minor lord with a daughter to parade. This was someone who commanded attention simply by existing.

He was tall—taller even than Cregan Stark—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that came from actually using a sword rather than just wearing one for decoration. Dark hair, though not as dark as Jace's, fell to his shoulders in waves that somehow looked artfully disheveled rather than unkempt. And his face—

"Oh no," Aegon said, following your gaze. "Oh, that's not fair."

"Who is that?" you asked, unable to look away.

"Trouble," Aegon replied. "That's Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken himself."

The Red Kraken. You'd heard stories, of course. The young Lord of the Iron Islands, who'd claimed his seat at six and ten after his father's death and had spent the years since becoming a legend. A reaver, a warrior, and by all accounts, devastatingly effective at both. He was dressed simply compared to the other lords—dark leather and salt-stained cloth rather than silk and velvet—but he wore it like armor. Like he had nothing to prove. Salt-and-pepper scruff covered his jaw, and when he smiled at something Daemon said, you caught a glimpse of white teeth.

"He's supposed to be in the Iron Islands," Aegon muttered. "What's he doing here?"

"The same thing everyone else is doing here," Baela said dryly. "Paying homage to the Crown Prince."

But Dalton Greyjoy wasn't looking at Jacaerys.

He was looking at you. His eyes—grey-green like storm-tossed seas—found yours across the crowded courtyard, and he didn't look away. Didn't pretend he hadn't been staring. Just held your gaze with the kind of bold confidence that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't.

Then he smiled. Slow and deliberate and knowing, like you'd shared some private joke.

"Oh, dear cousin, he's definitely trouble," Aegon said. "Look at him. Looking at you like—well, like Jace looks at literally every woman who crosses his path."

"Shut up," you muttered, but you didn't look away from Dalton.

"The Red Kraken," Baela mused. "Now that's interesting. He doesn't usually come to court. Prefers his islands and his ships from what I hear."

"And his salt wives," Aegon added. "Rumor has it he's got three. Or is it four now? I lose count."

"Salt wives aren't real wives," you said absently, still holding Dalton's gaze.

"Try telling him that."

Dalton was moving through the crowd now, making his way toward the dais where Rhaenyra sat. Lords parted for him—whether out of respect or wariness, you couldn't tell. Maybe both. There was something dangerous about him, something wild that expensive clothes and courtly manners couldn't quite hide. He knelt before Rhaenyra with surprising grace for someone so large. You couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was made Daemon laugh, actually laugh, which was rare enough to be noteworthy.

Then Dalton stood, turned, and those storm-grey eyes found yours again. And the huge bastard, well, he started walking toward you.

"Oh shit," Aegon said gleefully. "Oh this is going to be good."

"If you say one embarrassing thing—" you started.

"Would I do that?"

"Yes. Regularly, you arse."

Dalton Greyjoy stopped in front of you, and up close he was even more imposing. Taller, broader, with the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier. 

"My lady," he said, and his voice was rough, like he'd spent too many years shouting orders over storm winds. "Lord Dalton Greyjoy, at your service."

He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. Just stood there looking at you like you were the only person in the entire courtyard.

"Lord Greyjoy," you managed, trying to remember how to be polite while several cups of wine deep. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Is it?" He glanced around at the crowd, at the elaborate decorations, at the general excess of it all. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a party."

"It's a celebration, my lord," you corrected.

"Of the Crown Prince coming of age. Yes, I heard." His lips quirked. "Eight and ten years to grow up. We do it much faster in the Iron Islands."

"Everything's faster in the Iron Islands," Aegon interjected cheerfully. "Living, dying, marrying your cousin, certainly fucking your cousin."

"Aegon," you hissed.

But Dalton just laughed. "Your cousin speaks truth, if not tact. We're a practical people."

"Practical," Aegon repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things." Dalton's attention returned to you, and the intensity of it made your breath catch. "I've heard stories about you, Princess. The girl who claimed Cannibal."

"They're just stories."

"Are they?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I heard you walked up to him and asked him nicely. That he bowed his head and let you climb on his back like a trained horse."

"More or less," you admitted.

"Terrifying or impressive. I haven't decided which, my lady."

"Can't it be both?"

That smile again, sharp and interested, like a predator seeking its prey. "I suppose it can. I like that."

There was something in the way he looked at you—direct and unashamed—that felt different from the courtiers with their careful glances and veiled intentions. Dalton Greyjoy looked at you like he knew exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Are you here for the tournaments, my lord?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"Among other things." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked casual but somehow seemed coiled, ready. "I'm here to see what all the fuss is about. The perfect prince, the eligible ladies, the great game of marriage and alliance." His eyes glinted. "And to see if the Dragon Princess lives up to her reputation."

"And does she?"

"I'll let you know," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "May I have the honor of your company at the feast tonight, my lady?"

Before you could answer, Aegon cut in. "She'd be delighted. Wouldn't you, cousin?"

You shot him a look that promised murder, but Dalton was already bowing, actually bowing this time, though it looked faintly mocking. "Until tonight, then."

He walked away, and you could feel his absence like a physical weight. You were certainly going to kill Aegon, kill him and feed him to Cannibal. 

"Well," Aegon said into the silence. "That was something."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. I just got you a dinner companion who isn't boring. You should be thanking me."

You should probably be worried, you thought. Dalton Greyjoy had a reputation that made even Daemon look respectable by comparison. But, nonetheless, instead you felt intrigued.

Which was probably dangerous. Definitely dangerous. But after days of watching Jace parade around with other women, of feeling invisible and foolish and consumed by wanting something you couldn't have. Maybe dangerous was exactly what you needed.

The remainder of the day had been a blur of increasingly bold lords and their sons trying to catch your attention. You'd smiled politely through it all, deflected propositions both subtle and explicit, and tried not to drink so much that you'd embarrass yourself at tonight's feast.

You'd failed at that last part.

The great hall had been transformed for the evening, there were now thousands of candles which casted everything in warm golden light, musicians played from the gallery, and long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits and wine from across the known world. The air smelled of smoke and spices and the musk of too many sweaty bodies pressed close together. You'd kept the white gown from earlier, the gold and red embroidery catching the candlelight as you moved. Your ladies had refreshed your hair, re-pinning the braids and adding fresh ruby clips, but otherwise you looked much the same as you had that morning.

Which apparently was more than enough, judging by the way heads turned as you entered. Dalton Greyjoy was already there, lounging at one of the lower tables with a cup in his hand and that same confidence he'd worn earlier. He saw you immediately—like he'd been watching the door—and stood.

"Princess," he said as you approached. "Come, sit. I've claimed the best seat in the hall."

"Have you?"

"Good view of the wine." He gestured to the seat beside him. "And now a better one."

You sat, aware of how he took up space without apology, all broad shoulders and long limbs sprawled in a way that suggested he'd never learned courtly posture and didn't particularly care to either. A servant poured wine, and Dalton took his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with more force than necessary. "Seven hells, that's good. Better than the piss we brew on Pyke."

"I'm sure."

"You've never been to the Iron Islands." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Good. It's a miserable place. Cold, wet, smells like dead fish and shit." He grinned. "But it's mine."

There was something about the way he said it, simple pride, no need to justify or explain. Just fact that sprung a buzz in your chest. 

"You're far from home," you observed.

"Aye. Your aunt summoned, so I came." He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his hands. "Hadn't planned on it, but then I heard about the festivities. The Crown Prince coming of age, all the pretty ladies competing for him." His eyes slid to you as he brought the bread to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "Thought it might be entertaining."

"And is it?"

"Getting better." He popped the bread in his mouth, still watching you while he chewed. "Tell me something. That dragon of yours—Cannibal. Is it true he ate three dragons on Dragonstone before you claimed him?"

You reached for your wine. "Two that I know of for certain. Possibly three."

"Fuck me." But he sounded impressed rather than horrified. "And you just walked up to him?"

"More or less." You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your cup.

"You're either the bravest woman in the Seven Kingdoms or the maddest." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you."Probably both."

"Most people say it was foolish."

"Most people are cowards."  He picked up his wine again, draining half the cup in one go. "I respect it. Taking what you want, consequences be damned. That's how you survive in this world."

The food kept coming—course after course. Servants appeared with platters of roasted duck, honeyed figs, spiced lamb. Dalton ate like a man who wasn't sure when his next meal would be, unbothered by the elaborate presentation. You picked at your own plate, more interested in the conversation than the food.

"You fight in the tournaments tomorrow?" you asked.

"Planning on it. Need to work off some of this." He gestured at the feast. "Can't spend all day drinking and eating without swinging a sword eventually. I'll go soft."

You doubted that. There was nothing soft about Dalton Greyjoy. You let your eyes drag over him, shoulders, arms, the way he took up space.

"Who do you think will win?" you asked. "The tourney, I mean."

"Not me," he said with a shrug. "I'm a better sailor than jouster. Give me a deck that's moving under my feet and I'm deadly. Put me on a horse in full plate and I'm just another idiot hoping not to fall off." He paused. "Your cousin, probably. The pretty one. Jacaerys."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Jace is skilled."

"Aye, I've heard. Trained by the best, naturally." There was something in his tone—not quite mocking, but close. "Born with every advantage. Dragon, crown, looks that make ladies go weak. Must be nice."

"It has its challenges."

"I'm sure." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. "Still. I'd take his challenges over mine any day."

A commotion near the high table drew your attention. Jace was standing, Lady Cassandra Baratheon beside him, her hand on his arm as they moved toward the dancing. You watched them go, watched her lean in to say something that made him smile, and your stomach dropped. Your hands curled into fists in your lap. 

"There's a look I know," Dalton said quietly.

You turned back to find him studying you, those storm-grey eyes too sharp. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back of it, completely relaxed.

"What look?"

"The one that says you want to set something on fire but you're too well-bred to do it." He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "What's he done to earn that?"

"Nothing. I don't—"

"Right." He drained his cup in one swallow and stood, extending his hand across the table. "Come on then."

"Where?"

"To dance. You're sitting here stewing and it's making me uncomfortable." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He stepped closer, hand still out. "And if I have to watch you watch him dance with that Baratheon girl for one more second, I'm going to start breaking things." His fingers curled slightly, beckoning. "Dance with me, Princess. Give the court something else to gossip about."

You shouldn't. You really, truly shouldn't.

You took his hand.

He pulled you up—quick enough that you stumbled slightly—and steadied you with a hand at your elbow before leading you onto the floor. Other couples were already moving, swirling past in a blur of silk and jewels. His hand settled at your waist, lower than was strictly proper, fingers spread wide against your back and he pulled you into the rhythm without missing a beat.

He moved with surprising grace for someone who'd just claimed to be better on a ship than a dance floor.

"You lied," you said, looking up at him. "You're good at this."

"I said I'm better on a ship. Didn't say I was shit at dancing." He spun you, sudden enough that you stumbled into his chest. His hand tightened on your waist, steadying you. "My mother made sure all her sons could dance. Said it was the one civilized thing we'd learn."

"Was she right?"

"Aye. Rest of it's all fighting and fucking and sailing." He said it casually, leading you back into the steps. "Not much call for poetry and courtly manners on Pyke."

You shouldn't have laughed, but you did, it was sharp and genuine, the sound surprising you. Something about his bluntness cut through all the careful political bullshit you'd been drowning in for days.

"That scandalize you?" he asked, grinning down at you. His teeth were very white against his tanned skin.

"No."

"Good. I'd hate to waste time pretending to be something I'm not." His thumb pressed against your waist, and you felt it through the silk. "Life's too fucking short for that."

The music swelled around you, violins rising. He pulled you closer, definitely too close now, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your dress, definitely crossing into improper territory. But you didn't pull away. Just let him guide you through the steps, let yourself focus on the pressure of his hand, the solid weight of his shoulder under your palm. Anything other than Jace and Cassandra somewhere else on this floor.

"Better?" Dalton asked, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music.

"What?"

"You stopped looking like you wanted to commit murder.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'm taking that as progress."

"I never—"

"You did." He spun you again, pulled you back in. The smile on his face had an edge to it now. "Whatever he did, whoever he is, he's not worth it, Princess."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to defend something you couldn't even name, couldn't admit to yourself. But Dalton's hand was warm and steady against your waist, his grey eyes fixed on yours like you were the only person in the room, and for just a moment, just this one dance, you let yourself pretend. That you weren't obsessed with your cousin. That you hadn't spent the last three nights watching him fuck other women through a crack in the wall. That you were just a woman dancing with a man who looked at her like she mattered.

The song ended far too soon.

Dalton stepped back, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering, his fingers flexing once against your ribs before he let go. "Thank you for the dance, Princess."

"Thank you for asking." Your skin felt cold where his hand had been.

"I'll be fighting tomorrow. In the melee, not the joust, I told you, I'm shit on horseback." That grin again, cocky and so sure of himself.  "Come watch me get my ass kicked by men in fancy armor."

"I might."

"You will." He said it like it was already decided, so much so, that you almost believed him. Then he bowed, properly this time, deep and formal, and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.

You stood there for a moment, heart still racing from the dance, or maybe from the way Dalton had looked at you, all that damned confidence and heat and completely unbothered by the surrounding propriety. Your skin still tingled where his hand had been, that deliberate pressure at your waist.

He was handsome. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Rough around the edges in a way that was completely unlike the polished princes and lords you'd grown up around. Dangerous-looking. The kind of man your mother would warn you about. The kind you apparently couldn't stop thinking about for entirely different reasons than you should.

You pressed your fingers to your waist briefly, then dropped your hand. This was stupid. You were being stupid about two different men now, which seemed like an achievement in poor judgment.

When you finally turned to head back to your seat, you found Aegon waiting, leaning against a pillar with that knowing smirk plastered across his face.

"Well," he drawled, pushing off the pillar to stand beside you. "That was something."

"It was a dance."

"That wasn't just a dance." Aegon took a long drink from his cup, eyes gleaming with amusement. "That was him fucking you with your clothes on."

Heat flooded your face. "You're drunk."

"I'm always drunk. Doesn't make me wrong." He gestured with his cup, sloshing wine dangerously close to the rim, toward where Dalton had disappeared into the crowd. "Be careful with that one. He's not like these simpering southern lords. He takes what he wants."

"I'm not."

"I know. I'm just saying." Aegon leaned in closer, lowering his voice even though no one was near enough to hear. "The Red Kraken's got a reputation, and certainly not the fun kind like mine."

You looked back toward where Jace was still dancing with Cassandra, her head thrown back laughing at something he'd said.

"Maybe I need a reputation," you muttered.

Aegon raised his cup. "Now that's the spirit."

"Come on," Aegon said, tugging at your sleeve like a child. "Let's get out of here before someone tries to make us be social again."

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already pulling you toward the edge of the hall.

It didn't, not really. The hall was too hot, too crowded, the air thick with wine and perfume and the cloying smell of too many bodies pressed together. Too many people pretending to be things they weren't. You let Aegon pull you through a side door, the sudden quiet of the corridor making your ears ring.

Down one hallway, then another. Your footsteps echoed off stone. Up a winding staircase, too narrow and steep, the kind that hadn't been used in years. You recognized it dimly as leading to one of the old watchtowers, the ones that overlooked the bay.

"Aegon, we're going to break our necks," you said as he stumbled on a step, catching himself against the wall.

"Good." He kept climbing. "Better than dying of boredom down there."

The tower room at the top was small and forgotten. Dust motes floated in the moonlight streaming through narrow windows. There were  a few old weapons which hung on the walls, all rusted, decorative, and completely useless. The windows looked out over King's Landing, the city spread below like a carpet of flickering lights.

The sounds of the feast were distant here, muffled by layers of stone and height. You could barely hear the music anymore. Just the wind, and the sound of your own breathing still coming fast from the climb.

Aegon collapsed onto a bench beneath one of the windows, wine cup still in hand, sprawling back against the stone. You leaned against the opposite wall, pressing your shoulders into the cool stone. The breeze coming through the window felt good against your flushed skin, cutting through the wine-warm haze in your head.

"This is better," Aegon declared, gesturing broadly with his cup. "Much better. No one up here but us and the ghosts."

"Are there ghosts?"

"Probably." He took another drink, throat working. "Old tower like this? Someone definitely died here. Hopefully doing something more interesting than attending a feast."

You laughed, the sound strange and too loud in the small space, bouncing off stone. Your head was spinning pleasantly, everything soft and blurred at the edges. The wine had settled warm in your stomach, making your limbs feel loose and heavy. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, your dress pooling around you. The stone was cold against your back even through the silk.

"You danced well with the Kraken," Aegon said after a moment.  His eyes were on you now, sharper than they should be considering how much he'd drunk. "He looked like he wanted to eat you."

"He looked like he wanted to dance."

"Same thing, with that one." Aegon tilted his head, studying you. His usual smirk had faded into something more serious. Almost sober. "Do you like him?"

"I barely know him." You picked at a loose thread on your dress.

"That's not what I asked."

You considered it, head tilted back against the stone. Did you like Dalton Greyjoy? He was attractive, certainly. Bold. Honest in a way that cut through all the bullshit.

"I don't know," you said finally. "Maybe. Does it matter?"

"Suppose not." Aegon was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his cup, watching the liquid catch the moonlight in wave-like ripples. Then, without looking at you: "Can I kiss you?"

You blinked, certain you'd misheard. "What?"

"Can I kiss you?" He did look at you now, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression beneath the wine-flush. "I want to kiss someone. And you're here. And you're pretty. And you won't make it mean something it doesn't."

You should say no. Should laugh it off, make a joke, change the subject. This was Aegon—your cousin, your friend, the perpetually drunk prince who took nothing seriously.

But your head was spinning and your chest still ached from watching Jace with Cassandra, and Dalton's words kept echoing in your mind—life's too fucking short.

"Fuck it," you said, the words coming out steadier than you felt.

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a fuck it." You pushed yourself up slightly, meeting his eyes.

Aegon set his cup down on the bench and stood. He wasn't quite steady on his feet, swaying slightly as he crossed the small space to where you sat against the wall.

You had to tilt your head back to look up at him as he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, the faint scent of whatever oil he used in his hair. Up close like this, you could see everything. The wine-flush high on his cheekbones, the slightly glazed look in his purple eyes—Targaryen eyes, the same shade as your own. The way his chest rose and fell, breathing faster than the short walk across the room warranted.

He was handsome. The thought came to you clearly, like you were seeing him for the first time. When he wasn't making an ass of himself, when he wasn't performing for the court or drowning in his cups, when you actually looked at him, Aegon was undeniably, unfairly handsome.

"You're sure?" he asked, and his voice had gone quieter. Careful. Like he was giving you one last chance to back out, to laugh this off and pretend it never happened.

Your heart was pounding. "Stop asking and just—"

He dropped to his knees in front of you.

The movement brought him to your level, purple eyes locked on yours. His hand came up, hesitant at first, then surer, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you realized you were holding your breath.

Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like you'd imagined kissing would be. Not that you'd spent much time imagining it, or maybe you had, late at night, alone in your bed, but those fantasies had been vague and shapeless. This was real. This was Aegon's mouth on yours, warm and wine-sweet and surprisingly gentle. His other hand found your waist, steadying himself, or maybe steadying you.

For a moment, you froze. Didn't know what to do with your hands, with your mouth, with any of it. Then something in you gave way. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders, solid, real, there and you kissed him back.

Aegon kissed like he did everything else, without any restraint, without second thoughts, just pure unfiltered fucking want. His mouth was hot against yours, tasting like wine and something hungrier, and his hands cupped your face like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. He pressed closer, and you made a sound, and his tongue swept into your mouth.

Oh.

Your hands gripped shoulders because you needed something to hold onto, needed to ground yourself before you floated away entirely. He was solid under your grip, all lean muscle and warmth, so much warmer than you'd expected. When he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, something low in your belly clenched hard enough to hurt. 

This was wrong. This was Aegon. Your cousin. Your friend who you'd watched get drunk at a hundred feasts, who you'd laughed with and plotted with and shared secrets with. Who you'd never, not once, not ever, thought of like this.

But his mouth was moving against yours with a desperate kind of hunger, and his hands had slid from your face down to your waist, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, pulled you against him. And your body was a traitor. Heat was pooling between your thighs, your breath coming in short gasps, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his doublet like you needed him closer, needed more.

One of his hands moved lower, gripping your hip, and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, kissed you harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.

When he finally pulled back, breaking the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed against yours, you were both panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were red and swollen.

"Well," Aegon said, his voice rougher than usual. "That was—"

You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. His breath warm against your lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing along your jaw in a way that made your knees weak. 

"I'd like to do that again," he murmured, and there was something in his voice, something hungry and real beneath the usual bravado.

Your heart was pounding. His thumb was still moving against your skin, slow and deliberate, and you could feel the heat of him everywhere he touched. He was everywhere at once, and for the first time in your life you weren't looking at your cousin Aegon, you were staring at someone with pure, unfiltered want.

"Yes," you breathed.

He kissed you again—harder this time, more certain. His hand tightened on your waist, yanking you fully against him, and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest, the lean muscle of his thighs, and—gods—the unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed against your hip through layers of silk and leather.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding hot and slick against yours. His hips rolled forward, slow, deliberate and the pressure of him grinding against you sent heat shooting straight between your legs.

Your knees actually went weak. If he wasn't holding you up, you'd have collapsed.

Your hands found his hair—silver silk between your fingers—and you pulled. Hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, and ground against you harder in response. You could feel yourself getting wet, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, soaking through your smallclothes. The knowledge that he was hard, that you'd made him hard, made you clench around nothing.

"Fuck," Aegon panted against your mouth before his lips dragged to your jaw, your throat. His hand slid down from your waist to your ass, gripping hard, pulling you tighter against him. "Fuck, you taste so good. Smell good. Feel so fucking good."

He thrust his hips forward again, the thick length of him dragging against your belly, and you both made sounds that were almost pained. 

You should stop this. Should push him away before this went too far. This was Aegon, your cousin, your friend who you'd grown up with—

His teeth scraped the sensitive spot below your ear and you whimpered. Actually whimpered like something desperate and needy, your hips rolling forward to meet his next thrust without your permission.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin, doing it again, sucking a mark into your throat that you'd have to hide tomorrow. His hand on your ass squeezed, angling you so when he ground forward again, the pressure hit directly against your aching cunt. "Gods, feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Aegon," you started, voice breaking, but you couldn't finish because he was kissing you again, deeper, filthier, his tongue fucking into your mouth while one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat and the other kept your hips pinned against his.

He found a rhythm now, rolling his hips against yours in steady, deliberate thrusts that had you panting into his mouth. Each movement dragged the hard length of his cock against you, the friction even through all the layers making you want to scream, want to hike up your skirts and feel him properly, skin to skin, want things you'd never let yourself want before.

You rolled your hips back, meeting him, matching his rhythm, and he groaned like you'd hurt him.

"Fuck, yes," he panted. "Just like that. Gods, you're so, I can feel how wet you are even through—"

He thrust harder, and you felt it, the heat of him, the thick ridge of his cock grinding directly against your clit through the soaked silk between your legs. The sensation made white spots burst behind your eyelids.

This wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things you'd imagined in your naive fantasies. This was pure animal want, raw and desperate and hungry. Fueled by too much wine and too many things neither of you wanted to think about. His body moving against yours like he wanted to crawl inside you, like he couldn't get close enough even though you were pressed together so tightly you could barely breathe.

Your hand slid down from his hair to his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palm, then lower, reaching between your bodies toward the hard heat of him—

He caught your wrist. Held it. Both of you froze, breathing hard, hips still pressed flush together.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, flushed, his hair completely destroyed from your hands and your lips kiss-swollen and red, Aegon let out a shaky laugh against your neck.

"Gods," he breathed, forehead pressed to your shoulder. You could still feel him hard against your hip, could feel the answering wetness between your own legs. "We're idiots."

"Probably," you managed, your voice coming out hoarse. Wrecked.

"Definitely." But he wasn't pulling away. His hands were still on you, his body still pressed close, and you could feel him, still hard, maybe harder, against your hip. The evidence of what you'd just done. What you'd almost done. "This is a terrible idea."

"The worst."

"We should stop."

"We should." But your fingers were still twisted in his doublet.

His hand flexed on your hip, thumb pressing into the bone. "One more?"

You pulled him down by his hair and kissed him again. This time there was no hesitation. There was no pretense of this being innocent or simple. Just heat and hunger and his hands sliding down to grip your ass through your skirts, hauling you against him so hard you felt the breath leave your lungs.

You could feel the thick, insistent pressure of his cock grinding against your belly. He rolled his hips, slow and filthy, and you whimpered into his mouth. You wanted release.

"Fuck," he groaned against your lips. "You're going to kill me."

Your back hit the wall—you didn't even remember moving—and suddenly he had leverage. His thigh pushed between yours, spreading your legs, and when he ground forward this time the friction was devastating. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed directly against your cunt through the layers of silk, and you were so wet you knew he could feel it, knew the fabric had to be soaked through.

"Oh gods," you gasped, head falling back against the stone.

Aegon's mouth was on your neck immediately, sucking hard enough to mark, teeth scraping. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you down harder onto his thigh, helping you grind against him.

"That's it," he panted against your throat, moving his leg in rhythm with your desperate rolling hips. "Fuck, you're so wet. I can feel you through everything. Can feel how much you want this."

You should care about the bruises he was leaving. Should worry about questions and propriety and what this meant. You didn't care at all. You just needed more, more, and more.

"Aegon," you gasped, and his name coming out of your mouth broken and desperate seemed to undo something in him.

He kissed you again, dirty and deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth, while his hips pressed forward, grinding his cock against your hip in time with how you were riding his thigh. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you deeper, the other still gripping your arse and guiding your movements.

"Could fuck you right here," he groaned into your mouth, hips thrusting harder. "Pull up these skirts, sink into you against this wall. You'd let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking wet you'd take me easy."

The image, Aegon inside you, filling you, fucking you against cold, dirty stone, made you moan and grind down harder. You were drowning in sensation, the taste of wine on his tongue, the heat of his body burning through the fabric, the devastating pressure between your legs, the thick hardness of him grinding against your hip.

"Yes," you heard yourself gasp. "Yes, Seven Hells."

Reality as sudden as a wave crashing against rock, rippled back through you.

What the fuck were you two doing? What were you saying?

You must have tensed because Aegon pulled back, really pulled back this time, stepping away and putting actual space between your bodies. The loss of contact left you cold and aching. You were both wrecked. His lips were swollen and red, his hair completely destroyed, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. There was a wet spot on his thigh from you. You could see the obvious bulge straining against his breeches.

You probably looked worse. Your lips tender and kiss-bitten, your smallclothes absolutely ruined.

"Yes. Back. To the feast." He ran both hands through his hair, dragging it back from his face, somehow making it look even more fucked. "Where we've been having perfectly appropriate cousin conversations."

"Very appropriate."

"The most appropriate." But he was looking at you like he wanted to shove you back against that wall and finish what you'd started. His eyes dragged down your body, lingering on your swollen lips, the marks on your neck, the wrinkled silk of your dress, before snapping back up. "Fuck, your hair's a complete disaster."

"So is yours."

"I'm always a mess. You're supposed to be the put-together one." He reached out, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to tuck a few loose strands back into place. The touch was gentle now, almost tender, so different from five minutes ago when he'd been fisting his hand in it and pulling. "There. Almost presentable."

You caught his wrist, held it. His pulse was still racing under your fingers. "Aegon, please."

"Don't." He pulled away, stepped back entirely, hands dropping to his sides and curling into fists like he didn't trust himself not to reach for you again. "Don't make it something. It was just—we're drunk. That's all."

"Right. Drunk."

"Very drunk." He looked around, spotted his abandoned wine cup on the bench, picked it up and stared at it like he'd forgotten what it was for. Then set it back down. "We should go. Before I do something even stupider."

"Like what?"

His eyes met yours, and they were still dark. Still wanting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered, cousin."

Your breath caught. Heat pooled low in your belly again, that ache between your legs flaring back to life.

He saw it on your face—saw the want there—and made a pained sound. "Gods, don't look at me like that. We need to leave. Now."

"Okay," you managed.

"Okay." But he didn't move. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, hands still clenched at his sides.

Finally, with visible effort, he offered you his arm, the gesture exaggerated and courtly in a way that didn't quite hide how badly his hand was shaking. "Come on. Let's go back before someone sends a search party and finds us looking like we've been—" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Just. Let's go."

You took his arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm, and you could feel the tension in him. The muscles were tight, coiled, like he was holding himself back. Together you made your way back down the winding stairs. The descent was precarious,  both of you still drunk, still unsteady, but now for different reasons. Your legs felt weak. You could feel the slickness between your thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how close you'd come to, god, fucking your cousin. The cousin that was right there, is still right there. 

You stumbled on a step and Aegon caught you, arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The touch lasted a second too long. His fingers pressed into your hip,  right where he'd gripped you before and you both froze.

"Careful," he said roughly, then let go like you'd burned him.

"Are we going to be weird about this?" you asked as you reached the bottom, voices from the feast growing louder.

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then neither am I." He squeezed your hand where it rested on his arm, the pressure firm and grounding. "It was just kissing. Doesn't have to mean anything."

"Doesn't have to mean anything," you repeated.

Liar, something whispered in the back of your mind. You could still feel him hard against you. Could still hear him saying he wanted to fuck you against the wall. Could still taste wine on your tongue. But when you made it back through the side door, slipping into the edges of the feast and immediately caught sight of Jace across the hall, still with Cassandra, his head bent close to hers as she whispered something in his ear, and you felt that familiar twist of want and jealousy knife through your chest.

And beneath it, something new. Something confusing.

The memory of Aegon's mouth on yours. His hands on your body, gripping and pulling and claiming. The way he'd made you forget everything else, forget Jace, forget propriety, forget your own name, for those few desperate moments.

And worse of all, the way you'd liked it.

You slipped away from Aegon as soon as you entered the hall, murmuring something about needing the privy. In truth, you needed a moment. Needed to look at yourself, assess the damage. Your chambers weren't far. You practically ran there, heart still pounding, skin still flushed.

Your ladies were waiting, they'd been dismissed earlier but Lysa had stayed, dozing in a chair by the fire. She jolted awake when you burst in.

"My lady! Are you—" Her eyes went wide, taking in your disheveled hair, your swollen lips, the very obvious marks blooming purple on your throat. "Oh."

"I need—" You gestured helplessly at your neck. "Can you please?"

"Of course." But she was grinning as she hurried to mix a paste, calling for Maryse and Elaena.

They appeared quickly, and the moment they saw you, the reaction was immediate.

"Ohhhhh," Maryse breathed, eyes sparkling with delight.

"My lady!" Elaena giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth.

"Don't," you warned, but you could feel yourself flushing deeper.

"Was he handsome?" Lysa asked, dabbing the paste carefully on your neck to lighten the marks. It wouldn't hide them completely, but it would help.

"I'm not discussing this."

"Ohhhhh, he was," Maryse decided, starting to fix your hair with deft fingers. "Look how red she is."

"Was it romantic?" Elaena asked dreamily, adjusting your dress, smoothing the wrinkles.

"It was—" You stopped. What could you even say? "It was nothing. Too much wine."

All three of them made knowing sounds, soft "mmhmms" and "of courses" that said they didn't believe you for a second.

The rest of the night blurred together in a haze of wine and music and laughter. You danced with Aemond, too stiff and proper, unlike his brother, but surprisingly skilled. He didn't speak much, just guided you through the steps like an ever-so-graceful swan, his one good eye tracking everything in the hall like he was cataloging threats.

"You're drunk," he observed.

"Very."

"Good. You're less insufferable when you're drunk.”

"You're a delight as always, cousin."

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you'd ever seen from him. "Enjoy your evening, Princess."

Then Daemon cut in, stealing you mid-step with the kind of casual arrogance only he could manage.

"Having fun?" he asked, spinning you perhaps a bit too fast.

"Trying to."

"That Greyjoy boy's been watching you all night." Daemon's grin was sharp. "Wondering if he's going to do something stupid."

"Aren't we all doing something stupid tonight?"

"Fair point." He laughed, and for a moment you could see why Rhaenyra loved him despite everything. "Don't get yourself killed, niece. Your aunt would be very put out."

"I'll do my best."

Even Rhaenyra danced with you—a slower song, her hands gentle as she guided you through it.

"You look happy," she said softly. "That's good. I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm fine, Your Grace."

"Rhaenyra," she corrected. "When it's just us, I'm Rhaenyra. Your aunt who loves you."

The wine made your eyes sting. "I love you too."

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Go enjoy yourself. You're young. These nights don't come often enough."

So you did. You drank more wine, letting the warmth of it blur the edges of everything. Danced with lords whose names you didn't remember and didn't care to learn. Laughed at Aegon's increasingly ridiculous jokes, though you were careful not to stand too close to him, careful not to let your eyes linger.

Every time you saw him across the hall, you remembered. His mouth on yours. His hands gripping your ass. The way he'd ground against you like he couldn't help himself. The things he'd said, could fuck you right here, that still made heat pool between your legs when you thought about them.

And every time you saw Jace, still orbiting Cassandra Baratheon like she was the sun and he was caught in her gravity, you felt that sick twist of jealousy. But now it was complicated by guilt. By confusion. You'd dry-humped Aegon in a tower. You'd been ready to let him fuck you against a wall. And part of you had liked it. Had liked the way he looked at you like you were something he desperately wanted. Had liked feeling wanted, period.

But you still couldn't stop watching Jace. Couldn't stop wondering what his hands would feel like instead of Aegon's. Couldn't stop thinking about the hole in your wall and the things you'd seen through it.

You were a mess. A complete disaster of a person. So you drank more. Let yourself forget, just for a few hours, about holes in walls and wanting things you couldn't have and the fact that you'd apparently developed an extremely inconvenient attraction to not one but two of your cousins.

By the time you decided to retire, the hall was spinning pleasantly and your feet ached from dancing. You waved off your ladies, they were enjoying themselves too, giggling with guards and flirting with servants and made your way through the corridors alone.

The castle was a maze at the best of times. Drunk, it was nearly impossible.

You climbed stairs, turned down hallways, all of it familiar but also somehow wrong. Your chambers should be here? No, maybe down this corridor. Or was it the other way?

Finally, you found a door that looked right. The wood was the same, the handle in the same place. Close enough. You pushed it open, stumbled inside, and didn't bother with candles. The room was dark and quiet. Just kicked off your slippers, fumbled with the laces of your gown until they loosened enough to breathe, and collapsed onto the bed.

The sheets smelled clean. Felt soft. Maybe a bit different than usual but your wine-soaked brain didn't care enough to question it. Good enough, you didn’t give a god’s damn.

You were asleep before your head fully hit the pillow.

Jacaerys was tired, wine-warm, and ready for bed when he finally escaped the feast.

Cassandra had wanted him to stay longer, had made that very clear with the way her hand kept finding his arm, the lingering touches, the invitations in her eyes that he'd politely ignored. He'd begged off with excuses about an early morning. The tournaments started tomorrow, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep before climbing into armor and trying not to get killed in front of the entire court.

He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his thoughts already on collapsing into bed. Maybe he'd been too indulgent tonight. Too much wine, too much dancing, too much of Cassandra's cloying perfume that now clung to his clothes and made his head ache.

He pushed open his door, stepped inside, and froze.

Someone was in his bed.

His hand went to the dagger at his belt, pure instinct, trained response, his body tensing as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The figure was small, curled on their side facing away from him. Too small to be a real threat. Too still.

Then he saw the hair. Silver. Spilling across his pillows, catching what little light came through the window. Long and unbound, the way he'd never seen it during the day when it was always properly pinned and braided.

His heart stopped. Started again, too fast.

It was you.

"What the—" The words died in his throat. He stood there, hand still on his dagger, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You were in his bed. His bed. Fast asleep from the look of it, your breathing deep and even, completely unaware of his presence. Jace's eyes adjusted further, and he could make out more details now. Your slippers discarded on the floor near the foot of the bed. Your gown was unlaced and loose around your body.

Very loose. His breath caught as his gaze traced the line of your form. You'd clearly tried to unlace the gown yourself, drunk fingers fumbling with the ties, getting it open enough to breathe easier before collapsing into bed. But you'd only managed to loosen it, not remove it, and now the fabric had shifted in your sleep.

The neckline had slipped down your shoulder. Lower. Low enough that he could see—

Jace's mouth went dry. Your breast. Half of it bare, skin luminous in the moonlight, the curve of it visible where the silk had fallen away. If you shifted even slightly, if the fabric slipped just a bit more… stop, stop right fucking  now. 

He looked away quickly, heat flooding his face, his chest, lower. His heart was hammering now.

Don't look. Don't be that person. She's asleep. She's drunk. She doesn't even know where she is.

But his eyes were drawn back like a lodestone to true north.

Your leg had escaped the tangle of silk too. One bare leg stretched out across his sheets, the gown rucked up to mid-thigh, higher on the side where you'd rolled slightly forward in sleep. Smooth skin, the elegant line of your calf, the curve of your knee. If he looked, and gods help him, he was looking, he could see almost to your hip where the fabric had bunched.

He could see the shadow between your thighs. Jace's cock stirred in his breeches, and he felt shame burn through him immediately after.

Stop. Stop looking at her like this.

But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. You were sprawled across his bed like some kind of vision, your lips were parted slightly, your breathing deep and peaceful. You looked nothing like the proper, put-together princess he saw every day. Nothing like his cousin who barely spoke to him, who avoided his eyes at dinner, who seemed to go out of her way not to be alone with him.

You looked undone and vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that made his chest ache and his blood run hot.

He took a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed, looking down at you.

This close, he could see more. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, your bare chest, your nipple was just barely hidden by a fold of silk, the fabric draped across it so precariously that each breath threatened to expose you completely.

Jace's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing had gone shallow.

What was wrong with him? This was you. His cousin. A princess. A woman who clearly had no idea where she was or what she looked like right now. And he was standing here staring at you like some kind of pervert, getting hard while you slept completely unaware.

He needed to—he should—

Wake you. Get you back to your chambers. Cover you with a blanket at the very least. Do something other than stand here like an idiot with his cock half-hard and his mind conjuring images of what it would be like to slip into that bed beside you, to pull you against him, to—

No.

He forced himself to step back. To look away. To think like a rational person instead of a man who'd drunk too much wine and found a beautiful woman in his bed. You shifted in your sleep, making a small sound and rolled slightly onto your back.

The movement made everything worse. The gown slipped further. Your breast was fully exposed now, pale and perfect in the moonlight. He could see your nipple, could see the way it had hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. The silk had ridden up higher on your leg too, and now he could see the dark shadow at the apex of your thighs. Gods.

Were you even wearing anything under that gown?

Jace turned away sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like he could scrub the image from his mind. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his breeches, and he felt like the worst kind of person. You were drunk. Asleep. Completely vulnerable. And here he was getting hard looking at you, thinking thoughts he had absolutely no right to think.

He needed to cover you. That was the first thing. Before he did anything else—before he even tried to figure out what to do about this situation—he needed to make you decent.

Jace grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, hands shaking slightly, and carefully, so carefully, draped it over you. He tried not to look. Tried not to let his eyes linger on all that bare skin before the fabric covered it.

He failed. The image was burned into his mind now. Your breast. Your leg. The shadow between your thighs. The way you looked spread out in his bed like some kind of offering.

Stop it. She's your cousin. She's drunk. This is wrong.

But his body didn't care about wrong. His body only knew that you were here, barely clothed, looking like every fantasy he'd never let himself have. And you had been a fantasy. He could admit that now, alone in the dark with you unconscious and unaware. He'd noticed you. Had tried not to, had told himself it was inappropriate, but he'd noticed. The way you moved. The rare times you smiled. The intelligence in your eyes during council meetings when you thought no one was watching you listen.

He'd just never let himself think about it. About you. Not like that. Now he couldn't think about anything else.

Jace ran both hands through his hair, gripping it hard enough to hurt, trying to ground himself. Trying to think. Okay, good. You were covered now. That was good. Next step was to figure out what the fuck to do.

He should wake you. Should get you back to your own chambers before anyone found out you'd spent the night here. Before servants came in the morning and saw you in his bed. The scandal alone would destroy you. Would destroy any chance you had at a good marriage, would ruin your reputation entirely.

He couldn't let that happen. But waking you meant... what exactly? Touching you? Shaking your shoulder? Explaining that you'd drunkenly stumbled into the wrong room and passed out half-naked in your cousin's bed?

Gods, you'd be mortified.

Maybe it was better to just let you sleep. You were clearly exhausted, clearly drunk enough that you'd mistaken his chambers for yours. In the morning, when you woke, he could pretend he'd just arrived. Could act surprised to find you there. Give you a chance to slip out quietly, save you the embarrassment of a confrontation.

Yes. That was better. Kinder. It had nothing to do with wanting to keep you here a little longer. Nothing to do with the selfish, possessive part of him that liked seeing you in his bed, wrapped in his blankets, surrounded by his scent.

Liar, something whispered in the back of his mind.

Jace ignored it. He'd sleep somewhere else. The chairs by the fire, maybe. Or, there, is eyes landed on the small couch in the corner near the window. It looked deeply uncomfortable, probably meant for sitting and reading rather than sleeping, but it would have to do. He couldn't exactly climb into bed next to you. That would be, well, he didn't let himself finish that thought.

Decision made, he moved quietly toward the corner, trying not to make any noise that might wake you. He'd need to grab a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, maybe a pillow. 

Something caught his eye. A small gap in the wall near the floor in the corner. He'd never noticed it before, why would he? It was just a shadow among shadows, easy to miss. But now, looking directly at it, he could see it clearly.

A hole. Small, where the mortar had crumbled away between the stones. Jace frowned, crouching down to examine it. Old damage. The kind of thing that happened in castles this ancient, centuries of settling stone.

He should probably mention it to someone. Get it sealed up. Curious, he leaned closer, peering through the narrow gap to see where it led.

His breath caught. It was a room. Your room.

He could see the edge of a bed with a distinctive purple coverlet—the same one he'd seen when he'd accidentally walked in on you in your bath. A dressing table with jewelry scattered across its surface, glinting in the moonlight. Books stacked on a side table. A carved wooden screen positioned in the corner, partially obscuring his view but not completely.

The hole looked directly into your private chambers.

Jace sat back slowly, his heart starting to pound for entirely different reasons now.

This gap in the wall—it went straight through to your room. A perfect line of sight from his corner to yours. Which meant theoretically, someone could look through it. Could see into your private space. Watch you dress, sleep, bathe, lord knows what else.

His jaw clenched hard, a surge of protective anger rising in his chest. Had some servant discovered this? Some guard with ill intentions? The thought of someone watching you while you were vulnerable, unaware, made his blood run hot.

But then again you'd never mentioned it. Never complained about feeling watched or unsafe. Never called for anyone to repair the wall. Which meant either you didn't know about it.

Or you did know, and you'd chosen not to say anything.

Jace turned slowly to look at you, sleeping peacefully in his bed, utterly unaware of his racing thoughts.

The hole was low in his corner. Easy to miss unless you were looking for it, unless you happened to be right here in this spot. But on your side you'd have that screen. Would have moved it at some point, maybe looking for something, and found the gap.

Would have realized where it led. His heart was pounding now, thoughts spiraling.

No. That was insane. You wouldn't. You barely looked at him most days, avoided him at meals, seemed to go out of your way not to be alone with him. But you'd also been acting strange lately. He'd noticed it, couldn't help but notice. The way you flushed when he was near. How you avoided his eyes, like looking at him directly was too much.

And this morning. Gods, this morning when he'd walked in on you in your bath. You'd screamed, yes, but there had been something else in your expression. Something beyond just shock. You'd looked almost guilty, almost. At the time he'd thought he was imagining it. Had assumed you were just mortified at being seen naked. But what if it was more than that?

What if you'd been watching him through this hole, and suddenly he'd burst into your room, and you'd realized how close he was to discovering your secret?

Jace's breath came faster. He thought back over the past few days. The way you'd been flushed at dinner after he'd brought that woman back to his chambers. The way you couldn't meet his eyes the next morning. How you'd seemed distracted, distant, like your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Had you been watching him fuck her? The thought should have made him angry. Should have felt like a violation, an invasion of his privacy.

Instead, heat shot straight to his groin.

His cock, which had softened slightly while he'd been trying to figure out the logistics of where to sleep, was suddenly achingly hard again. He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock through his breeches, trying to will it down, but it was useless. The image was in his head now and wouldn't leave.

You. On the other side of that wall. Eye pressed to the gap. Watching him with some nameless woman, watching him fuck her, watching every thrust and hearing every sound.

Getting wet while you watched.

Fuck. Because you would have, wouldn't you? If you'd been watching—and gods, everything pointed to you watching—you wouldn't have kept coming back to that hole unless it was doing something for you. Unless seeing him like that, uninhibited and raw, was turning you on.

His proper, untouchable cousin. Getting yourself off while spying on him through a crack in the wall. Jace's hand tightened involuntarily on his cock and he had to bite back a groan.

He looked at you again, sleeping peacefully in his bed, completely unaware that he'd figured it out. That he knew. How many times? How many times had you watched him?

That first woman, the dark-haired serving girl. Had you seen that? Seen him bend her over the bed, seen the way he'd made her moan? And the one after. The minor lady whose name he'd already forgotten. Had you watched him spread her legs and bury his face between her thighs?

Gods, had you touched yourself while you watched? Slipped your hand beneath your nightgown, fingers finding your clit while you watched him make other women come? His cock throbbed and he had to close his eyes, had to breathe through the wave of lust that crashed over him.

This was wrong. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this. Shouldn't be getting hard imagining you watching him, wanting him, touching yourself to the sight of him with other women.

But he couldn't stop. Because if you had been watching—and everything in him said you had been—what did that mean?

It meant you wanted him. Maybe didn't want to want him, maybe fought against it, but you did. Why else would you keep going back to that hole? Why else would you watch him fuck other women if not because you wished it was you?

The thought made him harder, made pre-cum leak from the tip of his cock, dampening his smallclothes. He tried to remember the past few nights, tried to think through the wine-haze of who he'd brought back and when.

 He'd also been with Cassandra. Right here in this room, in this bed where you were sleeping now.

Had you watched that? His breath came out shaky. He'd been showing off tonight, he could admit that now. Cassandra had been impressed by his title, his dragon, the crown he'd someday wear. She'd made that clear. And maybe he'd wanted to impress her in other ways too. Had made it last longer than usual, had made sure she came twice before he'd let himself finish.

Had you been on the other side of that wall, watching him with her? Watching him kiss her, touch her, spread her legs in this very bed? Watching while your heart twisted with jealousy?

The idea shouldn't thrill him as much as it did.

Jace pressed his palm hard against his cock, trying to calm down, trying to think past the lust fogging his brain. His hand came away damp, he was leaking badly now, his cock throbbing with need.

Stop. Get yourself under control.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow, deep breaths. Forced himself to look away from you sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, still half-exposed despite the blanket he'd draped over you.

This was insane. He was standing here hard as iron, thinking about his cousin watching him fuck other women, getting off on the idea of you wanting him. He needed to calm down. Needed to think rationally about what this meant and what, if anything, he was going to do about it.

Jace forced himself to turn away from you entirely. Grabbed the blanket he'd originally intended to use and moved to the couch in the corner, as far from the bed as he could get in the confines of his own chambers. He stretched out on the too-small surface, the blanket pulled up to his chin, and willed his body to calm down. Willed his cock to soften. Tried to think about anything other than you watching him through that hole.

It didn't work.

Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured images. You with your eye pressed to the gap. Your hand sliding beneath your nightgown. Your lips parting as you watched him fuck someone else, wishing it was you. His cock throbbed, still achingly hard, and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

This was impossible. He couldn't sleep like this. Couldn't lie here all night with his cock straining against his breeches and you barely ten feet away, half-naked in his bed. He sat up, running both hands through his hair in frustration.

He needed to leave. Needed to get out of this room before he did something monumentally stupid. Like climb into that bed with you. Like wake you up and ask if you'd been watching. Like find out what sounds you'd make if he gave you something real to watch.

Fuck.

Jace stood, moving as quietly as possible, and grabbed his cloak from where it hung by the door. The Street of Silk would still be busy at this hour. He could find someone, anyone, to take the edge off. To fuck this desperate need out of his system so he could think clearly.

He paused at the door, looking back at you one more time. You'd shifted again in your sleep, the blanket slipping down to your waist. Your silver hair spilled across his pillows like you belonged there.

Tomorrow. He'd deal with all of this tomorrow. Would help you back to your chambers, act like the perfect gentleman. Would decide what, if anything, to do about that hole in the wall.

But tonight, he needed to leave before he lost what little control he had left. Jace slipped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him, and headed for the castle gates.

To read the remainder of part one (I ran out of space on here), please go to AO3 end of this part is Chapter 5: Consequences. Thank you for reading!

[milkysea-02]

The Cost of Legacy

Grand Regent Thragg x (fem) Invincible!reader

Synopsis: After a brutal war leaves the Viltrumite Empire on the brink of extinction, you try to return to a normal life on Earth, but Thragg has other plans. Bound by blood you never knew you had and choices you can’t take back, you’re pulled into a dangerous power struggle where duty, control, and survival blur into something far more personal.

Cw: Spoilers for the comics (season 5), reader takes Mark's place in this story, post-war setting, au, dark themes, angst, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, trauma & recovery, violence, enemies to something worse lmao, coercion, toxic relationships, smut (f)(dub-con). A 🕊️ emoji will mark the section for readers who prefer to skip that part of the story.

He stared down at the test results, disbelief tightening in his chest. Thragg couldn’t accept what he was seeing.

Weeks ago, after you, Nolan, and the Betrayer had reduced Viltrum to ruin, he had ordered the surviving Viltrumites—thirty-two of them, a pitiful remnant—to take refuge on Earth. 

The directive had been clear: find mates, rebuild the Empire.

With numbers that low, inbreeding was inevitable, and that was unacceptable. Not just immoral by Viltrumite standards, but catastrophic. Shared alleles, recessive traits—weakness. Their superior blood diluted over generations until they were indistinguishable from the lesser species they once conquered. 

No. 

That could never be allowed.

Humans, according to the reports, were the most compatible. Nolan’s half-breed child had proven that much. Promising, at first. Until your records reached his hands. 

Not long after you allowed the Viltrumites to remain on Earth, on the single condition that no human be harmed. The one-eyed alien calling himself Allen and your failure of a brother stole the Scourge Virus, intending to unleash it on the survivors. 

You stopped him. You always did. You prevented a catastrophe, and paid for it by taking the infection into your own body. 

That was why you had been quarantined for two weeks aboard the lunar vessel, isolated, watched, studied. 

It wouldn’t have come to this if you had acted faster when Allen confronted you. If you hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t cared so much about the fragile humans who interfered, you might have avoided infection entirely.

Still, Thragg found himself almost grateful for your stubbornness. Without it, your disgraced brother would never have escaped, never would have infected you… and Thragg would never have uncovered what now lay before him. 

At first, your survival had intrigued him. Your body—young by Viltrumite standards—had endured the Scourge Virus and fought it off. 

He assumed it was your human blood carrying the burden. A flaw compensating for a weakness. But the results told a different story. 

Your Viltrumite DNA wasn’t diluted. It was… elevated. Stronger. Cleaner. 

Superior.

Infuriatingly so, even surpassing his own. Suspicion turned to obsession as he combed through archived records, cross-referencing, verifying. And then he found it. The truth.

You were a descendant of Emperor Argall. You… and Nolan. Traitors. Both of you. 

Rage came swiftly, violently.

The doctor assigned to your care didn’t even have time to scream before Thragg ended him. The body hit the floor with a dull finality, forgotten just as quickly. Thragg turned, moving towards the sealed chamber where you lay—still unconscious, still tethered to oxygen tanks and IV lines. The quarantine period had passed. There was no longer any risk to him. Only to you. 

The door slid open with a hiss.

He stepped inside slowly, deliberately, the air heavy with silence. His fingers twitched at his side as he approached your bed, his gaze fixed on your face; too peaceful, too unaware. Then his eyes lowered to your neck.

If he ended you now, everything would fall into place. 

The Coalition’s mistake. The virus. Your death. The humans would mourn their precious hero, rage at the ones responsible, and in their desperation… they would turn to the Viltrumites for protection. Control would be effortless. 

The plan unfolded in his mind with perfect clarity, looping like a vision already realized.

His hands rose, settling around your throat. Not tightening, not yet. Just feeling.

The warmth of your soft skin against his calloused palms. The fragile pulse beneath. It would be so easy. A squeeze. A snap. The end of a threat before it ever had the chance to rise.

“What are you—?” The voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.

Thragg turned sharply, irritation flashing into something sharper when he saw it. That ridiculous, meddling dinosaur. The one who had somehow slipped onto his ship.

He should have killed it the moment it revealed himself. Thragg knew that now.

No hesitation this time. Thragg’s fist connected first.

The impact alone split the air, a violent crack that echoed through the metal walls as the dinosaur was launched across the corridor, its massive body tearing through panels and wiring before slamming into the far bulkhead. The ship shuddered from the force. Sparks rained down.

But the creature didn’t stay down.

The dinosaur dragged itself upright with a guttural snarl, blood slipping between teeth, tail lashing behind as it charged again—reckless, unrelenting. He swung wide, tail aiming for Thragg’s throat, but Thragg moved faster. He caught the creature’s tail mid-swing and twisted.

A sickening crack.

The limb bent the wrong way, snapping beneath the Viltrumite's strength.

Still, the dinosaur lunged forward, jaws snapping shut inches from Thragg’s face. The force rattled the corridor, teeth scraping against each other with a sound that grated like grinding metal. Thragg drove his knee upward into the creature’s abdomen, the blow folding him in half before sending him crashing back again.

Metal groaned. The walls dented inward.

“You’re persistent,” Thragg said coldly, stepping forward through the settling smoke. “But persistence is not strength.”

The dinosaur spat blood, breathing heavy, but there was something sharp behind his pain—calculation. He pushed himself off the wreckage, ignoring the tail hanging uselessly at his back, and charged again, using his weight this time instead of precision.

He slammed into Thragg with enough force to drive them both through the corridor wall. They tore into another section of the vessel, debris collapsing around them as alarms blared louder, more frantic. The dinosaur didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not now. He clamped his jaws down on Thragg’s shoulder, teeth digging in, trying to anchor himself, trying to do something, anything.

For a moment, it looked like it might work.

Then Thragg grabbed him.

Both hands locked onto his skull, fingers digging into scale and bone as if it were nothing more than soft clay. With a single, brutal motion, he ripped the dinosaur free and slammed him headfirst into the floor. The impact cratered the metal beneath them.

“You should’ve never given me access to your files,” the dinosaur growled, blood thick in its voice but confidence unshaken. “I’ve learned a lot about you these past few hours. Enough to know… you don’t want anything bad happening to this ship. I found weaknesses. Made adjustments.”

A distant explosion thundered through the vessel, metal groaning as the shockwave rippled through its structure. Thragg’s glare sharpened, murderous.

“You talk too much,” Thragg muttered. 

The dinosaur charged again, desperation fueling its final attempt. Jaws snapped wide, aiming to crush, to tear—but against Thragg, it was nothing. Less than nothing. Thragg caught its mandibles mid-lunge, grip tightening with brutal precision before wrenching them apart. Bone cracked. Flesh tore. The sound echoed, final and absolute.

But the creature didn’t fall, not yet.

With a last, reckless burst of strength, the dinosaur staggered past him—past the blood, the ruin—and into your containment room. He grabbed your unconscious body, cradling you against its massive frame, and bolted for the escape bay.

Thragg moved instantly, fury driving him forward as alarms continued to scream throughout the ship. The corridors blurred as he raced after them, the damage spreading, systems failing. By the time he reached the viewport it was too late.

The escape pod had already launched.

A small, distant shape cutting through the void… heading straight for Earth. 

When your eyes finally opened, the first thing you saw was the moon—distant, suspended in a dark sky scattered with stars. For a moment, everything felt still. You pushed yourself up slowly from the floor, your body still weak, fragile. Every movement dragging pain along with it. Your hips barely lifted as you forced yourself onto a nearby chair.

As the chair turned, your view shifted; mountains stretched across the horizon, their silhouettes swallowed by a vast forest that seemed to go on endlessly. No cities. No lights. No signs of life. Not even the faint glow of civilization to break the darkness.

This place… you didn’t recognize it.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” The voice snapped you out of the thoughts. Turning over you saw David Anders standing in the doorway.

“David? What are we doing here?”

“I don’t know. I just woke up about an hour ago. Do you remember anything?”

You furrowed your brows, fingers pressing against the bridge of your nose as if forcing the memories back. “Not much… I woke up in a pile of wreckage. You were unconscious in your human form. After that, I blacked out again… probably from this.” You winced, clutching your stomach as you crouched slightly, trying to contain the pain twisting inside.

“And what about the—” David started.

“Dinosaurus?” you cut in. “I don’t know. I guess… he’s the one who brought us here.”

David tilted his head, a strange grin creeping onto his face. “Did I make you sick or something? Maybe I tricked you. When I’m the monster, I’m pure evil… that’s why you gotta watch out.”

“Pure evil?” you repeated, studying him. “No… if you think about it, why would he save us? Dinosaurus wouldn’t do something like this without a reason. He kinda reminds me of… well, my brother…”

“What? You still sick?”

“No, it’s nothing.” You shook your head lightly. “It’s just… my brother doesn’t mean to do bad things. He does what he thinks is necessary for the better outcome, without thinking about how it affects others.” You paused, your voice quieter now. “He’s not pure evil… he’s pure intelligence.”

You and David spent the hour going back and forth, debating whether Dinosaurus was truly evil or not. The argument circled endlessly, neither fully convinced, neither willing to give in.

“Whatever you say, girl,” David finally sighed, stretching. “I’m just gonna enjoy my time here. I’ve been stuck in that monster form for too long. I hope it never comes ba—”

His words cut off abruptly. You barely had time to react before his body began to twist, bones cracking, muscles expanding as the transformation took hold again.

Ironic timing.

“You’re looking much better.” Dinosaurus’ voice replaced David’s entirely as the transformation finished. He stood taller now, imposing, his presence filling the room. “My form rebuilds itself every time I transform.” He glanced around, sharp, alert. “Are they here yet?” His voice sharpened. “Have they struck?”

“Uh… I have no idea what you’re talking about,” confusion creeping into your voice.

“The Viltrumites!” he snapped. “He tried to kill you. I escaped, retreated here. Surely they would have followed.” He began pacing, sniffing the air, scanning the surroundings like a predator searching for a hidden threat.

“Well… it’s been a while since we landed,” you said cautiously. “If they wanted us dead, they would’ve found us by now.”

He paused, turning back to you. “How are you feeling? I was told you survived the worst of it.”

“Fine… just… weird.” You shifted slightly, wincing. “My body still hurts, but I’m managing.”

“Good. Try to stay alive.”

You hesitated, then spoke again. “You said he tried to kill me. Who’s ‘he’?”

“Thragg.”

“Thragg?”

“Yes.” His voice hardened. “He tried to kill me as well. Luckily, he was foolish enough to let me access his files. I found weaknesses in his ship, took advantage of them. That’s when I saw him… standing over you. His hands around your neck. About to snap it.”

Your stomach dropped. “But… why?” you whispered. “I thought we had an agreement…”

“I do not know why.”

The words had barely left his mouth when a loud wroom tore through the air.

A figure crashed straight into Dinosaurus, sending both of them across the room as the walls shook from the impact. They were on each other instantly, blows landing hard and fast.

You stared frozen. The new figure… looked like you. Same hair color. Even wearing your Invincible suit.

“Get out of here while you can!” he shouted, locking Dinosaurus in place. “I’ll slow him down!”

“What?! Why are you here?! Who are you?!” you yelled back, confusion twisting into panic.

Another voice tore in. 

You turned just in time to see Atom Eve flying in. She pulled you into a quick, desperate hug, but it didn’t last. Another crash shattered the moment as glass exploded across the room.

Oliver burst through, grabbing Dinosaurus by the neck, shouting at him to stay away from you. Allen followed close behind, stepping in with measured caution.

“Keep your distance, Oliver,” Allen warned. “This guy’s no lightweight. Trust me.”

Everything spiraled too fast. Voices overlapping. Blows landing. No one listening.

Frustration boiled over.

Before you could stop yourself, you lunged forward and threw a punch. Your fist colliding with Allen’s thick, unyielding skin.

Pain exploded instantly.

A scream tore from your throat as you staggered back. Your hand split open on impact, muscle tearing, skin ripping as blood poured out rapidly, pooling at your feet.

Everyone suddenly stopped what they were doing. 

Eve rushed towards you, her voice filled with panic as she dropped to your side.

He stared down at his hands, seated behind the desk in his office, still unable to shake the weight of your medical results.

He had already torn the reports apart, fed their remains to the fire, but destruction meant nothing. The truth lingered; etched into his memory, clawing at his thoughts, refusing to be silenced. At the very least, Lucan, Kregg, and Anissa had not been there to witness it. No one had. No one except the doctor assigned to your care, and Thragg had dealt with him swiftly, before a single word could be spoken.

Perhaps that was why the silence felt so suffocating. 

His closest allies were scattered across Earth, carrying out his orders, leaving him alone with nothing but time. Nothing but waiting. Waiting for reports. Waiting for progress. And now, with you gone, the emptiness of it all became even more apparent. At least when you were here, there had been something to anticipate; whether you would recover… or finally succumb to the virus. It hadn’t mattered which. And yet, if he were honest with himself, your survival had made things far more interesting.

His thoughts drifted again, not to the data this time, but to you.

To the way your body had looked, small and fragile against the medical bed. The tubes. The oxygen mask. The IV fluids keeping you alive as the virus ravaged you from within. You had looked weaker then—paler, worn down, shadows carved beneath your eyes. And still… not unpleasant to look at. For a human, at least. Humans were inferior, he knew that, believed it without question. Yet the image lingered. Your hair pulled back neatly, your arms resting close together over the blanket as if even in unconsciousness you conserved what little strength you had. 

It was becoming… irritating. How often you appeared in his thoughts.

Then, suddenly an idea.

With so few Viltrumites remaining, he had already ordered them to repopulate. To take human mates. To produce heirs that would rebuild the Empire. They had spread themselves across the planet; Kregg in Arizona, Lucan in New York, Anissa in Florida. Others scattered across nations he scarcely cared to remember. Brazil, Cuba, Germany, Egypt, Thailand, Russia, Japan, Australia. It didn’t matter where they went, only that they fulfilled their purpose. Still… there was something almost curious about Earth’s diversity. Vast. Varied. Different.

Perhaps… he should do the same.

Set an example.

Yes, that was it.

Thragg would show them how it should be done. How to choose properly. What traits to seek. Strength. Resilience. Intelligence. The qualities required to produce a child worthy of the Empire. Not equal to a pure-blooded Viltrumite. Never that, but something close. Something acceptable.

The thought stirred something unpleasant within him. Disgust.

But it was a necessary sacrifice.

The issue, however, was choosing someone. No human, realistically, met his standards. None were worthy of carrying his offspring. No matter how far he searched, how carefully he considered—there was always something lacking. Always weakness.

No one… except you.

You were the closest thing to perfection he had seen outside of his own kind. Proven strength. Proven capability. You had faced Viltrumites and survived. More than that, you had defeated them. Conquest, of all warriors. One of the Empire’s strongest. A soldier with thousands of years of experience. And you—just in your twenties, burdened with human blood—had beaten him. Twice. Killed Conquest during you last confrontation with him.

That had impressed him, genuinely.

Your resilience and refusal to yield. The way you fought, pushed forward, never allowing anything to stand in your way. That was what mattered. That was what his people needed to understand. Not weak, complacent humans content with their own mediocrity but individuals who strived. Who endured. Who evolved.

You embodied that.

If he were to do this… then you would be the one.

The only one worthy of carrying his heirs.

And with your lineage—Argall’s blood still flowing through you—this would not merely be necessity. It would be destiny. A final gift to the Empire. Heirs who would carry both Argall’s legacy and his own.

The plan was logical, sound. Already solidifying into certainty.

Thragg rose from his chair, the decision settling firmly in his mind. There were preparations to be made aboard the hidden ship on the moon before his departure. He knew where to find you. Chicago. Living with your human mother and half-brother. Nolan would likely still linger nearby. Unable to detach himself from his attachments, your mother.

Annoying.

If confrontation became unavoidable, it would be dealt with. Nolan was no match for him. Not in strength, not in experience, not in anything that mattered. It would be inconvenient, perhaps even regrettable. Once, Nolan had been a loyal soldier. Worthy of respect. But if he stood in the way he would be removed.

Thragg exhaled slowly, his resolve unshaken.

Your existence would more than make up for betrayal.

Both of you… saviors of Viltrum.

Soon, he would leave the ship and return to Earth for a second time.

You were sitting on a bench at the campus park, waiting for Eve and William, your attention fixed on your arm, still shattered. Cecil’s people had done what they could, performing surgery, installing robotic components to stabilize it. Your strength had returned, mostly. But your durability… hadn’t. 

Thoughts drifted, back to where it all began. The Scourge Virus. Oliver, careless and reckless. Infecting you without even meaning to. You loved your little brother, you really did, but sometimes… it was frustrating. The way he ignored the warnings, the way everything he touched seemed to spiral into chaos. He wasn’t stupid, you knew that. Just stubborn. Always chasing the end goal, no matter the cost, no matter who got hurt along the way.

What was the point of saving the world… if there was no one left to save?

Oliver never thought about that, and it was starting to get irritating. He was getting older, stronger—and if he didn’t start understanding the consequences of his actions… you didn’t want to think about what he might become. You cared too much for him; Too much to watch him destroy himself like that.

“Hey! You’re back!” William’s voice snapped you out of the thoughts. He jogged towards you, Eve and Rick trailing behind side by side.

“William, I’m happy to see you too.”

“You know I’m very hurt you didn’t tell me sooner you’d be back.”

“Sorry… I barely had time to get settled before—”

“Before you got sick, yeah, I know. Eve filled me in,” he cut in, waving it off. “Don’t worry, I’m just being dramatic. But seriously, I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad to be back too.” You gave him a small, genuine smile.

“Hey, is anyone else hungry? Because I could eat anything right now,” William announced.

“Ugh, I’m starving,” Eve groaned. “I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

“Perfect,” Rick chimed in. “There’s a new ramen place down the street. We should try it.” Seems like he had been really wanting to go to this place, but the opportunity never came until now.

“Sounds good.”

You stood from the bench and fell into step besides them, letting the conversation carry you forward. 

Not long after the war—before the virus—you had flashes. The hallucinations. The way your mind twisted reality into something unbearable. You’d see Anissa tearing William’s jaw open, only to blink and find him standing there, completely fine. It had been like that with everyone. Every conversation, every glance, you saw them being ripped apart, blood everywhere, Viltrumites slaughtering them like it was nothing.

It had been suffocating.

You went to Cecil. Asked for help, real help. Doctors. Therapy. And it did get better, sowly. But no matter how much you tried to bury it, the fear never fully left. It lingered, quiet but constant, in the back of your mind.

You couldn’t go through that again.

A small bell chimed as Rick held the door open for everyone.

The restaurant was modest. Cozy. A few college students sat scattered around, quietly eating. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Alright, what’s everyone getting?” William asked, already staring up at the menu screen.

“I’ll have tuna rolls and gyoza with a matcha boba,” Eve said.

“I’ll take tonkotsu ramen,” you added.

“Just onigiri for me,” 

“Got it. I’ll order. You guys grab a table.” William headed off towards the counter.

Rick picked a table by the window. You sat beside Eve, leaving the open seat across for William.

A few minutes later, he returned. “Alright, food should be out in about 20 to 30 minutes.” He dropped into his seat next to Rick, then leaned forward slightly. “Sooo… have you talked to Amber yet?”

Of course he’d ask that. William thrived on this kind of thing.

“No. Not yet. I haven’t had time.”

“Well… are you going to?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t want to… I just don’t want to worry her with all this. She has her own life, her own problems. I don’t think it’s fair to drag her back into mine.” You scratched the back of your head. “Besides… we broke up almost two years ago.”

“She still asks about you, you know,” Eve added casually.

You blinked. “She does?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought she didn’t want anything to do with me after… everything.” Your gaze dropped slightly, memories creeping back in. All the times she’d asked where you were, why you kept disappearing. You thought you were protecting her by not saying anything but all it had done was push her away.

You messed that up.

If you’d known it would hurt her that much… maybe you wouldn’t have dated her at all. Maybe it would’ve been better to just stay friends.

“Well, she does have a boyfriend now,” William added, “but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want to be friends again.”

“You really think she’d talk to me?”

“Of course. We’re not saying to get back together—I doubt she’d want that anyway—but you should at least try. As friends.”

“I guess…” you murmured. “I just don’t want to hurt her again.”

The waiter approached then, balancing a tray filled with steaming dishes. One by one, he placed them on the table. “Enjoy,” he said before heading back to the kitchen.

You reached for the water first, taking a small sip before grabbing a spoon to taste the broth. It was warm and comforting, and for a moment, everything felt… normal.

Thragg watched from a distance; Silent and unseen. He observed—carefully, methodically—how you carried yourself when you weren’t tearing down empires or “saving” the world.

Your life was… simple. Almost disappointingly so.

Most days were spent with Eve, the two of you waiting around for William to finish his classes so the three of you could fall into your routine: the mall, movies, wandering through the city with no real destination, coffee shops, ramen places, bookstores. Small, meaningless human indulgences repeated day after day. Then on Saturday, you went to the beach, staying from morning until nightfall, only leaving when the sky darkened and the world quieted.

From what he gathered, you enjoyed going out. Being surrounded by people. You laughed easily, ate whatever you pleased, and seemed… content.

Thragg had learned a great deal about you in that single week.

And you hadn’t noticed him once.

Blending in among humans was insultingly easy. 

One night, while the city slept, he slipped into a clothing store unnoticed. He selected what he needed with little care for fashion, just function. A red shirt with dark blue pants made from some strange blend of cotton and synthetic fibers. White shoes, simple and comfortable. A hat—polyester, with a button at the top, a curved brim to shield the face, and a strap at the back to adjust its fit.

On his way out, something else caught his attention. A mannequin stood near the display window, dressed like the others, but its face was different. Covered with something black stretched over its eyes.

Thragg paused.

Curious.

He took it as well, examining it briefly before placing it on his own face. It served its purpose. He left without another thought.

But then Sunday came. Something changed. You didn’t meet Eve or William. You met someone else, a man.

Thragg’s gaze sharpened instantly. Your mate, perhaps.

It didn’t matter who he was; If he became an obstacle, he would be removed. Still, curiosity lingered. He followed at a careful distance, close enough to hear, far enough to remain undetected.

“I was just worried about you… I haven’t seen you in years,” the man admitted, his voice uneasy.

You didn’t answer, barely looked at him, your attention fixed elsewhere, as if he were nothing more than background noise.

The silence stretched.

He sighed. “Look… I just missed you. I wanted to see you again.”

“James…” You rubbed your temple, already sounding exhausted.

“Just think about it. Give me another chance?”

“A chance?” you echoed, incredulous. “You were the one who broke up with me.”

“I know I messed up—” his voice cracked, desperate now. “Just… please forgive me. Let’s pretend none of it happened. We can start over, start new."

Your expression hardened. “What, Jackie stopped answering your messages?” you shot back, your tone sharp, biting. “So now you come running back to me, hoping to get your dick wet?”

He flinched at that but said nothing, just stared at the ground like a loser.

“You’re unbelievable,” you snapped, turning away from him, already done with the conversation. But he grabbed your arm. 

“Babe, please wait. That’s not it. I really missed you!”

“Don’t call me that,” you hissed, trying to pull free. “Let go of me, James.”

“Just listen—”

“No!” Your voice cut through him, final. “You had your chance. And you ruined it.”

With a sharp movement, you struck his chest, just enough force to break his grip. He stumbled backwards, falling hard onto the ground as you turned and ran, putting as much distance between the two as possible.

Thragg watched it all unfold, unmoving and unimpressed.

This was the man you had chosen?

Pathetic.

Weak. Spineless. All that begging, that whining. It was almost painful to witness. Whatever connection you once had, it was clear now: it had ended badly. And deservedly so.

To see someone like you—strong, capable, relentless—reduced to tolerating something like that… it was almost insulting.

If you had been one of his soldiers—one of the Viltrumites he had ordered to repopulate with humans—he would have reprimanded you without hesitation for choosing someone so utterly unworthy.

Just another reason.

Another confirmation.

Why he needed to intervene. Why you needed to be the example.

You got home late, taking a detour to Eve’s place to tell her everything that had happened with James. She had been furious, angry that he even dared to reach out to you again after everything he had done. After the way he ended things.

You slipped quietly into the house, careful not to wake your mother or Oliver as you made your way to the bathroom. The shower helped—washing away the residue of the day, the tension clinging to your skin—but it didn’t quiet your thoughts. You dried off, leaving the towel draped carelessly over a chair, too exhausted to put it away properly. Then applied lotion on your skin, putting on the underwear and an oversized t-shirt after.

Your phone buzzed.

A notification from an unknown number, but you already knew who it was before you even opened it.

“Can we please talk?”

James.

You stared at the message for a moment, your jaw tightening. How he even got your new number was beyond you. With a quiet sigh, you muted the phone and left it on the nightstand to charge, unwilling to give him more attention.

But your mind didn’t listen, it drifted back. Back to those years with him.

You remembered when things started to change, how distant he became. The lack of touch. No hugs or kisses, just a dry half-hearted “hey babe” before turning his attention elsewhere. You told yourself it was nothing at first. Stress. School. Life.

Then came that night.

You had just finished a brutal physics exam, nerves already frayed, convinced you had failed when your phone lit up with a long message. A rant. Line after line of dissatisfaction, of cold detachment, ending with two words that shattered everything.

We’re over.

You remembered how your chest tightened, how your hands shook as you called William, desperate, barely able to get the words out. He had come to your dorm immediately, staying with you, making sure you weren’t alone… making sure you didn’t do anything stupid.

Two weeks later, you found out the truth.

Jackie.

He had been cheating the entire time.

And while part of you was relieved you weren’t with him anymore, it didn’t erase the bitterness. The way he spoke to you in that message—like you weren’t enough, like you were something to discard—while hiding the fact that he already had someone else.

Then, a year later, you met Amber.

She was different. Kind. Patient. She made you feel safe, understood. At first, things were good—really good. But then your responsibilities grew heavier. Cecil pulled you away more often. Missions stacked on top of each other, each one more dangerous than the last, and they never stopped coming.

You didn’t tell her why at first, thinking you were protecting Amber—keeping her out of it, keeping her safe from becoming a target. It made sense at the time. It felt right.

But it wasn’t.

The distance grew. Arguments followed. You scrambled for excuses, anything to avoid telling her the truth. But Amber wasn’t naive, she saw through it. She even accused you of cheating once, despite knowing what you had gone through with James.

That hurt a lot.

Eventually, when things calmed down—when the chaos gave you just enough breathing room—you told her everything. About being Invincible. About the constant danger.

She was shocked, of course. Said she knew something was off, but never imagined that. She understood. She really did. But understanding didn’t mean she could stay.

Her heart couldn’t handle loving someone who was always gone, always in danger. And you… you deserved someone who could live that life with you.

So she ended it.

And you agreed.

Even as the tears wouldn’t stop, even as your chest ached like it was being torn apart all over again, you knew she was right.

Amber hadn’t betrayed you.

She had chosen herself.

And you respected her for that.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, willing your body to rest but sleep wouldn’t come. Something felt wrong. Your instincts screaming, loud and persistent, refusing to be ignored.

With a frustrated sigh, you sat up, reaching for the water bottle nearby, taking a sip when you saw it. Through your window.

There was a figure. 

Hovering at a distance, silhouetted by the full moon behind them. You couldn’t make out their features, but they weren’t hiding. They weren’t moving. Just… watching.

Waiting.

Viltrumite.

The thought came instantly.

You didn’t bother changing. No suit. No hesitation. You shot out the window, flying straight towards the figure, fist already pulling back, ready to strike but you stopped. Your body wasn’t fully healed. You knew that. And for a split second, that realization held you back. Long enough to see who it was.

Thragg.

“What are you doing here?!” you demanded, anger sharp in your voice.

“Calm yourself,” he said evenly, his hand lifting slightly to lower your fist, which hovered mere inches from his face. “I wish to speak with you.”

“After you tried to kill me, you want to talk?!”

“I see that dinosaur still lives, considering you are aware of that,” he replied, almost dismissively. “A shame. I had hoped he would bleed out in the escape pod. But that is… precisely what I wish to discuss.”

“Then talk.”

For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes shifted, scanning the surroundings.

“Not here,” he finally said. “Come.”

Before you could react, his hand moved—gripping your lower back, pulling you closer to him as he ascended rapidly into the sky, dragging you along with him.

“I can fly too, you know…”

You were back on the Viltrumite ship, inside Thragg’s office.

He hadn’t spoken yet.

But you could see it in him. The tension. The way his jaw tightened, muscles shifting beneath his skin as if he were carefully choosing his words, shaping them into something deliberate. Whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t simple.

It was something he cared about.

And that alone put you on edge.

Growing impatient, you snapped, “You said you wanted to talk, so talk. I don’t have all the time in the world for you.”

His gaze snapped to you, sharp enough to feel like it burned into your skull. “Do you know of Emperor Argall?”

“Argall?” You frowned slightly. “Not really. Just what my dad mentioned, and that wasn’t much. Just that he was some Viltrumite emperor… and that Thaedus killed him.”

“Emperor Argall,” Thragg corrected, his tone tightening. “Was the greatest Viltrumite to ever exist. He fought his way to the throne. He was wise. He led our people to victory after victory. He taught us how to conquer, to claim the galaxy as ours.” His voice lowered slightly. “And he was murdered. Stabbed through the head by the Betrayer… Thaedus, as you call him.”

You leaned back slightly, unimpressed. “Is that what you dragged me here for? To give me a history lesson about your favorite tyrant?”

Thragg’s hands pressed together slowly, his restraint visibly thinning. “You lack discipline,” he said coldly. “That is something I can correct… in time.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re talking like I’m staying here.”

“That,” he said, the faintest twitch of a smirk pulling at his lips, “is exactly what I wished to discuss.”

“About what? More stories about Viltrum?”

He ignored your attempt at provocation.

“Did your father ever tell you about Argall’s missing heirs?”

“No…”

“Hmm.” He turned slightly, pacing behind his desk. “It seems he was unaware as well. After Argall’s death, his children were taken—hidden away to be protected until the time came for them to return and reclaim the throne. In their absence, I took command of the Empire. I ruled until his heirs could be found.” His tone hardened. “Many impostors rose, claiming that bloodline. Weak fools. All of them died trying to take what was never theirs.”

You stayed quiet this time, watching him, listening despite yourself. You hated everything the Viltrumite Empire stood for, but you couldn’t deny. It was… interesting in its own way.

“For centuries, we found nothing,” he continued. “No true descendants. No trace of Argall’s line.”

You frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

He paused. Then turned his back to you, standing still behind his desk.  “Because…” The silence stretched—heavy, suffocating—before he finally finished. “You and your father are Argall’s true descendants.”

Your breath hitched. “Wh-what? How do you even know that?!” Your voice trembled, anger and disbelief tangling together.

“You were not meant to survive the Scourge Virus,” he said calmly. “None of us were. Yet your body endured. We took samples—compared your blood to that of other Viltrumites. We believed, perhaps, there was a way to replicate your resilience… a way to save our people should another outbreak occur.” His gaze sharpened. “But your DNA was not merely resilient. It was different. Superior.”

He stepped closer.

“I compared your records to archived genetic data. Emperor Argall’s records… and they matched.”

Before you could react he moved fast. His hand shot forward, wrapping around your throat, forcing you back against the floor as his grip tightened, cutting off your air.

“You did not truly believe I would surrender the Empire to you and your father, did you?” he hissed, his voice low against your ear. “Not after everything you’ve done. After slaughtering our people. After destroying our world.” His grip tightened slightly. “Because of you… because of Nolan… we stand on the brink of extinction.”

Your vision blurred at the edges. 

Then he loosened his grip. Not releasing you. Just enough to let you breathe. “But,” he continued, calmer now, “I am willing to offer you something.”

You sucked in a breath, your hand instinctively grasping at his wrist. “What…?” your voice came out softer than you intended.

“We must rebuild. Lead. Be an example to the others.” His eyes locked onto yours. “And for that… I have a proposition.”

“What is it?”

A slow smirk spread across his face, this time unmistakable. “I have been observing you,” he admitted. “Watching. Learning. You chose a mate—a human named James.” His tone turned almost disdainful. “Pathetic. Weak. An insult to someone of your capabilities.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I will not allow the remaining Viltrumites to dilute our bloodline with worthless specimens like him,” he continued. “We are rebuilding an empire, not dragging it into ruin. You will set the example. You will show them what to seek in a mate.”

Your heart pounded.

“What?!” Your voice broke, sharp and disbelieving. “Have you completely lost your mind?!”

“I could kill you now,” he said flatly. “Rip your head from your body. Crush your throat in an instant. You are still weak. You cannot defeat me like this.” His gaze hardened. “But I am offering you mercy. A choice.”

A bitter pause.

“One you never gave us.”

Your thoughts spiraled. He was right. You couldn’t fight him, not like this. Not with your body still recovering, your strength uneven, your hand barely healed. 

And he wasn’t wrong about the rest. You had followed Thaedus and your father, helped destroy Viltrum without thinking about what came after. Where they would go. What they would do. You had pushed them to Earth.

Your chest tightened.

Damn it. 

Damn your choices. Your impulsiveness. Your need to end the war without considering the aftermath.

“What… did you have in mind?” you finally asked, your voice trembling as tears slipped down.

Something softened in his expression—unnatural. Unsettling. He reached out, brushing the tears from your cheek with his thumb. Then, without warning, he lifted you. Placing you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing.

He turned, walking out of the office.

A new set of doors slid open with a soft shhfft as he carried you deeper into the ship.

Into a bedroom.

🕊️ 🕊️ 🕊️

He threw you onto a soft surface, his bed.

The sheets were smooth; cool satin in a muted grey, the fabric shifting beneath as your body sank into it.

Not giving you time to react he settled between your legs, on top.

“We will restore the Empire,” he murmured, his voice low, unwavering. “Argall’s legacy will continue… through our sacrifice, through us." 

It felt like an unscratchable itch. The outline of his covered manhood brushed against your clothed sex, causing an ache that refused to be ignored.  

The weight of him pressed you deeper into the mattress, overwhelming, suffocating in the way only he could be. Every inch of him radiated control, purpose. There was no hesitation in him. No doubt.

Your hands instinctively came up to his chest, fingers pressing against the hard planes of his muscled pectorals beneath your palms. Solid. Unmoving. You tried to ground yourself better, to steady the sudden heat blooming under your skin, to push him away, but he didn’t move.

Instead, he leaned closer. Closer than before. His presence swallowed yours whole, his breath ghosting along your neck as if committing you to memory. "No," he murmured as he drew nearer, one arm resting next to the cushion your head was on and the other moving down to your underwear, carefully peeling it off. 

Your breath hitched as his hand moved—slow, deliberate, unhurried in a way that made your chest tighten. He took his time, as if nothing in the universe could interrupt him, as if you were already his to claim. And maybe, in his mind you already were.

You cursed yourself. For the oversized shirt. For the way you had rushed out without thinking, without preparing. Meeting him exactly as you were, unguarded. Vulnerable.

He stripped away that last barrier of clothing with quiet efficiency, discarding it as though it had never mattered. Getting to work immediately he gave you no time to prepare as he slid himself inside your folds. You gave out an agonizing whine. 

There was no tenderness in the way he thrusted in—no softness, no gentle reassurance. For you, this kind of closeness had always meant something else: trust, intimacy, something shared in love. For him… it was a purpose, duty; Something instinctive, stripped of emotion. Yet heavier because of it.

The moment tightened, stretched thin until it almost snapped. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up—heat pooling low, unfamiliar, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.

“Wait—” your voice faltered, breath uneven, “you’re—”

Too much. Too close. Too overwhelming.

Thragg weighed around 200 or 300 pounds of sheer muscle, and his lenght didn't fail to lived up to expectations. He felt approximately six or seven inches when he was fully sheeted inside of you. The sensation of him dragging his cock inside your gummy walls made it difficult to tell. 

He didn’t stop, didn’t slow. Only adjusted, as if your resistance was nothing more than a variable to account for.

“Too tight,” he muttered under his breath, more observation than complaint.

“You’re too big,” you shot back, your voice breaking despite yourself.

He ignored you. Of course he did.

And then something shifted. A rhythm.

His thrusts became violent poundings, his breathing became more labored, and he periodically let out low groans that he couldn't contain. Not gentle, never gentle. But controlled. Measured in its own way. Your body tensed against him at first, resisting, struggling to keep up with the intensity of his presence, the overwhelming closeness of it all.

He abruptly drove back inside, finding that soft spot, which caused your toes to curl. He gasped in surprise, letting out a loud groan as you clenched hard around him.

"There," you cried, losing yourself in the pleasure you were experiencing, resting your hands on his back.

His reaction was immediate.

Your hands found his shoulders, gripping tighter—not pushing him away, but holding on. Anchoring yourself as sensation built, unfamiliar and overwhelming, coiling tighter and tighter.

Your breathing quickened as the world narrowed. Reduced to heat, to pressure, to the unbearable awareness of him.

And then you moved. Not away but with him. Your legs pulled him closer, instinct overriding thought, your body responding in a way your mind hadn’t yet processed.

A low sound escaped him; unexpected, unguarded.

“Fuuuck—” His dick twitched aggressively inside. For the first time, something in him cracked. Something dangerous.

The tension had snapped.

Everything unraveled at once, your body tightening around him, your cunt clenching harder on his cock, the grip on him sharpening as sensation crested and the coil snapped, leaving you breathless, trembling beneath him as you came. 

With one final thrust and a low, strained moan, Thragg spilled his release inside you.

He stilled only for a second, breathing sharply. The control he carried slipped just enough to betray the intensity of the moment.

You barely had time to recover.

“We’re not done.” His voice was steadier now but heavier. He shifted you easily, positioning you with deliberate intent into a mating press. Your legs resting on top of his shoulders. 

Your body protested from exhaustion, but he didn’t care. 

Still covered in sticky fluids, his tip glided easily across your entrance.

He hammered his way back inside without waiting another second. Falling back in after pulling out. Your body still sensitive from the previous orgasm.

You held on him tightly, loud moans coming out as your nails dragged across his back. 

Then an idea. 

Before you could think, before doubt could catch up, you pushed back. Turned the balance, enough to surprise him. Enough to make him pause for the first time.

You took the lead as your hips sank down on him, moving at your own rhythm. Uncertain at first, then firmer, guided by instinct rather than thought. 

And Thragg…

Thragg reacted.

A sharp intake of breath.

His hands came to your hips, steadying you, guiding but not stopping. His gaze locked onto you, something unreadable flickering behind it. This wasn’t just control anymore. This was something else. Something he wasn’t meant to feel. Something he shouldn’t be allowing.

And yet he didn’t stop it ...not for today at least. 

The tension built again, faster this time, tighter. "I’m about to—" Your walls tightened, attempting to milk him again. Hands bracing against his chest, your movements sharper, more desperate, until your body gave in once more. The sensation crashing through, leaving you trembling as your strength gave out, his erection quivering as he filled you with his warm cum one more time.

You collapsed forward, your weight falling against him, breath uneven, limbs heavy. Neither of you moved. Just the sound of heavy breathing and scent of sex lingering in the air. 

Your eyes fluttered, exhaustion finally dragging you down.

Then his voice broke through—low, almost thoughtful. “Before I forget… do not concern yourself with your former mate.”

Your heart skipped.

“He will not trouble you again. Consider it… a gift.”

Something cold settled in your chest, but you were too tired to care. Too drained to question it.

Your eyes closed.

And this time you didn’t fight the sleep.

🕊️ 🕊️ 🕊️

You woke slowly, your body tangled in soft blankets that still held the warmth of the night before. For a minute, everything felt distant; your vision still blurred, the mind sluggish, caught somewhere between sleep and awareness. Then it cleared.

You were still in his room.

The space felt… different without him there. Quieter. Colder, despite the lingering warmth pressed into the sheets beneath you. Your body ached as you shifted, every movement reminding you of everything that had happened. Your limbs felt heavy, unfamiliar—like they didn’t quite belong to you yet.

He was gone.

That realization settled deeper than you expected.

You pushed yourself up slowly, muscles protesting immediately, legs trembled the moment they touched the floor, barely able to support your weight as you stood. Steadying yourself against the edge of the bed, breathing through the weakness, forcing your body to cooperate.

Your clothes were scattered nearby, carelessly discarded. Gathering them quickly, fingers fumbling slightly as you dressed, movements rushed—not out of urgency alone, but something else. Something restless sitting beneath your ribs.

You couldn’t stay here. Not a second longer.

The door slid open with a quiet hiss as you slipped out into the corridor, immediately alert. The halls stretched long and cold, unfamiliar and hostile. You kept close to the walls, moving carefully, listening for any sign of movement.

Viltrumites.

Feeling them even when you couldn’t see them; patrolling, guarding, watching. You avoided them instinctively, slipping past intersections, timing your steps between their movements. Every second felt stretched, fragile, like one wrong move would shatter everything.

Your heart pounded louder with each step.

Down the corridors. Past the upper levels. Deeper, until finally the lower sections of the ship, where the exit awaited.

The doors loomed ahead, massive and silent. For a moment, you hesitated—just a fraction of a second—before pushing forward.

The atmosphere hit you instantly as you descended, the cold vastness of space giving way to the familiar pull of Earth below. The wind rushed past you as you fell, then flew, your body remembering what to do even if it still ached with every movement.

Home at last. 

Thragg sat alone in his office, the faint glow of the new reports reflecting across his face as he read through them again. Slowly, deliberately, as if repetition might somehow change what was written there.

It didn’t.

Lucan. Anissa. Kregg. Even Thula.

All of them, failing.

Little progress. No meaningful results. Just fragments of effort that amounted to nothing. It was… infuriating. Not in the explosive, violent way he was used to, but something quieter. Heavier. A persistent pressure behind his eyes that settled into a dull, throbbing headache.

Disappointing.

He exhaled slowly, setting the report down against his desk with controlled restraint. This was not how the Empire rebuilt itself.

Without another thought, he sent the command—brief, direct, unquestionable. All of them were to return to the Viltrumite ship within the hour. There would be explanations. There would be consequences.

Silence settled again.

Then a sharp knock broke through it. Loud. Echoing against the cold metal walls of his office.

“Come in,” Thragg said, his voice calm.

The door slid open, and a Viltrumite stepped inside, posture rigid, careful. “Sire, forgive the interruption. This is… urgent.” He cleared his throat, as if choosing his words carefully. “The woman you instructed us to monitor… she has left the ship. Not long ago.”

Thragg closed his eyes briefly.

Another problem, another failure.

A quiet sigh slipped past his lips, less anger now, more exhaustion. The kind that came from constant disappointment rather than resistance.

“Ensure she is not lost again,” he said, his tone even, controlled. “A tracker was implanted on the nape of her neck. Her location is known at all times.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze distant but sharp.

“Continue observation. Monitor her condition closely. Any changes—physical, behavioral, anything at all—you report it to me immediately.” His voice lowered, carrying a quiet weight. “Nothing is insignificant.”

“Yes, sire.”

The Viltrumite bowed his head, then turned and left as quickly as he had entered. The door slid shut behind him.

And once again Thragg was alone.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

He remained still long after the door closed, the silence settling deep into the room. His gaze drifted. Not to the reports, not to the mission, but somewhere far beyond it.

She left.

A faint exhale left him, quieter this time.

“It changes nothing,” he murmured to himself, though the words felt less certain than before. Still… his eyes sharpened again. 

“Run if you wish.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, something unreadable flickering there.

“I will find you.”

Dividers by: @\bhavihelps

Note: Tried my best to make him not too out of his character

[tired-biscuit]

A friend, a mate, and all things in-between

18+ MDNI, fem!reader/werewolf!bsf!kiba

premise: after finding out the truth about the role you supposedly play in kiba’s life, you settle on a compromise of taking things slow and seeing where the wind takes you while you’re at it.

cw: monsterfucking, knotting, implied breeding, mounting, size difference, omegaverse themes, werewolf saliva used as aphrodisiac. college/modern AU, friends to lovers, established mating bond, jealousy, descriptions of a close call-cheating encounter in the past, usage of sweetheart and bunny as pet names for reader.

wc: 22.8k

find part one here!

———

On Saturday, Kiba takes you out for dinner, exactly like he’d promised.

The restaurant by the lake that you’ve decided to visit is quaint as much as it is familiar. The lighting is dim but warm, and the tables are clean even if some of the edges have been smoothed out with age and use. Pictures and framed newspaper articles cover the walls. All of them feature your little town in some way or another.

There’s a pleasant tune playing on the tiny, white speakers that are fixed in the corner. You’re pretty sure you’ve heard the song on the radio before. The easy-going notes resemble the elevator music you sometimes hear whenever you go shopping at the local mall and have to reach the garage underneath, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad, necessarily.

If you had to describe the place, it reminds you of a diner that’s gotten stuck in the past, that is if a diner was situated next to a lake and the modern aspects of it were entirely excluded, of course.

After all, there is a shiny new coffee machine sitting behind the counter, and the waitress is wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a t-shirt instead of a uniform and rollerblades — the latter being a missed opportunity in your opinion.

But speaking of time; both yourself and Kiba used to come here all the time back when you were younger, even going so far back that your feet were left dangling in the air as soon as your butts had plopped onto the same plushy chairs you’re sitting in now. Making choices was easier back then — the only food you ordered had come from the kids menu.

You can still hear his, ‘Are ya gonna finish that?’ somewhere in the back of your mind. 

As well as his mother’s immediate hiss of disapproval, ‘For goodness’ sake, boy, let the poor girl eat her food in peace! With the way you’re acting, people are gonna start thinking that I don’t feed you enough.’

In the beginning, you both ate here with your parents. Afterwards — when the soles of your sneakers were able to firmly touch the floor and Kiba had won the bet and got his driver’s license well before you did — it was mostly just the two of you.

But as you sit across from him at the table that’s situated right next to the window, and which you’ve personally favoured for years — you know that he prefers the one that’s in the corner — you come to realize that this date is different from all the previous ones that you’ve been on in this exact place with him.

Because unlike the rest, this one is actually for real.

And it shows, you think. In many ways, with the most obvious one being the fact that your best friend has tidied himself up rather nicely despite the high temperatures outside.

There are jeans instead of gym shorts on his strong legs, and clean shoes on his feet instead of the busted sneakers that he swears up and down are still holding on just fine. He’s even gone through the hassle of putting on a short-sleeved button-up with a pretty pattern that cleverly melds into the colour of the cotton if you’re looking closely enough — not that you are!

In classic Kiba fashion, the top two buttons of his shirt are undone; open just enough for the glint of a thin golden chain to catch your eye whenever he tilts his head to the side or stretches his neck.

You haven’t been staring at the piece of jewelry for long, wondering where or who he’d gotten it from, however you can still tell that there’s no pendant hanging off the necklace. No charm or initial either.

Good.

Wait, wait, wait… why is that good? Are you by any chance hoping that he’ll agree to wear yours because of it?

The thought succeeds in heating up your face with stress — a popular emotion this entire situation has been evoking as of late. Ever since he had admitted that you were his mate back in the tent, you’re still feeling the pressure of deciding if you actually want to be one. 

And placing a mark like that on him, clasping your golden initial around his neck and consequently announcing that he’s your property now… It’d signal just that, now wouldn’t it?

Attempting to whisk away the dilemma that’s been plaguing your mind for the last couple of days, you force your eyes to dip from your best friend’s neck, down to the plate of half-eaten food that you’ve still got sitting in front of you. 

Your grip on the fork is tight as you chew. The food is good, even if you can’t taste it all that much from how absent-minded you are.

In a mere instant, Kiba is leaning in to ask, “You okay?”

He’s always asking that as of late.

Are you all right?

Is everything okay?

Are you sure?

“Yeah.” The nod you give him is so stiff and fast that it comes across as unnatural instead of genuine. “I’m fine.”

You try to ignore the curious smile that curls his lips as he continues to watch you eat, undoubtedly inhaling the anxiety that riddles your scent in subtle waves now. 

He’s learned that it intensifies whenever his foot accidentally touches yours underneath the table. That it doubles in strength whenever he looks you in the eyes for too long. Sometimes it even happens when he grins. Practically everything seems to be setting you off today.

You’re nervous, that much is clear. Are way up in your head about this entire thing just like you are with everything else that happens in your life. And while finding out that you’re basically a perfect biological match for your best friend is no small feat, the young werewolf’s opinion remains: you need to fucking relax. 

With how hard you’re squeezing that fork, it’s making him fear that you’re trying to split it in half — an act that he definitely wouldn’t mind doing to you again.

Woah there, reel it back in, lover boy… Easy!

Willing himself to push the dirty thought away by thinking about the food he’s eating instead, Kiba swallows the bite of steak he’d just been chewing on with a small, albeit conflicted sigh. 

The meat tastes rich despite the fact that it’s been served nearly raw — the bloodier, the better when it comes to dining with a werewolf, you suppose — however, he finds it hard to fully appreciate the meal when unlike his taste buds, his libido is far from appeased.

“Anyways.” He pauses to glide the tip of his tongue across his front teeth, further appreciating the savory taste that’s stuck there before he leans in slightly closer again. “You look really pretty tonight.”

Hearing his compliment, you look up from your plate; carefully eyeing him from underneath your lashes which you’ve taken the time to coat with a thin layer of mascara before leaving the house. It was a decision made solely for your own peace of mind.

Well, probably. 

Taking a shallow breath now, you ask, “I do?”

“What kind of stupid question is that… ‘Course you’re pretty, bunny. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever had the pleasure of layin’ my eyes on,” he says, chuckling quietly and propping his cheek against one palm with such ease that it’s almost scary.

Watching you succumb further into yourself in response to his niceness is entertaining as hell, he can’t lie. You’re lost, vulnerable. If looks as sweet as the one that’s sitting on your face right now had the power to kill, he’d be proclaimed a dead man ages ago. 

It compels him to add, “You’ve always been pretty to me.”

Messing with you or not, what he says now is the truth. Sticking by your side in the role of your best friend for so many years, Kiba has seen you be at your best as often as he’s experienced you at your worst, and has nonetheless always, always thought the exact same thing about you: that you’re perfect. 

Perfect for him, that is.

Whether you’re wearing trendy skirts or hoodies so big that they entirely hide your shape, he still likes you all the same. Whether you’re walking around with freshly washed hair and with make-up on your face, or you’re still stumbling around because you’ve just woken up from a nap that has left you all disoriented and sweaty — to him there’s no difference as long as it’s you.

Part of it is the bond’s doing. It veils you with an appeal that draws him to you no matter what. However, whilst that may be the case, he thinks that the majority of his wild infatuation has to do with plain familiarity instead.

After all, it’s your heart that is his favourite thing about you, that much he’s positive about… Even if the shy little smile that you give him now could be considered quite the competitor. 

And quite the competitor it is! Kiba’s eyes are practically glued to the wet-like sheen of your lip gloss when you slowly shake your head to chide a meek, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” he inquires immediately with a grin of his own.

“Stop flirting,” you say, placing the fork back onto your plate with a soft clink. Crossing your legs underneath the table, your body language is trying its hardest to appear strict as you add, “We said we were going to take it slow, remember…? Or are you just playing dumb on purpose?”

“What’re you talking about; we are taking it slow,” he says, his tone a matter-of-fact one. “Actually, I doubt it can get much slower than this.”

Your lips purse in response. “Talking in a way that makes you sound like you’re trying to get into my pants does not mean slow, Kiba.”

“You’re not wearing any pants, though.” His gaze slips down to the light sundress you’ve put on for the night. It makes your tits look great, but he knows you wouldn’t be happy to hear that.

You snap your fingers in front of his nose, forcing him to avert his attention from your dress. “That’s besides the point and you know it.”

“Oh, c’mon.” He takes another bite of his food, then points his fork at you, seemingly in an accusatory type of way as he mutters, “I’m just saying… If we did it my way, I would’ve bent you over ages ago.”

“Can… Can you not?! God.” You fight to extinguish the heat that immediately begins to simmer on your cheeks, but it’s proving to be quite difficult. The warmth is so strong that it even manages to travel down to the base of your neck. “Just… be quiet for a second, okay?”

His upper lip twitches as his grin widens. “Why?”

“Just ‘cause!”

Kiba huffs a laugh at the slightly higher pitch that you speak in now, shoulders shaking the tiniest bit. He watches you clear your throat and readjust in your seat, and even goes as far as to drag his gaze from your face to your neck when you reach over to take a small sip of the cocktail you’ve ordered. It still sits on the table looking half-full; creating a prominent circle of moisture on the crispy white table cloth underneath. 

The drink is colourful and summery. Even has a little paper umbrella on top. He had joked about how girly it looks earlier, but had secretly considered ordering the exact same thing just to see what the inside of your mouth must taste like. After some consideration, he’d ended up settling on a coke though.

He knows you’d nag him to no end about drinking when he’s the one who’s driving… even if alcohol doesn’t do shit when it comes to him.

Still, girly drink or not, the ice somewhat succeeds in cooling you off and poses a challenge to the sudden heat of bashfulness that threatens to sweep you off your feet. It’s like all your senses have gone acute all of a sudden.

The sigh you let out because of it is one of only partial relief.

“What’s the matter? You hot?” Kiba teases instantly, his voice dropping so dangerously low that you can almost feel it reverberate in your bones. “Hot and bothered?”

“Shut up,” you hiss before taking another sip, this time a larger one. You need it if you wish to endure this menace of a man.

“What’s in it for me?” the mentioned menace questions now, taunting you with that infuriating half-smile that he knows damn well provokes you immensely. He even goes as far as to wiggle his eyebrows as he gives his best effort to purr, “Does it make you feel things, mm? Makes you wanna— Hey!”

His taunting gets replaced with a huff of disapproval when you suddenly kick him in the shin, making the fork rattle atop your plate. The kick itself is nowhere near to being powerful enough to actually hurt him, considering his thick skin and the firm cords of muscle that hide underneath, but it does get the message across. Kind of.

“What’d you do that for?” A playful little pout sits on Kiba’s mouth now. It makes him look younger than he actually is; makes him resemble the kid that you spent all your time with back in high school, as well as all the years prior to that. 

“Because it was well deserved, you dumbass,” you mumble, still staring at his face. A small, slightly less nervous chuckle bubbles up your throat when he bristles in answer. “Now be quiet and eat your dinner.”

Not even batting an eye, he blurts out, “I’d rather eat you, though.”

You give it your best shot to scowl at him even if the tease sparks heat somewhere inside your middle all over again. It’s the reason why your voice doesn’t sound as strong as you want it to be when you say, “You’re hopeless, you know that? Actually hopeless.”

“Actually, I think I'm quite on my game tonight.” He gives you a wink, reaching for his fork again. “But you can keep tellin’ yourself that if it makes ya feel any better, sweetheart.”

He’s right. 

It makes you sigh.

———

The rest of your first proper date with your best friend goes well. Scarily so.

In fact, neither of you picks up the phone during the entirety of it. The only exception is when you decide to stalk your old classmates from high school together and share a good laugh about some of the results you stumble upon.

“Oh shit, he’s actually completely bald… What the hell?”

“Called it! I fuckin’ called it!”

Your face hurts from laughing so much and with the initial nervousness gone, dinner goes smoothly. You end up sharing dessert and talking nearly until closing time — releasing the growingly impatient waitress from your clutches at long last and mumbling sheepish apologies along the way because of it. 

To be honest, the entire outing isn’t much different from all the previous ones you’ve indulged in the exact same restaurant all those years ago.

However, you soon find out that that is because the change in your dynamic presents itself afterwards; when he turns to look you in the eye the second you sit in his car and asks you if you want to go to his place, despite the fact that it’s getting late and he doesn’t live with his mom anymore.

And you go. You nod your head yes and you fucking go. For what reason, you, yourself don’t know, but you might as well find out while you’re at it.

So around quarter to midnight, you arrive to the little apartment that Kiba calls his new home. It’s cozy and a little messy, though not to a degree that should cause concern. Otherwise, it’s lived in and definitely your standard guy apartment.

He shows you the kitchen, immediately rolling his eyes when your gaze lands onto the small pile of dishes in the sink — two cereal bowls and a mug that for some reason says ‘World’s Best Dad’ on it — and points you in the direction of the bathroom, his roommate’s bedroom, and finally, his own room, which you tell him you’ll take a look at some other time, preferably during the day and when you don’t have three sugary cocktails coursing your blood and clouding your better judgement. 

You did say that you were going to take it slow, after all.

By the time he drags you into the living room, you let out a small gasp of joy when you come face to face with Akamaru, who lays curled up on the couch, depicting the epitome of comfort.

Scurrying to sit down next to the big pup and offering him your hand to sniff so that he can hopefully recognize you despite not seeing you in years, you begin to understand what Kiba had meant with the term ‘senior dog’ during your camping trip earlier.

Christ, he’s gotten so old.

“So, what do you think?” your best friend calls out from the hallway now. He’d gone there to hang up your jacket for you at first, but it seems like he’s also using the chance to turn off the lights as he goes. 

…As well as to run off into his room to change his fancy clothes for a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a simple T-shirt. Typical.

“It’s a nice place. Pretty spacious.” You’re too busy petting Akamaru, pretending you aren’t interested in him when he throws himself onto the couch right next to you, even if your body tenses up just the tiniest bit at the closeness.

You’ve already fucked him, for crying out loud — several times in the span of one night. What are you acting so damn nervous for?

“But?” he mumbles, seemingly not noticing the subtle change in your body language as he crosses his ankles and flicks on the television. 

“What do you mean but? There’s no but,” you chide in answer, still scratching the white canine behind the ears and really trying to put all your focus into the movement instead of the warmth of your best friend’s body that is slowly spilling into your side now. 

The brown patches in Akamaru’s fur have gotten dull in colour with old age. His eyes look tired and he’s also nowhere as lively as he used to be, though he still puts in the effort to give you an appreciative little wag of his tail when your fingers dig into the sweet spot that you remember is hiding underneath his chin. 

“There’s always a but with you,” Kiba insists, changing the channel yet again. He’s not paying attention to the TV, not really anyways, but he pretends that he does just so that you can breathe a little easier.

However, when you turn your head so that you can shoot him a glare for the sly remark, you catch him staring right back at you with that stupidly lovestruck smile playing on his lips.

Lowering your gaze, you try to act like it doesn’t cause butterflies to start fluttering inside your belly. Meanwhile, he tries to act like he can’t smell the sudden sweetness that the feeling evokes in your scent.

“Oh, fine.” You pause, ceasing the petting for a moment. “I suppose it could use a little bit of a woman’s touch here and there… And you definitely could’ve washed the dishes prior to inviting me, but that’s all.”

“For your information, I didn’t wash the dishes ‘cause it’s Kankuro’s turn to do ‘em,” he says. And grins. “And if the place really needs a woman’s touch as badly as you say it does, then you’re more than welcome to touch it all over.”

“Kankuro is your roommate, I take it?” you ask, choosing to skip over the thing he’s hinting at. The butterflies still continue to flutter, though.

“Yep,” Kiba replies, playing with the remote now. The symbol on the power button has long since faded out with use and it doesn’t surprise him really. Him and Kankuro had found the TV on Facebook Marketplace. Bought it so cheap that it felt like a steal.

You listen to the quiet click of claws as Akamaru slides off the couch and ventures down the hallway, aiming straight towards Kiba’s bedroom. He’s probably going to use the chance to hog up as much space on the bed as he possibly can before his owner can beat him to it. Smart dog.

“What’s he like?” you inquire. “This Kankuro guy?”

“He’s, you know… Kanks is just a regular dude as far as I’m concerned,” your best friend says, still staring at the remote. “Cleans up after himself and is good with Akamaru. He does that cosplayin’ shit from time to time, though… Paints his face for those anime conventions that you see online and stuff. It’s pretty dope.”

“Does he know about,” you trail off, making sure to lower your voice just in case, “you know… The whole howling at the moon thingy?”

“Fuck no.” Kiba shakes his head, his lips curling into a smile. “You, Hana and mom are still the only ones who know, but now I’m kind of starting to think that I should’ve kept it a family secret instead of telling your dorky ass about it… Howling at the moon thingy? What are ya; twelve?”

You stick your tongue out at him at the remark. He tries not to stare at it for too long.

“Say…” A couple of moments pass. Your gaze dips to your lap as you ask, “How come you never told Tamaki?”

The mention of his ex-girlfriend makes Kiba want to cringe. His smile falters, twitching downwards at the corners, but he forces it to remain at least semi-present despite the fact that you’re not looking at him. Either your hands must have become the most interesting thing in the world, or you’re ashamed for inquiring about his past relationships.

“Ah, you know,” he mutters after a short moment of silence. His tone sounds very distant out of the blue. “Just never found the right time for it, I suppose.”

You hum at his answer; just a little noise of acknowledgement. “You never found the time even after being with her for… several years?”

How could he, if it also meant having to explain that he was eternally tied to his best friend; the girl he’d always assured her that she shouldn’t be worried about?

Kiba gives a hard, obvious swallow, unable to stop his jaw from clenching a little. “Yeah.”

You pick at your nails, pretending there’s something underneath them in order to appear busy. “Do you miss her?”

“I, um… I think I used to, but I definitely don’t anymore.” He sees the dumbfounded look you give him now and scrubs a tired hand over his face. “I know it sounds awful when I put it like that, trust me, I know, but the bond between me and you doesn’t let me feel things like… that anymore. For other people, I mean. It’s just… It’s a bitch to explain.”

He had loved Tamaki. Perhaps he still does; in a way that would never be enough for her and that is considerably less than what she actually deserves, but after finally connecting with you, his mate, the mere thought of ever being intimate with someone else again repulses him greatly. 

He’d tried to make it work. To give her what she’d desired, deserved. Every embrace, kiss, conversation, trip, and so much more. However, you’d always been right there, sitting in the back of his mind during it all. And now that he’d gotten the chance to place his mouth on yours, and had tasted you, had been inside you, he feels so fucking stupid for even attempting to do such a thing in the first place.

It’s either you or nobody.

“So, anyway… Cosplay, huh?” you ask randomly, clearly trying to brush the heavy topic away despite being the one who initiated it. 

He blinks, slowly. “What about it?”

“You really think it’s cool?”

“Yes,” he snips all of a sudden. The change of tone makes you even more puzzled than you already are, especially when he adds, “Is it that hard to believe or somethin’?”

“Well… yeah,” you mumble while scratching your cheek. It’s a challenge to contain the surprise that tries to show on your face now; your eyebrows are insisting on rising up nearly to your hairline. “I mean, the Kiba I know would’ve straight up bullied a person like that.”

He blanches at your statement. “That was one time! I was just being honest with the poor suckers when I told them that carrying Yu-Gi-Oh! cards to school is the reason why they’re all still virgins… In fact, I was probably doing them a favour!”

“No,” you object. “You were being mean.”

“Then it’s a good thing that we’re not in high school anymore, I guess.” He flicks the remote onto a nearby pillow and crosses his arms behind his head before he says, “And just so you know, I’m not just some mean asshole that you constantly keep referring to me as. People can change. Myself included.”

“I didn’t–... I didn’t mean it like that,” you reply a bit too fast, feeling every blink your eyelids make. His gaze is unmoving from your face and it’s causing you to become hyper-aware of your body. “I know there’s more to you than just acting like a prick, come on. I wouldn’t be friends with you otherwise.”

He sighs in answer, his face tight. You do the same.

Awkwardness settles in.

“Uh,” you utter at some point, finally daring to look up at him again. “Want to tell me the reason why you like it, though?”

“Like what?” he asks dumbly.

“Cosplay.”

“Oh.” A brief second passes before he, at long last, chuckles. You’re relieved to see his shoulders sag a bit with it. “Well, if I’ve gotta pick one thing, I guess it’s ‘cause most of the chicks are dressed in those hot, skintight bodysuits?”

“Seriously?” A pang of jealousy resonates within you, but you do your best to repress it. It’s too early to be feeling all that. “That’s the best thing you can come up with? Girls in tight bodysuits?”

“No, I’m just messin’ with ya, hah…” He grins, but swallows thickly again and runs his fingers over the back of his head before he continues, “While those are nice, don’t get me wrong, I guess I really like it because it’s like Halloween, in a way?”

“Halloween?” you repeat, even more confused.

“Yeah.” He gives you a nod that could almost come across as sheepish. “Someone can dress up as something that’s supposed to be big and scary, and when people see it, they aren’t… Well, they aren’t afraid of it, necessarily? Instead they just think it’s cool and fun, you know?”

Finally, Kiba tears his gaze from your face, allowing it to settle onto his lap instead. Silence stretches between you once more as you continue to stare at him. Your head tilts to the side just as his drops lower, and you make the decision to reach out so that you can gently pat his knee in understanding.

Your entire body begins to glow from within when his hand rests atop your own. He traces your knuckles and gives them a gentle squeeze. The sensation is truly something you haven’t had the chance to experience before with anyone other than your best friend. There’s just so much nostalgia hiding in the small portrayal of affection.

The tone of your voice slips into something soft because of it, so soft that it comes across as barely above a whisper even to his sensitive wolf hearing when you ask, “I take it that that someone is you, in your… other form?” 

“What? No, I, uh… It’s not me.” He lets go of your hand to awkwardly clear his throat, trying to ignore the sudden ache that appears in it before he sits cross-legged and rests his elbows on his knees. 

By the time he’s ready to speak again, he’s already fiddling with his fingers. “Besides, even if I actually wanted to go, I still couldn’t. I’m far too big for that. Far too… scary-lookin’.”

He wants to though, you can see it bright as day. Can see that he’s tired of hiding a whole other half of himself — a half that he’ll unfortunately have to keep hidden for as long as he lives. Tired of making excuses and being overly cautious when he’s the exact opposite of it, and missing out on important events whenever they’re set on days following up to a full moon. Tired of receiving weird, uncomfortable glances whenever instinct takes over and his true nature pushes forward a bit too far past the barriers, when all he yearns for is to be liked.

Just… fed up with it all.

However, you also know that Kiba hates being perceived as vulnerable. So rather than moping with him and indulging his sadness and thus worsening it, you instead use the chance to snort and playfully nudge him in the shoulder. 

“Oh, yeah?” you say, making sure the lilt in your voice is overly noticeable. “Is that so?”

The nudge you give him makes him look up, as does the sudden change in your tone. At the sight of your friendly smile and the challenge simmering in your eyes, his expression eventually lightens to something a bit less stormy.

You’ll do just about anything to drag your best friend out of the bubble of melancholy that he’s surrounded himself with. 

And the best thing about it? You know that he would’ve done the same for you.

“Yeah,” he says, playing along now, albeit reluctantly. He’s still not quite where you want him exactly, but you’re getting there.

“Well, how big and scary are we talking, big boy?” you continue to inquire, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“I–” He snickers at your flirtatious prodding, rolling his eyes right afterwards. “Too big for anyone to handle,” he says, “and that includes you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Can he truly get that big? You’ve never had the chance to see him turn full wolf yet, so his statement causes your stomach to fill with warmth. Heat travels downwards, over your thighs and between your legs, and you swear that you can hear him inhale a breath that’s slightly deeper than usual when it happens. 

The unannounced nerves are making you want to start pacing around the room, but you force your body to keep still.

“Well, you not believing me ain’t my problem, now is it?” he says, his smile suddenly wistful now. The light that comes from the TV makes his unnaturally big canines glimmer with moisture. It’s hard to not look at his mouth because of it. 

Words slightly wobbly, you manage to say, “I’m your mate, though.”

Mate. He perks up at the word, just like he always does, but his voice doesn’t make him sound particularly fazed as he utters, “And?”

“And that makes me your problem,” you explain, finally daring to move so that you can scratch your cheek again. It’s nothing more but an attempt at self-soothing. “Doesn’t it?”

You’re unsure why you’re pushing on this specific topic — especially after being the one who had once again suggested taking things slow in the first place — however, to be fair, you’ve been curious about it for a long while, even before you’d tangled yourself into this whole ‘bonded for life’ mess.

But now that the link has been revealed, the desire to lay your eyes on the unthinkable has become as potent as ever.

There is just something so undeniably appealing about the idea of seeing him in his werewolf form. Something thrilling in discovering the unknown; touching it with your hands and grazing it with the tips of your fingers. Something reassuring in accepting all of him, especially after he’d just partially trusted you with his insecurities revolving around this specific topic.

So yes, it’s either that, or it’s the newly discovered monsterfucker that’s been hiding inside you this whole time that’s talking and coaxing him into showing himself now. Or perhaps it’s both. Who knows?

You try to feign indifference to the best of your capability as you wait for his answer, even if every single inch of you is buzzing with relentless expectation. 

With bated breath that could very well match your own to perfection, Kiba inches ever so slightly closer, seemingly completely unintentionally. His gaze is laser-focused as he studies every feature that your face provides. The curve of your jaw, the shape of your lips, the colour of your eyes — he burns it all into memory before he at long last settles on the upper corner of your left cheek.

His burning stare causes your heart to pound faster than it normally would, and you know that he can hear it despite the fact that his ears are nowhere near your chest. Still, you insist on not moving a muscle. Insist on being brave.

“I’m too big for ya,” he says finally, gesturing over himself with his hand. “This is all you’re gonna get after you’re done playing the ‘takin’ it slow’ game with me.”

You bristle, clearly displeased with his answer. “But I’m–”

“It doesn’t work like that,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “Believe me, I wish it would, but it still doesn’t change the fact that you’re only human.”

“Humans can adapt! And being one, as you’ve so kindly pointed out, I’m pretty sure I can take it,” you object, heart still going thump, thump, thump! Something tells you that this isn’t just about cheering him up anymore. “Actually, I know I can.”

If he’s fucked you like a feral animal without transforming, how off the rails can he get if he doesn’t have anything holding him back anymore? 

You tense up when he gives you a harsh, almost derisive kind of laugh. Sit straighter when he says, “I’d tear you to shreds.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“The point is that I could.” The corners of his mouth twitch downwards at the horrible thought. “And that’s not something I’m willing to risk.”

You roll your eyes. “Since when are you one to say no to taking risks?”

“Since last week,” he replies. “Give or take.”

“You mean…?” A quick wave of heat washes over your face again. You went camping last week and he’d slipped into rut whilst sharing a tent with you; accidentally confessing everything that’s tied him to you ever since he’d first laid eyes on you all those years ago. 

He nods. “You’d be surprised how much being with a mate can change a wolf… I’m boring as fuck now.”

“But I don’t want you to change! I love you just the way you are,” you find yourself saying. The reason must be that last cocktail you persuaded yourself into ordering and eventually drinking. It’s untied your tongue like it’s nothing but a measly shoelace.

Nevertheless… 

Love.

Kiba’s breath hitches at the word, deeply-rooted emotions swelling within his broad chest, however he — very painfully — chooses not to ask to hear it again as soon as the subtle whiff of anxiety wafts over to his nose.

You’re embarrassed because of what you’ve just said. It makes his chest squeeze to the brink of pain.

“I mean–” you start, fumbling with your words. “I–”

“It’s okay,” he says, patting your knee as casually as he’s able despite the fact that the smile he gives you now seems just a smidge too tight. “I know what you meant. Now stop making it awkward or I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

Hyper-sensitive — his touch lights your skin on fire. His palm barely moves from its initial spot, but you can feel every callus to adorn his fingers, every minuscule stroke, as well as the reassuring squeeze that makes you want to straight up jump his bones.

And fuck, it’s nice. So nice, in fact, that it persuades you to stop him when he goes to pull his hand off your leg.

“Wait… don’t.”

“Mm?”

“You can touch me.” The words roll off your tongue before you can reel them back in again, but you still decide to put on your bravest front even if your upper lip is a second away from quivering.

Short-lived surprise crosses Kiba’s face. You watch with nervous eyes as his hand falters before it eventually settles on its original spot again. He grasps it more firmly this time. Squeezes with intent instead of reassurance.

There’s a beat of unsure stillness in the air before he brings himself to ask, “Like that?”

You give him a nod, feeling a little more confident while also paying mind not to be so tense. There are so many things you have to keep track of; god, why can’t you just relax and be more like him? Everything has to be so darn complicated whenever it comes to you! 

“Bunny,” he says, his tone still slightly unsure. “I thought I told you to stop making it awkward.”

Phantom lightning strikes your insides, melting them into liquid. “I’m not making it awkward.”

“‘Course you are. You’re completely stiff.” His grip tightens and it makes your eyes grow wide and your body turn even tenser in response. 

His own eyes aren’t their usual chocolate brown shade when he lifts his gaze to look at you again, but they sure are dark as sin. 

“See?” is all he says, a little out of breath. 

“I’m not,” you insist, the sentence completely useless. Your throat feels terribly dry all of a sudden. It makes your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth. “You’re just… imagining things.”

He quirks one brow. Repeats your challenge from earlier with the same tone, “Oh, yeah?” 

You bite your lip — a lame attempt to refocus. “Yeah.”

But before you know it, he uses one hand to shove you until you’re laying flat on your back, sinking deeper into the couch cushions, causing you to let out a little noise of startlement. 

His head pops into your field of vision as he hovers over you now. Aside from the light that comes from the TV, the room is shrouded in darkness. It makes only half of his face visible, however you can still see the glimmer of his teeth when he smiles down at you.

“You’re still sure about me imagining things?” he asks, clasping his fingers around the fat of your thigh. “‘Cause this is looking pretty real to me.”

“Y-yes,” you reply, challenging him further. “I’m sure.”

His grin turns wolfish as he drags his gaze over your somewhat disheveled form. Across both of your collarbones, now exposed due to the thin spaghetti straps of your dress slipping off your shoulders slightly, as well as the rising hem that’s slowly showing off more and more of your legs.

He’s looking at you like he’s planning to eat you. But rather than digging in, all he does is sneer as he says, “Brave words for someone who oddly resembles a plank right now.”

Well… that certainly wasn’t what you were expecting.

“Fuck you,” you drawl in answer, a mere hint of disappointment crossing your features — disappointment you’ll never admit to feeling. Urging your body to relax once more just so that you can prove him wrong, you instead try to focus on calming down your breathing.

However, it’s hard to do so when your best friend is literally on top of you, watching you with hungry eyes and the most complacent of smiles. Hard to do so when his fingers are now toying with the string that ties the front of your dress together and holds your tits in place. Hard to do so when—

A small gasp escapes your lips when he jabs you in the side all of a sudden.

The bridge of your nose scrunches in annoyance. When you try to stop him from repeating the action, he just takes you by the wrist and uses the chance to pin it above your head. “Don’t do that.”

“Or what?” He huffs a laugh at your weak attempt to fight back. Pokes you in the side again, making you whine. “What are you gonna do ‘bout it, hmm?” 

You don’t say anything as you squirm underneath him, trying to break free from his grip, but your efforts are to no avail. He’s got you locked in tight; has even made sure to pin your other hand the same way he did the first one when you tried to use it to push him in the chest.

“C’mon, bunny,” he taunts, his smile growing, growing, growing. Gosh, he really is such a wolf, isn’t he? “Is that really the best you can do?”

“No, it’s just not fair,” you say, trying to tame your pulse. The position you’ve wound up in is making your mind wander to all sorts of things. Dirty things.

“What’s not fair?” he asks, rubbing his thumb across your wrist.

“The fact that you’re so much stronger than me and expect me to throw you off like it’s nothing,” you mumble, huffing as you look up at the spot where he’s pressing down on your wrists. “I mean, how am I supposed to do anything, when you can hold me down with just one hand?”

The way his pupils widen with obvious excitement at your statement should concern you, but you know better than to think that he’d ever actually hurt you. It’s just the predator in him playing. A side he cannot stop from slipping into the spotlight every so often. A side he feels safe enough to share with you.

He likes being described as big and overpowering. Call it a guilty pleasure.

“Try using your legs,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with want. You can still distinguish the smile in it though. “I heard bunnies are supposed to have quite a kick to ‘em.”

“I’m not an actual bunny, shut up,” you fuss, but do exactly as he says. You kick your legs…

…and end up wrapping them around his waist instead.

Flustered warmth sears your face, neck and chest all over again as your ankles lock on the small of his back seemingly by their own accord. The skirt of your dress hikes up with the movement, exposing more of your thighs; offering him a glimpse of your cutesy underwear that you didn’t think twice about wearing because you weren’t planning on starting anything with him tonight.

And yet here you are.

The rise in temperature that you’re feeling all over blazes into something more profound now. Heat gathers in your stomach. Your legs. Between them, too. Anticipation tightens your skin, bringing the blood that runs underneath it to an angry simmer.

Kiba’s smile slowly fades when he senses the particular tension that now riddles the air around you. You stare at each other even if it’s hard for you and easy for him. For fuck’s sake, it feels like he’s burning holes into your fucking forehead when he looks at you like that.

“What is it?” you ask, nerves working overtime. “Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”

“You smell so fucking good when you’re turned on, did you know that?” he rasps in answer, completely ignoring your question and pitiful attempt at diffusing the situation. His nose is already leading him to that very tender spot hiding in the crook of your neck.

You flinch when he nudges your jawline, silently asking you for permission to give him more space. Not trusting the lump of nervosity that’s taken up residency inside your throat to not betray you all of a sudden, you allow it wordlessly and by angling your head slightly to the right.

“Your scent is so… I can smell how wet your cunt is even from here, god,” he trails off without an ounce of shame, every word lower and lower in tone. He takes another deep breath. Savours it with a soft groan. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”

Embarrassment flashes through you like lightning does a stormy sky. The realization that he can immediately pick up on the scent of your arousal — as well as the aftermath that the ability brings — is overwhelming. 

It makes your heart thrum even faster than it did before. Consequently, your thoughts are now nothing more but a jumbled mess as you desperately attempt to tame your pulse back into a rhythm that’s normal instead of completely erratic.

But it’s not just you who’s having a hard time. The muscles in Kiba’s arms have gone completely stiff and his inhales are deep and audible instead of calm. He only pauses them to press cautious little kisses over your neck, most of which he eventually starts mixing with even smaller nips with the help of his teeth.

You’re pouring with sweat because of it. His apartment is warm, too warm even if it didn’t feel like that before, and his mouth is hot just like his tongue is as it repeatedly presses against your sweet spot. The action even causes goosebumps to appear all over your arms and legs. Great.

“Relax,” he mumbles, the tip of his nose practically smushed against your neck. “We’ve done this before.”

“What makes you think that we’ll do it again?” you hiss, fighting tooth and nail to appear authoritative. It doesn’t come off as strongly as you want it to, though.

“Call it a hunch,” he says, unable to resist a smirk. “Or whatever.”

Your lips remain a firm line. Unimpressed. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Sure am,” he trails off with a lazy grin as his fingers brush the side of your neck. He looks at you. And winks. “You can be too, if you wanna. Full of me, I mean.”

“N-no?! The hell,” you splutter out, squirming even more. Sly motherfucker, damn him. “I thought I told you-”

“Relax! C’mon,” he repeats, huffing another laugh. “You know damn well that I’m just fucking with you, sorry, messing… No need to lecture me all the time.”

You roll your eyes. “You say that as if you can actually be lectured in the first place.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Did it ever cross that naggy mind of yours that I don’t listen to you because I don’t want to, and not because I can’t?”

“Oh yeah, many times,” you reply, glaring at him. “Drives my naggy mind crazy.”

He muses like a satisfied cat at your statement. “You drive me crazy.”

“Stop hitting on me!” Your entire face scrunches up in annoyance. “Sweet talking isn’t gonna get you laid.”

“Then what will?” He drags his tongue along your pulse point. Blows air on the trail of saliva so that he can watch you writhe at the cold sensation to overcome you, then. “You want me to chase you around a lil’ bit first? Play a little game of prey versus predator with ya to get you to sit on my dick tonight?”

A small groan of agitation is the best you can do when it comes to answering his taunting.

“Or do you want me to really work for it, hmm, bunny?” His grip tightens around your wrists. As if to serve as a reminder. “Even though, judging by how you’re lookin’ right now, I could just take it all for myself either way?”

Your breath hitches in the back of your throat. “You wouldn’t.”

His upper lip curls, revealing those sharp canine teeth again. “Yeah, you’re right. I wouldn’t.” 

But he could.

Still, your breaths continue to intermingle. Doubt gets overridden by lust. Hands explore; one pair of them courageous as it can be, the other perfectly timid in contrast. The former even uses that courage to hike the hem of your dress up to your waist, completely exposing your lower half amidst all the grinding and writhing that’s slowly, but surely, coming into fruition. 

Kiba looks like he’s already won as he leers between your legs with that obnoxiously knowing glint in his eye and the equally as infuriating half-smile. 

He seems to be aware that you’re trying your absolute hardest not to react to the obvious bulge that’s in his sweatpants now. That you’re trying to ignore the rushing thrill that surges through you whenever he presses it against your traitor of a cunt — which still hides under the plain cotton panties you apparently swore you wouldn’t let him see tonight.

So he pushes it against you again. And again. Applying pressure, rubbing, testing out the playing field, waiting for you to tell him to stop. 

You don’t though. No, all you do is bite your lip in order to suppress the moan that’s impatiently waiting behind your clenched teeth and wiggle your hips whenever the hot contact strikes.

“Fuck, you’re so cute.” He can’t hide how entertained he is as he mumbles, “You want my cock? ‘Cause I’ll more than gladly give it to ya.”

A low hiss slips past your lips when his hard-on manages to bump your clit over the layers of clothes. It makes your brows furrow and your legs squeeze around his waist even tighter. 

“I didn’t–” You pause to close your eyes and inhale a rather wobbly breath. By the time you open them again, he’s already staring right back. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, his own eyes flashing with what you think could be pride. “I can already tell from how fuckin’ soaked you are... Look.”

He reaches down between you then, running a single knuckle down your clothed slit. Your hips buck in answer to the touch almost immediately; the damp patch that’s formed on your underwear now turning more noticeable, shaping the outline of your pussy even further.

It makes him yearn to tug your panties to the side so that he can feel the slick coating his fingers before he can push them into your tight little hole, but he knows you’ll cause a fuss and close up on him if he moves even a smidge too quickly for your liking.

Still, the sight nearly makes him drool. His cock twitches. Starts to physically ache with need. It’s not as bad as it was during his rut last week, but fuck… this entire stage of foreplay and trying to lure you into pound town could be a close second, he can’t lie.

“Do you always get this wet whenever someone touches you,” he finds himself asking, “or is all of this just f’me?”

He hopes it’s the latter. Wants it so bad. The mere thought of someone else seeing you like this, touching you, spreading their scent all over you, claiming you, loving you… He’d let you go if you wanted to be with someone other than him, he’s told you so before, but that doesn’t mean that he’d be particularly happy about it.

Actually, he’d be quite miserable. Excruciatingly so.

You give him a pointed glare, face stern. He’s received the same look from you so many times over the years that he’s grown to love it, but you don’t fail to notice how his smile tightens with each passing moment that he waits for you to answer his question.

“Well?” he pushes, unable to resist. His eyes are getting more yellow by the second and his teeth are getting bigger. It makes his voice sound gruff as he says, “Who’s it for, bunny, mm?”

“I’m not telling you,” you say quietly, trying to make sense of all the emotions that are swelling up inside your chest now.

It’s a challenge to do so when they’ve been continuously swept under the rug for years on end and have only just recently been brought back into the open, though. When you’re unsure where your friendship stands. When you don’t even know if the love that your best friend feels for you is actually genuine, or if it’s just a thing that’s been forced forward solely because of the mating bond that eternally connects him to you.

You can’t help but wonder: would he still love you the same way he loves you now even if you weren’t his mate? If he were nothing more but a simple human, unable to connect with someone on such a deep biological level. Would he still fall for you — his best friend?

Or would he still be with his now ex-girlfriend, surely renting an apartment with her and exchanging doting glances and smiles during breakfast every morning, mind completely free from you the second you’d leave for college after every summer?

Would he even be your friend?

What if you’re just a burden to him?

“Hey.”

The sudden pinch that you receive to your left cheek tugs you out of your inner turmoil that has come to plague you all of a sudden.

Kiba’s eyebrows are cinched tight when you blink up at him. A small wrinkle of worry etches into his forehead and continues to deepen with the heavy silence to surround you. Even his jaw seems to be set firmly in place. 

Instead of hot and bothered, he just looks plain worried now despite the gleam of sweat on his brow and the almost sex hair.

“Mm?” is all you decide to let out whilst rubbing your wrists that he’s since let go of.

“You okay?” he asks, choosing to stroke your cheek instead of pinching it this time around. The pads of his fingers are rough, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. “You’ve completely zoned out on me just now.”

“I’m fine,” you say, despite that your chest remains feeling unbearably tight. The urge to touch it as a means to console yourself is hard to suppress, however you’re well aware that it’d just cause him to worry even further. “Sorry.”

“You sure? ‘Cause you smell kind of sad all of a sudden,” he mumbles, wolf eyes still zeroing in on you. He’s following every minuscule movement you make and it’s unnerving. “And I don’t know about you, but that definitely ain’t a thing a dude would want his girl to feel when he’s planning on sinking balls deep into her.”

“Sad?” you repeat, ignoring the lewd comment even if it makes you feel tingly between your legs. His cock, albeit not as hard anymore, is still persistently pressing against your pussy.

“Yeah,” he says. “Kind of like rain.”

This fascinates you. Your expression lightens as a result. “You mean like petrichor?”

He gives you somewhat of a dumb look, biting the inside of his cheek. “What?”

“Never mind, it’s just something dorky we learned in school,” you say, chuckling faintly at the confused puzzlement that now sits on his face. “Forget I said anything.”

He doesn’t respond, so you sigh, running your palm over the side of your neck he’d just been kissing a moment prior. The skin there is still warm. Tender. It makes you shiver when your fingers graze it.

“C’mon, what’s wrong?” he mutters, still eyeing you just as intensely as before. “I can tell whenever something’s bothering you… Spit it out.”

“Nothing is bothering me, okay? Gosh,” you try to reassure him, but still turn your head to the side to stare at the television. 

The movie he’d put on earlier is already halfway through and you doubt he has the option to rewind it. Oh, well.

Watching you dismiss the entire thing, Kiba looks like he’s about to fight you on it, surely getting ready to accuse you of being a liar like he’s had a habit of playfully doing in the past. However, just when his mouth pops open to say the words, you prevent him from doing so by pressing both of your palms on his front and gathering up his T-shirt between your fingers.

He stills only for a second before he starts to push out his chest at your touch, puffing up with male-like bravado as he goes. His shoulders square up. His eyes flash with that sublime yellow colour. And you might be imagining the whole thing at this point, but you swear that even his scent grows stronger in intensity. 

The entire room is engulfed by that signature amber scent now. You peer up at him once more, mind slightly hazy and astounded.

But besides the astonishment, you also feel… soothed. Kind of.

Burden or no burden, he’s down bad for you all the same, isn’t he? 

“What is it now?” he grumbles in answer to the wide look in your eyes. “You’re starin’ at me all weird-like again.”

You swallow the saliva that’s gathered in your mouth for what must be the millionth time tonight. It’s runny and thin, laced with adrenaline. “Are you courting me right now?”

“Huh?” His face twists into a look of pure confusion for a second time in a row.

“You’re pushing your chest out like a bird during one of those mating dances that you see on TV,” you explain, tugging on his T-shirt as if it’ll help you prove your point. “Are you trying to impress me or something?”

“Tsch… What? No... It’s just, ah… The fuck?” He blinks, shaking his head as if he’s trying to get his thoughts in order. His back hunches slightly with the action. You’ve caught him completely off guard.

You smile. “What is it, then?”

“It’s just my body reacting to a mate’s touch, damn… I told you about it in the woods last week, didn’t I? What’s with all the questions all of a sudden?” He clicks his tongue against his teeth once more, apparently unaffected by what you have to say, but also immediately draws back; causing distance until he’s lying between you and the backrest of the couch instead of on top of you. 

You’re not aware of it, but he’s beginning to blush like a sucker after he realizes how that treacherously primal part of his brain had made him react just now — fully without his knowledge.

Trying to appear bigger and wooing you with his scent? What are you, animals? Besides, you aren’t even capable of distinguishing pheromones like he can, for fuck’s sake! What’s he doing all of this weird shit for?!

This time, heat continues to climb up Kiba’s neck instead of yours, and overtakes his entire face with such speed that it makes his cheeks itchy. Even the tips of his ears have turned hot to the touch. He feels like he’s on the verge of melting into a puddle of despair any second now.

Gosh, you must think he’s such a loser.

He doesn’t say anything else as he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer until your back is pressed against his chest, feeling slightly relieved to not hear any protests from your side. 

But to some extent, he’s not all that surprised. While you might be taking this entire thing slow, spooning is nothing new. You’ve done it even whilst you were both desperately trying to keep your friendship as something purely platonic instead of whatever it is now. So when you compare it to all the grinding that you did just now, this is angel city.

His voice is barely above a sheepish murmur as he says, “Whatever… Let’s just watch the movie, yeah?”

You don’t mention that the film is nearing its end and that you’ve already seen it in theaters a couple months ago with your friends from college. Nor the fact that you found his little portrayal of desire — as well as the feeling of embarrassment that followed it afterwards — outright adorable and that it helped ease your worries a little bit.

No, all you do is snuggle up closer to him and nod your head yes.

———

Summer passes by quickly when you’re reunited with your best friend again.

If you had to describe the last couple of months with one word, it’d be nostalgic. During the days when he’s off work and you’re not busy with your family, Kiba makes sure to take you on a trip down memory lane one way or another. 

On some evenings, you drop by the small convenience store that you used to constantly occupy as kids, so that you can buy popsicles and then sit on a bench in the nearby park; taking turns licking the different flavours and talking late into the night, or at least until the artificial colouring has been wiped away from your tongues. 

On particularly hot days, you drive to the lake where you’ve both been taught how to swim by your parents in order to cool off, and compete to see who's able to hold their breath the longest. He ends up being the winner almost every time, of course, and never misses the chance to rub it in your face.

You even still do shitty movie marathons, however this time they’re occasionally accompanied by Kiba’s roommate, Kankuro, who you’ve since learned is a pretty cool guy, despite his slightly odd obsession with purple face paint. He’s also the one who’d helped you bake Kiba’s birthday cake back in July.

All in all, things concerning your best friend have remained quite the same as they’ve always been. Well, most of them did.

There may have been a couple of changes here and there ever since you’ve learned you were his mate. 

Some are pretty tame. For example, you can’t brush over the look of pure longing that appears in his eyes as he watches you lick a rogue droplet of sugar whenever you’re sucking on the popsicle he’d just handed you. Or the way his touch lingers on your shoulders and traces down your spine and hips when you ask him to help you apply sunscreen on your back after your swim.

But then there are some of the more twisted kind. Sometimes, whenever Kankuro can’t make it to your movie marathons, you also can’t ignore the way your best friend sighs and grunts and whispers the nastiest of profanities into the side of your neck as you sit on his lap and rub your clothed pussy against the hard-on in his pants.

It’s always done the same way. On his couch, in the dark, and never talked about afterwards since it tends to make you both agitated with even more lust. Your skirt is bunched up in his too-big hands — you’re always making sure they don’t go any farther than that because they try, oh boy, do they try — and there are zero kisses exchanged between you in order to keep things moving slow but still giving him the fix he needs so that he doesn’t slip into another unannounced rut, as he likes to call it.

So far, your compromise shows promise. Over the span of the last couple of weeks, there had only been one single occasion of actual skin on skin contact; when he’d somehow managed to distract you for long enough to pull your panties to the side and pull out his cock from the confines of his clothes without you being quick enough to stop him. 

However, much to his — and secretly your own — misfortune, you’d been mewling his name and rubbing your pussy against him for a long while back then, consequently overstimulating him to great, almost unfair lengths in the process. The second his cockhead had gotten the chance to bump against your soaked entrance, he was not bound to last. 

So he’d spilled everything he had with a sharp hiss and a frustrated “fuuuck” and just like that, you were safe from being pounded into oblivion once again — if you exclude the sticky, cloudy white mess splattering between your thighs, that is.

And that was that.

But now, with summer coming to a swift end and a new school year waiting right around the corner, the time has come for you to say goodbye to your best friend once again.

Kiba accompanies you to the airport and pulls you into a bone-crushing hug when it’s time for you to board your flight, his features unusually impassive during the entirety of it. He leans down to kiss your cheek, surely receiving curious glances from your parents with the act, and mumbles something about texting him when you land so that he knows you’re safe.

You do as he asks of you when you arrive to campus that day, even going as far as to send him a picture of your little student apartment that you share with two other roommates, jokingly calling it a dump. He reads your text message almost instantly, but his reply is curt. When you call him to say good night after you’ve finished unpacking your stuff and settling in, you barely recognize the sound of his voice.

“G’night,” he mutters. “Try not to be a dumbass on your first day.”

The jab is meant to be playful, but instead it comes across as void of any kind of emotion whatsoever. Flat and unlively. You can tell even if he desperately tries to cover it up with more teasing remarks and lame jokes. 

It gets better over time, though. You’re well aware that he’s handling the distance way worse than any other regular human would, especially since he’s a semi-mated wolf now, so you try to keep him in the loop as often as you can. He, on the other hand, tries to give you space and keeps his more possessive side on a tight leash. His main priority is to make your friendship — or should you say situationship — work.

Speaking of his more possessive side, you’ve both made precautions to lessen the chance of the beast within him from going haywire. He makes sure to go completely off the grid during a full moon, and every so often, you mail him a T-shirt or two so that he still has a way of inhaling your scent and thus satisfying the urge to come seek you out. After the scent fades out, he sends your clothes back washed, but not ironed; typical for a man like him, before the cycle repeats itself again.

He’d once, jokingly, not so jokingly, texted you about sending him a pair of your panties instead, however all he got in response to that was an angry wall of text and a series of pissed off-looking emojis. He’d abandoned the idea soon after.

You do indulge him with phone sex from time to time, though. And while you do keep telling yourself that it’s done solely to keep him in-check, deep down, you know that that simply isn’t the case. 

Because when the hour is late, Kiba likes to remind you just how badly he misses you in that warm, rich, confident voice that makes your back want to straight up arch from the bed. Likes to talk about all the things that he wants to do to you with zero hesitance — hesitance you wish you, yourself didn’t have — while he strokes his cock; all until you find yourself reaching into the drawer of your nightstand so that you can hurriedly press your trusty pink vibrator to your clit. 

But it’s not just you who finds him hot — your roommates do, too. They’ve peered over your shoulder once or twice while you were FaceTiming him in the kitchen, fully clothed, of course, and have since been asking for regular updates on your so-called ‘boyfriend’, wondering when they’ll get to meet the guy who’s actually managed to swipe the rug from underneath your feet, in person.

And the answer is: on Halloween. They’ll meet him on Halloween.

———

Oddly enough, Kiba seems to fit right into the college party scene, despite never pursuing a degree of his own.

After successfully planning out his visit together, you realize that the frat house that you’ve dragged him to in order to celebrate this year’s Halloween in, is packed with people; some of them in costumes, while the rest have decided to go for a more casual approach. 

Dressed in jeans, the same faded baseball cap that you saw him wearing back when you’d bumped into him in the grocery store at the beginning of summer, and a simple T-shirt and flannel combo, your best friend doesn’t particularly stand out amongst the latter. 

He’d landed this morning, grinning tiredly and with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You nearly started bursting at the seams with joy the second you caught sight of him halfway across the airport. He wasn’t much better.

Hugging out all your emotions first, you then spent the entire day catching up, as well as healing the phantom wounds that the distance had caused. It was nice. So nice, in fact, that you’d almost forgotten how easy and complicated it was at the same time with him.

And now here you are. Together again.

Eyes glimmering with fondness, you watch as he leisurely chats with your friends who he’d already gotten to meet back at the apartment. As is expected for an extrovert like Kiba, he has no problem keeping up with the conversation. 

His body language is relaxed even when he has to lie about wearing yellow contacts; swiftly feigning that it’s because he wants to keep the spirit of Halloween alive and because he, of course, couldn’t possibly have brought a full costume with him to the airport. 

Meanwhile, you’re well aware that his reasoning couldn’t be farther from the truth. His eyes had shifted from their regular brown shade the second he’d caught you emerging from the bathroom, dressed in a pair of tight jeans and with a bunny ears headband sitting atop your head — a rather mediocre choice of a costume, but one that you knew he’d dig nonetheless.

“What, no heels?”

“Have you seen the floor of a frat house before?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re going to now, and then you’re going to understand why I chose normal girl shoes.”

While riddled with mischief at your answer, his eyes haven’t gone back to normal since.

And neither has he. No, instead he had spent a good twenty minutes scenting you in the privacy of your little bedroom; embracing you and running his rough hands up and down your arms and sides, touching your neck and face all over until you were almost late to the party and glittery highlighter coated every last one of his fingers.

“You do realize that normal people don’t have a heightened sense of smell like you do, right?” you’d grumbled by the fourth repetitive stroke, making a face when he even went as far as to lean in and start rubbing his cheek against your own. “Nobody is going to be like, ‘Woah, watch out! This one smells like werewolf property!’ if I get kidnapped or something.”

The laughter-like sound he’d let out had come across as terribly jeering. “You say that like anyone would even have a chance of forcibly taking you away from me.” 

With a soft incline of your head, you had asked, “Wouldn’t they?”

“‘Course not, you silly bunny.” He’d looked you right in the eyes then, his pupils briefly thinning into feline-like slits, allowing the apex predator within to shine on through. “I’d rip out their throats with my teeth before they’d even get a chance to blink. Easy as pie.” 

His gaze had been shiver-inducing. The words even more so. “But what if there would be like… ten of them?”

“I can take on ten people.”

“You can barely handle me whenever I’m in a lousy mood.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that you don’t count, then.” The grin he’d given you in return had been sharp. Too sharp, despite the cutesy dimple digging into his cheek. Especially as he held your face between his palms and purred, “Also, you’re not my property, you’re my mate. It’s supposed to make us equals, so please try to act like one for my sake, yeah?”

And they said romance was dead.

“Yeah.” Attempting to not pay attention to the butterflies that were wildly fluttering in your stomach again, all you managed was, “Equals who are going to be late.”

“Shit.” His eyes got wide as saucers at that. He’d given one last stroke, one last squeeze, and had pressed a hasty kiss onto your forehead before saying, “Okay, I think I’m done... Ready when you are.”

You’re unsure if it’s placebo, but you think his scent still clings to you even two hours later, when the party is in full swing and you’re chatting away with one of your guy friends in the kitchen.

Besides said friend, there are only two other people in the room — none of which you can recognize, from the way they’re too busy eating face only a few meters away from you. Kiba, reluctant to leave your side despite your many reassurances, had somehow gotten dragged into a round of beer pong by a group of rowdy jocks.

Every so often, you can hear cheering coming from one of the rooms nearby. You don’t doubt that he’s acquired quite a crowd for himself already. His dream and your worst nightmare.

“So, what’s the deal with you and the dunce?”

Blinking at the sudden question that whisks away your brain fog, you look up from your plastic cup of cranberry juice that others have been using to mix their cheap vodka with. Not feeling like taking the risk of being hungover because of particularly shitty booze the next morning, you’d decided to stay sober tonight, hence the juice.

“Sorry, what?” you ask. “I wasn’t listening.”

Your friend, Shikamaru Nara is his name, looks at you with signature exasperation at having to repeat himself again. 

“I was asking about your… friend,” he mutters after a brief pause, using the second chance of you not hearing the initial jab. 

“Oh, you mean Kiba?” you say, bringing the cup up to your lips. “Yeah, what about him?”

“Are you hooking up with him?”

The sip of cranberry juice you’d just taken lodges itself into the back of your throat at the question. It hurts like a bitch as you fight to swallow it down, unable to resist squeezing your eyes shut at the sensation, however you manage to avoid sputtering and coughing yourself into embarrassment by the end of it.

Clearing your throat as discreetly as you can, your voice sounds slightly hoarse when you ask, “Why do you ask that?”

Shikamaru, without missing a beat, says, “I dunno, he just looks at you like he’s planning on eating you or something. It’s odd.”

You glance up at the man that’s leaning against the kitchen counter next to you, noticing how the whites of his eyes are red instead of as the name suggests. His pupils are so big and round and hazy that they remind you of a cat looking around in the dark. He seems to be so high that he doesn’t have a problem with saying whatever is on his mind.

Either that, or he simply doesn’t give a shit. Both are valid reasonings whenever it comes to him.

“Kiba’s just… protective,” you manage to say after a brief moment of thought, shoulders shrugging. “He’s been like that ever since I can remember.”

Shikamaru’s eyebrow raises at this piece of information. “Even when you were kids?”

“Oh, yeah.” You nod vehemently. “Back then, it was even more intense than it is now, I think. You should have seen him playing a friendly game of dodgeball when we were in high school.”

‘HEY! AIM THAT BALL AT HER HEAD AGAIN, AND I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL SMASH YOUR FUCKING TEETH IN NEXT, YOU LOUSY FUCK!’

The memory makes the corners of your lips curl upwards. You’re quick to hide the smile behind the rim of the cup.

“Hm.” Shikamaru hums, puffing out a tired sigh that you’ve had the pleasure of hearing countless of times ever since meeting him during your first year of college.

“What is it?” you inquire.

“Nothing,” he replies. “Just thinking.”

“You’re always doing that,” you say. “Thinking.”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” he answers, giving you a lazy grin that doesn’t seem to reach his dark brown eyes.

You huff a laugh at the tease. “And what is it that you’re thinking about with that brilliant brain of yours, Megamind?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah.”

You turn to look at him, using the chance to drag your gaze over his side profile. Over his high cheekbones, as well as the sharp outline of his nose. The cigarette that’s tucked behind his ear. The slight wrinkle between his eyebrows that tells you he’s thinking very hard about something.

A couple of loose strands of dark brown hair have escaped his ponytail, framing his face in a way that flatters him greatly. Being so dark, they’re a perfect contrast to his creamy skin that’s so unlike Kiba’s sun-kissed one.

Come to think of it, they’re nothing alike. Shikamaru is lean in build despite being awfully lazy by nature, whereas Kiba packs muscle with hard work. He’s smart, rational, not at all prone to anger, and can sometimes come across as borderline aloof. 

Besides a couple of other things, all he seems to care about is putting in the minimal amount of effort when it comes to getting by in school, so that he can achieve mediocre — but passable — grades, and thus has nothing left to worry about by the time the weekend rolls around and the bong comes out to play.

His tendency to be overly laid-back was the exact reason why you had decided to go out of your comfort zone and fool around with him last spring. With no strings attached, you’d fucked while still managing to remain friends afterwards. Besides that, he was such a perfect opposite to the man you’d left behind in your hometown, that it had almost been a, dare you say, refreshing experience.

But Kiba never did go fully away, now did he? Not even after you’d completely ghosted him and finally ceased stalking him on Instagram; trying to rid yourself of the sinking feeling in your chest that appeared whenever he posted a picture with his girlfriend at the time. Not even after you’d deleted the chat logs you shared with him on just about every app you could find, knowing you’d regret it afterwards. Not even when you’d left the pictures and other memories back at home, sealed away in a box underneath your bed.

You’d been sleeping with the deer while silently yearning for the wolf.

It’s why you broke the entire thing off with Shikamaru sometime after the New Year, aiming to rather try and move on solely by your own efforts — fresh start and everything. All whilst not knowing that you’d become a mate to your childhood best friend by the end of summer.

“Shika,” you utter, your gaze as soft as your voice. “I–”

“It’s okay. I think I got the gist of it,” he cuts in, staring at his shoes. “Whatever it is that you two have going on between you; it’s older than what we had. So, it’s more… fleshed out? From being best friends since kindergarten and stuff.”

“Yeah.” You sigh, angling your cup so that you can take the last sip of your drink. “I guess it is, when you say it like that.”

Shikamaru reaches out to wipe away the rogue droplet of cranberry juice that comes sliding down from the corner of your mouth, then. However, before his thumb can even make contact with your bottom lip, you’re quick to do it yourself.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?” a voice calls out from your left.

Kiba’s jaw is set and his eyes are hard when you turn to look at him. He stands in the middle of the doorway that leads into the hall; the light that’s shining behind his back obscuring most of his face from view, however you can still see that he forces his expression to remain fairly neutral as he begins to approach you. 

Every step he takes towards you makes you feel like it could make the ground shake. It doesn’t of course, at least not in a physical kind of sense, but his anger is becoming so palpable the closer he gets that it very much could. For some reason, it’s even worse that he’s trying to hide how pissed he is.

After all, Kiba is prone to anger that resembles a wildfire — the kind that spreads quickly and consumes everything in its path. Once it’s started, it’s hard to make it fizzle out before it does too much damage. You just have to let it do its thing and pretend like everything is normal.

Burn, baby, burn!

“No,” you say when he reaches you, pretending like the entire ordeal doesn’t faze you at all, despite the fact that your heart is now pulsating wildly in your chest. “You aren’t.”

You’re well aware that he wouldn’t hurt you, but that doesn’t mean the others are safe.

He stands before you like a wall of muscle, emitting white-hot rage with every exhale. With how tense his shoulders have gotten, as well as the bulging vein in the side of his neck that’s surely there because of how harshly he’s gritting his teeth, he looks like he could crush someone to death. 

However, his touch ends up being surprisingly tender when you allow him to grip you by the chin. You repress a relieved chuckle as he angles your head back slightly, making you realize that he’s touching the exact same spot Shikamaru would have if you’d let him. So possessive.

His brow furrows as he inspects you and his voice is rough as gravel as he says, “Why are your lips so red?”

“Cranberry juice,” you explain, pointing to the empty cup you’re still holding in your hand. “How did beer pong go?”

“It sucked ass,” he drawls, tugging on the brim of his hat with impatient fingers. The fireball of anger keeps on sizzling in the pit of his stomach. It makes his blood run hot. “The two dudes I went against were both so shit-faced that they could barely stand, much less score... I regret being sober.”

“Weren’t you drinking before, though?” Shikamaru asks all of a sudden.

Uh-oh. At the sound of the Nara’s voice, you watch as he slowly turns his head to the side in the same uncanny way a robot would have done.

Kiba looks the other man right in the eye, making a quick mental note to keep both of his arms glued to his sides in order to refrain himself from swinging just because he even had the balls to speak up while he was talking to you.

Jesus fucking Christ, since when did his temper get this short? He needs to work on it in the future or else it’s going to become a problem.

“Beer doesn’t do much for a guy like me,” he grits out after a brief moment of recollecting himself.

His tone is completely flat. Icy. 

You stare at the muscle that keeps on fluttering in his cheek even if he’s trying his hardest to tame it. At how yellow his eyes have gotten, nearly glowing in the dimly-lit kitchen, threatening to ruin the ruse of being contacts. At the way his chest heaves; rising up and down in such a manner that it makes you fear he’s seconds away from pouncing.

Shikamaru, being the intelligent man that he is, must have come to the same conclusion, because now he pushes from the counter with an awkward bounce in his step as he says, “Well, I guess it’s time for my smoke break… If you’ll excuse me.”

Either that, or the more primal part of his brain is telling him to get the fuck out before it’s too late. It’s so bad that even the make out enthusiasts proceed to follow his example.

“Bye, Shika,” you utter quickly, giving your fellow classmate a small wave when he passes by. Meanwhile, Kiba only stares, probably drilling warning holes into the poor guy’s back all the way to the very end of the hall.

Alone in the kitchen at long last, your best friend allows himself to sigh as a means to relieve some tension. The muscles in his arms relax as he rests them on either side of you, successfully trapping you against the counter.

You don’t feel caged, though. That’s the important part.

Led by that comforting feeling, you place the cup onto the counter before reaching out to carefully stroke him over the chest. “You okay?”

“No,” he grumbles, trying not to preen right in front of you at the touch. 

Your eyebrows draw together. “What’s wrong?”

His do, too. “You know damn well what’s wrong.”

“Enlighten me, please.”

“Not that it’s a you problem or anything…” He sighs again and this time the sound is way longer than earlier. “But I can’t leave ya alone for two seconds without someone immediately trying to sneak their way into your pants.”

“What?” The laugh you let out is a slightly incredulous one. “I know that you’re forced to see me in some kind of holy light because of the mating bond, but you’re seriously flattering me way too much with this one, Kiba.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” he says, his lips thinning into a firm line. “What do you think that the douchebag with the cig and the big-ass forehead was tryin’ to do just now? Ask you to join his debate club?”

You push aside the insult for now, making a note to prohibit him from saying it aloud whenever you’re in the company of others. “His name is Shikamaru.”

“I don’t care what his name is,” Kiba says, bristling. “All I know is that I could smell how hard his dick was getting around you from a mile away, and it made me-”

“Jealous?” you cut in.

He frowns. “I was gonna say grossed out, but sure.”

You giggle before biting your lip to stop the sound. “Come to think of it, that does sound pretty gross, you’re right.”

“Whatever.” He huffs, lowering his gaze. It’s not long before there’s an even deeper frown gracing his mouth.

“What is it now?” you ask.

“Nothing. Well… I just- Ugh.” He groans in frustration, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I know I said that I’d always respect your decision when it came down to choosin’ between me or someone else, but I didn’t think it’d be this… hard.”

“What are you going on about?” You pry his hand away so that you can look him in the eyes. His pupils are nothing but slits. “I haven't made any kind of decision yet. Nothing happened.”

“Okay, but still… Seeing someone else trying to touch you like that, scenting it…” he says. “I thought I could handle it for your sake, but clearly that ain’t the case. I should’ve cooled off before trying to start shit, and yet I actively chose to behave like a dick instead.”

“Actually, I thought you did a pretty decent job at controlling your awfully jealous self. Give or take,” you console, giving him a playful wink. It only causes his brow to furrow further.

“That’s not the point. Jealousy might be all fun and games to regular people, but it’s different with me. I felt like I was seconds away from skinning the dude alive… And maybe eating him afterwards, I dunno,” he says, his expression turning even more troubled than before. “Bet he’d taste like shit, though.”

“Well… What matters is that you didn’t do that.” You pat his shoulders as a form of encouragement and quickly decide on not telling him about your history with Shikamaru just yet since you’re not particularly fond of the idea of having a body on your hands. “One step at a time, yeah?”

“I guess,” he mutters. Disappointment still continues to bubble in Kiba’s stomach. It brings forth a slightly bitter taste on his tongue.

You stare at him, raking your gaze over the great expanse of his shoulders, down to his forearms, which he’s got revealed due to the sleeves being rolled up to his elbows. Now that the initial anger has diminished from his face, he just looks plain miserable. Like a puppy that’s been soaked to the bone, despite that he’s far bigger than that.

“You wanna go home and cuddle it out?” you blurt out all of a sudden, tracing the tattoos on his left forearm with your index finger.

He peers up at you from underneath his lashes. Not wanting to come across as even more clingy or suffocating, all he utters is, “If that’s what you want.” 

“I’m asking you.”

He looks down again, bright yellow eyes zeroing in on his shoes. If it weren’t so dark in this godforsaken kitchen, perhaps you would’ve noticed the subtle blush tinging his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“I mean… If you really don’t wanna stay here,” he trails off, swallowing thickly. “Then, yeah. I suppose we could go back to yours and cuddle a little.”

You grin. “Look at you getting all mushy on me.”

Kiba gives you an eye roll. “Oh, shut up before I change my mind and just catch the first flight home.”

———

Despite initially not wanting to seem clingy, Kiba becomes exactly that after you both rinse off and clamber into bed that night.

In the dark, surrounded fully by your scent that lingers everywhere in your room, he feels safe enough to let his guard down; allowing himself to really dote on you properly — like he’s wanted to do for the last two months. 

As a result, his arm is protectively slung over your waist, and his legs are entangled with yours as he spoons you. His hand is beneath your shirt, tracing soft, lazy circles over your stomach. There are no claws in sight.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he grumbles at some point, sighing with contentment and squeezing you even closer to him. 

“Me too,” you admit, enjoying the close proximity. “Especially our dumb late night convos.”

You’ve been talking about everything and nothing in particular for the last hour or so; giggling and snickering like children and continuing on catching up, simply enjoying each other’s company. Just like old times.

Kiba clicks his tongue against his teeth in disagreement. “What d’you mean? They’re always dumb.”

“Well yeah, but that’s because they include you,” you tease, suppressing a tiny squeal when he pokes you in the side.

“As far as I know, it takes two to hold a conversation,” he fires back, squeezing your hip. “Unless you’re a nutcase, that is.”

“Hey, now… I talk to myself sometimes,” you say, turning your head to the side just enough to face him. “When I’m, like, thinking out loud and stuff.”

He quirks a brow at this. “Weirdo.”

“Pfsh.” You huff, rolling your eyes. “If anyone’s the weirdo here, then it’d be you, Mr. On all levels except physical, I am a wolf.”

“See, that doesn’t make any sense because I am a wolf on a physical level.” He drums his fingers against your skin playfully, hinting that he’ll maybe poke you in the side again. “Therefore, your joke sucks.”

“It’s still funny, though,” you protest. “And look at you, using your big boy words. Therefore. What’s gonna be next? Begging for a shilling?”

You watch as he smiles that wretched grin that shows off his dimple. His laugh is quiet, but it kindles a flame of affection inside your heart.

“You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?” he says, still laughing.

“So I’ve been told, yeah,” you reply with a beaming smile of your own. His mood is contagious. “Multiple times.”

“Mm. I like it, though. This more confident, outgoing version of you.” After a brief moment of silence, he adds, “It makes me less worried.”

You ask, “Less worried about what?”

“If you’ll be able to stick up for yourself in case I’m not around,” he explains, not offering much more.

You blink as slight confusion begins to settle in. “And why wouldn’t you be around?”

“Well, you know,” he says, shrugging as a means to appear indifferent, but failing. “If you decide on being with someone other than me, then I guess there’d be no reason for me to stay in your life.” 

“What do you mean there’d be no reason?” you say, frowning deeply now. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re aware that the thing you say next is selfish, but you just can’t help it, “You’d still be my best friend… Wouldn’t that be enough?”

He smiles again, but this time it’s a little less beaming and a little more painful. “Bunny, of course it’d be enough. I’d spend my whole life trying to give ya the love that I think you deserve, even as just a friend. But let’s be real here… If I did that, it’d just cause… problems.”

“Problems?” you repeat, your voice hurt. “What kind of problems?”

“You’ve seen for yourself what happened tonight,” he says.

“Nothing happened tonight.” Quick frustration makes you groan. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve told you that already, so why are we going over the same conversation again?”

“Exactly, nothing happened, but look at the way I still reacted to it,” he says, sighing out of exasperation instead of contentment this time around. “I was ready to go batshit crazy over nothing… How do you think I’m gonna react if we meet up and you’ve got your boyfriend’s scent all over ya? Who says I’m not gonna go and try to bite the guy’s head off?”

You stare at each other. The knot in your belly tightens at the way he looks at you; his eyes still burning with that striking yellow shade, despite the inner conflict that subdues it ever so slightly now.

“Do you think we were destined to be together?” you ask out of the blue.

Kiba gives you a look that tells you he’s starting to worry if you’ve gone a bit nuts. “What?”

“I mean, like, do you think that we had no say in this entire thing,” you attempt to explain lamely. “Or, well… that you had no say in it?”

“I don’t believe in destiny,” he says finally.

“Well, what would you call this thing between us, then?” you mumble. “I mean, isn’t a mating bond supposed to be just some kind of a wolfy version of it?”

“I- No, I don’t think so,” he says, slowly shaking his head. “I already told you that I approached you because of the bond at first, yeah… But over the years, I’m pretty sure that I’ve come to love you on purpose. Like, on my own terms.”

Your heart skips a beat. The world feels like it’s spinning all of a sudden.

“How can you tell the difference, though?” you croak out. “Between genuine love and the forced one that the bond is pushing on you?”

“Um… Because I’m willing to spend the rest of my life alone, fighting against the red string of fate or whatever the fuck you want to call it, if it means that you’ll be happy, I guess,” he whispers quietly, his expression suddenly thoughtful. “Come to think of it, it’d be like my own personal fuck you towards destiny, hah.”

There’s no one else beside you and him in the house right now — your roommates are still out partying and doing god knows what — but he says it like it’s a secret that he’s been keeping for years.

And you, well, you feel like crying. Like curling yourself into a little ball underneath the covers that you’re sharing with him at the moment, and simply sobbing your heart out until it’s leaking out of your chest.

But instead of that, you look at him. You reel the tears in as you really look at him, and you say, “All right.”

You’ve always been so cautious. So hesitant and unsure — nothing like him. Ever since he’d revealed the truth during that godforsaken camping trip, Kiba speaks of the love that he feels for you so openly. 

Goddammit, he loves you. He actually loves you. Not because of the bond, not because you’re his perfect biological match, not because his instinct is telling him to do so. 

No, he loves you because of the memories that you’ve made together. Because of the laughter that you’ve shared. Because of all the good and the bad and everything else that’s in-between.

He loves you because he wants to, not because he needs to.

“All right?” he repeats, studying your face. “What’s that supposed t’mean?”

“It means that I’m done taking it slow. I think,” you say, trying to stop your upper lip from twitching. Your body feels tense all over once again; you feel like you’ll start bursting at the seams because of the storm of emotions that’s brewing inside you. “For once in my life, I think that I’m choosing to go all in.”

Kiba’s heart begins to pound so hard that he can hear it ringing in his ears.

“You… You mean…?” he trails off, not even daring to finish the sentence.

“Yes,” you say as your breathing slightly quickens. “We can give this thing a try; properly this time. I-I mean, fuck it, right? We haven’t been just friends for a long while now, so what’s there to lose anyway?”

He smiles at that, and for a second it’s like you can see him again — your childhood best friend. Short and scrawny, but equipped with that brazen assurance that used to get him into all sorts of trouble.

“Yeah,” he says. His smile nearly grows from ear to ear. He feels like he could touch the sky at that very moment; unbridled joy is beginning to overcome him completely. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I, umm… I guess it’s time to admit that I’ve been crushing on you for years, then. Well, I think! I’m pretty sure I was always head over heels for you, even back in high school, but I didn’t allow myself to dwell on it too much because of… well, you know,” you trail off, still riding that high of confidence that allows every bit of truth to spill out of you now. 

“So when we almost kissed before I left for college, I… I got scared. You were with Tamaki at the time, and I was leaving, and I thought you’d end up regretting it from the way it would surely mess up your whole relationship and our friendship.” You look at him, eyes apologetic. “I didn’t mean to ghost you like I did, but god… The entire thing was so messy, just chaos waiting to happen, and I was too big of a coward to deal with all that, especially after moving across the country and turning a new chapter in my life. And I’m well aware that it’s no excuse for what I did, but I just wanted you to know… the real reason behind it. And that I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t have regretted it, though,” he says, his gaze softening. “If you’d kissed me back at mine that night, I would never have regretted it. My relationship with Tam was a fuckin’ bust either way.”

“I know that now, you dumbass!” You huff, eyebrows cinching with frustration and stress. “But what’s the use if I didn’t know it back then.”

“Bunny,” he coos, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Breathe.”

“Oh, shut up,” you fuss, pushing him in the chest. “I’m over here, pouring my heart out to you, and you’re basically telling me to calm down. Idiot.”

He snickers at your anger, thinking it’s so cute that it’s to die for. “Well, what do you want me to do, then?”

“I want-” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, chewing on it as shyness manages to creep up on you at long last. You don’t feel as confident as before when it comes to admitting to your desires out loud, so the only time you stop your incisor from digging deeper, is when you mumble, “I want you to kiss me.”

If Kiba’s gaze had been soft before, now it’s gone utterly sweet and gooey. It makes his lids drop very, very, very low on his eyes.

“Yeah?” is all he says.

“Yeah. But not like you did back at home,” you say, remembering the urgency and the forceful clash of teeth that he’d given you because of the rut that had been cooking his brain into mush at the time. “I want it done properly this time.”

“I can do that,” he says, chuckling quietly. “But don’t act like you didn’t enjoy our first kiss. I could smell how excited you got over it, remember?”

“Whatever,” you hiss, bunching up the front of his T-shirt into your fists. “Either you behave and kiss me like a gentleman, or you’re sleeping on the floor tonight.”

“Hah, all right, all right! No need to threaten me, jeez,” he says. He’s still laughing as he caresses your cheek with one hand and angles your head so that he can do what you’re asking him for. “C’mere, you grouch… Let’s get smoochin’.”

“I hate you.”

“I thought you said you loved me.”

“I said I liked you, not-”

The rest of your sentence is broken off by a kiss.

Unlike the first time, it’s gentle. Perhaps you could even call it romantic. He cups your cheek instead of gripping it, and doesn’t become pushy; rather allowing you to take charge of the pace. There’s no tongue, only lip brushing against lip. Your breaths intermingle, to the point that you both start quietly panting in-between the short little pauses that you use for air. 

Your stomach is doing backflips by the time he slowly pulls back to look at you. His eyes are not only yellow, they’re also ravenous, and they get even more intense when you reach out to comb your fingers through his hair.

The sudden yearning that swoops down upon him makes Kiba’s throat feel so dry that it’s like it’s burning from the inside out. It’s not quite the same as it was back during his rut, but he’s getting there. Oh, he’s getting there, all right.

“More?” he asks after the longest time of silence. His voice has turned completely hoarse. 

“Mhmm, yeah,” you hum your approval, turning around to lay on your back. He instantly uses the chance to prop himself up with one elbow and drapes his upper half over you.

With his face only a couple of centimeters away from your own now, you end up nearly nose to nose. His golden chain dangles from his neck, the sleek metal occasionally cooling your skin in places that it comes in contact with. It causes you to giggle. He smiles when he leans in to kiss you again.

“Wait. I’ve got a question,” you mumble against his lips.

“Mhmm, spill,” he replies in-between kisses.

“I was thinking… Would it be… too much, if I maybe bought a golden initial of my name for you to wear?” you ask, gliding your finger along the piece of jewelry. “Like, as a not-so-secret birthday present for you next year?”

“Nah, I’d wear it,” he says simply. “Only if you wear mine, too, though.”

“Sure.” Your smile grows, little by little. “I’m in need of a new necklace anyway… Just nothing too flashy, okay?”

He snickers. “We’ll get you one of those big-ass golden dollar signs with the diamonds on top, all right?”

“Okay, yeah, that way I can always resell it.”

“Meanie.”

Your hands run through his hair for a second time as you proceed to explore each other’s mouths after months of nothing. They tug at the roots once or twice, making him grunt, before travelling down the nape of his neck and settling on his strong back. Nails grazing the soft cotton of his T-shirt, you nearly start to claw at it when his tongue touches your bottom lip.

Eventually, the kissing gets needier. More desperate. You part your lips for him and he takes his time dragging his tongue across the roof of your mouth, the flat of your teeth, tasting you fully and savouring the minty flavour of the toothpaste that you used earlier. So much saliva gets exchanged.

Besides that, there’s also phantom electricity sizzling across your skin when he carefully sinks one fang into your bottom lip and tugs on it. His caution is endearing and hot to die for, but it also feels like he’s edging you kind of. It takes you all the effort you can muster to not let a moan slip out. 

What you do end up doing, however, is taking his hand and pushing it between your legs. Just like that, all by yourself.

And it’s warm there, between your legs — perhaps even a bit too much, Kiba thinks. He stiffens at your actions, hesitating only for a second before he cups your pussy right over the comfortable shorts that you wear to bed. Watches with semi-focused vision as your hips buck without any sort of doubt that would otherwise be common for you, searching for more friction despite the seam that is now pressing against your clit.

As you continue to rub yourself against the heel of his palm, more and more sweat begins to ooze out of your pores. You’re getting hot, so your hands work seemingly on their own to try and subdue the sudden rise in temperature as you curl your fingers around the hem of your T-shirt and hike it up — all until it’s touching the collar.

With your front now almost fully exposed, Kiba curses under his breath when the sweet, musky aroma of your arousal steadily begins to fill the room that you’re in. The door is closed and the windows are shut, so it hits him like a truck. His mind is getting foggier by the millisecond because of it.

“Something the matter?” you utter sweetly, honey dripping from every word. At this point, your chest has begun to heave with some untamed form of anticipation. You sound nothing like yourself.

“No, everything’s fine,” he mumbles, swallowing thickly. Once again, he’s beginning to borderline drool, this time at the sight of your tits. It makes it hard to talk. “Just enjoyin’ the view.”

“Oh, yeah? Is that so?” You fondle your breasts, running your thumbs across the sensitive nipples, making a show for him just to rile him up further. Who knew you had it in you? “Wanna tell me just how much you’re enjoying it?”

Spit threatens to drip down the corner of his mouth. He sucks it back in the last second. “Bunny… What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing’s gotten into me? Well, not yet at least… But come on, tell me.” You continue your ministrations, testing his patience. “You love to talk, don’t you?”

“I love to show off more,” he says before he moves his hand from its spot between your legs just so that he can grab you by the wrist and make you touch him below his waistline. “Here... This is all ‘cause of you. Happy?”

You blink as he curls your fingers around the bulge that’s pressing against his boxers, wanting out. Let out a breathless, almost patronizing kind of laugh. “Fuck, you’re so hard… I’m surprised it doesn’t hurt.”

“It does hurt,” he says, voice incredibly strained now. His lips quiver slightly when you give him a stroke all on your own, without him having to ask or beg for it. It makes his mind shift to other things than whatever it is that’s making you behave this way. “I want you so bad; like, so fucking bad… You’re drivin’ me completely nuts.”

You smile at how honest he is. “Touch me and we’ll get there, okay?”

And he smirks, even if his teeth are getting bigger again from the way he’s slowly losing control, gradually affecting his speech. “Don’t hafta tell me twice.”

He kisses you again, but this time it’s harder than before and done in a way that mashes your lips against your teeth. When you open your mouth wider to ease the pressure, all he does is fill it with his tongue. He gets so pushy that you have to resort to tugging on his hair to make him relent.

“Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly, rather moving his hot mouth to your jawline and neck.

“It’s fine,” is all you manage to say before the grazing of sharp canines immediately shuts you up.

He moves fast after that, almost urgently, from how exhilarated he is to have you like this underneath him; only taking the time to get your T-shirt out of the way so that he can lick your collarbone next. You don’t even get a proper chance to react to it before he’s already dipping even lower to suck on your nipple instead.

“Ha-ah.” Your breathing stutters as you watch his nose smush against the fat of your breast. He’s swirling his tongue around the nipple, nipping it ever so gently from time to time and tugging on it with his lips.

Meanwhile, his hand has slid between your legs again. He’s running his knuckle up and down your slit the same exact way he’d done back at his place during the summer, making the seam of your pyjama shorts rub against your clit. The sensation makes your legs want to close up from the sensitivity that’s sparking there, but he makes sure you’re spread wide open for him at all times.

Eventually, he pops his mouth off your nipple only to begin paving a path of kisses down your stomach. And they’re audible, the kisses. He’s leaving little remnants of glimmering saliva on your skin as he goes, making your middle covered in it.

It’s almost fascinating how smoothly he moves for such a big guy. Before you know it, your shorts are tossed onto the floor right along with your panties, and your legs are propped on his shoulders, the heels of your feet digging into his back.

“Fuck, your pussy smells so good,” he rasps when there’s no barrier separating him from you anymore. He swallows hard at the scent of arousal that’s as strong as ever now, Adam’s apple bobbing with the action. “It’s makin’ me drool… I can’t stop it, m’sorry. I know it’s gross.”

You want to hide your face into the pillow because of how timid his words are making you somewhere deep down inside, but instead all you do is arch your back when he noses his way between your thighs and presses a sloppy kiss there.

His tongue follows suit immediately afterwards and he wastes no time with licking your slit, nudging between your folds, groaning with satisfaction at the taste. Your hands dig into his hair in an instant, grabbing fistfuls when he suckles on your clit.

It’s all happening so fast but at the same time it doesn’t seem fast enough. Heat intensifies inside the pit of your stomach, spreading throughout your thighs, your legs, right to the very tips of your toes. You dig your heels deeper into his back, pull him closer by the hair so that you can receive more.

“Shit, fuck, oh, fuuuck,” you half-moan, half-whisper, borderline gasping for air when you feel his tongue push inside you. It’s longer than a normal human’s, slightly coarser too. It makes you wiggle your hips as you try to fuck yourself against his goddamn face in response.

You have no clue if there’s some secret chemical component in his saliva that’s making you act this feral, but you simply can’t stop writhing and moaning like a slut. What’s even worse is that he tongue-fucks you like his life depends on it. In and out, in and out, the occasional swipe up and down. It’s getting messier and messier, so sloppy that there’s surely a puddle forming on the bed sheet that you’re lying on currently.

And just when you thought you had it all, his tongue gets replaced by his fingers. You tense up, an alarming thought about his claws rushing through your dazed mind, however you’re quickly relieved to find out that they’re nowhere in sight.

They’re just normal, human fingernails on normal, human fingers. Reaching deep inside you. Fuck, reaching so deep inside you. Making you see stars behind closed eyelids. Stretching you and filling you at the same time, making you nearly jump out of your skin when they curl upwards and touch that especially tender spot.

The heat that’s swirling in your tummy worsens as a result — if that is even humanly possible. You feel it rising, feel your face scrunching up, feel your teeth gritting, feel your hips picking up pace, feel your hands grabbing fistfuls of his hair again, tugging way more harshly than you otherwise would as your climax starts to approach fast.

“Gonna- I’m gonna-...!”

“Nuh-uh,” he says all of a sudden, turning his pace to something painfully laggard, to something that isn’t nearly as quick and fulfilling enough to make you cum. “You’re not gonna… Not yet, at least.”

It hurts, it physically hurts; that unsatisfied feeling that resides in the place where your pleasure should be by now. Especially when he purses his lips and allows a glob of spit to land directly onto your pussy, turning you practically slippery between your legs.

He pushes the spit in with the help of his fingers.

“Wha-?” Your eyes grow big as saucers, stinging with upcoming tears at his denial. He’s gotten you so worked up that you just can’t help but behave like a spoiled pillow princess now. Like a proper crybaby.

“What, hm? You gonna cry?” He sneers — surprisingly meanly — at the lost look that appears on your face now. Wiping his mouth against your thigh, he kisses it before he says, “Relax, you’re gonna cum… I just want your bunny cunt squeezin’ around my dick, not my fingers.”

“Then lemme sit on it…! C’mon, lemme ride you or something,” you cry out, voice cracking with urgency and desperation that even you, yourself, don’t recognize. 

You push up from the bed with the help of your elbows so that you can clamber on top of him and ride him like the best cowgirl to ever live under the fucking sun, but all he does is press his hand into the middle of your chest and shoves you right back down onto the mattress.

For fuck’s sake, was this how he felt back when he’d begged you to help him find relief during his rut? Your body feels like it’ll drop dead any second now if you don’t get dicked down soon.

“No, you’ll hurt yourself if you do that ‘cause you ain’t stretched out enough yet. Besides, I’ve got a different idea anyway,” he says, reaching for the back of his T-shirt’s collar so that he can tug it off. “Turn onto your side.”

You stare at the rippling muscle, as well as at all the tattoos that run up his left arm to his shoulder. His hair is messy and his eyes almost glow in the dark. He’s buff, hairy, with sharp teeth and equally as keen-edged facial features. 

In that exact moment, he looks like the embodiment of animalistic hunger. Either that, or it’s just straight up carnage if it were a person.

“Are you going to mount me?” you ask, guts squeezing with anticipation at the mere thought of it. “Like you did back in the woods? ‘Cause I really… enjoyed that last time.”

His brows rise, short-lived surprise crossing his face before he chuckles. “Hah… Later, okay? Gonna fuck you sideways first and stretch you out a lil’ so my cock can fit.”

While Kiba tugs down his underwear, you busy yourself with doing as you’re told. You lie onto your side, clenching and rubbing your thighs together with lewd suspense and bated breath. By the time he spoons you, finally completely naked himself, you’re already bending your legs at the knee, pushing your ass out for him.

“Somebody needs it bad, huh?” he taunts as he pulls you closer to his chest. 

You’re in the same exact position as you were before all of this had started, the only difference is that you’re both naked now.

And, well, you’ve also got his cock sliding up and down your sticky pussy now. Got it smearing pre-cum and arousal and spit together, making you both groan out quiet noises of pleasure whenever the fat cockhead catches against your entrance, which feels like it’s fucking throbbing at this point.

He did something to you, didn’t he? He stuck his tongue fully inside your cunt for the first time instead of only licking and prodding it, and all of a sudden you’re forced to behave like a cat in heat.

“Kiba,” you whisper, breathing so fast that it’s almost frantic. You’re clawing at the sheets and rubbing your cheek against the pillow as you say, “Put it in... Fuck… Mmph, for the love of god, just put it in already…! I need your dick inside me.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m trying,” he mumbles, frustration making him bite the inside of his cheek. “But I gotta go slowly first so that I don’t rip ya to shreds, bunny... And you beggin’ me for it is not helping ‘cause it’s only making me want to do just that.”

“I don’t care about any of that, just… just put the tip in at least,” you mewl out between words, wiggling your hips, curling your toes. Turning your head to the side to look at him, you instead kiss him with the same forceful shove forward the second your eyes land on him. “Just the tip, yeah? Okay? Like we did it back in the tent.”

He stares at you, jaw clenched and teeth grinding together from how intensely he’s trying to keep himself in-check while also having to do the same exact thing for you as well now. He can smell your need, the sweat that coats your skin, the arousal. Can hear the heavy beating of your heart.

You’re both going to devour each other if one of you doesn’t have some self-control. So Kiba tries to be the one to have it, taking another long moment to grind against you before he finally lets his gaze slip from your nearly bewildered expression, and rather focuses it on guiding his cock straight into your cunt.

You arch against him when his cockhead spreads your folds apart and slowly makes its way inside. Jaw relaxing at the sensation of finally having something to ease all that painful throbbing that’s going on, you gasp for air almost in relief despite the pesky feeling of your pussy squeezing around the girth of his dick.

It’s already demanding more.

“Fuck, bunny,” he grunts, thrusting slowly, easing himself in. “What’s wrong with you…? You’re suckin’ me right in… Shit… Makin’ it real hard f’me to not push in all the way.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, just-... j-just keep going,” you whimper out, face turning hot when you feel slick dribbling down his length. He’s so big, perhaps even too big, but your cunt just keeps on taking more and more. It never seems to be enough.

Minutes pass and you’re gradually losing your sense of self right along with them. All you care about is having him inside you. So you fuck the tip first, then half of his cock, and afterwards — fucking finally — you start taking the whole thing.

And it feels good, relieving almost. He’s got his nose nuzzled into the crook of your neck, inhaling and drooling over the spot where your scent is the strongest as he holds your leg up for you and just slowly pounds away. In and out. In and out. In and out.

Meanwhile, you’re drooling all over the pillow as well, blindly reaching behind you to stroke his hair with twitching fingertips as your hips help him in meeting yours over and over again. Every time his fingers dig into the soft spot that’s underneath your knee, it makes you tighten up.

His cock twitches inside you when he buries it in to the hilt, really allowing himself to sink balls deep and making you do that cute little wince that wants to make him go batshit crazy. But instead of doing that, he steadies himself. Reels it back in. Tries to listen to your quick-paced heartbeat and even quicker breaths, despite that he’s paying attention to other things.

Because even if the sounds of skin slapping against skin aren’t that loud from how slowly he’s pushing into you, that doesn’t mean that they aren’t present. He can still hear them all. As well as the occasional gushy little noises that your pussy makes.

They make his balls tighten.

You don’t know how long you do this entire thing, but you orgasm three, three fucking times during it. To some it may be like a dream come true, however to you it’s exhausting. The overstimulation is wiping you out, and yet you keep pushing, keep asking for more, keep turning around to kiss him and whine out little pleas of ‘don’t stop, please don’t stop’.

The stretch stings, as does the spot on your neck where he sank his fangs earlier, but you welcome the overwhelming sensations with open arms. In fact, you’re so feral that you feel like you won’t survive the night if he doesn’t fuck and bite and squeeze this craving for pleasure out of you.

He does a pretty good job with it, though. With how wet you are, it’s fairly easy for Kiba to turn rougher; to turn more bestial and wild and relentless with every push and shove of his hips that he drills into yours. He even uses the vibe he’s had to listen to you pleasure yourself with over the phone these last couple of weeks, in order to help you with your little problem.

But you’re not just wet, you’re also insatiable — yes, that’s what you are! Constantly making noise and clawing at him like a little slut, looking at him with tearful eyes as the fever keeps on kicking you into the goddamn ground. So it’s only when he mounts you, aiming to fuck you like an animal, that you start feeling any sort of satisfaction that actually manages to stick. 

He uses his weight to roll you onto your tummy, and pins you down by placing you in a headlock that has you gasping for air, but also has you cumming on the spot again. You’re pretty sure that it’s the sheer, utter strength and the size difference between your head and his arm that has you behaving this way now instead of the daze, but who knows?

“Already? Christ,” he pants out, his hot exhales tickling your naked shoulder. His entire body is slick with sweat — you’re pretty sure you saw it dripping down his temples earlier. It’s no wonder that the last couple of kisses you’ve exchanged tasted salty. “Who would’ve thought that a good girl like you likes to be fucked this nasty, huh?”

Your lips try to part so that you can answer his jab with one of your own, however your face is squished against his tattooed bicep, rendering that task nearly impossible. Besides that, he’s growling into your ear, crushing you with his weight, getting bigger and bigger, until he’s throbbing inside your cunt, making your voice useless either way.

“My lil’ mate,” he continues, seemingly in a daze himself. He’s whipped at this point, completely pussy drunk. “You are, right? Mine?”

You still can’t say anything other than choked up gibberish from how firmly he’s holding you, however you do make an effort to nod.

But it’s not like he waits for you to actually answer. No, all he does is start picking up speed; starts pounding away for real, eventually making you feel like he’s in your fucking guts each time he draws back and slams right back in.

“Nngh… I’m close, real fuckin’ close... Gimme one more and then I’m… I’m knotting ya, okay, sweetheart? Yeah?” he rasps between quick breaths, voice so hoarse and hot that it ignites a fire straight up inside your soul. “Jus’ one more and then we’re makin’ pups, ‘kay?”

That last sentence alone is enough to get you reaching your finish real fucking fast. Your eyes roll back, your ass pushes up so that he can reach even deeper inside you. His balls slap against your clit with every harsh, unforgiving thrust, and it’s like you’ve gone to heaven.

Maybe it’s a good thing that he’s got you trapped in a headlock. Besides it being the hottest thing that a guy has ever done to you in bed so far, it also ensures that you stay nice and quiet. 

So it only takes you a minute or two to become undone underneath him because of all that’s happening. And the second you tighten around him — the strongest you’ve ever squeezed him tonight — his thrusting turns irregular and almost kind of jerky, picking up in speed more and more until he eventually reaches his climax and comes to a full stop.

Kiba grits his too-big teeth when he cums, spilling every last drop of his warm release inside you and closing his eyes during it. Every muscle in his body hurts from how overly tense he’d forced them to be whilst trying not to go too far since you’re so fragile. But as he wills himself to finally loosen up a little bit, he realizes that that hurts even more. The groan he lets out as a result can barely be registered as human.

But it’s not over just yet. You feel the now familiar, but equally as strange, sensation as his knot begins to swell inside you. The stretch builds up while it fills more and more space, pressing against your tender walls and causing your pussy to protest as it tries to accommodate all of him.

You’re stuck together once again, panting, sweating, trying to piece yourselves back into what you once were while also feeling completely, utterly fucked out.

His breathing is still heavy as he releases the headlock to ask, “What the fuck happened just now?”

“Oh, gosh.” You let out a small, muffled groan underneath him, fussing into the pillow, “I could ask you the same thing.”

“You acted like you were in heat,” he continues, concern shining in his yellow eyes. “Went all feral on me and shit.”

“I feel like I still am,” you say, whining when you feel his knot throbbing inside you in answer. “We’re probably gonna have to go for round two.”

“Fine by me.” He muses before a breathless snicker escapes him. “I’ll fuck you until sunrise if that’s what you want, baby.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t almost die from a heart attack just now.”

He grins from ear to ear. “Pussy so good it kills.”

You roll your eyes. “I wish it did.”

“All right, that’s it. You’re getting squished as punishment.”

“No, wait-”

Ignoring your protests, Kiba succumbs to the tiredness and drops his weight upon you exactly like he’d done the first time when he’d mounted you during the summer. However, before he can kiss you and shower you in praise for doing so well yet again, a small, sudden growl resonates from deep within his chest.

His sensitive wolf hearing picks up on the sound of keys jingling from the other side of the front door, as well as the drunken giggles and wheezing.

Your roommates are back. Great timing.

Looks like you’ll have to play it quiet.

———

Dating a werewolf is easier than expected, when said werewolf is also your best friend.

But even after being in a relationship with him for almost five years now — the last two of those spent living in an adorable little apartment together — you still can’t help but be fazed by how rough he ends up looking after every transformation.

Kiba’s shirt is torn in some places when he comes home the morning after he’d ventured out into the woods to cross off yet another full moon off his calendar. Besides the shirt, you also notice that his shoes are muddy and that his jeans are covered in dirt. Oh, and you’re pretty sure that there’s a twig poking out of his hair. 

All in all, he looks absolutely dead-beat; so exhausted that he can’t even give you a proper smile as he kicks his sneakers off and drags his feet across the kitchen floor. When he finally plops down onto the chair he favours, it’s accompanied by a sigh.

You stand up from your own seat so that you can walk over and give him a kiss on the forehead. When you do, you catch a whiff of his scent. He smells earthy; like rich soil and wet moss. Like a rainy forest.

“Hungry?” you mumble against his tan skin, combing your fingers through his hair to get rid of the twig that’s definitely stuck in there. After a bit of effort, you succeed in pulling it out and make sure to toss it in the trash as you head for the fridge.

“Starvin’,” he answers behind you, his voice completely worn out. “My stomach hurts like a motherfucker from how empty it is.”

“Well, that’s your own fault, now isn’t it? If you’d transformed here like you did last time, I would’ve made sure you were fed throughout the night,” you chide, rummaging through the fridge to pick up the carton of eggs you’d bought the day before. “I even took a day off work because of it, and yet you still decided to go out there into the woods.”

“I gotta keep that dawg in me somehow, don’t I?” he says, laughing like a kid.

“You can keep that dawg in you while you’re lying on a warm couch instead of the cold, wet ground,” you reply, grabbing the eggs. “Bacon?”

“Yes, please,” he says, propping his cheek against one hand.

With his eyes back to their normal brown, Kiba watches you move across the kitchen that you’d built together over the course of an entire week after moving in. He’d boasted that he was entirely capable of doing it himself and had cancelled on the assembly guys without even as much as offering you the chance to argue back. 

Nowadays, whenever he gets another similarly dumb idea, you use the kitchen as a firm example of the consequences that it may bring.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that you were trying to domesticate me,” he muses, feeling his stomach clench at the smell of food that’s beginning to sizzle on the pan now. “Or you just want to sit on my face when I’m in my monster form again. That’s also an option.”

God, he’s so hungry that it hurts.

“You’re lucky I don’t put you up for adoption just for saying that,” you say, tossing the egg shells away. With how fast embarrassment swoops in, twisting your expression into a flustered one, you’re happy that you’ve got your back turned towards him.

“What? You gonna tell me you didn't enjoy the stuff we did last month?” he asks, smirking at the memory. “‘Cause I seem to recall someone whining like a lil’ bitch in heat from only a couple flicks of tongue.”

He’s not wrong. Ever since he’d finally allowed you to see him in his other form a couple years ago, you’d been excited to experiment a little after the initial shock had worn off. So far, there’s been a lot of licking, plenty of dry humping and zero penetration whatsoever; if you exclude that one time when you tried to take him into your mouth but had ended up slobbering all over his dick instead.

He’s simply too big, and you’ve learned to accept it by now. Rubbing your pussy over the enormous length of his werewolf cock is all you can do, but it’s still satisfying either way. Especially when he cums because of how turned you are at the sight of him even when he’s fucking huge and equipped with sharp claws and teeth that could kill just as easily as they could protect. During those times, his release ends up covering your entire tummy and makes a mess out of his fur.

Nevertheless, Kiba feels so lucky that you’re willing to accept all of him. Feels like the luckiest man — or should he rather say wolf — to ever walk the face of the planet. It’s easier when he’s got a partner to lean on.

“Hey. Language,” you say, your voice stern.

“Sorry.” He lets out a soft little hum in apology that’s meant to appease you further. “I’ll stay home next month, okay? I promise.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, definitely wishing he did.

“I want to,” he says back.

When you go to place the plate before him, he pulls you down so that you can sit on his lap instead. After a little bit of squirming and whining about how he’s going to get your pyjama shorts dirty, you eventually settle down when he places his hand on your thigh and pats it affectionately. 

“You sure you want to stay here next month?” you mumble. Watching your bare feet dangle freely in the air now, you stroke him over the back of his head with an absent-minded look in your eyes. “I don’t want you to feel cooped up just because of me.”

“Yes, because I can’t take another month of seeing you be so worried about me,” he says sweetly, grabbing the fork that you’d placed on the table earlier.

Your expression turns blank. “Who said I was worried about you?”

He gives you a look that spells bullshit.

“…Oh fine, maybe I did worry just the tiniest bit,” you huff, pursing your lips. “But can you blame me? I mean, look at the shape you’re in whenever you come back!”

“Yeah, I look cool as fuck,” he mumbles before swallowing, already munching on the eggs. You just know he’ll wolf them down the second you get off his lap. “Like Bear Grylls.”

You blink, slowly. “Bear Grylls drank his own piss on live television.”

“I mean, if I-”

“No,” you cut in, sighing. “Whatever you were about to say just now, the answer is no.”

“Meh,” he says, taking another bite. “You’re no fun.”

You stare at his side profile, at the way his jaw works as he chews, at how the sun filters through the window that’s across the room and paints his tan skin golden. It’s not long before your hand is reaching out towards him, cupping his cheek so that you can press a warm kiss on his temple.

“Sucks to be you then, I guess,” you say, smiling cheekily. “Since you’re stuck with a lame mate and all that.”

“Nah, you’re cool as a mate,” he says, angling his head more into your touch on pure instinct. “You’re just a lame best friend. Still love ya, though!”

But despite the teasing remark that he’s just thrown your way, the truth is that Kiba loves you as his best friend just as much as he loves you as his mate. 

And judging by the little box that he’s hidden in the back of his closet recently, it seems like he’s going to love you as his wife very soon, too.

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Imagines:

1950s Housewife

Imagine making a wish for a different life to get away from your neglectful husband and your wish is granted… but now you’re trapped in the body of an unhappy housewife from the 1950s. Your husband in this time period is a typical patriarchal white collar man, James Prescott. And the only way to go back to your world is to play your part… a shame you hadn’t realized just how neglected he’s been. Otherwise you wouldn’t have fed a starved man the affection he so desperately craved.

Yandere Husband who is surprised when you, his wife, are suddenly affectionate that morning. You hardly kissed his cheeks anymore or wished him a good day at work. Especially when she turned down his desire for a family all those years ago. Were you sick? This wasn’t like you at all. He was suspicious. Did you want something? Work had been going well lately so he could afford to buy you a gift… if you wanted one, of course.

Yandere Husband who is surprised to come home to a warm meal after a long day that actually tastes good. You were never a good cook before. He was startled but also satisfied to be taken care of. He even gave you a rare compliment he never had before. “The food is good today. I really like this roast.” His blue eyes studied your face for a reaction and he only received a warm smile. His heart fluttered for the first time in two years since he started this dead marriage. Meanwhile, you kept a journal noting his likes and dislikes so you’d have an easier time in this world. A fact that would later come back to bite you.

Yandere husband came home with flowers after work the next day. Blush pink roses with the thorns taken off with care. His blue eyes were hopeful as he waited for your reaction and you didn’t disappoint. He came home to another delicious hot meal and a warm smile as you happily accepted the flowers. It was like the love was back again… the love back when the two of you first started dating three years ago. And James was so thrilled.

Yandere husband loved coming home to warm meals and a clean house. James loved his clothes being washed and folded. He also loved how you ironed his work shirt. You hadn’t been this domestic in ages… you deserved more from him. Heavens, you deserved the world.

Yandere husband began to bring flowers or chocolates by every day after that just to see you smile… and he was so thrilled when you hugged him. You felt him tremble a bit as he tightened his hold on you as if he was terrified you’d disappear in a mere moment. “…how about we go on a date this weekend?”

Yandere Husband who was all too eager to put on a suit that matched the dress you wore. He made sure to open the car door for you, the restaurant door, and even pull out your chair. You were shocked at how eager he seemed for this date… and the fact that he gave you his utmost attention.

Yandere husband who made sure to order your meals once you told him what you wanted. His hand held yours under the table as his thumb brushed against your knuckles with utmost affection. James was so happy you wanted to do these kinds of things together again. He had missed this more than anything but never wanted to voice it.

Yandere husband who cuddles you in bed at night now. His hands wander more and he gets bolder as the days drag on… but you didn’t know how long you’d stay in this world with him and you would feel awful if you left suddenly. But you were happy that someone wanted to touch you… your husband back in your world hadn’t in ages either. So why not indulge this one?

Yandere husband who was gentle at first but it wasn’t long for him to grow rough once he had a taste. Had intimacy always been this good? Or had James just been denied for so many years that he was losing his mind in you? He didn’t care that the bed creaked in protest or how your back arched in a way it never had, James was so thrilled to touch his wife again.

Yandere Husband who now kissed your shoulders every morning when the sunlight streamed in before work. James would hold you from behind as you cooked and helped with dishes. He was so happy to have all his stress melt away with your touch.

Yandere husband who finds your journal and despite knowing it was wrong to read it, he read it anyways. James’s heart fluttered at the words.

James really enjoys pot roast, steak, mashed potatoes, and carrots. He says he likes tomatoes, but I notice he will push them off to the side when I’m not looking. He also prefers beef gravy over chicken gravy. James says he likes his coffee black, but he always adds in a table spoon of sugar when I’m not looking.

Yandere husband who read deeper and soon discovered your secret. You weren’t his real wife or at least, his original one. You were from another timeline trapped in a loveless marriage just like him… and he’d felt such a kinship with you.

My husband from my world hardly ever spent time with me. He never stayed for dinner and we never went on dates. I really like James. I want to stay with James. How could someone not love James? He’s such a wonderful man.

Yandere husband was so flattered that you were noting his preferences. James never thought anyone noticed him… and he’d be damned if he’d ever leave him. He loved you too. James loved you so much. More than anyone else in his entire life. Even more than himself and more than his cushy job at the law firm.

Yandere husband who put the journal back and made a decision. He was going to keep you here in this world with him forever. And he’d never, ever let you go.

[delliebre]

thragg soooo cute in the new ep 😭

also conquest..

[moondeetoo]

Sad little conq

[totallynotrey]

Beard Mark kinda 👀

[bakubitchhh]

So where’s all the conquest and thragg fics?

[zwlsjp]

i really thought there would be a rise of thragg smut with the new season of invincible im so disappointed

[nickgoesinsane]

i see your “reader dies in every other universe” trope, and i raise you “reader doesn’t exist in any other universe” with the alternate marks

[earlgreylatte]

Who Made Me the Daughter of Conquest!?

Being reborn as the daughter of a psychotic, murderous alien from a comic book you kinda remember reading leads you to having to grit your teeth and play ‘loving daughter’ to avoid having your skull caved in. With daddy issues like that, is it really surprising that you go on to sexually torment the protagonist of said comic book? Not that he seems to mind.

(Mark Grayson x Reader)

Maybe you liked reincarnation and transmigration stories so much because it seemed so inconceivable of it being even close to plausible. Maybe if you knew the sheer fright you would feel in such a story, you wouldn’t have entertained the notion in the first place.

Well, being reborn into what you thought was a fictional world wouldn’t be too bad if you woke up in Pokemon. Now, that sounds like a good time. Getting to leave home as a minor and not having to worry about money when you can just beat the shit out of your fellow trainers seems pretty good, actually. Way better than your actual situation, cruelly so. In fact, you think God or whatever entity-concept-bitch that threw you into a new life should recompense you. Maybe if you monologued hard enough you’d be given what you’re owed—

Are you being dramatic? No. No, you’re not. And if you are, then maybe you’re allowed to be a little obnoxious when you have a bloodied behemoth of a man with a scarred face and metal arm staring down at you, expression not dissimilar to a feral animal with rabies.

Judging by how the screams and sound of buildings collapsing has long gone silent, you suspect that the alien world you were born into was now distinctly lacking its lifeforms. It’s almost a shame. Your new species looked like pretty space elves, like something out of a shut-in nerd’s erotic sci-fi fanfic.

You’re almost disappointed that you have to die as a toddler, you’re pretty sure you were going to grow up to be quite the beauty based on how your new mother looks—

Oh, she’s probably dead too.

You feel like you should be crying right now, but you remain motionless, pinned under the gaze of an apex predator that seeks to maul you, without the right to even grieve.

In the depths of your fractured mind, you realize that this doesn’t seem to be in character for the man, if you can even call him that, before you. You should already be dead, like an ant carelessly crushed by the heel of an uncaring giant. But you’re still alive.

He speaks, and your heart nearly stops.

“So, you are the one that your…mother sought to protect. Once, she was a fine warrior, ravenous and uncaring, but you made her…weak. Pathetic, even. It was almost a mercy to put her down, free her from the sad morsel of flesh she has degraded into.” He leans down now, fully looming above you, your wooden cradle acting less like protection and more like a trap, leaving you unable to escape.

“And for what? To nurture you beyond what her teat can offer—“

Does he have something against breastfeeding?

“—Viltrum had no tolerance, even when it came to weeping babes—“

Oh. You know who’s standing above you now, Negan voice be damned to the worst layer of hell.

“Yet, here you lie, a new generation of our dying empire; weak and disappointing. The only spawn I have sired, the only being in the universe that shares any blood with me—“

Anything else he says is drowned out by your own internal screaming. Your father is Conquest and he's a deadbeat. The unhinged psycho from yet another superhero comic that delights off suffering and broken bones.

But, this information, while horrifying, brings a clarity that washes over you like cold water. You’re currently a toddler, a Viltrumite one, sure, but a toddler, nonetheless, with a pathetic grip and too small limbs, reliant on your now dead mother to care for you. But you’re Conquest’s child. His family, even if the term is a foreign concept to him, and that makes you special. That gives you a chance to survive. You know his isolation, his loneliness. You know how easily Viltrumite pride crumbles when its few survivors found love on Earth, folding like a house of cards. Nolan was the outlier and then the rule.

The way of survival was clear to you, another remanent from your past life; play the fool, stupid and oblivious.

So, you embrace your new body and abandon shame, and throw your hands into the air, making grabby hands at the murderer, asking for ‘uppies’.

(You’d cry later.)

He ends his traumatizing soliloquy, going frighteningly silent.

Yeah. He looks like he’s going to kill you. So, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“Da!” You cry out, giving him a gummy smile.

Maybe you should have just let him kill you.

His face remains as impassive as stone but after another painfully long pause, he reaches down with bloodstained hands and picks you up, holding you from under your arms, large fingers completely covering your ribs.

“You are Viltrumite in blood only, your weakness would have had you purged—“

You let out a childish laugh, innocent and pure, desperate not to get ‘purged’ as he put it, “Silly da!”

That gets him to shut up. You ignore the way he flexes his fingers, the way they dig into your skin, more than capable of crushing your bones—

Your stupid, tiny hands grip his, as if willing—pleading him to not end your second life.

“You are so new to life, so sheltered, you cannot even comprehend who holds you, what I am even capable of doing. Your own mother has been slain by my hand,” he muses. “You truly…perplex me. Do you know who I am by sheer instinct? Does our blood tie us together so intrinsically?”

You kind of want to laugh at how much his words piss you off. What an annoying way to speak. Without even realizing it, your little fingers start to squeeze and you hear his surprised intake of breath. Your hand pulls away, to reveal the beginning of a bruise on his finger.

Oh, fuck.

“So young, and your powers are already appearing? This feeling, is it…” He lets out something similar to a laugh, ugly and unnatural, “There is value to you yet, child.”

He abruptly lets you go, and you fall back into your crib, too shocked to even yelp. Who drops a child!? The only thing you do is stare up at him in shock. He smiles down at you, and you almost piss yourself.

“You…are different. I will not take you with me. Do not fret, for I will be watching.” He promises, expression odd, “The being you will become, so unlike what we should be…I look forward to it. After all, you are mine.”

And as sudden as he appears, he’s gone. And you’re left, feeling slightly bruised, alone in your crib on a now dead planet.

How were you supposed to survive, exactly!?

*

You did survive. It seems like your planet had ties to the Coalition, who only arrived after everyone died. Pretty cowardly, really. But, you can’t really complain since they did retrieve you from your broken home , taking you with them. To fight for their cause, but beggars can’t be choosers in a brutal subversion of superhero media. Why couldn’t you have ended up in Venture Bros?

The cherry on top of this train wreck of a situation is that they immediately clocked you for being a half-Viltrumite, presenting you to their leader, Thaedus. Tad, as you sometimes called him, when you wanted to annoy him.

He trained you, along with many others, who drilled it into you to survive, to be stronger than the Viltrumites that threatened the safety of all life and freedom as you know it. You were their ace in the hole, their hunting dog, the hope of the Coalition. Mongrel and messiah in one. They made sure you were educated, well versed in their code of ethics. That your loyalty would always be to them. Questionable of them to do, frankly speaking, but they kept you clothed and fed, so you had no reason to protest.

The company wasn’t so bad at least. Under the Coalition, you’ve had the opportunity to meet a lot of people, from all ends of the universe, some kind, others absolutely terrified of your mere existence.

Allen fell into the former category, always seeking you out, sharing anecdotes from his missions and asking for you to share your own. And with Allen, came Telia, a higher ranking member than you both that you trusted to not spit on you for being ‘Viltrumite scum’ or whatever it was that some practically scornful cadets called you. Little did they know who their leader truly is.

*

You’d figure you wouldn’t see your ‘father’ after he killed your mom, but fate was unkind and Conquest is bat-shit insane. But at least he didn’t rat you out. You still wonder why he annihilated your home planet when you were clearly proof of compatible breeding. Honestly, genocide was a mercy compared to what you know they wanted to do to Earth, what they would probably do to you, if they caught wind. It was for the better they died, unfortunately. Even if their only survivor carried their legacy as recessive genes.

Not that you would ever ask him, even if you did often have the opportunity. Whenever you least expected it, when you were too concentrated on your mission, whether it was peacemaking or inspecting a new planet to add to the Coalition, he would appear, killing whatever adversary you were facing gleefully, expecting your gratitude and admiration for it, so you’d grit your teeth and call him ‘father’, despite the humiliation. You were still too weak, too scared to act how you wanted to. Which was to cave his skull in.

Other times, he would just follow you. Silent, like a spectre. Or a fucked up looking dog.

It was worse when he tried to copy the acts of physical affection you shared with others. His hugs usually broke one or two ribs and his head pats left you with a bump. You’re not even sure how he learned about them in the first place. Other times, they weren’t…too painful, at least.

*

“Child,” he calls after slaughtering the fleet you were leading on a recon mission. “You grow stronger, yet you still lack the true strength of an Viltrumite.”

“Is that so?” You laugh, good natured, noting Shez’s head by your feet. He was your pilot. A good man and father from what little you knew about him.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken you with me, if I still should,” Conquest admits.

“That’s an interesting thought,” you smile stupidly, trying to keep the murder off your face.

“But you are…more interesting like this.” He concludes. And you wonder why someone like him was committing probably the highest level of treason. For some daddy-daughter time? The Empire obviously didn’t do family, bonds were meaningless to them, but apparently not to Conquest anymore. Did the isolation from his race finally get to him? Was he really that simple? That…lonely?

Another long moment of silence passes before he leaves you with your broken ship and dead crew.

“Okay?” You whisper, making eye contact with Shez.

*

You were on your way back to base after surveying a planet of bug people, they had no warriors or weaponry to speak of and their technology was nothing to write home about. Unfortunately, they had nothing to offer to the Coalition. At least that meant Viltrumites would have no interest in them either. No, that sounds wrong——

Your thoughts are cut off when you’re suddenly tackled mid-flight, and before you know it, you find yourself in a stone cube your father apparently dragged around as shelter. A house? Just without a bed. And everything else. It was sad and barren, only having some supplies and what looks like a…cake? On the ground before you, messily frosted a deep red colour. You hope that isn’t blood, actually.

“You told me once how some species choose to celebrate their day of birth. A foolish sentiment,” he rumbles, sitting before you.

You can kind of remember rambling about birthdays. You usually just say whatever pops up in your mind so his thoughts don’t swerve into killing you. The most terrifying thing about him was how we could go from looking like the psycho killer he is to giving you big, sad eyes. It almost humanized him.

“Oh, it’s not my birthday,” you start to say before noticing his expression, “It’s— it’s your birthday?”

“I do not recall when I was born.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment.

“You said there would be singing,” he scowls.

“Oh, well, only sometimes, like rarely, actually—“ you notice his glare, and duck your head. “Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…”

*

While you didn’t have to worry about debt or making something of yourself like in your past life, your current life was uniquely difficult.

You were growing wary (and scared) of having to placate your ‘father’. You don’t believe he would snitch to the Empire about your existence, that would be mutually assured destruction, so you were finding little reason to continue your ‘hangouts’ with him and you were beginning to worry if you were impacting the plot too much, god forbid your existence becomes the reason he survives.

So, you’re going to Earth, to hide yourself being the bigger, flashing target that was Mark Grayson. Let him deal with Conquest when the time came.

…and maybe you missed having a home. And the PlayStation, you definitely missed that.

And after years of having Conquest rough you up (break your bones and rupture your organs) to test your might, you weren’t looking forward to him trying to give you some type of sick ‘becoming an adult’ beating.

So, you told Thaedus you were going on leave, a vacation, really. You needed a break from the continued mess that was your life. What better than reliving the mess that was your past life instead? When your biggest worries were meeting the disappointment of your parents rather than having to placate your colonizer father.

“You want to go to Earth…? The planet that inhabits the only other half-Viltrumite we know of, that is currently the Empire’s main focus?” Thaedus blinks at you. "For fun?"

“What, I’m not allowed to sightsee? Take a load off? I see, so I don’t even have the right to take time off! I mean, I’m already a child soldier so I might as well be under Thragg’s rule—“

“And that’s the only reason?” Your fellow Viltrumite interrupts.

“What? Worried I’m going there to revive our dying civilization with Nolan’s son?” you tilt your head, smiling blandly.

And the conversation ended pretty quickly, after that. Not before he tried to once again ask you to bring your sperm doner over to your side. Which was another hard no. You were not going to mess with canon.

At least Allen seemed a little more thrilled.

“They really do grow up so fast,” Allen wipes a tear from his eye. “But, look at you, finally putting yourself out there, getting some work-life balance! Earth will love you! Well, some of them are pretty paranoid after the whole ‘Viltrumite killing thousands’ thing, but you’ll be fine! Just be yourself! Well, maybe not ‘yourself’—“

“Worried?” You tease.

“No, not at all!” He laughs nervously, “It’s just that sometimes you can be just a teensy bit…mean? Which I love! Great banter between us! It’s our thing! But, maybe, the Earthlings will see it as psychological warfare…?”

“Me? Mean? I wouldn’t say that, in fact, others would describe me as nothing but pleasant!” You chortle, disregarding everything he said, and Allen awkwardly joins you, muttering something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like a prayer.

*

Allen told you to just hang around the moon and someone would pop up to greet you. You hope it isn’t the Immortal.

You internally curse when the Immortal appears, rage clear on his face as he shoot’s up, ready to attack. How embarrassing of him, really.

You tackle him back into Earth’s stratosphere in a sudden burst of speed, breathing in sweet, probably polluted air.

“Take me to your leader?” You ask, arms stilled wrapped around his shoulders. “Or better yet, have him head over to me. A welcoming committee would be nice.”

He only lets out another shout, throwing a punch towards your face, so you grab his arm, throwing him over your shoulder before deigning to fly away then waste any more of your time trying to talk to a knockoff…Vandal Savage?

You instead head to New York City, normally known as a magnet for trouble, in any other reality than this one. You definitely stand out in your Coalition uniform, but people barely spare you a second glance from the park bench you’ve currently claimed as yours.

You watch a group of nearby pigeons fight over a hot dog bun before a presence blinks next to you. Honestly, Cecil’s teleportation was comparatively primitive to other civilizations you’ve come across. A lot more wasteful too.

A moment of silence passes and you can at least commend him for taking a seat next to you. You’re sure that he has a bunch of weapons and satellites honed in on you, but it’s brave of him regardless. Maybe you should thank Allen for opening a bridge in the first place. You doubt he’d be as chill if you weren’t wearing your uniform.

“So, I hear you have a Viltrumite problem,” you start, smiling.

“And I should assume you’re not here to add on to that?” He asks wryly. “Not here to spread word of the Viltrum Empire?”

You laughed as if he actually said something funny, “You know that not all of us were raised like that. No, there are outliers that weren’t indoctrinated from birth. Not of pure blood. Me…and Nolan’s kid. Is he too busy to say hi?”

“Extremely.” He narrows his eyes at you, and you can tell you’ve unsettled him. Oh, Mark wasn’t here was he? Looks like little Oliver would be arriving soon.

He meets your gaze, “I’m going to be blunt. I already figured you weren’t a hostile force because of your ‘friend’ already popping by, but I thought your little group was too busy to grant us any aid. So tell me this. What the hell are you doing here? You’ve already gave everyone a heart attack, to do what? Watch birds fight?”

“I’m on vacation,” you reply brightly.

He stares at you. “You’re here…on vacation.”

“Yeah, Allen mentioned Earth was an interesting place, if not a bit…behind. My old planet wasn’t too different actually! I mean before we started stripping it for resources. Don’t worry, everyone was already dead,” you continue. “Honestly, it feels nostalgic being here. In more ways than one.”

“For some reason, I don’t believe you and believe you at the same.” The man rubs his face tiredly, but you don’t take it as him letting his guard down. It’s probably a signal for something, you’re guessing.

“I’m being pretty polite, you know. I could have just came here undetected. I’m fast enough and I have the tech for it, but I wanted to meet you,” you admit, still smiling, though you doubted it was comforting. “You’re in a pretty tough position here, friend. Viltrum believes you can help replenish what they lost and the only reason they haven’t is because Earth is continuously racked with…internal issues. And they trusted Nolan, too much, a mistake you guys made too. Your strongest fighter would die to any Viltrumite, including me. Honestly, feels like you guys just have horrible luck. And it’s not going to get any better.”

“So what? The Coalition is going to back us up now? From what I’ve heard you guys haven’t had much luck against the Viltrumites either,” he retorts and you laugh again, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him against your side. You can feel his tension despite his expression not changing. You doubt he’s ever been manhandled like this. “…awfully friendly, aren’t you?”

You’re being mean. But you have a lot of frustration that you aren’t able to take out against the one that wronged you. So, yes, you’re being a bully right now, making his weak, little heart almost go out, but you’ll make up for it. Someday.

You wonder if Donald is shitting himself right now. “I’ve killed two of them before. Viltrumites, that is.”

“Two?” He sounds unimpressed, but you can tell you only raised your danger level.

“Believe it or not, it was a major loss for them. Painted a target on my head the first time, the second time, they started getting a bit nervous,” you share, “The only way to kill one of us is to be stronger. Plain and simple.”

You’re lying a bit there, but you’re not about to share your weaknesses with him of all people.

“Roundabout way to sell yourself, I thought you were here to…relax,” he says, shifting in your grasp.

“I am, but even off duty, I took an oath to protect, especially when Viltrumites are involved. Don’t think of me as an enemy or something you need to worry about. If they come, I’ll help. And if I’m not fighting whoever they send, and they will send someone, I’ll just be enjoying the sights.” You pat his shoulder before pulling away. “I think we’ll become great friends…sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Cecil.” He’s playing nice, at least. “You can stay, we’ll even fund your…activities. But, the only way you involve yourself in any altercation, you wait for my call. Trust that you’ll be met with immediate consequences if you act out.”

With those final words, he’s gone. You’re amused that he only threatened you after you let go of him. He was definitely placating you the same way you did for your father.

“Some clothes and currency would be nice?” You call out to the sky, aware you’d be monitored during your stay. Voyeurs.

You were definitely going to take advantage of the taxpayers. Sorry, Americans.

*

You let out a sigh of contentment as you emerged from the ocean, heading back to where you left your towel. You’ve seen a lot of beaches over the years, but you never had the chance to actually enjoy any of them. So you figured you’d make sure of a private beach in Australia, uncaring of the actual owners.

Right as you bent down to pick up your towel, you had to dodge an incoming punch from the protagonist himself. Wow, he just got back on Earth and he came to visit you. You’re honoured.

“This isn’t your planet—“ you know he was about to make a speech about how colonization is bad, but he pauses, mouth agape as he takes in your form.

You meet his gaze, tilting your head. Ah, you understand now. In your last life, you weren’t a big fan of revealing outfits, but after interacting with a variety of cultures and species, you were comfortable in your skin, meaning sometimes you liked to wear sexy bikinis that didn’t leave much to the imagination. 

“Yes?” You smile.

“Uh, you, uh, I’m not—you’re a Viltrumite!” He barely gets out, obviously going red under his mask.

“You definitely didn’t let Cecil finish before hunting me down, did you? And did he really give you my location before at least saying I’m a friendly Viltrumite like you?” You pout, crossing your arms, already sure Cecil is shouting into his earpiece.

“You—yeah, he’s bringing me up to speed now,” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “You’re friends with Allen? He didn’t mention you…like at all.”

“Viltrumites aren’t something you can freely talk about,” you reply, “I’m sure you can guess why.”

“Heh, yeah, for sure,” he says awkwardly.

When you don’t say anything, he speaks up again, “You, uh, don’t seem that different from a human. My mom said even my dad took a while to get used to Earth. But you look great— like you’re doing great!”

“Well, compared to the Empire, the Coalition is all about diversity. They made sure I wasn’t an emotionally constipated killer.” You take pity on him and ignore his slip up. A part of you wants to mess with him a bit more, mostly out of envy for him having a human mom and an actual childhood, but that’s twisted even for you. “Did you want to join me?”

Okay, maybe you did have it in you.

“Oh, me? Wow, that’s, wait, no, I have a girlfriend! Oh my god, Amber,” he starts to mumble to himself guiltily. Did he come see you before his girlfriend? You’re flattered, even thought those two are on the brink of a breakup.

“You should get comfortable having me around, Mark.” You mention casually, “Cecil wants me to help whip you into shape. Allen mentioned you were a late bloomer.”

His cheeks flush again much to your glee. “You? But you’re—“

“Doubting me, are you?” In an instant, you’re behind him, kicking his knee in, so he stumbles before whipping around to face you.

Oddly enough rather than offence, he’s giving you the same stupid look as earlier. You look done and let out an ‘ah’. You turn around, arm covering your now bare chest. You weren’t that secure.

“Can you pass me my top?”

In a flash, he’s holding up the piece of fabric, his other hand covering his goggles. For that act of kindness, you pretend not to notice how affected he is by the sight of your tits. Honestly, he’s acting like he’s a virgin, which you know he is not!

*

You’re having the most fun you’ve had in a while, or maybe even the most fun you’ve had in this life.

You get to laze around, eat good food, beat the shit out of Mark for ‘training purposes’. Going on vacation really was the best, especially since you were basically waiting to get drafted to fight in a war. Right now, the best thing to do is nothing.

“You don’t pull punches, do you?” Mark hovers above where you’re perched on a cliffside, watching the sunset after hours of tossing him around.

“That’s what makes me so good at my job,” you grin up at him. Surprisingly, he smiles back at you. You guess being associated with Allen is like a ‘get-out-of-jail’ card here. Well, for now.

“You sure about that? You just smack me around and yell ‘dodge this’,” he teases. “By the way, you’re supposed to warn me before you hit me, not after!”

“I’m Pavlov-ing you. In a good way,” you clarify.

“I don’t thinking saying it’s the ‘good way’ actually makes it good.”

“Hmm, yeah, I guess you’re—dodge this!”

*

“He smells like grape juice,” you breathe, hugging the purple toddler to your chest.

“He doesn’t smell like grape juice just because he’s purple,” Mark retorts, crossing his arms as he watches you nuzzle your face into Oliver’s hair. “I don’t get why you wanted to see him.”

“He’s another halfie, we’re like a super minority right now,” you explain, “And I didn’t really see too many kids growing up.”

“How old are you?” Mark asks suddenly before backtracking, “Oh, wait is that rude to ask? I don’t mean it in a bad way, just curious if, uh, I’ll shut up now.”

“Worried I’m as old as your mom?” You ask. “No, I only recently entered adulthood like you.”

“Cool, cool, cool.” Mark nods, attempting to appear casual. “So, uh, me and Amber broke up.”

That’s earlier than you thought it would happen.

“Why?”

“I’m going to drop out of Upstate, I barely have enough time with the super hero gig and training, as is, forget about actually being able to be there for her. It wasn’t fair to her,” Mark admits. “It felt like we were holding onto something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“You did sound like a bad partner,” you hum and he shoots you a betrayed look. “But, life isn’t so simple for you. You’ll find your peace eventually, Mark.”

You’ve seen it, after all.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” He rubs his neck sheepishly. It’s a cute habit, you hope it’s one he keeps even if it seems unlikely.

*

“—are you okay?” Mark appears in your vision, bloodied and bruised. “You…scared her off? Uh, asserted your dominance?”

“I’m not a dog,” you grumble, lifting yourself from the sand, as he collapses to sit beside you. “But, yeah, Anissa, was it? Older than us, way older. Any further confrontation between us would have led to more serious injury, so she cut her losses and left. Wish I could have bashed her head in permanently, but there’s always next time. If she was just a little slower…”

“You guys were faster than I thought was possible,” he shakes his head ruefully.

“Experience does count for something. At least, you’re good at taking a beating,” you console.

“Yeah, that definitely makes me feel better.”

“That’s what I’m here for; pina coladas and emotional support,” you grin mockingly before your face falls back into neutral dissatisfaction.

Mark pats your arm, “You’ll get her next time.”

*

“Wow, you really suck at this,” Oliver remarks, watching your character die for the nth time, the two of you sitting on the floor, engaged in the most broken game of all time. You'd rather play a RPG.

“Why do you even like playing shooters? Bullets are literally the most useless thing in space,” you mumble, tossing your controller away.

“Why do you keep playing with my brother when I’m the one that invited you over?” Mark wonders, slumped on the couch behind you.

“She just likes me better,” Oliver brags. “How long are you here for anyway? You said you were just on leave.”

“I’ve literally never taken any day offs, so like ten years, I guess. Or whenever they’re planning to take out the remaining Viltrumites,” you shrug, prompting Oliver to starting ranting about how he’s going to get the most takedowns.

“What are you going to do when it’s over? When there’s no threat?” Mark asks suddenly.

“What? Like, universal peace? I guess the same thing I’m doing right now,” you answer, unsure why he looks so pleased. Dork.

“Then I guess I’ll have to get to work,” he says as if he could just achieve it like that. Well, he would, but doesn’t know that.

“Maybe win a fight first.”

“Ohhhh!”

“Shut up, Oliver.”

*

Shit was going down. It was the average Ao3 user’s wet dream. Dozens of morally dubious Marks fucking everything up.

And, you were having your (Y/N) moment. And letting out some steam through violence. You can only blame your genetics.

“I’m gonna be real with you, babe, this is the most fun I’ve ever had,” a variant wearing a mask without lenses, revealing stupid Bambi eyes, admits, nose bleeding, staining his teeth red when he smiles.

“Aw, you’re going to make me blush,” you giggle after bringing a knee to his face.

“No, really! I thought the only kinda cool thing I could do was kill the Guardians again, but that was a bust! When you tackled me into a mountain, I think I got, like, a gratitude boner or something!” He exclaims, what a manic sweetheart he is. And he should be grateful, you saved him from having to survive the horrors alongside Darkwing Jr.

“Wow, you’re actually being serious about the boner thing,” you comment, doing your best to look into his eyes, and not at his—

“What can I say? You just do it for me, baby, maybe it’s your penchant for punching the shit out of me. Or maybe it’s those pretty legs of yours,” he admits shamelessly, “Actually, do you own any fishnet—“

You punch him into the ground and watch him bounce, but he only lifts his head to look at you like a lovesick puppy. “Marry me?

Okay, that’s enough. The sadomasochism thing was mostly a joke. He can get cannibalized. You’re pretty sure Rex is about to sacrifice himself and take that as an excuse to dip.

*

The day you’ve been dreading. Conquest’s arrival, and you do not want to stand ready for it.

People (and dogs) are going to die. Mark and Eve are going to get mutilated. And you don’t think you can live with that happening on your watch.

So when Cecil calls you for backup, you don’t ignore him. You cry a little, but you go.

When you see him about to tear Oliver in half, you dive down from the sky, landing a kick against his back, forcing him to drop Oliver, you’re barely able to catch him, watching Conquest land a couple feet away.

“That’s enough,” you declare, gently setting the boy down for retrieval, trusting Cecil to take care of him, and approach your father.

“It looks like you’ve improved at hide and seek, it’s been months since I’ve seen you, and you’re here? Your softness…I can only take responsibility for it,” he tells you, quiet compared to the devastation around you. His hand cradles your cheek when you’re close enough, gentler than he’s ever been with you. You raise an eyebrow at the absurdity. Did he miss you that much?

“That’s right, it’s your fault. You could have taken me in at any time, let me be molded into a ‘true Viltrumite’, but you didn’t. Why? All that loyalty to them but you falter now? I don’t understand,” you admit. “Families don’t exist for our people. You want me to be strong, but not enough that I be trained like the rest of you.”

“You were the only one to ever smile at me,” he states simply.

You really hated when you felt bad for him.

Your little moment is interrupted when you hear Mark shout.

“Get away from her!” You raise a hand, stopping his charge as he stares at you in confusion.

“Father, what are you doing? I thought maybe you wanted me to be the one to kill you, but it’s that not that,” you exhale steadily before continuing, “The day you didn’t kill me or take me, you became a traitor. You don’t care about the Empire, clearly, and based on the way you keep following me around like a sad, old dog, there’s more to you than just wanting to fight. What do you want?”

“I want you to live as you always have, without the influence of anyone but myself,” he says. “That way, you can still bear to look at me. That matters more than anything else. Treachery or even destroying this planet, it doesn't matter what I do, so you must remain as yourself.”

That’s almost sweet.

“I came here to drench myself in blood, but now, I will crush this planet against my heel, even if it’s against the Empire’s wishes, for attaching itself to you like a parasite, wasting away your potential and time,” he vows. “I will liberate you from this weakness.”

What?

“What!?” Mark, who was previously stuck in a shellshocked state, shouts.

Your father turns back to Mark, glee gone from his face, replaced with a look of loathing. Before he can move, you wrap your arms around him, feeling him stiffen in shock, as he stares down at you.

“Father! Dad! Dad, you’re right, I’ve gotten attached to this place, for better or worse. Maybe that makes me weak. But, I’m okay with that,” you nervously ramble, clutching onto the man like a lifeline, even thought you have to resist the urge to start shaking. You need to come up with something quick. “The truth is…that I want to start a life here. On a planet where blood and bonds ties us together, where families are forged. Because I’m…”

You silently apologize to Mark.

“I’m with child. Nolan’s son is the father,” you lie, looking your father in the eye. “Here, parents raise their child. They spend every day with them. And…and grandparents are very involved! They just pop up and spoil their grandkids…and that’s totally something I want.”

“A child?” Your father brokenly gasps, looking back at Oliver’s battered form.

“No, that’s not—obviously not! I meant, in my womb, dad!” You yell, pulling away.

He stares at your stomach like you have a bomb strapped to you. He stumbles back before flying away, concrete breaking under the impact. You wonder if canon even matters anymore.

You’ve saved thousands, but at what cost?

Mark finally regains the ability to speak, “We’re pregnant!?”

“I lie when I'm scared, Mark! You should know that!”

*

When you exit the washroom after a very long shower, you’re not surprised to find Mark in your hotel suite, awkward lounging on your bed, staring a bit too long at your fluffy bathrobe for it to be an admiring gaze.

“How was Rex’s going away party?” You ask, sitting next to him, crossing your bare legs.

“Great, I’m happy for him. They missed you, actually. Rex wanted to thank you for taking down that variant,” he smiles, and you take note that most of his injuries have already healed. You stopped the worst of it. “Rae too, looks like they’re a thing now. Didn’t see that coming.”

You hum, an urge to bully him hitting you. You turn to face him, “Do you want to have sex?”

“S-shouldn’t I buy you dinner or take you to a movie first?” He blurts out.

“You wanna take me out?” You ask.

“Yes, of course, I think we’re doing things a little…out of order?” He says. “I mean, sex is also, hmn, good. Really good.

“I was just thinking you should put a baby in me before Conquest comes back,” you explain casually. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. I figured we might as well go along with it.”

He chokes, and you bite back a smile.

He’s too easy.

“You don’t have to. It’s a better alternative than fighting him, but we can figure it out,” you continue, “Maybe we could—“

You’re cut off when he presses his lips against yours, hands cradling the back of your head. Any noise you make is swallowed by him. He pulls away, nose brushing against yours.

“Let’s do it,” he declares.

“Uh, I think your line is supposed to be ‘that’s crazy’ or ‘how can we have a baby’,” you reply, face feeling hot at his sudden boldness.

“I mean, it’s like you said, it’s the best alternative. I’d rather have Grandpa Conquest showing up than the bloodthirsty version,” he says, hand already moving to untie your robe.

“Dude, no way do you want a baby,” you blanch. Is this a game of chicken? Are you losing said game of chicken?

“We can at least try,” he says dragging you further up the bed. “And we can figure out the money thing. I wouldn't let the mother of my child go hungry."

“Well, uh, I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try,” you bite your lip before he pushes you down by the shoulders, climbing atop you, pressing his mouth against your neck.

“We’re doing this for Earth,” he mumbles in between his sucking and biting.

“For peace,” you agree, a little breathless.

This was either going to cause Cecil a stroke or be some good wank material.

*

“I think I might be a little obsessed with you,” he admits from in between your thighs, face drenched.

Join the club, you think delirious.

Mc’s mom looking up from hell to see Conquest doing the same thing he shamed her for; loving their daughter: I’m going to rip his dick off

*

Mc:

Thaedus: what have you done

*

Cecil, after meeting mc: mass suicide?

*

Mc, bullying Cecil because she can’t kill her dad: damn I need therapy

Mc: I’m going to physically intimidate that old man again.

*

Mc, sobbing after hearing someone sing ‘happy birthday’:

Mark, the ‘someone’: I’m…sorry??

*

Mark: so you’re not pregnant 😔

Oliver, lying a couple feet away, bleeding out: can you do this shit somewhere else

*

Mark: why is that variant still here…and why is he holding roses

Mc: should we keep him as a dog or something

Mark: no??

*

GDA admins, after basically creating a sex tape: delete…or save🤭

*

Conquest: where is the womb??? Where is my grandchild being held!?

I feel like whenever I come up with a title before I actually write a fic, I end up changing everything and doing a rewrite, which is what happened here…I decided to make mc apart of the coalition rather than the empire, creating a more estranged relationship, the only way love could form since it would impossible if mc was raised the Viltrumite way…anyone still around from when I made the original poll? I prefer this version more since there’s more freedom to write the mcs personality when they’re not part of a regime

Anyway even the style of the fic changed from being manwha adjacent to becoming a mix of Gintama/adult swin humour lol

But yay over 6.6k words ughh lemme know about any errors, I’m so bad at editing

Masterlist

[elianssbox]

Part 2/?

Previous | Next

(ur alien friend has a breakdown over his gift wilting because he didn't know he was supposed to place them in water..)

inspired by someone's reblog!! Hope you guys enjoy!

[supermenz]

fighting the hating the boyfriend final boss(es)

summary: Meeting the parents is always stressing. It especially is so when your dad's Batman, and your mom is what many would consider a terrorist cult leader, while his dad is an alien come to conquer Earth and his mom is... weirdly normal. (Or: four times you meet each other's parents individually, and the one time they all meet.)

pairing(s): mark grayson x al ghul!batsis!reader, batsis!reader x platonic batfamily, batsis!reader x platonic al ghul family

word count: 14.8k

warnings: i imagined them to be around 20-ish?, swearing, a smidge of spoilers from the comics but nothing too detailed, au of the two-parter linked down below (it can be read without reading that first, but if you want to understand reader's backstory you'd need to do that), enstablished relationship, suggestive maybe, making out, mark is kinda a sugar baby, oliver is a baby because i say so, nolan and debbie are still together for the same reason (debbie pls take him back), implied suicide, mention of hell and torture, conner kent is mentioned as reader's ex, other than that lots of fluff and banter!!

author's note: i know this batsis sounds cheesy in comparison to the one of the that girl is corrupt-verse, but let me explain: yes, they're the same person, but she's grown since then and has found her peace. also, this is just a funny AU, so don't worry, her and conner don't break up in the original fic!! as always, beta-read by my wonderful @lechelovestoyap <3 dividers from @uzmacchiato!

au of ⮕ that girl is corrupt | could you raise her to love me, maybe?

— one. 

“He’s late.” 

“I know he is.” 

“I didn’t expect him to be.” 

It’s twelve fifty-five. Mark was supposed to be here twenty-five minutes ago, and your father’s not amused. You raise an eyebrow, highly doubting his words. “You didn’t? Really?”

He taps his fingers on the table. “Meeting your girlfriend’s father is an important thing, if you value the relationship. I didn’t think he had it in him to show up late — not after all the psychological warfare you surely subjected him into.”

You roll your eyes, moving around the appetizers on your plate. The place is nice– because of course Bruce Wayne would choose nothing but the best restaurant to publicly humiliate his daughter’s boyfriend. It’s a rooftop restaurant that only makes boujee Italian dishes, where a reservation would take you months to get without the name Wayne attached to it, and while normally you’d love to eat here, you’d rather do so without the looming threat of your father reducing Mark’s ego to smithereens. “Evidently so, it wasn’t enough.”

You’re pretty sure that you reminded him of this lunch so many times that he must’ve dreamed about you — and not nice dreams where you’re nice to him and fulfill all his fantasies, but those ugly ones where you turn into a seven-headed demon and yell at him to be on time for once. The fact that all your brothers are sitting at a nearby table with horrendous wigs and fake mustaches is not helping. 

You even dressed up — which you never do. Sure, you’re always stylish, and a picture of you in a bad outfit would probably sell for thousands in gossip magazines, but this time you put in the work. Nice black dress. Silver Rolex. Pearl earrings that belonged to your grandmother in hope of softening Bruce up. 

Generally, the nice dress should’ve served as an incentive for Mark to show up and for your father to see him seriously. Now, it looks like you’re compensating for your chronically late boyfriend. 

You’re looking at your phone screen and setting it back down face-down on the table every five minutes. Dick and Jason have been cackling about something — no doubt Mark getting his ass handed to him somewhere around the world — for the last three minutes, and you swear you’re about to throw a salad knife at them.

God, the salad knife. You even taught Mark cutlery etiquette just for this. Will he ever need to know the difference between the fork used for the first course and the one for the main? Probably not, but anything to placate your father’s dislike for him. 

“You act like you’re never late,” you grumble to Bruce. He pokes at your shoulder, “That’s because I never am.” 

Finally. Some words you can throw back at him. Crossing your arms, you say, “Ah, you aren’t? Well, what about mine and Cass’ Christmas recital? We were doing Swan Lake, Father, and we were the leads. Then there were about a dozen council meetings at school– talking about the only ones you showed up at, by the way. Then it was Tim’s birthday last year, and Clark’s birthday, and Selina’s birthday, and my graduation, and Barry and Iris’ baby shower–”

“Fine, fine,” your father hisses, squinting at his watch. “But he better be here in the next ten minutes, because I’m not waiting for him then, and you shouldn’t either.” he lowers his voice, “I thought you were done for good with alien hybrids and supes after breaking up with Conner. Between the two of them, I’m not sure which one I despise the least.” 

You deadpan. “I could say so much worse about all your ex girlfriends, but for the sake of public appearances, I’ll leave it at that.” the simple fact that your mother’s in a terrorist cult should make him ashamed of trying to give you relationship advice. 

Finally, Mark Grayson graces the entrance doors. Like you had kindly asked him — which in your world means threatened without a sharp object in your reach — he’s wearing that light blue Ralph Lauren polo you got him for Valentine’s Day, and those Levis jeans that aren’t baggy but not even skinny that make him look like someone who can actually dress himself up nicely.

Thank God– so he knows how to listen when he wants to. You told him a thousand times to wear something casual, but not too shabby so as to let your father think he didn’t care about meeting him — guess setting the clothes out on his bed helped. His hair is brushed back as usual, his smile nervous as the waiter brings him over to your table, and in his hand is a bouquet made out of colorful tulips. He gives you a crooked smile, one that says, I’m sorry, I love you, please don’t hate me, I swear there was an alien invasion I had to stop before coming here. 

“Hi,” he whispers, bowing down to leave a kiss on your cheek. You glare at him, tapping your bicep as your father rises from his seat, hand extended. Mark tries to smile at him, but it comes out as an anxious wince instead when they shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Wayne– sorry for the delay, there was… traffic downtown. I’m sure you’d understand.” he holds the flowers out. “I also brought you flowers.” 

Bruce blinks, eyebrow twitching. Your brothers are staring over their menus, not even bothering to hide their spying, while the waiter waiting for their order looks at them with the eyes of someone who wishes they didn’t pay him enough to deal with such buffoonery. In the end, the playboy facade of your father always prevails, and he gives Mark a polite, tight smile. “The pleasure is all mine,” it clearly isn’t, judging by the grip he’s got on his hand, “try to be on time next time, will you? Counting traffic and all.” 

You take a deep breath. If you want to get out of this lunch with your honor still intact — and with a boyfriend still — you can’t keep giving Mark the cold shoulder. Once you’re out of here, you’ll berate him all you want — but as long as you’re here, you’ll have to look positive towards him. Even nice, perhaps. But only if he behaves well. 

As Mark takes a seat beside you, your father settles the flower on the empty seat beside him. They slump like they know this is going to be a disaster. 

Nervous, your boyfriend looks between you and your dad, still glaring at each other, then at the barely touched appetizers in the middle of the table. Then, of course, at the table right beside yours, where your brothers are pretending to be very interested in their menus. “Uh…” he lets out a nervous laugh, “I– I hope my timing didn’t ruin your first impression of me.” 

Your father’s first impression of him was doomed ever since Omni-Man appeared on national television and destroyed half of Chicago by beating him to a bloody pulp, but you won’t be the one to tell him that. Bruce finally drags his gaze out of yours and offers him a dubious look. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about.” 

Mark pales. Right. He’s probably more worried about the whole Viltrumite thing, as well as his daughter’s preference for half aliens. “Right. Of course. Well–”

“Can I get your order?” The waitress has a polite smile on her face and is clearly unaware of the tension at the table when she rounds it, notepad in hand. Your father doesn’t even hesitate, “I’ll take today’s special.” 

You’ve been here enough times to know your favorite dish without looking at the menu. “I’ll take the cacio e pepe.” 

Mark scrambles for the menu. You sigh, finally uncrossing your arms and placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “Take the lasagna. You’ll love it.” He nods and stutters out to the very amused waitress, “I’ll pick the lasagna then.” 

Before the woman can go, Bruce stops her. “Oh, one last thing,” he points to the table full of gossips beside yours, “tell security that Mr Wayne wants them out.” 

“Awe, c’mon!” Dick whines, his mustache standing crooked over his top lip. “Things were just starting to get good!” the waitress smartly decides not to linger and disappears in the kitchen. You can already see the headlines: WAYNE FAMILY TERRORISES RESTAURANT PERSONNEL OVER LUNCH WITH DAUGHTER’S BOYFRIEND. Oh, Vicki’s going to have a field day with this. 

Bruce manages to drag out every single one of your brothers in something that is very close to being the most embarrassing five minutes of your life, in which you make sure to brief Mark again on keeping his best behavior. “No mention of your father. Straighten up your shoulders. Don’t make him smell your fear.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, “Wait, he can smell fear?”

You blink. “Don’t doubt that for even a second. And don’t let him make you nervous — it’s how he guesses whether you’re serious about me or not.”

He pouts, hand coming up over yours. “I may be nervous, but I am serious about you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that — tell him.” 

Lowly, he laughs, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek — it’s best to stick to that as far as your father’s in a mile radius. “Thanks for the advice, babe– what would I ever do without you?” he noses at your temple, “Also, have I told you how ravishing you look?”

Despite everything — the fact that you should be mad at him for being late, the looming threat of your father’s disapproval and your brothers’ constant mingling — you find yourself letting out a hint of a chuckle. “Ravishing?” you muse, “God, Mr Grayson, have you gone back to your studies or what?”

He frowns. “Hey, I don’t need to go back to studying to know a new word to compliment my beautiful, stunning girlfriend, okay?” 

You tap his jaw, “If flattery could get you somewhere with my father, beloved, it would get you everywhere.” A sigh escapes your lips, “A shame he got so flattered up over the years that by now he’s immune to that.” 

Mark pats your hand. “I’m sure we’ll find another way to soften him up.” 

Having been together for almost a year now, you should’ve known that he was being way too optimistic. 

As you had expected, Bruce is ruthless. He asks countless questions circling what for him is the real problem — Mark’s father, of course — and whenever he makes jokes, they are passive-aggressive, with no real intention of easing the tension up. He asks why he left college, how fast his brother actually grows, how the two of you met, if he had heard of you before, if he has a job– common father stuff, if it wasn’t for the fact that he asks every question like it’s the one that could finally grant him the death penalty. You’ve got to pat yourself on the back, though, because your boyfriend replies like a champ every time, which means the psychological warfare training camp worked on him. Somehow. 

It doesn’t seem like it’s working in softening your father, though, because with every answer, his eyebrows crease more and more. With how it’s going, you’d bet he’ll look like he aged twenty years once you get out of here, and soon enough, he doesn’t even try to hide asking about Nolan anymore. 

You get it, okay? Common Bat concern or whatever it is for him. But this was supposed to be lunch to officially meet your boyfriend, not to collect intel on the aliens that Clark doesn’t really like. 

“So,” Bruce starts again, “how does your father plan to… atone for his actions?”

Your hand tightens around your fork, and Mark discreetly places his palm over your thigh, caressing your skin over the dress. It’s reassuring, but you bitterly think that you should be the one comforting him and not the other way around, because your father is blaming him for something he hasn’t done. He doesn’t say it, but he clearly thinks that he and Omni-Man can’t be much more different. 

Mark, bless his soul, just sits there and takes it for your sake, because were he to fight back Bruce would never let him live that down. “Well, he joined the Coalition of Planets a while ago, he’s gotten back to strictly protecting the Earth and has the intention of fighting against Viltr–”

“Just what is wrong with you?”

While Mark freezes, Bruce nearly drops his fork, because you’re giving him the same look your mom uses whenever she wants to kill him — which is more often than anyone would imagine. For a moment he wonders if you’ll take the fish knife and just stab him right now out of annoyance, but he’s quickly reassured when you don’t make a move for it. “You in the first place should know how hard it is to be judged by your parent’s actions — and whether you believe it or not, everyone at this table has risked dying at least once because someone saw their father in them.”

You’ve lost count of how many times you and Damian have been blamed for Bruce’s actions, and even if your little brother took the brunt of the hit thanks to Morgan Ducard, your father is the last man who should be making questions about parentage. “You have no right to ask him such questions, because yeah, you’re my dad, but you’re just getting to know Mark. And if you’re more interested in getting to know his father and trying to understand if he’s got the intention to destroy the planet, then pick up your goddamn phone and call Nolan Grayson, not his son Mark.” 

Under their bewildered looks, you get up from your seat and smooth your dress down. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” your heels click on the pavement as you cross the room, only to disappear behind the women’s restroom door. Great. Now it’s just Mark and your dad’s glare towards him. 

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves down. Clearly, he’s torn between his worry about you dating yet another stupidly overpowered alien and your happiness. “I’m sorry, Mark, but– you understand, right? After all the things your kind has done to humans, I can’t help but question your intentions towards my daughter.”

Mark can feel the uneasiness creep up on him — he wasn’t exactly comfortable earlier, but at least your father wasn’t comparing him to genocidal maniacs. “With all due respect, Mr Wayne, but I am not like the other Viltrumites, and I have no intention to hurt your daughter in any way.”

Your father sighs tiredly — the sigh of a man whose children continue to mess around with aliens to the point that he fears who are going to be your parents-in-law one day. He holds up his index finger, “Give me one reason why I should trust you with my daughter. One, and I’ll make sure to get to know you before I compare you to your father next time.” 

“Well, first of all, I love her very much,” he could write paragraphs on that — and he actually does, when he’s off-planet and only has his notes app as a means of entertainment. “And I’d never do anything to hurt her in any way, and–” he lowers his voice, “well, it’s kinda embarrassing to admit this to one of the first vigilantes, but… I’ve seen so many horrendous things in the last few years of my life that without even knowing it, she reminds me of why I do what I do, and why I need to keep on going.” 

Bruce doesn’t show particular appreciation, but raises an eyebrow at last — and, for once, not in doubt, but in curiosity. “And, yeah, sometimes things get shitty– um, sorry about that– but then I think that it’s all for her safety and it’s like everything settles back to place. I don’t even think she knows how one smile from her is enough to turn my days around.” 

This time, your father positively perks up, eyes widened the littlest bit. He pauses for a moment, speechless, then: “She smiles when she’s with you?” 

It’s not that you’re completely emotionless, it’s just that it’s hard to get a smile out of you. In all the years you’ve been with him, Bruce has seen you smile only a handful of times, and they were all mostly with Damian. Mark stares at him like he’s crazy. “Uh… she does?” It sounds more like a question, but it’s just because he doesn’t know if he said something he wasn’t supposed to.

Bruce takes a deep breath. Okay, okay. He already got over Starfire a long time ago, he managed to get over Conner twice already — once as Tim’s best friend, twice as your boyfriend — and one day, he’ll probably have to get over Jon being a constant in Damian’s life, too. How bad can another alien in the family be, as long as he makes you happy? “And how much?”

Mark is now looking at him as if he just grew another head. “Dunno — I don’t count how many times she smiles in a day.” a shrug, “Often, I’d guess.” 

You come back from the restroom, and suddenly, Bruce is very aware of how you instinctively lean towards your boyfriend, and how his arm immediately wraps around your shoulders, thumb caressing the bare skin there as if he’s done it already a million times. And then he looks at how you’re still wrinkling your nose at him in annoyance, and thinks about how you looked so at ease when he came back from kicking your brothers out of the restaurant. 

In the end, for once in his life and yet again for his children, Bruce Wayne relents. When Mark excuses himself to go to the bathroom, he nudges you with his elbow. “You chose a nice one,” he admits despite himself. “Well done.” 

— two. 

“Remind me when we can leave again?”

“As soon as the event’s done, Mark.” 

He pouts — he’s been doing that a lot in the past two hours, and it probably has to do with the suit he’s wearing. Mark has never been one for dressing up, but even if he was, you’re pretty sure that Dick’s suit is fitting him a little too right — not that you’d ever dare to complain about that. 

Now, it’s not that Mark doesn’t have nice suits: he just doesn’t have the expensive kind people use once for events and then let rot in the dresser out of sheer money squandering. So, as your father gave you little to no warning for this event, your boyfriend is stuck wearing one of the other Grayson’s suits, as between all your brothers he’s the most similar one to him in measurements. Unfortunately, Dick has all his suits tailored, so Mark’s biceps are just a little too snug under the shirt’s sleeves, and he’s adjusted his tie at least a hundred times since you got here. 

Bruce is somewhere in the Gotham sewage system looking for Killer Croc, hence why you’re here: no matter how hard Mark tried to convince him that he could’ve handled it for him, your father still insists on the no Metas in Gotham rule — and the fact that he’s more like an alien rather than a human with powers doesn’t really work in his favor. 

So now you and Mark are in an expensive-looking ballroom with high ceilings and marble floors, where the tables with food are more than the chairs to take a seat on. Crystal chandeliers shimmer over your heads and the guests are too busy sharing polite conversations to notice the way everyone is clearly judging everyone else. 

“How do you and your brothers handle this?” your boyfriend mutters, thumb rubbing circles over your waist. “This feels like high school all over again. They can’t possibly really think that they’re all friends.” 

You shrug, resting your cheek on his shoulder and taking a sip from your champagne glass. “It’s for charity, beloved. Handle just a few more hours, please.”

“Hours?!” he whisper-yells, quietening down when you shush him. “Yes, a few hours. It’s for a good cause. The species at risk of extinction will forever be grateful for your help.” 

He stares off into the distance, “Then how is it that the only brother of yours present tonight is the one that dislikes me the most?” 

Damian stands at the other end of the hall, with his arms crossed and a murderous look set on your boyfriend like he isn’t getting coddled left and right by all women present. His cheeks are red from all the pinches they’ve been giving him, and his hair is a bit more mussed than it was when you left the Manor — estimating all the pats on the head he got would be nearly impossible. 

You shrug. “He believes in the cause. The others are helping B.” 

“Well, I could’ve helped, too.” Mark shakes his head in sorrow, “He’s here to keep an eye on me because he hates me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you,” you counter, “he just feels deeply doubtful about you and our relationship because he got my father’s paranoia and is completely sure that you want to conquer the world alongside Viltrumites or something.” 

Your boyfriend blinks. “Ah, I got it. So he despises me.” 

“Stop being so dramatic.” You roll your eyes and down the last drops of your champagne, then push the empty glass to his chest. “Listen, Romeo, there’s an open bar in the name of all species leaning towards extinction. Would you be so kind as to get me another drink while I go save Damian?” 

He takes your glass without a word and moves for the crowded bar, then disappears between high-society pricks and whatnot. Across the room, you share a pointed look with Damian, one that says Will you behave, or am I going to leave you to your own defenses?, and you still start to cross the hall even if he removes his eyes from you in what clearly means I will not bend, just because he’s your little brother and you love him very much. 

A hand on your shoulder stops you on your tracks. “Do you have a special interest in alien hybrids or is your new intended just a coincidence?”

Your shoulders slump. You take a deep breath to calm down, because you don’t even need to turn around to know whose voice this is. “Talia,” you greet calmly, turning around. “What a surprise.” 

“Talia?” she raises a brow in disdain. She’s wearing an emerald satin dress, scarily similar to your deep blue one, and she’s got a hand over her hip like you’re the problematic one between the two of you. “Again with that first name madness? I am your mother, sweetling. Refer to me as such.” 

Your eye twitches. “Will it get you to leave earlier?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “We’ll see.” 

You shake her hand off your shoulder, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Talia pouts in that manner that almost makes her look like a normal mother and not an assassin trained to lie and pretend. “Your father got to meet your new partner, didn’t he? It’s not fair that I didn’t meet him.”

You deadpan. “First of all, he’s not exactly new– we’ve been dating for almost a year. Second, the last time I had you come over to meet a boyfriend you put liquid Kryptonite in his drink, and then tried to cut him in half with a magic sword.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Well, he survived, didn’t he?”

“Mother.” you both turn to look at Damian, poking his head from behind your hip. “What are you doing here?” He's hugging your legs, playing the part of the shy kid for all to see, but you both know better — you’ve seen him hide butter knives from the buffet table in his sleeves once, and you don’t doubt that he’d be able to do that again. 

Talia purses her lips. “I fear your father may have had a bad influence on you two — all you ask is what do you want and what are you doing here, but what about a nice, good evening, Mother, we are so happy to see you again?” she scoffs, “Your father has poisoned you with his American ill-manneredness. I thought he was better than that.”

“I know you preferred the champagne, but they were taking forever to bring the new bottle out from the back, so I just got you a piña colada–” Mark stops in his tracks right behind you, drinks still in his hands, blinking at your mother like she’s a ghost come to take him back to hell. With the subtlety of an overweight hippo in a ceramic store, he leans towards your ear and whispers, “You have a sister?!”

Both you and Damian look at him like he just lost all the esteem you had in his regards — which already wasn’t much to start with. You sigh, hissing, “She’s our mother,” 

Mark’s eyes widen, and she looks at Talia, then at you, then at her, then back at you. “Your father is a cradle robber?!” 

Your mother raises a judging eyebrow in his way as you elbow him on the ribs. Talia does not show her years, all thanks to all those dips in the Lazarus Pit over the years — as it slows aging with use — and the entire team of dermatologists that your grandfather kidnapped just for her as soon as she turned thirty. “He’s not. She looks young, but she’s fort–”

“Not a day over thirty,” she interrupts with a tight-lipped smile. 

You pucker your lips. “Whatever. Anyway, trust me, she was old enough when she had us.” Reluctantly, you pull Mark forward by his arm, “Mark, this is Talia Al Ghul — my mother. Mother, this is Mark Grayson — my… intended, as you’d say.” 

Talia extends a hand, “A pleasure to finally meet you.” you slap Mark’s arm away before he can shake it, and grab your mother’s wrist to rip a skin-like sticker on her palm. “No DNA scans for you tonight, Talia,” you hiss. “You didn’t even try to hide it.”

Mark would argue that he didn’t notice, but something tells him that it’s not the right move when your brother already thinks he’s the stupidest thing that ever happened to the whole planet. Your mother shrugs. “Trying didn’t hurt. He was falling for it– it’s not my fault your friends all have very interesting biologies, but such disappointing grey matter.” 

Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow, “What’s that mean?”

You deadpan, “Stop running your mouth, you’re just proving her point.”  

“Our lineage is doomed,” Damian grimly mutters. You glare at him, “Says the guy who has accepted bullying from old women all night.” 

“Feel free to come by the League’s headquarters whenever you want,” your mother cuts in, looking at Mark with a fake sweet smile, “we’d be happy to have you.” 

“Thanks,” he replies, not totally convinced. “Um– League for what?” 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she reassures him, then looks at the watch on her wrist. “Oh, would you look at that– your grandfather is waiting for me with Croc a few stores below Gotham’s streets. Are you in the mood for a nice family reunion?”

“No,” you and Damian reply immediately. She sighs, “A shame. Well, I have to go now.” 

Before turning on her heel, she sends a pointed look at you. “If his lineage wasn’t what it is, I’d probably tell you that he’s not good enough for you. But,” she scrolls her shoulders, “we could always use resources such as his muscles. As long as he’s… containable.” 

She disappears in the crowd of socialists soon after, and Mark is left gaping at you and Damian. “I don’t know why, but I always figured your mother was… dead, I guess.”

You side-eye him, “Never told you she was.”

“I know,” he mutters, “is she always this weird?”

“She’s not weird,” Damian corrects him, “she’s sophisticated. For the likes of you, anyway.” 

You slap him on the back of his head, then turn to Mark. “She’s a terrorist.”

“She prefers highly-skilled assassin,” your brother grumbles.

You roll your eyes, “The League she was talking about? League of Assassins. The grandfather she mentioned is Ra’s al Ghul — the Demon’s Head. He started the whole operation and trained both me and Damian for a time.” 

For a moment, Mark just stares at the both of you in disbelief. Then, barely containing the tone of his voice, he asks, “Your grandfather is fucking Ra’s al Ghul?”

Your grandfather isn’t really known to the grand public with his real name, but to anyone who has fought against the men of the League at least once and, mostly, to the Government, it might as well be as known as the benefits of drinking water. Innocently, you blink. “You didn’t know? I figured Cecil would have told you that.” 

Frantically, he looks to where your mother disappeared, “We let a world-scale terrorist get away just like that?”

Damian scoffs in scorn. “Didn’t you hear her, dim-wit? She said they’re working with Croc. I’m sure father will handle it just fine.” 

A loud BOOM! resounds from under your feet, and the shaking of the ground nearly makes you topple down; the crystal chandeliers rattle as the music stops, and everyone starts screaming. Holding both you and your brother steady, Mark eyes the latter, “He’s handling it just fine, is he?” 

Refusing to let him win the argument, the boy tsks. “Mishaps happen.” 

Rolling his eyes in fake annoyance, your boyfriend kisses your temple and ruffles Damian’s hair even if he protests. “Get everyone out, okay? I’ll go check in on them — make sure the city’s foundations aren’t about to collapse.” 

“Try not to be too vincible while doing so,” your brother grunts out. 

— three. 

“I still can’t believe we’re here.”

Mark is giggling into the bed sheets like a teenage girl, his chin propped up on his palms as he sways his feet back and forth in the air while looking at you get ready. You huff a laugh out, “Mind helping me tie this bikini or should I do it all by myself?” 

He jumps up before you can even finish the sentence, and immediately moves his hands to grab the loose strings of your top. His initial excitement slowly dies down when his hands fumble uselessly against the back of your neck, “Wait– I can’t figure this thing out. Why are there four strings?”

“You wrap two at the front in a bow,” you explain, still holding your hair up, “and the other around your neck. Wanna try one on?” 

He finally finishes up the back bow, and uses the other untied strings as an excuse to wrap his arms around your front, chin poking your shoulder. “I’ll pass.” He plays with the purple strings for a moment just to get a better peek at your boobs right under his eyes, then finishes the second bow and affectionately rubs his cheek against yours. “It suits you so well, though. It’s like staring at the sun– if I look a little too long my eyes will burn.” 

You hum, reaching for the waist bead chain you had left on the suite’s table, “Wow, looks like we have a charmer.” He pulls your back flat against his chest again and kisses the bare skin of your shoulder, nosing the hollow of your neck. “You’re aware that this is, like, the best birthday ever, right?”

“I am,” you reply, pleased, kissing the corner of his mouth. His hands rest over your belly button as he gets some more snuggles out of you, and you pat his forearm condescendingly. “Come on, tiger, you got enough cuddles last night. William and Rick are already waiting for us down at the beach.” 

Getting Mark a vacation for his birthday was an idea you’d come up with after seeing how ragged he ran himself in the last few months; the only question that remained was where to take him. Then he’d brought you on a double date to meet his best friend William and his boyfriend, Rick, and the machinations to make this vacation happen began. 

At first you wanted to make it simple — ask him where he wanted to go, who he wanted to go with and just book the tickets and hotel for him. Then William chimed in and said that he probably would’ve liked a surprise better, and scrapped your idea of a mountain resort for a tropical destination instead, suggesting Aruba and saying something about Mark always wanting to relax on a beach. Then he added that maybe, just to enrich the gift even more, he and Rick could’ve come too — and really, what a monster would you have been to let them pay for their own tickets when you’ve got access to all your father’s money?

(You know that William probably just had you bring him and his boyfriend to a destination they already want to see, but honestly, as long as Mark’s happy, you don’t really care.) 

Mark grumbles, rubbing his forehead on your neck, “That’s the only thing I have anything to say about. Inviting William and Rick, babe? We could’ve spent all this time by ourselves. Alone. In here, or possibly in the private jacuzzi on the balcony.” 

You peck his temple, “We’ll have time for that! But now your best friend is waiting for us down at the beach, and he’s begging for those scuba diving lessons we booked.” 

Your boyfriend sighs. “He’s such a leech.” 

Pinching his hand with no real malice, you snort. “He’s your best friend. Give him some credit.” 

Later on, he’s happy to find out that you packed a pair of swimming trunks matching your bikini — at least they will make the whole beach with the lovebirds experience less dreadful. He’s been so used to being William and Rick’s third wheel that sometimes he forgets he doesn’t have to be that anymore. 

Once he’s done in the bathroom, Mark comes out to the living room again, finding you sitting on the plush armchair, a sarong tied to your waist and sunglasses pulled over your hair. You look up from your phone at him, an eyebrow raised, “Can we go now?”

He’s the one to worry about the beach bags, of course, because being on vacation doesn’t mean he doesn’t have powers anymore. William whoops when he finally sees the two of you approaching hand in hand the sunbeds he already picked out this morning. “Thought you’d never get here!” he exclaims, hands over his hips as he glares at Mark settling the bags down. Then he turns to you, pointing to his best friend in an accusing manner, “Is this guy bothering you?”

“Not yet,” you assure him.

“Ha, ha, ha,” your boyfriend grits out, straightening out two towels on the sunbeds. “go on. Talk about me like I’m not here, and like it’s not thanks to me that you’re here, dude.” 

You and William share a look, then he snorts and goes back to berate Mark. “Well, it’s not thanks to you. She booked the vacation.”

“Technically, this is his birthday present,” you reply. 

“Technicalities, technicalities,” William waves you off. “So, are we going scuba diving or not?”

Lunch follows the one hour scuba session, and the four of you find yourselves sitting on a table of the beach bar, sunglasses pulled over your eyes, hair still damp with saltwater. William hums while sipping his drink, then clinks his glass with Mark’s. “Now, this is the kind of life you dream about! No monsters, no alien invasions — just us, the clear water and everything included.”

Rick presses his hands together as if in prayer, then bows his head ridiculously towards you. “All hail, the Waynes’ credit card,”

“Cards, Rick, cards,” you correct, amused. 

“One last question– if you hadn’t booked this vacation, what would you have gotten Mark?” William asks, by now far too invested in finding out just what your money’s length goes to. You shrug. “Oh, you know, normal stuff. A car, or that one figurine of Science Dog that he insists has been retired from the market.” 

Both Mark and William gasp. At the same time the latter shrieks, “He could’ve gotten a car?!” your boyfriend, bless him, screams, “I could’ve gotten the Limited Edition Groundhog Day Celebration Action Figure made exclusively for ten buyers?!” 

His best friend stares at him, deadpanning, like he’s got a ghost in front of him and not the guy he grew up alongside for all these years. “Bro. You could’ve gotten a car.” 

“Who cares?!” by now, Mark’s hysterical, looking at you with big puppy eyes as you sip your drink. “I’ll have to buy a car anyway, someday — but the Limited Edition Groundhog Day Celebration Action Figure made exclusively for ten buyers? That’s something I’ll never get to buy in my life.” he intertwines his hands and looks at you with all the hope a praying man holds for deity. “Can we still get it?” 

Flabbergasted, William stutters. “I’m more worried about the fact that you know that figure’s name by memory than the fact you just scrapped a car for Science Dog.” Rick nods. “How is it that it’s limited edition if it already was intended for just ten buyers?” 

You’d already ordered it long before getting on the plane to come here, but having Mark being so clueless about all of this is just too funny to pass up. Twirling the ice cubes in your glass with the straw, you look at him, as serious as ever. “Why would I? You’ve already got your birthday present.” 

He looks positively crestfallen, and drops his forehead on your elbow like he’s begging — which, to be fair, he kinda is. “I’ll be the best boyfriend there is — please! I’ll hold your bags for you, always. I won’t complain anymore when you ask me for back massages.” he lowers his voice, making sure only you can hear. “I’ll eat you out for, like, a month straight.” 

You deadpan. “You act like you don’t already do these things — aside from complaining. You do that a lot.” sighing, you hold your hand out and say the magic words. “Get me my phone.” 

He squeals, scrambling for your beaded bag slung across the back of his seat, and William shakes his head. “The two of you are unbelievable.” 

Mark’s already too focused on kissing every inch of your face as you scroll through your phone to respond. When you show him that the figure’s already bought and is set to arrive the day you come back from this trip, his eyes well up with tears — actual, serious tears he’s about to shed over what everyone else will just call a toy. “I could actually marry you on the spot.” 

“Make sure not to sign any prenup before doing that,” William snorts. 

You shush him and press a kiss over Mark’s salty, damp cheek — already stained with tears like the man he is. He takes a body shattering beating without a single peep, but a rare action figure? That’s a different story. “You’re such a nerd,” you tease, affectionately scratching his jaw with your nails. “It’s a wonder how you and Tim manage not to get along.” 

The vacation is everything you’d hoped it would be. You have time to detox from Gotham’s air and take a break from Batgirl, all with the great, wonderful excuse of your boyfriend’s birthday. It also gives you a reason to wear all the bikinis you’d impulsively bought last year after sales at your usual boutique, and of course lets you stare at Mark’s physique all you want without any single remorse. 

Whenever he notices your staring, he just smirks and then teases, “Wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer.” 

The expanse of his back is even more enticing now that it’s tanned and shiny from his latest dive. You don’t even remember how much you spent on this trip, but you know for sure that it was money well spent. “I’ve got the real thing right in front of me,” you reply easily, shifting to lie on your stomach to tan your back. “No reason to downgrade it to a picture. Not to mention, in your case I fear that a picture would last less.” 

He doesn’t reply and you’re not looking at him, so you don’t see his reaction — but judging at how he slumps in the sunbed right next to yours not a whole minute later, you’d guess he didn’t enjoy the joke. “You know how your brain inevitably makes you think sad things when you’re having fun because you can’t ever really have nice things?” he sulks. 

“Go on,” you hum, used to his antics by now.

“You guys… you’re basically immortal, right? With the whole Lazarus Pit thing, I mean.” Ah. You know where this is going.  

“My grandfather’s lived for more than eight-hundred years with the Pit, and he’s become a psycho. Do you want me to live a thousand years and become a psycho?” 

He’s silent for a moment, thinking. “I’d rather you don’t. But… it’d be better than not having you at all. Would you get mad at me?” When you don’t respond, he specifies, “For resurrecting you, I mean.” 

Softly, you sigh. “Don’t ask me that, Mark.”

He fiddles with his bathsuit’s strings. “I’m just wondering. You can’t blame me for that.” 

You let a few minutes pass — you have to think about it. “Nothing in this world is given for free, beloved,” you say in the end. “I’ve been dead for… four, maybe five hours last time — before Ra’s dropped me in the Pit. And I vaguely remember dying, but I do remember Hell.” 

Slowly, Mark perks up. “You’ve been to Hell, too?” 

Letting out a dry laugh, you shake your head and drop your forehead on your arm. “Not on a work trip like you were. I got tortured by demons for everything I did, Mark. That was my punishment, and the worst thing is that I knew that I deserved it.”

He blinks. “Sometimes I feel like you leave out too many details from your life.” 

“Some things are better not said.” 

He snorts even if he clearly isn’t amused. “So. Do I have permission to resuscitate you or not? I’d never be able to go on knowing you’re down in Hell getting tortured.”

“it’s not as simple as that,” you pop open the sunscreen bottle, putting some onto your arms, “You don’t take everything and give nothing. Every time you get put into the Pit and come back, you become different. Your soul's getting more and more corrupted. Usually, a period of madness follows every use of the Pit. It’s not nice, Mark. When I came back from mine, nobody would even look at me the same anymore.” 

“Better than nothing, no?” you stare at him, gaping, then ask, “Did you just hear what I said?”

Mark winces. “How many years will it take for you to become a psycho, anyway? It’s better to have you be a little weird than not have you at all.”

You scoff. “Why are we even speculating about my death?” 

“Because it already happened once.”

“Yeah. By my own accord, if I remember that correctly.” 

He grimaces, “Don’t say it like that.” 

“It’s what happened, beloved.” a shrug, “I’ll die again, one day — hopefully by natural causes — and you’ll have to either get over it or accept that if you make me come back, I may never be the same.” 

One of his hands reaches for the sunscreen bottle, taking it and pouring some into his palm. “You’d rather stay in Hell than be with me for a few more centuries?” 

“I’m just saying I’d rather die than become like my grandfather.” In some hidden part of you, you still love Ra’s — because to you he wasn’t the horrible man everyone knows; he’s cherished you all your life, and growing up he was the closest thing you had to a father. You two have more things in common that you’d rather admit, and that genuinely scares you, because while to you he’s always been just grandfather — a great warrior and leader — he’s some people’s worst nightmare. Mass-murderer, eco-terrorist and all of that.

You don’t know if you’ve atoned for your sins, or if when you die you’ll go back to Hell. You can just hope all the good deeds you’ve done in the last few years, combined with Bruce insisting on regular attendances to mass despite none of you actually believing in God, will get you at least out of the torturing range down below. 

Mark massages the sunscreen over your back, quiet for once. “The thought of living thousands of years and seeing everyone I love die,” he mumbles, grim, “it keeps me up at night.” 

“Don’t think about what you’ll have in a thousand years,” you reply, calmly. “Think about what you have now, and what you want to do tomorrow. You’re closer to your thirties than you are to your thousands, and you’ll be for a long time.” 

He’s quieter for the rest of the day, but in a soft way rather than a melancholic one — like he’s savoring the moment and not thinking about when it will end. Later that night, when your skin’s still warm from the sun and Mark’s hair is still frazzled with saltwater, you’re sitting on a booth at the same beach bar from earlier, watching William and Rick as they play whatever alcoholic game the bar had to offer. 

Your head’s resting on his shoulder, pareu now tied over your chest as he traces patterns on the skin of your arm. “Want to join them?” he asks, gently nudging your temple with his chin. You shake your head, shuffling closer. “I’m fine where I am.” 

Chuckling, he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah, you’re right. I feel like I could stay here forever.” you take his hand in yours and play with his fingers, utterly serene. You’re always so stressed about everything usually happening in your lives that seeing you so calm soothes him, too, by default. 

When the music gets a little too loud and there’s more drunk people than sober ones on the dancefloor, Mark tugs you up to stand. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.” 

You hold onto his arm affectionately as you reach the shore and start strolling alongside it without a care in the world, humming to the distant music’s sound and watching the faraway lights of the resorts. “We should do this more often,” you suggest quietly. 

Your boyfriend laughs. “We would if it didn’t always feel like the world crumbles every time we take some time for ourselves.” 

You huff out a laugh. “You’re right. I really want to see what destroyed Gotham for the umpteenth time when we come back to our lives.”

He stops, the water reaching his soles, and takes your hands in his. He brings them to his mouth and presses soft kisses to your digits, humming, “Wouldn’t it be nice not to constantly feel the weight of the world on our backs?” 

“It would,” you agree, slumping on his chest. You kiss the corner of his mouth once, twice, then laugh a little when his fingers pinch your hip, then rest there. “Although I think that’d be much easier for me to do, rather than you, Invincible.” 

He noses the apple of your cheek. “We could get out of the loop for a while,” he suggests, tempting. “Dunno… I could find a way to get you to that moon outpost the GDA doesn’t use anymore. I bet we’d have fun there.”

“What about Alsimna, then?”

At the mention of your pet alligator, Mark bursts out laughing. “Sometimes I think you love that thing more than me.” 

“I don’t,” you assure him, patting his chest. “But if I were to choose… let’s say it would be a tough choice.” 

He scoffs, then dives for your mouth. “You’re lucky I love you despite your weird preferences.” 

His hands on your waist are warm, and they caress the entire surface of your back as your lips mould over his, a relieved groan leaving him. One of your hands reaches for his nape, and you play with the short hairs there as your noses bump. The two of you depart slowly at the same time for the same reason, and sighing, he presses his forehead against yours. “What is it, dad?”

Nolan Grayson is standing above you, wearing khaki pants and a button up. In his defense, he has made his breathing particularly loud for both of your instincts to kick in and hear him come. “Hi,” he says awkwardly. “You, uh… you must be Mark’s girlfriend.”

“I am,” you reply cooly, “you’re Mr Grayson, I presume.” presume my ass. His face was all over the news a few years ago as he beat your boyfriend to a pulp. 

His feet touch the ground as the two of you move to shake hands. “Ah… yes, yes. I’d figured Mark would’ve told you something about me.” His voice has an edge to it, one that says, do you know who I am and what I did? And if you do, are you scared of me?

You press your lips together. “I heard. Fortunately, I come from a family where a kill count like yours isn’t something that weird to have.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He looks over to Mark, who’s still got an arm wrapped around your waist, almost as if asking, where exactly did you find this one? “And… do I happen to know them?”

Your reply is a shrug. “My grandfather, probably. My father has never been on that side of the family business and my mother’s… not that weird.” an assassin for hire and a man who threatens the entire population over global warming are two very different levels of crazy. 

“Ah. I understand.” he totally doesn’t, but he isn’t there to meet you. He moves his attention toward his son, “A kaiju’s destroying Long Island. Cecil still doesn’t want me back in the costume, but Superman’s off planet, and while Hawkman’s at it… he’s doing a real shitty job.” 

Mark’s shoulders slump, and sadly, he looks over at you. “We should’ve gone for the moon when we had time for it, babe.” 

You pat his back reassuringly, “Go save the world, hero. Me and the resort will still be here when you come back from it.”

He pecks your temple. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll be back before you know it, promise.” 

Nolan smiles, a little embarrassed. “So, who’s your grandfather?” he asks, like Long Island isn’t waiting for him to drag your boyfriend there. Placidly, you reply, “Ra’s al Ghul.” 

Slowly, he blinks. Then, recognition hits. “Ah.” 

Mark sighs. “Okay, dad– c’mon, let’s go.” 

He leaps up in the air, soon followed by the man. He waves his hand at you from the sky, “Don’t cry too much, okay? I’ll be back soon!” 

Raising an amused brow, you put a fist over your hip, “Mark.” 

Confused, he pauses mid-air and turns. “What?”

“You’re still in your bathing suit. You might want to change.” 

He looks down at his clothes — a funnily stereotypical Hawaiian, unbuttoned t-shirt and the same purple briefs matching with your bikini he put on this morning. “Oh.” 

— four. 

loml💞😍🌸: Hi. When are you coming over? The cookies turned out decent by the way. Mark G: hi babe, sorry i forgot to tell you i couldn't come over :( mom and dad are on a date and i'll have to watch oliver for the night Mark G: you could come over tho ;))) loml💞😍🌸: Your brother will literally be there.  Mark G: who cares💔 he's a baby he'll be down in like five minutes loml💞😍🌸: The last time you said that he cried as soon as we got out of his room. Mark G: okay MAYBE he's a little dramatic but he loves you a lot. not as much as i do tho 👁️👅👁️ Mark G: so you coming over or nah?

“I still don’t think this is a great idea.”

“Why not? You’re a natural, babe, just look at how he’s snuggling up to you!” 

You’re starting to think that Damian was right about your boyfriend being your archnemesis, because you think you just got cheated out of your dear night off, usually spent at your very comfortable, very silent apartment, for a night at the Grayson’s house playing babysitter full time. In your arms, Oliver — Mark’s very little, very purple alien baby brother — coos and reaches for the strands of your hair falling over your shoulder, chomping on them like they’re one of his toys. 

You like Oliver, you really do. He reminds you of your own brother when he was little, just like all babies do, but he’s hyperactive, and Mark knows he’s not going to lie down in five minutes — hence why he abandoned him with the likes of you with the pretense of cooking dinner. “For my beautiful guest,” he had swooned, bowing down to your height with puckered lips and a spatula in his hand, waiting for a kiss. Oliver had the right inkling to promptly headbutt him in the teeth. 

The cookies you had spent all afternoon making and still turned out a little burnt sit on the counter in one of Alfred’s topperwares, waiting for dinner to be finished before being tasted. You still have some doubts on whether they’re edible or not, but Mark’s survived worse than a couple of bad cookies. He’ll be fine, you’re sure. 

Mark’s busy over the stove, wearing a kiss the cook apron that he insists is his father’s, and he’s cooking premade hamburgers like they’re some kind of michelin star worthy meal. Technically, he just has to cook the meat and slap it into a bun. Practically, he’s making a show out of it, cooking onions and whatnot to add into it. 

Oliver is babbling something you’re not sure about, playing with the loose strings of your — Mark’s — hoodie while sitting on the counter in front of you. He looks as far from falling asleep as one can be, but you’re surprised to find yourself actually not minding it; he’s a lively kid who smothers you with wet kisses every time he sees you, and the thought of him growing up so fast actually makes you sad. 

“How long is he going to stay a baby, again?” You ask Mark as he turns the burgers over the pan. He shrugs, “Dunno. He’s been a baby for a while now, but dad says that by next week he’ll probably be a toddler already.” 

You pout at Oliver, and he giggles and grips your nose in his hand. “Stay a baby, Oliver, stay a baby. You don’t need to become an adult. The adult world is made of taxes and agony, and the teenage world is made of drama and mood swings, and the prepubescent world is made of pimples and mean kids. Never grow up, it’s not worth it.” 

He blinks at you like he gets your train of thought, then decides to blow a raspberry in your face. You grimace half-heartedly, “See? It won’t be socially acceptable to do that to me anymore once you grow up. Stay a baby and I’ll let this slide.” 

He grips your jaw and brings your face closer to his, taking a bite out of your cheek, babbling very eloquently, “Bay-bee.” 

Surprised, you blink. “What was that?”

He points at you, “Bay-bee.” then turns to point at Mark, “Bee-luh-wud.”

You blink. Mark turns to stare at his brother, stunned. “I think he may be starting to spend a little too much time with us,” you muse, and that’s kinda true — he’s basically monopolised your guest room from all the times your boyfriend had to bring him around after one of his parents’ spontaneous dates. He’s now picked up on the names you use for each other, you guess. 

“Bay-bee.” he repeats, slobbering all over your face. Mark gasps indignantly, “Hey, that’s my girlfriend, you heathen! Stay away!” he sends playful slaps his way, not actually hitting him, and Oliver squeals in delight, throwing himself in your arms. You giggle and give in to the fun, running away from your boyfriend as he threatens the very serious measure of tickles and cuddles. “Go, go!” the baby gurgles in your arms, sticking his tongue out at his brother behind your back. 

(You often wonder just how sentient of a baby Oliver actually is. Guess you’ll find out only when he grows up, which may as well be next month.) 

Soon, Mark catches up to the both of you, and you squeal as his arms circle your waist and lift both you and his brother up to drag you back in the kitchen. “My prisoners!” he bellows, with a fake deep voice. “I’m ready to fatten you two up well to be my own dinner!” 

The hamburgers could be worse — the buns are a little burned from when he followed you around the house, but it’s still better than what you usually come up with over the stove. Oliver plays with his mashed potatoes on the high chair, babbling and squealing, and all of this feels almost domestic. 

You’ve never had this — a normal childhood, with a little brother on the high chair with your mother trying to feed him while your father coaxed you into eating your vegetables. You and Damian instead got intense training from day one, and were more used to the taste of your own blood rather than a meal a little burnt, but made with love. 

You’re happy that yours was not a normal childhood, because you really don’t want anyone else to experience it. You look at Oliver, drawing faces on his plate, and think about Damian at his age, offering you a bottle with poisoned water given to him by your mother to see if you’d fall for it. If you had to go through that so that no one else would experience it, then so be it; you just wish Damian got to be raised by your father, in a softer environment that maybe would’ve let him become an actual kid instead of a miniature sized adult. 

“–ou even listening to me?”

Mark’s hand engulfing yours on top of the table startles you out of your thoughts. You remove your eyes from Oliver to look at him, blinking. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Amused, your boyfriend sends a raised eyebrow your way. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You sigh, “Nothing,” you insist, glancing at his brother. “It’s just that he’s really cute. Reminds me of my brother.” 

At first, Mark jokes, “Damian was once a baby as cute as Oliver? Impossible. I bet he was born with that frown on his face.” When you let out a small chuckle, his expression changes, like something has just clicked in his brain. He sends a side eye to Oliver, still babbling to his mashed potatoes, then looks back at you, eyes softer as his hand tightens around yours. 

“You, uh… ever thought about having one?” With me, the hopeful subtext reads.

He expects you to jump out of your seat and start yelling at him — like any other sane girl your age would do — but he’s surprised when you just start moving around the french fries on your plate. This might just be the closest thing you’ve ever come to nervousness, he thinks. “I’m not sure I’d be a good mother,” you mumble, “I mean… better not be one rather than being one like mine, y’know?”

You move your hand up to take a napkin and wipe at Oliver’s face, “But then again sometimes I feel selfish, because I’d like one of my own. Is that a stupid thing? I know it probably is.” 

His shoulder slump, face pulling into a sad frown. “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” he whispers, “you’re not like your mother. You’re kind and absolutely nothing like Talia. Oliver doesn’t even know how to pronounce your name and yet he’s crazy about you.” 

The laugh that comes out of you is a rather bitter one. “Yeah, maybe that’s why he’s crazy about me — because he’s still not conscious enough to fully comprehend how I was raised.” 

“Babe.” Mark calls out, serious. “You literally grew up in an assassin training camp. If he could understand, he’d be thrilled.” He gives you a crooked smile, “Besides, I think you’d make a great mother. You’re already one to Damian, in some way — the guy literally worships you. You do realise that you’re probably more of a mom to him than your actual one, right?”

You shrug. “Well, that’s what happens when your brother’s almost ten years younger than you and your mother is emotionally and physically unavailable.” 

A few moments of silence pass, broken only by Oliver’s babbling. Then, just to ease the tension but also because you truly believe it, you say, “I think you’d make a decent father, too.” 

A frown, “Decent? I’d make a spectacular father.” 

You hum, “Right, right. Our hypothetical kid will have an emotionally repressed mother and a father that feels way too much.”

He tuts, “A father that takes them flying. Do you know how many points that gets you for the Dad of the Year Award? A thousand, at least.” he intertwines his fingers with yours and drags your hand up to his lips, pressing them against the back of it. “And you’re not emotionally repressed. A little unstable? Probably. But do not undermine yourself just because of how you were raised, okay? You’re smart– I know you’d be able to parent well enough.” 

You can’t help a little laugh from escaping you. “If you say so, beloved… but just so you know, we’re not having a kid anytime soon.” 

He pales. “God, don’t even joke about that,” 

You play with Oliver on the couch while his brother cleans up in the kitchen, then pick a movie that seems PG enough for him. When Mark comes back from the kitchen, he bows down from the back of the couch to press a kiss on both your heads, then grimaces at the TV. “The Bee Movie– really, babe?” 

You frown. “What’s wrong with it?”

You find out what’s wrong with The Bee Movie soon enough, but thankfully, Oliver doesn’t take long to fall asleep after dinner. He’s now cuddled up on your chest, breathing softly, and Mark caresses the soft tufts of hair on his head with a gentle hand. “I’ll go take him up to his room,” he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss on your lips, “and then I’ll come back for you,” 

Now, making out with your boyfriend on his family’s couch with his little brother sleeping upstairs isn’t probably the smartest thing you could do, but believe it or not, sometimes you have urges, too. And seeing Mark being so good with a baby is, against all you’d like to enjoy instead, way too hot. 

You’re giggling into each other’s mouths like teenagers, noses bumping and hands on the back of the other’s head, and at some point he moves to peck the tip of your nose. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he asks, his palms moving to your hips to drag you in his lap.

Settling over his thighs, you hum, smile on your lips, eyes darting to his then to his pink cheeks, the little mole on his temple, his mouth– everything your pupils can scan. “You might have mentioned it once or twice before, yes,” you muse, already preparing to dive back in. But just when you’re about to stick your tongue down his throat again, you hear a rattle from the door — someone turning the handle without any luck, as Mark had locked it as soon as you entered the house earlier. 

Startled, the two of you turn to look at the front door. “Robber?” he whispers, lips still hovering over the corner of your mouth. Then you hear the jingling of keys, and you swear you’ve never moved to stand up again so fast in your entire life. 

By the time Debbie Grayson opens the door, she finds the two of you suspiciously put together, sitting straight on the couch with the weird movie from earlier still playing. “Hi, mom,” Mark manages, voice strained, “I, uh… didn’t expect you to be back so soon.” His arm’s slung over your shoulders with flaunted propriety, as if to say, we weren’t absolutely about to engage in some good and nice pre-marital coitus, priest. That superspeed of his surely comes in handy when you need to look presentable again in less than ten seconds.

She sighs. “Your father got called away for an emergency — a kaiju’s trying to destroy Los Angeles, apparently.” she looks tired, and you can’t tell if it’s from the late hour or the fact that it’s probably the umpteenth time one of their dates has been interrupted by an emergency. But then she notices you, and her face lights up. “Is she who I think she is?” she asks her son– excited, maybe? You can’t really tell. Your mother didn’t look that happy to meet Mark, if not for the prospect of getting some Viltrumite DNA in the League’s labs. 

A bit awkward, Mark pats your shoulder. “Oh, yeah, she is. Mom, this is my girlfriend. Babe, this is my mom.” 

You get up to properly shake her hand, trying to give her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Grayson.” 

“Oh, please,” she gushes, eyes wide and an unremovable grin on her face. “Call me Debbie. I’ve heard so much about you that I might as well know you already.” 

You stutter. “Oh, um… yes, sorry.” a bit uncomfortable, you shift your weight from one foot to another. “Uh… I was just about to go.”

She waves her hand up in the air, “Nonsense! Please, feel free to stay. Would you like anything to drink?” 

She quickly moves to the kitchen, dropping her purse on the couch. Mark groans, “Mom, you make it sound like I’m a horrible host who never offers anything,” 

Debbie raises an eyebrow. “Well, you never offer anything to William,”

“He’s been my friend long enough that he can fend for himself!” he gets up from the couch, too, and gently lays a hand over your waist for comfort. Too busy staring at him, you don’t notice his mom reaching for your radioactive treats. “Ooh, cookies?”

Before you can yell at her not to touch them because you're pretty sure they’re more cancerogenous than most processed foods, she’s taken a bite out of one of them. Her grimace is instantaneous, but then she looks at the unfamiliar tupperware they were stored in, and probably figures that her son wouldn’t randomly start cooking sweets when he never even tried to. Chewing painfully, she looks at you, “Um… you made these?”

“I did,” you say apologetically. 

Her swallow sounds like regret. “Oh, well… that was nice of you, honey. Just… make sure the oven’s set to the right temperature next time. And try to put in more sugar than salt. Other than that, they’re awesome!” as she moves to the sink — no doubt to wash her mouth with soap after the disgusting food roulette she just became a victim to — Mark puts his hand in the back pocket of your jeans, pinching the skin through the fabric

You yelp, then glare at him. He leans his head down to whisper, “I thought you said they came out decent,” 

“Decent doesn’t mean good. It means passable.” 

“Are you saying that you wanted to murder me with hazard cookies, and just tried to kill my mom?” he blinks, “Wait, when you said I would’ve been a decent father, did you mean that I would’ve just been okay at it?”

You shrug. “To be fair, the cookies were made for you and your stomach of iron.” you pat his chest, “As for the father thing– don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get better… sooner or later.” 

Before your boyfriend can rebut anything, Debbie turns back to look at you, her eyebrows in a barely contained frown as she no doubt is still recovering from that bite she took out of the cookie. “So– um, what do you do for work?”

Sitting down for a mug of tea on the counter, you soon find out that Mark apparently forgot to tell his mother who you’re the daughter of — which is quite literally the first and sometimes only thing everyone knows about you — and that you’d been dating for a little over a year now. Apparently, he has been talking nonstop about you since much before that, and she just thought you’d been together for two years or so. 

Debbie is a kind woman — funny, even. It’s weird to see someone’s mom being so normal and making tea, because the thing your mom specialized in was trying to kill you. Sipping her ginger tea, she smiles honestly, “I think I sold a house or two to associates of Wayne Enterprises. Wonderful people — I’ve never heard a bad word of Bruce Wayne from those working with him.” Another sip of her tea, and she turns a bit more nosey, “I didn’t know he was married, though.”

“Oh. Well…” you wince a little, “he and my mother are, let’s say… separated. They never had a wedding, but are actually still married.”

Curiously, Debbie raises an eyebrow, “How so?”

You shrug, “In our culture, the consensus of the woman is enough for two people to be considered married.” 

The woman’s eyes widen, and she carefully sets her mug down. Then she stares at Mark, sitting beside you without a care in the world, looking as calm as ever. “Oh. That’s, uh… that’s peculiar. I– where’s your mother from, exactly?” 

“Somewhere in the Mid East. When my grandfather moved to Tibet, they didn’t really have a name for the region he came from yet — probably Persia.” That actually was more or less eight hundred years ago, but you can’t really say that to poor Mrs Grayson. Her husband actually being a couple thousand years old must already be enough for her. “But don’t worry. Even if the only participating party is the woman, a ceremony is usually still needed.” sometimes. You’re not sure it’s actually needed, but she’s looking at you like you’re going to trap Mark in something, and she needs reassurance. 

“It’s okay, mom,” her son assures, arm slung over your shoulder. “Those are, like, old traditions her family doesn’t follow anymore.” he knows very well that he’s lying, and he doesn’t look remorseful — not one single bit. Pointedly, he looks at you, as if to say please back me up or she’s going to freak out. “Right?”

You avoid his eyes, and unconvinced, you say, “Riiight.” Who's going to tell him that more than twenty years later after their supposed wedding, your mother still insists on the fact that she and your father are married?

Debbie takes a relieved breath. Reassured, she claps her hands as if to wake herself up from the stupor she had fallen in, “Wonderful! So, when are your parents up for dinner?” 

— + one. 

“Parents doesn’t mean the whole family,” 

“Too bad for you that father has moved the meeting to the Manor, then, because we’re not going away.” 

Tapping your foot on the pavement in irritation, you glare down at Damian. “You sure have a lot to say for someone so little.” 

He growls. “Who’re you calling little? I’m the same size as you were at my age!” 

Unconvinced, you rest a hand over your hip. “No. I was definitely taller.” 

Now almost thirteen, Damian still has to properly meet the famous miracle called growth spurt that Bruce has been telling him about ever since he was nine and tall as a park bush. You pinch his cheek a little meanly, “Does Dami Boo Boo want his mommy? I’ll have to call a wambulance if things escalate.” 

Your brother seethes. “Call mommy– let’s see how she deals with you picking on me.” 

“Kids,” Talia hums from the armrest, scrolling through a photo album, “behave.” 

“Look at her,” you gesture towards her, sharing a look with Damian, “more than fourty years–”

“Thirty,” she immediately corrects. 

You take a deep sigh, “Thirty years in the League of Assassins and suddenly she’s here playing house in Father’s home. Where was this trad family instinct when we came to live here, Talia?!”

“For you, and for tonight, it’s mom,” she tuts, turning a page on the album. She looks like the exotic version of a typical high society housewife, somehow, green qipao and all. “Don’t you want this dinner to go well? I figured my astonishing presence was indispensable for an adequate result.” 

Again, you and Damian share an unconvinced look. Then, “Who even invited you?”

She raises an eyebrow, staring at you two over her album. “I had figured Deborah Grayson did so when she asked you when your parents were available for dinner.” 

Your eye twitches. “You have bugs in the Graysons’ house?”

“Don’t bother trying to remove them, or else I’ll just add more. Besides, even if I didn’t, it was your father who invited me.” she gasps at the sight of one picture, “Oh, look at how delightful the two of you look here– it’s almost like you weren’t trying to kill each other all the time!”

“I wonder whose fault is that,” you grumble before moving to see the picture. It’s one of those photos that look vintage but actually isn’t — this is just your grandfather and his obsession for old cameras. You’re standing side by side in your old training clothes — which meant black iga bakamas and white compression shirts — and while it doesn’t look like you’re trying to kill each other, it does look like you at least attempted to. 

You’re both staring at the other — glaring, daring them to try to hit again. You’ve got a bloody nose while Damian, always the more unfortunate one, has a black eye and a livid cheek. The image is turned all the more funny by the fact that he can’t be older than five in it. “You brought grandfather’s albums,” your brother says, displeased. 

“Actually, your grandfather brought them,” she says it like she’s announcing the weather — like your cult leader grandfather is just an old guy who likes fishing and watching football and not a world infamous eco-terrorist. “He’s down in the Cave, talking to your father.” 

You and Damian share a look, and for once, you agree on one thing: nobody’s getting out of the Manor alive or whole tonight, especially not you two. 

Not too long after, Ra’s himself enters the library, with Jason and Dick in tow. “We’re keeping an eye on him,” the former explains at your raised brow. For an eight-hundred-something years old demon, your grandfather looks like a weirdly normal, abnormally rich grandpa — green turtleneck, black suit trousers, the works. They’ve put in effort to look as less assassin-like as possible, it seems, because you’ve never seen your grandfather dress so normal in your entire life. Even when he’s got no battles to fight, he’s usually in his armour, either because he’s very proud of it or because he’s got no intention to have anyone ever think he could be an easy target. 

You groan. “You, too, grandfather? What, did we leave Ubu back in Nanda Parbat? At this point, he had the grounds to be invited, too.” 

He doesn’t even blink. “Ubu is waiting for me in a hotel downtown. I brought you a bowl of my shorbat al-adas.”

You pause, then re-evaluate. “…Okay. You can stay.” Alfred never got the recipe quite right, anyway. 

Said butler, bless his soul, peeks his head through the door opening. “The Graysons ought to arrive at any moment now, if you’d care to take a seat in the dining room.” 

WIth great disappointment, you find out that he must’ve been into this conspiracy, too, because the seats across the dinner table are the right number for all of you. You shake your head, exasperated. “You guys understand that Mark’s parents were supposed to meet just Bruce, right? I didn’t tell them to prepare for a whole family reunion.” 

“Technically, they were prepared for me, too.” Talia huffs. 

You deadpan. “I told them you weren’t coming.” 

The look she sends you matches yours. “You sure have a lot of faith in me, huh?” 

You could tell her for the thousandth time all the reasons why, but it’s not a good idea to fight with your mother just minutes before she’s supposed to meet your boyfriend’s parents and you want everyone to make a good impression. So you just sigh, take out your phone and text Mark. 

Hey. I know this is sudden, but my mother’s here as well. Ra’s too. And all the others. 

After he reads it, there’s a pause you quickly recognise as pure panic. 

i thought it was going to be just us and our parents?? i know that we’re bringing oliver too but DAYUM  like do you want me to make it out alive or not

“Fool,” Damian hisses, peeking at your screen. You slap him on the side of his head and lecture, “Quiet.” 

You’ll be fine. Hopefully. 

A moment of silence. 

Viltrumites are not allergic to Kryptonite, right? Because the al Ghuls have so much of it that they sell it to Lex Luthor. Just wondering. 

Three dots appear on the screen. 

dad says he’s never tasted it, but we shouldn’t have any problems with it mom made her casserole but i’m not sure it’s going to be enough at this point 

Well, someone better tell Nolan Grayson that Kryptonite isn’t for eating, but you won’t be the one to do that. Anyway, it’s good to hear. 

“Not a single mention of the League,” you tell your mother and grandfather in the spare minutes you have before the Graysons come around. “I don’t want to hear anything about world domination and partial annihilation of the Earth’s population. Make a joke about the Chicago incident, and you’re out of here. Got it?”

Talia rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.” 

Ra’s huffs. “I should feel free to express myself however I want with your in-laws. Isn’t that what your generation keeps blabbering about these last few years? Expressing yourselves without judgment?”

“That doesn’t apply to terrorists,” Tim utters. You point to him. “What he said.” 

The doorbell rings. Alfred speeds off the stairs to greet the Graysons, and you give a last nasty glare to Ra’s and Talia. “One sentence phrased badly, and you’re out of here for the rest of your lives.” 

Oliver is the first one to slip through the front door, swinging past Alfred and crashing on your legs. “Hiii!” he shrieks, grinning up at you. The kid grows at an astonishing pace, going from being barely a toddler to a five-year-old in just a little over three months. You smile at him, picking him up by his armpits, “Hi, buddy, how’s it going?”

He settles over your hip, gripping the collar of your jumper as Debbie, Nolan and Mark cross the threshold, all greeted by Alfred. “I learned how to write your name yesterday. Wanna see?”

You wave at the Graysons while nodding at Oliver, “Sure, bud. How about some dinner first?”

Debbie holds up a pan. “I made my casserole.” 

Alfred takes it without hesitation. “Thank you, Mrs Grayson, there was no need.” 

“It’s Debbie, please,” she waves him off, “can I call you Alfred?”

The latter blinks, unfazed. “Sure.” 

“I brought pastries from Paris!” Mark adds from behind his father. The glare he sends to Oliver isn’t subtle at all. “And you, little homewrecker– what did you bring?” 

He seems to think about it for a while. Then the poor kid turns to you, eyes watery, stuttering, “I– I didn’t know I had to bring something…” his grip on your jumper tightens, “are you going to kick me out?” 

“Of course not!” you assure him, sending a nasty glance at his brother. “Don’t worry, Oliver, Mark’s just being mean.”

Oliver, in all his purple glory, sticks his tongue out at him. “Bleeh! Rat!” 

The box of French patisserie is quickly left to Alfred’s care as Mark lunges for Oliver. “You little–!”

Nolan puts an arm in front of him, blocking his attack. “No fighting,” he chastises. 

Your father finally comes down the stairs, Talia following close behind. Your brothers all hide behind the railing, not actually invisible and very loud, while your grandfather just stands at the top of the steps like some conqueror to his new city. By now, it’s clear to everyone that the only one approaching this dinner with actual peaceful intentions is Alfred. 

Bruce’s smile tightens when he sees Nolan — clearly, he hasn’t forgotten the footage of him in Chicago, nor will he ever be able to do that. “Bruce Wayne– pleased to meet you.”

He shakes hands with both Nolan and Debbie before doing so with Mark, all under your mother’s inquisitive stare. By looking at them, you’d think the detective was her. Oliver pokes your jaw, then whispers in your ear, “Your mom’s really pretty.” 

At the same time, Talia leans in to affirm to Bruce, “That kid is purple,” like he hasn’t got eyes to see for himself. “I noticed,” he deadpans. 

“Oliver takes his skin tone from his mother’s lineage,” Nolan quickly explains, “it should fade over time.” 

Your mother stares at him up and down, and God, is it funny to see Omni-Man — mass-murderer, thousand-year-old Viltrumite, ex aspirant conqueror of Earth — cower the littlest bit under her gaze. She’s scary when she’s judgy, but he should’ve seen her during your upbringing. It is true that mothers always get softer after their second kid. Bruce pats her shoulder, trying to ease the tension up. “Forgive her– this is Talia. She’s, uh…”

“Mrs Wayne,” she introduces, and the only thing keeping you from slapping your face is the fact that you’re still holding Oliver in your arms. Genuinely, your father should get started on the divorce proceedings, because she cannot keep dragging this marriage thing for the rest of their lives. It’s really getting too complicated to explain to people. She doesn’t move to shake their hands, and instead continues to stare at them like they’re a really ugly painting in an art exhibit. 

Uncomfortable, Mark moves to stay behind you. You cough loudly, then propose, “Why don’t we all sit down at the dinner table? The food’s already set.” 

The dinner goes as bad as one would’ve expected. 

It was doomed from the start, honestly, even without putting in the equation both your sets of parents’ backgrounds, when Oliver sat beside you. Then Mark sat on the other side, making any seats beside you unavailable, immediately causing Damian’s utter indignation. And rather than just voice out his complaints, he ìtook the seat on Oliver’s left and started stealing things from his plate whenever he wasn’t looking — or worse, adding vegetables to it, causing the kid’s frustration and confusion because I just finished the peas and now there’s more!

Ra’s and Nolan get weirdly along with one another — one mass-murderer to another, you guess. Bruce never quite lets them finish a conversation, probably scared of what the possible outcome would be, and even if you highly doubt that the Graysons know of his nightlife, the tension in the air never really leaves. 

Your brothers taunt Mark every chance they get. Dick makes so many jokes about them sharing the same surname that at some point you lose count. Jason takes one look at him, tells him that he looks scrawny, then goes back to his potatoes. Tim impromptu quizzes him on comics you didn’t even know existed, and suddenly you discover that Science Dog’s topics are very far from the talking dog comedy you thought it was. Every once in a while, Damian glares at him with the same blazing heat of a thousand burning suns, and you catch him trying to poison his water when Mark’s off to the bathroom. 

The only one who seems to be having a good time is Debbie, of course — the only one at this table without any criminal records. 

She compliments Alfred on the food. Shares anecdotes about her boys to your mother, who, despite initial doubts, seems to like her just enough. She asks your father how the company’s new campaign is doing. Questions your brothers on what they do in their lives without a single ounce of judgement in her eyes. 

Then Talia takes out the family album right before the dessert, and suddenly half the table’s crowded behind her with their phones out to take pictures for blackmail. Alfred snatches a photo of you at three in a war ceremonial dress so fast your mother almost doesn’t notice. Mark snaps a picture of you in a bowl cut and says that if you have a kid, their hair won’t be spared from the same suffering you both have been subjected to as children. Bruce nearly cries when a picture of you holding newborn Damian shows up. 

But, hey, at least no one’s trying to kill anyone like the last time. And when Debbie takes out her phone and starts showing you pictures of Mark as a baby, butt naked and running around their yard, you think that this could be going much, much worse. 

In the end, you still get out to the balcony to get a breather, and are immediately joined by Damian. He’s quiet for a few moments, then mutters, “He’s not a complete idiot, compared to the last one.” 

Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him. “You mean that he didn’t even flinch whenever you put rat poison in his food?” 

He shrugs. “This one has a purple brother and often shows murderous intent, but somehow, he’s still far more acceptable.” 

Smirking, you nudge him a little. “Is it because his mom said you’re really cute?”

Suddenly, he’s avoiding eye contact and his face is all red. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” 

Later on, you say goodbye to Mark with a kiss on his cheek and a pat to his shoulder. “Good work today, soldier,” you hum, “let’s see if next time goes as well.”

He pales. “Next time?” he whispers, “I don’t know how many times more I can handle your mother asking me about my future plans for the planet while your grandfather tries to bribe me into being a part of some weird experiment.” 

The Graysons leave the Manor with warm smiles and firm handshakes. You take a deep sigh when the door closes, then turn to Alfred with the most serious expression he’s ever seen. “The next family reunion better not be until my funeral.” 

Meanwhile, on the ride back home, Debbie Grayson scrolls her phone as she chuckles. “Did you know there’s people out there speculating that Bruce Wayne is Batman? It’s crazy, really, the guy looks like he barely has any time for himself, let alone for a whole vigilante secret life.” 

Mark and Nolan share a panicked look in the rearview mirror, then the former laughs nervously. “Yeah,” your boyfriend agrees, “how crazy would that be?”

reader: I don't have a type

also her type:

taglist: @heartfully10 @victoria1676 @lillycore @ddeliajo @emberswithers

also omg i just realised i forgot about cass 💔 she's above this tomfoolery anyway

[after-witch]

I Can Do What I Want [Damn Your Eyes Chapter 3] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: I Can Do What I Want [Damn Your Eyes Chapter 3 ] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: You wake up in a familiar-not-so-familiar place after being drugged by Ren. Ren wants to know why you left, all those years ago. If you can survive the evening, maybe you'll get to tell him.

Word count: 5900ish

notes: yandere, descriptions of torture and violence

A03 LINK

Pain. 

You thought you knew what pain was before Strade, before the basement; you had skinned your knees hard on gravel and pavement.  You’d sliced your finger open while cutting apples, deep enough to need stitches.

Once, you fell out of a tree and broke your arm and spent 40 agonizing minutes sobbing in the backseat of your dad’s 40-year old junker car, your fractured bone jolting with hot white pain with every bump in the road on the way to the hospital. 

That, you thought, was pain. But how silly that seems–now. 

Now that you’ve had a drill go through your foot. Now that you’ve had someone cut you so deep that your flesh flopped like a gutted hunk of meat. Now that you’ve been burned and kicked and stabbed and so, so much in between.

He liked those big hurts, yes. But he likes the little hurts, too. Anything he can do to introduce you to another layer of misery, unpeel something else about you and study it with wide, eager eyes.

Which is why, you think, he tightens the wrist cuffs another notch before he yanks up the chain and you’re left standing on your tip-toes in front of that stupid fucking beam again. They dig into your wrists and you know you’ll be left bleeding and scarred before this evening is over. 

“Nn–” You bite down on your cheek, stupidly, stubbornly wanting to keep a little bit of pain to yourself. It was only fair, only right, to have something for yourself in this house. 

(And you did, didn’t you? Sometimes, with Ren, those moments–curling up in his bed and reading manga under the covers, or his hand resting like a comfort on your thigh when Strade put on a movie that wasn’t a snuff film for once.)

“Oh, Häschen,” his voice comes out low and crooning. “You don’t need to hide anything from me.” His thumb against your lips, chapped, an old cut on the bottom still healing. “Don’t you trust me?”

You can’t help it, you grin, and the old cut splits–the taste of iron. Your words come out blood-tinged, and just as bitter. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Strade laughs, too. But his lip doesn’t split and any blood on him is never his own. 

“Mm, yes. But you know, I have been thinking about trust lately…” His thumb presses against the cut and you cough out a pained groan as he smears it around your mouth. Low dread fills your stomach. “You trust Ren, don’t you? It’s a bit unfair, considering all we are to one another.”

At this, you tense. He sees it–he sees everything, you think–and laughs. Low, rumbling and there’s cruelty in it, yes, but something else. Something warm and lovely that makes you feel sick. 

“Oh, buddy. You think I haven’t seen the way you two look at each other? All…” He smiles, rolling his eyes. “Schnucki?” He tsks, and presses his thumb into his mouth, sucking on your blood. “It’s enough to make me jealous.”

“Jealous?” You sputter out the word, in shock just as much as bubbling fear. It’s never good when Strade gets a monologue going. It always leads somewhere particularly awful. Memorable and agonizing and you’ll have scars and wounds he’ll need to douse in antiseptic or sew up or both in equal, painful measure.

There’s a growing grin spreading over Strade’s features as he continues, and it sets your nerves on fire just as much as his knives. 

“Ja! But don’t worry, liebling. I’ve found a way for both of you to make it up to me.” He turns his head, just a bit. “Come on down, Ren! I know you’re listening.”

You don’t want to know, oh God, you don’t want to know what he’s got planned. But you’re tied up in a sadistic asshole’s basement and you’re going to know, whether you like it or not. 

Part of you wants to muse that the anticipation is the worst part. That’s what you might have thought, when you were part of the before-world, that ordinary world where skinned knees hurt and no one got their head split in half with a saw in front of your eyes.

It would be a ridiculous lie, now. Because while the anticipation as you hear Ren’s footsteps thudding down the stairs, as your muscles quiver from the strain of your raised arms, as a low hum cradles your eardrums is awful–you know the pain, the real pain, will be immeasurably worse.

Ren comes into view at the bottom of the stairs and there’s a brief wash of sick relief because at least with Ren in the basement, you won’t be alone with Strade. You won't be his sole means of entertainment and pleasure. 

The relief is short lived when you remember why he called Ren down here. 

“Come,” he tells Ren, like Ren is a pet. And that’s what the two of you are, really–his pets. Ren, well trained, obeys. Maybe you imagine the hesitation in his steps. Maybe you don’t. You’re too focused on what’s going to happen, what Strade might have planned, to think about it much. 

“Remember what we talked about earlier?” Strade almost coos, pulling his hunting knife from his belt. Ren nods, and the knot in your stomach gets tighter and tighter. 

What did they talk about–and when–and what does it mean for you? 

“Don’t go easy on them,” Strade says, bidding Ren to hold out his palm. He does. And then Strade, of all things, of all things in the entire world–hands Ren the knife.

Ah–oh–and… it all clicks together, clunky and stupid. Ren is going to hurt you. Strade is, too–through Ren or with him, you’re not sure. 

It’s not the first time, that’s what you remind yourself, as sweat gathers at the back of your neck. Strade likes it when Ren hurts you, he finds it intriguing and probably arousing and he’s just as apt to lean in for a closer look while Ren claws at your flesh as he is to sport a raging hard-on over it.

It’s not the first time Ren’s hurt you, and it won’t be the last. 

Doesn’t make it any less awful, though.

Ren’s fingers curl over the handle and when Ren turns towards you, you can’t decide if his expression shows shock and shame–or anticipation. 

–

The world comes into focus slowly, with great effort, like pulling yourself out of a tar pit. You’ve had dreams like this before. Lingering dreams, dreams where you felt like you were in the moment; you would wake up, sweaty, heart pounding, and reach over for your husband. He would be there, warm, breathing, alive–alive, not like Strade, not like the countless people he killed in that godforsaken basement.

And gradually, minute by minute, things would be okay. The dream would dissolve and you would wash down the memories with a glass of tepid water from the bathroom sink, before or after stubbing your toe on something your husband said he’d put away last night but didn’t. 

But.

But.

You are not in your bed, or any bed at all. There is no one beside you, no comforting presence nestled underneath his claimed side of the blanket. And when your body decides to listen and attempt to move–why are you sitting on the floor, how did you get here, where are you?--you are thwarted by something heavy.

Like a weight on your arms, like a weight on your legs. But it’s not a weight, not exactly.  You hear it, first, and recognize that sound and then the feeling: the jangling, the weighty drag of it: chains. 

That’s why you’re on the floor. That’s why you can’t move. You’re chained up, by the wrists, by the ankles, and you’re sitting in a darkened room with the concrete floor.

Well, shit. 

You don’t normally wake up from a dream about Strade’s basement in the fucking basement. 

Yet here you are. Or… wherever this was; close enough to Strade’s filthy playroom for every nerve ending in your body to be on alert. Danger, danger, danger–but from who and where? There’s something itchy on your face, and when you scrunch up your cheek, you can feel the edge of a bandage peeling up.

Someone brought you here, and patched you up, and left you in chains. That’s the reality that you need to deal with, so you force yourself to breathe through your nose, imagine your heart slowing down enough to let you think.

The darkness in the room isn’t complete, and that gives you enough leverage, keeps you from dissolving into complete panic. You’ve been through awful shit, and you were clearly in some awful shit, and the key to surviving that awful shit was to stay calm.

Stay calm, stay alert. Learn what you can and then get the fuck out.

The floor was concrete, and the walls were–not quite bare. There on the wall in front of you, you can just make out the edge of something. No, multiple somethings–TVs, maybe? There’s a bit of a shine to them, some blinking red lights. A desk or table or something in front of them, with a few more gadgets giving off various LED glows. 

One of the gadgets is a keyboard, the keys backlit a sickly red. Ah–not TVs, then. 

Screens. Computer screens. 

Okay. You’re in some creep’s concrete room with computer screens–and who knows what else–in front of you. Great. But how did you get here? Your brain struggles to remember, like everything is all covered in wet dough that you can’t seem to peel off. 

Before all this, you were… 

Shopping. At the bookstore. And there was a copy of Carrie–plug it up–and then, you… you…

A door opens and someone enters, the light from behind it blinding you before the door is shut. And this, this is familiar. You know this feeling, the sound of a door, the sound of boots, a blinding light from above while your muscles ache and your body tenses, the gradually revealed less-blurry-every-second figure of an asshole in front of you.

“You’re awake,” says the asshole, but this time, the asshole is Ren.

“Took you long enough to wake up,” he continues, while your drugged brain tries to keep up with this new turn of events. “That sedative really knocked you out. Looks like you really have been keeping out of trouble since then, huh?” 

The world swirls and swirls and then sinks low, hitting the ground hard, as your brain catches your memories in a wobbling fist. There we are, there we go. 

Ren. Ren. RenRenRenRen–

You found Ren. No, no. He found you. Drugged you. Took you here. Chained you up and Christ in heaven, this wasn’t how it was all supposed to go. There were supposed to be awkward, tearful reunions; there were supposed to be apologies and murmured questions, and soft hugs that both of you would carry away in your pockets, along with exchanged phone numbers.

In the darkness, you can’t quite make him out–until he flips some switch and some overhead lights switch on. They’re dim, not terribly bright, but once you blink it out the world is more clear.

Computer screens in front of you. Screens and cameras–and Ren, wearing a dull grey outfit and a neutral expression that looks painfully practiced. There’s a brief thought of him practicing it in the mirror until it works just right, before you shake it away, force yourself to focus. 

The chains rattle when you jerk your arms, and your words come out just as twitchy.

“Ren–what are you doing?”

Ren frowns.

“That’s a stupid thing to say.” He looks away from you, a note of disappointment in his voice. “You’re not stupid, are you?” He snorts, then, gesturing to the concrete room you woke up in. “Take a look around, and think about it, sweetie.”

You already know what he's doing. You don't have to look around, don't have to take in your surroundings and let the gears whirl until they stop at some awful conclusion. And how would you even explain to Ren that the awful conclusion feels so bitter–feels like guilt. Feels like it’s your fault. 

“You're,” and you smack your tongue against the top of your dry mouth. “Making snuff films. Like he did.” 

He. Oh that inevitable name between the two of you. A name you don't want to say out loud ever again. You say it enough in your dreams. 

Ren’s smile is a low, crawling thing. Not all the beaming grin you sometimes got to see from him, when the two of you were swapping jokes about anime, buried in his nest of a bed, licking (figuratively for you, literally for Ren) wounds. 

“Oh, no.” He sweeps his arm around. Like a video game villain, the kind you and Ren used to poke fun of; “For me, it was Tuesday,” and all that. This Ren, this older Ren who feels like an actor in a play more than anything right now, must have been practicing the gestures. 

“I’ve matured beyond that. He was an amateur, really, if you think about it.” The smile perks up a bit, a sickening mockery of the expression you used to keep in your pocket while Strade drilled holes into your flesh. “I do dabble in streams, though. There is a buyer for everything and anything. And I do mean anything.” His gaze bores into yours. “But you know that as well as I do, don’t you?”

Yes, you do. The women and men Strade killed on camera. The money he got, but it never was about the money, really. It was about the thrill, the power, the way he got to peel back people and stick his dirty hands into their very last moments.

The fuzziness in your head clings like a cobweb you can’t shake, but you strain against the chains, anyway, because this isn’t Strade. It’s Ren, Ren is still somewhere in there, and Ren… Ren was different.

“Ren–” The chain rattling is almost nostalgic, like a windchime on a summer day. “Ren. What the fuck is going on? We–we got out. We were free.” The last words are choked on, hard to get out, and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say to him. What might reach him, pull him back in, get you out of the literal chains around your limbs.

But. But despite the desperation on-the-flyness of them, they seem to get to Ren, because he drops that stupid posture–just a bit, just a twitch in his shoulders that brings them down and a flinch in his jaw, a tightening. 

There’s a sneer against his nose when he finally speaks. You got to him, all right, but maybe not in the way you meant. 

“You got out,” he says, an accusation. A sharp figurative finger points right at your chest and dives right in and stabs your betraying, cowardly heart. “Remember?” His voice gets sticky, like honey left on the counter overnight. But the stickiness doesn’t last long. With each word, it gets thinner, threadier, and he starts to pace. 

This is Ren again, you think; this man walking back and forth, pivoting on bootsteps, letting something he’s layered on peel up enough to reveal what’s underneath. Not the honeyed words and practiced gestures and grin that doesn’t suit his face.

This Ren has glossy eyes and decades of hurt dredging up in the muck of each word. 

“I helped you after he hurt you those first days, I helped you after he kept you, I helped you leave the basement when you let him die…” And why does it hurt, to hear Ren say it like that? Like leaving Strade to die wasn’t the right thing to do? 

Ren pivots towards you, a hand resting on his neck. An edge of a scar, one you recognize, can be seen above his shirt collar. 

His breath has gone a bit ragged, and he steps closer, you can see him clearly now, eyes wider and hurt etched in the wrinkles around his eyes. “I helped you upstairs, took that collar off… I helped you and helped you and helped you and you? You left m–”

He doesn’t finish. He leaves it, that half spoken wet edge of a word that sticks between you. 

Me. You left me.

And you? All you can muster is a croaking plea:

“I didn’t mean to…”

Your voice is so pitiful and weak that you wouldn’t blame Ren for slapping you. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he laughs, a short, weary sound. He shakes his head and the smile that he gives is private and controlled and gone is the wildness, the pacing, the young man he used to be. 

His hand goes to your chin, and you feel his clawed fingernails scratching against your throat through the glove, while this thumb rubs against the bandage on your cheek. 

“No one ever means to, do they?” 

He looks down at you with the soft indulgence of a man who has full power. And he does. You don’t have to be a genius to see that. You’re chained up in some fucked up streaming room and you may never get out of this alive, if he deems it so.

It’s not like Strade, though. Not like Strade who wants to make you hurt and then get close enough to make himself cry about it, all the while grinning and planning on what part of you needed a new hole next. 

This expression is from someone who finally has what he wants, and knows he’s got all the time in the world to pull it out, piece by piece. How long can you survive? That is the real question. 

“I…” You start, and don’t finish, because he doesn’t want you to. His claws dig into your skin and you stop short of trying to defend yourself. 

“Why, then?” His voice has gone soft. “Out with it. You were going to tell me, before.” His grip on your chin tightens in anticipation.

Why. Why is such a simple question and there’s nothing simple about what it demands from you. Which “why” should you answer–

Why did you leave Ren on that day? Why did you never try to find him again? Why didn’t you go back for him, with the cops or medics or even just by yourself? Why didn’t you drag him out of the house with you, arguments be damned? Why did you end up there and him here, and why are you here now, with him, chained and breathing softly as blood drips down from a claw-prick underneath your chin? 

Your brain works overtime, because you don’t want to die. Not here. Not by Ren’s hands, especially. And because you have to tell him the truth, which means finding the truth first. 

But before you can come up with a single thing to say, or even tell him that you don’t really know anymore, there’s an alarm. Not a frantic one, but something more punctual, sensible. 

After it ends, the computer screens, all grey and dull before, come to life. The dull buzz of electronics makes the room sound fuzzier, background noise to your breathing and the soft rattle of chains from your slightest movements.

Then a voice with no body speaks through some unseen intercom:

“Sir, it’s–”

Ren snaps his head towards the voice, cutting it off.

“I know.” He lets go of your chin, narrows his gaze down at you. “Fine. Time to start the show.” Low dread falls like mud to the bottom of your stomach and you feel like you can’t even breathe–you don’t know what’s in store but you’ve been here, maybe not in front of the camera but close enough, and it never ends without blood and pain and screams. They’ll be yours, again.

There’s a touch of that wildness in his eyes as he leans down, crouching closer. A whisper, private and almost friendly. “Don’t call me Ren in here, or I’ll have to cut out your tongue. Fox, if you must call me anything. Sir, if you want some of the chat to like you.” 

A smile, tight, like the kind he gave you when you were still chained up in the basement and he was a secret visitor giving you sips of water and washing up your wounds. “If you survive, you can tell me why you ran.” He pats your head, but there’s too much adrenaline pumping through you to really register the gesture. “I believe in you, sweetie.”

It’s not a lie. That’s all you can think, as he fishes a mask from one of his pockets and attaches it to his face. It’s not a lie–

I believe in you, sweetie.

–

Ren was right. He had evolved beyond Strade’s streams, although “evolved” is perhaps not the word you would have used. As it is, though, you find it hard to think of synonyms while your bare, bleeding thigh is full of nails and Ren is currently asking the chat whether or not he should rip off your fingernails or toenails first.

“Aw,” he drawls, arms sprawled out for the cameras. “Cut off her fingers and feed them to her instead?” There’s a theatrical pout in his voice that, fucked up as it sounds, gives you hope that he won’t do it. It’s play-acting, you think. Play-acting for them and maybe himself and maybe you, too. 

“That’s delightfully twisted,” he adds, and you wonder, dully, if he winked. “But I’d like to keep her digits intact for a while longer. Who knows,” he continues, glancing back at you, a knife held in his fist glinting against the camera lights. “This one might be a returning guest star, if she can last.”

His silhouette against the camera screens looms impossibly large. Especially since he’s not much taller than you. A fact that you teased him about, once, when Strade couldn’t hear; because Strade might have twisted it into something nasty, when it was just meant to be a harmless jab. A way to keep the two of you from losing your shit in that house.

Not that it matters much in this room, after he’d adjusted the chain earlier to bring you to your knees, turning the camera angle down accordingly. 

“Now there’s an idea, meatcleaver02.” A thoughtful hum in his voice that does nothing but make you feel nauseous in anticipation. He taps the flat of the blade against his palm in a slow rhythm. “You’re right. It is more fun when they get to participate.”

When Ren turns back towards you, his teeth practically shine in the darkened space. 

“Lucky you! Our dear meatcleaver02 wants you to make the choice.” He taps that knife against his palm again. It’s a sound you’ve heard before, only without the gloves. Strade preferred using his bare hands. Except when the blowtorch came out because God forbid he burn his precious fingers. 

“What’ll it be? Fingers… or toes?” 

Despite the nails littering your thigh, it’s still hard to accept the fact that Ren is standing in front of you with a weapon, ready to really, really fucking hurt you. Almost like your brain wants to shut off factual information to protect it from reality.

Instead of tearful reunions and exchanged phone numbers, Ren put a nail got to your thigh and pressed the trigger again and again and again and–

Fuck, shit, damn. He wants an answer, but how the hell do you come up with one right now? With the pain and ache, in your thigh, in your heart?

When you don’t answer right away, he tsks. Loud enough for the cameras to hear. Play-acting, you think again. It’s all play-acting.

“Well? What will it be? We do have a schedule to keep. And you don’t want me to choose.” Ren’s eyes above his mask are deliberately open wide, his eyebrows lifted enough to be caught on the screen. 

It’s just a game, isn’t it? Not a game exactly–but an act, a performance, all designed to make the people watching (the people paying) happiest. Some dull part of you, the part that’s still hanging on despite the pain shooting through your thigh with every movement, wonders if Ren knows how obvious it is. 

Or maybe he doesn’t care, because the people watching the stream don’t really matter; they pay and they play, and they win no matter what. It’s the people in your position–it’s Ren himself–that have the real roles to play.

So what do you do? The question is sharp, pricking at your brain. Maybe… maybe you just won’t play. 

You shake your head. Swallow what little spit you can muster. “I’m not picking,” you mumble out, tongue feeling swollen and dehydrated. Probably from the screaming you did when he pressed the nail gun against your flesh. 

A furious flurry of pings from the chat. Ren doesn’t have to read them out loud to tell you what they’re saying. Probably telling him to finish you off, kick you in the teeth. Maybe cut out your tongue for good measure. 

“I think you’ve got the wrong impression, sweetie,” he says, his voice just a bit tighter. You wonder if the people watching the stream pick up on it. “I ask, and you answer.” He steps closer, one hand reaching out to grab you by the hair, yanks your head up so the viewers get a nice, good look at your screwed up expression of pain.

“Now, tell me…”

“What should I do with you?” He asks, and the last bit trails off a little into something almost sing-song that matches the way he tilts the knife to-and-fro in front of the camera. In front of you. It makes your stomach clench and drop, makes your muscles tighten. He’s going to use that knife on you one way or another.

And oh, you hate this. You hate how it brings you back to Strade. You hate how it brings you back to Ren, too, a different Ren from the one in front of you. A Ren who had been but half-formed, still waiting to crawl out of whatever oily cocoon he fashioned for himself in the years after you left.

Strade liked it when you and Ren gave him ideas on how to play with the two of you. Hurt you. Maim you. Never enough to kill, because where’s the fun in that? And if you didn’t come up with something, he’d sigh and call you boring, not a team player, maybe he ought to find someone new. So it was smarter, then, to play his game.

It was how you stayed alive long enough to get out.

But what’s the game now? 

Even though the situation is so fucking familiar (tied up and half-naked and in front of cameras being streamed to strangers who want you to hurt and die so, so much) you’re in new territory that leaves you feeling like you could step off the edge at any moment. You don’t know what Ren really wants, if he wants you dead or alive, if he’d really gut you like a fish in front of the cameras and have no qualms about it.

Or if there’s anything you can do to keep yourself around another day.

“I said,” and his fingers pull so tightly that you feel like your scalp might rip off, even as his expression remains the same. “What should I do with you?”

“I don’t know,” you push out, teeth sticking to the inside of your dry mouth. “I don’t know, I don’t fucking know.”

Ren–not-Ren, you suppose, with his mask and voice changer and the act he’s putting on–tilts his head, quirking it comically like he’s in a goddamn anime and not torturing you on camera. 

“If you don’t know, how am I supposed to know?”

“I don’t know,” you say, lips curling in pained disgust.

“So I’ve heard,” he murmurs, amusement dripping off the edges. He drops down, crouching on your level, and your chains rattle as you try to gain enough purchase to move away from him.

You can’t, so you don’t get anywhere. 

The flat part of his knife presses against your cheek, tilting only a little, slicing across the bandage that had been slapped onto your cheek somewhere between being drugged in the car and waking up in this room.

The cut isn’t deep but the sting smarts. Not enough to satisfy anyone watching this fucked up torture session, but enough to get your attention–Wake up.

“C'mon,” he whispers, low enough that you realize the people watching the stream won’t hear him. 

It’s a tone you recognize, a tone you used to hear pressed up against your ear when Strade made Ren shove you against the concrete, usually so Ren could fuck you while Strade did something unholy with a knife or hammer or drill at the same time. 

“Play with me, won’t you?” The knife caresses your cheek as softly as a finger might. “You used to be good at this.”

It’s depressing, really, the hope that curdles inside your belly even as he stands up, faces the camera, and turns back into the villain-of-the-day in some 90s anime. 

“Toes! She chose toes.” He laughs, and you can hear the wink, the grin under the mask that must be making his skin crinkle. “Maybe she’s got a thing for feet too, eh?”

There’s no way you can protest as Ren pulls a stool out from underneath his computer chair and slides it in front of you, taking a seat as he casually yanks your legs out from underneath you. You almost go flying, half-sprawled on the ground with the chains on your wrists keeping you up.

The position makes your shoulders burn, makes you feel like your hips are going to pop. You’ll need to go to physical therapy again, if you survive this. Though pain in your tight hip flexors should be the least of your worries as Ren positions your feet for the cameras, holding your left foot tightly with one gloved hand.

The other hand comes up with the knife, angling it underneath your toenail. The prick of it hurts enough, and you gasp sharply as it’s shoved careless underneath the nail of your big toe. Blood bubbles up as Ren digs it in, keeping his grip on your foot tight and immobile.

“This little piggy went to the market…”

How can it take so long to pry up a nail? That’s the strange question that swims through the pain, manages to dig its claws into your brain when all you want to think is: Ow-ow-ow-please-God-no-more.

When the nail pops up, you scream. Maybe you were screaming the whole time. Fuck, you aren’t used to this pain anymore–your pain is now stubbed toes and accidentally jamming your side into the edge of the kitchen counter. Not having a knife jammed underneath your nail until it peels up.

“She’s a bleeder, isn’t she?” Ren remarks, turning back towards the screens. There’s a chat ping and he barks out a laugh. In the screen showing the shot, you can just make out the way his eyes crinkle.  “Now, now, woundfucker, there’ll be time for that.” 

When he turns his head back towards you, his eyes don’t crinkle anymore. But they don’t need to, when you’re the only one watching, do they? The only thing Ren needs to do is jam that knife under your next toe, which he does, continuing the pain and the rhyme all in one go.

“This little piggy stayed home…”

The pain isn’t something you can become accustomed to; not this quickly, anyway. It took weeks, months, to be able to withstand some of the things that Strade gave you and you never got used to them. It just became easier to bite down your screams until he found some new way to make you shriek.

“This little piggy had roast beef…”

You’re not aware enough to differentiate between the toes. All you know is that bit by bit, your foot feels wet. Like you stepped in clammy water left on the floor after a shower. Blood–it’s your own blood coating your foot as your toenails are pried up with a knife sharp enough to gut you.

“This little piggy had none…”

That toe–that toe makes you sob pitifully. You’d accidentally run it over with an electric scooter once, crushing the nail, and it never did grow back quite right. 

“Almost done,” Ren says, quiet, for you. 

Then, louder:

“And this little piggy?” Ren waves the knife in front of you, the red blood coating its edges glinting in the camera light. “This little piggy went wee…” He jams it downwards, stabbing into your pinky toe. “Wee…” Again, and you wonder if he might just sever it after all. “Wee… all the way home.” It’s only the nail, not your entire digit, that comes up. 

He drops your shaking, bleeding foot without ceremony–

And picks up your other one.

–

“I’m as surprised as you are, dear chat!” Ren booms, hands on his hips. “But she’s doing really well so far. A real trooper.”

After taking off your other toenails, he’d brought the nail gun back out. “A matching set only seems fitting,” he’d said, before doing his best to match the wounds on your other thigh.

The blood loss is starting to get to you, maybe. Or it’s the pain. Or both. Your body buzzes in agony from your toes up; even your shoulders are aching from the stress of the position. 

Now, though, he has nothing in his hands but the attention of people who are paying to watch you bleed.

“I think she’s a keeper–at least for another round! We don’t want to overwhelm the poor dear, do we?” He punches a few things on his keyboard, and the lights begin to dim. “I look forward to seeing you all in a few days! Keep those suggestions waiting until then!”

The computer screens go blank. The camera lights dim.

And Ren? Ren whirls around, peels the mask off and sets it aside. He says your name, the distorted voice gone with the return of his real face. 

He says it again, this time crouching in front of you, no knife in hand this time. Both of his hands cup your face, smearing your own blood on your cheeks as he leans in and presses his lips against yours.

You don’t fight it; you remember this mouth, the taste of him, the familiar taste of your own blood seeping into the kiss. His nose bumps against yours as he deepens the kiss, tasting you, consuming you.

Not a kiss between two people trapped in Strade’s house, experimenting with tongue kisses underneath the covers. A kiss borne of blood and pain and sweat. 

When he pulls back, you’re the one panting as he cups your cheek, tilts your head this way and that. “I knew you were still in there somewhere,” he murmurs.

The words sting; sting because you hurt, it hurts to be here, it's killing you to see Ren like this and remember what it feels like for him to hurt you.

They sting because they're true, too.

This time, the kiss he presses is against your forehead.

The chains rattle as he unhooks them, and you fall to the ground in a heap. Feeling tired, exhausted, burning in your thighs and blood on your feet. Ren presses a button and you hear the sound of booted footsteps approaching the room.

The blinking red eyes of the sleeping cameras close on your suffering. 

[aaph3lion]

ft: mainstream!mark and variants (mohawk, viltrum, omni, sheisty, sinister) (invincible) reader: fem wc: 2604 summary: hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend? cw: canon typical violence, foul language, and the variants are kinda sorta freaky in this requested by: @sophsthebest

this was so fun to write lowk and I would've been done faster if not for the blood moon event in dbd so err yeah I'm going to go die in a hole now

edit: so i quit writing invincible but here's a partial part two

Life is strange, really. 

One moment, you’re helping refold shirts because some people don’t even have the decency to put stuff back to where they found it, and the next, an international warning tells you to stay inside because there are evil variants of your boyfriend now roaming the Earth with unclear intentions.

You share a look with your coworker, who looks just as off-put by the information, her fingers curling around her phone as her brow dips. Just as her lips part to speak, the first building falls. It’s only a few blocks away, and the ground beneath your feet trembles at its sudden collapse.

You hear the screams of those out on the street, internally debating whether or not to follow suit until a notification from Mark lights up your screen, the ridiculous nickname you’d set when you were twelve a small comfort to your racing heart.

MarkyWarky: please tell me you’re okay

You: i’m fine

You: i’m just scared mark 

You: why are there so many versions of you anyway…

MarkyWarky: i wish i could tell you

MarkyWarky: just stay put alright im otw

The message does little to soothe, and you can’t help but stare at your screen with nothing but apprehension. Your coworker is quick to seize you by the arm when the sound of collapsing buildings and wailing cars draws closer, ushering you into the break room with the floor manager as though the small, unwindowed room would protect you from the raw strength of a Viltrumite.

“Holy shit, we’re gonna die…We’re actually going to die…” The floor manager, Kasandra, curls into herself with tears already welled in her eyes as she chokes back a sob. No one says anything, unable to face the grim reality at steak when debris begins to crumble around you. You all huddle into the furthest corner as your hope in Mark begins to wane.

Small pieces of rubble hit your head as you tuck your head tightly into Kasandra’s shaking shoulder, the lights overhead flickering violently when the ceiling begins to cave in on itself. There’s no use holding back the tears now and you can’t hide your anguished cries, unheard over the collapsing infrastructure.

This is it, you think, mentally saying your goodbyes to everyone you’ve grown to love. Amber. Eve. William. Mark—oh, Mark. The annoying boy next door who grew to be your first love. 

Sparks flare as the light above you finally collapses, but you don’t feel a throbbing pain in your head or death’s cold embrace, instead, you find yourself wrapped in a familiar pair of arms, still clinging to an almost catatonic Kasandra while your coworker grips the forearm wrapped around the three of you.

“I’ve got you,” a voice in your ear says, and you can feel the tears begin to well once more, though, this time out of relief. Mark is quick to shoot from the rubble, hold unwavering before he sets the three of you down and urges you to run to safety.

Your two coworkers are quick to flee, but you stupidly linger, worry etched onto your features at the sight of Mark’s beaten face and tattered suit. In the distance, you can see Eve facing valiantly against a variant, the odd cloth mask adorned on his face his most defining trait. She pants, her palms facing outward to just barely raise a shield against his erratic punches.

Mark pulls your attention back to him, face pinched as his thumb traces your lower lip in an attempt to ground both you and himself. His lips are soft against your forehead for a brief moment before he pulls back, staring at you through his cracked goggles with an emotion you can’t quite place. 

“I love you,” you whisper, stroking his bruised cheek softly.

“I love you too. But, you need to go. Now. I’ll check on you soon, promise.”

So, you run as fast as your legs can carry you, doing your best to ignore the ruins and corpses that seem to block every turn.

You don’t get far.

A shadow overhead blocks the sun—its presence so oppressive and commandeering that it freezes you in place.

“Another survivor?” 

You can’t bring yourself to turn despite the way your heart lurches at the familiarity of the voice. Your breath hitches when the shadow lowers—whatever twisted version of Mark this is drawing ever closer like a lion to its prey.

“I thought those other two were the last of them, but what’s one more?” The voice is cold, almost clinical, very unlike the warmth that radiated off of your Mark. A glove is quick to find purchase on your throat, and you glance down to see the red rubber shining beneath the sun.

Blood coats the hand, tinting the glove an even darker shade of red than what you’d first surmised. You try not to think about the warmth of it as his grip grows tighter, making it harder to breathe, but not enough to kill, like he’s messing with you in some cruel, twisted way.

“You’re this dimension’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” His lips press against the shell of your ear, jerking your body to face the fight between Mark and the clothed one from before alongside Eve, who reaches out to you weakly before eventually crashing against the side of one of the buildings. Your Mark wheezes, clutching at his chest when the cloth-masked variant throws him into a nearby building by the hair. “Pathetic.”

The sound barrier tears as another Mark enters the fray, his mohawk wild and unkempt in the wind as he grins at the sight of battle, though there’s no amusement behind his smile. “Who the hell do you think you are running off like that?” For a moment, his wild eyes slip to where you and your captor reside, a flicker of…something flashing through his before it fizzles away. “Keeping hostages alive? Didn’t peg you for the cruel type.”

You barely register the click of the Invincible’s tongue over the roaring beat of your heart, his thumb remaining stationary over your pulse point; a warning. He could snap your neck at any given moment, and you don’t know what’s stopping him, but you’re grateful for whatever’s causing him to hesitate.

“Come on, just put her out of her misery already,” the mohawked Mark goads with a small shrug as he pulls his fist back to punch your Mark into the concrete when the cloth-masked variant throws him in his direction. Cracks split beneath your feet at the sheer force, the ground almost giving way, but all you can do is watch as your Mark slowly gets up from the crater his body had formed. 

He locks eyes with you, something snapping inside of him at the sight of the variant clad in a suit nearly identical to Omni-Man’s wrapping his hand around your throat.

“[Name]!” He calls out, bursting free from the grasp of the two other Marks with a renewed sense of vigor. 

Time seems to freeze the moment your name leaves his bloodied lips, the Mark holding you hostage too stunned to react when your Mark’s fist collides with his jaw hard enough to send him three blocks away. It isn’t long until you’re swept into Mark’s arms, the hold both protective and possessive as he glares at the other two, his chest heaving with each labored breath he struggles to take.

“No fuckin’ way.” The mohawked variant blinks slowly, his lips pulling into a mix of a grimace and a smirk. “That’s unfair on so many levels.” He turns to the Mark in a cloth mask who seems to share the same sentiment, mumbling under his breath about how unfair it is that this version of him gets the hot babe.

Omni-Man Mark merely scoffs when he floats back, his suit still pristine as though he’d never been thrown at all while he crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the way you tremble in this version of him’s hold. You aren’t the best friend he’d killed mercilessly back in his dimension. Here, you were a woman—his woman. And he’d be damned if he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone.

A best friend and a wife. Who would’ve thought?

While he’d never seen the other, male, version of you in a romantic light, his heart stirs at the thought of taking this version of you for himself. It’s not like it’ll take much to kill this Mark; he’s already as good as dead anyway—

“Is everything alright here?” Clad in white and silver, yet another version of Mark descends from the sky like some sort of disgraced angel. 

“Ugh, why are you here?” Mohawk Mark rolls his eyes obnoxiously, his gaze only briefly flickering to the new variant.

“Angstrom sent me to see if you all were sticking to the plan, which clearly you aren’t.”

“Aww, the lil’Viltrum baby can’t do anything without a mission? How sad!” He bats his lashes dramatically before sneering. “What are you gonna do next, bark? Who gives a shit about the plan? You’re acting as if you weren’t gonna kill him after anyway!” 

The Mark in the Viltrum uniform chooses not to dignify him with a response.

Unbothered by his counterpart’s nonchalance, the mohawked Mark sets his sights back on you, spreading his arms wide as if to welcome you in with a hug. “Hey, [Name], it’s just me. Just Mark. Your best friend, remember? We used to play CoD and shit when your parents were out.”

Viltrum Mark’s brows furrow at the familiar name, steady gaze finally paying you mind as you try to sink further into the Mark of this dimension’s arms. You’re a lot…softer than he recalls you being, your form far less filled out; almost feminine. But, that couldn’t be right, right? How cruel would it be for this version of him to have the perfect mate whilst he, while grateful for your prior companionship, was stuck with nothing more than a best friend? One that he’d ultimately killed for resisting.

Surely, his brain is playing tricks on him.

Then he hears it—they all hear it.

The small terrified whimper you let out, the sound almost heavenly as you try to curl into Mark like your life depends on it. Which you suppose it does at this very moment.

A collective groan settles across all the present variations of Mark, all differing levels of arousal. They can practically taste the fear emanating off of you, stalking closer like a pack of deranged wolves.

Disgust pulls at Mark’s lips at the look in their eyes, his arms trembling around you as the last line of defense between you and these monstrous versions of him. “What the hell are you guys on about?” He seethes, only to be met by a suffocating silence.

Viltrum Mark appears in front of you before you and Mark can process his presence, tearing you out of your boyfriend’s arms despite your screaming protests. His grip is firm, but it’s the underlying softness in it that has you trembling with both fear and confusion. One of his hands finds your chin, stroking the contour of your jaw while his thumb gently presses down on your lower lip in a similar fashion that your Mark had done earlier.

“You’re [Name].” His face twists with perplexion as he speaks. “But, you’re so soft.” You feel his other hand fall from your arm, settling on your hip as if to prove a point. He squeezes and prods the fat, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel the soft skin underneath, his fingers splaying against your stomach while his nose buries itself in your neck. “You’d be a great mother.”

No.

No.

No.

This can’t be happening—

You’re pulled into another set of arms. These ones leaner yet more possessive than the Viltrum Mark’s. But not yours.

“Jesus what the fuck is wrong with you.” Mohawk Mark’s voice rasps mockingly above you, his arm curling around you and dangerously close to your breasts. You know he feels your heart stop, snorting cruelly as he pulls you flush against him. His gloved hand tilts your chin up to him cruelly, relishing in the way tears well in your eyes.

“P-Please…” You weakly claw at his wrist despite knowing how useless it is in comparison to his innate strength.

Holy fuck, he could get used to the sound of that.

Man, why couldn’t you be a girl in his world too? Oh, the things he would do to you. How he would ruin you. He wonders if you’re similar to his [Name], the [Name] who trusted him to do the right thing only to die trying to stop what’s already been done. Do you play the same sport as your male counterpart? Enjoy the same food? Ah, whatever, you’re still his, no matter his relation to you. Best friend or otherwise.

“Get away from her you fucking freak!” Your Mark’s garbled voice reaches your ears, his fist colliding with the side of the mohawked variant’s head, sending him careening into the white-clad Viltrumite. Mark doesn’t even get the chance to look over you before he shoots into the air with you in his hold, tucking your head into his shoulder as he whispers calming words into the crown of your head. “I’ve got you, baby,” he echoes his prior sentiment, flying as fast as he can with the cloth-mask and Omni-Man wannabe hot on his tail.

A familiar red glove catches Mark’s leg, snapping it easily. Mark screams, his teeth grinding as he pivots his other leg directly into the variant’s face, no doubt breaking his nose before he crashes into the cloth-masked Mark, who yells obscenities as the two of them crash into the city below.

Finally, silence settles between the two of you. Heavy with confusion. Heavy with fear.

“What the hell was that…” You cling to him, trembling like a newborn fawn in his hold.

“I—I don’t know.” He buries his nose in your neck as he lowers into a desolate field miles away from any civilization, breathing in your comforting scent beneath the smell of iron and ash that seem to cling to your skin while he settles against a tree. The field is peaceful; untouched by the destruction that plagues the rest of the world.

“...What about Eve and the others?” You hesitate, palms hovering over his broken leg to do your best to put the limb back together. The bone melds back together grotesquely, it's disgusting snap a sound you think you’ll never get used to.

“Eve slipped away before things got ugly. I’m not too sure about the others…” He lets out a low hiss, his fingers digging into the ground when his skin gets pulled tautly back into place. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I won’t let them get to you, not as long as I’m still breathing, alright?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, collapsing into his chest as you try not to think about everything you’ve lost in such a short amount of time. He kisses your forehead gently, leaning back against the tree for only a moment of respite.

“Aww, what a cute sight.” A patronizing voice overhead has both of you snapping your heads to the sound. Clad in yellow and black with a billowing cape behind him, this version of Mark sneers, his gaze looking between you and Mark. His brows raise beneath his mask, lips forming something akin to a sadistic grin. “Well, well, well. You’re looking a bit different here, aren’t you, [Name]?”

Shit.

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site or run my works through ai

[sweethearticism]

𝓨𝒖𝒕𝒂 was obsessed with you. not in the way you'd expect. not in the demanding, or the aggressive or even the outwardly possessive way. it was persistent. dedicated. and worst of all?

loving.

he never quite got over you after the breakup. a year after the shinjuku showdown. you said he changed. he insisted he grew.

“i miss my sweet boy,” you'd said.

“aren't I sweet?” he still smiled like it.

you shook your head. turned away. told him there was something else in his smile. something shifted. an innocence you mourned.

he never quite let you grieve his absence, though. your coffee would be on your desk in the morning. your favourite flowers delivered every other week. you'd find him on your doorstep with takeout and a smile. find him in your apartment cooking, cleaning, making your bed, making things easier for you.

“what're you doing here?” you confronted him. got up in his face. looked at him like he was an irritable nightmare.

and yuta? he just smiled. never a threat. never a warning. looking at you like you were the sweetest dream.

“we're friends, aren't we?” he tilted his head. “that's what you said we were.”

“yeah well—”

“friends take care of each other, don't they?” his head tilted. that flicker of innocence that you lost shimmered in his eyes. ached your heart. flared your mind. because he knew what he was doing.

this wasn't first, nor second year. okkotsu yuta knew how to get under your skin, and he did so with the same smile that stuttered your chest.

he was insistent. promising he'd wait for you. assuring that you just needed time. but then another year went by, then another, and another— and before you knew it? he was twenty three and still delivering your favourite flowers.

it was overwhelming. he claimed love should feel like that. said love should be something that you chased for.

what scared you the most? the way his cursed energy crackled whenever he said it. like it really was his curse onto you.

“you can't chase me forever, okkotsu.” you'd hissed, as he stood in your kitchen. using your ingredients. cooking you dinner.

he didn't even look up. “that's what you think.”

then he turned to you with a spoonful of soup and the flat of his hand brushing beneath your chin to raise it. just slightly. delicately.

he smiled. “now. . . say ah.”

he frustrated you. with his kind smile. with his shifted outlook on life. with the maturity he'd developed when you just weren't looking.

finding someone else was impossible.

going back to him felt like a sentence.

so when you'd snapped, who could blame you?

when you snatched his sword from his very sheath and swiped it through the air. bladed it to his throat. a threat, a shaky promise. with your trembling hands and your snarling lips.

he didn't flinch.

and that's what frustrated you more.

a special grade sorcerer like himself, what could you possibly do?

you saw it in his eyes. he asked the question without even uttering a word. a calm confidence that eased from him in the arch of his brow and the unfaltering look on his face.

he was sure of himself. and even worse: unafraid of death.

truly, not your sweet boy anymore.

no sweetness in the way he stepped closer. no sweetness in his shadow that loomed over you. in the paleness of his neck that pushed closer to his blade.

“you want to kill me?” he asked. drawled, simple. as if asking about the weather, and not his life that was held in hands he clearly still wanted to kiss.

his hand shifted. long fingers curling around the blade. tight. unflinching. he yanked it closer. shoved his neck further. till the steel bit into his skin. into his fingers.

and even while you shook. while you gaped and hesitance faltered your grip— he stood there.

staring into your eyes. into your very soul.

he spoke clear. crystal. calm.

“do it properly, then.”

his face pressed further. digging deeper into the blade if it only meant to be closer to you.

not a blink. not a breath.

just brutal. bloody. devotion.

“kill me,” he breathed. cold lips brushing yours. his own blood dripping from his fingers. “just make sure to curse me a little.”

and then the bastard grinned.

“then we can be together, forever. hm?”

[sweethearticism]

SINCE I'm hearing people are getting hate for writing for him 🥺

[ichigf]

୨୧﹕fem!reader, he shuts u up

megumi's hand slapped over your mouth again.

not rough. not cruel. just… desperate.

“shut up,” he growled against your throat, breath hot and ragged, body trembling just a little where it pressed into yours, hips stuttering in their rhythm like your moan had actually hurt him.

you blinked up at him, wide-eyed, breath muffled behind his palm, your back arching anyway because fuck, he was deep—deeper than you’d ever had—and the way he stayed locked in place, chest to chest, forehead damn near pressed to yours like he was trying not to lose it—

that voice again, low, wrecked: “quit whining. just… stop.”

and your heart dropped a little. just a pinch. because every time he said that—shut up, don’t moan, stop making noise—it cracked something warm inside you. like he didn’t want to hear you. like your pleasure was annoying him.

you whimpered behind his hand. soft. just enough for him to feel it.

he groaned.

and it was the kind of groan you knew wasn’t angry.

he pulled back. just enough to look at you—sweat sliding down his temples, jaw clenched, lips parted. his eyes were wild. unfocused.

“you—fuck—you keep doing that, i’m gonna fucking cum,” he snapped, voice barely a whisper, furious, like it was your fault, like the heat boiling in his gut was something he couldn’t stand feeling.

your brows lifted. he saw the flicker of realization in your face. he froze. caught.

you licked your lips. “you don’t like the way i sound?”

“i love the way you sound,” he snarled before he could stop himself. “that’s the problem.”

and then he slammed into you harder.

“every time you moan, i—i can’t fucking—nghh—”

you grinned. sharp. breathless. a little wicked. “you cum quick when i make noise, megumi?”

“shut the fuck up,” he hissed again, but this time his hand was shaking as he covered your mouth again— because now you were doing it on purpose. making all the little gasps and whimpers you knew would get to him.

he was panting now. fucking into you hard, losing rhythm, slamming into that perfect spot with all the grace of a man trying not to explode.

“keep it up,” he growled. “i’ll finish in you before you even get off.”

you moaned against his palm.

he shuddered.

and yeah—he was fucked.