— jeonsa

𖦹 ; writer 𖦹˚ : 18 yrs old x1a0urs on wattpad!

[j3ons4]

“ who’s the mighty warrior? “

— about me !

age : 18 yrs old

libra

favorite color : blue and purple

pronouns : she/her

likes ; i like to read books and online books, i also like to binge watch sometimes.

masterlist

Latest works !

𖦹 here for you — Aonung te Tsika'u Tonowari'itan

𖦹 outlanders of the sea — Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan

[18aw]

AXES & SILK / AERION TARGARYEN.

— summary: your father sends you to the ashford tourney to meet your prospective betrothed, prince aerion targaryen. you expected a challenge to endure; not a puzzle to solve.  — pairing: aerion targaryen x stark!reader — word count: 1.8k  — content: pre-arranged marriage, afab!reader, political (and another type of) tension, set on the tourney at ashford, aerion being an entitled little asshole as usual, stubborn and very northern!reader. — notes: debut fic in this acc, hello everyone! been on tumblr for years and I love creating multiple accs lmao. please request me fics! this will be probably a series, I have a few ideas for my stark!reader so... she's gonna be back. reblogs and comments are encouraged!

ﾟ。₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ｡ﾟ WORKS / RULES / ABOUT / TAGS / RECS

You arrive at Ashford the way you do everything: early, quiet, and already watching.

The Stark party is not large. Your father sent you with a maester who is already sweating through his robes, two guards whose names you know because you bothered to learn them, and a septa who has not stopped praying since you crossed into the Reach. The specific gods she is petitioning are left unnamed, and you’ve chosen not to ask.

The tourney grounds are a physical wall of sound. In Winterfell, noise travels and dies in the cold air, swallowed quickly by the expanse of the North. Here, it accumulates. It bounces off heavy canvas pavilions and limestone walls until the bright, blinding quality of Reach sunlight seems to physically press the chaos against your skin like a weight. You notice it all without judgment. You will acclimate. You always do.

The Targaryen pavilion is less a tent and more a declaration of violence. Crimson silk and cloth-of-gold trim flap aggressively in the warm wind, a sharp, bleeding contrast to the heavy, deep cobalt wool of your own Northern cloak. A personal sigil is worked into the canvas in thread so fine it shimmers when the fabric moves; a three-headed dragon rendered in a way that manages to be both heraldic and appetitive, as if the embroiderer had distinct opinions about the creature's hunger. Two guards in matched livery stand at the entrance with the heavy stillness of men paid to be ornamental. One is handsome enough; the other, not so much.

You are escorted to a holding position near the edge of the Targaryen enclosure. It is the only honest phrase for it. The maester hovers, the septa mutters her endless prayers, and you watch the pavilion.

He comes out before you expect him.

You haven't actually seen his type before, but you've heard enough descriptions to construct a version of him in your mind. The gap between your imagination and the physical reality of him is what you notice first. You expected the swagger of a spoiled prince. What he actually possesses is a contained, intentional grace. It is the fluid, unhurried movement of an apex predator who has never needed to run because everything waits for him to arrive. Silver hair catching the noon sun, crimson and gold layered over his broad frame, with heavy rings on nearly every finger. He seems eager to have some type of blunt weight on his hands, as if the dagger strapped to his belt simply isn’t enough.

He is clinically, objectively beautiful. You keep that strictly to yourself.

He's speaking to a lord who is trying very hard not to appear to be trying. Aerion Targaryen listens with his chin slightly lifted, wearing an expression of such highly polished courtesy that it takes a second to identify the absolute contempt beneath it. He isn't looking at the man he's speaking to. He watches the tourney field, tracking the movement of the horses, as though giving the lord his eyes would imply the man actually deserved them.

The lord finishes a sentence with an ingratiating laugh. Aerion smiles, a sharp curve of his mouth that doesn't come anywhere near his eyes. The lord's laugh immediately subsides, dying in his throat, and he finds somewhere else to be within the minute.

What a coward.

You watch Aerion turn back toward the pavilion. For one half-second, his violet gaze drags across the space between you. It doesn't stop. It doesn't quite register. But the air shifts, and you understand, abruptly, that you need to lock in.

A man in Targaryen colors materializes at your elbow and murmurs that Prince Aerion would like to receive you now. You arrange your face against the sheer entitlement of it all, and move.

Up close, the jeweler's attention is suffocating. He watches you approach. He isn’t aggressive, but he is entirely devoid of warmth, thoroughly turning you in the harsh light to check the gemstone for flaws. You've been looked at before by men from your father's bannermen who thought a girl of marriageable age in a great house must want something from them. You know how to hold your spine under a heavy gaze. You look back sternly.

He recovers the gap with the ease of someone who has been performing composure since before he could walk.

He hums, a low vibration in his chest, before speaking. "My lady Stark," he finally says.

The pause before my lady is deliberate. You hear it, noting the condescension alongside the heavy gold rings and the hollow, perfectly cordial smile he is currently wearing.

"Your Grace."

You do not add anything to it. You were not raised to fill empty air with useless noise, and you are not going to start now to manage his comfort.

Aerion's thumb catches against the heavy gold of his signet ring, the metal scraping faintly.

There are lords watching. A cluster to the east, two more near the Fossoway banners, and someone important standing twenty feet away, attempting to look casual. You are both performing for them. You are both performing for each other.

The formal business is brief. Words about honor and alliances are delivered by the maesters in the dry, practiced tones of men who drafted the language carefully. Aerion stands through it with a rigid patience that somehow communicates utter, mind-numbing boredom. You stand with your hands folded and your eyes forward, projecting an aura that indicates you find this entirely satisfactory.

When the droning ends, there is a heavy pause.

"I understand," Aerion says, "that you have not attended a southern tourney before."

His voice isn't the weapon you expected. You'd been told about the cruelty and the incident with the puppets, expecting something jagged and sharp. Instead, his elocution is so thorough, so perfectly measured, that the melody of it becomes its own kind of edge.

"You understand correctly."

"Then you'll find it a great deal to take in."

"I expect I'll manage," you say, matching his exact, unhurried register.

Aerion shifts his weight, the stiff silk of his doublet whispering. "Of course. The Stark constitution is famously resilient."

"The Targaryen constitution," you reply pleasantly, "is famously… exceptional."

The pause before exceptional is the exact length as his before my lady. You watch him hear it.

He does not smile. The assembled, flawless performance of him simply halts. Then, he tilts his head, violet eyes narrowing by a fraction, and offers his arm. "Shall we walk, my lady?"

The walk is staged with the transparency of a morality play for the lords gathered at the edge of the tourney field. His sleeve is heavy silk, the kind that costs more than your septa makes in a year. You rest your hand lightly against it, acutely aware of the rough calluses on your palms, hoping your axe hands won’t rip the delicate fabric apart by some miracle.

"You have brothers," he says. You are far enough from the cluster of lords to speak freely, but not far enough to be private. The tension of the audience remains. "I've heard things. They say the second one has your father's temperament."

"They're not wrong."

"And the third?"

"A different sort of temperament."

"How diplomatic," Aerion says, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the lists. "You answer questions about your family the way a maester answers questions about medicine. Technically accurate and completely uninformative."

You permit yourself the ghost of a smile, but absolutely nothing more. "What would you prefer, Your Grace?"

"Honesty would be a novelty."

"I'm honest frequently. I'm simply precise about what I'm honest about."

Aerion’s eyes flick from the dusty tourney field down to you. "A valuable quality in a Stark."

In a Stark.

This little asshole.

"And in a Targaryen," you reply. "I imagine."

He turns his head then, bringing the full, crushing weight of those purple eyes to bear directly on your face. Aerion lets the silence stretch. His expression is a carefully blank mask, but the air between you suddenly feels thick enough to choke on.

"You've been briefed about me," he says plainly. It is not a question.

"Of course," you say. "Have you not been briefed about me?"

"Extensively. The reports were incomplete."

"Reports always are."

You reach the end of the stretch they've set out for you, turning together in smooth choreography to begin the return walk. The ambient noise of the tourney, the sharp clang of practice armor, the shouts of the crowd, the whinny of a destrier, rumbles heavily beneath the murmur of the watching lords.

"May I ask you something, my lady?"

"You may."

His thumb brushes across the back of your hand where it rests on his heavy sleeve. It is a motion so brief and so agonizingly light it might have simply been the friction of walking.

"What did they tell you," he says, his voice carrying the same unhurried, dangerous music, "that you should expect from me?"

You consider the trap for three steady steps.

"They told me you were brilliant," you say. "They told me you were cruel. They told me you had no interest in being managed. They told me you believed yourself to be something other than human."

Silence hangs between you, suspended in the heat.

"And," you continue, using the exact, flat tone you would use to note a change in the weather, "they told me that you had hurt people. Badly."

Aerion says nothing for a long moment, letting the raw accusation bleed into the bright air.

"And you came anyway."

"My lord father asked it of me."

Aerion’s arm flexes subtly beneath your hand, the muscle hardening under the silk. "That is a coward's answer from a woman who doesn't appear to be one."

Somewhere down the line, a horse screams briefly and then cuts off. You look out at the dirt field.

"I came because it seemed interesting."

"Interesting," he repeats.

"Most things are, if you're looking at them correctly."

You are nearly back to the machinery of the formal introduction. The walk will end, the performance will conclude, and you will not be alone with him again today.

"My lady Stark," Aerion says. He places the syllables carefully, like setting broken glass on a table. "I find I am looking forward to knowing you better."

The lords are close enough to hear a Targaryen prince expressing genuine, courtly pleasure at a prospective match. The escort materializes at your elbow to separate you. Aerion releases your arm with a slight inclination of his head, his heavy rings catching the brutal sunlight as he withdraws his hand.

You do not watch him walk away, because you are not that careless. But you hear the deliberate, predatory crunch of his boots against the gravel until he disappears.

[amnesia-sc]

vampyr | michael jackson

a/n: i know ppl don’t like au’s but i’m sorry i love writing them

vampire! michael jackson x f! reader

t/w: victorian setting, nosferatu inspo, toxic? dark romance, obsession, manipulation, concerning levels of yearning, stalking, blood/gore, 18+ mdni, smut, p in v, blood kink (i mean c’mon), broken bed frames and a lot of biting and hair pulling

wc: 11.6k (sorry don’t kill me)

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The morning sun was pale as it slipped past the curtains, slowly warming up the hardwood floors as much as it could with winter approaching.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your cat brushing up against your legs, impatient to be fed. Leaning down, you picked him up, taking in the soft fur and his warmth as he purred. Trying to gather the courage to get out of bed.

A melancholy had taken hold of your heart the past few months. A weight resting on your shoulders. A presence.

Ever since that night.

Weakness. Loneliness. Desperation. Sin. Whatever it was to be called.

Your mind felt like it was in hell as you called out into the night, teary eyes gazing up at the moon. At an angel. At God. You didn't know, you just needed help. An out. Not knowing how to outrun your mind.

Come to me. You cried, hands clasped so tightly in prayer, your bones shifted beneath your skin. Come to me. Guardian angel. A spirit of comfort. Any celestial being, a sob racked your chest. Come to me. Hear my prayer.

Suddenly it felt as if your breath had been robbed. Stolen. Ripped right from your lungs. The moon too bright and air too still.

But your mind— it was so quiet. Calm.

Something was holding you. The presence greedy.

Your feet carried you across your room, acting on their own accord. Or perhaps someone else's. A string tied around each joint and tugging you along, coiling you up and closer to the puppeteer.

You were brought to the window, the moon so bright. Looking at you.

Oil slipped over you mind as something, someone, he spoke.

I've got you. A caress, enveloping you. Bliss.

You shook your head, begging the memory to go away before it finished.

You always woke up in a sweat despite the long dead fire. Feeling as though you’d been dragged through something. Some sort of unreachable plane.

He was haunting your dreams. Stalking you. You felt like a rabbit running from a wolf. Not a person. Feeling it, Him, crawl beneath your skin like a spider, spinning a web around every vein and heartstring.

The clock chimed and it startled your cat, causing him to leap off your lap and his claws dug into the flesh of your thighs through your nightgown, spotting it with crimson.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Late.

You pushed through the door with your hip, holding a crate of glass bottles filled with herbs and elixirs. Your spine felt stiff. Your bones not right. You could've sworn you felt Him on your walk to the apothecary that morning.

You were losing it. You knew you were. You couldn't have possibly… it wasn't possible.

But as you turned, the air on the back of your neck stood and it wasn't the cold.

The faintest voice. An echo rattling in your mind.

Come to me.

You blinked the thought away. The daylight was supposed to be safe.

Your boss called your name from somewhere in the back of the shop. Shortly after his head peaked over the shelves, his graying hair a mess. "Have you brought it?"

“Yes, sir." You set the crate down, urging the thoughts of Him, your shadow, to the back of your mind.

You dug the few bottles your boss asked you to order from the crate, the glass cold against your palms, bitter from the atmosphere.

He made his way between tables, his black coat heavy on his shoulders and his glasses perched down his nose as he took one of the bottles from you.

Observing it with scrutiny to see if you’d done a good job. Which you always did. You never messed up.

A slight crease formed between his brows and he set the glass back down into the crate. Barely a nod. That's all you ever got from him. All that you needed. He wasn't one to give thanks or praise. He took a chance on hiring you, you knew that. He didn't owe you anything else but your weekly wages.

He got back to work as you began organising bottles and mincing up ingredients, trying not to let your mind wander as the blade sliced through dried lilac. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board in tune with your heart.

It began to rain on your walk home, the droplets bitter cold and feeling like bullets of ice. Other city dwellers used what they had as umbrellas if they had none.

You didn't see a point. Your skin was burning, your blood bubbling as if it were trying to claw its way out of your veins. You needed this. The cold.

You didn't mind it as rogue hair stuck to your forehead and neck, water dewing up so heavy on your lashes it was hard to keep your eyes open.

Come to me.

You flinched, turning to the sound, feet picking up pace and frantic to get away. Instincts kicking in as your eyes darted around the bodies rushing to find cover, feet splashing up water.

He was here. In the city. You knew it to be true.

Turning, your world suddenly upended as you collided with someone, black clouding your vision and you felt gloved hands grab hold of your arms to break your fall.

You blinked the rain away, your mind spinning, not understanding and your manners tried to quickly scramble their way forth.

“Apologies," tumbled out of your mouth and you tried to right yourself, but your dress was heavy with water and your skin was tight with the cold.

The hands slowly slid away from you, almost hesitant, and you finally allowed yourself to look up.

Your breath caught, heart skipped a beat, for a mere moment you thought…

“It’s okay."

The man looked down at you. Imposing. Face hidden half in shadow from his hat and the veil of rain.

Your mouth hung open slightly. Your nerves tangled in shock and what might've been trepidation.

The water pounded into the cobblestones beneath him. The rain soaking through his fine coat and hat, water beaded up on his own lashes. His eyes, they looked like the dark side of the moon that kept you company every night. Familiar.

He tilted his head to the side as he watched you, his eyes practically glowing with something you didn't think you’d ever be able to name.

Your heart was thudding in your ears. Or maybe that was just the rain.

Do something.

"I'll be–"

“Have we met–"

You both spoke at once and you couldn't help it as you felt yourself blush, but you blamed it on the cold.

He took his hat off for a moment to push his wet hair back, the locks nearly looked like spilled ink as a black-gloved hand ran through his curls. His eyes met yours again, his expression unreadable ans far too encompassing.

“Find a fire, I wouldn't want you to get sick." With that he bowed his head and stepped past you, the sharp click of his shoes fading in with the rest of the crowd.

You looked after him, watching the slight sway of his shoulders, his presence alone towering over everyone else. Men parted for him as he walked, not thinking twice, like he commanded the tides.

His voice...

A crack of thunder startled you and you kept moving, your skin prickling up again.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Those eyes flickered, blinding you, dancing in your mind. Intent. Obsessed.

You gasped, ripping yourself awake before your mind suddenly eased, like warm water was slowly consuming your body. You were slipping, your mind's chatter easing into quiet as you went under the surface.

You saw him again. That stranger. But not quite. His silhouette was flickering in the shadows but his eyes gleamed of moonlight.

Who are you? You asked, though the air remained still.

The shadows folded, swayed, his eyes tilting. You pulled me out of the dark. His voice was like oil, dripping over the room and staining it.

But who, you stretched your jaw, your common sense fighting its way up, trying to break the surface.

He stepped closer. Your breath hitched. Equal parts frightened and enamoured.

Dark curls suddenly caught the moonlight but it was still difficult to make him out. A shifting phantom. Restless. Crazed as you felt something rough yet soft slide down the side of your neck.

A hand. Possessive.

You are not for the living, your stranger said.

The sharp planes of his face morphed into something tangible as he leaned down. Cool breath hitting your face and you felt in a trance as you looked up at him.

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip. Eyes intent as he followed the action.

You knew you were in the presence of something beyond humanity but you couldn't look away. Couldn't back away. The strings all tangled and too tight.

When you woke up the next morning, your room was empty and your cat sat at the end of your bed, staring at the corner of your room.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your mind was muddled as the week went on. He had never touched you before in your dreams. Never... he had never been someone. You wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you. Trying to slot a face into the voice and presence you always felt. Deciding to pick that man you had run into.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your hand slipped and the knife tore into your hand, the pain quick and sharp but it was a mere echo.

Wrapping some cloth around the wound, you heard the bell above the door chime.

"One moment!" You called, pulling the cotton tight and weaving your way around the tables and boxes. You wished your boss would let you organize properly. But he had everything where he needed and wanted, peering down his hooked nose every time you asked and sneering, It is organised.

You rolled your eyes thinking about it.

Rounding the corner of some shelves, you stopped short at the sight of a man leaning down, hands in pockets as he looked at some of the medicinals the shop sold.

Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones.

At your presence, his eyes flicked up, down to your hand, then back up again. Pupils blown a little wide.

"You," you breathed the word without realizing it.

He blinked a few times as he straightened, eyes dancing down to your cut hand again, the blood dotting on the fabric. "You're hurt." His tone held nothing. No worry. No concern. Though, he did sound ever so slightly breathless. Just a bit. Or maybe you were imagining things.

His eyes. He looked hungry.

"I'm fine," you managed to get out, walking behind the counter. For safety, perhaps. Some semblance of security. He was even more overwhelming in broad daylight. In person. Your dream now fading into an even more warped fantasy. Right now he was far too real.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working under his skin. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he seemed to force himself to look away from you and to the wall of bottles and dried goods.

You gnawed at her lip, brows furrowing as you watched him. Taking a breath, you all but ground the words out. "Can I help you with something?"

He sighed, eyes slating towards you, nearly looking pained and it made you feel dizzy. Who was this man?

Your boss snapped your name, appearing from what seemed to be thin air and you flinched. The old man was looking at you like you had grown a second head. "Are you just going to stand there or help him? What do I pay you for?"

You opened your mouth to argue but he was already disappearing into the back of the store. Leaving you blushing and a bit embarrassed. But when you turned back around, the stranger was gone.

You let out a breath of air. Equally relieved but disappointed. In what, you weren’t sure. Curiosity, perhaps. Your eyes looked down at your hand but stopped short when you noticed the dried flowers laying on the table, a black ribbon tied around them with a small piece of parchment. Two letters were drawn in ebony ink.

M.J.

You gently picked them up. Red carnations and Fern.

Your eyes danced to where he had stood, wondering if you focused hard enough he'd materialize like he did the other night.

"Who are you?" You whispered.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Fresh air. You needed fresh air.

Yanking the sheets off of you, your skin was cold but covered in dew drops of sweat. You could feel it. Feel Him. Crawling over your bones and staining them. An insatiable itch you couldn't reach.

You blindly made your way down the stairs and out into the garden. Your feet silent as they padded across the frost crusted grass. Your body was burning up and you wanted to strip yourself from the cotton, desperate and feeling suffocated as the moon stared down at you.

You yanked at your hair. Strands sticking to your skin. Too much. Too sensitive.

Come to me.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a cry almost leaving you as you felt your feet start to move somewhere. North, maybe.

Your conscience took a step back, a door closing, looking at you with knowing eyes. Wait– you called, but the door locked and oil spilled over again.

Who are you? You asked. You’d always ask till you got an answer, your legs carrying you through the bushes and closer and closer to an unknown. The back of your mind whispered that your parents wouldn't like this. This behavior. Your father nearly sent you off after that first night. Nearly sent you off every night you woke the house with your ramblings of a shadow man.

His voice swirled around you, almost teasing in its lilt— You know.

I do not.

A hand wrapped around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. It sent chills down your spine, ravishing your skin.

I... you blinked against the dark, your feet suddenly hitting cobblestone. I know you, don't I?

The hand danced down, leash loosening only a bit and you heard that familiar click of expensive shoes as they walked.

You fell in step with the sound, not feeling the bite of snow on your bare feet. Darkness was folding around you, snuffing out the flames of street lamps. You could faintly make out the sway of his shoulders.

Your head was spinning. Spinning and spinning as you turned down an alley, feet faltering and so bitterly numb you fell to your knees, scuffing your shins and you looked down. Blood. So much. It felt like the earth was pulsing around you from an open artery.

There was a body. A man. Lying stiff a few feet away. Eyes blank and empty. Soulless. Blood poured from his neck.

You should scream.

He knelt at your side, head tilting, brushing your hair away. The blood was sticky and warm against the snow.

What is this insufferable darkness? You felt like you couldn't breathe.

His nose brushed yours. Your phantom. Yours. He belonged to you. His hands twined with your own. Fingers long and much larger than yours. Holding you.

Dream of me. Only me. You felt a chaste kiss against your forehead. Swear it.

The blood was getting stickier. Voices. Approaching steps.

The words left you in a puff of air.

"I swear."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your nightmare hadn't ended yet. You were sure of it.

You sat dazed in the chair. Your parents sitting nearby. Your mother clutching her rosary like a vice. Your father wouldn't look at you.

"Father," your father's voice shook with conviction. "Is there anything you can do? Anything we can do?"

You felt dizzy as you stared up at the multicoloured windows. Mother Mary gazed down at you, tears in her eyes.

"Someone has offered to take her in."

Your eyes snapped forward, staring at the priest and he averted his eyes. Right now you were the other. The secret. Fallen. Your mind had been tainted for years now. Your mother said so as she cried into her cross.

"Who?"

"A practitioner… a doctor, of sorts. He's known within a small community for handling rare cases such as these with his treatments." The priest paused, shifting in his chair and removing his spectacles. "However–"

"And what were the results?" Your father asked, inching forward in his chair.

The holy man sighed. "His methods are... are arcane, if any, and I can't–"

"Were they successful?"

The priest rolled his jaw at your father, seeing a lost battle in front of him. "To a degree, but I advise you to think on this, the Church can provide perfectly–"

All you did was stare as the whole... transaction unfolded. That's what it felt like. Being handed off in such a way. The priest's warnings fell on deaf ears. Your mother only bowed her head as the carriage door shut on you. Your father did not say a word.

Your eyes slid to the man sitting across from you. He worked for whoever you were being sent off to. This practitioner. You were hopeless. Damned. No one could possibly fix you. You weren’t sure if there even was anything to be fixed.

The man across from you was not phased at your stare. He returned it tenfold. Gray eyes sharp.

Insightful.

"Where am I going?" You eventually asked, watching the city fade as the wheels turned.

"Somewhere where you know how to be handled."

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't need to be handled."

He settled himself in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee and forcing you to lean back. "I'm the attendant."

You looked away out the window, your breath fogging up the glass. "I don't care."

"Your father said you could be a handful, he didn't say you were rude."

Clenching your jaw, you looked back at him. He was pale. Strikingly so. His greying hair hidden beneath a cap. "Where am I going?" You asked again.

He sighed as he lit a pipe. The fire from the match lit up his eyes and for a moment they gleamed red. He waited to answer you till he held the pipe between his teeth and smoke plummed out.

"The Jackson Estate."

You raised a brow. You’d never heard of it.

"It's the Practitioner's residence."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Heels clicked against the polished flooring. It was dark. The only light being candles that flickered along the hall. Illuminating the portraits in a macabre sort of beauty.

You held your breath as the attendant— he still had yet to give you his name, escorted you inside. The estate felt heavy. Dense. The air a little suffocating. You felt Him here. Strongly. Concerned that without the bustle of the city to drown him out he'd be more... loud.

His tour was curt and to the point. Telling you what was off limits and what wasn't. Telling you your schedule, though it was vague. Treatment. He wouldn't elaborate.

Everything was very...elaborate. Elegant. Old.

Refined and styled with thought. Every stitch in the carpet intricate. You felt horribly out of place. And too hot. You had passed by numerous hearths, all of them roaring. Flames licking out onto the marble.

He came to a stop in front of a door on the third floor, turning its silver handle and it popped open with a click. "Your quarters."

You didn't know what you were expecting. A small bed with restraints, maybe. Isn't that what mad people get put through? Bars on the windows. Rats in the corners. Scratch marks on the walls.

But as the door creaked open, you were met with an elegant, albeit ordinary room. Your brows furrowed and looked at him. "What is this?"

"Your room." He said flatly, like you were stupid.

Your jaw clenched and you waved an arm out. "No, what is this? Everything. This house. What treatment? What practitioner?"

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking past you into the room. "You can ask all the questions you want at dinner."

He left before you could say anything else, mouth agape like an idiot as another servant brought in your single trunk. He only nodded briefly at you, not sparing you a glance before scuttling from the room.

You huffed. Confused. A little scared, but your curiosity was winning that battle.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren’t even sure where the dining room was.

Come to me.

The rug softened your foot fall as you walked. Your hand trailing along the wood paneling of the wall. Dizzy as you looked at some very old portraits. They looked like Him. Your stranger. Your ghost. He was haunting you, even here.

The practitioner didn't attend dinner that night.

The attendant said he had a mess to clean up.

Your questions went unanswered.

Jackson. The name was heavy on your tongue. Whispers in your sleep. Restless. Your stomach pooling. Melting. Those eyes. You clenched your thighs together and awoke with a start when there was a sharp knock on your door.

Your breath left you in heavy pants. A shadow could be seen beneath the door. Pulsating. Begging to be let in. Fighting against the moonlight that poured through the tall windows.

You bit your lip, fear crackling in your veins. It was Him. It had to be. You could feel it.

Your name was said lowly from the other side of the door.

You froze. Blinked. Hands moving the covers off of your body before you could think better of it.

You creaked the door open.

Dark brown eyes stared down at you, half swathed in shadow.

Your lips parted. You had a feeling, but lately you couldn't trust your own thoughts. You should've known.

His hands were clasped behind him. Still wearing a suit despite the late hour. He smelled faintly of iron and orchids.

"You." Your brows furrowed. A mixture of disbelief and anger. "How–"

"May I come in? I was told you had some questions."

Let me in.

You nearly fell backward with the force of it. Hands trembling as they opened the door further. He didn't spare you another glance as he walked into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

"You're in my head," the words tumbled out and you pressed your back into the post of the bed.

His hands were in his pockets as he tilted his head at you. Moonlight glinting off his hair. Looking just like he had that first night you saw him in your room.

"It's... it's you." He was your melancholy. Your darkness. It was him.

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it!" You bit out, your voice nearly a cry.

He sighed, as if you were being unreasonable. "I see treatment needs to start tomorrow–"

"What treatment? Who are you? You're the one who's been haunting me. I'm not mad, it's you."

All he did was stare at you. Patient.

Pupils wide in the dark.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember falling asleep. Just the heaviness. Dizziness. Your stranger, looking at you as if you were some sylph.

Your neck was sore and you winced as you moved but hands gently caressed your head.

You faintly heard your name.

You blinked. The world a blur and slowly coming into focus.

You were on the ground, someone kneeling over you, cool breath dusting your face. Thumbs swiping gently under your eyes. "Wake up." The voice. So soft. Smooth and like oil. His. A creature comfort.

You tried to take in the feeling of his calloused hands as he held your face. "What..." early morning light was pooling past the curtains. Your eyes finally found his. The closeness of him was more jarring than anything else had been.

Your brows furrowed. He was infuriatingly complicated.

"I'm not mad." Is all you could think to say.

He hummed, dark hair falling over his eyes as he observed you. This time more clinical. Less consuming than last night.

Had he stayed with you?

You became acutely aware you were sprawled out on the carpet in only your nightgown.

A blush reddened your cheeks and you tried to move but you winced again with the turn of your neck.

"Careful now." He helped ease you up. One hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist. You were on fire again.

"What happened?"

"You fainted."

"I gathered that much, thank you."

His eyes twitched slightly. You weren’t sure if it was in amusement or not.

Before anything else could cross your mind, such as to push him away, his large hands found your elbows and he hauled you up.

"I'll see you after breakfast."

"What for?"

His hands dropped from you as he walked to the door.

"Our first session."

He left without saying anything else. And if you hadn't been so overwhelmed, you would've noticed the blood on his collar.

Would've noticed the blood on you.

You sat for some time after he'd gone, the faint imprint of his hands still warm against your skin. Your fingers brushed your neck again, wincing but you chalked it up to the faint, perhaps you’d twisted in the fall. That must be it. You told yourself so twice.

When you did rise, the room seemed too quiet, as if it had been holding its breath. You wrapped your arms around you and padded barefoot in circles around your room, the silence of the house only broken by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock below.

Your eyes then caught on a tray. Not sure when it had gotten there. Maybe he brought it. Though the gesture seemed too...kind.

Toast. A soft boiled egg. Tea that had already begun to cool. You sat, stared at it, then lifted the cup with trembling hands. The tea had a strange aftertaste to it. Iron, maybe? Or the remnants of your own unsettled stomach, but you drank it anyway. You needed something solid in you, or you feared you might float away altogether.

A light knock came at the door, too soft to startle.

The attendant’s voice called your name through the door.

"Yes," you replied, brushing some hair from your face.

He stood just beyond the threshold as he opened it, dressed in proper attire while you were still in your nightgown.

"Your first session," he said. "Mr. Jackson is ready, if you are."

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding.

The disquiet in your chest was not fear, it was something stranger. Curiosity. Longing. Like a moth pressing against a glass. You grabbed a robe hanging off a hook and tied it tightly around you, the softness of it only easing you slightly.

He led you through the house without speaking. The halls were long, lined with portraits you didn't recognize, faces that all seemed to follow you with their eyes. You tried not to stare too long.

The door to the study opened before you’d realized you arrived, the attendant excused himself while Mr. Jackson smiled at you.

The study was warm, fire lit though it was barely past dawn. Curtains drawn tight. A chaise lounge by the hearth and a high backed chair beside it. He gestured for you to lie down.

You obeyed. You didn't know why.

He took his seat, crossed one long leg over the other, folded his hands.

"Tell me about the voice."

So much for easing into things.

You stared at the ceiling, trying to get comfortable if even possible. "I don't remember much. Only that it was... kind. Gentle."

His head tilted. "And familiar?"

"Yes. I think so."

He said nothing. The fire cracked and hissed.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. You could still feel his fingers against your face from earlier, the way he held you like you might vanish.

"It led me to the body, didn't it?"

"That depends. Do you think it did?"

You opened your eyes again. "I thought we were discussing memory, not madness."

He smiled at that, though not unkindly. "And what if they're the same?"

You looked away.

"I didn't hurt anyone," you whispered. "I couldn't have."

"No," he said softly. "You couldn't have."

It was the gentleness that undid you. That and the quiet assurance in his voice. A sudden ache pressed behind your ribs and your breath hitched, though you didn't know why. Not a person, you reminded yourself. A rabbit.

Perhaps you only wanted to believe him.

There was a rustle of paper shortly followed by his voice. "When did this start?"

Your mind wandered back. That night. Your loneliness had swallowed you whole. "Months ago. Dreams."

"Dreams?"

You nodded, twisting your fingers till they hurt. Not wanting him to ask but you knew he would.

"And what happened?"

You couldn't help the blush. The shame. How badly you had wanted comfort that night. "I don't know, it was..." you shut your eyes briefly. "They grew darker. My dreams. The first night felt like the first act. But the rest," you turned her head, neck still aching. "Tell me, does evil come from within us or beyond?"

There was a long pause. The kind that hung in the air like fog, wrapping cold fingers around your throat.

He didn't answer at once. He stood, slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

He moved toward the window, though the curtains remained drawn. One hand rested lightly on the sill, the other behind his back. He looked like a man waiting for something. Or someone.

"Tell me," he said at last, voice low, smooth as silk but sharp beneath it, "if a wolf kills a rabbit, is the wolf evil for wanting food?"

You blinked. The question struck you oddly, given the allusion he landed on was painfully familiar.

"No," you said carefully. "Of course not. It's the circle of life. The wolf survives. The rabbit... doesn't."

He turned his head, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of him over his shoulder. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a glint there. Not of mischief. Not quite of hunger. Something older. Deeper. You couldn't place it, and it unsettled you more than you liked.

"And what if the wolf enjoys it?" he asked.

You frowned. "Enjoys what?"

"The hunt."

Your mouth went dry. Your tongue felt too large for your mouth.

"I suppose that's natural too," you said, after a pause. "Isn't it?"

He smiled, slow and fleeting. "Natural," he echoed, as if tasting the word.

You drew the robe tighter around you. Your neck still ached, a dull throb now, pulsing with each beat of your heart.

He turned fully then, his expression polite once more, hands folded neatly before him.

"You've done very well," he said. "It takes courage to speak so openly. Especially when the truth feels... inconvenient."

You looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Truth is only inconvenient when it frightens us."

A beat.

"Agreed.”

There was something in his tone, just for a moment, something that sounded oddly like admiration.

"I'll leave you to rest. You've earned it."

He moved toward the door, and again, you caught that strange sensation as he passed, like the air folded around him. Like the shadows themselves knew to step aside.

You waited until the door clicked shut before you exhaled.

You hadn't answered his question properly. Not really. Nor had he answered yours.

And you couldn't shake the feeling that he already knew exactly what you were going to say.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It had been eleven days since your arrival.

Or perhaps twelve.

The house made time feel elastic, stretching and snapping without rhythm. Mornings bled into evenings. Meals arrived without clocks. Mr. Jackson, for all his precision, never gave you a fixed schedule.

You found yourself waiting for him anyway.

You stood now before the long mirror in your room, studying the hollowness beneath your eyes. You weren’t sleeping well. Or you were, but it was the wrong sort of sleep. You would wake with the taste of earth and copper on your tongue, your limbs heavy, tangled in sheets as though you’d been dancing with something in the dark.

He called it suggestion. A method of drawing the subconscious forward.

You called it dreams. Vivid, sickly sweet things that left your skin in a sweat and your mind fogged.

Still, you attended each session.

You told yourself it was part of the process. That the warmth in your chest when he looked at you was merely the result of trust. That the way your skin remembered his fingers long after they'd left was simply... psychological. A trick of the treatment.

Today, the parlour was darker than usual. Curtains half-drawn, the fire low. He waited, standing rather than seated, large hands clasped behind his back. His coat was red today. Velvet, or something like it. It made his eyes almost luminous.

He said your name with the faintest nod. “You're late."

"I wasn't told a time," you replied, chin lifting slightly.

"Even so." His eyes glinted. "You're slipping."

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. He gestured to the chaise.

You lay down without being asked twice.

"You're tense," he murmured. He always knew.

"Let's begin."

He never touched you during these moments. Not really. Sometimes his voice alone felt like a hand resting lightly on your temple. Sometimes you swore you could feel his breath on your throat when he spoke low and close, but when you opened her eyes, he'd be across the room.

"Close your eyes," he said now. "Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Good. Again."

You obeyed.

The room dulled. Colours softened. His voice moved through you like music, smooth and lulling.

"You're walking through a garden," he murmured. "Stone underfoot. A chill in the air. You're not afraid. You are guided. Can you see it?"

"Yes," you whispered. And you could, wisteria hanging in curtains, fog coiling at your ankles. And a figure. Tall, blurred at the edges. Watching you.

"Describe him," he said.

"I... I can't."

"Try."

"He's... not a man. Not really. He's shaped like one. But..." Your brow furrowed. "There's something in his eyes. A hunger. He's—"

You jerked as though touched. Your eyes flew open.

The fire was brighter now. Your hands trembled.

Mr. Jackson regarded you with his usual calm. One eyebrow arched slightly. "Interesting."

"What was that?" you asked, breath catching in your throat.

"Your mind," he said softly. "It speaks, if you listen."

You sat up slowly, arms curling round yourself. "I don't like that garden."

"Few like the place where the truth begins."

You looked at him then, properly. The angle of his jaw, the stillness of him. Not a muscle twitched. Not even his breath.

"Do you ever sleep?" you asked suddenly.

He smiled without showing his teeth. "What would I dream of?"

You pondered it, rolling on your side and perching yourself up on one arm. Allowing yourself to really look at him. You knew absolutely nothing about him. He was poised. In control of himself. Calm. At least on the surface. But this estate... this house. It was far too big and too lonely. Daunting. Sometimes you felt like you could hear the portraits whisper at night. There was one in particular you always stopped by. So very old but better maintained than the rest. A woman with eyes like his but warmer. Fresh flowers were always underneath it. A loved one, you could only assume. The rest of the portraits were left to rot.

"The past, maybe."

His fingers tapped a rhythm into his thigh as he watched you. "You think of me as nostalgic?"

You laid back down again, eyes tracing the pattern in the carved ceiling. Thinking back to your childhood. How bright it all felt. The flowers smelled better and the sun shone more. You remembered laughing more, as a girl. Of running down side streets with your friends before they went off to university. Abandoning you.

"Aren't we all?"

It was quiet for a moment. The only sound was your beating heart and the crackle of the hearth before you heard him stand.

Your breath caught at his retreat. The sudden panic alarming but unavoidable.

"Mr. Jackson," you started. His footsteps paused. "Why is it they think you can... fix me. Find answers that others cannot?"

You didn't look at him. Couldn't. Waited for the sound of his shoes to click again with bated breath. A beat of your heart passed before you felt him shift closer to you.

"My reputation, perhaps."

You raised a brow, finally turning. Catching his eyes. Glowing. "Reputation?"

He observed you another moment before bowing his head slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left without another word.

More of your questions going unanswered.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt rigid that morning as you sat down for breakfast. A maid had come to grab you instead of leaving a tray like usual.

Your appetite was scarce and a trembling hand reached for your tea, the porcelain rattling against the saucer but you paused as soon as he entered the room.

Morning light made everything look hazy. Filtering in through the high windows and catching in the curtains that always remained half drawn.

In the time you had been there, you two had never eaten a meal together. Not even the attendant, technically. That first dinner he just sat there, drinking wine and being infuriatingly unhelpful.

Mr. Jackson sat, though he touched nothing laid out on the table.

"Good morning."

You clenched your trembling hand into a fist as you pulled it away from your tea, deciding it was best to clutch it beneath the table.

You dreamed about him last night. Again. Sinful and wrong. Wretched.

Lovely.

He didn't miss your silence and he looked at you with a brow barely raised.

Time ticked by. You could hear it on the clock.

He leaned back in his seat, adorning it like a throne.

"You don't seem to like practitioners very much."

Your jaw ticked and you looked down.

"Or do you just not like me?"

His question took you off guard and your usual attempt at being polite rushed forth. "No, I—" you bit your tongue. You shouldn't find excuses. Reasons.

You swallowed dryly and tried to focus on your food as you spoke. You couldn't look at him. "I've just had bad experiences, is all. Bags filled with knives. Strange things to measure my skull." All things considered you could at least admit to yourself the relief you felt when you realized all you two would be doing is talking. At least for now.

His fingers thrummed on the table and you finally took note of the ring he was wearing.

"I'm not that kind of doctor."

Your jaw ached as you clenched it. Watching him lean forward on the table by his elbows. His expression unreadable as he spoke.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"I don't know." You didn't. You hadn't the faintest idea how you felt about him. A thousand things. Perhaps nothing. A few. It felt complicated.

The thrumming stopped and he dug into his coat pocket before pulling out a moderately small package and holding it out for you. "This is for you."

You eyed it for a long moment. Taking note of his slender hands. The bones and muscle that made him up. A gift?

With furrowed brows and a cautious hand, you gently took it from his hold and peeled back the wrappings.

Your shaking hands suddenly stilled.

"What?" He asked, voice even, as ever.

You lightly ran your fingers down the cover, over the ridges of the title. It was the first edition of your favorite novel. "Nothing, just...a book?" You looked at him, brows furrowed. Trying to read him but he was written in a foreign language.

He nodded, resting his chin in his palm.

Was this a session?

"And what does it remind you of?"

Your lips parted to ask him how he even knew but the memory from your childhood outshone the rest of your thoughts.

It was Christmas morning when you were a child and your mother had grown tired of you stealing the papers from the neighbors despite them all saying the same thing. You were convinced you’d find something new in them and your father no longer had time to take you to the library.

It had been the first book you were ever gifted. Your own. The first thing you felt like you could truly call yours.

You blinked away tears and set the book down. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

"I think you understand me well enough."

So this was a session. He took you off guard. No warning. A change of scenery. You couldn't prepare. You hated it.

"A bookshop." The lie slipped out.

He hummed. He knew.

You thrummed your own fingers now on the table. This whole thing was off kilter. Not right. Your mind trailing back to the hesitancy of the priest.

"Are you a clergyman?"

He blinked. "No."

"Do you have any affiliation with the church?"

There was a moment, brief reluctance. “No.”

Your brows furrowed. Not understanding how your mother would have agreed to this. Not understanding the priest's suggestion even though he did try to warn.

Which brought you to your next question.

Why the warning?

"I'm a practitioner. I work with the mind. Diseases of the mind. I don't deal with fantasies of demons lurking in the shadows or behind closed eyelids."

Science. A man of science. Perhaps that was the reason for caution given the two tended to clash heads. But you still felt like that wasn't enough. Not to mention you weren’t diseased. You weren’t.

You were not mad.

He said your name in a lull, dancing around your throat and tilting your head up. "I'm here to listen to you. To reason." He paused and seemed to consider his next words. "I don't think you're mad. We just need to prove to everyone else that you're not. And that only begins once we stop your... night terrors."

"They're not night terrors." Your stubbornness was still intact, apparently.

He sighed, looking at you through long lashes. "I would like to help you. If you talk to me, I will listen. But—"

"I don't want to go back to the garden."

The words were out and you were holding onto your dress so tight you were sure the threads would rip. Thinking about that night is one thing. Actually reliving it, that was not something you wanted anyone else to witness.

All he did was hum and tap your book with a finger as he stood.

"Until tomorrow."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt heavy. Caressed. Something soft grazing the side of your face.

The pain was sharp and sudden but melted into something alien and blissful. A silent gasp left you and your pulse thrummed. Skipped.

Hazy and opium filled the air.

You looked up through heavy eyes, spotting the now familiar darkness of his hair.

Part of you wanted to touch it. Touch him.

But your limbs were too heavy.

Only as you went to the bathroom later that morning did you finally take notice of the bruising.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Eyes bore into each other. The tick of the clock matched your heart.

He was so patient.

You were sitting today. Not laying. Not wanting to be that vulnerable, yet.

There was the rustle of fabric as you shifted. Watching him watch you.

"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you."

He shook his head, chin tilting down. "I don't want anything. It's what you want to say that's of interest to me."

You looked down. Your fingers tapped a light rhythm into the book you held in your hands. Since he'd given it to you, you were already about a quarter way in.

Silence stretched and pulsed.

"How's the book?"

You pressed your tongue behind your teeth. "It's fine."

"What do you think?"

Your eye twitched. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Keen.

"I'm just curious. The book seemed to mean a lot to you."

You shook your head, looking away again. "It's just a book."

"Does it remind you of anything?" That head tilt of his had a habit of slowly unraveling you. "Your childhood, perhaps? If we are to circle back to the topic of nostalgia."

Your skin felt too tight. He somehow knew. Knew too much. Too little. "Not quite. Lots of children want books—"

"And did you? Want books? Want that one?"

"To say so is bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

You hummed. Tracing the letters. "To say what you want does the opposite. It's best to keep it to yourself. Be careful of wanting anything." Your mind trailed to that night. Your desperate prayer. "You may be punished for it."

You hadn't realized he stood, now in front of you. Hands in pockets and staring down. A god deciding to observe mere mortals.

"Do you think you're being punished?"

His eyes. So stunning in their appearance. Their depth. Flickering red for a moment in the firelight.

You were breathless as you spoke. "I think so, yes."

You felt like you were being torn open.

Not like flesh. Not the gruesome tears.

Softly, like fruit. Too ripe and splitting with barely a tug.

Abrasive.

That's what he was. That's what this was.

"Have you had any dreams since being here?"

You paused as you messed with the hem of your sleeve. "I suppose." You didn't dare look at him. The room dark, as always. You debated on running to the window and tearing open the blinds just to see what he would do. "Not that I can remember them, though."

You couldn't help it.

A peek, that's it.

He looked... disappointed.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You were brought down for dinner.

Snow was coating every window and you couldn't help it as your mind wandered. Watching the gardens from each window you passed. That's the only time the curtains were pulled back. Swathing the estate in moonlight and candles. Fires roaring.

Christmas was nearing. Your first without your family. Your mother.

Every year you were gifted a book.

You wondered what this year would've been.

Your knife slipped at the thought and crimson bled onto your plate.

However, you were distracted from the pain by the sudden intake of breath from someone else at the table.

Your eyes danced up.

The attendant looked... well it was rather concerning.

He looked as if he were about to lunge at something—you, before Mr. Jackson’s sharp tone cut through the air.

"Take your leave." he practically snapped. A warning.

"Michael—"

"Now."

You’d never heard him sound like that.

Michael... so that was his name.

The scrape of wood met your ears as the man left and you looked at the head of the table.

He was sitting perfectly still. Not even blinking.

Pupils wide.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Grabbed your napkin and pressed it to the cut. "Rude not to offer a wounded lady help."

A beat.

"I was under the impression you didn't want my help."

You took a drink of your wine. Annoyed. At him. Yourself. Your life.

"And I was under the impression you were going to give it anyway."

He smiled slightly, into his own glass.

You shouldn't have felt pleased.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You laid awake as the night droned on. Staring at the ceiling and seeing red carnations in your minds eye.

M.J.

"So that's who..."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember falling asleep.

It was a craving. To know him.

Forbidden.

Insatiable. A lurid glare to it as you tried to claw your way toward it.

Down down down into the pit. Persephone stumbling after Hades.

You wanted to go where you knew you couldn't. Not that you weren’t allowed... it wasn't possible. Shouldn't be.

You shouldn't want to descend.

You shouldn't want to tear into his body like he did yours and look inside.

But you did.

You wanted to claw your way through shadows and flesh and hold the heart of your shadow.

Your affliction.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It felt as if your skeleton had shifted inside of you.

Evolved.

Adapted.

You watched him more closely.

You knew he was familiar. Knew something wasn't right.

Come to me.

It didn't scare you anymore.

There was no fright.

Just fuel to the fire that was your curiosity.

You remembered all your dreams. You always had.

You wanted to know him.

Whatever the cost.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The bruises bloomed like lilacs, soft-edged and dusky, nestled in the hollow of your throat and curling faintly at your jaw. They didn't ache like bruises should. They pulsed.

You stood at the washbasin, fingertips hovering above the discolouration. You didn't dare touch them. The skin there felt different, as though it didn't belong to you.

Sleepwalking, you thought. A fall, perhaps. A bedpost knocked in the night. You had no memory of it. Only of... warmth. A heaviness. A dream that left you breathless, as though you’d run from something and forgotten why.

And always, always his voice. Somewhere between a lullaby and command.

You dressed high-necked that day.

Michael— Mr. Jackson, didn't remark on it, though he watched your collar with pointed interest.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

That night, you dreamt of teeth.

Not fangs, not the obvious kind, but rows of them.

Clean, white, perfect. Smiling. Too wide. Set in a face you almost recognized, but the name felt wrong on your tongue.

When you awoke, your bed was cold. You had no memory of leaving it.

The bruises were darker now. Deeper. Like ink stains pressed just beneath the skin.

You no longer believed you’d walked into a bedpost— never believed it in the first place.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You stopped a maid that afternoon. A girl no older than twenty two, with flaxen braids and red-raw hands.

"Where is Mr. Jackson sleeping?" you asked.

The girl blinked, confused. "He doesn't, miss."

You tilted your head. "Doesn't?"

"Not since I've been here."

You left the conversation colder than you entered it.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The next evening, you didn't sleep.

You waited.

You left the lamps unlit and the windows cracked to let the night in. Bitter cold with yule on the heels. You let the estate settle into silence, that old, heavy silence peculiar to large houses built to hold the dead. And then you crept from your room, barefoot on the carpet. Soft. Cautious.

Drawn.

The air grew colder the further you wandered. Corridors unfamiliar. Doors you hadn't seen. The paintings on the wall were more distorted here, melted faces, hands too long, eyes that followed.

And then you heard it.

Music.

Low. Disjointed. Like a lullaby played backwards.

It drew you to a door at the end of the hallway, grand, arched, carved with something that might have once been ivy. It was ajar.

You pushed.

Inside was not a room.

It was a chapel. Barely lit. The walls were stone, the air damp. An altar stood at its centre, not with a cross, but with something old, older than the Church, older than scripture. A symbol you couldn't place, carved in ash and bone.

And him.

Not standing. Kneeling.

Michael Jackson, his head bowed, dark curls catching the candlelight. His lips moved. Singing? Praying? You couldn't hear.

You took a step back. The floor creaked.

His head turned.

He said your name plainly. Gaze knowing. His voice was calm. Almost warm. "You ought to be in bed."

You didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Curiosity," he murmured, finally rising to his full height, "is a strange sort of affliction, isn't it?"

You swallowed. Your mouth was dry.

"I heard music."

"Did you?" He approached you slowly, like one might approach a skittish doe. "What did it sound like?"

You stepped back, suddenly afraid you wouldn't remember how to run if you needed to.

"What is this place?"

"A room for reflection," he said. "Or confession. Depending on what you bring to it."

"And what do you bring?"

His eyes glinted. That unreadable thing.

"Hunger."

"Hunger," you echoed, and your voice sounded thin, like stretched glass. "For what?"

He stopped just shy of you. Too close. His shoes almost scuffing against your slippers. Taunting.

"Truth," he said softly, tilting his head. "Is that not what you want as well?"

Your pulse was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. "You don't pray," you whispered. "You said so. You don't believe in demons."

"I don't," he agreed. "But belief is not a requirement for truth."

Your spine pressed against the cool stone of the doorway. He hadn't touched you, not really. Not with his hands. But you felt surrounded all the same.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember how you got back to bed.

"This isn't treatment," you breathed.

"No," he admitted.

A candle flickered beside you and in that small movement of flame, something shifted in his face. A flash, not anger, not cruelty. A melancholy.

He looked lonely.

He took your hand, gently, like you were spun sugar, and placed something cold in your palm.

A key.

"Next time you walk the halls," he murmured, "don't wait for music. Choose a door."

And then he turned from you, his coat whispering behind him like wings. The candlelight dimmed as he passed, and when you looked down at the key, you swore you felt it hum.

That night, your sleep was not your own.

When was it ever?

You stood in your dream, or in something like it, in the same chapel. Barefoot. There was no roof, only a black sky, the stars like puncture wounds.

Something brushed your collar. Breath, maybe. Wind. Or worse.

When you awoke, your feet were dirty. The key still clutched in your hand.

And the bruises had bloomed again.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

At breakfast, you wore a scarf.

He made no remark — only poured your tea, and added a drop of something from a dark bottle you hadn't seen before.

You didn't stop him.

Treatment, maybe.

"Tell me," he said after a long pause, "has the voice grown louder?"

You froze.

You hadn't mentioned Him in a while.

Had you?

You met his eyes across the table. Something within you said: ask. Ask the thing you don't want to know.

So you did.

"Am I sleepwalking?"

He took a slow sip from his glass, and when he set it down, the reflection in it wasn't quite his.

"No," he said evenly.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The key was warm in your palm that evening.

It shouldn't have been.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn against the dusk. There was a hush to the estate that night, not silence, not quite, but the sense that everything was listening. The house breathed.

You held the key between your thumb and forefinger, turning it, studying the tiny sigils carved into the metal. Not letters. Not anything you knew. But the more you looked, the more they started to seem... familiar. Like the curl of smoke. Like the bone-white markings you'd once seen drawn in salt outside a chapel. A priest who spoke in tongues. A body buried without eyes.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember leaving your room, only that you were suddenly in the east wing — the one the staff never went near. The corridor stretched long and crooked like a spine. Doors lined either side, tall and narrow, all unmarked. Some had handles. Some didn't.

One door breathed when you passed.

Another sighed.

The third... sang.

A low note. Barely audible. A single violin string beneath the floorboards. A tone that rang behind your teeth and in the base of your spine.

Your key fit that lock.

Of course it did.

Your fingers trembled as you turned it. The door creaked inward and a cold breath of air curled out, kissing your neck.

The room inside was, impossibly, a replica of your childhood bedroom.

Down to the crooked bookshelf. The lavender candle. The missing curtain hook. A pair of scuffed shoes too small to wear now, placed beside the bed.

You stepped in. The air was stale with memory.

"Clever," you murmured. To yourself. Or maybe not.

The candle lit on its own.

There, on the nightstand, was your old hairbrush. The one your mother had broken in half in a fit of frustration the year your hair refused to be tamed.

You lifted it — not a crack to be found.

Something in the mirror moved.

You turned. Nothing there. But your reflection lingered a moment longer than it should have.

You left quickly after that.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't sleep. Not really. You floated. Drowned, more like.

The next morning, he greeted you with soft eyes and a darker waistcoat. You noticed his cuff was stained with something that looked like wine. But wasn't.

"Shall we begin again?" he asked, voice smooth as ever.

You didn't respond.

He gestured to the settee. You sat, heart stammering, mind fractured from the night before.

"I want to try something," he said. "Nothing frightening. Just... deeper. A guided state. The mind is like a room. Sometimes we must rearrange the furniture."

You blinked. "You mean hypnosis."

He smiled, but not unkindly. "I mean honesty."

Your fingers twitched.

"You're safe," he said, and for one treacherous second, you almost believed it.

His voice dropped into that lulling cadence you now recognized, the one that threaded through your dreams. The one that made the air feel thick and sweet.

"Close your eyes."

You didn't want to.

You did.

He was in the garden again. You could smell roses.

There was blood beneath your fingernails.

And in the trees, something watching. Breathing. Waiting.

He knelt before you.

Not the practitioner. The other him. The version with no shadow. With too-sharp eyes and a mouth that had forgotten how to be kind.

"Do you know my name yet?" he asked.

You tried to speak.

Couldn't.

He leaned closer, whispering into your throat.

"Say it, and I will set you free."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Something was wrong.

You stared down at your hands as you sat in bed, watching the bones shift as you moved your fingers.

Something was missing. Fading.

But what?

Everything felt as if it were breathing. Too sharp. Too colourful. Too aromatic.

You crawled to the window, desperate for something fresh in this house.

The pane of glass creaked as it slid open and you inhaled winter sharply.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

You didn't even think to grab your robe or shoes before you slipped out the door.

The gardens greeted you with open arms as if they'd been waiting for you. Lush despite the season. White roses gleaming with ice as they caught in the moonlight.

You felt faint needle pricks in your feet as they crunched through the snow. Your head pounding, a sharpness behind your eyes that made the stars a bit blinding.

Your breath came out in puffs and your skin was riddled in goosebumps but you didn't mind. It was a nice distraction. A needed one.

You did not want to sleep.

Your mind raced as your fingers brushed along the roses.

This treatment didn't seem to be going anywhere. You still had dreams. It felt as if it were getting worse now that you were covered in bruises.

You weren’t sure what was real or not in this place. That chapel, your childhood bedroom... being outside helped ground yourself a little bit.

"Taking a late night stroll?"

You spun around at the voice, your flesh snagging on thorns and blood began to drip into the snow.

The attendant went deathly still and you watched as his carefree smile grew tense. His eyes trained on your hand, the slickness of crimson and how it glinted in the moonlight.

"Sir—"

You weren’t quite sure how it happened. It felt like you had only blinked before you found herself on your back and blinking up at the stars, a silent sort of pained sound leaving you as something burrowed its way through your skin. Your cut opened up even more.

Blood terribly warm against the cool night air.

Someone was on top of you. Pinning you to the earth and snow soaked through your nightgown but you couldn't focus on the cold as hands gripped you tight, securing you in place.

You felt light headed, back arching slightly at the pain and you forced yourself to look down. At what was happening to you.

Your mind couldn't keep up or perhaps it simply couldn't understand.

It looked as if he was kissing you. The visual rather romantic. His mouth open and his tongue sliding against your skin, but his teeth–

They were in your flesh. Buried deep and you felt the pull.

He was there one moment and gone the next.

Ripped from you and only then did you scream as his teeth tore jagged lines from being forced away.

Everything was spinning but you faintly registered shouting.

Your head rolled to the side, trying to make sense of the blurry figures a few feet away from you.

Focus, your mind begged.

It was Michael and the attendant. Fighting. The latter looked like an enraged animal and the former attempted to restrain him.

It didn't take long.

A fist went flying in the air, knocking the attendant right in the temple and he crumbled, not getting back up.

You caught sight of dark eyes gleaming as footsteps crunched through the snow, approaching you.

Michael might've fallen to his knees at your side, but you weren’t sure.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Dim lighting flickered across the ceiling and you felt strange. Cold despite the fire. Despite being swathed beneath thick blankets.

Your eyes slated to the side, half surprised to see him there. A chair drawn close to the side of the bed, elbows perched on his knees and chin resting in his hands as he watched you.

There was something different.

Either regarding him, or yourself. You weren’t sure.

Something was missing.

“How do you feel?”

You felt… fine. Serene. Grounded in a way that didn’t feel correct.

“Am I dreaming?”

His hand reached out, tentative and slow as if he were approaching a wounded animal and your breath hitched as his thumb dragged lightly along your cheekbone.

“I didn’t think I would have to do this so soon.”

Your brows furrowed, your question dying on your tongue as Michael leaned forward, dark eyes drifting from your mouth to your neck.

The gasp that left you was a soft exhale as you felt something prick, too distracted by the softness of his lips against your throat to take hold of the concern that should’ve been paralyzing you.

You felt a pull, almost as if your soul was being unspooled by the fates and you felt so dazed as you gazed up at the ceiling. Your fingers burying themselves in his hair without thought, his own hand coming up to cradle the other side of your neck while his other arm wrapped around your waist, practically pulling you into his lap.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt him everywhere. The gentle touch of his fingers drifted over your sensitive skin like leaves dancing over flagstone, mere whispers but enough to entrance.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Finding a different footing on a new sense of madness and yes… yes, you knew him. Knew who he was.

You had known all along.

He was your ghost. Your shadow. All those months… praying to him through the messenger of the moon.

The garden that night…

“It’s you.” Your voice cracked, the realization settling in the cavity of where your chest like a revelation worthy enough to be slotted into scripture.

His mouth tugged up at the side, being pulled by an invisible string and you could finally see them— fangs, the tips pressing into his bottom lip like a promise.

Michael’s hand cupped your throat, thumb pressing up beneath your jaw to tilt your head back while his other hand wound in your hair. “Look at you,” he spoke quietly, a dazed expression woven into his features.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren't used to them.

They itched. The kind of itch that was maddening and made your head swim— a lick of hunger curling around your stomach violently as you sat on the ground in front of the hearth, head resting against Michael’s knee as he ran fingers through your hair.

“It’ll pass,” he muttered, voice hiding beneath the crack of fire.

You were half tempted to sink them into his thigh, your eyes slating to the side as you looked at the muscle of his leg—

Michael’s hand tightened in your hair. “Don’t.”

Your eyes flicked up. He wasn’t looking at you.

Jaw tight as he gazed at the fire and eased his hold on your hair. “Once that line is crossed, I can’t—“ he shut his eyes and took a breath. “Just, don’t. Not yet.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your dreams had stopped since then, or perhaps they’d become your reality— your own version of Alice slipping through the cracks of the soil after failing to follow the rabbit.

He had fixed you, his reputation not failing him.

You stood in the gardens. Slippers wet with blue snow and you stared at the frozen body of the attendant. Still crumbled up on the ground like a discarded newspaper.

It had been weeks. Days. Months?

You didn’t know.

Your eyes danced up to the moon. Please, you prayed.

A ravenous hunger hollowed you out and then you finally realized what had been wrong. What had been creeping up your mind like a spider.

You hadn’t heard your heartbeat in a while.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your eyes met his in the dark. Breath still as your nail traced a line down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, thumb coming up to press against the tip of his fangs.

A breath passed as you waited for him to pull away. To grab your wrist. Not yet— his two favorite words lately.

Michael didn’t say a thing.

You barely had to try, not a moment later your flesh was pierced like it was ripened fruit. A spot of crimson dewing up and before it could drip, Michael’s lips wrapped around your thumb. Gaze locked on yours and you watched as his eyes flashed red at the taste of you.

You’d never known such longing.

The rawness of it as it consumed you, feeling on fire as he slowly dragged you towards him, pulling your strings because your limbs were suddenly useless.

Say it.

You shut your eyes as his voice blanketed your mind, his soul consuming yours as you straddled his hips.

His grip tightened on your waist, “please.”

Your hands came up to cup his face, taking in the beauty of him. He was sculpted of sharp lines, his creator clearly obsessed with perfection and his eyes— Christ, looking at him felt like damnation. Like Orpheus turning to glance at Eurydice because he just couldn’t help himself.

“Michael.”

His mouth met yours and you saw a burst of multicolored lights dance behind your eyes as they slid shut, melting into him as your hands greedily pulled him close.

He stood up, carrying you easily as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, hardly paying any mind as your back settled on the bed. You couldn’t feel anything but his soul and yours.

Michael’s hips settling between your own and his hand was in your hair again, pulling taught and guiding your mouth lower— “Now.”

One word. That one word sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet— heaven reigning down in a blinding cascade of fire and finally…

Your teeth sank into the side of his throat and the sound that left you wasn’t human.

He shuddered violently, holding you close and chanting your name like a hymn he’d known for thousands of years. A millennia passing before he finally got to taste the sweetness of it on his tongue.

Michael held you close, hips pressing into yours and when you felt him thrust inside— the drag of it felt like a hit of opium.

He pulled your hair, dragging your mouth to his, hot and open— tongue dancing with yours and he groaned at the taste of your blood.

Michael’s arms held himself up just enough not to crush you as he thrusted forward, pushing you further into the mattress and your mouth gaped open at the force of it.

He was dancing on the edge of violence and it was lovely. A macabre beauty to the way his hips rolled and then his teeth dragged along your throat, drawing blood and his tongue flattened over the fresh wound moments later.

Then he was saying your name again— the cadence an ancient lilt as his cock dragged out and back in, hitting something inside of you that teased the entrance to the Elysian Fields.

The orgasm hit you hard and you choked out a cry, legs trembling but Michael kept going, his mouth and teeth digging into your throat so deep you thought he might get carried away and actually start eating you.

“Michael.”

He forced his head back, mouth and chin and teeth covered in crimson and he looked so unraveled— hips slamming into yours and pelvis grinding against your clit.

Michael was kissing you again, the action a complete mess. Wet and tasting of iron and something else a bit sweeter. Dancing between the notes of orchids and ichor.

His thrusts became erratic, the bed slamming into the wall so hard the old oak frame cracked down the middle and the mattress collapsed to the floor like the earth had opened up beneath you.

When he came and your name dripped off his tongue, you knew you’d found it. What you’d been praying for.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @tojiswifeforlife @sometranslationnoteru @sunshineyrosie @swgarpeas @amoravelee @softchaosdiary04 @slugstarzz @unknown11 @redemptioninthe4ethers @saberlight1 @roseidol @iimsopretty @auroralwriting @thottiepebbles16 @wannabestartinsmth @delicate-ray-of-sunshine @devynrulesboisdrool @loverstar014 @mjjsangel @uconnwbbloversworld1 @ghzfj @18lkpeters @devilslittlehelper @cherubae111 @pr3tt1d0llx @ursamajor17 @sarcasmismyfirstlove @bbpanth3rr @justalocalloser @brainacidsstuff @fayleyy @lovern-9 @jxngwons-pinkyy @veraberaxx @qultpur @thrill3rnights @arzua10 @michaelcomeback @coornballz @escapefromrealitylol @meowwnchild @oceansandwords @rorawrnoa-zoro @ooooglymoooogly @tellybearryyyy @softchaosdiary505 @yennabow @sparklyglove @khxna @bunzvii

if you’d like to be added to the tag list for all michael jackson fics, please click the following link and leave a comment under this highlighted post and not down below

[vrtlworld]

Sade in Germany (1986)

[angelssfics]

surprise! put a ring on it - michael jackson x reader

Pairing: Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Michael make an announcement at the 1995 Video Music Awards.

Warnings: None.

Content: Fluff, established relationship, age gap (like 12 years), PG13 intimacy, nsfw implied, no use of y/n, michael calls reader “baby”, “my girl” etc, HIStory era, 1995 VMAs Mike (hot), reader is fem and in my head ~filipina~. there’s notes that she is poc, but you can read however you want (this is totally not a self-insert fic… pfft why would i do that…)

AO3 🔗 <- read it on ao3!

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: my first mj fic WOOOOO i am so. in love with this man. i’m so serious this is not a laughing matter. this fic materialized in my head after i watched his vmas performance… my favorite era of his, i fear. his short fluffy curls GAAWWD hold me back. i miss him a lot. this is my first time posting on this blog! i’m usually on my other one. i do have some other ideas… michosis is not letting up soon so let me cook. comments, reblogs, and thoughts are mucho appreciated. thanks yall! ♡

Your hotel suite buzzes with activity as stylists, assistants, and various team members mill about the room, keeping a tight schedule as the evening’s music awards event draws near. You’re a plus one for the night, but hold an even greater role as Michael Jackson’s longtime girlfriend.

You fiddle with the ring resting on your left finger, staring blankly at the vanity placed in front of your chair. The ring’s weight still feels heavy; you’ve only just started wearing it daily this past week. You glance down at your hands, flexing your fingers. The large diamond fits perfectly, and you study it like you haven’t been staring at it so often that you’ve memorized every single reflective piece that bounces off the light.

One thing about your boyfriend: he has taste, and he knows exactly what you love.

Correction: not boyfriend. Fiancé.

A bead of sweat trickles down your back.

You swallow dryly and look back up at the mirror. Your makeup artist, Donna, has been rambling on about something you haven’t paid attention to. It takes you a second to hone in on the gentle undulation of her voice and catch onto what she’s saying.

“—And Marv, well, he’s doing better now, but the kids are getting crazier as they get older. You know what I mean?”

You blink slowly, take another second to settle in, and nod.

“Um, yeah, for sure, Donna.”

Donna gives you a knowing look before rolling her eyes and continuing to powder your face. You catch a playful glint in her expression as she eyes you in the mirror.

“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

You duck your head sheepishly and shrug. “Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah?” She asks, moving on to work on your eyes. “Like that big rock on your finger?”

Your eyes flit away and then back at Donna’s reflection. You smile, bashful, and nod.

Donna chuckles. “Congrats, honey. Don’t think I got a chance to say it before.”

You glance down. “Thank you. We… I mean Michael and I, we haven’t really said anything yet.”

“Everyone knows, sweetie,” Donna chides playfully. She swipes some product onto your lids. “We were all wondering when he’d finally ask.”

You chuckle. “I know, it’s kind of been a long time coming. We feel ready now. It’s just…”

You trail off again, feeling a pit grow in your stomach. You start to fiddle with the ring again.

Donna fills the silence. “The press still don’t know?”

The grimace on your face appears immediately. “No. There’s no better way for them to find out than tonight, I guess.”

Donna nods without reply, finishing her work on your eyes. She gestures at you to look up. You study the look: neutral colors with a touch of rose, the same shade as your blush. The color palette compliments your brown eyes and medium skin tone, just the way you like it. Donna added a gold line on top of your black eyeliner, a simple touch to elevate the look. You nod and smile at her.

Donna does the finishing touches as she speaks again. “So how are you two going to approach the big reveal?”

You sigh. “Well, we haven’t really discussed it. I think we both mutually agreed that we just wouldn’t say anything unless someone asks us directly. Michael has a ring too; he says he got it just because he liked it, but I know he wanted to join in the engagement somehow.”

Saying that out loud brings a small smile to your face. Michael was just sweet like that. He never wants you to feel alone in what you two do together. Donna smiles as you talk.

“That’s wonderful, honey. Well, I’m wishing you both godspeed tonight. Just hold onto each other, like you always do.”

Donna squeezes your shoulder. You reach over to touch her hand briefly and look up at her, smiling. She pats you and finishes your makeup off with your lips.

You get dressed after your hairdresser comes over to adjust the small kinks in your updo. Your dark hair is pinned up in a messy bun, styled to look effortless and clean. You glance at the closed door. Michael’s on the other side, and you have yet to see him since you both started getting ready. You let out a slow, deep breath as more of your team flutters around you like birds, fussing over every small thing they notice needs fixing. After a few minutes, your assistant Charlie motions at you to stand.

“I’ll help you get your shoes on,” She chirps.

You smile, grateful. “Thanks, Char.”

You hold onto the back of the chair you sat on while slipping your feet into the gold heels. Charlie clasps them securely. When she stands, she gives you a once-over with an admiring smile.

“Stunning as always, my love. Do you want to take a peek?”

“Sure.” You walk carefully over to the mirror, testing out the heels. Slightly uncomfortable, but not totally impossible to walk in. The shoes click along the floor as a path emerges amidst the milling crowd, guiding you towards the mirror. You take your place in front of it and can’t help a small gasp escaping your mouth.

A glittering, black dress hugs your figure perfectly as it cascades down into a short train. You turn left and right, sneaking a glance at the nearly backless frame, held together by a few straps that complement your body. You run your hands along your stomach to your hips, feeling the silky material. You glance up at your torso and face, seeing body glitter shine subtly in the light and illuminating the soft features in your face.

You continue to admire the final look as you hear soft whistles and cheers sound behind you. You look around and wave people off, smiling and feeling a slight blush heat your cheeks. You don’t notice the door open off to the side and the almost immediate hush that falls over the room.

You smile at your reflection and say to no one in particular, “I think this is one of my best looks.”

“Indeed, it is.”

You turn to the side and see Michael leaning against the door frame, arms and legs crossed. He has his aviators on already, covering nearly half his face, but it still draws attention to the small half smile spread across his mouth. You glance up and down at him. He dons his armor-like leg guards on his shins atop fitted black pants, covering his staple loafers. He wears a fitted black leather vest, also shining in the light, with the collar popped open at the neck. His curls are cut short in a fluffy, stylish manner. You have the sudden urge to run your hands through them.

Michael stands out, but in the best way possible. Even after all these years, he still takes your breath away. Your smile widens as you twirl in place.

“Like what you see?”

Michael pushes himself off the door frame and walks over to you. He covers his mouth and rubs his chin slightly, laughing.

“I do. You look incredible, baby.”

That elicits a small giggle from your lips. The world hones in on the two of you as you watch Michael approach. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his shirt as he draws near. You don’t notice Charlie shooing everyone out, whispering a small, “We’ll leave you two alone for a few,” before closing the door with a soft click.

Michael goes to stand behind you and slides his hands around your waist, enveloping you in a gentle caress. He stares at your reflection with round, soft eyes, tracking your every move. You hold his gaze and lean against him like second nature. You both begin to sway back and forth involuntarily, looking at each other in the mirror. Michael leans down to kiss your shoulder above the dress strap. He straightens and catches your eye as he flashes a shy smile.

“So beautiful.”

Your blush deepens. “You look very handsome yourself.”

Michael laughs, a deep rumbling against your back. “Thank you.”

He glances down at your hands and takes your left one, his fingers grazing the engagement band. You turn towards him, still keeping close, your other hand on his chest. You both look down at the ring.

“How do you feel about tonight?” Michael asks, gentle.

You release a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “Okay.” You rub Michael’s hand absentmindedly. His other one resting on your waist squeezes slightly. You avoid his gaze, fiddling with his jacket collar with your other hand.

“Just okay?”

Michael leans down to catch your eye, a knowing glint reflecting in his own. You chew your bottom lip and furrow your brows.

You sigh, shifting to reach both arms around Michael’s shoulders and pull him into a hug. You feel your heartbeat hammering in your chest as he pulls you close. His scent envelops your senses, calming you.

“No,” You mumble. “I’m nervous as hell.”

Michael laughs again, his embrace tightening slightly. “I am too, baby. But we’ll get through it together.”

You hum. “I know we will.”

You pull away and grab his left hand, running a finger on his own silver band and smiling. You bring your lips to it, keeping eye contact as you plant a kiss on top of his fingers and leave a lipstick stain behind. Michael’s grin stretches from ear to ear, a bashful blush tinging the top of his ears pink.

“Just don’t let go of my hand, my girl.”

You hit his chest playfully. “Never.”

Michael kisses the side of your head, careful to avoid your makeup, and slips his hand into yours as you both leave the room. He slides his aviators back on as Charlie appears next to you. She places your clutch in your hand and begins to rattle off instructions to the two of you. You nod absentmindedly as security leads you out into the hallway, to the elevator, and through the hotel lobby. As you approach the exit, you can already see the flashing lights from behind the window. Michael’s grip on your hand remains firm as you enter the frenzied crowd.

Cameras flash in your face, and the familiar chorus of excited voices and exclamations that always follow your fiancé rushes into your ears. You keep your head slightly down, focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Paparazzi and reporters call your name, Michael’s name, shoving notepads and audio recorders towards your faces. Your security team keeps a narrow path open for you to reach your car.

Michael moves behind you as you reach the open door. He helps you with your dress as you scoot inside, him following quickly behind. The door shuts immediately, drowning out most of the sound. You release a breath and find Michael’s arm again, slinking yours around it.

Michael reaches over to move a few loose strands framing your face to the side. He kisses your head again and looks down at you, adoration splashed all over his cheeks.

“Step one done,” He jokes.

You snort, which makes him laugh. “Yeah, out of a million.”

You both make idle chit chat as you drive to the event. Eventually you pull in and see an even bigger crowd of roaring fans, and numerous media outlets surround the award’s red carpet entrance. The car pulls to a stop and someone opens the door on Michael’s side. He squeezes your hand.

“Ready?”

You lean in to give him a small peck on the lips. His head follows yours as you pull back, Michael smiling softly as if wanting more. You shake your head, laughing.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Michael gets out of the car first, and the screams outside intensify. He holds his hand out to help you down. As you step fully out, you glance outward with a shy smile on your face before looking back at Michael. He takes your hand and mouths, “Hold on.” You nod as you both take off into the carpet.

You first pose to take pictures. Charlie materializes again to take your clutch from you, signaling that she’ll return it once you’re settled inside. You rejoin Michael as he poses for the cameras. His hand never leaves your waist as he guides you from one spot to the next. Near the end of the picture train, you raise your left hand to rest on Michael’s chest. You see him glance down at your peripheral, and you look up at him. He grins from ear to ear as he leans into your touch. You follow him, unable to keep your laughter in as you both lose your composure.

The frenzy behind the camera line rises to an uproar. You hear numerous exclamations of shock and joy from the crowd as Michael takes your hand again and leads you into the reporters’ section.

“Michael, is that a ring?”

“Hold up your hand, let’s see the rock!”

“Let’s see those smiles!”

You chuckle as you continue walking. A staff member speaks to Michael briefly before leading him towards the first reporter. You steel yourself and touch Michael’s arm. He leans down as you speak into his ear.

“How many reporters are we talking to today?”

Michael shakes his head. “I’m hoping only three.”

You know that’s probably wishful thinking as you station yourselves next to the first person. She’s a tall, beautiful woman sporting a big afro and wide smile. The camera crew adjusts themselves while she readies her cue cards. She looks at the two of you before rolling and greets you warmly.

“Hi, you two, welcome to the VMAs. I’m Shayla and we just have a few questions for y’all today, nothing major.”

Michael nods as you voice over a soft “okay,” and someone announces you’re live. You smile as the interviewer greets Michael first.

“Hello to the stunning couple here! Michael, could you tell us what you’re wearing?”

“Yes, well, these are custom, designed by my longtime stylists, Michael Bush and Dennis Tompkins. They’re wonderful, as you can see, and really tailor the elevated look I like.”

“Of course, you always look incredible. And you, my dear, this dress is gorgeous on you.”

You laugh. “Why, thank you. I’m wearing Versace head-to-toe.”

Shayla smiles. “Amazing. And…” She trails off, glancing down at your entwined hands. “I’m sorry, I have to ask! There’s also something shiny catching my eye on your finger. Is that what I think it is?”

You inhale deeply and flash a grin. You bring your hand up as if tucking back your hair and then rest it on your chest, breathing dramatically. “I do believe so.”

Michael covers his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he suppresses his laughter at your antics. You glance at him with mirth as Shayla lets out a not-so-subtle shriek into her microphone.

“Oh my god! Can I see the ring?”

You nod, laughing as you stick your hand out. She takes your fingers delicately, ogling the diamond before looking back at you.

“Okay, screw the cards! Congratulations! When did you propose? Did this just happen?”

You look at Michael, who nods shyly.

“Yes, this past weekend. I thought it was high time.”

He looks down at you, and you just nod back, giggling.

“So sweet,” Shayla muses. She looks at you. “And you’ve been together for a few years now, right?”

“Yes, almost four now. We’ve honestly been talking about it for a while now, but we finally bit the bullet. Actually, he finally proposed; I’ve just been waiting here.”

You point your thumb at him and roll your eyes playfully, earning a few chuckles from the camera crew and a light laugh from the interviewer. Someone from your staff signals that it’s time to move on and Shayla nods.

“Well, that’s amazing news, you two. Congratulations again and enjoy your night!”

You both give your thanks before moving along the carpet. Michael leans down to speak in your ear.

“That wasn’t too bad.”

You hit him lightly on the chest. “Don’t jinx it!”

He laughs as he leads you along. Michael stops a few times to greet the fans, mostly to avoid more interviewers. You say hi as well; most of them scream your name and unintelligible words above the noise. You just continue smiling and nodding before you’re whisked away to another interviewer close to the entrance of the awards building.

Almost there, you tell yourself. The interviewer Michael parks you next to is a middle-aged white man with a permanent smirk on his face. He looks up and down before flashing a grin. You smile politely before glancing up at Michael. You can’t see his eyes, but his jaw is set in a straight line, and you can see him gritting his teeth. His arm snakes around your waist as he pulls you in close. You don’t resist as the interview gets started.

“So, lovebirds, word travels down the carpet fast. You’re engaged? Congratulations.”

A mild tone of politeness oozes from the man’s voice. Michael nods curtly.

“Yes, thank you.”

“And you just happened to announce it first at tonight's awards show? Bold move.”

Michael answers again coolly. “Well, yes, we thought there wouldn’t be a better time.”

The man glances down at his cards and then looks up to address you. “You’ve known Michael for how many years now?”

Your polite smile feels stiff on your mouth as you reply. “About four.”

“Mm. And you’re how old again?”

You blink and tilt your head. Outrage flames in your chest, and you fight to stamp it down, praying any media training you’ve received kicks in at this moment.

“Now, sir, isn’t it improper to ask a woman of her age?” You bat your eyelashes and force your grin wider, hoping to exude witty charm rather than incredulous shock.

The man chuckles; it seems to have worked, for now. “It’s just, you seem so young. And no doubt you’ve read what folks have said about your… relationship.”

Your expression falters slightly. Oh yes—you’ve seen the headlines.

This Just In: Michael’s Hot New Fling (A Young One, At That)

Breaking News: Michael Likes Little Girls Now?!

Age Gap Love: In Fashion or Out of Style?

The content of those features is even worse. The media circus seems to know everything about you and Michael but the actual truth of your relationship. The stuff they say about you is vicious, hateful, and infantilizing, despite you being of age when you both first met. You knew what it would look like to the rest of the world, yet you underestimated just how nasty public scrutiny could get.

Michael has been through the worst, and you’ve been right by his side the whole time. You both felt less alone through everything, but it still hurt sometimes. Now, though, declaring your love and devotion proudly to the world and still being judged for it, you felt nothing other than simmering fury threatening to boil over.

But still, you forced yourself to remain calm. Tonight was Michael’s night, and yours. So you kept that smile plastered on your face and spoke through your teeth.

“Of course I’ve read everything. But I love Michael, and he loves me. We make each other happy. Now we’re engaged and can’t wait for married life together.”

You brought your hand to rest on his chest, and he grabbed it with his other, squeezing softly. He smiled down at you before frowning at the interviewer.

“I love her, and that’s all that matters.” He said firmly.

The interviewer cleared his throat and looked at his crew awkwardly. “Well then… one more question for you, Michael…”

He asked a standard question about Michael’s performance tonight, and before you knew it, you were led inside the venue. Michael greets other artists along the way to your seats in the front row. You see Janet and pull away from Michael for a moment to hug her and chat. She notices your ring and squeals in happiness, rushing to hug you once more and congratulating you.

“About time my damn brother proposes. Ahh, I’m so happy for y’all!”

“Thank you Janet, it really means a lot.”

The two of you hug again when Michael finds you. He also hugs his sister, chatting briefly before he takes your arm and guides you to your seats.

After you sit down, you slump against Michael with a groan.

“God, I thought that would never be over.”

He laughs in your ear, which sends warm tingles down your spine. Michael moves his arm to pull you against him. You nestle in closer as you let out a huff of breath. He rubs your arm up and down in a soothing motion.

“That last reporter was a dimwit. Are you okay?”

You shift to look at him. Michael’s face is inches from yours. You’re close enough that you can barely see his eyes behind his glasses, which flit all over your face, searching your expression. You give him a genuine smile, reaching over to smooth his hair back and caress the side of his face. Michael leans into your touch, breathing in deeply and giving your palm a soft kiss. You almost melt at the sight of him like this, so enamored and concerned with his beloved.

Again, the commotion around you in the auditorium disappears. Everything closes in, muffles in volume and out of focus. Your attention is locked in on the man beside you, like you’re the only two people in the world. He returns your smile and reaches over to squeeze your exposed thigh. Your breath hitches involuntarily, a blush rising in your cheeks.

You clear your throat as you reach to hold his hand. You clasp your fingers over his as you say, “I’m fine, baby. They don’t know anything about us.”

Michael nods, though his mouth remains downturned. “They really don’t. But still… They say awful stuff. The last thing I want in the world is for you to take those words to heart.”

You respond by squeezing his hand firmly. “Their words hurt sometimes. You know that; I’m only human. But Mikey, we’ve got something special. And your love gives me strength. I know who I am, and our love only gives me more courage to push through. I promise.”

Michael’s face lifts at your words. He looks down at your intertwined hands. His fingers rub tiny circles on yours as he hums.

“You help me be brave too, my girl.” Michael flashes you one of his brilliant grins, warm and blinding all at once. You can’t help but hum back in admiration and lean forward to kiss him softly.

He kisses you back, not fully leaning in, but lingering, not wanting to break apart from your embrace. You pull back slightly to give him a big smile. Michael just looks at you in wonder, drinking in your features as if you’re the only woman in the world. Everything around you suddenly rushes in again, blaring music from the speakers flooding your senses and calling your attention to the stage. You rest your hand on top of Michael’s, which never leaves your thigh the whole ceremony.

He leaves in the middle of the show to prepare for his performance, and when he steps out on stage, you already know that this would be one of his most iconic sets. The screams from the crowd and the fans on the balcony are deafening. You relish seeing him on stage, adored by everyone and looking so good. But what you love the most is how many times he searches for you in the crowd and looks in your direction. He even points a few times, cheeky and flirtatious, causing you to laugh every time.

The camera also keeps panning to you cheering and dancing in place. You don’t miss the glint of the diamond on your finger on the big screen and how Michael’s ring flashes in the stage lights. A subtle announcement, a proud declaration of your love.

Your chest swells with pure devotion. To the rest of the world, the man on stage is Michael Jackson, global superstar and legend. To you, he is the love of your life, the man you’ll spend the rest of your days with.

Michael finishes his performance with a bang and runs offstage. When he returns to your seat during commercial break, you stand up cheering for him with open arms. Michael sweeps you upward in a fierce hug and spins you in the air. You squeal, laughter escaping your body as the wind is nearly knocked out of you.

He sets you down and kisses you again, this time a little more deeply. You’re sure everyone around you is staring, but you could care less. He lingers a little longer before pulling back with a boyish grin.

“How’d I do, honey?”

“Flawless as always,” You reply, breathless. You return his expression with a bright smile and you take your seats as the show continues.

When Michael and Janet win their final award for the night, they take the stage and do their speeches. At this point, they make it short and sweet, but Michael adds a special touch to his words that shocks you with bliss.

“I won’t take too much time. Janet and I are very grateful for these awards, thank you MTV. Again, I want to thank God, my family, and especially my special lady in the front row.”

Michael points directly at you and your eyebrows raise in surprise. This is the first time Michael explicitly acknowledges you on stage all night. The camera pans to you as more screams erupt from the crowd. You blow a kiss with both hands and keep your hands on your chest. Your face hurts from how much you’re smiling, but you can’t stop.

Michael turns away in his shy manner, a soft smile on his face. Then he turns back to face you and keeps eye contact as he finishes speaking.

“You make me a better man. You’re the reason I do what I do. And I can’t wait to keep celebrating these moments with you for the rest of our lives.”

Michael blows a kiss back, his ring catching the light. Your eyes flood with tears threatening to spill, chest filling with emotion as he mouths “I love you” while walking offstage. The crowd erupts into a frenzy as the next announcers appear. They have to shout to be heard over the din. Although he didn’t say it outright, Michael might as well have told the whole world what you’ve both got coming next. And you couldn’t be happier.

Your head buzzes, feeling light and airy as Michael returns to his seat. Cheers follow him and don’t seem to settle as another commercial break returns. You turn to him as he sits down and shove him lightly.

“Real subtle, what you just did.” You tease.

Michael shrugs, biting his lower lip. You mirror him, fighting the sudden urge to pounce on him right then and there. God, you love him so much.

“What can I say baby, I just speak my truth.”

You lean to kiss his cheek and smooth his curls back. He follows your every move as you shake your head playfully.

“Well, I’m honored,” You chuckle. “I can’t wait for the rest of our lives to begin, too.”

Michael takes your hand and plants a soft, lingering kiss on the back of it. You giggle and lean into him again as the ceremony reaches its finish.

At the end of the night, you both decide to go back to your hotel instead of the afterparty. The media is a full on circus in the pick up area. Reporters from every angle yell to dish out more information about your engagement, Michael’s proposal, and when you’re getting married. The door shuts behind Michael and the car peels away, leaving the din behind as you both retreat into your own private little world for the rest of the night.

The next morning, you flip a newspaper idly as the news plays on the TV in the background. Your feet are on Michael’s lap, him running his fingers absentmindedly on your skin as he eats breakfast.

Unsurprisingly, the two of you are splashed all over the front page. The King of Pop Engaged!

“Aw look, honey, this is actually a decent press photo of us.”

You turn the newspaper towards Michael. He leans in to take a peek. You’re both looking to the side in a candid way, Michael throwing a peace sign while your hand is on your chest, smiling brilliantly in the same direction. The photo catches the ring in the perfect angle, its glint shining perfectly on paper.

“You look gorgeous, baby,” He muses, and glances playfully at you. “If I’m not mistaken, that hand placement is suspiciously placed. Almost like you planned it for the photo op.”

You snort, putting down the paper and looking at your hand in admiration. “Well, strategic maneuver or not, I just love showing this off.”

“I know you do.” Michael grabs your outstretched hand and pulls you up to stand. You give him an amused look before bursting into giggles as he twirls you in place. He sways you back and forth, your chest flush against his torso as you dance to the TV noise.

You look up at him, smiling. He returns your gaze, warm brown eyes melting into you. You turn your head to rest against his body. You hear his heartbeat, strong and steady, thrum in your ears.

“I really can’t wait to marry you,” He whispers. His voice rumbles in his chest and you look back up at him. He looks at you like it’s the first time he’s seen you—smitten and hopelessly in love. Like every time he looks at you, he sees an angel come down to earth who will change his life forever.

You laugh, bright and airy. It fills the space and lights up Michael’s expression even more. He looks lovesick, like he’s seeing the face of God. Like the only thing he wants is you.

“I can’t wait to marry you and become Mrs. Jackson.” You reply, flirty and sensual all at once.

Michael groans, helpless, and smiles as he leans down to kiss you, pulling you in as close as possible. You wrap your arms around his neck as you stand on your toes to meet him. Michael kisses you deep and slow, like he’s memorizing every part of your body with every touch. His hands grip your waist, roam underneath your shirt to graze your skin. His touch is gentle, feathery light, but feels like fire. You gasp, breathless, pulling back slightly.

At your sounds, Michael emits a deeper groan, chasing your mouth as his grip on you tightens. He swallows your gasp in another deep kiss, swollen lips enveloping you in a desperate fervor. Michael breaks apart to bend down and lift you bridal style in one sweep. You yelp, laughing as he picks you up. He kisses you sweetly as he walks towards the bedroom.

You hum into his mouth. “Mikey, we haven’t finished breakfast yet.”

“We can finish it later,” He murmurs, continuing to kiss you as he leads you to the bed.

He lays you down gently onto the covers and hovers over you, basking in your face and body below. His eyes search you, full of wonder and adoration and complete devotion.

“I love you so much, my girl.”

You gaze up at him, this beautiful man with dark curls and gentle eyes, with an even gentler soul. Your heart swells until it threatens to burst.

“I love you more, Mikey.”

Michael grins, teasing.

“I love you most.”

[satorusdreamer]

Count rice, bitch!

Sypnosis: After a horrible night of going out, your friend leaves you stranded at the club. Going home, you encounter a certain white-haired man. When he gets too close and grins with those too-sharp teeth, you do the only logical thing your drunken mind can think of: throw a bag of rice at him.

Pairing: Vampire!Gojo x Human!reader

Tags/Content Warnings: MDNI/18+ only, SMUT SMUT SMUT!!! Porn with plot, a bit of fear play (c'mon, Satoru is a vampire, y'all have seen the way he was playing with those curses), compulsion (only to run away), usage of folklore, reader is lowk a dumb bitch (not bimbo like, just drunk), blood-drinking, dub-con (reader consenting to be bitten while drunk), oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V sex, classic 'it doesn't fit' trope, SIZE KINK SIZE KINK SIZE KINK, belly bulging, dacryphilia, permission to cum inside (hehe)

Word Count: 6.7k

A/N: Not proofread since I have a migraine, but I wanted to drop this before going to bed. Special thanks to @cactusvolumes for helping out <3 Dividers by @/pixopix & @/strangergraphic, art by @/somedeimi on x.

You’re stumbling out of the club, absolutely wasted. The world spins around you, pavement dipping to the side, despite it being flat. Your ankle rolls once, making you almost crash into a pole.

A laugh bubbles out of your throat before you can stop it. It vibrates on your tongue, just like the bass vibrated your bones while inside the club.

Why are you laughing again?

You fumble through your purse for your phone, trying to text your friend that' you’re outside. Fingers touching different things in your purse—a lipgloss, a loose tampon, your hairbrush, a bag that crinkles when the pads of your fingers skim over it, and finally your phone, the glass smooth against your fingertips.

Then the thought slams into you, unwelcome and sharp. ‘Naoya and I are dating now,’ your friend had whispered shouted in your ear while you were on the dancefloor with her. Your entire body locking up, hips freezing in place.

Right. That’s why you drank more than you should’ve. Your friend casually admitting she’s dating your piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend.

You lean your forehead against the cold metal of the pole. Another laugh slips out. This time dry and hollow. There’s nothing funny about any of this. The entire situation is fucked up.

She left the club not soon after she admitted to you about dating your ex, not satisfied with your reaction to her ‘news’. What a fucking bitch. You close your eyes, still leaning against the pole, and everything spins, as if you’re laundry in a dryer.

Opening your eyes you push off the pole. Taking three steps, you stumble again. Stupid fucking heels. With an annoyed grunt you crouch down to yank them off, only to promptly fall onto your ass. Huffing through your nose you sit down so you can better access your heels.

Eventually you wrangle the heels off. Standing again you brush down the back of your dress with one hand while the other dangles your shoes from your fingers.

This time you start walking home—still stumbling around, but no longer rolling your ankles with it.

The Tokyo streets glow with sodium lamps and neon signs that are blinking overhead. The streets are mostly empty, aside from a few stragglers and drunks passed out along the sidewalk.

It isn’t until ten minutes into your walk that you feel it—eyes. You glance around, confused. There’s no one you can see, just a small cat on the other side of the street that isn’t even watching you, finding more interest in it’s own paw. Shrugging you keep walking.

Five minutes later you cut into a narrow alley. A shortcut home you normally take after a night out with the girls, granted they are with you—safety in numbers or something. Your drunken mind isn’t really concerned with that right now, though. Your feet are cold, small stones digging into your toes where you’re walking, and you’re lucky you haven’t encountered something sharp yet.

A little bit further into the dark alley you feel it again, that heavy sense of being watched. Whipping your head around you see someone stand at the end of the alleyway. The person’s silhouette completely black, except for the stark white hair that’s illuminated by the streetlight from above. The second thing you note is how tall they are. And the third thing you notice is the eyes—they’re glowing. Piercing blue looking over at you.

He’s just… staring at you. But when he sees you looking at him, he takes a step towards you. Then another. And another. You back up, pointing a finger at him.

“Stay there!” you bark out, finger trembling slightly. “Stay,” you repeat, firmer. The man halts, one pale eyebrow lifting in amusement.

“That’s right. Good boy.” If you were sober, you’d cringe at calling a stranger good boy, but right now all you can think of is that you’re drunk, barefoot, in an alley, and this guy is, what—seven feet tall?

His face becomes clearer now, a bit of moonlight illuminating some of the planes of his face. His skin is porcelain-like, eyes like a kaleidoscope of every blue imaginable, and a smirk is on his face, clearly enjoying this entire interaction.

Right, you’re staring. You clear your throat. “I-I’m going now. You just… stay there.”

He only crosses his arms and leans against the wall, still watching. You slowly nod your head, taking a small step back. Okay, good, he’s staying right where he is. Where you told him to stay. Turning around you nearly scream bloody murder.

He’s right there.

A gasp slips from your lips, mouth dropping open while your eyes bug out of your skull. Did the alcohol in your system fuck you up so bad you somehow turned around slow enough for him to walk in front of you without you noticing it?

You crane your neck up to look at him, stumbling back slightly with the change of your head, before you steady yourself again. He’s smiling down at you, and it’s a nice smile, honestly. It would’ve been charming, if not for the fangs. They’re long, sharp, and very obvious.

Alarm bells blare in your head, muffled slightly by the badum badum badum of your heart in your ears. Impossibly blue eyes, inhuman speed, and now fangs.

“Vampire,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

The stranger’s smile widens. “Ding, ding, ding, sweetheart.”

You swallow hard, of course this would happen to you today out of all days, after being told your friend is fucking your ex and leaving you stranded, alone, in the club.

Your hand slips into your bag, fingers fumbling, digging, trying to search for the bag you had touched earlier that night. But the more you keep fumbling, the harder your heart is starting to beat. Did you make up the fact that you had the bag with you? He notices the motion, of course he does.

“Oh? Gonna pepper spray me? Call a friend?” there’s clear amusement in his voice, “Newsflash, sweetheart, I’m way too fast for that.”

Your fingers keep searching. Come on, come on, come on— There. The pads of your fingers skim over the plastic bag, and it crinkles under the motion. Bingo.

Your heart slams against your ribcage. God, please let that dumb folklore be right. You grab the bag an dump it onto the ground, a soft thud sounds through the alley as thousands of rice grains scatter across the tiles.

The vampire’s head snaps down. He stares for a few seconds, blinks, then crouches. He mutters something under his breath and begins to count, fast—really fucking fast.

You stare at this seven-foot, hulking creature for a few more seconds. Then you take one step back, and another, and another. Then you run, feet pounding against the floor down the alley.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, just hoping he isn’t fast enough to count all of that within seconds. Big mistake. He’s still counting, luckily. But… he looks kind of cute doing it, nevermind the part where he’s a seven-foot vampire.

You slow down, feet coming to a halt, before you turn back and walk up just enough to grab your phone from where it fell onto the ground.

Click.

He doesn’t look up, but the twitch of his fingers tell you he heard it. “Cute.”

Gojo has never seen something like this before. He didn’t expect to be pelted with grains of rice by a cute drunk girl he’d set his sights on the moment she stumbled out of the club. Worse, he has the compelling urge to count them all. He isn’t sure why, all he knows is that he has to count them.

It’s something he’ll look into when he gets home.

It was a smart move on your part, clearly having read some sort of vampire lore before—unless you throw rice at every creep you encounter. However you came back, feet still bare, one of your heels lay abandoned further down the alleyway.

Then you whispered something about how cute he was, as if he isn’t a whole seven feet of vampire.

Now? Now you’re sitting across from him, feet still bare and dirty with grime and small pebbles stuck to your toes—how you haven’t noticed is beyond him—heel danling from your fingers, and your dress is riding up your thighs.

You’re mumbling incoherently about your ex and your friend, not that he’s paying attention to it, all his focus is on the stupid grains of rice.

He isn’t sure why you aren’t running. You know he’s a vampire, having seen his speed, his fangs, his eyes—hell, you even whispered it, vampire. Yet you’re still sitting here, in front of him, as if you’re keeping him company.

He knows you’re drunk, he can smell it on your breath, and if that wasn’t the dead giveaway then the stumbling and walking back to a fucking vampire would be. No one would do that shit when they’re sober.

You’re recounting a story about your ex now, gesturing wildly into the cool night-air. He’s had to restart his count a total of three times already because you keep distracting him. The first time you accidentally kicked the pile when you went to sit down, apologising to him for fucking it up.

The second time you ‘accidentally’ smacked his arm when telling him something. You’d said it was accidental because you were gesturing, but he thinks it’s because he wasn’t paying attention to your story.

He can only hope that the third time just works out for him, because he really wants to sink his fangs into your glistening skin—apart from the sweat you’d certainly built up in the club there’s something else to it, maybe a shimmer you’d applied before leaving for the club earlier today.

He only has a few hundred grains of rice left when your phone rings. And just like anything else tonight, you pick it up without any hesitation.

Gojo can hear a man on the other side of the line, saying something snarky. He isn’t tuned into the conversation, but his ears could hear everything if he wanted to, but he’s still counting, and he’d rather focus on that and finally feed himself than listen to whatever is being said by you or the man.

3124 3125 3126 3127… He’s about to count the last grain of rice when you suddenly flip the phone to him, screen illuminating his skin in a mix of blue and green. 3159 grains of rice, all counted.

He finally looks up and sees a guy filling your screen. Faux blond hair with green roots, brown eyes, and a smirk on his face that quickly morphs into something else. Then you turn your phone back to yourself, slurring out a, “See, ‘m with someone. Now leave m’ alone, asshole.”

Gojo hears the call disconnect, sees the way your screen goes dark. The only light illuminating your skin now is the pale moonlight. Then you take a deep breath and promptly fling yourself backward onto the ground.

“See what I have to deal with?” your eyes find his, a small pout formed on your face while your brows furrow. Gojo doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with those piercing blue eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat. “I’m gonna give you a twenty-second head start, sweetheart. If I were you I’d take it.”

Your brows furrow in confusion this time, nose crinkling slightly. God, you really forgot, didn’t you?

He heaves a sigh and opens his mouth just enough to show his fangs. They glint in the moonlight, showing of just how sharp they are. You squint your eyes a bit, then they open wide again.

“Vampire,” you whisper again, voice fully trembling. But then you groan, it rumbles through your chest a bit, and kick your feet a little. “I don’ wanna runnnn.”

Gojo has to close his eyes for a second and take a deep breath. He likes the chase that comes from when people are afraid of him. Likes it even more when his prey think they can outrun him. They can’t, but he sure does like having them believe they can. Blood always tastes sweeter when there’s a hint of fear involved, after all.

He opens his eyes again and looks straight at you. Then he leans in a little, breath just shy of ghosting the shell of your ear.

“Run,” he whispers, voice sticky sweet as honey. He can see the way your eyes gloss over a bit. Then you’re scrambling upward, and dart out of the alley—your other heel clattering to the ground.

Gojo, true to his word, waits a full twenty seconds. Then he’s in front of you again, making you yelp and dash away again, stumbling over your own feet a little, crashing into the wall, scraping your hand on the rough stones.

The cat and mouse game continues for what he thinks is a full ten minutes. He can hear your heart pounding, blood rushing through your body, and your whispers of ‘Please don’t kill me, I’m way too hot’ and ‘I should’ve stayed home’ and ‘He is kinda cute, though.’

He ignores that last one.

It isn’t until you stumble up the steps of a house where he catches you. His broad chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers dipping into your sides,, while the other is planted next to your head on the door.

“Gotcha,” he whispers into your hair. You’re trembling in his grip, knees almost buckling out form under you. You’re pressed flat against the front door of your house.

You were so close, all you had to do was open it and you would’ve been fine.

You can feel the way his pecs are squished against your back. He’s hunched over you, entire frame leaning down so he can nose against your hair. His muscles are bulging out of his shirt, making you press your thighs together.

It’s a weird mixture of fear and arousal that’s shooting through you. You know he’s a vampire, know he can kill you in an instant—and maybe he will drain you of all your blood—but he’s also so tall. His entire hand splayed out over your tummy now.

He chuckles when he notices the way you’re pressing your thighs together. His cold breath fanning over your skin, almost like a night breeze caressing your face. “You gonna let me in, sweets?”

You know you shouldn’t. Know you should try to get out of his cold, undead grip as fast as you can. The door is right there, one step and you’d be free of him. One big step, you’d just have to get out of his grasp. Sure he has bulging muscles and probably inhuman strength, but you can twist your way out of this, can’t you? Just do a little shimmy and free yourself.

The big hand that’s on your stomach can’t possibly keep you right there, pressed against him, can it? Nevermind the fact that he has such thick forearms and biceps and triceps even Greek Gods would be jealous of.

Turning a bit to the left, you try to see if you have any wiggle room, only for him to chuckle once more. His fingers dig into your flesh a bit harder now, indenting the skin where he touches you. Welp, there goes your plan, straight out the window.

“Promise not to kill me?” You don’t dare to look at him, afraid his eyes will put you under a spell yet again. You know you should’ve ran the first time he told you to, but you were too out of your mind to fully grasp the situation. “Mhmm, just want some of your blood.”

That seems… reasonable enough. You fumble with your keys slightly, still trembling in your grip, the keys and keychains clinking against each other. It’s the only sound in the entire street, everyone else already being in bed—which is no surprise, considering you left the club at… three or something like that.

When you finally slot your keys into the hole, you twist it open, pushing the door open to your dark hallway.

You’re about to set a foot into your house when the guy tugs you back against his chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Right, he’s a vampire and not just some random hookup you dragged home. A very handsome vampire, though. If you’re going out, at least it’s by a hottie. Oh fuck, he really can just kill you. I mean, he just said he wouldn’t, but he can lie about it. Then again, he could’ve killed you ten times over already.

“What’s your name?” That seems to catch him off-guard. Blinking a few times, those baby blues looking you over in wonder a few times, and you can’t help but melt into him a bit—only for you to stand up straight again when you feel how fucking cold he is.

“Satoru,” is all he mumbles out, fangs poking out slightly. He really is cute for a terrifying creature.

Nodding your head you nudge the door open even further, extending your hand into your house with a flourish. “Come in, Satoru.”

The next second you’re picked up before he all but throws you onto your couch, your body bouncing a bit before he’s on you. A yelp leaves your lips, heart pounding out of your ribs, fingers shaking slightly, breaths heavy.

Right, he is a vampire with inhuman speed and strength. Your pupils dilate a bit, hairs standing on edge when he grins down at you with those too-sharp canines. His eyes almost seem to glow in this moment, face shadowed completely.

You’re frozen in place, reality settling in like someone poured a cold cup of water over your head to sober you up.

You just invited a vampire into your house. To drink your blood. Way to fucking go.

“Ready, sweets?” He murmurs down at you, picking up your hand where it lies limp beside you on the couch, pulse hammering in your ears. He brings your fingers up to his mouth, before wrapping his lips around the bloodied appendages, tongue laving over the wounds there. You’d honestly forgotten you even had them—too busy running away from him to notice just how scratched up your clammy palms were.

His saliva stings your skin, making you pull away, only for him to hold your wrist in place. He licks a broad stripe from your palms up to your fingers, leaving behind a red trail—blood and saliva mixed together.

When you don’t answer he grins a bit wider, lips slightly red by your blood. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

With that he surges forward, one strong arm wrapping around your waist to keep you from squirming while the other quickly brushes away the hairs that are falling over your shoulder. His fangs puncture your skin just above your collarbone, and it feels like your nerves are on fire.

Your mouth opens in a scream, only to have it clamped shut by a big palm. Tears spring to your eyes, fat drops falling down the apples of your cheeks before they drip from your jawline onto the couch below.

You can feel the way your blood is leaving you. Satoru is sucking on the wound hard enough to make your eyes roll to the back of your skull—not in pleasure, but in pain. Pure agony running through your veins now.

From all the vampire lore, you whished the aphrodisiac bite was at least true. But instead of pleasure surging through you, it’s pain. Pure pain. You can feel the way your body jerks from the sensation, but Satoru just tightens his hold onto you, pushing you further into the couch.

The last thing you see before the dark takes ahold of you is the blue glow emitting from his eyes, casting the two of you in a soft, blue glare, making his pale hair stand out against the darkness of the room.

You wake up surrounded by softness. Blinking a few times you register just where you are—your own bed. Your pillow is soft and fluffy under your head, and your blanket is keeping you warm. Your head is absolutely pounding, a dull thud behind your eyes making you groan.

Just how much did you have to drink last night?

Thinking back on the night before, you can remember bits and pieces. You went out with your friend to celebrate… something, only for her to leave you alone at the club later that night.

Why did she leave you alone again?

Racking your brain, you try to fill in the gaps as good as you can. You remember drinking and dancing. Hips moving to the beat—well you tried to, but you probably were off-beat if you’re going to be honest—while your friend was laughing with you.

Then she leaned forward with a smile on her face and murmured something in your ear. What the fuck did she say that she had to leave?

You furrow your brows, closing your eyes once more. Right, right, it’s coming all back to you now. She told you she was dating Naoya out of all people. Even after you’d told her every minute detail about that scumbag, she still chose to be with him, destroying your trust in the process.

Fucking bitch. And then she just up and left you there to get home by yourself.

Okay, now you know why your head is pounding—having drank waayyy too much alcohol to at least have a good night by yourself. But how did you get home?

You pat around your bed to search for your phone, twisting your neck to look to your left side, only for a hiss to leave your lips when you feel just how much your neck hurts. Your hand shoots to the spot, only to find gauze under your fingertips.

Gauze? Why is there gauze on your neck out of all places.

You rub your head with your other hand, only to feel small scabs on your fingertips. Opening your eyes you look at your hand, only to see it being scabbed over at some places.

Right, you scratched your hand on the wall when running away from that cute vampire. …Wait, what??

Sitting up you look around your room, to hopefully see said vampire, but he’s nowhere to be found. A laugh bubbles up in your chest and leaves your lips. A vampire, how stupid is that. Your drunken mind probably made all of that up.

Seeing a weird silhouette in an alleyway sure is scary, so you just began to run back home. Yeah, yeah that must be it. Your drunken mind having conjured up a whole story about a guy that doesn’t exist. Vampires aren’t real; they’re just myths made up to scare children.

So why is there gauze on your collarbone?

Your head is pounding all the same, these silly questions surely can wait until after you had some water, or coffee.

Standing up you’re about to walk downstairs when you hear someone… humming? Your shoulders immediately tense up, feet planting themselves in their place. Why is there someone in your house?

Grabbing the nearest object—a vase with fake flowers, because nowadays it’s too much to ask guys to get you some flowers—you tiptoe down the stairs, careful to not make a sound. It’s one thing if there’s someone in your house, it’s another when they know you’re there.

On the last step you hear someone call out to you. “Oh, you’re awake. That’s good!”

You nearly drop the vase in shock, fingers slipping slightly, before you tighten your grip again. Your heart hammering out of your chest, goosebumps littering your skin, and before you can even do anything, a tall, white-haired man walks into view.

And suddenly everything from last night slams back into you. No, your mind hadn’t simply made up Satoru, it’s real. The gauze on your throat a bitter reminder that there are, in fact, vampires roaming the earth.

“What the fuck are you still doing in my house?” you ask him, setting the vase down onto your kitchen counter before walking up to him. You poke your finger against his arm, testing to see if he really is real, or if you might still be drunk. “You’re real, right?”

Gojo just chuckles at you, his fangs poking through his lips at your question. His fingers wrap themselves around your wrist—ice cold to the touch, making you tremble slightly from just how cold they are—stopping you from poking him any further.

“Duh, you can’t make up a face this pretty.” He gestures to his face with a small pout on his face. Okay, conceited much. You scrunch your nose up at that, looking him dead in the eye—the same eyes that glowed last night while he was feasting on you - is that the correct term? You’re not sure, but you don’t really care, either.

“As for your question, I stayed because I might’ve drained you a bit too much. The alcohol in your system made your blood thinner, so I had a harder time gauging just how much I drank. So I stayed to be certain you wouldn’t pass awa— anyway. Alcohol makes your blood taste bitter, by the way, Certainly didn’t help you weren’t as afraid as I wanted you to be,” he mumbles that last part under his breath.

“Not as afraid as you wanted me to be? I thought my heart was gonna crawl out of my mouth— can you let go of me? You’re cold as fuck,” you try to tug your wrist out of his grasp, only for him to tighten it just slightly, slender fingers enclosing around your wrist.

Grinning he leans down slightly, back hunched just slightly as he looks you in the eye. “Why? You didn’t seem to mind me touching you last night.”

You inhale sharply, the memory of him pressed against your back flooding your mind. His strong chest pressed against your back while his hand was splayed out over your tummy making you all hot and bothered— no, you can’t think like this, fucking stop it.

“Yeah, well, that was just me being drunk,” you mumble out.

He takes a step forward, and another, while you walk backwards, until your back hits the wall. The wall scratching your back slightly, straightening your spine. His hand plants itself next to your head, leaning forward until his nose is almost brushing yours. “You sure that’s all it was? I’m hurt, sweets. You’re saying you don’t find me cute anymore?”

Gulping you press your thighs together, your panties damp under your sleeping shorts, core hot and achy. There’s no denying he’s hot—not quite cute as you called him last night—but should you really do this? He’s a vampire, hot, sure, but still a bloodsucking creature. His grin widens when his eyes flick down to your thighs.

You know you shouldn’t do this. It’s irresponsible, downright stupid, but you can’t deny to yourself that he’s making you horny by just existing.

And suddenly a thought enters your mind, like someone whispered in your ear. Your friend—now ex-friend—is dating your ex. It makes your stomach flip a few times, trying to make sense of the situation you’re in right now.

Fuck it.

Your hands find his pecs that are flexed with the way he’s standing, fabric doing little to hide them. Your finger trails down to his abdomen where you can feel the clearly built muscles. You bat your lashes at him, tilting your head just slightly. “And what if I said I thought you were hot?”

“Then I’d ask to have another taste— a different taste this time,” he murmurs down at you. That’s all you needed, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him down to meet you. Lips crashing against each other in a messy battle of teeth and tongue.

He groans into your mouth, carefully nipping at your lower lip, puncturing it slightly. He sucks on the little droplets of blood before he claims your mouth once more. Copper filling your taste buds, making you moan out slightly.

Then he suddenly picks you up, hands under your thighs while yours find purchase at his broad shoulders, clutching onto them, nails digging into his skin just slightly. He chuckles against your mouth, “I’m not going to drop you.”

And true to his word, he doesn’t drop you, but he does bring you upstairs at speeds you’ve never dreamed of having. He carefully lays you down onto the bed, matrass groaning under both your weight just slightly.

His lips disconnect from yours, and he has to keep himself from groaning out at the sight of your bloodied, kiss-bitten lips. All swollen for him. Gojo peppers featherlight kisses down your throat, until they find the gauze just above your collarbone.

Yelping you look down at him. He’s grinning up at you, blue eyes crinkling slightly while he carefully places another kiss onto the gauze. “That hurts, dickhead.”

“Hmmm, just showing my little blood bag some appreciation,” he purrs before his lips trail further down, all the way until he’s seated onto the floor, cold breath ghosting on your thighs, leaving behind slight goosebumps. “I’m not your personal blood bag.”

He just winks up at you before pressing a kiss to the fat of your thigh. Then one a little higher, another one to the apex of your thigh, and one on your hipbone. You’re squirming out at the feeling of his lips—cold to the touch, but oh so careful.

His fingers hook around your pajama shorts, looking up at you for permission. When you nod he pulls them off you, leaving you in your panties. His pupils dilate when they see the wet spot, “You’re soaked. All this for me?”

Rolling your eyes you look down at him, leaning on your elbows. “How about you touch me instead of being such a conc— oh fuck,” your head lolls back onto your shoulderblades, eyes fluttering shut slightly. His thumb presses onto your clit.

“What was that, sweetheart?” he chuckles when you moan out at the pressure he applies through your panties, thumb circling your twitchy clit. “That’s what I thought.”

He leans down to lick a broad stripe over your panties, moaning out at the taste of you—so sweet, and oh, how he wishes you weren’t drunk last night so he could’ve had a taste of this pussy earlier—lips wrapping around your nub and sucking on it slightly.

“Shit. Fuck— Satoru, right there,” your hand finds his head, fingers threading through his silky locks, pulling on them slightly when he sucks even harder, cheeks hollowing out. Pleasure shoots right through your core, thighs threatening to snap shut. Something that doesn’t go unnoticed by the white-haired man under you, big palms clasping your thighs and keeping them spread riiight open for him. “Just get those panties out of the way already!”

He releases his lips with a pop, making you sigh out. Grinning up at you, one of his fingers comes up to your swollen folds, rubbing them slightly—still with that damn fabric in the way.

“Someone’s eager. You want me to get rid of these cute panties?” He tilts his head slightly before his fingers creep further upwards,, until they hook into them, making you think he’s finally going to get them off you. Instead he pulls the fabric upward, stretching it over your poor twitchy cunt, “But they look so good on you— yeahhh look at that.”

His eyes are zeroed in on where the fabric disappears between your pussy lips slightly, stretching the fabric even further until you’re pushing at his head, whining out.

“Please, please just get them off,” you whine out, tears gathering in your eyes from the way he’s just playing with you, taking his sweet time while your hole is pulsing around nothing. He chuckles once more before letting the fabric snap! against your skin, having you gasp out.

“Guess I should give this pretty pussy what she deserves, huh?” He gives a few taps to your clit, thighs twitching with each pass of his fingers, before he finally hooks a finger around the gusset and pulls it aside, revealing your cunt to the open air.

Without any preamble he dives in, tongue flat against your twitchy clit. Your back immediately arches with the swipe of his tongue—this time without any fabric between the muscle and your aching clit.

One of his slender, cold fingers plunges itself into your soppy hole. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging on it slightly, moaning out at the intrusion. “Fuck— right there.”

He thrusts his finger in and out of you before adding another one. The cold touch such a stark contrast to your hot, needy core it has you keen out. Your legs are trembling in his hold, one of them still spread open by his other hand, while your own creeps down to hold your other leg open for him.

“Such a good girl,” he mumbles out against your core, pleasure shooting through you. He curls those long digits inside of you, trying to find that one spot inside of you while he very lightly nips on your clit, your walls clamping down on his digits. His fingers keep thrusting and curling inside of you, finding finding findi— you loudly moan into the air, head thrown back. Found it.

“F-fuck, Satoru, keep them there ‘m so close,” you sob out, thighs tensing up slightly while he continuously hits your g-spot with perfect precision. Your orgasm crashes over you, tiny fireworks exploding in your tummy. “Cumming— cumming.”

He stays down there, lapping up the slick that’s gushing out of you. Cold tongue dipping into your hole alongside his fingers, opening you up even further for him.

You go limp in his hold a minute later, and he finally detaches himself from your mound—lips shiny with spit and your arousal. Then he pulls his fingers from your hole, stringy juices webbing between his fingers when he spreads them, looking at them in wonder, before putting them in his mouth and moaning out at the sweet, sweet taste that’s you.

“Think you’re ready for me, baby?” He stands up already unbuckling his belt, and you have to swallow once you see his bulge. Fuck. He’s ginormous. You shouldn’t be surprised, this guy is seven-feet tall, everything about him is enormous compared to you, but still you can’t help the way your eyes are almost bulging out of your skull.

He pulls out his cock—angry, red tip swollen and glistening with pre—and wraps his fist around it, giving it a few tugs.

“That’s not gonna fit inside of me,” you blurt out, eyes transfixed on where his hand is still wrapped around his dick. He smirks at that, of course he does. He’s probably heard it a million times before, but of course you had to say it.

He leans forward, tip nudging your clit, coating himself in your arousal. “Relax, it’s gonna fit.”

Gulping you lay back slightly, opening your legs even further to accommodate him. He smiles at that, one hand clamping around your waist while the other guides his member towards your entrance. Taking a deep breath in, he pushes inside your fluttering walls.

A high-pitched moan leaves your lips, sweat breaking on your skin. The stretch is unbelievable—your walls fluttering uselessly around him, and this was just the tip. He hisses at the feeling of your walls clamping down on him—yes, actually hisses, fangs on full display. “Fuck, loosen up baby.”

His fingers come down to your sensitive clit, rubbing on it to keep you distracted from the intrusion—not that it helps. He pushes another inch inside of you, and tears are starting to spill down from your eyes, disappearing into your hairline.

Gojo looks at you, blue eyes almost completely black now. He can feel the way his dick twitches when he sees your tears. Leaning forward he balances on one forearm, tongue lapping up your tears, groaning at the salty taste of your tears.

“You’re too big,” you squeal, hand uselessly pushing against his abdomen. He merely presses a kiss to your cheek, then to the corner of your mouth, and finally his lips claim yours, tongue tracing the seam of your sealed lips.

He stays still like that for a little while, letting you get used to the way he’s stretching you out. When he feels you loosen up slightly he pulls his hips back until just his tip remains and pushes back in again, a bit further this time.

You moan out into his mouth, legs wrapping themselves around his waist, and your hands entangle themselves in his hair. “That’s it, knew you could do it.”

With a few more thrusts he finally bottoms out, his hips meeting yours. Tears are flowing free down your face and he has to resist the urge to just bite you with how cute you looked. Fuck, what he wouldn’t do to get a taste of you again—your blood surely much sweeter now.

He looks down, only to grin. Would you look at that. “Look down, sweetheart. See how well you’re taking me?” he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and angles your head down. Blinking a few times you look down and—oh! The print of his cock fully visible, bulging your tummy where he’s buried.

“You’re so deep,” you mumble out, slight awe in your voice, only for a broken moan to leave your lips seconds later. Gojo pulls out and thrusts back in, tip smooching your cervix. Again. And again. And again.

A creamy ring starting to circle around his base, balls slapping against your ass with each harsh thrust. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, leaving behind crescent shaped marks. You’re sobbing out into his neck, vision blurring slightly.

“Mhmm, I know.” He presses down onto your stomach where he can feel his own cock through your womb, and it has you keen out even more. Moans and groans and the lewd plap plap plap! of his hips fill the room.

Your legs begin to tremble, cock plummeting in and out of your soppy hole, the squelch it makes has your face heat up, a pretty blush forming on your face as you feel yourself near your second orgasm. After a few more thrusts, you come around him, clear liquid gushing out of you, spraying onto his abdomen, thighs and the sheets below you. Your vision whites out completely while your back arches, mouth forming an ‘o’ that you can’t seem to close.

Satoru hisses when he feels your walls clamp down onto his girth, speeding up his thrusts slightly. “Fuck, lemme cum inside, please.”

Your mind doesn’t register his request at first, too busy trembling around him. It’s only when he starts whining that you take note of his request. “Yes, yes ‘toru. ‘S okay.”

“Shit- need you to say it. Say it out loud for me, pretty,” he pleads with you, his own thighs tensing up slightly. “Y-you can cum inside, S’toru.”

That’s all it takes. He thrusts once more before stilling, his fat tip snug against your cervix while he spills inside of you. Ropes of cum keep coming, emptying his balls inside your greedy cunt completely. His forehead dropping down to yours.

The two of you lay there for a few moments, trying to catch your breath—well, it’s just you who has to catch their breath, but Satoru stays there for you—and calm down slightly.

“Soooo, you need permission to cum inside too, huh?” you giggle at the seven-foot vampire. He just groans, eyes fluttering shut. “Shut up.”

Perm tags: @tojiscreampie @etheralpanic @yoonsucks @liliklei

JJK tags: @mousedit @sugurusbadhabit @cactusvolumes @satorusdollie @kcandy-flosz

©CursedKisss do not copy, steal, plagiarize, or feed my works into AI. I will send Mahito after you if you do.

Liked this? consider joining my taglist!

[mjuniverse]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ཐིཋྀ beautiful stranger

ᛝ ིྀྀི summary ❛ in the winter of 1982, a young writer arrives in new york with a notebook full of unfinished thoughts and the sinking feeling that she has spent most of her life observing instead of living. on her final night in the city, she began to wander the snow covered streets alone, where she meets a beautiful stranger who cannot stop listening to the world around him. ❜ ᛝ ིྀྀི c/w ❛ pre thriller release, unrealistic timeline for plot purposes, slow burn, yearning, heavy angst, existential loneliness, right person, wrong time, one night romance, soft!michael, f!reader, emotional dependance in the span of one night, 13k+ words ❜ ᛝ ིྀྀི a/n ❛ transitioning from wattpad to tumblr kinda nervous ❜

New York, Y/N had decided on the third day of her visit, was a city best consumed through glass.

Preferably someone else's glass.

A television screen, perhaps, where everything glittered with a kind of orchestrated loneliness that still managed to appear beautiful beneath studio lighting. Or a movie theater screen, where women in long wool coats wandered down glowing sidewalks carrying baguettes and existential crises, where steam curled romantically from manhole covers and yellow taxicabs moved through the streets like schools of goldfish through dark water. 

Even photographs lied beautifully. Photographs flattened the smell. They could not capture the sourness of old snow melting into gutters, nor the thick ribbon of urine-scented steam unfurling from subway grates, nor the oily grit that settled invisibly against your skin after only an hour outside.

The city in winter was not cinematic, either. The streets were crowded even when they appeared empty. There was always movement somewhere. Men shouting through clouds of breath. Women with their shoulders drawn up tightly against the cold. Newspaper pages skidding violently along the sidewalks before collapsing into gray slush at the curbside. The traffic never seemed to cease entirely. It groaned and hissed through the avenues endlessly, taxicabs spraying dirty snow onto pedestrians who were too exhausted to react with anything stronger than resignation.

And everything smelled faintly burnt. Burnt coffee. Burnt chestnuts from street vendors standing beside rusted carts. Burnt engine oil. Burnt cigarettes crushed beneath boots outside bars glowing amber in the night. Even the air inside her tiny hotel room carried the stale scent of overheated pipes and ancient carpet dampened long ago by countless winters.

Still, everywhere she looked, the city seemed already occupied by people who knew how to belong to it. Men in long overcoats descending subway stairs without hesitation. Women laughing loudly inside crowded diners at midnight. Artists smoking cigarettes outside clubs in SoHo as though they had been born knowing exactly where to stand. Even the miserable people here appeared practiced.

Meanwhile, she spent half her time hopelessly lost.

The trip itself had been impulsive in the ugliest sense of the word, purchased less from courage than humiliation. Two weeks earlier, she had sat across from a literary editor whose face reminded her vaguely of an underfed bloodhound, all mournful folds and nicotine-yellowed fingers, while he flipped disinterestedly through her short stories.

"Technically proficient," he had called them.

The phrase had landed like a slap.

As though her writing were a machine functioning correctly despite lacking electricity.

He had leaned back afterward, studying her over the rims of his glasses with the exhausted expression of a man perpetually disappointed by the world.

"You write like someone who watches life through a window," he told her. "Everything's observed beautifully, but it feels untouched by life." She remembered smiling then, because she had not known what else to do. She remembered nodding politely while her chest hollowed itself out molecule by molecule beneath her sweater. "Go somewhere," he had said finally, tossing her manuscript onto the desk. "Do something regrettable. Fall in love with the wrong person. Drive down the wrong road. Get stranded. I don't care. But for God's sake, live a little before you write another word."

She hated him for it immediately. And she hated him even more now because part of her feared he might have been correct.

The stories she wrote were beautiful, yes. People always said so. Beautiful sentences. Beautiful atmosphere. Beautiful restraint. 

And so, in what she had briefly mistaken for spontaneity, she had travelled to New York the next day with one suitcase, a notebook, and the embarrassingly naïve belief that the city would rearrange her somehow.

Instead, the city ignored her completely.

She had wandered through museums feeling nothing except sore feet. Sat in cafés pretending to write while secretly eavesdropping on strangers she found infinitely more compelling than herself. Walked through Greenwich Village in the snow trying desperately to manufacture profundity from ordinary sights. She filled pages and pages in her notebook regardless, though rereading them later only deepened her irritation.

Y/N sighed and glanced toward the clock on the bedside table.

If she left now, she could still make the train. But she would return home exactly as she had arrived: observant but untouched. A spectator in her own life. 

With a groan, she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until color burst violently behind them.

Maybe she simply was not meant for this kind of life. Maybe certain people were born possessing whatever internal compass allowed them to move through cities gracefully, absorbing experience naturally, transforming existence into art without dissecting it to death first.

Y/N exhaled slowly and glanced again toward the window where snow drifted steadily through the electric blue glow of the neon sign across the street. The storm had calmed into soft flurries now, though enough snow had already accumulated to powder the sidewalks and soften the rooftops into pale uneven shapes.

Maybe she had judged the city too quickly.

Or maybe she simply owed herself one final attempt before admitting defeat.

Within minutes she was pulling on tights beneath her skirt and fastening the buttons of her wool coat while mentally flipping through the tourist brochures stuffed inside her bag. Most of the places listed had already disappointed her in person, but one remained unchecked. Some little attraction downtown she vaguely remembered seeing advertised repeatedly beneath phrases like hidden gem and quintessential New York experience, though now she could not entirely remember what the place actually was.

Ten minutes later she stepped out onto the street and immediately regretted not wearing thicker gloves.

The cold struck with violent immediacy, sharp enough to sting the inside of her nose when she inhaled. Snow crunched beneath her boots while gusts of wind funneled between the buildings hard enough to send powdered snow skittering along the sidewalks in silver ribbons. Around her, the city glowed.

Storefronts cast warm amber rectangles across the pavement. Christmas lights still clung stubbornly to certain windows despite the holidays having passed. Somewhere nearby a saxophone played faintly above the traffic noise, the melody warped occasionally by the wind until it sounded lonely enough to ache.

And God help her, but the city really was beautiful like this.

Its beauty existed in fragments, in overheard laughter drifting from diners. In the reflection of headlights across black ice. In strangers hurrying through snowfall with collars pulled high against their faces. Even the steam rising from subway grates looked strangely dreamlike beneath the streetlights.

Y/N tucked her chin deeper into her scarf and headed toward the subway entrance with renewed determination.

She nearly convinced herself, descending the cracked concrete stairs into the station below, that perhaps this had been what the editor meant all along. Not grand life-altering experiences necessarily, but participation. Existing somewhere fully enough to let it affect you.

A musician sat near the far wall playing guitar for an audience consisting primarily of exhausted commuters refusing eye contact. Somewhere farther down the tunnel, a train screeched loudly enough to rattle the tiled walls. Advertisements lined the station in faded rows: cigarettes, Broadway shows, department stores dressed festively for Christmas sales.

Y/N hurried toward the platform just as headlights appeared down the tunnel and almost immediately, everyone around her began moving faster in a terrifying collective instinct of people who understood the city's rhythm intimately. She found herself swept along automatically, clutching her bag against her side as wind from the approaching train rushed violently through the station.

The subway roared into place. Doors slid open. People spilled outward while others surged inward with barely controlled aggression.

Y/N hesitated half a second too long.

That was all New York required to punish indecision.

The doors shut directly in front of her face.

One moment there remained space enough to enter; the next there did not.

Y/N stood frozen inches from the closed subway doors while the train remained motionless for one horrible suspended second, long enough for her own reflection to stare back at her faintly through the smeared glass.

Then the train pulled away.

The platform quieted almost immediately afterward, the departing cars dragging a rush of stale wind through the station that lifted strands of hair loose from beneath her scarf.

For one catastrophic moment, Y/N genuinely believed she might burst into tears right there underground.

Her throat tightened painfully while heat rushed behind her eyes despite the cold station air. She became acutely aware of how alone she was underground among strangers who barely registered her existence. Somewhere nearby, the guitarist continued playing softly as though nothing significant had happened at all.

Embarrassment expanded inside her disproportionately until it felt enormous enough to swallow reason entirely. She imagined telling the story later and hearing how absurd it sounded aloud. Girl visits New York in hopes of becoming more interesting, nearly emotionally collapses because subway doors closed too quickly.

Y/N inhaled slowly through her nose and forced herself to laugh under her breath instead. Because honestly, if she could not survive one missed train without spiraling into existential despair, perhaps the editor had been right to criticize her.

Around her, the station continued existing with complete indifference. Another train would come eventually. People moved past carrying grocery bags and briefcases and exhaustion. Somewhere overhead, the city pulsed onward through snowfall whether she managed to keep pace with it or not.

And unexpectedly, the realization comforted her.

Maybe nothing meaningful had happened because meaning did not need to be extracted from every inconvenience like marrow from bone. Maybe a missed train could simply be a missed train.

Or perhaps, she thought suddenly as another gust of cold air swept through the tunnel, maybe she could walk.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder and turned toward the station stairs.

Michael had begun to suspect exhaustion possessed its own distinct sound.

It sounded like a particular flattening of the world. Conversations losing dimension around the edges until every voice blended into the same endless murmur of expectation. Recording equipment humming softly beneath fluorescent studio lights. Producers speaking in circles about sales projections and crossover appeal while cigarette smoke thickened the air molecule by molecule. The scratch of pencils against paper as schedules were rewritten again and again until entire weeks ceased resembling time at all and became instead a sequence of obligations arranged beside precise hours.

Lately his life sounded like that constantly.

Noise without rest.

By the time Michael arrived in New York, exhaustion had settled so deeply into his body he no longer experienced it as a feeling so much as an atmosphere surrounding him permanently. The city itself only intensified everything. The city moved with the same relentless momentum as the people managing his career, all sharp corners and constant urgency and voices speaking too quickly over one another. Everywhere he went, somebody wanted something. 

Success, Michael was learning slowly, did not create satisfaction nearly as often as it created appetite.

Everyone around him seemed hungry lately. Hungry for bigger numbers. Bigger audiences, headlines, records. Executives spoke constantly about "the next level" as though his career were some staircase without visible ending. Quincy talked about possibilities with the feverish intensity of a man who could already hear the future before anyone else. Executives discussed demographics and radio markets and mainstream crossover success using his music like currency spread across conference tables. Even praise had begun exhausting him because praise always arrived carrying expectation inside it.

Still, New York at least offered distance.

Distance from Hayvenhurst, from rehearsals with his brothers. Distance from Joseph pacing the edges of every room carrying disappointment like weather around him.

Michael had not entirely understood why his father agreed to let him come east in the first place. Perhaps Joseph believed the sessions important enough financially to justify the temporary loss of control. Perhaps he trusted the endless entourage surrounding Michael to keep him occupied and visible at all times.

Regardless, permission arrived eventually attached to conditions severe enough to drain the relief from receiving it.

"You come back and train twice as hard," Joseph told him before the trip. Then, after studying Michael's expression carefully, corrected himself. "No. Five times harder."

Michael remembered nodding automatically.

Arguing with Joseph required energy he no longer possessed.

So instead he accepted the conditions quietly and boarded the plane carrying exhaustion inside him like another piece of luggage.

And now here he was in New York during winter, moving endlessly between hotel rooms and recording studios while snow gathered against windows outside. Some nights he forgot entirely what part of the city he occupied because everything indoors looked identical after enough hours awake. Beige walls. Coffee growing cold beside soundboards. Men discussing music in increasingly abstract language.

Tonight had been particularly unbearable.

Three consecutive sessions stretched late into the evening beneath fluorescent lights harsh enough to make everyone appear vaguely ill. Somebody kept replaying the same section of music repeatedly while two producers argued about percussion levels in voices sharpened by exhaustion. Michael sat quietly through most of it with headphones hanging around his neck, rubbing absently at his eyes while conversation swelled and receded around him like static.

At some point somebody mentioned sales forecasts again.

Michael stopped listening after that.

Outside the studio windows, snow fell steadily through the dark. He found himself watching it instead.

The snowfall softened the city completely. Buildings blurred at the edges. Streetlights glowed hazily beneath drifting white flurries. The city's endless movement seemed briefly muted under weather like this.

Something inside him ached suddenly for air.

Before he fully considered the consequences, Michael stood quietly and slipped off the headphones resting around his neck.

"I'll be back," he murmured to no one specific.

Nobody paid much attention.

That was the strange thing about fame. People watched you constantly until eventually they stopped seeing you altogether. Everyone inside the studio remained too consumed by technical arguments to notice him moving toward the hallway.

A man glanced toward him briefly before looking away, likely assuming the bundled figure in the dark wool coat and scarf was merely another exhausted guest venturing outside for cigarettes or air.

Michael stepped into the night before anyone could stop him.

Immediately the cold struck hard enough to steal breath from his lungs.

And God, it felt wonderful.

He thought of the snow as a gift. Bad weather made people selfishly observant. Nobody studied strangers closely while hurrying home through freezing wind. Everyone kept their heads lowered, shoulders hunched inward against the cold. In Los Angeles anonymity barely existed anymore. Here, beneath layers of wool and snowfall and darkness, he could disappear almost completely.

No one notices celebrities in bad weather and the thought amused him enough to smile into his scarf.

At first Y/N moved without direction, guided primarily by the instinctive desire to place distance between herself and the subway station before the embarrassment could fully settle inside her. But the cold slowly worked its way through her gloves.

That, she thought irritably, seemed perfectly in character for the evening. Of course her gloves were inadequate. Of course her boots leaked slightly around the soles whenever she stepped too deeply into slush gathered near the curb. Of course New York, even while beautiful, insisted upon remaining physically uncomfortable at all times. 

Still, the walk steadied her.

Eventually, after several blocks and at least three wrong turns she stopped bothering to mentally correct, exhaustion began settling heavily into her legs. The cold had stiffened her fingers despite her gloves, and each inhale burned sharply inside her chest. Ahead, beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp, stood a nearly empty bus stop enclosed partially by scratched plexiglass walls fogged faintly at the corners from old condensation.

Y/N crossed toward it without much thought.

The bench beneath the shelter was freezing. Even through layers of wool she could feel the cold radiating upward immediately, sharp enough to make her wince as she sat down while snow drifted lazily beyond the scratched glass walls.

She rubbed her gloved hands together vigorously and exhaled warm breath against her knuckles in a failed attempt at heat.

Y/N tilted her head backward briefly against the cold plexiglass behind her and closed her eyes and with a sigh, she reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook.

The pages had already swollen slightly from moisture over the past few days, the paper warped softly at the edges from melted snow and damp gloves and being carried endlessly through winter weather. Even the notebook itself looked exhausted now. Y/N flipped toward a blank page while outside the shelter the snowfall thickened again beneath the streetlamp.

This, she thought suddenly, was exactly the kind of moment she should write down.

Sitting alone at a bus stop after missing a train. Cold fingers. Wet boots. The strange aching beauty of the city at night when viewed through exhaustion rather than expectation. This at least felt real. Unpolished. Unimpressive in a way she could not romanticize fast enough to ruin.

She lowered the pen against the paper.

Nothing happened.

Y/N frowned immediately and scribbled harder across the page. The tip scratched faintly against damp paper without leaving more than a ghost of ink behind. "No, no, no —"

Her voice emerged sharper than intended before being swallowed almost instantly by the snow-muted night around her.

She shook the pen violently beside her ear and tried again. Still nothing. Tiny flecks of snow drifted sideways through the partially open shelter and melted instantly against the page beneath her hand, softening the paper visibly under the moisture.

"Oh, come on." Frustration surged through her disproportionately fast. She scribbled again furiously until the paper began tearing slightly beneath the pressure but the pen remained stubbornly dead in her hand.

Y/N groaned aloud and dropped her forehead briefly against the edge of the notebook while snow hissed softly against the shelter outside. For one deeply embarrassing second, she genuinely contemplated crying over the situation. 

Then suddenly, quietly, a hand entered her line of vision. Black leather dusted faintly with snow.

And within it, held carefully between long fingers, another pen.

Y/N blinked in surprise and for a moment she simply stared at it stupidly, too emotionally exhausted to process what was happening. Then slowly she lifted her gaze upward toward the stranger standing beside the shelter.

He was bundled heavily against the weather. Dark wool coat. Scarf wrapped high across the lower half of his face. Snow gathered lightly along his shoulders and in the dark curls escaping from beneath his hat. Under ordinary circumstances she might have found the outfit vaguely suspicious. Instead he looked oddly soft standing there beneath the streetlamp while snow drifted steadily around him.

But it was his eyes that caught her. Not merely pretty, though they were undeniably beautiful in a startling almost delicate way, framed by impossibly long lashes now dampened slightly by snow. It was the expression inside them that unsettled her momentarily. Something quietly amused and observant, as though he had witnessed the entire battle between her and the pen and found it endearing rather than pathetic.

Y/N became suddenly and painfully aware of how ridiculous she probably looked curled miserably on a freezing bus bench with damp notebook pages and visible frustration radiating from every inch of her posture.

Heat crept instantly into her face despite the cold. "Oh," she murmured softly, startled enough that the word escaped before thought could shape it properly.

The man extended the pen slightly farther toward her.

For some reason the gesture felt strangely intimate in its simplicity. As though he had noticed a problem and decided, without turning it into performance, to solve it.

Y/N reached forward quickly and accepted the pen from his gloved hand. Their fingers brushed briefly. Even through the gloves she registered warmth.

"Thanks," she whispered, her voice worn thin by exhaustion but entirely genuine.

The stranger nodded once after she thanked him, a small movement nearly lost beneath the layers of scarf and snowfall, before gesturing quietly toward the empty space beside her on the bench.

Y/N looked at him for half a second too long, momentarily startled by the fact that he was asking permission at all.

New York did not strike her as a city where people asked permission for space.

The bench itself was long enough for several more people comfortably, yet she instinctively shifted slightly toward the left anyway, making room for him despite the unnecessary gesture. Perhaps because he was a stranger. Perhaps because something about him felt unexpectedly gentle, and gentleness from strangers always made her suddenly aware of herself in uncomfortable ways.

He sat carefully beside her. The distance between them remained polite and deliberate, though the small bus shelter suddenly felt warmer occupied by another person. Snow drifted steadily beyond the scratched plexiglass walls while headlights slid intermittently through the storm, illuminating the shelter in passing bands of pale gold before disappearing again into darkness.

Y/N had expected awkwardness. Most silences between strangers required maintenance, some mutual effort to prevent the atmosphere from curdling into discomfort. This silence simply existed. Calm and oddly companionable beneath the weather. The stranger rested his gloved hands loosely together while snow melted slowly along the shoulders of his dark coat.

Beside her, her notebook remained open uselessly across her lap. The new pen sat untouched between her fingers. She realized belatedly she still had not actually written anything.

Instead, against her better judgment, she found herself glancing sideways at him.

Only briefly at first.

A quick observational flicker of attention born more from habit than curiosity. She was an observer after all. The editor had made that painfully clear. Y/N noticed things compulsively. The shape of people's hands while they talked. The cadence of strangers' footsteps. The way exhaustion altered posture. Observation happened instinctively for her now, so automatic she often forgot she was doing it until caught.

And this stranger was... difficult not to observe.

Not because he looked dangerous or unusual. If anything, he seemed intentionally unremarkable beneath the heavy coat and scarf and hat. But something about him resisted blending fully into the background regardless of effort. The way he sat perhaps. There was a strange carefulness to his movements, almost delicate but not fragile. Or maybe it was his eyes again. Large, dark, impossibly expressive eyes that seemed to absorb everything around them with quiet alertness.

And beneath all that bundled anonymity, he felt oddly familiar.

The sensation nagged at her immediately. It wasn't familiar in the personal sense, of course. She had never met this man before in her life. Yet something about him tugged persistently at recognition. A voice remembered faintly through another room. A face glimpsed once in passing. The feeling intensified the more she studied him discreetly from the corner of her eye.

Apparently not discreetly enough.

Because after her third or fourth glance, the stranger shifted slightly beside her and tugged the scarf higher across the lower half of his face, even though it already concealed nearly everything except his eyes.

Y/N instantly felt heat crawl into her cheeks.

Great, she was staring.

Embarrassment rushed through her so quickly she looked away at once, pretending sudden intense interest in the wet pages of her notebook while internally scolding herself with genuine severity. Wonderful. Now she looked deranged. Some strange woman at a bus stop openly studying strangers in the middle of the night.

For several seconds she considered apologizing.

Then, before she could decide whether apologizing would somehow make the situation even worse, the thought surfaced fully formed in her mind with startling clarity.

The realization arrived strangely gradual and immediate at the same time, like a photograph developing beneath darkroom chemicals. Certain pieces aligned suddenly in ways impossible to ignore afterward. The eyes. The posture. The carefulness. And beneath the scarf, barely visible now in profile beneath the streetlamp, the unmistakable shape of his mouth whenever he moved.

Y/N blinked.

That was ridiculous.

What would Michael Jackson be doing alone at a bus stop at night?

Then again, what was anyone doing anywhere in New York at night? The city itself seemed composed entirely of improbable moments stitched together by exhaustion.

Beside her, the stranger shifted slightly again.

Y/N stared at her notebook intensely for another few seconds while internally debating whether saying anything at all would be humiliating beyond recovery.

Finally curiosity won.

She glanced sideways toward him once more, careful this time not to stare openly. "Has anyone ever told you," she began slowly, her voice softened automatically by the snow-muted quiet around them, "that you look exactly like Michael Jackson?"

The stranger turned toward her fully then, and though the scarf concealed most of his expression, she saw it anyway.

The smile. Not visibly, exactly, but unmistakably present in the way his cheeks lifted slightly beneath the wool and how warmth entered his eyes all at once like light switched suddenly behind dark windows.

He shrugged one shoulder lightly. "Sometimes," he murmured. His voice was soft and musical and unmistakably familiar in a way no disguise could fully conceal. Recognition slid through her instantly afterward, absolute and surreal enough to momentarily hollow the air from her lungs.

She did not gasp or lurch forward or begin babbling frantically the way she imagined most people might. Instead she simply stared at him for one startled second longer before something warm and disbelieving unfolded slowly inside her chest.

For a while after the realization settled between them, neither of them spoke.

Y/N sat very still beside him, notebook forgotten entirely in her lap. The quiet stretched long enough that eventually Y/N became aware she was still clutching his pen uselessly in her hand. "Oh," she murmured softly, startled by the realization. "Sorry." She held it back toward him.

Michael glanced at the pen, then at her notebook still spread open across her lap. "You can keep it," he said gently.

"Thanks," she said again, this time with a small laugh tucked awkwardly into the words. "Mine apparently decided it couldn't survive New York."

Michael's eyes warmed slightly above the scarf. "A city like this can do that."

Y/N looked down at the notebook in her lap for a second before gathering courage carefully inside herself. She could feel opportunity hovering nearby now, fragile and strange. 

"Can I ask you something?" she said finally.

Beside her, Michael stilled almost imperceptibly.

The question itself was ordinary enough, but years in the spotlight had trained anticipation into him automatically. Internally, he prepared himself with practiced speed. An autograph perhaps. A question about his family or fame. People often asked things they believed intimate while forgetting entirely they spoke to a stranger.

Still, he nodded politely. "Sure."

Y/N hesitated briefly, suddenly worried the question in her head might sound ridiculous aloud. Yet the curiosity had already rooted itself too deeply to ignore now that he sat beside her in actual reach.

"How," she asked slowly, "do you write songs the way you do?"

Michael blinked once.

Y/N continued before nervousness could stop her.

"I mean..." She frowned slightly, struggling toward precision. "How do you make people feel when they listen to your music." Her voice softened unconsciously then, growing more earnest the farther she moved into the question.

Michael stared at her because for the first time in what felt like months, maybe longer, he found himself genuinely caught off guard. He lowered his gaze briefly toward his gloved hands, shaking his head once as though buying himself time.

"That's..." He laughed softly again. "That's a hard question."

"Oh God," she muttered, glancing down toward her notebook. "Sorry. You probably get weird questions constantly —"

"No," Michael interrupted gently.

She looked back up. And something in her expression made him pause. Because she looked genuinely hopeful. Hopeful in the painfully earnest way artists looked when asking questions they secretly believed might change their lives.

Michael felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. So he tried to answer honestly. "Well," he began slowly, "it's not really just me."

Even saying it felt vaguely disappointing.

"There are producers. Musicians. Writers." He shrugged lightly beneath the heavy coat. "Quincy helps a lot. Songs get rewritten all the time. Arrangements change. Lyrics change. Sometimes a song sounds completely different after enough people touch it."

As he spoke, his voice settled automatically into practicality. Years of interviews had taught him how to redirect attention away from mythologizing himself. Music was collaboration. Work. Revision. Endless revision.

"You don't really make records alone," he said quietly. "There's always a whole team behind it."

Beside him, Y/N visibly deflated. The slight fall of her shoulders and her gaze dropped toward the notebook again. Something dimmed briefly across her face, disappointment flickering there before she could fully hide it.

Michael noticed immediately.

He had spent most of his life studying expressions carefully for danger, approval, anger, expectation. He noticed small emotional shifts instinctively now.

Y/N nodded politely after his explanation finished, because it was not that his answer had been bad.

It simply was not the answer she had been searching for. Some irrational part of her had hoped for something else entirely.

Some hidden mechanism she herself had failed to discover. A particular way of seeing the world that explained why his music could crawl beneath people's skin so effortlessly. Why his songs felt alive in ways her own writing never quite managed no matter how carefully she assembled sentences.

And sitting beside Michael Jackson in the middle of a snowstorm while he explained producers and rewrites and studio arrangements somehow made artistry sound disappointingly ordinary.

"Oh," she murmured softly after a moment. "Right."

Snow drifted steadily beyond the shelter while traffic hissed through slush-covered streets nearby. A bus passed several blocks away, its brakes screeching sharply before fading again into the city's endless nighttime murmur.

Michael glanced sideways at her.

She was staring down at her notebook now, fingers resting against damp warped pages while the pen sat loosely between her hands. Her expression had folded inward subtly, thoughtful in a way that looked almost embarrassed.

He slowly pulled one glove from his hand, the motion caught Y/N's attention immediately.

She looked up just as he flexed his bare fingers briefly against the cold before lifting his hand slightly between them.

"Listen," he said quietly.

Y/N blinked once.

At first she assumed he meant listen to him. She shifted instinctively, expecting him to continue speaking.

Instead, Michael tilted his head slightly toward the street beyond the shelter.

His fingers snapped softly once in the cold air. Then he pointed lightly toward the street where taxis moved through wet slush with a rhythmic hiss.

"Hear that?" 

Y/N frowned slightly. Before she could answer, he pointed elsewhere.

A crossing signal clicking steadily at the corner. A burst of distant laughter somewhere farther down the block. Wind rushing briefly between buildings hard enough to rattle the plastic advertisement panel beside the bench. The squeal of bus brakes. Footsteps compressing snow. A car horn. Another horn answering farther away.

Michael nodded softly to it all. Like he was following something invisible moving beneath the surface of the noise.

The scarf had slipped lower now while he talked, exposing more of his face without him seeming to notice. Snowflakes gathered briefly against his curls before melting there. In the pale streetlight, his expression looked transformed somehow, animated suddenly with quiet intensity.

He hummed under his breath, like he was tracing the city's sounds back to some hidden structure underneath them. His fingers began drumming lightly against the bench beside him in time with something only he fully understood.

"The city already has music," he murmured, almost to himself. Michael glanced toward her briefly before looking back out toward the street again. "People think songs start with words," he continued quietly. "But usually they don't. Usually it's rhythm first."

His fingers tapped again against the bench. "Sometimes I hear something and it stays." He pointed lightly toward the crossing signal clicking in the distance. "Or a train. Or somebody talking." Another nod toward the street where tires dragged through slush in long wet bursts. "And your brain starts putting things together."

As he spoke, Y/N realized with growing astonishment that he was not hearing the city the way she heard it at all.

To her, New York had always sounded crowded. Chaotic. An avalanche of disconnected noise constantly competing for attention.

To him, it sounded layered.

Michael leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees while his fingers continued tapping absent rhythms against the bench.

"It's everywhere," he said softly. "Feeling too." The words settled heavily into the cold air between them. "You just..." He paused, searching. "Have to notice where it's hiding."

Something inside Y/N shifted painfully then. Because suddenly she understood what separated artists from everyone else. 

Michael looked at the world differently. Or perhaps more accurately, he allowed the world to remain alive instead of flattening it into background noise the way most people did.

The crossing signal clicked steadily. Snow whispered against wool coats outside the shelter. A couple hurried past laughing breathlessly beneath one umbrella.

And beside her, Michael Jackson quietly nodded along to the rhythm of the city like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You can feel rhythm before you understand it," he murmured. "That's why babies dance before they can talk." Michael glanced toward her again then, suddenly almost shy as though realizing how much he'd started rambling. "I probably sound crazy," he said with a quiet laugh.

But Y/N was staring at him with such naked astonishment he actually faltered slightly beneath it. "No," she whispered immediately.

After that, conversation came easily.

Naturally, as though something subtle inside the rhythm of the night had shifted into alignment. The pauses between them shortened. Questions stopped feeling carefully constructed and became instinctive instead. Words flowed forward without either of them seeming entirely responsible for directing them.

At some point, neither of them acknowledged exactly when, the bus stop stopped making sense as a place to remain.

Perhaps it was the cold finally settling too deeply through the bench. Perhaps it was simply that the city beyond the shelter kept glowing invitingly through snowfall, enormous and alive around them. Whatever the reason, Michael stood first, tugging his glove back over his bare hand while snow drifted steadily against the streetlights.

A few moments later they were walking side-by-side through Manhattan beneath the snow.

The city had changed again while they sat talking. Midnight had pushed deeper into morning territory now, thinning the crowds slightly without ever fully emptying the streets. Storefront lights glowed warmly against the dark while steam curled upward from subway grates in thick silver ribbons. Snow softened the sidewalks into blurred white edges where footprints overlapped endlessly atop one another.

Beside her, Michael moved with increasing ease the farther they walked.

At the bus stop he had carried tension visibly in his posture, shoulders drawn slightly inward beneath the heavy coat as though instinctively attempting to occupy less space than his fame allowed him. Now that tension loosened little by little beneath conversation. His scarf slipped lower occasionally when he laughed before he remembered himself and tugged it back upward again.

Still, almost no one recognized him.

The weather protected him exactly the way he'd hoped.

People hurried through snow selfishly, too cold and exhausted to study strangers closely. Everyone kept their heads lowered against the wind. To the city around them, they were simply another pair of people wandering the city at night.

The anonymity transformed him. Or perhaps revealed him more accurately.

Because the farther they walked, the less Michael Jackson he became and the more simply Michael. Curious and observant. Funny in unexpectedly dry little ways that caught her off guard repeatedly. He asked questions carefully and listened to answers with startling sincerity, as though conversation itself interested him more than performance ever could.

And Y/N, despite herself, began rambling and she told him everything. About the editor. About the humiliating criticism that had lodged itself inside her ribs like splintered glass. About traveling to New York in a burst of stubborn recklessness disguised poorly as artistic ambition.

"The worst part," she confessed while they waited for traffic at an intersection glowing red through snowfall, "is that he wasn't wrong."

Michael glanced sideways toward her beneath the streetlight. "How?"

Y/N shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets. "I think I spend too much time trying to understand life instead of participating in it." She laughed softly, though there was embarrassment folded into the sound. "I narrate things while they're happening. Constantly."

Michael smiled slightly at that. "That's not a bad thing."

"It is a bad."

"No," he said gently. "It sounds like writing."

Around them, New York shimmered beneath snowfall with such aggressive cinematic beauty that eventually even Y/N herself had to acknowledge the absurdity of it all.

A struggling writer wandering after midnight with a celebrity that felt startlingly normal.

It sounded fake.

Every time conversation lulled naturally, something appeared to restart it. A saxophonist beneath an awning playing against the snow. A bookstore window glowing warmly enough to pull them toward it. A diner filled with exhausted strangers and fogged windows that looked stolen directly from a film set.

The night kept escalating itself structurally.

Y/N found herself smiling at the thought before she could stop it.

Beside her, Michael noticed immediately. "What?"

She laughed softly and shook her head.

"No, it's just..." She glanced around at the city glowing beneath snowfall. "This is ridiculous."

Michael's eyes warmed with amusement. "Ridiculous good or ridiculous bad?"

"Ridiculous fiction."

He frowned slightly. "What's the difference?"

Y/N looked at him for a second, delighted suddenly by the question. "In real life," she explained, "things usually lose momentum. The longer something goes on, the more ordinary it becomes." Michael nodded thoughtfully beside her. "But stories escalate," she continued. "They build. And every time this night should logically become less interesting, it somehow gets more interesting instead."

Every writer secretly waited for moments that felt narratively alive while living them, moments possessing their own internal momentum and symbolism and impossible timing. Most of life refused structure entirely. Most conversations dissolved into forgettable static afterward.

And suddenly Y/N found herself treating it less like reality and more like an unfolding experiment in storytelling.

Because structurally speaking, things could not possibly keep improving from here.

The impulse arrived so abruptly she barely processed it before acting. One moment she and Michael were walking side-by-side beneath the snow, and the next Y/N abruptly veered away from him down a side street without explanation.

Michael blinked in surprise behind her.

"Hey —"

But she kept walking. Faster now.

Snow crunched sharply beneath her boots while the wind swept loose strands of hair across her face. Behind her she heard Michael laugh once in startled confusion before his footsteps quickened too.

"Where are you going?"

Y/N turned halfway around while still walking backward briefly through the snowfall.

Streetlight illuminated her face in flashes between drifting white flurries. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold and from excitement now building visibly beneath her skin.

"I'm testing the narrative!" she called brightly.

For one deeply amusing second his expression went completely blank with bewilderment.

But Y/N only laughed and turned another corner before he could properly catch up.

Michael hurried after her through the snow, genuinely laughing now despite himself.

She was insane.

The kind of person who experienced life and immediately began interrogating its symbolic structure for entertainment. And somehow, instead of exhausting him, her energy felt contagious. The city itself seemed brighter around her.

Ahead of him, Y/N moved quickly through the storm with visible delight, boots slipping slightly against packed snow as she crossed another intersection. She glanced behind herself once, spotted him still following, and laughed again beneath her breath.

Ahead, at the far end of the block, headlights glowed through the snowfall.

A bus stopped directly at the curb with its doors still open.

Y/N slowed immediately, then smiled.

The sight felt almost hilariously perfect.

This was how the story naturally ended. Two strangers wandered New York for one magical night before circumstance separated them again. Public transportation. Timing. Near misses. That was the language of serendipitous stories. The bus arriving now felt almost aggressively narratively appropriate.

And before Michael could even fully reach the corner —

Y/N ran for it.

Her boots splashed through slush while the driver glanced up in mild surprise as she bounded breathlessly onto the nearly empty bus. The doors remained open just long enough for her to step inside and turn immediately toward the window.

Outside, Michael finally rounded the corner.

Snow drifted around him while he stared at the bus with open disbelief, chest rising sharply from hurrying after her through the cold. For one utterly priceless second he looked genuinely flabbergasted, standing there beneath the streetlights in his dark coat while the city hissed quietly around him.

Y/N pressed herself lightly against the window from inside the bus, grinning so brightly she could barely contain it.

Michael pointed toward her through the glass in exaggerated disbelief, laughing now despite the obvious confusion written across his face. Y/N laughed harder watching him react, warmth flooding through her chest so intensely she nearly forgot about the cold entirely.

The bus doors finally hissed shut between them.

And still she looked thrilled.

The bus lurched forward slowly through the snow while Michael remained standing at the curb watching it pull away, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and complete bewilderment.

As the bus pulled away from the curb, Y/N remained pressed lightly against the window, smiling so hard her cheeks ached from it.

Outside, Michael grew smaller through the snowfall. Still standing there and visibly stunned.

If the night truly possessed the kind of impossible momentum she suspected it did, then they would meet again. Somehow. Ridiculously. The city would fold back in on itself and return him to her through coincidence so absurd it bordered on divine intervention.

Yet another possibility lingered beneath the excitement now too, colder and quieter.

Maybe she had ruined it.

Maybe she had stepped off the natural path of the evening and broken the fragile magic holding everything together. Stories required tension, yes, but they also required timing. What if she had pushed too hard? What if Michael simply laughed about the strange girl who abandoned him for narrative experimentation and went back to his hotel afterward?

What if she had just sabotaged the best thing she would ever write?

The thought tightened unexpectedly around her ribs.

Y/N stared out at the blurred city sliding past beyond the fogged glass while snow continued drifting steadily downward through the dark. Somewhere farther downtown, lights shimmered against the river like scattered gold. The bus groaned around corners and lurched unevenly through slush-covered streets.

She had absolutely no idea where she was going.

Which, oddly enough, felt appropriate.

Several stops passed in thoughtful silence before the bus finally hissed to another halt beside a nearly empty stretch of street lined with darkened storefronts and construction fencing.

Without fully thinking it through, Y/N stood abruptly and stepped off and the bus pulled away behind her with a low mechanical groan, disappearing slowly into the snowfall while she remained standing alone beneath the streetlights with her scarf pulled high against the wind.

Around her, the city had thinned into near stillness.

New York no longer felt bustling at this hour. Instead it resembled some enormous sleeping animal breathing quietly beneath layers of snow and neon and steam. The streets stretched emptier here. Buildings loomed dark and silent above her while traffic moved only occasionally through distant intersections.

Y/N wandered aimlessly down the block and then she saw it.

An ice rink.

Or rather, the beginning of one.

Construction fencing surrounded most of it, though portions remained unfinished beneath the snow. Temporary floodlights cast pale bluish light across the frozen surface while metal scaffolding rose skeletal against the dark. It looked abandoned for the night, suspended halfway between creation and completion.

Completely empty.

Y/N slowed instinctively. Something about the sight struck her immediately as almost offensively cinematic.

Laughing softly beneath her breath, she stepped closer until her gloved hands rested lightly against the cold metal barricade surrounding the rink.

For a moment she simply stood there breathing. Then slowly, unexpectedly, she closed her eyes.

Y/N inhaled deeply through the cold. At first she heard almost nothing. The city had quieted too much at this hour.

No crossing signals. No laughter. No crowded sidewalks humming with layered rhythm. Just distant traffic moving somewhere far enough away to sound almost oceanic beneath the snowfall.

She smiled without opening her eyes.

"There you are."

The voice behind her arrived warm with breathlessness and amusement.

Y/N's eyes flew open instantly.

She turned so fast snow slipped beneath her boots slightly, catching herself against the railing before staring toward the figure emerging through the snowfall behind her.

Dark coat dusted white again. Scarf loosened now around his neck. Breath visible in soft clouds around him from clearly hurrying through the cold.

For one suspended second, Y/N could only stare. Then delight exploded visibly across her face.

"You found me."

The words came out almost reverent with disbelief.

Michael laughed quietly, bending slightly at the waist while catching his breath.

"You disappeared onto a moving vehicle," he said. "I asked the taxi driver to drop me off bus stops until I decided on one."

Y/N grinned so brightly it physically hurt, "and you still found me."

Michael straightened slowly beneath the falling snow while looking at her with an expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and fascination.

"You're very strange," he informed her gently.

"I know."

"You left me standing in the street."

"That was important for the narrative."

He laughed again despite himself, shaking his head. "The narrative."

"Yes."

Y/N stepped backward slightly toward the rink, eyes glowing now with delighted triumph.

"See?" she continued breathlessly. "This is exactly what I meant. Realistically, we should not be here right now."

Michael folded his arms loosely against the cold. "And yet."

"And yet," she echoed softly.

Then Michael glanced past her toward the unfinished ice rink glowing pale beneath the floodlights. "You came here on purpose?"

Y/N followed his gaze before smiling sheepishly. "No," she admitted. "I got off the bus because I had no idea where it was taking me."

"You got onto a random bus with no plan?" That startled another laugh out of him.

"I was testing fate."

Michael looked at her for a long second beneath the snowfall. Then, quieter now: "And what's the verdict so far?"

She shrugged. "Do you know what serendipity is?" she asked suddenly.

Michael frowned thoughtfully. "I've heard the word."

"But?"

"But I don't think I could define it."

"It's basically a fortunate accident," she explained. "Like finding something wonderful while looking for something else entirely." Michael listened quietly. "I think it's a connection to fate," she continued, "but softer than fate. Less controlling."

His brows lifted slightly. "There are levels of fate?"

"I think so."

"Have you thought about this a lot.?"

"I'm a writer," she said as though that explained everything. "Thinking too much is the entire job."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "So serendipity is... what? Destiny?"

Y/N groaned immediately. "A little more complicated," she admitted.

"How?"

"I don't think life is fully predestined," she said slowly. "I don't think people are trapped on rails moving toward unavoidable endings or anything like that."

Michael nodded once, watching her carefully.

"But I do think..." She hesitated briefly before continuing. "I think life offers signs sometimes."

"What kind of signs?"

She gestured vaguely toward the city around them.

"Coincidences. Timing. Moments that feel unusually aligned." Her eyes brightened slightly as she spoke, the ideas clearly becoming more alive the farther she moved into them. "Like missing a train and meeting someone because of it. Or getting onto a random bus and somehow ending up exactly where you're supposed to."

Michael's gaze softened faintly.

"And you think that means something?"

"I think people decide whether it means something," Y/N corrected immediately.

That intrigued him visibly. "How's that different?"

"Because fate isn't forcing anyone." She pushed away gently from the railing now, pacing a few slow steps through the snow while talking. "That's the important part. People still make their own choices. Fate just..." She searched for the word. "Offers little openings." She turned back toward him. "Tiny moments where life nudges you toward something. But whether you follow the nudge or ignore it is still entirely up to you."

Snowflakes caught briefly in her eyelashes while she spoke.

"So if someone misses the sign," Michael asked quietly, "then what?"

Y/N smiled. "Then they miss it."

"That's sad."

Instead of answering, Y/N stepped forward abruptly and grabbed his arm through the heavy wool of his coat.

"Come with me."

Before he could properly react, she was already pulling him away from the rink and back toward the street.

Michael laughed immediately in startled confusion, nearly slipping slightly on packed snow as she tugged him along through the storm.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"Just tell me!"

"It's a surprise."

The city blurred past in glowing streaks of gold and silver beneath the weather. Y/N still held loosely onto his sleeve as though worried he might vanish if she let go, her excitement practically radiating into the freezing air around them.

Michael found himself laughing despite having absolutely no idea what was happening anymore.

Eventually she slowed suddenly at the corner of another block.

"There," she announced triumphantly.

Michael followed her gaze.

Across the street stood a hotel wrapped almost obscenely in Christmas decorations. Warm white lights cascaded from the awning in glowing strands while enormous wreaths framed the revolving entrance doors. Red ribbons fluttered faintly in the wind beside polished brass railings already dusted in snow. The lobby beyond the glass windows glowed amber and warm against the freezing blue darkness outside.

The entire building looked like something invented by a screenwriter.

Michael looked sideways toward her slowly. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"I'm absolutely not kidding." Y/N grinned.

Then promptly darted across the street toward the hotel entrance.

Heat rushed around them in soft waves carrying the scent of polished wood and old carpet and faint pine from the enormous Christmas tree dominating the center of the lobby. Gold garlands curled around stair railings while soft jazz drifted lazily through hidden speakers overhead. Compared to the frozen city outside, the hotel felt almost dreamlike.

Y/N laughed breathlessly as she pushed damp snow from her coat sleeves.

Across the lobby, the night receptionist glanced up from behind the desk with mild curiosity. His eyes moved briefly between the snow-covered pair standing in the entrance at nearly three in the morning before settling back toward the magazine spread open in front of him with the deeply perfected indifference unique to hotel employees.

Michael lowered his voice immediately. "You brought me into a hotel?"

Y/N ignored him entirely. Instead she grabbed his sleeve again and pointed dramatically toward the elevators at the far end of the lobby.

Two identical golden elevator doors stood side-by-side beneath warm chandelier light.

Michael stared at them. Then at her. Then back at the elevators.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"You have a plan."

"Think of it as an experiment."

"That's worse."

Y/N practically glowed now with excitement.

"Okay," she said quickly, pulling him toward the elevators. "If fate really keeps trying to force this ridiculous narrative together —"

"You mean the narrative you keep sabotaging?"

"Testing," she corrected immediately. "I'm testing it."

Michael laughed softly under his breath. "Right. Sorry. Testing."

Y/N immediately positioned herself in front of the left one while Michael, already smiling helplessly now, moved toward the right.

The polished brass doors reflected them faintly beneath the warm lobby lighting. Snow still melted slowly from their coats onto the marble floor beneath their feet.

"So here's the rule," Y/N explained, pointing between them. "We each pick a random floor."

"And?"

"And if fate's actually with us tonight," she said, eyes bright with delight, "we'll choose the same one."

Michael stared at her for a long moment then slowly shook his head in disbelief. "You really think the universe has this much free time?"

"I think the universe loves drama."

"That sounds exhausting for the universe."

The elevator beside Y/N dinged softly.

The doors slid open.

At nearly the exact same moment, Michael's elevator opened too.

Y/N gasped theatrically. The symmetry of it nearly made her dizzy.

The elevator doors slid shut between them with a soft mechanical whisper. And suddenly Y/N was alone again.

The elevator remained still while she stared at the glowing panel of numbered buttons beside the door. Floors stretched upward in neat illuminated rows, each one suddenly carrying absurd emotional significance despite being nothing more than architecture.

Y/N inhaled slowly. Then reached out, clicking her lucky number.

The button lit amber beneath her fingertip. Soft jazz music drifted faintly through hidden speakers while the floors climbed steadily upward one by one. Y/N leaned back lightly against the mirrored wall, arms folded loosely around herself now as anticipation fluttered embarrassingly through her chest.

What if he picked the same number too? The possibility made her grin instantly.

Meanwhile, several floors away inside the other elevator, Michael stared at the buttons with increasing distress. Because suddenly he realized he had absolutely no idea what number to choose.

The doors had barely closed before his brain immediately betrayed him by trying to strategize fate.

Which presumably defeated the entire point.

Michael rubbed one gloved hand anxiously against the back of his neck while the elevator remained waiting patiently for instruction. The mirrored walls reflected his exhausted expression back at him endlessly from every angle.

His first instinct said lower floors. Something simple. Seven maybe. Or three. Numbers people picked instinctively in games and stories.

But immediately another part of his brain objected. No, she'd expect that. Which somehow made the twenties feel more logical. Except now he was overthinking it entirely.

Michael laughed once under his breath, genuinely exasperated with himself.

"You're losing your mind," he muttered softly. Finally, impulsively, he hit twenty-eight.

The farther the elevator climbed, the more convinced he became that somewhere below him Y/N was probably standing on a much smaller floor laughing about how fate apparently hated them after all.

The thought unsettled him more than it should have. By the time the doors opened onto the twenty-eighth floor, Michael barely glanced outward before hitting another button immediately.

He stared out at the empty hallway for barely two seconds. No Y/N. The doors slid shut again. He hit another button. Then immediately afterward: another.

Meanwhile, on her floor, Y/N stepped out into a silent hallway lined with ornate carpet and dim golden sconces and waited.

The opposite elevator remained closed. She stared at it hopefully at first, then patiently, then with growing disappointment.

The hallway remained perfectly still around her. Somewhere farther down the corridor an ice machine hummed softly in the quiet, but otherwise there was only silence.

Y/N folded her arms loosely against herself. "Hm," she murmured softly. A strange ache settled unexpectedly beneath her ribs with the quiet sadness of momentum ending.

Because perhaps this was the point where reality finally reclaimed the night from fiction. The test had failed. The narrative had stretched as far as coincidence allowed before collapsing back into ordinary randomness.

Y/N looked once more toward the unopened elevator doors before sighing softly and stepping back inside her own elevator.

As the elevator descended, she leaned back tiredly against the mirrored wall while exhaustion finally began creeping fully into her bones. It was really late now. Her feet hurt. Her hair was damp from snow. Somewhere beneath the thrill of the night, reality slowly waited to reclaim her entirely.

The elevator dinged softly upon reaching the lobby.

And at the exact same moment —

The other elevator opened too.

Across the marble floor, Michael stood inside the opposite elevator looking utterly disheveled.

His curls were messier now from repeatedly tugging gloves through his hair in frustration. His scarf hung half undone around his neck. There was visible anxiety still lingering across his expression from whatever chaotic journey he had apparently just endured through the hotel.

For one stunned second they simply stared at each other.

Then Y/N's eyes widened so dramatically it almost hurt. Laughter burst out of her immediately afterward, loud and uncontrollable and bright enough to echo across the nearly empty lobby. She clapped both hands over her mouth in complete astonishment while staring at him across the marble floor like she could barely process what she was seeing.

Michael just stood there smiling, profoundly, visibly relieved.

"You look guilty." Y/N accused breathlessly through laughter.

"I may have panicked." That only made her laugh harder. "I figured," he said softly, "there's only one entrance and exit to this hotel." Michael looked at her for another second before laughing softly to himself, exhaustion finally catching up visibly now that the adrenaline had worn off. "Thank God I picked the lobby eventually," he admitted. "Or I probably would've lost you forever."

By the time they stepped back outside the hotel, the city had softened into that strange fragile hour belonging neither to night nor morning.

Four in the morning approached invisibly now beneath the snowfall.

The hotel elevator moment had shifted something invisible. now there existed undeniable awareness humming quietly beneath every conversation afterward. The realization that neither of them had wanted the night to end. That both of them had, in their own embarrassing ways, searched for the other.

The knowledge settled warmly between them now like a shared secret neither seemed eager to expose directly.

So instead they kept walking. And talking.

Conversation unfurled endlessly through the snowy streets with almost unnatural momentum. One story led effortlessly into another until entire blocks disappeared beneath laughter and questions and tangents. Y/N spoke with her hands when excited, Michael noticed. Especially when talking about books. Her fingers moved constantly through the cold air as though physically arranging thoughts in front of herself while she spoke.

Meanwhile, Michael told stories quietly, which had surprised her. She had expected someone raised inside fame to speak like an entertainer even casually, shaping anecdotes toward reaction automatically. Instead Michael told stories almost shyly at first, eyes lowering occasionally while he laughed at his own memories midway through recounting them.

He told her about recording sessions that lasted until sunrise. About learning choreography until his legs physically gave out beneath him. About sneaking candy into places he technically wasn't supposed to. About childhood pranks with his brothers during tours.

And Y/N listened greedily to all of it because he was fascinating.

At one point while crossing an intersection, Michael abruptly stopped mid-conversation because a shop window displayed elaborate wind-up toys moving mechanically beneath fake snow.

Y/N turned around after realizing he'd vanished beside her.

His face practically illuminated beneath the glow of the display window while tiny mechanical ballerinas spun endlessly behind the glass.

Michael glanced at her sheepishly without moving away from the window.

Eventually, after several more blocks of wandering through snow and conversation, they stumbled across a diner glowing warmly at the corner of a nearly empty street.

The neon sign buzzed faintly overhead in pink and blue.

Inside, chrome fixtures gleamed beneath fluorescent lights while sleepy jazz hummed softly from a jukebox near the counter. A tired waitress looked up briefly as they entered before returning to refilling coffee for a truck driver sitting alone near the window.

They slid into a booth near the back beneath fogged windows streaked with melting snow. The vinyl seats squeaked quietly beneath their coats while laminated menus spread open between them across the table.

Y/N immediately became invested in the menu with alarming seriousness. "I never order the same thing twice," she informed him proudly.

"What if you hate it?"

"Then I hate it."

The waitress arrived sleepily beside the table not long afterward, pencil poised above her notepad.

Y/N ordered an absurd milkshake flavor immediately simply because she had never tried it before.

He shook his head, smiling helplessly before ordering a chocolate milkshake himself.

The waitress returned several minutes later balancing the tray carefully through the nearly empty diner, one hand steady against the underside while the tiny silver bracelets on her wrist jingled softly with each step. The overhead fluorescent lights reflected against the chrome milkshake glasses so brightly they almost looked theatrical by the time she reached their booth.

Y/N straightened immediately in anticipation.

The old woman placed Michael's milkshake down first.

It looked comfortingly traditional. Thick chocolate ice cream blended smooth beneath a generous swirl of whipped cream, the cherry on top glossy and impossibly red beneath the diner lights. Condensation already gathered along the metal cup beside it while cold mist curled faintly from the surface. It looked like the kind of milkshake advertised in old magazines from the fifties.

Then the waitress set Y/N's down.

Michael blinked. Because hers looked absolutely insane.

The glass practically disappeared beneath chaos. Rainbow sprinkles coated the whipped cream in glittering layers while bright syrup dripped extravagantly down the sides. Tiny crushed candies clung stubbornly to the rim. And sticking proudly from the very top was a miniature sparkling sprinkler actively crackling and fizzing golden sparks into the air like a tiny firework display.

Her entire face lit up with such sincere delight that Michael immediately started laughing because the joy radiating from her expression looked almost childlike in its honesty. She leaned toward the glass with both hands pressed lightly together beneath her chin while the sparks reflected brightly in her eyes.

"This is the greatest thing I've ever seen."

Michael shook his head slowly, grinning helplessly while glancing between her and the aggressively decorated drink. "It looks like a parade float," he informed her. 

The old waitress looked between them with visible amusement softening her tired features. She had probably spent decades watching people pass through this diner at impossible hours of the night, yet something about the two snow-soaked strangers tucked into the back booth clearly entertained her.

"You two complement each other's spark," she remarked casually.

The sentence settled warmly into the space between them.

Y/N blinked in surprise before laughing softly beneath her breath, embarrassed suddenly by how intimate the comment sounded coming from a stranger.

But Michael  smiled so widely at the remark it physically transformed his entire face.

Before Y/N could properly process that expression, she leaned forward and blew gently toward the tiny sprinkler atop her milkshake. The sparks fizzled dramatically into smoke while she laughed quietly to herself at the ridiculousness of it all.

The waitress chuckled. "Well," she murmured while collecting empty coffee mugs from a neighboring table, "you two enjoy yourselves."

Then she wandered back toward the counter beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights and sleepy jazz music.

Y/N reached across the table and stole a sip from his milkshake entirely on instinct. And Michael let her, he had too many siblings so this was familiar. 

The straw made a quiet sound against the thick chocolate as she tasted it, and almost immediately her eyebrows lifted.

Michael watched her reaction with visible amusement. "Well?"

She swallowed. "So good."

His grin widened immediately and before she could say anything else, Michael leaned forward and took a sip from hers in return.

He froze almost instantly afterward. "What?"

"This is way better."

She looked genuinely horrified. "No, it's not."

"It is."

"It's radioactive."

"No, it's good I swear."

The sincerity of the answer startled a laugh out of her.

Michael took another sip before sliding the glass reluctantly back toward her. "I should've ordered this."

"You absolutely should not have."

"I'm serious."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

"You're having a temporary lapse in judgment because of the sprinkles."

Michael shook his head once, still smiling faintly. "I'm getting this from now on."

"No," she decided. "You can't."

Michael tilted his head slightly. "Why not?"

"Because if we ever come back here —" The words slipped out naturally. Neither acknowledged it directly. Still, something soft flickered briefly through Michael's expression afterward. "— then I need you to order the reliable milkshake while I try new things without risking complete disappointment because I'll still have yours."

Michael stared at her in mild disbelief.

"So your plan was stealing my milkshake from the beginning."

"Our milkshake," she corrected absentmindedly.

By the time they left the diner, the night had begun unraveling around the edges.

Cold morning air greeted them immediately upon stepping outside, sharper now than it had been hours earlier. Snow still blanketed the sidewalks in soft uneven layers, though the sky above had begun changing almost imperceptibly from black into deep bruised blue. The darkness no longer felt endless. Somewhere far beyond the buildings, dawn waited patiently beneath the horizon.

Y/N pulled her coat tighter around herself while the diner door swung shut behind them with a muted little bell chime. For a second she simply stood there breathing in the freezing air again, her cheeks still warm from the diner heat and sugar and laughter.

Beside her, Michael looked upward toward the sky.

The expression crossing his face afterward was subtle enough most people would have missed it entirely.

Night had protected them somehow. Snow and darkness and empty streets had blurred the impossible parts of their encounter into something private and suspended outside ordinary life. But morning would return structure to everything. People would wake up. Traffic would swell. Sidewalks would crowd. Michael Jackson would stop being simply Michael again.

The city would recognize him eventually.

Michael shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets while cold wind curled visibly around them. Internally, something restless had begun clawing quietly beneath his ribs.

He did not want to go back yet.

He did not want handlers or schedules or recording sessions or meetings about sales projections and market expectations. He did not want people watching him again. He especially did not want the strange bright version of himself that had emerged tonight to disappear the second daylight touched the city.

Because somewhere between the bus stop and the diner booth, he had become simply a boy wandering New York with a girl who listened to the world like music.

And now morning threatened to take that away.

"So," he murmured beside her, "what act are we in now?"

Y/N looked toward him immediately. "What?"

"In the narrative," he clarified. "You're the expert."

She smiled faintly. "Oh." Their breath curled pale into the cold air while dawn stretched slowly across the skyline behind them. "Hm," she murmured thoughtfully. "Definitely late second act."

Michael looked ahead toward the slowly waking streets. "And what happens after that?"

Y/N shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets before answering. "Usually?" she said carefully. "The characters have to decide whether the story was important enough to change them."

Michael fell quiet after that. "And if they don't change?" he asked eventually.

Y/N glanced toward him. "Then the story wasn't very good."

A small smile touched his mouth at that, though it faded quickly afterward into something more thoughtful.

"You really see life like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like moments are chapters."

"No," she admitted. "I think moments are moments."

"Then why turn them into stories?"

"I think..." She hesitated briefly. "I think stories are the only way people know how to keep things from disappearing."

"You're scared of forgetting?" he asked softly.

Y/N laughed once beneath her breath, though no humor reached it. "I'm terrified of it." She kept walking while speaking now, eyes fixed ahead on the pale horizon beginning to bloom gold behind Manhattan's buildings. "People think writing is about creating things," she continued quietly. "But most of it's really just trying to hold onto moments before they vanish."

His mouth parted slightly. His brows pulled together in that thoughtful way they always did whenever she said something that unsettled him emotionally. She could practically see the question forming behind his eyes before he even spoke it.

But before either of them could continue — A sharp car horn split through the morning air.

The sound shattered the fragile stillness instantly.

A dark car sat idling near the curb half a block away, exhaust curling pale into the freezing dawn. The passenger door had already swung open before the vehicle even fully stopped, and a tall man hurried out immediately afterward wearing an expression balanced somewhere between fury and overwhelming relief.

"Michael!" The name echoed loudly through the waking street.

Michael visibly froze.

Y/N felt it happen beside her physically, like watching someone pulled suddenly backward into themselves after hours spent forgetting who they were required to be.

The man strode toward them quickly through the snow. The entire atmosphere changed around him instantly. The playfulness dissolved. The wandering-night softness evaporated beneath something sharper and more structured. Morning sunlight touched the city fully now, illuminating everything too clearly.

Bill finally reached them, breathing hard from obvious panic and frustration both.

"Jesus Christ, Mike," he said, dragging one gloved hand down his face. "Do you have any idea how long we've been looking for you?"

Michael immediately looked guilty. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Bill repeated incredulously. "Man, everybody's been losing their minds since midnight. We checked the studio, the hotel, the streets —" He stopped abruptly, exhaling hard through his nose before looking upward briefly like he was physically trying to lower his blood pressure. 

Bill finally looked toward her then for the first time properly. His expression softened almost immediately afterward. Because suddenly the situation became painfully obvious to him in ways neither Michael nor Y/N fully realized themselves yet.

Two young people standing together beneath the pale light of morning looking at one another like they had accidentally wandered too far into something neither was ready to lose.

Bill sighed quietly. "I'm just glad you're okay," he muttered more gently this time, mostly to Michael. "Been chasing you across Manhattan all night."

Michael rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I didn't mean to disappear that long."

"I know."

Michael turned toward her then and suddenly all the playful ease from earlier vanished beneath something far more vulnerable.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

The apology hurt more than she expected.

Y/N smiled gently anyway. "You don't have to apologize."

Michael looked like he wanted to argue with that.

Before he could, Bill stepped slightly forward and extended one hand politely toward her. "Bill Bray," he introduced quietly. "I'm the poor guy responsible for making sure he stays alive."

That startled a soft laugh out of her. Y/N shook his hand warmly despite the ache beginning to spread slowly through her chest. "Y/N."

The moment the name left her mouth, Michael's eyes lifted sharply toward her.

And suddenly she realized.

Not once all night had she exchanged her name.

After everything — the bus stop and the diner and the elevators and the endless wandering streets beneath the snow — they had somehow remained strangers in the simplest possible way.

Michael repeated her name softly beneath his breath like he was trying to memorize its shape immediately. The way he said it made her heart twist painfully.

The older man glanced briefly away afterward, giving them both a small mercy of privacy before sighing heavily. "I'm gonna give you two a minute," he said quietly to Michael. Then, gentler: "Say your goodbyes and get in the car."

Bill stepped back toward the curb afterward, leaving them standing alone together again beneath the pale morning light.

Y/N swallowed softly against the ache beginning to settle inside her chest. Then smiled anyway. "Well," she murmured quietly, "may we meet again." Y/N tucked her hands deeper into her coat pockets before continuing, her breath curling pale around the edges of her voice. "One final test for fate," she said softly.

Michael laughed quietly beneath his breath. But the sound carried sadness through it now. "I think," he said slowly, carefully, "I believe in it a little now." Michael glanced back up toward her afterward, almost sheepish suddenly. "Just a little," he clarified quietly. "I'm not completely convinced yet."

Y/N smiled faintly. "That's probably healthier."

"I mean it," he continued, voice softer now. "Before tonight I thought people just... met each other. Randomly. But this..." He laughed once under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "This didn't feel random."

Something painful and warm twisted simultaneously through her chest.

Y/N looked at him carefully. Then finally, honestly: "I had a really good time with you."

The sentence sounded heartbreakingly small compared to what the night had actually become.

His expression softened almost immediately into something quieter. "So did I." Then Michael laughed softly beneath his breath again, though this time the sound carried embarrassment through it. "You know what's strange?"

"What?"

"When I was with you..." He hesitated briefly like he was trying to find the exact shape of the thought before continuing. "It was nice not having to talk so much."

Michael shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets while speaking, eyes lowering briefly toward the snow beneath his shoes. "Usually I feel like I have to keep people entertained all the time," he admitted quietly. "Like if I stop performing for even a second, everything gets awkward."

"But with you..." He smiled faintly. "It was nice to just listen."

Y/N felt her throat tighten unexpectedly. Then, despite herself, she laughed softly. "That's funny."

"Why?"

"Because I think it was the opposite for me."

His brows lifted slightly. 

She smiled down toward the snow briefly before continuing.

"I usually stay quiet around people," she admitted. "I spend most of my time observing instead of talking. I like listening better." Michael watched her carefully. "But with you," she said softly, "I kept wanting to tell you everything."

Y/N swallowed hard against the ache rising into her throat.

Then slowly, gently, she stepped closer toward him.

Without saying anything, Y/N began pulling her gloves off finger by finger, the cold air striking instantly against her skin. Her fingers had gone pink from the weather, slightly numb now from wandering Manhattan for hours beneath the snow.

Michael watched her carefully, confused at first.

Then she reached for his hands.

The movement startled him enough that he almost pulled back instinctively before realizing what she meant. Y/N smiled softly at the hesitation and tugged lightly at his gloves until he finally let her remove those too.

Cold air rushed against both their bare hands immediately.

And then finally — Skin against skin.

After an entire night spent beside one another, this was somehow the first time they had touched.

Then gently, almost ceremonially, Y/N folded both his hands together between her own until they rested like something fragile she was trying very carefully not to break.

Her thumbs brushed lightly over his knuckles once. Twice. Then softly, beneath the pale winter morning:

"To our one and only night together."

Y/N tapped lightly against one side of his clasped hands with her finger. Then the other.

The tiny movement felt unbearably intimate somehow. Childlike. Sacred. Like creating a ritual for something too beautiful to survive ordinary language.

Michael stared down at their hands silently, then up at her.

And suddenly the sadness inside his smile became almost impossible to bear. His throat moved slightly before he spoke again, voice rougher now than before. "I didn't ask you enough questions."

Michael laughed once beneath his breath afterward, though the sound broke halfway through.

"I spent the whole night talking about myself."

"That's not true." The vulnerability in his voice cracked straight through her chest. Michael looked at her like he was trying desperately to memorize what little time remained. "I never asked you what's your favorite time of day." he said suddenly. Michael continued before she could answer. "Or your favorite flower." His voice softened further. "Or what's your favorite cloud shape."

Snow drifted quietly around them.

"I don't know what kind of books made you wanna start writing," he continued, words tumbling faster now like he was afraid time itself might interrupt him. "Or what your room looks like. Or if you like thunderstorms or if they scare you."

Y/N felt emotion rise so sharply inside her she physically could not speak for a moment.

Michael looked down briefly before laughing softly again through the ache. "I don't even know your favorite color."

She stepped forward fast enough that Michael barely had time to react before her arms wrapped tightly around him.

Michael inhaled sharply the second she touched him.

Then immediately, impossibly, held her even tighter.

His arms wrapped around her completely while the city disappeared around them both. Y/N buried her face against the cold wool of his coat, breathing in winter air and faint traces of diner sugar and snow and something heartbreakingly him beneath it all.

Y/N closed her eyes tightly. The ache inside her chest had grown too large now for language alone. So instead she whispered softly against him: "When we meet again..." Michael's grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "I promise I'll answer those questions."

A tear slipping warm against the side of her face where his cheek rested briefly against her hair.

Michael exhaled shakily. And very quietly, like the words themselves frightened him with how much he meant them: "Let's meet again."

The separation happened slowly, reluctantly, like untangling something fragile thread by thread. Michael's hands lingered at her waist for half a second longer than necessary while Y/N's fingers remained curled lightly into the fabric of his coat as though her body had not yet accepted the goodbye her mind understood perfectly.

Y/N covered her mouth immediately, shaking her head in disbelief while tears still clung embarrassingly to her lashes.

She breathed through laughter. "Look at us."

Michael laughed too, softer than hers but equally overwhelmed, one hand dragging through his curls while he tried recovering from the emotional whiplash of the last several minutes.

"We're a mess."

"Completely."

"We've known each other one night."

The laughter faded slowly afterward into something quieter.

Michael looked at her carefully again. Then, very softly, "What if I look for you?"

Y/N felt her heartbeat stumble painfully against her ribs.

For one dangerous second part of her wanted to say yes.

Please do.

Please ruin the ending.

Please find me anyway.

But instead Y/N smiled through the ache gathering thickly in her throat. "Well," she whispered gently, "then it wouldn't be fate anymore."

Michael looked at her like the answer simultaneously hurt and healed him. Then slowly, almost reverently, he lifted one bare hand toward her face. His fingertips brushed gently against her cheek, catching a tear she hadn't realized had fallen again. The touch was impossibly careful, like he feared she might disappear beneath it.

"Will you," he said quietly, thumb lingering briefly against her cheekbone, "at least write about me?"

Y/N looked at him for a long moment afterward then slowly shook her head. "No," she whispered. Michael's brows lifted slightly and Y/N looked at him like she was trying to memorize every detail at once. "The truth is," she admitted softly, "I think I'd rather remember you."

Michael's eyes flickered briefly toward the street where Bill still sat inside the idling car pretending very hard not to witness the ending of something fragile. Exhaust curled slowly upward into the pale morning air while sunlight spread steadily brighter across the snow-covered city.

The moment had finally run out of places to hide.

Michael exhaled slowly through his nose before his hand finally slipped away from her cheek.

For a second longer they simply stood there facing one another beneath the winter morning sky, both looking like people who had accidentally wandered too deeply into a story neither was ready to leave behind.

Then Y/N reached quietly into her coat pocket. Michael frowned slightly at the movement until she pulled out a pair of gloves.

"You'll freeze," she murmured softly.

Michael accepted them carefully from her hands, fingers brushing briefly against hers in the exchange. Something about the small domestic tenderness of it — the simplicity of giving someone their gloves back after surviving a night together — hurt infinitely more than dramatic goodbye speeches ever could.

He opened his mouth slightly like he wanted to say something else. But no words arrived. What could possibly follow a night like this? Nothing large enough.

So instead Michael just looked at her one last time. Then finally, reluctantly, he stepped backward.

The distance between them widened slowly, painfully, until cold morning air settled fully back into the space where they had stood together.

Michael turned finally toward the waiting car and just before climbing into the car, he looked back.

Y/N still stood exactly where he'd left her.

Small against the enormous winter city, and lifted one hand gently in goodbye.

Michael felt his chest tighten so sharply it almost physically hurt.

Inside the vehicle, warmth wrapped around him immediately while the world outside blurred faintly through fogged windows. Bill glanced once toward him from the driver's seat but wisely said nothing. The older man simply pulled quietly away from the curb, giving Michael the mercy of silence.

As the car moved through the streets, Michael kept his eyes fixed on the window.

Y/N remained standing there longer than necessary.

He watched her slowly disappear behind distance and snowfall and morning traffic until finally she vanished entirely into the waking city.

Only then did he look away.

Bill drove carefully through the slush-covered streets while radio static hummed quietly beneath the heater vents. Every so often Michael caught him glancing over briefly like he wanted to ask questions, but thankfully he never did.

Because Michael wouldn't have known how to explain any of it anyway. How do you explain one night becoming important enough to rearrange something permanently inside you?

Eventually, absentmindedly, Michael glanced down toward the gloves resting loosely in his lap.

Then paused. A small crease formed between his brows.

These weren't his.

Slowly, he turned them over in his hands again. The realization hit him instantly enough that he nearly spoke aloud without thinking. "Bill, turn around —"

But the words died halfway out of him because something white caught against the inside lining of one glove.

Carefully, almost reverently now, he reached inside and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The note had clearly been tucked there intentionally. The paper itself was slightly wrinkled from warmth and movement, edges softened from being hidden inside the glove.

He unfolded it gently. And there, written in hurried elegant handwriting, were the words:

If this night was only borrowed from the universe for a little while, then I think we spent it beautifully.

You once asked me what happens when stories end. I think they don't.

I think they simply become part of the people who lived them.

So wherever life carries you after this — through music, through cities, through every beautiful impossible thing waiting for you — I hope the world is gentle when it holds your heart.

And if fate is kind enough to let our paths cross again someday, I promise I'll stay.

Until then, thank you for letting me be young beside you for one night.

Live beautifully, Michael.

For several seconds he simply stared at the note. Then slowly, painfully, his face folded inward around emotion again. And then finally the tear came.

It slipped silently down his cheek before falling onto the paper itself, staining the ink slightly near the edge of her handwriting.

Michael laughed softly beneath his breath at the sight of it, shaking his head once while pressing trembling fingers briefly against his mouth.

What an utterly, unforgettable goodbye from a beautiful stranger.

ᛝ ིྀྀི more a/n ❛ oh 'serendipity' and 'before sunrise', u will always be loved by me!!! thinking of a part two if enough people want it enough but i'm kinda obsessed with this ending so who knows ❜

[3leni]

DO YOU REMEMBER THE TIME? ; vampire!thrad!michael jackson / f!reader

summary; “So, Mr. Jackson,” you speak over the cassette recorder. “How long have you been dead?” ... He laughs.

word count; 14.2k

warnings/tags; 18+ mdni. THE PICTURE IN THE BANNER IS PURELY AESTHETIC (zero racial descriptions!). no pepsi accident !!! heavily inspired by interview with the vampire (2022), journalist!reader. flashbacks, falling in love, time skips/nonlinear narrative, angst with a happy end, diana ross slander, reader is #danielmolloymaxxing, vampire turning, explicit depictions of blood and violence & some weird psychosexual vampire shit, making up, brief mention of vomit (because vampirism is gross), explicit sexual content: dry humping, phone & couch sex, mutual masturbation.

A/N; i want to preface this by saying i in no means claim that this is an accurate reprepsentation of mj. yes this is true for all rpf but i've never written it before so i'm nervous. anyway. i genuinely, literally, have absolutely nothing to say for myself at all. i’m not even kidding. a few notes: the vampire rules are the same as iwtv (obviously). you can honestly safely assume that louis and armand are just next door in san francisco for the entirety of this fic (it changes nothing but it's funny to think about). i've left out the changes to mj's skin during the thrad era, because even though your appearance freezes when you're turned, i figured i can play around with that. so feel free to imagine him as you'd like. (also. i'm going to be honest with you: it gets pretty fucked up. for those familiar with iwtv it's a walk in the park, but for those not… yeahhh...)

⭒ ݁ . read on ao3. my masterlist. REBLOGS and comments are deeply cherished, feed your local writer!!! fic playlist <3

“So, Mr. Jackson,” you speak over the cassette recorder. “How long have you been dead?”

He laughs.

A beautiful sound, softer than life itself; this delicate thread he walks on with one foot hanging off the ledge and into the darkness. Not really alive, not truly dead. Just trapped in the endless pendulum of both.

“It’s Michael,” he almost whines. Such a soft cadence for a creature capable of such great violence. A contradiction, just like everything else about him. He’s lounged on his couch, spread out, wearing darkness much better than it wears him. He’s biting on one finger with a tilted head, smiling at you so brightly you almost forget about the sharp-fanged canines glistening. “For you, it’s Michael.”

You pause, swallow. “I know, Mr. Jackson.”

Michael Jackson lived just like he died: on the margins, despite having every spotlight on himself. Biggest star of the world—resplendent, untouchable—someone to look at in a museum display with awe instead of knowing. Of learning.

Of loving.

Michael Jackson came into your life still breathing, cheeks full of warmth, alive. So, so alive it hurts to think about. He’d just broken the Grammys in half, forever splitting himself apart from any other artist that’s walked the same halls and earned the same awards.

They weren’t him. No one would or ever could be.

The year was 1984. At the beginning of spring, the time when earth wakes up and stirs people into living again. But it stirs hunger, too. Blood-red and sopping with a never-ending repetition that rarely gives and only takes.

You didn’t know it then and neither did he, but the spring of ‘84 would be the last spring Michael ever saw as mortal. Where he could wake in the morning and tiptoe outside, glimpse at the birds perched on his balcony and watch the sunrise without it being suicidal.

You were nervous back then, still green while the industry was blooming all in technicolor around you, trying to carve a space for yourself in metaphorically unmoving stone.

You’d just gotten out of a hellish job waiting tables near Marina Del Rey. Ready to take the world by storm, carrying your clip-book full of articles everywhere like ID. It was your baby, fully yours, born from three years’ worth of endless nights and cramped fingers and all the sweat going into that.

UC Berkeley’s Mass Communications alumna. Magna Cum Laude, although you had to fight for it because, well… Life gets hard sometimes, right? But you got it in the end, and it felt good as shit.

That waitress job was temporary, you’d swore to yourself it would be. Your dreams were much bigger than a sleazy diner only serving those small enough to fit in it. It got you through school though, so there’s not much to pine about. You lose some, you win some.

And you won big.

Worked your ass off for that win, too. Written a banging thesis on the rise of MTV, built a portfolio of music reviews for The Daily Cal, co-hosted a weekly pop culture slash entertainment show on KALX with some campus friends.

‘90.7 FM every Wednesday, baby!’

You miss it, what can you say? You just can’t help yourself. Life flowed easier back then. Before the inevitability of success, of that gnawing feeling something’s going to go terribly wrong any minute now.

Before Michael.

Everything is categorized as either before or after him. Sometimes you can’t even tell the difference; the feeling of his teeth is like it’s always been there.

A phantom pain you’d feel when changing mixtapes for an article that was due, or those times you’d get goosebumps when tidying up the vinyls—late at the radio station, after a show—and his face would show up.

White suit over a black shirt; piercing eyes, soft face and even softer disposition; gold handwritten cursive reading Thriller.

You’d think, again and again, ‘Fuck, he’s gorgeous.’ The vinyl would sit tucked pretty between The Police’s Synchronicity and Bowie’s Let’s Dance, and that’d be it. Just another record on the shelf, another artist that floated above the common man not because of money or arrogance, or even success.

Simply because he was meant to be there. It was the rest of the world that was just catching up with him.

That’s what you thought then, at least. Before you met him and got to know him. Before falling for him rather than the idol plastered on every entertainment article (written by you, or otherwise). It simultaneously took you by surprise while also not being surprising at all. Everyone falls in love with Michael one way or another, you just didn’t think you would.

At least, more than a fan or an admirer of his art, professionally. Of course you were a fan. Your mom used to blast Jackson 5 records every Saturday morning, and you’d be peeling potatoes or sweeping the living room with Michael’s voice as an underscore.

You grew up with him. And, isn’t that sad? You were a kid, a real kid; crying over boys and homework and skinned knees while he was pumping out show after show and interview after interview. Even at eight, you remember feeling sad for him.

Your mother used to tell you you’re being silly. That the Jacksons loved to perform, and they got handsomely compensated for their artistry. That they wouldn’t have to work a real job a day in their life the way you or your dad were expected to. And, she was right. But the sadness was there, you could feel it.

When he released his first solo album, Got To Be There, you bought it with the weekly allowance you’d been saving up and surprised your mom. That weekend, the only thing echoing through the house was Rockin’ Robin. And when he put out his first proper solo album, Off The Wall, you were first in line at your local records store.

You loved him for a long time before you laid eyes on him, but that childish almost-affection quickly got eclipsed by something far stronger.

The date was February 28th of 1984, the Shrine Auditorium bursting like ripe citrus against a setting sun, palm trees swaying by the sheer size of the crowd. A heavy laminated card dangled from your neck, reading:

26th ANNUAL GRAMMY AWARDS, National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences, Inc., PRESS.

You were with Rolling Stone, or with whatever crumbs of a presence they maintained in the West Coast after moving all their offices to New York years ago. Your editor, Ben, was a washed-up Rock-N-Roll purist who thought anything other than Elvis was ‘a fad,’ including the ever-rising pop scene.

Including Michael. 

Which is precisely why he sent you—the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed girl from Berkeley—to cover the Grammys instead of going himself. Thought it was a waste of time, and who were you to disagree with the man?

Ben could live in his past-and-gone glory days all he wanted; it was a new decade halfway on its way out already, with something in the air that felt historic. Primordial. You needed to be in that room, and if playing into Ben’s refusal to get with the times was your way in, fuck would you do it.

Of course, it did end up being historic. Michael had—has—that quality about him.

The backstage press room was pure pandemonium that night. Hot and stifling, reeking of hairspray and cigarette smoke, packed with aggressive reporters from Time, Newsweek, and television affiliates you couldn’t even begin naming. 

You think they saw you just like Ben did. Scratch that: you know they did. A kid without her big-girl pants on, thrust into the deep end for the sharks to feed on and scatter the scraps.

You’d earned your place there, as much as their stares did nothing to help the sweat on your back or the twitching of your lips. Watching from the designated press room, you bit through your lipstick as the nearly 7K-seat theater blew up with each win Michael brought home, growing louder the more the night progressed. 

You were not surprised at all. Thriller was a masterpiece, you knew it from the very first listen. And if anybody asked, you’d just point them to Page 30 of your portfolio: your best article. Your magnum opus. October of 1982, a thousand words typed on a clunky typewriter in the basement of Eshleman Hall, coffee stains on the margins. Written by a girl who saved up her waitress tips just to buy the record on release day; the same girl who’d saved up for Got To Be There all those years ago.

When Michael finally entered the press room, it erupted even louder than the theater had.

Much closer in proximity, shoulders and elbows pushing against ribs, a clunky brick-sized cassette recorder clutched so tight in your hand your knuckles shook. Someone kept thrashing against your back to get closer, but all they managed to do was push you right to the front. Right into Michael’s eyesight.

He was surrounded by publicists, security, and Quincy Jones, who was positively glowing. Somewhere to the side stood his date for the night, Brooke Shields, and Michael was holding a literal armful of golden gramophones. He was in a gold-embroidered blue-black military jacket, a single white glove, aviator sunglasses.

He looked otherworldly.

(Michael Jackson is not of this earth, that much was clear long before he died in sanguine ecstasy.)

A sea of camera flashes clicked with inhuman speed, swirling into a dizzying staccato reflecting off of him. And being with Rolling Stone—their dwindling influence in California notwithstanding—still meant you were with Rolling-fucking-Stone. You knew you had one sought-after chance at a question before security whisked him away, and you knew you had to make it count.

Asking anything along the lines of ‘how does it feel to have won’ or ‘broken the record’ were out of the question entirely. His answer would be tight and rehearsed, and you didn’t grind this hard just to waste something so monumental on a local-channel-news question at best.

Your hand shot up so many times you might’ve gotten whiplash, questions flying around the room in tandem with the trickling clock. Your heart dropped and kept dropping as publicists looked you over in favor of the men squeezing you from all sides. Until one publicist—female, older, a mirrored image—made eye contact and your world stuttered in place.

“Alright, alright, quiet down,” she commanded over the clamor. “We have time for just a couple more. Yes, you in the front.”

This was it. Your heart was hammering so deeply you felt it in your stomach, seeping down your legs and numbing them in the process. Your Berkeley instincts kicked in like fight-or-flight, forcing your voice to even out and raise. Holding up the recorder, you smiled through the sweat dripping down your face. 

“Mr. Jackson, congratulations on a historic night. I’m with Rolling Stone. On Billie Jean, you and your team famously spent weeks just mixing the bassline. Tonight, the world is celebrating the commercial success of Thriller. But as an artist, do you feel the industry finally understands the actual technical craftsmanship you put into this record?”

The room got quiet. Not truly silent, but just enough to hear your own heartbeat again, listen at just how loud you were breathing. A man coughed beside your ear, and you fought the urge to flinch.

Michael paused. He wordlessly handed a few gramophones to Quincy by his side, tilted his head just so, lowered the aviator glasses down his nose, and gave you a gentle smile.

Cameras click-click-clicked away.

You’d heard his speaking voice before that night, obviously. But hearing it from five feet apart had nothing on the shitty TV box in your apartment or the screens you’d watched the awards from backstage.

“That’s a beautiful question,” he breathed, and you pushed on your tiptoes to nudge the recorder closer. He sounded like soft velvet, making you shiver. “Yes. Yes, I do. People often just want to talk about the dancing or the charts, you know? But Quincy and I, we lived in that studio, and Bruce sweated over every single frequency. Billie Jean… that bassline is the heartbeat of the song. If the heartbeat isn’t perfect, the body doesn’t move. To have the Academy recognize that tonight… It’s a sign God is good, and that the hard work is understood. That means a lot to me. Thank you.”

That was it. Your one question, your headline, the article you were waiting to write ever since you heard his voice on vinyl that first Saturday morning. But you were never one to be satisfied, were you? No. You always wanted more, pushed harder, chased things quicker than your feet could keep up with.

The publicist was about to call one last question, but Michael hadn’t taken his eyes off you, so you did the one thing you’d been busting your ass three years off for.

You asked another.

Briefly meeting the publicist’s line of sight, you jumped back into Michael’s gaze. “Is that the standard for pop music now? Perfection or nothing?”

He pushed his aviators up again, chuckled something soft, smile so wide and blinding it bordered on catastrophic. He said: “Perfection is a nice goal, but it’s really about the magic. You can’t mix magic, you just have to catch it when it falls from heaven. Thank you, bless you.”

Bedazzled hand over his heart, hell broke loose with all its demons as Michael was led away. 

And that was how the new girl from Berkeley managed to snag a spot on the front-page cover of issue #419, right beside the pose of Eddie Murphy.

(You’d written for #417 too, but that issue hit the streets right before the Grammys. You’ll always mourn that cover; the lighting on Michael’s face made him look beautifully melancholic. Having your article plastered next to him might’ve actually killed you, so, yeah. Like you said: you lose some, you win some.)

You wouldn’t see Michael again for a couple of months. In reality, you didn’t think you’d see him again, period. Speaking to him once was already a utopic dream come true. A comet that only flies by once and you remember it forever, because there isn’t a chance you’ll see it again.

But the Rolling Stone higher-ups loved you. Okay, ‘love’ is a strong word. Though, being the only journalist to squeeze out a genuine answer from Michael on arguably the biggest night in pop-culture history? That made people do a double take when your name showed up. That’s all the love you needed.

Ben was weirdly jealous. It didn’t help when you asked him how many Grammys Elvis won in one night. Really dug a hole for yourself when you added, “Or, like, ever?”

He could do nothing when you were chosen to cover the preparations for the Victory Tour; granted exclusive access to Zoetrope Studios to attend the rehearsals. You’re surprised you didn’t pass out when Ben broke the news, with as much enthusiasm in his face as reading his monthly bill charges.

April of 1984. A boulevard packed with the busy fumes only a city as big as Los Angeles could produce, that same cassette recorder tucked inside your bag as you paid the cab driver and stood in the front doors of Zoetrope. The sun was slowly setting in the background when a production assistant came to grab you. Huffing and puffing while breezing through his notes, he hardly even looked back to see if you were following.

When he slipped you inside the auditorium, you chose a seat near the middle, the lights dimmed and the stage alight. You pulled out your notepad and got to work, words flying off the paper with hardly the need to look down at them.

You were mesmerized.

All of them were great, but they weren’t Michael.

When they started practising a Jackson 5 medley and you heard I’ll Be There echoing right in front of you, tears almost fell. You thought of your mom and how insane this was, sniffled, and continued jotting on your notepad.

The rehearsal ended, stage lights dimming until fluorescence zipped to life above the theater seats, and you had to squint against the onslaught. Your notes were a mess and your shirt sported a new ink smudge near the breast pocket, yet Michael recognized you anyway.

He was sweaty and tired, wearing a soaked white shirt, curls stuck on his forehead and cheeks. He had just downed an entire Evian water bottle, and some of it trickled past his lips and down his neck. He looked entirely spent, and all you could think was how much you’d kill to be the one to make him feel better.

Your head shook at that. Jesus, girl.

His demeanor was so different from when he was onstage. It’s like he took another form entirely. But down there he was just a guy, squinting at you through the exhaustion. You exited the seats and when he came close enough, you told him: “Hi, Mr. Jackson. I’m from—”

He cut you off. “Hold on… Don’t I know you?”

His voice was as soft as you’d remembered. It washed over you. From the back, his brothers’ boisterous laughter could be heard, but you clung to the softness. Faltering a little, you looked at your shoes before meeting his eyes again. Your smile was tight but genuine. He remembered you.

“Backstage at the Grammys. I asked you about the Billie Jean bassline…?” you trailed off.

And, his whole face just lit up. You should’ve known right there he’d be the thing to kill you. 

Snapping a finger, he laughed: “Yes! The craftsmanship question. I remembered your voice.” His shoulders fell in relaxation, like he was lighter. His hand dropped, that enthusiastically bright smile melting into something softer. Mellower. Looking straight into your soul all the while. “You wrote that beautiful piece for Rolling Stone. You actually… listened to the track.”

You chuckled a bit, feeling your neck flush. This wasn’t the Grammys press room or an official interview studio, with cameras or mics or anything other than his eyes to scrutinize you. This was private. Genuine. You were a kickass professional, but you were also human. He flustered you; way more than pride would have you admit out loud.

He read your article. Called it beautiful. Holy shit.

“I try to make it a habit. You’d be surprised how many people I work with that couldn’t tell you the difference between a chorus and a bridge.”

Cough. Ben. Cough.

That made him laugh. Fuck. Fuck! Leaning a hip against a seat, he crossed his arms and shook a curl off his forehead. His smile was fucking devastating. “Not you, though. Right?”

 “I mean, I hope so?” You made a joking grimace, something between cringing and shrugging. “There’s always a margin for improval, though.”

“I think so, too. Staying stagnant is one of my biggest fears.”

“You’re anything but stagnant, trust me,” you laughed, swallowed hard when he levelled you with a look that urged you to continue. “I–I mean, Off The Wall might’ve been your first fully solo album, but you’d already separated yourself from your brothers creatively. Completely. And, Thriller… What can I even say? They’re like day and night. So, yeah. Trust me,” you took a breath for what felt like the first time after a dive, “Journalistic integrity and all.”

He was nodding along, smile brightening the longer you rambled. In truth, you actually wanted to kind of kill yourself, but once you started there was no shutting it off. So, there you were, giving Michael Jackson a review of his own damn life’s work! What even was your life?

“You’ll be covering this,” he looked back halfheartedly, sighing, “uh, tour?”

Your brows furrowed. “The preparations, yeah.” Call it plain curiosity or your journalistic instincts kicking in, but it took you over. “Why’d you say it like that? Are you not… feeling this?”

He levelled you with a smirk. His eyes were hooded; tired, but sly. Oh, he was a problem, alright. “Not now that you’re here.”

He said it all smooth and suave, yet squinted his eyes a second later, softly laughing at himself and making you stutter through a laugh too.

“That’s–uh… Thank you. I appreciate it, Mr. Jackson. More than you know.”

“Michael,” he grinned at you. “For you, off the record, just Michael. We’ll be sharing a space for some time ‘til the tour.”

You nodded like an idiot, completely caught off-guard. Because, yeah, what the fuck. Sure. “Michael,” you repeated. Like an idiot.

A camera flashed from the side, a metaphorical bucket of ice-cold water getting dumped on you. All levity evaporated off of him, spotting the promotional photographer almost instantly and raising a dismissive hand.

“C’mon, man. Go bother Jermaine or somethin’.”

“O–of course, Mr. Jackson. Sorry!”

He left with his tail tucked between his legs, and you looked at Michael with a sniff. “He doesn’t call you Michael.”

“He’s not you, is he?”

“Guess not.” You glanced at your watch, eyes widening. “Oh! I have to go. I’ll see you next time. Um,” you giggled awkwardly and shook your head. Maybe it could be seen as endearing. At least, you hoped. “Goodnight, Michael.”

“Do you live close? Want me to get someone to call a cab?”

“I’m good,” you nodded softly at the thoughtfulness. It made you feel warm. “See you.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, hips jutting off of the seat he was leaning against, hands closing around the towel hanging from his neck. “I’ll see you.”

That night, you closed your apartment door and screamed so loud the old lady next door had to check on you. You were so over the moon that you slapped a kiss on each of her cheeks and gave her a bunch of leftover cookies you’d made the day before.

You weren’t scheduled to attend another rehearsal until next week. What you weren’t expecting to find at work two days later was a courier at your desk, a nondescript white package shoved into your arms as he urged you to sign. Your heart began pitter-pattering like a hailstorm as you carefully opened it with a pair of scissors, and not even Ben’s curious gaze was enough to stop you.

It was from him.

A rare, early white-label promotional vinyl pressing of Thriller, ‘NOT FOR SALE’ plastered front and center. Your heart genuinely dropped to your ass, head swimming as you turned it around your grip with a hung jaw.

You think Ben might’ve made some sarcastic comment about the feral look in your eyes, but you didn’t even register his presence. He was such a small blotch of importance in your mind, he might as well have not existed at all.

Your head was in upheaval, little-you’s running around with everything on fire, because… This wasn’t happening, right? What the hell?

There was a handwritten note attached, on what looked like to be Michael’s personal stationary: a gold-trimmed and thick cream paper sporting his handwriting. Your heart galloped harder, like it wanted to burst free with every line you read.

It was a wonderful surprise to see you at rehearsals. It’s rare to find someone who understands the magic we try to capture in the studio. I would love to talk more about music with you… Without all the flashing cameras next time. 

If you have some time this weekend, please call Bill (my security) at this number (213)XXX-XXXX. He will arrange for us to have some quiet time to talk.

Keep writing beautifully.

—Blessings, Michael

You were gone, in every sense of the word. Completely and utterly wiped out.

You called the number right there in the office, nervously fidgeted with the cord as you spoke with a sweet-voiced man on the other line who identified himself as the aforementioned Bill, chewed halfway through your lip when you gave him your address and arranged for him to pick you up on 8PM that Saturday.

Arrangements for Encino, the Jackson residence. To somehow—in some inconceivably mind-numbing way—meet up with Michael Jackson and… talk about music? You. And him. Alone in a house larger than your apartment complex and probably your old house combined.

You and him, alone, with his beautifully doe-like eyes and that soft voice that hasn’t left your mind ever since you heard him in the flesh. Fuck.

When you got home that day, you dropped everything by the door and flew to your mom’s old record player she insisted you take during the move. Punching the white-label in, you spent nearly the entire time between coming home and sleeping just listening to Thriller on repeat.

It sounded so… crisp. Clearer than the record back at Berkeley’s radio station, or the one currently sitting on your stack near the wilting spider-plant. If absolutely nothing else, it was a collector’s wet dream, and the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for you in a long time. Worst of all? He didn’t have to.

The thought had you smiling like an idiot inside your small apartment, with the smoke-stained walls smelling of cheap perfume, forgotten takeout, and that certain kind of loneliness only the dust gathering could spread.

God, you were so easy. But he was who he was, so you figured you’d cut yourself some slack.

That’s exactly the thing, though… He owed you nothing. Anybody else in his place would’ve probably forgotten about you the moment they stepped out the press room, let alone remembering you worked for Rolling Stone and waiting for the article to hit the streets? Are you kidding?

You never asked him why. That week came and went like water in a forest creek, swifter than a breath. Before you knew it, it was Saturday and 8PM loomed dangerously. Your room was in a state of disarray, which meant your bathroom too, which might as well have meant the entire apartment looked like site zero of nuclear testing.

Bill arrived at 8PM on the dot, bent his hat for hello as you descended the stairs, and drove you to Encino like he’s driven you a million times before. Like he would a million times again.

Michael greeted you by the fountain. Your heart did the thing that makes you think you’re having a heart attack, but no. He’d just smiled at you. Cheeks full of warmth, eyes bright, asking with a soft voice if you liked his gift. He said he didn’t want to come off as pretentious, but the way you spoke about Thriller made him think you’d appreciate it. 

You don’t even remember what you said; the most you remember about that night is everything you’d lose—

“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” Michael’s voice cuts through the low hum of the cassette recorder, dragging you out of the spring of ‘84 and dropping you right back into the suffocating luxury of 1988.

You blink, focusing on him again. That sweet face full of promise gives way to what he is now: undead and frozen, disastrously beautiful, the best and worst thing to ever happen to you.

What he also is, is inside your mind. Literally.

The tape reels of the Sony TC-D5M turn between you, small plastic wheels trapping secrets that could burn the music industry to ash if they ever left this room. When they leave this room.

“I’m the one doing the interviewing. Get out of my head,” you quip, arms and legs crossed, every ghost of his gaze making your hair stand in attention. Clearing your throat, you adjust your position as if a straight back could shield you against him. “Who’s he?”

 “Yeah, yeah you are. C’mon, girl,” he tsks, waving you off. “You know exactly who he is. I don’t have to read your mind to know where you go when you look at me like that.”

“And where is that?” You level him with shaky blinks, almost afraid to take the risk of not seeing him for that fraction of a second it takes for your lids to open again. He’d never hurt you, you know that.

At least, more than you want. More than you crave to be hurt by him.

“Hayvenhurst, Zoetrope, the studio in Encino, that hole-in-the-wall record store…” he counts off on one hand, long curls falling over his eyes from the half-up/half-down updo he’d tucked them in. “Before. Stuck on something that’d never last to begin with. I’m right here, baby. Can’t you see that?”

He looks so good it makes you want to cry. Why did you agree to this?

Because he’s Michael. Because you love him. You loved him in 1984, and ‘85, ‘86 and ‘87, and you love him now too. No matter the blood. No matter his nature. He’s still the Michael you met in that crowded press room, no matter how much he insists he isn’t.

“So. The him in question is you, Mr. Jackson. You, before you turned?” Journalistic, professional, curt. That’s what he asked for, isn’t it? One final interview by his favorite journalist, revealing what he is to the world.

His eyes drift down to the recorder. It whirs and whirs and keeps on whirring. The almost 13K square feet take the silence and project it all throughout, until the house is louder because of it.

“Yeah. It’s me.” He breaks into a blinding smile. His fangs glint. “I’m thirty years old. I was turned the summer of ‘84, so I’ve been dead for about four years.”

“By all accounts then, still a child.” He doesn’t like that. Clenches his jaw, but says nothing. “Who turned you? How? I imagine those reading are most curious about that.” And then, almost too quiet for the cassette to pick up on, “I know I was.”

“You know what I think about?” He ignores your prompt completely, elbows resting on his spread thighs, eyeing you with that look he gets only where you’re involved. “Remember Dodger Stadium?”

Of course you do.

(December 9th, 1984. A sea of fifty-five thousand people thrashing and screaming, all there for the final night of the Jackson 5 Victory Tour you’d been vigorously covering since April of the same year.

Somewhere along the way, it became something else. Michael had kissed you under the dim lights of his personal studio in Encino, and you’d kissed him back. One hand on his nape, the other clawing at the curve of his waist. His arms curled around you like they belonged there, and his tongue tasted as good as he sounded.

He asked you to be his girl two weeks later. You protested halfheartedly—thinking of your career and the ethics—but in the end didn’t give half a shit. He was yours, you were his, and you continued being a kickass entertainment journalist in the meantime. Your sources just became a tad more direct.

And then, he died.

It was early August, their next concerts being scheduled for NYC. He flew you out, ready to show you off to his brothers like they didn’t already know, and you were over the moon.

Ever since the tour started and long distance became an inevitability, the landline by your bedside got hot every night before bed. He’d call, and you’d fall asleep with his sleepy voice as a lullaby. It left you aching in the best of ways.

You missed him like you knew him all your life. You were so happy to see him again, but… He was different. 

He looked… sick. Lips dry, eyes unfocused, limbs uncoordinated like it was the first time he wore his skin. He refused to leave the hotel while the sun was out, and looked at your neck like it was calling to him.

Well… His nature became clear when you found him draining a busboy behind the hotel. The guy looked deliriously elated to be dying: smile wide as blood-spurts flew like a fountain, bathing Michael in red as he gulped it all down.

He was onto you before you could even take a breath deep enough to scream.

Blood-stained hand against your mouth, wet against your skin, hot as it accidentally slithered past your lips. Your pupils shrunk into pinpricks, the bricks cold on your back as Michael caged you between him and the wall. 

You couldn’t breathe. You screamed against his hand so loud your throat burned, but it didn’t matter. Nothing came out. Only the hot, sizzling tears that mixed with the blood.

“Shh, shhh, baby, calm down,” he whispered. He was so close, inches away, the fresh blood metallic in your nostrils. You saw his fangs and screamed again, thrashing against his hold. “Please, I love you. I love you, baby, be quiet—”

You sobbed against his hand, head shaking as you desperately tried to get away. He kept shushing you with soft and loving praise, calling you beautiful, caging you harder. Your eyes fell on the busboy still dying, milky white skin drained of color as his blood stopped flying, and you knew he was dead.

“It’s over,” Michael whispered, kissing your forehead, lips lingering as he spoke against you: “It’s over, see? Stop cryin’ baby, you’re breaking my heart.”

“You killed him,” you wailed against his hand that was slowly retreating. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t move. “You killed him, Mike, he’s de–dead—” 

Your sobs were the only coherent thing that could come out of your mouth; the same mouth that now had the taste of that guy’s blood. You were going to be sick.

“Somethin’ happened in New Jersey… I changed. I changed, baby, and,” he pointed to the dead guy, “I asked his consent. He let me,” Michael laughed in disbelief. “I swear to you. Let’s just go back to the room, yeah?” He searched for your eyes.

You couldn’t look. You were petrified of what you’d find. Some monster, or the same sweet eyes he hid behind his hands when he shyly asked you to be his girl? You still don’t know what would’ve been worse.

“W–what…” you coughed, spit clogging your throat, tongue paralyzed because if you moved it too much you could taste the blood. “What are you?”

“I’m me, but different. I’m better.” That same soft voice, his characteristic lilt right in your ears.

“I want,” you heaved, “I–I want to go… I think. Michael, I just… Let me go.” You ducked your head down, one of your trembling hands ghosting over your jaw and the blood caked there. “Let me go, plea—”

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?” you cried, eyes finally meeting his. There the monster stood, with the same eyes you loved.

He slowly leaned on you, laying his delicious weight and grounding you despite being the reason for your turmoil. He closed his eyes, those soft curls tickling your cheeks, his hips completely flush against yours and making you gasp as he breathed you in. You were hot, boiling everywhere: neck, chest, hips, deep down your belly and spreading into every inch of your limbs.

He was everywhere. And, in spite of everything, you clutched him tight. One hand on his bicep, the other brushing on the curve of his waist, leg unconsciously lifting to curl around his. You exhaled into his open and waiting mouth, swallowing his lips when they crashed against you. You tasted the fresh blood in his mouth, and shivered as you accidentally licked his fangs.

All you could think was that you’d go to Hell. Not in some lighthearted, cursing-in-the-heat-of-the-moment way. The literal way. The biblical way. Damned for eternity, boiled alive and skinned with fire type of Hell. 

You moaned into him; half a whine, half a sob. He ate it all. He grinded his hips into you, hand buried in the meat of your thigh and bringing you even closer, closer to where he was hot too—

You were going to be sick.

And you did. Breaking the kiss for air, all that connected your mouths was a thin line of hot-red saliva mixed with blood.

And… Yep. There was your dinner: twisting in your stomach and up your esophagus, hitting you so viscerally you only had time to push Michael aside and hurl on the dirty concrete of some NYC back alley, trapped between a dead body and an undead one.

Fuck ‘a rock and a hard place’ and whoever made that shit up. Fuck them and their momma, too.

“What the fuck are you?” you rasped with a sore throat, wiping your red-crusted lips with the back of your hand. Half-kneeled over, you were gripping your knee with one palm so hard it hurt.

He smiled at you wide, fangs getting buried in his bottom lip. They glistened with your spit and that thick metallic tang you could still taste. His voice was still soft. Still his.

“Isn’t it obvious, girl? I’m a vampire.”

You just laughed.

Sudden, sharp, gut-deep. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed that hard in all your twenty-six years on this mortal coil. Twenty-two, then. You laughed and laughed until all you could do was inhale lungfuls of air that punched their way out of you seconds later.

You clapped two hands together and looked at Michael with a crazed beam, your mouth open and teeth showing, still laughing. He looked at you and started laughing too, that deep rumble you found so attractive. He returned the crazed look, hands moving to wrap around each of your shoulders as you ran out of breath.

When your laughter died out, you fainted into his arms, and that’s the last thing you remember about that night in the alley.

It’d been four months since August. Four long months of guilt and disbelief clouding your head every time you woke up, of haunting your nightmares in the form of that unnamed busboy each night you fell asleep.

Anyone normal would’ve turned Michael in to the cops. Would’ve called him psychotic over the vampire bullshit, and ran away to some corner of the world so obscure not even the CIA could’ve found them in.

You did none of that. You weren’t just anyone.

He showed you. That very same morning, with the hotel room blinds shut, he proved everything. Read your mind right back to you, extended and retracted his fangs on will, moved around the room in a dizzying rush of movement a million times faster than any normal human could run. He told you everything.

Your head hurt so much you couldn’t get out of bed for two days, thus ending up losing your flight back to LAX. He paid for another ticket without question.

It was a tough-as-shit pill to swallow, but swallow it you fucking did. Michael Jackson was a vampire. Because, yeah, sure! Vampires are real! That’s a totally normal thing to be aware of in the world.

Michael was a vampire, you loved him, he loved you. He called you his girl, you kissed him and ached for him the same way you did before. You just needed time.

Ben was hounding you about your pending article/review of Prince’s newly released Purple Rain, the ceiling in your bathroom began leaking while you were away and had to get fixed, and you just… needed time to get your head straight.

The four months flew by quicker than you could’ve anticipated. Even as Michael and his brothers touched down on LAX at 2AM on the penultimate Friday of November—just a week before their final six shows in LA—you had a hard time believing what really went down that night in August.

He called you during. Every night, just like before, the landline by your bed rang and you’d talk for so long that you’d wake up in the morning with the phone dangling off the side of your bed. Pretending everything was normal. Ignoring the elephant in the room probably big enough to get into the Guinness record.

He’d call, and all you could think about would be those late nights in his studio, laughing over nothing as you questioned what you were even doing. Of how insane it was to share such an intimate space with him. Of knowing him beyond that invisible wall between you and a person of such tremendous success.

Of how much more he was than anything a TV host or swooning fan could squeeze out of him.

You flew into his arms near the mini-bus that was scheduled to drive them home from the airport, chuckled over his shoulder when Bill made eye-contact with a smirk. Bill also knew. You and him were the only ones.

Well, if you exclude Michael’s maker. But you don’t like thinking about that, so you don’t.

“What does it taste like?” you asked him after the show on the 7th; the second to last. 

You were in his room in Encino, the lamps casting a warm glow over his endearing childhood clutter. Perched on top of his bed, naked and sweaty and spent, you rested your head on your wrist, arm bent at the elbow. Your other palm played with the dips of his chest, curling in indecipherable patterns.

He huffed a soft laugh. “You’ve already had a taste, baby.”

“Yeah, and I threw up,” you counter. “No, I mean, like… What’s it like to drink blood? Does it feel like drinking life itself?”

He chuckled, gave you a wet peck and pulled on your lip with his fangs. You sighed a moan. “Warm,” he whispered. “Thick, it’s… Well, it’s not the answer to life’s mystery, angel. It’s food. I need it.”

“And me? Right now?”

His pupils dilated. You saw it in real time, as he bit his lip and his gaze fell on your neck. Your heartbeat picked up, and he would’ve felt it anyway, vampire or not.

“I won’t lie to you. I sense it. Feel it,” he brushed a sharp nail softly against the skin on your carotid, “as it slides along your veins. I think about it, when we—”

He looked cute. Flushing at his own words, his own thoughts. Your thigh was draped over his naked lap, and he slid a hand across your skin to grip you tighter.

You didn’t think much when you said: “Take a sip, then.”

His head snapped at you, all of the flush gone and replaced by something of a different nature entirely. There you were, a lamb that’s survived the wolf and begging for it anyway. 

Th-thump, th-thump, th-th-thump, th-thump. You knew he felt it. Your skin was sizzling, and you wanted him to taste you.

“No,” he shook his head.

You raised a wrist near his face, waved it like a child, naked breasts brushing against him. Stupid fucking lamb. “Why not?” you asked, and you actually sounded hurt.

He kissed you, poured all his love into it. Palm cradling your head softly and shooing away your wrist from the danger-zone that was his mouth, he said: “Because,” a peck against your lips, “once I start,” on your cheeks, “I won’t stop.”

Deep down, even then, you know you wanted it—)

“That’s not what I asked,” you tell him now, eyes tight. The whirring recorder fills the silence.

His head drops for a moment with a quiet laugh, and when he speaks up, he looks at the recorder pointedly. As if to say, ‘Happy now?’

“It’s my story, isn’t it? My reckoning?”

You huff. “A story needs foundation. So far, all we’ve established is that Michael Jackson knocked his head sideways so hard while filming Thriller, he’s having delusions. You asked for this interview, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he smiles. He loves this. Of course he does.

“Then let me do my job. Now… When, how, and by whom were you turned?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, elbows on his knees, playing with his fingers. “I was turned in New Jersey, July 31st. My maker… is a patron of the arts. That’s what he told me, anyway. Why he did what he did. He said I should stay like this forever.”

You feel your heart bleeding. You know he can hear it, too. “And you will.”

“And I will.”

Michael should be alive right now. This shouldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t have so much blood on his hands, even though it’s so, so fucking hypocritical of you to think this way. The moment Michael died, he became something else. Something outside of human morality and comprehension.

He’s not human, but that image of his doe-eyes that first Saturday in Encino is engraved down to your bones. You just can’t let go.

You cough, clearing your throat, begging a higher power to stop the tears from pooling. You don’t fucking need this right now. “So, it wasn’t consensual?”

His smile changes, for just a fraction of a second. “No. It wasn’t. But I don’t think you’ll find many vampires to tell you it was.”

You look to your lap, at the notepad that’s still empty and the nervous tapping of your pen. “How does one turn? Please, walk us through the process.”

There it is, that smirk. Even when he gets like this, his smile is beautiful.

“Remember Dodger Stadium?” he repeats, a deeper timbre in his voice that lands right where you don’t need to be thinking right now. He doesn’t normally sound like this, to protect his voice.

Fuck.

The answer is yes, and he knows it is. He just wants you to say it. Wants to remind you, as if it could ever be erased.

December 9th, Dodger Stadium. Last night of the Victory Tour. The night Michael finally gave his piece-of-shit father a taste of his own goddamn medicine. The night Michael tasted you for the first time. The point of no return.

You were backstage, waiting for him and his brothers to be done, eardrums nearly bursting by the sheer excitement of the crowd. It should’ve overwhelmed you—and it nearly had—but he made it all okay. Had Bill standing by your side for the entirety of the concert, ensuring Michael would be the first person to see you after they got done. For good this time.

Joseph was there too, and you were fuming, but not as much as he’d be. The thought comforted you.

Michael looked high when he stormed towards you, sweat-soaked and iridescent, the throat-burning screams of an insatiable crowd echoing behind him like the croaks of vultures. He smiled at you, letting his fangs show as he took you by the hand, Joseph hot on his trail. Bill stopped him, and Michael didn’t look back once.

He crowded your every sense in some obscure corner of the stadium, nearly pitch-black. He kissed you like he hadn’t found your lips in days, like a thirsty man trekking the desert.

You welcomed it. You craved it. Arms thrown over his shoulders, one playing with the curls of his nape and the other burying itself in their thickness, you squeezed him like you wanted to be fused. Needed to.

“You did it,” you sighed with a big smile against his lips, moaning a soft exhale as his kisses trailed down and all over. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Mike, you did it—”

The first bite was soft. Just a nip, a barely-there graze of his fangs on your exposed neck. A slip-up, making him freeze in place as your heart echoed, pounding deeper and deeper against its boney cage.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. All color drained from his face. You panicked, clutched him tighter against you. He quivered: “Baby, no, I’m so sorr—”

“No,” you breathed. Th-thump, th-thump, th-th-thump, th-thump. You watched his eyes clouding, pupils blown as he zeroed in on your pulsing jugular. You felt the vein shifting your skin with its intensity. He damn-near drooled. “I want you to. I want you to have me, like this… I want you to taste me.” You licked into his open lips messily, tongue slipping on his fangs. “I trust you.”

He looked like he’d seen a ghost. 

“W–what?” he stuttered in that sweet voice, just like the boy he used to be. His pretty eyes drifted between your neck and eyes, lost and confused, like he hadn’t heard you right.

You smiled at him. With one finger, you traced his cheekbone, down his nose, across his lips. One of your legs was wrapped around his waist, and you tightened it. His hand instinctively buried itself in the meat of your thigh, thumb softly rubbing.

“I want you,” your hand pushed down your shirt collar, “to taste me, Michael. You deserve it.”

He morphed into something else; darkened eyes, something swirling inside them that surpassed lust by an absurd degree. You couldn’t understand it fully; you could only just revel in it.

He inhaled sharply, lips on your vein, voice blistering. He sounded breathless, air completely punched out of him. “I do, don’t I? You smell… so sweet, baby.” A kiss, sharp fangs prickling you, warning you of what’s to come. “My sweet thing, all mine… Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you begged, “yes, yes, ye–ah—!”

It was… euphoric.

To this day, there isn’t a more apt word for it. That first tasting felt better than any drug, any naturally produced hormone. And it was exactly that feeling of intimate carnage you’d been chasing ever since.

The truth is, Michael ruined you. You’ve come to terms with it.

How can you even put it into words? He’s in your head again, you can tell; reliving it from your perspective, letting the pain and pleasure of memory wash over him as he exhales. You exhale, too. You cross your legs, he adjusts his crotch, and neither of you says a thing.

The recorder whirs, tapes wasted over the silence.

Your brain shifts through the memories without your say. That hot prickling of his teeth into your neck—for just a second—to gently pierce the flesh and not cause too much damage. The way he licked over it as you moaned, something in his tongue that made the pain give way to ecstasy. 

You still haven’t figured that part out, but you doubt there’ll be any scientific studies done on the Dark Gift anytime soon. So, mystery it is.

The way he drank: lazily, his slender and strong arms wrapped around you like a vice, feeling him everywhere as your eyes swam. You turned boneless in his embrace, like putty. Completely at his mercy, and he drank every last drop you offered.

You were pulsing hot for him, and you are now too. Both times, he’s been able to feel it. That first time, though, he held back. Blood-drunk and greedy for more, he drew back with a sharp breath, two slim fingers finding the puncture wounds and pressing tight to stop the bleeding. Heaving as his tongue lapped over what was left still on his lips, completely gone.

You remember feeling hammered. Like you’d just downed a whole bottle of Hennessy and done three lines of coke. Fuck, that’s not something one can go through and just be normal afterwards, right? Well-adjusted and going on about their day?

Humans are vampire food, and that something in their saliva surely is to make your last moments on this earth somewhat enjoyable. That busboy looked so happy with his entire neck slashed in two. You’d been in ecstasy too, and just lived to tell about it.

He’s doing this on fucking purpose. Your thighs clench, eyes narrowing.

“I remember,” you hiss curtly. “But you knew that. You’re in my head right now, aren’t you?”

“What would I see?” he asks, breathless, leaning back on the cushions, hand on his crotch. Don’t look, don’t look. “If I was.”

Two can play that game. You force yourself to think of something insanely unsexy. Like that time you accidentally walked by Tito skinny-dipping in the pool in Hayvenhurst, one night you’d stayed over and wanted a glass of water in the middle of the night. You got an unforgettable view of his naked ass, and that’s exactly the image you project.

It takes merely a second for Michael to lose it. And, fuck. Fuck him and that stupidly deep laugh of his. Fuck him, and fuck you for finding it so disarming.

“You think my laugh’s disarming, sweet thing?”

Sweet thing. Just like he called you that night, drooling over the smell of your veins. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“Mr. Jackson—”

“—Michael—”

“Michael—!” you give in and cut yourself off, his name a frustrated whisper. You clench your eyes tight, defeated. Then, because you’re you, you bite back. “Remember the AMAs? Or Rolling Stone’s 20th, remember that? Huh, Michael?”

(The American Music Awards of 1986. What can you even say about that shitshow of an awards night? The last time you’d been inside the Shrine Auditorium was as a young journalist, still unsure but certain to leave your mark.

And you clearly had, because the second time you stepped through those doors was while holding onto Michael’s arm. His date. His girl. Seated in the front row, wearing a pretty black dress to match his military jacket.

You don’t remember much about the ceremony or the afterparty, except for how much you wanted to strangle Diana Ross in that shiny red dress of hers. That old bitch.

Your and Michael’s relationship was kept mostly private from the public, but not from either of your circles. A badly-kept secret, so to speak. Of course Diana knew as she called him up the stage and held his arm, kissed him sloppily on both cheeks, danced tightly against him as all the artists involved sang We Are The World.

You fought with him about it afterward, really bad. Said some nasty shit you wish you could’ve phrased differently, because he just couldn’t see your point. He even defended her, right in your face! You remember saying something like: “She met you as a child, Michael! A grown woman! Called you sexy on national TV! What the fuck are you not seeing, exactly?”

He replied like: “Baby, it ain’t like that. Never was, never will. You’re overreacting. Please. Why are you bein’ like this?”

Bill drove you home ten minutes later, and you didn’t speak to Michael for over a week.

Your apartment got promptly filled with an apologetically handwritten card, some of your favorite pastries from Phoenix Bakery in Chinatown, and a brand new record of Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love.

It was a week too fucking soon.

Yeah. Well, ‘86 and ‘87 were a couple of bad years for the both of you. You don’t know if you can confidently say you actually broke up, because how do two people break up when one’s tasted your blood? When you’ve let them? Can that connection ever be severed, even momentarily?

You sure as hell acted like it had.

You’d barely spoken to him in months—close to a year, almost—and the cards didn’t once stop appearing every week, like clockwork.

He called you once, too. Late into the night, your apartment quiet as you twisted and turned. You picked up on the third ring, breath catching in your throat when you heard his soft whiny breaths.

Michael. Heavy and hot, almost scratching the receiver. You recalled his scent, the way his perfume would linger on the pillows even hours later. The way you’d bury your face in those pillows as he wrecked you.

The soppy-wet sounds of his hand working over himself travelled the distance, landing right between your legs as you rubbed them together in shock. 

“Mike?” you whined, bit back a moan as he exhaled.

“Talk to me, baby, jus’ keep talking… A–ah, please, plea… I need to hear your voice…”

It was so loud under the silence. Your heart pounding, the heat between your legs slipping past the point of tolerance, the way his soft moans slithered on your skin and made you shudder. Your hand buried in your panties, mouth huffing and drooling over the headset, shuddering with each of Michael’s groans and whines, each wet echo of his hand as he got off to your voice alone.

He came with a shuddering breath that was enough to send you over the edge too, fingers cramping as you chased the feeling with your hips, your moans only prolonging his own high.

The quiet stretched over you both like a blanket, just the faint scratches of the connection breaking it, your breaths mingling even miles apart. You imagined what he’d look like right then: fucked out, needy, spent, curls a wet mess against his forehead and cheeks. The way he’d clench his eyes in pleasure and the way his thighs would quiver from it. The way you’d kiss every inch of him, lips sliding over his sweaty skin as he flushed; because, despite everything, he still got shy.

Panting, you punched the landline shut, like it’d burned you. And that was it.

While that period of time felt like ages to you, it must’ve been meaningless for an immortal who’s got nothing but time in his hands. You think he would’ve waited years had you not pulled the stunt you had.

The scene was this: November of 1987 inside the Hollywood Palladium, dimly lit table areas punctuated by blinding white follow-spots cutting through a thick layer of haze, the stage dominated by a giant ‘Rolling Stone: 20 Years’ neon sign. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive French perfume worn by every A-lister, spilled champagne, hairspray, and an omnipresent cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke.

You wore that black dress Michael bought for you to match him in the AMAs, because you knew he would attend. He’d said as much in his most recent card that he’d sprayed with his perfume. You weren’t proud of it, but you’d clutched it tight against your nose, inhaled a deep gulp of his sweet and honeyed musk, sighed as frustration and pettiness sprouted inside you like weeds.

You wore his dress, to match with another man. Like the selfish bitch you were, apparently.

His name was David; a sweet post-graduate from USC who’d clung to you like a duckling since his first day in the office. It didn’t take long for him to ask you to be his date for the anniversary party, and you could see in his eyes he hoped it’d lead to something more. A sloppy makeout with champagne-soaked lips, maybe some second-base action in the back of his red BMW in the parking lot. A textbook office romance that’d end up being nothing but a short-lived disappointment, because after Michael that’s what every relationship was doomed to burn down into.

It’d never happen, of course. The plan wasn’t to get under somebody else, it was to get under Michael’s skin. That’s just about how far you’d thought it through. Hindsight’s a nasty bitch, though, because you really should’ve second-guessed yourself a bit harder. You wouldn’t have David’s blood on your hands had you done that.

But, you’re getting ahead of yourself.

David looked like the American Dream personified. Tall and muscular, pretty blue eyes and long brunette hair. He was the kind of man destined to marry his high school sweetheart and live in a nice two-story house in the suburbs, driving that same BMW until either he or the car gave out. You have no idea what happened and he somehow ended up as an entertainment-journalism intern in the heart of LA, but everyone’s got a story, you suppose.

Michael’s arrival signalled mayhem. He’d just released Bad three months ago and embarked on his very first solo world tour since September: first stop in Japan, then back to the states for the near-month gap until the Australian leg of the tour. Bad was another masterpiece, but you’d known that already. 

You were with him for almost the entire time he was making it. You’d sat curled on his couch in the studio as he re-recorded his ‘83 demo for Liberian Girl, shuddering at his beautiful harmonies, kissing him in-between breaks.

Outside, the sidewalk was a warzone of the paparazzi’s flashing Xenon flashbulbs. Inside, the instrumental intro of Dirty Diana began blasting as everyone became aware of Michael’s arrival, and you had to fight the urge to glower. 

He’d told you it was fictional, a gritty pop-rock anthem about groupies. You knew he was telling the truth. It still pissed you the fuck off.

David was pulling at your hand, wanting to introduce you to Jann Wenner, who he’d just met himself. You know you should’ve been enthusiastically jumping at the chance to get acquainted with Rolling Stone’s co-founder, but all you could think about was Michael.

His look. The longer hair you’d been threading your fingers through, now slick with gel and held up in a half-bun, falling to his shoulders. The metallic buckles, the heavy black leather, the studs. He looked like sex, even from fifty feet apart. Even in the dark. Maybe especially in the dark; right at home.

His eyes found yours in the crowd, irises glinting unnaturally when you made eye-contact. You’d missed those eyes so much. He smiled at that, reading your thoughts from the distance.

Amidst the clamor of his arrival and the party which was in full drunken swing, he made every sound but his projected voice fade away; as if your ears got stuffed with cotton. It disoriented you, and for a second before his voice rang in your head, you thought you’d been drugged.

‘Hi, baby,’ he echoed around your skull.

Fuck—

A chuckle, in unnatural surround sound. ‘I missed you too.’

But then David drew closer, still chatting with Jann Wenner, laughing over something you hadn’t bothered to pay attention to. Not that you could. Michael was watching. And when David’s palm inched down to your waist, gripping your skin with the confidence of a much different man than who you’d become accustomed with… You knew. You could taste it in the air.

David was already dead.

Does it really matter what exactly happened next? How Michael cut a line through the crowd and laughed at David’s jokes, looked at you only when he invited him somewhere quieter to talk, acted fascinated with his infant career? How you did nothing to stop the growling predator from catching up with sweet David into one of the countless unmarked backrooms of Hollywood Palladium?

“Stop!” you cried as Michael had him by the throat, red-hot and thick rivulets of crimson painting the floor in heaps. David’s neck was bent for Michael’s teeth to latch onto, dark leather glistening with blood, his pretty eyes sizzling with an anger so deep it bordered on divine. “Mike, he’s no one, h–he’s nothing! He’s a fucking nobody! Just let him go!”

“A nobody?” he echoed, voice slick as he swallowed around the words. “Touching you? A nobody you wore this dress for? Our dress? Are you serious, girl?”

David was gargling on his own spit and blood, completely out of it, limbs spread like a plush-toy on the discount aisle. Your hands were shaking, gooseflesh prickling every exposed inch of skin.

“We can just t–take him to a hospital. Please, Mike,” you wheezed out, a sudden sob breaking through your voice. “It’s my fault… It’s my fault, I didn’t thi—”

“Think what? That I’d do this?”

You shook your head, eyes clenched, arms crossed over your torso unsurely. “Just, let’s ju—”

“We can’t take him anywhere, sweet thing. Or let him live.” He rose, slowly, the predator approaching the deer because it loves it despite everything. He came to you and cradled you by the nape, searched for your eyes as your breathing steadied. You gripped him by the waist as he brought you closer, going to kiss your forehead and stopping short because of the blood still dripping. “What happens when he wakes up and tells the police Michael Jackson tried to kill him?”

Fuck. You’re so fucking stupid. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, id—)

“Of course I remember,” Michael tells you. “If you’d told me to stop, I would’ve. But you didn’t. Why?”

You drop the pen, ink smudging the unmarked notepad before you throw it to the side completely. “You never actually wanted this interview, did you?” He smiles. “What is this? Some sort of sick trip down memory lane? Why the hell did you have me agree to this, Mike?”

“It’s Mike, again? Good, good…” he breathes, smile elated. “I didn’t have you agree to anything, baby. You agreed… because you wanted to. Just like you wanted me to drain David dry.” You look away. “Admit it,” he urges, wild.

(—iot, idiot, idiot.

“Scratch me,” he told you, breath hot and metallic. You almost leaned forward. “Push me. Bite me. Do anything, and I’ll stop. I’ll let him go.” He unravelled his arms from you, took a step back, eyes locked onto yours like anchors the entire time. He moved backwards, one painstakingly slow step at a time. “Anything. Move a muscle, and I stop.” Another step. Two, three. “Anything, baby.” He leaned down, grabbed David by his blooming neck, oozing in-between his fingers. He shook his head: “No?”

You didn’t move an inch. Not a twitch, or a tremor, or a step. Nothing. Because he was right. If David woke up, Michael’s life would be over. Yours too. You’re not ashamed to admit it; you love Michael too much to care about a life snuffed out before its time. Hell, you might’ve killed David yourself.

So, you did… nothing. You stood there idle, breathless as the soppy slaps of Michael’s lips and tongue drained David dry. And when he swiftly came in front of you—spat the remaining blood on the ground next to your heels and fixed you with his hunger—you kissed him.

Open-mouthed, hot, eating him from the inside out. David’s blood smearing on your skin, you moaned against Michael’s sizzling lips, your waist and neck bending as he leaned into you harder. He whined something soft, voice electrifying, just like he sounded all those times before. Even under the leather and the death, he was still your Michael.)

“Why did you call me here, Mike?”

“You know why. You’ve known from the start.”

You shake your head, petulant. “No, n—”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, you do.” He searches your eyes, an endless brown sea of stars, all trapped inside his irises. His brows furrow, and his voice suddenly loses its punch. “I need you with me. I… I can’t do this, not anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “What? What’re you talking about?”

He chuckles to himself a bit, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s something broken. “Eternity is lonely, and I love you s–so much…” He sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t want to be alone anymore. I can’t.”

Oh… “Michael,” you breathe. Every human instinct in you screams to run, but every uneven beat of your heart screams the opposite. He can feel it. The way the blood surges through your veins, the way your breath catches somewhere in your throat, your eyes that trail down his figure you’ve memorized by heart.

Fuck. Fuck, f—

“What is it, baby?” he whispers. He might as well have yelled it. The way he’s looking at you makes the hairs on your nape stand tall, a shiver going through your shoulders you have no time to suppress.

You gulp. Eyes trailing down his arms, caressing his veins, falling into the trap of his slender hands. He’s beautiful everywhere. His pretty face and even prettier eyes, the long curls he’s grown out, his soft-spoken mouth with two fangs sharp enough to kill.

God. You love him so much. You need him. Not just for ten, twenty, thirty, forty years. Not to wilt away while he stays behind, watching you go with every sunset. No. You need to be… with him. Through all of it. You fucking need him.

“How… would you do it?” you whisper.

You don’t need to specify what ‘it’ is. His eyes are proof enough he understands exactly what you mean; holding you captive, like snares. You watch the way they darken, how his whole face shifts. It makes need pool deep down your belly. You twitch on the sofa, and he knows.

But you know, too. You can see the way he’s rubbing a hand on his thigh, adjusting in place, breathing a little heavier.

“I’d have to drain you first,” he punches out. One of his fingers traces his own throat in demonstration, sharp nail catching skin and leaving a trail. “I’d bite… here,” he stops at the carotid. “And,” his finger continues the trail, “here.” The jugular.

“Yeah?” You feel the vessels he’s pointing to galloping, pulsing harshly under your skin, like they’re getting ready for him. It’s like you can’t breathe properly anymore; the air gets stuck somewhere down your throat, your chest rising and falling in compensation. “And then?”

“Then…” He shifts, standing up, stalking towards you. “I’d stop, just before you die…”

Your neck needs to bend upwards to look him in the eye, eyebrows raising in performance. You’re eye-to-eye with his crotch, and you push down the urge to rub your cheek against it. You breathe: “Oh?”

“Mhm,” he hums, looming above you, all dark and handsome and yours. Fuck, you’d missed him. His palm comes up to cup your jaw, thumb softly tracing your bottom lip. “I’d slit my wrist… Right over this pretty mouth…” His thumb pushes in, and you take him gladly; tongue swirling around the digit as you huff a moan. It threatens to undo him. “I–I’d… Hm. I’d let you drink from me, as much as my baby needs… Yeah?” he asks, voice breaking into a high-pitched breath at the end.

“You will?” you ask when you release his spit-soaked thumb, giving the digit a kiss.

“Yes,” he exhales so hard his whole chest shudders. “I will, girl. I’ll give you every last drop.”

You don’t know who lunged first. All you know is that one second he’s looking down at you—mouth gaping as he pants, the heat between your legs spreading like tendrils over your nerves—and the next, you’re kissing.

Kissing is a kind term. You’re breathing each other in; licking and scraping teeth together like animals, whining against each other’s open mouths. His hold is bruising on your skin, his body an anchor as he turns you around in his hold.

Back against his lean chest, hips flush, his arm around you as his mouth comes down to your neck with a moan. He doesn’t bite, or even nip; he’s breathing you in. It makes you hotter, temperature rising dangerously.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he sighs, words muffled on your skin. “My girl… All mine…”

“Do it,” you heave, bound in his arms. He freezes. “Make me. Right now. Do it, Mike—”

“Baby—”

His hold lightened, and you used it to turn around again, just as flush as before. You grab him by both cheeks, cradling him in equal parts softly and fiercely. You smile, and it widens when you realise how much the sight undoes him.

“You were right. I’ve wanted this… for a long time.” You lay a peck on his lips, moving back before he has a chance to return it. You remove your blouse with both hands, chest falling and rising deeper with each second more his gaze trails over you. Taking his palm in your hold, you bring it to your pulsing neck, letting his nails softly graze against it. “I trust you.”

Just like you’d told him in Dodger Stadium. The words cleave him in two, lids hooding over his eyes as he nods, leaning down to catch your lips in a wet kiss full of promise.

He lays you down on the big couch, your naked skin meeting the back cushions. He undresses, looming over you like a statue, something from another era entirely. Lean and catastrophically beautiful. The white shirt he wore lands somewhere near the still-whirring cassette recorder, and he’s on you in seconds. Careful hands cradling the back of your neck, kissing you all over as your breathing quickens.

He’s nervous. “I’ve never done this before.”

You giggle nervously. “Me neither.”

It lands just like you wanted it to; makes him chuckle. He meets your eyes, and you suddenly realise his eyes will be the last thing you see. What better a way to die? He breathes: “I love you. I love you so much.” You smile. “Say it back,” he begs.

With a shake of your head, you whisper: “After.”

What comes next can best be described as a… euphoric daydream. A split-screen montage of ache and pleasure, a film reel of your life the way people say it flashes in your eyes just before you step into the light. You never believed it when they said that. How can so many years fit into so few seconds? How can an entire life of mornings and afternoons and nights all fly by so quickly? How did you get here?

As Michael pierces your flesh—carotid and jugular throbbing together in thick, hot rivulets you faintly register bathing your skin—you feel no pain. The ceiling oozes and bends out of shape, your limbs grow numb, and your eyes swim. You moan, but it doesn’t sound right in your ears. Like you’re somewhere else, hearing it from a distance. And Michael keeps on drinking; gulping you down, your heart racing to make up for the loss, lips siphoning all of your nearly one-and-a-half gallon of blood out.

You’re not in Michael’s house anymore. You’re six, and your dad’s bought a brand new record player as a gift for your mom’s birthday; the one that’d later end up in your apartment. You jump excitedly as she punches in Abbey Road, and the three of you spend the entire morning dancing to Here Comes The Sun.

You’re fifteen, and a boy’s broken your heart for the first time. He’d asked you to the prom as a joke, making you come by his house only to find Donna Taylor dolled up and smushed against him, his parents snapping polaroids of their son and his real date. You were mortified, hardly got out of bed for a week.

Your first day at UC Berkeley. Your fresh start. Your passion. The new friends who didn’t give a shit about how you grew up or what you used to be. The endless caffeinated nights slaving away in Eshleman Hall. That small diner close to Sherry’s house you’d all spend your free nights at, gossiping and laughing and talking about the future with greasy fingers. Those Wednesday afternoons spent at the radio station hosting your show with Aisha and Susan, giggling over Michael Jackson’s vocals on the second verse of The Lady In My Life.

Michael. The Grammys of ‘84. His room in Hayvenhurst. The tiny mom-and-pop record store close to your apartment you’d both go incognito in and browse for records, even though the teenage girl behind the counter recognized him and swore to keep his secret with her life (as long as he promised to come back). Before he had the courage to kiss you. Before you had the courage to admit you wanted him to.

The memories are brighter now, images swirling and bleeding into one another, to the point where you don’t know where one ends and another begins. You see Michael’s younger face, before he turned, and he’s standing beside you as you were on your first day in Berkeley. You look good together.

You feel featherlight. Eyes drooping and—

Something warm drips on your lips. You didn’t realise before, but a breath was stuck in your throat, lethargic and slow. It punches you straight in the chest on its way out.

It’s so sweet. Hot and thick, better than anything you’ve ever tasted. Like a charged live-wire, you jump up. Things get less blurry, sanguine haze slipping into rhapsodic focus.

It’s Michael’s arm, his oozing wrist, his blood you’re gulping down. You’re so, so hungry. Starving. Like you haven’t eaten in years. Your hands wrap around his wrist like an animal, pushing it into your mouth, guzzling down his saccharine blood as it drips past your jaw and down your breasts. You hear him moan, deeply, erotic and charged. You gulp harder and harder—

He swipes his hand away, and you’re left whining.

“No,” you cry, whimpering, words slurred like you’re drunk. “Iwantmore, Michael, I need more—”

“I’ll give it to you, baby, I will,” he comforts. His hands cradle your face softly, wrist still bleeding, fingers trailing over your forehead and cheeks and lips in awe. “You’re here…”

“I love you,” you heave out. His blood is still thick on your tongue. With newfound strength, you overpower him, pushing him back down onto the couch and straddling his lap. He moans as you kiss him, making him taste himself, tongues swiping against each other. You want to eat him up. “Ineedit, M–mike…”

He’s hard against you, bulge pushing up against his pants, sensitive as your hips start rubbing against him. You feel drunk on it. You lick your own lips, chasing the last sweet remnants of his blood, gulping it down with his spit. It’s like every single sensation has been dialed up to a million.

He looks like a dream. Breathing heavily, his non-bleeding palm tight on your thigh as you move against him, head hanging back with an open mouth. He brings his wrist up lazily, blood seeping down his forearm, fangs biting his lip with a dangerous smirk.

“You want it?” he whispers, sharp. You nod feverishly. He hisses: “Take it then. Take what you want, girl—”

He moans so prettily when you take his wrist in your mouth again. A little calmer now, not like you’re starving but rather like you’re savouring. Every hot drop. You’re wet and aching, rubbing against his hardness, gulping him down as it all swirls into a fucked out bliss you never want to get out of.

You could listen to his sounds forever. You want to. He’s so breathy and soft, nothing like the men you’ve been with before who only grunt like brutes. You suck his wrist a little harder, drop your clothed center a bit firmer, his eyes rolling back as he lets out the most mouth-watering mewl.

He exhales an embarrassed breath a second later, feeling as you smile against his wrist, still drinking. He pulls his hand back, your lips smacking in its absence.

“How d’you feel?” he slurs, cupping your cheek.

Forgoing an answer, you drop a hand between your bodies, grinning when he shudders. You rub him over the cloth just like this, need growing stronger the more he falls into you.

You lean down and kiss him, blood and breaths mingling, gasping a small ‘oh!’ in his mouth when you feel those slender fingers sneaking past the hem of your skirt.

You’re shaking as his fingers make contact with your slick; so cold contrasted with the heat bubbling, exhaling into each other’s face as you rest your forehead against his. Your hand undoes his zipper, bypasses his underwear and closes around him.

Fuck. Fuck. You missed him so much.

You work him just the way he loves: fingers brushing over the tip, smearing the wetness, squeezing him just so as your grip glides up and down. In return, he works you too: thumb on your clit, rubbing tight circles without missing a single beat, not even when he slips two fingers inside and you falter, moaning in his mouth.

“It feels so good, Mike…” you hiccup.

“I know,” he whines, “I know, sweet thing… You’re so good f’me… Here,” he brings his wrist up, “drink. Dri–a–ah, mhh—”

He tastes so fucking good. Is all blood like this? Is it just Michael? You don’t know nor do you care, you just need to keep drinking. You hold his lean arm tight against your torso, veined forearm lodged right in-between your breasts, wrist bent as he continues working you to a climax.

He stops his ministrations on you and closes around the hand that’s sloppily working him, slips his hardness out, single-handedly ripping your underwear in two. Fuck. Fu—

You shudder when he slaps the tip against your sensitive clit. “Mike,” you cry through a full mouth, nearly choking on a gulp. You shove your wrist in his face, brows furrowed, begging: “Fuck me.”

The sounds he makes slides over you like hot molasses. And when he slips in, it feels right at home.

His fangs break the skin on your wrist, mirroring your greedy gulps and you move against each other, skin slapping against skin. He’s everywhere. Everything. Him feeding on you feels as euphoric as it had that very first time, when you were still alive and mortal, fragile in front of the beast. The sensations travel from the puncture wounds and up your arm, tingling and erotic. They mix with the feeling of his dick driving in and out of you until you can’t tell where one sensation ends and the other begins.

You make for a sinful sight. Damned. Fucking on his couch, blood dripping down the leather, drinking each other up as you’re steadily shoved towards your peak. You feel it coming suddenly, his arm still held tight between your tits, his wrist limp as you detach your lips from the wound because you’re—

“M–mike—” you sob, voice wrecked, “I’m, I–I’m—”

“Yeah?” he breathes. He kisses you, hand slipping to your clit, and you come harder—fiercer—than you’ve had in your entire life.

The feeling threatens to drown you all over again. It travels from your bud and up your belly, spreading like tendrils and meeting with the tingling of his mouth that’s latched to your wrist again. Not drinking now, just kissing. Tiny wet pecks as the skin tries to heal itself, veins throbbing.

It takes a few more desperate bumps of his hips and your fangs—fangs!—teasing his ear for him to cum inside you. He shudders whole, his moans the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard, his head falling back and chest rising arrhythmically.

He doesn’t pull out, and you don’t want him to. You’re content to lie like this, chest to chest, connected and aching in the best of ways. Still breathing hard, you kiss him on the cheek, and he smiles at you so brightly, tears gather on your lashes. Happy tears.

“My baby,” he whispers, pretty doe-eyes drifting across your features. He kisses you, just for a second longer than you had. “My girl…”

“Look!” you giggle, brushing the pad of one finger against a fang, mouth hanging open like an idiot. He laughs. “I’ave’angs now!”

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, “but you need to rest. You’re not gonna wake up so happy, trust me.” You hum, smirking, squeezing your walls around his sensitive and softening dick. His hand comes down your ass in a sharp slap, making you smirk wider. “C’mon now, girl,” he smiles, pecking your nose. “Don’t start.”

“Okay,” you smile against him.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, resting just like he told you, listening to him explain how most things work now. It makes your head ring—and you have a million and one things you need to figure out and come to terms with—but none of it mattered for that small window of time you spent cuddled in his bed, all your problems and concerns unable to reach you past the warmth bubbling in your chest.

You died. Michael died. You were both on equal ground now, undead and damned, as you always suspected it was meant to be. Ever since you locked eyes beneath a sea of camera bulbs flashing.

(The night after your turn, you burned the forgotten Sony TC-D5M and the reels inside it. The interview was never going to see the light of day, anyway. He just needed to remind you of something you’d wanted from the start. He had to make you remember. He couldn’t stand your absence any longer. That you-shaped emptiness that threatened to stretch out for years while you’d force yourself to move on, leaving a void behind you that could’ve never been filled.

You loved him just as he loved you, and that was rare. Even before he died, he’d never felt it quite like he did with you. Every relationship of his scrutinized or twisted out of context, unable to exist with someone without offering explanations. He didn’t have that with you.

You’re a journalist, you know the ins and outs of the industry, and what you didn’t know you learned. Because you were good. With you, he was free to just exist.

So, yeah.

That’s the story of how Michael Jackson killed you, and that’s the end of it. There’s nothing else.)

3leni © 2026 — i do not consent to my work being republished on other platforms or put into ai. do not copy or plagiarize.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

needed me

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you can't stand bucky barnes. despite all your attempts to get rid of him, he's always somewhere in your orbit. you say you hate it. hate him. but you're also a very good liar.✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, college!au, frat!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, rivals to lovers but the rivalry is one-sided, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, bucky being a yearner, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (teasing, stripping, nipple play, praise kink and degradation kink, soft dom!bucky, mean bucky but you're into it, possiveness, dacryphila, pussy spanking, brat!reader, fingering, manhandling, doggy style, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦

✦wc: 9.2k✦

✦Author's Note: one day I'll just write porn without plot. today is not that day. we earn the horny. Enjoy!✦

You’ve gotten used to him. He’s like a fly that lives in your kitchen, and after a while you stop trying to kill it and just give it a name. It buzzes past your head and you swat at it, but it also sits on the window and you pretend it isn’t there.

Bucky Barnes laughs loudly from the table over, and you turn up the music in your headphones.

Telling him to be quiet never works in your favor. He smirks and tries to flirt with you. All his friends oooooo, like you’re still in middle school, then cause even more noise after you reject Barnes and they jump him like a pack of animals.

If you were smarter, you’d sit all the way in the corners of the cafeteria. Where there wouldn’t be a table big enough to fit all of them.

Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.

Pissing you off.

You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that  Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.

How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.

You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.

A very shiny fly.

You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t  remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.

It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.

And Barnes.

He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.

But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.

And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.

You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.

“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.

You snorted. “Of course you do.”

“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”

Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.

“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”

“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”

“But- You don’t actually believe that-“

“Yes, I do.”

Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”

That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.

You ignored it.

You were going to get very good at that.

“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.

“You hate everyone-“

“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”

Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”

“You’re still looking at me-“

“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“

“Not like that-“

“Like what?”

“Like you- You don’t believe me.”

He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.

“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.

Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“

“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”

He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“

“It’s not.”

It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.

He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.

After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.

“We work well together-“

“No we don’t.”

“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“

“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”

Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.

It made you want to throttle him more.

“You think I’m pretty?”

He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.

Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.

You had to rip your gaze away.

“Shut up.”

He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.

When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose. 

He always smelled so good.

And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.

He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.

The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.

You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.

The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.  

“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”

You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.

“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.

Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”

You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.

“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.

“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”

“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”

Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.

“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.

When Bucky looked at you, a lot of  coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.

“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”

You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”

“What?”

“The butterfly.”

“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”

“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“

“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.

Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.

“You want this?”

“The-“

“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”

You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.

An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.

“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.

Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

You scoffed. “Please-“

“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”

“I know fun.”

“Uh huh-“

“Stop doing that, I do-“

“Never seen you have it.”

“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”

You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.

“James-“

“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“

He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.

You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.

“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.

But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.

You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.

It’s better, really. Not to think about why.

Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.

All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.

You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.

You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.

“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.

“I can go myself.”

Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”

“I carry pepper spray-“

“That’s not enough.”

You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”

Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”

“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“

“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”

You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.

“What-“

“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“

“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”

That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.

“Fuck you, James-“

“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”

You paused.

Fuck, that was a good point.

You hated it when he made good points.

“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”

Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.

You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.

“No. I’m goin’ with you.”

You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”

“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”

You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.

He knew you.

You hated him.

“Fuck you.”

“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”

You blinked. “Wha-“

“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.

He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.

You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.

Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.

Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.

Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.

They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.

“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”

But you don’t make bad choices.

Ever.

You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.

Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.

“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.

“Hi.”

“You got the homework for public speaking?”

“Yes.”

Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”

“It’s online, James.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.

He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.

“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

You cross your arms. “Did you.”

“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”

“If I wanted… Help?”

Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.

“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”

You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.

“I don’t need your help.”

He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.

You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.

“Maybe I need your help?”

“You always need my help.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“You wanna come over Thursday?”

“No.”

“Alright, I’ll go to you-“

“I’m working Thursday.”

Bucky paused. “You got a job?”

You nodded. He frowned.

“Where?”

“Corner store.”

His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”

You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“

“You’re working late, it’s not-“

“I’ve been fine.”

“But what about when you’re not-“

“But I am-“

“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.

It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.

“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“

“Why do you care.”

Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.

“What corner store.” He grunts.

“Fifth and twenty, why-“

“We’re studying while you work.”

Your mouth fell open. “No-“

“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”

“I can kick you out-“

“You won’t.”

He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.

You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.

You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.

He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.

Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.

You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.

He made you giggle.

You hate him for that, too.

And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.

Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.

Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.

You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.

Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.

You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.

For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.

“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.

Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.

It is not fine.

Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.

But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.

It’s Sam.

You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.

You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.

And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.

“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”

You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.

Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.

“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”

You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.

There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.

“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”

And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.

Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.

“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.

Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”

You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.

“You know, I still got homework.”

You frowned up at him. “Okay.”

Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”

“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.

He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-

“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”

You blinked.

Oh.

“Yeah. I do.”

Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”

And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.

Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.

“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.

“I am tired.”

“You been eating enough?”

“I’m eating right now-“

“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.

It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.

That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.

 “I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.

Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”

Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.

Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.

It felt different now. It felt like it matters. 

You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.

He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.

Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.

You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.

The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.  

“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.

“Where do you think he is- Nat-“

She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.

You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.

Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.

You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.

He finds you first.

“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”

You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.

“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“

“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”

“I-“

“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”

“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.

Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.

“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”

“I needed to drop something off.”

Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.

“You’re not stayin’?”

“I- I don’t-“ 

You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.

“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”

Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.

“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”

“Come- James-“

You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.

Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.

“You’re drunk, be careful-“

“’M not that drunk.”

“You’re slurring-“

“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”

You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.

“You’re here.”

He says it like he can’t believe it.  Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.

You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.

“Yeah. I am.”

Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.

It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.

“James-“

“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.

The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.

“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”

He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”

“I- Um-“

“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”

There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.

“James-“

“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”

Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.

“What?” You squeak.

He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.

“I call your name when I have sex.”

“I- I- Why-“

“’Cause I love you.”

“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.

You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.

But now he’s saying this.

And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.

Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.

You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

“I do.”

“You’re drunk-“

“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”

“James-“

“Hmm.”

He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”

You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“

“I liked workin’ you up.”

“That’s mean.”

“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”

You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”

Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“

“But I mean it.”

“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”

He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”

“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.

“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”

You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.

The challenge.

Why do you care.

Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-

Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.

Your body moves.

Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.

“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“

Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.

Really kissing.

The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.

Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.

This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.

Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.

“Ja- James-“

“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”

“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.

Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.

“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.

And who are you to tell him no?

“Oh- Okay- Oh!”

Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.

“No bra, hm?”

“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“

“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”

He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.

“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”

“N- No-“

Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.

“Wha- What’re you doing-“

“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”

“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.

Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.

“Bucky, please-“

“Please what?”

He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.

“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”

And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.

What you want him to do.

You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.

“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.

Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.

“You didn’t, huh.”

You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.

You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.

Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.

“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”

“You- You don’t know what I need-“

Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.

“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”

God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.

Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.

But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.

“No touching.”

He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.

“You’re touching-“

“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”

He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.

“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“

There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.

“Fuck- James-“

Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.

“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”

You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.

Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.

“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“

You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.

“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”

You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“

“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”

He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.

“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“

You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.

“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”

Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.

Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.

“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”

Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.

“I- I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”

You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.

“Bucky- Fuck-“

Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.

“No touching.”

You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.

And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.

Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.

His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“

“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”

Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.

Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.

“Eyes stay on me.”

He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.

“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”

You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.

“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”

You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.

He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.

“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”

He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.

“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.

You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.

You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.

Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.

“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”

You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.

The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.

“Buh- Bucky-“

“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”

“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.

A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”

“Do it again.”

It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.

But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-

“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”

Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.

“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.

“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”

He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.

“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.

Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.

“And?”

You blink at him through the tears. “And?”

“What are you?”

Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.

“Two fingers.” He reminds you.

And just like that, you cave.

“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“

“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“

“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“

Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.

“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”

You moan. “Yes, oh-  Oh my god- “

Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.

“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”

Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.

You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.

“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”

You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“

“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”

“Nuh- No-“

“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.

“Mmmm-“

“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”

You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.

“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.

Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.

“Flip over.” He grunts.

You frown. “Wha-“

“Over. Just-“

Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.

A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.

“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”

“James-“

“Please.”

His voice cracks.

You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.

You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.

“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”

Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.

“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”

He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.

“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“

Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“

It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.

“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.

He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.

“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”

“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”

“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.

“Yeah. You are.”

And if Bucky says you are, you are.

He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”

“’S- ‘S a lot-“

“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”

He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.

Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.

“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”

You keen, and Bucky laughs.

“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”

You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.

“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”

“I- Jaaames-“

“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”

You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.

“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“

Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.

“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.

“Can’t- Can’t take it-“

“Yeah, you can.”

You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“

Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.

“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“

You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.

“Wh- Where-“

“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“

Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.

You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.

And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.

Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.

“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.

 You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.

“Perfect.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

You giggle. “Yeah.”

Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.

“You’re were perfect too.”

“Thanks.” You breathe.

He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.

“You still want me to take it back?”

And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.

“No, thank you.”

Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“

“I had manners-“

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“

“Don’t hold your breath-“

He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.

“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”

And you wonder.

If it had really been there, the whole time.

“Okay.”

✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[starxs-s]

──── Maekar Targaryen┆My Betrothed author’s note: I love baby Maekar and his bitchass bob This work contains: arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, slow burn, Maekar being a mean lil bitch, offensive language, Baelor being a good big brother but Maekar being stupid, Maekar not wanting to be married, mention of the Dance, cruelty, Maekar being a King of mixed signals, smut in later parts. Young!Maekar Targaryen x Hightower!reader mdni

"You called her what?" Baelor's mismatched eyes widened as he stared at his younger brother after pulling him into an empty chamber during Maekar's way to the morning training.

The gossips were always spreading quickly through the Red Keep — as through every other castle. Within day every servant, guard, councilman or Prince knew what happened and what might be a cause of a situation. But Baelor never expected his own little brother to be the sole reason and a subject of those gossips.

There was no secret that the young Prince was not eager for marriage — Baelor himself saw the way Maekar argued with father before storming out of the Small Council chamber the moment the King announced his intensions to wed him to Lady Hightower as an political alliance with Reach and with one of the oldest houses in all Westeros. Dorne was already secured by King's marriage to their mother Myriah, Stormlands by Baelor's and Aerys' marriage to Jena and Aelinor. Vale by Rhaeger's to Lady Alys Arryn.

Now time has come for Reach and King Daeron shown interest in House Hightower and Lord's oldest daughter. Your brother was already married — happily with another babe coming and your father seemed eager to send you away and secure alliance with the royal house.

"I called her exactly what she will be." the pale-headed prince said, trying to avoid his older brother's gaze.

Baelor exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "You called her a broodmare, Maekar?" he hissed. "Your betrothed, your wife-to-be?" he said and tilted his head so that his brother would finally meet his gaze.

Maekar has been is a vile mood all morning — barely sleeping with how much anger and bitterness was coiled inside him after yesterday's training.

It started innocent — he has come to the training yard expecting to find no one but few guards mastering their swordplay or squires playing with wooden swords. Instead he found himself watched by a Lady whose eyes were meant to trace over her book's pages.

He has been restless since you came to the Keep — long weeks or waiting finally materialised in front of him and you appeared — in a long blue dress that brought out the slight flush on your cheeks and adorned the color of your eyes.

Naturally he pretended nothing is bothering him while your gaze — not so subtly — followed the swing of his sword. Pretended to not see you, pretended you are not there at all. But while your eyes met — his own violet finally peeking into yours as if to check if you are still seated there.

"Staring at a Prince may be considered inappropriate or even shameful." he grunted as his sword dangled from his hand. His eyes traced over you — now dressed in a light pink gown that seemed so much like something only ladies in Reach would wear — it pissed him off how innocent you looked.

"You do not wish me to watch?" you asked as your fingertips toyed with the edges of the book you had to bring with yourself from Old Town or borrowed from the Keep's library with maester's approval.

Your voice was soft and Maekar was taken aback of how simple your answer to his jab was, how welcoming your words were despite his own tone.

"It is not a matter of what I wish," he said sharply as his grip on the sword tightened slightly. "I assure you, there are a thousand better ways you could pass your time than watching me here trying not to embarrass myself"

You blinked only as if shocked by his words -- by his reluctance of sharing time with you. “Training is not embarrassing” you said and shock your head gently — soft waves shifting with your movements before they were grazed by the wind “beside I enjoy watching my betrothed” you added and a small smile bloomed on your face.

His entire body stiffened as if struck by lightning or his mother's sharp eyes before the sword almost slipped from his palm.

"Betrothed?" he barked out — too loud, too rough, yet enough to made you flinch only so slightly. "Do not call me ‘betrothed', it makes this feel like some damn farce." he added as his gaze hardened for a moment before he realized how much like Myriah he must look right now.

"I—... your father— the King, he said that it would be only appropriate if I called you in such a way." you swallowed quietly as your eyes flickered between your book and him.

"It's a political arrangement," he said as his jaw clenched the same as his hand around the sword's hilt. "Don't read anything into it."

“…I shall go to my ladies then” you said and swallowed “I ought not to interrupt you any longer” I nodded quietly before closing your book.

His scowl deepened at your words before he scoffed quietly and looked at the sand on the training yard that stained his boots. "You weren't interrupting." his admission came out harsher than intended and you could see how he gritted his teeth after saying it. "But do not call me your betrothed." he said and his violet. "I am not a knight you may read about in those books of yours and I assure you Lady Hightower that this betrothal is only for the sake of our father's politics".

“Do you believe it’s only an arrangement? Truly?” you asked standing up as your hands clenched on the book's spine.

He clearly did not expect such a question -- you could see it in his eyes, how it took him aback before his eyes sharpened once more at the look on your face. There it was again, that damned thing in your eyes — that innocence adorned by the pink fabric of your gown as if you were a lamb offered to a dragon.

He wanted to snap at you -- to demand you return inside the Keep and stop bothering him, perhaps even stop appearing in his sight so that he would not be reminded of the damned wedding coming closer and closer as if the Gods were prying on him and his freedom. Because it seemed like the bigger his reluctance to the 'sacred ceremony' grew the closer it got.

"Does it matter?" he finally asked with his voice taut and tensed.

"I am to be your wife." you said looking at him as you fidgeted slightly, stepping from one leg on another. "I do not wish to be treated like a chore."

"And how, pray tell," he took a step forward with his jaw clenched "am I supposed to treat you? As if I'm some lovestruck fool? Or as if this is some love at the first sight tale you seem to be so fond of" his eyes fell on the book on your cheeks flushed as if you were called out on reading -- how he believed -- something so foolish.

“Do you wish me to return to Old town then?” you asked “Leave you alone?” you knew what you were saying only made you sound stupider -- the mere idea of coming home seemed impossible now that you betrothal to the Prince of Summerhall were announced to the whole kingdom.

"No." The word was sharp, so quick it made your breath hitched with silent hope and he gritted his teeth afterward as if regretting it already. "I mean--" he clears his throat gruffly as if realizing what fell from between his lips "Father would have my head for wasting the alliance."

“It would not be wasted” you said and raised you chin “I would come and marry you but before then I would be back home in Reach” you added “If having a betrothed is too much of a humiliation for you”

Maekar was moving before either of you realized -- his sword abandoned on the ground as his fingers wrapped harshly around your arm, dragging you into secluded corner of the training yard -- away from the chuckling squires and fighting guards until the sun no longer shine into your face and you can feel the coldness of the stone after your back met it.

"This 'wedding' is not some romantic gesture nor your chance to make friends and play princesses, do you understand? It's politics. It's strategy. It isn't—" He stopped abruptly as if to hold back his temper "...It doesn't involve your happiness." he exhales and a pale strand of face fell onto his scarred cheek.

There was silence between you to -- his eyes were harsh and stormy, almost as if they alone were trying to make you understand what he is saying. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, trying to find the right words to face the dragon.

“I do not understand—“ you said and inhaled “I am a Lady of a great house, I do not think myself particularly ugly if that what the point is” you clenched your fists slightly, trying to encourage yourself “I am more than aware that our families do not have particularly great history together, yet you still seem to hold a grudge against me as if I am the cause of Dance of the Dragons” you finally raise your head to look him in the eyes and be met with the cold violet “Is this such a sin that I wish to know even a bit about you so that I will not be marrying a stranger?”

"Do not—" He cut himself off with a sharp exhale, his fists clenched at his sides as a frown bloom between his silver eyebrows. "This has nothing to do with the Dance or your house or whether you're some... perfect, little match, which you're obviously not" he scoffed quietly. "I am Targaryen, we are destined for great things, my bloodline reach the times of Old Valyria, my blood--"

"What have I ever done to you then?” You cut him off and simply stare at the pale face. “You think I will not give you children to carry your bloodline?” you asked shaking your head gently.

He let out a sharp bark of a laugh that caught you of guards and a pit formed in your stomach as it certainly was not a great sign. The sound was something between bitterness and exhaustion. You hit a nerve —a wrong one at that. His shoulders stiffened, his knuckles we white as his fingers curled into his palms.

"Children? Of course you'll give me children." he snapeped. "That's your only purpose in this, isn't it? To be my broodmare and make me an heir."

Your breath hitched and your heart squeezed painfully as if the last bit of hope was crushed as if his words were a rock hurled from the battlements. You let our a shaky exhale as your eyes flickered over his in search of... what exactly? Guilt? Lie? You were not sure.

Your chin raised slightly as the rims of your eyes reddened a bit “I see.” you mumbled looking at him “I shall not bother you any longer” you added and pushed his hands away only now realizing that it has been clenched on your arm.

You heard a harsh scoff behind you back as your turned to the yard's exit and then hurried steps as if he was chasing after you -- what he certainly did

"Wait."

His fingers wrapped around your wrist this time, spinning you so that you are met with the sight of the violet storm.

“Do not touch me—“ you said pulling my wrist away with harshness as if to mirror his own movements “I think you had said enough” you inhaled “I am not yet your wife and I will not allow you to treat me in such a way”

Maekar's eyes widened as you pulled you hand away as if his touch burned you. The mere idea of being pushed away like some brute and not a Prince only caused a pang on his ego. Momentarily his face clenches and eyes s

"Fine." His voice was dangerously low now. when he leaned closer to you "You want honesty? Here it is, I do not want this marriage. I do no want a wife forced on me by politics or duty or bloodline." he said and let go of you as his jaw worked. "And if the only way to keep my pride is to be cruel about it? Then so be it."

Your turned on your hear abruptly as tears started to sting in your eyes and quickly filling them with each step away you took.

"Are you satisfied now?" He called after you. "Do you understand why I'm not jumping for joy that you're to be my wife?"

He scoffed only as a grim lok came on his face at the sight of your fleeting from him so hurriedly -- so eagerly to lose his eyes.

His brother words only sobered him up as the young Prince lost himself in the memory. "How could you be so- so--... brutish? This is no how Princes act, this is not how you were raised to treat a Lady."

"I was stating a fact," he says quietly, his voice a low, warning rumble as if he was only now -- secretly ashamed before his older brother. "It is women's primary purpose in a marriage. To bare heirs." he said as his eyes landed on the stone floor.

"It's her primary purpose?" Baelor repeated with a bewildered look in his eyes, his voice was like steel as he stared at Maekar. "Do you not have even an ounce of care for the person you are marrying? She is a woman... a Lady!" he shook his head. "Not a horse to be bred at leisure."

"You think I don't know that?" Maekar snapped, his voice rising slightly as his eyes finally raised to meet Baelor's mismatched ones. "You think I don't know that I'm marrying a woman I do not care for? Or perhaps you can't see clearly through the damn joyful haze of your own happily-ever-after!" He threw the last words like a dagger that was meant to go straight into his brother's chest. "You don't know anything about this arrangement!"

"I was there when it was announced, I know how you reacted in front of Father out of all people and I know that he will not cave and send her home simply because of your whims." Baelor shook his head gently -- brown waves falling over his tanned face. "And I also know that father will never allow you to speak of her in such a way... and if you do not learn respect soon... I fear for the consequences."

"And what will Father do!? I'm already doomed!" Maekar groaned and rolled his eyes in a bratty way that made his brother's jaw clench.

"You may not chose her but calling her that? It was beyond any arrogance you ever acted with towards ladies, it was cruelty." he said "Cruelty she did not deserve."

"Making me marry a complete fucking stranger is what really is cruel! A proper, prissy Lady that blushes and flushes while reading a book of some perfect romance!"

Baelor stared ay his brother for a moment, silent and unmoving before his eyes hardened slightly but patience did not leave his face.

"I was in the same situation you are," he said quietly, his voice like a blade. "I made the best of it. I tried to get to know Jena. And you know that I fell in love with her."

"You think I don't know what you're doing? Trying to make me feel like some wretched failure because I refuse to play along?" Maekar looked at his brother as if his words wounded him in his heart. "Just because Jena is some perfect Lady that pleases you in everything and more doesn't mean she will do so." he added bitterly.

"My wife has nothing to do with this," Baelor snapped, his voice cold at the sudden mention of his lady wife. "This is about you and your inability to even consider the idea of making this marriage remotely tolerable for the woman you have been promised to."

Silence occurred after the brown-haired man's words. Baelor was never one to lose his temper -- at least in front of Maekar, he preferred to solve every problem in peace with his stoic expression and diplomatic tone never leaving.

"And what would you have me do, brother? Play nice and give her flowers? Talk with her, dance with her, court her?" He starred at Baelor in this quiet, bitter way as if he believed this was the first time his brother would not support him. "I am not a love-struck boy, Baelor. I do not want a wife."

"I am asking you to show some damn respect." Baelor said calmly and his hand came to rest upon Maekar's shoulder "If you want her to treat you as anything more than the cruel bastard she thinks you are, then yes, you will act like a gentleman you were raised to be." he said and huffed watching Maekar shrug his palm away. "Start. By. Apologizing."

"No." Maekar hissed through clenched teeth as his violet eyes once again became stormy and reluctant.

"Don't make me drag you to her feet."

And just like that the young prince was making his way to the Godswood -- curses muttered from his mouth are met with nervous glances from the maids and guards he passed while storming through the Red Keep. A mere thought of apologizing to you was a blow to his pride - something he build with time, in blood and sweat of the tourneys and wasn't fond of people that were so keen on angering him.

He straightened slightly at the sight of you -- sitting by the tree adorned with the red leaves that fell from it with each bigger blow of wind that messed you hair as well. The wind was turning the pages of your book and you tried to stubbornly hold it in place, long enough to be able to to read the words. The cover looked exactly like the one you held yesterday while pretending not to watch him train but it seemed like you read a great deal of it.

"My Lady." he approached with a grim look on his face and fists clenched behind his back.

You lifted your head -- those same innocent eyes that now momentarily filled with betrayal at the sight of him met with his violet ones and you seemed to stiffen a bit before closing your book. "My Prince." you only greeted quietly not adding anything else and only making the whole situation even more awkward for him.

"My brother said I shall speak with you." he said and inhaled as if reading himself for another blow to his pride.

"Then speak." you said only and stood up from the pillows paced by the tree.

"In private." he gritted out as his eyes followed your movements in a way so careful only a dragon could bring itself to.

"I do not have a chaperon." you said and lifted you chin slightly in an arrogant manner -- you were clearly not going to make it easy for him.

"I assure you, my Lady, a chaperon is not needed." he said and inhaled as if to calm his anger. "The last thing to do is to get close to you to the point it's considered inappropriate" he said and rolled his eyes. "But if you'd be oh so kind and granted me a walk I believe I would have a chance to properly ask for your forgiveness for the way I mistreated you." he said and his jaw clenched again.

"...Very well." you signed finally before following after him silently -- waiting for him to speak.

The breeze coming from the blackwater bay made both your and his hair flow on the wind and the light taste of salt hanged in the air when you made your way around the Godswood. His expression was still sore as he peeked at you -- a dark blue gown, hair braided in a simple braid but decorated by a few pearls or whatever it was. Maekar couldn't be more bothered by the ladies fashion and whatever they were interested in -- he had no sisters and certainly not the best relationship with his mother.

"I wish to apologize for my crude words." he said only and it came out with struggle -- as if he didn't want to apologize, not fully. "My brother made me realize that my carelessness could have wounded you greatly... my lady."

"I suppose no Lady want to be called a broodmare." you said and looked at him. "Especially by a man she is meant to bare children for." you added with a slight bite in your tone.

Maekar's jaw worked again -- clenching slight as he gritted his teeth to not make any other insult slip out. "I suppose you are right." he said only before inhaling and adding. "What I will offer is... respect and honesty." he said, refusing to look at you as his eyes remained pinned to the Blackwater bay "I will never lie to you and I will treat you as you deserve." he added "This... I can swear to you. But I cannot... will not pretend this is some kind of love match."

You could only inhale and nod -- the realities of your betrothal falling upon you like a thorn that need to be pulled out.

"We will reside in Summerhall... after the wedding." he said and closed his eyes for a second to regain patience. "You will become it's Lady and it will be your seat and home."

Your breath hitched at his words. Summerhall? The cold, lonesome castle among the hills of the Stormlands. "...must we?" you asked -- hopeful, he'd say it was jest only.

"Go to Summerhall? Of course, it's my seat, my father named me Prince of Summerhall, what sense would it make if I wouldn't live there?" he frowned.

"It's in Stormlands." you said and a reluctant grimace slipped on your face.

"Indeed." he nodded and raised one eyebrow. "What of it?" he asked.

"It's cold--... and raining." you mumbled and looked at the dark blue sea.

Maekar's face did something almost comical — his expression flickering between disbelief, annoyance, and a brief moment of pure 'what the hells is wrong with you?' before setting back down at the Bay.

"...I will have furs brought for you." he cleared his throat and gave you a side glance.

"Stormlands are brutal." you tried again as your fingers played with the spine of your book.

"It's nothing the walls of the castle cannot protect you from." he said and let out an annoyed sigh. "We'll go after the wedding celebrations."

You could only swallowed as your shouders slumped and you accepted your fate of forever cold fingers and night you'd spend shivering while a storm would rage outside. "After the wedding then..."

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! Please interest with this post it means the world! This was not proofread but I'm too tired to go through it again, this idea came to me very spontaneously (I had a dream) and I thought 'if this what will get me out of writing block then so be it' AND IT WORKED. Only one chapter is out but I love them already <33, this chapter is kinda Maekar pov but next o e will be Lady Hightower's. And I'm sorry I made Baelor's and Maekar's talk so long but I wanted to show Maekar's true feeling about it. ALSO THE PICTURE BELONG TO @/crazytom on twt ITS NOT MINEEE

taglist: @trixxxel @qardasngan @userhotd @elisabethturner1919 @sczlxdy @itspbjellytime @morriganstark

© starxs-s. est, 2026

[venmondiese]

YOU'RE PLAYING CYVASSE, I'M FUCKING YOUR DAD

✧ | summary: Betrothed to prince Aerion, you have no taste for young princelings. With prince Maekar so nearby, you have one or two ideas in your mind to have your way... In the end, instead of a wife, Aerion ends up with a new mother.  (based on THIS request!)

✧ | pairing: maekar 'the anvil' targaryen x lannister!reader.

✧ | tags: 18+, mdni, p in v sex, inappropriate relationship, age gap (reader is 19ish!!), oral sex, does this really count as cheating?? degradation, free use if you squint, headlock, freaky freaky use of “goodfather” (aka father-in-law), it is heavily implied reader is not a maiden and is a oldman lover…

✧ | note: hey... i know this took weeks to finish but i am very proud of it!! i know cyvasse wasn't a thing in westeros until 299ac but our reader knows how to play it... again, thank you to the lovely @faeryemperor for beta reading :-)

The trip to Summerhall was hell. Closest thing to hell you’ve ever experienced. 

Casterly Rock was far enough that the whole trip was green trees, and playing with your puppy and asking your brother how much longer it would be.

“You’ll be meeting prince Aerion just to see if you fancy him,”  your father had said, but you knew it was only an excuse to arrange a betrothal between you and him, whether you like it or not. You had heard your father talk about a wedding already, along with your brothers, which both Tybolt and Gerold agreed. 

Your father was travelling later: first he would stop at King’s Landing, and then, conveniently come along with Prince Baelor after a week. You sometimes wondered if they thought you a lackwit, because the obviousness was something they had in abundance. 

“If I marry Aerion, would we live in our own castle?” you ask, playing with the edge of the curtain from the wheelhouse. You could see Summerhall at the distance from here, you’d be there in less than half an hour. 

“Prince Aerion” he corrects you, and then he answers “You’ll live at Summerhall, most likely”

“But Summerhall is Prince Maekar’s castle” You say to him. “I mean my own castle”

“Well, you’ll live there”

“And when Aerion’s father dies, Summerhall would go to him, right?”

“To prince Daeron” he reprimands you again “Address them properly or I shall make you.”

“Then I’ll marry prince Daeron,” you state, not caring about their plans for you. “He is unmarried as well, isn’t he?”

“You’ll marry prince Aerion.”

“I do not care about father’s plans for me. Or yours. Whose idea was it?”

“Gerold’s” Tybolt murmurs, looking through the window. 

“Of course it was” you grumble. "I'm not a brooding mare for his political games, I'll have him know that."

Your scalp itches slightly, the hairstyle that the handmaiden had done was a bit too tight, and it seemed more like a towering braid more than a youthful style. You had ornate jewelry in your hair, and the necklace your brother made you wear was heavy, no doubt to make you more impressive.

“He had a good idea.” Tybolt says, “Prince Aerion is close to your age, it is a good match.”

“Prince Daeron is my age” You correct him. “Why don’t I marry him instead? Perhaps he’ll be the heir…”

“Because the offer was prince Aerion. Take it or marry an old lord.”

If old lords wouldn’t be so cruel, you’d marry one. You gave your first real kiss to one of your father’s friends, who was just widowed by his wife. Well, your first kiss was with a stable boy, and it was more than one, but it didn’t count, it was mere practice. 

You remember playing coy, and then ending up sitting on his lap and kissing him. You were not a fool, you knew he could not bed you, but you didn’t care. You felt his lazy cock under your gown, and feigned innocence. 

Arriving at Summerhall’s court was less appalling  than you thought. Watching the windows on the Great Hall, painted with such precision and dedication, that the light coming from there, colours your feet and the end of your pretty red gown. It was quite modern, certainly not as old as your own home, but it was beautiful. You could certainly imagine yourself living here. 

“I really like this castle,” you murmur to Tybolt. 

“Do not mess this up, then, and you’ll live here with your husband the prince”

You squint up at him. “I won’t mess it up.” 

As you walk in the long hall, you note lots of portraits hanging for anyone to see. The first one is of the Good King, next to his sister, Princess Daenerys. She had been married to the queen’s younger brother, shipped off to Dorne, away from rebellions and enjoying her water gardens. And the pale woman, wearing a hennin and pale colours, next to Daeron and sitting next to Daenerys is the late Queen Naerys. 

The next portraits were no different, of King Daeron and Queen Myriah, the next one of the royal couple and his dragonlings. Then, prince Maekar with his brothers, Baelor Breakspear, Aerys, Rhaegel… and then him. He seemed too prideful and perhaps he was; you are yet to know him in some minutes. He looked handsome, strong and tall. You wonder if Aerion is anything like him, so you could have a feast with your eyes in your bedding, just as you are now with this portrait. 

Soon, the intimate tone of Summerhall hangs onto you; it was no mystery that court was rarely held here, why no grand feasts or tourneys, this was a family home. Full of intimate portraits of the royal family, of Prince Maekar and his family, portraits of his wife and their children, all six of them. 

“That’s Aerion” Tybolt points to the frowny kid next to his father. He was not as tall as the brownish haired one, yet he resembled his father very little. At least in his Targaryen features, because his face was practically a copy of the late Dyanna Dayne. 

“He’s like his mother,” you whisper to Tybolt. “In anything but hair.”

“Well, hope and pray to the Mother that your babes look anything like you. He’s got more Dornish blood in him than Targaryen”

“Do you think we could buy a dress like the Queen’s?” You then ask him, as you point to Queen Myriah’s young portrait. 

Tybolt slaps your hand and scolds you from your insolence, ashamed of you. “You insolent child, behave for once in your life and realise this isn’t about you.”

You look at the portrait of prince Maekar’s family, wandering from Prince Maekar to Aerion. You’re wrong brother, you think, this is all about me. 

Prince Maekar greets your brother first, and you watch curiously at his tall form and stoic face. Your father spoke lots about prince Baelor, about the Good King, but never about the last offspring of king Daeron and his beloved Queen. You imagine all Targaryens to be handsome, and Maekar is a good looking man. 

He looks somewhat stern, like a parent who never stops disciplining their kids. Perhaps he is, but you don’t know of such a thing yet. At the same time, he looks like he is one second from rolling his eyes and walking away. 

“And this is my baby sister” Your brother presents you, and you look at him with your best charming smile. You had to stop yourself from biting your lip as you looked at his father, unimpressed. 

“Aerion, boy, come at once.”

And there’s Aerion. He was not ugly, he was rather handsome. He dressed richly, all velvets and he looked his very best. He had rather silver gold hair, and you thought that perhaps your babies would have blonde hair.  

“My sweet lady,” Aerion said, bowing to press a kiss on your hand, and you did a courtesy to him, with a most empty smile. “You are as beautiful as your portrait.”

“Thank you, my prince.”

“My father was right, he got me the most beautiful bride.”

“Did you not choose me yourself?” you ask, your tone sounding naive but you tried to get information from him. 

“No, my father did. I asked him to choose the best beauty, and I would wed her.”

You look at prince Maekar with a bashful smile, because he was the one to choose you to be his son’s bride, and Aerion asked for the most beautiful. He’d marry a rock if his father deem it the most gorgeous, yet it was Maekar who thought you the best beauty. 

“I’m glad I was the one chosen, then.” 

You had high hopes for the match. The rumours of the prince being quite monstrous had not fallen on deaf ears, not on your part. But any boy like that was only one neglected of affections, and even if Aerion had a big loving family, he did not have a mother anymore. Perhaps it was a matter of spoiling him, making sure to complete his whims and assure him of loving yet empty words. 

Aerion was very charming, when his father was present. He helped you get upstairs, holding your hand in a chivalrous way, helping you sit and even making a toast on your union. 

“A toast for my bride to be,” he had said.  “For the union of our houses.”

Your eyes were on prince Maekar, who seemed pleased by his son’s chivalry. His eyes were on yours, and you know when a man desires a woman. You were not an imbecile, as your brothers liked to tell you. You just knew how to play your cards. 

“That's sweet of you, my prince,” you had said when he was seated back again by your side.

“Ah. yes,” he had said, as he picked up his wine. 

“I hope we can have a pleasant marriage…” you start saying, full of bullshit but it was more like a diplomatic phrase.

Not that Aerion was ugly. He was handsome and fashionable, perhaps a bit too much. Still, when you marry him and become the wife of a prince, surely you can have more elaborate outfits. And he’ll be… like an accessory for you. 

Prince Maekar drank by his son’s side, scolding Daeron from drinking the wine too quickly. Then, you felt motivated to say. 

“I thank you, your highness,” you say, only to address him. Your tone was different, though, more interested in him, trying your best at playing subtle and seductive. “For welcoming my brother and I into your home. It is very beautiful.”

Maekar raised one eyebrow, as Aerion simply ignored the conversation. It isn’t like Maekar’s face was rid of the scowl, but at least he seems more interested in you than his son. 

“It will be your home too” he says simply, as the servants place food on his plate before anyone else, “after you marry Aerion.”

You smile, and nod. “Thank you. I look forward to it.” 

“Along with my daughters, Summerhall will be full of beauties once again.”

Aerion rolled his eyes, as he snapped his fingers to ask a servant to serve his plate after his father’s. It was a bit disappointing, that by comparison, he will be your husband, the one who would come into your rooms every night, get between your legs and fill you up with his seed.

The next few days, you spend time with his siblings, explore Summerhall, long halls and chambers, getting in every corner of it and later getting scolded by Tybolt for being improper, and you’d always end up in the gardens.

As you were bent over, trying to see the small bird nest under a shrub, where you could hear the loud chirps of the babies, you heard a small cough behind you.

As you moved back, you saw your soon-to-be Goodfather standing behind you, with crossed arms. Your cheeks get red, as you look at him with a shy glance, for meddling in his garden. 

“My prince!” You say, standing up almost with a jump. “I… I was just- Apologies” you say, bowing slightly. “I was seeing a bird nest”

Maekar had seen the small lady around, wearing rich red with gold details and exploring his house as if it was an old relic that a Maester has fun with. 

“Don’t bow,” he grumbles, his hands on his side rather awkwardly. “Come, walk with me.”

You walk along with him, as you try to appear more womanly. More mature, as if you did not care he asked that. 

He pretends he does not notice. 

“I have been meaning to speak with you,” he starts simply, walking ahead and you try to keep up with him.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you-” you say with a girlish smile, so he did think of you and wanted to speak with you! 

“About Aerion.”

“Ah.”

The disappointed tone does not go unnoticed by him. He ignores it, and he keeps going: “I hoped that Daeron would marry first, but my brother set the match. It was I that chose you, but my brother’s idea.”

You try to think why he’s exactly telling you this. Why do you care that he wanted Daeron to marry first? But you nod, listening to him as if he was telling you something interesting. 

“Aerion is still a boy,” his tone is plain, yet thoughtful. “He's a little younger than you. And I agreed with my brother that perhaps being wed would bring some… fucking sense to him, and more maturity, as the head of your household”

Yeah, he would absolutely be the head of the household…you think, rolling your eyes. Men and their foolishness. 

“Absolutely, my prince,” you say, nodding along to his words. “I’ll do my very best to obey his decisions for our household.”

“I am to be your good-father. We’ll be family,” he says simply. “You can tell me the truth.”

“It is the truth.”

He didn’t buy a single fucking word.

“You seem like a nice lady. I see your wit, and I hope Aerion can appreciate it.”

“Thank you, my prince,” you say to him, softly. “May I call you father once I wed Aerion?”

The question surprises him, but he seems a bit unimpressed at the same time. “However you fancy.”

“And what does he fancy?” You ask, trying not to end the conversation with the lovely prince. Perhaps he is a grumpy old man, who curses for each word he says, but how lovely your good-father is. 

“Well, he does like dragons. He likes sparring,” he starts listing things off. “He used to like fishing before his mother passed.”

“A shame I’m no Tully” you say with a soft tone, giggling. 

“... Heh. Right” Perhaps it does not amuse him that much, but he seems pleased with you. “You’re quite the beauty, he will fancy you,” he explains, “he is a simple creature, as we all men are.”

At the compliment, you smile. And then – “Would he like Cyvasse?”

“What the fuck is Cyvasse?”

There you were, sitting with Aerion in the great Hall as you explained Cyvasse to him, to Maekar, and to Aegon. The three of them listened to your explanation, and then Aerion smiled at you.

“Oh, there is a Dragon?”

“Yes!” You say smiling to him. “This one” You say, extending your hand to pick his piece and giving it to him. 

You look at prince Maekar, as if trying to prove how you were a great bride for his son, and how you will tame him, be gentle with him and loving, as a mother would be. 

Yet when you were alone, sitting in one of the private court chambers, being chaperoned by Daeron, who was drunk in his seat and half dead, which did not really count as chaperoning,  you tried to actually play cyvasse with Aerion, he showed his true nature. 

He was a brat. And if you knew one thing, is that only one of you two could be a brat. 

“You have to move something else than the dragon,” you grit your teeth at him, moving the Elephant. “My prince.” 

“Shut up,” he murmurs, shushing you for the fifth time. 

“I taught you all the pieces, do you need me to repeat? The Dragon is the easy choice…”

“I remember, I’m not a lackwit.”

“There are many other pieces to defend the King-”

“My grandsire is a dragon himself. You won’t tell a prince of the realm how to defend a Dragon King.”

You made a face, trying to ignore the ick growing inside your gut. He was so ridiculous, you soon realised, speaking of such nonsense that had nothing to do with him. Since when cyvasse is about King Daeron? 

“That literally makes no sense,” you say to him. “Do you always speak such nonsense?”

“Shut. Up”

You are set to kill his fucking dragons every single time. You move the catapult to make sure he does anything else. 

“You whore,” he murmurs as you have him surrounded by a catapult and a trebuchet. 

“What did you call me?” You say, not allowing yourself to be insulted. “Learn how to play.”

“You are a fucking whore, do you know what I’ll do to you for killing my dragon?”

“Aerion Bratflame is what they should call you, you corrupt son of a bitch!”

Your brothers always scolded you for being a brat. They loved you, and no doubt they spoiled you. But even they had a line for patience for your antics. For speaking up, for demanding things and thinking yourself superior. You have received more scoldings and slaps in the wrists than most, but you always received double the gowns and gold accessories, plus with affections and praises, so it doesn’t really count.

And they will be really mad now, for ruining the political bond they tried so hard to gain. But with good reason, you think. If you are to get hit for fighting with your betrothed, let the reason be worth it. 

You pull his hair as if he was a girl, you used to do so with one of your ladies-in-waiting when she spoke against your back, making her repeat herself if she dared to repeat ill words. And when she did, you pulled her hair hard enough as you scolded her.

 Aerion is too caught off guard as you do so, and his long golden locks made it easier to pull off his scalp. Bet no knight did so in battle, pulling him by his silky soft hair, and as you slap him harshly, he catches you by the throat. 

You do not recall if it is Aegon the one that finds you and alerts Maekar, or if Daeron woke up from his drunk slumber. You only remember having two guards, one holding him as he still held the end of your gown, ripping a chunk off. You are kicking like a mad kid, cursing at him for calling you a whore. 

“You’re the fucking whore, you fucking empty headed silver cunt!” you scream off as the guard picks you up and walks away, and when you see Aerion being dragged away, you end up with one last word. “...Brat!” 

Aerion had ripped your braids off their place and you remember kicking his ribs like a rabid cat. You had ripped his earring from his ear, destroying it, as he had left bruises on your throat and in your breasts, ripping your dress like a feral beast would. There were some scratches too, but they wouldn't last until the next morning. 

“Are you stupid?” Your brother scolds you as the very kind maester tries to apply a cream on your breasts “Oh, I believe you are a lackwit now, truly, how dare you strike a prince?”

“He called me a whore,” you say to him, not backing down.

“You ripped his earlobe, do you know that?” Tybolt says, exasperated. He was never this upset, unknowing what to truly do at this. “It is lucky prince Maekar hasn’t had your hands cut off for slapping a royal prince.”

“He’ll be fine,” you murmured, as the maester’s hands were steady. It stings a little. 

“We tried so hard to find you a fine match. No Lannister has married the royal house. Martells, Velaryons, Arryns, Dondarrions even. Blackwoods and Brackens have been mistresses, even a fucking Lyseni before us.” 

You sigh, and you look at your hands. “Prince Aerion is a beast”

“That I know,” Tybolt says as he sighs. “Yet sometimes that is not what matters.”

“Are you seeing my breasts?! The beast scratched me! Over cyvasse!”

“I hate to give reason to Father, but if he had mauled you it is irrelevant here,” Tybolt says, having enough of your attitude. “Don’t you ever learn? Do you think everything is truly about you?” 

You remain quiet, your head hanging low like a scolded puppy. You had messed it up, after promising that you wouldn’t, but in your opinion, Aerion was not worth the trouble. 

“You’ll apologise to the prince, you hear?” He says, his tone stern. “Or I’ll marry you to the first commoner I find, and then we’ll see if you are so proud about it. I mean it. We have spoiled you far too long, and I can’t deal with you any more. What am I to do with you?”

The threat frightens you. You know he means it, and even if it is a decision at the moment, he could. And a nobody could be your husband because you struck Aerion. 

So, you go to the prince to apologise.

Prince Maekar was on his study, and you meekly knocked on the door.  He was seated by the window, his face formed in a scowl as he looked at the large gardens of Summerhall. Strange was to think that this was once a fortified castle, which now was more like a home for all dragonlings. 

Your maid had undone your braids, brushed your hair gently and massaged your hair after prince Aerion had roughly pulled it. You had a sleeveless dress, the red material embroidered with deep yellow details, and it was one of the dresses you had planned for a garden tea with the prince. 

He turns just to see who was intruding; it was that lady again. He sighs, a hand pressing against his forehead as he just seems tired, aging by each second that passes.

“I’m sorry for intruding” you start gently. “My brother has asked me to apologise to you”

What a lie but you don’t have to say that. Not your fault that Tybolt didn’t specify which prince you needed to apologise. You choose Maekar out of your whims, because if you don’t want the son, there is always the father…

“I do apologise, my prince. I am terribly sorry” you say, and you are not truly sorry. You are sorry that the consequences have come, but Aerion deserved it. He deserved a whooping in his royal arse, in your opinion. 

“The maester had to stitch Aerion’s ear.” He says, his feet against the edge of the window, as he pushed himself into the chair. “He is a lot to handle now.”

You remain quiet. “I apologise… for that.” More sincere now, part of you was glad that he got his earlobe ripped in half, but you didn’t want to harm the prince. You weren’t cruel like him, wanting to truly harm him. 

“Lots of apologies” he murmurs, bitterly. “My son says you attacked him for that fucking cyvasse game of yours”

“It wasn’t…!” You start to defend yourself loudly ,yet you bite your tongue. “It wasn’t like that” you say more quietly, a feel of shame to act like a child in front of him, all stern and scolding to you, even if you were not his daughter. What the fuck, it was making you wet. 

“Is that so?” He retorts with little interest. 

“I reminded him that there were more pieces other than the dragon,” you say, telling the truth. “That he had to protect his King too, and he spoke of… the Good King, and… about a Dragon prince, and when I took his dragon…” 

Maekar loudly sighs at that, as if he knew what shit Aerion had pulled for that. He needed not to hear more. “You should have known how to handle him.”

“Well, you are right, he is a lot to handle” You say to him, anger at bay. Why was everyone mad at you about hitting a mad prince? He had it coming.

“He’s still my son” He reminds you sternly. “You may be all fucking pretty and a lady, but he is still my boy and the blood of the dragon”

“Well, your boy is corrupt and… and… and he hit me as well ” 

He squints his eyes,in a grimace showing displeasure. He disapproves, you know, and he scrunches his nose. “You are just like him” He rolls his eyes. “To the doom of you both, you are already betrothed. You and I could save us some screaming from our eldest brothers, knowing this match is still on even if you murder my son. So I tell you once again, endure it”

It is as if everyone asks the impossible of you. You had not wed him yet, and he is atrocious already, not hesitating on hitting you as no prince should lay a finger on a lady. You wonder if he gets it from his great-grandsire, late King Aegon the Unworthy. That raw cruelness had not passed to the King, or the heir nor prince Maekar, but to the second son of his last grandchild. 

Would your children get the madness too? Become a rake or a cruel man just because of their Targaryen blood?

“You expect me to endure this?” You ask, pulling your cleavage lower, as prince Maekar’s eyebrow shot up in quiet, subtle disbelief. Not surprised at the wounds, but at your boldness. “This is what he did to me, telling me that he will parade me naked on Summerhall so everyone could see the whore I am.”

Maekar sighs, one finger in the bridge of his nose. He doesn't answer at first, as if thinking his next words.

“Cover yourself” he mumbles. If you weren’t so attentive, you think he was dismissing you, but he was not. You could see his gaze on your breasts 

“You cannot let him destroy me” you keep on pushing. “What of… what of our bedding? He’ll scratch me and hit me, bruise me all over… and I am a maiden, what if he does something too harshly so he bruises my womb and then we can’t have offspring?”  

“That won’t happen” Maekar rolls his eyes, ladies and their imagination “Aerion knows how to treat and please a woman.”

“Does he, truly?” 

“You’re exasperating,” he says in a scolding tone. “Of course he does. He is a prince of the realm, and I have taught him properly how to. I taught him myself.”

The thought of Maekar, your future good father, knows how to please a woman. If he had six children, you don’t doubt it. He doesn’t strike you as the type of man to force his bride, as other lordlings do. And with all the memories of his late wife, her paintings, still the decorations that would belong in starfall, you don’t doubt that his Lady Dyanna loved him. And how he pleased her.

“I beg of you” you say then, getting on your knees. “Do not let him have my maidenhead.” 

What’s left of it, anyways. Not that you had ever been with another man, but your fingers did a good job. You could kiss all the men you wanted, but you knew that if you didn’t have your maidenhead, you won’t be as worth it. 

“Please”  you say “Make sure I am ready for him… You tell me to endure it, but I am not sure how to do so. So… Teach me.”

Prince Maekar was a widower. He had loved fiercely his late Lady, yet he was still a man, carnal and lustful. He had always been driven by lust, and it had its fruits, since he had six children. Even more if Dyanna hadn’t taken moon tea. 

He has no wish to remarry yet… you are a happy, dirty little secret. 

And you are no stupid girl. When he doesn’t pull you away, when he doesn’t speak of throwing you into the streets for debauchery, you move between his legs to nuzzle the bulge on his breeches. He was not fully hard yet, you knew that perhaps with age it took slightly longer. 

Undoing his breeches has your mouth watering, and looking up you could see his surprised (yet, as always, unimpressed) look. 

“Please?”

“What, do you want me to defilling your fucking throat as well?”

You bashfully nod, and he knows now that you are full of shit. Your weak moments are used to your advantage, taking him by his sympathy and old man feelings. 

“Won’t Aerion…?”

“I don’t want to imagine” He groans, as his left hand comes to cradle the back of your head. “Go on.”

That little encouragement is enough for you to keep going. Your fingers work to undo the laces of his breeches, moving a bit too eagerly. Maekar isn’t pleased, at least that’s what you can see from his facial expressions, perhaps he thinks of you as indecorous, as damned goods. But he is not stopping you, not at all. 

And that’s enough for you. It is a silent agreement, that perhaps he dares not to name. Yet it is a yes. And so, you go on.

Maekar’s dick is perhaps different from what you expected, or what you imagined as you eyed him from the other end of the table, eating alongside the beast of your betrothed. It was of a considerable size, yet much paler than you thought. It feels hard in your hand, the tip was red as you pressed a soft kiss there. 

Watching the prince close his eyes and sigh, that same disappointed sigh you had heard so many times in your short stay in Summerhall. It was hot, in a way, knowing his sounds remained the same. 

“Do not tease, girl” he says, slightly bitter, with no patience. 

You suck his cock at your own rhythm, not so much to tease him, but so you can enjoy it too. It was slow, trying to get adjusted to the taste of him, of a very much real cock in your mouth. Maekar looks down at you, the sight alone could be enough for him to blow his load right then and there. Yet he is not a greenboy, and watching you little by little swallow more of his cock was more erotic than having you enthusiastically trying to gag yourself on it. 

Strangely, you knew what you were doing. Perhaps too much. And he wasn’t a fool like Aerion would be, he notices that as his hand slightly guides you to take more and more of him, little by little.  

“You’re good at this” he grunts, taking your pretty Lannister hair in his hands, all loose and without any overly complicated braids. “You just love fucking cock, hm?”

He feels your throat trying to accommodate his cock, the feeling of him in your mouth had you closing your eyes in delight at the feeling, as you felt a twitch of excitement in between your legs. You nod to his words, because having his cock in your mouth was the best thing that has happened to you since arriving at Summerhall.

You pull back as he makes you, mostly to let you breathe once again since you refused to stop. “Yes…” you murmur, looking up at him.

You were shameless, as you moved your mouth lower to show some of your love to his stones. It takes him by surprise feeling your mouth leaving open mouthed kisses upon his balls, filthy and wet as he lets out a moan.

“Fuckin’ hells…” he groans, watching you enthusiastically lick his balls.

A shiver runs over his spine, weakening his legs as his muscles relax over your ministrations. He had no idea how you knew that, and more so, how he was so surprised (and aroused) at the feeling of your wicked tongue on his stones.

He watches you, eyes closed in delight as you appear to have the best feast in all seven kingdoms. He would love to grab your hair, and simply fuck your pretty face, using your mouth as he pleases. 

Yet he knew he was not going to last long, feeling his balls tightening up at your wicked attention. He was not so young anymore, and sure, he had energy, but years also took a toll on his body. Especially the late stress he had been feeling since becoming a widower.

“That’s enough” he says, pulling you away. 

You seem disappointed, a bit dumbfounded at first as your lips form in a pout. “But…”

“Enough”

“But I want to make you finish” 

“You’re a maiden” he reminds you, a bit stern in his tone.

“Yes” you say, yet he can’t tell if it is true or false. “But… but please, I want your cock so bad…” you whine “It is so tasty, let me have it again.” 

“You’re…”

“Please”

Maekar is a weak, weak man. 

He pulls you in his arms, not even bothering to kiss you as he simply hides his face in your chest. Gods, he adores a good pair of breasts, no matter how they were, he always found himself obsessed and latching onto them as if he was still a babe. 

He is careful not to kiss too harshly, since you had scratches that his own son had made, yet he was still a man possessed by the lust, as he pulled the cleavage lower and lower, until he felt the fabric giving in. 

“Such a needy slut with this pretty sweet body of yours” his tone is heated, as he turns you around to his will, not weightening anything to him. You suppose that the Anvil would not be anything but Strong. 

You barely notice how he walks with you, practically dragging you and pushing you until you are against his desk.

 “You’re trouble, I knew from the moment I saw you” Maekar says, his hands gripping against your waist as he accommodates to his whims. “I knew Aerion won’t know how to deal with you, only giving you a bloody lip each time” he positions you so your torso is against the wood. “He’s only a boy, but you need a firmer hand, don’t you?”

You understand what he means, Aerion wouldn’t know, but I would. That’s what he wants to say, yet he never verbalizes it. He doesn’t need to, because you know it. 

“I do” your voice is almost breathless as you answer him. “I always have”

“You are a slut, hm?” He murmurs, yet his tone is not reproachive, it is almost fond. “You want to fuck your bethrothed’s father?”

You nod softly, feeling his hands moving under the skirts of your simple dress. Thank the Gods you were using one of those simple empire gowns, because if not, he would be fighting with layers and layers of clothing. 

“Yes” you murmur,  not feeling an ounce of shame. Not one, because you knew that he wanted it too.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Yes, my prince” you repeat a bit louder, rolling your eyes like when Gerold scolded you.  

It should be humiliating, being a lady of your station being used by a prince of the realm like this. You knew that the royal family had enough of mistresses and bastards for a lifetime alone, so being under prince Maekar as he moves your skirts out of the way – it was pure desire. 

You thought what would happen then. You’d love to be his wife, but how messy would it be. Would he even want that? Probably not. Perhaps you’ll marry Aerion, and perhaps he’ll send you both away after this. Perhaps he won’t. 

“You feel that?” His cock is heavy against you from behind, as he places his hands on your hips to move you closer against his crotch.

“Yeah” 

“You’re going to feel it all inside you” his tone was sultry, caressing the skin of your hips. 

Your mind was absolutely blank, trying to ground yourself as you realised; you made it. You were actually going to fuck your betrothed’s father. 

“So wet, darling…” Maekar murmurs more to himself, but you still hear it. 

The feeling of his sticky head against your slit made you whimper softly, trying to have a hold of anything on his desk just to anchor yourself  and not fall on your face. You feel him leaning closer his chest against your back, just to whisper something in your ear. 

“You’ll remember this cock each time another man fucks you” his voice is raspy, yet somewhat soft as he pulls back to accommodate himself and push his dick inside you.

He feeds his cock little by little, groaning loudly at the feeling of your warm cunt. His hands grip your hips as you moan loudly at the welcomed intrusion. 

“Fuck” you whimper loudly, feeling the girthy length make room inside you. You felt full, the feeling on your lower tummy overwhelming all of your other senses. 

“You’re full of me” He groans, leaning back slightly to watch his cock nestled inside your cunt. “So full, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yesyesyes.”

It was obvious that prince Maekar was experienced, as he starts rocking his hips as his lust grows inside, the little restraint he had slipping away with each thrust. His hands grip your flesh hard enough that you wouldn’t be surprised that it would end up bruised. And you didn’t care.

You would have thought that Maekar would be absolutely silent while having intercouse, but surprisingly, he let out loud groans of delight or some grunts as he pounded you from behind. He is an avid lover in bed, that’s sure.

“Fuckin’ hell…” He groans, his balls slapping against your flesh as he moves you closer to his groin. 

His thrusts were quick and hammering, pounding deep in you in a way you had never thought possible. It was intense, no doubt, having a girthy cock like his inside your cunt. 

“Full of your goodfather,” he repeats, as if the mere thought simply made everything better. That fact turned you on, and to your surprise, also turned him on. 

“Harder, harder” you beg of him, trying to maintain yourself stable under his harsh thrusts, and you wish for him to go on and on until you couldn’t breathe from the pleasure. 

The obscene squelch that each of his thrusts made was only working to make you moan louder. His balls glistened, coating from your juices as he pumped on your cunt harder as requested. His cock was no different, and that thought made you moan out loud. 

You feel one of his arms wrap around your neck, just to hold you still as he leans to speak to you. “Tight little cunt…” he manages to say in between thrusts. “Look at how you take it, made for this,” he grunts. 

You had your mind blank, only feeling the pounding on your cervix as you would wish to ask him to fill you full of his seed. Yet you know that he won’t, because having a bastard would be his ruin… and yours. Still, that thought was enough to make you moan loudly before coming undone in his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, yes!” You moan, feeling drool fall from your mouth. This man was fucking you into patheticness and you did not care. 

Maekar groans as he feels your pussy tightening around his cock, still thrusting and overstimulating you. He was all over you, his arm tightening around your neck, not enough to choke, but to help you feel his control over you. His hand gripped your shoulder, as the sounds he makes fall right into your ear serving to fuel the fire inside you. His chest was against your back, and you could even smell his aroma, feel his beard against your skin, the hairs around the base of his cock against your cunny… He was everywhere and you love it. 

He takes no longer time to finish, yet against what you predicted, he does give you the pleasure of finishing inside you, burying himself balls deep. The pumps of his cock inside you as he cums makes you bite your lower lip, as he moans rather loudly for his stance. He leaves your insides full and sticky, perhaps too much, but again, he might not have had a proper release in years. 

As the last ropes of cum came from his cock, he sighs back, as if  the weight of it all came down to him. Yet he does not speak more about it, and you also don’t. 

You wondered how to make prince Maekar come back to you. You decided, the very same night he fucked you, that you wanted him as your husband. Not Aerion, not Daeron. You wanted to have his babies, and perhaps if you married Aerion, they could pass as his. But you didn’t want his bastard, you wanted his legitimate babies, you wanted your offspring to call him father. You wanted to bounce on his dick every morning and get pounded from behind every night. 

How…  was the question that remained in your mind, even when the next morning, when you came to apologise from your unrestrained behaviour from the day before, as maidens were supposed to be pure until marriage, Prince Maekar took no mind in your words. As you were trying to get him to engage, to say something to your words so you could say “well, since you defiled me, you have to wed me” he simply took you in his bed, with no complaint from you.

And so you were wedded to him when his valet and maids found him eating your cunt. 

Yet now, after your father and prince Baelor had arrived, the change of news had you smiling widely and being very welcoming to them both, as if you were already the Lady of Summerhall. You'll have to ask prince Baelor if you could be adressed as Princess (even if you had no grounds for that...)

As the announcement was made, Maekar had all of his Maekarlings lined up to welcome you as their future step-mother. 

“I hope that we can set our differences aside” You say in a slightly mocking tone to Aerion, as you kiss both of his cheeks in a motherly way. You may never replace their mother, that much was true, yet you still hoped to care for all six of them... and maybe adding one or two children of your own to the family. “And perhaps even play cyvasse again.”

[osarina]

ঌ IKSAN AŌHON, IKSĀ ÑUHON

FEATURING: aerion targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Aerion has the opportunity to return to Lys briefly for a supply run. He has missed you desperately—have you missed him the same? Or are you already halfway gone?

WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader comes from Valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. Dubcon (reader was drinking, but they’ve fucked drunk before). Brief somno. Blood play. Knife play. Aerion POV — probably the most unhinged we've had so far LOL. switch!reader, switch!aerion (as always). Mentions of underage sex. Mentions/implications of child abuse (reader's childhood). Mentions/implications of grooming (reader's childhood). A bit more of reader’s past is divulged and she is meant to be struggling mentally (especially when she was younger) but was constantly forced into high-functioning behavior and had insane expectations/responsibility so it was never really addressed and she kind of just dismisses it as normal (it is not normal). 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Omg I'm sorry this part took me so long </3 This was supposed to be a brief interlude for before he returns to Lys and it is not brief at all LOLLLLL I really enjoyed writing this part because 1) we get a POV of a new character and get to see more of our girl's past, and 2) Aerion is just so fun for me to write IKHDFAHSUFAUH he is so unhinged and the more he accepts that he loves her, the worse it gets. HAHAHAH Anyway, comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

READ: STARFALL

Aerion is going fucking insane.

It has been two months since he left Lys with the Second Sons—two months since he left you—and there is no end in sight. From the little news that he is able to gather from his fellow sellswords, who become increasingly incensed with Aerion’s badgering, the Golden Company has brokered a contract with the magisters until a pirates’ den in the Stepstones is duly dealt with. Thus, they have settled in the city for the time being. 

Aeiron thinks that it is fucking ridiculous, and if there is a pirates' den to be dealt with, then the magisters should have just contracted the Second Sons to do so. They have a long-standing relationship with the other mercenary company anyway, and in Aerion’s opinion, it is wildly disrespectful for them to turn so quickly to a rival company, but none of the captains seem to share his sentiment, because he is only met with a dismissive shrug when he raises his complaints.

He is sick of it. 

It was entertaining enough at first. The first few weeks, he could almost pretend that he hadn’t fled Lys with his tail between his legs because of the Golden Company. It was familiar, something closer to what he had been raised for—steel in hand, blood slicking his face and soaking the ground beneath him, men screaming and dying around him. There was something intoxicating about the way the company veterans looked at him after, eyes wide and a little afraid.

A dragon among mutts. It should have satisfied him—it almost did, for a time. He loves the violence, loves the reputation he has built, and the whispers that follow him through camp. He fights harder than he needs to, stays longer in the thick of it than is wise, and takes risks that make even the captains side-eye him when they think he isn’t looking. He likes the way it felt—how it drowned everything else out.

There was a clarity in it that he had not felt in a long time. No politics or having to watch his tongue, no pretending to be less than what he is. Just violence, clean and honest, and the undeniable truth that no one could stand before the dragon and live to tell the tale. He carved through men twice his size without a second thought and laughed when anyone had the nerve to ask for mercy. 

But the unfortunate thing about battle is that it ends, and when it ends, there is nothing left but the quiet, and the quiet is unbearable, because then all he has are his thoughts, and his thoughts are plagued of you. He lies awake more often than not, staring up at the top of his pavilion—he tries to find whores to occupy his time, but even with someone to warm his bed, it is your name he breathes, your face he sees when his eyes slide shut.

He hates it. 

What are you doing? What are you thinking? Are you alone? Are you thinking of him? Do you miss him? Do you remember him? Are you with the Blackfyres? Have you grown fond of them the same way you did him? Are you going to accept their deal? Do you think of him? Do you still love him? Do you—

He rolls onto his side with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching in his hair as though he might tear it out just to feel something other than this awful ache in his chest. 

He hates it. Hates that there are things happening to you and around you, and he is not there to see, to remind you that he exists. He feels sick every time he remembers the way people spoke about you and him, as though he were just a fleeting distraction that would soon be spent. There is a real chance that you moved on the moment he was out of sight and reach, and Aerion just does not know. Will not know until he returns to Lys and either finds you there waiting for him or long gone. 

The whore beside him—he doesn’t know her name because he didn’t bother to ask, and isn’t sure why she had the nerve to stay the night instead of fleeing the moment he was done with her—shifts slightly when he moves, murmuring something soft and drowsy as she presses closer to him.

Aerion goes still. For a fleeting moment, in the dim flicker of lamplight, he almost lets himself pretend. The curve of her shoulder beneath his hand, the warmth of her breath against his chest—he could close his eyes again and pretend that it is you. Pretend that when he turns his head, he will find your gaze waiting for him, glittering and knowing and far too amused for his liking.

He almost does. His eyes slide shut, and then—

Return to me, dragon prince. That is an order.

Aerion lets out a vicious hiss, the illusion shattering so violently that it almost makes him dizzy. He cannot be free of you—he will never be free of you. 

What are you doing? Who are you with? Are you thinking of him? Does he haunt you the same way you haunt him?

He shoves himself upright, and the woman beside him jolts at the sudden movement. She reaches for him, confused, but Aerion is already on his feet, pacing the length of the pavilion like a caged animal.

“Get out,” he says coldly, hardly sparing her a second look as his temper wanes. 

He tugs at his hair as he shakes his head, barely noticing as the woman scrambles to grab her clothes, fleeing his pavilion before she’s fully dressed. His name on your lips, your breath on his skin, the way your fingers feel tangled in his hair, and the warmth of your body sliding against his. Aerion misses you desperately. He feels fucking insane. What is he supposed to do if you are not there when he returns? What is he supposed to do? 

He knows what he is supposed to do. He will hunt you down. He will fucking hunt you down until the end of the world, if he has to, because you have no right to leave when you told him to return to you. If you make him out to be the fool, he will hunt you down, and he will kill you, because he would rather you dead than with anyone else. 

Furious with himself, he shoves aside the flap of his pavilion and steps out into the night air, chest heaving. The camp is quieter at this hour, though not silent—there’s always someone awake, always the low murmur of voices, the crackle of fire, the distant clatter of steel being cleaned or sharpened. The smell of sweat and blood and smoke hangs heavy in the air. He used to enjoy it, he thinks bitterly, now he finds himself longing for that sickeningly sweet perfume and thick incense, because he knows it’s where he will find you.

“Couldn’t sleep, prince?”

Aerion’s head snaps toward the voice, irritation already spiking before he even registers who it is. One of the captains—lean, dark-haired, perpetually unimpressed—leans back against a post, arms crossed as he watches him. 

Navario, Aerion recalls—a Braavosi who has been with the Second Sons for almost a decade now. He’s never crossed paths with him directly until now. 

Aerion’s lip curls up in disgust. “If I wanted commentary, I would have asked for it.”

The man huffs a quiet laugh, unbothered. “You’ve been like this for weeks. Thought maybe you’d finally burned yourself out.”

“I am a dragon. I do not burn out,” Aerion says coolly, the words immediate and instinctive. “I am not one of your half-trained mongrels who needs to be dragged off the field before he keels over.”

“Naturally,” Navario drawls. “You know, I hear our lovely lady exile took a liking to you before we departed Lys. Is it true?” 

Aerion physically falters, gaze cutting to the side to focus on him, but before he can respond, he notices movement further down the line of tents. Lanterns bob in the dark, a cluster of men moving with purpose rather than the idle drift of camp settling for the night. Steel glints at their sides and packs are slung over their shoulders—a departure?

“What is that?” he asks, already moving before the man answers. “Where are they going? I was not told there would be any departures tonight.”

“Why exactly would you have been made aware?” Navario drawls, and when Aerion shoots him a vicious look, he shrugs carelessly. “If you’re curious, go ask.”

Aerion shoots him a cold look over his shoulder, half-tempted to remain behind and demand to know who exactly he is and why he refers to you so casually—if he’s familiar with you, if he’s heard from you, because you have not sent him a single raven in the two moons he’s been gone. He tries to tell himself it’s because you cannot be caught in communications with him if someone manages to intercept your raven, but he will be seriously incensed if you’ve been in contact with anyone else. 

Curiosity gets the best of him, though, so he doesn’t waste another breath on a retort, boots crushing the packed earth as he cuts through the camp to figure out what’s happening.

There’s a ship moored just beyond the shallows, its dark shape rocking gently against the tide, lanternlight catching along the edges of its hull. A smaller boat sits closer in, men already wading through the surf to load it with supplies.

“You,” he snaps, grabbing the nearest man by the arm before he can step into the water. “Where are you going?”

The sellsword startles, twisting to look at him, clearly not expecting to be manhandled. “The fuck—get off—”

“Answer me,” Aerion cuts in, grip tightening just enough to make the point.

The man scowls, but there’s a flicker of recognition when he takes in Aerion’s face—the reputation that’s followed him these past weeks does half the work for him.

“Supply run,” he mutters. “Couple of us are heading back toward Lys, pick up contracts, see what’s shifted. Now let go.”

Lys. The word hits Aerion like a gut punch. He goes very still, throat bobbing as he realizes what this means. If they’re going back to Lys, then—

“Back to Lys,” he echoes. 

“Aye,” the man says, jerking his arm free with a sharp tug. “Won’t be long. Just a day trip there, then back here. Why?”

Aerion smiles thinly. “I will be coming with.”

—then he will get to see you again.

—————————

Jaenys Saenor has been called many things: cruel and whorish, vicious and violent, a pretty little knife with too sharp of an edge for someone to hold without bleeding (he took this last one as a compliment, even though Laena certainly didn’t mean it as one; he likes being called pretty, and anyone who complains about sharp edges is too boring to have a place in his life anyway). Men curse his name in one breath and beg for his attention in the next, because he has always known exactly where to press to make it hurt—and how to make them come back for more anyway.

He has never been called helpless, and he has not felt helpless in almost two decades.

Until now, at least. 

It is an unwelcome thing. He leans back against the carved stone of the balcony next to your favorite courtesan, wine in hand, gaze fixed not on the city below, but on you, lounging on red velvet cushions, entertaining whores and Blackfyres with empty eyes and careless laughter that rings hollow compared to the laugh he knows so intimately.

“You are staring,” Caelyx murmurs beside him, amused.

Jaenys takes a sip of his wine, but it is not enough to wash away the bitterness in the back of his throat. He asks dryly, “Am I?” 

He is. He knows he is.

You are surrounded, as always. Silk and incense and gold, bodies draped across cushions, voices low and indulgent, wine spilling freely and lips brushing bare skin. One boy is at your feet, half-draped across your lap, and there is a girl at your side, fingers tangled lazily in your hair. Haegon Blackfyre, who took a quick liking to you and you have indulged more than the rest, sits on your left, arm draped along the back of the cushions behind you, mouths meeting in slow, lazy kisses.

Jaenys’s lips curl down before he can stop himself, brows furrowing.

“Indeed. Like you want to kill someone,” Caelyx drawls.

“I do enjoy bloodshed,” Jaenys muses absently, trying to figure out what about this situation bothers him so much. He tosses a wink at Caelyx, but a distracted one, and then he returns to studying you. “And I am quite skilled at causing it.”

It is a familiar sight—you have always surrounded yourself with people, even back in Volantis, so he should not be bothered. If you were not with Viserys, then you were with Jaenys and the others, and if not them, then Aenys (though you liked to pretend your affair with the snake-eyed Elephant cunt was a secret), and if not Aenys, then whores. You were always the center of something—Volantis’s own personal sun, Visedor liked to joke—so he is not bothered because of that.

He is bothered because it is different. 

The decadence and excess, that has always been you, but the absence beneath it that leaves a poor taste in his mouth. You have never been so—so dull. Like a shell. You have always been loud and bright, so full of life that people naturally gravitated toward you. You never did anything halfway. When you wanted something, you took it whole, burning through it until there was nothing left to take, and you cast it aside without a second thought.

That’s not to say you were never bored; you were frequently bored, but only because you exhausted things too quickly. This is—it’s different. Because however bored you were back home—however frequent and however terrible—you were always hungry for something new to capture your attention. 

Now, you do not seem to hunger for anything at all.

There is an absence of fire in the way you move that unsettles him. You let people touch you, let them kiss you, let them press close like it means something, and you give them just enough to keep them there, but there is no bite to it, no indication that you’re enjoying anything happening around you.

It is wrong. It is so terribly wrong that it makes Jaenys’s stomach twist. You have always wanted. Even your boredom had teeth, restless and searching, always reaching for the next thing to sink into and tear apart. You were never empty like this. 

Is this how your exile has been? Is this what those Elephant cunts did to you when they cast you out? Stripped you of the fire and brilliance that made you who you are?

“Is this what she’s been like?” Jaenys forces himself to ask, voice quiet. He’s almost afraid to know the answer, gut twisted, chest aching, because this is not you. Not the you he knows, not the you he loves. Caelyx doesn’t immediately answer him, so Jaenys shoots the boy a cutting look, stomach flipping when he sees the soft frown on his face. “Answer me.”

Caelyx’s gaze flits over to him briefly. “For a while,” he finally says simply. “Until the dragon prince showed up, at least.”

That’s even worse, Jaenys thinks miserably, because that means he cannot blame this on the Elephants for casting you out. That means this is his fault—that you were happy, that you had found something to hold on to in spite of the circumstances, and Jaenys had been the one to rip it away. Jaenys is the reason that you are miserable and drifting, hollow in your laughter and quick to find the bottom of a bottle.

It infuriates him to know he has played such a large role in this, but how the hell was he supposed to know you’d gone and acquired a Targaryen prince for yourself? You’d always mocked the dragons back home—their inheritance disputes, their dead dragons, all of it. You were the last person Jaenys ever expected to fall in love with one of the Andal cunts, so he thought this would be an easy way to bring you home.

And it is love, Jaenys knows that. You have only ever drawn your blade on him for Viserys before, and you did it so unhesitatingly for this western prince that, for a brief second, Jaenys wondered if you would actually kill him. Not only that, you gave the cunt your Valyrian steel, not knowing if you’ll ever see him again—Jaenys begged you to let him borrow it for a few hours for the Syranaelia six years ago, and you threatened to throw him from the top of the Black Walls if he ever asked you such a stupid question again.

It is love, and Jaenys might have destroyed it.

A few years ago, before you were exiled, he would have been smug. He loved watching you spurn people in favor of him, loved it even amongst friends. The others were always fine with sharing each other, and he was too, to an extent, but he could never rid himself of that vicious glee he felt whenever he was the one chosen—that’s why he could understand the Targaryen’s apparent disdain for both Jaenys and your favored courtesan that night before he left Lys. 

Now, the thought sits heavy and sour in his stomach, because you are his friend, and you lost everything once already, and now you finally found something to hold onto again, and he took that from you too. 

Across the room, you tilt your head back, laughing at something Haegon says. Your gaze flicks in Jaenys’s direction, as though you can sense that he’s talking about you, thinking about you, but it is like watching someone else wear your face, because there is nothing behind your eyes or the faint curve of your lips.

Haegon leans in to brush his lips against yours again, and you hold Jaenys’s gaze for a moment longer before redirecting that vacant attention onto the boy next to you.

His teeth grind together.

Jaenys has known you for a very, very long time. He has known you since you were thrown into the 209th Cohort together at the age of four, and he has loved you just as long, and he has never seen you like this before. Not in all the years he has known you—not in your worst moods, when you were all teeth and temper and violence, spilling blood before asking questions; not even in your worst boredom, when you would float about in the public baths for hours, drunk and fully clothed, wasting away until you could think of something to do. 

You have always wanted, he thinks again. You have always burned too brightly for the rest of the world to keep up, and it sickens Jaenys to think that you have finally burned out. 

That he is the reason you have finally burned out.

When you were all children, he remembers thinking you were the cruelest creature he had ever met. Cruel and radiant; even when you were young, the adults talked about you like you had been born for greatness, and everyone was waiting for you to grow into yourself. He had thought himself unlucky at the time, being thrown into a cohort with you, Aenar, and Naera—the three of you were everything he was not. Brilliant, brutal, and untouchable in ways that made the rest of the cohort orbit around you like lesser stars. Aenar with his strength, Naera with her skill, and you with your sharp mind and that relentless will that made even the elders hesitate when you set your sights on something.

Jaenys had been smaller then, quiet and easy to overlook when placed beside the three of you. He had almost accepted it—a life at the edges, pretty and pleasant and forgettable. He wasn’t meant for the blood and glory the other Tiger heirs were bound for, as much as he longed for it. 

Then you set his world on fire. Literally.

Jaenys’s lips twitch faintly at the memory—the 4th moon’s war game in 193. The stables had gone up in flames before he had even realized what you’d done, the scent of burning hay thick in the air, smoke clogging his lungs and stinging eyes as he stumbled out of the building. You stood outside on the garden wall, arms crossed over your chest, eyes meeting his, and you told him to conquer Aenar’s territory for you or die trying, because he and Naera had teamed together to bring an end to your unending win streak, and you refused to accept defeat. 

For one long moment, he was trapped in the blaze of you—it was the first time he ever was, and he knew he never wanted to be anywhere else.

All this to say, Jaenys loves you—he has loved you since the moment you set his territory on fire, maybe even before that, too, like many other hapless fools who fell in love with you from afar. You may have laughed in his face when he told you this, but he still means it all the same, and because he loves you and because he knows you, because he has stood in the blaze of you and felt what it was like when you burn, he knows that this is not right. That there is something seriously, seriously wrong, and he needs to figure out how to fix it. He has seen you furious and bored, bloodied and laughing, ruthless and brilliant and cruel in ways that made men fear you and love you all at once, but never empty. Your fire has never burned out, even when it’s been dampened.

Expect now.

He downs another glass just to rid himself of the bitter taste, tongue darting out to lap at the beads of the sweet cherry wine on his lips as he tries to figure out what the hell he should do. 

Naera and Aenar would know, Jaenys thinks pitifully—Aenar is always good at knowing how to fix things, and Naera is always good at getting things done. Jaenys has never pretended to be anything but what he is—cunning where others are strong, ruthless where others hesitate. He is good at strategy and tricks and schemes, and he has a taste for violence and cruelty—he is not a fixer. 

But there is no clever angle here, no hidden weakness to exploit, no knife he can slip between the ribs of the problem and twist until it resolves itself. There is no war he can plot that will give you back what he has unwittingly taken from you. This is not a game he can outmaneuver.

His shoulders slump as he sighs, unsure what to do. 

“Fuck me,” he sighs, putting his goblet of wine down on a nearby table a tad too harshly. Next to him, Caelyx raises his eyebrows, but Jaenys waves him off and makes his way over to you and Haegon Blackfyre. 

He flops down on the cushions on your opposite side, slinking an arm around your shoulder to tug you away from Haegon. You let him move you without resistance, and it makes his stomach flip uncomfortably. Jaenys receives a dirty look from the Blackfyre in response, and he tosses him a wink and a smug smile before leaning in to ghost his lips against yours, waving the boy off with his free hand to silently tell him to leave the two of you be.

You hardly kiss him back—it would fool anyone else, the way you move your lips just enough to feign interest, but not him.

He pulls back to look at you, gaze searching yours, and finds nothing waiting for him—not the sharp amusement he’s used to, not the lazy indulgence he typically finds, not even irritation at being interrupted. Just that same distant stare that has been haunting him for two moons. 

Jaenys’s smile falters. “Gods,” he murmurs under his breath, thumb brushing along your arm as though he might coax something out of you by touch alone. “You look positively dreadful.”

You blink at him, slow and unfocused, like it takes a moment for you to place who he is at all, and something ugly twists in his chest at that. Then your lips curl up into a sharp smile, but it still doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“Do not be cruel because you’re jealous I’m giving Haegon attention,” you say, head tilting to the side, familiar and playful, but off. Enough to fool anyone else, but not him. You lean in to whisper, “You know you’re my favorite.”

Jaenys lets out a soft huff of laughter at that. “Jealous,” he echoes, voice a low drawl, brows lifting as his thumb presses more firmly beneath your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on him when it starts to drift. “You wound me. We both know that if I were really jealous, he’d already be bleeding on the carpets. I’m good at sharing—when I need to be, that is.”

Something flickers in your eyes at that—disappointment, maybe? And he understands why instantly, because only ten minutes with that volatile little dragon told Jaenys that the boy would quickly and gladly spill blood if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way in his presence.

Ugh, Jaenys thinks, withering a bit. 

The dragon boy is troublesome; Jaenys does not like feeling guilty. It is a foreign feeling—he does not know if he’s ever felt guilty before these last two moons, and he resents it. Jaenys has never been the sort to dwell on the consequences of his actions, not when he’s always been so good at staying one step ahead of them by using his sharp tongue and quick mind to free himself of them, but this lingers in a way that’s impossible to ignore. 

He rests his thumb over your bottom lip, pressing down enough to get you to part them slightly for him. You raise your eyebrows at him, and he leans in. He continues quietly, thumb dragging idly along your jaw again, “Is that what you want? Someone to snarl and bare their teeth every time another man breathes too close to you.”

Your gaze is flinty now, jaw tightening beneath his fingers as you try to figure out if he is mocking you. For a second, your fire returns, and Jaenys is almost able to bask in the heat of it again. He exhales through his nose, eyes sliding shut briefly before he leans in close enough to press his lips against your ear, his forehead to your temple, speaking low enough so that Haegon cannot overhear what he’s about to say.

“I will fix this,” he says softly. 

When he hears you let out a confused huff, he presses his lips to your temple, because Jaenys has known you since the two of you were children, and he has loved you just as long, but as much as he wants you to come home, he is terrified to bring this version of you home. He left Volantis to fix things—to bring you back where you belong, back to something that looks like before everything went wrong—but not like this. 

Jaenys has never been afraid of a problem before—not a person or a war, not even when faced with insurmountable odds and an expectation of failure. 

But this—this scares him.

This is something that has already sunk its teeth into you, and he does not know if he, or Aenar, or Naera, or Visedor, or even your brother, will ever be enough to pry it out completely. If he brings you home like this, whatever part of you that is lost and drifting now after losing the dragon boy might be killed off entirely, and he cannot bear a world where you are forever longing for something you can never have. He cannot bear a world where you are not—where you are not you. Where you are not radiant and brilliant, and all teeth and knives and cruelty, a sun that burns too hot and drags everyone in too close, but no one ever cared what it cost them if it meant standing close enough to feel your heat.

Jaenys will fix this, even if it means waiting a little longer to get you home. He might be more prone to violence and cruelty than anything beneficent, but he has always been lucky—he was lucky that it was him you turned to during that war game when you were all children, luckier still when everything just fell into his lap after that. He might not know how to fix it right now, but Jaenys is the smartest person he knows, so he will figure it out when Lady Luck inevitably smiles in his direction again, even if it goes against his very nature. 

“Avy jorrāelan,” he murmurs against your temple, just for you to hear. “Iksan vaoreznuni. Īlen mērī sylugon naejot mazverdagon ra paktot, se eman mērī vēttan mirre qubykta. Shijetra nyke.”

I love you. I am sorry. I was only trying to make things right, and I’ve only made everything worse. Forgive me.

When you pull back to look at him, Jaenys’s throat bobs when he sees the warmth in your eyes as your lips curl up into a small smile. You say quietly, “Gaomagon daor sagon iā mittys. Konīr iksis daorun naejot shijetra.”

Do not be a fool. There is nothing to forgive. 

Jaenys exhales and replies, “Sesīr sīr.”

Even so.

A huff of laughter slips from your lips, this one sounding more real than any of the louder ones he’s heard you let out over the last two moons. “Pār nyke shijetra ao. Māzigon, ivestragī īlva jikagon vīlībagon isse se tistālion se orgoz hen se dārōñe vali arlī.”

Then I forgive you. Come, let us go spar in the market and piss off the magisters again.

Jaenys laughs, rising to his feet and holding his hand out to you. 

You take it. 

“Mērī lo mazemā se qilōnarion bisa jēda,” he tells you with a sharp smile.

Only if you take the blame this time.

“Deal.”

—————————

Jaenys is a pain in your ass, and five years apart made you forget just how much of one he was. 

Luckily for you, he was very quick to remind you the moment the two of you were reunited. 

You roll your eyes as he laughs wildly, dodging a strike that nearly takes his ear off; you circle one another in the market, ignoring merchants who are all tossing gold at one another, bets flying for first blood, first to the ground, and first to yield, voices rising in a chaotic chorus around you as steel strikes steel. 

“You have gotten slower,” Jaenys mocks, and your eye twitches, irritation swallowing the void that has been steadily consuming you these past two moons. “I noticed it the first time we sparred, but—”

He yelps when you drive your foot hard into his abdomen, sending him stumbling back; a chorus of boos rises from the crowd when he regains his footing before hitting the ground. You give him a taunting raise of your brows, and he lets out a huff of laughter, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as the two of you settle into a familiar routine. 

You do not know if it’s a blessing or a curse that Jaenys was the one to slip away from Volantis to come find you. He is somehow both the best and worst person who could’ve found you like this. These… moods didn’t happen often back home because there was no reason for you to really lose yourself in the way you’ve lost yourself without Aerion, but some days you just—you were just tired. Inexplicably so. You were tired and angry and bored, and you would get so wound up about it that you thought it was the end of the world and couldn’t stand anyone near you, so you would find the public baths and float for hours until it passed. 

Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t.

Aenar and Naera never pushed, even if they were concerned, if only because they knew better when you were five seconds from self-destruction. They would linger on the edges of the water, not coming in, because you would bristle when anyone came too close to something you considered your territory, but they would wait. They would wait and watch and circle until you came back on your own terms. And you did come back on your own terms—usually, at least. That or Viserys interfered.

Visedor—he only really stepped in when it didn’t pass that first day, when these stretches of boredom and anger and helplessness would last for days at a time, so he would distract you by fucking or fighting or causing trouble and forcing you out for your head long enough to deal with it.

Jaenys is different. 

He is not like your brother, because Viserys would pull you out by force, because he could. He was the only one who could. He would find whatever bathhouse you usurped for yourself, glide into the water, and drag you out kicking and screaming if he had to. It was never often that he was the one who had to step in for you, but he always did when necessary—covering for you with your father when you didn’t show up to meetings or training because you were too busy floating in a bath, causing a scene to pull the attention from you when your father started to realize something was wrong, because failure was expected for Viserys, but it was entirely unacceptable for you. If your father ever got wind that something was wrong with you, he would have had you beaten until you learned not to be wrong at all. 

But Jaenys—

Jaenys schemes. He schemes, and he pushes, and he calculates, and he always gets what he wants in the long run, and it makes you suspicious. 

He is the worst one to be here with you, because he will never let this rest until he figures out how to fix it, and you hate that he sees through all of the facades, and that when all you want is to pretend that everything is okay, he never lets you. 

He is the best one to be here with you, because you do not know if you’ll be able to pull yourself out of this on your own this time, and he might be able to put together a scheme to return to you the only person other than your brother who might be able to. 

“You’re a cunt,” you tell him, and you mean it. He knows you do, because his smile widens, a laugh bubbling from his lips as your steel clashes again. “I’m gonna bloody up that pretty face of yours, Jae.”

Jaenys winks at you. “Will you kiss me better after?” 

“If you actually manage to land a blow, I’ll do a lot more than kiss you,” you purr, leaning back to avoid an arc toward your neck, “but we both know that’s not going to happen.”

Jaenys laughs, smile sharpening. “Careful, I plan to hold you to it.”

You snort, twisting away from the next strike, but the easy rhythm you almost allowed yourself to fall into falters anyway, because for a brief, stupid moment, you can almost pretend that nothing has changed. That you are back in Volantis with your friends, trading blades in the forum until someone runs to your parents to complain about the noise and steel. That there is no exile hanging over your head, no impossible choice waiting for you at the end of this. That Aerion is not somewhere far away and unreachable, on the opposite side of the scale from your brother, your friends, your father, and your promised future. 

The thought drains you so quickly that it almost makes you feel dizzy. Your blade catches Jaenys’s with a sharp clang, but the force behind it is gone now, attention drifting eastward for the hundredth time that day.

Jaenys’s smile falters, a heavy expression on his face.

“I want to go home,” you tell him quietly, lashes fluttering as you let out a breath. No one can hear what the two of you are saying over the crowd and steel, and everyone is far too caught up in their own excitement to notice the serious expressions suddenly on your faces. “I really want to go home, Jae.”

“I know,” he says simply, because he does. Because Jaenys has always known you best of your group of friends, because you have always relied on it and dreaded it in equal measure. “But not at this cost.”

Your jaw tightens as he speaks the words you’ve been refusing to say out loud for two moons now. You do not have to agree for him to know your answer—he already knows it well enough, sees it in you every time he looks at you with those irritating, knowing eyes. You miss Aerion so terribly that some mornings it feels difficult for you to breathe without him hogging all of your air. You miss the weight of him beside you at night, miss his voice and terrible temper and the way he looked at you like you were something worth giving up everything for. Some selfish, aching part of you looks at him the same, wants to throw all of this away, potentially your only chance of going home, just so you can have him again.

But how are you supposed to justify that? All of this, for a boy you have not even known for a year, who might already hate you for sending him away. How are you supposed to justify choosing him over your home and family, over the future you have spent your life bleeding for?

Still, you find yourself agreeing, voice mortifyingly weak even to your own ears, “Not at this cost.”

As soon as you speak the words, you feel as though you’ve swallowed poison. 

It feels like a betrayal. 

A betrayal to Jaenys, who has come all this way with all of these plans for you to finally come home. 

A betrayal to your father, who expects you home on the next ship with Jaenys, so you can finally pick up the mantle as the future of the Tiger party, the way you were meant to from the very beginning. 

A betrayal to yourself, because you do not even know who you are anymore, because there’s nothing you want more than to go home and reclaim your promised future—except Aerion, and that terrifies you.

A betrayal to Viserys. A betrayal to your brother—your twin brother—who is waiting for you back home, aching for you the same way you do for him. Two halves of the same whole; a single soul cleaved into two at birth, always yearning to return to one another. 

There are eight hundred miles between you and him, and you can feel every inch of it. Every time you look east, you try to imagine what he’s doing—playing the harp, drinking wine, lounging in the gardens. Sometimes, you pretend to be there with him, eyes sliding shut as you lie on a marble bench of some magister’s manse, pretending you can hear his music and laugh.

When you were young, you sometimes woke in the middle of the night with the same pull you feel incessantly now. You felt the moment he slipped away from your side, and you would find yourself wandering the halls, confused and half-asleep, only aware that something was wrong and needed to be fixed. Your feet would bring you to Viserys, who was curled in the corner of some hall or tucked away under an orange tree in the gardens, because sleep only brought him nightmares.

You had learned then to always follow it—that pull—to find him, to go to him no matter the cost.

When had you unlearned it?

How had you unlearned it?

It is a betrayal—to you, to him, to everything you have ever known as truth. How are you ever supposed to look your brother in the eye again? Would you ever have the chance to do so, if you give this opportunity up? How can you possibly make this decision if it means you might never see him again?

You barely dodge the jab to your side, lost in thought. Jaenys raises his eyebrows at you, taunting, but you are retreating again already, back into that cold, empty void you were in this morning, where you have been for the last two moons, trying to balance this impossible, impossible decision.

“You really love that dragon boy, don’t you?” Jaenys asks you softly, an unreadable expression on his face as his gaze slips over you. 

“What does it matter now?” you ask bitterly, becoming fed up with everything about this. “I will likely never see him again.”

You don’t want to talk about this anymore. You don’t want to think about it. You side-step the next swing of Jaenys’s blade, and you drive your foot hard enough into his side to send him sprawling onto the ground. You lift your blade to point it at his neck. The crowd erupts around the two of you, Lysene coins exchanged en masse as the gambling comes to an end. 

“I yield,” Jaenys sighs, head rolling back, silver hair brushing the ground before he holds his hand up, beckoning for you to help him to his feet. You roll your eyes—what a princess, you think, grabbing his forearm to pull him upright. He stands in front of you, so close that your chest brushes his. You tilt your head up slightly to look at him, waiting for him to back up, but he doesn’t. He tells you quietly, “I told you I would fix it, didn’t I?” 

“But at what cost, Jae?” You hate that your voice wobbles. You hate feeling weak. “The only opportunity I have to go home? To see all of the others again? Viserys? I lose no matter what happens. I—”

“This won’t be your only opportunity,” Jaenys says so firmly that you falter. He lifts his hand to brush his fingers against your cheek, tilting your face to force you to keep your eyes on him. Before you can spit out a ‘you do not know that,’ Jaenys continues, “Aenys—he has been… talking to your father.”

For a second, you don’t think you heard him correctly.

“What?” you ask, voice riddled with disbelief. “Aenys Vyninar? Aenys as in Triarch Vyninar’s son? Aenys as in bane of my existence and—”

“—and the boy you used to sneak out to fuck when you thought no one was paying attention,” Jaenys finishes lightly, one brow lifting when you scowl and look away. “He’s not happy about your exile either. From what I hear, he’s planning to run for Triarch in the next few years, whether his father approves or not. He will side with your father’s petition to revoke your exile, and you know what that means.”

If two of the three Triarchs approve the petition, then you can come home.

You blink, and a lump suddenly forms in your throat. “He would have to break away from the Elephant party to run against his own father. He would never have the support as an independent—you cannot expect me to believe he would risk his own political future for—”

“Except, he is,” Jaenys interrupts. You let out a shaky breath to steady yourself. “He’s already working at siphoning off votes from the Elephants, framing recent behavior as self-serving and vindictive rather than for the good of Volantis as a whole—”

“He’s trying to pull off a coup, then? He’s going to tear apart the whole Elephant party doing that,” you demand, voice pitching in disbelief. “I don’t—but why?”

Jaenys gives you a half-smile, head tilted slightly to the side. “You know why.”

Your eyes burn. 

Idiot boy, you think, remembering all of the days you spent lounging in his bed, trading insults and kisses, all of the twisted games where you would try to get information from each other while the other’s guard was down. Aenys was—you do not know what he was to you. He was not a friend, barely a lover, but he was important to you in a way you loathe to admit.

Clearly, you were the same to him.

You suddenly feel far too close to crying for comfort, considering you’re still in public. Jaenys snakes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him casually under the guise of celebration rather than comfort.

“This was never the only way,” he tells you quietly. “I was just—impatient. I did not want to wait or rely on that Elephant cunt,  and I did not realize—” He cuts himself off, looking away. “Let me fix this. I can make this right without you having to give anything up.”

You remember the days when Aerion came down with fever, suddenly. You remember sitting at his bedside and telling him about Volantis in his rare lucid moments. You remember telling him about gardens and fountains, festivals and the azantys shows; you remember telling him that one day, you would like to bring him there to show him your home, and you remember the ache in your chest, the mourning you felt, when you realized you would likely never be able to. 

Jaenys ghosts his lips against your forehead, and for the first time in two moons—longer than that, much longer than that—you feel something close to hope.

—————————

Aerion does not know what he expected.

He watches blankly from one of the rooftops over the market as you trade blades with your friend. The two of you dance around one another, laughing, talking, like nothing’s changed, like you do not even care that Aerion is gone, like his absence means nothing to you. 

And Aerion is—he is furious. He is furious and embarrassed; he is upset that he has come all this way for someone who does not care, that he had hope, that he has spent two moons haunted by you, that he cannot even escape you in his sleep, and you have probably not even thought of him once since he left.

Aerion dreams of you almost every night. He is loath to admit it, but it is true. 

He dreams of the Blackfyres finding out you lied about him, and he dreams of returning to Lys to find your corpse waiting for him, because that is the only fate that awaits you if they learn the truth. He wakes up gasping those nights, fingers clawing at the shitty roll he sleeps on, sick and heaving and pushing himself out of bed to make his way to the officers of the Second Sons to find out if there has been any news from Lys. 

Sometimes, he dreams that there has been word from Lys. He dreams that Volantis is going to war. He dreams of returning to Lys to find you gone, of going back to Westeros, where his family is preparing to defend against you and yours. He dreams that the next time he sees you, it’s on the opposite side of the battlefield. 

Some of those nights, he dreams of killing you. He dreams of staring down at you, of you on your knees in front of him, his blade pierced through your abdomen. He dreams of blood spilling from your mouth, and he can tell you’re trying to say something to him, but you cannot hold on long enough to finish whatever it is, and he tries to put pressure on the wound he caused, tries to save you, but he cannot, and he feels helpless—so fucking helpless. 

And some of them, he dreams of you killing him, and it sickens him that he prefers those. He dreams of your sword cutting through his chest, your hand fisted in his hair as you force him to the ground; he dreams of the long, terrible moment where you almost look triumphant—until you realize what you’ve done, and your expression breaks, eyes widening, lips parting as you fall to your knees at his side.

He wakes up with phantom pain lancing through him, heart hammering in his ribs, choking over his own breath, fingers still twitching in your direction, even if you are no longer there. 

His heart hammers now, too—loud and painful, thudding in his ears like a war drum as he stares down at you from the place he first tracked you down during the days you used to make him hunt you. He realizes, dully, that of the realities he dreams of, one has become far more likely than the other, and the only question left is whether it will be you or him to fall at the other’s hand. 

Fuck. 

He feels like a fucking fool. His nails draw blood from his palms, the gift he brought you weighs heavily in his pocket, and his jaw is so tight that it is painful. He risked capture just to get a chance to see you again, just so he could know that you ache for him as much as he aches for you, only to find—to find you what? Playing around with your friend, laughing, smiling, teasing. 

You do not care. You never cared. It was just as he feared—the moment he was out of sight, you forget he exists, while he is tormented by the mere idea of you. 

It is sickening and infuriating, and he cannot seem to pull his gaze away. The fight comes to an end with your friend sprawled on the ground and your blade pointed at his neck, and Aerion stays in place on the roof, blood dripping between his fingers onto the tiles, breath ragged. 

He should go back to the ship, wait out the rest of the supply run in the cabin he stole from the other sellsword meant to join the trip. He should forget about you. He should, because you forgot about him, and Aerion is not—Aerion is a prince, a dragon. He does not pine, especially not for someone—

Someone he loves. 

Someone he loves enough to make him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. It is a foul, humiliating thing. Aerion is a dragon, not some soft-hearted fool sighing after a lost lover like the singers in the songs Daella is fond of, yet the thought of you with another man, the thought of you leaving him, leaves him sick with the urge to tear the world apart with his bare hands. 

Only his mother had ever known how to quiet that ugliness in him before it swallowed him whole, and he lost her.

Only you after her—has he lost you, too?

That is why he cannot drag his gaze from where you are standing close enough to your friend that you might be kissing him, though Aerion cannot tell from this distance and angle, and the thought makes something savage twist violently in his chest. That is why his heart feels lodged somewhere in his throat. That is why he cannot move from the rooftop where everything changed—when he had finally found you after days of those wretched hunts of yours, back at the very beginning of this, and you were always just out of reach, until you weren’t, and his gaze met yours from the square where you’re standing now, victorious. 

He had seen you, really seen you, and you had seen him.

Look at me, he thinks furiously. Look at me and see me, the same way I saw you.

But you do not. 

Your friend steps away from you, and you stand there for a long moment, back to Aerion, staring at gods know what, before you start making your way over to where one of those silver-haired pretenders is standing. His teeth grind. 

Look, look, look! Look at me, you wretched woman, I am right here, he almost shouts—enraged and desperate, because all he wants is you. He wants to scream at you for betraying him, wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze until you finally understand what you have done to him; he wants to tell you how badly he’s missed you, and he wants to ask if you’ve missed him the same, but he’s terrified your answer will not be what he wants to hear.

You do not look. 

But your friend does.

—————————

Aerion wakes up on the floor. 

He blinks once, twice, trying to remember what happened, where he is. Panic thrums through his chest briefly—was he caught? Did the Blackfyres realize he was here? Did one of the Second Sons give him up? Will his father care? Will you care? Will you care?

His fingers press down on the cool marble beneath him, and he winces as he pushes himself into a sitting position, head aching terribly. 

He does not seem to be in a cell, he realizes, head still fuzzy, half out of it. He seems to be—

He’s in your chambers.

Aerion blinks again as clarity washes over him. Your ceiling, your bed, your sheets, your sleepwear discarded haphazardly on the floor—he recognizes it all like the back of his own hand. He spent more nights in your room than his own, your warmth curled at his side. He finds himself crawling toward the silk, fisting the soft fabric in confusion, trying to figure out what’s going on.

How did he get here?

Another shooting pain spreads from his temple as he tries to remember, and he hisses through his teeth, half doubling over, tears blurring his eyes. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s lifting your sleepwear to his face, eyes sliding shut as he buries his nose into the soft silk and inhales deeply.

Instantly, the pain is replaced by a mortifyingly intense wave of relief, strong enough to make his shoulders shake as he greedily sinks into the familiar scent of you. Cherry wine and spice; that lavender oil you bought at the market with him the week before you left. It smells so much like you that it runs Aerion ragged, a noise building in the back of his throat that he desperately tries to swallow away. 

He’s missed you. He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much, and you just—

“Ah, so we meet again, little prince! Do forgive me for this, but our mutual lover has missed you quite badly these past two moons.”

Aerion blinks once, head aching as an aggravating voice rings through his ears—whose? He recognizes it from somewhere, but he cannot place it. 

Mutual lover, he thinks irritably, trying to sort through what they said to figure out who it might be—he would’ve recognized your whore’s voice, and the Blackfyres never would have left him in your room for you to find, he would be strung up and half-dead right now if they had found him, so then who—

Your friend, Aerion realizes instantly, blinking once as he remembers what he had been watching before he had decided to go back to the ship. You had been sparring with him—Jaenys—in the central market, and Aerion had been sitting on the same rooftop you would lounge on, waiting for him to find you in the early days of his exile. He had been waiting for you the same, but—but you hadn’t looked. 

Jaenys had looked. Aerion had slid off the back of the rooftop, the way he had come from, to get back to the ship before Jaenys could catch up to him, but he’d hardly made it to the docks when he was thrown hard against the side of a building in a narrow alley. Aerion had drawn his blade, but—

But what? 

He can’t remember what happened after. He lets out a frustrated breath, fingers tightening around your sleep clothes before he forces himself to his feet, trying to ignore the shooting pain that spreads from his right temple. 

He needs to get out of here before you come back, because he does not want to talk to you. He does not want to talk to you, he does not want to see you, he does not want anything to do with you. You have made your choice, clearly, and he needs to—

He fists the silk tighter, pressing his face back into it, breathing in deep one last time before he looks up to the ceiling. 

He counts to three in his head, desperately trying to pull himself back together.

His gaze cuts over to the door, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he reluctantly lets go of your clothes to force himself to move. One foot, then the next—the room sways unpleasantly around him. He has to brace a hand against the wall, hard enough that his nails scrape against the marble. 

And then, he pauses.

There, by the fireplace, the black chest he asked you to look after for him, so he wouldn’t return to that poacher Vyrano having stolen and sold it. His throat bobs, breath shaky now as he takes half a step in its direction. He isn’t sure why he suddenly feels so thrown off. 

Because you had actually gone for it as you promised? 

Because he has never gone so long apart from it? 

Because it means you might actually be waiting for him?

Why else would you go after it when he asked? Why else would you keep it safe in your chambers? Why else, why else, why else?

He hates the hope that blooms in his chest. It grows and spreads like a fucking weed that he cannot contain; it festers and pollutes, depriving him of all common sense. It doesn’t make sense, he tells himself logically. Aerion knows what he saw—he knows it. You didn’t care. You were smiling—you must have been, because he heard your laugh, even if it did sound a bit off compared to the one he had grown used to. You were sparring with your friend the way you used to with him. You did not look. He was waiting for you to look, and you did not look. You cannot be waiting for him, because—

Aerion’s gaze cuts to the side when he hears footsteps coming in the direction of your chambers. He barely bites back a curse, gaze flying around the room to find somewhere to hide, eventually deciding to slide behind the folding screen in the corner of the room. He leans back against the wall, watching through the sliver of the screens as you stumble in.

“Fuck off, Jae,” you snap, glaring back at the door as you catch your balance on the pole of your bed. “Close my door and get the hell out.”

Aerion’s breath catches.

You are—

You are right there. 

You are right there, less than ten feet away. If he steps out from behind this folding screen and takes three long steps, he would be able to grab your wrist and pull you into his arms—hold you or fuck you or kill you, or all three if he so pleased. There is a lump suddenly in his throat, fingers fisting at his sides, nails digging into his palm deep enough to draw blood.

“Ah, but you promised you would do more than just kiss me if—” Aerion hears your friend pout from the doorframe. 

“Why must you test my patience?” you cut him off before he can finish, giving him a sharp but sweet smile. “Get out. You pissed me off, and you didn’t land a blow—as usual.”

Jaenys sighs dramatically. “You never used to condition our love like this, ñuha prūmia. It makes me sad. I miss your bed.”

My heart.

“You were in it last night,” you reply, and Aerion’s teeth grind together. He squeezes his eyes shut, hand darting down to the dagger at his waist, knuckles white around its hilt. It takes all of his self-control to keep in place. “Don’t get greedy, Jae.”

“I’m always greedy when it comes to you,” Jaenys purrs. “C’mon. I was good today, wasn’t I? Let me come in.”

Is this why your friend found him and left him here? To force him to watch while you and he—

Aerion feels apocalyptic. He will not suffer the insult. He will not. He will kill you both if that cunt comes within five feet of you. 

His eyes snap back open, focusing on you, and—

—and all of the will to fight leaves him immediately, shoulders slumping, instinctively taking half a step forward, until his chest is almost against the folding screen. He hates the way he longs for you; hates that he cannot even muster the will to remain angry. You’re leaning against your bed, dressed in the same black leathers you were wearing in the market square, but your hair is loose now, and you’re visibly drunk, unsteady on your feet, holding onto the pole for leverage. 

You look beautiful, Aerion thinks, furious and yearning and all things in between, because he is sick of how badly he wants to be with you, and he is sick of being apart from you at all. All of the tumultuous emotions that have been tearing him apart the past few days, weeks, months, come back with a roaring vengeance. 

Aerion misses you. It is impossible to deny. All he wants is to go back to the days he spent hunting you through Lys, lounging on cushions, and watching magister’s sons and merchant princes make fools of themselves, tangled in your sheets, bodies entwined. It is infuriating, because he has known all along that there would be no going back to a life without you—he has known it since the day he first won one of your wretched games, when you had him laid back on your bed, unraveling beneath your touch. He has known it before that, even, since the first time you made him say it in the cove—iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon.

But it is incontrovertible now—he has had two moons of hard-packed earth and steel, bloodshed and violence and everything he has longed for that he could not have while trapped on this pillowed island. And in those two months, he has ached and raged and longed, forever unsatisfied because hard-packed earth and steel are not enough now that he has had a taste of a life with you. 

Nothing is enough if he does not include you.

Wretched woman, he thinks furiously, eyes tracing the length of your neck as you sigh and tip your head back. You have ruined him. You have ruined him in full, and Aerion does not even have the will to hate you properly for it. 

“Jae, if you do not get out of my sight in the next five seconds, I’m going to throw you off my balcony,” you say, head tilted to the side as you pull a dagger from your waist to point it lazily at him. “The fuck happened to your face anyway?”

Your lips curl up into a half-smile, and Aerion detests you—he detests watching you smile at someone else, and he detests that there are things happening around you that he does not know, and he detests that he cannot have you as completely as you have him. He never wants you to leave his side; he wants to possess you so fully that all you can think of is him. As long as Aerion lives, you would be his—and he would be yours.

“Don’t worry about it,” your friend drawls, and Aerion’s jaw tightens when he sees him peek into the room, eyes furrowed, and lips curled down in a slight frown as he looks around. He must be looking for Aerion, he realizes, seething. He is purposely trying to antagonize him. A vicious thrill runs through him when he sees that Jaenys’s eye is swollen and his lip is split, a slash deep across his cheekbone. “Whatever, get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow you won’t be such a raging cunt.”

You throw the dagger at him hard, but Jaenys only laughs wildly as he shuts the door, the blade burying in the wood instead. 

For a long moment, you only stand there, shoulders hunched inward, frowning slightly. You look so sad, so suddenly that Aerion falters, brows furrowed as you hang your head forward and let out a heavy sigh. He itches to make his way over you; to tell you that he’s here, just to see how you react. Will you be relieved? Will you look at him the same way you did when he left? Or will your eyes slip over him like he’s not even there?

Does Aerion really want to know?

No, he doesn’t.

He takes a step back, away from the folding screen, until his back is against the wall. His eyes slide shut again as he tilts his head back against the marble, fighting the heaviness that weighs on him. You fall asleep quickly when you go back to your chambers after drinking, so he’ll just wait for you to lay down and slip out from the balcony. You’ll wake if he tries to open the door, and—

His attention cuts back to you when he hears you push yourself away from the bed. He tilts his head slightly to the side, peering through the crack to figure out what you’re doing, and he pauses when he sees you making your way over to his chest. His brows furrow suspiciously as he leans forward again; you’re kneeling in front of the fireplace, back to him, and he cannot tell what you’re doing until he sees the glow of the fireplace emanating around you.

What?

Aerion blinks—it’s hot as hell. Aerion’s silks are clinging to him, even with the cool marble behind him. He can feel the sweat beading at his forehead and dripping down his sides. Why are you lighting a fire?

He watches, bewildered, as you prod at the embers with the poker. Firelight spills gold across your skin, and you sit there silently for a long while, staring into the flames before you finally sigh and open up his chest. Aerion blinks again, a second and third time, shaking his head slightly as he tries to figure out what the hell is happening, but he freezes when he sees you lift his dragon egg from the cushions.

The egg gleams in your hands, scales of deep crimson and black, beautiful and lifeless and so familiar that it makes the breath leave his lungs. 

Aerion has had it for as long as he can remember—some of his earliest memories are of clutching it clumsily in both arms while his mother laughed softly and told him not to drop it. He remembers dragging blankets beside the great hearths in his chambers at King’s Landing, placing his egg into it, and lying in front of it, watching the flames lick at the scales, begging the fire to breathe life into it. He remembers pressing his ear to it at night, convinced that he could feel warmth instead of the cool stone.

Everyone eventually stopped humoring him—they had all given up. The eggs were decorative stones to the rest of them, but he had never accepted it. He could never bear being parted from it for long. Not when they left King’s Landing for Summerhall, not when he was exiled to Lys. Even when everything else was stripped from him, the egg stayed. He carried it with him from city to city despite the weight of it; still woke up some nights, certain he felt warmth beneath the shell or heard movement from within. 

Ridiculous and childish, maybe, but he does not care. It is his dragon. It will hatch for him someday—it has to, he’s seen it, he knows it. And you—

—and you lift it like you know it too, which is ridiculous, because he remembers how you reacted during that argument the two of you had moons ago, remembers the way you looked at him when he implied maybe the right blood wasn’t being spilled to bring life to the stone eggs. When he was too close to admitting out loud that sometimes, in his dreams, he sees himself stepping into the flames with the egg cradled to his chest, that he does not die when he does, but transforms—into what he was always meant to be.

He had caught himself before he did, because the way you looked at him—Aerion is used to people staring at him like he’s half-mad, but he cannot handle it from you. The point is, you do not believe the egg will hatch, and you do not believe that dragons will return. 

He supposes he cannot blame you—the Volantene bloodmagickers have been trying for centuries, and they have made no progress, but the Volantene bloodmagickers are not him. They are not Targaryens. It is his family who retained their dragons when all of the other Valyrian dragonlords were lost to the Doom, and thus, it is they who are the true blood of the dragon, much as the Volantene old blood—you and your friends—like to claim otherwise. Only the true blood of the dragon can bring life to what was lost, he knows it, and you do not believe it, but… but you act as if you do. Right now.

Aerion is hardly breathing as he watches you settle the egg on top of the hearth, head tilted to the side as you watch the fire lick the scales, the same way he would back home. 

He almost calls out for you—his chest is all tangled, and he feels so uncertain that it almost makes him sick to his stomach. His first instinct is to convince himself that it’s not what he thinks. You’re not doing this for him; you’re doing this for yourself. You’re trying to steal his egg. It was never that you didn’t believe him—it was that you were trying to discourage him, it was that you knew the dragons would come back, but you wanted his dragon for yourself. 

It would make more sense, he rationalizes, hand dropping back down to his dagger. It would make more sense than you—than you, what? You doing this for him? You keeping the egg warm and taking care of it the way you think he would, because he’s not here to do it? How does it make sense? You don’t even believe it—he knows you don’t—so then, why?

You reach for the dagger you must have pulled out of the wall when Aerion was trying to calm himself down, and Aerion leans forward even more, until his face is almost pressed up against the crack, trying to figure out—again—what you are doing. His lips part when you press the blade hard against your palm, cutting through the skin there, and Aerion’s body locks up.

He shakes his head again, blinking to clear his vision, trying to make sure he’s actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing, but—but he is. You let the dagger clatter to the ground as you hold your hand over the egg, and he hears you murmuring something under your breath, “… ānogar…  ābrar… dōron…” He cannot make out all of the words, but he understands enough to know what you’re doing. 

Blood… life… stone…

Aerion suddenly feels feverish, weak in the knees, sick to his stomach, so confused, so uncertain. He steps back once, twice, three times, until his back hits the wall and he slides down to the floor, pressing his face into his hands.

He does not understand. 

Aerion has spent his entire life chasing this—dreaming of dragons, reading old scrolls until his eyes burned, desperately searching for scraps of forgotten knowledge from the Freehold, trying to figure out how he could possibly bring life to stone. He has bled for this obsession before, fought for it, and no one ever took him seriously, not really. At best, they indulged him, but you—

You are sitting on the floor of your chambers with blood dripping down your wrist, murmuring old Valyrian rites over his cradle egg for—for him. Not because you believe that dragons are destined to return to the world, not even because you believe in him when he tells you he has dreamt of it, but because somewhere along the way, you started loving him enough that the distinction no longer mattered to you.

Aerion presses his face harder into his hands. His thoughts feel disjointed, half-feral with confusion and refusal to believe what is right in front of his eyes. He tries to make sense of it, and he cannot, because you should not love him like this. It makes more sense if there’s some underlying self-serving reason. You know too much about him to love him sensibly—you have seen the ugly parts, the obsession and arrogance and cruelty. He has pushed you away and threatened to kill you if you didn’t leave him be, and in the same breath, he promised to hunt you down if you ever left him, because he does not know how to deal with how strongly he feels for you, and it always manifests in the worst ways.

He feels overwhelmed. Aerion always feels overwhelmed, but never like this.

This is not—he does not know what this is. It does not feel like possession, or obsession, or the frantic, poisonous thing he has come to learn is love. It feels—

He squeezes his eyes shut harder, teeth grinding together.

—safe.

The realization is horrifying.

He has spent so long bracing himself for abandonment that he no longer knows what to do with devotion freely given. Every relationship in his life always felt conditional somehow, balanced on the edge of a blade. Useful, until he became too difficult. Wanted, until he became too much—and Aerion has always been too much. Too volatile, too intense, too quick to cruelty. He has been preparing himself for you to leave him since the moment he realized he loved you. Maybe even before that.

He thought that this would finally be it. You would look at the opportunity laid before you—the Blackfyres, your friend, your home suddenly within reach again—and you would decide that he was never worth enough to outweigh it.

And logically, why would he be?

He is a prince without a kingdom, exiled across the Narrow Sea with more scandal than allies to his name. His own father does not want him around; his brother will not even write him. You have known your people your entire life—your brother waits for you back within the Black Walls, your father wants you home, and your friend crossed half the world and planned a war just to bring you back where you belong. 

Aerion is just—

Aerion.

A mistake made in exile in comparison; a temporary madness born from loneliness and proximity and all of the ugly things the two of you recognized in one another. He would become nothing more than a strange chapter in your life. A lover from your years of forced humiliation. A dragon prince you once entertained in Lys before returning to your real life across the sea.

He thought that once the choice was finally in front of you, you would take one look at him and realize how absurd this all was. He spent two moons trying to harden himself against the inevitable moment you would decide your home mattered more than he did. He convinced himself of it when he was watching you with your friend from the rooftop, and it felt as though his ribs had been split open. 

You would survive it, and Aerion would not. You would grieve him, maybe. Miss him, hopefully, for a while, at least. But you would go back to your brother and your friends and your city, and life would continue on around you until the wound scarred over. Aerion thinks losing you would leave him maimed permanently—he knows it. The past two moons have proved it. 

But—you are here. You are waiting for him. You are bleeding over his dragon egg in the middle of the night because he once looked at you with desperate certainty in his eyes and said someday it would hatch. You would not do that if you had already discarded him, if you did not plan to choose him, and Aerion does not know how to cope with it.

You do not even know he is here. That is what ruins him most. 

It would be different if you knew he was watching. Aerion could dismiss all of this then. He could tell himself it was another game, another calculated attempt to keep him bound to you until you no longer had use for him. He could be angry then. Anger is easy. Suspicion is easier. Cruelty, easiest of all.

But you think you are alone. You think there is no one here to see the way your shoulders curl inward, the way your lips move around words you do not believe, the way you offer up your blood to the egg in hopes of bringing life to it, not because you believe it will, but because he does.

Something hot stings behind Aerion’s eyes before he realizes, with vague horror, that he is crying.

He wipes viciously at his face immediately, furious at himself, but it does not stop the next tear from slipping free. Or the next. 

He presses his hand over his mouth to stifle the noise that builds in his throat, desperately trying to force himself to calm down.

You are wretched. You are a wretched woman. Aerion regrets ever approaching you that day on the rock. He regrets ever indulging your games. He regrets it all, and most of all, he regrets that he cannot truly bring himself to regret anything at all. You have ruined him in full—you really, truly have—and Aerion cannot even bring himself to regret any of it. 

He inhales deeply through his nose, tilting his head back against the marble again. He counts—one, two, three—and then pushes himself back to his feet. He forces his eyes dry and his breath steady, and then peeks back through the folding screen to see if you’ve moved over to the bed yet.

You have. Aerion grinds his teeth together as another wave of longing washes over him. You are sprawled haphazardly over the covers—didn’t even bother to change out of your leathers, you rarely do whenever you’ve been drinking. 

He should be there with you, he thinks bitterly. At your side, you should be curled into his chest, and he should be toying with your hair, because you are a miserable, wretched wench, but you are beautiful, and the only time he can truly enjoy that is when your mouth is shut with sleep or busied with his cock.

He finds himself moving in your direction before he can stop himself; his feet drag lightly against the marble floors, body drawn to yours, like some pathetic, starved thing, finally catching the scent of food again after two moons of hunger.

Gods—he hates how weak you make him. 

Aerion stops at the side of your bed and stares down at you in silence. The firelight and setting sun spill soft gold across your skin; one arm hangs off the mattress, fingers brushing the floor, blood still dripping from where you’d cut your palm open for him. Your breath is slow and heavy with exhaustion and wine, and now that he is closer, he can see the faint circles beneath your eyes.

You look worn thin, now that he sees you up close, and it unsettles him more than anything else today has. He finds himself reaching out before he can stop himself, fingers tracing beneath your eye.

“—our mutual lover has missed you quite badly these past two moons.”

Is it true? He exhales lightly through his nose, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as you instinctively turn your face into his hand. Could it be? You had been laughing in the market square, sparring with your friend like nothing was wrong, but—but the laughter had sounded wrong, hadn’t it? It wasn’t the way you would laugh with him, bright and brilliant, all sharp edges and fire that Aerion wanted to bask in for the rest of his life. 

His fingers slip down your face—tracing the slope of your nose to the outline of your lips. His heart jumps when your lips part beneath his touch, breath warm and steady against his skin. He finds himself leaning his head down, lashes fluttering as he ghosts his lips against your cheekbone, lower still, until his mouth hovers just above yours.

He can feel your breath against his lips, can almost taste the cherry wine you’d been drinking, and then he closes the sliver of distance. The contact is brief at first, hesitant in a way that would mortify if anyone else were there to witness it. Aerion is not hesitant. He takes and burns and devours; he does not hesitate, not like this, but—but he cannot help himself. Because he has missed you desperately—have you missed him the same? 

His lips brush yours, and you taste the same you did two moons ago—cherry wine and spice, and for the first time in two moons, the unending ache within him is finally put to rest. Everything crashes through his chest so violently that it almost hurts.

His hands slip down to your leathers, fisting the fabric hard as he makes a quiet, broken sound against your mouth before he can stop it. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue easing open your lips so that he can lick the inside of your mouth, no longer hesitant, because he cannot be hesitant now that he’s had a taste of you again. The restraint snaps apart all at once, replaced by two months of hunger and fury and yearning condensed into something mortifyingly desperate and needy.

He has missed you. Have you missed him?

You stir beneath him, but Aerion is undeterred, bowing his head with a shaky exhale, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw, dragging his tongue up the length of your neck. He has spent two moons trying to survive without this—with hard-packed earth beneath him instead of silk sheets, with blood and steel instead of your hands in his hair—and he does not know how he survived it, how he could ever survive a life without you. It is impossible.

Wretched, wretched, wretched woman. 

He is ruined. He is ruined.

His fingers work at the strings of your leathers, fumbling as he tries to loosen them—you are stirring now, he can feel it in the way you shift beneath him, and the soft gasps starting to spill from your lips as his teeth graze your clavicle, before he licks up to the hollow of your throat, breath ragged and lashes fluttering as heat clouds all common sense. 

He shifts onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he moves to straddle your hips, sliding the fabric down your shoulders so that he can kiss down your chest, between your breasts, mouthing bruises into your skin.

“Wake up, wench,” he murmurs into your skin. He already feels too hot—the fire, the summer night, the feeling of your skin for the first time in two moons. He’s half out of it already, hips jerking, grinding into your thigh, because his cock is straining against his pants, and his abdomen is so tense that he almost feels like he’s in pain. “Wake up!”

“Aerion?” you murmur drowsily, not even awake yet, body twitching beneath his. 

His name on your lips chokes the air right out of his lungs. Aerion, Aerion, Aerion—he wants to hear you say it over and over again, wants to hear you cry it, scream it, wants the whole island to know that you are his. You are his, and he is yours—iksā ñuhon, iksan aōhon. None of the bastard pretenders, not even your friend—they cannot make you feel the way he does. Not in a million years. Not until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east; not until the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. It is only you, and only him. That is how it will be for as long as he draws breath.

Your hand lifts from where it’s brushing the ground to slide against his face, and Aerion lets out a low moan, turning his face into your bloody palm, kissing the wound briefly once, before he drags his tongue across the cut. The taste of your blood floods warm and metallic in his mouth, and Aerion groans deep in his throat at the sensation, eyes sliding shut as he laps at the wound, hips still rutting against your thigh.

You bled for him, he thinks, panting into your skin. You bled for him. You bled for him. You bled for him.

The thought is dizzying, all-consuming; for a moment, he chokes because he almost finds himself finishing in his pants just from it. You bled for him. You cut yourself open and spilled your blood for the egg, just because he had looked at you with certainty one night and confessed something no one else has ever taken seriously. You bled for him. You did it for him—you bled for him, for him—what else would you do for him? Would you choose him if he asked? Would you return to Westeros with him? Would you turn your back on your family? How far would you go? What could he ask of you that would make you deny him? Is there anything? You bled for him.

He’s drunk off the thought—off the cherry wine and spice he licked from your lips and the warmth of your body sliding against his for the first time in two moons. No one—nothing—can compare to this. He thinks it might kill him. You might kill him. How dare you? How dare you do this to him? How dare you make him feel this way? How dare—

“Aerion?” you breathe again, more awake this time, and Aerion’s eyes slide open, amethyst slivers landing on your face with his mouth still pressed to your open wound. 

You blink once, still sleep-heavy and unfocused, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Your fingers curl into his cheek, nails digging lightly into the skin there. There is a hint of confusion in your eyes, and Aerion is sure he must look mad with your blood smeared across his face, dripping from his lips, but he—he does not care. 

He does not care at all—he wants you, all of you, he wants you completely. Wants to possess you, consume you, have you, hold you, fuck you, kill you even, one day, because he loathes to allow anyone to experience something with you, take something from you, that he cannot. 

It is unreasonable—he knows it, logically, but he wants it all the same. Aerion wants to crack you open and crawl inside your ribs until there is nowhere you end and he begins. He wants to consume every thought you have ever had, every memory, every ugly and beautiful thing alike, until there is nothing left in the world that belongs solely to you anymore.

He hates that things happen around you that he cannot be around for. Hates that there are parts of you he cannot touch—that he cannot know every thought running through your head at any given moment, that there are twenty-three years of your life that belong to other people and places that he cannot reach. Your brother knows you in ways Aerion never will. Your friends know versions of you that he has never seen. There are pieces of you scattered across Volantis that Aerion will never be able to claw into his own hands, and he hates it so violently that it leaves him full of rage and helplessness all at once.

His thumb drags against your lower lip as he stares down at you, breathing unevenly. Your eyes are clearer now, more awake, and he hates that too, because he can see the moment your thoughts begin moving behind them again—quick and sharp and impossible for him to follow.

What are you thinking?

What did you think while he was gone?

Did you lie awake wanting him the way he wanted you? Did you think of leaving him? Did you stand on your balcony at night and picture Volantis waiting for you across the sea, or did you picture him? Did you think of your brother more than him?

The jealousy that cuts through him is vicious and ugly. His hand drops down to your throat, pressing down lightly on either side of it. 

“Are you—” you start to ask, blinking once, twice. Your hand slides against his cheek, against your blood still slick on his skin, thumb running over his lip once.

You do not finish the question. You surge upward, hand sliding behind his head to drag him down, surely staining the silver red, but Aerion does not care, because the moment your lips are on his, all coherent thought slips from his mind. 

His breath hitches, and he lets out a moan into your mouth, pressing his body into yours as close as he can. Your thighs part so that his hips can slide between them, and he bites down hard on your lower lip, just so he can feel how you gasp against his lips.

“How—how are you here?” you ask, fully awake now, disbelief lacing the words as his lips slide messily from yours down your jaw again. “Aerion—”

His grip tightens in your hair, cutting you off, and your eyes flash in response, taking it as a challenge. He has missed this—he has missed you. You are the only one who meets him where he needs to be, the only one who understands him, the steel to his fire, the only person in the world who does not bend away from the worst parts of him. Everyone else recoils eventually, but you bite back.

He asks, “How many people did you let touch you while I was gone?”

Your eyes flicker with amusement, and Aerion’s fingers tighten unconsciously in your hair before he forces them to loosen. His mouth drags slowly along your throat again, teeth scraping your skin, relishing in the way you shudder against him, still hazy with sleep, back arching into him until your breasts are flush to his chest. 

“Hm?” he presses when you do not immediately respond. The images fester in his mind—Jaenys’s hands on your body, the Blackfyre pretenders draped on the cushions at your side, while he rots in the Disputed Lands, thinking of you every waking second. “How many? Answer me, wench. Did you miss me, or did you just find someone else to fill the space?”

His lips brush your jaw against, softer this time; he feels almost feverish. He licks the line of your jaw, lashes fluttering as you roll your head backward to give him better access to your neck.

“You should not ask questions you do not want the answer to, prince,” you rasp, voice rough with sleep, and Aerion bites down on your neck hard enough to draw blood. You let out a bark of laughter instead of a yelp of pain—he loves it, loves you. “You first. You had whores in your camps. Did they help? Did they make you miss me less?”

You are mocking him, he realizes furiously. Not even a question of if he missed you, because you know he has. Aerion hisses against your skin, baring his teeth even though he knows you cannot see it. He drops his forehead to your shoulder, shivering when he feels your hands slip beneath his tunic and smooth against the warm skin of his back. A pitched noise builds in the back of his throat as he presses his face into your chest, and one of your hands leaves his back to hold the back of his head. 

“You are a plague,” he tells you, not for the first time, and certainly not the last. His voice is rough, cracking over the words. “I hated them. Every single one. I kept thinking of you—I would close my eyes, and it was your face. Your voice. Your hands. It was intolerable. You are intolerable.”

He grunts low in his throat, biting down again, this time on the plush skin of your breasts—you pull his hair hard at that, hard enough that his breath hitches and he cannot smother the whine that spills from his lips. He kisses messily back up your neck until his lips hover above yours, and his hand returns to your neck, not squeezing, not yet. 

“Tell me,” he says, voice low. “I know you let your friend into your bed. Did you let that Blackfyre cunt too?” 

“Are you mad about Jaenys, dragon prince?” you drawl, looking too amused as you roll your head back to look at him. How could he not be? It is not fair. You already live inside him like a sickness. A religion. A second heartbeat. He hates the idea of someone else getting to be with you. “He has been in my bed since we were barely fifteen. You are almost a decade too late to become jealous over it.”

Aerion hisses, volcanic rage flooding him instantly, grip tightening on your throat enough to cut off the air flow. You smile anyway, teeth sharp, delighted, and the jealousy twists into a vicious thrill, pulse pounding. The violence in him, the possessiveness, the cruelty that he spends so much time trying to disguise from everyone else—you look at it and smile, and Aerion feels something in him go warm and molten, the fight draining from him before it can even really take hold. He sinks into you, gaze loosening on your throat so that he can lean in and nose your cheek, letting out a ragged breath.

You like him like this, as he is—not the polished prince he learned to be at court, not even the sharp-tongued exile lounging through Lys pretending indifference to everything around him. This. The ugly thing beneath it all. Blood smeared on his face, violence in his eyes, his hand on your throat. Even two moons apart, and you still want him for what he is.

You are insane, he thinks wildly, panting as he tries to distract himself by dragging open-mouth kisses along your jaw. 

More than he is, maybe.

“And the Blackfyre?” he asks again, voice lower this time. “Did you let him touch you, too?”

You tilt your head to the side, eyes glittering in a way that puts him on edge. You ask sweetly, “Which one?” 

Aerion stares at you in disbelief, and then you laugh—it is bright and pretty as a bell, not like the hollow one he heard while you were sparring with Jaenys in the market square. You slide your hands up his body to cradle his cheeks, pulling his face from your shoulder to press your lips to his. 

He feels your leg circle his waist, and he knows what you’re doing, but he’s too consumed by the way your tongue dances along his to stop it—his back hits the mattress hard, air whooshing from his lungs, and you hover above him, straddling him, rolling your hips against his so slowly that he cannot stop the low moan that spills from his lips.

“You have no right to be mad, prince,” you tease, forearms coming to rest on either side of his head as you hover over him. “You spread your legs in my absence, did you not?”

“I did not spread my legs,” he hisses furiously, face flushing, disliking the way you phrase it. “And it is different. They were whores.”

You hum, rocking your hips again just to see how his breath catches. He glares up at you, silver-gold hair spread messily across your pillows, your blood still streaked across his mouth. 

“Jaenys is whorish,” you offer, as though that is supposed to make him feel any better. “I’m sure it counts for something.” You pause, and then add with a sharp smile, “And Haegon Blackfyre certainly fucks like one.”

Aerion stills beneath you, staring up at you in sheer disbelief, and you have the nerve to look inordinately pleased with yourself, eyes bright and smile even wider when you see the way he looks at you.

He hates that he pictures it immediately. Your hands tangled in that pretender’s hair, your mouth smiling against his throat, you tumbling backward into his arms while Aerion sleeps in dirt in the Disputed Lands, dreaming of you every night like a man cursed.

“You vicious fucking creature,” he says softly, the words coming out almost reverent despite the rage wreaking havoc on him internally. 

He grabs your hips hard enough to bruise and flips you onto your back in one swift movement. You let out a startled laugh, goading him as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and snatches the dagger from where it’s sheathed at its side with the other.

He presses the tip beneath your chin, staring down at you, hostility and desire so tangled together that they are nearly indistinguishable. And you—you are undeterred. Your head tilts to the side, gaze lidded as you stare up at him, unbothered by the blood dribbling at the underside of your chin.

He’s missed you, he thinks again desperately. He’s missed this.

No one else speaks to him like this, treats him like this. No one else grabs hold of the ugliest parts of him and drags them into the light without fear. Most people spend their lives trying to soothe him—soothe him, placate him, praise him, survive him. But you—you antagonize him. You provoke him. You want him. You want all of him. 

“How did he touch you?” The words scrape out of him harshly because he can not help himself. “Did he kiss you like this?” He drags his mouth hard across your jaw. “Did he hold you down?” The dagger shifts just enough to emphasize the point. “Did he make you feel like I do?”

Aerion can hear his heart thudding in his ears, pulse roaring, knuckles white around the hilt of his dagger. He drags it lazily down the length of your throat, watching the red line beading in its wake as his lips brush your jaw. He lifts his head so that it’s hovering over yours.

“Did you think about me while he touched you?” he presses, voice lower now—crueler and needier, desperate to know the truth of it. 

You tilt your head up, neck pressing deep enough into his dagger that it draws blood. Your lips ghost his as you whisper, “The entire time.”

Aerion kisses you again—harder this time. Something savage and triumphant tears through him so suddenly that it nearly hurts. His breath catches hard in his chest, fingers tightening instinctively around your wrists as he presses the blade in deeper with his other hand before he tosses it to the side haphazardly.

You kiss him back just as hard, yanking your wrists out of his grip so that you can hold his face between your hands. Your nails dig crescents into his cheeks, and your legs wind around his waist, and Aerion is—he is not close enough, not nearly, he needs to be closer, inside you, on top of you, beneath you, skin-to-skin, mouth-to-mouth, until there is not even a breath of space between the two of you. 

His hands fly down to work at the laces of his pants, and he does not pause when he feels you break your lips from his, not when you tilt his face up to get his attention either.

“How long are you here until?” you murmur, fingers running absently through his hair. Aerion’s lashes flutter at the feeling, and he has to force himself to pay attention. “Hm?”

His gaze flicks over to the balcony, toward the setting sun, lips curling into a frown. “Not long,” he admits. “It is only a day trip for supplies. I need to be back at the dock before the moon rises.”

You look disappointed, and Aerion gives you a questioning look, barely able to bite back a groan of relief when he finally frees his cock. You do not acknowledge the silent request; instead, Aerion finds himself on his back again, with you straddling his hips.

He blinks up at you, flushed and breathless, cock aching as you absently stroke it. His abdomen tenses and spasms as you push his tunic up so you can kiss up from his hip to his sternum. Even as you work him so easily that he fears he might come apart before you’ve even undressed, he can see your mind sharp and calculating, thoughts racing faster than he can follow. 

He hates that he cannot hear them.

Finally, you sigh and say more to yourself than to him, “There is not enough time, then.”

He bites back a moan when you squeeze the base of his cock, eyes half-rolling back. “Time for what?” he forces out.

“I had plans for you, dragon prince,” you murmur, almost sounding sulky about it as you shimmy out of your own pants. 

His lips part when he sees the wetness smeared against your inner thighs, chokes over air when he watches how you slide your fingers between your folds, gathering the slick on two fingers.

He raises his eyebrows, trying to pretend he’s half as affected as he really is. “Oh?” he drawls, a bit breathless. “And what exactly were your plans, wench?”

You tilt your head to the side and give him a lazy half smile. “You know.”

Aerion inhales so sharply, face flaming as he remembers exactly what you said the last time he was here. Beneath you, held down, stretched open, back arched, inch by inch—his pupils are blown wide as he stares up at you, chest heaving, and when you finally sink down on his cock, warm and wet and tight and so fucking familiar, Aerion’s whole body spasms in an attempt to stop himself from cumming immediately.

You grab his face when he curls inward, choking on air, eyes squeezed shut, and you tilt it up so that he’s looking at you. 

“My poor dragon prince,” you mock—his cock twitches hard inside of you at the my, and he at least is able to relish in the way it makes your breath catch briefly. “Were you really going to come untouched from two moons apart?”

Aerion will kill you.

He bares his teeth, but as soon as he does, you roll your hips, and the only thing that spills from his mouth is a noise that’s so pitched that he flushes from his face to his chest. 

You look delighted.

“You are wretched,” he gasps as your cunt squeezes his cock. His breath hitches into a whine when you finally start to fuck him in earnest, a slow, steady roll of your hips, taking him in full with each bounce. “Hah—fuck—”

“It’s all I’ve been able to think about,” you tell him, kissing up his throat, bruising and biting so he has something to take with him back to the Disputed Lands. He wishes your teeth would dig deeper, that your lips would press darker bruises—he does not want them to fade, wants the proof of your touch branded on him, and the proof of his on you the same. “I loathe to wait longer, but I want to take you apart properly.”

A vicious thought hits him at once, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that it makes you falter. He asks you, “Have you taken any of them like that since I have been gone? Your friend? Your whore? The Blackfyre?”

You tilt your head to the side, calculating as you slow the roll of your hips to a still, and Aerion’s cock aches, and his abdomen is on fire, thighs so tense that he feels as though they might be sore tomorrow, but he needs to know. The thought of you taking any of them the way you’ve promised to him, the thought of them—the Blackfyre—being able to have you this way when he has not been able to, it enrages him. Any jealousy he felt earlier is dwarfed compared to what he feels now: it is violent and furious and so all-consuming that he cannot breathe. His nails draw blood from your hips, and he cannot stand that look in your eyes as you stare down at him—sharp and curious, too quick for him to follow. He hates it, he hates it—he wants to know every thought in your head. He wants everything that has to do with you—every thought, every feeling, every experience, everything. 

“Does the idea of that upset you, prince?” you ask, as though you do not already know the answer.

His hand flies from your hip to your throat, squeezing just hard enough to threaten. “The idea of that makes me want to—”

He cannot even articulate it—the lust for blood, for death, for you. Luckily, he does not need to, because you know. You always know. And you look terribly satisfied as you sit back on his thighs, his cock still buried deep inside of you.

“I have not,” you tell him at last, and the relief hits him so hard that it almost feels like another form of anger. Your arms curl around him—one hand pressing between his shoulder blades to pull him into your chest, and the other slides to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair as you hold him. His arms wind around you, too, biceps flexing, holding you so tight that it must border on painful. “I have been waiting for you.”

Your voice is small at that last part, quiet in a way you rarely are. He does not think you are just talking about fucking anymore, and he feels wrecked, breath ragged as he presses his face into the crook of your neck.

“You have?” he questions, voice equally small, just for a second.

He feels you nod. “Kessa,” you say softly, pressing your lips to his temple. “Tolvie tubis, tolvie jēda, tolvie tȳne.”

Yes. Every day, every hour, every minute. 

He squeezes his eyes shut to fight the heat suddenly pressing behind them, letting out a shuddered breath into your skin. His arms tighten around you.

“Avy jorrāelan,” he tells you, hand sliding down the length of your spine, trying to pull you impossibly closer. “Nyke vēdros issare qrīdrughagon hen ao.”

I love you. I hate being apart from you.

You guide his face gently from the crook of your neck. Aerion’s breath hitches when you press your lips back against his, kissing him slow and deep, rolling your hips as you ease his lips open so that you can map the inside of his mouth. 

Aerion melts into it instantly. The way you cradle his face as though he’s something precious, the way you kiss him slow and easy as though you have all the time in the world, and the sun is not steadily setting just beyond the balcony. Your fingers comb through his hair as your mouth moves against his, and Aerion lets out a soft moan, lashes fluttering.

The heat in his stomach builds rapidly, despite the slow rolls of your hips, and Aerion cannot even bring himself to feel embarrassed when he realizes how close he already is to finishing. His hands flex helplessly against your back, but his body is too hot, and his eyes are half-knocked back, and his thighs and abdomen are so tense that they ache. 

“I—” he starts to say, breath hot against your lips. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you are—you are beautiful. Lips swollen and parted, sweat beading at your forehead, lashes fluttering with each roll of your hips. You are beautiful, and you are his, and he is yours. “I’m close, I—”

“Me too,” you breathe, and then you kiss him again, like you cannot get enough of him, the same way he cannot get enough of you. 

He holds your waist tight, guiding you down, rocking his hips up into you, faster now, a bit rougher as the two of you chase release—it is filthy, the sound of his cock fucking deep into your cunt. He can feel the wetness splattering against his thighs and pelvis with each thrust, the lewdness of your cunt sucking him in deep. It is in such contrast to the chaste kisses the two of you are sharing that it drives him crazy. 

Your breath hitches on something that sounds like his name, and Aerion presses his forehead to yours, sharing the same sliver of air as he lets out a low moan. His hips stutter against yours, grip tightening on your waist as he holds you down and cums deep inside of you, spots dotting his vision and body spasming as he grinds his cock up into you, dizzy over the feeling of your walls tightening around him, cum gushing down his length.

You settle against him, panting, not even bothering to pull yourself off his cock as you wind yourself back around him—arms around his shoulders, legs his waist. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, and he buries his into your hair, holding you just as tight. 

“They do not plan to leave any time soon,” you say after a moment, voice quiet and subdued, breath fanning hot against his neck as you nose into it. “They keep picking up more contracts.”

Aerion exhales, eyes sliding shut. Of course they are. Bitterness swells thick in his chest; he hates the images that immediately form in his head. Jaenys sprawled carelessly in your bed for another few months, laughing and sparring with you in markets, touching you without hesitation because he has known you your entire life, and Aerion has not. Haegon Blackfyre lounging on cushions with you, silver-haired and smug and more familiar with the shape of your smile than he should ever be.

“Henujagon lēda nyke,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple, and then pressing his nose into the side of your head. He repeats, “Nyke vēdros issare qrīdrughagon hen ao.”

Leave with me. I hate being apart from you.

You let out a heavy sigh. “Ao gīmigon nyke daor,” you say quietly, pulling back slightly so that you can brush your lips against his. Aerion’s eyes flutter shut, lips pressing chastely against yours once, twice, three times. “Jaelan ao naejot gūrogon mirros arlī lēda ao.”

You know that I cannot. I want you to take something back with you.

Aerion makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head to the side. He frowns when you shift enough to reach over to the table near your bed. He lets out a low grunt when you inadvertently grind down on his sensitive cock, fingers flexing at your hips, but you settle back down on his lap before he can hiss at you to quit it. 

You’re holding something long and thin in your hand, fine mahogany—it takes Aerion a moment before he recognizes it as a wax seal stamp. His brows furrow as you grab one of his hands and place it in it, forcing him to curl his fingers around it. 

“I could not write you without drawing suspicion. If anyone had seen a seal bearing the three-headed dragon… Well, you know what would have happened,” you tell him. The last bits of tension ease from Aerion’s shoulders as you answer the question that’s been haunting him for two moons. “Take my family’s seal. I have a spare. No one will question me receiving a raven that bears it.”

Aerion’s stomach flips violently. For a second, all he can do is stare down at the seal resting in his palm, his thumb tracing the sigil engraved in the stamp, circling the snake that devours its own tail and the skull within it. This is—this is not done. Noble families do not give away family seals to people. Anyone bearing this could write in your name—could command in it, could implicate your household in treason if it fell into the wrong hands. Even carrying it is dangerous—the kind of dangerous that only exists between people who trust one another implicitly. 

And you are pressing it into his hand.

You hold his gaze steadily despite the vulnerability creeping around the edges of your expression now. You are trying to pretend this is practical, merely a solution to the problem of ravens and suspicion, but he can see the truth beneath it. You are handing him something precious—something that belongs to your bloodline, and could destroy you and your family if he decided to misuse it.

His fingers curl tighter around the mahogany handle instinctively, and when he lifts his eyes back to yours, he can’t hide the way his throat bobs, how he can hardly hold your gaze.

“You trust me with this?” he asks quietly. 

He wants to withdraw. Wants to pull away from you and turn cruel because he does not like how vulnerable he feels. You drugged me, he wants to accuse viciously. You drugged him because you did not trust him to control himself, but you—you trust him with this? Trust him to guard it so it does not fall into the wrong hands? Trust him not to misuse it? How does that make sense at all? 

You do not hesitate in your response. “Of course.”

Aerion’s teeth grind, gaze lowering, head falling forward slightly. He catches sight of the fire from the corner of his eye, and he sees the familiar scales of his dragon egg, and Aerion can feel it. He can feel the way his skin starts to crawl, stomach twisting, chest tightening—too much, all at once. It builds, and builds, and builds, and he can feel it on the brink of exploding violently. 

“Why?” he asks through his teeth.

Why what? Why do you trust him? Why do you love him? Why are you waiting for him? Why are you actually considering choosing him over your home? Your friends? Your brother? 

“Why do I trust you?” you ask dryly, almost sounding amused. “Should I not?”

His hand snatches out to wrap around your hand, and he pointedly presses hard down on the wound there. You do not even flinch, squinting at him slightly, assessing. 

“Why?” he asks again pointedly.

Your gaze flicks over his shoulder to where you placed the egg in the hearth, brows furrowing slightly. For a second, you almost look embarrassed, and Aerion almost relishes it because he’s never seen you embarrassed before, but he’s so wound up that he cannot bring himself to fully appreciate it.

“Well, I wasn’t sure how you took care of it,” you start to say, voice clipped. “I—”

“But why?” he hisses. “You do not believe it will hatch, so why would you—”

He does not know how to finish the question, and he feels helpless as his gaze flicks back up toward you, but understanding crosses your face immediately. 

“Because you do,” you say so simply the words he has been dreading and yearning for in equal measures. 

Because you do, as though it is that simple, as though that alone is enough reason to bleed for his dreams, as impossible as you think they are. Enough reason to justify kneeling before a fire in the middle of the night with his dragon egg cradled in your hands and Valyrian rites on your tongue; enough reason to spill your blood and call upon old magic. 

Just because he believes. 

Aerion feels something inside him split wide open, and when you curl your arms around his shoulders to tug him close again, he follows without protest, sinking into you, face pressed to your neck, arms wound tight around your waist. Your fingers slide into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in that way that always seems to make the tension in him ease.

He presses closer anyway, breathing you in desperately—wine and lavender and spice and the faint metallic scent of blood still lingering on your skin. The fire crackles softly beside the bed, warming the room until the summer heat feels almost suffocating, but Aerion cannot bring himself to care. He would let himself burn alive if it meant staying here in your arms a little longer.

“You cannot say things like that to me,” he murmurs into your skin.

“But it is true,” you say easily, which ruins him even more, a ragged breath stolen from his lungs as he presses his forehead harder into your skin.

“You make me feel mad,” he admits, voice small. “I do not—I do not understand you. Or this. Or—”

—me.

“You were already mad. You did not need my help with that.”

“I am trying to be serious, you miserable wench,” he hisses, but you laugh—bright and pretty, full of fire and life. “You are wretched. I should have your tongue.”

“Your threats do not frighten me anymore, dragon prince,” you say, fondness lacing the words, and Aerion scowls into your neck as he feels you press your lips to the side of his, and then tug at his earlobe with your teeth. “We both know you are too fond of my tongue to rid me of it.”

“Do not be so vulgar,” he scoffs, but he is smiling, and he knows you feel it, because he feels you laugh. 

He feels warm all over—not just from the fire and the summer heat and your body wrapped around his, but from something infinitely worse.

In his pocket, the gift he brought for you weighs heavily. 

He feels it every time you shift against him—the ring he bought in Myr when the Second Sons passed through for supplies a few weeks ago, obsidian, ruby-embedded. He had seen it in the market and immediately thought of you, of your sharp smiles and warm skin and the way red jewels look so pretty against your skin. He nearly gutted the merchant for suggesting emerald instead. He imagined slipping it onto your finger himself, pictured it on your hand; he wanted to leave something of his behind with you when he returned to the Disputed Lands.

But now, it feels woefully insufficient. A ring is nothing close to the value of the Valyrian steel you put on his throat, nothing compared to the seal you pressed into his hand, nothing beside the blood drying on your palm from where you cut yourself open for his dream.

Fuck.

“Aerion?” you ask quietly, pulling back slightly to look at him. “What is it?”

“… Nothing. It is nothing.”

[jacescult]

THE GREAT — aerion targaryen (i)

synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like flies—leaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU

pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader

word count. 8,437

COMMENT IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!

authors note. mind you, it can get a little annoying at first since the reader genuinely lives in a fantasy of sunshine and happy endings 😭 but i tried to follow the plot/tone of the great so… yeah. she will become a baddie as the story progresses. also, i’m not planning to follow the canon events after the ashford tourney which means we are absolutely getting king aerion 🤍 and yes, i shamelessly stole some dialogue from the show because they were simply too funny not to include <3 likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!! warnings. violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, eventual smut, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, profanity, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being a bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).

✴︎ 209 AC

THE AFTERNOON HEAT in Lys clung to the skin like damp silk, thick with the scent of salt wind drifting in from the sea, crushed rosewater from the perfumed courtyards, and incense curling lazily from a hundred painted temples. The air shimmered against pale marble walls, soft and luminous in the sun, as if the whole city had been carved to be looked at rather than lived in. Yet none of it felt real to you. In your mind, the world smelled of rain and smoke and the sea. Of wet stone streets, damp castle halls, and fires burning late into cold evenings. It smelled like the sort of place where important things happened.

You sat upon the old wooden swing in the center of the courtyard, its ropes creaking softly each time you pushed yourself higher with the tips of your slippers. Your dark green skirts fanned around your legs like spilled ink, brushing against the pale stone beneath you.

But your attention was fixed on the strip of sky above the rooftops.

“I am to be married,” you announced suddenly, unable to contain the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, your sister paused midstroke while brushing out her hair. She stared at you with immediate suspicion rather than excitement.

“Who,” she asked carefully, “would marry you?”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back against the swing ropes, letting yourself sway lazily. “A prince of fire and blood,” you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We shall spend our evenings reading poetry by candlelight while musicians play in the next room. He will understand me entirely. We will speak of philosophy and history and make the court less dreadful than it is.”

She snorted. “You make him sound like a savant.”

“He is not a savant,” you replied with mock offense. “He is a prince.”

“Yes, but is he aware we are poor?” she asked flatly. “Truly poor. Not tragic-poetry poor. Actual poor. Father died owing money to half of Lys. We still even need to water down the wine.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “That is beneath his concern.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Prince Aerion and I are to concern ourselves with finer matters.” You hopped down from the swing, smoothing the creases from your skirts before lifting your chin with practiced dignity.

The silver brush slipped from her fingers and struck the stone with a sharp crack. For a moment she only stared at you.

Then, very quietly, she said, “Prince Aerion?”

You smiled wider. “Yes.”

“The Targaryen prince?”

“Yes.”

“From Westeros.”

“Yes, from Westeros.”

The color slowly drained from her face.

“The ravens arrived this morning,” you continued brightly, crossing the courtyard toward her. “Mother accepted immediately, of course. By the end of the year I shall be in King’s Landing. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.” You clasped your hands together. “Doesn’t it feel strangely destined?”

“No,” she answered at once.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting your head back toward the sky. “You are determined to ruin this for me?”

“They do not even have dragons anymore,” she snapped, stepping closer now, her voice tightening with unease. “The last one died years ago. Westeros is cold and filthy and full of miserable lords killing each other over chairs. And the prince…” She hesitated. “I’ve heard things.”

“From whom?”

“Merchants. Sailors from King’s Landing. Men who know better than to invent stories about princes.”

You brushed past the warning without care. “Sailors invent stories for sport.”

“They say he’s cruel.”

“And people said Father was clever,” you replied lightly. “The world exaggerates.”

She looked unconvinced.

You turned away before she could continue, lifting your face toward the blazing evening sky. Somewhere beyond the sea was Westeros. Somewhere beyond the horizon was a prince with silver hair and violet eyes and a destiny grand enough to pull you from this gilded, decaying life at last.

“If there are no dragons left,” you mused, “I suppose I shall simply have to hatch one myself.”

She stared at you as though you had finally lost what little sense you possessed.

“You cannot hatch a dragon.”

“Why not?” You asked ridiculously.  

“Because dragons are dead.”

You shrugged. “So were we, practically.”

For the first time since the conversation began, genuine fear crossed her face. Without another word, she bent quickly to retrieve her fallen brush and hurried toward the house.

“I am finding Mother,” she muttered under her breath. “She has completely lost her mind.”

Aerion Targaryen was absolutely losing his mind.

He stood beside the tall arched window of the great hall, watching the Blackwater glitter darkly beneath a veil of grey cloud, one hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword as though it alone was preventing him from saying something unforgivable. In his other hand sat the problem itself. A letter.

Its seal had already been broken hours ago, yet Aerion still held it like he might somehow strangle better news out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. Its contents were simple enough to feel insulting.

A marriage.

No. Not just any marriage, an arranged match with a daughter of some Lysene house clinging to old Valyrian pride it no longer truly held. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had not asked for this. He would not pretend otherwise. Westeros had its customs, its alliances, its endless games of blood and crown—but there were lines he did not intend to cross without reason. 

A prince of the dragonlords should not be bound to someone who did not carry their look, their blood, their unmistakable mark of Valyria. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The old fire, faint but undeniable. 

It was not sentiment. It was sense. 

His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window.

He would not be paraded through courts beside a bride who looked like a foreign ornament—pretty, perhaps, but wrong. 

And alas! You paraded into the throne room smiling. Actually smiling. The doors of the great hall opened with all the usual dreadful ceremony, guards standing straighter than necessary while servants scrambled uselessly around your luggage. Aerion watched the entire thing from beside the Iron Throne with the exhausted disbelief of a man witnessing a public execution and slowly realizing he was the one being executed.

You walked into the hall looking pleased with life. 

No!

Absolutely not!

Gods… you looked so delighted. The sight alone offended him. 

Your dress swept over the stone floors in soft sea-green silk, expensive enough to suggest House Rogare had once been rich and stupid rather than merely stupid. Gold thread shimmered at the sleeves. Pearls hung from your throat. Your dark curls had half-fallen from their pins during the journey, though you either had not noticed or did not care.

Dark hair. Aerion stared harder. Green eyes. He felt his right eye twitch. Now he felt personally insulted by both. 

You stopped in the center of the hall and looked up at the ceiling with genuine wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.

Aerion glanced upward too. It was a ceiling.

“You look taller in your portrait,” Aerion remarked flatly the moment you approached. The hall felt still and you blinked once, clearly uncertain whether you had been insulted yet. 

“Oh.”

Aerion lazily glanced toward one of the guards nearby. “Send her back. Find me a tall one.”

Aerion’s eyes flicked sideways just in time to catch the pointed look his father sent him from beside the throne. Maekar merely narrowed his eyes in warning, the expression of a man very clearly imagining the satisfaction of striking his son across the back of the head in front of the entire court and deciding against it only because foreign ambassadors were present. But Aerion could only justify his words by pointing at the snorting courtiers lazily– “See? Funny.”

You smiled politely in the careful way people did when they were not entirely certain whether the prince was joking or truly his words were no jest.

“I see.”

“I’m kidding,” Aerion said. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.” 

“Oh,” you said politely. “Very amusing.” It was not convincing.

The maester—Gladys, and very likely the sole architect behind this catastrophic match, stepped in quickly, no doubt sensing yet another disaster beginning to unfold before the previous one had even settled.

“Prince Aerion, may I present Lady—”

“Yes, yes, the bride,” Aerion interrupted. “I gathered.”

You stepped forward then, bright-eyed despite everything that had already occurred. Aerion stepped back all the same, his eyes moving over you from head to toe like he was already finding faults.

“I wished to bring something from Lys,” you explained warmly. Aerion’s mind immediately went to Lysene courtesans. Lys was famously full of them. Or worse—poetry. Music. Some sort of embroidered love token. Gods. Aerion suddenly regretted existing.

But instead, you reached carefully into your sleeve and withdrew a tiny spruce branch wrapped delicately in ribbon. Not jewels. Not a book. But a fucking twig. 

You held it out to him with both hands.

“I present this branch of spruce,” you said warmly. Aerion looked at the branch. Then at you. Then back to the branch again. Seven Hells!

“It is an evergreen,” you continued earnestly, entirely unaware that several grown men nearby were visibly fighting for their lives trying not to laugh. “I hoped it might symbolize our feelings toward one another. That we shall remain caring and faithful all our lives.”

Aerion took the branch between two fingers as though it might stain him. 

“She gave me a twig,” he observed quietly. 

Aerion tilted his head slightly. “She’s not inbred, is she?”

The maester nearly swallowed his own tongue. “There has been no indication of—”

“I assure you,” you cut in quickly, chin lifting with a sudden dignity, “I am entirely of sound mind, Your Grace.” And you were. You also very nearly said something about how funny it was for a Targaryen to be asking that question in the first place. Very nearly. But you did not.

Aerion considered this. The evidence currently suggested otherwise. You brightened again anyway.

“I also wished to thank you for your letter.”

The man frowned immediately. “My what?”

“The letter you sent to Lys,” you continued. “The one speaking of devotion and companionship.” Your expression brightened almost painfully. “It was beautiful. I read it several times aboard the ship.”

Aerion stared blankly for a long moment. Then he looked towards the maester. Said maester suddenly became fascinated by the floor. 

“Oh,” Aerion said slowly. “That letter.” 

“You wrote it, did you not?” you asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Yes,” Aerion said, as if recalling something mildly inconvenient. Your face, already bright, lit further at the answer, as though this confirmed something deeply meaningful. How utterly naive. 

“I hoped,” you continued carefully, “that perhaps our love might grow slowly. Like a flame becoming large enough to warm an entire kingdom.”

Aerion nearly recoiled. Love. Gods above, help him. You really believed him. He exhaled through his nose. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Your smile faltered for the first time. Only briefly. Then returned again with terrifying optimism.

“And I hope I shall make you happy,” you said sincerely.

Aerion stared at you as though you had personally invented inconvenience. “You’re perfect,” he replied flatly. 

The maester abruptly stepped forward before the conversation could collapse any further into disaster, hastily announcing that the wedding would take place on the morrow. Gods. As though there were any risk of you fleeing in the night. You looked far too pleased with all of this. 

A young woman stepped forward from the line of servants and bowed her head. Meriel, you thought her name was—though truthfully, you had barely listened when the maester introduced her. Your attention had remained entirely fixed on the prince before you. Or rather, on the very obvious fact that the prince was looking absolutely anywhere except at you.

The windows. The banners.The Iron Throne. Or that one specific crack in the floor that suddenly seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Anywhere.

It should have embarrassed you, perhaps. Another girl might have wilted beneath it. But you had not crossed the Narrow Sea expecting instant devotion. Marriage, especially royal marriage, surely required patience. Time. Understanding.

And Prince Aerion, you were beginning to suspect, might require an impossible amount of all three. Still, you smiled.

He still did not look at you.

One of your Lysene servants stepped nervously forward beside the luggage, a pretty thing with blonde curls and nervous eyes. She had spent the entire journey seasick and terrified of Westeros.

Aerion glanced toward her absentmindedly while adjusting his gloves.

“You’re pretty,” he remarked casually.

The girl blinked, startled, before flushing pink. “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”

You stared at him. Ah. You thought slowly. So it would take a great deal of time.

Aerion, meanwhile, had already grown visibly bored with the entire exchange. He turned away with the restless air of a man abandoning an event halfway through because it had failed to entertain him quickly enough.

“I must tend to my whores,” he announced.

A loud throat-clearing echoed through the hall.

Aerion barely paused.

“…Horses,” he corrected lazily. “Horses.”

Several courtiers lowered their heads immediately, shoulders shaking with poorly hidden laughter. “Going riding,” Aerion added with a dismissive wave before disappearing out of the hall entirely.

Meriel led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep while servants hurried ahead carrying trunks that had absolutely not survived the voyage gracefully. Somewhere behind you, one had burst open entirely, scattering silks across a staircase and nearly killing a guard.

The keep itself felt colder inside than it had from the courtyard below. Not merely in temperature, but in spirit. Long stone halls. Narrow windows. Tapestries heavy with dragons and dead men. Still, you smiled as you walked.

“He seems lovely,” you said softly.

Meriel glanced at you.

“Mm,” she replied carefully. “Aren’t you gorgeously optimistic?”

You laughed under your breath. “It has been said.” Your fingers brushed lightly over the stone wall as you walked beside her. “I simply believe there is no other sensible way to be.”

Meriel made a small sound that suggested she strongly disagreed.

—

The wedding itself passed in a blur of incense smoke, candlelight, and exhaustion.

You scarcely remembered entering the sept. Only the weight of eyes following you down the aisle, the sound of your skirts dragging softly over stone, and Aerion standing at the altar looking like a man attending his own execution. Beautiful, unfortunately.

The septon droned on endlessly while Aerion looked bored enough to die from it. When the vows were finally spoken and you were presented to the court, your heart leapt despite yourself.

“Presenting Prince Aerion Targaryen and his wife—”

You smiled brightly and opened your mouth to speak.

“It is a—”

“No,” Aerion interrupted without even looking at you. “You don’t talk, my love.”

A stunned silence followed. “Oh,” you said after a moment. “Of course.”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed very violently into their sleeve. Aerion looked entirely pleased with himself.

Then, as if suddenly remembering he was expected to behave like a husband for at least one consecutive minute, he gestured lazily toward the side doors of the hall.

“So,” he announced, “a wedding gift for my new wife seems in order.”

The doors opened. And into the hall lumbered an enormous bear. You gasped. A real bear.

The court erupted into chaos almost immediately. One lady shrieked. A knight stumbled backward into a candelabra. The animal itself looked equally confused by the entire arrangement.

Aerion smirked faintly at your expression.

“You wrote in your letters that you wished to see one.”

You stared at the beast with open amazement. “You remembered?”

“No,” Aerion answered honestly. 

The bear sneezed violently onto a nearby lord.

You thought it was wonderful.

—

By the time you finally reached your chambers again hours later, half the candles had already burned low.

Your gowns had been unpacked incorrectly. One of your necklaces was missing. A servant was crying quietly in the corner over a broken perfume bottle.

“Oh,” you said distractedly while searching through a trunk, “they’re somewhere, I’m sure.”

Meriel stood nearby watching the disaster unfold with the calm expression of someone already accustomed to royal households collapsing around her.

“Princess,” she said carefully, “where are the rest of your clothes?”

You looked around vaguely.

“An excellent question.”

Then you smiled suddenly, almost breathless.

“Me. A married woman.” You sat carefully at the edge of the bed, touching the fabric beneath your fingers like you still scarcely believed any of it. “How I dreamt of this.”

Meriel’s expression softened slightly.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly. Then, after a pause: “Madam… if I may speak plainly.”

“You may.”

Meriel hesitated.

“You do know what to expect tonight?”

You looked up at once, mildly offended.

“You suppose me more naïve than I am.”

“She explained it to you?”

“My mother explained everything.”

Meriel looked unconvinced already.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, repeating it carefully from memory.

You spoke with complete sincerity.

“The man caresses you softly, pressing his lips to yours.”

Meriel blinked once.

“Your breasts and skin awaken and shiver with palpitating joy.”

Meriel blinked twice.

“Between your legs quivers and moistens with longing. He enters you and you become one.”

Meriel stared at you in silence.

“Your bodies meld, your souls mesh. As a sensation takes hold of you, you fall into a black sky filled with the shiniest of stars.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “You float for a time in ecstasy, before waves of pleasure push and pull you back into your body.”

Meriel’s face had gone completely blank.

“Your body ushers forth yelps, and sometimes song, before he and you explode within, collapsing together, spent and unified.” You sighed dreamily. “Then you lay together, laughing softly, weeping occasionally with ecstatic joy, and finally, he wraps his arms around you, whispers poetry softly into your ear, and you fall into a… delicious sleep.”

A long silence followed.

Meriel nodded slowly.

“…Yep,” she said at last. “That’s pretty much it.”

You smiled, reassured.

Outside your chamber windows, the storm clouds over Blackwater Bay deepened into night. Candles burned lower. Servants slowly disappeared one by one.

You waited.

And waited.

Aerion never came.

Months passed after the wedding. An astonishing amount of absolutely nothing had occurred within the marriage.

You and Aerion had been moved south to a smaller palace not far from Summerhall, supposedly for peace, privacy, and “the strengthening of the marital bond,” which sounded lovely in theory and deeply embarrassing in practice considering your husband still treated your existence like an administrative inconvenience.

The palace itself was beautiful, at least. Warm stone walls, open gardens, olive trees twisting beneath the sun, and fountains that actually worked, unlike the ones in King’s Landing that smelled faintly of death.

You spent your mornings wandering the gardens with books you never finished because you were too busy imagining dramatic future conversations with Aerion where he suddenly realized you were enchanting and regretted everything.

These conversations never occurred in real life. Mostly because Aerion was never there.

He hunted constantly. Rode constantly. Hosted drunken dinners for men who laughed too loudly and broke furniture. Once, he returned at three in the morning carrying an injured falcon and demanding a maester because “the bird understands him emotionally.”

The falcon died and Aerion mourned for nearly two days.

You considered poisoning him on the third.

At court dinners, he would sometimes remember you existed and stare at you with vague surprise, as though you had appeared suddenly from the walls.

“Oh,” he’d say. “Wife.” 

Once, during supper, he had pointed at you with a fork and asked a servant, “Does she always sit there?”

You had thrown a grape at his face. He looked delighted by it for reasons that still irritated you deeply. 

And then there was the matter of the marriage bed. Or rather, the complete and ongoing absence of it. Weeks passed, then months– nothing. Not even an attempt. Which would have been less humiliating had the entire palace not clearly noticed.

Servants noticed and servants talked. One maid fainted dramatically after discovering untouched marriage sheets and whispered something about curses. Another began leaving fertility charms beneath your pillows.

At first, you wondered if perhaps Aerion was shy. Then you remembered he was physically incapable of shame. 

So eventually, you decided to take matters into your own hands. It had seemed reasonable at the time. 

You had spent nearly an hour preparing yourself beforehand, which now embarrassed you deeply in retrospect. You wore a softer gown. You brushed perfume oil against your wrists. You even practiced appearing casually alluring in the mirror, though midway through it you realized you mostly looked constipated.

Still determined, you walked to Aerion’s chambers yourself. No husband could possibly ignore such effort.

And for one glorious moment, when the guards opened the doors without question, you truly believed things were finally about to improve. Then you walked inside.

And found Aerion entirely naked, beneath the Lysene servant he had once casually called pretty the day you met. 

A long silence followed. Aerion looked up from the bed. Blinking slowly. Not even ashamed but merely inconvenienced. 

“Oh,” he said.

You stared at him.

The servant stared at you, and looked ready to leap directly out the window. 

Aerion looked between the two of you with visible irritation, as though you had interrupted him. Then, somehow making the situation infinitely worse, he leaned back lazily against the pillows and glanced between the two of you like this was a mildly awkward dinner arrangement rather than marital betrayal.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you like”

You left before murder became politically difficult to explain.

Behind you, you vaguely heard Aerion sigh in annoyance, as though you had been the difficult one in this situation.

You had had enough. Enough that you stopped waiting for footsteps outside your chambers at night. Enough pretending this marriage was merely delayed instead of rotten at its center.

Divorce was impossible. You knew that much.

Escape, however—

Escape remained an option.

You found Meriel before dawn while most of the palace still slept. Candles burned low along the corridors, their flames trembling each time wind slipped through the stone passageways. Meriel looked startled seeing you awake so early, though the expression disappeared quickly once she saw your face.

“I want to leave,” you told her quietly.

Meriel stared at you for a moment. “Leave where?”

“Away from here,” you replied. “Anywhere else.”

Meriel lowered her eyes.

“I need a large traveling trunk,” you continued, voice steadier now that the decision had finally been spoken aloud. “And a carriage. Something discreet enough not to invite questions.”

Understanding settled over her face slowly.

“You mean to flee.”

“I mean to survive.”

For a moment, Meriel looked almost sympathetic. Then she nodded once.

“I shall arrange it.”

But later that same morning, Meriel went to Aerion instead.

She found him in the training yard watching two knights beat each other senseless while he drank wine far too early in the day. Sunlight flashed against the practice swords each time they collided. Aerion barely looked at her when she approached.

“How is she?” he asked lazily.

Meriel hesitated only briefly. “Unhappy.”

“Hmm.”

“She wants to leave.”

That earned his attention. He hummed, “you want something in return.”

Meriel straightened slightly at that, speaking with a confidence that sounded practiced rather than natural.

“My father was stripped of his lands for siding with the Blackfyres years ago. My family lost everything. Our titles. Our place at court.” Her hands tightened together. “I have served loyally ever since.”

Aerion tilted his head slightly.

“You want your status restored.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Then, unexpectedly, Aerion let out a short laugh beneath his breath and lifted his goblet vaguely toward her.

“Gods,” he murmured, almost impressed. “You’re awful.”

—

The trunk was prepared before sunrise the next morning. Reinforced oak, iron latches, large enough to pass for travel storage without inviting suspicion. You climbed inside before the courtyard fully stirred awake, heart pounding painfully against your ribs while the lid shut heavily above you.

Darkness swallowed everything. And for a while, relief almost overtook fear. The carriage moved steadily beneath you. Wheels against stone. Horses breathing hard. 

Distance growing with every turn. You were leaving. Finally.

But then the carriage stopped.

And you felt the trunk— the trunk you were in being carried. You shoved hard against the lid. Locked. And then you heard water. Cold seeped through the bottom edges of the trunk while the men carried it farther. Panic struck instantly, violent and absolute.

“No,” you gasped, throwing your shoulder hard against the lid. “No—!”

The trunk sank lower.

Freezing water rushed through the cracks faster now, swallowing the remaining air inside in brutal gulps. Your hands slipped against soaked wood as you shoved desperately against the lid, panic turning your thoughts into something sharp and senseless.

Above you, the voices had gone quieter. One of the men laughed nervously. Another muttered that perhaps this had gone too far.

Then silence.

For one horrible moment, you truly believed Aerion had left.

That this was how it ended, not with greatness or love, but alone in darkness inside a wooden box because your husband found cruelty entertaining.

Above the waterline, Aerion watched the lake for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a bored sigh, he turned his back as if preparing to leave entirely.

The men shifted uneasily beside their horses. One looked pale. Another muttered a prayer to the Seven beneath his breath.

And then suddenly—

Aerion laughed.

“Oh, Gods,” he said between amused breaths, turning back toward the lake. “You thought I was serious.”

The men stared at him. Aerion grinned broadly now, gesturing lazily back toward the shore. “Bring her back before she actually dies.”

Relief visibly swept through the soldiers so quickly. They rushed forward immediately, dragging the trunk back toward land with frantic urgency. The moment it struck the shore hard enough, the weakened latch snapped open completely.

You spilled out with it.

Water poured from your soaked gown as you collapsed onto the mud choking violently, coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. Wet curls clung against your face while the world spun sickeningly around you.

Above you stood Aerion.

Dry and perfectly composed.

One hand rested lazily over the hilt of his sword while amusement still lingered openly across his face. You looked up at him with absolute hatred. Aerion only smirked.

Then, as though this had all been a mildly entertaining interruption to his afternoon, he turned toward his men.

“Come along.”

The soldiers immediately began mounting their horses again. And just like that, they left you there. You walked back to the palace alone.

Soaked shoes scraping against dirt roads. Wet skirts heavy around your legs. Your entire body trembling. By the time you returned to your chambers, you already knew.

Meriel. Of course it had been Meriel. And worse— Aerion had not even granted her what she wanted. No restored titles. No lands. No reward.

The realization hollowed something inside you completely.

That night, your chambers were unusually quiet. You sat before the mirror still wrapped in blankets, staring numbly at the knife resting across your lap while candlelight flickered weakly against the walls.

Meriel stood nearby. At some point, she glanced toward the blade and asked mildly, “Would you like a cake with that knife, Princess?”

You let out a humorless laugh.

“Do not try to stop me,” you said quietly. “Just leave me be.”

“I would not presume to speak,” Meriel replied at once, folding her hands neatly before her. “For the Princess is so smart and book-readingly that I am certain her judgment must be sound.”

You looked down at the knife again.

“I am resolved.”

Meriel nodded once and turned toward the servant boy lingering nervously near the doorway.

“Fetch a bucket for the blood.”

The poor boy blinked. “Yes, miss.”

“And towels too,” Meriel added calmly. “There may be some overflow.”

“What am I to do?” you whispered instead. “Just live forever at someone else’s whim?”

“God forbid.”

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the knife.

“I truly believed,” you admitted quietly, “ever since I was a child… that greatness waited for me somewhere.” Your voice shook slightly now, though whether from anger or heartbreak you no longer knew. “A great life. Something important. Like the gods Himself placed me here for a reason.” You stared blankly at the candlelight trembling across the room. “That I was meant to change something.”

Meriel was silent for a moment.

Then softly:

“Why did he make you a woman, then?”

You let out a hollow laugh beneath your breath.

“For comedy, I suppose.”

And so, months later, breakfast with Aerion had become less a marital routine and more a daily exercise in surviving each other.

You sat across from Aerion beneath the open arches of the summer dining hall while servants moved quietly between tables carrying fruit, fresh bread, and wine.

Aerion looked half-awake, dressed lazily in black riding clothes, one boot unlaced.

He stabbed violently at a pear.

“The Ashford Tourney begins next week,” he announced suddenly. “You’re coming.”

You blinked once. Then coughed delicately into your sleeve and Aerion looked up immediately. You coughed again, but weaker this time.

“Oh dear,” you murmured sadly. “I fear I may be terribly ill.”

Aerion stared at you blankly. Then rolled his eyes.

“Tragic.”

You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. “I believe it may worsen if exposed to excessive sunlight.”

“How brave of you to battle through it during breakfast.”

You ignored him with dignity.

Aerion leaned back in his chair, watching you with open annoyance.

“You do realize people will ask questions if my wife refuses to appear beside me.”

“Then tell them I died.”

“That would create paperwork.”

Aerion stood abruptly, already bored with the conversation. And then paused.

He glanced toward your stomach.

“You’re not pregnant yet, are you?”

Silence.

You narrowed your eyes slowly. “Aerion,” you said carefully, “you have not stepped foot inside my chambers since the moment we married.”

He blinked once. As though genuinely forgetting this detail. Then his face twisted slightly with irritation.

“Annoying.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

Annoying?

Annoying?

Aerion was already pulling on his gloves.

“We should probably do something about that eventually,” he muttered distractedly.

“You think?” You shot him a sharp look across the table. “What a groundbreaking conclusion.”

Aerion finally glanced at you properly for the first time that morning, the inside of his cheek pressed lightly beneath his tongue as he studied you with lazy irritation.

“You’ve been in a terrible mood lately.”

You laughed in disbelief. “Lately?” 

“Yes.” Aerion blinked. 

“I walked into your chambers months ago and found you naked with another woman. Then you nearly had me drowned in a lake.”

“And I offered to include you,” he pointed out immediately, gesturing vaguely in your direction like this had been an act of staggering generosity on his part rather than insanity. “As for the lake, that was clearly a joke.”

“A joke.”

“Yes.”

“You sealed me inside the trunk.”

“You survived.”

“You watched me drown.”

Aerion frowned slightly at that. “That feels dramatic. You were underwater for hardly any time at all.”

You stared at him.

“And besides,” he continued, now sounding faintly offended himself, “I came back.”

You shut your eyes briefly. Enough.

Instead, like an angry child trying very hard not to throw something, you planted both hands flat against the table and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him for even another second. 

Aerion sighed through his nose, already irritated by your irritation.

Then he waved vaguely over one shoulder as he started toward the courtyard.

“Later.”

The moment he disappeared through the arches, your composed expression collapsed entirely.

“I hate you,” you muttered venomously into your wine.

Life within the small palace quickly settled into an exhausting rhythm of endless feasts.

Aerion hosted them constantly.

The halls filled night after night with second sons of noble houses and young knights who had little to inherit but still too much pride to behave accordingly. Men who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth order, had little to do besides drink themselves stupid, chase women through corridors, lose fortunes over dice, and wake the next morning only to begin the cycle again.

They clung to Aerion all the same.

Not out of affection, he was too sharp, too unpredictable, too openly violent when irritated for that— but because he funded the entire arrangement. The wine, the food, the horses, the tours, the endless indulgence of it all. Aerion paid for their comfort, and in return they laughed at his worst remarks on command. Because if Aerion said something once, and then repeated it slowly while glancing at the room, it meant they were supposed to laugh.

Even when it wasn’t funny.

Especially when it wasn’t funny.

While they drank themselves into stupors below, you found your escape elsewhere.

The library.

It became yours almost by instinct.

Quiet, tucked away from the noise of feasting, it smelled of dust, old parchment, and forgotten ink. Most of the palace ignored it entirely, which suited you perfectly.

Most afternoons, while the men stumbled around the courtyards half-drunk and shouting at one another, you remained hidden among the shelves with a book open across your lap.

You had always loved reading.

Your mother used to tell you that knowledge was the only thing in this world that could not easily be taken from a woman. Knowledge meant power, she would say while correcting your Valyrian translations at the dinner table. And power meant importance. Change.

You had carried those words with you across the Narrow Sea. Held onto them tightly.

Because despite everything; the miserable marriage, the endless feasts, the loneliness of this strange country, you still believed you had been meant for something more than sitting quietly beside a prince while men spoke over you.

You wanted to do something that mattered.

And near the edge of the nearby village, just beyond the palace grounds, sat an old abandoned cottage slowly collapsing into itself beneath climbing ivy and years of neglect. You wanted to turn it into a school. Not for noble girls. Noble girls already had tutors and books and futures decided for them.

You wanted a school for girls who had nothing at all. Girls who could not read their own names. Just a place where girls could learn to read without asking.

And with that thought, you swallowed your pride. The next morning, you joined Aerion on a hunt.

It was not an invitation so much as you appearing beside him as he mounted his horse, which he regarded with immediate suspicion. 

“You’re coming?” he asked.

“I would like to see the forest,” you said simply.

He stared at you for a long moment as though trying to determine whether this was an inconvenience or a threat. Then he shrugged, already losing interest.

“Fine.”

The hunt itself was chaos.

Aerion, however, was in a rare good mood— amused, and almost tolerable. The kind of mood where asking him for anything felt marginally survivable.

So when the ride slowed briefly, you took your chance.

“There is something I would like to do,” you began carefully.

Aerion did not look at you. “That sounds expensive.”

“It is not—”

“Everything is expensive,” he cut in.

You hesitated.

Then, quietly, “There is an abandoned cottage near the village. I would like to turn it into a school.”

“Do what you want,” he said, already bored, adjusting his reins. “Just don’t make it inconvenient.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “It’s a cottage.”

A pause.

Somewhere behind you, a hunter laughed too loudly at something Aerion had said earlier and then immediately laughed again, louder, as if reminding everyone it was supposed to be funny.

Aerion rode on without waiting for your response.

And just like that, it was done.

No discussions. No debate. Just permission given carelessly, like throwing coins at a beggar to make them disappear. But it was enough. You would take it.

You began preparing soon after.

The cottage sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten thought—half-collapsed roof, broken shutters, weeds pushing through the stone floor. Still, you stood in it for a long time the first day, imagining voices inside it. Girls reading aloud. Chalk on wood. Something small, but alive.

Meriel came with you more than once after that, wordless at first, then slowly softening into the idea of it.

It almost felt possible.

Until it didn’t. 

You came back after supper. The sky had already turned dark. From a distance, something felt wrong. The air smelled wrong. Then you saw it.

The cottage.

Burned.

Not damaged. But burned.

Blackened beams collapsed inward like broken ribs. Smoke still curled faintly into the night sky, as though whatever had been done had not yet finished being cruel. Meriel went very still beside you.

You walked forward slowly, as if approaching it carefully might undo it.

It did not.

By the time you reached the ruins, there was nothing left that could pretend to be a school.

Only ash.

—

The palace was loud.

Drunken laughter spilled through the halls. Music echoed off stone. Someone was singing badly again.

You found Aerion in the main hall, seated at a long table surrounded by men who laughed too loudly at everything he said. A cup hung loosely in his hand.

He did not look up when you entered.

You walked straight toward him, and the people noticed immediately. You stopped in front of him.

“You burned it,” you said.

Aerion blinked once.

Then, slowly: “Oh.”

He leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of a man already bored.

“You didn’t say it was for girls.”

“Women in the villages here cannot read,” he added. “They’re not taught.”

Your hands tightened at your sides.

“That is not—”

“And they should not be,” Aerion said, cutting in.

“Women are for seeding, not reading.”

Laughter rolled through the hall.

You stared at him like he had spoken in a language you no longer recognized.

“…I told you I wanted a school,” you said slowly.

“Yes,” Aerion replied, as if that explained everything.

“And you burned it down.”

“I did,” he confirmed.

No hesitation. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Well, you may go. I forgive you, of course, as I am a man of gentle heart and enormous cock.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“You are disgusting,” you hissed.

“You do not lie to me again.”

The glass left his hand without warning. It shattered against the pillar beside you—but by then, you had already moved. A thin cut sliced across your right palm, blood beading slowly against your skin. Barely a scratch.

Aerion watched the fragments scatter across the floor before his gaze drifted back to you, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Ooh,” he drawled. “You’re admirably quick.”

You did not give him any more time to give comments as you turned to leave, anger radiating. You seethed while walking back to your chambers.

The next day there was another feast.

Meriel told you to go to tell the court that you are still alive and breathing.

Aerion was in unusually good spirits that evening, laughing too loudly at something one of his men said. And because when Aerion repeated a joke, they laughed as though it had been genius. Even when it isn’t. 

You mostly ignored all of it.

Instead, you found the bear.

It had been brought to the palace courtyard as one of Aerion’s strange, impulsive gifts, something from the hunt, something alive that had survived him when most things did not.

You sat with it quietly for a while, fingers brushing through its fur while the feast roared on inside. It was easier than people. It did not speak. It did not mock. It simply existed beside you without asking anything.

“Maybe you’re the only one here,” you muttered softly, “who hasn’t tried to ruin my life.”

The bear shifted slightly under your hand.

For a moment, it almost felt like it understood you. 

And then- the sound of an arrow splitting air. It happened too fast to process properly. A sharp twang from the training platform where Aerion and his men had decided, in their usual brilliance, that the courtyard was suitable for target practice even during a feast.

The arrow struck clean.

Right through the animal. The bear collapsed instantly.

You stared at it for a moment too long, as if waiting for the world to correct itself. But it did not. And then you stood.

Across the courtyard, laughter broke out.  “Good shot,” someone called.

Aerion’s voice followed lazily, unconcerned. “Oh, dear. Someone’s cross.” he spoke lazily when he saw you cross the courtyard in a straight line. Aerion was still smiling when you reached him. With no hesitation, you raised your hand and slapped him on the cheek. Hard. 

The sound cracked through the hall and silence followed immediately. Even the music faltered. You didn’t wait for anything else. You turned and left.

—

The library was quiet in a way the rest of the palace never managed to be. Not merely silent, but softened, as though even sound was reluctant to disturb it. Dust floated through thin shafts of light from the high windows, drifting over rows of old parchment and ink-stained ledgers, the smell of aged wood and forgotten knowledge clinging to everything. 

It was the only place in the entire palace that did not feel like it belonged to Aerion, as if even his presence hesitated at the threshold.

You did not sit at a chair. You sat on the floor between shelves, knees drawn in loosely, staring at nothing in particular while your breathing slowly unraveled. Then your hands began to shake, then enough that you stopped trying to hide it at all. The crying came after that, uneven and broken, sharp breaths caught between anger and humiliation and grief until none of them could separate cleanly anymore.

You did not expect him to follow you.

Aerion did not speak immediately when he entered. He stood there for a moment as if assessing whether this was worth interrupting, then eventually crossed the room and sat down across from you.

“We’ve got problems, haven’t we?” he said at last.

You did not answer.

Silence stretched, thick and unbothered.

“I suppose you are the only person in my life,” he added after a moment, almost thoughtfully, “who has not loved me.”

A breath of disbelief slipped out of you before you could stop it, half-laugh, half-sob.

“It is inconceivable to me,” he continued, as though your reaction was irrelevant, “and says nothing good about you.”

You looked up sharply at that.

He met your gaze without hesitation, unflinching, almost curious.

“If you had shown me an ounce of kindness,” your face twisted as you eyed him, “I was ready with a heart full of love.”

And then, because he could never resist undermining even his own seriousness, his eyes flicked over you and he added, almost offhand, “You look really pretty when you’re angry.”

That was it. Something in you cracked fully open.

“My heart is breaking,” you said, and this time the words came out broken with it, tears spilling freely as a muffled sob forced its way through your throat. “I miss home. I’m lonely for family, friends, fun, ideas, strawberries—”

“And I need my cock sucked,” Aerion interrupted flatly.

You froze.

“What?” you asked in disbelief, staring at him like you had misheard the language entirely.

“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly as if this were logical, “we’re sharing, right? Our needs?”

“Just let me go home, please.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He glanced away for a moment, as though considering something practical. “Strawberries, I’ll work on.”

Then, more to himself than to you, he added, “What happened to that happy little girl who gave me a twig?”

“She died,” you said immediately.

Aerion sighed through his nose. “Seems overly dramatic.”

He looked at you again, then added, “I am mostly kind to you. Do I beat you?”

“I suffer the blows of your disdain daily,” you hissed, pushing yourself up until you were standing over him where he still sat.

Aerion tilted his head up at you slightly.

“It’s not the same as actual blows, though, is it?”

“Well—”

“What, you don’t know?” he cut in.

Before you could react, he stood. His hand closed around your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from stepping back, and then—suddenly, sharply—he struck you in the stomach.

The breath left you instantly. You doubled slightly, stunned more than anything, pain blooming hot and immediate through your middle.

Aerion watched you bend forward.

“Well,” he said calmly, releasing you, “compare, and get back to me.”

You straightened slowly, shaking.

“Mother and Father never acted like this. My mother was a saint,” he replied. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reflexively, “I’m glad she’s not alive to see this. Not that I’m glad she’s dead. I’m not—”

He stopped himself, as if realizing he was losing his own argument, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

You were still staring at him, unblinking.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You’re a disappointment to me, too.”

Then, after a pause, his voice sharpened again.

“I do not need a wife with a poisonous mouth and a dry cunny. I will shut you up at my pleasure.”

“You will try and fail,” you said immediately, voice raw.

“You will be happy,” he continued as if you had not spoken. “You will die here in content old age, having given me many hours of pleasure and service, and many heirs. Boys, preferably.”

His gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing.

“I do have a temper and some rage. You cannot cross me. Especially not in front of others, or you will pay. Endlessly.”

A pause.

Then, quietly, final in a way that was almost certain.

“And you will never win.”

I hope he loses.

Not in the polite way other wives were taught to think it, no soft prayers whispered into candlelight, no folded hands asking for a safe return, no devotion. You did not want safety for him. 

I hope he loses the tourney, you thought, watching him across the courtyard as he adjusted his riding gloves, I hope he falls off his horse. I hope the impact is sharp enough to silence him permanently. I hope something in him breaks in a way that cannot be repaired.

Your finger tapped against your gown once, then again, then again, a quiet rhythm of imagined outcomes. You found yourself thinking of it too easily: the snap of bone, the sudden stillness of a body, the stunned silence of a crowd that had cheered him only moments before.

Other wives would have been praying. You found yourself praying for injuries.

He would not come back with laughter still clinging to him. He would come back quiet, maybe even regretful. Or not at all.

Outside the palace entrance, the air was bright and unforgiving. The horses were already prepared, restless beneath their riders, the sound of metal and leather filling the space like a ceremony you had no interest in participating in. Aerion adjusted his riding gloves with careless precision, as though nothing in the world had ever resisted him for long.

You stood beside him. You did not speak. You did not wish him well.

You only performed the smallest, most formal curtsy you could manage. Whether it was even correct no longer mattered.

Aerion glanced at you briefly, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, he simply turned away and mounted his horse.

Then he left.

And the gates closed behind him.

—

Days passed slowly after that.

The palace did not change much in his absence, which you found irritating. The halls remained full, the servants continued their routines, the air still carried the same polished emptiness. If anything, it only made his presence feel less necessary in hindsight, as though he had always been an unnecessary noise in a room that functioned perfectly well without him.

You filled the time carefully.

The library became your refuge again, its silence more honest than anything else in the palace. You spent hours there among books you did not always read, simply existing in a space that did not demand anything from you. When even that became too heavy, you returned to embroidery, though not of flowers as was expected—but insects. Spindly things, sharp-winged things, delicate and unpleasant in a way.

Meriel came and went quietly, as she always did, saying little unless spoken to.

Time passed in a strange, suspended way.

Then one afternoon, a servant came running through the corridor, breathless, face pale and twisted with panic.

“He died!”

The words echoed too loudly down the stone hall.

“The prince died!”

For a moment, everything stopped. Even the air felt like it paused to listen. You looked up slowly from your work. Your fingers still rested on the fabric, unmoving.

Someone nearby gasped. Another voice immediately began asking questions, overlapping, frantic.

A second servant reached you, hesitating as if unsure whether you were supposed to collapse or celebrate or scream. His eyes darted away quickly, as though afraid of your reaction either way.

But then—

A flicker at the corner of your mouth. Barely there.

Something almost like relief, almost like laughter, almost like—

No.

Not yet.

Before it could form properly, Meriel arrived. And the moment you saw her face, you already knew something was wrong. She did not look panicked. She did not look confused.

Composed in a way that made your stomach tighten instantly.

She stopped in front of you.

And spoke clearly.

“Prince Baelor died.”

Silence.

Oh.

You felt it land slowly.

Not Aerion. Not your husband. Not your imagined ruin finally delivered.

Someone else. Someone entirely different.

Your fingers loosened slightly on the fabric in your lap.

And for a long moment, all you could think was:

Oh.

savant - a person of profound and exceptional knowledge. i figured people in lys probably wouldn’t use the word “maesters” the way they do in westeros, so i went down an internet rabbit hole looking for similar terms

updates may be slow since i’m starting summer classes at uni tomorrow, but trust that i will see this fic through to the very end 😈

[sleo00]

Black Soul [A.T.]

pairing: aerion targaryen x f!blackfyre!reader

word count: 9.7k

content warnings/contains: spoilers for akotsk (kinda?), canon-divergence & certain inaccuracies, canon typical violence, aerion is a warning himself as always, distant targcest (blackfyre x targaryen), very suggestive & talks of/allusions to sex, no smut, reader is witchy, inaccuracy on blood magic - i just came up with stuff, no physical description of reader, use of y/n, they were both seperately exiled to lys at around the same time, reader's parentage is not stated, curse words, valyrian wedding (basically copied the Rhaenyra x Daemon scene), reader indulges his delusions & he worships her for it okay? (the worship/obession is kinda mutual), you can basically choose if she does it only to manipulate him or if she genuinely loves him - i don't think i specified that much, grammatical errors, not proofread, italics - flashbacks, bold - spoken in high valyrian

requested: yes

a/n: i know i disappeared off the face of the earth for a moment there, sorry about that... anyway, i'm back! (for longer than a week, hopefully) and i'm actually quite proud of this one. i started this over like 5 times until it went into a direction that satisfied me. i'm not used to writing more freaky stuff, but i tried my hand this time. i hope it turned out well. to the requester, sorry you had to wait so long and i hope you like it <3

link to masterlist

Several years ago, you’d been exiled to the city of Lys by your father. Back then, in the midst of your rage at being sent away from everything you’ve ever known, you never would have been able to comprehend just in what direction your life were to go once you reached the east.

Lys brought a lot of advantages with itself. Advantages you had not wanted to acknowledge when you’d first arrived, alone, angry and hurt. You’d been granted your own small residence. Carrying Targaryen blood – even if not technically seen as legitimate in the eyes of the Faith – had its perks, after all. You’d barely left it at first, still furious at the audacity of your father to send you to a place practically littered with whores.

But when the lack of food forced you to wander out into the markets, when the first places in the city began to attract your attention – you came to see just how much of a blessing it was that your father had sent you here, of all places. He’d done it as punishment, as a means to make you see reason, cure you from the poison which had taken root in your blood and mind – as he claimed.

How stupid he’d been to even think that a place such as this would help you better yourself. In Lys, you were free to do as you pleased. You could eat, drink and fuck as much as you desired – no one would bat an eye. The loose clothes made of silk felt like a gift from the gods, in comparison to the suffocating gowns and corsets you were made to wear back in Westeros. The weather was always warm and sunny, a stark contrast to the storms and winds from the west.

And no one hindered you in the practice of your magic. By the hearth in your house, you’d carefully positioned fourteen candles, just as you had back home. And this time, when you spoke the High Valyrian words beneath your breath, when you let droplets of blood trickle into the flames, no one barged into your room and dragged you out kicking and screaming. No one banished you from your home. Here, you were free to do whatever you wished.

The most interesting thing you would encounter in Lys, however, arrived mere moons after you. Aerion Brightflame.

A Targaryen prince, sent to the east to reflect on his actions, turn into a better man, after causing almost his entire family to fall apart at a tourney held for the nameday of a minor Lord’s daughter.

In Lys, most possessed Valyrian features. The silver hair, the bright eyes - either amethyst or blue – the pale skin. You’d sensed him different from the start. You had not seen him arrive by boat. You only knew that you had never seen him before when you laid eyes on him for the first time. But you knew instantly that this was not a simple Lyseni man. The short and almost spiky hair – nearly looking like scales – paired with the pride he carried within himself and the unmistakable lilac eyes. He practically radiated that royal stench that came naturally with Targaryens – a name you were raised to despise. But alas, those who raised you had turned you into an outcast as well.

You watched him, kept your eyes on him as he began to get accustomed to his new surroundings – and the freedom that came with it. One day, you decided you would not stay away any longer. You’d approached him while he lounged in one of the plush chairs outside a tavern, sheltered from the sun by the shade of the building as he sipped on a cup of some fruity wine from the free cities.

You slide your fingers over the back of his chaise as you round it, gaining his attention instantly. His sharp eyes follow your every movement. You do not falter, coming to a stop on front of him.

“A Targaryen prince in Lys.” you drawl, eyes roaming over his rather exposed body, as he had now also taken to dressing in Lyseni fabrics, rather than thick, red and black doublets or chainmail. You could see several angry scars littering across the visible parts of his upper  body, no doubt from wounds healed not long ago. The kind of scars that would fade with time, yet never disappear entirely.

“Tell me, your grace.” you go on, the title laced with thin mockery. “This vacation of yours, is it voluntary, or no?”

His eyes never stop following you, tracing every movement. Be it a twitch of your hand, or a quirk of your lips. He is assessing you, trying to categorize you.

“Which one of the princelings are you?” you continue when he still does not say anything. “You surely do not look like one of Breakspear’s brood. Too little… dornish.” you pause, eyes raking over him once more. His pale skin – slowly beginning to tan in the heat of Lys – has a reddish tint to it, making apparent that his body is not accustomed to this type of heat. The words were meant to tease, to provoke, and by the way his fingers curl just a tad bit tighter around the armrest of the chair, you can tell it’s working. By the way something hot and flaring flashes through those eyes of his at even the mere suggestion that he could come from the seed of Baelor Targaryen.

“One of the Anvil’s offspring, then?” you hum thoughtfully. “You have too much control over your cup to be the drunken one. One’s at the citadel, that could not possibly be you. Well, unless you’ve suddenly decided you had enough of the maesters and celibacy, which would make this a wonderful place to break free from those chains. The others are too young. No, you are the one they whisper about. The one they fear…” A pause. “Brightflame, is it?”

You can tell you have him in your clutches by the way an entirely different glint shines in his eyes at the mention of others fearing him. A certain satisfaction. You watch as his lips curl upwards in the slightest, finally giving you a reaction.

“And who are you, to be making such a bold advance on a prince of dragon blood?” he returns, the taunting in his tone matching yours perfectly.

“Y/N. Blackfyre.”

You cannot quite tell if your name causes his amusement to rise or vanish, as his expression turns almost unreadable.

“Blackfyre?” he repeats, humming shortly. His eyes assess you once more, roaming over your entire being before settling on yours again. “Awfully confident for someone whose family constantly loses against mine, are we?”

That coaxes as slight laugh from your lips, not at all deterred by what he surely means as an insult to you.

“Awfully big talk for someone who has not once fought in those rebellions, don’t you think?” you retort smoothly.

By the way his finger twitch, you assume he is torn between lashing at you like a feral dragon – something you’ve come to realize he reminds you of quite a lot – or joining your amusement.

He brings the cup of wine to his lips, eyes never once leaving yours as he takes a sip, tongue flicking out to taste what little liquid had caught in the far corner of his mouth. Ultimately, he settles on the latter, the sharp smirk from before creeping back onto his features.

“So, Brightflame. What was your name again?” you ask then, head tilting in the slightest. He likes the attention, you can tell.

“Aerion.” comes his reply, short and firm.

“Aerion.” you repeat after him, tasting the name on your tongue. You expect it to taste bitter. Like hatred and distain. You find it does not. It tastes dangerous, yet in a concerningly alluring way.

“And what exactly brings you to Lys, Aerion?” you ask then, all the while lowering yourself into the thickly cushioned chair next to his. Your body is angled in his direction just enough for it to appear intended.

“In the eyes of my father, it seems I am at fault for the events that led to my uncle’s death.” The reply comes smoothly, almost trivial, as if he were talking about the weather. As if he were completely indifferent to the fact that his uncle has passed.

Your heart stutters for a few seconds at his words, the meaning of them, the weight, settling in your mind. It takes a few moments for you to gather your senses and to manage a reply.

“Your uncle? You mean to tell me Baelor ‘The Hammer’ Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, is dead?” you ask in thinly veiled shock.

Aerion only hums in response, nodding once.

You exhale a breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.” A whirlwind of emotions arises inside of you. Happiness, relief, pride, uneasiness. It seems your conscious refuses to settle on one.

You snap out of the depths of your mind when Aerion speaks up this time. “And you? For what reason does a Blackfyre get sent to Lys?” he asks, unable to conceal his own curiosity. His gaze is filled with intrigue and suspicion, still unsure whether to trust you or not.

“Blood magic.” You reply and find that, hypocritically, you’ve said the two words with the same lack of weight to them as he had done when informing you about his uncle’s death.

Your eyes are locked onto his own as you say it. And to the day you die, you’d swear you’ve never seen someone’s stare of suspicion and hesitation turn into fascination and something dangerously close to devotion so fast.

****

As your time in Lys progressed, it seemed that Aerion found it difficult to stray from your side after that first meeting. It did not bother you in the slightest. Quite the opposite, as you yourself sought out his company quite often on the days he did not come to you on his own.

You showed him more hidden corners of the city, places one would rarely wander to on their own. Not without the purpose of finding them. You let him discover his newfound freedom – viewed as punishment by his family – and watched him grow to enjoy the ability to indulge in whatever he pleased. You showed him where he could drink the finest either local or imported wines to his heart’s content. Where, depending on his tastes, the best dishes from all around Essos and Westeros were served. And because you knew that everyone had their needs, especially men, you also showed him the finest pleasure houses with the prettiest Lyseni whores. They were pricey, but he was a prince of the blood – he could afford even the most expensive courtesans. And he did.

Aerion Brightflame quickly became known among the brothels of Lys. And not only in those he frequented. The pleasure girls either anticipated a visit from him, or dreaded it. Rumour spread like wildfire that the prince enjoyed his endeavours rather rough. And not the regular roughness one could expect from a man of his standing.

They said that he revelled in the taste of blood just as much as in that of a woman’s desire. That his teeth were sharper than they appeared and that breaking skin came naturally to him – that it brought him pleasure. He liked his whores pretty and dolled up – just so he could leave them utterly and entirely ruined.

What might have surprised you the most, however, was that he was said to be a generous lover – despite being drawn to violence and pain. No woman left his clutches unsatisfied. A rareness in men such as him.

As time passed and you kept on listening to the brothel workers’ whispers – you always listened when it was about him – you could not help but desire a taste of your own. You had no doubt that the women he bedded in the pleasure houses took what he gave without protest, surrendered to him like pliant little does and let him claim them as he wished. As they were paid to do.

But you wanted to show him what it felt like when he laid with a woman who could match him. What it felt like when the person beneath him knew how to bite back. You wanted him to sink his teeth into your flesh and return the gesture with just as much ferocity. You never made any direct advances, however. The furthest you went were low whispers that could border on suggestive, inviting. Or lingering touches along his wrists, his hands, on rare occasions even the broadness of his shoulders, sometimes straying to his collarbones – a spot that made him shiver, you discovered.

Aerion was not stupid. The man was an expert at observing those around him and reading their intentions from their eyes, their movements, from their veiled words. He knew you desired him when your subtle touches began to linger longer than necessary. He’d had to refrain from dragging you against him and putting both of you out of your misery on several occasions, feeling the need in his veins burn hotter than the sun whenever you were nearby.

But it seemed you both enjoyed this dance. Your own dance of dragons. You circled each other like vultures, just waiting for the right moment to strike – to claim.

That moment came one evening after several moons of this unresolved tension between the two of you. You’d been sitting on the terrace of your home, overlooking the nearest bay – granting you a perfect view of the setting sun. If it was one too many cups of Arbor Gold or if it was one heated glance too much, you couldn’t recall. You could only recall that one second, the two of you had leisurely sipped on your cups of wine, and the next, he had all but dragged you from your chair into his lap, nails digging into the skin of your waist through the silk.

His lips ghost over the junction between your neck and the underside of your jaw, his breathing shallow – hot and uneven – against your skin. From your position, you cannot see his eyes, but the usual violet brightness in them has darkened from untamed desire.

“You madwoman.” he rasps against your jaw, lips slightly brushing against you as he speaks. His tone is low, a mixture of want, frustration and desperation. “What have you done to me? Is this one of your wretched spells?”

Your hand comes up to rest on the side of his neck, leading his head away from you, just enough to lock your eyes with his. His grip on you tightens almost instinctively as your body warmth leaves the side of his face. He looks undone, completely at your mercy yet ready to pounce all the same. Your hand rises from the side of his neck, thumb running over his cheekbone. The corner of your lips twitches upwards almost imperceptibly. He catches it anyway.  

“It would be no fun if it was a spell, zaldrīzes.”

The Valyrian word slips from your tongue deliberately. Dragon.

His mouth curls into something akin to a snarl, like an animal – only living up to the name you’d given him. He has never looked more attractive to you.

“You madwoman.” he repeats. “You magnificent fucking madwoman.” he practically growls as one of his hands leave your waist, snaking up the length of your back and settling on the nape of your neck.

With one sharp pull, he drags your head down to his, connecting his lips to yours.

It’s not soft, not gentle. It’s all tongue and passion. Two unbridled flames colliding and flaring up into one big fire as he moves his lips against yours. In a matter of seconds, you’re all over each other, fingers tugging at fabric, lips wandering and teeth dragging over every new exposed inch of skin.

You rock your hips over his, feeling the desire radiating off of him. Just as he can feel yours. It is like a vicious cycle, how the need pulsing through you spurs him on, causing the same reaction in you.  

The two of you ruin each other that night beyond compare. Torn silks and sheets, sweat-coated skin, scratch-marks, bruises from tight grips, unwilling to let go. Both your necks are littered with bite-marks and dried blood where your tongues hadn’t reached in the height of your pleasure. Both his and your lips are bruised and swollen, decorated with the metallic taste of blood – from both the broken skin on your necks and the sharp teeth which had sunken a bit too deep on occasion.

****

Neither of you was able to rein in the desire you felt for each other after that night. Barely a day passed where the two of you did not drag each other into the sheets, claiming one another over and over. Even when there was no inch, no crevice, left to claim, you did it all over again.

The whores at the pleasure houses suddenly became entirely uninteresting to him. After the first time, Aerion had tried. Gone to the nearest brothel to try and drown the lingering heat of your touch – a Blackfyre’s touch – in another woman. It had been a miracle that said woman was not strangled by his bare hands that day. She had lain there, took what he gave and told him exactly what he wanted to hear. No sincerity. She did not fight back, did not return his fire in the way that you had. She had no fire, he came to realize. It infuriated him. She may have carried Valyrian blood, as a lot of Lyseni people did, but there was no Targaryen blood flowing through her veins. There was not enough heat to match him.

And after one night with you, he craved that heat. Craved the fight. The feel of teeth sinking into his skin in retort to his own. The feel of nails scratching at him and laying him bare. And only you were able to give him that. Because you had that Targaryen blood, the same blood that he carried also burned through you – even if illegitimate in the eyes of many. He had been taught to despise the likes of you, but you had captured him in a way that he could not wrap his head around.

He had come crawling back to you the very same day, and you let him. Because you could not resist him either. You had never felt desire such as this – and you did not need to stray into the arms of another man to know that only Aerion could quench that thirst. That in some twisted and contorted way, the two of you had become intertwined in more ways than one that night. In ways neither of you could fully explain.

It was on a exactly such a night, almost a year into your stay in Lys, when he asked you what exactly had happened for you to be exiled here. He knew, from your very first conversation, that it had been because of the blood magic you practiced, like few of his ancestors did. But he had never asked for the full story. That night, his curiosity overcame him.

You weren’t shocked by his inquiry about the details of your exile. You were more surprised that he hadn’t asked earlier. He was curious – and ever fascinated by the tellings of your witchcraft. You could practically see the look in his eyes changing whenever you spoke of it, as he hung onto every word that slipped past your lips.

You had been lying on his exposed chest when he’d asked, both of you bare and partly covered by the silken sheets of your bed, legs entangled. Your hand rested where his heart beat steady beneath your touch, his fingers idly gliding up and down your arm in a barely-there touch, almost subconscious. The nightly breeze flowing in through the opened balcony doors, cooling down your overheating bodies.

You had tilted your head to look up at him, asking him: “Why the sudden curiosity?”

He’d only shrugged in response, and you found you could not deny him either way, so you retold the story of the night your father had caught you. At first, you considered lying, twisting the story and veiling the actual truth of it. But honesty was something that had been crucial between you and Aerion from the start. Not discussed. Not demanded. Just there. For some reason, the two of your had laid your souls bare to each other from the start. Every dark and twisted crevice of them.

So you told the truth. Every detail.

This is your chance. Your chance to bring victory to your family. If this turns out to be successful, you could be celebrated as one of the greatest Blackfyres of all time. Besides Daemon Blackfyre, maybe. You doubt they would let a woman surpass the likes of him.

The fourteen candles are carefully positioned around the hearth of your chambers, surrounding you where you kneel in front of the crackling flames of it. You light each candle, one after the other. One for each of the volcanoes in Old Valyria. Channelling the source of their magic.

With a few muttered High Valyrian words, the candles burn just a tad bit brighter, telling you that the gods of Old Valyria are listening. Just as you intended.

With careful fingers, you reach for the pitch black napkin, unfolding it slowly, until it reveals a single silver hair. Daemon Blackfyre’s. While the guarantee of success would be much higher, had you something of the right person in your possession, you’d read that it can work nonetheless – as they share blood. You would just need to be more careful, more precise in your words to make sure it takes the right man.

You set the napkin, the hair still positioned on top of it, down on the stone floor of your chambers. You unsheathe your dagger, crafted from valyrian steel. A gift you had received from your father on your thirteenth nameday.

You cut across the palm of your hand, blood welling immediately. Same as with the hair, the chosen man’s blood would make it easier, safer. Even Daemon Blackfyre’s blood would have been better. But you could not make Daemon Blackfyre bleed without being named a traitor and getting executed on the spot.

So your blood will have to do. You share blood with Daemon. It could work. It needs to.

With your uninjured hand, you pluck the hair from the napkin, laying it delicately across the wound, where blood covers it instantly. You lean forward then, turning over your hand so the soaked hair falls into the flames of the hearth, droplets of your blood following.

You begin to speak again, the words low and quiet.

“From my blood, take the sacrifice. From the hair of the Black Dragon, take the connection.”

Footsteps approaching your chambers almost make you falter. You need to finish this, fast.

“For the blood and hair may not be his, but connected to him nonetheless. The Spear shall break. Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

Just as the last few words leave your lips, eyes closed tightly as the blood continues to trickle from your hand – the candles burning bright around you – the door to your chambers opens, your father stepping through the threshold.

He halts in his tracks when he sees you, knelt in front of the hearth, palm bleeding into the fire. He looks at the candles surrounding you. He does not need to count them to know there are fourteen.

He only hears the last few words you mutter, your voice too quiet for him to make out what exactly you are saying. Yet he knows it is not the common tongue. It is the language of your ancestors.

He recognizes the scene immediately. You, his own daughter, practising blood magic. Like Visenya Targaryen, one of the Conqueror’s herself, had done. The blood magic which was rumoured to have been involved in the making of Maegor The Cruel. He knows you admire your ancestors. But he never would have guessed it to run this deep. To lead you to such poisonous acts.

He finally gathers his senses just as the last word dies on your lips. In furious outrage, he exclaims your name, taking quick strides in your direction. You startle out of your daze, head snapping around to see him advancing on you.

No. Not yet. It is too early. The ritual has not ended. The sacrifice cannot have been enough for it to work. Your thoughts are frantic as you squeeze your hand shut over the fire once, forcing more of your blood to trickle into the flames below.

Before you can do much more, two hands hook under your arms, dragging you away from the fireplace. Away from the candles, which all diminish the second your blood stops feeding the fire.

The gods are gone. You just hope it was enough.

You kick and you yell as you try to get out of your father’s hold. But his grip on you is strong, tight. He drags you out of your chambers and into the hallway, practically throwing you to the floor by the opposite wall. He pulls the door of your chambers shut, severing every last connection between you and the ritual you had built within.

“What has gotten into you!? Are you mad!?” your father exclaims, staring at you with wide eyes filled with rage.

“These- these abominable acts. How long have you been practising them?” he asks.

You don’t reply. You are not afraid – only worried that your ritual might have not worked. Because if it hasn’t, it could take the wrong person. And the consequences for you could be fatal, should the fault be traced back to you.

“Answer me, daughter!” he yells. You don’t.

Your father eventually drags you before Daemon Blackfyre himself, where the decision is made. You are to be exiled. Sent away. Far from where you can poison others with the witchery in your blood.

****

Aerion had been eerily silent once you finished telling him the reason for your banishment. His eyes did not meet yours for several minutes as he stared at the ceiling. His expression was nearly unreadable, a thousand thoughts running through his head.

He recalled your words. You had repeated to him exactly what you had spoken to the fire.

“From my blood, take the sacrifice. From the hair of the Black Dragon, take the connection.”

“For the blood and hair may not be his, but connected to him nonetheless. The Spear shall break. Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

“Let the Hammer come to his downfall, may it be used against him.”

Let the Hammer come to his downfall. The Hammer. A nickname Baelor had gained during the first Blackfyre rebellion. Just as Maekar had been titled the Anvil. May it be used against him. While not exactly accurate, Aerion remembered vividly that it was his father’s mace that had struck the back of Baelor’s helm, which had ultimately led to his uncle’s death. A mace could be considered some type of hammer, technically.

He repeated it in his head over and over again. Could it possibly be that you were at fault that Baelor Targaryen had fallen in the Trial of Seven at Ashford? Could it be, that no matter his own actions, Baelor would have fallen either way? That his exile was wholly unnecessary and the one at fault for it currently laid in his arms? That the death of Baelor Breakspear, heir to the Iron Throne, was technically a victory at the hands of the Blackfyres, caused by the hands of a young woman in their ranks. The woman he had claimed in every way possible. The woman who had claimed him for herself just as much.

One part of him wanted to shove you off him, pin you beneath him into the mattress and strangle you until the last bit of breath died on your lips. This had been your fault. His humiliation by that tall fucking Hedge Knight. His father’s fury against him. His exile to Lys. All of it had been your fault. You had made a blood sacrifice. Your own blood gifted to the gods of Old Valyria, with only the request to take Baelor Targaryen with them.

But as much as he wanted to kill you, leave you to rot on these very sheets, he could not bring himself to. Not when he felt the faint touch of your fingers over where his heart beat in his chest. Not when he felt the comfortable weight of your body partially leaning on his, completely relaxed despite what you had just told him. Not when he looked into your eyes and only felt the need to hold you tighter, kiss you, and take you all over again.

Not when you were the only one who saw him as exactly what he was.

A dragon.

You were the only one who saw it. In the way you called him ñuha zaldrīzes. My dragon. You’d told him that the sharper ends of his hair reminded you of dragon scales, when the light hit them from the right angle. You’d told him his tongue was long and thin, snake-like, as that of a dragon, when he had licked all over your neck one night.

Once, when he’d laughed at something you said, you had stilled, staring at his lips. When his mouth had closed, you reached out, pulling at his upper lip carefully. You dragged it up, revealing his teeth, with it the naturally sharpened canines he had. You’d called them his own little fangs. Like a dragon’s.

In your eyes, he was exactly what he had always known himself to be. A dragon through and through. You took him apart piece by piece, finding proof after proof of what he truly was. And you saw it too.

He could not kill you. He could not lose the only person that saw him. He needed you, craved you. Seven hells, he was pretty sure he loved you. In the only twisted way he could feel that type of emotion. Expressed in the way his eyes followed you, in the way he gripped you just a bit tighter than he was used to doing to anyone else. In the way he could sink his teeth and claws into you and brush his lips over yours in the most tender motion all the same.

You could sense the battle taking place inside his head as he connected the pieces. His fingers twitched just slightly over where they had been brushing against your arm. The fingers of his other hand, arm stretched out along the length of his body, curled and uncurled repeatedly in the silken sheets.

His breathing changed. From calm and relaxed to shallow, making it apparent that he did not know what to do with himself in that moment. You watched every emotion that flared in him, only visible in the amethyst of his eyes. Rage, murderous intent, conflict, desire, that hint of devotion that often entered his gaze when he looked at you.

“Ñuha zaldrīzes.” you had whispered tenderly, hand reaching up to brush over his temple, smoothing over the furrow of his brows.

“You are thinking too much.”  

The sound of your voice, soothing him in the tongue of your blood, it had a calming effect on him. One he could not fight, even if he wished to. His breath evened slightly, though not entirely.

You could feel the way he started relaxing, the rigid tension in his muscles fading away.

“Breathe, my fire. My bright flame. I will make sure you forget all those troubling thoughts of yours. No thinking. Just feel.”

You moved, climbing over his lap. Your hands steadied yourself on the planes of his defined chest, feeling how the thumps of his heart picked up again. For an entirely different reason this time.

You smirked, leaning down to breathe into his ear. “Good. Let it take you. Far away from that torturous place your mind has led you to.”

****

The first time he’d told you that he intended to take you as his wife was in the heights of your shared pleasure, just over two years into your shared time.

He’d been sprawled across the sheets, his grip tight on your hips as he moved you over him. Your own dragon to claim, to ride.

The words had left his lips so breathlessly that they almost appeared subconscious. Yet with no less determined intent. He meant them, even if they were perhaps not said in the situation he had originally meant to.

“I am going to make you my wife. You will be mine. For all eternity.”

You had not replied, only leaned down and kissed him.

For several days after, neither of you mentioned what he had said. For a moment, you might have thought that he had entirely forgotten that he had said it. But it was Aerion. He was painfully aware of what he said and did. Nothing left his lips without intent, without purpose.

But he also did not stay silent without intention behind it. Most of his actions were done with full awareness and willingness. They were not always calculated, not always smart. Anything other than that. The decisions were often made without thinking, rash and impulsive. But he meant them nonetheless, with every fibre of his being.

The two of you had been soaking up the sun one afternoon, a week after those poisonous words had slipped past his lips. They had ingrained themselves into your mind. Playing in your head over and over again. “I am going to make you my wife. You will be mine. For all eternity.”

It was only then that he approached the subject again. A comfortable silence had settled between the both of you, broken only by his words.

“I meant it.” he says out of nowhere. Your head, which had been facing the sun, taking in the warmth, turns to meet his gaze. Only then he continues. “What I said. A week ago.” he pauses once more, one hand reaching out to brush over the skin of your temple. A barely there touch that sends a shiver through you.

“I wish to take you as my wife. No other woman could see me as I am just how you do.” His tone is almost soft, but filled with possessiveness. His eyes never once leave yours.  

He is right, in what he said. And you know it. From the day the words ñuha zaldrīzes had first left your lips, loud enough for him to hear. You know that this attention is exactly what he desires, craves. For someone to view him as what he is, what he thinks he knows himself to be. And you have given him that. From the very start.

You know that, could he purr like a satisfied cat, he would, each time you call him your dragon, each time your fingertips nudge his sharpened canines in the depths of pleasure. Every time your hands run through his hair, through the jagged ends you’d told him reminded you of scales, in certain light.

You do not fear him. Do not cower in his presence. And while he revels in the fear and submission of others, the fact that you stand and meet him at eye-level undoes him completely. It makes him sink his claws into you just that much deeper, unwilling to let you slip through his fingers.

“No Septon would wed us, Aerion. Not without demanding the blessing of our parents.” you reply eventually, your hand coming up to rest over his where it still brushes against your temple in careful movements. You encase his hand with your own, turning your head to press a kiss to his fingertips.

He scoffs, lips curling into something between irritation and amusement as his eyes linger on where your lips brush over his fingers. “I do not intend to wed you in the ways of the Seven, my love. We will be united in the ways of Old Valyria. As true dragons must. And we are true dragons, are we not?”

“Of course we are, Aerion.” you reply in earnest. “And when do you wish to do it?”

“I would do it right now, had I come prepared.” he responds lowly. “But soon. Soon, I will make you mine in the eyes of our gods. As you will make me yours. We will be one. Not just by words and promises, but by blood and fire.”

The look in his eyes, possessive and bordering on a hint of madness should unsettle you. As it would unsettle anyone else. But you only feel a smile creeping onto your lips as his words.

“Your family would be enraged, should they hear that you took a Blackfyre as your wife. A blood traitor.” you retort lowly, almost teasing.

“Then they are fools.” he hisses, though the heat is not directed at you. “Valyrian blood must connect with valyrian blood. Dragons do not mate with sheep. I fear that is something my family has forgotten over the decades. Our blood is tainted, watered. We can strengthen it again. We will. And if they cannot see it, they shall wander in blindness until their sacred Stranger takes them.”

****

Aerion had spent the moons following that conversation in search of a priest who was specialized in the wedding customs of Old Valyria. You knew he’d scarcely find one, as the tradition of valyrian weddings had died out long ago.

Word said that the last such ceremony had taken place in the year 120 after Aegon’s Conquest, almost one hundred years ago at that time. The ceremony had united Rhaenyra Targaryen with her uncle, Daemon Targaryen. Two of the last dragon riders in your bloodline.

Barely any priests or septons were taught the traditions of valyrian weddings since then. So the chances of Aerion finding one were close to none.

But Aerion was not the type of man to accept defeat. He would find a person to wed the two of you. No matter what. He had set his mind to it – and when he did – nothing could bring him away from it. Not that you would have thought to try. You wished for him to find one. Marrying in the ways of your ancestors, in the way of Old Valyria, had been what you desired.

No ceremonies in the eyes of the Seven. Only fire and blood.

One night, Aerion had come to you, the delight and satisfaction clear as day in his eyes. He had found a willing priest. To this day, you do not know if the priest was willing or threatened. It would not have mattered to you either way.

He told you that while the priest was not familiar with the customs, he had agreed to read scripts of the ceremonies – and that he would wed the two of you in the traditions of your ancestors. That he would unite the two of you as you intended.

Aerion stands before you, the two of you dressed in traditionally valyrian robes. He had them fabricated especially for this ceremony, wishing to do everything right. Everything needs to be perfect, down to the last detail. If he is to marry you in the ways of Old Valyria, he is to do it right.

The priest, who had read and memorized the vows and details of the ceremony, steps forward and holds out a blade to you, made of valyrian steel. Both you and Aerion already know what you must do.

You take the blade from him, eyes moving to meet Aerion’s. You exchange a determined glance, no hint of hesitation in either of you. Your gaze drops to his mouth as you bring the blade to his lower lip. With careful movement, you drag it down the center of it. A tiny amount of blood wells beneath the steel, coating his lip red.

You raise your hand, thumb coming to brush through the liquid. You then bring your thumb to his forehead, wiping his blood over his still rather pale skin, no matter how much Lyseni sun he had soaked in.

He takes the dagger and repeats the exact same gesture with you. A clean cut down the middle of your lower lip, thumb catching the blood before bringing it to your forehead, mirroring his own.

He moves the steel across his palm then, his fingers twitching minimally from the pain. You offer your own hand, and he does the same to you. You do not falter, do not wince. You are used to cuts littering the palm of your hand. Blood sacrifices demanded exactly that – blood.

The priest steps forward, in his hands a thick and long ribbon, red with gold embroidery. You and Aerion connect your hands, palms touching and your blood joining, becoming one. While the priest wraps the fabric tightly around your hands, your mixed blood trickles out beneath it, running down your wrists and dropping onto the floor beneath you.

Neither of you really notices, eyes firmly locked onto each other’s.

The priest then reaches for a black chalice, filled partially with wine. He holds it beneath your joined palms for several moments, letting the wine mix with your shared blood. He hands it to you.

You lift the chalice to your lips, eyes not once leaving Aerion’s. You drink half of it, letting the taste fill your mouth and consume your senses. Sweet, the metallic taste not to be missed. You let it run down your throat and into your system as you hand the chalice to Aerion.

He mirrors you, drinking the second half of the liquid. Neither of you are strangers to the taste of blood, though it is watered down by the wine this time. Neither of you shy away from it, the thought of what it implies. You never have.

All the while, the priest chants High Valyrian words. The vows said to unite the two of you. To make you one.

“Blood of two. Joined as one.”

“Ghostly Flame. And song of shadows.”

“Two hearts as embers.”

“Forged in fourteen fires.”

“A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness.”

“The vow spoken through time – of darkness and light.”

When the priest comes to a stop, his words dying out into silence, Aerion lifts his free hand, setting it on the side of your face. Your hands come unbound, neither paying attention to the priest, wholly focused on one another.

His other hand, coated in his own and your blood, comes to the other side of your face. You feel the wetness of the liquid smearing over your skin, but it does not bother you.

He pulls you into him, connecting his lips to yours.

And with that, you are his. And he is yours. Two dragons, bound as one.

He loses himself in you, lips unable to part from yours except to whisper just once, with certain finality to it:

“My wife.”

You return it. But you do not call him husband. It would be logical. That is what he is. And yet, you only call him what you’ve always done. What you know he wants to hear more than anything.

“My dragon.”

****

The years that passed after the ceremony were mostly uneventful. You and your husband indulged in the relaxed and lavish life you could live here in Lys. No one to meddle in your business, no one to pressure the two of you into conceiving heirs. While the two of you intended to – one day – honour the dragon’s third head on your family’s crest, you had no reason to hurry. So you did not.

One day, Aerion came to you, a piece of parchment tightly clutched in his fingers.

“A letter. From my father.” he had said, settling on the edge of the bed next to you, where you had just taken a nap in the early hours of the afternoon. You had lifted yourself onto your elbows, glancing at the neat handwriting on the parchment,

“And what does he want?” you had asked in return.

“He demands my return. He claims that the amount of years I have spent here have been enough. That my punishment must come to an end and that I shall return to Summerhall by the end of the week. He will send his people by boat to get me.” Aerion had explained.

You could tell that he was conflicted. You knew part of him longed to return home. To the place where he was not an exiled man, but a prince of the blood. Where his words and actions held more power than they did here. And that a small, twisted part of him, longed for his family. Even if he would never admit it.

But the other part of him wished to remain here. A place with no restrictions – no demands and no expectations. The freedom he’d had here he would not find back in Westeros. The relaxed days spent lying in the sun, bathing in the sea, sipping on fruity wine would end, vanish. And they would scarcely ever return.

“Then we shall return, if your father demands it. I highly doubt he would let you stay here, even if you asked him to.” you had replied in a soft tone, your leg moving beneath the silken covers to brush your outer thigh against his back where he had sat on your bedside. The physical contact was meant to calm him, ground him, bring him back from his wandering thoughts.

“You will return with me.” he had stated.

“Of course, I am your wife. But they will not be happy with my presence.”

“I do not care. The dragon protects what is precious to him.”

“I know, ñuha zaldrīzes. I know. I do not doubt it. Do not doubt you. You are the fiercest dragon of them all.”

You had seen the way the tension in his shoulders slowly lessened at your words. As it always did.

“Then we will return. By the end of the week.”

****

Maekar Targaryen’s men had been utterly confused and dumbfounded, when in the stead of only the volatile prince they were said to escort back to Westeros, he was accompanied by you. A woman. You had known they most likely thought you a whore at first glance, still clad in Lyseni silks.

They most likely thought he had bought you free from one of the pleasure houses. That he had liked you so much he intended to bring you back home with him and keep you as his personal courtesan.

Fortunately, they had been smart enough not to comment on it, only welcoming both Aerion and you onto the ship which would bring you back to the west. Otherwise, the ship would have had no one left to lead it back home.

The journey had been much too long and tedious for your liking. Spending several days and nights upon a rocking ship through storms and windy weather irritated you to no end. You had already missed the familiar heat of the Lyseni sun. Or the slight burn in the evening when you had stayed outside just a tad bit too long.

The fresh smell of the open sea transformed into the familiar, almost long forgotten, stench of the west once the boat finally docked. The thick and dense smell of the soil, the rot of the cities, such a stark contrast to the east.

The ship had docked in the haven of Stonehelm, the closest bay to Summerhall. After that had followed another days long journey by carriage, bringing the two of you from Stonehelm to Summerhall at last.

And so, here you were, stepping out of the carriage after Aerion, his hand in yours as he led you out of the confined space. It was cloudy, a state you had last seen the sky in years ago. And now, it seemed to be its default state. You had never been in Summerhall, so the towering castle was entirely new as you took it in while stepping out into the courtyard.

Your eyes roamed over it for a few moments while Aerion led you further forward, into the direction of where his father was already waiting, posture rigid as the elder man’s violet eyes, much like Aerion’s, fell on you.

Maekar greeted his son first, even pulling the man into a short embrace. Aerion had been gone for several years, after all. He pulled back, the palm of his hand lingering on the side of Aerion’s upper arm for a few seconds longer before falling to his side.

Then his eyes, filled with suspicion, landed on you.

“Who is this, Aerion?” he asked, voice laced in confusion and already flaring anger. Maekar knew his son. He knew nothing good would leave the prince’s lips in response to his question.

“This, father, is my wife.”

The words were said dripping with pride. You were his valyrian bride. Everything he had ever desired in life. He claimed you as his, as a dragon was born to. And you had given yourself to him willingly.

Maekar’s expression blanked before it quickly contorted back into anger.

“Your wife?” he repeated, tone sharp. “And does your wife have a name, son?”

“Y/N.” you cut in then, redirecting the prince of Summerhall’s attention to you. “Blackfyre. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

You spoke your family’s name with smugness, fully aware of what chaos it would cause. What weight it carried that Aerion, a prince of house Targaryen, had married you, a Blackfyre, in secret – without the permission of his father.

“Blackfyre?” Maekar practically growled, repeating the name while his lips curled in distain.

It was comical, almost. How similar yet different father and son were all the same. It was the exact same thing Aerion had first said once you had introduced yourself to him. An echo of your name. Only that Aerion’s had been laced in curiosity, surprise almost, while Maekar’s dripped in hatred.

A small smirk crept onto your face, which did not go unnoticed by the elder man.

His eyes snapped back to his son, his entire body vibrating with fury.

“Have you taken complete leave of your senses, boy!?” he snapped, keeping his voice low enough to not attract the attention of the entire courtyard. If he could, he would keep this under the wraps for all eternity.

“I send you to Lys, to reflect, to better yourself. And you come back with the exact same arrogance you carried when you left. And not only that, but you have married a Blackfyre. A blood traitor. Without consulting me once. What in the seven fucking hells has gotten into you?”

Before either you or Aerion could get a word in, he went on.

“And you have not only wed any Blackfyre. Of course it had to be the witch. Have you gone mad? Which Septon approved of this?”

His words did not deter you. You did not feel insulted, even though you possibly should have. The word witch was no bit belittling to you. In a way, you were what could be considered a witch. It amused you, rather, the outrage of the Anvil. A man said to be so strong, composed and focused in battle, reduced to a fuming mess by the fact that his son had wed the enemy.

As Maekar insulted you, however, Aerion’s own anger began to flare. He sensed that it did not bother you, he could see it in the calmness, bordering on amusement, on your features. The lack of tension in your shoulders.

But it irritated him. How his father had the audacity to disparage you. To talk down on you, his wife. His perfect valyrian bride. The woman who saw in him what no one else did. The woman who saw the truth of him.

“You will not speak in this manner of her, father. She is my wife. I chose her and married her in the ways of Old Valyria. She is a Targaryen by marriage – and therefore she deserves your respect.” Aerion hissed, his hand coming back to clutch onto yours, the grip so tight his knuckles turned white. The pressure of the grip stung slightly, yet not enough to truly hurt.

“My respect.” Maekar scoffed sharply in return. “This whore of yours does not have my respect. She will be sent back to her family, shall they decide whether to take her back or send her away once more.”

Aerion bristled at that. “She stays here. With me. I will kill everyone that as much as thinks about taking her from me. You know I will, father.”

As Maekar saw the sheer willpower in his son’s eyes. The possessiveness with which he clung to your hand, unwilling to let go of you, made him come to realize that there was no escape to this situation. He had discovered firsthand what Aerion was capable of back in Ashford. For long years, as the boy grew up, he had tried to bury it. Had tried to blame Aerion’s cruel acts against his siblings, the staff, even animals, on teenage foolery. On not knowing any better. But the events of Ashford had destroyed that illusion.

And now, as his son stood in front of him, his Blackfyre bride next to him with an irritating glint of pride and amusement in her eyes, Maekar’s anger ebbed away into worry. He knew that he would need to let you stay. That somehow, he would need to find a solution to whatever consequences came with this union. What would happen if children were to come out of this marriage.

Because if he did not, if he tried to do anything to you, Aerion’s rage would consume them all and he would leave nothing but ashes and ruins in his wake.

****

You settled in Summerhall over the following weeks. Aerion had been granted bigger chambers, which he now shared with you. He made sure you were always tended to, also ensuring no one that could pose a threat stepped too close to you. He did not trust his father’s words of acceptance to your presence. Not yet.

The inhabitants of the castle mostly avoided you. When you passed the maids and servants in the halls, they lowered their heads, walking just a tad bit faster. They were afraid, you found. Afraid of you. You were Aerion Brightflame’s wife. A Blackfyre. In their eyes, you could only be just as vain and cruel as him.

The other Targaryens stayed clear of your path as much as they could. At breakfasts and suppers, they were forced into your proximity. Fortunately for them, you preferred conversation with your husband.

Maekar always eyed you with wary eyes, as if he was just waiting for you to snap your jaws closed around one of their necks, revealing that this was all a tryst to get the Blackfyres closer to the Iron Throne. That you did not truly feel such deep affection for Aerion as you made it appear that you did.

Daeron was too drunk to pay close attention to you most days. His eyes strayed far from yours when you were in the same room, keeping his stare mostly downcast. He wished anything but to either attract your or Aerion’s rage for as much as looking at you.

The only time he had spoken to you was on one of your first nights in the castle. You had been wandering the halls at a rather late hour, and came across Daeron in a deserted hallway. His clothes had been crumpled and creased, the collar askew. His hair tousled and messy, dark rings under his eyes and the drunkenness clear in his posture.

His eyes had met yours, and he had said one thing. Only one thing.

“It was you. You killed the dragon.”

The words had left his lips slurred, barely comprehendible. But you had heard them nonetheless. You did not know the exact history of his words, but you were aware of the what they meant. You had heard that Daeron had what they called Dragon Dreams. Quite a few of your ancestors had had them as well.

The dragon. Baelor.

In his dreams, he had seen that it was you who was at fault for Breakspear’s death.

But he never mustered up the courage to tell anyone of that dream. He kept it to himself, never spoke of it. Not even to you, except on that one night.

Kiera of Tyrosh, Daeron’s wife – formerly Valarr’s – feared you. She had heard horrible stories and tales of the Blackfyres from her late and current husband’s lips. She had heard tales of you, in particular. The blood witch. That you were exiled for tampering with witchcraft.

And that you were Aerion’s wife only heightened it. While she had not spent much time in his presence while married to either Valarr or Daeron, she had seen and heard enough to know just what kind of man he was. What he believed himself to be. A dragon in human form. And by the way the two of you interacted, she saw that you encouraged that twisted mindset of his. You seemed to share it even.

But despite everyone’s fear and distaste for you and your presence at Summerhall, Aerion let none of it touch you. He would never dare to. He had sunken his claws deep into your skin, his wings sheltering you from anything that would come too close. Baring his teeth at anyone who tried.

He was a dragon. He knew it. You knew it. You told him so every day. Always with a soft caress over the side of his face, brushing the corner of his lips. Always with a tenderly whispered ñuha zaldrīzes. My dragon.

He was your dragon. And you were his treasured wife.

And dragons protect their treasures. With fire and blood.

song: black soul - shinedown

taglist akotsk: @icebearcucumber / @swagbaear

[theladysoleil]

The wolf he chose masterlist ||

VALARR TARGARYEN x FEM!STARK!READER

□ summary: The North was never meant to change the course of Valarr Targaryen's life. He expected nothing more than political alliances, careful smiles and an eventual betrothal that suited the crown. Instead, he found a woman who wields weapon and that some choices cannot be made for crown alone.

□ tropes: slow burn, he fell first and harder, hurt-comfort, No use of y/n, no physical description of reader, reader is a badass and can fight.

□ a/n: This series will probably have 10-15 chapters, and i will try my best to keep the updates weekly.

⤷ Chapter 1

⤷ Chapter 2

⤷ Chapter ?

...

⤷ Appendix (Family tree & Some Character Profiles) coming soon...

[luvhrprincess]

The Things We Do Not Name II

part 1 part 3

summary: Valarr’s interest in you becomes obvious. Aerion would never call it jealousy, but he will remind you who you belong to.

pairing: aerion targaryen x tyrell reader x valarr targaryen

cw: 18+ mdni, fingering, rough sex, p in v, aerion being toxic as usual, manipulative & possessive behavior, gaslighting, reader is kind of a pushover (she gets better i promise!), valarr is so sweet i love him, reader is a tyrell but no physical description or use of y/n

word count: 3.7k

The fire had burned down to embers and left the room dim and still. The only warmth came from him. Aerion was half draped over you, one arm thrown loosely across your waist and his head resting against your shoulder. His breath was slow and steady.

You were not sure when you’d woken, only that you had, and he hadn’t. And now you were stuck there, pinned beneath him. When you shifted slightly, you felt his arm on your waist tighten. You should leave, you think.

A quiet breath left him, something between a sigh and a hum, and then he stirred. His eyes opened, unfocused for a moment before settling on you. “You are still here?” he said.

You blinked at him. “You told me to stay.

He frowned slightly, “Did I?”

“Yes.”

He shifted again, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t remember that,” he muttered. “Must’ve had too much wine.”

You scoffed softly, pushing lightly against him. You started to move, trying to slip out from under him. “Fine. I will go—”

His arm tightened again before you could get far. “I did not say that,” he said.

You glanced at him, frowning. “You just did.”

He looked at you then, more awake now. “I did not tell you to leave,” he corrected. “Do not make things up.”

Gods, you hated him.

He shifted above you, propped up on one elbow, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. “You are an idiot.” He said. You frowned, caught off guard. “What?”

“You are,” he repeated, like it was obvious. His other hand moved to slip into your hair. His fingers grabbed a loose strand and toyed with it idly.

“I do not remember asking for your insults,” you said, shaking your head slightly as you pushed to get up from under him. His hand moved to your chest and he pushed you back down. His lips curled and met your neck. He kissed your skin softly and buried his head in the crook of your neck. You hated how good he made you feel.

“A Tyrell.” He muttered against your skin. “In my bed like a common whore.” Your breath caught, and you placed your hands on his bare chest to push him away, again. “I am not a whore.”

Aerion breathed a small laugh before prying your hands from his chest, moving to press his lips against your collarbone. He slipped your nightgown from your shoulder and then lower past your breast. He moved to take it in his mouth. You gasped softly, feeling his tongue circle your nipple and then sucking hard. His hand moved, from your waist to under your nightgown and in between your thighs in one motion.

“You get wet for me, like a whore.” He said, you could feel his smirk on your skin.

“Aerion—“

Before you could finish, he dove a finger into your already slick folds, and a broken moan escaped your throat. He added another, pumping in and out of you. Your head fell back onto the pillow as his mouth bruised your flesh from breast to collarbone. Your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. “I fuck you like a whore.” He said.

“Aerion, please.” You moaned.

His thumb found your clit and rubbed in soft circles. He worked his fingers faster, pressing his lips to your jaw. Your hand slid up his arm, and your nails dug into his flesh. He shifted until he hovered over you completely. His fingers curled slightly inside of you, enough to bring a sound of pleasure from your throat.

A knock at the door broke you from the moment. Your eyes widened, and you pressed your hand against his chest. Aerion kept moving unbothered, adjusting himself between your legs, his mouth still on your neck as if he did not hear it at all. It came again.

“Aerion—“ You said. “Shut up.” He muttered.

Then, when it came a third time, he groaned and pulled his fingers from your cunt. He turned towards the door. “What?” He snapped. The door creaked open slightly, and you moved farther beneath him. Hoping to disappear into the mattress. A servant girl appeared in the small gap. She kept her eyes on the floor. “The queen is requesting Lady Tyrell; the servants have been searching everywhere for her.” She said softly.

A small irritated huff escaped his lips. “You interrupt me for this?” The girl only swallowed hard. “I am sorry my—“

Her apology was cut short when Aerion grabbed the half-full goblet beside the bed and threw it. It shattered against the wall beside her head, and she flinched. You flinched as well, peering over his arm to see the red liquid run down the stone. “Get out!” He ordered.

The girl nodded and disappeared quickly, the door shut behind her. He did not hesitate before moving his hand to your thigh, pushing your legs further apart for him. Aerion was quick to anger. You learned that early, not long after you first fell into his bed. It came fast, and it did not always make sense—his violet eyes would burn with something frightening. It was never turned on you. You liked to think that meant something.

“Aerion, stop.” You said quietly. He looked down at you, his expression more annoyed than confused. “My cock is still hard.” He said.

You pushed yourself upwards, and he groaned, rolling off you and onto his back and drug a hand over his face like the whole thing was an inconvenience. “What could my grandmother possibly need?” He muttered, his arm fell onto the mattress as he turned to look at you.

You were already dressing. “I do not know.” You said. “But it is bad enough your servants know I am here.”

He made a quiet sound at that, “They will not say anything, I will have their tongues if they do.”

You turned to look at him. “Do not say that.”

He scoffed, “I say what I please. Come here.”

You walked to the edge of the bed. “Turn around.” He said. “Aerion—“

“Turn around.”

You turned, and you heard him shift from the mattress. His hands found the back of your gown without warning, fingers catching the loosened laces and he yanked you back slightly.

“These are a mess,” he said.

“I was fixing it,” you muttered.

“Hardly,” he replied, already pulling them tighter. He tugged the laces into place, tightening them more than you would have, his fingers brushed your back. “There.” He muttered.

“Thank you.” You said, turning to face him.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Go on.”

-

You turned the corner too quickly and walked straight into him. You would have fallen if it weren’t for the hand that caught your elbow and steadied you.

“I—“ you began to speak, looking up at the poor wayfarer in your wake. Your face turned an awful shade of red when you had realized it was Prince Valarr who stood before you, and your throat went dry. You do not know why he makes you blush so terribly. You tell yourself you are just embarrassed.

His hand was still on your elbow. “My lady.” He said, his lips tugging upwards.

You swallowed. “My prince—I did not see you.”

“So it would appear.” A small laugh escaped him. “We must stop meeting like this.”

You glanced away, already trying to move past him. “I’m sorry, I’m just—”

“In a hurry?” he asked.

You nodded. “The queen is expecting me.”

“Ah.” His hand dropped from your elbow, and he took a step back.“I will walk with you.”

Gods, that is the last thing you wanted.

You looked at him, your mouth parted slightly to find the right words, the polite words to refuse a prince. “That is not necessary,” you said.

“I know,” he replied but still fell to walk beside you. You stared at him for a moment before moving.

-

“There you are,” Queen Myriah said once you entered the solar. Her gaze moved to Valarr just behind you, and her eyes flickered between the two of you for a moment. “Ah—Valarr.”

“Grandmother,” he said, inclining his head slightly.

“Where have you been, dear?” The queen asked, turning her attention back to you.

You felt your stomach tighten. “I—overslept.”

“The servants said you were not in your chambers.” She pointed out. “I overslept and then went to the sept.” You corrected.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, looking at you for a moment too long before breaking her gaze away. “Never mind it, I need your assistance.” She said, slowly taking a seat.

“How can I be of service, your grace?” You asked.

“There is something I’ve been meaning to see to,” she said, waving her hand in front of her. “Princess Rhae’s name day is approaching, and the floral arrangements have yet to be settled.”

She looked between you and Valarr once more. “What better person to assist me than a Tyrell?” She smiled.

Your smile faltered a bit. You inclined your head. “Of course, Your Grace.” You said.

“I would have you speak with the gardeners,” she continued. “See what can be done for the tourney feast. I want it done properly.” She paused, her fingers tapped the table in thought for a moment. “Valarr could accompany you.”

You were about to decline, but Valarr stepped forward slightly. “I would like that.” He said.

You clenched your jaw slightly and turned to face him with a forced smile. “Very well, let us go.”

In the gardens, you moved ahead without thinking of Valarr. You spoke to the gardeners as they showed you several arrangements. It did not take you long to see where they had gone wrong.

One of the men nodded and stepped forward. “And the center arrangements?” You glanced toward the beds of flowers, considering. “No, not those,” you said and shook your head “They will wilt before midday. Use the deeper reds.”

“They’re not as full, my lady,” one of them said.

“They do not need to be,” you replied. “But they need to last the day.”

You moved further down the row, your fingers brushing lightly over a bloom, checking it without thinking. “Cut these earlier,” you added. “If you wait, they will open to soon and wilt before the tourney.” Gods, no wonder the red keeps garden was a disaster. You think.

“Yes, my lady.”

“And do not place them so high on the tables,” you went on, glancing back at them. “It blocks the view. Keep them lower.”

They adjusted them immediately.

You watched a moment longer, then gave a small nod. “That will do.”

They bowed and dispersed and only then did you remember the prince was still lingering behind you.

Valarr stepped forward, his shoulder brushed yours. You looked at him. He was more put together than when you’d seen him previously—his tunic fastened high at the collar, threaded through with deep red that caught the light when he moved. A black cloak rested at his shoulders, clasped with a small dragon in red enamel. He looked very princely. You think.

He laughed softly. “You have impeccable taste, my lady.” He said.

You blushed and looked away. His compliment made your chest feel tighter. “Thank you, my prince.”

“Valarr is quite fine.” He said.

“Thank you…Valarr.” You corrected, testing his name on your tongue. He smiled at that. A moment of silence lingered between you two so you decided to speak again.

“I was raised in Highgarden. We have the best gardeners in the realm. I have learned much from them.” You began to walk, Valarr followed. Your fingers toyed with each other as you spoke, a habit you hadn’t quite shaken. “Flowers are very pretty to look at.” You said, glancing up at him. “But they can tell a story if you place them correctly.”

“Then I suppose roses tell a poor one?” He asked.

You looked down and your cheeks burned red. You remembered quickly how he had seen you brutalize an innocent rose bush a few nights prior. “They are…fine.” You said.

Valarr was not wrong. Roses did tell a story, they were supposed to tell your story. Your house, your sigil, your words. Now you could not look at them without thinking of him. He had gotten into it somehow. Not just your time, or your thoughts—but this too, your story and you hated him for that.

Valarr slowed, stopping before another bush. “What are these ones?” he asked. His fingers brushed over the flowers that had seemed to catch his attention.

You glanced over. Your shoulders eased, just slightly. “Peonies.”

He looked down at them. “Do these tell a good story?”

You moved beside him and tilted your head slightly to examine the pink blooms. “I suppose. They are pretty,” you said. “And they last long.”

“Hm.” Valarr hummed. He reached down, fingers closing around one, and pulled it free with an easy motion. He turned it once in his hand, then held it out to you. “For you.”

You blinked at him. “I could not accept.”

“You could.” He smiled. “If it would please you.”

Your fingers brushed his when you took the flower from his hand. Your breath caught slightly, and heat rushed to your face. Suddenly, you had the sinking realization that the prince may fancy you.

“I thought you were a prince,” a voice spoke from behind you, “not a meek gardener.”

You and Valarr both turned. Aerion stepped into view. His gaze went to Valarr first, looking at him with something more intense than usual. His eyes moved to you, then to the pink flower in your hand.

“Do you not have better things to do, cousin?” Valarr said.

Aerion huffed softly, his tongue pressed briefly against his teeth before he looked back up. His eyes settle on yours. “I have far better things to do.”

Valarr exhaled, unimpressed. “This is Lady Tyrell.” He said.

“Yes, I know,” Aerion said. You could drop dead in this very moment. You think. The way Aerion's eyes hadn’t left yours made your stomach curl with something close to dread. “We have met,” Aerion added.

Valarr's expression shifted, his mismatched eyes moving between you two. “You have?” He asked.

“Mhm.” Aerion hummed. “Briefly.”

“Yes.” You said, turning back to Valarr. “Briefly.” You repeated.

Aerion's jaw tightened slightly, barely noticeable. Then he looked away from you, back to Valarr. His lips curled into something that almost passed for a smile. “You must have done well, cousin,” he said to Valarr, almost absent. “Our Lady looks quite pleased in your company.”

Valarr nodded and extended his arm to you. “Excuse us, cousin.”

Aerion didn’t move at first. His brows lifted slightly, his mouth parting for a second before his tongue pressed against his lip. His fingers drummed once against the pommel of his sword. Then he smiled and stepped aside.

Valarr began to walk, your arm settling into his. As you passed, your shoulder brushed lightly against Aerion’s. You looked up without meaning to, and his eyes were already on you. You looked away first.

-

The knock hit your door hard. The brush in your hands clattered to the floor. You turned toward it. Your face tightening and brows pulling together in confusion. The hour was late, and you were not expecting anyone.

You stood and reached for your shawl, pulling it tighter around your shoulders as you crossed the room. You opened the door just enough to see Aerion. He leaned against the frame with his arms crossed. His expression was easy in a way that did not match the way he had knocked.

You stared at him for a moment. “Are you going to let me in?” He asked.

You opened your mouth to answer—But he did not wait. He scoffed and pushed past you, one hand brushing the door as he stepped through, already inside before you could say anything. You turned after him, still standing near the door, your grip tightened slightly on the edge of it.

“What are you doing here?” You asked.

Aerion did not answer right away; instead, he moved farther into your room. His gaze drifted over everything. Your bed, your vanity, your wardrobe. He had never been directly in your chambers before; you always followed him to his.

His attention turned towards you. His eyes flickered over you once. “Take your clothes off.” He said.

You stared at him for a moment. Closing the door, “Aerion, I have had a long day—“

He let out a humorless laugh. “Do not speak to me like that,” He hissed, taking a few steps towards you. Instinctively, you stepped back. You looked at him, and something in your gut sensed that something was off. The way he was looking at you now… it was different.

He was in front of you now. “Like what?” You asked.

He looked down at you. “Like I care how your day went. Like I want to hear it. Like you are my wife.” A pause. “You are not. And I do not care.”

His words hit you hard. You know that. You think. But there had been a time—you hated that there had been—when you thought he might ask it properly. That he might look at you in the daylight, speak to you in front of others, make something of it that wasn’t hidden behind closed doors. He had made it clear, quickly enough, that he would not.

And you had let him. You told yourself it did not matter. Told yourself you understood him better than the rest, and that was all you had wanted. That if you were patient enough, careful enough, he would want you in the same ways you wanted him. You knew him better now.

“I only meant that you are acting strange.” You said, quieter than you intended. His fingers caught your chin and he forced you to look at him.

His violet eyes scanned your face, “I want you to understand something.” He said, his thumb dragging softly against your jaw.

“This,” he said and gestured faintly between the two of you, “This is for me.” His hand moved from your chin to the nape of your neck. Intertwining his fingers with your hair. “You are for me,” his grip tightened.

“You do not dare tell me no.” He said. You winced slightly from his grip until he suddenly let go. “And do not look at me like that.” He muttered, turning away from you. You watched as he sat on the edge of your mattress as if it belonged to him.

You stayed unmoving. “Like what?” You asked.

“Like a heartbroken whore. Come here.”

Your feet moved, and you hated yourself for it. You stood now, between his legs. His hand moved, and you barely had time to react before he pulled you towards him. Your breath caught as you stumbled, and your hands instinctively braced against him. His lips met yours, and his hands found your waist. He gripped you firmly against him.

His lips moved against yours with an undeniable hunger. There was no softness to it. His tongue dragged against your bottom lip, demanding entry. You allowed it, parting your lips slightly to allow his tongue to ravish your mouth. He tasted like the bitter wine he likes, You thought. A soft moan escaped your throat, which only seemed to fuel him further because his fingers dug into your skin.

He took your bottom lip between his teeth and bit down. You pulled back slightly, moving your tongue to drag along your own lip. You tasted rust where he had bitten. He only watched you. Then you kissed him again, taking his own lip and biting hard enough to draw blood. You could feel his lips curl into a smirk against yours.

“That’s my girl.” He muttered.

His hands moved, sliding your nightgown from your shoulders until it fell past your hips and pooled at your feet. He leaned back slightly, his eyes moved over you slowly. He ran his tongue over his lip. You hated it when he looked at you like that. You hated that you never wanted him to ever stop.

You pulled his tunic up over his head and dropped it to the floor beside your feet. He stood, his bare chest to yours as he undid his belt buckle, kicking his pants off. When your lips met again, his hands found your waist, then dropped to the back of your thighs.

One sharp pull upward with a firm grip and he drew you against him. Your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms around his neck, deepening your kiss. He moved only a few steps before your back met the cold wall. He pulled back slightly; you could feel his length against your cunt, already slick with arousal. He thrusted into you with one deep stroke, burying himself completely. You cry out against his shoulder, and it comes out muffled against his skin.

When he started to move, his rhythm was demanding. Your mouth moved against his neck. You felt him lean forward slightly, burying his face in your hair. You could feel him draw in a slow breath against it, and for a moment, you think he is quite literally sniffing your hair. But then you realize that would be absurd.

His hips snap forward again, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. He swallowed your whimper with another kiss. His grip on your thighs was bound to leave bruises as he lifted you up and back down on his cock. “Say you are mine.” You hear him mutter against your ear.

When you open your mouth to speak, the words are lost when he thrusts into you harder. “Say it.” He hissed.

“Yours.” That was all you could muster. Your head lolled back against the wall. “Mm, mine.” He hummed. The moment you came undone onto him, your chest rose and fell heavily. Aerion worked you through it, continuing to fuck you until tears pricked your eyes, and it all became too much. It did not last long before he let out a pleasurable groan, and his head went slack against your shoulder.

-

You were half asleep when you felt him move. His warmth left you first, then you felt the mattress shifted from his weight. A part of you had hoped he might stay. You should go back to sleep. You thought. But you opened your eyes anyway.

He sat there, shoulders shifting as he pulled his tunic into place, the fabric dark against pale skin. The candlelight lingered in his silver hair, bright where the flames touched it. He dragged a hand back through his hair. He sat there for a moment and then,—“Do not think yourself special.”

You frowned. “What?” You felt like you never really had a clue what he was talking about half the time.

He glanced back at you. “Valarr.”

You didn’t answer.

“He is used to being given things,” he said. “His father is heir to the throne, and he is a prince of the blood.” He paused and glanced back at you. “And you—what are you?”

You pushed yourself up slightly, the sheets pulling with you. Gods, you hated him. You wanted to argue, to tell him you were a Tyrell, to tell him that Valarr has been nothing but kind and that he was far more respectful than he was. “I did not—”

“If he wants you,” he cut in, “it is because you are easy to have. Not because he truly cares for you.”

You did not answer. Then, he turned back toward you, his hand pressed into the mattress beside you as he leaned in, his other hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face. His thumb dragged once along your cheek. “Do not be stupid.” He muttered, his eyes flickered over your face one last time before he pulled away. He did not glance back again before he left.

[luvhrprincess]

The Things We Do Not Name (Series)

Aerion Targaryen x Reader x Valarr Targaryen

Summary: You are a Tyrell sent to court to be a companion to the Queen. You have found yourself entangled with the complicated and moody Prince Aerion. However when his much kinder cousin Prince Valarr begins to notice you, it threatens to alter everything you had desired before. At least you have the Princess Rhae’s nameday tourney to look forward to, right?

The Things We Do Not Name I (nsfw;3k words)

The Things We Do Not Name II (nsfw;3.7k words)

The Things We Do Not Name III (6k words)

The Things We Do Not Name IV (4.4k words)

The Things We Do Not Name V (Unreleased)

The Things We Do Not Name VI (Unreleased)