“fuck baby, just like that.” denki groans, leaning back on the couch as you bounce up and down on his cock.
“denki i just- mmf! denki ‘m so full.”
bang! the front door slams open and snap your neck, continuing to ride denki as his roommates walk in.
“shit.” kirishima covers his eyes, clicking the door shut behind him.
“damn.” sero tilts his head, watching the way your ass jiggles after each sticky smack.
“dude!” kirishima slaps a hand over sero’s eyes.
“sorry.” denki calls out. “left half the blunt in the ashtray.” his hands grab your ass, scooting lower and starts fucking up into you. “fuck baby.” spank!
“we’ll-”
“nghhh!” you toss your head back. “fuck denki, i’m gonna- ahhh!” you gasp, spine straightening as your orgasm washes through you.
“move your fuckin hand.” sero slaps kirishima’s hand away.
“light it and pass it.” denki looks over your shoulder.
“wha- now?” kirishima drops his other arm, trying to look anywhere but at you.
sero is already walking towards the ashtray and taking a seat next to the both of you. “what? denki’s room too dirty for you, sweetheart?” blunt between his lips as he lights it.
“nah, she couldn’t wait.” denki bucks up into you, reaching over as sero passes the blunt.
“shouldn’t you.. like cover up, man.” kirishima winces when you turn to him with a pout.
“don’t like lookin at me, kiri?” you reach for him and his cheeks flush.
“think he likes lookin at you too much.” denki chuckles. “go over there.” he lifts you off his dick and plops you down on kiri’s lap.
“dude!? i- ??” he holds his hands up and squeezes his eyes shut.
“wanna fuck her?” denki lulls his head to the side and you roll your hips.
“can i fuck kiri?” you whine at denki. “please?” you push your lower lip out.
“and what about me?” sero pouts his lips out.
“what do you think baby?” denki offers you a lazy smile. “wanna give my friends a ride?” he passes you the blunt.
“mhm mhm.” you nod quickly, taking a hit and pushing it back into denki’s hand.
you lean forward, pressing your lips to kiri’s and blowing the smoke in his mouth. sero and denki watch at the way kiri flushes under your touch as you shove your hands under his shorts. you whine when his cock pops out, already glistening with little beads of pre.
“‘s big.” you lean back and pump him once before lifting up on your knees.
“bet he’ll cum in 2 minutes.” sero chuckles, watching the way you slide kiri up and down your folds.
“nahh, i give him 5.” denki pushes sero’s chest.
“guys..” he groans as you sink onto his tip. “shut up.” his hands grip your waist as he looks up at you. “pretty. so pretty baby.” he nods as you take inch after inch.
“you’re a pretty baby too.” sero purrs in denkis ear, plucking the blunt out of his hand and dabbing it out in the ashtray.
“wha- hah! fuck sero.” sero’s hand wraps around denki’s cock
“forgot how squirmy you get.” sero thumbs at his underside. “she’s got you fuckin soaked.” he hums, pumping him faster.
you can’t decide if you want to look down at kiri as you suck him in or over at the way sero has denki’s hips jerking off the couch. kiri grinds his hips up and your attention falls to him, eyes fluttering as he repeats the movement. his hands grip your waist as he starts to fuck up into you, not letting you do any of the work.
“shit hanta.” denki can’t help the way he fucks up into sero’s hand.
“gonna cum before ei?” sero chuckles.
“shut up.” denki’s thighs shake.
“nghh!” you’re clinging onto kiri as he pounds up into you.
kirishima has you held tightly to his chest as he snaps his hips up onto yours. your pussy is strangling his cock, your lips brushing against his neck as you whimper right into his ear. his fingers harden into your skin and your walls flutter, thighs shaking, with one more harsh snap of his hips, you cum with a cry of his name.
“shitshitshit.” kiri holds you down on his thighs as he fills you.
you turn your head to the side and find denki sated, breathing heavy with cum all over his abs and sero slowly jerking himself. sero gives you a lazy smile and reaches out a hand to you and you lift off of kiri. sero helps you over to him and slides you right down onto his cock.
“got you all to myself.” he brushes your hair back.
“hanta.” your lashes flutter.
“hm?” he slowly starts to fuck you up and down.
“‘m so tired.” you rest your head on his shoulder. “just.. use me. please.”
“ohhh, i know baby.” he coos, trailing a hand up your spine.
sero scoots down until you’re laying on his chest and he can fuck up into you. each drag out and push back in has your toes curling, little puffs of air leaving your lips and splaying across his warm skin. you press kisses all over his neck, trembling in his arms, breath catching as an orgasm already bursts through you.
“s’okay. i got you.” he rubs your back when he feels the tears on his neck.
“feels s’good.” you’re practically limp in his arms.
you peek out of his neck and see denki staring at you with lidded eyes as he strokes himself. you blink past him and kiri is doing the same, lips parted and letting out little moans. sero bucks up into you and you bury yourself back into his neck.
“focus on me.”
your hands tangle in his hair, gummy walls spasming around him at his low words. he hits that one spot and you gasp, yanking on his hair and he grins. he pushes against it over and over until you’re cumming and whining as he starts to fill you.
“can’t move.” you’re limp against him.
“don’t gotta.” denki rubs your back.
“gonna clean you up real nice.” he hums.
instead of taking you to the bath, they take you to denkis room and lay you back on the bed. each taking turns sucking the cum out of you.
bang! the front door opens and snaps shut.
“denki!!! why does the apartment smell like sex?” you hear katsuki walking down the hall. “you idiots didn’t invite me?”
“kats.” you squirm.
“they make you cum?”
“mhm.” a nod of your head.
“they clean you up yet?” he looks at the way they have your legs spread wide.
“mm-mm.” you shake your head.
“wanna take a bath?” he grins when you nod your head.
big brother fauxcest with sam + dean inspired by this ask!!
"Hey, what's goin' on in here," sam asked, soft enough for you but with enough bite for dean.
"Just showin' sissy how that cute little clit can blow up like a balloon," dean replied proudly, his hand still deeply knotted in your hair.
Noticing your teary face and beaten-down expression, he directed his next question at you, kneeling down to your level. "How's he treating you, sweetheart? Is he bein' a good big brother or a mean one?"
"Mean," you mumbled, barely fighting back a fresh wave of tears. "All he's doin' is hurting and not even making me feel good."
"He should know better, baby. Know that you're too fragile for that treatment, huh?" And looking up at dean, eyes narrowed and voice thick with disapproval, "even if he is your big brother."
Dean rolled his eyes, acting like he wasn't threatening a pussy pump right before sam walked in. "Then why didn't she tell me to stop, huh? All I got were some pretty tears and whimpers. That sure doesn't sound like a 'stop' to me."
Sam kept looking at dean expectantly, waiting for a better excuse while a slow smile drew across dean's face.
"Feel how fuckin' wet our little sissy is and try to tell me you could pull yourself away. She's drenching the fuckin' bed, sammy. Swear to god," he started, putting his hand over his heart as if making a solemn oath, "every time I hit her she'd squeeze out more slick."
"Can I check sweet thing?" he asked softly, his big, gentle hands rubbing your thigh soothingly.
You nodded, suddenly shy now that sam was touching you for the first time.
The pads of his fingers ghosted against your slit, and the second he realized that dean was being honest his lids grew heavy.
"Oh no, honey," he said softly, brows knit with worry as he tried to soothe you. "That's not good. Little girls aren't supposed to be this wet when their big brothers bully them."
"But ours is just special, right sammy?" dean asked rhetorically, tugging on your scalp just to remind you he still has his claws in you.
"Just because she lets you doesn't mean it's good for her, dean. Isn't our job to teach her, guide her, keep her out of trouble? Not train her to... whatever this is."
"And I am guiding her and teaching her how to be my perfect little sissy whore. Right, baby?"
Your eyes flicked between them nervously, unsure whose side to take. You were thankful sam had come to your aid, but dean would never let you hear the end of it you agreed that you need constant princess treatment. On their own accord your eyes crept up to look at dean, and when you met his you saw them glittering in triumph.
"Told ya she likes to get smacked around a little," he said to sam, his fingers getting painfully wound against your scalp.
"Dean she didn't even agree. All she did was look at you and you're acting like it's permission to treat her however you want."
"However she wants. Promise you I'm not the one creepin' into her bed and humpin' her leg and beggin' for her fingers down my throat 'cause I had a bad dream. That's all her.
"That's okay, baby. It's natural to feel a little needy at your age, but it's dean's job to make sure you're all taken care of." His eyes searched your face for any flickers of emotion you so often try to hide, desperately trying to drive his point home. "Good big brothers," he started, shooting dean a dirty look, "teach sweet things like you how good you can feel."
Dean rolled his eyes, obviously feeling offended at the implication that he wasn't treating you right.
"Are you gonna do that?" you asked, hope visibly blooming in your wide eyes.
"I don't know," he said, eyes tight as he realized he just cornered himself. "I can try, but I don't know if we can do all the things you and dean do. You two have a schedule, rules, and live this. I can always step in if dean is getting too rough or if you need help or care from someone other than your brother.
"But aren't you my brother, too?" you asked sam quietly. "If dean's my brother then so are you."
"Baby, I don't know if it works like that-"
"That's exactly how it works," dean interjected, making his point of view on the matter abundantly clear. Then quieter, "sammy, you do not want to make her cry over this. All she wants is bathtime and some 'bedtime touches'. Not gonna kill you to play along."
You looked at sam expectantly, mind already racing with what you could get up to with two brothers.
"Yeah?" sam said, cradling your face in his huge hand. "Our baby sister wants some extra attention?"
You nodded excitedly at the prospect of sam joining you, your face leaning into his touch.
"So precious, baby. Don't know what dean was doin' all that for when our little sister is so sweet already."
Against your will your eyes started fluttering shut, sam's soft words and praise turning your brain to fuzz.
"Let's get you cleaned up, okay? You deserve to get rubbed to sleep after what dean put you through."
Synopsis: Sers Caitlyn and Vi are appointed to be your personal guard, and you delight in torturing them for it
Warnings: Bratty/teasing female Reader, virgin!Reader, elements of mild dub-con (Princess sometimes gives Caitvi orders when they're uncomfortable), assassination attempt, minor mentions of religion (one scene in a building of worship, but Reader does not practice), alcohol consumption, the word 'repent' is used but not in a religious context, bondage, spanking (r! receiving), oral sex (r! receiving)
Notes: 'Ser' is rhymes with 'air': 'Sair'. I've included a mild dub-con warning but Princess doesn't force Caitvi into a sexual situation without their consent, she gives them a very clear out if they truly didn't want to be intimate.
The morning sunlight poured through the tall windows in pale gold ribbons, catching in the gauze curtains and turning the Princess’ chambers into something soft and dreamlike.
You stood in front of a large mirror while your maid fastened the final hooks of your gown. Regal and elegant, but just enough cleavage to signal your unmarried status.
“Too tight?” Eve asked softly, fingers gentle at your ribs.
“It’s fine,” you said, lifting your chin. “If I faint during petitions, Father will end court early and I’ll be a hero to the people.”
She snorted under her breath. “You are terrible.”
“And yet widely adored,” you replied sweetly.
A knock came at the chamber doors. Not the polite tap of a servant – firm, official.
You met Eve’s eyes in the mirror. “Ah,” you said brightly, “I wonder what I’ve done already.”
Your maid smoothed her expression into something resembling propriety and went to open the door.
Your father, the King, entered with all the ceremony befitting his title. Eve curtsied low, then retreated to stand discreetly behind you, hands folded. Close enough to be supportive. Far enough to be invisible.
You dipped into a graceful curtsey. “Good morning, Father. You’re here early. Is the kingdom on fire?”
“Not yet,” the King said dryly. “Though my patience may be.”
You rose, wide-eyed innocence painted flawlessly across your face. “I can’t imagine what I’ve yet done; I’ve not even broken my fast.”
The King gave you a look that suggested he could imagine several things, in detail, and none of them brought him peace. “Your guard detail has submitted a formal request for reassignment,” he said.
Eve went very still behind you.
You blinked. “Reassignment?”
“They claim,” your father continued, each word carved from stone, “That guarding you has become… Untenable.”
“Untenable?” You pressed a hand to your chest. “How dreadful. Were they attacked? Threatened? Oh, Father, I should hate for them to suffer on my account.”
The King’s eyes narrowed. “They cited you, daughter.”
“Me?” You looked genuinely startled. “Whatever have I done?”
Behind you, Eve made a small choking sound that might have been a cough.
The King began counting on his fingers. “You insist upon walking arm in arm. You call them by their first names. You buy them gifts.”
“They work terribly hard,” you protested. “Morale is important.”
“You asked one of them how large his muscles were under his armour.”
You shrugged. “I was curious as to my Knight’s skills.”
Eve bit her lip, having to turn slightly away as her shoulder shook silently. She knew your cheeky nature.
The King pinched the bridge of his nose. “They are soldiers, not suitors.”
“I treat everyone warmly,” you said, wounded now. “The people love that about me.”
“Yes,” your father agreed reluctantly, “But the people are not sworn to celibacy while standing within three feet of you.”
A beat.
You lowered your lashes, saintly. “I would never command anyone to break their vows.”
“You make it extremely difficult for them to remember they have them.”
Silence lingered.
Then, gentler but firm, the King said, “They are good men. I will not have their careers ruined because my daughter enjoys being… Charming.”
Your act softened just a fraction. “I never meant harm,” you said quietly.
“I know,” he replied. “But intention does not erase consequence.”
That landed.
The King straightened. Decision made. “I have already arranged replacements.”
Your head lifted. “Oh?”
“A married pair,” he said. “Unusual, I know, but they are both highly decorated. Beyond reproach. You will treat them with the respect they deserve, and give them no reason to flee their posts.”
You held her father’s gaze.
Married. Beyond reproach.
Safe.
Something curious sparked behind your eyes. Then you smiled – gentle, radiant, perfectly princess-like. “Of course, Father,” you said. “You have my word.”
The King studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced by a lifetime of experience, but he nodded anyway. “They arrive later this morning.”
And he left, the doors shutting behind him.
Silence.
Three heartbeats passed.
Eve leaned closer and whispered, “You are still going to be a menace, aren’t you?”
Your answering smile was slow, delighted, and just a little wicked. “I,” you said coyly, “Am a delight.”
The King received the pair in a smaller council chamber rather than the throne room. This was not a spectacle; this was business.
Sunlight struck the long table, glinting off polished armour encasing two female chests. The pair stood side by side, helms tucked beneath their arms, posture impeccable.
Knight Vi of the Royal Vanguard, and Knight Caitlyn Kiramman, marksman of the Crown.
Wives.
Reliable. Decorated. Unshakeable.
Piltover’s Finest.
Exactly what he needed.
“At ease,” the King said.
They relaxed by a fraction. Professionals.
“You two came highly recommended, by Captain Grayson. You are aware of the assignment?” he asked, pouring himself a small glass of wine.
“To serve as personal guard to Her Royal Highness Princess Y/N,” Caitlyn answered.
Vi nodded once. “We’re honoured by the trust, Your Majesty.”
Good, he thought. Honour still meant something to them.
“This is not a ceremonial post,” he continued, sitting down at the around table, leaning back casually. “You will be with the Princess at nearly all hours. Court appearances, rides, charity visits, travel. You will dine when she dines, go where she goes, sleep when she sleeps. Your rooms are next to hers, and she has never been an early riser, so I imagine you’ll still get plenty of rest.”
Neither woman flinched.
“Understood,” Vi said.
Caitlyn’s voice was firm. “The Princess will be in safe hands, Your Majesty.”
The King believed her. Which made the next part… Awkward. He cleared his throat. “There is,” he began carefully, “A matter of… Personality.”
Vi’s brow furrowed a fraction. Caitlyn’s expression remained politely attentive, but he saw the calculation behind it.
“My daughter is,” the King said, choosing diplomacy over despair, “Warm. Affectionate. Curious about people.”
“Those are good traits in a future Queen,” Caitlyn replied.
“Yes,” he said. “They are.” He paused. “She has, in the past, been… Overly familiar.”
Ah. There it was.
Vi’s mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Familiar, Your Majesty?”
“She befriends people. Learns personal histories. Dislikes distance.” He hesitated, then added, “Enjoys provoking reactions.”
Caitlyn and Vi shared the briefest glance.
Married communication. Entire conversations in half a second.
We can handle that, it said.
Vi spoke first. “With respect, Your Majesty, we are soldiers. We’ve guarded nobles before.”
The King couldn’t help but glance at the eyepatch covering Caitlyn’s left eye. “I know, I’ve been told your accomplishment. But my daughter is not a noble; she is the next Monarch of Piltover after my death. She will be your Queen,” he replied, tiredly.
Caitlyn inclined her head. “What sort of behaviour prompted the previous detail’s request for reassignment?”
He looked up at the ceiling as though petitioning divine patience. “She frequently walked arm in arm with them in public.”
Vi blinked.
“She complimented their appearance.”
Caitlyn remained stoic. Mostly.
“She made gifts.”
Vi coughed into her fist.
“And,” he finished darkly, “She asked one of them about…” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Size.”
Silence.
Caitlyn’s composure did crack then – just a hair – lips pressing thin. Vi looked like someone trying very hard not to get her sword melted for laughing.
“I see,” Caitlyn said.
“I require,” the King went on, voice firm now, “Guards who will not mistake charm for invitation. Who will not be flattered into foolishness. Who will remember that she is their future Queen, who will one day need a respectable marriage.”
Their spines straightened. That struck home.
“You will not encourage her,” he said.
“We would never,” Caitlyn answered immediately.
Vi nodded. “We are married, Your Majesty. To each other.”
“As I am well aware,” he said, pointedly. “Which is precisely why you are here.”
Because they were safe.
Because they had something to lose.
Because surely they would not risk each other.
Caitlyn’s voice spoke, steady as iron. “The Princess will be protected, Your Majesty, and she will remain beyond reproach.”
The King studied them. Good women, strong, principled. Perhaps, finally, a solution to his problem. “I am glad,” he said. “Because my daughter can be very persuasive.”
Vi huffed a quiet breath, confident. “We will manage, Your Majesty.”
Caitlyn gave a respectful bow of her head. “You have our word.”
Oh, to be so certain, the King thought. “Report straight to her chambers, she needs to start her day,” he said.
They bowed their heads, turned sharply, and strode from the room with the surety of warriors walking toward something entirely conquerable.
The doors shut behind them.
The King sank into his chair. “Gods help you,” he murmured.
Two sharp knocks, the creak of the doors, and the chamberlain’s clear voice carrying across your room.
“Her Highness’ new guard detail. Knights Ser Caitlyn Kiramman and Ser Vi, of the Royal Vanguard.”
You looked up from where you sat pretending to read. Across from you, Eve froze in her sewing.
You shared a glance.
Behave, Eve mouthed.
You offered her most angelic expression. “I always behave. Come in!”
The doors opened.
And oh…
Oh.
You had expected capable. You had expected impressive. You had not expected this.
They entered in step, pale-golden armour catching the late morning light. Strength and elegance, side by side. One all sharp lines and aristocratic control, rifle slung across her back; the other broader, powerful, heavy gauntlets encompassing her hands and forearms, pink hair and a tattoo on her cheekbone.
Married, her father had said.
Safe.
Both Knights dropped to one knee.
“Your Grace,” they said together.
Voices different: one smooth as silk drawn over steel; one low, rough, warm.
You stood quickly, nearly losing your balance for half a second before you remembered you were a Princess, and Princesses did not wobble over pretty women… No matter how beautiful they were.
“Please,” you said, recovering, “You needn’t kneel every time you see me. We’ll be together constantly, won’t we? It will become exhausting.”
The blue-haired Knight rose first. Efficient. Controlled. “It is our honour, Your Grace. Ser Caitlyn Kiramman.”
Ser Vi followed, offering a polite nod. “We’ve been assigned to your personal protection by His Majesty the King.”
Oh, they were already building walls.
You smiled. “How dreadful for you,” you said sympathetically. “I’m known to be very troublesome.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Vi said, entirely straight-faced.
Eve made a small, strangled sound from somewhere near the tea tray.
Caitlyn shot her Wife the smallest warning glance before returning her attention to you. “We are aware of your schedule,” she continued, voice crisp. “We’ll escort you to court, remain posted during audiences, and accompany you on all excursions.”
You circled them slowly, curious as a cat, hands clasped behind your back as you inspected them.
Up close, they were somehow even more captivating. Caitlyn’s remaining eye was an impossible blue. Vi looked like she’d been carved from marble.
You stopped in front of them. They did not react.
“I hope you won’t be frightened off,” you said lightly. “I seem to have that effect.”
“We do not frighten easily,” Caitlyn replied.
Oh, that sounded like a challenge.
You tilted your head. “Good.”
You reached out before you could stop yourself, fingers brushing a speck of lint from Vi’s pauldron. A tiny thing. Perfectly innocent.
Vi stood statue-still.
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened by a degree only someone looking for it would see.
“There,” you said softly. “Wouldn’t want you presented improperly on my account.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Vi managed through a tight jaw.
Formal, measured, careful.
They stepped back in perfect unison, re-establishing distance without making it obvious.
You noticed. Of course you noticed. ‘You’re going to make me work for it.’
Instead of being annoyed, you felt something warm uncurl in your chest: delight.
“Well,” you said brightly, moving back toward your chair and nodding at Eve to get your coat out of your wardrobe so you could go on your outing, “I think we’ll all get along, don’t you?”
“We are here to serve,” Caitlyn said crisply.
Which was not the same thing at all.
As Eve started to help you into your coat, you smiled at them – radiant, mischievous, already plotting. “I look forward to us getting to know each other,” you smirked.
Behind you, Eve pressed her lips together, watching two of the most disciplined Knights in the Kingdom begin to realise in real time that the King had absolutely not exaggerated about his daughter’s behaviour.
The carriage rocked gently as it rolled down the cobbled streets, the rhythm steady beneath the clatter of hooves. Inside, it was close. Intimate. Far smaller than your chambers. Far harder to maintain distance.
Caitlyn sat opposite you, posture immaculate, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, expression schooled into polite neutrality. Vi stood near the door, one hand braced above the window, broad frame taking up a delicious amount of space.
You, unfortunately for them both, seemed very aware of this. “Is it always this serious?” you asked, head tilted slightly as you studied them.
“We are on assignment, Your Grace,” Caitlyn replied.
Vi nodded. “Serious is part of the job.”
You hummed. “It must be exhausting,” you said sympathetically. “Keeping your faces like that all day. Do you not get headaches?”
“These are our normal faces,” Caitlyn frowned.
You smiled. “Oh, I don’t believe that at all. You must surely know how to smile?”
Your shoe nudged lightly against Caitlyn’s boot as the carriage shifted.
An accident… Maybe.
Caitlyn did not move her foot.
Neither did you.
Vi watched the contact like it personally offended her.
“You needn’t hover, Ser Vi,” you told her kindly. “I’m not about to leap from a moving carriage.”
“Protocol,” she replied stiffly.
Your gaze slid over her, warm and wicked all at once. “You’d catch me.”
She nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”
The carriage slowed.
Caitlyn cleared her throat. “We are arriving.”
And then something remarkable happened: you changed.
The playful looseness in your shoulders straightened. Your smile softened into something gracious, measured, radiant in an entirely different way. When the footman opened the door, after Vi stepped out first, scoping the area before extending a hand back to help you out. You descended with perfect poise, every inch a Princess.
Children and nuns waited in the courtyard, their eyes lighting up when they saw you.
“Princess!”
You greeted almost all of them by name, asking the names of any children you didn’t recognise. You knelt without hesitation when a small child tugged on your dress, fur and silk be damned, and asked about a scraped knee ‘Sister Clara’ apparently already told you about. You greeted the nuns in turn, respectfully bowing your head – Caitlyn and Vi just noticing the veil covering the length of your hair, obviously as per the custom of the nun’s order. You listened to the women’s worries about winter supplies, promising funds, more food deliveries, and books and toys for the children.
Not empty promises, Caitlyn and Vi could both tell. You were someone who followed through.
Vi watched a little boy cling to your skirts, and you only laughed softly, smoothing his hair before picking him up and resting him on your hip. There was no mischief, no games. Just duty, and kindness, and a young woman who carried the weight of a crown you did not yet wear.
Caitlyn felt something in her chest shift.
Beside her, Vi exhaled quietly. “Huh.”
Yes, Caitlyn thought. Huh.
Because the King had warned them about temptation. He had not warned them about admiration.
By the time the visit ended, both Knights stood a little straighter. Not from discipline. From respect.
The moment the carriage door shut behind Caitlyn, sealing you all back into soft velvet and privacy, you sagged against the seat.
“Oh,” you groaned, kicking off your shoes. “If I have to smile that widely for one more minute…”
Vi startled into a laugh before she could stop herself. Caitlyn shot her a look.
Too late.
Your eyes sparkled. “There you are,” you said softly, like you’d found something you’d been looking for.
Caitlyn adjusted her gloves, regaining control. “You were exceptional, Your Grace.”
You preened a little at that. “Thank you. I care about them all, so deeply.”
“We can tell,” Vi said.
And she meant it.
The compliment warmed the air.
You turned on the soft bench and reclined, stretching your legs out. Your dress fell away from your legs, revealing your stockinged feet and calves.
Not an accident.
Caitlyn’s breath caught, almost imperceptible.
“You looked proud of me,” you said.
“We were,” Vi admitted.
Caitlyn’s voice dropped, softer now. “You honour the Crown. You will be a fine Queen someday.”
You watched them both. The respect. The sincerity. It made something flutter in your chest that felt far more dangerous than flirting.
So, of course, you ruined it.
You rested one hand behind your head, smile returning. “Be honest,” you whispered, “Did I impress my terribly brave, terribly stoic Knights?”
Vi looked like she’d been hit with a battering ram.
Caitlyn held the line. Mostly. “Yes,” she said.
You beamed. “Good. I do so like having your attention.”
Vi turned toward the window as if prayer might exist out there somewhere. Caitlyn stared straight ahead, desperately trying to rebuild her composure.
The King had asked them not to encourage you.
They weren’t. They absolutely weren’t.
You settled back on the cushions, pleased, watching the effect you had on them, already wondering how long their discipline might survive.
Dinner in your private dining room was, in theory, a restrained affair. Small table. Low candlelight. No court audience. No petitioners. Just you, your two assigned Knights, Eve, and a food taster currently sampling the dishes.
You moved to sit at the head of the table, radiant in soft evening silk, watching your new protectors take up positions near the wall.
“Oh no, no,” you said immediately.
Caitlyn didn’t even blink. “Your Grace?”
“You’re not standing,” you informed them. “That’s absurd. You sit and eat with me.”
“We are on duty,” Caitlyn replied.
Vi nodded, hands behind her back. “We’re fine, we’ll eat later.”
You turned to Eve, who was arranging plates with suspiciously calm efficiency. “Do they look fine to you, Eve?”
She kept her eyes lowered, but her mouth twitched upwards. “They look very… Vertical, Your Grace.”
You sighed dramatically. “If you loom over me whilst I try to eat, I shall develop nerves, and then I shan’t eat, and then the kitchen will blame themselves, and morale will plummet.”
Neither Knight moved.
You leaned an arm across the back of your chair. “I am ordering you to eat with me,” you smiled sweetly.
A pause. Caitlyn weighed protocol versus command, but knew she’d lost the fight. So, they sat, one either side of you, looking not too happy about the situation.
You grinned smugly, taking a seat.
Eve began serving, moving around the table like a ghost. But every time she passed behind you, there was the faintest sense of I cannot wait to gossip with you about this later.
“So,” you started pleasantly, lifting your glass of sweet wine to your lips, “Tell me about your day.”
“We accompanied you to the orphanage,” Vi said, a little confused.
“Yes, but from your perspective,” you pressed. “Did I behave?”
Caitlyn answered honestly as she began to eat. “You were exemplary.”
The word landed warm.
You tried not to glow too obviously. And you failed. “I can be serious,” you said, delicately cutting your meat.
“We noticed,” Vi replied.
And there it was again: that note of respect. It made your stomach flutter.
You tilted your head and smiled. “And which part impressed you most?”
Caitlyn, ever disciplined, simply cut her food. “Your preparation. You knew every name.”
“I like getting to know the people whom I serve,” you said. “There are times I enjoy… Serving.”
Eve topped up your wine, even though you’d barely drunk from it. She gave you a quick look: Careful.
You ignored it. “Well,” you said lightly, “I should hate to know so little about my brave new Knights.”
Vi shifted, drinking the wine. “We’re not very interesting, Your Grace.”
You smiled at her over the rim of your glass. “I doubt that very much. I heard your moniker: Piltover’s Finest? You don’t get a name like that for no reason. And your eye, Ser Caitlyn? Is there truly no story there?”
Caitlyn dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. Buying time. “What would you like to know, Your Grace?”
Everything, you almost breathed.
Instead: “How did you two meet?” A safe, respectable question.
Vi glanced at Caitlyn, fondness immediate and unguarded. “She got me released from gaol.”
You gasped in delight. You hadn’t expected that! “How romantic!”
“It was not,” Caitlyn said, though colour touched her cheeks.
“Why were you in gaol? And how did you become a Knight?”
“I was a thief. I was burgling a rich man’s home, and got caught. The Enforcers put me in gaol, but while I was awaiting trial, Cupca- Caitlyn got me released, because I had information on a higher priority case.”
You laughed, warm and bright, at Vi’s slipup. Cupcake? You filed that away for safekeeping, knowing you would bring it out when it would be useful.
Dessert arrived.
You leaned forward, conspiratorial again, back in familiar waters. “I’m glad you’re here, and not some other Knights,” you said honestly.
Vi softened.
Caitlyn did too, just a fraction. “We are glad to serve.”
Ah. Back to that.
Your slipper brushed against Vi’s boot under the table.
She froze.
Eve, passing behind you, saw exactly where your foot had gone. Her eyes widened.
You took an innocent bite of your sweet apple tart, like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.
Caitlyn glanced at Vi’s pinkening cheeks, then back to your overly-casual face. “Is something wrong?”
“Mm?” you looked up harmlessly. “Nothing at all.”
When dinner was finally over, Caitlyn rose at once, grateful for the return of distance. “Thank you for the meal, Your Grace. Shall we escort you back to your rooms?”
You stood too. “So formal,” you sighed. “We’ve shared a meal; we are practically lifelong companions now.”
They said nothing as they walked back with you to your chambers, Eve having slipped out earlier to start turning down your bedroom. The guards posted outside the door pushed open the heavy oak guarding your private space, giving Caitlyn and Vi respectful nods.
Vi did a quick scan of the rooms, nodding to Caitlyn with the ‘all clear’.
The taller Knight straightened. “We will see you in the morn, Princess.”
“We’re right next door, if you need us,” Vi added.
You smiled back, nodding towards the interconnecting door dividing your rooms from theirs. “And you know where I am. You can enter whenever you’d like.”
They both straightened up in discomfort, bowing their heads to you in respect, then headed through the door into their private rooms, Caitlyn closing the door behind them.
You watched them go.
The door closed.
Silence fell.
Eve waited precisely two seconds. “You had your foot on Ser Vi for all of dessert!”
You giggled softly. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did. And just now? ‘You can enter when you’d like’?!” She shook her head disapprovingly. “You’re going to cause scandal, Princess!”
Your mood suddenly evaporated, face dropping. “I’d like to get ready for bed now.”
The door to their quarters shut with a heavy, blessed click. Silence lasted for only a few seconds, before Vi took of her gauntlets.
Exasperated, she ran a hand over her face. “What,” she demanded of the universe, “was that?”
Caitlyn removed her gloves, finger by finger, placing them on the table with infuriating composure. “Dinner,” she said.
Vi stared at her. “Cupcake.”
“Yes.”
“She had her foot on me.”
“I am aware.”
“You’re aware?”
“I have eyes, Vi.”
“Well, you didn’t look aware,” Vi muttered.
Caitlyn exhaled through her nose, the sound of someone trying very hard to remain the most rational person in the room. “We cannot react,” she said. “We promised the King we would not encourage her, and it’s clear that she does enjoy getting a reaction from us.”
“She’s doing it on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“She likes it.”
“Yes, Vi, I just said that.”
Vi groaned in frustration, ruffing her hair. “What, and you’re just… Fine?”
Caitlyn finally looked at her Wife. Her control was thinner now, pulled tight, hot and unsettled. “I did not say I was fine.”
Oh.
Vi’s indignation softened into something else. Understanding. Sympathy. Shared doom. They both glanced, involuntarily, toward the adjoining door.
Vi scrubbed her hands over her hips, sitting down heavily on the end of the bed. “The King said she was persuasive, but I figured he meant… Charming.”
Caitlyn almost laughed, short and breathless. “She is charming.”
“That’s not what I meant, Cupcake.”
They stood with it for a moment.
The memory of the orphanage, the way you’d knelt for the children, who all clearly adored you. The way you had looked at them in the carriage after; hopeful, wanting their approval.
Caitlyn sank onto the edge of the bed. “She is good,” she said quietly.
Vi nodded. “Yeah...”
And that was the problem. If you were spoilt or cruel or careless, this would be easy. Instead, you were warm, and bright, and trying so hard to be worthy of a future you hadn’t chosen.
Vi blew out a breath. “I like her.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” was all she said.
Another look at the door.
“We can’t,” Caitlyn said.
“I know.”
“We are sworn.”
“I know.”
“She is our responsibility.”
Vi gave her a small, crooked smile. “You’re trying to convince yourself harder than me, Cupcake.”
Caitlyn huffed softly.
Because yes. She was.
Vi sat beside her, shoulders bumping together, familiar comfort. Grounding.
“We love each other,” Vi said, simple as sunrise.
Caitlyn leaned into her just slightly. “Always.”
And yet… Your laugh and smile echoed in their memory, bright and vibrant.
Vi groaned. “She’s gonna keep doing it.”
“Yes,” Caitlyn said.
“Because we can’t stop her.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes.
Because how could they reprimand a princess for smiling at them? For touching their arm? For wanting closeness in a life designed to deny it?
They couldn’t.
“That is our duty,” Caitlyn said at last.
Vi flopped backward onto the bed. “I’m gonna die.”
“You are not.”
“I am,” she insisted. “And they’ll carve on my tombstone: Here lies Ser Vi. Smiled at by a sweet princess, and perished.”
Despite herself, Caitlyn laughed. The moment lightened, and she smiled down at Vi. “We need to get some rest,” she murmured.
Vi nodded, sitting up. “Big day of pretending we’re immune tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
They removed their armour, setting their weapons directly by the bed, ever ready to spring into action. Once undressed to their underclothes, they settled beneath the covers, bodies fitting together the way they always had.
Familiar. Certain. Safe.
But Caitlyn’s eye lingered on the outline of that connecting door long after Vi started snoring softly.
And she had the dreadful, creeping suspicion that the true danger of their assignment was not anything that might come for the Princess…
… But what was already waiting for them on the other side of the wall.
Weeks passed and you all settled into your routine together – you continuing on with your outings and responsibilities, Caitlyn and Vi accompanying you, and you tormenting them every chance you got.
The kingdom continued. Petitions were heard. Buildings inspected. Banquets endured. Children lifted and kissed, and promises made and kept to families and businesses.
And always, you stood between your Knights. You learned the rhythm of them.
Caitlyn liked precision: reports given in full, plans discussed in advance. Vi went by instinct: eyes scanning over crowds, tracked exits, reacted even without a plan in place.
They worked beautifully together, and they loved each other in quiet ways – a touch to the back, a glance to check in, space made without asking.
You tried very hard not to love that, and failed spectacularly.
You also learned exactly how far you could push before they retreated. Which, unfortunately for everyone, became your new hobby.
In public, you behaved. You shone bright like a star; you listened; you remembered names and faces.
Your Knights admired you, telling you so, in careful words that never crossed lines.
But in private carriages, you sat too close. In corridors, you took their arms. During long meetings, you let your eyes trail over them.
Nothing too overt – you didn’t need a scandal.
They never called you on it, they simply endured. By that point, they had perfected the art of Not Reacting. Vi had learned to keep her breathing even when you leaned into her space to whisper something unnecessary. Caitlyn had mastered staring at the horizon while your hand rested warm in the crook of her elbow.
They were magnificent…
… And ridiculously transparent.
You saw every swallow, every flex of a jaw, every moment their control tightened like pulled wire. And they knew you saw.
That was the worst part.
One afternoon, as you all walked the palace gardens, you stumbled. Not too much, but just enough for Vi to shoot her arm out, arm firm around your waist, hauling you back against armour and solid muscle.
For half a heartbeat, you were pressed together.
You looked up.
Vi looked down.
She carefully, gently, set you back on your feet and stepped away. “Careful, Your Grace,” she said.
You smiled brightly, tucking your hand into the crook of her arm. “Thank you, Ser Vi.” You looked back at Caitlyn, linking your arm through hers as well. “Your turn next, Ser Caitlyn.”
They respected you.
They admired you.
They wanted you.
But they could never have you.
The Palace slept.
Or at least parts of it did.
You reclined against your plush pillows, wrapped warmly in your blankets, candle burning low as you read your latest book, completely entranced. Eve had long since retired to her own small room down the corridor, your Knights also in their own rooms.
You turned the page, when you heard it.
A muffled thud.
A heavy breath… Not distressed, not alarmed.
Something else.
You went very still.
The sound had come from the other side of the left wall.
From their rooms.
Heat crept, slow and inevitable, up the back of your neck.
Oh.
You knew that sound; you’d heard couples make it from behind closed doors, or down dark corridors late at parties.
You told yourself to roll over, to put the pillow over your head. To grant them the privacy they so carefully, so constantly tried to preserve for you.
You lasted perhaps three seconds, then you sat back up. Bare feet touched cold stone floor as you drifted, drawn toward the connecting door.
It stood closed.
And yet the old Palace carried noise in traitorous ways. Through wood, through stone, through the tiny betrayals of hinges and space.
You pressed your fingers lightly to the wood. On the other side, you could hear more clearly now – breathless murmurs, the rustle of sheets, a quiet rhythm of two people who knew each other completely.
You closed your eyes.
A soft sound reached you; half-laugh, half-moan, and your hand curled against the wood. You imagined Caitlyn’s careful control finally undone, Vi’s strength turned gentle and devoted.
You wondered if they ever thought of you when they were like this.
The idea was foolish.
Cruel to yourself.
You should go back to bed…
On the other side of the wall, a voice broke, wrecked and open and utterly unguarded.
“Y/N…”
Caitlyn’s voice.
Your eyes flew open. For a moment you thought you must have imagined it. Wanted it so badly your mind had turned traitor.
But then you heard the answering sound, soothing and reverent, and knew you hadn’t.
Your name. Again.
From Vi.
A trembling breath left you. They were both thinking of you, in that moment. You pressed your forehead to the door, heart racing, something wild and bright blooming in your chest: hope.
They wanted you.
They might fight it in daylight, might build walls of honour and duty and vows…
… But in the dark, when the truth slipped free, you were with them.
You stepped back at last, dizzy with it. You returned to your bed, curled beneath the covers, and stared at the canopy overhead with a smile you could not contain.
Morning arrived like it always did: too early, too bright. Entirely indifferent to the revelation of the night before.
Eve helped you into your day dress, chattering about schedules and correspondence while you stood unusually still, wearing the sort of private smile that meant trouble.
Caitlyn and Vi arrived precisely on time, their armour and posture perfect, both unaware that the battlefield had shifted.
You turned when they entered, and for just a moment your composure almost broke, because you remembered the sound of your name on their lips as they came undone to the thought of you.
You softened. “Good morning,” you greeted sweetly, heading over to your vanity table when Eve finished with your dress.
Something in it made both of them pause.
“Your Grace,” Caitlyn replied.
Vi nodded, already wary.
“How did you sleep?” you asked, selecting and putting in the earrings of the day.
A polite question, nothing more.
Vi answered first. “Well, Your Grace.”
Caitlyn inclined her head. “Restfully.”
Your lips curved. Liars.
You stood closer that morning. Not enough to be improper – you never were, in public – but enough to remind them that you could be.
Your fingers lingered at Caitlyn’s sleeve while discussing the scheduled court appointments of the morning. You laughed low at something Vi muttered, stepping into her space, watching the way her breath caught.
By midday, Caitlyn knew something was wrong. You had always been flirtatious, yes, but this was calmer. Less searching.
As though you had gained a sense of confidence overnight.
Vi noticed too.
In the corridor outside the Council’s chamber, while you spoke with an advisor, Vi leaned in.
“What’s up with her today? She’s different,” she murmured.
Caitlyn kept her eye forward. “I know.”
Vi’s stomach dropped. “Could she have heard-?”
“No,” Caitlyn said quickly.
She grimaced. “You sure?”
A flicker of doubt slid down Caitlyn’s spine.
In their rooms that night, Vi paced. “Okay,” she said. “I’m saying it.”
Caitlyn sat rigid at the writing desk as she wrote a missive to her mother. “Don’t.”
“I’m going to.” A beat. “I think she knows.”
The words settled between them like thunder.
Caitlyn’s heart lurched. “She cannot.”
“She’s been looking at us like she does.”
The blue-haired Knight put the quill down, turning around on the padded stool. “What would she know?” she asked, too tight.
Vi rubbed the back of her neck. “That we want her.”
Silence.
The connecting door stood a few feet away.
Caitlyn forced herself to take a steadying breath. “If she heard what we did last night,” she said carefully, “She would have brought it up the second she saw us this morning. She would have been tormenting us with it all day.”
Vi nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she admitted.
“She would not have been sweeter, gentler,” Caitlyn finished.
Vi sighed, sinking onto the bed. “Then what the hell changed?”
Caitlyn had no answer.
Unbeknownst to them, you sat on the other side of the door, your back against the wood as you listened, smiling into the low light of your rooms.
You would never tell. Never tease them with it.
Because you loved that they were honest when they thought you couldn’t hear them. And if keeping your mouth shut meant you could still hear your name fall from their lips like a prayer, then you would guard that secret with your life.
Tomorrow, you decided, you might hold their hands.
Nothing outrageous.
Just enough to remind them: I want you too.
The gala had been declared safe.
Layered security. Controlled guest list. Balconies watched, exits manned. Caitlyn had inspected all the sightlines herself.
Vi still hated it. Too many bodies. Too many masks. Too much noise.
You, radiant in your formal corseted gown, moved through the crowd with effortless elegance. You laughed freely, listened where you should, accepted compliments with grace.
You behaved.
Mostly.
You held Caitlyn’s arm as you conversed with a visiting noble and his daughter a few years older than you, your faithful Knights ever at your side. Vi kept close on your other side, a quiet, immovable wall, eyes constantly shifting.
Music swelled. Glasses chimed. The noble droned on about trade.
Then…
Vi felt it first.
The shift. A ripple in the air, wrong and electric.
Her head snapped toward the upper gallery. “Cait-”
Caitlyn was already moving, shoving you to the floor, her body over yours. “Down!” she barked.
The crack of the rifle shattered the music a split second later – not Caitlyn’s shot, but the assassin’s, wide and panicked because the Princess had vanished from where you had been standing only a split second earlier.
Because then Vi had you, one arm around your waist, the other already lifting you off the floor.
You barely had time to gasp before the world moved, and you were hauled against Vi’s chest. One hand kept your head down against her breastplate, her other arm wrapped tightly around you as she ran, your feet barely keeping up. She didn’t look back – that wasn’t her job. Her job was you.
Palace guards surrounded the two of you in a protective shell, shields raised on all sides, quickly moving out of the room.
You heard more shots fired amid the screams filling the banquet hall.
Caitlyn’s rifle, once on her back hidden under her cloak, was in her hands, movements swift and precise, tracking the fleeing shooter, firing with terrifying calm.
“Balcony!” she shouted to the other guards. “Second pillar!”
When you, Vi, and the guards got into the hallway, Vi suddenly scooped you up, tossing you over her shoulder, like you weighed nothing.
“Hold on,” she ordered, running through the corridors, the Palace guards still surrounding you both.
“Where’s Caitlyn?!” you cried, lifting your head and looking back down the corridor. The guests from the ball were starting to spill out, running in every direction in their terror.
“She’ll be fine!” Vi dismissed, turning more corners, heading back to your rooms.
Vi never slowed through the corridors, everyone’s boots thundering, her gauntlet holding you over her shoulder by your hip. Even as your heart pounded with fear, you couldn’t ignore how magnificent Vi was. How strong she was, to lift you over her shoulder and sprint through the corridors in full armour.
Your entourage arrived back at your rooms, the Palace guards immediately swarming your rooms and inspecting every nook and cranny. Eve was terrified, cowering with her hands up as the guards looked under the bed, in the wardrobes, behind the curtains, over the balcony’s edge… Vi placed you down in a corner of the room, blocking your body with hers.
You could smell the scent she wore on her neck, your mouth watering at the heady fragrance.
The most senior Palace guard nodded to Vi, giving her the all-clear.
Vi nodded back, easing away from you. She turned, gently ushering you away from the corner. “I want a full watch on the balcony, in case someone climbs up-” a dozen guards swept out of the doors leading onto the balcony, closing the doors behind them, taking up positions, weapons never stowed, “-And just as many outside. Ser Caitlyn will be handling things downstairs.”
You had started to shake as the adrenaline crashed out of your system. She held you silently, pulling your body against hers as she led you back to the bed, lifting you slightly to sit you on the end. You didn’t notice the door to your room closing as everyone filed out, leaving the two of you alone.
Vi crouched in front of you, slipping her heavy gauntlets off. Her hands moved quickly, checking for injury. “Are you hurt?”
You shook your head. “I’m fine,” you replied, even as you trembled.
Vi unclipped the cloak from her shoulders, draping it around you, rubbing your arms. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”
“Where’s Caitlyn?” you whimpered.
She smiled at you softly, her heart quickly softening. “She’ll be fine. The Palace will be locked down – if the assailant hasn’t already been captured or killed. She’s better at handling that stuff. It’s my job to keep pretty princesses safe,” she nudged your chin gently.
You let out a soft giggle, taking a deep breath, Vi continuing to rub your arms.
An hour later, an odd series of taps came on the door to your bedroom. You looked up from your spot where you sat in front of the fire, Vi’s cloak still wrapped around your shoulders as she sat with you.
“That’s Cait’s knock,” she explained softly, getting up and heading to the door. She cracked it open, peeking out, then allowed it to open wider.
Caitlyn stepped inside, closing and bolting the door behind her. She glanced at you by the fire, giving you a small smile, before speaking to Vi in hushed tones, face serious.
You watched them as they whispered to each other. Caitlyn’s gloved hands moved animatedly, her long fingers encased in the finely stitched leather. Vi leant against the door, hand on her hip as she listened to her Wife, nodding when appropriate.
You pulled Vi’s cloak tighter around, nuzzling your nose into the material, taking in her scent. Your mind suddenly filled with an image of Vi kissing you, her cologne filling your brain as Caitlyn stroked your face with her gloved fingers.
Where had that image come from?! you wondered, blushing bright red. You’ve never even kissed someone before, and now your brain was imagining the sensation of Caitlyn’s gloves all over your body.
You pressed your thighs together, dizzy with the intensity of it.
Caitlyn gave a definitive nod to Vi, who straightened. They both looked at you, heading over.
“Don’t sit too close to the fire, Princess,” Caitlyn chided softly.
“Why not?”
“Your face is red,” she pointed out.
You blushed harder. “Oh! No, no. No, I’m fine.”
Caitlyn chose not to address the fact that you were still wearing Vi’s cloak, clearly holding the fabric tight around you.
“What’s the situation downstairs? What happened?” you asked, hoping to divert the subject.
They both sat down on the chaise in front of the fire, sitting over you as you remained sat on the floor. Looking up at them from this angle just highlighted their beautiful features as they looked down at you.
Them standing over you as you knelt before them…
You blinked away the mental image.
“The shooter has been captured, he’s in the dungeons being questioned now,” Caitlyn explained. “The Palace is on lockdown, every entrance and exit is being watched, every room will be searched.”
“So far, no-one else has been found,” Vi added, reaching out to stoke the fire, adding a log.
“Was anyone hurt?” you asked Caitlyn.
She shook her head. “No. It seems you were the intended target. When the assailant missed his shot, he fled, trying to crack off a few more shots but he never hit anyone. We apprehended him a minute later.”
“Thank you,” you breathed.
Caitlyn seemed surprised at your gratitude. “Of course. It’s our job,” she said. Her eye softened a little at your expression.
You smiled back at them. “Well,” you heaved a breath, “That was an exciting turn of events.”
Vi blinked.
Caitlyn frowned. “An attempt was made on your life.”
“Yes,” you agreed lightly. “You both handled it expertly.”
Caitlyn looked almost uncomfortable under the praise. “We did our duty.”
You scooted closer, moving onto your knees in front of them. Your voice dropped a little. “You threw me over your shoulder,” you told Vi.
Vi flushed. “It was the fastest extraction.”
“I felt very safe,” you continued. “And you,” you looked at Caitlyn, “Saw the assassin and took action before he even fired a shot.”
Caitlyn inhaled slowly, sensing danger of an entirely different variety. “Again, we were just doing our duty,” she said carefully.
Your smile sharpened. You placed your hands on their knees, resting your chin on Caitlyn’s other knee as you looked up at her, batting your eyelashes. “My brave Knights, keeping me safe.”
Caitlyn cleared her throat delicately. “We should away for bed.”
They both stood from the chaise, Vi clenching her fists a little as she tried to look anywhere but at you.
“You can’t leave me like this,” you protested.
Caitlyn looked down at you in concern, then immediately regretted it… She could see straight down the front of your dress, her tall position giving her a wonderful view of your cleavage. “What… What do you mean?”
You looked down at your own dress. “My corset.”
Both Knights blushed bright red.
“Please, I simply can’t take it off myself. And it’s so late, Eve will be asleep already. It wouldn’t be fair to wake her.”
They both wanted to perish, to melt into the floor. Vi’s ears were burning red as she anxiously clenched her hands at her sides, before placing them on her hips.
You looked up sweetly. “Ser Caitlyn? Will you assist me?”
“Princess-”
“Now,” you commanded, holding out your hand for her to pull you up.
The Knight sighed, but helped you up. Keeping your grip on her hand, you led her into the centre of your room.
You moved your hair off your back, pulling it over your shoulder. “My dress laces in the back,” you instructed softly, with a sweet voice.
Caitlyn looked down at the elegant line of your back, feeling her heart beating faster. She pulled off her gloves, looking around for somewhere to put them, considering just dropping them on the floor.
You quickly glanced at her. “I’ll hold them for you?”
She hesitated, but handed them to you. You rubbed your fingers over the soft material, admiring the careful craftsmanship, as Caitlyn started unlacing your dress. She slowly opened the luxurious fabric, gradually revealing your shift.
Her breath started coming faster.
You heard it, smiling in satisfaction.
You turned your gaze to Vi, who was looking away. “Ser Vi, did you like my dress tonight?”
The shorter Knight coughed. “Princess?”
“Did you like my dress?” you asked again, more slowly.
“You… You always look beautiful.”
Your heart skipped a beat. Your face burst into a grin as Caitlyn eased your dress down your hips. You stepped out of it, now standing in just your chemise and corset, your cleavage almost spilling over the top.
“And you, Ser Caitlyn? Did you like my dress?”
Caitlyn scooped up your dress, draping it across the end of your bed. Heading back over to you, she tried not to look at your body. “I agree with Ser Vi.”
You giggled. “So, you think I’m beautiful, too?”
She started unlacing the back of your corset. “I may have lost an eye, but I’m not blind, Your Grace.”
Heat flushed your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop smiling. “Well, that is good to know.”
Caitlyn slowly unlaced your corset, letting you slip it off when she was done. You tossed it down onto your vanity stool, turning to both of them, proudly only in your thin cotton shift.
“Thank you, Ser Caitlyn. Your care is gratefully appreciated.”
Her Knight, cheeks red, just nodded. “It was my pleasure, Your Grace. Goodnight.”
She and Vi headed through to their rooms, closing the door behind them. Giggly with excitement, you headed to bed, grinning madly as you settled under the covers.
They admitted you were beautiful…
The summons arrived before Caitlyn and Vi had even finished dressing the next morning. A Palace guard knocked on their door, and simply spoke four terrifying words.
The King summons you.
Vi looked over her shoulder at Caitlyn. ‘We’re dead’, her eyes said.
Caitlyn walked with measured steps through the corridors on their way to the King’s private chambers. “We have maintained decorum,” she said.
“We absolutely have not,” Vi replied.
Caitlyn paused. “… We have attempted to maintain decorum.”
“Yeah,” the shorter Knight muttered. “And now he knows.”
Rumours travelled fast in palaces. A glance here, a whisper there, the Princess glowing like a newlywed whenever you were with them.
Of course he knew.
The King’s rooms were colder than yours. The fire wasn’t built as large, the décor not as plush.
The Kingdom’s leader sat at his desk, breaking his fast with bread, fruit, and coffee. They approached, knelt, heads bowed.
“Ser Caitlyn. Ser Vi,” he greeted.
Neither dared look up.
“Your Majesty,” Caitlyn said.
There was a stretch of silence. Vi braced for impact.
The King sighed, wiping his fingers on a cloth, leaning back in his chair. Not angry. Weary. “Do you know,” he began, “How many complaints I have received from your predecessors?”
Caitlyn’s stomach dropped.
Here it comes.
“No, Your Majesty,” she said carefully.
“An astonishing number,” he continued. “Distraction. Impropriety. Emotional entanglement. Inability to remain unaffected.”
Vi closed her eyes.
Yep. That was them. Finished. Dead.
“I was beginning to fear,” the King went on, “That my daughter – as sweet and kind as she is – would never learn the difference between genuine fondness and manipulation.”
They blinked.
“I have been watching,” he continued. “As have others.”
Oh no.
Vi considered falling on her sword right there.
Instead, the King studied them with something that looked almost like approval. “She is still herself,” he said. “Bright. Incorrigible.”
Accurate.
“But she has not driven you away.”
They hesitated.
“I hear no grievances from you,” he continued. “No petitions for reassignment. No wounded pride.”
Caitlyn and Vi exchanged the tiniest glance.
Because they were too busy falling in love with you.
The King nodded, satisfied. “You treat her with respect,” he said. “You do not indulge her, and yet you are kind. And as last night proves, you will protect her with your lives.”
Caitlyn felt something twist in her chest.
He thought… He thought they were succeeding.
“I am grateful,” the King finished.
Grateful.
Vi’s brain stopped functioning.
“Your Majesty,” she managed faintly, “We are only doing our duty.”
“And doing it well,” he said firmly. He rose, approaching them. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “I could not ask for better guardians for my daughter.”
Oh, that was so much worse.
Caitlyn bowed her head, the weight of honour felt heavier than any accusation. “It is our honour to protect the Crown’s heir, Your Majesty” she said.
Vi followed suit. “We will continue to serve, until our last breath.”
The King smiled. “I know you will.”
They exited the room in silence. They walked halfway down the corridor, before they stopped.
Vi turned to Caitlyn. “We are terrible people,” she said.
Caitlyn pressed her fingers to her temples. “He thanked us.”
“He thanked us.”
“He trusts us.”
“Yeah,” Vi breathed. “We’re doomed.”
Because the King saw discipline, loyalty, restraint.
What he did not see was how thin the ice had become. How one more look, one more whisper from you, might shatter everything.
Caitlyn exhaled slowly. “We cannot fail,” she said.
Vi nodded.
Resolved, terrified… Utterly in love.
They knocked on your outer door when they knew you’d be awake.
“Enter,” you called.
Sunlight spilled through tall windows, your balcony free of guards from the night before. Eve stood behind you, fingers busy with your corset’s laces, tugging the garment snug while you held a bedpost.
You turned your head when they entered. You smiled, then paused.
Something was wrong.
Caitlyn looked too formal, Vi too quiet. Both of them standing like they were awaiting punishment.
“Good morning,” you said carefully.
“Your Grace,” they replied in unison.
Eve’s eyes flicked between them; she saw it too.
You, ever perceptive beneath your mischief, softened your voice. “Are there any developments since last night?”
“No,” Caitlyn said at once. Too quick.
Vi coughed.
You hummed.
Eve tied the final knot and stepped back. “All done,” she said.
You caught her hand before she could move away. “Give us a moment, please,” you murmured.
Eve hesitated, and looked at the Knights, who suddenly appeared deeply alarmed by the idea of being alone with you, particularly in your current state of undress.
Nevertheless, she obeyed. She curtsied to you, and slipped out.
The door closed.
You turned slowly. “Well..?” you said.
Caitlyn folded her hands behind her back. “Your schedule today-”
You shook your head, placing your hands on your waist. “Can wait.”
Vi shifted her weight.
You stepped closer, studying their faces. “You both look like you’re on your way to confess.”
Caitlyn almost flinched.
You frowned. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” the blue-haired Knight insisted.
You raised a brow. Then you did something terribly unfair: you took Caitlyn’s hand. Not seductively, not wickedly. Just a soft touch. “Cait,” you said, gentle now, “Tell me.”
Caitlyn melted instantly, which was humiliating. “I…”
She glanced at Vi helplessly.
Vi lasted three seconds under your expectant stare, cracking like cheap pottery. “Your father called us in,” she blurted.
You blinked. “My father?”
“Yes,” Vi rushed on, words tumbling now that they’d started. “We thought he’d heard things, that we were being inappropriate, that he was going to reassign us-”
Your jaw dropped. “What?!”
“He thanked us,” Vi finished miserably.
You stared. “Thanked you?”
“For never complaining about you,” Caitlyn explained, keeping her eyes on the floor. “For serving you well. For resisting your… Charms.”
There was a pause.
Your shoulders began to shake.
Caitlyn looked up, horrified.
You were laughing. Not a polite giggle, not a royal titter. Full, helpless, delighted laughter. “Oh, that is magnificent,” you gasped. “He thinks you’re actually coping!” You pressed a hand to your mouth, near tears. “He thinks you’re immune to me.”
“Yes,” Vi said flatly.
That only made it worse.
You laughed harder.
Caitlyn watched you, half miserable, half completely undone by how beautiful you were when you lost control.
“Your father trusts us,” she said quietly.
The humour softened.
You saw the guilt behind their eyes, their pained and conflicted expressions. “You are trustworthy.”
That landed harder than the teasing.
“We would never hurt you,” Vi said at once.
“I know,” you replied. You smiled again, mischief creeping back in. “But it is very funny,” you added.
Vi threw her head back. “Unbelievable.”
You stepped closer to her. You carefully took off her heavy gauntlets, handing each one to Caitlyn as you did. When her wrapped hands were free, you took one.
“Help me dress?”
It was an order. A gentle one.
Vi followed you automatically as you pulled her over to the end of your bed where your dress was laid out. She helped you step into it, pulling the heavy fabric over your hips and up your torso. You slipped your arms into the loose sleeves, holding the top of the dress to your chest whilst Vi’s fingers carefully tied the laces in the back.
You felt her breath on the back of your neck, listening to her as she tried to ignore how close you were.
“My poor, honourable Knights,” you teased softly.
Vi shot you a look. “Don’t start.”
You smiled. “Oh, we passed the starting point a long time ago, Ser Vi,” you flirted.
Now you had new ammunition. Because if your father thought they were handling you well…
… You could misbehave forever.
Incense drifted through the cathedral air. Light poured down from the high windows in pale rivers, gilding marble, catching on gold thread and polished armour. Every footstep echoed. Every cough sounded criminal.
The Kingdom knelt.
On the front row, beneath vaulted stone and the watching Gods, you stood between your Knights in solemn stillness. You wore ceremonial white, modest, regal, composed. A portrait of obedience, even though you didn’t strongly observe the faith of your people. But, of course, as the heir to the Crown, you had to be seen before the Gods.
Caitlyn stood at your right shoulder, tall as a tower, hands folded as she kept her eye moving around the ornate building. Vi was on your left, broad and immovable, eyes forward, jaw set.
Silence ruled whilst the Leader of the Faith chanted, a slow and pious drone.
It obviously didn’t last long, not with you standing between your Knights.
Then you leaned the smallest fraction toward Vi. “You look very severe today,” you whispered.
Vi barely moved her lips. “It’s a service.”
“I know.”
Caitlyn remained statue-still. “Your Grace, please.”
You raised your clasped hands. “I’m being good.”
You all knew you were not.
Another stretch of quiet. The choir began, voices rising like smoke.
You let your hip brush Vi’s.
Vi inhaled carefully through her nose.
You tilted your chin up toward Caitlyn, who had perfected the art of staring into the middle distance while everything in her life caught fire.
“Ser Caitlyn,” you murmured, barely sound at all, “From up there you must see everything.”
Caitlyn knew better than to answer, so she did not.
You leaned a breath closer. “Tell me,” you whispered, “From your great height… Can you see down the front of my dress?”
Vi choked. It emerged as a cough, which she quickly tried to disguise as reverence.
Caitlyn’s fingers tightened together.
Do not look. Do not even think about looking.
The Gods were literally watching.
“I would never,” Caitlyn ground out under her breath.
Your lashes fluttered. “Oh,” you said, wounded innocence perfected. “I wondered if perhaps you had. Like last night, whilst I was knelt before you both, in front of the fire.”
Caitlyn stared so hard at the altar she might have burned a hole through it.
Vi muttered, “Princess…”
“What?” you breathed.
“You are trying to get us struck down.”
You smiled faintly.
The Leader droned on.
A bell rang somewhere high above.
Caitlyn became acutely, painfully aware of her height. And that she was absolutely not looking. Which meant she was thinking about it. Which was worse.
You caught the tension in the line of her shoulders, the rigid discipline. Your heart fluttered.
They wanted to be good.
They were trying so hard.
It made you want to ruin them.
“Forgive me,” you murmured, tone almost sincere.
Caitlyn swallowed. “For what, Your Highness?”
Your mouth curved. “For being a distraction in a place of devotion.”
Vi made a soft, despairing sound. “Please,” she whispered, composure hanging by a thread, “Have mercy.”
You caught her eye, angelic once more. “As you wish, Ser.”
By the time the service ended, Caitlyn was wrung tight as wire, Vi looked like she’d fought a war, and you glowed with the dangerous satisfaction of someone who had discovered an entirely new method of torture.
As the congregation rose, Caitlyn leaned down just enough to murmur, “One day,” she said quietly, “Your Grace will push too far.”
You looked up at her, thrilled. “I am very eager to find out what you look like when you snap.”
As you left and headed into the carriage to take you back to Palace, noise from the crowd softened to a distant wash. Silence settled inside, thick and intimate.
You sat opposite them, hands folded neatly in your lap, every inch the picture of royal composure. Your eyes, however, were catastrophic.
Caitlyn attempted, futilely, to reclaim authority. “Your Grace,” she said, posture sharpening, “We would prefer to maintain a respectful boundary.”
You softened. “I know,” you said gently.
The teasing faded for just a second, replaced by sincerity that made them both look at you.
“I would never truly make it hard for you,” you added. “Not in a way you didn’t want.”
Oh, that was new.
The air changed.
Vi swallowed thickly. Caitlyn’s discipline wavered.
Because beneath the brat was kindness. Choice. Care.
You saw it land, saw how much it mattered. Then, because you were still you, you smiled again. “But until actually you tell me to stop,” you added, “I will assume I’m behaving exactly as you’d like me to.”
Vi dropped her head back against the carriage wall. Caitlyn looked like she wanted to throw herself out the carriage.
The monthly banquet was in full swing. Music filled the hall, silverware chimed, candles burned low and golden. Diplomats laughed too loudly. Nobles watched one another with careful eyes.
Caitlyn and Vi stood their positions behind your chair, ever alert, the very image of Knightly discipline. They scanned the room, constantly on the lookout for threats. The assassination attempt a month prior had come to nothing – a lone assassin wanting to make a political statement – so the King had approved the monthly banquet to go ahead.
At the high table, you were radiant. An angel of the realm. Your gold dress adorned with pearls shimmered whenever it caught the light, making you look ethereal when you moved. You dined happily, drank politely, and danced merrily all night.
To everyone else, you were a youthful and vibrant Princess, enjoying your life.
To Caitlyn and Vi, you were a temptress, daring them to break their vow to remain professional with you.
Whenever you danced, you made sure they watched you.
When you drank from a cup, your caught their gaze, keeping eye contact as you licked your lips clean.
Their hands clenched the weapons at their sides.
You were making their lives miserable…
… And they adored you for it.
When the feast was over, well into the night, they escorted you back to your rooms. You weren’t drunk – you were a Princess; you were never drunk – but you were joyously light-hearted from wine.
You walked between them happily, your mischief no longer playful, but sharpened into decision.
Tonight.
You were done waiting.
Done with glances, and flirtation, and whispered torment. Your Knights had been by your side for almost half a year; you would wait no longer.
Caitlyn opened your door for you, stepping in first – to scope the room for threats – before standing aside and letting you enter. Vi shut the door behind her.
Eve was already inside, pouring some of your favourite lavender oil into your steaming bath. She looked up when the door opened, smiling gently at you as she curtseyed.
“Your bath is ready, Your Grace. Shall I undress you-?”
You shook your head. “Thank you, Eve, that will be all.”
The whole room paused.
Your maid hesitated, looking between you and the nervous Knights. “Yo-Your Grace?”
“That will be all, Eve, thank you. You are dismissed. Goodnight,” you called, heading to your vanity and starting to remove your jewellery.
She regarded the three of you closely, seeing the determined look in your eyes, the way the Knights stood as if awaiting execution. “Very well, Your Grace. Have a… Pleasant evening.”
She curtseyed again, head ducked low as she left the room, eyes lingering on you as you removed your necklace. When you didn’t look her way, she closed the door, knowing nothing would be the same in the morning.
“Ser Vi?” you called.
The Knight looked up, startled.
“My dress?” you turned your back towards her a little.
Vi swallowed, clearing her throat. “Your Grace-”
“Now.”
Her eyes flicked to Caitlyn, who just gave her a small nod. It was a command, after all.
Vi approached you slowly, cautiously. Taking off her gauntlets, she placed them on the floor by your vanity. With now-practiced fingers, she started unlacing the back of your dress, hearing you sigh softly in relief as the heavy material slid down your body.
Rolling your shoulders, you looked back at Caitlyn. “My corset, Ser Caitlyn?”
The blue-haired Knight clenched her jaw for a second, but stepped forward. As she had done many times before, she worked open the strings of your corset, trying to ignore your contented groans as the restrictive garment was released.
Standing before them in just your shift, you headed over to the bath.
“Your Grace, we should-”
“Stay,” you instructed, pulling your chemise over your head.
You heard them audibly gasp, Vi even cursing under her breath. They tried not to look – they truly did – but you were captivating. Their eyes looked over the curves of your hips, the elegant line of your back, the swell of your buttocks.
With a soft smirk, you climbed into the large wooden tub, and turned around. You watched as their eyes widened further, their jaws clenched, their chests started to heave under their armour. They tried to keep their eyes on your face, but after only a second, their gaze drifted down your body. They took in your breasts, the soft skin of your stomach, the trimmed hair over your centre.
“Mercy, Your Grace,” Vi whispered.
You giggled gently, sitting down in the bath, closing your eyes in delight as the hot water encased your body. “Have you had an enjoyable evening, my Knights?”
Caitlyn tore her eye away from your breasts, forcing herself to look into your eyes. “Your Grace, this is not permissible.”
You nodded gently. “So leave.”
They both swallowed.
“If this truly is unforgiveable, if I truly am going beyond the pale, if you truly cannot stand to be near me now… Leave. The door is right there, either to your rooms or out into the corridor. You can talk to my father in the morning and tell him what a wicked little succubus I am, taunting and teasing you, trying to sway you away from your promise to him. How corrupt I am. How you cannot stay in my service for another minute.
“Or…
“You can stay. You could stay with me… Be with me. All of us, together. I am tired of pretending that this is not what I want. And I believe – perhaps hope – that that is what you both want too? No?”
Vi shifted her weight from side to side, unable to settle; Caitlyn straightened, leather gloves creaking from how tightly she clenched her fists.
Your voice gentled. “I am not made of glass,” you said. “You would not be stealing something from me.”
Caitlyn’s composure trembled. “It is not that simple, and you know it.”
“I do,” you replied. And you did. “Anything that happens in this room will have consequences. Be it tomorrow, or in a week, or a decade from now. There was a kingdom outside this door. My father, the King, has put his trust in you. At some point, I will be expected to continue my family’s legacy through marriage and children.
“But that time is not now,” you smiled softly. “For now… I want you. Do you want me? Or do you want to leave?”
You were afraid of their answer.
The air in the room felt heavy as you waited. They looked at each other for the longest time, your heart sinking with every passing second.
You had ruined it.
Just like you ruin everything.
With your brattiness, your inability to behave, your refusal to act like a respectable princess.
Why did you have to –
Caitlyn and Vi removed their cloaks from their shoulders, laying the gold and navy material over the backs of the chairs at your small dining table. They started unbuckling the clasps of their armour, carefully placing each piece on the table.
As they finished removing their greaves, you realised that you had never seen them without their armour on before. And now you felt blessed…
Caitlyn’s curves were to die for, the long shape of her legs under her skin-tight breeches drawing you in. Vi pulled her linen shirt over her head, standing before her Wife with her chest wrapped, muscled arms and toned abs on proud display.
You watched as they cupped the back of each other’s necks, resting their foreheads together as they whispered to each other, eyes closed. Were they assuring each other of their love? Praying to the gods for forgiveness? You didn’t know if you’d ever find out.
Then they looked to you, breathing heavy as they watched you kneel up in the bath, the water cascading down your naked form.
“Fuck…” Vi mumbled.
Caitlyn shifted her hold on Vi and began kissing her neck. The shorter Knight’s eyes briefly closed in pleasure, but then shot open again, as if remembering the sight in front of her. Her eyes trailed up and down your body, clearly taking you in.
You took them in, too. You had never witnessed anything like this before; as a princess, you were not expected to know about such things until you were married. You watched with arousal and fascination as the two women across the room embraced tightly, Vi turning her head back to Caitlyn so they could kiss. You saw them slip their tongues against each other, breathing turning into pants as they pulled one another as close as could be.
“My Knights…” you called timidly.
That broke them apart. They ended their kiss, both looking at you through darkened eyes.
“Are you feeling neglected, Princess?” Caitlyn asked, slowly heading over to you.
As she drew closer, you became more and more aware of your height difference. Kneeling in the tub, you had to crane your head back to look at her. Even coming up onto your knees didn’t help much.
“Kiss me?” you asked, almost pleadingly.
Caitlyn huffed a little, leaning down and resting her hands on the tub’s wide edge. Your faces were still inches apart. “You think you deserve it? After the hell you’ve put us through for months?”
You frowned. “What if I command it?”
She raised her eyebrows, Vi chuckling lowly next to her.
“Really, Princess? You think that will work on us?”
Your frown deepened. “I command you both to kiss me,” you pouted.
Vi laughed aloud. “Oh, I think we can drop the ‘Princess-Knights’ act now, Y/N.”
“Vi’s right, little one,” Caitlyn taunted. “We crossed that line a long time ago; we just didn’t want to accept it.”
“So you won’t kiss me?” you snapped, shocked and offended.
Vi shook her head, reaching out and cupping your chin, turning your head to her. “We’re going to do much more than that, princess.”
“Eventually,” Caitlyn added mockingly.
“But that’s not fair!”
“You want to know what’s not fair, baby?” Vi asked. “You. Teasing us, and taunting us, and flirting with us for months. Knowing we couldn’t do anything about it.”
“And now we can,” Caitlyn purred dangerously in your ear.
Vi squeezed your chin a little. “Do you repent, Y/N?”
You whimpered. “Wh… What?”
“Are you sorry for your behaviour?” Caitlyn clarified.
“But…” you protested, “I was only having fun!”
They both shook their heads in dramatic, over-the-top disappointment.
“Well, that is a shame.”
“I agree, Vi. I think I know how we should rectify that.”
All of a sudden, Vi hauled you out of the bath, throwing you over her shoulder, completely uncaring of the water she brought with her.
“Vi!” you cried out, bracing your hands on her back – which you now discovered was tattooed! – as she carried you across the room. Roughly throwing you down onto the bed, you lost your bearings as you bounced on the mattress. “What are you doing?”
“Correcting a spoiled brat who thinks there are no consequences to her actions,” Vi smirked. Her bandaged hands grabbed your bare hips, rolling you onto your front. She pulled you back, so your legs hung off the end of the bed, with you bent at the waist.
Caitlyn’s gloved hands pulled your arms behind your back, clasping your wrists together. Vi braced one leg across the back of yours, stopping your movement. Catching Caitlyn’s eye, she smirked as she started to unwrap her chest.
You continued to struggle, looking over your shoulder as best you could. When you saw Vi freeing her breasts, you openly stared, your mouth watering as her beautiful flesh was revealed to you. You longed to touch them, to hold them, to kiss them…
Caitlyn saw, nudging your shoulder down to the bed, trying to break your line of sight.
“No! No, I want to see!” you objected, almost tearfully, trying to keep your eyes on Vi’s breasts, but Caitlyn forced your shoulder back down to the bed. “I want to see you!”
“You’ll see when you’ve earned it.”
“No, please!” you whined, feeling Vi starting to bind your wrists together using the same wraps she had just taken off her chest. The lingering warmth on the linen strips comforted you, even as your movement was now completely restricted by your two cruel Knights.
“That’s much better, isn’t it, Vi?”
The pink-haired Knight chuckled lowly, running a hand across your bare and exposed buttocks. “Definitely, Cupcake. This is such a pretty view.”
Your cheeks flushed as you panted, happy – even then – to know that Vi thought you were pretty.
“Such a shame about the attitude.”
“I don’t have an attitude!” you argued. Proving them right.
They both just chuckled.
“Are you sorry for your bad behaviour?” Caitlyn asks again.
You huffed. “No. No, I’m not. Because it’s gotten me what I wanted!” you said proudly, trying to lift your upper body to smirk at them, but Caitlyn just pushed you back down with a simple shove.
“You wanted to be tied up for us? Some innocent princess, you are,” Vi mocked.
Caitlyn rested one hand on the back of your head gently, the other stroking your hip closest to her. “Indeed. I wonder what else this little minx has thought about.”
You blushed. “I heard you…”
“What was that?”
You cleared your throat softly, speaking more clearly. “I heard you one time. Through the door. I was reading late, and there were noises, and then I heard you both call my name.”
Caitlyn and Vi paused. They hadn’t known that.
“Since then, I’ve imagined you saying my name, at night. Imagining what I would need to do to make you say my name like that again.”
“And what did you come up with?” Vi asked, squeezing a buttock.
You shook your head. “Nothing, really. I don’t know anything,” you said sadly. “I just thought about kissing you.”
Caitlyn asked, “Kissing where?”
You frowned, confused. “Your lips..?” Where else would you kiss?
They both chuckled again, obviously in on a secret. You pouted again, bucking your hips in protest.
To your immense surprise, Caitlyn struck a blow against your ass, stinging your cheek. “No, no, none of that.”
You gasp at the sting, in complete disbelief that she would strike you. “Caitlyn!”
“What? Did you think you weren’t going to be punished for your behaviour?”
“But… You hit me!”
“A spank, little one,” she corrected firmly, squeezing the spot she had just struck. “Were you never disciplined as a child?”
“Not like this!”
Vi scoffed. “Explains a lot.”
“Vi!”
The shorter Knight landed her own blow on your other cheek, her touch rougher from her hand-wraps. You cried out, trying to squirm away, but they held you in place with ease.
“Do you repent?” Caitlyn asked again.
You grunted moodily, “I’ve nothing to apologise for!”
Vi sighed heavily. “Cupcake, I think we both know what we have to do.”
“Indeed, Violet. Shall we begin?”
“Ready when you are.”
You lifted your head in alarm. “What are you-? Ow!”
Caitlyn spanked your ass again, followed immediately by Vi on the other cheek. They completely ignored your protests, spanking you in tandem as you squealed and cried out, trying to kick your legs. Vi’s leg kept yours down, and Caitlyn rested a hand on your upper back, forcing your body flat, completely immobilised.
“This isn’t fair!”
They both gave you another strike each.
“Yes, it is,” Vi denied. “You were a little tease for months.”
“And now we’re going to correct your behaviour.”
You don’t know how long they continued, but they were unrelenting in their corrections. Some spanks were soft, some took your breath away. Some were sharp and stinging, some felt like thuds. You noticed that Caitlyn’s were often the former, and Vi’s the latter.
From time to time, one of them would ask if you repented your behaviour, if you were sorry for how you had acted since the day you met them. Every time, you protested, trying to escape their clutches. Always to no avail.
You stopped resisting after a while. As the sting and the pain started to grow stronger and began to overcome you, tears started slowly escaping, making their way down your cheeks. You sniffled and whimpered, now just accepting their punishment.
Maybe you had been bad? Perhaps you had been misbehaving?
With what felt like a final blow, Vi asked, “Do you repent, Y/N?”
You took a deep, shaky breath. Mumbling into the covers, you responded, “Yes. Yes, I repent.”
Caitlyn moved her hand from your back to under your chin, lifting your head a little. “Speak clearly now, Your Grace.”
“I repent for my behaviour,” you said, a little louder, through a clammy nose.
Their hold of you immediately softened. Vi moved her leg, freeing yours, as she sat down on the end of the bed. They both helped you up, moving you onto Vi’s lap. You rested back against her strong torso, gently weeping.
“Are you sorry, little one?” Caitlyn asked softly, crouching down in front of you, her hands on your trembling knees.
You whimpered through your tears. “Yes, Caitlyn.”
Vi asked in your ear, “What are you sorry for?”
“For being a tease,” you hiccupped.
“Good girl,” Vi said softly, stroking your head.
You whimpered, your eyes closing. Your bare skin pressed against Vi’s naked torso, and you flushed with the knowledge that her breasts were pressed against your back. Your arms twitched, and you become aware again of your wrists tied behind your back. Neither of them made any move to release them, so you didn’t ask them to.
“Feeling emotional after a punishment is normal, sweetheart,” Caitlyn explained kindly. “I’ll get you a drink, help you settle.”
She stood up, crossing to your side table upon which sat a waiting decanter of wine, a sweet Ionian red. She poured a large glass, heading back over to the bed. She held the glass to your lips, tipping gently whilst you sipped. When you nodded your head softly, she moved the glass to Vi’s lips. Her Wife took a long drink, before Caitlyn finished the glass.
“Feeling better, baby?” Vi asked softly, nuzzling the side of your neck as Caitlyn put the glass back on the table.
You exhaled slowly, nodding. “Yes, Vi.”
Caitlyn came back over to you both, kneeling in front of you once more. She gently eased your legs apart, keeping her gaze locked with yours as she did. Your eyes widened as your most intimate part was slowly exposed, her head only a foot away from you.
“Would you like your reward now, princess?” she asked, using the word not as your title, but as an endearment.
And you melted inside for it.
You nodded desperately, earning a chuckle from Vi. “Yes, please.”
“Good girl.”
Caitlyn leant down, placing a gentle kiss to your knee. Then a kiss to the other. Vi traced her fingertips up and down your sides, tickling you and tantalising you in equal measure. They both enjoyed how sensitive you were, your body twitching between them.
Caitlyn slowly started kissing her way up the inside of your thighs, getting ever-closer to your dripping centre. Your scent filled her head, her mouth watering the closer she got. She lifted one of your legs, resting it on her shoulder. Meeting your eyes, she lifted the other. Your heart pounded in your ears as you finally understood what she was about to do.
“Caitlyn..?”
She shushed you gently. “Relax, darling.”
Vi nudged her nose just under your ear. “It’ll feel amazing, baby; just let Cait work.”
You trusted them both – with your very life – but you couldn’t shake the nerves taking over. Would Caitlyn really put her mouth there? Was that something people did? Was it something only women did? Or just Caitlyn and Vi? Were you clean enough? You’d bathed properly before the feast, and you had been in the bath not even an hour ago, but still—
Caitlyn pressed her the flat of her tongue against you. You gasped loudly, your hips jolting. She did it again, moving her wet muscle up and down your lips. Your legs immediately shook over her shoulders.
“Cait-!” you choked out.
Vi chuckled in your ear. “See? I told you it would be amazing.” She slid her hands up your stomach, cupping your breasts.
You tossed your head back against Vi’s shoulder, your eyes squinting closed against the pleasure spreading through you. It all felt wonderful, every touch of her tongue making your toes curl, but one spot at the top of your centre made you see stars, and Caitlyn paid a lot of attention to it.
“I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” Vi soothed in your ear. “Just relax, and enjoy. Let Cait make you feel good.” She started sucking on your shoulder, all of you knowing a mark would be there in the morning. And none of you cared.
Caitlyn continued to lick and suck on your lips and button, smiling against you with every moan, groan, and plead. She held the flesh of your hips, squeezing softly as she kept you against her mouth. Your juices flowed over her mouth and chin, so sweet on her tongue. They had waited so long to have you, and you were worth every second passed.
When Caitlyn sucked on your button, you moaned, louder than you had yet, and Vi quickly hushed you.
She slipped her middle- and ring-fingers into your mouth, pressing her lips to your ear. “Quiet, baby. We can’t have people knocking.”
You couldn’t control yourself, your hips lifting and jolting against Caitlyn’s mouth, but she paid no mind. Slipping her arms tighter around your hips, she kept you pressed against her, her mouth never stopping its movement on your clit.
“Fuck…” you mumbled in a whimper around Vi’s fingers, your eyes crossing under your lids. “I-I can’t…”
Your gasps started to come faster, your hips rocking harder against Caitlyn’s mouth, your mouth sucking faster on Vi’s fingers. You felt as if you were climbing a hill, and you were just about to reach the top…
Vi suddenly withdrew her fingers, covering your mouth with her hand. “Finish for us, baby. Do it now.”
You didn’t know how, but your body obeyed. Your centre erupted in a cacophony of pleasure, waves of ecstasy washing over you and filling you up. Your heart pounded in your chest, and your core pulsed, slickening Caitlyn’s mouth and chin. The blue-haired Knight moaned against your flesh, pulling you closer to her by your hips as she drank you down, guzzling your juices as they poured into her mouth.
“Fuck, baby, you’re perfect,” Vi praised in your ear. “You’re so perfect for us, you did such a good job.”
Your eyes crossed and went out of focus, your mouth gasping under Vi’s hand. You twitched and shook and trembled in their grip, your body unable to be still as the pleasure rolled through you.
Your first climax.
They held you gently as your body slowed, Vi releasing your mouth, letting you gasp and take deep breaths. You turned your head to nuzzle against Vi’s jaw, as Caitlyn reluctantly released your clit from her mouth, earning a groan and twitch.
She smiled up at you, “And that’s just the start, princess.”
if ur taking requests, can i ask for maekar x baelor's daughter? something hidden from everyone because reader is baelor's little girl and he would absolutely be pissed about it👀
ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ summary: You, Baelor's one and only daughter, his favourite child, are determined to help your uncle Maekar get through the grief of losing his wife.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x niece!reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | targcest | smut | filthy smut | yearning | guilt | age gap| stressing out this poor old man| word count 4k
─ a/n: I got a little carried away here, but this was such a good request, and I loved writing it. As always, thank you for likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. Much love. 🖤
The Red Keep was alive with the sort of boisterous, glittering life that only a royal feast could summon. A hundred tallow candles burned in silver sconces along the stone walls, their light dancing across the long tables laden with food. You sat at the high table, a world away from the chaos, yet at its very centre.
"Another?" Your father, Baelor, leaned in, his voice a low, warm rumble that cut through the din with ease. He held a silver pitcher, the light from the massive chandeliers glinting off the intricate dragon heads that formed its handle. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at you.
You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "No, Father. I am quite well." You placed a hand over his, where it rested on the table. You were his youngest, his only daughter, and the absolute, unchallenged centre of his world. Of course, he loved your brothers, but you; you were his greatest treasure, his clear favourite. You went everywhere with him, from the small council chambers to the royal sept, and you spoke with him about everything and nothing, a comfortable stream of chatter that he seemed to absorb like sunlight.
He gave your hand a squeeze before releasing it, turning to speak with a lord who had approached. Your gaze drifted over the hall, not missing the way men watched you. Knights and lords from every corner of the realm, their eyes speculative and hungry. To win your favour was to win the ear of the future king, a fact you were not naive enough to ignore. Though you were polite to them all, offering a kind word or a practised smile, your heart remained a still, unmoved pool within your chest.
A shadow fell over your side of the table, and you did not need to look up to know who it was.
"Cousin," Aerion's voice was a silken purr, laced with the arrogance that came so naturally to him. He slid beside you, far closer than propriety strictly allowed. "You look like a star fallen to earth tonight."
You turned your head, meeting his pale lilac eyes. He was handsome, there was no denying it, but his beauty was cold and brittle, much like him.
"Aerion, you are in high spirits."
"Always, when I am near you," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you not feel it? How the fire in our blood calls to one another. You need a man who understands your true nature. These suitors are an insult to you."
You had heard a version of this from him at least a hundred times. A litany of fire and blood and destiny.
"It is not I whom you must convince, dear cousin," you replied, turning your attention back to your goblet of watered wine. "Perhaps you should save your grand pronouncements for my father."
He chuckled, a low, smug sound. "You and I both know that is a lie."
You said nothing, merely tracing a condensation ring on the table with your fingertip. Your father, finished with his conversation, glanced over at Aerion, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly. Baelor was fiercely protective, skeptical of every man who dared to look at you with a sliver of interest. He had made his position clear to you. You would marry who you chose, in your own time, or not at all. He would sooner see you live out your days as an unmarried spinster princess in the Red Keep than force you into a bed and a life you did not want.
Before you could rebuff Aerion politely, your father's voice cut in, cool and sharp. "Aerion. My daughter is tired." He placed a hand on your shoulder, a gesture of both affection and possession. "And I believe Valarr wished to speak with you about the upcoming tournament."
It was a dismissal, clear and absolute. Aerion's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before the smooth mask slid back into place. He gave you a short, sharp bow. "Princess. Your Grace."
You let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. "Thank you, Father."
Baelor's hand remained on your shoulder. "Where did your uncle go wrong with him?"
Your eyes scanned the hall again, looking for the aforementioned uncle. He was seated several chairs down, a figure carved from shadow and sternness, not participating in the revelry. He sat with his back straight, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his dark tunic, a goblet of wine untouched before him. He was a man hollowed out by grief.
You had always thought him handsome, in a severe, imposing way. Even as a girl, you had admired his strength, the way he carried himself with the unshakeable confidence of a warrior. But that was before his wife had died. The light in him had gone out, replaced by a cold, impenetrable gloom. He had become gruff, impatient, and quick to dismiss any attempt at conversation. Yet you, for reasons you could not fully explain, had made it your mission to bring that light back.
You would find him in the library, pulling out a book you had no intention of reading, just to sit in the same quiet space. You would accidentally find him walking in the gardens and fall into step beside him, filling the silence with stories about your day. You would sometimes even seek him out in the training yard and watch him practice. He never sent you away.
"Does your father encourage this incessant chatter?" he had grunted one afternoon as you sat with him in a quiet solar, detailing the drama between two of your ladies-in-waiting. He was staring into the fire, his profile sharp and severe.
You had flinched, your shoulders slumping, suddenly feeling foolish. The light in your eyes dimmed, and you had looked down at your feet, unable to meet his gaze. "I… I am sorry, Uncle. I did not mean to be a pest."
Maekar turned to look at you and saw the genuine hurt on your face, the way your lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly. He let out a long, slow breath, the anger seeming to drain out of him.
"I know you are in grief. I understand. I just, I do not want to see you in it forever. It is eating you alive."
Something in your words, in their raw, unvarnished honesty, had broken through his armour. He felt a pang of guilt, sharp and unpleasant. He, a grown man, a prince, had made his niece, who was nothing but kindness and stubborn concern, feel small. He had to admit, if only to himself, that in the long, silent months since Dyanna's death, your persistent, cheerful presence was the only thing that brought him a sliver of joy. You were spoiled and often said silly things, but you were also passionate and sweet. The only person who had consistently tried to reach him through the thick fog of his sorrow, and he appreciated it. He truly did.
"I apologize," he said, his voice gruff but no longer harsh. "That was unkind of me. Do not stop speaking, it is not unwelcome."
A slow, hesitant smile had spread across your face, your eyes sparkling. "Truly?"
He gave a curt nod, a faint flush on his pale cheeks. "Truly. Now, what did Lady Celia say?"
From that day on, the dynamic between you had shifted. You still did most of the talking, a constant, flowing river of words about court gossip, about books you were reading, about a particularly stubborn falcon you were trying to train. He was content to listen, offering a grunt of acknowledgment, a nod of his head, or a rare, dry comment that never failed to make you laugh. He found himself looking forward to your appearances, to the way you could fill the crushing silence of his rooms with your vibrant energy. He had grown fond of your company, more than he would ever admit.
Watching him now, a resolve firmed in your chest. The feast was loud, Aerion was persistent, and your father's love, while a shield, was also a gilded cage. You needed air, and the calm you only ever seemed to find near him.
You excused yourself from the table, ignoring Baelor's questioning look, and made your way to Maekar. He did not look up.
"Uncle," you said, your voice soft.
His gaze lifted slowly. "Should you not be attending to your admirers?"
"They can entertain themselves for a while," you replied, a hint of your usual playful tone in your voice. "I was wondering… the weather is supposed to be fair tomorrow. Would you accompany me for a ride?" You held your breath, expecting the usual refusal, a gruff excuse about duties, or a simple, unadorned no.
But then he gave a short, sharp nod. "Very well."
A genuine, unforced smile bloomed on your face. "Wonderful. I will meet you in the stables after the morning meal."
He did not reply, just gave a slight inclination of his head, dismissing you.
The next morning, the air was crisp and cool, carrying the damp scent of earth and leaves. You found Maekar in the stables, already mounted on a powerful black stallion, a beast as dark and formidable as its rider.
"You are prompt," he noted, his voice a low rumble.
"I did not want to give you time to change your mind."
He almost smiled. "A wise assumption."
You rode out of the city gates, the noise and chaos of King's Landing fading behind you, replaced by the rhythmic thud of hooves on dirt and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. The ride was more pleasant than he had anticipated. He found himself relaxing, the perpetual knot of tension in his shoulders loosening for the first time in a long while. Maekar was enjoying himself, enjoying being near you.
He turned his head to look at you. You had tilted your face up to the sun, your eyes closed, a look of pure contentment on your face. The wind had loosened several strands of your hair from its braid, and they curled around your cheeks and throat. In that moment, he was struck by a thought so clear it was ridiculous he had never noticed. You were truly, breathtakingly beautiful. Not in the delicate, porcelain way of court ladies, but with a vibrant, wild beauty that was all your own. He realised, with a certainty that was both terrifying and comforting, that he wanted you in his life like this forever. This easy peace, this quiet companionship; it was the first true happiness he had felt since Dyanna died.
You must have felt his gaze, for you opened your eyes and turned to him, a wide, untroubled smile gracing your lips. The smile was for him, a gift freely given.
And then another thought, darker and hotter, slithered into his mind, unbidden and monstrous. It was a dirty, base thought that had no place in the sun-dappled peace of the woods. He wanted to pull you from that horse, tear the green leather from your body, and take you. He wanted to claim you, to possess you, to prove to you the man he was, to erase the memory of every foppish lord and foolish cousin who had ever dared to look at you. Gods, how he wanted to make you his.
The thought was so visceral, so shocking in its intensity, that he recoiled as a wave of disgust washed over him. You were his niece. Baelor's daughter. He was a monster. A foul, wretched creature.
He wrenched his gaze away from you, staring blindly into the dense, shadowed woods. He pulled sharply on his reins, his powerful horse dancing beneath him, its muscles bunching in protest. Every muscle in his own body went rigid. The easy peace was shattered.
He felt your eyes on him, questioning. "Uncle? Is everything alright? Did you see something?"
"No," he bit out, his voice harsh, foreign. He could not look at you. He could not bear to see that trusting, beautiful face. "It is nothing. We are heading back. Immediately."
The light in your face vanished, replaced by a confusion that quickly melted into a deep, palpable sadness. Your shoulders slumped, your hands stilling on the reins. You simply gave a small, resigned nod and turned your horse, urging it back toward the path you had taken.
The ride back was suffocatingly silent. You rode slightly behind him, watching his rigid back. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by the familiar, cold storm. You did not understand. The two of you had been so happy, so content, and then in a single moment it had all curdled. You replayed that look, that intense, searching gaze, trying to understand what you had seen, what you had done wrong.
When you finally reached the stables, the grooms rushed forward to take the horses. Maekar dismounted with stiff, jerky movements, his gloved hands adjusting the reins before passing them off without a word. You slid from your saddle, your boots landing softly in the straw, and approached him cautiously.
"Are you cross with me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "What have I done?"
Maekar turned to face you, his expression unreadable but for the slight tightening around his eyes. "I am not angry with you," he said, his tone clipped and formal. "But this will not continue anymore."
"This?" you questioned, stepping closer. "What do you mean?"
"This," he gestured vaguely between you. "These rides, these conversations. I have too much to do to spend my time babysitting you."
The word stung, sharp and dismissive. "I thought… I thought we were becoming friends."
"We are not friends. You are my niece, and I am your uncle. That is all we can be. You will stop wasting your time on me." He ran a hand through his silver-blonde hair, dislodging a few strands from their careful arrangement. "Go to your father. Pick a husband from your sea of admirers. Leave me be."
Instead of retreating as he clearly intended, you moved closer still, until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "And what if the man I want is right here in front of me?" you asked, your voice soft but deliberate. "Should I still go to my father then?"
Maekar took a sharp step back, his violet eyes widening in shock. "Do you hear yourself? The things you are suggesting..."
You followed his retreat, refusing to let him escape. "Is it mad to want you, Uncle? It was not my intention, and yet, I want you all the same. The one person who actually sees me, not just the princess or the prize."
"This attraction," his voice strained, "it is unnatural. Sinful. Vile. We are family. Blood."
"No one protests when Aerion pursues me day after day," you pressed, your hand reaching out to rest on his chest. You felt his heart hammering beneath your palm.
He caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "That is not the same."
You whispered, leaning into him. "Tell me you do not feel it too. Tell me you do not want me as I want you."
For a long moment he simply stared at you, his internal war visible in the shifting expressions on his face. The stern prince, the grieving widower, the man who had been alone for too long. Then something in him seemed to break, to shatter under the weight of denial.
"Gods help me," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was nothing like you might have imagined from your stern uncle. His hands moved from your wrists to cup your face, holding you steady as he devoured your mouth. His tongue swept inside, claiming, tasting, exploring as if he had been starving for this moment. You responded with equal fervour, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing heavily, your lips swollen and tingling. "We are damned."
"Then let us be damned together," you replied, and pulled him back for another kiss.
That kiss in the stable yard marked the beginning of your secret affair. From that day forward, Maekar became yours in every way that mattered. The guilt occasionally haunted him; you could see it in the shadows behind his eyes when he watched you, in the way he sometimes pulled away after your bodies were sated and tangled in his sheets. But those moments of remorse grew fewer as your passion intensified.
You made it impossible for him to regret what you shared. Most nights, you found ways to slip away to his chambers. Sometimes he would come to find you naked and waiting in his bed, your body already slick with anticipation. Other times, you wore your finest gowns, letting him peel away the layers like unwrapping a precious gift.
Maekar ruined you for any other man. At his age, he had the experience and patience of a lover who knew exactly how to please a woman. He learned every curve, every sensitive spot, every secret that made you gasp and writhe beneath him. He loved watching you prepare for him, loved how your body responded to his touch. Sometimes he would make you wait, teasing you with his fingers and tongue until you were begging for his cock.
"Please, Maekar," you would whimper, your hips bucking against his mouth. "I need you inside me."
Only when you were completely undone would he position himself between your thighs, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds. "Tell me what you need," he would demand, his voice husky with desire.
"You, only you."
He would enter you then, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch as he stretched you open. The first thrust always made you cry out — it was almost too much, his size overwhelming in the best way. He would pause, letting you adjust, his violet eyes dark with lust as he watched your face.
"More," you would beg, and he would comply, setting a rhythm that drove you both toward ecstasy.
Maekar was insatiable once he let go of his inhibitions, taking you for hours, exploring every position, every angle. He loved taking you from behind, gripping your hips as he drove into you. He loved watching you ride him, your breasts bouncing as you impaled yourself on his cock again and again. But his favourite was when you lay on your back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he held you and kissed you.
The months passed in a blur of stolen moments and secret rendezvous. You became experts at discretion, but comfort breeds complacency, and secrets have a way of revealing themselves. The day it happened started like any other. The castle was relatively quiet, most courtiers napping or attending to their own affairs, when you slipped into Maekar's solar.
He was standing at his desk, his back to you as he looked out over the courtyard. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his hair, making him seem almost ethereal. He turned as you entered, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice already thick with desire.
You obeyed, settling in his arms as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him for a searing kiss.
"I have been thinking about you all morning."
Heat pooled between your thighs at his words. "Then why are we still talking?" you challenged, reaching down to palm the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches.
He spun you around, pushing you face-down over the desk. Papers scattered as your breasts met the polished wood, your nipples hardening at the sudden contact. Maekar made quick work of your gown, yanking it up over your hips and tearing at the ties of your bodice until your breasts spilled free.
"Look at you," he said, running his hands over your bare backside. "So ready for me. So eager."
You wiggled your hips in invitation, spreading your legs wider. "Please, I need you. I have been empty for too long."
He chuckled darkly and positioned himself behind you, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. "Empty? We must see to that." With one smooth thrust he buried himself to the hilt, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. "Better?"
"Gods, yes," you moaned, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, now."
His hand wrapped around your throat, not choking you but holding you in place, asserting his dominance in a way that made you clench around him. "So demanding," he murmured, beginning to move in earnest.
He set a punishing pace, each thrust driving you forward against the desk. You were already so close, so aroused from his words and the sheer recklessness of it. It only took moments before you were tumbling over the edge, your walls convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.
"That is it," he praised, his movements becoming more erratic. "Gods, yes..."
You were still coming down from your release when the door to the solar swung open.
Time seemed to slow. You and Maekar froze in position, your bodies locked in the most compromising of poses. And there in the doorway stood Baelor.
Baelor's face registered a storm of emotions in rapid succession: confusion, disbelief, horror, anger, betrayal, hurt. Then his face hardened, his expression shuttering completely, and without a word, he turned away and slammed the door shut with such force that the entire room seemed to shake.
✧ characters: Baelor Targaryen x Daughter!Reader, Valarr x Sister!Reader, Matarys x Sister!Reader
✧ summary: Baelor has never been able to say no to his daughter. Her older brothers choose to take advantage of this fact. Valarr and Matarys are like 12 years old in this.
✧ genre: fluff
✧ warnings: she/her pronouns, children
The afternoon had settled into the kind of golden quiet that only came when lessons were finished and supper was still hours away. She had found her usual spot near the old stone bench, skirts spread around her in the warm grass, her doll propped carefully against her knee. Six years old and entirely content, unbothered by the heat, unbothered by anything at all.
The shadows that fell over her belonged to her brothers.
Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. They stood over her with the particular energy of boys who had a plan and were very pleased with it.
She looked up.
“We need you to ask Father something,” Valarr said.
She tilted her head. “What?”
“We want to go to the tournament next week.” Matarys crouched down to her level, which she had always found more convincing than being talked at from above. “All three of us. You have to be the one to ask him.”
“Why?”
The brothers exchanged a look. Valarr cleared his throat. “Because he likes you best.”
Tournaments held no particular magic for her. She had never once begged to attend one, never pressed her face to the window when the knights rode through the city, never cared much for the noise and the crowds and the dust. But Valarr and Matarys were looking at her the way they always did when they wanted something, that particular hopeful, slightly guilty look, and she loved them more than she disliked crowds.
“What do I say?” she asked.
They told her, carefully and in some detail. Matarys made her repeat it back twice. Their father was not an unreasonable man. It was simply that no one had ever worked out how to say no to her, least of all him. His sons had noticed. They were not subtle about having noticed.
She listened to all of it. Then she picked up her doll, stood, smoothed her skirts, and went inside without another word.
The study was quiet save for the scratch of quill on parchment and the distant sounds of the yard below. Afternoon light fell long and warm across the desk, catching the dust motes that drifted in the still air.
Baelor looked up from his correspondence just in time to see his youngest come through the doorway at something between a walk and a run, cross the room entirely, and climb onto his knee before he had said a single word.
“Hello Papa!” she exclaimed settling in
“Hello my love,” he responded, setting down his quill
She looked up at him with great purpose. “Papa. Valarr and Matarys and I want to go to the tournament.”
He looked at her baffled. “You want to go to a tournament?”
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.
“It runs three days. The last day goes very late into the night, and it is very loud.”
“I am very brave,” she said.
“You are,” he agreed, because this was simply true.
She looked at him carefully, weighing something. Then, with the air of someone bestowing a considerable honour, “You can come too, Papa. If you want.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” A nod, “I will hold your hand the whole time so you won’t be frightened.”
His expression shifted entirely. This small careful child had arrived with what was clearly her brothers’ agenda and somewhere along the way decided to protect him. At that, the last of his resistance simply gave way.
“That is very kind of you,” he said
She nodded. It was only fair, her expression said.
He glanced toward the door. Two faces disappeared from the gap so quickly they might have been imagined.
“Valarr. Matarys.”
A beat. Then footsteps, nervous and shuffling. The footsteps of two boys who had absolutely not just been crouching at a door. The boys appeared in the doorway, doing their very best to look as though they had simply been passing.
Baelor regarded them over his daughter’s head. They had the grace, at least, to stand up straight.
“We go on the first day only,” he said. “You leave the moment your sister is tired and you do not argue with me about it.” His eyes moved between them, “Understood?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Yes, Father.”
He looked back down at his daughter, who had already returned to her doll, entirely satisfied with the afternoon’s work.
Baelor tucked a strand of hair back from her face and reached for his quill.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he told her.
“You’re welcome, Papa,” she said, content
From down the corridor came the muffled but entirely unmistakable sounds of celebration.
✧ a/n: I am simply trying to create as much Baelor fluff as possible before the pain of this week’s episode. Thank you for the likes, comments, reblogs, and messages. Send me your requests
─ summary: The peace you and Baelor have built together begins to shatter when your father begins to speak of your remarriage. Thankfully, Baelor has a son available.
─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x reader, Valarr Targaryen x reader
─ word count: 9k
─ content: 18+ MDNI | cheating | arranged marriage | explicit smut | affairs | angst | fluff | manipulation | age gap | jealousy | a man going through it| p in v| oral female recieving| possesion and jealousy
─ a/n: Sorry for the long wait. I wanted to get this right and it took longer than I thought. Lowkey made me a little emotional. ANYWAY!!! The long awaited part 2 to A Fair Husband. I could easily be convinced into a part 3. Thank you all for your comments, likes, reblogs, and requests. 🖤
The sunlight pressed against Baelor's eyelids, a warm, heavy weight, dragging him slowly up from the edge of sleep. The bark of the oak tree was rough against his back, grounding him in the present, while the rustle of leaves above sounded like the ocean in a shell. But it was your voice that truly anchored him. It was soft and melodic, rising and falling with the words you read.
Baelor felt the gentle pressure of your fingers interlaced with his as your thumb stroked the back of his hand. He was seated comfortably against the trunk, legs stretched out on his cloak, with you nestled securely between them. Your back was flush against his chest, your head leaning near his shoulder, the scent of lilies and sun-warmed skin filling his lungs.
"You are sleeping," you murmured. You stopped reading, tightening your hand around his.
Baelor opened his eyes, blinking, focusing on the waves of your hair spilling over his arm, and squeezed your hand in return, pulling you closer against him.
"I am not," he rasped. "Just resting my eyes."
"You can sleep if you need to, my love," you said softly, tilting your head back to look up at him. "I know you are tired."
He looked down at you, tracing the line of your jaw with his gaze. Tiredness was a constant companion these days, a dull ache at the base of his skull from the weight of responsibility but here, with you, the weight seemed to lift.
"And miss a moment with you?" He shook his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. "Never."
You hummed and turned your face forward again, settling back into his embrace. You picked up the book where you had left off and resumed reading.
Baelor let the words wash over him, though he did not track the plot. It was one of your romances, no doubt, a tale of star-crossed lovers and chivalrous deeds. He didn't need to know the story, all he cared about was the sound of you.
He tightened his arm around your waist and felt the rise and fall of your breath. Loving you was terrifyingly easy, natural, simple. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there, breathing you in. In this quiet, sun-drenched corner of Kingswood, he thought of how he knew he would love you forever.
The chapters turned, the shadows lengthening slowly across the blanket until the light took on the golden hue of late afternoon. Finally, you closed the book with a soft thud, resting it on your lap.
"I will miss you when you are in the Stormlands," you said quietly, staring out at the patches of blue sky visible through the leaves.
Baelor sighed, the reality of the coming weeks encroaching on this sanctuary. He rested his chin on your shoulder. "I wish I could bring you."
"I know," you replied. "But perhaps... one day." You turned your head slightly. "You will have to take me somewhere. Maybe Dorne? I would like to be in the sun."
He chuckled. "I would like to see you in Dornish dress," his eyes dropped to your bodice. "Or perhaps out of it."
You laughed, swatting his shoulder playfully. "Your thoughts are always filthy, Baelor."
"I am only honest," he countered, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips for a lingering kiss. "But truly — I will take you wherever you wish to go. Just say the word."
Your expression softened, the playfulness fading into something deeper. You shifted, turning fully within the circle of his arms and climbing into his lap properly, straddling his legs. You placed your hands on his chest.
"Promise me."
"I promise."
You leaned in and kissed him again as he held you against him, one hand on the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head. The world narrowed down to the heat of your body, the softness of your lips, and the dappled sunlight playing over your skin. You stayed like that for a long time, content to simply exist in each other's space, two people stealing a lifetime from the afternoon.
"We must return my love."
You sighed but nodded and climbed off him, smoothing down your skirts and retrieving your book.
"I will see you tonight?"
"Yes."
Baelor helped you onto your horse and watched you go until he was sure you were safely on the path back to the castle. Only then did he lie back on the cloak, folding his hands behind his head. He stared up at the canopy, listening to the birds settling in, letting the peace of the woods seep into his bones one last time.
When he finally rose and mounted his horse, the mood of tranquility clung to him. The ride back to the Red Keep was solitary, but he was in remarkably good humor, his spirits buoyed by the afternoon's intimacy and the promise he had made.
He arrived at the small council chamber a little earlier than usual, but the room was not empty. Lord Tyrell and Lord Rowan, your father, were already in deep conversation near the hearth.
Baelor greeted them both with a polite inclination of his head as he headed to pour himself wine. "My lords."
"You are early, Your Grace," Lord Rowan noted, turning from the fire with a polite bow.
Baelor leaned back against the table. "The ride was short today. I hope I am not interrupting."
"Not at all," Lord Tyrell said, though his brow remained furrowed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking weary. "We were merely discussing the... particulars of the marriage market. It seems to be consuming us all of late."
Baelor kept his face impassive. "Oh?"
Lord Tyrell sighed, stepping closer to the table. "It is a constant burden. I have two daughters and the stress of it is considerable. Every suitor is a viper, every contract a trap to strip my lands. I barely sleep for worry over where to place them."
"Indeed," Lord Rowan replied, his voice dry and pragmatic. "It is a father's duty to secure the future, however tiresome the negotiation."
Baelor glanced at your father. The older man looked tired, his brow furrowed as he shuffled through a stack of parchment. He was a shrewd man, intelligent and calculating, but he had a blind spot where you were concerned.
Your father continued, not looking up from his papers. "My own daughter has been in mourning long enough. It is time for her to marry again."
The wine in Baelor's mouth suddenly tasted bitter.
"Remarriage?" Baelor managed to repeat, his voice sounding strangely calm to his own ears. "Is she... amenable to the idea?"
Your father finally looked up, blinking behind his spectacles. "She is a woman. They are rarely amenable to sense until it is presented to them as a necessity. She has been a widow for nearly two years. She needs a husband to manage her affairs and her boy needs a father figure, not a doting mother."
Baelor set the cup down on the sideboard with a clatter that was slightly too loud.
Husband. Father figure.
He saw it in a horrifying flash: you, his sweet girl, walking down the aisle on the arm of some stranger, your belly swelling with another man's child, your laugh, your touch, your warmth, given to a lord who would take you to the ends of the earth, far away from King's Landing. Far away from him.
Panic, cold and primal, clawed at his insides. He felt the blood draining from his face, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could not breathe.
"My Prince?" Lord Tyrell's voice cut through the haze. "Are you quite well?"
Baelor blinked, forcing himself to focus. He realized he had been gripping the edge of the sideboard so hard his knuckles were white. He released his hold, flexing his fingers, and smoothed his tunic.
"Yes," he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the chaos roaring behind his eyes. "Just a sudden chill."
He tried to listen as the conversation turned but the words meant nothing to him. He nodded when appropriate, made vague noises of agreement, but his mind was entirely elsewhere. He didn't remember the rest of the meeting or when the other council members arrived, or even what they discussed.
It wasn't until the meeting adjourned and he was walking through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep that he felt he could breathe again. He needed to see you, touch you, and know that you were real, that you were still his.
He slipped into the passage in his chambers that would lead him to yours. The stone corridor was cold and damp, but he barely felt it. He moved quickly, his footsteps echoing softly, driven by a desperate need.
As he entered your chambers, he heard your voice. You were in the nursery. The connecting doors between your bedchamber and your son's room were open.
"No, my love," you were saying, your tone exasperated but full of affection. "The sun is sleeping, the birds are sleeping, and you must sleep too."
A babble of high-pitched, defiant noises answered you.
Baelor smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing completely for the first time since your father had spoken.
The nursery was warm, lit by a low fire in the hearth. You were standing by the crib, your back to him, wearing a soft, loose gown of thin cotton that clung to your frame. Your hair was unbound, falling in waves down your back.
The little boy, not yet two years old, was standing in his crib, gripping the railing with chubby fists, bouncing up and down with the boundless energy of the overtired. When he saw Baelor, his eyes went wide, and he let out a squeal of pure delight.
"Bae!" the boy shouted, reaching his arms out.
Baelor crossed the room in a few long strides. He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing your cheek softly, inhaling your scent, grounding himself. "My love."
You leaned back into him, sighing. "You've woken him up fully. He was almost asleep."
"He wasn't," Baelor laughed, reaching into the crib to scoop the boy up, lifting him easily and tossing him gently into the air. The boy giggled, a sound that could melt the hardest heart. "He was just waiting for me."
"Careful," you warned, though you were smiling as you turned to look at them. "If you play with him now, he will be up all night."
"No matter," Baelor said, bouncing the toddler on his hip. He looked into his face, seeing the joy reflected there. "Have you had sweets today?"
The boy squealed again. "Cake! Cake!"
Baelor chuckled, shaking his head. "It appears you have had quite enough," he told him, carrying him out of the nursery and into the main bedchamber.
He laid the boy in the center of the large bed, where he immediately began to roll around, burrowing into the soft linens. You climbed into the bed, pulling your overly energetic son under the covers with you.
Baelor watched you for a moment. The domestic scene was so perfect, so right, it hurt. He quickly shed his own clothes, folding them over the back of a chair with practiced ease.
"Come here," you said to Baelor, patting the empty space beside you.
Your son patted a spot as well, imitating you. "Come here," he echoed.
"I am coming."
Baelor wore only his small clothes as he joined you in bed. Your son immediately scrambled over, flopping onto Baelor's chest with a happy sigh.
The evening passed in a blur of simple, profound happiness. You lay tangled together, Baelor told stories of dragons and knights, his voice low and soothing. You laughed as he did different voices to entertain the toddler, your head resting on his shoulder as you traced idle patterns on his chest. The boy eventually tired himself out, his movements slowing and eyelids drooping until he finally fell asleep, nestled securely between the two people who loved him most.
The room grew quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic breathing of the child. You reached out, stroking your son's back, your brow furrowed slightly.
"I worry," you whispered, breaking the silence. "That I am not doing a very good job with him... by myself."
Baelor frowned slightly. "Why would you think that?"
"He is so wild," you said softly. "He has no father to help guide him. I fear I am too soft, or just not enough. I do not know."
"Valarr was just like this at his age," Baelor said firmly. "He was a terror. He would climb the curtains if you turned your back for a second." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You are a wonderful mother. He is lucky to have you. Do not doubt that."
You looked at him, your eyes searching his face, and the tension in your brow smoothed out. You leaned forward and kissed him in a slow, tender press of lips that conveyed more gratitude than words ever could.
"Thank you," you whispered against his mouth.
You pulled back and resumed playing with the baby's hair, twisting the dark curls around your finger. Baelor watched you, the earlier panic from the council meeting beginning to rise in his throat again. He had to know. He had to ask, even if the answer terrified him.
"My love," he started, keeping his voice low. "I spoke with your father today."
You stilled. "Oh?"
"He mentioned... he thinks it is time for you to remarry."
You kept your eyes on your son. "He has said as much for weeks."
Baelor's chest tightened. "Do you want to remarry?"
"If my father wants it, what choice do I have?" you asked, your voice edged with sadness.
"But if you could choose," he pressed. "Who would you want?"
You were silent for a long time, staring at the sleeping boy. Baelor held his breath, waiting. He prayed you would say no one. He prayed you would say that you would rather be alone than with a man who was not him.
Finally, you spoke. "There is someone. Ser Lannister, the Grey Lion's second son," you said, your voice taking on a distant, reminiscent tone. "I grew up with him. He was always very sweet to me when we were children." You looked up at Baelor, a small, sad smile on your lips. "When I was young, I always wanted to marry him... I suppose if I could choose, it would still be him."
All Baelor heard was not you.
Not him, the man who held you now, the man who loved you more than himself. You wanted a second son from the other side of the realm.
Fury, cold and absolute, boiled beneath his skin. You saw the flicker of it in his eyes.
"Oh, my poor dragon," you whispered, reaching out to touch his face. Your fingers were cool against his heated skin. "Do not pout."
You teased him, your voice light and loving, trying to soothe the beast you sensed awakening within him. "You know I love you more than anyone."
That only made it worse. "You have quite a way of showing it."
"You know you are not a viable option as a husband," you responded. "You are already someone else's husband."
Baelor caught your hand, holding it against his cheek, turning his face to kiss your palm. His eyes bore into yours.
"In every way that matters to me, I am your husband, and you are my wife."
He shifted closer, ignoring the sleeping boy between you. "I will not let some lord take you to the ends of the earth. I will not let you go to Lannisport or Casterly Rock, you belong here with me."
You looked at him, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"I know. If it were up to me, I would stay with you forever, but it is not up to me. I just want to enjoy whatever time we have left."
Time we have left.
The phrase echoed in the quiet room, a death knell to the peace he had found in the woods. Baelor lay back against the pillows, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. He listened to the breathing of two people he loved dearly in this world, but he felt no sleep coming. His mind was racing, plotting, seething. The woods and the sun were gone. There was only the cold stone of the Red Keep and the looming threat of a future without you.
The morning light had barely begun to shine on the stone of the Red Keep when Baelor rose. Sleep had evaded him for the past nights, but finally he had come to a solution. The decision had been made in the dark of the night, a cold, hard resolve settling over him like a suit of armor. He would not be a passive observer to your life any longer.
He walked the familiar path to your father's offices, his boots echoing softly in the corridor. He stopped before the heavy oak door, smoothing the front of his doublet, and knocked.
"Enter," came the muffled voice from within.
Baelor pushed the door open. Your father was already at his desk, surrounded by ledgers and stacks of parchment, a cup of wine sitting untouched near his elbow. He looked up, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise as he registered the visitor.
"Prince Baelor," Rowan said, standing quickly. "To what do I owe the honor? Please, sit."
Baelor remained standing for a moment, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on the older man. "My lord," he said, offering a curt nod. "Thank you. I have a matter to discuss."
Your father sat back down, gesturing to the opposite chair. "Of course. You are always welcome here."
"I wish to continue the conversation we touched upon several days ago, regarding your daughter's future."
Your father's expression shifted from professional curiosity to a guarded wariness. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Yes. Her remarriage."
Baelor took a breath, feeling the weight of his next words. He stepped closer to the desk, resting his hands on the back of the chair he had yet to sit in. "Our houses have been friends for generations, I believe it is time we made that friendship permanent."
He paused, watching the other man closely. "I submit my son, Valarr, as a suitor for your daughter."
The silence that followed was heavy. A deep frown creased your father's forehead. Finally, he looked back at Baelor, his lips thinning.
"You are certain, my prince? She is one-and-twenty, three years his senior."
Baelor waved a hand dismissively. "Three years is nothing. Indeed, she will bring wisdom and maturity to the union."
"She has a son."
"So there is no question of her fertility," Baelor countered smoothly. "That is a worry many young brides cannot assuage before the wedding night."
Your father opened his mouth, then closed it, a strange look crossing his face. Baelor felt a prickle of annoyance. He leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "Is there a reason, my lord, that you are hesitating to accept a prince? Valarr is the best match any lady in the Seven Kingdoms could hope to make."
Your father sighed, the sound long and suffering. He reached for a piece of parchment lying on the corner of his desk, weighted down by a heavy silver inkwell. "Yesterday afternoon, I spoke with Lord Tyrell. He offered his second son. The terms are... favorable. The young man is known to be virtuous, skilled at arms, and of a cheerful disposition."
Baelor stared at the parchment, sick to his stomach. "You accepted?"
"I verbally agreed," your father admitted, looking slightly apologetic but firm. "I wrote the response last night. It is here, ready to be given. I planned to hand it to Lord Tyrell's this morning. She will be well taken care of. Her son will want for nothing."
"I urge you to reconsider," Baelor said. "Surely Lord Tyrell will understand."
Your father looked at the letter, then at Baelor. "I will... consider it, my Prince."
Baelor held his gaze for a long moment, searching for any sign of deceit. "Consider it carefully," he said softly. "A day is all I ask."
The following afternoon, the heavy oak door to Baelor's solar creaked open. He was reviewing a report from the City Watch, his quill scratching across the parchment, but he looked up instantly at the sound to see it was you.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click. You had never come to him here, not in the light of day, not to his official place of work. The sight of you, clad in a gown of deep blue velvet, your hair loose and cascading over your shoulders, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through him. He dropped the quill, ink splattering unnoticed on the desk.
"My love," A slow smile spread across his face as he stood. "You have grown bold."
He rounded the desk, his eyes drinking you in, but as he drew closer, he saw the tension in your posture. Your hands were clasped tightly together at your waist, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes swimming with unshed tears and barely suppressed anger.
"My father tells me I am to marry Valarr," you said, your voice trembling slightly.
Baelor stopped in front of you. He nodded slowly, not looking away. "I have proposed it. Yes."
You let out a sharp, incredulous breath. "You went to him behind my back?"
"He was going to send you to Highgarden," Baelor said, his voice gentle but firm. "I could not lose you."
You rolled your eyes. "I am not a horse to be traded to suit your pride."
"No," he agreed. "You are not."
"I am angry," you continued.
He stepped closer, invading your space, needing to touch you. "I know. I know."
"You are supposed to listen to me, Baelor. You are supposed to put me first."
"I know," he whispered. He reached out, taking your cold hands in his warm ones. "Forgive me. Please."
You tried to pull away, but he held on gently. "I am sorry," he said again, lifting one of your hands to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "I was selfish."
He pulled you against him, wrapping his arms around your stiff frame. You resisted for a moment, your body rigid with indignation, but slowly, as he rubbed your back in long, soothing strokes, you began to melt. You rested your forehead against his chest, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
He kissed the top of your head. "I love you," he murmured against your skin. "To the point of losing sense."
You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face. "You love me that much?"
"I would do anything to keep you with me. Anything."
You let out a soft huff, though the anger had drained out of you, replaced by a weary affection. "I'm still angry with you."
He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through your body where you pressed against him. "That is your right. Be angry, yell at me, but stay here."
He leaned down and captured your lips. It was a soft kiss. He poured his apology into it, his devotion, his promise to make it right.
Then, a sharp knock rattled the door.
Baelor pulled away, resting his forehead against yours for a fleeting second before stepping back. "My Prince," a guard's voice called through the wood. "The council has convened."
Baelor cursed under his breath, looking at you with a rueful smile. "Duty calls."
You straightened your dress, your fingers brushing your swollen lips. "Go," you whispered. "I must return before I am missed."
He watched you go, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The die was cast, Valarr would meet you and Baelor would ensure the rest followed.
The formal introduction between Valarr and you took place later that week in the gardens of the Red Keep. It was a carefully orchestrated affair, chaperoned by Baelor and your father, who stood a polite distance away, watching the interaction.
Baelor watched his son with a critical eye. Valarr, usually so composed, looked like a frightened boy. He stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting nervously to the beautiful woman before him. There was no fire in his demeanor.
You, for your part, seemed nervous as well. You sat on a stone bench, offering Valarr a polite, tight smile, gesturing to the empty spot next to you.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady," Valarr stammered. "I... I have heard much about you."
"And I you, my prince," you replied softly.
Valarr blushed a deep crimson. He clearly had no idea what to do with his hands. He gestured vaguely to a flower bush, mumbled something incoherent about the blooms, and then fell silent. He was smitten, that much was obvious. He stared at you with wide, worshipful eyes, completely out of his depth. He would be a fine husband, but he would not replace Baelor in your heart.
Baelor left for the Stormlands feeling that all was right in his world.
A month had passed since Baelor had left King's Landing, but he felt none of the weariness in his bones as he rode through the gates of the Red Keep. He had missed the comfort of his own bed, the familiarity of the court, and most desperately, he had missed you.
You had been there to welcome him, standing beside Valarr. The sight of you stole the air from his lungs. You wore a gown of deep, crushed red velvet that clung to your waist and flared gently over your hips. He had wanted nothing more than to sweep you into his arms and carry you to his chambers.
But duty had intervened, as it always did. There were reports to hear, men to dismiss, and a father to greet. By the time he had washed the road from his skin and changed for the feast, the sun had long since set, and the Great Hall was roaring with the heat of a hundred fires and the clamor of a thousand voices.
He had expected things to be as he left them with him the center of your world. But as he watched, he saw a reality that made him sick.
You and Valarr were inseparable.
You sat together, leaning in to converse over the noise of the feast. It wasn't the polite, detached distance of a betrothed couple fulfilling a duty, this was intimate and easy. Valarr laughed at something you said, throwing his head back, and you laughed with him, your hand reaching out to rest briefly on his face.
Baelor watched, his eyes narrowing. Valarr looked at you the way Baelor looked at you — completely, utterly confidently in love. It wasn't the adoring, puppy-dog look of a boy with a crush; it was the look of a man who knew he was desired. Valarr, who had always worked so hard to be the perfect prince, to follow every rule of etiquette and decorum, had seemingly abandoned all propriety.
Right there in the middle of the feast, Valarr leaned in and whispered something in your ear. You turned your face toward him, a smile playing on your lips, and Valarr didn't pull away. Instead, he brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering against your skin, and then, bold as brass, he kissed you right there for the entire court to see.
Baelor was secure in what he had with you; he knew your love was deep and real, but he was possessive, and he did not like this at all.
Jena, seated next to him, did not miss his fixation.
She followed his gaze, then turned back to him, a thin, cruel smile curving her lips.
"You were a fool, Baelor," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the minstrels' lute.
Baelor turned to glare at her, the anger flaring hot and instant.
She leaned in closer, the scent of her heavy perfume cloying in the small space between them. "You gave your mistress to our son," she whispered, her eyes dancing with malicious delight. "And now there is no space for you."
Baelor's stomach churned. The image of Valarr's hands on you, Valarr's mouth on yours, flashed through his mind, superimposed over his own memories. "You speak of things you do not understand."
"I understand a man who has lost control," Jena countered. She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving his. "How many nights do you think Valarr spent in her bed while you were gone?"
The question hung in the air, poisonous and potent. The thought of Valarr having what was his, touching the woman he loved — it was intolerable.
He looked at Jena, his face betraying no emotion. "If you were not so petty and bitter, perhaps I would be in your bed."
The words were cruel, a strike meant to wound, and he saw them land. Jena's mask slipped for a fraction of a second, a flash of hurt and longing crossing her features before she slammed her composure back down. But he didn't care about her pain in that moment. He only cared about extinguishing the fire burning in his gut.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The conversation at the high table faltered, but he ignored the eyes on him as he headed toward you with single-minded focus. As he approached, Valarr looked up, the easy smile staying on his face in the presence of his father. You turned, and when you saw Baelor, your face brightened.
"Am I allowed a moment with my daughter in law?" he asked, extending his hand to you.
"Of course, my prince," you said, accepting his offer, placing your hand in his.
The musicians struck up a slower, melancholic tune. Baelor pulled you close, closer than was strictly proper for a public dance. He missed you so much, the feel of your body against his, the scent of your skin, the way a mere look from you could fill his heart to bursting. He held you tight, one hand splayed against your lower back, pressing you into him.
"You forget yourself," you murmured, looking up at him with a playful, teasing glint in your eyes. "People will talk."
"That is their prerogative," he said, his voice low. "I missed you."
The playfulness softened into something tender. "I missed you too," you whispered. "The keep was empty without you."
"We need never be parted again," he declared. "I will not leave you for so long. I cannot."
You smiled softly, your hand gently stroking his arm. "I would like that."
Emboldened by your response, he leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. "Tonight," he whispered, "I am going to spread your legs and bury my face in that sweet cunt until you beg me to fuck you."
You pulled back slightly, your face flushing a furious shade of red that rivaled your dress. Your eyes were wide, dilated with arousal. "Baelor..."
He laughed, a dark, satisfied sound. He still had you.
But before he could savor the victory, a shadow fell over you. The music shifted, a new measure beginning, and a hand tapped Baelor firmly on the shoulder.
Baelor stopped, annoyed. He turned his head slowly, his hand still possessively gripping your waist. He looked into his son's mismatched eyes. Valarr stood there, tall and unyielding.
"Valarr, can you not bear to be apart from your betrothed for one moment?"
"I cannot father," Valarr replied immediately. There was no hesitation. He looked at Baelor, then his gaze shifted to you, softening instantly. "Sorry, but I must have her."
He didn't wait for permission or for Baelor to release you. He simply took your hand and guided you away, his focus entirely on your face, as if Baelor had ceased to exist. You looked back at Baelor over your shoulder, a flash of apology in your eyes, but then you turned away, following Valarr into the swirl of the dancers, leaving Baelor standing alone his hand grasping at empty air.
He turned and marched back to the high table, his blood boiling. When he sat down, he found Jena watching him. She took a delicate sip of her wine, her eyes sparkling with undisguised delight at his frustration.
The heavy oak doors to your chambers clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the Red Keep. You stood before the vanity mirror, the room lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and a few flickering candles. You reached behind your neck, fingers working the clasp of a heavy jeweled necklace, a gift from Baelor. The cool metal slipped away, and you set it down with a clatter, exhaling a long breath. Before you could reach for the matching earrings, the air shifted, charged by a presence you knew better than your own.
Baelor didn't announce himself. He came behind you, wrapping his arms around you. You turned, melting into his arms, a smile breaking across your face. Your body pressed flush against the hard lines of his chest.
"I missed you," you breathed against his neck, but the words were swallowed by his mouth.
Baelor kissed you with the desperate hunger of a starved man. His lips crushed yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to claim your taste. He groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated against your chest. Before you could steady yourself, his hands grasped your thighs, hoisting you up effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, the silk of your gown bunching around your hips as he carried you across the chamber. He didn't stop until he reached the bed, dropping you onto the furs with a gentleness that belied the urgency of his stride.
You scrambled backward, leaning back on your elbows to watch him. Baelor stood at the foot of the bed, his gaze raking over you with a possessive heat that made your skin prickle. He reached for the laces of his doublet, tugging them loose with rough jerks of his wrists. The heavy velvet fell to the floor, followed quickly by his linen undershirt.
Your breath hitched. He was magnificent. Years of training and warfare had sculpted his body into a map of lean muscle and scars. His skin was tanned, a dusting of dark hair trailing from his chest down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches. Your mouth watered at the sight of him.
"Take off your clothes," he commanded. His voice was a low rasp, leaving no room for hesitation.
You obeyed instantly, unlacing your dress quickly. You lay bare before him, the cool air raising gooseflesh on your skin. Baelor's eyes darkened as they roamed over you, taking in the flush of your chest, the curve of your hips, and the glistening slickness already gathering between your thighs. You spread your legs slowly, an invitation, a surrender.
"Beautiful," he murmured. He stepped forward, grabbing your ankles and yanking you to the very edge of the mattress.
He dropped to his knees on the stone floor, not bothering to remove his breeches yet. He wasted no time, burying his face between your thighs, his hot breath ghosting over your wet cunt before his tongue made contact.
You gasped, your back arching off the bed. The flick of his tongue against your clit was precise, devastating. He knew exactly how to touch you, exactly where to apply the pressure to shatter your composure. You buried your fingers in his short, dark hair, pulling him closer, needing more.
He ate you like a man starving, licking broad stripes up your slit before circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your moans filled the room, high and desperate, spurring him on. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration traveling straight to your core. Then, without warning, he thrust two thick fingers inside your tight channel.
"Oh gods!" you cried out, your hips bucking against his hand.
He curled his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. You tugged hard on his hair, earning another muffled groan from him that sent shockwaves through your nervous system. The pressure built rapidly, a tight coil in your belly ready to snap.
"That's it," he murmured against you, his voice muffled by your flesh.
The praise, combined with the curl of his fingers, pushed you over the edge. Your cunt clenched around his digits, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you came with a sharp cry. Your thighs trembled, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you rode out the intensity of the climax.
Baelor didn't let up immediately, lapping up your juices as you pulsed around him, prolonging your pleasure until you were sensitive and whimpering. He stood, his hands moving to the laces of his breeches, freeing the heavy length of his cock as he stepped out of them.
You had seen him naked hundreds of times, but the sight of him — thick, hard, and flushed with blood — never failed to make your mouth water. He stroked himself once, twice, the skin sliding over the rigid shaft, pre-cum beading at the tip.
He climbed onto the bed, caging you in with his arms. His weight settled over you, his knees pushing your thighs wider. He lined himself up and entered you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
You gasped, your head falling back. You had forgotten how big he was, the way he filled you completely, the slight burn that gave way to a deep, aching fullness. He seated himself fully, his hips flush against yours, and paused, letting you adjust.
He began to move, his strokes steady and deep. He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, the friction delicious. But it wasn't enough. You needed more. You needed him to lose control.
"Fuck me harder," you pleaded, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Faster."
Baelor stilled for a fraction of a second, his mismatched eyes burning into yours. A dark, dangerous smirk curled his lips. "You want it hard?"
He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving you feeling empty and desperate. Before you could protest, he gripped your hips and flipped you over onto your hands and knees.
You scrambled to arch your back, presenting yourself to him. You felt the mattress dip as he moved behind you. He didn't give you time to prepare. He slammed into you in one hard, brutal thrust.
A scream tore from your throat as he began to slam into you. The bed frame creaked under the onslaught. He poured all his frustrations, his jealousy, his pent-up desire into every thrust. His hips snapped against your ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud and obscene in the quiet room.
"Gods, yes, Baelor!" you cried out, your fingers clutching at the furs beneath you. "Just like that!"
He leaned forward, covering your back with his chest. One hand tangled in your thick hair, pulling your head back until your ear was level with his lips. The sting on your scalp only heightened the pleasure.
"You're mine yes?" he asked.
"Yes! Yours!"
His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck before nipping at your earlobe. "Every inch of you."
His hot breath panted against your ear, ragged and heavy. The sound of him losing control, of him using your body so thoroughly, was intoxicating. He reached around with his free hand, his fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed tight, fast circles over the swollen bud, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
"That's it, sweet girl," he rasped, his voice strained. "I know you want to come. Give it to me."
The stimulation was too much. The drag of his thick cock inside you, the friction on your clit, the possessive grip in your hair — it shattered you. You came again, your cunt convulsing around him, your vision whiting out. You screamed his name, your body collapsing beneath him as the pleasure overwhelmed your senses.
Baelor didn't stop. He fucked you through it, chasing his own release as you lay senseless and trembling beneath him. His thrusts became erratic, losing their rhythm. He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and stilled.
He groaned deep in his chest, a sound of pure relief and possession. You felt the hot pulse of his seed spilling inside you, coating your insides, marking you as his. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his chest heaving against your back, both of you lost in the aftermath of the storm.
Baelor rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, keeping himself buried inside you as long as he could.
He pressed a kiss to your damp forehead. "I love you," he whispered, the anger gone, replaced by a profound sense of peace.
You curled into his chest. "I love you too," you said softly.
You lay there for a long time, the silence comfortable. The jealousy that had plagued him all night receded, replaced by the reality of you in his arms. Valarr could have the dances and whispers. Baelor had your soul.
But the comfort was fleeting.
A week passed, and Baelor felt his sanity fraying like an old rope. The wedding was now only days away, and you were nowhere to be found — at least, not for him.
You spent every waking moment with Valarr. You were inseparable. The only time Baelor saw his son without you was during the small council meetings, where Valarr sat silently, learning the governance of the realm, his leg bouncing impatiently until the session ended so he could return to you.
The court was abuzz with excitement. Everywhere Baelor went, he heard the same refrain.
"Such a lovely match." "The Prince and his lady." "It is good for the realm."
It made Baelor want to scream.
Worst of all was the time Valarr spent with your son. The little boy had taken to the Prince with an ease that twisted a knife in Baelor's gut.
You were sharing a midday meal. Your father was there with you. Baelor sat at the head of the table, picking at his food, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding across from him.
Valarr held the boy on his lap, feeding him small pieces of meat and cheese. The child was giggling, grabbing at Valarr's tunic with sticky hands. Valarr didn't mind. He laughed, wiping the boy's face with a napkin, his expression one of pure adoration.
"And what shall we get you for your nameday, little man?" Valarr asked, bouncing the boy on his knee. "A wooden sword? A pony?"
"Pony!" the boy shrieked.
"Pony," Valarr agreed with a smile.
You sat next to them, watching with a soft smile. "Valarr, do not spoil him. He has too much already."
"He cannot have too much," Valarr argued, looking at you. "He is my son now, or he will be soon."
The words hit Baelor like a blow to the chest. My son.
The little boy grew distracted, his gaze wandering around the room. He saw Baelor sitting at the high table, dark and brooding. The boy's face lit up, and he pointed a chubby finger.
"Papa!" he yelled clearly.
The table fell silent.
Valarr didn't flinch. He caught the boy's hand and kissed his little fist gently, turning him back around. "No," he corrected, his voice soft but firm, his eyes flicking briefly to Baelor. "He is my papa. Do we look so alike?"
The boy frowned, confused, looking between the two men. They did look alike; the same dark hair, same eyes. It was a cruel joke of genetics.
Baelor gripped the edge of the table until the wood groaned. He felt your eyes on him. This was more than he could endure.
Worse still was the coldness of your bed. Since his return, you had not let him touch you. "Not tonight, my love," you would whisper, turning your face to the pillow. "The day has been long."
He believed you, at first. You looked pale, the dark circles under your eyes pronounced. But as the week wore on and he watched you laugh and walk with Valarr all day, the excuses began to ring hollow. You had energy for Valarr. You had smiles for Valarr. You had patience for Valarr. For Baelor, you only had headaches.
The frustration built, he was the one who had orchestrated this entire mess to keep you close, and yet he was the only one being pushed away.
The breaking point came a week after his return. The candles in your chamber had burned low, the room smelling of wax and the lingering scent of lilies. Baelor had cornered you near the bed, his patience frayed to nothing. He kissed you gently initially, backing you onto the mattress, your smaller frame pinned beneath his weight, the heat of his body pressing against you.
"I need you," he growled against your neck, his hand fumbling with the laces of your bodice. "I've watched him play husband all week. I need to feel you."
You squirmed beneath him, your hands pushing against his shoulders. "Baelor, wait."
"I have waited," he snapped, his fingers tugging the fabric down to expose the curve of your shoulder. He dipped his head to taste your skin.
"No." You shoved him hard, surprising him with the force of it. "I have a headache. A terrible one."
Baelor froze, his chest heaving. He pulled back, looming over you, his eyes blazing in the dim light. "A headache?" he spat. "How much longer will these headaches of yours continue?"
You sat up, clutching your bodice closed. "If you are going to be cruel, then leave."
The silence stretched between the two of you, thick and suffocating. Baelor stared at you, seeing the hurt and the defiance warring in your bright eyes. The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving him hollow and weary.
"I did not mean it," he said, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I do not want to fight. I just... I miss your warmth. I feel as if I am losing you."
Your eyes softened, the anger melting. You sighed, leaning into his touch. "You are not losing me."
"I know," he murmured.
You pulled him down, meeting his lips. This time, there was no desperation, only a slow, aching familiarity. Your tongues relearned the shape of each other, sliding together in a deep, sensual rhythm that made Baelor's head spin. He groaned low in his throat, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, holding you to him as if he could merge your very breath.
When you finally parted, you were both breathless.
"Perhaps I will feel better tomorrow," you whispered, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Go back to your own rooms tonight. Let me rest."
Baelor wanted to argue, wanted to stay and wrap himself around you, but he saw the exhaustion etched around your eyes. He nodded, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. "Tomorrow."
You walked him to the door and kissed him once more on the cheek, a gentle dismissal.
"Goodnight, my Prince."
He stood in the hallway for a long time after the door clicked shut, staring at the wood grain. Perhaps tomorrow. The words hung in the air, a promise and a tease. He adjusted his tunic and turned toward his own empty chambers, the jealousy sated but never truly gone.
Tomorrow did not bring relief. The day before the wedding arrived with a grey, oppressive sky. The Small Council meeting dragged on, the droning voices of the lords blending into a dull hum in Baelor's ears. When the meeting finally adjourned, the men began to file out, bowing their heads and gathering their parchments.
"Father," Valarr said. He remained seated, his hands clasped tightly on the table in front of him. "Might I have a word? Privately."
Baelor paused, waving the others out. Valarr had been brooding all afternoon, his jaw set tight, eyes dark with an internal fury that Baelor had sensed but chose to ignore until now.
"Of course," Baelor said, leaning back against the council table, crossing his arms. "What is the matter?"
Valarr stood up slowly. He took a breath, his chest expanding beneath his doublet, before he stepped closer towards his father. The shadows stretched long across the floor, swallowing his feet. He looked at Baelor, and for a moment, the mask of the courtly prince slipped, revealing something raw and frantic underneath.
"Have I been a good son to you, Father?" Valarr asked. His voice was steady, but his hands were clenched at his sides. "Have I made you proud?"
Baelor sat, leaning back comfortably into his seat. "Of course. You need never doubt that."
"Do you love me?"
There was no hesitation in Baelor's response. He did not need to think.
"Yes. More than my own life."
Valarr nodded, a sharp, jerky movement. He looked down at the table, then back up revealing eyes that were wet, shining with unshed tears.
"Then you will stop calling on my wife to warm your bed.”
The air left the room. Baelor stared at his son, his mind scrambling to find purchase, to find a denial that would not sound like a lie. But he saw the knowledge in Valarr's face. Knowledge along with pain and revulsion.
"I do not know what you have been told," Baelor began, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, "but you do not understand the—"
"I know everything," Valarr snapped, the volume rising, bouncing off the stone walls. He stepped forward, his hands slamming onto the table. "I told her I loved her this morning. I poured my heart out and she confessed everything."
Baelor closed his eyes for a brief second.
"She said she did not want our marriage to start on a lie," Valarr continued, his voice cracking. "She did not want me to give my love to someone who did not deserve it… she said she loved you. That you came to her bed just yesterday, and she turned you away out of guilt."
The image of your closed door, your refusal, your exhaustion flashed through Baelor's mind.
"I know you did not think we would feel for each other when you arranged this marriage," Valarr said, his voice dropping to a hiss. "You thought we would be strangers, but I love her and I will not allow this to continue."
Baelor stood up slowly. His legs felt unsteady. He walked around the table, needing to move, needing to put distance between himself and the accusation in his son's eyes.
"I do not blame you for loving her," Valarr said, his tone shifting, becoming almost pitying. "How could you not? But your love is no longer needed."
Baelor stopped. He turned, his brow furrowing. "No longer needed?"
"You are still just a boy. You think—"
"And you are someone else's husband!" Valarr shouted, cutting him off. "What can you give her but shame and disgrace? Secrets in the dark? Bastards?"
Baelor flinched. "I will not argue with you. Not like this."
He turned toward the door, intending to leave, to escape the room that had suddenly become a cage.
"I will not share my wife with you! My father!" Valarr's voice cracked like a whip, stopping Baelor in his tracks. "I will not spend my life wondering if my sons are my brothers!"
Baelor turned slowly. The cruelty of the image, the visceral horror of it, settled in his gut. He let out a long, shuddering breath, the fight draining out of him. He looked at Valarr, seeing the boy he had taught to hold a sword, the child he had bounced on his knee, the young man he had betrayed in the worst way possible.
"I am sorry," Baelor whispered. "For that. I am sorry."
Valarr's chest heaved. He stared at his father, his anger momentarily banked by the apology.
"What would you have me do?"
"You will never speak to her again," Valarr said. The words were low, certain, absolute.
"I cannot do that."
"Is your lust for her more than your love for me?"
The question was simple, stripping away all the justifications, leaving only a choice Baelor refused to make.
"Does she know what you are asking of me?"
"Yes," Valarr said. "It was her solution."
Baelor shook his head. "You lie."
He knew you, the softness of your heart, the way you clung to him. You would not demand that he never look upon you again.
"It does not matter," Valarr said, his jaw set. "I am to be her husband."
"You do not trust her," Baelor said, seizing the thread, pulling at it. "You think she will come to me again."
"It is you whom I do not trust!" Valarr's control snapped. "She told me of her own free will! She wept in my arms! You, my father, were content to have me live my life as a fool, playing the happy husband while you—"
"It was not my intention to hurt you."
"The intent does not matter! The hurt is all the same." He took a deep breath, composing himself with visible effort. When he spoke again, his voice was deadly quiet. "You are to never speak to her again. If you do, I will take her from this place. We will go to the ends of the earth, and we will not return until you are dead."
Baelor looked at his son. He saw the steel in him, the Targaryen fire. Valarr meant it. He would take you away, and Baelor would never see either of you again.
Either way, it was a life without you. But this way... this way, he could see you across the hall. He could know you were safe, he could know you were happy — happiness that had nothing to do with him.
"Alright." The word was barely a whisper. It felt like tearing his own heart out.
Valarr blinked, as if he hadn't expected the victory to come so easily. He nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion. He turned on his heel and walked toward the door.
He stopped at the threshold, his hand on the iron ring. He did not look back.
"I will be a good husband," Valarr said. "She will be happy."
Then he pulled the door open and was gone, his footsteps fading rapidly down the corridor.
Baelor stood in the center of the room. The shadows lengthened, reaching out like dark fingers across the table. He listened to the faint, distant sounds of the castle coming to life for the evening, feeling a heartbreak so profound he knew it would never truly pass. He was alone.
Tag list: @lightdragonrayne @annetheperfect @w0nderfulb1iss @ibhearts
older bf!toji who had grown accustomed to being with women his own age. he never was one to sleep around, but when saturday night came after a long week of grueling shifts at work, he indulged in the occasional one night stand.
older bf!toji who learned as he aged that women didn’t often match his libido, even if he had made their backs arch as they left angry, red marks along his own. one round was typically the limit, but he simply learned to manage his expectations and grow content with what he was given.
older bf!toji who is shocked that a young, pretty girl like you would ever be interested in him. his body had since lost its lean physique, and now those sharp muscles were covered by a thin layer of fat; not to mention, some of the stubble decorating his jaw had gone and turned silver. he’s truly left scratching his head at why you’d want him at all.
older bf!toji who feels conflicted when you make your advances towards him. he knows it’s wrong, but god the way your eyes shine up at him as you shyly ask him out has his pulse skipping just a bit faster. so, he thinks of the only thing he can say to settle his guilty conscience:
“i’m flattered, sweetheart, but i think i might be too old for you.”
and, to his surprise, you only grin and sink your teeth into your bottom lip before grabbing his phone and quickly tapping the screen to put your phone number in his contact list.
older bf!toji who had no idea what he was getting into when he agreed to date you.
older bf!toji who gets severely overwhelmed when you suck him off with vigor. he couldn’t remember the last time he felt a pair of lips wrap around his cock, but he swears that mouth of yours is pure heaven. he’s almost embarrassed at the groans that leave him each time you hollow your cheeks, stomach tensing from shaky breaths each time his swollen tip hits the back of your throat.
older bf!toji who is left staring down at you in awe as you leave little kisses along the head of his cock. your big eyes feign innocence as they meet his gaze, resting your cheek on his thick thigh as you patiently wait for him to get hard again. the salty taste of him is still lingering on your tongue as you gently drag your nails along the length of him, watching him begin to faintly twitch to life.
older bf!toji who is left with his chest heaving as he spills inside of you for a second time one long night. his calloused fingers dig into the plush of your insatiable hips, silently praying that you’ll stop for a moment so he can catch his breath.
older bf!toji who finally experiences what overstimulation feels like.
“g-give me a second, kid. shit, you’re killing me,” he grunts as he lets his head fall back against the pillows. your cunt refuses to let go, involuntarily squeezing his length due to the sheer size of him—which you tell that you’ll never get used to.
“what’s wrong, bear?” you whisper to him, completely clueless as you flash him with that devastating smile.
older bf!toji who sucks in a sharp breath at the nickname you gave him at the beginning of your relationship. the sickeningly sweet term of endearment does nothing to still that twist in his stomach, the one that reminds him he shouldn’t even be with a girl half his age.
but then you feel him growing hard inside of you once more, his cum spilling from between your thighs as you begin to resume your pace with a small giggle leaving your lips.
and it hits toji once again just how fucked he is.
summary. michael has taken over dean's body. you know it's wrong. you know you should resist. but you miss him so much, it's hard to resist.
wordcount. 1509
warnings. explicit sexual content (p in v, unprotected, riding position, oral m!receiving), toxic and possessive dynamics, non-consensual undertones due to possession, religious themes of devotion, emotional manipulation, rough handling, shocking, themes of obsession and loss of agency, potential triggers for dub-con and identity violation
you kneel on the cold bunker floor, knees aching against the concrete, but the pain feels distant, secondary to the man—dean, but not dean—towering above you. his green eyes hold a cold, celestial fire now, a gleam that wasn't there before the yes slipped from his lips in that desperate moment. michael. you know it's him. the way he moves, precise and unyielding, like the world bends to his will instead of the other way around.
he cups your chin, thumb pressing hard enough to bruise tomorrow, tilting your face up. "look at me," he commands, voice smooth, echoing with power that vibrates through your bones. "you've given everything to this vessel. this fragile sack of meat and regret. but i am eternal. i am worthy."
you want to pull away, scream that this isn't dean, that your love isn't for some archangel playing god. but your body betrays you—heart hammering, heat pooling low as his fingers trace your lips. contradiction twists in your gut: revulsion and desire, hate for the invader and ache for the familiar form. dean's freckles, dean's stubble under your palms when you reach up, hesitant.
"please," you whisper, not sure if you're begging him to stop, to let dean out, or to prove his point.
he smiles, sharp and divine. "that's right. beg. show me your devotion."
his free hand undoes his belt, slow. the buckle clinks like a church bell tolling. you watch, transfixed, as he frees himself—hard, thick, the same as dean's but wielded with an arrogance that makes your thighs clench. he strokes once, twice, eyes never leaving yours.
"open," he says. an order from on high.
your lips part almost without thought. he slides in, heavy on your tongue, salt and heat filling your mouth. you hollow your cheeks, suck gently at first, trying to reclaim some control, make this about dean. but michael grips your hair, yanks you forward until he hits the back of your throat. you gag, eyes watering, but he holds you there.
"deeper," he growls. "worship me like you mean it."
tears streak your cheeks as you relax your jaw, take him further. the burn in your throat mixes with the throb between your legs—wrong, so wrong, but god, the power radiating from him makes you dizzy. he thrusts shallow, then deeper, fucking your mouth with a rhythm that's almost holy, measured and relentless.
"that's it, my faithful one." his voice cracks a fraction, dean's timbre bleeding through. "you were made for this. for me. not him."
you moan around him, vibration drawing a hiss from his lips. your hands clutch his thighs, nails digging into denim, feeling the muscle tense under your fingers. he smells like dean—leather, gunpowder, faint soap—but overlaid with something ozone-sharp, the same way earth smells when lightning is about to strike.
he pulls back suddenly, lets you gasp for air. strings of saliva connect you still. "tell me," he demands, stroking himself slick with your spit. "who do you belong to?"
"dean," you rasp, defiant even as your voice breaks.
anger flashes in those eyes—not dean's anger, something vast and terrifying. he hauls you up by the arms, spins you against the table. papers scatter, a bible thumps to the floor. ironic.
"wrong answer." he bends you over, yanks your jeans down in one rough pull, exposing you to the cool air. his hand slides between your thighs, finds you wet, traitorous. "see? your body knows the truth."
fingers plunge in without warning—two, then three, stretching you fast and hard. you cry out, palms slapping the wood. pleasure spikes sharp, wanted but wrong. he curls them, hits that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
"say it," he leans over you, breath hot on your neck. "say you're mine."
you shake your head, but your hips push back into his hand. betrayal in every movement.
he laughs, low and triumphant. withdraws his fingers, leaves you empty, aching. then he's behind you, pressing in slow—inch by inch, filling you until you can't breathe. the table creaks under your weight as he starts thrusting, deep strokes that claim every inch.
your mind fractures further. the bunker spins around you—cold concrete walls fading into a haze, the flickering light above blurring like distant stars. all you see is dean. dean's broad shoulders flexing under your grasping hands, dean's freckled skin flushed with heat, dean's green eyes staring back at you in the reflection of a nearby metal surface, even if they're laced with that unnatural glow.
god, you miss him. the real him. the one who smirks over cheap diner coffee, who patches your wounds with gentle fingers, who whispers your name like a prayer in the dead of night. this thing wearing his face twists it all, but the ache in your chest overrides the warning in your gut. you need him—any version of him—to fill the void that's been growing since michael took over.
"mine," he growls again, hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, yanking your head back so your back arches. the angle shifts, and he hits deeper, making you gasp. pleasure coils tight, unwanted but undeniable, sparking through your veins like holy fire.
you push back harder, meeting each thrust with a desperation that's all your own. "f-fuck, dean," you moan, the name slipping out broken, a plea and a curse. michael stills for a fraction of a second, then laughs darkly.
"call me that if it helps," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "but know it's me you worship now."
his words should repel you, but in this daze, they only fuel the fire. you twist in his grip, shoving at his chest until he pulls out with a wet sound that echoes obscenely. he lets you, amused, as you turn and push him back against the table. dean's body—michael's vessel—hits the edge, and you climb onto him without hesitation, straddling his hips.
your hands roam over his chest, tracing scars you know by heart, the anti-possession tattoo that feels useless now.
he's hard against you, slick from your arousal, and you sink down onto him in one swift motion. the stretch burns, full and perfect, and you both groan.
"fuck," he hisses, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. "ride me, then. show me how much you need this."
you do. god, you do. your hips roll, slow at first, savoring the drag of him inside you. dean's face—michael's now—tilts back, throat exposed, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. you lean down, mouth on his neck, biting down like you can mark him as yours, reclaim what's been stolen.
faster now. you bounce on him, the table groaning under the force. each downstroke sends sparks up your spine, pleasure building relentless. you miss dean so much it hurts—physically, a knot in your chest that tightens with every movement. this is wrong, twisted, but in the fog of lust and longing, it feels like the only way to hold onto him.
michael's hands slide up, under your shirt, palms rough on your skin. he pinches a nipple, rolls it between fingers, and you arch into the touch. "that's it," he praises, voice laced with divine arrogance. "give yourself to me. body and soul."
you shake your head again, even as your pace quickens. "dean," you whisper, over and over, like a mantra. tears blur your vision, but you don't stop. your nails rake down his chest, leaving red lines that heal almost instantly—archangel perks. he thrusts up to meet you, matching your frenzy, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.
the coil tightens, unbearable. you're dazed, lost in the rhythm, in the feel of dean's body under yours, the scent of him enveloping you. you lean forward, forehead against his, staring into those eyes. for a moment, you swear you see a flicker—the real dean, trapped, fighting. it breaks you.
"come for me," michael commands, hand slipping between you to circle your clit with precise, punishing strokes. "seal your devotion."
you shatter. the orgasm crashes over you like a wave, pulling you under. your walls clench around him, milking him, and you cry out—dean's name, michael's power, a mix of both. stars burst behind your eyelids again, brighter this time, and your body shakes with the force of it.
michael follows, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and deep. his groan is almost pained, fingers digging into your hips as he holds you down, filling you completely. the sensation prolongs your climax, waves of aftershocks rippling through you until you're limp, collapsing against his chest.
panting fills the air. his arms wrap around you, almost tender, but you know better. "see?" he murmurs, lips brushing your hair. "you're mine now."
you close your eyes, tears slipping free. the daze lingers, dean's face etched in your mind, but the weight of michael's claim settles heavy on your soul. you miss him—god, you miss him—but in this moment, tangled and spent, the line between love and devotion blurs forever.
summary: Although Draco promised that he would keep your relationship a secret just for you, he can’t contain himself after winning the Hogwarts quidditch cup.
pairing: draco malfoy x hufflepuff!reader
includes: FLUFF, established relationship (and a last name of Evergreen for the reader)
a/n: inspired by the olympics recently ❤️
When Draco asked you out in fourth year, you thought it was a joke. Sure, you were both acquainted due to your pure wizardry bloodline, but you were in Hufflepuff. The only time the other houses thought you were useful was when they wanted to sneak into the kitchen. So when he came up and sat down beside you when you were studying potions, you were disheartened.
“Malfoy, please don’t do this.” You sigh, rubbing your forehead. You were just starting to understand what ingredients made a truth serum.
“Do what? I’m asking you if you want to go to Hogsmeade together this weekend.” He spun the Malfoy signet ring adorning his hand.
You look up at him with tired eyes, “Did someone put you up to this?”
“What? No no, I—“ He cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks warm at how you were able to fluster him with even a small glance. “I’m really asking you to go on a date with me.”
You search his face for any indication of a lie, before biting your lip softly and looking down at your parchment. “Are you really?”
“I am.” Draco dropped his hand onto yours to stop your fidgeting with the quill.
You felt your own face heat up at the notion. He thumbed your palm softly as you stayed quiet, not minding his closeness. Finally, you looked up at him, “You have yourself a date, Malfoy.” He sent you a soft smile but before he could say anything else, you interrupted. “Please don’t let me down.”
Draco never let you down. Despite your earlier doubts, you saw how kind and thoughtful the Malfoy heir was underneath his hardened shell his father had built around him. In private, he was always attentive, loving, clingy — there wasn’t a moment where he was separated from you. In public, he had to rein in those feelings just for you.
Even when you started your seventh year at Hogwarts, you were still terrified what others at school would say about a Hufflepuff dating the Slytherin Prince. Sure, his parents and your parents knew, but not the entirety of Hogwarts. You had asked Draco to keep your relationship private until you were ready to face the reality of your relationship to the rest of the world. He begrudgingly agreed, respecting your wishes; but the need to kiss you in front of the entire student body to rightly claim that you were his was wavering.
Especially when it had been three years since you first started dating. And right now, you were currently hiding below the stands together as you greeted him with good luck kisses for his final quidditch match as a student in Hogwarts.
“I.” Kiss. “Love.” Kiss. “You.” Kiss. You say softly as he holds you close by your hips — smiling into all your kisses. “Good.” Kiss. “Luck.” Kiss.
“You’re killing me here, love.” Draco murmurs against your lips. He pulls away gently to look at your ever so loving gaze. He draws small hearts on you hip, “You done?”
“Never.” You kiss him again, hands cupping his jaw. “I want you to be stuck with me forever.”
He hums into the kiss as you thumb his cheeks softly, “I will after I win this game, my love.”
You separate again, grinning like a lovesick puppy. “Good luck, Dray. I’ll see you later.” You press one last kiss to his lips before leaving his arms and running up the Hufflepuff stands to cheer. You couldn’t deny that even after all these years he still made you giddy and red.
Draco shook his head with a soft smile only you could coax out of him. He walked out from the stands and hopped on his broom, ready in the air for his final match as Slytherin’s seeker. Cheers filled the stadium as the players took their place, captains shaking hands.
The final match for Slytherin and Gryffindor was probably the most anticipated all year round. Since it was also Harry Potter’s last game as seeker, and the two seekers were known as rivals, it was hyped up to be one of the best end matches of the season.
As the game progressed, Slytherin and Gryffindor were constantly tied. It was really up to the seekers to find the golden snitch to determine the winner. There were bets taking place in the house stands, mind fixated on earning a few galleons for the last time. For the Hufflepuff stands, they were a house divided. Many cheered for scarlet and gold while the other half cheered for green and silver.
You didn’t mind the division between your house. After all, you only watched the games for Draco. Your friends were cheering for the Gryffindors whilst you carried the small Slytherin flag in your hands — eyes trained on the blonde high above the game itself. The second you blinked from the blazing sun, Draco was soaring after the golden snitch, Harry close behind and eventually flying right next to him.
The shouts from the stands only fueled the seekers’ attention to the flying gold. Draco and Harry were chasing in circles after the snitch, attention focused on nothing else even as the bludger zoomed past them.
You held your breath as they both reach out for the snitch. Your friend held your shoulder in anticipation, watching the two closely. Before you could register what happened, she gasped and shook your shoulders in frustration.
“I lost ten galleons to that!” She sighed heavily as Draco flashed the golden snitch in the air.
The rush of the win made you scream happily with the other Hufflepuffs and houses cheering for the Slytherin team. You wear clapping your hands as the team began flying around in victory. You watched as Draco flew around the stands more as the rest of the Slytherin team settled on the grounds. His eyes scanned the stadium until they lit up when they saw you at the very front of the Hufflepuff stands — waving your Slytherin flag with pride.
“Seems like Malfoy is off showing the last snitch he’ll catch for the Slytherin quidditch team! But we all want to know where the trophy is!” The third year announcer spoke, voice casted across the stadium.
You smiled at Draco softly when you finally met his eyes. And before you knew it, he flew right over to you and cupped your face, kissing you senselessly. You grinned into the kiss as you held his cheeks, the shouts and screams from your housemates blending in your ears.
“Aw, quite a beautiful way to celebrate the win. Don’t you think so, McGonagall? Honestly, I wasn’t expecting Malfoy and Evergreen— Ow, sorry.” The third year announcer spoke once more, rubbing the spot the professor lightly hit them with a newspaper.
You part from Draco with a blinding smile, “I think I agree, this is a beautiful way to celebrate.” You say quietly only for him to hear, pressing quick kisses to his lips.
“I’m proud of you, love.” Draco nudges your nose with his to gently stop your kisses for a second — even though he did want more.
“Me? You just won the quidditch cup for your house!” You laugh while wrapping your arms behind his neck, careful in trying not to pull him off his broom.
He rubbed the apples of your cheeks, “You just let me kiss you in front of the entire student body… I think that’s more important.” He pulled you in for another mind searing kiss, making you smile helplessly.
“AGAIN?” The third year announcer shouted into the microphone once more. “Is there—“
“Alright, we’re done announcing, boys and girls.” Professor McGonagall spoke and shut the speakers off; although she was quite happy for the couple.
You giggled as he pulled you into a hug. “I love you.”
Draco pressed kisses to your cheek repeatedly, “I love you more.”
Aegon the conqueror x Reader (featuring /Visenya and Rhaenys)
(you can tell I was getting sleepy at the end </3)
Request for prompt -Visenya and Rhaenys Angrily look at their brother on top of that whore of a woman. He finally lifted his gaze fully to them. Cold. Composed. Irritated. “I will not have my time with her disturbed.”-
TW: kidnapping, manipulative Aegon, cheating, innocence corruption, Stockholm, threats, codependency, SA, targcest
"You hear that?" Visenya paused mid step, her fingers tightening around the leather-bound ledger in her hands. The faint thump came again, muffled, rhythmic, unmistakable from behind the heavy oak door at the end of the dim corridor. She knew this hallway well for it led to nothing but disused chambers, their dust covered furniture draped in sheets like ghosts. Yet Aegon had been seen slipping down here often enough that the servants had stopped gossiping about it.
Rhaenys tilted her head, the silver clips woven into her hair chiming softly as she stepped closer to the door. "That's not just footsteps." she murmured, her violet eyes narrowing. The sound had changed...something between a gasp and a moan, half smothered but unmistakable in its intimacy. Visenya's jaw tightened as she reached for the door handle, only to find it blocked, the handle turned but wouldn’t budge open.
"I do not wish to walk in on servants fucking" Rhaenys scoffed, tugging her sister's arm back from the locked door. Her voice was low but carried enough bite to make Visenya hesitate. The rhythmic sounds beyond the oak had grown louder, less muffled now, more desperate. Someone was panting, whispering words too fragmented to decipher.
Visenya sighed, her eyes tracing the grain of the oak door as if it might reveal its secrets under her scrutiny. Another moan higher pitched this time, distinctly feminine had filtered through the wood, and she scoffed, turning sharply on her heels. Her fingers closed around Rhaenys's wrist, tugging her sister away with a grip that brooked no resistance.
Inside the dim lit room, aegon's breath came in ragged bursts against the curve of your neck, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as he forced them wider. The bed—a stolen thing dragged from some forgotten chamber, creaked beneath you, its protests drowned out by the slick, desperate sounds of his hips driving forward. You arched, nails scraping down his back, and he hissed through clenched teeth, too lost in the heat of you to hear the muffled voices beyond the door.
"Better than the dungeon cot you were in last week, hm?" Aegon murmured against your ear, his voice rough with exertion as he rocked into you, the bedframe shuddering beneath his weight. You gasped, thighs tightening around his hips, half protest, half invitation as he laughed low in his throat. The irony wasn't lost on you... a year spent shackled in the bowels of the red keep, straw poking through the thin mattress, your wrists raw from ropes, and now here you were, sprawled across silken sheets in a chamber that smelled of candles and sex.
You'd clawed at his face the first time he'd dragged you from that cell, all spit and fury, until he'd pinned you against the damp stone wall and kissed you like he meant to devour you whole. That was the thing about Aegon, he took what he wanted, but he gave too.
Slowly, over stolen hours in torchlit corridors, he'd unraveled you... a stolen honey cake pressed into your palm, the way he'd trace the bruises his own hands had left and murmur apologies into your skin. And now, gods help you, you craved him...the weight of his body, the possessive curl of his fingers around your throat when he fucked you, the way he'd linger afterwards, brushing hair from your face like you were something precious.
Aegon’s lips trailed hot and wet along the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping lightly before sinking in just enough to make you gasp. His groan vibrated against your skin, ragged and uneven, hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm he’d set. "You know I love you, right?" The words were rough, strained, not a question, not really, but something desperate, like he needed to carve the truth of it into your bones before he came undone.
"I love you..." you mumbled back, voice fractured into something small and needy, hips jerking up to meet his thrusts as moans spilled from your lips like prayers to a god, you'd long stopped believing in. You did love him, that was the cruelest joke of all. His obsession had seeped into your skin like poison, twisting your terror into devotion until you couldn't remember where his hunger ended and your own began.
Aegon groaned against your mouth, swallowing your confession like a starving man, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Say it again..." he demanded, voice rough with something perilously close to vulnerability. You arched beneath him, nails dragging down his sweat slicked back, and whispered it into the hollow of his throat...three words that tasted like surrender on your tongue.
When it was over, you were sticky, naked and shaking as you laid on your stomach, his lips kissing at your spine with the tenderness of a man who'd just wrecked you thoroughly. The sheets clung to your damp skin, smelling of sweat and sex and something faintly metallic…blood from where your nails had split his skin.
Aegon sighed against the skin, his fingertips tracing idle patterns over the dimpled bruises he'd left on your hips. "Perhaps we can liven it up," he mused, glancing around the barren chamber with a frown. "Get you some pretty curtains and trinkets." His thumb pressed into the small of your back, possessive. "You promise to never leave this room…right, my love?"
A sigh came from your lips, a pretty noise followed by your small voice. He loved how broken he had made you, loved the way you had no thoughts of your own, his wants being your own as you agreed with him. "Pretty curtains. Yes… I'll stay… I promise." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you clung to them like a prayer, desperate for the warmth of his approval.
Aegon hummed, pleased, his fingers tangling in your hair as he dragged you up against his chest. You went limp against him, your body still humming from the aftershocks of his touch, your mind adrift in the fog he'd left behind.
Your mind was a broken mess, synapses firing in fractured patterns...half formed thoughts of resistance drowned beneath the weight of his hands, his breath, the way his teeth had marked your skin like a cartographer claiming territory.
You wanted him happy. Wanted what he wanted, because wasn’t that easier? Wasn’t that survival? So, you nodded, your face buried in the sheets, inhaling the scent of him...smoke and salt and something darker, something that clung to the back of your throat like a confession. The mattress dipped as Aegon shifted, his fingers carding through your tangled hair with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
The first week in the new chamber was a blur of silk and stolen moments. Aegon arrived not just to claim you, though he did...often, with a hunger that left you breathless...but with gifts tucked under his arm like a boy courting his first love.
The first was a set of sheets so soft they felt like water against your skin, embroidered with twisting dragons that gleamed silver in the candlelight. He’d spread them across the bed himself, his calloused fingers smoothing out every wrinkle before pressing you into them, murmuring, "Better than straw, isn’t it?" as if he needed your approval. You’d nodded, because it was, and because the way his eyes darkened when you touched the fabric made something flutter low in your belly.
The curtains came next, heavy damask in Targaryen red, thick enough to mute the sound of your moans. He’d hung them himself, bare chested and sweating in the afternoon heat, while you sat cross legged on the bed watching him. "So the servants won’t see what's mine and gossip" he’d said when the fabric fell into place, casting the room in a dim, wine colored glow, you’d felt something dangerously close to comfort settle over you. Like this was a place that belonged to you both, not just a stolen corner of his world.
Next came the dragon figurine was small enough to fit in your palm, its obsidian wings spread wide as if caught midflight. Aegon had pressed it into your hands with an uncharacteristic hesitance, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Carved it myself" he admitted, voice rough with something like embarrassment. The craftsmanship was crude, the lines uneven, the snout too blunt, but you’d traced the letters beneath its belly with your fingertip: your name and his, entwined like lovers. "So you remember who you belong to" he’d added, but the way his fingers lingered on yours felt like a plea, not a command.
By the tenth day, the chamber no longer smelled of dust and disuse but of candle wax and sex, the air thick with the scent of him. You’d wake to find new trinkets scattered across the bedside table, a silver comb, a vial of perfume that smelled of jasmine, a single pomegranate split open to reveal its ruby flesh. Aegon would watch you from the doorway, arms crossed, as if gauging your reaction to each offering. "Do you like it?" he’d ask, voice carefully neutral, but his fingers would twitch at his sides when you hesitated. You learned to nod quickly, to press the gifts to your chest like treasures, because the way his shoulders relaxed when you did made something ache behind your ribs.
Visenya's fingers twitched against Rhaenys's palm, her restless thumb tracing the raised veins on her sister's wrist like a map to some unseen tension. The afternoon light bled through the stained glass of her little sister's chambers, casting fractured red patterns across their tangled limbs. "Aegon…" she murmured again, the name souring on her tongue. "He slips away like smoke between our fingers."
Rhaenys hummed, noncommittal, but her fingers tightened around Visenya's, a silent acknowledgment. They both knew. The way he'd return with his tunic ever so slightly misaligned, the flush high on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the training yard. The scent clinging to him...not just sweat, but something floral beneath the leather and steel. Jasmine, maybe. Or honeysuckle. Not a scent either of them wore.
"Do you wish to have him followed?" Rhaenys joked, propping herself up on one elbow to turn and look at her elder sister. The necklace on her neck tinkled softly, a sound too light for the tension thickening the air between them.
Visenya exhaled through her nose sharply, a sound like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "Followed?" Her fingers curled into fists on the silk sheets. "No. I wish to see it for myself." She rose, the heavy drape of her robe sliding from her shoulders as she moved to the door with the quiet precision of a predator.
"Come now—we don't even know where he goes for sure" Rhaenys groaned, but she stood anyway, the silver at her necklace chiming like a reluctant warning. She caught Visenya's elbow before her sister could storm into the corridor barefoot and furious. "At least let me put on my slippers before you drag me into whatever mess you're chasing."
Visenya's footsteps echoed through the empty halls like a death knell, each click of her boots against stone sharp enough to make Rhaenys wince. "He's not in the library" Rhaenys sighed for the third time that hour, adjusting the silk shawl slipping from her shoulders as she trailed behind her sister. "Nor the kitchens, nor the godswood—"
"He's somewhere." Visenya snapped, whirling so abruptly the torchlight caught the steel in her eyes. The shadows stretched long across the corridor, painting her face in flickering amber. She'd checked every logical place, the armory where Aegon liked to sharpen Blackfyre himself, the council chambers where he pretended to review ledgers, but the scent of jasmine still clung to the air whenever he returned to their bed. Not hers. Never hers.
Rhaenys plucked a loose thread from her sleeve, feigning disinterest even as her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Perhaps he's with the dragons—"
"The dragons would've roasted any whore he brought near them" Visenya muttered, already striding toward the eastern stairwell. A memory flickered...Aegon ducking into this very passageway weeks ago, his hands conspicuously empty of scrolls or missives. "Just seeing to the renovations in the old wing" he'd said when she'd raised a brow. "In case more lords come to court come winter." As if the red keep lacked chambers. As if he'd ever cared about tapestries or tilework.
"Perhaps he has no whore—" Rhaenys sighed, only to jump when Visenya scoffed and dragged her forward by the wrist, her jewelry chiming a discordant protest. The dim corridor stretched before them like a throat, swallowing the sound of their footsteps as they approached the heavy oak door, the same one that had been locked for weeks, the same one that now trembled faintly with the rhythm of muffled gasps.
A grunt. A moan. A thump...the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting flesh with enough force to rock the bedframe. Visenya scoffed and gestured sharply to the door, her fingers already curling around the hilt of Dark Sister. Rhaenys caught her wrist with a sigh, the silver bells in her hair chiming softly.
"It is servants just as last time" she murmured, though her violet eyes flickered toward the door with new suspicion. The rhythm had changed, slower now, punctuated by breathless laughter and the wet, slick sound of skin on skin. Not servants. Servants didn't sound like that. Servants didn't laugh like that.
The lock splintered under Visenya’s boot with a crack like breaking bone. The door flew open, slamming against the wall hard enough to send dust shaking from the ceiling. For one heartbeat, the room was frozen, Aegon half raised over you, his hair tangled in your fingers, his hips still buried deep inside you. Then chaos erupted.
The world tilted sideways, or maybe that was just the blood rushing from your head. Two women stood in the doorway, silver haired and furious, their violet eyes burning holes through the tangled mess of limbs you and Aegon had become. You recognized them instantly from his drunken ramblings, Visenya with her sword already half drawn, Rhaenys with her delicate fingers curled into fists. His wives. His sisters. The realization punched through your ribs like a dull blade.
Your hands scrambled against Aegon's chest, pushing, slipping...but he barely moved, his body a solid weight pinning you to the sweat damp sheets. The silver haired women in the doorway blurred in your vision, their faces twisting with something between fury and disbelief. You'd heard stories of them, of course...
the warrior queen with her sharp blade and sharper tongue, the playful sister who sang as sweetly as she schemed, but nothing could've prepared you for the way Visenya's fingers whitened around Dark Sister's hilt, or how Rhaenys's delicate nostrils flared like a dragon scenting blood.
Visenya and Rhaenys Angrily look at their brother on top of that whore of a woman. He finally lifted his gaze fully to them…Cold…Composed…Irritated.
“I will not have my time with her disturbed.”
The silence that followed Aegon's words was thick enough to choke on. Visenya's grip on Dark Sister tightened until the leather of the hilt creaked. The torchlight caught the edge of the blade, casting a jagged line of fire across the rumpled sheets.
"Fuck" Aegon grunted, pulling himself from inside you with a wet, obscene sound that made Rhaenys' lip curl in disgust. He snatched the nearest silk sheet that was black as his mood and tossed it over your trembling body with a casualness that bordered on insult. A pat to your cheek, rough and proprietary, before he rose from the bed like a king dismissing a servant. The cool air hit your sweat slicked skin as he turned away, leaving you exposed in ways the sheet couldn't cover.
Visenya's sword arm trembled, not with restraint, but with the effort of not cleaving your head from your shoulders in one clean stroke. Her eyes, violet as a storm at dusk, flicked from your mussed hair to the bruises peeking above the sheet's edge, marks shaped unmistakably like her brother's fingers. The tip of Dark Sister twitched toward your throat before she mastered herself, redirecting that lethal focus to Aegon. "Explain" she demanded, the word a blade unsheathed.
"Don't command me visenya" Aegon groaned, fastening the last clasp of his tunic with a sharp twist of his fingers. The fabric clung damply to his shoulders where your nails had dug in moments before. He didn't so much as glance at you, just a dismissive flick of his wrist toward the bed where you'd curled into the sheets like a deer freezing midflight. "Let us leave her to dress in her chamber alone—"
Rhaenys' laugh cut through the tension like Valyrian steel through silk. "You gave some whore a full chamber?" Her slippered foot kicked at the damask curtains, sending them swinging. The motion sent jasmine scented air rushing over your skin, the same scent that clung to Aegon's clothes when he returned to their bed. Her gaze raked over the obsidian dragon figurine on the bedside table and the silver comb. "Gods be good" she breathed, picking up the figurine with two fingers as if it might soil her. "You carved for her?"
Rhaenys tossed the figure without a care towards Aegon who caught the figurine mid air his fingers closing around the crude dragon with surprising gentleness. "Careful" he murmured, setting it back on the table with a soft click. The tenderness in that small gesture made Visenya's throat tighten, she'd seen him snap men's necks for lesser offenses.
Aegon exhaled through his nose, watching you shrink deeper into the silk sheets. Your fingers trembled where they clutched the fabric to your chest, not playing at modesty, but shaking. The way a sparrow might when caught in a storm. His jaw tightened.
"She's a good girl" Aegon said, too softly for it to be anything but dangerous. He didn't look at his sisters as he spoke. His thumb brushed your knuckles where they peeked from the sheets before he straightened. "And you're scaring her."
Visenya's laugh was a blade dragged across stone. "Scaring her? You drag some tavern slut into our home—"
"Enough." Aegon's voice cracked like a whip. He stepped between the bed and his sisters, his shadow swallowing you whole. "We will speak in my chambers. Not here."
The silence in the chamber thickened like curdled milk. Visenya’s fingers flexed around Dark Sister’s hilt, her knuckles blanching white. You weren’t just some tavern wench...no, Aegon’s sister-wives knew the difference between a night’s diversion and this. The damask curtains, the dragon figurine, the way his thumb had brushed your knuckles like a boy with his first love. This was something tender, something cultivated.
The bedchamber door slammed shut behind Aegon and his sisters, but the silence left in their wake was louder than any argument. You sat frozen, the sheet slipping from your shoulders as your fingers dug into the mattress. The scent of sex still hung heavy in the air, mixed now with something acrid fear, perhaps, or the metallic tang of blood where your nails had split Aegon’s skin.
Your hands shook as you reached for the discarded shift at the foot of the bed, not trembling from cold, but from the hollow, buzzing panic of a creature suddenly left without its keeper. The dragon figurine lay where Aegon had placed it, its obsidian wings catching the dim light like a mockery of freedom. You clutched it too tight, the edges biting into your palm, but the pain grounded you. Without him here to tell you what to do, who to be, your mind fractured into static.
Your fingers traced the crude letters carved beneath the dragon’s belly, his name and yours, entwined. A sob caught in your throat. You hated how your thumb kept brushing over the grooves, as if the motion could summon him back.
Aegon groaned and sank onto the edge of his bed, the silk sheets still crisp from some overeager maid's attention. He rubbed his temples where the beginnings of a headache throbbed, not from wine, but from the shrill pitch of his sisters' voices. Visenya stood rigid by the hearth, her fingers twitching near Dark Sister's hilt, while Rhaenys perched on the armchair like a displeased cat, her jewelry chiming with every impatient tap of her foot.
"We want the whore gone" Visenya hissed, the words sharp enough to draw blood. "You can't just give flea bottom sluts chambers in our castle—"
Aegon snorted, rolling his shoulders back against the mattress. The idiocy of that statement almost amused him. You were no whore, just a farmer's daughter with dirt under your nails and stubbornness in your bones...though now his compliant love.
He remembered your first audience, how you'd knelt before the Iron Throne with trembling knees but steel in your voice, begging leave for your ailing father who had no sons to tend his fields. How your rough spun dress had slipped off one shoulder when you'd bowed, revealing sun kissed skin and the delicate ridge of your collarbone. He'd sent guards to drag you back the next time you'd come pleading, though your father had been too feverish to stand by then.
Dead now, of course. Rotting in some unmarked grave while his daughter moaned under Aegon's hands. But you didn't know that. Would never know.
Rhaenys scoffed, plucking at a loose thread on her sleeve with too much force. "Whores are common things" she mused, though her gaze flicked to the bruises on Aegon's wrist, marks shaped unmistakably like teeth. "No better than any tavern wench you could fuck without bringing them to the castle-"
"She doesn't stink of cheap wine and desperation" Aegon cut in, thumbing the bite mark on his wrist absently. You'd given him that one after he'd brought you the first silk sheet, so unused to softness you'd wept into it like a child. He'd fucked you raw for that display of weakness, whispering praises between your thighs until you sobbed his name.
Aegon hummed low in his throat, the sound vibrating against his palm as he rubbed his jaw. He remembered the way you'd looked that first day, sunburned knees pressed into the cold throne room floor, your rough spun dress slipping down one shoulder as you bowed. The desperation in your voice when you begged for your father's reprieve had been almost as intoxicating as the way your lips trembled. Pretty. So pretty it made his teeth ache.
"She is my whore" he conceded, watching Visenya's nostrils flare at the word, "and I will keep her as long as she pleases me." The lie tasted like ash on his tongue, you were so much more than that, had been since the moment he'd tasted the salt of your tears mingling with the sweat between your thighs. But his sisters' eyes glittered with vicious satisfaction at the admission, so he leaned into it, stretching his arms behind his head with deliberate nonchalance.
Visenya's grip on Dark Sister relaxed by a fraction. "Then treat her as one" she snapped, kicking at the leg of his bedframe hard enough to rattle the goblets on his nightstand. "Fuck her in the stables if you must, but don't dress her in silks and—"
"Did I say I was done?" Aegon's voice cracked through the chamber like a whip. Rhaenys' foot stilled mid-tap. He sat forward slowly, the muscles in his shoulders rolling like a dragon uncoiling. "She stays in the east wing. She keeps the silks. She keeps the trinkets." His thumb rubbed absently over the bite mark on his wrist, your teeth, your desperation, your broken little noises when he fucked you raw across those very sheets. "And you will not speak of her again."
Visenya bit her tongue so hard the metallic tang of blood bloomed across her tongue. Aegon watched her throat work as she swallowed the words and the blood with practiced restraint. He knew that look, that tightening around her eyes. She wouldn’t drop it, not truly. Not when her pride had been carved open like this. But for now, she’d sheath her fury like Dark Sister sliding back into its scabbard.
Rhaenys scoffed and took three deliberate steps toward the door. Her slippers whispered against the stone, but the set of her shoulders screamed louder than any shout. "Fine" she said, flicking a nonexistent speck of dust from her sleeve. "Keep your little pet in her gilded cage. Just remember—" Her fingers paused on the door handle, nails digging into the wood. "Even the prettiest birds pluck their own feathers when left alone too long."
The next day Aegon promised they would not bother you, to stay in your room like a good girl and now that they knew of you, he could have a maid or two tend to you, so you weren't alone while he was busy
The lock clicked with the finality of a coffin lid sealing shut. You counted Aegon's receding footsteps until they faded into the stone corridor. His promise still clung to the air like smoke, Stay. Be good. As if you had any other choice. The east wing's silence pressed against your eardrums, broken only by the distant screech of dragons circling the towers. You traced the obsidian dragon's crude wings with your thumbnail, the ridges biting into your skin just enough to remind you this wasn't a dream.
Aegon's absence was a physical ache between your ribs, sharp as the obsidian figurine digging into your palm where you clutched it beneath the sheets.
The bedchamber was too large without him. The fire had burned low, casting shadows that slithered up the walls like creeping vines. You turned your head just once toward the door, half expecting it to burst open with his familiar silhouette, smelling of leather and steel and something darker. But the latch remained still. Only the wind rattled the shutters, a hollow mockery of his bootsteps.
The obsidian dragon bit into your palm as you curled tighter beneath the sheets, still warm where Aegon’s body had pressed into the mattress hours before. You’d lost track of time staring at the canopy, tracing the embroidered dragons with your fingertips, imagining their wings were his hands dragging down your ribs. The fire had burned to embers, leaving the chamber draped in shadows that clung like second skins. Your hand finally setting the figure where Aegon usually laid.
You didn’t hear the door click.
The mattress dipped suddenly, too sudden, too heavy and your breath caught like a rabbit in a snare. A hand clamped over your mouth before the scream could tear free, calloused fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. Your eyes flew wide, heart hammering against your ribs as they adjusted to the gloom above you. Not Aegon. Never Aegon.
Visenya’s face loomed inches from yours, her violet eyes glinting like polished steel in the dim light. The scent of leather and steel clung to her, undercut by something sharper, anger, maybe, or the metallic tang of freshly honed blades. Her braid brushed your cheek as she leaned down, close enough for her breath to ghost across your lips. “Make a sound...” she murmured, “and I’ll carve out your tongue before you finish screaming.”
The dagger's tip traced idle circles against your inner thigh through the thin silk shift, cold metal dragging just hard enough to dimple the skin without drawing blood. Visenya's breath hitched, whether from disgust or fascination, you couldn't tell as she pressed the blade flat against your trembling flesh. "My brother seems to just…love this cunt of yours" she scoffed, using the hand not clamped over your mouth to tap the dagger's hilt against your thigh before inching closer to your clothed cunt. "Such a shame if it were to be unusable."
Tears spilled hot down your cheeks before you could think to stop them, no strategy, no pleading, just raw animal panic as Visenya's dagger pressed cold against your inner thigh. She scoffed, the sound sharp with disgust, and pressed the blade harder until you whimpered against her palm. From the hallway, Rhaenys' voice sliced through the silence like a honed edge
"Gods, Visenya, hurry up—we don't have all night!"
The dagger's tip pressed deeper, not enough to break skin, but enough to make your breath hitch against Visenya's palm. Her lips curled back from her teeth in a snarl that had nothing to do with the dim firelight. "I hate Flea Bottom whores" she whispered, the words hot and venomous against your cheek. The blade shifted upward, tracing the seam of your thigh with lethal precision. "Should've shoved my dagger up your cunt like my brother does his cock."
Rhaenys' voice cracked through the chamber like a whip "Visenya, enough!" and suddenly the weight was gone. The dagger clattered to the floor as Visenya shoved herself off you, her braid whipping against your cheek with the violence of her movement. You scrambled backward so fast your elbow cracked against the headboard, sheets tangling around your legs as you pressed yourself into the corner where the bed met the wall.
"Our warning" Visenya spat, bending to retrieve Dark Sister's smaller cousin from where it had skittered across the stone. The torchlight caught the edge of the blade as she turned it slowly between her fingers, casting jagged reflections across your bare thighs. "Next time I won't hesitate to carve."
The door clicked shut with finality, but your fingers kept tracing the dagger’s ghostly path along your thigh, phantom steel pressing just shy of breaking skin. The obsidian dragon lay abandoned on the pillow beside you, its wings catching the firelight in jagged mockery. Your lips moved without sound, shaping the same three words over and over like a prayer turned curse
"What have I done?"
The chamber’s shadows stretched long fingers across the ceiling as night deepened, but sleep never came. Only the ceaseless reel of Visenya’s blade hovering between your legs, Rhaenys’ hissed impatience, the way Aegon’s sisters moved through his castle like they owned every stone, because they did. And you were just a stolen thing, a trinket he’d plucked from the dirt and polished until you forgot your own reflection. What have I done? The question rattled between your ribs with each shuddering breath. You pressed your face into Aegon’s pillow, inhaling the scent of leather and smoke that clung to the linen, but even his ghost couldn’t quiet the trembling in your hands.
The first sliver of dawn painted the chamber in pale gold when you finally uncurled your stiff fingers from the obsidian figurine. The night had stretched long and hollow, no sleep, just the ceaseless tap-tap-tap of your fingertips against your knee as you sat vigil by the door. Your back pressed against cold stone, legs drawn up tight, eyes fixed on the patch of floor where sunlight would eventually spill.
When the latch finally clicked, you were already moving, a shadow uncoiling from behind the door as Aegon stepped through. He froze mid stride, head cocked toward the empty bed before you launched yourself at him with a broken noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. Your fingers dug into his surcoat before he could react, clinging like a barnacle to shipwood as your momentum sent him staggering back into the corridor wall.
"Seven hells—" Aegon's breath left him in a rush as your weight collided with his chest. His hands found your waist on instinct, steadying you both against the impact. Up close, he smelled of dragonfire and the crisp bite of morning air, his skin still chilled from whatever predawn errand had stolen him away. You buried your face in the hollow of his throat, inhaling sharply like you could weld yourself to him through sheer desperation.
Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, as your nails bit through the fabric to score half-moons into his skin. He could feel your pulse rabbiting against his collarbone where you'd pressed yourself flush against him, your entire body trembling like a sapling in a storm. His hands slid up your spine, calloused palms rasping against the thin silk shift you still wore from last night. "Breathe" he murmured, his voice roughened by sleeplessness and something darker.
Aegon’s fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head back until your damp cheek pressed against the cold stone wall behind you. His eyes, lilac flecked with gold in the dawn light, scanned your face with predatory focus. "Who touched you?" The question came out low, a growl vibrating through his chest where yours still pressed against it.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The confession would make it real, and reality meant Aegon’s hands around Visenya’s throat, Dark Sister clattering to the floor, Rhaenys screaming as dragonfire melted the castle stones around you. You shook your head violently, fingers tightening in his surcoat until the fabric threatened to tear. "N-no one" you lied, the words brittle as autumn leaves. "I just—I missed you."
Aegon's grip tightened imperceptibly against your waist, the way a dragon's claws might flex around prey before deciding whether to crush or release. His gaze flicked over your shoulder into the chamber, lingering on the rumpled sheets, the overturned dragon figurine, the faint scuff marks near the bed where boots had dragged too sharply against stone.
Aegon’s grip on your waist shifted, subtle, almost imperceptible as his thumb brushed the faint bruise blooming on your inner thigh where Visenya’s dagger had pressed. You stiffened, breath hitching, but his touch didn’t linger. Instead, he slid his palm up to cradle the back of your skull, his fingers tangling in your hair with a gentleness that belied the tension coiling through his body. “Liar” he murmured, the word warm against your temple.
"C-can you lock the door when you leave? please—" The words tumbled out before you could swallow them, brittle as winter ice cracking underfoot. Your fingers still knotted in Aegon’s surcoat trembled, not from cold, but from the memory of Visenya’s blade tracing invisible threats along your skin.
Aegon went utterly still. The predawn light through the corridor’s high windows caught the gold in his eyes, turning them molten. His thumb still pressed against the bruise on your thigh drew a slow, deliberate circle that made your breath stutter. "Who." The word wasn’t a question. It was the scrape of a whetstone before a blade finds flesh.
You shook your head, pressing your forehead against his collarbone. The scent of him, dragon smoke and the iron tang of armor worn too long filled your nose, anchoring you. "Just—lock it. Please." The plea came out muffled against his chest, barely louder than the rustle of his surcoat as his breathing shallowed.
Aegon’s fingers twitched against your scalp, the only warning before he dragged you backward into the chamber with a single sharp tug. The door slammed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges, his free hand already twisting the key in the lock with a decisive click. You stumbled against him, your knees buckling as his grip shifted to your throat, not choking, just holding, his thumb pressing against your pulse point like he could read the truth in your frantic heartbeat.
Aegon's breath was slow, deliberate, measured against the shell of your ear, each exhale a controlled burn, like dragon fire banked to embers. His fingers loosened around your throat, sliding down to grip your wrist instead. You flinched when his thumb found the crescent-shaped marks your own nails had left in your palm. "Tell me" he said, voice stripped of inflection, "or I will flay the truth from every maid in this wing."
Your fingers trembled against Aegon’s surcoat, the fabric rough beneath your fingertips as you clutched at him like a drowning woman to driftwood. His scent dragon fire and cold morning air filled your lungs as you pressed your forehead against his collarbone. The words stuck in your throat, thick as honey laced with poison. "The queens…" you began, then swallowed hard, your lip quivering against the coarse weave of his tunic. "They said they'd make me…unusable." The admission came out muffled, barely audible, as you gestured weakly to your lower half.
Aegon sighed, the sound of a man who’d spent a lifetime anticipating the recklessness of his sisters. His thumbs stroked your cheeks, callouses catching on tear damp skin. "Sweet one" he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, "how about I bring my work here, hm? Sleep here…" His lips brushed your temple, the promise warm as dragon fire. "And I’ll add a lock to the door for when I have council."
The words coiled around your ribs like smoke, loosening the vise grip of panic. You nodded against his palms, your breath hitching as he traced the path of dried tears with his thumbs. His hands were rough from reins and swordplay, yet the touch was unbearably tender, a contradiction that made your chest ache.
Aegon’s gaze flicked to the bed, where the silk sheets still bore the indentation of your body. The obsidian dragon lay abandoned on the pillow, its wings glinting in the dawn light like accusation. He exhaled sharply through his nose and guided you backward with gentle pressure until your knees hit the mattress. "Lie down" he ordered, but the command was softened by the way his fingers lingered in your hair.
You obeyed, sinking into the sheets as he knelt beside the bed. His hands moved to your thighs, pushing the shift up slowly, exposing the faint bruises Visenya’s dagger had left. Aegon’s jaw tightened, but his touch remained careful as he traced the marks, not with anger, but something darker, more possessive. "Mine" he murmured, the word a low growl against your skin. His lips followed his fingers, pressing open mouthed kisses along the inner curve of your thigh until you shuddered.
Your worries dissolved like morning mist beneath dragon fire as Aegon's mouth traced the path Visenya's dagger had threatened. The scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh sent tremors through your body, erasing every thought that wasn't him, the heat of his breath, the possessive pressure of his palms pinning your hips to the mattress, the way his tongue laved over the bruises as if he could taste his sister's violence in your skin. You arched off the sheets with a broken noise when his teeth grazed the tender flesh, your fingers twisting in his silver gold hair, equal parts punishment and plea.
"Still trembling" Aegon murmured against your thigh, his voice roughened by something darker than sleep. His thumb pressed into the hollow of your knee, spreading you wider as he inhaled sharply through his nose. The scent of your fear still lingered beneath the salt sweet musk of arousal, and it made his pulse kick against his ribs. "Good." The word was half growl as he dragged his tongue along the crease where thigh met hip, savoring the way your breath hitched. "Let me remind you who owns this cunt."
The first press of his tongue between your folds wrenched a sob from your chest. Aegon groaned against you, the vibration rippling through your sensitive flesh as his hands slid beneath your ass to tilt you up against his mouth. You tasted like desperation, salt and surrender, and he drank you down like a man dying of thirst. His nose brushed your clit with each deliberate stroke, the pressure just shy of painful, punishment and pleasure woven together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Your thighs clamped around his head instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back as he worked you open with relentless precision. The obsidian dragon lay forgotten on the pillow beside you, its wings catching the dawn light in jagged shards as your vision blurred. Every flick of his tongue, every scrape of teeth, every suctioning pull of his lips dragged you closer to the edge until you were gasping his name like a prayer, half sobbed, half choked, wholly his.
Like most nights, he finished you with his tongue still pressed deep inside you, the flat of it lapping up every shuddering pulse until your thighs trembled violently around his ears. "Good..." he rasped against your oversensitive flesh, the vibration sending aftershocks rippling through your hips. "So good for me." You barely had time to gasp before he was flipping you onto your stomach, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades as the other guided himself into you with a single brutal thrust. Your choked cry smothered into the pillows as he sheathed himself to the hilt, his teeth sinking into the nape of your neck with a growl that vibrated through your spine.
The stretch burned, his cock dragging against oversensitive walls still fluttering from your first climax, but the pain only sharpened the pleasure into something dizzying. You arched back against him instinctively, your fingers twisting in the sheets as he set a punishing pace, each snap of his hips punctuated by the slap of skin and the low growls rumbling from his chest.
Aegon’s grip on your hips was iron, his fingers digging bruises into flesh already marked by his sisters’ threats. The bedframe groaned with each thrust, the headboard striking the wall in a rhythm that would have been audible down the corridor if not for the thick tapestries. You bit down on the pillow to muffle your cries, but Aegon wrenched it away with a snarl, tossing it to the floor. "Let them hear" he breathed against your ear, his voice thick with possession. "Let them know whose you are."
"Let them know who the love of my life truly is" Aegon growled against the sweat slick curve of your shoulder, his teeth punctuating each word with sharp nips. "Know I love you." The declaration shouldn’t have twisted your stomach the way it did, half pleasure, half pain, like a blade heated in dragon fire before pressing into flesh.
His hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering for the first time since he’d taken you, and you realized with a jolt that he was close. Not just to release, but to something darker, hungrier, the edge of a cliff only you could pull him back from.
Your mind shattered like glass under a blacksmith's hammer, every coherent thought dissolving into gasps and whimpers as Aegon's hips pistoned into you with bruising force. "Love you—ah!—love you—" The words spilled from your lips between ragged breaths, each syllable punched out by his thrusts, half sobbed into the sweat damp sheets. His fingers twisted in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as his teeth found the fluttering pulse beneath your jaw. The pain pleasure of it wrenched another broken declaration from you, this one slurred with tears and ecstasy.
Aegon's growl vibrated against your skin, his free hand sliding beneath your hips to press punishing circles against your clit. "Louder" he demanded, his voice raw with something beyond lust, something that sounded dangerously like devotion. "Let the whole fucking castle hear who you belong to." You sobbed his name as his fingers doubled their efforts, the dual onslaught of his cock and touch sending white hot sparks across your vision. Your thighs trembled violently, your toes curling against the rumpled sheets as you teetered on the edge of oblivion.
The moment your second climax ripped through you, Aegon's rhythm fractured. His thrusts turned erratic, his grip on your hair tightening to the point of pain as he buried himself to the hilt with a groan that sounded torn from his chest. You felt him pulse inside you, his release hot and claiming, his teeth still latched onto your shoulder as if marking you anew. For one suspended heartbeat, the only sounds were your shared panting and the distant cry of a dragon beyond the castle walls.
Aegon shuddered as he withdrew, his cock slick and oversensitive, every nerve alight with the aftershocks of release. The small hiss that escaped his clenched teeth was half pleasure, half pain, like pulling a blade from a wound that hadn’t yet stopped bleeding. He flipped you onto your back with uncharacteristic gentleness, his fingers trembling slightly as they traced the sweat-damp curve of your cheekbone. "Wanted to see you" he murmured, voice roughened by exhaustion and something dangerously soft.
You whimpered when he nudged back inside you, just the head, just enough to feel the flutter of your oversensitive walls around him. Aegon groaned, his forehead dropping to yours as he rocked forward in shallow, stuttering thrusts, more for the comfort of connection than any real pursuit of pleasure. His breath hitched when your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, pulling him deeper despite the ache. "Fuck" he breathed against your lips, the word warm and damp. "Still so greedy for me."
You arched beneath him with a broken noise, your fingers tangling in the silver gold strands at his nape. The stretch burned now, both of you tender from rough use but the pain was sweetened by the way his lashes fluttered against your cheekbone with each slow roll of his hips. His cock twitched inside you, still half hard, still unwilling to be parted for long.
Aegon's hands slid beneath your shoulders, cradling you closer as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His breathing was ragged, his skin fever warm where it pressed against yours. You could feel his heartbeat thundering against your ribs...wild and uneven, like a dragon's wings in a storm. His hips moved in slow, shallow circles now, his cock barely moving inside you, just enough to keep him seated deep. "Mine" he muttered against your throat, the word more sigh than growl this time. "All mine."
You nodded weakly, your thighs trembling around his hips as another wave of aftershocks rippled through you. Aegon groaned at the sensation, his fingers tightening against your back. "Fuck—stop that" he rasped, though his hips stuttered forward in response. "I can't—" His teeth grazed your collarbone, sharp and sudden, cutting off his own words.
A soft noise escaped your lips as he reluctantly pulled out with a slow drag that made you both shudder. Aegon hissed through his teeth at the oversensitivity, his cock twitching against your thigh as he rolled you onto your side with surprising gentleness. His arms wound around you from behind, pulling your back flush against his chest as he nuzzled into your hair. "Wanted to see your face" he murmured, though his voice was thick with exhaustion now. "But you're prettier like this—curled around me."
The chamber smelled of sweat and spent passion, the air thick with the musk of tangled sheets and dragon scented oil from Aegon's skin. You lay curled against him, his forearm a heavy weight across your ribs, his breath warm against the nape of your neck. Dawn had bled into morning, but the heavy tapestries muted the light, casting the room in a dim, amber glow.
Your eyelids fluttered shut without permission, the weight of the sleepless night dragging them down like anchors. Yet even in the darkness behind your lids, your fingers stayed locked around Aegon’s forearm, knuckles white, tendons standing stark against skin still damp with sweat. His pulse thrummed steady beneath your grip, a silent reassurance that he hadn’t vanished into the predawn gloom like smoke from a snuffed candle.
content: 18+ mdni, f!reader, childhood friends to lovers, codependency, loss of innocence, cock rubbing, possessiveness, marking, teasing in public, drunk & rough sex, eating you out
synopsis: Your childhood friend Draco begins to fray at the edges when he realises someone else can give you a love more stable, natural that he never could—and that you might choose it.
series masterlist
wc: 7.1k
Draco rolled like thunder.
Always striking with a precise lethality.
When the two of you first started at Hogwarts, he had the habit of scrutinising the other children you spent time with. Before school it had always just been the two of you, Draco made sure of that, keeping your most formative years to himself.
Hogwarts was different. There were too many people, too many possibilities.
His father had always taught him to give the illusion of choice. To be patient to get what he wanted. So he let you make friends with whoever you liked.
Most of them never lasted.
Draco would examine them carefully, observing them with a fine tooth comb. You are not good enough for me and therefore, no good for her.
To his credit, many of them truly did have less-than-honourable intentions where you were concerned.
Daphne Greengrass was one of the first friends you made.
Another pure-blood girl with an elegant manner and a quick mind. The two of you became fast friends—practising spells, gossiping over homework, even borrowing each other's clothes.
Draco watched it all with quiet interest. He found it strange how quickly Daphne seemed to merge with you. Your mannerisms, how you dressed, your way of speaking. Even your sharp wit and careful knowledge of things. Draco was unsettled to discover that she knew some of the small secrets you’d shared.
Within weeks it seemed Daphne Greengrass had learned to wear you like a second skin.
If she could get close to you, or rather, become like you, she could stand where you stood. Hold the same influence you held. Draco saw through it all with thinly veiled amusement.
He decided to test her when you'd retired early from studying one night.
“Between you and me, Greengrass,” his voice still high and bratty, “I’ve heard her parents are falling steadily into debt. People like us should know when to leave a burning building.”
He arranged his face into its most caring expression and placed a hand over hers like a concerned friend, the gesture deceptively comforting.
Daphne looked startled. “How'd you know? She didn’t tell me that,” she said slowly.
She wasn’t very critical at the time, young and quite malleable. How could she not trust a Malfoy?
Then she nodded, almost to herself. “You’re quite right, Malfoy.”
Later, he repeated the conversation to you—with the truth carefully rearranged, of course.
“She told me your parents aren’t nearly as wealthy as she assumed,” he said lightly, studying your tearful face. “She wanted to use you. That’s the last time you’ll see her, got it?”
You nodded sombrely, clinging onto his words. He always knew better.
“Everyone who isn’t you and me is an enemy,” he would say, brushing away your tears. He made you savor the pain of betrayal and that was that.
And then there were the few.
The ones you’d stuck by. The genuine, good companions. The ones Draco had actually had to hold himself back from targeting. The ones you defended with an unwavering loyalty.
“No, Draco. I will never forgive you if you mess with him.”
That was Harry.
You were the better half of Draco. Harry had always told people that.
When it came to Harry, you were the one who tightened the leash on him. It was the usual comments—about Hermione, about Ron, about Gryffindor. When you stood beside him, which was often enough, Draco’s tongue lost some of its edge. He knew it would start fights with you, and he knew they were not worth having over Harry Potter.
He appreciated you for that.
After Daphne, you had sworn off pure-blood friendships for a while. Harry had become a comfortable sort of friend.
Sometimes it meant walking together from Charms through the crowded corridors, arguing quietly over Quidditch strategies. Other times it meant coincidentally sitting across from him in the library while he struggled through Potions notes and you patiently correcting them.
Always when Draco was occupied.
Whether you had noticed that pattern or not, it was about to become very clear.
Because today, Harry had invited you to sit at his table for dinner for the first time.
“If this is some kind of pity invite, I’d rather not have it, Harry,” you joked.
Harry snorted. “For once you don’t have your evil half hoarding you. Trust me, this has been overdue for ages.”
And so you dined with him. And it did feel overdue.
SUMMER TERM
“So,” Harry said, leaning forward on the table, “you watch Slytherin practice?”
“Sometimes.”
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
“Hypothetically,” he said, “if someone wanted to know whether the Chasers still drop back in that defensive formation—”
You laughed. “Hypothetically, I wouldn’t tell them.”
Harry grinned. “Fair.”
There was something easy about being with Harry—an uncomplicated sort of ambition. He was like calm waters: you could see exactly what lay beneath.
Stable.
You knew, subconsciously, that Draco hated him for that. That kind of foolish honesty was a luxury Harry could afford.
Draco was more like looking through a diamond, light splitting through countless sharp versions of himself. It dizzied you if you tried to follow them all. He had learned to be that way.
Complex in every sense of the word—and pleasantly aware that it drove people away.
You met Draco’s eyes across the hall and couldn’t quite read the expression there. The way he stared at you silently haunted you—for the first time, the boy you had always seemed to understand had become unreadable.
Just scream at me. Be angry with me. Anything but this.
He quickly laced his fingers with Pansy’s. You looked away, back to your plate.
You noticed a few pieces of beef had appeared on your plate, which had been finished only moments before.
You looked up to the ceiling with a playful tilt of your head. “I wonder where these came from.”
Harry chuckled and nudged his plate closer. “Have some. That class was brutal.”
You hummed in approval and ate the pieces.
“Have you tried that Shield Charm Lupin mentioned?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It works.”
“Show me later?”
Later meant the empty stretch of corridor outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, when most students had disappeared back to their common rooms.
“Alright,” Harry said, pushing up his glasses and stepping back a few paces. There was something so precious about his earnestness. “Try something simple.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You want me to hex you?”
“You’ll never learn if you don’t.”
You hesitated for half a second before lifting your wand.
“Expelliarmus!”
Harry moved quickly. “Protego.”
The spell struck the shield with a sharp crack of light and fizzled harmlessly away.
“Woah.”
He lowered his wand, looking impressed. “Alright. My turn.”
You shifted your stance slightly, preparing another spell.
Harry lifted his wand. “Expelli—”
“Protego!”
Harry stared at you.
“You didn’t even let me finish the spell!”
“Too slow,” you said, smiling. It was a curious feeling—you missed having a good volley with someone.
“Oh, is that right?”
Harry suddenly darted sideways, wand already raised.
“Expelliarmus!”
You barely got your shield up in time.
The red light ricocheted off the barrier and sparked against the stone wall behind you.
You laughed.
“Missed.”
Harry grinned.
You stepped backward, lifting your wand again.
“Expelliarmus!”
Harry ducked behind one of the stone pillars lining the corridor.
“You can’t hide forever,” you called.
“Oh, I’m not hiding,” Harry said.
He leaned out suddenly—
“Expelliarmus!”
Your wand flew from your hand this time, clattering across the floor.
You gasped. “Harry!”
Harry looked just as surprised as you.
You lunged for your wand at the same moment he did, both of you skidding slightly on the stone floor.
Harry grabbed it first, but you tackled his arm before he could raise it again.
“Give it back!”
“Never!”
You tried to wrestle the wand from him, both of you laughing as you struggled. With a mischievous grin, you bared your teeth near his hand—a childish tactic, perhaps, but a tactic nonetheless. Eventually, Harry lost his balance, and the two of you tumbled backward onto the cold stone floor.
“You’re terrible at dueling,” Harry said breathlessly.
You turned to look at him. His hair was even messier than usual, cheeks flushed from running, his glasses sitting crooked in the funniest way. Comfort seemed to live in his face naturally.
You laughed and propped yourself up on one elbow.
Without really thinking about it, you reached over and straightened his glasses. Your fingers brushed lightly against his cheek and the contact made your heart skip. You realized then you had never really touched another boy before.
Harry went still, his breath catching slightly as if he’d only just realized how close you were.
“That I am,” you said after a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I need a teacher.”
“Alright then,” he said. “Lesson one: don’t bite your opponent.”
—
And that was the rhythm of you and Harry.
He would duel with you, helping you untangle the spells that still slipped through your grasp. Every session ended the same way—energy spiraling into reckless casting, laughter until one of you lost your footing or tired. Soon enough you’d both be sprawled across the floor, stomachs aching.
Sometimes you stayed there, lying on the cold stone, speaking in low voices about the day. Other times, the conversations drifted further, wandering into quiet, uncertain talk about the future.
And in moments like those, Draco always returned to your thoughts.
No matter how you tried to push it down, the sting remained. It felt as though your life had been cleaved neatly in two. Once, you had imagined your futures moving in tandem, woven together without question. Instead, you were forced to watch his life unfold somewhere separate from yours.
When you ran into Theo in the corridors, the question slipped out before you could stop it. “Has he eaten?”
Or when you crossed paths with Blaise, “His hair’s getting a bit long. I could trim it.” You always had.
Memories of the soft, cotton-fine wisps of his hair sliding between your fingers. The clean musk at the crown of his head. The closeness of his face to yours when you moved around to the front.
Draco sitting on the closed lid of a toilet seat while you cut his hair.
He was perfectly capable of doing it himself with a spell—it would have been quicker, neater, far more sensible than trusting you with scissors. But every time your nails scraped lightly through his hair, a quiet groan would slip out of him as he leaned into your touch.
And he loved the look on your face then: your brows drawn tight in concentration, the comforting heat radiating from your body—knowing full well you’d be dead if you messed with his hair.
He’d always inspect your work afterward, turning his head this way and that in the mirror. It was never perfect, never very even—but he loved it anyway. And then he’d take your hands in his, massaging your palms slowly, thumbs pressing into your skin as if you’d done him a great service.
Any excuse to get close to you.
You couldn’t help but feel like he'd stolen a whole summer from you. Harry felt like a bandage over a gunshot wound—something meant to hold things together while you still bled underneath.
—
Next month, an invitation arrived for a Slug Club party.
You considered ignoring it. For a while, you nearly did. But eventually you decided to go with Harry. It might be nice for the both of you to take a break and loosen up a little.
You asked him after a duel, both of you still catching your breath.
“Do you think we should wear matching colours?"
He blinked at you, completely earnest.
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out at his naïveté.
You returned to the Slytherin common room afterward.
When you pushed the door open, Draco was there, standing across the room. In the dim green light, he looked almost like a watchful feline—still, alert, eyes fixed the moment you stepped inside.
You didn’t realize how you must have looked: a small smile still lingering on your lips, your face flushed with sweat, breath uneven.
Alarm flashed across his face—so open, so startlingly unguarded that it made him look almost childlike. A rarity on the carefully composed version of Draco he’d grown into.
He looked shaken. The last time you had seen him like that was when you’d slipped in the Malfoy fountain and broken your ankle.
You stared at each other for a moment—until a quiet sob broke the silence.
You turned and found Pansy curled on the couch, crying.
Draco didn’t even look back. He made a straight line for the boys’ dormitories, disappearing up the stairs as if the room itself had become unbearable. He didn’t seem to care that he’d just left her there.
You hesitated, wondering whether you should ask if she was alright.
Pansy did not seem to have that kind of concern for you. Not when it seemed like everything between you and Draco had fallen apart. If anything, she had indirectly been a source of your torment.
But Pansy was also just a girl hopelessly in love, she didn’t know. Of that, you could be certain.
She had simply jumped at the chance with Draco, her love finally requited—perhaps she believed that having you around would never be to her advantage.
You decided to see her that way. You crossed the room and sat down on the couch beside her. “Parkinson? What happened?”
She glanced up at you, and the hurt in her eyes was unmistakable. It was unsettling to see her like that.
Yes, only Draco could have caused this.
She hesitated for a moment, and you thought you caught a flicker of shame cross her face. Then her mouth moved wordlessly, as if she didn’t quite know how to begin.
As if she had suddenly realised you might be the only one who could understand.
“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “He just snapped at me out of nowhere and I—”
Her voice broke into a sharp gasp.
“I just wanted him to take me to the Slug Club party as his date. I don’t know how I could have upset him.” The sentence came out in fragments, broken by gasps.
You sighed softly. You had heard conversations like this before. You already knew how it might have played out. You knew many girls who tried to secure their place at a Slug Club party through Draco, fuelled by the opportunities.
“The entitlement alone is staggering. I suppose she assumed I’d be flattered," he’d cackle.
Of course, it wasn’t always true. Draco simply possessed a relentless cynicism about people.
“Draco’s a complicated person, Parkinson. That’s just the way he is. You know that. You can’t blame yourself.”
“M—maybe I was too persistent,” she said, breaths still shaky. “I just didn’t understand why he wouldn’t take me. He’d been so… caring.”
“Did he want to take you?” She asked suddenly, almost accusatory.
The question seemed to hold her entire world in it. Realizing that, you added quickly, “No—I’m going with Harry.”
She let out a long breath that sounded almost like relief, though she tried to disguise it as another shudder from crying.
And suddenly you remembered the Easter holiday—the moment you had kissed Draco—and the lie tumbled out before you could stop it.
“Yes, he’s not taking me. Maybe he’ll come around, hm?”
You felt a flicker of guilt the moment the words left your mouth. But if Pansy thought it was in her favour that Draco hadn’t invited you, you were more than willing to encourage the illusion.
Perhaps you weren’t better than Draco after all.
Two pure-bloods raised in houses where manipulation came as naturally as breathing.
And Pansy was painfully easy to lie to.
You shivered at the thought.
You patted her back gently until her breathing steadied, and when she seemed satisfied with your reassurances, the two of you made your way back to the dormitories.
“Surely not!”
Harry stepped around behind you, lifting the necklace to clasp it. His hands trembled slightly, as though he were trying far too hard not to brush against your skin.
“A gift?” you laughed lightly. “From Harry Potter himself? I should be eternally grateful.”
“It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “We both love Quidditch so much—I thought you might like it.”
In truth, you hadn’t expected Harry to be so thoughtful.
Earlier, you had slipped your own necklace into your bra, intending to put it on just before entering the party. You’d run out of time while getting ready.
It had been a gift from Narcissa. A family heirloom.
A simple silver locket engraved with two words:
Ab Initio.
From the beginning.
From the beginning, it had been you and my Draco.
Inside the locket were two tiny photographs—one on each side. Pictures taken when you were babies. Little hands, little toes.
With the weight of legacy.
You could imagine how it might have looked to Draco, seeing another necklace resting where the locket should have been.
But you had assumed he wouldn’t be there. And, truthfully, you did appreciate Harry’s gift.
Still, as you turned the delicate wing pendant between your fingers, it felt almost weightless. Not like the locket. The years. Promises. Expectations.
You hooked your arm through Harry’s and began weaving through the room.
The Slug Club party today was held at the Greengrass estate. Everything about it carried that unmistakable pure-blood polish—elegant, curated, and just a touch performative. The air hummed with polite laughter and murmured introductions, the quiet currency of influence and pedigree passing between guests as smoothly as the wine.
After enduring a few polite exchanges with the Greengrasses—carefully avoiding Daphne—and the Macmillans, Harry leaned closer to you.
“Bit of a stiff party, isn’t it?” he muttered under his breath. This was hardly his usual crowd.
A faint smirk tugged at your lips.
“I’ll get us something to eat."
Harry turned toward the long table laid with food. You slipped into a nearby chair, hardly paying attention to who it belonged to.
You nearly lurched out of it when you realised you were sitting across from Theodore Nott.
If Theo was here, then—
A familiar, sharp laugh cut through the room behind you.
You turned slowly, as if refusing to look might somehow make him disappear.
There he was.
Half-turned in conversation, a glass of wine balanced loosely in his hand.
Draco Malfoy looked like something cut from marble. He was dressed in his finest, the quiet opulence of a perfectly tailored suit. He looked every inch the heir he had been raised to be.
There was always something unsettling in the way a snarl appeared on his beautiful face. Like seeing a flower suddenly rot.
You watched the scene unfold from the sidelines.
“Remarkable,” he drawled. “You do have a talent for stumbling into things you don’t quite deserve.”
Harry bristled.
“Oh no, she hates those.” He made a show of tossing the food to the floor.
“Did you not know that?” He tilted his head slightly. He had a way of speaking to you that felt like a tight slap.
You rose then.
“Have you had quite enough, Draco?”
From the way he held himself—something not quite as rigid as his usual tall arrogance—you realised he was already drunk.
Draco’s grey eyes slid to you, cheeks warm.
“Hello, you.”
Harry spoke up quickly. “I’ll assure you, Malfoy, professor Slughorn personally urged me to come—”
His voice drifted away.
Draco had lifted a hand to your neck, sliding his palm lightly along your skin as he brushed aside the hair you’d carefully arranged to hide the necklace.
His thumb pressed briefly against your throat, the touch a little too deliberate. You couldn’t quite place the expression on his face.
Tired, perhaps. Something softer. Something sad.
What's going on in that mind of yours, Draco?
Harry had vanished entirely from his attention.
When he realised he had stopped talking, he released you.
“Very well, Potter,” he said lightly. “I’ll indulge you. Why don’t you sit with us? We ought to get to know you, seeing as you’re with my better half here.”
Harry hesitated.
“We’ve the best wine at our table.”
Then he draped his arms around you and Harry’s shoulders, roping you toward a table where Blaise and Theo were already seated, along with a few others from high society—though most alarmingly, Daphne Greengrass.
She sat rather close to Theo.
There must be something going on there.
You fought the urge to smile and lean over to Draco to whisper, When did that happen? Once, the two of you had delighted in gossip like that—the smallest shifts in loyalties and romances in your circle. It was an unspoken way of assuring yourselves that you two were the most sensible ones.
You bit your tongue.
Draco’s arm tightened slightly around your shoulders. His gaze had followed yours.
For a moment, the faintest hint of amusement flickered across his face.
You looked away. It felt too familiar.
You filed the question away in your mind for a time when things between you were better.
Soon.
You'd sat down with Draco on your left and Harry on your right. The boys snatched up the chance to interrogate the golden boy of Hogwarts.
"So which of Slughorn’s little favourites are you meant to impress tonight?"
"How many times have you almost died, Potter?”
The questions were teasing, playful—though coming from them, that was about as gentle as it ever got. Harry had been tossed into a sea of snakes.
You sipped your wine, offering him the occasional encouraging smile or light pat on the back as the conversation carried on around the table.
Then you felt it.
A warm hand sliding between the press of your thighs beneath the table.
You hadn’t noticed when Draco had shifted closer. Only now did you realize how near he was, the faint scent of wine on his breath as he leaned in.
“I do wonder, Potter,” Draco said suddenly, cutting through the conversation, “how you and my dearest confidante here became such close friends.”
His hand tightened around your thigh.
Too tight.
You winced, turning sharply to glare at him.
Harry replied earnestly, “Well, it’s a lot better when you’re not around. She’s a very good duelling partner.”
“Is she now?” Draco said lightly.
The hand on your thigh shifted, inching towards your core beneath your dress.
No—Not here. What is he thinking?
He pressed firmly against your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear.
“So you’ve seen how she handles a wand in a duel,” he said thoughtfully, voice smooth with quiet amusement. “All that energy.”
His grey eyes narrowed to Harry.
“I imagine it keeps you busy, Potter.”
While he spoke, he nudged the delicate fabric aside, his movements slow and deliberate. The slick warmth of your own arousal made it easy for him to trace slow circles on your clit.
Your fingers tightened around his arm. You bit your lip hard enough to almost break the skin, forcing yourself to stay silent.
You hadn’t known it was possible to feel this good.
Draco watched your expression very intently before finally pulling his hand away.
He lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean without breaking eye contact with you.
“What exactly are you implying, Malfoy?” Harry said at last.
“Of course,” Daphne whispered quietly at Theo, “good judgment rarely runs in her family.”
The moment Daphne finished speaking, a wine glass suddenly slid across the table and tipped, splashing red across the front of her dress.
She shot to her feet. “What—”
“You should get that before it stains,” Blaise said calmly.
You took the opportunity immediately, pushing your chair back. The damp heat between your thighs made every step feel overly sensitive.
“You’ll have to excuse me as well.”
Without waiting for a response, you slipped away from the table and headed toward the nearest bathroom.
The walk down the corridor felt strangely disorienting. Every brush of fabric against your skin made you acutely aware of yourself—your clit rubbed raw and sensitive for the first time.
You tried to find the quietest part of the estate.
The moment you stepped inside and pushed the door close—
A hand slammed against it from the other side, stopping it.
“Ow—fuck.”
Draco forced the door open and slipped inside, immediately cradling his hand.
“I will scream,” you said sharply.
He smirked, though it looked a little strained.
“That you will.”
You moved toward the door again, determined to leave.
“Wanna talk to you,” he slurred.
You paused despite yourself.
And you didn’t know what it was—the way he was nursing his hand, or the way he suddenly looked like a dog with its tail between its legs.
Your eyes drifted down to his hand. Just like that, you were already reaching for it, gently turning his wrist to inspect the damage.
It didn’t matter that you’d wanted to leave a moment ago.
With him, it never mattered.
While you turned his large hand over in yours, he let out a quiet, breathy laugh at the ticklish brush of your smaller fingers.
Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours.
That familiar gesture. Vulnerability.
“Tell me what he did to you.”
You looked up at him then. Through the curtain of his pale lashes, his grey eyes searched your face.
He looked genuinely distraught.
As if he had already accepted it—accepted that you and Harry were actually becoming something real.
“Draco...”
“Tell me,” he insisted, biting his lip.
You gently set his injured hand down, though your fingers still held onto it.
Something in his eyes seemed to fracture. As if he had already lost you.
That was when you realized he wasn’t thinking clearly. A sober Draco would never have jumped to that conclusion; would have been far more discerning.
But tonight he was too far gone, thoughts racing ahead of reason.
He was getting hasty.
His eyes had turned glassy, and it reminded you of the times you’d found him as a child after one of his father’s harsher scoldings.
Eyes red.
Rubbed raw.
He kept staring at you, pupils shifting rapidly, as though he could somehow read the thoughts moving through your head.
Harry had the one thing Draco didn’t: a life where instinct was enough. He would’ve been a great partner for you. And that scared him.
A small, strangled sound slipped from his throat. You saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard—
—and then his mouth crashed onto yours.
The kiss wasn’t careful or composed. It was desperate. Greedy.
Draco Malfoy had come completely undone.
He pushed you back against the sink, the edge digging into your hips as he pressed himself against you, grinding harshly.
“Tell me,” he breathed. “Did he make you come?”
His hands came up to cradle your face, though the grip was too tight, his fingers pressing into your cheeks until the skin flushed beneath them.
Before you could answer, he kissed you again—hard, messily—like he was trying to drag the truth out of you with his mouth.
“Where did he touch you? Hm?” he murmured against your lips. Where did he defile you?
His thumb dragged along your jaw.
Let me erase him.
You looked at him then and saw the desperation in his eyes. And it all just fit together.
You’d wanted him to hurt the way you had.
Now he stood in front of you, frantic to prove himself, and the dull throb between your thighs pulsed again, insistent and heavy.
So you lied.
“Yes. Here.”
Draco’s hand moved immediately, sliding down to the hem of your dress and pushing the fabric up slightly as he searched.
“Here?”
“Mhm…”
A low sound left him.
His lips brushed your neck as he kissed slowly down your throat.
“Mm… I will eat you until there’s nothing left of him.”
He moved with such quiet certainty that it made you blush—like he’d been waiting to show you exactly what he wanted to do with you. Exactly how to make you feel good.
He sank to his knees in front of you, pressing soft kisses along the inside of your thighs. The sight of him there made heat rush to your face. Draco—usually so proud—looked so pliant like this. Nothing but longing.
You'd done this to him. Made him yield.
He slid your underwear down your thighs before pressing his tongue flat against you. The cool air brushed over your exposed skin for a moment before the warmth of his mouth followed.
You shivered.
“Yes? Good?”
Draco kept watching you, his grey eyes flicking up to study every reaction on your face.
Then he pushed his tongue deeper, the angle of his nose rubbing perfectly against your clit.
It was so vulgar—the way your hips rocked forward, the way you found yourself riding the pressure of his nose without meaning to.
Just use me. Use me. Use me.
A soft moan slipped from you as your head fell back.
His tongue moved slowly inside you, swirling and the feeling was so overwhelming you had to grip the edge of the sink, your fingers tightening around the pristine porcelain just to keep yourself steady.
It felt juvenile, that blind chase of pleasure, careless and consuming. Corrupting.
He curled a finger slowly inside you, deciding you were wet enough now. His eyes lifted to your face, watching if you strained.
His mouth closed around your clit, sucking harshly—almost soothingly.
It reminded you of times his lips closed in on a piece of candy, staining them pink.
You felt impossibly tight around his finger, every movement sending a sharp, unfamiliar sensitivity through you.
It made his throat go dry.
Here, you were untouched.
He slipped another finger inside you, testing your limit.
Apparently two was more than enough.
He began to move them slowly, then steadily, pushing them in and out of you, the tender walls of your cunt making every movement easier.
The drag of his fingers inside you made you feel deliciously full, curling into a spot that made your head spin.
You were getting close to something.
You had never come before—but you could feel something building deep in your core, tightening and tightening with every movement of his fingers and every pull of his mouth. The sounds he made were so indecent, but somehow that only pushed you closer to the edge.
Your hand tangled in Draco’s hair, gripping tightly.
Your heel pierced into his back.
You’d probably hate yourself for this later.
But right now you only wanted him to keep going.
"Come for me,” he mumbled against you.
Then his teeth grazed lightly over your clit just as his fingers curled deeper inside you—
And you felt something snap.
It was so intense it almost felt like something had been torn out of you. Like you had just lost a piece of your soul, something sacred. Draco ripping your first orgasm out of you.
Your body arched back and shuddered as the pleasure rushed through you all at once.
As you came down, you felt him give a few more slow licks, almost as if he were guiding you gently back to yourself. You kept mewling his name as if that’s all you could remember.
“I know… I know…”
You looked at him then and felt a shift come into place between you.
He had consumed you—like teeth breaking into the soft pulp of a pomegranate, messy and inevitable—and it felt as though the moment had marked you both.
Something violent in its intensity. Carnal.
You wanted more. You wanted him to bite you, take you apart and chew.
Your hands found him, grasping his shirt as you pulled him back up to you. You kissed him, tasting yourself on his mouth. His tongue slid into yours the same way it had moved inside you moments before.
His hands closed around your waist, gripping tightly—as if he were afraid you might come apart if he loosened his hold.
You couldn’t think.
Your mind was in ruins, Draco had ceased to be just a boy; he had a mouth and hands that were able to draw something reckless and hungry out of you. Something primal.
You wanted everything he could give.
“More…” you whined.
You turned toward the mirror, catching his gaze in the reflection. Slowly, deliberately, you pushed back against him, mouth parted, your hips rolling against the hard outline beneath his trousers.
“Oh—fuck—” you whimpered.
Heat rushed to your face as your head fell back against his shoulder. Even like this he felt good, the rough drag of the fabric on your cunt turning it into a bundle of raw nerves.
Draco pressed you tighter against him, grinding slowly as he gripped your hips enough to bruise. A low groan left him, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek.
In the mirror, his eyes were fixed on the two of you.
Once, you had only been children.
Now you were pressed together like you were in heat.
Look at us and tell me you could part with me.
I used and broke someone’s heart just for you, who else can say that?
Just tell me you’re mine.
Draco watched you in the mirror, expectant.
You knew he wanted to hear something before he gave you what you wanted. But your thoughts were fogged over.
So instead, you reached for the nearest blade.
“What else will Harry do to me, Draco?”
Still grinding against him.
“As my best friend, you should prepare me.”
You knew it would sting.
In that moment, you didn’t really care.
You wanted to even the score.
Draco’s jaw tightened, something dark flickering across his face.
“I will do just that,” he said quietly.
“And you will watch.”
You wished you could watch in the mirror—see how his hands moved as he freed himself from the confines of his trousers. The way he stroked himself, the way he hardened in his grip.
Instead, all you could see were his eyes. The focus in them made you tremble.
Behind you, his fingers slid between your thighs, spreading the slick warmth of you over your skin, prepping you. He tapped lightly at your thigh, urging you to widen your stance slightly, then shifted your hips so your hands rested properly against the sink.
"Steady yourself, please."
The whole scene felt like you'd defiled the beautiful interior of the bathroom.
Something about being here—someone else's bathroom, the wide mirror reflecting everything you were doing. As if the glass itself were watching. Memorising.
You felt the head of him press slowly against you from behind, and a quiet sigh slipped from your lips.
“He’d press his cock right here,” Draco droned.
The tip of him nudged at your entrance.
A flicker of apprehension passed through you. You had struggled to take two of his fingers earlier—you couldn’t imagine how you were meant to take all of him, especially at this rather punishing angle.
You let out a slow breath.
“And then he’d enter you.”
Draco thrust forward suddenly, one sharp motion.
You gripped the sink, bracing yourself for the pressure—
But it never came.
Instead, he dragged himself through the tight space between your thighs, his cock sliding along your folds rather than entering.
You whimpered softly as the supple, swollen head brushed over your clit, making a filthy noise.
He pressed himself against you with hard pressure, as if trying to imprint the feeling of him there—the veins, the heat, the firm weight of him—without actually entering you.
He knew it was what you wanted.
And he had no intention of giving it to you.
Instead he kept rubbing himself, slow and controlled. He felt so hard, so tender against you, the curve of him brushed your clit roughly with every movement. But it made your cunt tighten around nothing. You wanted to curse him.
“He’d go in and out of you like this,” Draco taunted against your ear.
The creamy substance thickening between you was impossible to ignore.
You lifted your eyes to the mirror. The sight made your stomach twist—the flushed pink head of him appearing and disappearing between your thighs, unmistakably his.
But you didn’t want this. You wanted him inside you.
You wanted him to melt into you completely.
“Inside me, Draco. Please.” Your voice was breathless. You bit your lip as you reached back, guiding him, trying to slip him into you. For a moment the head of him squeezed at your entrance.
He hissed, pulling his hips back.
“No.”
Your eyes watered. A small hiccup caught in your throat as he bounced you back against him.
“Please…” you choked out.
“You’ll take what I give you.”
I laid everything at your feet, and you stepped around it.
I saved you a seat, and you said you preferred to stand.
He resumed the same rough shoving between your thighs, the head of him dragging mercilessly. The slick between you had turned frothy, coating his tip each time he slid forward.
Then his hand moved forward. His fingers circled your clit.
“He’d help you come with his fingers,” Draco murmured, “if he had any sense.”
You barely heard him.
Your mind was caught somewhere between pleasure and anger.
Part of you wanted to lash out—to turn suddenly, shove him down onto the floor and sink onto his cock yourself. To take control and wipe that cruel restraint from his face.
But you were close.
So close.
Your legs trembled, weak enough that you didn’t know how you were still standing.
“Close?” he stuttered.
You knew then he was nearing the edge too.
You could feel it in the way he moved, in the subtle pulsing of his cock against you and the way he moaned in between sentences like he couldn't hold it back anymore.
You wanted to feel it. Wanted to have it.
Wanted him to spill over you.
Something unmistakably his.
“Mhm… don’t stop. Faster, Draco.”
He obeyed, his hips moving with more urgency. The sound of him pounding you was shamelessly loud, the sharp rhythm echoing through the lavish bathroom.
You lifted your head, wanting to see when he came. To be the one causing his pleasure this time.
But the orgasm building inside you made your body curl inward. Your chin dipped as you folded over yourself, on the verge of collapsing.
Draco caught your jaw before you could hide.
He forced your gaze back toward the mirror, his tongue clicking softly before dragging along the side of your neck.
“Keep looking.”
You did.
You saw both of you there—your body braced against the sink, his behind you, working desperately to bring you over the edge. His movements had lost their earlier calculation; his hips stuttered now, chasing the same release you were.
And in that moment you knew he no longer cared about Harry. Not really.
He only wanted to make you feel good.
For a moment the two of you looked almost unreal in the mirror—like a Baroque piece, lovers caught mid-motion in a gilded room.
Suspended in voluptate carnis, framed perfectly in the gold mirror.
You caught his eyes in the mirror. His cock was beating rapidly now, the tension in it unmistakable, as if you could almost feel the rush of his come through it.
“Come with me,” he whined, you could barely hear him through his sharp breathing.
Your second orgasm unraveled through you like another knot of your soul loosened in Draco’s hands. He gave one final thrust, the sight of him spilling across your thighs—warm, thick—and the feeling of his cock twitching was enough to push you over the edge.
Draco groaned against you as your head fell back against his shoulder, his teeth grazing your neck before his mouth closed there, sucking at the skin.
As you came, his hand clawed up your neck, catching on the delicate necklace that had been hanging down your chest.
The chain snapped.
It fell against the sink with a soft clatter, silver glinting under the light as he grabbed the edge of the counter to steady the both of you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You both panted, flushed and damp, staring at each other in the mirror—sweating, glowing almost. You almost laughed at the sight, you looked like you just finished wrestling each other.
His face nudged gently against yours. His sweat mixing with yours. You would smell like him.
He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. For a moment he simply watched, as though committing the sight to memory.
You and I. You and I. You and I.
He breathed in the scent of you and loosed a deep breath. Like when he came back home after a term.
“Where’s my mother’s necklace?” he asked suddenly after a few minutes, releasing himself from you and tucking it back into his trousers. You tingled at the sudden loss.
You reached into your bra, but his hand followed a second later, as if he meant to retrieve it himself.
Heat rushed to your face. You pushed his hand away gently, fishing the chain out yourself before holding the locket up for him to see.
“I just made you come,” he said with a quiet chuckle.
He brushed your hair away from your neck, so gentle, setting the strands as neatly as he could. Then he draped the necklace back around your throat and fastened the clasp behind you.
His fingers moved through your hair, carefully combing it back into place, trying to tame the strands that had come loose.
Then he reached down and tugged your dress back into place, smoothing the fabric over your hips. His fingers brushed lightly up your thighs where the evidence of him had begun to trail downward.
He didn’t wipe it off.
He moved on to your face, gently fixing what remained of your lipstick with the pad of his thumb, trying to hide the evidence of his mouth.
“There,” he hummed softly. “Better,”
He was so tender.
Fixing you up like something precious.
Say it.
It could be like this forever.
I can’t be apart from you any longer.
And then it fractured—that quiet sanctuary you’d built in the space of a few stolen minutes—when the words left your mouth.
“We should head back."
𓇖 a/n: Thank you for the love for part II 🤍 This chapter had many parts so it came a bit late. I'd appreciate it if people didn’t rush me in my inbox. Part IV soon.
sweetheart!reader can't think straight with mattheo
short little one while i write all your requests <3
masterlist
"I think Astoria doesn’t like me.” You murmur, though you start to lose your train of thought as Mattheo trails kisses down your jawline to your neck.
“Who?” He mutters, continuing with his open mouth kisses.
You roll your eyes before they flutter close.
“Astoria Greengrass, you know her, I’m sure.”
“Sure, what about her?”
“She said- no, Pansy heard from her friend that she, umm, she-” You can feel Mattheo smirk against your skin before his lips ghost over your ear.
“Yeah?”
“Never mind.” You murmur, titling your head back, leaning into him which makes him chuckle.
“You’re cute.”
“You’re cute, too.” You mumble. He snorts.
“Sure.” He pauses his ministrations, giving your poor brain time to think and giving you some space to breathe before he’s whispering in your ear again.
“I like your skirt.” He whispers, his hand playing with the hem from where it was resting on your thigh, “You should wear it more often.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Mattheo traces shapes on your thigh, you swear you feel the shape of a heart, “Please, baby.”
He coaxes you onto his lap and smiles smugly when you nod.
“Sure.”
“Thank you, Sweetheart.”
You make a mental note to wear this skirt again, you quite liked it anyway. Besides, you’d wear bees woven together if Mattheo asked nicely enough.
He finally moves to kiss your lips, making you feel dizzy and fuzzy all over.
Your hands tangle in his hair as you melt into him.
He pulls away, leaving you in a daze.
Mattheo smirks and pats your head after checking his watch. “It’s dinner time, Sweetheart.”
You don’t respond, your mind blanking.
He laughs. “Come on.”
You snap out of your daze, finally.
“I hate you.” You whine.
He laughs. “Sure you do.”
also! i hope you know that for some of your requests i do have them in my drafts already written but i thought that they fit boyfriend!mattheo more so unfortunately we have to wait a little for those
Not the usual low, lazy kind of noise—but alive. Chaotic. Messy.
Theo was half lying, half hanging off the couch, one leg over the armrest like gravity didn’t apply to him. Lorenzo was pacing like he was plotting something illegal. Regulus stood near the window, quiet, observant, arms crossed like he was judging the entire room.
And Blaise?
Blaise was suffering.
“I’m telling you” he said dramatically, voice hoarse “this is targeted. This is personal.” “Relax..” Theo muttered, not even looking at him.
“I’m allergic, Theodore.”
“And yet you’re still alive..Tragic.”
“I’m fading.”
“You’re talking.”
“I’m talking through pain.”
“The performance is incredible,” Lorenzo added dryly.
At the center of it all—
The problem.
A cat.
Not just any cat..
A massive, overly fluffy, suspiciously clean white cat, sitting like it owned the place. Its fur spilled over itself like expensive fabric, and around its neck—“Those are real diamonds” Regulus noted quietly.
“Of course they are..” Lorenzo said. “That thing pays taxes”. The cat blinked slowly. Like it agreed.
And then—There was Draco.
Sitting back in the armchair, legs stretched out, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Cold. Detached. Effortlessly composed.
Except for one detail..the cat was in his lap.
Again.
“I don’t understand why it keeps choosing you” Blaise groaned, pointing accusingly. Draco didn’t even glance at him “I didn’t invite it.”
“You didn’t stop it.”
“It didn’t give me a choice.”
The cat kneaded his thigh.Draco’s jaw tightened slightly. Theo snorted “Look at you..Bonding.”
“I am not bonding.”
“You’re being adopted.”
“By a millionaire” Lorenzo added.
“I don’t want it” Draco muttered the cat settled deeper into him.“That’s not what your body language says” Regulus murmured. Blaise sneezed violently “GET IT AWAY FROM ME OR I SWEAR—”
Knock knock.
The room stilled.
Another knock.
Softer..Besitant.
Lorenzo frowned “If that’s Filch, I’m throwing the cat at him.” “Do it” Blaise croaked. Lorenzo walked to the door, pulled it open—
And froze.
Completely.
“…oh”.
Theo turned his head slowly. “Why do you look like you’ve seen God ?”
No answer.
Lorenzo just stepped aside.
And there she was.
Y/n.
Standing there in soft pajamas, hair a little messy, like she’d been running around campus. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes wide, a little worried, but still gentle. Always gentle..
Too soft for this room.
“Hi… um—sorry, I know it’s late” she said, voice sweet, a little breathless “I just wanted to ask if—”
She paused..noticing all of them staring “…I’m not interrupting something weird, am I?” “Yes” Theo said instantly.
“No” Draco said at the exact same time.
She blinked.
“Oh—okay” she said softly, clearly deciding not to question it. “I just—has anyone seen a white cat? It has a—”
“Diamond necklace?” Blaise shot up like he’d been revived “Is this yours? Take it—PLEASE !”
Her entire face lit up, like someone turned on a light inside her “Yes! You’ve seen her?!” She stepped in without hesitation. Straight toward Draco.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t even breathe properly.
“Oh my gosh—there you are!” she said, relief flooding her voice.
She leaned down—
Her fingers brushed his wrist.
It was nothing.
Barely a second.
But Draco—
Draco forgot how to exist.
She gently picked up the cat from his lap, hugging it close like it belonged there..” I was so worried” she murmured into its fur. “Big Ben !”
Silence.
Theo turned away so fast his shoulder hit the wall. Lorenzo bent over, hands on his knees, shaking silently.
Blaise made a strangled, inhuman noise and grabbed a pillow.
Regulus looked down, pressing his lips together.
Draco blinked slowly.
“…Big Ben?” he repeated under his breath.
“Yes!” she said brightly, completely sincere “Because she’s big… and… you know.”
Theo’s back started shaking.
Blaise disappeared into the pillow.
Lorenzo whispered “I’m not going to survive this.”
Draco, somehow, held it together.
Barely.
“It suits her” he said quietly. Four heads snapped toward him. Betrayal. Pure betrayal.
“What ?” Draco said, defensive now. “It does.”
The cat—Big Ben—purred.
Of course it did.
Y/n smiled softly.
“Thank you… I’ve been looking for her everywhere” she said, eyes drifting back to Draco. “Where’d you find her?”
Theo, still recovering, waved a hand vaguely “Field. Draco.”
She looked at him.
And something in Draco’s chest tightened.
“Oh” she said softly.
Too soft.
Too genuine.
“It was nothing” he said, voice quieter than usual.
Not cold.
Not distant.
Just… gentle.
She smiled at him.
God.
“Still” she said, adjusting the cat in her arms, “thank you, Draco.”
Behind him, Theo made a muffled choking sound. Blaise kicked the armchair. Regulus turned away completely now. Lorenzo just stared at Draco like he was witnessing the downfall of a man.
“I’m really sorry if she caused trouble,” Y/n added, glancing around. “She’s a menace ! ” Blaise said into the pillow.
She shifted Big Ben in her arms, then looked back at Draco again. “Thank you again” she said, softer now. And then, just a little playful—“I guess I know who to come to if she disappears again.”
Draco didn’t hesitate.
“…anytime.”
Silence.
Heavy..immediate..
Theo slowly turned his head.
Lorenzo’s jaw dropped.
Blaise lowered the pillow.
Regulus blinked..Y/n paused, then—
A small laugh slipped out of her.
Soft..incontrolled.
She quickly covered her mouth, eyes widening slightly “Oh—sorry—” she said, a little flustered now, glancing between them “I didn’t mean to laugh, it’s just—”
She looked down at the cat.
Then back at them.
“It sounds funnier when you all say it like that…” Theo made a broken noise.
“I really do like the name” she added quickly, almost guilty now, like she didn’t want to offend anyone “I promise—it suits her..” she said smiling as if trying to convince them that the name was super cute..it was..they were just immature..
Draco let out the faintest breath of amusement “It does” he said quietly.
She looked at him again.
And smiled.
Softer this time.
Almost shy.
“Goodnight” she said.
“Goodnight” he replied.
Then turned and walked out, hugging Big Ben close, her shoulders still slightly shaking with a tiny, contained giggle she was clearly trying to hold back.
The door closed.
Silence.
A long one.
Draco leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“…don’t” he said calmly.
Too late.
Theo collapsed first, laughter exploding out of him.
“BIG BEN—” Blaise fell off the chair. Lorenzo slid down the wall. Even Regulus turned away, shoulders shaking.
The room lost it.
__________________________________________
I’m back babes, hope you are all doing great. I’m not posting because I have my exams soon. School’s been a bitch to me lately. Anyway here’s a little shot as an apology..I was having a cat fever and imagined the nickname I started to giggle alone in my bed.
all characters written aged up 18+
tw: cheating, rough sex, smoking
draco’s got an arm lazily looped around your waist, his freehand tangled into your hair as he yanks your head back to hold you up – the two of you on your knees in the middle of the quidditch changerooms as he thrusts his thick cock between your wet folds while you whimper and struggle to speak. slytherin wasn’t even playing today. no – the match was gryffindor versus ravenclaw, so while you should have been watching your golden boy boyfriend flying around with the hopes of catching that damned little snitch to win the game: instead, you were cockdrunk with his arch enemy.
“malfoy, fuck, slow down…”
yeah right; like that was going to happen. another whine is plucked from the back of your throat which tickles out of your lips after a particularly rough thrust; his hips smacking your ass – causing you to fall forward on all fours to break your fall. this doesn’t stop draco though. he’s in one of his moods. fuck authority and fuck you. he’s got a cigarette he stole from theodore earlier in his mouth, burning away – ash dust sprinkling across your back and he smacks your ass hard enough to earn a yelp while he continues to fuck the cum that’s dripping out down your thighs back into your pussy.
“aww, look – the lion’s little witch being stuffed silly by a serpent. wait until the other boys get here love – this little cunt’s going to be so stretched you won’t be able to walk properly for a week.”
mhmm.. getting fucked by slytherin’s elite behind your precious boyfriends back? girl – what a dream.
✧･ﾟ:when Dean was alone, waking up was just another thing to get through. He had to do it, every morning. He had to drag himself into another day. Had to brush his teeth—Sam made him, something about chicks not being into guys who don’t have teeth—and down a coffee so his eyes stayed open. Slap cold water over his face to punch his instincts into action. Glare at the mirror. Go, because he had to. He’d do it again tomorrow. And everything would just be another damn day.
✧･ﾟ:then you showed up. And mornings became… Good. Dean found that everything was better with you, but the morning was a stark change. Your body is warm against his, and it keeps him asleep like a kid with a blanket. His eye don’t open until yours do, and even then he grumbles. Drags you closer and kisses your neck in a sleepy haze. His knee slides between your thighs when you wiggle, and your mumbled protests about needing to get up die quickly when his hand drags down your stomach. There’s no reason to get up right now. He’s got all the time in the world, and he’s going to use it.
✧･ﾟ:sam calls him lazy. You know it’s the opposite. Once he’s gotten you back down with sweet talk and sweeter hands, Dean’s up and moving. It’s less of a drag when he’s pulling something bigger than himself. You need him to be up. You need the coffee, and for him to brush his teeth, and a good breakfast. He can make it, when it’s not for him. Eggs taste better when he’s not going to eat them alone at a table, trying to decide if it’s too early for a beer. Everything is better, when it’s you.
✧･ﾟ:he’ll get antsy, if you take too long to get up. He’ll make more food, in case you want options. Get the laundry going, brush his teeth again, and end up just sitting on the bed near your feet, waiting for you to join him. Nothing moves until you do. The day doesn’t mean as much. He made the whole damn breakfast, and he’s going to watch you enjoy it. When you’re ready. He’s patient. He can wait.
✧･ﾟ:once you’re up, he won’t rush. He’d never rush you. If you’d told Dean to wait a hundred years just to kiss you again, he’d figure out a way to defy time to do it. Twenty minutes for you to be ready for breakfast is nothing. And it’s all fine anyways, because he gets to stand behind you in the mirror while you get ready for the day. Kissing your neck and muttering you look so pretty, baby, before you’ve even washed the sleep from your eyes. It doesn’t matter to him. You’re beautiful here, in his arms, in any damn form.
✧･ﾟ:it doesn’t take long, though, before he’s deciding maybe he should’ve been lazy with the morning. There’s no hunt. No big bad. Just you, and him, and a bed. You’ve got energy, from the breakfast. He’s ready for action when you so much as smile at him. So hands start to drag and wander over your stomach and hips. Praise turned honeyed, his eyes shining, your knees pressed together under the table. You wanted to do some laundry today? He got that off the list. Leaves some open time. Time to make new laundry.
✧･ﾟ:and you give in. You always give in. It’s Dean, and there are far worse vices to have than letting him coax you back into bed. His hand drags up your thigh, and he drawls that he’s hungry again. You giggle like a fool, and ask for what. You get a smirk, and suddenly you’re being hauled into his arms. Carried like a princess back to your room, having barely left it for ten minutes.
✧･ﾟ:it’s your favorite kind of morning. Returning to bed, over and over, just because you can. Because Dean’s letting you up, only for you to crawl back over him and sit right on his cock. Riding him with soft moans and dazed, drunken smiles. You’re smiling at the ceiling while he puts on pants, and he drags you to the edge of the mattress to bury his face between your thighs. His shirt riding up when you try to crawl away, and your body folded under his as he fucks you into the mattress.
✧･ﾟ:you just get to bask in it after. Each other, and morning glory of such softness. He never thought he’d have it.
✧･ﾟ:now that he does, he’s going to drink it up, until the sun is far over both your heads.
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦Author's Note: from this headcanon request! love that horny old man✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦
Every year for the Yule Ball, the girls go with the boys. Even before they turned into what they are now, as good friends they’d all go. Now that you’re here, you think Theodore might ask you, but the girls tell you he’s never asked anyone. So, you end up going with Cormac, but this won't end like you expect it to, nor does anyone else. (THERE WILL BE PT2)
part 5 of freaky slytherins
PART2
4k words, theo is full of pride and stubborn and a bitch, they doesn't like dealing with his feelings, says a lot of stuff he doesn't mean, Cormac being a good bf (or is he really? HEHEHE), lowk if u think abt it yn kinda cheats???, yule ball happens every year, cho chang is evil i acc love her but she's evil here
“So,” you say, rolling onto your side and propping your head on your hand. “The Yule Ball’s coming up.”
Astoria hums. “Mm. Already dreading it.”
Pansy snorts. “Liar. You live for formal events.”
“I live for looking good,” Astoria corrects smoothly. “The social expectations can rot.”
Daphne closes her book, glancing between you all. “What about it?”
You hesitate for half a second. Just long enough for Pansy to notice.
“…Do we,” you ask carefully, “usually go with the boys?”
Astoria tilts her head. “Yeah. We always have.”
“Even before the group became… whatever it is now,” Daphne adds. “We used to go as a group when we were younger. Then it just sort of… shifted.”
Pansy smiles faintly, like she’s remembering. “Draco asked me first. Made a whole thing of it. Thought he was being subtle, he was not.”
Astoria laughs. “Mattheo asked me after. Tripped over his words for a solid minute.”
Daphne shrugs. “Lorenzo asked me two years ago. Then last year it all swapped around a bit. Blaise asked Astoria, Lorenzo asked Pansy, Mattheo asked me.”
You listen quietly, fingers tracing the seam of the couch.
“And this year?” you ask.
Astoria lifts a shoulder. “This year, it just depends. The boys talk it out.”
“There’s never any fighting,” Pansy adds. “It’s not that dramatic. It’s more like who actually cares about having a date.”
“And Lorenzo,” Astoria nods. “He likes the romance of it.”
You smile a little at that, and then realize something. “…Theo’s never asked anyone, is what I’m hearing?”
Astoria sighed, “Yeah.”
You sit up a little. “Why?”
Pansy opens her mouth, then closes it again. “Honestly? No idea.”
“Could be pride,” Daphne offers. “Or stubbornness.”
“Or he just doesn’t like people seeing that side of him,” Astoria says more gently. “He’s always been like that. Keeps certain things locked down.”
“So he’s never taken anyone?” you ask.
“Never,” Pansy confirms. “Not once.”
Your chest tightens, not sharply, but enough to notice.
Astoria watches your face carefully. “Why? Were you… hoping?”
You shrug, trying to sound light. “I don’t know. I just thought… maybe.”
Pansy scoffs softly. “If you want Theo to ask you, you’ll probably have to beg.”
Astoria immediately elbows her. “Pansy.”
“What? I didn’t mean-”
“What she means,” Astoria cuts in, “is that Theo is just too stubborn and full of pride and doesn’t care enough. If anything, maybe it’ll be different now that you’re here.”
Daphne nods. “If anyone could get him to ask, it’d be you. And if he doesn’t… it’s not because he doesn’t care about you. If anything, one of the boys will ask you if Theodore doesn’t”
You exhale slowly. “I don’t want someone else to ask me out of pity because he didn’t.”
“And they won’t,” Pansy says firmly. “They’re not like that.”
Astoria smiles. “Give him time.”
The weeks that follow stretch out longer than they should have with all of your waiting.
At first, it’s subtle, the kind of waiting you don’t even admit to yourself. You tell yourself he’s just busy, that Theo isn’t the type to make a show of things, that he’ll bring it up when it matters.
But days pass, then another week.
In class, professors start mentioning the Yule Ball more often, reminders about dress robes, curfews, etiquette. Each time, the room reacts the same way. Whispers ripple through the desks, boys nudging each other, girls smiling knowingly, conversations sparking quietly in the back rows.
Theo doesn’t even flinch.
He keeps his eyes on his parchment, pen moving steadily, expression unreadable. Not a glance your way. Nothing that says the words even registered.
You watch Draco lean back in his chair and whisper something to Astoria that makes her smile. You watch Blaise tilt toward Pansy, murmuring something low that has her rolling her eyes fondly. You watch Mattheo turn around in his seat to talk to Daphne, animated as always, Lorenzo laughing softly beside him.
And Theo just… stays still.
Draco asks Astoria first. Shows up one evening in the common room with a massive bouquet of white roses and her favourite chocolates, loud enough that half the room notices. Astoria laughs, genuinely surprised, and says yes before he even finishes asking.
Blaise asks Pansy a few days later, in the most him way possible- slipping his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder as he murmurs something in her ear. She pretends to consider it for half a second before agreeing, already smiling.
Then Mattheo and Lorenzo corner Daphne together.
Best friends, sharing everything- literally given they’ve shared Daphne in multiple ways…and positions. They ask her at the same time, tripping over each other’s words, both grinning like idiots. Daphne laughs so hard she almost cries before saying yes.
Everyone has someone now.
Everyone except you.
And the only person left is Theodore, who still hasn’t said a word.
It pissed you off more when you went dress shopping with the girls, spending over an hour choosing out dresses and getting the boys’ input. You chose a deep red dress you absolutely loved, and hoped maybe Theo would try to match.
When you went with the boys to get their suits, you mentioned you had a red dress, in which Theo responded the colour suited you well.
When he comes back from the rack, he’s holding a simple black tie.
He still didn’t even care even when Snape had the Slytherins practice ballroom dancing for the whatever year in a row. Slytherins lined up in uneven rows, Snape stalking between them like this is a personal insult to his existence. Music fills the room and Snape snaps at everyone to take proper posture.
Theo’s hand settles at your waist automatically. Your other hand fits into his, fingers brushing, and for a moment the world narrows to just the two of you. You sway together easily, bodies moving in sync without effort.
Theo looks bored, if anything. Mildly irritated that he’s being forced into this at all. He glances past your shoulder, jaw tight, like he’s counting down the minutes until Snape releases him from this humiliation.
You try not to read into it.
You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That dancing has never been his thing, that this setting is awkward, that Snape barking instructions would kill anyone’s mood.
Still, you hold on a second longer than necessary when the music shifts. You let yourself enjoy the warmth of his hand, the way he guides you without thinking, the quiet intimacy of moving together like this.
Because some small, aching part of you knows this might be the only slow dance you ever get with Theodore Nott.
And when Snape finally barks for everyone to stop, Theo drops his hands immediately, stepping back with a muttered complaint under his breath, irritation plain on his face.
Two weeks to go.
Still nothing.
At this point, even the boys have noticed.
They don’t say it outright, none of them are stupid enough to point out the obvious, but they hover in their own subtle ways.
Blaise mentions that he’s gotta save his other lovely girls a dance, especially you.
Draco brings you a single rose one afternoon, claiming he “just found it” on his way back from the greenhouses.
Lorenzo kisses your temple every time he catches you frowning, murmuring that if anything, you can always go with him, Mattheo, and Daphne, like that’s a perfectly reasonable solution, which somehow makes it worse and better at the same time.
And Mattheo mocks every dramatic public Yule Ball proposal he sees, rolling his eyes and doing exaggerated impressions until you laugh despite yourself.
Still, it doesn’t stop the ache.
You went to study hall to distract yourself. Snape is stalking between the tables, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who dares whisper, smacking desks with a book whenever someone dares to lose focus. You’re sitting with a mixed group, a few Slytherins, a couple Gryffindors and some Ravenclaws working on anything that will keep your mind off the ball.
Draco was with you, hanging out with you more since Astoria has been off working on a project for Slughorns class with Adrian Pucey, and well, Draco hated Adrian, so distracting himself with you calmed him down.
Suddenly, the doors slam open.
“WITCHES AND WIZARDS!””
Mini fireworks explode across the room as the Weasley twins burst in, flowers in hand, grins far too wide for Snape’s liking.
“WEASLEYS” Snape roars, already done with life.
George ignores him entirely, striding straight toward Katie Bell.
“Katie,” he says grandly, shoving a bouquet into her arms, “would you do me the honour of attending the Yule Ball with me?”
Fireworks pop overhead. Katie laughs, half shocked, half delighted.
“Yes!”
Fred doesn’t miss a beat, turning toward Angelina Johnson.
“And Angelina, before Snape murders us, Yule Ball? Me? You?”
Angelina snorts. “Obviously.”
The room erupts with clapping and cheering, whistles echoing off the stone walls.
Snape pinches the bridge of his nose. “Get. Out. All of you.”
The twins grin, helping the girls pack their stuff and running out in a trail of sparks and laughter before Snape could give them detention.
You groan, dropping your head onto your parchment.
Draco slides his hand onto your thigh under the table. “Breathe,” he mutters. “They’re idiots.”
You huff, irritated anyway.
When the room finally settles, quills scratching once more, an agitating voice from a girl you hated deeply, rose.
“So, Y/N,” Cho Chang says brightly, far too pleased with herself, “how does it feel knowing every boy in your group has a date except you?”
Hermione looks up sharply. “Cho, that’s incredibly rude.”
Cho shrugs. “What? It’s true.”
You turn slowly, eyes cold. “Oh, shut your mouth, Chang.”
The room goes still.
“And who are you even going with?” you add sweetly.
Cho lifts her chin. “Michael Corner. We’re going to have a splendid night, unlike you.”
You smile. “Oh, I actually went to the ball with him one year I believe,”
Cho falters.
“And I had a very splendid night with him after,” you continue. “Let me know if he takes you to the hidden wing on the fourth floor.”
The room bursts into laughter.
Cho’s face goes red. “You- you bitch!”
Draco laughs openly as you stand, grabbing your bag. “Come on,” he says, still smirking. “Before Snape murders someone.”
You walk off together, Cho fuming behind you, embarrassment clinging to her like smoke.
With a week left, you stop waiting.
You’re not even excited for the ball anymore. t’s not about not having a date, you could’ve had one easily- it’s about who didn’t ask. About the fact that Theo never even thought about it.
And maybe what stings more is that no one else stepped in either.
Mattheo and Lorenzo still chose to go together with Daphne, laughing it off like it made perfect sense. You weren’t jealous, you understood their dynamic, but it still irritated you that no one thought, maybe one of us should go with her. Especially when everyone knew Theo hadn’t asked anyone in years.
Especially when you had confessed your love to him months ago. And he had only half said it back, tangled and unfinished.
You tell yourself maybe you read into things too much. Maybe you made it worse by hoping. But then there’s the way he’s been avoiding you, ducking into different corridors, sitting further away, pretending not to notice your gaze.
You recognize the behavior. It’s his worst habit. When Theo knows he’s hurt someone and doesn’t know how to fix it, he runs.
You usually understand. This time, you don’t.
Because if he feels guilty- if he knows this is upsetting you- then he could just ask. And that thought is still echoing in your head when you turn into the library and head for your corner.
The one tucked away behind tall shelves, half-hidden by shadows and stacks of old books. The one everyone knows not to sit in. The one that’s been yours since first year.
You stop short. Cormac McLaggen is sitting there.
He stands the moment he sees you, bouquet of white lilies in his hands, grin easy and unapologetic.
“Heard no one’s asked you to the ball,” he says lightly.
You scoff, folding your arms. “You didn’t have to remind me.”
He chuckles. “Fair.”
Then he steps closer, holding out the flowers. “So… let’s go together.”
You blink.
“I know it’s a bit odd,” he continues quickly. “Given, you know, us. But we’ve gone together before. Last year. And honestly, it just feels… natural.”
You stare at him for a moment, the weight of the last few weeks pressing heavy in your chest.
He watches you carefully. “Throughout my entire time knowing you, the Yule Ball’s meant a lot to you. Probably more than me,” he admits with a small, self-aware smile. “And I’m not going to let Theodore Nott ruin that for you.”
Something in your chest loosens as you take the lilies.
“…You’re really doing this for me,” you say quietly.
Cormac nods. “Yeah. I am.”
You look down at the flowers, then back up at him, resolve settling where hope used to be.
“Then yes,” you say softly. “I’d love to go with you.”
~~~
The second you step into the Slytherin common room, everyone sees the flowers first.
“WOAH-”
“Are those-”
“Someone asked you to the ball?!”
Pansy is already on her feet, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”
You lift the bouquet slightly, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Yep. Your girl has a date.”
The room erupts with cheers as Mattheo whistles; Daphne claps and Lorenzo is beaming for you.
“Finally,” Draco says dramatically. “I was about to start a betting pool.”
“And?” Astoria presses. “Who is it?”
You shrug, deliberately casual. “You’ll find out in a week.”
“What?” Theo stands so abruptly the movement draws every eye in the room. His gaze locks onto the flowers, jaw tight. “Who the fuck asked you?”
You turn slowly. “Relax. You’ll see.”
His laugh is sharp. Disbelieving. “You seriously saying yes to someone without even-”
“Without even what?” you snap.
“I’m just asking if you actually know this guy,” he shoots back. “Or if you just… panicked since there’s a week left,”
“Whoa,” Blaise mutters. “Careful.”
“So you think I’d just go to the ball with anyone?” you say coldly.
“That’s not what I said,” Theo fires back, already defensive. “I just meant you’ve seemed pretty desperate for a date lately.”
Pansy stiffens immediately. “Okay, that was unnecessary.”
“Oh, shove off, Nott,” you snap, anger burning now. “If you’re so good at reading how I’m feeling, then you could’ve simply fixed it and asked.”
Theo scoffs, arms crossing. “Yeah? Well, who cares? You’ve got someone else now.”
Lorenzo frowns. “Theo-”
“And,” Theo adds bitterly, eyes flicking to the bouquet, “he didn’t even get you your favourite flowers.”
“…Well,” you say quietly, voice shaking, “you could’ve.” You turn before anyone can stop you, stalking toward the girls’ dormitory stairs, clutching the flowers like they’re the only thing holding you together.
Pansy throws her hands up. “Merlin, Theo.”
Theo drops onto the couch hard and slaps a pillow over his face, muffling a long, tortured groan.
“Fuck,” he mutters into the fabric.
Blaise exhales slowly. “Yeah, mate. That could’ve been avoided if you’d just asked her.”
Theo yanks the pillow off and glares. “Zabini, please shut the fuck up.”
He stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going for a smoke.”
~~~
“Cormac McLaggen,” Theo scoffs the second he sees you.
“Cormac fucking McLaggen. Her ex. Of all the fucking lads in this school.”
You walk in arm in arm with Cormac like you belong there. Matching corsages. His tie perfectly matched to your dress. You look effortless. Radiant. Like the two of you make sense.
Theo’s jaw tightens.
“Porca puttana,” he mutters under his breath. “Ma vaffanculo,”
Around him, the group goes quiet for half a second, just long enough to take you in, before the whispers around the room start reaching them.
Draco lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Theo, you gonna take that?”
Daphne scoffs immediately. “If Theo had just asked her-”
“Okay, agreed,” Blaise cuts in, rubbing his chin, “but her ex? Of all people? The one Theo hates the most? The one he’s jealous of the most?”
Theo snaps his head toward him. “I’m right fucking here, mate. And I’m not jealous.”
The entire group turns to look at him with a deadpan.
“Dude,” Mattheo says flatly, “yes you are.”
Lorenzo tilts his head. “Remember Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor? When she was cheering for Cormac?”
“And you left with her the moment his name left her mouth,” Mattheo adds casually, “and telling us you were gonna go fuck her so hard she’d forget his name.”
Theo grimaces. “That was-”
“Or that time,” Draco cuts in, enjoying this far too much, “he sat way too close to her in class and you literally wedged yourself between them.”
“And-” Pansy starts.
“I get it,” Theo snaps, dragging a hand through his hair. “I get it, alright? Yeah, I don’t like Cormac. But none of us do. Because she might be my main girl, but she’s everyone’s girl in this group.”
The boys nod slowly.
“Yeah,” Lorenzo says quietly. “Doesn’t feel great for any of us.”
The doors open again, and Cho Chang walks in, neon streaks running through her hair, uneven and bright.
Mattheo squints. “Holy shit. What happened to Chang?”
Pansy smirks. “Oh, I heard someone mixed a potion into her shampoo a few days ago.”
Theo’s lips curl into a slow, satisfied smirk.
Blaise eyes him warily. “I don’t like that look, Theo.”
Theo shrugs. “Yeah, well. I heard about their little argument in study hall.”
Draco snorts. “You mean the one that was basically about you?”
Theo rolls his eyes. “Hey. Maybe it was my fault they were on her ass about not having a date. And since I didn’t fucking ask her, I may as well have done something to make it better.”
The group laughs, despite themselves.
“Okay,” Mattheo admits. “Yeah. That was kind of good.”
You’re sitting with Cormac now, surrounded by Gryffindors. You look perfect, posture easy, smile genuine. Cormac leans in, fixing a loose strand of your hair, and you let him.
Theo’s chest aches. He imagines his arm around you instead. Your hand resting on his wrist. The way you’d look up at him like that.
He hates how much he hates this. Because even though you were never officially together, a part of him always believed he was enough for you.
And now, watching you smile like that, he’s not so sure anymore.
His fingers curl tight around his glass.
~~~
After an hour of watching you with Cormac, the moment he leaves your side Theo replaces his spot in seconds.
“You really brought him,” he snaps, words coming fast and sharp, anger barely contained. “Of all people, you bring him.”
You turn on him. “You didn’t ask, not my fault I had a better person to take.”
That does it.
He laughs and the words just start pouring out of him before he can stop himself. “You knew I don’t do this shit, and you still stood there waiting like I was supposed to suddenly change, like this was ever meant to be some big thing. Acting like it was more than what it was, like we were something serious, when we weren’t- we are not a fucking couple, we are not in love, we aren’t anything real and you know that.”
He keeps going, voice rising, spiteful because he’s hurting and every word is a stab to your heart. “You didn’t need to wait three weeks for me, you didn’t need to sit around hoping I’d ask you like everyone else did, you could’ve moved on sooner instead of making this into something bigger than it ever was. This was easy, convenient, something that worked because it didn’t ask anything of me, and now you’re mad because I didn’t suddenly make it public.”
Your chest feels like it caves in, tears threatening to spill as your throat felt like barbed wire. “So that’s all I was?” you managed, “Convenient?”
He doesn’t even hesitate, too angry to stop himself. “What did you expect? That I’d parade you around like some lovesick idiot? You wanted a date, you got one. So stop acting like I owe you something just because you built this thing up in your head.”
The silence after is brutal.
He realizes too late what he’s said. You can see it on his face, the flicker of regret, the way his jaw tightens like he wants to swallow every word back down.
But it’s already out there.
You nod slowly, voice eerily calm. “Good to know.”
You step back before he can fix it, before he can explain that he didn’t mean it, that he was just angry and jealous and didn’t want to be the only one bleeding.
“I stopped waiting,” you say quietly. “You don’t get to be mad about that.”
And just when Cormac is beginning to walk back, a cookie on a napkin for you, you leave and head to him.
Theo stays frozen where he is, heart pounding, realizing in horror that in trying to hurt you just enough to match how he felt- he said exactly the wrong things, all at once.
You’re standing closer to Cormac than before, body angled toward him in a way that feels wrong. Your smile is soft, unfocused. You look… happy. Almost dreamy. Like the fight never happened at all.
It scares him.
He tells himself you’re just trying to make him angry. That this is payback. That you want him to see it.
But something in his gut twists.
You look like someone in love.
Lorenzo finds him first, then Draco, both dropping into the seats beside him like it’s instinct.
“It’s okay,” Theo mutters immediately. “You don’t have to sit with me. Go dance. Don’t let me ruin your night.”
Draco snorts quietly. “Relax. Astoria went off with some friends anyway.”
Theo stiffens. “With who?”
Draco exhales. “Adrian fucking Pucey and some of her other girl friends. Didn’t love that.”
Lorenzo hesitates. “They’ve been getting… close.”
Draco grimaces. “Yeah. They’ve got some stupid Slughorn project together. Slug Club crap. She cares about it, so I didn’t want to start something.”
Theo just sighs, rubbing his face.
And then suddenly-
“WHAT THE FUCK?” Lorenzo yelled out, and their heads snapped up to where Lorenzo was looking.
You’re in the middle of the dance floor now, fully kissing Cormac, arms looped around his neck, body pressed close, his hand low on your back, possessive.
Theo is on his feet instantly. His fists clench, every instinct screaming to drag Cormac away from you.
Lorenzo and Draco grab him on reflex. “Don’t,” Lorenzo says urgently. “Theo, don’t.”
“It’s not worth it,” Draco adds. “She’s just trying to make you jealous.”
Theo’s breathing is ragged. “This isn’t jealousy. This is-” He gestures helplessly toward you. “What the fuck is this? Making out with fucking Cormac in the middle of the dance floor like we don’t exist? Like the group doesn’t exist?”
“She’s upset,” Lorenzo says quickly. “She’s not thinking straight. Just- talk to her after the dance.”
So when the music finally slows, when couples begin drifting away, when people start leaving in clusters, Theo grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the empty corridor just beyond the Great Hall, shadows swallowing the noise behind you.
“Oh,” you laugh softly when he pulls you into the empty corridor, the doors swinging shut behind you. “Theodore… what are you doing?”
The sound of your voice- so light and easy like he didn’t hurt you earlier just makes him uncomfortable.
He turns you to face him, hands coming up instinctively, shaking as they cup your cheeks. He searches your eyes, frantic, like he’s looking for anger, hurt, something he recognizes.
“Why aren’t you mad?” he blurts out, breath uneven. “You should be mad.”
You smile at him, relaxed, almost fond. “Why would I be mad?”
That’s when panic really sets in.
“Because I was horrible to you,” he says quickly. “Because I said things I didn’t mean. Because I hurt you. You don’t just… forget that.”
You blink, head tilting. “Forget what?”
His chest tightens painfully.
“No,” he whispers. “No, no, you were furious half an hour ago. You were shaking. You don’t just… calm down like this.”
He presses his forehead to yours, hands tightening slightly like he’s grounding himself. “Principessa, please. Look at me. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
You hum softly, still smiling. “You’re apologizing a lot.”
“That’s because I mean this one,” he rushes out. “I didn’t mean any of what I said earlier. I was angry and jealous and I couldn’t stop myself. I was spewing bullshit because I didn’t want to be the only one hurting. But you were hurting. I saw it. I know you. And now you’re not and that scares the shit out of me.”
You frown slightly, like you’re trying to understand something unimportant. “Theo… you’re being dramatic.”
“You never say that,” he says hoarsely. “You’re never this… distant.”
He pulls back just enough to really look at you. Your eyes are bright. There’s no edge to you , no anger, no sadness, none of the things that usually blaze through you when Theo’s said some stupid shit.
“When I grabbed you,” he continues, voice trembling now, “I thought you’d yell. I thought you’d tell me to fuck off.”
You laugh quietly. “Why would I do that?”
His breath stutters, he was so fucking confused and concerned. “Because I deserve it. If you’re doing this to make me jealous, you don’t have to. It worked hours ago. I can’t breathe every time I see you with him.”
You blink. “With Cormac?”
“Yes,” he snaps, then softens immediately. “Yes. With him.”
“But we’re together,” you say simply.
Is that why you’ve been acting so fucking fine with the fight?
“What?”
“We’re dating,” you explain calmly, like it’s obvious. “We talked. We decided to try again.”
His hands slip from your face.
“No,” he whispers. “That doesn’t make sense. You were almost crying over me. You- you love me.”
You smile gently. “I did love you.”
Did.
“He’s always loved me,” you continue serenely. “He’s steady. He chooses me. He’s the boyfriend I need,”
Theo’s heart starts pounding so hard it hurts.
“This isn’t you,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t talk like this. You don’t just… switch off.”
“I’m just happy,” you say lightly.
“No,” he breathes. “You’re not happy. You’re- you’re not angry enough.”
His eyes fill, desperation spilling over. “Please, just be mad at me. Yell at me. Tell me I ruined everything. Don’t look at me like I don’t matter anymore.”
“I love Cormac,” you say, soft and certain.
Something in him gives way completely.
“No,” he chokes. “No, please.”
He drops to his knees without thinking, the stone cold beneath him as his hands cling to your waist, shaking. His forehead presses into your stomach like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real.
“Please don’t do this,” he sobs, tears running down his face. “I’ll fix it. I’ll say it properly. I’ll say it every day if you want. I love you. I was just too fucking scared to say it out loud.”
“Theo,” you say gently, “you said we weren’t a couple.”
His voice breaks. “I lied.”
“You said you didn’t love me.”
“I was angry,” he pleads. “I didn’t mean it. I never meant it.”
You take his wrists and pull his hands away, gently and firmly. “You’ve already lost me.”
He looks up at you, tears streaking his face. “Please.”
“Theodore,” you say softly, like you’re talking to a child, “it’s over.”
You turn and walk away.
Theo stays on the floor for a long moment, staring at the space where you stood, heart hammering.
You were back together with Cormac.
And that killed him more than anything ever could.
summary ↬ you're in the backseat of the impala 'asleep', but really, you're just eavesdropping on sam & dean
notice ↬ pure fluff (i promise the angst is coming ya'll (and the smut ;)), dean is a shit as always but not really he's actually a good brother in this one, who else wants to fall asleep in the back of the impala like pleeaaaseee, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !
wordcount ↬ 1.4k
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ read part two ↬ frontseat
the rough leather backseat of the impala itches at your legs as they lay curled atop it, your head leaning on the window, foggy and freezing against your cheek as the chilly temperature of north dakota bleeds through. you try to catch up on some much needed shut-eye on the way to the motel.
which, unsurprisingly, is very hard to do when sam and dean winchester are in the front seat, fighting over the stereo.
“if i hear one more led zeppelin song, dean—”
“woah, woah.” you peek your eyes open slightly to see dean’s finger pointed at sam, his face scrunched in a scowl, “there is no room for zep slander in this vehicle, sammy.”
sam laughs sarcastically, shaking his head, his growing, soft wisps swaying in front of the headrest, “fine, then, i suggest you play something produced past 95’.”
dean clicks his tongue in distaste and turns to look past the steering wheel again, “kids don’t know good music.” suddenly, just as you close your eyes, dean calls your name, looking at you through the rearview mirror, “what do you think we should play?”
“silence,” you grumble, trying to shield your vision from the bright street lamps as they flash orange light rhythmically past your closed eyelids.
“alright, ac/dc it is then,” he says, sliding in a new tape—the one you recognize instantly from memory, marked with ‘ac/deanc’ scrawled in messy handwriting on a strip of tape slapped across the front.
as angus young’s guitar starts to echo from the stereo, you slowly melt back into the seat, adjusting until you’ve found a comfortable spot.
you begin to drift off again, fading in and out of consciousness as the tapes change ever so often: metallica, black sabbath, and, when led zeppelin starts to play again, you can just envision sam’s beautiful eyes rolling.
eventually, you rouse awake to the low hum of some billy idol track, the volume way lower now that the car clock signals 3:31am.
you can hear the crinkle of a bag of chips sam is snacking on, dean’s fingers tapping to the beat of the music, and the rumble of baby underneath you.
you’re about to force yourself into more sleep, moving to cover your forearms with your hands to keep them warm, when sam’s soft voice lulls in the silence.
“do you think she’s cold?” he mumbles quietly, and you see, from your low hooded eyes, his head moves just slightly behind the headrest to examine your figure.
he’s right to question it. the temperature is becoming more frigid as the night blooms darker, and you’re sure the goosebumps on your arms are visible if he looks hard enough.
“it’s warm in the car,” dean responds, turning onto a backroad. the car is swallowed in darkness as the streetlamps fade into haunting trees stretching into miles of forest surrounding you.
sam’s tongue pokes his cheek in thought, and without prompt, he’s shrugging the brown carhartt off his body, turning in his seat—you’ve told him to start wearing a seatbelt—and delicately draping the warm material across your shivering shoulders.
a blanket of musk, campfire smoke, and something only described as sam winchester envelops you.
you shut your eyes quickly so he won't suspect you’re awake, but that means trying your damnedest to bite back the smile fighting its way onto your lips at the gesture. you snuggle deeper into the jacket to hide the bottom of your face while pretending to be asleep.
peeking through your eyelashes, you see sam not bothering to hide his own smile at the sight of you nestled under his jacket. your heart picks up.
he re-rights himself in his seat, clearing his throat as he focuses on the road ahead again.
“real smooth, there, romeo.” dean smirks, giving him a knowing nod.
“shut up,” sam shakes his head, picking nervously at a loose thread in his jeans, “she looked cold.”
“oh, did she tell you that, huh?” dean teases again, shoving his shoulder playfully.
sam moves away from his brother’s provoking hand, “eyes on the road, jerk.”
“bitch,” dean scoffs, but you know the grin is there: real and genuine, “just tell her you love her so i can stop watching these mixed signals.”
your stomach twists.
“dean, i don’t—” sam trips over his words, bringing a hand down his blushing face, “i just gave her a jacket in under 30-degree weather—”
“—and patched her up for over an hour after that werewolf got its claws in her, and walked her back to the room when she drank too much, and freaked out when that guy tried picking her up at that bar in minna—”
“that’s called being a gentleman,” sam narrows his eyes, growing more defensive, “and we both freaked out, so don’t try to—”
“i freaked out because the guy looked like a creep, you freaked out because somebody—anybody’s—hands were on her,” dean moves to take a sip of his melted slurpee from dinner, “there’s a difference, sammy.”
the things dean mentions start flooding back into your memory, the gestures at the time seeming so innocent, no possible way for there to be any underlying connotation if you hadn’t thought about it hard enough.
until now, when you’re thinking about it hard enough.
the way sam’s hands shook just slightly as they expertly stitched the gash on your leg, and how his eyes held something else under the concentrated look; a glimmer of worry, fear, even, at the idea that you were hurt.
then, how those hands, no longer shaky, gripped your waist tight to keep you on your feet as you stumbled back to the motel room from the bar one night. you were trashed, the hunt a particularly hard one, yet, he didn’t let you fall. tucked you in and everything.
you had no idea about the last one, of the gross drifter trying to get lucky with you. no clue that it’d bothered him—both of them—but, especially sam in that way. not until now.
and suddenly, they all make sense.
“whatever, dean,” sam says, his words lower than a whisper, like a child who's just been scolded, “it’s never been that way with us.”
“it can be,” dean argues, “‘think i don’t notice the way she acts toward you, too?”
sam laughs mirthlessly, like a light breath escaping past his lips, “drop it, already.”
“i’m being serious!” dean’s voice picks up just slightly, eliciting a “shhh!” from sam as he nods his head toward your ‘sleeping’ figure.
he quiets, “i’m being serious, you’re both idiots.”
well, he isn’t wrong about that.
maybe you had been looking at sam a certain way. with a twinkle in your eye you can’t control. a giddiness you only show when he’s around. the laugh that bursts through your chest at his jokes.
the gentle hand you placed on his, shaky and tactful, as it took care of you that night.
and the expression that met yours when you did so.
you see it flash the back of your eyelids as they flutter against the moon’s glow through the window. you melt further into the smell of him at the memory, wishing it was his arms around you instead. that he wasn’t so far away in the front seat.
“she’s good for you,” dean adds in the moment of silence, “and damn, is she beautiful.”
sam lets the corner of his lips curl into a gentle smile, the thought of you filling his head, of every moment where maybe he didn’t think hard enough either, “yeah,” he whispers softly, “yeah, she is, isn’t she?”
he looks back to you, lets himself take in the image of you underneath something of his keeping you warm, safe.
something in him bursts.
fuck, he loves you.
and, you think you love him, too.
dean’s music fades as you nod off for the last time till you make it to the motel. the impala shifts into park, and the engine growl is sharply cut. you groan as you’re awoken, stretching out your limbs as you yawn loudly.
sam opens the door on your side, peeking his head under the hood, “good morning, sleepyhead.”
you yawn a response, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. instantly, once your vision un-blurs, your chest clenches at the conversation overheard a mere few hours before. you can’t help the deer in headlights stare as you look up at sam’s gentle features, smiling softly at you.
and he has no idea what you heard.
he sticks his large hand out for you to take as you step out on wobbly legs. you refuse to let go of his jacket as it stays hanging on your shoulders.
