WONDER

28 | F

[mvclrc]

✦ across the hall — lando norris/reader

it's summer when lando norris moves in opposite you. you remember because it'd been 35 degrees celcius that day, you'd already been pissed, and he'd knocked on your door and had the nerve to stare at your tits.

 ever since then, you haven't been able to get rid of him. he teases you in the hallway, calls you pet names, brings girls home at two in the morning.

 you don't like lando norris. but it doesn't erase the fact that he's right across the hall, and he likes you.

includes — fem!reader, cocky, arrogant, obsessed lando norris, neighbours, unrealistic/inaccurate f1 calender, bad first impressions, slowish burn, pining, tension, eventual smut, p in v, LOTS of flirting, nicknames (baby, gorgeous, etc.), max fewtrell + pietra pilao appearances, misunderstandings, lando's incredibly bad at expressing his feelings, mild angst, alcohol usage radio check — first post in about a millenia but it's finally here!! i seriously had so much fun writing this one, thank you guys so much for waiting <3 word count — 15k

MONACO IS STUPIDLY HOT IN SUMMER.

It’s the one thing you’d quickly learnt after moving here years ago, after realising your French lessons from high school would not help you at all. 

You’re in a halter neck, strings tied around the back of your neck, shorts stopping just before midthigh. You’d never wear it out in public of course, considering it’d probably make the nearest Monegasque auntie faint, but you were safe in your apartment, where the only other apartment opposite you was empty.

The TV in your living room is playing some soap opera, background noise as you try figure out how the new blender you bought works in the kitchen. The buttons are all in French, incredibly unhelpful considering the fact this was supposed to be one of your first steps to ‘self-improvement’. 

“Eat healthy,” one of your friends had told you a couple days ago. “Or drink healthy. Helps with stress.” She’d downed a shot of vodka a second later, so you weren’t sure why you’d taken her up on her advice.

Maybe it’s because you were getting desperate. Moving to Monaco was supposed to unlock new opportunities, especially considering the fact you’d scored a contract with one of top modeling agencies in Europe. Your family and friends thought you were doing well—if your Ferrari sitting downstairs in the underground car park wasn’t indication enough, and in financial terms, sure. 

But you were stressed, loosing any kind of love you had for your career, and currently really wanted to figure out how to work this stupid, overpriced blender.

A fresh wave of mediterranean air breezes in through the open window. You frown, blindly reaching across the kitchen counter for the instructions again as if it’ll magically appear in english. It won’t. You know it won’t, but the same desperate delusion that’s taken over your life makes you reach for it anyway.

Your gaze is still on the blender, hand blindly searching through the mess on the marble countertop. The lid, perched dangerously close to the edge, makes contact with your arm, tumbling to the herringbone floor with a loud clatter. 

“Fuck me,” you mutter, running your hands through your hair. The TV is still playing—you think the lead has just confessed her love to the love interest, her voice high and whiney and dramatic. Hastily, you switch it onto the next channel, a news outlet with monotone speech and dull colouring.

“I think the word for it is burnt out.”

That’s what your agent, Emilie, had told you over the phone a couple days ago. You wanted to scoff at it now—throw the stupid remote on the floor too as a petty release for your frustration. 

Burnt out. You wouldn’t be burnt out if the entire universe seemed completely set on your demise.

Just as you’re about to snatch the lid back up from the ground, a sharp knock pierces through your apartment. You rise halfway, gaze snapping to the door, motionless like you’re trying to figure out if this is your mind playing tricks on you.

A minute later, there’s another knock, a little louder, one you do when you don’t think anyone is home.

Immediately, you drop everything else in your hands, ecstatic at the excuse to leave the blender behind and shove it away in the back of your cupboard.

You smooth out your shorts, trying to make them look a reasonable length, fiddling with the strap of your top. Probably another delivery guy, you think, delivering yet another impulsive purchase you’d made to make yourself feel better. 

You swing the door open.

Fuck.

“Hey.”

There’s a man standing there, someone who isn’t in the typical delivery guy getup like you’re expecting. He looks your age, relaxed, familiar. Familiar in the way you knowyou’ve seen him somewhere, maybe passing by on the street, on an advertisement, maybe. He looked like he could model too. 

You tilt your head, leaning against the doorframe.

Yeah, he could definitely fucking model.

“Need something?” you ask, and your voice comes out harsh, still not over the shitty day you’re having. It doesn’t click in your head that he’s a new face, standing on your apartment floor that only has one other, unoccupied, apartment on it.

“No—yeah,” he blinks, and you let your gaze stray, surveying his plain, white shirt, the grey joggers. “Was just saying hi.” You look up at his face again. He’s got tan skin, brunette, curly hair, a small scar on the bridge of his nose. 

He looks really fucking good, but you’re too annoyed to care. 

“Why?” you ask, frowning. You see him give you a once over too, eyes dragging up from your thighs, all the way up to your face again. “Bit creepy, no?” “I was just—” he moves aside, and that’s when it clicks. You see the luggage, the open apartment door with boxes strewn about inside. “We’re neighbours now. There’s only two apartments on every floor. Probably going to see a lot of each other.”

Some of the annoyance simmers, realisation taking its place.

“Oh,” you say, and he smiles. “Right.” “Lando,” he says, offering his hand. “Norris. Lando Norris.” “Have we met?” you ask, shaking his hand. “I know you from somewhere.” “Probably work.” “What do you do?” “Cars,” he shrugs, and you shift on the spot, head tilting. “I work with cars.”

It's a vague answer. Everyone you asked in Monaco 'worked with cars'. It's how you managed to get your Ferrari in the first place.

You watch his gaze stray again. You watch it stray to your chest.

“I—” “Are you staring at my fucking tits?”

He freezes, eyes snapping back up to your face.

“Well—” “Seriously?” “They’re right there.” “What?!” “How do you expect me not look? You’re hot, and you’re in shorts and a freakin’—” “Have some decency!” you say, already moving to walk back inside your apartment. “Jesus.” “No, wait,” he catches your wrist, pulling you back. “C’mon. I’m sorry. What’s your name?” “I’m not telling you. Not after that.” “Then what do you want me to call you?” you tug out of his hold, and he grins, like this is the funniest thing in the world. “Baby? Gorgeous? Prettiest girl I’ve ever—”

You slam the door shut. 

He doesn't don’t retreat for a good few seconds, though you hear a low laugh before he does. It’s silent after that. Silent enough you could pretend that some ignorant, asshole hasn’t just moved in opposite you.

You glance at the TV, face flushed red, hands slack at your sides. 

“On the topic of sport—Mclaren move up in the constructor standings with another win from their golden boy, Lando Norris.”

There’s a faint ringing in your ears, a mix of horror and disbelief. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

That’s where you know him from. Lando Norris. A fucking Formula 1 driver, who’s picture you’ve probably passed countless times on the street. You hear him now, in an interview, that same laugh filling your apartment.

“I mean, that’s life. Almost costed me a win but I guess I'm just that good.”

You look at the TV, the door behind you, at the blender lid that’s still on the ground, and decide your life really couldn’t get worse than this. 

The next time you run into Lando is in the elevator, at 12 in the morning.

You’re in heels, a short minidress, head buzzing with alcohol from a post-shoot dinner. The strap around the back of your ankle digs into your skin, the minidress keeps falling and you’re so tired you’re half-inclined to let it.

The elevator doors open with a quiet ding.

Lando’s leaned against the wall, phone in hand when you walk in. You see him see you. You see his gaze drag over the hem of your dress, your sides, then back up to your face. He’s in jeans and a plain hoodie. You look like polar opposites.

Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you stop next to him, pointedly staring straight ahead.

“Hey,” he says, and you hear the smug grin in his voice. “How are you?” “Good,” you answer, short, sinking further back against the wall. “You?” “You’re not angry anymore?” “At you? Yes. I am.” “For what? Staring at your tits?” he crosses his arms, frowning. “I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.” “I don’t give a shit.” He laughs again, the slight rasp in his voice sending something fluttering down your stomach.

“Where’d you go?” he asks, and you glance at the elevator panel. You and him lived on the 17th floor, one you’d specifically chosen because of the gorgeous view. You were regretting it now though, more every second as you feel his gaze burning into your skin. “You look good.” “Just out,” you choose to ignore the compliment. “Why do you care?” “I’m curious.” “Why are you out this late? Don’t you have some kind of strict, training regime to stick to?”

His eyebrows raise in a way that makes you want to take back the words. “So you know who I am.” “Hard not to. Monaco loves cars.” “And what do you think?” “About what?” “Living next to a Formula 1 driver. A good Formula 1 driver. A hot one.” “Shut up,” you mutter, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “You’re not that good.” “Yeah? Who won the last race?” “How would I know?” “Don’t lie to me, babe,” he grins, hand tapping against the metal railing around the elevator. “You’re a bad liar.”

You hate the way the nickname makes your skin prickle, the way it makes heat crawl up your neck. Like he senses it, he moves closer. “You never told me your name. What else am I supposed to call you?” he says, amused. “No, that’s a lie. I asked the girl down at reception.” “You what?” you frown, turning to look up at him. “Surely that’s got to be illegal or something.” “Not when you promise her an autograph,” he shrugs. “Easy work.” “You’re a prick.” “Am I?”

The doors open with a quiet ding, and you rush to walk out, heels clicking on the marble flooring beneath you.

“But seriously, where’d you go?” “I said out,” you fumble for your keys. “Dinner.” “You’ve been drinking,” he observes, leaning against the wall. “Are you drunk?” “Get inside your apartment, Norris,” you say, sliding your key into the lock. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.” “Mm,” he hums. “No.”

You look up at him again, just before you open your door.

He’s smiling. Of course he’s fucking smiling. He smells like cologne, probably that Ralph Lauren one—you passed his advertisement on the way home for it. You’ve been noticing him everywhere now. Advertisements, posters, his last win replaying on screens.

“Fine,” he says, pushing off of the wall, moving to his own door. “Night, gorgeous.” You scoff out a laugh, turning the key and slipping into your apartment.

The door shuts, sending one last draft of cold air and cologne past. You don’t listen to him go this time. You drop your bag on the kitchen counter, kicking off your heels in the living room, before falling straight onto the couch in exhaustion.

The silence aches. You stare up at the ceiling, gaze tracing the ornate plaster moulded in the edges. The aperol from an hour ago is dull, barley buzzing anymore. 

You hate silence. It’s one of those things you career had conditioned—the fast paced model environment since your teenage years. There was always the click of a camera, the shouting of a director, the house music that for some reason seemed mandatory for every shoot you went to. 

Silence was uncomfortable. 

You shift your head to look at the door again, barely visible above the back of the couch. 

Maybe that was why coming home had always felt bittersweet. You’d finally get some rest at the cost of pure silence. Now though, Lando had moved in—loud, insufferable, Lando, and for some reason, it felt like something pivotal. Something incredibly major.

“Morning.”

You’ve dragged yourself through another night of endless doomscrolling, of fixed routine. Sun seeps into your apartment building’s hall, the silver numbers on your door glinting. 

You pause for a beat at the door, still not quite released from the grasp of sleep, staring ahead of you.

Lando’s shirtless. 

His tan skin is bare, toned, disappearing beneath the prominent lines peeking above his joggers. Like usual, he’s got a protein shake in one hand, looking completely refreshed like he’s been up for hours already.

“Sleep well?” he asks, watching you chuck something into the rubbish chute near both of your doors. “Looks like it.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, dusting off your hands. You glance over at him, eyes narrowing. “Why are you even out here? Do you just listen and wait for me?” “I’m not that obsessed,” he smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “Do you wish I was?” “No.” “Shame.”

You look past, at his open apartment door. It looks well furnished for the short amount of time he’d spent living there. You catch a glimpse of marble countertops like your own, a pictureframe off to one side of a Formula 1 car, clothes lazily thrown over the back of the couch. Cleaner than you expected for a cocky, millionaire-status athlete.

“Wanna come in?” he opens the door wider, voice teasing. “I see you staring.” “I’d rather drink acid.” “Liar,” he calls when you turn away again. “You know what we should do? Go out or something. Get to know each other." “Why would I ever do that?” “I’ll give you an autograph.” “That doesn’t work on me,” you glare. “Go bribe the receptionist downstairs.” “I’m not offering because you’re hot, sexy, and gorgeous,” he says, making you stop at the threshold of your door. “I’m asking because you’re my neighbour. I don’t plan to move anytime soon and I don’t think you do either.” “Are you calling me hot, sexy, and gorgeous?” “You are,” he says, then he smirks. “And I can say that without looking at your tits. I’m a changed man.”

The laugh that comes out of you is real. Slightly startled. Lando smiles wider at that, his hand mindlessly sliding up to rub at his shoulderblades.

“I can’t,” you say, and his smile falters slightly. “I’ve got work.” “Work?” he frowns, like he’d forgotten it existed. “Right. What do you do?” “That’s personal.” “Oh c’mon,” he says, dragging out the syllables. “That’s unfair. You know what I do.” “Everyone in the world knows what you do, Norris.” “So?” he steps closer, hand falling back to his side. “I’ll guess. Surely it’s something big if you can afford an apartment like this.” “I’m not telling you.” “Finance? Daddy’s money?”

You scoff, leaning against your doorframe. “Modeling.” “Oh?” he says. “Go figure.” He cocks his head, taking another sip of his protein shake and glancing over you like he’s observing, “You’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Makes sense you model.” 

You’ve gotten the compliment thousands of times before. It sounds no different coming from him, and yet you’re instinctively standing straighter, thank you on the tip of your tongue.

Lando shifts too, tongue poking at the side of his cheek, a slow grin taking over his features. 

You’d found yourself watching his interviews last night. He’s got a tendency to smile when things he says anything remotely personal. To laugh, scoff, redirect the conversation into something comedic. It makes you think it isn’t just a one-liner. Maybe he really does think you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. 

But you know better than that.

He opens his mouth, about to say something you know will be incredibly idiotic.

“Are you being serious? Or do you just want to have sex with me?”

Lando blinks, mouth closing, words dying in his throat.

“Well—you can’t—” he lets out an exasperated noise. “Obviously I want to have sex with you. But I swear I’m—” “Unbelievable.” “Baby, c’mon.” “I’m going to be late.”

You turn away, and he lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh.

“When will you admit you like me?” he calls, hand gripping your door to keep it open. You’ve got one hand on the door handle, giving it an experimental nudge. It doesn’t move an inch.

“Lando.”

He grins, slowly letting go. “Have a good day, gorgeous.”

You smile back, saccharine, before slamming the door shut in his face.

It’s been three days. 

Three days of Lando accidentally showing up in the hallway whenever you do. Three days of his teasing, his faux pleading to make you like him. You hear him at four in the morning, that low voice of his followed by someone else. A girl.

You weren’t jealous. Why would you be? You were more so annoyed at the fact it’d been four in the morning, and they weren’t exactly being quiet. She was nowhere to be seen the morning after, but he’d been there. In his doorway, shirtless, with a protein bar in his hand and a half-assed apology about the noise.

The elevator opens and you sigh, making your way down the hallway. Your clothes feel like they’re sticking to your skin, the leftover photoshoot makeup on your face is uncomfortable. 

Fucking Monaco heat.

Lando, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen for once.

You glance in your bag as you walk, sifting through for your keys. The bag—your first ever designer you’d bought with your own money, is full of items that have no business accompanying you to a photoshoot. There’s a sim card from France, an empty box of matches, a forgotten hotel room keycard from your last stay in Italy. More evidence that your life is currently a complete and utter mess.

Your fingers close around your keys just as you make it to your door. There’s no welcome mat outside, just plain, boring marble. You’d never bothered, considering the fact that it’d just been you coming home and you’d felt weird greeting occasional hookups with a fucking welcome sign at the door. 

You slide your key into the lock, turning it, hand instinctively already heading in the direction of the light switch. You’re a creature of habit. Of routine. Of the belief that there’s not a mat outside the door, but you’re heel catches on something there anyway.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, glancing down at the marble floor. It’s not a doormat. It’s a thick, glossy magazine, a note on the top and a paperclip marking a specific page. 

You snatch it up, the shiny cover smooth against your fingertips. 

You snort, plucking the note off of the cover.

Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart? 

He’s smiling in the picture, trophy clutched against him, champagne in his free hand. His race suit is half off, tugged down to show the black fireproofs below clinging to his skin. He looks smug, egotistical, like he’s saying I’m better than you even though the camera is looking over him.

You look at every inch of the cover, studying it, gaze greedy though your fingers are already sliding between the pages to the one he’d marked. 

Finally, you flick it open. Another podium picture takes up the entire page. It’s softer. His head is tilted back in pure relief, the smile on his face relaxed, eyes shut.

You skim-read the article beside it. The words compassionate and caring making a few appearances, followed by ‘what’s not to like?’. It talks about his rookie year, his home race win, the generic career-oriented stuff, but there’s a specific section towards the end that catches your eye.

“How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life?” “First off,” Lando laughs, looking away. “I have to admit I don’t think I’m too good at relationships in the first place. I’m much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text—a weakness of mine, actually.” He looks flustered to admit it, a slip in the usual playful person we see out in the paddock.  I ask, “Then what’s your ideal type in a person? Someone equally as bad at replying to text messages?” Again, he laughs, “Sure. I guess. Probably someone who can even put up with me in the first place. Someone who doesn’t just let me get away with everything all the time. Maybe bullies me a little. Also ideally someone who doesn’t know the first thing about racing—I wanna come home and not talk about freakin’ cars all the time, you know? ” “I see. And, I apologise if this is intrusive, have you found that person?” He smiles, leans back in his cushioned chair. It’s more of a smirk.  “No. Not yet. I—”

You stop there, at the end of the page, itching to flip over and finish the section. Instead, your gaze snags on the picture again. It’s perfect, really. His smile, the expression on his face. Probably would’ve fooled you if you didn’t know him.

“Asshole,” you mutter, shoving the magazine in your bag and hastily stepping into your apartment. You throw it onto the coffee table in the living room, tucked away like all your other problems. It doesn’t make a reappearance until a few hours later, when you’re in the kitchen, attempting to make one of those ‘nutritious, protein-filled’ meals off of social media that’s probably a sham.

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. Mindlessly, you swipe it off the surface, lazily throwing in more pepper into the pot on the stove. It wasn’t like you were too focused on cooking anyway. There was a 90% chance you’d give up and order takeout.

Unknown number —  like the gift?

You slam the pepper back onto the counter before you've even read the last word.

You —  why the fuck do you have my number?

Unknown number — guess jfc that girl at the reception is incredibly easy to convince should really learn her name

The pot hisses, spitting boiling hot water against your arm, throwing a tantrum you’re not paying attention to it. You curse and turn it off all together.

You — i need to file something against her what’d you bargain this time?

Unknown number —  another autograph and a picture this time

You — you’re insane strangely obsessed

Norris — but did you like the gift? thought it was a really good article if i’m being honest i look fuckin mint

You — sure

Norris —  don’t tell me i didn’t look hot did you stare at it?  for how long? 

You — two seconds max

Norris —  haha still a bad liar babe are you home?

You — might be why do you care?

Norris —  just curious fewtrell and his gf just landed in monaco  i’m waiting in the airport rn

You aren’t sure why he’s telling you that. It seemed too personal, like an update you’d tell your friend for no reason at all. 

You —  right are they staying with you?

Norris —  for a week gonna stream you should watch

You — i’m busy

Norris —  boooo fine

You chew the inside of your cheek, liking the message, before putting your phone face down on the counter.

He gets home an hour later. You hear another British accent, suitcases against marble, a feminine voice before it disappears into the apartment. Lando laughs, loud, making a joke with a very audible shut up in response. 

It makes you glance up from the couch at the door. There are boxes of takeout scattered on the coffee table in front of you, half eaten and waiting to be packed into the fridge. A bottle of wine is leaned against your side. Your laptop is open with a new campaign proposal, something to do with a Euro Summer, all prestigious exclusivity. 

Your gaze strays again to the hardwood coffee table, the magazine sitting there among the mess of takeout.

Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart? 

His perfect face, that trophy in his hand, the glint of pure happiness in his eyes.

You blame that smile when you open up Twitch on your laptop, half an hour later. You blame the wine, the stress that isn’t making you rational. You blame Lando Norris’ frustrating likeability.

He’s already live when you search his name.

As soon as you click onto it, his voice fills your living room. You can see his apartment clearer now, his office by the looks of it. He’s got helmets lined up on one of the shelves, racing sim behind him, trophies scattered here and there like he doesn’t know whether to display them or not. ‘Fewtrell’ is sitting beside him, whispering something that makes Lando let out a loud laugh you think you can hear through the walls of your apartment.

It sinks in then. 

You’re watching Lando Norris live, when he’s quite literally right next to you.

“Is this a new setup?” Lando reads from the chat, leaning back into his chair. He smiles, and it isn’t the smile from the magazine. It’s the one he uses in the interviews. “Yes. Yes it is. Moved recently.” “That’s why it looks so much cleaner,” his friend cuts in. “Cause you haven’t even fully unpacked yet.” “Fuck you,” Lando scoffs, nudging him in the side. “I’ve unpacked plenty. Everyone tell Max to shut up.”

You mindlessly click onto your phone, the live still playing on your laptop. 

Norris — gonna stream you should watch

Your fingers ghost over the keyboard.

You — its been a week since you moved in should really unpack

He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms up, a silver of tan skin revealed beneath his hoodie before he snatches up his phone. You watch as he reads the message, eyes flickering to stare straight at the camera, before he starts typing. 

Your phone buzzes again.

Norris —  knew you weren’t busy how long have you been watching?

“What’re you smiling about?” Max asks, and Lando shrugs, muttering ‘mind your business’.

You — barely a minute don’t get cocky

Norris — never could come over yknow i should introduce everyone to my gorgeously sexy stunning model neighbour

You glance at the live again. He’s smiling wider now, turned to the side like he’s hiding his phone.

“Lando, mate, can you focus?” “I am focused.” “No, you’re texting your freakin’ girlfriend or whatever.” “I don’t have a girlfriend.” “Sure looks like it.”

Lando scoffs, quickly typing something else before sliding his phone into his pocket.

Norris —  girlfriend, huh?

Your fingers clench around your phone, heart slamming against your ribs. 

“You’re washed,” Max says, and you slowly glance to the screen. “So fucking washed.” “I haven’t played this in like, a year,” Lando answers, dragging his chair closer to the table. He glances at the camera, smiling. It’s triumphant, like he knows you’re sitting there, flushed pink, unable to come up with a reply.

You slam your laptop shut, his voice cutting off mid sentence. The wine bottle beside you tilts, almost falls, until the world decides you’ve been through too much today and lets it perch on the edge instead. 

“Fuck,” you say, and it comes out breathy and dry, barely making a sound. There’s a muffled shout from his apartment, a bark of laughter. Clearly, he wasn’t affected as you were.

The thought makes the heat sink into your chest. It makes you snatch up the bottle of wine, turn on the TV to drown out the noise, and throw your phone somewhere else. Somewhere far out of reach.

Everything goes quiet two hours later. You hear his apartment door open, footsteps, the rubbish chute opening and closing, a pause just as he passes by your door.

His door slams shut. Yours doesn't open. Your agent texts you about another project, and you hate how you’re disappointed by the fact it isn’t him.

Lando likes you.

It’s obvious—probably clear as day to anyone who’s ever seen the two of you interact, which currently only happens to be the walls of your apartment hall. 

“Have you met your neighbour yet?” 

Max is sitting at the kitchen counter, a piece of toast in one hand. Lando’s blood goes rushing to his dick at the mere mention of you, and his hand tightens on his cup of protein.

“Yeah—she’s, um, yeah.” “Yeah?” Max frowns, taking a bite of his toast. “She nice? Rude? Fangirl?” “It’s complicated. We didn’t get off to the best start.”

He wants to say you’re everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. You’re gorgeous, to your eyes, your voice, your sharp, dry humor that no one else ever uses with him.

He’d been expecting some old couple—maybe a stuck up businessman, to open the door the day he’d moved in. Instead, he’d hit the fucking jackpot and found you. A girl his age, who was wearing the shortest shorts he’d ever seen in Monaco, and a face that looked straight from his dreams. 

The only problem was that you didn’t exactly like him back. 

Lando screws on the lid of the cup, eyebrows knit, a frown on his face. 

The girl of his dreams, who couldn’t stand him. His luck had to run out somewhere.

“Who’s this?” Pietra asks, sitting down beside Max. “New girlfriend?” “My neighbour.” “The girl you sent that magazine of yourself to?” she snorts, taking a sip of Max’s drink. “No wonder she doesn’t like you.”

Lando turns around, focusing on mixing together his protein shake. “I might’ve stared at her tits the first time we met.” Max lets out a heavy sigh, the kind that he uses on stream when Lando makes a stupid, un-media-friendly joke.

“I’d slap you,” Pietra says, serious. “Then find a way to kick you out of the building.” “I apologized!” Lando argues, turning around again. “And she’s a fucking model. She’s hot. She wears these tiny shorts around at home and fuck they’re—” Max raises his eyebrows, spreading butter onto his toast, “So you’ve got a crush? That doesn’t excuse staring at her tits, by the way.” “I think anyone who sees her would have a crush, honestly,” Lando says, leaning against the counter. The marble digs into his side, and he grimaces. “She still hates me though.” “I wonder why.”

Max sets down the knife to take a bite of his food, and Lando rolls his eyes, sliding his phone out of his pocket, swiping onto the messages with you like it’s second nature. He’s done that a lot recently—reading through each text with you, trying to figure out what you mean by every word you say.

You haven’t replied to that last comment. 

Lando — girlfriend, huh?

He winces, fingers hovering over the keyboard, debating on whether you’re too flustered or too creeped out to answer. 

Lando — morning

“You could always apologize again,” Max muses, reaching for his mug of coffee. “Buy her something. Take her out for dinner for a proper start.” “I offered breakfast once.” “In a polite way? Or in a ‘I’m inviting you over because I find you attractive’ way?” “Probably the second.”

Pietra shakes her head, muttering something under her breath before disappearing into the hallway. Lando watches her go with a frown.

“Try invite her out again,” Max says, and Lando’s phone buzzes in his hand. “Ask nicely. Explain why you want to take her out.”

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — finally stopped stalking me?

“Mm,” Lando hums, attention already slipping. “I will.” “Will you?” “Yeah.” Max scoffs, “Liar.”

Lando’s too focused on his phone to bother defending himself.

Lando — what’s that supposed to mean?

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — didn’t see you this morning weren’t standing outside waiting for me like a dog like usual

Lando — disappointed? knew you’d miss me

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — miss you? you can’t stay away from me for more than a day might as well have you on a leash

Lando — buy me a collar and i’d wear it

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — you wouldn’t

Lando — i would make sure it’s got your name in bold on the front

He smiles when you pause.

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — are your friends still over?

Lando — changing the topic? and yeah they’re still here did you wanna meet them?

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — i’m good

Lando — you could always come over y'know

You stop again. He watches the type bubble pop up, disappear, then start again.He probably sounds creepy. Like a weirdly obsessed neighbour that lived right opposite you. 

He frowns at that.

“Lando.” “Yeah?” “Are you gonna eat anything?”

Lando — what are you doing this morning?

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — i’ve got a shoot at 11 and no you’re not coming over

Lando —  want breakfast? seriously fresh start or whatever

Max is still talking. Lando can hear the scrape of his knife against ceramic, his cup of coffee thudding onto the table every time he sets it down. His heart is beating faster every second those chat bubbles start up again.

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — where?

“I’m making plans,” Lando finally answers, and Max stops mid bite. Lando raises his phone, waving it at him as if he can see the text on it. “Apology, right?” “You made plans with her?” “Yup.” “She said yes?” “Sure.”

Lando — there’s a few nice cafes by the port meet you outside in ten?

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — if you’re late i’m calling this off

Lando — couldn’t be late even if i tried

He shuts off his phone, sliding it into his pocket with a satisfied grin. Max frowns at him with mild disdain.

“You’re an idiot,” his best friend says, and Lando’s grin fades. “This is the worst way to pursue a girl.” “I think this is perfect.” “You stared at her tits the first time you meet her, you flirt and clearlydon’t do anything to back it up—you sent a magazine of yourself to her door—” “She kept it.” “Could’ve thrown it away.” “I would’ve known if she’d thrown it away.” “How?” “Because she throws her rubbish out every morning, and I watch her do it,” Lando answers, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “And she hasn’t thrown it out.”

Max stares at him in silence for a few beats.

“You’re insane.”

Lando shrugs, turning, “Got a breakfast date to get ready for.” “It isn’t a date, it’s an apology. Remember that,” Max calls.

Lando lets the words go in one ear and right out the other.

It’s nine-thirty in the morning, you’ve got a campaign to shoot in an hour and a half, and you’re sitting at a table across from Lando Norris for fucking breakfast.

He’s in jeans, a loose, button up shirt, the top few undone to show perfect tan skin. There are sunglasses resting on the top of his head, colorful fan-made bracelets stacked on one wrist, pink Richard Mille on the other. He cocks his head as he flicks through the menu, tongue darting out every now and then to lick his lips.

He looks unbelievably good. 

You shift on your chair, rustic iron scraping on the brick, outdoor flooring. Port Hercule sits right nearby—you see yachts pulling out of the dock already, a sign of Monte Carlo waking up. There’s french chatter, the occasional rumble of a sports car.

You’ve been pretending to look through the menu for the last five minutes. You know what you want already: the usual iced coffee and light meal you get before every shoot, but still pretend nonetheless.

“You’re staring.”

His voice still has the rasp of sleep at the end of it, and when you focus on his face again, he isn’t even looking at you.

“How would you know that?” “I can sense it,” he says, letting the menu fall back onto the table with a quiet thud. He grins, cocky like he always is, “You know I look good.”

You snort, settling back into your chair.

Egotistical, arrogant, idiotic.

Those three words you’ve been repeating to yourself are fading by the minute.

“You look hot. What shoot do you have to be at today?” “Some campaign,” you sigh, also setting aside the menu. “Clothing thing.” “I could probably get you into some F1 promo.” “And end up in the same magazine you were in? I think not.”

His smile widens, and he leans forward. “Did you keep it?” “Keep what?” “The magazine. With my face on the cover.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep any blush from creeping onto your face. The magazine is still sitting where you left it on the coffee table, like an accusation, like something so pointed that you don’t want to address.

“You kept it.” “Would be a waste of money if I threw it out,” you lie. “And it matches the colour scheme of my apartment anyway.” “When am I ever going to see your apartment?” “Never.” “You’ve seen mine.” “I’ve seen the door and the hallway.” “And the office,” he adds, eyes glinting with amusement. “Remember?”

You clear your throat, glancing over at the port. He laughs, his chair scraping back as he settles into it again.

“I’m not trying to tease you. This is supposed to be a fresh start, remember?” “Is it?” “I’m trying,” his face turns serious when you look back at him. “I’m formally apologizing for staring at your tits the day we met. It’ll never happen again. Unless you let me.”

You suddenly understand why people let Lando get away with being him. You’ve seen his interviews online—the ones post-race where he’s cocky, high off a win, grinning with sweat glistening down his neck. You’ve seen how he says the most arrogant lines, makes inappropriate jokes, and no one ever seems to reprimand him for it.

He picks up the menu again, only to thumb at the corner of the card, still staring at you. 

“Can we start over?” he asks. “Properly. Disregard everything you know about me—pretend I met you yesterday and asked you out.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, “Was this your plan? To lure me out under the ruse of an apology, then turn it into a date midway?” He grins, and you laugh despite yourself, reaching for your glass again.

Maybe if you’d met him earlier—maybe if he’d knocked on your door a mere ten minutes before he did, things would play out different. Maybe he would’ve actually complimented you and asked you out normally. You weren’t sure if Lando Norris was capable of asking a girl out politely, but just for now, you were choosing to believe he could.

“So,” you set down your glass, looking at him. “Lando, was it?” The look on his face is nothing short of delight, and he leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “Right,” he answers. “Lando Norris.” “And what do you do for work?” “I drive cars.” You smile, “What kind?” “Formula 1 cars.”

The waiter comes back around with your food. Lando leans back, eyes still on you, relaxed like he’s just taking you in. You don’t snap at him this time. You let him stare like you’d let someone you were dating, you let him appreciate the fact that you’d even agreed to come out with him in the first place.

The rest of your ‘date’ goes by quickly. He’s likeable. You’d learnt that a while ago, but just refused to let yourself believe it. You find out he’s leading the championship, that Max is his best friend from childhood, that he thinks you’re the hottest person he’s ever laid eyes on.

“I could drop you off, if you wanted.”

You don’t even realise you’ve been scraping your fork at nothing for the past ten minutes, subconsciously dragging out the conversation. His own plate is empty too, and his arms are crossed, another smile on his face.

“To my shoot?” “Yeah,” he answers, glancing further behind you at his car. It’s obnoxious. A McLaren P1, jet-black, the number plate a combination of LN and a bunch of fours. It screams ‘this car belongs to Lando Norris’, and the amount of stares it had gotten as he’d driven past only proved that further. 

“It’s only a ten minute walk.” “You’re in heels.” “Barely.” He frowns, like he’s genuinely offended, “I’m not letting you walk in heels. What kind of date would I be?” “You’re saying you’re one of those guys who’d carry me if my feet got sore?” “Of course,” he reaches for his glass of water, glancing over it at you. “You don’t believe I’d be a good boyfriend?” You raise your eyebrows at him, “I never mentioned anything about boyfriends.” “Still,” he sets the glass down again. “You don’t think I would?”

You’ve, reluctantly, been stalking his past relationships. You know the last two have been Portugese—both models, both the kind of gorgeous that seemed gifted by Aphrodite herself, and every single break-up addressment had said the same thing: praise and the stereotypical “we just want different things”. He seemed like a good boyfriend, but you weren’t sure if that was the PR talking or not.

“I don’t know,” you answer, truthful. “I’d give you about a six out of ten for offering to drop me off.” He lets out a laugh, laced with surprise, “A six out of ten?” “Point-five if you walk me in too.” “Seriously?” “No,” you scoff. “I’m kidding. You don’t need to drop me off.”

He sighs, heavily, and you hear the scrape of his chair before you register him moving to stand.

“What’s the address?” “Lando,” you start, but he reaches out a hand, holding it in the space between you. 

We’re still on a date, he seems to silently say, keep pretending you like me.

You haven’t been pretending. Not for the past hour. You feel like you should tell him—reassure him maybe, but then he’d tease you about it for the next month.

“Knew you’d cave,” he says when you let him help you stand. His hand trails to your waist, voice smooth in your ear. “You know, I think we’d be good together.” “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say as he guides you past the various tables, briefly stopping at the front counter to tap his card. “This is a one time thing.” His grip tightens, thumb grazing the skin of your waist.

“Sure,” he says.

There’s a feeling in your gut that this’ll be far from a one time thing. You know that he knows it too.

Lando’s halfway through your Instagram feed when there’s a sharp bang on his door.

He pauses, thumb hovering over a picture from about two years ago, dragging his attention to hallway. He’s leaned against his kitchen counter shirtless, cereal half-eaten next to him. Max and Pietra had left for their early flight an hour or two ago. His own empty luggage he’s meant to be packing for the next few races lays strewn around his living room.

It’s silent. Slowly, he glances back at his phone.

There’s another bang, louder, someone knocking impatiently, then—

“Lando! Open the fucking door!”

Ah, fuck.

He drops his phone on the counter, stretching as he makes his way to the hallway. 

“Morning,” he says when he swings open the door. He leans against the doorframe, smiling, trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You glare at him, phone in one hand, hair slightly messy like you’d just gotten up too. 

“What the fuck is this?”

He glances at your phone, at the picture sitting there. 

It’s the two of you, his hand around your waist, you glancing up with your eyes slightly wide. It looks strangely intimate, actually. Lando saw it about twenty minutes ago on his own Instagram feed.

“Was hoping you wouldn’t see that,” he admits, taking your phone and swiping through the rest of the pictures. There’s more of the two of you at the cafe, some in his car, photographed perfectly so the angle makes it look like you’re closer than you are. “If it makes you feel better, I had no clue.” “No, that doesn’t make me feel better.” He grins, handing it back and turning to walk inside his apartment. The door is left open like an invitation, and you follow him, glaring. 

“Lando.” “It’ll blow off within a couple of days,” he answers, returning to the kitchen counter. He picks up the spoon from his bowl of cereal. “I promise. Don’t stress your pretty little head about it.” “I’m not stressed. I’m pissed. You—” “Isn’t it your job to be photographed?” “Not while I’m having breakfast with an athlete.” “A hot athlete.” “Go fuck yourself.”

He huffs out a laugh, muffled by the spoon in his mouth. Your anger wears off a little when you tear your attention off of him.

It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his apartment, you realise. 

It looks the same as yours—the same layout, marble countertops, herringbone flooring. It’s messier though, more photographs on the walls, trinkets he’d presumably gotten from fans. His apartment looks more lived in than yours, though he’s only been here for a couple weeks. It smells like him too—cologne, linen, a hint burnt toast like he’d failed at cooking breakfast this morning.

“Where are you going?” you ask when you catch sight of the suitcases. “Moving again?” “You wish,” he says, still eating his cereal. “Nah. Race this week.” “You’re gone for a week?” “Three. Triple-header and I’ll be in London for conveniency. Closer to MTC.”

You don’t understand a word he’s saying, apart from the fact he’s gone for three weeks. Three. 

“Oh,” you manage, and he stops, spoon pausing in his bowl. “Right.” “Gonna miss me?”

Probably.

The thought isn’t as startling as you thought it’d be. You’d gotten used to him recently—relied on him in fact, to fill the silence you’d dealt with every time you came home. You wouldn’t tell him that though, of course.

“No,” you say, and he smiles like he sees right through you. He pats the countertop, and you move without realising, pulling back the stool opposite him. “Might have some peace and quiet for a little.” “You’re gonna miss me.”

You don’t agree or deny it this time. He finishes off his cereal, chucking his dishes in the sink before facing you again. You try ignore the fact that the sight of his back muscles moving sends a flush of pink crawling up your neck.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask. “Yesterday. That you were leaving.“ “Didn’t think you’d care that much,” he shrugs, resting his forearms on the counter. “Plus it’s only three weeks. You’ve lived without me for, what? Few years?” You don’t answer, and he stands up straighter, head tilting.

“I’m only gone for a little bit.” “I know.” “You seem—” he stops, eyebrows furrowing. “You seem like you actually care.” “Do you think I hate you?” “Sure looks like it.” “I don’t,” you say. “Hate you. I don’t love you, that’s for sure, but I don’t hate you.”

His head is still tilted at you, fingers mindlessly tapping on the marble countertop. 

“Will you watch?”

You blink up at him. He raises his eyebrows, fingers still tapping, restless. 

“Do you want me to watch?” “Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yeah. Obviously.”

His voice is softer than usual—careful, like he’s holding something in. You want to answer him, make a sharp comment that’ll ease the tension. Instead, you stay quiet, leaning forward the slightest inch without even meaning to. His gaze flickers to your neck, the thin strap of your top, stopping at where the counter blocks off the rest of you.

“You look good.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. 

“I just woke up.” “I know.” “You weren’t waiting in the hall this morning.” “It isn’t eight-thirty yet.”

The time you’re usually out in the hallway. Even you didn’t know that about yourself.

“I should go.” “Stay.” “I’ve got work.”

You push back your chair, and he’s instantly moving, trailing after you.

“Not even for another few minutes?” “I’m already off schedule.”

You pass by a framed picture of a car—his Formula 1 car. There’s a shelf next to it, one full of what looks like a bunch of magazines and decorative pieces. There are photos too, polaroids of his friends, a girl that you don’t recognize.

He catches your wrist just as you continue past it, almost at the threshold of the front door.

“Is there some kind of limit on how much you let yourself near me everyday?” “An hour. Max.” “It’s barely been ten minutes.” “More time for later, then.”

His grip tightens, and you swear you feel his thumb graze over your skin. “My flight is in two hours.”

He looks desperate now, his voice still soft, reasoning. 

“More time for when you get back, then,” you say, glancing at his hand. “In three weeks.”

Again, his thumb traces over your wrist. You swallow, an attempt at regaining any sense of rationality. His cologne is intoxicating now, and when you look up at him, his hand trails to your waist instead.

“You’re in my apartment,” he says, more to himself. “Jesus.” “I know that.” “Do you always look this good?”

You’ve learnt to stop expecting him to stay on a single thought. It’s like he says whatever crosses his mind first, without a care in the world about an answer.

His other hand settles at the small of your back, tugging you close. You can feel the heat radiating off of him—the tension, the intensity of him standing there.

“Lando.”

He hums in response, somehow not focused yet entirely fixated on you. 

You make the mistake of glancing away—glancing down, at his bare torso. At the defined lines disappearing beneath his joggers. When you look up again, a single thought runs through your head.

You want to kiss him.

You want to know how his skin feels, how he tastes, if his stupid, cocky exterior followed into his sex life. He lets his gaze roam too, and you know the same exact thoughts are circulating in his head.

Just at you move closer the slightest inch, he lets go.

“I think I’ll miss you,” he says, arrogance returning in full force. You’re still breathless, lips parted, heart pounding in your chest, but he’s already smirking, hands sliding into his pockets. “You and your gorgeous face.”

It’s silent for a few beats. He raises his eyebrows, standing there in all his infuriating glory, like he hasn’t just baited you into almost kissing him.

You can’t fucking believe him. 

“Fuck you.” “I’ll dedicate a win to you.”

You turn away, wrenching open his front door and storming out of his apartment. He follows, leisurely, stopping at the doorframe.

“Promise you’ll watch?” “Go fuck yourself.”

You slam your door shut, letting it ring in the hallway. It’s the last time you see him in a month.

Dates before hook-ups had never really been your thing.

Some people liked it—the whole package, being wined and dined before ultimately back to a hotel just to fuck. You liked getting it over and done with as quick as possible.

It sounded sad, and only after your friend from home had told you so, you’d decided to trythe entire process for once instead.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

You glance down at the man beneath you.

He’s got dark hair, dark features, the typical Monegasque, billionaire look. You think his name starts with an M. 

“Sometimes,” you smile, hands trailing up his chest. You resist the urge to look at your bedroom door, at the wall like you can see the apartment right across your own. You’d sat through an entire, boring dinner for this moment. You refused to let yourself get distracted.

It’s been three weeks since Lando left for his races in Europe.

You’ve settled back into normalcy. Routine. No one bothers you every morning in the hall, no one nags you with questions in the elevator. Your phone remains silent—your entire apartment floor remains silent.

It’s weird. 

Theoretically, it shouldn’t be weird. It should be the opposite of weird. You should be relieved, actually. Instead, you’ve been filling his absence with hookups, with the same impulsive purchases prior to him moving in, with races playing on your stupidly large TV. 

He’d won in the Netherlands. You’d wanted to text him then—to tell him you’d watched, that you were so happy you’d spilt a glass of wine as he’d crossed the checkered flag. But you hadn’t, and your last messages were still from when you’d scheduled that breakfast together a month ago.

You don’t realise your gaze has already strayed away from the man in your bed. He’s been talking this entire time, more compliments, probably. 

“Hello?”

You snap your head back to him, blinking. He’s got an irritated look on his face, and he sits up, making you fall onto the bed beside him. 

“Am I too boring for you?” “What?” “Clearly, I am, considering the fact a fucking wall holds your attention better.”

He stands, snatching up his discarded clothing around your bedroom. You sigh, heavily, watching him from your bed. You’re still in lingerie, a pale blue lace set, dainty, and something you probably shouldn't be wasting on a random hookup. 

“I knew you were entitled. An entitled, spoiled brat with an apartment she probably doesn’t even pay for herself.”

The man is still talking, and you roll your eyes, sliding off the bed when he walks out of your bedroom.

“You’re wasting an entire night, by the way,” you say, following him to the door. It wasn’t like you wanted to have sex with him anymore, but you did want an orgasm. You could probably shut your eyes and pretend it was someone else, and that was enough for you.

“I don’t care,” he says, and you stop at your front door, watching him tug on his shoes. “You’re a bitch.” You don’t answer that, stepping aside to let him pass.

“Spoiled fucking—” he mutters something else in French, shaking his head as he continues down the hall. You watch him, resting your head against your doorframe, still in your lingerie.

“Night,” you call, and just before he can press the button for the elevator, the doors open.

You freeze, blood turning cold.

Fuck.

Lando steps out of the elevator as the man steps in, suitcase and bag dragged next to him, hood thrown over his head like he’d just gotten off a flight. 

“Already called someone to replace me?” your hookup says, and you shut your eyes, sighing again. You want to die. You want to sink into the wall and disappear. “Real fucking classy.” “Shut up and go home,” you answer, and the elevator doors close. 

The hallway goes silent. 

You open your eyes again, and Lando is by his own apartment door, barely a meter away from you.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice makes something inside of you flutter. One hand is around the handle of his suitcase, the other slack by his side. He looks exhausted. You think there might be circles beneath his eyes.

“Hi,” you answer, suddenly too aware that you’re still in fucking lingerie. “You’re back.” “I’m back.” “And, um—” you gesture in his general direction. “Yeah.” “Who was that?”

You wince, looking away again.

“No one.” “Didn’t seem to like you very much.” “I know. I zoned out when we were about to have sex.” Lando laughs, and it’s raspy, tired—hot.

“Do you wear that for every hookup you have?” he asks. “Or did you know I was coming home tonight?” “I’m not wearing this for you,” you scoff, fixing the strap of your bra. “Do you wish I was?” “Obviously.” “Five minutes in and you’re already flirting.” “Negative,” he says. “You’re in a fucking lace set.”

A cold draft of air flits past, and you mindlessly wrap your arms around you. He tracks the movement, jaw flexing.

“You didn’t answer my question.” “Would you be jealous if I said yes?”

He releases his hold on his suitcase, stepping closer to you. 

This is what you’re used to now—what you’ve been missing for the past three months.

You know what you probably look like. The flush from earlier hasn’t exactly worn off yet, your hair is probably messy from hands tangling themselves in them, you’re in lace that you know makes you look good.

Lando smiles. It’s one of his cocky, smug, smiles. 

“Congratulations on your win,” you say, but it comes out breathier than you meant it to, softer. “And second place. Twice.” His smile falters a little.

“You watched.” “You asked me to watch.” “I know—I just—” he stops, glances at the strap of your bra, then turns away back to his suitcase. “Fuck.” “What’s wrong?”

When he turns back around, he’s got a shirt in his hands.

“Can’t focus when you’re dressed like that,” he admits, handing it to you. “Not that I don’t like it. Just wanna have a proper chat.”

It’s his Mclaren jersey, four clear on the back, black and orange. You thumb over the material for a second, before shrugging it on. 

Lando jaw flexes when you look at him again.

“Suits you.” “I knew you’d say that.” He scoffs, head tilting towards his apartment. 

“When did you land in Monaco?” you say, following him inside. “Couldn’t you have texted me?” “We haven’t texted for a month, gorgeous.” “I know, I just—” his door shuts behind you, leaving you still flushed, standing in the hall of his apartment. He throws his keys on the wooden console table by the door, lazily resting his suitcase against the wall. “Give me a heads up or something. So I don’t have a fucking hookup when you get back.”

He pauses, glancing back at you.

“You missed me,” he smiles. “Didn’t you?” “I—” “I missed you too.”

He moves closer, and it gives you a rush of familiarity. The blush on your neck must’ve spread to your face, because he lets out a soft laugh, hands settling on your waist.

“I thought about you a lot. On the plane home, on the podium,” one hand slides beneath his jersey, resting on your skin. “In my hotel at night.”

You try not to focus on his face too much. Ultimately, it doesn’t work, and you find yourself studying it instead. He looks exhausted, shoulders tense, his voice lower than usual. 

“What’d you think about?” you ask, but the words sound distant in your own head. “Coming home and tormenting me again?” “I thought about your pretty face,” he corrects. “The way you looked in my apartment before I left.” “When you baited me?” He smiles, palm warm on your waist, “I never baited you.” “Sure felt like it.”

You’re still mad at him for it. Mad that he hadn’t finished what he’d started. 

“Did you want me to kiss you then leave you for a month?” He says. “Would you have rather fucked and then lived through a month in silence?” “We wouldn’t have fucked.”

He laughs at that. It’s short and incredulous, so insufferably sure in himself it makes you want to slap him.

“Don’t kid yourself, baby.” “Fuck you.” “Is that your natural response whenever I know you’re lying?” “It’s my response when you’re being arrogant,” you answer. “You can’t just start something and not—” “You think I don’t want to finish this?” he says, still amused. “I want to kiss you more than anything—I’ve wanted to kiss you the second you opened the door two months ago. I want to fuck you and have you wear that set for me. Not some shitty fucking hookup you don’t even know the name of.”

You throat is dry, heart stuttering in your chest at the words. Heat spreads through you, through your thighs, still bare but covered by his jersey.

“Then why don’t you?” you ask, and it comes out softer than you intended. “Instead of waiting when you know it’ll happen?” “You deserve better than that,” he answers, and one of his hands move to your face instead, fixing your hair behind your ear. “You deserve to be obsessed over. Not to be taken out to dinner once just for the part that comes after.”

He pulls away, both hand sliding into his pockets. You take a step back, just to breathe, tearing your gaze away. His apartment looks untouched from a month ago, 

When you finally have the courage to look at him again, he’s smirking.

“I missed you,” he repeats. “I missed you a lot.”

Your fingers curl at your sides. 

“Congratulations on your win,” you end up on, reaching for the door. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t stop you. He stands there, relaxed in his ownapartment, gaze flickering to your thighs knowingly. 

“Goodnight, gorgeous.”

Lando hates being mature.

He hates making actual, rational decisions, ones that make him wait instead of giving things to him instantly. For example: not fucking kissing you when he’d had the chance. Twice.

He winces every time he thinks about it, sighs when he passes by the entry of his apartment. The image of you in his jersey, the pale blue set beneath it, continues to randomly flash in his head. Tormenting him. Except it feels less like torment and more like unshakable regret.

The stack of magazines in his living room seem to stare at him everytime he brushes past. Most are ones of himself, things he plans on planting outside your apartment with stupid notes attached.

The other half of the stack is magazines you’d sent him, back when everything had been fine. Magazines with you on the cover, so, incredibly gorgeous that he’d always stopped in his tracks when he’d picked them up. One of them is of Oscar. His teammate. Your own hand written note still attached: the better mclaren driver x, and he remembered immediately knocking on your door and playing hurt about it.

It was a joke. He knew it was a joke, but it didn’t stop the flare of jealousy that’d sparked inside of him anyway.

His gaze strays from the stack, to the white box on the table next to it.

It’s lingerie. Lacy, light pink, gorgeous, inside an equally as delicate box. It’d probably be even prettier on you—the whole reason he’d bought the damn thing anyway. It sits there like a shadow, like a guilty secret, waiting for the right moment he can give it to you and play it off like another fucking joke when you both knew it wasn’t.

He wants you. Badly. And yet he was holding himself back for some Godforsaken reason. 

He hasn’t seen or spoken to you for the past two weeks. The rhythm the two of you had settled into feels tense, throwing every possible interaction out of sync.

It feels like you’re avoiding him—it probably feels like he’s avoiding you. He’s not. He, for once in his life, just doesn’t know what to do or say.

It doesn’t help that another week later, you’re not even in Monaco.

He hears you leave, the sound of suitcases on marble, unfamiliar voices and laughter. Another two hours and, like some deranged, obsessed admirer, he finds out through your friend’s Instagram stories that you’re on a private jet halfway to Mykonos, Greece. 

When he drags himself through the rest of the day, through to the next morning, you’ve posted in a nightclub that he’s been to before. He studies the picture, the group you’re with, the men specifically. One of them is looking at you, but your eyes are closed, smiling, too caught up dancing with your friends to notice. Lando can’t tell if the man is staring at you in a casual, passing glance way, or a I wanna have sex with you way. 

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he tosses his phone out of reach, and decides he really needs to keep himself distracted for the rest of the time you aren’t here.

He does. Well, he tries. 

He focuses on the upcoming triple header. He focuses on fulfilling every single one of Jon’s insane, training requests. He lets himself scroll on Instagram for a maximum of ten minutes everyday, as if he owes it to himself. 

You post from clubs, from hotels, from yachts. Your skin glows, you look more carefree than he’s ever seen you. He’s never been so mesmerized in his life. 

It’s five days into your absence when you post the picture he’d subconsciously been waiting for.

You’re leaned against a man. 

Lando’s fingers hover over the picture, hood pulled over his head, sitting on one of the benches of his gym. There’s a drink in your hand—champagne, and you’re leaning back, the man’s arms draped over your shoulders. The coastline of Mykonos beautiful in the background, the kind of picture that unintentionally makes you feel inferior. The kind of picture he’d sometimes post, albeit without holding a girl against him.

He shuts his phone, shoving it into his bag, restarting his reps with a newfound sense of determination to get you out of his head.

You get back a week later There’s no laughter or conversation this time. Just your suitcase, your keys, the quiet shutting of your apartment door. 

His heart is instantly slamming in his chest again, and yet for another excruciating seven days, he doesn’t see you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, tilting his head back against his couch.

He feels like shit.

For the entirety of this past month, he's felt like shit. He knows he should just knock—just talk to you, but he's gone so long without that he thinks he doesn't know how.

His apartment is awfully quiet for ten o’clock at night, silent apart from his nagging thoughts of regret. 

He wants you to be the girl he’s spotted with in headlines. The girl people speculate about, instead of some random model he’d danced with at a club in Ibiza. He wants you with him on yachts, on planes, standing in parc ferme after a win. He’s wanted you since he’d stared at your fucking tits almost half a year ago.

It’s then that he realises he needs to do something. Something that doesn’t consist of sulking about you, thinking about you, or frankly, anything to do with you. Maybe an evening run, or a session on his sim. Maybe he could call up Max despite it probably being about two in the morning over in London. 

Or, maybe, he could just knock on your door, kiss you, and see what happened from there.

He glances at the white box on the coffee table, the magazines beside it.

The media had always called him blessed. Mclaren’s golden boy. Incredibly, miraculously lucky. As he finally stands, slipping out of his apartment, he thinks it might be true. 

Jimmy’z is as loud as it always is.

He’d called up Carlos, asking what he was doing and where he was, and it’d led him here. To the most exclusive club in Monte Carlo. It smelt like alcohol, like intoxicating perfume, the music pulsing so loud in his head he can’t think.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Carlos asks him at the bar, waiting for their drinks. “Surely can’t be the championship. You’re leading by a mile.” “No—it’s not,” Lando answers, staring ahead of him. “Something else. Personal.” “When’s the last time you had sex?” He winces, glancing over, “Seriously?” “Two months, then.” “Fuck you.”

Carlos laughs, taking their shots from the bartender and sliding one across to Lando. He downs it instantly, savouring the burn in his throat and praying it’s enough to ease his tension.

“How about—” Carlos’s hands are on his shoulder, steering him to look in the direction of a girl. “Her. Blonde on your left.” “I’m not doing this, Carlos.” “No?” he surveys the crowd, before steering him again. “Her?”

Lando freezes. Carlos, too busy with his ongoing bit of listing random women, doesn’t notice.

You’re standing there, in a dress that glints beneath the strobing lights, drink in your hand, a carefree smile on your face as you talk to a group of your friends.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck—

Lando’s heartbeat is so loud in his ears it drowns out the music. 

You look beautiful.

It's the first time he's seen you in almost a month, but that's all that's running through his head.

He can see the way you’re talking, using your hands, more animated than he’s ever seen you before. Just as he can even choose to tear his gaze away, for both your sakes, someone’s approaching you. 

He’s tall, blonde, frame nudging past people with the clear goal of getting to you. When he does, you blink, smiling and shaking his hand.

It’s nothing like the first time you and Lando met. It plays out perfect—the man makes you laugh, complimenting you by the looks of it, and you’re already pulling your phone out of your purse.

Something sparks deep inside of him. Jealousy. A pang of something possessive when he knows it isn't fair. Still, he’s moving, cutting Carlos off mid sentence.

“Where are y—” “I’ll be back.”

He reaches you in under twenty seconds, managing to catch the ends of your conversation.

“Did you want another drink?” “Yeah, that’d be—”

The man steps aside just as Lando stops in front of you. He watches your attention shift, watches the recognition flash across your features.

“Lando?”

The man blinks, head snapping towards him. You’re frozen on the spot, gaze darting between the two of them. 

“Sorry, man,” he says, and Lando straightens. “Kinda busy h—” “Leave.”

The command comes out short. Rude, but Lando can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m sorry?” “Leave,” he repeats, and you’re silent, hands lowering to your sides. “Now.” “Excuse m—” “Get the fuck out,” he says, stepping closer. You tense, but stay quiet. “Do I have to make you?” The man scoffs, muttering something and disappearing into the crowd.

It leaves you and Lando silent again.

“What the fuck are you—” “Not here,” he says, grabbing your wrist to lead you out the back. “Fuck.”

You stumble outside, glass still in one hand, a glare on your face. The heavy door slams shut, and Lando releases his hold.

“What the fuck was that?” “I dont—” “What gives you the fucking right?” you say, voice raising. “You think you can dictate who I talk to just because we live opposite each other?!" “No, fuck, baby—” “You’re a fucking dick, Norris.” “I know.” “You’re arrogant, cocky, egotistical—” you shove him, and he doesn’t resist, staggering back. “You ignore me for a month and this is the first thing you fucking do?!”

He winces, rubbing his shoulder. You’re breathless, face flushed pink, looking at him with disdain. “I wasn’t ignoring you.” “Fuck you.” “I wasn’t,” he repeats, moving closer. You step back, and he doesn't try again. “I was just—I didn’t know what to—” “Is this a game to you? Am I a game? Are you testing to see how long you can keep me waiting for and how long I’ll keep letting it happen?”

He shakes his head, and you lean against the wall, exhaling.

“Were you…” he starts, and you look at him. “Planning on fucking him? And the guy in Greece—” “You’re unbelievable." “Were you?” “Would it matter?” “Yes. A lot.” “Tell me why.”

Because I’m in love with you.

“Because you’re out of his league.” “Lando,” you laugh, disbelieving. “Don’t fucking lie.” “Were you hoping I’d say something else?” he grins, then immediately curses himself. What the fuck was he doing? “That I’d say because I want to fuck you?” “Don’t you?”

His smile falters.

“What?” “We’re unfinished, remember?” you say. “What happened to wanting to kiss me? To fuck me more than anything? No, I wasn’t planning on have sex with him, or anyone, but God I sh—”

He’s moving before you even finish the last word, hands fitting around your waist, lips crashing against yours with six months worth of want. Of need. One hand slides up from your waist to your jaw, the other sliding beneath your dress, warm on your skin.

You smell so good, like vanilla and lip gloss and champagne. Like everything he’s ever been searching for. It’s overwhelming. Filling his head until all he can think about is your lips, your tongue against his. He feels you chasing him back—nails digging into his shoulder, head tilting, lips parting so easily for him. 

It’s better than any other kiss he’s had in his life. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.” You let out something between a whine and a moan, quiet, probably accidental. He feels your hands tangle in his hair, the warmth of your body as you arch against him. Impulsive, his hand trails down again, skimming beneath the waistband of your panties. You whimper then, hand catching his wrist to keep it still.

“Lan—” you start, eyes shutting as his lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing beneath your ear. You find his lips again, and there’s a sense of desperation, urgency. “I—fuck. Just—”

He abruptly pulls away, breathless, stumbling. 

You stay still, face flushed pink, dress, creased from his roaming hands. He knows he probably looks the same, maybe worse. It’s silent, apart from the sound of ragged breathing and muffled bass from the club.

“Fuck. Sorry,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “I…” Your eyes are wide and startled, watching as he presses his fingers to his mouth, lowers them, then covers his face. “Lando—” “I’ve got a triple header this week,” he bursts out. “U.S, Mexico, Brazil. I leave tomorrow morning.”

You’re still panting, motionless, processing the words.

“So you’re gone for—” “Three weeks.” “A month.” “Almost a month.”

His heart is racing, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. Before you get to even open your mouth, he reaches for you again. You’re not even surprised, kissing him back with the same exact intensity. It feels different from the first two. It feels like another promise, one that he knows he’ll keep, one that says when I get back, you and me are real. 

“I'm not waiting for you any longer.” “I know,” he mutters, thumb grazing against your cheek. “I know that. I promise.”

He steps back again, and you’re already moving to your apartment door, pausing just as you turn the door handle.  You aren’t smiling at him. Your lips are parted, blush dusted across your skin. When he forces himself away, you stop him.

“Lando.” “Yeah?”

You smile then—pefect, fucking angelic, and he almost reaches for you again.

“I missed you.”

Fuck.

You’re not sure when you realised you might be in love with Lando Norris.

As far as you remembered, he’d always been the same. He’d run into you in the hall every morning, in the elevator, on the way in and out of the building. He’d make the same shitty jokes, flirt in the most arrogant way possible, slide his hand around your waist when you’d sift through your mailbox.

It’s hard to tell, because Lando is so, undeniably, him. 

You don’t know whether a shitty pick up line means something else. You don’t know if the small graze of his thumb on your skin is accidental or pointed. He calls you gorgeous, baby, a smile on his face that seems all too knowing, then you open your phone the next day to an article titled ‘Lando Norris spotted with model in Ibiza’.

You think you might’ve realised after that night in his apartment. It’d sat at the back of your mind like a shadow, a constant reminder that the two of you were ‘unfinished’. Whatever the hell that meant. 

Or maybe it’d been the silence that came after, the month of tension, of absence that’d felt like torture. You’d hated it so much you’d left for Greece in hopes you’d return home to normalcy. 

Mykono’s had been dreamlike. The coastline was gorgeous, you’d spent your days on yachts and nights in clubs. You’d met a guy called Elias—Greek perfection, and that had been it. You’d only met him. You hadn’t gotten his number, had sex, gone any deeper than knowing his name and age and the name of his dog.

All you could think about was home. Of your apartment and Lando, right across from it. You thought about his shitty pick up lines, his touch, the magazines always tossed outside your door. You thought about him, staring at the sea like you could see Monaco, and when you’d arrived home, he hadn’t been there waiting.

Naturally, you’d done the only thing you knew how whenever your life was thrown into disarray. You’d gone to Jimmy’z, with the sole purpose of getting wasted, but the universe, as you’d established almost six months ago when he’d moved in, absolutely hated you and you’d run into him anyway.

You remember being so, unbelievably frustrated. Frustrated at the sheer audacity of him, the shitty greeting after a month of pure silence.

But then he’d kissed you. You still couldn’t get the feeling out of your head—his hands on your waist, sliding up the planes of your stomach, your jaw, slipping down briefly to dip at the waistband of your panties. 

Then he’d fucking left. Again. Without another word. Leaving only another promise and a white box outside your door.

It’s been five days since the kiss. Four since he'd left, leaving another promise in his wake. Four since you’d opened that perfectly wrapped box he'd left outside your door.

Lingerie. Light pink, dainty, lingerie.

You were sure you were reading into it too much. This was Lando, after all. Someone who jumped at the opportunity to make things amusing when they got too personal—but the thought of it. The thought of him seeing the set and thinking of you.

You tear your gaze away from the box, over to the screen instead, the Grand Prix in Austin on lap 55. Lando’s leading, like you’ve discovered he usually is. When he crosses the line in first, you’re not even looking. Your gaze has slid over to the box again.

It’s then you decide you’re going to something completely and utterly stupid.

You —  [ 1 image attached ] congrats on the win

A wave of regret washes over you the moment you hit send.

The picture stares back at you on your phone: you, on your fucking knees on the plush, duvet of your bed, the pink lace flush against your skin. It’s a good picture. A really good picture, and yet you want to throw your phone off the balcony despite it.

He doesn’t answer for ten minutes. An hour. Two.

You swipe onto the messages again, debating whether to delete everything and block his contact, curled up in bed with the set still on, when—

Lando — fuck fuckfuckfuck what the fuck baby baby what the fuck

The torrent of messages makes you sit up, thighs pressing together, blush already making its way up your neck.

Lando — no you can’t do this not while i’m away for another two weeks i’ll book a flight back to monaco right now i’m not even fucking joking

You — be patient norris

Lando — are you still wearing it??

You shift slightly, debating on whether to send him another picture. 

You — [ 1 image attached ]

Lando — oh fuck  you’re gonna kill me

You —  what took you so long to answer earlier?

Lando — post race celebration debrief whatever the hell  knew i should’ve checked my phone sooner

You —  where are you?

Lando — hotel im meant to go out with everyone in twenty minutes fuck

You can imagine him in his room, his face tinted crimson. You can imagine his voice, picture his touch you so badly craved. 

Your phone lights up again.

Lando — if i win all three of my races  you wear that set for me when i get home

Your fingers clench around your phone.

You — deal

Then you slide your phone onto your bedside table, silent, like it’ll soothe your racing heart.

The day of the Brazil Grand Prix, two weeks later, you’re curled up on the couch, anxiously biting the pad of your thumb as you watch. You’d found yourself watching the recent races with more attention than any other. Probably because of the looming shadow of the deal you’d made with him, growing closer with every lap he spent in P1. He’d won Mexico last week with a 25 second gap, Austin with 10, but this one was different. It held more weight. 

The commentator raises his voice, saying words that have no meaning to you, until—

“Lando Norris wins the Brazilian Grand Prix!”

You can’t breathe. Your body rushes with adrenaline, with anticipation, heart thundering against your ribs.

An hour later, you get the text.

Lando — i’ll be back on monday

The day Lando Norris had moved in across the hall, you knew your life would change.

Did you think it’d change this much? No. But you knew it’d change, and the revelation gave you a sense of unexplainable comfort.

He gets home on Monday, eight pm. You’d spent the entire day pacing, then attempting to be productive, then pacing again. The lingerie had stared at you from its spot on your chair, accusationally, waiting for the moment you reached for it again.

You hear him walk into his apartment. You count the minutes until he comes out again, until he knocks. 

Lando’s already smiling when you open the door.

He’s in joggers, a cotton tee, backwards cap. He looks how he usually would on a regular day. One where he didn’t have a very blatant deal to have sex with you.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out quiet. “Miss me?”

You drag your gaze up to his face, taking a step closer. It’s silent for a few seconds, weighted silence, before you give in.

“Yeah,” you breathe, and he’s already moving, hands on your hips to press you against him.

He kisses you soft. 

You sink into him, lips against his, letting him guide you. His tongue licks into your mouth—not desperate like the first time, but slow. Savouring. The surface of your door is cold against your back, and you blindly reach for the handle, turning it and sending the two of you stumbling inside.

He doesn’t comment on the interior, the stack of magazines, the box still on the couch. He just keeps kissing you, hands roaming idly, beneath your shirt and brushing against the lace of your bra.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes when he feels it, pulling away to catch his breath. “You wore it.” “That was the deal, wasn’t it?” He groans, muttering, “you’re killing me, baby”, hand sliding to your jaw.

Your hands reach up to his hair when he leans again, tossing his cap off to the side, tangling in the soft curls. A helpless moan escapes you when his hips move against yours. You can feel how hard he is, the pent up frustration and longing. You wonder if he’s been like this since Brazil, since his flight, and the thought sends heat pooling at your core.

“Bedroom,” you say between kisses, though you make no move to stop. “On the left.” You don’t register the length between the door and your room. You don’t register him nudging you onto your bed either, only the warmth of him on top of you, his hand tugging your shirt off. 

He pulls away again, just to take you in. His gaze surveys every inch of you, roaming freely, turning you inside out though he hasn’t said a word. He looks dishevelled—awestruck, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

“You’re—” he blinks, like he can’t believe he’s even here. “Gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous—” “Off,” you say, and your voice sounds so far away. You lean forward, pulling at his shirt. “Take it off.” He immediately shrugs it off, and you scramble to tug your own shorts off too, about to reach for his joggers until he does it for you. You let yourself be greedy, taking in the sight of his tan skin, the curve of his muscles, the lines that disappear beneath his boxers.  “Please,” you say, quiet. You don’t know what you’re saying please for. It might be please kiss me, please fuck me, please don’t keep me waiting any longer. Probably a combination of all three. “Lando.”

His palm skims up your thighs, tugging you effortlessly closer. You can see how hard he is now—the prominent outline of him against his boxers. It makes you clench around nothing, fingers curling in your bedsheets. 

“What do you want?” he asks, and you whine, his fingers toying with the waistband of your panties. “Tell me.” “I want you.” “Where?”

Everywhere, you want to say, thighs pressing together when he tugs the lace down. His hands push them apart again with a small murmur of stay still for me, and you think you might come right then and there.

“Lando,” you whine when he moves away, sliding up the planes of your back to the clasp of your bra. “Just touch me. Anywhere. Fuck me.” He laughs then, low, his touch so gentle and only adding to your desperation.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, then he’s back to your thighs, tracing idly. His fingers—finally, graze over your clit, and you immediately arch into him. “So wet and I’ve barely touched you.” He circles it, featherlight, making you gasp. His fingers move quicker at the noise, slipping down to your folds.

“Is this what you’ve been thinking about?” he asks, leaning down to trail kisses at your jaw. “These past three weeks—past few months?” His finger slides inside of you, barely, but it makes you moan, hips jerking in an attempt to pull him in deeper.  “I know you have, baby,” he says, slowly pulling out, just to fuck in deeper. “And I’m sorry for making you wait. Fuck.”

He moves swifter, thumb pressing against your clit, slipping in a second finger. It feels overwhelming already—too much, and yet you want even more. He curls his fingers perfectly, like he’s already learnt you. You already feel so full, his thick fingers quickening when he feels you tense. 

“Lan,” you say, and he groans at the name. “Please—” You come abruptly, hard, body trembling. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise in your ear, even as tears spring at your eyes in overstimulation. 

You whimper when he slowly pulls his fingers out again. Wordlessly, he taps the side of your cheek, and you open your mouth instinctively. 

“Jesus,” he rasps when you take his fingers into your mouth. You open your eyes to look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and he looks devastated. Utterly ruined at the sight of you. “You’re perfect.” You keep your eyes on him, still slightly shaking, licking over his fingers and tasting yourself on your tongue.

His next movements are a blur. You watch him tug his boxers down, cock hard and leaking. It’s big. So fucking big and all it does it make you impatient. He grins when you try move closer, stopping you halfway.

“Relax for me,” he says, and you’re falling back onto the mattress, head hitting the plush pillows. He reaches over, grabs a condom from God knows where, rolling it on and settling between your thighs. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, but you relax, letting him guide you exactly where he wants. “That’s it, baby.”

He nudges against you, gentle, and you both tense. 

“Breathe,” he says, but it comes out strained, like he’s holding himself back. He pushes in, slow, stopping at just the tip. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.” You whimper, hands fisting in the sheets, head tilting back when he eases in deeper.  “You okay?” he asks, stopping to brush your hair out of your face. “You look—insane. So fucking unreal.” “I’m fine,” you gasp, one hand moving to tangle in his hair. He leans forward, kissing you, reassuring. “Move. Please move.”

His hands settle on your waist when he slides all the way in, and you both groan at the feeling. You turn your head to bury it in the pillows, but he immediately tilts it back towards him. “Let me hear you,” he murmurs, starting to thrust in and out. “It’s just us. C’mon, gorgeous.” You moan at that, and he pushes in harder, deeper, hitting all the right spots inside you. 

You can hear his ragged breathing, your own name on his lips. He sets a rhythm, steady, the bed frame knocking against the wall with every moment. Your hands move to his shoulders, nails digging into his back, and he groans, thrusts turning rougher. 

“You take me so well, baby,” he says, and he sounds breathless, hoarse. “So fucking well.” “I can’t—” you clench around him, overstimulated. “Lan—I can’t—” “You can,” he breathes, sinking impossible deeper, filling you perfectly. “Come for me. I know you can.”

It feels so good, like heaven, like the world really only consisted of the two of you. He moves your leg higher, and you let him, pliant, overwhelmed with pleasure. You’re sure your nails have left scratches, deep marks, but it only seems to encourage him more. 

“Feels good, huh?” he says, and he’s grinning. You roll your hips against his in response, and the flash of confidence shatters, turning into something that sounds like a whine. “You’re so good—you’re so fucking good to me.” He ghosts his lips over your neck, and you turn your head to kiss him. It’s messy, hungry, his tongue against yours and his cock relentless inside you. 

The second time you come feels euphoric—dizzying, knocking all the air out of your lungs. All you can think about is Lando, his name, his touch, the months of craving of him all for this exact moment.

He shudders a second later, hips stuttering, grip bruising on your skin. “Fuck,” he groans when he comes, panting. He thrusts in again, rhythm faltering, his face pressed against your neck. “Fuck—I think I’m in love with you.”

Then he collapses, gasping, flushed a pretty shade of pink. You lay there, chest rising and falling, eyes half lidded, not yet processing his words. 

You’re not sure how long you stay there, trying to regain your breath. You whine quietly at him pulling out, barely sensing him moving to toss out the condom.

“Everything okay?” he asks, quietly. You’re too spent to answer, so you move towards him, letting him press kisses on your forehead, your neck, down your shoulder.

He looks completely wrecked, hair tousled and messy. When he turns away again to presumably find tissues, you see the marks on his back, the indents of your nails. You’re sure you don’t look much better, but you know if you asked he’d say you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

I think I’m in love with you.

“Lando,” you say, softly. He blinks, glancing back at you, concern in his eyes. “Did you mean that?” He cocks his head, like he’s trying to figure out what you mean. You see when it clicks, when the blush deepens into crimson.

“Yeah,” he says, and you sit up, flinching at the ache in your muscles. “I mean—I think so. You’re all I ever think about. Ever since I moved in.”

You study his face, the expression on it. He’s studying you back, looking for a reaction, a response in your eyes.

“I think I might be in love with you too,” you answer, and his shoulders physically relax. He falls back onto the bed, on top of you, face burying in your neck. “Even though you’re a cocky, arrogant, piece of shit.” “Thanks,” he mutters. “I try.”

You laugh and feel him smile into your skin. “Stay tonight,” you tell him, gently running your fingers through his hair. “If you want.” “If I want,” he repeats, grinning. “Right.” You scoff, settling back into the pillows. He kisses you, muttering something about finding a towel, and you let him go.

You wonder if all those months ago, if you’d opened the door to him in a better mood, if he hadn’t fucking stared at your tits, you would’ve had this sooner. Maybe you would’ve kissed him the first time you’d had the chance to, maybe you would’ve said yes to every single date he’d asked you on, and almost 10 months of wait would turn into one.

But it didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter because now, you finally had him.

It’s summer in Monaco, three months later, and there’s a magazine outside your apartment door.

The glossy cover is smooth on your fingertips, there’s a note stuck to the front, and a paperclip marks a specific page. You smile, leaning against the doorframe, plucking the note off and staring at the cover.

It’s you.

Well, not just you. It’s the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, it’s Lando in his race suit, it’s the two of you kissing after he’d just won the championship. 

You’re crying—you remembered crying, but hadn’t realised how obvious it’d actually been. There are tears streaks trailing down your face, his hand is resting on your jaw to tilt your face towards him.

Lando Norris — An Interview with Formula 1’s newest World Champion

Though the championship has been the center of attention for Lando Norris, it isn’t the only thing people have been talking about. We sat the British F1 driver down almost a year ago with the question: How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life? 

Back then, he’d responded with his usual, boyish charm—claiming he thinks he’s ‘much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text’. But now, after the events of his championship-winning Grand Prix, it seems as though that wasn’t entirely true.

“You said in a previous interview you wanted someone who can put up with you—who doesn’t let you get away with everything. You also said you hadn’t found them yet. What about now?” We ask Lando, fresh off his championship win and the reveal of his girlfriend.

“Now? Yeah. I’ve found her.” “And is she ticking all your boxes?” “Every single one. She puts up with me—she has since we met a year ago, actually. She doesn’t know a thing about Formula 1. She’s hot, sexy, and gorgeous—ticks all my boxes.” “And how did you meet?”

Lando smiles at the question, blushing.

“I mean—fuck, I wish I could say we met somewhere romantic, but no, it was quite the opposite,” his smile grows. “No further comment.” “Alright. Final question: Any messages for her? For anyone?” “No. She’ll get a message when she reads this interview anyway.”

You close the magazine, glancing at the note he’d attached on top.

© mvclrc 2026

[moonlightwritingf1]

Chapter 13: Closer

ִֶָ☾. summary ━━━━━━━ Things deepen between Lando and Y/N as she slowly lets him past her walls.

࣪ ִֶָ☾. pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

࣪ ִֶָ☾. word count ━━━━━━━ 2.4k

࣪ ִֶָ☾. warnings ━━━━━━━ fluff?

Series Masterlist

The silence that settled over them was not the empty kind. It was full—weighted with everything they'd said and heavier still with everything they hadn't. Y/N's hand was still folded inside Lando's, his thumb tracing slow circles against the back of it, and she was aware, distantly, that she should take it back. That she should rebuild the walls he'd somehow walked straight through, brick by careful brick, before this cost her more than her mother ever had.

There was a version of her that knew exactly how to do that. Grow quiet. Go somewhere behind her own eyes where nothing could reach her. She'd perfected the trick as a child—the art of vanishing without leaving the room—and it had never once failed her.

But his hand was warm. And she was so tired of being cold.

She shifted on the couch, testing him, and the satin of her nightdress whispered against her skin. He didn't let go. She moved again, turning toward him, and his grip only tightened by a fraction, as though he'd felt some current run through her and was bracing for her to disappear.

That was when the fabric registered. Or the lack of it.

The nightdress was red satin, thin straps, a bodice of lace that hid almost nothing and a skirt that spilled to mid-thigh. She loved it—it was pretty in a way she rarely let herself be, comfortable in a way she rarely allowed—but it had been chosen for a night alone, not for company, and certainly not for him sitting inches away with the morning light doing whatever it was doing to his face. She'd forgotten about it entirely during the fight, the panic, the long unspooling of everything after. She remembered it now.

His eyes flickered down—collarbone, the shadow where the satin dipped into a V—and jerked back up so fast that colour rose in his cheeks. He looked away like a man caught trespassing.

Her first instinct was to cross her arms, to grab the throw off the back of the couch, to put something, anything, between his gaze and the body she'd spent years learning to keep hidden. 

But underneath the reflex to hide was something newer and far more dangerous—the small, unfamiliar heat of having flustered him. Of watching a man who'd had his pick of women he considered flawless look at her and forget himself, then drag his eyes away out of what looked, impossibly, like respect. She didn't know what to do with it. She left her arms where they were.

"You know," she said finally, her voice still a bit raw from all the crying, "last weekend I had a breakdown in your arms on a Saturday. This weekend it's Sunday." She glanced up at him, catching the concern that immediately flickered in his eyes, and quickly added, "I think we might be starting a tradition."

The joke landed exactly as she'd hoped—Lando's expression shifted from worry to something softer, his mouth quirking up at one corner. "A crying tradition? That's a bit depressing, don't you think?"

"Maybe," Y/N conceded, her own lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. "But at least we're consistent. Next week I'll make sure to have my emotional crisis on a Monday, just to keep things interesting."

"Please don't," Lando said, and though his tone was light, she could hear the genuine plea underneath it. His thumb stilled on her hand, and his grip tightened just slightly. "I'd rather you didn't have any more emotional crises at all."

The sincerity in his voice made something flutter in Y/N's chest, that traitorous warmth that kept trying to break through her defenses. She looked away, focusing on their hands again. "Unfortunately, I don't think my brain got that memo."

"Then I'll be here for all of them," he said quietly.

Her breath caught. She wanted to tell him he couldn't promise that. That he shouldn't. That there would come a day when the novelty wore thin and the work outweighed whatever the mark made him feel, and he'd realise she was more than anyone should have to hold. The words were right there, familiar as a prayer. They stuck anyway, because some tired, frightened, endlessly lonely part of her didn't want to say them. Wanted, just this once, to believe him.

She risked a glance up and found him already watching her—not sweeping over her the way men in clubs looked at her friends, but looking, the way she wasn't sure anyone ever had. His gaze traced her face, the line of her throat, at her collarbone, and dipped once to where the satin met her skin before he caught himself and coloured again.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's fine." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I'm the one who answered the door dressed for bed. Hardly appropriate receiving-guests attire."

"You weren't expecting guests." His eyes fixed carefully on a point past her shoulder. "And I sort of forced my way in."

"You didn't force anything." Her free hand went to the hem of the nightdress, tugging it down over a thigh it hadn't ridden up on. The motion pulled his gaze back to her, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed. She let a beat pass. "Your coffee's cold."

He glanced at the untouched mug on the table, then back at her. "I don't mind."

Of course he didn't. This new version of Lando seemed to mind nothing that involved being here, with her, in the wreckage of a day that would have sent the old one running for a better weekend. It was the most wonderful thing she'd ever felt and the most terrifying, and she couldn't yet tell the two apart.

The quiet stretched again, but it had changed temperature. Charged now. She was aware of the bare inches between his thigh and hers, of how simple it would be to close them, and the thought sent a spike of panic through her that had nothing to do with not wanting to—and everything to do with wanting badly enough to be afraid.

His free hand moved. Hesitated. Then came to rest on her knee—just his palm, warm, not pressing, not travelling. Present.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

She nodded, not trusting her voice. It was okay. It was more than okay, and that was the problem, because every point of contact between them felt like a small surrender, one more brick pried loose from a wall she'd spent her whole life building. The girl who'd been taught that softness got punished wanted to bolt. The woman she was trying to become stayed.

"You don't have to be so careful," she managed. "I'm not going to break."

"Yes, you are." There was such flat certainty in it that her eyes snapped to his. "You're breaking right now. You've been breaking for months. Years, probably." His voice cracked on the next part. "And I helped do it. So yeah. I'm going to be careful."

The warmth that spread through her then had nothing to do with embarrassment. He was holding himself so still, so deliberately, like a man aware that one wrong move would cost him everything. She understood the discipline of that. She'd lived her entire life inside it.

She shifted, and this time she let herself lean—barely, a few degrees, the smallest closing of distance. His breath caught. His hand twitched against her knee like it wanted to reach for her and didn't dare.

"You can put your arm around me," she said, and immediately felt her face go hot. "Not—I just mean. You don't have to sit all the way over there."

His throat bobbed again. "Are you sure?"

No. She wasn't sure of anything. Her defences were rubble, her chest was a knot she couldn't work loose, and she had no idea how she was meant to reassemble herself after today. But his hand was warm in hers, and the thought of him drawing back made something in her ache.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I'm sure."

He moved the way you'd move around something wounded—slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind. His arm came around her shoulders, tentative, and when she didn't flinch he drew her in until her side fit against his and her head found the place just below his shoulder. She could feel his heart going faster than it should. Hers was doing the same.

It was the closest they'd ever been. This was a choice. This was her, awake and clear-eyed in the ordinary Sunday light of her own living room, deciding to be held.

"What are you thinking about?" His voice came up through his chest, and she felt it more than heard it.

Everything. You. How much I want this. How much it scares me that I want this.

"That I don't know how to do this," she said instead.

"Do what?"

"This." A small gesture between them. "Let someone close enough to see the parts that aren't happy. Trust that they won't use them."

His fingers threaded gently into her hair, and the touch travelled all the way down her spine. "You're doing it right now."

"Yeah. For how long, though. How long before you decide it's too much. Before I'm too much."

"Hey." He tilted her face up with the hand that had been in her hair. "You're not too much. You're not a burden. Whatever your mother put in your head—she was wrong. Every word of it."

She wanted to believe him so badly it hurt. But you didn't undo twenty-something years of conditioning because a beautiful man said kind things on a Sunday. "You say that now."

"I'll say it tomorrow. And the day after. However many days it takes for you to actually hear it."

Her throat closed. It was unbearable, being spoken to like this—like she was something worth the patience, worth the return trip, worth fighting for. She had never once been anyone's priority. Not her mother's, not her father's, not any of the men who'd flirted with her friends over her shoulder as if she weren't there. The evidence of a lifetime said she was the girl no one chose. He kept talking as though the evidence were wrong.

"I'm going to ruin this," she said. "I'll push you away, or say something unforgivable, or—"

"Then I'll come back." His thumb brushed her cheekbone and caught a tear she hadn't felt fall. "I'll always come back. I'm not going anywhere. No matter how hard you make it."

It should have been impossible to mean. They barely knew each other—a year of him being cruel followed by a handful of months of him being this. It didn't make sense.

"I don't know how to stop being scared," she admitted.

"You don't have to." His hand came to cup her cheek, unbearably gentle. "You can be scared. Just don't run. Stay, and let me prove it's real."

"And if it isn't?"

"It is."

"But if it isn't." She needed him to hear the real question underneath. What if you leave. What if I'm not enough. What if not even this is enough.

He was quiet a long moment, his thumb moving in a rhythm that matched her pulse. "Then we figure it out together," he said finally. "But it won't come to that. Because this is real. You're real. And I'm not going to sit here and let you talk yourself out of it."

Another brick came loose. She should have stopped it. Instead she curled further into his side, tucked her head against his chest, and let herself—for one held breath—believe he might be right.

They stayed like that as the sun climbed higher. He reclined into the cushions and she settled against him, their linked hands resting on her thigh, his free hand playing idly with the ends of her hair. She could feel him looking at her, and it wasn't the kind of looking that demanded anything. It was closer to wonder. He'd never seen her like this—unarmed, unguarded—and every instinct she owned said she should be reaching for a hoodie to fix that. She didn't move.

"Can I tell you something," he said, the words vibrating through his chest against her cheek.

"Depends what it is."

She felt him smile. "You look beautiful."

Her breath snagged. She hadn't braced for it—the plainness of it, no flourish, no angle. "Lando—"

"I know you don't want to hear it," he pressed on, quick, like he had to get it out before she could deflect. "I know you've had the worst day and the last thing you need is me making it strange. I just wanted you to know it. You're beautiful. Right now especially."

She had a whole arsenal for moments like this—a joke, a shrug, a subject changed so smoothly no one noticed the pivot. She was so tired of using it. Of treating every kind word like something that might be poisoned. So instead of any of it she pressed closer, let the motion say what her mouth couldn't, and felt him go still with the effort of not making it into more than she could hold.

"Thank you," she whispered into his shirt.

His answer was a kiss pressed to the top of her head—so light and quick she might have imagined it, except for the warmth that bloomed through her and refused to leave.

She believed him.

Not wholly. The walls were still there, and so was the voice—her mother's, worn smooth from repetition—insisting this was temporary, that she’s not someone men choose, that she’s not someone beautiful, that she'd wreck it, that she wasn't built for this kind of devotion. But beneath the noise sat a small, stubborn coal of hope that maybe, this once, a person meant exactly what they said.

She didn't answer. She couldn't find the words and wasn't sure they existed. Instead she leaned her forehead against his and felt him exhale, unsteady, across her lips. They stayed there, breathing the same air, close enough that closing the last of it would have taken nothing.

This time, she moved first.

It wasn't a decision so much as a gravity—some pull older than her fear finally winning by a fraction, her chin tilting up, her breath snagging, the last thread of distance going slack between them. His hand rose to cradle her jaw, and even now, even here, he stayed careful, giving her the whole way to the end the chance to stop. She didn't stop. Her eyes fell shut. His nose brushed hers.

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[kooksandpearls]

secret moments, crowded room | 15

pairing – drew starkey x evangeline monroe summary – when exes drew starkey & evangeline monroe get cast as the leads in an intimate new film, they now have to convince the world they’re in love on screen, while trying very hard not to remember what it felt like when they were in love for real. warnings – rpf, strong language, unresolved relationship trauma, intense jealousy, guilt, regret, emotional distress, intrusive flashbacks, nicotine use, withdrawn behaviour and miscommunication word count – 10.8k

navigation – masterlist | « chapter 14 | chapter 16 »

CHAPTER 15. Pining and Anticipation.

For three days, Drew sees Evangeline mostly in evidence. A half-finished iced coffee beside the monitor when he arrives for a lighting adjustment. Her script left facedown on the corner of the studio sofa, one page softened beneath several passes of a yellow highlighter and the loose edge of a nicotine-gum wrapper tucked into the spine. 

The sound of her laughing somewhere through the shared wall between stages, brief and bright above the scrape of furniture being moved for one of the apartment scenes with Cailee.

Once, crossing between wardrobe and the studio set, he catches the back of her disappearing around the far end of the corridor. Big blonde hair moving over a dark coat. Poppy beside her with a phone lifted near one ear and a paper bag folded beneath the other arm. 

Evangeline says something Drew can’t hear. Poppy tips her head back and laughs. Then both of them turn the corner, and the corridor holds the shape of their absence for several stupid seconds afterward.

It should help. Production has separated them kindly, or accidentally, though kindness feels less likely given Celeste’s established interest in emotional workplace injury. 

Evangeline has spent the quieter part of the week filming Kate’s apartment scenes with Lila, one solo sequence in the hotel bathroom and several inserts of her listening to Tom’s old recordings with an expression the camera department has reportedly become religious about. 

Drew has been in the studio with the actors playing Tom’s band, his manager and two producers, repeating fragments of songs until every chord begins sounding like something designed to punish him.

They have passed one another at a distance. Said morning once. Night twice. Evangeline thanked him when he moved out of the path of a wardrobe rack, though the rack had been six feet wide and there had been nowhere else for either of them to stand without climbing into a lighting case.

No private conversations. No accidental hands. No mouths.

His body hasn’t accepted this last point. The kiss remains in him with the rude persistence of a smell caught in fabric. 

It returns while somebody tapes a microphone beneath his shirt. While Theo reads the next day’s pickup from his phone. While Drew stands beneath hot water at the hotel and closes his eyes for one second too long, immediately finding Evangeline rising into those dark red boots, arm locked around his neck, the soft involuntary sound she made when he pulled her closer.

He remembers her following his mouth afterward. That’s the piece that has begun doing damage.

The movement had barely existed. An inch, if that. Her chin lifting after he pulled away, lips reaching for the place his had been before she caught herself. Anyone else might have blamed momentum, blocking, the angle of her boots in sand.

Drew knows better. He also knows enough now to distrust the comfort of believing he knows anything about her without permission.

So he works. He learns the guitar parts. Sits with the music consultant. Lets the costume department place him in old shirts and trousers that make Tom Reed look like a man who has kept every bad decision because throwing one away might suggest regret. 

He stands at the recording desk beneath amber lamps while camera films his hands adjusting sliders that control nothing. He repeats dialogue about masters, label pressure and artistic integrity until the words become furniture. He does the job because the job has edges, and lately everything without edges has begun spilling.

On Thursday morning, Theo hands him the sides in the car and says, “You’ve got Evangeline all day,” with the neutral tone of someone announcing weather that may affect traffic.

Drew looks up from the paper.

Theo continues scrolling. “Studio scenes. Twelve, forty-six and the button from fifty-two if they’ve got time. Celeste wants the full control-desk coverage before lunch.”

“Right.”

“There’s a camera test first because they changed her shirt.”

Drew looks back at the pages although he’s read them enough to know where every exchange sits. “What was wrong with the other shirt?”

Theo turns his head. Drew keeps his eyes lowered. The car passes through a pocket of weak morning sun, warm over one side of his face before the next building takes it away.

“I don’t know,” Theo says after a moment. “I wasn’t invited to the shirt meeting.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“Right.”

Drew turns a page that doesn’t require turning. Theo watches him for another second, then returns to his phone with the discretion of a man who’s developed several professionally useful forms of blindness.

The stage is cold when they arrive, chilled beneath the false warmth of Tom’s studio. Outside the set walls, crew move through the blue-grey light of the soundstage wearing jackets and beanies, breath faintly visible near the open loading doors. 

Inside, amber lamps glow over the control desk, old rugs, guitars, cables and the half-dead plant Celeste has become strangely protective of despite its ongoing commitment to death.

Drew gets through wardrobe first. Dark green trousers, heavy boots and a faded black shirt cut close across the shoulders with a soft collar that’s been stretched enough to suggest several years of poor laundry decisions. Costume adds a thin chain and two rings that aren’t his own. Neither turns properly beneath his thumb.

Hair takes nine minutes. Makeup takes four. He has just reached the studio floor when he sees Evangeline sitting at the control desk with the music consultant beside her.

She’s not in costume yet. Not fully. Kate’s charcoal trousers sit high at her waist, but the top half is Evangeline’s: a white ribbed tank beneath a loose black cardigan, one sleeve pulled over her left hand while the other has been shoved to the elbow. 

Her hair is finished, broad warm waves pushed away from her face except for the curtain bangs resting low over her brows. The makeup is darker around her eyes than it has been in the apartment scenes, brown and smoked softly beneath the lashes, her mouth still bare while Dani stands nearby holding two pencils and waiting for an interruption in the technical conversation.

Evangeline has a notebook open over one thigh. Her own. Small black handwriting fills the page in compact slanted lines, several words boxed near the margin. The consultant points toward the control surface and explains the relationship between the faders, the equaliser and the track stems waiting on the monitor.

She listens without performing listening. That’s the first thing Drew notices, though he’s known it for years. Evangeline doesn’t nod constantly when she’s actually absorbing something. 

She goes still. Mouth faintly parted. Eyes fixed not on the person explaining but on the object receiving the explanation, following each movement with a concentration that seems to narrow the whole room around it.

Her right hand comes up and finds one piece of hair near her cheek. She twists it once around her index finger. Releases it. Reaches again two sentences later. Drew stops near the studio entrance with his sides folded loosely in one hand.

“Okay,” Evangeline says. “So if I pull the vocal down here, I’m not actually changing what’s printed. I’m just changing what they’re hearing in the room.”

“Exactly,” the consultant says.

“But if Kate wanted to show him what she means, she’d isolate the bass first?”

“Probably the drums, depending on what she’s criticising.”

She chuckles softly. “She’s criticising everything.”

He laughs. “Naturally.”

Evangeline’s mouth shifts. A small professional one, warm enough to keep the exchange easy while most of her attention remains inside the board. Drew recognises it immediately.

She looks down again. “The line is about the track feeling crowded, so she’d mute this and this?”

The consultant leans closer. “Yeah. Then bring the vocal back against the piano. We can give you playback through these two channels, and you’ll actually hear the difference.”

“Good.” She makes a note. “Because I don’t want to do that actor thing where I touch one glowing button and everyone agrees I’m a producer now.”

The consultant laughs again, genuinely this time. “You’d be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve been a journalist, a tennis player and the goddess of strategic warfare in the last, like, two years. I possess no remaining humility about the confidence of film.”

Dani lifts one pencil to hide her smile. The consultant grins at Evangeline, and something small and unhelpful tightens near the centre of Drew’s stomach.

It has nothing to do with the man. He appears to be in his fifties, married if the ring means anything, and currently more interested in the compressor settings than Evangeline’s face. Drew understands this. His body, having spent the last week demonstrating open contempt for evidence, tightens anyway.

Maybe it’s not jealousy of the man. Maybe it’s the ease.

The consultant gets her concentration without asking. Dani gets her face turned toward the light. Poppy, approaching from the edge of the set with two coffees and a protein bar, gets to press the food directly into Evangeline’s free hand without so much as a verbal request.

“Eat,” Poppy says.

Evangeline glances down at the wrapped bar as though it has appeared through a minor administrative error. “I had breakfast.”

“You had coffee.”

“There was milk in it.”

Poppy gives her a look. Evangeline looks back for half a second, then tears the wrapper open with her teeth and takes a bite while continuing to read the notes. 

No argument beyond the ceremonial minimum. No bright little lie delivered with enough polish that everyone agrees to leave her alone.

Drew’s chest pulls in a strange, dull way. He knew that too.

When Evangeline is thinking about too many things, food becomes the first negotiable part of the day. She doesn’t decide not to eat. The meal simply remains untouched while the rest of her attention divides itself into smaller and smaller pieces, each one assigned to something she believes will collapse without direct supervision.

In New York, Drew used to put toast beside her elbow while she read scripts. In Belgrade, he would open takeaway containers and place a fork in her hand while she continued speaking, knowing she would eat three bites from pure muscle memory before noticing what he had done.

Once, after she spent seven hours living on coffee and half a peach, he had held a protein bar directly beneath her mouth until she took a bite just to make him move it.

Poppy doesn’t have to ask twice. She’s good at her job. More than good. The evidence has been walking around for weeks with three phones, emergency gum and the ability to identify Evangeline’s panic before Evangeline has fully committed to pretending it doesn’t exist.

Still, Drew finds Theo near the playback station ten minutes later and says, quietly, “Poppy good?”

Theo looks up from plugging in a charger. “At what?”

“Her job.”

There’s a pause in which Theo appears to consider several possible answers and reject the crueler ones out of continued employment.

“Yeah,” he says. “Very.”

Drew nods, gaze shifting across the set. Evangeline is standing now while Nina replaces the cardigan with Kate’s top, a dark rust-coloured knit with a wide collar and sleeves ending at the wrist. She lifts both arms obediently while wardrobe pulls the fabric clean at her waist.

Theo follows his attention. “She’s good to her too.”

Drew looks at him.

Theo shrugs one shoulder. “Assumed that was what you were asking.”

“It wasn’t.”

Theo nods once, slowly. “Okay.”

Drew rubs his thumb across the unfamiliar ring. It catches slightly at the knuckle. “Just makin’ sure.”

“Sure.”

“It’s not–”

“Your business?” Theo supplies.

Drew looks at him.

Theo lowers his eyes to the charger. “I didn’t say it.”

He had, in fairness, only arranged the words inside the silence and allowed Drew to place them there himself. Drew exhales through his nose and glances back toward Evangeline. 

Poppy has taken the empty wrapper from her without interrupting the conversation. Evangeline drinks from the coffee she was handed, lips closing around the straw while her eyes stay on the control board.

“Yeah,” Drew says eventually. “I know.”

Theo gives the cable one final push into the outlet. “She’s good.”

“Okay.”

“And Evangeline likes her.”

Drew’s jaw tightens before he can stop it.

Theo looks up, expression softening by one degree. “That’s a good thing.”

“Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

Across the stage, Celeste claps once and calls everyone in.

The first setup is a wide two-shot at the control desk. Tom seated in the larger chair, Kate beside him, both angled toward the monitors with their knees occupying the same narrow space beneath the board. 

The scene comes midway through the ten days she spends profiling him. By this point, Tom believes he has started winning Kate back into the old rhythm of them. Kate believes Tom has started trusting her enough to become useful. They’re both wrong in several directions.

Celeste stands behind the chairs while camera measures the frame. “The fun here is that she forgets the game for a minute,” she says, one hand resting lightly over the back of Evangeline’s seat. “Kate hears the track, knows how to improve it and cannot resist being right. She starts helping him because she always helped him. Then she remembers helping isn’t the assignment.”

Evangeline looks toward the board. “The assignment being professional assassination.”

“Eventually.”

Evangeline smiles “Lovely.”

Celeste turns toward Drew. “Tom watches her do what she always did. She enters his work, touches everything and makes it better while insulting him personally. This is foreplay for people with no conflict-resolution skills.”

Evangeline’s real smile appears. It begins in her eyes. Drew has always known that. The corners crease first, a tiny brightening beneath the lashes before her mouth gives in. 

Drew feels it in his fucking ribs. He’s spent several days relearning the difference between her smiles and discovering the knowledge never left. 

The polite one pulls evenly at both corners and shows no teeth. The interview smile raises her chin by half an inch and leaves her eyes cool enough to continue working. The shut-the-fuck-up smile looks sweet from a distance but presses her tongue behind her front teeth so she doesn’t say the thing her face has already communicated.

The real one arrives untidily. One side first. Eyes narrowing. Nose moving faintly when she tries not to laugh too hard.

He still knows every version. He had thought he wouldn’t. Or told himself he wouldn’t, because believing time had made her unreadable offered a kind of absolution. A person could not be expected to notice what four years had rewritten.

The years haven’t rewritten as much as he hoped. They have added. Deepened. Rearranged the visible parts while leaving the old machinery running underneath.

Evangeline twists her hair when concentrating. Stops eating when control begins slipping from her day. Shivers once through both shoulders before admitting she’s cold. Drinks iced coffee in warm weather but wants tea the second the temperature drops. Hates bananas with the moral conviction but will eat half a loaf of banana bread.

She still presses her thumbnail into the side of her finger when frightened. Still looks toward the nearest exit before answering something too sincere. Still becomes funnier when she’s nearing the edge of what she can tolerate.

Her guard hasn’t made her impossible to read. It’s only forced the old knowledge to wait outside until she forgets to keep every door closed at once.

Celeste moves out of frame. The first take begins. Playback fills the studio. Piano, bass and Drew’s recorded vocal arriving low through the speakers, a Tom Reed song about a woman leaving before morning because vulnerability is easier when disguised as poor scheduling.

Evangeline listens with Kate’s chin resting against one knuckle. Drew watches her because Tom does. This is permitted. Required, even. The camera wants his attention on her profile while she decides which part of the track to attack first.

Her fingers drift toward the controls. “Can I?”

Drew, as Tom, leans back. “You’re going to anyway.”

“That’s not consent.”

His gaze drops to her hand. “You have my enthusiastic permission to ruin it.”

Evangeline looks at him. The shut-the-fuck-up smile.

Tom grins. “There she is.”

Kate turns back to the board and lowers one fader. The track shifts, bass disappearing beneath the vocal. She isolates the piano next, then brings the bass in again at a lower level.

“There,” she says.

Drew tilts his head toward the speakers. “There what?”

“It can breathe now.”

His mouth twitches. “You’ve listened for thirty seconds.”

“And already prevented a death. Imagine what I could achieve with an afternoon.”

Kate moves another control with two fingers, careful and confident enough that the action looks instinctive despite Drew having watched her learn it less than an hour ago.

That’s the thing about Evangeline. She doesn’t display preparation. She consumes it. All the notes, the questions, the technical explanations, the black handwriting fitted tightly over notebook pages disappear beneath the performance. 

By the time Celeste calls action, nothing remains visible except Kate knowing exactly where to place her hand.

Drew had watched Evangeline do this at twenty-one too. Sit cross-legged on a hotel bed marking pages until two in the morning, then walk onto set the next day with every trace of labour hidden beneath something that looked like instinct.

He had never confused the ease for laziness. He loved the work in her. Loved watching the room underestimate how much thought sat beneath the humour and the face and the strange little theatrical shrug she used whenever someone called her gifted as though the gift hadn’t required maintenance.

He had only begun believing the work would eventually require more space than he could survive beside.

Evangeline raises the vocal slightly. “You’re crowding the best part.”

“My voice?”

“The piano.”

Drew looks at her.

Kate lets the insult sit for one beat before glancing sideways. “Your voice is… fine.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t become needy. It’s unattractive at your age.”

“How old d’you think I am?”

Evangeline runs her tongue along her bottom teeth, trying not to grin. “Emotionally?”

“Cut,” Celeste calls, laughing. “Lovely. Very clean. Again, but Evangeline, remember she has to catch herself helping. Right now she’s having too much fun being right.”

“She is right,” Evangeline mutters.

Celeste spreads both hands. “That has never stopped self-awareness before.”

Evangeline looks down at the controls, mouth pulling faintly at one corner. Drew knows the expression too. She agrees but intends to behave as though agreement was extracted under hostile conditions.

They reset.

On the second take, she lets Kate’s concentration run deeper. The insults become almost absent-minded, delivered while her attention remains on the track. When she lowers the drums, her brow pulls together. The tip of her tongue touches briefly near the inside of her lower lip.

Drew forgets one line. Not completely. Only long enough for silence to appear where Tom’s response belongs.

Evangeline looks at him. Not Kate, Evangeline, for less than half a second. Her eyes sharpen, checking whether he’s lost the place or something else.

Drew finds it. “You done touching everything?”

Her gaze holds his. The line between character and person closes again.

“No,” Kate says. “I’ve barely begun.”

The scene continues. Nobody calls cut. The sentence is harmless in context. Smug. Flirtatious only because the film has placed their bodies two feet apart under amber light and instructed everyone watching to expect seduction.

Drew feels heat climb slowly beneath the back of his shirt.

Kate returns to the track. “Listen to the bridge.”

“I’ve heard it.”

“That isn’t the same as listening.”

She strips the instrumentation back, leaving his recorded voice over piano. The studio changes around the sound. Fewer frequencies. More space. Drew watches Evangeline’s hand rest over the fader, the rust-coloured sleeve pulled slightly back from her wrist.

“There,” she says again, quieter now. “You keep burying it every time you get close to saying something true.”

Tom’s face stills. Kate hears herself after the sentence has already crossed between them. Drew sees the moment arrive physically. Her fingers stop on the controls. Her shoulders draw back by a fraction. The old habit of care has shown itself and must now be disguised.

Evangeline turns in the chair, and the flirtation arrives. Kate only lets one knee shift toward Tom’s beneath the desk, the rust-coloured sleeve brushing his forearm as she leans closer to study his face. Her expression softens at the edges without becoming kind.

“Unless that’s the point,” she murmurs.

Drew holds her gaze. “What point?”

“That you prefer people wanting more.”

Her voice has gone lower, not breathy, nothing so cheap. Intimate because she’s removed the room from it. The crew remains three feet away. Camera sits directly in front of them. Drew still feels as though she’s spoken into the space beneath his jaw.

Tom smiles slowly. “You always did.”

Kate’s eyes drop to his mouth. The movement is written. Drew knows because he highlighted it. He’s seen Evangeline perform the exact glance in rehearsal. 

None of that protects him from the body’s stupid, immediate response. His chest tightens. His knee presses against hers beneath the desk.

Evangeline looks up again, and there’s a tiny delay before Kate’s answer. “That confidence must be exhausting to maintain.”

“You liked it.”

“I liked correcting it.”

“And yet here you are. Touching all my things.”

Her real amusement flickers through the character before she catches it. Drew sees the brightness arrive in her eyes and answers without thinking.

“You missed bossin’ me around.”

The line’s not written. Evangeline’s eyebrows lift. Somewhere behind camera, Celeste makes a small interested sound but doesn’t interrupt.

Something moves across Evangeline’s face. So quick the monitor may not catch it. Drew does.

The smile goes first, the warmth beneath it. Her fingers leave the fader and settle around the prop pen instead. Kate turns toward the board, giving the scene somewhere else to go.

“Play it again,” she says.

Drew obeys because Tom would. Because Evangeline has offered him a route out and he’s taken enough from her already.

Celeste lets the playback run for several bars before calling cut. The room exhales. Crew move toward the desk. Hair comes in. Someone adjusts the rust-coloured sleeve near Evangeline’s wrist. 

Drew turns his chair toward the monitor and catches the back of his own neck with one hand.

Celeste approaches with a look Drew has learned to distrust. “That improvisation was good.”

He looks down. “Yeah?”

“It felt old.” She turns toward Evangeline. “Your answer was perfect.”

“Thank you.”

Drew looks at Evangeline. She takes one long drink from the straw without meeting his eyes, condensation caught against her fingers.

Celeste moves away before either of them can object. “Again!”

They go again six times. By the fourth, Drew is beginning to understand that suffering can become repetitive without becoming less specific. Each take gives him a different version of Evangeline at close range, all of them equally difficult to survive.

On one, she makes Kate colder. Her corrections arrive with the clean detached authority of someone reviewing work she has already decided is beneath her. The switch into flirtation is strategic enough that Drew can see the construction and still feels chosen when her attention turns warm.

On another, she starts playful. Kate enjoys the old rhythm and only remembers the article when Tom looks too pleased. Evangeline lets guilt appear as irritation, a choice so precise Drew nearly misses his next cue because he’s watching the thought change her posture.

By take six, she’s found the centre of it. Kate’s help is real. The flirtation is real too, though it begins as manipulation. Both truths sit beside each other without becoming confusion. 

Evangeline doesn’t show the audience which feeling should be trusted. She makes the contradiction look like the most ordinary thing in the world.

She moves one fader. Listens. Twists a strand of hair once around her finger and releases it.

Drew feels the first piece of his old certainty begin to come apart. A small pressure beneath the sternum, as if something he swallowed years ago has shifted position and exposed an edge.

He had told himself Evangeline’s life had become too large for the relationship. That the films, travel, attention and ambition were already pulling her forward while Drew’s need for calls, time and reassurance placed weight around one ankle.

He had imagined love as an object she was dragging. Watching her now, he cannot understand how he ever mistook anything about this woman for drag.

Evangeline is doing twelve things at once. Listening to playback. Hitting marks with her hands. Tracking camera without looking toward it. Holding Kate’s private plan beneath the dialogue. Adjusting her timing around Drew when his breath changes. Remembering the exact control the consultant showed her at seven-thirty that morning. Keeping the performance light enough to remain a romantic comedy while allowing the hurt to stain the edges.

Nothing in her appears fragile under effort. She expands into it. The work doesn’t consume her. She meets it. Shapes it. Makes the whole room better because she has entered it with questions nobody else thought to ask.

Drew hadn’t been standing between Evangeline and this person. This person had already been there, barefoot in hotel rooms and eating noodles from cardboard while telling him about scripts she was afraid she couldn’t carry. 

She had been there in Serbia, fitting love into forty-three minutes without asking the love to make her smaller. There at twenty-two, filming in Sicily, exhausted and frightened and still capable of walking into a press dinner after he tore the future out from beneath her.

The films didn’t appear because Drew removed himself. She made them after.

The realisation causes something low in his stomach to turn.

Celeste calls cut again and asks them both to watch playback. Drew stands behind the monitor with one hand resting near his mouth. Evangeline comes beside him, close enough that the sleeve of Kate’s rust-coloured top sits within his peripheral vision but doesn’t touch.

The scene plays. Onscreen, Kate and Tom occupy the control desk like people who built the language there together. Her hands move over his song. His attention follows them. She dismantles the track while he watches her face, both pretending the work is the only intimacy occurring.

They look good together. That’s the first unbearable fact. Not because of beauty, though the frame has plenty of it. Evangeline’s hair warm beneath the studio lamps. Drew’s face angled toward hers. Rust, black and amber arranged with enough taste to sell desire internationally.

They make each other legible. Her sharpness gives Tom something to push against. His attention reveals the small fracture beneath Kate’s control. Neither dims the other. The frame doesn’t narrow around Evangeline because Drew is beside her. 

She looks larger somehow. More alive in the contradiction, intelligence moving visibly behind her face while his stillness gives the camera somewhere to see it.

He had spent four years believing leaving made space for her. The monitor offers him no evidence that his presence ever took any.

Evangeline shifts beside him. Her shoulders rise once beneath the rust-coloured knit, a quick shiver she suppresses immediately.

Drew notices before anyone else. The recognition moves through his body as action, hand beginning to lift toward the jacket hanging over the nearby chair.

Poppy reaches it first. She steps forward, takes the dark coat and drapes it around Evangeline’s shoulders without interrupting playback. Evangeline catches the lapels closed with one hand and leans slightly toward Poppy while the younger woman says something near her ear.

Drew’s hand lowers. Jealousy arrives so quietly he nearly mistakes it for shame.

Not jealousy of Poppy. Nothing so stupid. Jealousy of access. Of usefulness. Of the place beside Evangeline’s body where care can still become action without reopening an old wound.

Poppy can see her shiver and fix it. Cailee can press two fingers against her bouncing knee. Iris can get on a plane. Mara can move a schedule. Tess can stand near a hotel door and make the whole world wait until Evangeline is ready to walk through it.

Drew notices and remains still. He had made stillness the only kindness she could trust from him.

On the monitor, Tom says, “You missed bossin’ me around.”

The room laughs softly. Evangeline doesn’t. She watches her own face with the detached concentration actors use when trying to identify what can be repeated and what arrived by accident.

Drew watches her instead. The coat sits around her shoulders. One hand closes near her throat to hold it. Her other arm remains folded beneath it, fingers hidden. Poppy returns to the side of the monitor with Evangeline’s coffee.

She’s safe. Fed badly but eventually. Warm. Surrounded by people who notice.

Drew should feel relieved. He does, somewhere. Beneath the uglier thing. The uglier thing wants the old rights back. Wants to put the coat around her himself, then press both palms over her upper arms until the shiver leaves. Wants to know which hotel room she’s in, whether she slept, who she calls after midnight, whether the men since him understood that bananas and banana bread belong to different categories.

He has no right to any of it.

The wanting continues regardless.

Celeste pauses the playback. “That turn is gorgeous,” she tells Evangeline, pointing to the frame where Kate’s attention softens after insulting the track. “You can see her remember she’s trying to seduce him rather than produce the album.”

She smiles. The real one.

Celeste receives it easily. Poppy does too. Cailee has received dozens this week in rooms Drew wasn’t in.

The jealousy moves again, deeper this time, pressing broad and hot beneath his ribs before shame follows close enough to cover it. He left. Other people didn’t trespass into his place. He removed the place and years passed over the empty floor until other lives learned how to stand there.

Evangeline turns toward Poppy. “Did I eat the whole bar?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

Poppy nods. “I watched you.”

Evangeline’s nose scrunches up. “That feels invasive.”

“You asked me to make sure you ate,” Poppy sighs. 

“When?”

“Last month.”

Evangeline considers this. “Disturbingly organised.”

“Thank you.”

Drew remembers Evangeline asking him the same thing in Belgrade. Did I eat? He had looked at the empty carton near her knee and said, “Some,” because she had eaten around the mushrooms with enough commitment to leave half the meal mostly intact.

She had leaned against his shoulder and told him mushrooms were a threat, not a food.

The day continues. Close-ups after lunch. Inserts of Evangeline’s hands on the board. Over-shoulder coverage that requires Drew to watch her mouth while his own face remains out of frame. Each setup gives his mind a fresh method of self-harm.

At two-thirty, Evangeline asks for another pass because the order of her controls didn’t match the wide. Nobody else noticed. The script supervisor checks and confirms she’s right.

At three, she catches a line in Tom’s song that doesn’t fit the later scene and quietly brings it to Celeste rather than waiting for the problem to become someone else’s emergency.

At three-forty, she performs a take so small and good that nobody speaks for several seconds afterward. Kate finishes adjusting the song, catches Tom watching and asks, “What?”

Drew says, “Nothin’.”

The written direction says Kate looks away. Evangeline doesn’t. She lets one tiny uncertainty enter her eyes, then covers it with the shut-the-fuck-up smile.

“What?” she repeats.

Drew’s throat tightens. Tom’s answer is, You look happy.

He says it. Evangeline’s face changes. The smile disappearing from her mouth while some softer version remains behind her eyes, trapped there for half a second because Kate hasn’t prepared to be seen without strategy.

Then she looks toward the board. “It’ll pass.”

Celeste doesn’t call cut. Drew keeps looking at her. Tom does too, but Drew has lost the distinction.

“Hope not,” he says.

That line is written. It doesn’t feel written once it leaves.

Evangeline’s fingers tighten faintly around the pen.

“Cut,” Celeste says at last.

The room stays still. Drew can hear his own breathing. The soft electrical hum of the board. Someone shifting their weight near camera.

Evangeline looks down first. “Was that too sad?”

Celeste stands slowly from behind the monitor. “No. It was perfect.”

“This is allegedly a comedy.”

“So is life, occasionally.”

Evangeline rises from the chair and immediately begins discussing continuity with the script supervisor. No ceremony around the take. No visible need to recover from what she just placed in the room. 

She listens, asks whether the pen was in her left or right hand before the close-up, corrects herself when shown the still and adjusts the next setup.

Drew remains seated. His chest feels scraped. Scraped gradually from the inside, each small proof removing another layer from the explanation he has lived inside for four years.

He had thought her success justified what he did. Priscilla. Challengers. Civil War. Materialists. Sirens. The Odyssey. Every set, award, photograph and interview had become another brick beneath the story that leaving had freed her.

But Evangeline’s talent isn’t evidence in Drew’s defence. Her work ethic isn’t proof she needed him gone. The films do not absolve him. They only prove she kept working after he hurt her.

He watches Poppy approach with tea now that the soundstage has gone colder. Evangeline takes it without asking what it is, wraps both hands around the cup and brings it near her mouth before continuing her conversation.

Tea when she’s cold. Iced coffee when she’s warm. Banana bread but never bananas. A jacket after the shoulders shiver. Food placed in her hand when the hair begins twisting too often around one finger.

Drew hadn’t stopped knowing her. He had stopped being allowed to do anything with the knowledge.

Theo appears near the chair with Drew’s phone and jacket. “Car in twenty.”

Drew nods.

“You good?”

The question is casual, which means Theo has probably been watching him for the last hour. 

“Yeah.” Theo looks toward Evangeline, then back.

Drew rubs one hand across his mouth. “She’s fuckin’ good.”

Theo’s expression shifts. “Yeah.”

“No, I mean–” Drew stops.

He doesn’t know how to finish without saying everything. That he knew she was talented before. That he loved her partly because of it, then somehow built a whole exit around the fear that loving him would interfere with the thing he admired. That watching her work now makes the fear look less like sacrifice and more like arrogance.

He had decided what she could carry without asking. Decided her future required the removal of him. Then used every beautiful thing she did afterward to prove he had been right.

Theo waits. Drew looks toward the control desk. Evangeline has one hip resting against the edge now, tea near her mouth, listening while Celeste gives tomorrow’s notes. A strand of hair has fallen forward again. She curls it once around her finger.

Evangeline laughs at something Celeste says. The real laugh, nose moving slightly, shoulders folding beneath the coat. She looks tired. Alive. Entirely herself inside a life Drew had once mistaken for evidence that there was no room left beside her.

There had been room. Perhaps not easy room. Nothing about them had been easy by the end. Their schedules were vicious. Their communication had become a hallway full of locked doors, both of them standing on opposite sides waiting for the other to know which key mattered.

But difficulty wasn’t the same thing as impossibility.

Evangeline had told him that. On the floor in Sicily, voice breaking through the phone. I want hard with you.

Drew had heard desperation and believed refusing it was mercy. Now, standing beneath false amber light while Evangeline improves a fictional man’s song and remembers to flirt only after the work is done, Drew begins to understand the size of what he chose for both of them.

He hadn’t taken a shackle from her ankle. He had left the bruise and called the distance freedom.

By the time Drew gets back to set, it’s nearly eleven and the day has changed temperature twice without asking anybody’s permission.

He’s spent three hours at a hotel downtown beneath flattering amber light, wearing a charcoal suit selected by somebody who knows exactly how much collarbone the internet is willing to discuss before it becomes embarrassing. 

There had been a dinner, photographs, two brief interviews and a table full of people using the phrase exciting new chapter to describe projects that had been negotiated by attorneys over several months.

Drew ate most of a piece of fish, drank one glass of wine and answered a question about returning to romantic comedy without thinking visibly about Evangeline’s mouth. He considers this a professional success.

Then Theo got him back into the car, handed over the night pages and said production was running twenty minutes behind, which meant Drew had enough time to remove the suit at the hotel, shower too quickly and return to set with the faint smell of expensive soap still clinging to his wrists.

Now he crosses the lot in jeans and a black sweatshirt, garment bag over one shoulder, the night air cold enough to reach beneath the fabric near his neck. 

Most of the soundstages have gone dark. The working end of the lot glows under portable towers and open trailer doors, generators humming behind temporary fencing while crew move through islands of white light carrying coils of cable, takeaway cartons and the particular exhausted competence people develop after fourteen hours of being asked whether something can be done five minutes faster.

Tonight’s location is several streets built along the studio backlot, dressed to resemble Los Angeles after midnight. Storefront glass darkened except for selected windows. Neon signs hired for atmosphere. Parked cars with carefully approved dust on their windscreens. 

The asphalt has already been wet down so every lamp will reflect twice, giving the whole street the expensive, lonely shine films insist cities possess after dark.

Drew’s call isn’t for another forty minutes, but hair and makeup want him early. Theo peels away toward the production office to answer something about tomorrow’s transport while Drew climbs the trailer steps alone.

The HMU trailer is quieter than it was this morning. No music. Only the low ventilation fan, the click of brushes being returned to cups and somebody at the far end running a straightener down one section of hair with the concentration of a surgeon approaching an artery.

Evangeline is asleep in the chair beside his. Her head rests against her closed fist, elbow propped on the arm

of her chair. The position bends her wrist beneath her cheek and leaves one shoulder raised beneath a dark robe. 

Her eyes are shut, mouth faintly parted. Blonde hair falls over one side of her face in a soft, loosened wave, the style from earlier partly brushed out before whatever they plan to build for the street sequence.

She looks small in a way she rarely permits when awake. Folded instead of arranged. One foot tucked beneath the opposite calf on the metal bar of the chair.  Her phone lies on the table, screen dark.

The makeup artist standing beside her looks up when Drew enters. He knows her. Has spoken to her several times. She has repaired his face after the beach, powdered him beside the control desk, passed him a blotting sheet this morning.

Her name has left him completely. Fuck.

“Hey, Drew,” she says quietly, one hand still holding a brush near Evangeline’s temple. Her mouth curves. “Quiet. She’s… sort of sleeping.”

Evangeline jerks awake before Drew can answer. The movement is immediate and full-bodied, head lifting sharply from her hand, shoulders pulling together as her eyes open too wide beneath half-finished liner. 

The chair squeaks under her. One hand reaches automatically toward the counter, fingers searching for something to grip before the room returns properly.

Drew knows that too. She always woke like that when she was anxious. Her body came back believing it had missed an alarm, a call, a mark, some invisible emergency already occurring one room away. The recognition catches beneath his ribs.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Evangeline blinks at him. Her gaze takes several seconds to settle, moving over his face, sweatshirt, the garment bag near his shoulder as if assembling the evening in the correct order.

“No, you’re…” She covers her mouth and yawns, eyes squeezing closed again. “You’re fine.”

The sentence dissolves into the yawn. When she lowers her hand, moisture has gathered along her lashes.

The makeup artist gives her a mildly accusing look. “You were out.”

“I was resting my eyes,” Evangeline mutters.

“You were drooling on your hand.”

Evangeline looks down at her fist. “Shit.” 

The woman laughs and reaches for a cotton bud. “Sit up.”

Evangeline obeys, dragging herself straighter beneath the robe. The motion makes her wince faintly near one shoulder. Drew catches it before she rolls the joint backward once and hides the discomfort inside a stretch.

He puts his garment bag on the hook and sits in the chair beside her. His team moves in around him. A cape clipped loosely near his throat. Hair product warmed between somebody’s palms. A sponge pressing cool foundation near the side of his nose.

The mirrors place him and Evangeline beside each other while their actual chairs remain angled slightly apart. Drew looks at her reflection because looking directly feels more obvious.

She’s tired. The kind of tired that changes the face from underneath. Her skin is paler where makeup has been removed and reapplied through the day, shadows soft near the inner corners of her eyes. 

The muscles around her mouth remain loose when nobody is speaking to her. Even her sarcasm is arriving half a second late, as though it has to walk farther than usual to reach the room.

She’s been here since before Drew left for dinner. Probably since before he went back to the hotel to shower.

He wonders what she filmed. Whether she ate. Whether Poppy got food into her between setups. Whether the shoulder hurts or only feels tight from sleeping badly against a trailer wall.

None of the questions belong to him.

The makeup artist asks Evangeline to close her eyes and begins repairing the liner disturbed by sleep. Drew looks down at the pages resting over his knee.

The scene is simple. Kate and Tom leave the studio after another argument disguised as creative discussion. They walk through Los Angeles because Tom’s car has been sent away and Kate refuses to wait for another. 

She’s cold, irritated and several inches shorter than the pace he naturally chooses. He eventually slows down. Their hands brush. Then hold. Just walking.

Something vibrates softly on the table under the mirror. He glances toward the counter before he can stop himself.

Evangeline’s phone has lit up. It sits closer to Drew’s side than hers, shifted there at some point while people moved brushes and products between the stations. The lock screen fills the dark glass.

The photograph reaches him first. Evangeline and Jacob Elordi in what looks like a private karaoke room, both of them caught mid-laugh beneath purple light. Jacob has one arm around her shoulders and a microphone in the other hand. 

Evangeline’s cheek is pressed near the side of his chest, hair slightly darker than it is now, mouth open in a grin so broad the photograph almost makes noise.

They look happy. The particular careless happiness of two people who know whoever holds the camera will not use the result against them.

A message banner sits over the bottom half of Jacob’s shirt.

Jacob: miss you too. you okay?

Drew’s eyes stay there. He doesn’t mean to read it. Meaning, apparently, has very little authority over his body tonight.

Something inside Drew drops heavily enough that his hands go cold. The phone screen dims before going black again, leaving only his own blurred reflection over the glass.

His stomach turns once. A dense, sour movement beneath the wine and fish, heat spreading upward toward the base of his throat.

Drew has spent four years avoiding the thought with such discipline that avoidance began resembling ignorance. He saw the photographs. Everyone saw the photographs.

After Priscilla, they were everywhere together. On a boat in Malibu, Jacob’s hand resting low around Evangeline’s hip while she leaned over the side laughing at something in the water. 

At a petrol station in Los Angeles, Evangeline in sunglasses, holding two drinks while Jacob stood behind her near the car. Fan photographs in New York. Restaurants. Hotels during press. Airports. 

One picture of them leaving a party with Evangeline wearing his jacket, sleeves hanging beyond her hands. Friends, every interview said. Practically family.

Jacob described her as one of his closest friends. Evangeline called him her favourite person to be jet-lagged with. They laughed whenever anyone asked whether they were together, amused by the predictability.

Drew had accepted the answer because accepting it required less imagination than refusing. Friends touched hips. Friends shared jackets. Friends missed each other. Friends asked whether the other was okay.

Friends did several things Drew and Evangeline had done before they admitted they were in love.

He swallows and feels the movement drag. The hair stylist turns his chin toward the light. “Straight for me.”

Drew obeys. Beside him, Evangeline’s eyes open. She sniffs once, lashes still wet from yawning, and reaches for the phone.

Drew looks at the pages in his lap. The screen wakes beneath her thumb. He sees the purple photograph brighten in the mirror, then the messages open. Evangeline reads them with her head tipped slightly down.

Her mouth softens. Something smaller. Private enough that it doesn’t ask the room to share it. The expression rests near one corner of her mouth while her thumbs begin moving.

Drew watches through the mirror. He hates himself while doing it. This has no respectable version. No concern can be stretched far enough to cover the fact that he’s monitoring the face of a woman he abandoned while she texts another man who may have been beside her for years.

Evangeline yawns again, this one larger, turning her face into her hand as her eyes water.

The makeup artist makes a wounded sound. “Evangeline, Jesus. Your eyes are going to run.”

“Sorry, babe.” She blinks rapidly toward the ceiling. “Tell the production to schedule sleep.”

“They did. You ignored it.”

“I was reading.”

“You were on TikTok.”

“Yeah, but reading stuff.”

The makeup artist dabs gently beneath one eye. “Close.”

Evangeline closes both and keeps typing by feel for another second before placing the phone facedown beneath her hand.

Drew looks at his own reflection. He has no right to ask. The understanding is complete. It doesn’t help.

He surrendered jealousy before Jacob had probably learned which hand Evangeline uses to hide a laugh. Before the Malibu boat. Before gas stations and jackets and purple karaoke rooms. 

He gave up every ordinary entitlement that might have allowed the question to leave his mouth without becoming indecent.

Who is he to you? Were you together? Are you still? Do you love him? Did he sleep beside you while I was watching interviews and calling your success proof I had done the right thing?

The questions remain where they belong, packed beneath his ribs with nowhere clean to go. Heat gathers around them, spreading broad and ugly through his chest and stomach until even the cape near his throat feels tight.

Drew looks down and reads the same stage direction six times without absorbing a word. He doesn’t notice the withdrawal beginning.

That comes later.

At first, he only becomes quieter. Answers hair and makeup with nods. Checks his pages. Leaves the trailer before Evangeline because wardrobe calls him first. He doesn’t hold the door when she exits behind him, though only because Poppy reaches it from outside before he can decide whether the gesture would mean too much.

On the street set, Drew stands near the kerb while camera finishes measuring the wet pavement. Evangeline arrives in a long black coat over a short dark dress, sheer tights and boots with low heels chosen because they will be walking the same stretch nearly twenty times. 

Her hair has been pinned loosely at the back, blonde lengths falling around her face as though the style began elegantly and lost patience several hours ago.

She’s handed a tea. Cold, then. Drew knows without looking at the cup.

Poppy wraps both hands around it before passing it over, checking the lid. Evangeline receives it with a tired smile and takes one immediate sip.

Somewhere beneath the sour heat, Drew registers that Poppy is good. Then Evangeline’s phone appears briefly in her other hand and the heat returns.

The first setup starts just after midnight. Streetlights throw pale gold over the wet asphalt. The false shop windows reflect them moving side by side, Drew’s stride longer, Evangeline’s quicker steps producing the exact irritation the scene requires without much acting.

“Could you walk like a normal person?” Kate asks.

Tom glances down at her. “I am.”

“You’re six-four.”

“Six-three.”

“That’s still a problem.”

Drew almost smiles. The line is written, but Evangeline’s delivery has the tired little flatness she uses when a joke no longer requires performance.

Tom slows by a fraction. “You wanna get on my back?”

Kate looks at him. “I’d rather be dragged behind a bus.”

“Probably faster.”

She folds both arms over her chest and walks harder, little legs working beneath the black coat.

Celeste calls cut and adjusts their pace. “Drew, don’t slow yet. She needs to feel the difference longer.”

He nods. Evangeline rolls one ankle between takes. Poppy steps in to offer the tea. Drew looks toward the opposite side of the street.

The next take is colder. A wind machine sends the bottom of Evangeline’s coat hard against her legs and lifts several strands of hair across her mouth. She spits one out mid-line without breaking character.

Drew would normally laugh. He doesn’t. He barely realises this until Evangeline glances at him after Celeste calls cut. Her eyes move over his face and away before he can arrange anything useful there.

They reset. On the third take, her arms remain folded as written, but the cold has become real enough that her shoulders shiver before she suppresses it. Drew sees the movement and keeps walking because Tom doesn’t notice yet.

The discipline feels wrong in his body.

On the fifth, they reach the point where Kate’s arm drops. Tom’s hand brushes hers. The contact is meant to appear accidental twice before he catches her fingers.

Rina has reviewed it already. Hand contact only. Drew’s palm beneath, Evangeline’s fingers threading through, comfortable pressure, release at cut. Simple.

Their hands brush once. Evangeline’s knuckles are cold. The second brush lasts longer. Her little finger catches near the side of his palm. Drew’s whole arm becomes aware of the contact from fingertip to shoulder.

Then he turns his hand beneath hers and their fingers lace. It feels so good that for one stupid second the Jacob message disappears.

Her hand is smaller than his. Always was. Narrow palm, cold fingers, one ring pressing lightly near the side of his index finger. Drew closes around her without squeezing, thumb resting across the back of her hand while they walk.

The script has Tom slow. Drew does. Their joined hands swing once between them.

He wants to lift them toward his mouth. The impulse arrives complete, his wrist already imagining the movement. Her knuckles against his lips. The warm press of breath over cold skin.

He used to do that without thinking. In cars. Crossing streets. Lying beside her in bed while she spoke with both eyes closed, convinced she wasn’t falling asleep. 

Sometimes only because her hand was there and loving her had made ordinary touch feel like something his body completed independently.

The street blurs around the memory before Serbia opens fully. 

It had been stupidly late. Nearly morning, though the night hadn’t yet changed colour. They were walking back to the hotel after a club where the music had been too loud to speak properly, which meant Evangeline spent most of the evening communicating through her mouth against his.

She had been wearing a tiny black dress and boots she regretted before midnight. They danced in the crowded centre of the floor with her back pressed against his chest, one of Drew’s hands spread over her stomach while she tipped her head against his chest and shouted something he never heard. 

She kissed him every time he bent to ask what she said, then laughed like the trick hadn’t already worked six times.

By the time they left, she was warm with alcohol and joy, fingers locked through his while they walked along pavement shining from an earlier rain.

Evangeline kept swerving. She would drift toward the kerb, Drew would tug her back by their joined hands and she would stumble into his side laughing.

“You’re so hot,” she told him once, face serious with the burden of the information.

Drew felt himself blush despite having spent most of the night with her tongue in his mouth. “Yeah?”

“So annoying.”

“That I’m hot?”

“That you know.”

“I don’t know.”

She squinted up at him while walking badly. “Liar.”

“I don’t.”

“You have mirrors.”

He laughed. “You’re drunk.”

“I have eyes.”

Several minutes later, her steps began shortening. The boots had rubbed near one heel. She complained with increasing theatricality while trying to continue at Drew’s pace and failing.

He stopped beneath a streetlamp and turned his back to her. “Get on.”

Evangeline stared. “What?”

“Come on.”

“I’m not getting on your back.”

Drew bent his knees. “Vangeline.”

She climbed on while still arguing. Her arms closed around his shoulders, thighs settling against his sides as Drew caught beneath them and stood. 

She made a delighted little noise beside his ear and immediately began telling him he should have offered twenty minutes earlier.

“You’re heavy,” he said.

She gasped against his neck. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“You fucking liar.”

“I’m dyin’.”

“You’re smiling.”

He had been. Could feel it even with her cheek resting against the side of his neck, her breath warm through the damp skin there.

Halfway back, she stopped talking. Her body softened over his back, chin settling near his shoulder. Every so often she pressed a sleepy kiss beneath his ear without appearing fully awake.

When they reached the hotel, Drew stood beneath the entrance canopy and said her name twice before she lifted her head.

“Home?” she mumbled.

“Yeah, baby.”

Her arms tightened once around him.

The memory recedes when Evangeline’s thumb moves faintly over the back of Drew’s hand. A small adjustment while they walk.

His chest draws tight. He looks down at their hands and thinks of Jacob’s arm around her in purple light. The warmth in the memory turns sour at the edges.

Celeste calls cut. Evangeline removes her hand immediately. Quickly enough that Drew feels each finger leave in sequence, cold air entering the shape between his own before he lowers it.

Crew move toward them. A coat is placed around Evangeline despite her already wearing one because the production coat is heavier. Someone checks the fall of her hair. Poppy appears with tea.

Drew looks at Evangeline’s face. She doesn’t look back. That’s when he realises he’s barely spoken to her all night.

Not between takes. Not while camera reset. Not when she nearly tripped over a kerb built half an inch higher than the others and muttered, “Great design, guys,” toward nobody in particular. Not when Celeste asked whether the handholding pressure felt comfortable and Evangeline answered yes before looking at Drew as though waiting for his own response.

He had said yes to Rina. He had said nothing to her.

Fuck.

The awareness makes his stomach drop lower than the jealousy managed. 

Evangeline stands beneath the coat with the tea near her mouth, visibly exhausted, and Drew has spent the last three hours withdrawing because another man asked whether she was okay.

A question Drew has repeatedly decided not to ask. A question Jacob gets to send without crisis, choreography or four years of silence attached.

Drew steps toward her. “Evange–”

Poppy reaches her first. “They’re done with you.”

Evangeline turns. “Really?”

“Celeste got the close-up on the last one. Transport’s waiting.”

Relief passes openly over her face. “Oh, thank God.”

Celeste calls from near the monitor, “That’s a wrap on Evangeline and Drew!”

Applause moves lightly through the tired crew. Nothing ceremonial, only several claps and relieved voices repeated through the street.

Evangeline thanks camera. Thanks wardrobe when they remove the production coat. Thanks the woman holding her tea even though Poppy has already taken it back. She looks at Drew once across the small moving crowd.

The look is unreadable for less than a second, then he knows it. The polite smile. No teeth. Eyes already elsewhere.

“Night,” she says.

Drew’s mouth feels slow. “Night.”

Poppy guides her toward the trailers before he can recover the sentence that should have come first. 

Sorry. You okay? I wasn’t trying to be strange. I saw something that had nothing to do with me and behaved like a fifteen-year-old boy.

None of those can be offered in front of thirty people without creating a new production department.

Theo approaches with Drew’s jacket. “Car’s ready whenever.”

Drew watches Evangeline disappear around the edge of the wardrobe truck. “Yeah.”

Theo stands beside him in silence.

Drew drags one hand down the side of his face. “I was a dick.”

Theo looks toward the place Evangeline vanished. “Tonight?”

The question contains enough history that Drew turns his head.

Theo’s expression remains neutral. “Just clarifying.”

Drew breathes out despite himself, the sound nearly becoming a laugh before it dies. “Yeah. Tonight.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t mean to be.”

Theo nods. “Usually how it works.”

Drew takes the jacket. “Thanks.”

Theo nods. “Any time.”

They don’t leave immediately. Drew says he has to change, though he could do that at the hotel and both of them know it. Theo goes to the car anyway, granting him the excuse without making Drew defend it.

Inside the trailer, Tom’s costume hangs from Drew’s body like evidence of another man’s mistakes. He removes the jacket, shirt and chain slowly. The rings go into a small labelled tray. He puts his sweatshirt back on and sits at the narrow table instead of leaving.

His phone is beside the Zyn tin. Drew looks at it for a long time before picking it up.

Evangeline’s name remains where it has remained for years. The text thread has never been deleted. Muted once, unmuted, archived and then returned, though he cannot remember doing any of those things with enough clarity to admit intention.

He opens it. The most recent messages are his. He doesn’t scroll far enough to see them yet.

Instead, Drew drags the thread upward through years until old photographs begin appearing between the grey and blue bubbles.

Evangeline in a hotel bed wearing one of his shirts, holding a takeaway carton near her face with the caption cuisine. Drew’s reply beneath it: That is cold noodles.

Evangeline: european cuisine

A photograph of Drew asleep with his mouth open.

Drew: Delete that.

Evangeline: already submitted to vogue

Drew: I’m serious.

Evangeline: so is anna wintour

There are missed calls from Belgrade. Messages sent six hours apart. Screenshots of weather in places neither had time to visit.

Evangeline: it’s snowing here

Drew: Wear the black coat.

Evangeline: so bossy, my baby 

Drew: The other one isn’t warm.

Evangeline: maybe i want to look hot and die

Drew: You look hot in the black one.

Evangeline: smooth

Drew: Put the coat on, pretty girl. 

A video of her whispering from a makeup trailer, explaining that somebody on set had eaten the yoghurt she marked with her name and she was now considering union action.

A voice note from Drew sent at three in the morning his time, mostly silence and the sound of him walking before he says, “Miss you. Call when you’re up.”

Evangeline replying five minutes later.

Evangeline: i’m up Evangeline: i miss you more Evangeline: call me baby

Drew’s thumb stops over the screen. The messages feel alive in the cruelest possible way, like a room he has opened accidentally and found everything still warm.

There are jokes he forgot. Names for people he no longer remembers. Photographs of meals, shoes, ceilings and one swollen mosquito bite on Evangeline’s thigh she sent with the caption tell my family i was brave.

There’s so much ordinary love. More than the dramatic pieces. More than Serbia and Sicily and the final call. Hundreds of little contacts made only to keep the other person near for another minute.

Drew scrolls more slowly.

Evangeline: landed

Drew: Good. Drew: Call when you’re through.

Evangeline: love you

Drew: Love you more.

The last message sits after the photograph of the gold dress.

Evangeline: or not enough actually

No reply beneath it. Drew’s thumb freezes. The next part of the thread waits below. The breakup. The calls. The messages he sent while she did not answer. He can see the top edge of the first one without reading all of it.

He stops. His lungs don’t take the next breath properly. His chest lifts, holds, then releases it through his nose in a thin line.

Not tonight. Cowardice recognises its preferred schedule.

Drew scrolls back to the present instead. The old messages rush upward and disappear, years compressing beneath his thumb until the current blank field waits at the bottom.

He begins typing.

You okay?

The words sit there. Jacob’s message had asked the same thing. Drew stares at them until they begin looking sarcastic. He deletes the line one letter at a time. Then:

I’m sorry for today

He stops again. Sorry for what? Seeing a text? Becoming quiet? Holding her hand while thinking about somebody else holding her body? Punishing her for a life he made room for through absence?

He deletes that too. The cursor blinks. Drew places both elbows on the table and lowers his forehead toward one hand. The trailer has gone quiet around him, ventilation humming behind the wall while the last production vehicles begin moving outside.

There are things he could say.

You looked tired. You were good today. I wasn’t mad at you. I saw Jacob’s name and forgot for several hours that I am the reason there was room for anybody else.

The truth wouldn’t make the message kinder. Truth has already proven capable of arriving far too late and expecting gratitude for honesty.

He has spent four years convincing himself that leaving Evangeline alone is the only form of care she still wants from him.

Tess told him not to contact her. Iris removed every available route. Ben said she didn’t want him. Mara rearranged rooms.

Evangeline herself has spent weeks looking at him as though every approach must first pass through customs.

Even now, after the kiss, after the jacket, after the balcony and her hand settling inside his, Drew doesn’t know whether reaching out would be comfort or only another way to ask her to manage what he feels.

So he puts the phone facedown. The unsent words disappear with the screen.

Outside, somebody knocks lightly against the trailer wall and Theo calls that the car is waiting.

Drew looks at the dark phone beneath his hand. “Yeah,” he says. “Coming.”

He doesn’t move for another minute. Then he stands, leaves the thread exactly where it is and walks out without sending anything, the old decision following him into the night dressed, as always, like restraint.

notes from me – so we finally get a whole chapter of drew’s pov. how are we feeling??? do we hate him?! did we get it??? let me know your thoughts 🙂‍↕️

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[rowsbloom]

Past the Ice of the Brightflame PT2

ৎׅ ׄ summary ⋮ You were promised to Aerion Targaryen, a prince known throughout the realm for his cruelty and cold heart. Yet as your arranged marriage unfolds, you begin to question whether the monster behind the rumors cares for you more than he admits.

ৎׅ ׄ warnings ⋮ minor injury, threats of violence

ৎׅ ׄ wc ⋮ 8.7k

part 1 aerion masterlist

The Feast

The event had been arranged in celebration of a recent victory, though the true purpose of the gathering was far less important than the spectacle itself. The great hall of the Red Keep glittered with candlelight, its walls alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the constant conversation of nobles eager to be heard. Spirits flowed freely at the feast as servants with pitchers moved between the tables.

You sat beside Aerion at the high table, facing the gathered nobles as the heads of your House. The flicker of candlelight reflected off golden goblets and music drifted through the chamber. You were relaxed, a soft smile resting upon your lips as you took in the warmth of the evening.

In your months in the Targaryen House, you had come to appreciate these types of moments— fine, slow nights with no expectation or urgency. Though loud and lively, the feast offered an unhurried setting offering you a break from the typical fast pace of your royal life. There were no pressing councils to attend, no petitions to hear, no crises demanding immediate attention. For a few precious hours, the burdens of duty seemed to loosen their grip.

But, if your husband felt this same relief at all, he did not show it. Beside you, he sat with an expression as cold as ever. 

One hand rested loosely around the stem of his goblet while the other lay against the carved arm of his chair. His light eyes drifted calmly over the hall, taking in the conversations around him without seeming particularly interested in any of them. Every so often, a lord would address him, earning a brief reply or a curt nod before Aerion's attention returned to the room at large. Beyond that, he seemed entirely uninterested in the celebration surrounding him. To anyone watching, he looked every bit the composed Targaryen prince—detached, unimpressed, and entirely unmoved by the revelry unfolding around him.

Before the feast, Aerion had spent the afternoon in the training yard with the knights, heartily attacking opponent after opponent, and refusing to dismiss them despite the clear concern of the crowd around him. He had fought until a strap broke on his armor and a shallow cut bled along his knuckles. You had seen him sweating, raging at his opponent as their swords clanked. You had watched as he laughed after taking him down. 

Yet by the time he entered the hall, he had washed and prepared himself for the evening and appeared entirely unaffected. As though he had not spent hours fighting man after man for pleasure.

Aerion had always possessed a particular talent for making recklessness look like confidence. And now, seated beside you, there was no trace of the afternoon's events.

Around you, the lords and ladies surrounding the high table carried their voices across each other, their conversions enveloping you. Hearty laughter drifted between neighboring seats as goblets got more and more empty. Several guests exchanged a few polite words with you as the evening wore on, though no one lingered for long. It was a new thing for you—the unspoken respect for the space surrounding the prince and princess. An invisible boundary seemed to surround your places at the high table, one no courtier crossed without invitation. 

If there was any hesitation about overstepping with you, it was doubled where Aerion was concerned.

Few were eager to test the prince's patience. Even those who knew him well measured their words carefully in his presence, and strangers were wise enough to keep a respectful distance. His reputation had reached even you at your House before your marriage. It preceded him wherever he went, ensuring that most men thought twice before venturing too close.

In the few months since becoming his wife, you had found yourself benefiting from that reputation more often than you cared to admit. The whispered comments that followed many ladies through the Red Keep seemed to never mention your name. Invitations to dance were offered with impeccable politeness and just as politely withdrawn after a single refusal. The noblemen—who you knew from whispers of the court ladies to be quite vile— never dared display that side of themselves to you. 

At least, they had never dared until tonight. 

In his seat beside you, Aerion’s expression had not shifted. His arms rested still against the carved arms of his chair, his posture relaxed but impeccably straight. Your own chair sat close enough that the armrests nearly touched, though neither of you leaned into the space between them. Despite the rocky start to your marriage and the continued distance between you, a familiar sort of closeness had developed. It was never enough to be truly united, nor connected. There were still great walls between you that neither of you had made an effort to tear down. But you no longer avoided each other entirely.

The sharpness that had once existed between you had faded. His cold glares had stopped, replaced by something less vicious. He was still himself, in every way. Angry, over-confident, guarded. Still a man who offered little of himself unless absolutely necessary. But he had begun to offer more.

You had spoken earlier that day, exchanging a few words over matters of the household before he disappeared to spend the afternoon in the training yard. Since taking your places at the feast, your interaction had amounted to little more than a brief greeting upon your arrival. To anyone watching, the two of you looked every bit the dignified princely couple.

That only changed when Lord Bartley decided to turn his attention to you.

"Your Grace," the lord you knew to be spoken of rather unfavorably by the ladies of the palace, greeted, his smile charming enough to appear harmless. "I hope I am not intruding."

You glanced toward him, offering the courtesy expected of you.

"Not at all, my lord."

His proud smile only grew. “I’ve been meaning to speak to my princess all evening,” he said. “Though I confess, finding the right moment has proven rather difficult."

From his breath, you could tell he had not limited himself on the wine being offered. His loose demeanor only reinforced your observation. 

"I imagine it must be quite the adjustment," he continued, "coming to court and finding yourself surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces. Though I cannot imagine anyone here would be anything less than eager to make you feel…welcome."

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. He shifted in his seat beside you, leaning closer. “If you should ever feel lonely, Your Grace, you should know I am a friendly face you can turn to. I have been told by many fair ladies that my presence offers great comfort. Allow me to extend that to you.”

You offered him only a slow blink, the only thing you could do to keep yourself from grimacing. On the surface, his words were pleasant—kind, even. But it did not take an intellect to see the message beneath them. 

You remained polite, though your smile became slightly more restrained. 

“That’s very gracious of you, Lord Bartley,” you said. “Though my experience at court had been favorable. The Targaryen House is a remarkable one, or would you not agree?”

You watched him carefully as you spoke, already able to clearly see where this conversation was heading. A confident man was one thing. A confident man who had been drinking was another entirely. And Lord Bartely carried himself with the ease of all men. One undeserved yet ever rewarded. Men like him rarely noticed when their charm became arrogance, or when an object of their attention was more an unwilling hostage. You had no intention of encouraging it.

Instead, you decided you would indulge in the small, perhaps petty pleasure of returning the discomfort he had no issue creating. 

Lord Bartley seemed briefly caught off guard by your answer. His smile remained, though it shifted slightly, as though he had expected you to follow the direction of the conversation he had been steering toward. 

"Yes, of course," he replied, giving a small nod. "Remarkable is certainly the word.” 

He glanced around the hall before returning his attention to you. “And might I say,” he began, “you are the most remarkable thing in this entire House. A true beauty.”

You stiffened slightly. The compliment from the chapped, food-stained lips of the drunken, aged man left you sickened. He was becoming more direct, and you wanted no part in it.  You maintained your expression, refusing to let your discomfort show too clearly.

But from the corner of your eye, you noticed movement.

Aerion.

You did not turn your head, but you could feel his attention. The prince who had appeared so uninterested for the entirety of the evening was no longer looking toward the hall, nor toward the conversations surrounding him.

He was watching. Watching Lord Bartley. Watching you.

His expression remained unreadable, as it always was, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that had not been there moments before.

You tried to return your attention to Lord Bartley, forcing yourself to remain aware of the conversation before you. Yet, without realizing it, your shoulders had lowered slightly, some of the tension in your body having already eased. The careful posture you had maintained loosened, just a fraction.

Having Aerion's attention on this moment that had you ill at ease seemed to lessen your distress. You didn’t know why. Your husband was not someone you sought out when things became difficult. When you desired comfort. For most of your life and marriage, you had learned to rely on yourself, to navigate unfamiliar halls and unfamiliar people without expecting anyone to step in. 

So why did your rising heartbeat slow when you knew that he saw you?

It didn’t matter. 

You turned back to your conversation. “That’s quite a compliment, Lord Bartley.”

The lord did not seem to catch the subtle shift. Men like him never did. “My words only scratch the surface of my thoughts on you, princess," he spoke, leaning closer.

“And how much of your day do you spend thinking about my wife, Bartley?” Aerion’s voice cut through the  tense bubble you felt trapped within. 

You turned your head to look at him now, seeing a flicker of fury in his eyes. His voice was unexpected, stunning you with its dull ferocity. The coolness of his tone somehow made it sharper, carrying across the small space between the three of you with enough weight that Lord Bartley immediately fell silent. In the middle of the two men, you moved back in your seat, allowing their eyes to meet. 

Aerion’s stare did not move from the lord’s. And for the first time that night, Lord Bartley seemed to remember exactly who he had chosen to approach.

“Y-your Grace,” he stuttered, finally shifting back and restoring the respectful distance he had crossed throughout the conversation. “I meant no offense. I was merely offering a compliment to the princess."

For the first time that evening, you thought you could actually read Aerion’s expression. Anger. 

"A compliment," Aerion repeated quietly. A pause followed. Then, in the same even tone, he continued. "What gave you the assumption that that was your place?"

Lord Bartley opened his mouth, but Aerion continued before he could respond.

"My wife is not for you to speak of, let alone speak to. You have a seat at this table because I allow it. Make my wife uncomfortable again, and you will find that more than just your seat has been taken.” Aerion did not let the words settle before speaking again. “Tell me, are you particularly attached to your limbs?”

The lord’s face paled. "I—Your Grace..." Bartley stammered, immediately lowering his gaze. "I apologize. It’s the wine…I’ve indulged too much. I meant no disrespect." 

Aerion gave him no response. Only his gaze flickering briefly toward you.

"Not to me."

The lord followed his gaze. His expression morphed as understanding dawned.

"Your Grace," he said quickly, turning toward you. "Princess, I apologize. I overstepped. It will not happen again."

If you had anything to say, it had left you in the heat of the moment. You only looked from Aerion to Lord Bartley again, giving a small nod. 

"See that it does not."

“Of course,” Lord Bartley straightened, though none of his earlier confidence remained. He glanced briefly toward the surrounding nobles, seeming suddenly aware of the attention he had drawn to himself.

"I’m... finding myself feeling rather unwell," he said, clearing his throat. "I think I shall retire for the evening."

It was a poor excuse, but one you were grateful for when he offered a low bow before turning away to go. You watched until he disappeared past the doors, his meek retreat quite satisfying. Only once he was fully out of your vision did you realize how tightly you had been holding yourself.

The tension that had settled over you slowly began to fade, returning the familiar awareness of the man seated beside you. Aerion had already returned to his previous position, a master of indifference. As though nothing had occurred, he brought his goblet to his lips, a coolness to him that had not shaken. The feast continued around you, conversations slowly returning to their usual rhythm, yet you could only think of him. 

Your husband who cared about nothing. No one. 

Your husband who cared when you were made uncomfortable.

Who did not allow himself to sit idly by when a man crossed a line with his wife. Who ensured that the apology was given to you, that you got the respect you deserved. He had been a quiet, powerful defense. Watching, waiting, and moving when needed. 

You wanted to say something. You were not entirely sure what. Thank you seemed too hollow a phrase to say to a husband who had rushed to your defense, but there were no other words. They came before you could stop them. 

"Aerion..."

He turned his head slightly, eyes shifting towards you.

"Thank you. I—"

"Enough."

Your expression fell. You quickly swallowed the rest of your words. Aerion looked away, reaching again for his goblet without a second glance.

"Eat," he said simply. "Do not waste your breath."

You swallowed, analyzing his face. Brows furrowed, you watched his movements. There was no smile, no acknowledgment or hint of care. Just his light eyes scanning the room and his body leaning against the backrest with ease. 

Despite all that you wanted to say, you decided to listen to him. You would offer him silence. He looked entirely unaffected, regardless. And perhaps he was. Perhaps defending you had been nothing more than a simple matter of duty. But when you turned your head away and felt his gaze move to you, you were unconvinced of these thoughts.

You knew there was nothing that would convince him to perform kindness, out of duty or otherwise. The Brightflame lived only by his own will.

Still looking away, you were unable to make sense of it.

A quiet sound came from your husband’s seat beside you. A small, subtle motion drew the attention of a nearby servant. You glanced over, watching as they approached and carefully reached for your empty goblet. Within moments, it was filled again before being placed back in front of you.

You looked toward Aerion.

He had not turned to you. His attention remained fixed on the hall, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"Water," he said simply. "Drink."

Your brows lifted slightly, but you obeyed. You reached for the drink, taking a slow sip as you studied him from the corner of your eye. Of course, he made sure there was nothing clear to see. 

The feast continued around you, musicians playing their melodies loudly, voices circling the room. The golden plates and jeweled goblets were scattered across the tables, festivities still in swing. It was just another lively night, another gathering of nobles like any other. But to you, it no longer felt quite ordinary. 

Not after seeing Aerion act with such certainty, stepping in and bringing you relief and comfort you never expected from him. You lowered the goblet back onto the table, your thoughts lingering. 

For a man who insisted on keeping his distance, Aerion had a strange habit of making sure you were never truly alone.

The Chambers

By midday, you had grown tired of staring at the canopy above your bed. 

You had been stuck in your chambers since morning, listlessly looking at the wooden designs, searching for anything to occupy your mind with as the slow passing of the hours continued. The canopy's winding vines and three-headed dragons had long since lost their novelty. You had counted every dragon's head more times than any sane person should, followed every curling branch with your eyes until the patterns blurred together, and still the afternoon refused to pass any faster.

The fever had left you exhausted more than anything else. Every movement ached, and even the  sunlight spilling through the narrow gap left between the window curtains felt too bright. Your limbs felt impossibly heavy beneath the blankets, warm and leaden. No matter how many times you shifted in search of comfort, you found none. No matter how physically exhausted you were, sleep came only in short, restless spells, leaving you no more refreshed than before.

Born into a family of social-climbing overachievers, you had been trained away from the sloth that sickness brought. Your childhood had been spent learning that every moment held purpose, that every skill could be sharpened, and that idleness was a luxury rarely afforded. 

Choosing ambition over leisure was what carried you from being a daughter of a noble house to a princess of House Targaryen. It was discipline, perseverance, and an unwillingness to settle that had brought you here. And with that title came responsibilities far greater than those you had left behind, though duty had never been unfamiliar to you.

Even before marriage, there had been expectations to meet and responsibilities to uphold within your family. You had been raised to be useful, to remain present, and to never allow yourself to become a burden to those around you. Marriage had only multiplied those obligations; your duties now extended beyond your own house and into the court, where every appearance, every conversation— every moment—carried weight. 

And yet, now here you were— ill and confined to your chambers. Few things frustrated you more than being forced into idleness by your own body.

The castle continued on without you, the world beyond your doors moving at its usual relentless pace. Servants carried out tasks through the halls, nobles attended their meetings, and court continued its motions. Petitions would still be heard. Councils would still convene. Feasts would still be planned. The Red Keep had existed long before you arrived, and it would not pause simply because one princess had taken to her bed. 

Your own chambers, however, moved far slower than the halls beyond. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, interrupted only by the occasional murmur from the halls or the rustling of your sheets that could not seem to accommodate your ever-changing temperature. The Grand Maester had already come and gone, checking on the progress of your state and leaving behind another bitter tonic and the familiar instruction to rest.

You had been resting into a slow insanity, struggling to decide if the comfort of your sheets outweighed the heat of your body. A knock rang at your door as you finally decided on keeping the blanket halfway up to your torso. Heat be damned. You called out to the door as a servant entered, carrying a silver steaming pot.

"Fresh tea, my lady."

You glanced toward the cup still sitting full upon your bedside table. It remained pleasantly warm, untouched save for a few absent-minded sips. Ordinarily, the kitchens would not have replaced it until it had gone cold or you had requested it. This one had hardly been there long enough to warrant another.

"You needn't trouble yourself. I still have plenty," you said, glancing once more toward the untouched cup. For a brief moment, the servant hesitated, fingers tightening around the handle of the teapot as though weighing whether to obey your words.

The servant offered an apologetic smile, dipping her head. "These were my instructions, Your Grace."

Before you could ask whose instructions, she had already crossed to your bedside. With practiced care, she removed the cooling cup, set it aside, and poured another. She adjusted the tray so it rested within easy reach of your hand and gave one last respectful curtsy before  quietly excusing herself.

The door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving the chamber quiet once more.

You stared after her for a moment before your gaze drifted back to the two cups of tea—the untouched one she had set aside and the fresh one now steaming beside your bed.  The kitchens were likely being overly cautious. You were ill, after all.

It was a harmless kindness, if a little excessive. With a quiet sigh, you reached for the fresh cup, savoring its warmth before settling back against the pillows.

The next interruption came not long after. Another knock sounded at your door. Could it be another servant already? 

You had only had a few sips of your tea, sweet with honey and herb, before the exhaustion had begun to pull at you once more. The bed had become less a place for sleep and more of a permanent resting point in the past few hours. The same sheets that had once been neatly arranged each morning were now rumpled from hours of restless shifting, the pillows moved and rearranged in a futile search for comfort. A book sat abandoned on the bedside table, its pages untouched since the fever had made focusing on even the simplest words feel like a task too great to manage.

You had never realized how long a day could become when there was nothing expected of you.

Before, your hours had always belonged to someone else. There were meetings to attend, conversations to prepare for, duties to fulfill. Even after your marriage, there had been little opportunity to disappear for an entire day without notice. The court moved quickly, and you had learned to move with it.

The knock came again, more hesitant this time. 

"Come in," you called, shifting slightly against the pillows as you attempted to appear more composed. The movement alone left you more tired than it should have. 

Expecting another servant with some new insistence that you required something else, you were surprised when the door opened to reveal an unfamiliar old man.

His hair, silver at the temples, framed a weathered face lined with age,  the chain around his neck marking him as a maester. Several links caught the candlelight as he stepped into the room, followed by a young attendant carrying a small leather case.

You frowned slightly, pushing yourself a little higher against the pillows.

"Another maester?"

The old man bowed politely.

"Good evening, Your Grace. I pray you're feeling somewhat better today." A gentle smile crossed his face. "I was called on to offer a second opinion. My studies extend beyond the Citadel's customary treatments—I have spent many years researching uncommon fevers, medicinal herbs, and healing methods from across the Narrow Sea. With your permission, I'd like to examine you."

“You were called on?” You tilted your head. "By whom?"

A small, apologetic smile touched his lips. "I'm afraid I was only told that my services were required. Whoever sent the summons seemed most determined that I arrive as quickly as possible," he answered. He slowly moved closer to the bed. "Now," he said calmly, setting his satchel upon the chair beside him, "with your permission, Your Grace, may I examine you? I assure you, I shall be as quick as I can."

“Is it…necessary? The palace maester was quite thorough.”

He gave a small nod of his head. “I’m sure he’s quite skilled. But a thorough examination not searching for the right things is as if there was no examination at all. I may see things his practice does not teach him to look for.”

You regarded him for a long moment. There was no arrogance in his voice, only quiet confidence born of long experience. At last, you sighed.

"I suppose I cannot argue with that. If it will help, then please."

"That is my hope, Your Grace."

You settled more comfortably before giving a small nod. The young attendant set the leather case upon the bedside table while the old maester pulled up a chair. He worked with practiced ease, taking your wrist between cool, steady fingers to feel your pulse.

"Have the fevers been worse in the mornings or the evenings?"

"Evenings."

"And your appetite?"

You gave him a look that answered the question well enough.

He chuckled softly. "A fair response."

For the next several minutes, he questioned you far more thoroughly than the palace maester ever had. He asked about your sleep, whether the headaches settled behind your eyes or at the base of your skull, whether certain foods made the nausea worse, and if you noticed the chills before or after the fever broke.

Only then did he reach for the small leather case.

Inside were neatly wrapped bundles of dried herbs, stoppered glass vials, and several small pouches you did not recognize.

"I've found," he murmured as he sorted through them, "that some ailments respond poorly to the usual remedies. Occasionally, one must look beyond what is commonly taught."

He selected a pinch of pale green leaves and held them to his nose before nodding to himself.

"My apprentice will prepare these into a powder for your tea. It will taste dreadful, I'm afraid."

"I've yet to drink a medicine that didn't."

"Then you are already well prepared."

You couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at your lips. The old maester's expression softened.

"I should also like to change the compresses more frequently and reduce the amount of willow bark you've been given. Too much may ease the fever, but it can leave one weaker than before."

He carefully returned the herbs to his satchel before rising from his chair.

"I'll leave written instructions for your attendants," he said. "If my suspicions are correct, the fever should begin to lessen within the next day or two. Recovery will not be immediate, but I believe we can turn it in the proper direction." The certainty in his voice was calming, his apparent well of knowledge also easing your fears— something the palace maester has not been able to do. 

“I appreciate that, truly,” you said, genuine gratitude for his help and kind demeanor spilling from your words. He only gave a soft smile, before respectfully bowing. “I am in service to you, Your Grace. May your health be restored soon.”

Once he’d packed up his satchel and motioned for his apprentice to follow, he made his way toward the door. The heavy oak door opened with a quiet creak before closing gently behind them, leaving only the crackling hearth and the hushed sounds of the castle beyond your chambers.

You relaxed back into your bed, embracing the comfort of the sheets with a weary sigh. Exhaustion still weighed heavily upon your limbs, but the old maester's confidence had eased the knot of unease that had settled in your chest these past few days. 

Your eyelids grew heavier with every passing moment. Sleep had been elusive since the fever took hold, broken by restless dreams and aching discomfort, yet now it came with surprising ease. Nestling deeper into the bed, you allowed yourself not to fight it. The feeling of the hearth’s warmth and the lingering scent of herbs lulled you into a gentle sleep. 

It felt like merely a blink before the world slowly returned to you.

At first, there was only a faint sound—the quiet shuffle of footsteps, scattered low voices. The distant clatter of something being set down. Your eyes opened slowly, heavy with sleep. 

Through your blurred vision, you saw two servants inside your chambers. One carefully balanced a large tray laden with a bowl of steaming broth, fresh bread, roasted vegetables, and sliced fruit, while the other carried a small folding table. The sight startled you awake. You pushed yourself higher ato a seated position, brow knitting in confusion.

The servants immediately froze. 

"Your Grace," one of them said quickly, his expression turning apologetic. "Forgive us. We did not mean to intrude." The other lowered his gaze, looking equally concerned.

"We knocked, Your Grace, but there was no answer. We thought you had fallen asleep, and..." He hesitated before continuing. "We were instructed not to wake you if you were resting."

You blinked away the remnants of sleep, still trying to make sense of their words. “Not to wake me…” you murmured quietly,  more to yourself than either of them. You glanced around the room, taking in the servants, the tray, and the small table they were setting beside your bed. "... What is all this?"

"Your supper, your grace,” one of the servants spoke. “We only meant to bring your meal and leave it ready for when you awoke."

You glanced toward the windows. The sun had only just begun its slow descent, casting a warm golden glow across the room. How long had you slept? It felt as though you had only closed your eyes for a moment, yet the heaviness in your body suggested otherwise. You could not remember the last time you had slept so deeply—not waking from the fever, not tossing beneath the blankets. Not a single sound had disturbed you. You pulled your gaze from the windows and back to the servants. 

“I”ll have my supper in the dining hall. As usual.”

The servants exchanged a brief look. The elder of the two dipped his head respectfully as the younger unfolded the small table. "My instructions were to serve your meal in your chambers, Your Grace," he replied. "And to inform you that you are not expected at dinner this evening."

Your expression softened into puzzled surprise.

"...Not expected?"

"No, your grace."

You stared at him for a moment, shocked by his words and waiting for further explanation, but the servant merely averted his gaze as he continued arranging the table.

"And who gave those instructions?" you asked, understanding the servants before you would be requiring prompting to speak. Your voice was short and tired.

"We were only given orders to see that your meal was brought here and that you were allowed to rest, Your Grace."

Your brows drew together. Again, you were not given an answer.

Why did this keep happening?

The servant who had brought the tea had offered the same careful constraint. The old maester who had been summoned to your chambers had not known by whom. Now, these servants stood before you, carrying out instructions they refused—or perhaps were unable—to explain.

Each time you asked, the answer seemed to slip just beyond your reach.

You looked at the carefully arranged meal, the table placed beside your bed, the herbal tea, the quiet that had settled around your chambers. Someone had gone to considerable effort. Someone had been making decisions on your behalf, ensuring you were cared for without ever stepping forward to claim responsibility.

You allowed the servants to leave the dinner behind before quietly taking their leave, but you made no move toward the food. Instead, you moved back against the bed again, even the confusion of the brief conversation further depleting your energy. As you shifted beneath the blankets, something caught your eye.

A single sheet of parchment rested upon the small table beside your bed.

Your brow furrowed.

It bore the palace's stationery—the royal seal embossed faintly into the corner. Strange. Had the maester forgotten it?

Curiosity overcame your fatigue. Reaching over, you carefully picked up the parchment, turning it over in your hands before unfolding it.

The parchment had already been broken open, its seal carefully cut rather than torn. Your gaze fell to the first few lines, and your curiosity quickly gave way to confusion. It was a letter addressed to the maester.

As your eyes moved down the page, your expression slowly changed.

Whoever had written it had spared no courtesy. The letter stated that the maester was ordered to come to the Red Keep with all haste, regardless of whatever duties currently occupied him. There was no room for refusal, and any expense or inconvenience caused by abandoning his work would be more than compensated. The request bordered on a command.

You were ill, yes, but you weren’t in a dire condition. Who in the palace had felt such an urgency had to be placed into your wellbeing? You frowned, scanning to the bottom of the page. Your breath caught.

There, beneath the final line, was a familiar signature.

Aerion Targaryen.

For a long moment, you could only stare.

It had been Aerion.

It was he who had summoned a specialist from beyond the palace walls. He who had found and called for someone whose knowledge exceeded that of the court's own maester. And had done so without mentioning it to you.

Your mind drifted back to the old man's words.

Whoever sent the summons seemed most determined that I arrive as quickly as possible.

A faint ache settled in your chest.

All this time, while he had scarcely visited your chambers and spoken to you with the same clipped indifference as ever... he had been thinking about you. Not only that, but finding ways to aid you. Had he been… worried? It felt impossible. 

Aerion was not a man who showed concern through action or otherwise. He was guarded, distant, and far too proud to ever do… this. But you could not forget the things that had happened since your sickness began. All the ways your day had been made easier. All the servants who had told you they were sent to bring small comforts. Those comforts that had appeared one after another, each time delivered by someone who claimed only to be following orders.

And now you knew by who. 

Aerion. 

The Hunt

The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as the royal hunting party wound its way through the Kingswood.

The hunt had become something of a yearly tradition for the court. To celebrate the start of the season, a series of hunts would be held by the House. Lords competed to bring down the finest stag, ladies rode together beneath the trees exchanging easy conversation. You had ridden in hunts before your marriage, though never one of this scale. The Targaryen hunting parties were… ambitious.

The party had ridden out at dawn, colorful banners weaving between the towering oaks while horns echoed through the forest. Groups formed and separated with a practiced ease, moving for different trails as each promised different game. Some chased boar while others followed the tracks of deer. The more adventurous nobles disappeared deeper into the trees in hopes of finding something worthy of boasting about for months afterward. 

You found yourself somewhere between them all.

A handful of ladies rode beside you, accompanied by several sworn swords and huntsmen who had been trained to know these woods as well as the halls of the Red Keep. You yourself rode with two knights at your side, each mounted and assigned exclusively to your protection. They kept a respectful distance, only close enough to intervene should danger arise. The closeness and amount of people was just enough so that you were never truly alone, though you made a point to stay away from the crowded lead of the party— where your husband was. 

As prince, Aerion naturally occupied the lead alongside the Master of Hunt and several of the realm's foremost noblemen. Hunting horns sounded ahead of him at intervals as scouts rode out and returned with reports, while hounds strained eagerly at their leashes, awaiting the command to give chase.

Even from a distance, he was difficult to miss.

His silver-white hair caught the morning light whenever the trees opened above the trail. He sat on his horse with the same effortless confidence he seemed to possess in everything else. Assured and capable. Lords rode close, speaking to him when necessary, though most of the conversation appeared to come from them rather than him. Aerion's replies were characteristically brief before his attention would return to the forest ahead. 

In the walls of the palace, you often noticed a restlessness about him. As though some part of him believed he ought to be somewhere else.

The Red Keep confined him in ways few others seemed able to see. Courtly obligations, endless ceremonies, polite conversation—he endured them because he had to, never because he wished to. He enjoyed the power his position gave him, the luxuries of the life. That much was more than clear. But the life itself? You weren’t so certain. 

You had heard him speak of the skies and the dragons often enough to recognize the longing beneath his words.

He believed he had been born into the wrong age. He believed he should have ridden beside his ancestors through the skies instead of walking stone corridors. That he should have known the freedom of dragonback, the untamed power that had once defined House Targaryen, rather than spending his days bound by councils and politics.

That desire for the wild, for movement and thrill— it was satisfied by these hunts. Away from the halls of the Red Keep, beyond council chambers and courtly obligations, he looked entirely at home. He looked more himself astride a horse than seated upon a throne.

Since becoming a Targaryen, you had come to understand this particular feeling of his more than ever. 

Earlier that morning, you had spent hours confined within the castle tending to one obligation after another until your mind went numb. At one point, the boredom had been so intense you  found yourself wondering what Aerion was doing with his day. That, in turn, led you to wonder whether he was enjoying it. It was an odd train of thought—to think about Aerion's state—and not one you took pride in. 

Yet one curiosity had somehow become another, and before long, he had become the unexpected subject of your wandering mind. You found yourself imagining where he might be, whether he had already escaped whatever duties had been assigned to him, and whether he was as impatient for the hunt to begin as you suspected. It had taken one of the noble ladies timidly bringing back your attention for the pitiful thoughts to stop. 

Now, in the open woods, there was nothing to think about beyond the ride itself. The steady rhythm of hooves carried you deeper into the Kingswood as sunlight filtered through the canopy above. The forest had settled into a peaceful hush, broken only by birdsong and the occasional call of a hunting horn somewhere ahead. You guided your maire over the winding trail at an easy pace, breathing in the cool autumn air.

Around you, horses picked their way carefully over roots and fallen leaves while leather tack creaked softly with each measured step. The scent of soil and pine lingered in the cool air, stirred only by the gentle breeze weaving through the branches overhead. Here and there, huntsmen paused to inspect fresh tracks in the mud before quietly urging the party onward, while hounds strained eagerly against their leashes, their noses low to the forest floor.

The peace of the forest lasted only a moment longer. 

A sudden sound shattered the calm. You had no moment to understand what it was. A sharp crack from somewhere beyond the trees. The sudden rush of movement in the brush. Perhaps the cry of some startled animal hidden from view. It was too fast to process.

Whatever it was, it was enough.

Your mare reacted before you had the chance to steady her. The horse jolted violently beneath you, her body tensing as she pulled back in alarm. Your hands tightened instinctively around the reins, trying to regain control, but the sudden movement caught you off guard.

“Easy!” you shouted, in a frantic attempt to calm her. It was fruitless. 

The pull of the reins stung your fingers, air rushing against your face. Startled voices grew louder around you as you helplessly reached for anything that might steady you. But when the saddle shifted beneath you, you knew it was too late. 

For one terrifying moment, you were suspended between staying and falling, your hands grasping at the reins as your mare stumbled beneath you. Then the connection broke entirely and the world tilted. You felt yourself slipping before the ground came rushing toward you. Pain spread through your body as leaves and dirt scattered beneath you, the forest floor unforgiving against your back and shoulder. The impact stole the breath from your lungs.

You couldn’t tell how long you laid there, body frozen and stinging, until the sounds around you slowly returned. Pounding hooves sounded like canons and the panicked calls of riders amplified torturously. The knights beside you jumped off their horses, the movement and clanking of their silver armor suddenly too loud.

“Your Grace!” One of them dropped to his knees beside you, his expression filled with concern as he looked over you. "Do not move," he instructed quickly, though his voice carried a slight edge of panic. "We need to make certain you have not—"

He stopped suddenly, turning as if he had heard something. The ringing of your ears seemed to shield you from the noise that had caught his attention, until it was close enough you could not block it out. It was the thunder of another horse approaching.

Not a careful pace or controlled movement of a rider coming to assess the princess. It was fast— this was someone riding with urgency. The sound came from ahead and only grew louder, hooves striking against the ground with such force that the riders nearby began turning toward the approaching figure.

The knight beside you straightened slightly, the expression on his face changed. And before anyone spoke his name, you already knew who it was. 

Aerion. 

He came to a short stop before you, his horse’s breath heavy as he dismounted before the reins could even be properly taken by a waiting servant. He did not wait. Without acknowledging the gathered nobles, the huntsmen, or the guards who immediately bowed their heads to him, his eyes found yours. And for a brief moment, everything else seemed forgotten. 

“Move.”

The single word was quiet, but filled with an urgency you had not heard from his lips before. The knights beside you immediately stepped back. Aerion dropped down beside you, his boots pressing into the leaves and dirt of the forest floor. His eyes scanned over you quickly, searching for injuries with an intensity unfamiliar to you. There was none of his usual anger or impatience. Only an extraordinary, singular focus. 

His hand hovered near your shoulder before he seemed to remember himself and stopped, his jaw tightening slightly.

"Are you injured?"

The question came sharper than he likely intended. You blinked up at him, still disoriented from the fall.

"I—"

"Where?"

You looked at him for a moment, almost unable to reconcile the man before you with the one who so often appeared distant and unaffected. Because Aerion was furious. You could see it.

You tried to answer him, but whether it was the shock of the fall, or of your husband himself, the words refused to come. Distracted by the pain spreading through your body and the sight of him kneeling beside you, you could not seem to answer. 

At his second, more urgent prompt, your eyes moved downward instead. Your ankle. Though your back hit the ground first, other parts of your body had also met it ungracefully. The pain there had been impossible to ignore— a sharp, throbbing ache that had only grown stronger as the initial shock faded. The moment Aerion followed your gaze, his expression changed. His eyes narrowed as they settled on the injury. The skin around your ankle had already begun to redden, swelling slightly beneath the fabric of your riding clothes. The angle it laid on the ground was all wrong. It was enough that even without a maester's training, it was clear something was not as it should be.

His jaw tightened. You watched as the intensity in his eyes shifted into a rage. Aerion slowly looked away from your ankle and toward the knights who had been assigned to protect you.

"What were you doing?" His voice was dangerously icy. 

The two knights immediately straightened, looking at their prince with clear fear written on their faces.

"Prince Aerion, the horse was startled. It’s common on when rid—”

“Are you saying it's common for those under your protection to be harmed? Is it common for you to sit idly as someone entrusted to your care is injured?” Aerion's voice was cold, his anger controlled only by the thinnest thread of restraint. “If that is what you’re telling me, you will never be assigned to the protection of my wife ever again.” 

The men remained silent, looking to each other and then their prince again. They had no answer. They bowed their heads once more. “I apologize, Your Grace,” one spoke uneasily. Aerion held their gaze for another moment before looking away, his attention turning back to you. And just as quickly as the anger had appeared, it left. When his eyes met yours, the fury that had been aimed at everyone else softened into something far more difficult to read.

"I’m... alright, Aerion," you said quietly. The words felt strange coming out. Reassuring Aerion of your state was not something you were accustomed to doing. When had he cared? But now… you were unsure if you had ever seen him look so affected by something that had happened to you. By anything at all.

His expression did not change much, but his eyes remained fixed on yours. "The half-wits around you allowed you to fall from a moving horse," he replied, his voice lower now. "You are not alright."

You almost argued, out of instinct more than anything else, but the pain in your ankle reminded you that perhaps he was right. You sucked in a breath and Aerion’s expression hardened again for only a moment before he looked toward the surrounding riders.

"Where is the maester?"

A servant immediately stepped forward, already prepared to answer.

"Someone was just sent to summon him, Your Grace."

Aerion simply glared at the servant. “Just now?” His tone was laced with indignation. "She has fallen from her horse, and the maester is only being summoned now?"

The silence could almost be felt. His eyes moved across the gathered knights, servants, and huntsmen, disbelief slowly turning into frustration. "Is everyone around me an imbecile?"

He exhaled sharply, clearly forcing himself to stop before his anger turned into something worse. He looked over you once more before extending a hand. "Can you stand?" His arm was outstretched. You hesitated. Your ankle protested even at the thought. The doubt must have crossed your face because before you could answer, he kneeled beside you, carefully positioning himself closer, moving your arm around his shoulder, shifting your weight onto him. 

Despite the rare closeness, there was no hesitation in his movements. No awkwardness. Only certainty. One hand reached out to steady you while the other offered support, his attention entirely focused on making sure you did not fall again. You could do nothing but follow his direction, pliant beneath his careful guidance like putty in his hands.

It was almost disorienting about how easily he took control of the situation. Aerion did not give you the chance to argue, to dismiss the pain, or to insist that you were capable of managing on your own. His certainty left little room for resistance. So, despite yourself, you allowed him to help you. The stinging pain left you without much energy to argue regardless. He steadied you as you rose, his grip firm but careful, adjusting immediately when you instinctively favored one ankle. 

With his support — and with the stunned audience of the hunting party, who had never seen their prince like this— you managed the few steps toward his waiting steed. He turned to you, adjusting his arms. “Lean on to me,” he said firmly, an unmistakable command.  He placed one hand securely around you, helping you up onto the saddle with careful precision. He made certain your injured ankle was not strained, adjusting your position until he was satisfied you were steady.

Only then did he get on to the horse, sitting in front of you. The position was far more intimate than you were accustomed to. With him seated before you, there was no space for polite distance between you, no room to pretend you were simply two members of the same court moving alongside one another. You became painfully aware of everything. The warmth of him against you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The faint scent of leather and the outdoors that clung to him after hours in the forest.

All the little details of the man you were married to that you had not been able to discover until now. You found yourself sitting unusually still. Aerion glanced back slightly, head turned to you.

“Hold on.”

You paused for only a moment before placing your hands around him. You were careful at first, unsure of where exactly to hold. You settled on wrapping your arms around his torso, but not placing any weight onto him. 

From this vintage point, the amount of people watching only became more clear. The gathered riders had seen the prince's fury. They had seen him abandon the hunt without hesitation and ride directly towards you. And now they saw something else entirely. Aerion Targaryen—the man who kept everyone at arm's length—quietly ensuring his wife did not have to take another step more than necessary. It must have been as bizarre to them as it was to you, if their stunned silence was any indicator. 

With your arms around Aerion, the horse began to move forward. The rhythm of its steps carried you away from the gathering of riders and deeper along the forest path. Neither of you spoke and you had a feeling he wouldn’t be particularly chatty even if you had chosen to. Your only two focuses in the moment were the closeness of his body and the feelings he had brought upon you. 

He had ridden past everyone else without hesitation. His expression had changed the moment he saw you on the ground, then again when leaving the anger from the knights behind. 

Your relationship existed in brief conversations. Stolen glances and a careful space kept between you. He could sit beside you for hours and you would still feel impossibly far away. Yet when you had needed him, that distance had disappeared without hesitation. Your hands rested against him as the horse carried you back toward the castle, and you found yourself studying the man in front of you.

Aerion was still Aerion.

Still reserved. Still unreadable. His posture remained composed, his attention fixed ahead as though you were not right behind him mulling in every detail of the day. As though he had not just frightened half the hunting party with the force of his anger. As though he had not made certain you were safe before thinking of anything else.

You did not know what to make of it. 

So you remained quiet, allowing the steady movement of the horse and the silence between you to carry you back through the forest. You would arrive at the maester’s soon and your injury would heal over time. You would remember this day and the version of Aerion it had revealed. It would serve as a glimmer of hope, of possibility, that beneath all the distance he kept, there was far more to him than he allowed anyone to see. More care for you than he had admitted or shown. 

For now, you allowed that to be enough.

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[insolentprincessblog]

Synopsis: Aerion hadn't touched his wife before their wedding because she had wounded his pride, but after a while he gives in to something he had been repressing for so long.

Warnings: Aerion x reader¡wife +18/ little angst/obsession with reproduction/ Aerion is an idiot, but he's trying. Part two of this, It can be read separately, but I recommend you read the other part.

Aerion wouldn't touch you, not because he found you ugly—far from it—but because he had a pride to uphold. The insolence you displayed during your engagement and on your wedding day proved to Aerion that you weren't worthy of his touch. He was a dragon, and you were a woman who acted as if he were just any man, not Aerion Targaryen, your husband.

And for Aerion, the worst part was that even after a month without him even touching your body, you didn't seek his touch, you didn't pursue it and demand an heir, not even when the court began spreading rumors that your womb wasn't functioning. You didn't cry; you walked with your head held high and didn't show weakness before the judgmental eyes that followed your every step. He knew that these rumors would never affect him; that was an undeniable fact. But somehow, knowing that they were saying bad things about you, and that part of it was his fault, awakened in Aerion a feeling he couldn't describe. That feeling grew stronger whenever you didn't treat him like the man who had thrown your frail body to the beasts.

Maekar heard about the comments about you, never spoken in his presence, but the whispers ran rampant in a court that didn't hesitate to slaughter a woman. Deep down he knew it was Aerion's fault; he'd lived with his idiot son long enough to know that a woman like you would make him feel obligated to hurt you somehow. As soon as Maekar had thought enough about what he could do, he summoned Aerion for an "urgent" conversation.

As soon as he found himself in his father's presence, Aerion knew what would be said. His wife's failure to produce an heir. "Why do you insist on humiliating your wife?" Maekar asked.The tone of his voice, along with the unexpected question, made Aerion's face frown. "What are you talking about, father?" Maekar clenched his fist. "Don't act like I'm an idiot. I know you don't sleep with your wife, and given the number of times you've been seen in brothels I know you know how that works." He continued pointing his finger in Aerion's face, "I don't know what kind of diabolical things you're up to, but I can't act like I can let you ruin this poor woman's reputation in front of the whole court because of your idiocy. Give me an heir, Aerion, put an end to the rumors being spread about your wife, be a man." Aerion blinked several times as if what his father had said was in another language. "But—" He received a look that made him shut up immediately. "I don't want to hear your excuses, I want something done" Maekar murmured as he withdrew.

After that conversation with his father, Aerion's day passed in the blink of an eye; before he knew it, he was lying in his chambers. The only thing on his mind was you. He knew he had been detestable from the start for no reason and when you showed indifference to his comments, it only motivated him more to make you show something. But you didn't care what he said, and when he asked you something, you were utterly honest.

But a lady's reputation is something shaped from childhood, and yours was being tarnished by lies, and the blame lay entirely with him. Even with the limited knowledge he had of you during your months of marriage, he knew that no matter how malicious the comments became, you wouldn't ask for help, you wouldn't cry, and you certainly wouldn't let anyone know what you were feeling behind that mask of indifference.

He wanted to convince himself that he didn't care, that he wanted to see you suffer because of the way you treated him. Until he came to the conclusion that he had given himself the excuse he needed. He wasn't going to sleep with you because he wanted to; he was going to do it because a Targaryen couldn't have a wife with the reputation you were acquiring. Aerion Targaryen should be described as the prince who gave several heirs to the throne, not as the one with a flawed wife who couldn't give him a son.

You were in your room gazing at the view from the window when suddenly the door opened. You turned quickly, as no one visited you at this time of night. To your surprise, it was your husband, the same man you hadn't spoken to in almost a whole month. Aerion seemed a little embarrassed, an expression you hadn't yet seen on his face, since he only ever gave you disgusted looks and mocking smiles. For a few seconds you both just stared at each other, until he slowly approached, almost as if he were afraid you would run away.

"I came here so that we can fulfill our duties as husband and wife," he said in a tone different from usual, one you almost didn't recognize. The man in front of you didn't seem like the same idiot who called you ugly the first time you met. "I'm sorry, but didn't you say you wouldn't sleep with me?" His face hardened into a serious grimace as he remembered the words he'd said to you when he was angry. He knew you wouldn't give in easily; you weren't as proud as him, but you weren't stupid either.

"I know what I said. But the court has been spreading rumors about why you haven't gotten pregnant yet." You slowly inclined your head at his words, "I know what they say about me, my prince. But do you care?" Aerion pondered for a few minutes before replying, "I don't care what they say about you. But I don't want to be known as the prince who had no heir." You didn't answer him immediately returning your attention to the window you were looking at before he arrived.

"Before I met you, I was nervous about what people said about you, but I tried to convince myself that you would be different with me." You sighed before continuing, "Imagine my disappointment when your first words to me were that you'd like a prettier wife." A low chuckle escaped your lips. "But I still tried; ignoring you and your comments would make it all easier. And until a few minutes ago, I didn't think you were a complete idiot, but now?" You turned to him before continuing, "Even when the only reputation that gets tarnished is mine, you manage to turn it into something about yourself. Who would have thought my husband would be the biggest idiot of them all?"

Aerion stood silently with an unreadable expression, but his clenched fists confirmed what you already knew before you turned around: he was angry, your words had struck him. He moved even closer to you, his imposing figure towering before you. "I know I'm an idiot, darling, but unfortunately you're stuck with me forever, and after I deliver my heir into you maybe you'll be absolutely certain of that." He spat out the words as he raised one hand to cup your face and the other to pull you by the waist, pressing your body against his. "And guess what? Now I intend to put several of them on you so that every time you put one out into the world, the certainty that you're mine get even bigger"

Before you could say anything, he pressed his lips to yours, his mouth looking hungry. He nibbled at your lips, thrusting his tongue into your mouth in a way you didn't know was possible. As soon as he noticed you relaxed a little in his arms, he slowly pulled your body until his legs touched the edge of the bed. He let his body fall and pulled yours down with him.

As soon as he ended the kiss, he pushed your body until you were leaning against the pillows. He stared at your body with an inexplicable hunger, his dilated pupils and swollen lips only giving him an even hungrier look. Suddenly you felt shy closing your eyes and trying to dispel the redness that was spreading across your face. "Feeling shy now? Weren't you being cheeky a few minutes ago, darling? Where did your attitude go?" His lips curved into a mocking smile.

His hands moved up to remove the dress you were wearing, leaving you completely naked, illuminated only by the moonlight. Before you could reach to cover yourself, he grabbed your hands and held them above your head. He brought his mouth to your neck, where he began to distribute wet kisses as he moved down towards your breasts, making you tremble all over. Your sensitivity to his touch only confirmed to Aerion the certainty he already knew: you were still a virgin.

"You hate me so much and yet you remained a virgin to me, darling?" You wanted to answer, you really did, but the way he was sucking on one of your breasts was a level of pleasure you had never experienced. You let out a moan that made him lift his head to look at your face; the expressions you were giving him were driving him crazy. If he had to see you like this every day, with your eyes full of tears of pleasure, your mouth swollen from his kisses, and your breasts full of the marks he was leaving, he would swallow his stupid pride every time.

His free hand slowly slid down your body, reaching your pussy. When he felt how wet she was, he couldn't help but smile. "Already this wet for me, darling? I think your pussy likes idiots like me, huh?" He said those words without even looking at your face; he was staring directly at your pussy. Your instinct was to close your legs, to deny him that pleasure, but unfortunately you were enjoying it just as much as he was.

Aerion began rubbing his fingers against her clitoris, making you unconscious hips move forward toward his fingers. The sensation was overwhelming, completely different from any pleasure you had ever experienced, and when he inserted his fingers inside you, the knot in you stomach completely broke. A shiver ran through her entire body, her lips parted in an "O" as your thighs trembled against Aerion's hand.

"So beautiful coming for me, you know you're beautiful, don't you? What I said that day was a joke, you know that, right?" When he realized that her senses were still very disoriented, Aerion slapped her thigh. "Answer me when I ask you something." The slap made her whole body wake up from the trance she was in. "I don't know if you were joking." He let out an audible sigh. "Darling, you're a beautiful wife to me, remaining a virgin for me, drawing those beautiful sounds from your lips, and of course letting me get you pregnant."

When you realized it, Aerion was already naked, his member fully erect for you. Your beautiful eyes looking at him as he prepared to penetrate you only gave him one certainty: this was no longer an obligation. Aerion was already completely obsessed with the idea of possessing you solely for himself, constantly getting you pregnant so that no one else would whisper lies about his wife.

As soon as he was fully inside, you both let out a moan together. At first it stung a little, but as Aerion continued to kiss your neck, the pain slowly turned to pleasure. And when he realized you had relaxed enough, he began to move slowly. He was mesmerized, your soft moans as he thrust harder, your arms gripping his as if you needed it to breathe. He couldn't help but blame himself for taking so long to do this.

When your breathing became irregular, he knew you were close. "Let's come together, huh?" he whispered in your ear as he increased the pace and moved his hand to rub your clitoris. The combination of sensations made you have an even more intense orgasm than the previous one. Aerion didn't take long to come too, whispering that he was going to fill you with his seed and make you a mommy.

When you finished, Aerion collapsed on top of you, his breath ragged, making it clear to you that it had been as intense for him as it had been for you. When Aerion turned his face towards yours, he was surprised to see your face with the same expression as always. He had a long way to go if he wanted you to start putting up with him.

Author's note: I really don't know how to write adult content and I get lost. Maybe I strayed a little from the character at the end. Do you want anything more from these two? Like them having children or her starting to tolerate him?

Comments and reblogs are very welcome. English isn't my first language and I still get lost in some things, but I hope you enjoy it.

[insolentprincessblog]

Aerion's wife doesn't care at all.

Synopsis: Nothing drives Aerion crazier than his wife's lack of reaction.

Warnings: None in particular, Aerion is just very evil for no reason.Part two here!!

Aerion had a habit of being irritating to anyone who crossed his path, be they castle servants or even his father. It was inevitable; he was born with this natural gift for driving people crazy with the same ease with which he mounted a horse.

And he did this because people generally gave him what he wanted: the eye roll, the little gasp of astonishment when he said something so absurd that even he was impressed. These small reactions generated a satisfaction in him that he couldn't put into words.

So when his father, Maekar, told him that he would have a wife, Aerion could see in his father's face the pity he felt for the poor girl. A woman who would have to endure all of his son's taunts, and who would probably cry because of the prince's cruel words.

The first time you met to celebrate your engagement, he spoke loudly enough for the whole table to hear that he wished the Gods had blessed him with a more beautiful bride. Aerion watched your face intently; he wanted to see what reaction he could elicit from you. He wanted to see if you would look at him with tear-filled eyes, if you would cry in front of everyone and beg your parents to cancel the engagement. But exceeding all of Aerion's expectations regarding the reaction you would have, a simple nod was all he received.

Maekar rolled his eyes at Aerion's insolence towards his own fiancée. "I think you should apologize, Aerion." he exclaimed, his tone betraying his impatience with the situation. You looked at Maekar and gave a slight smile. "Everything is fine, my prince. My fiancé's words don't offend me."

Now the roles had been reversed; it was Aerion who had an expression of astonishment on her face. How dare you? a simple woman acting as if his words, a true dragon, were nothing more than noises in your ear.

After your wedding ceremony, Aerion continued with his biting comments, hoping you would give him the attention he craved. He wanted your anger, he wanted you to retaliate so he could put you in your place. But no, all he received were occasional polite smiles and slight nods. "I really hoped my father would give me a better wife than you." And to Aerion's surprise, you replied, "You know, husband, I'm just as unhappy as you are in this marriage. I told my parents that Valaar would be a better option, but you were all that was left." And you said that without showing remorse, your face didn't express anger, sadness, much less amusement. You said it as if you were saying the sky is blue. He stood up too quickly, surprising some people who were there to witness the ceremony. "What's left? Is this what you think I am?" He shouted, exasperated by the audacity.

Those at the ceremony weren't surprised by the prince's sudden outburst (most had already heard about his reputation); what was truly surprising was that the woman in front of him, who should have been terrified by her husband's behavior, simply stared at Aerion as if he were a glass wall. "Husband, don't make a scene." You stood up, gave him a light kiss on the lips, and went to your chambers.

Aerion was furious, and the fact that you acted as if his shouting wasn't a big deal irritated him even more. He followed you without caring about the curious glances; you wouldn't embarrass him in front of the court. What would they think? Aerion Targaryen, letting his wife treat him with such insolence.

He walked up to you, grabbing your arm without caring if it would hurt or not. "You think you can act like this? Huh? Answer me." The look he received didn't seem scared; in fact, you seemed almost amused by his exaggerated reaction. "I'm sorry, husband, but I don't know what you're talking about. I just wanted to be honest with my husband." The condescending tone of your voice only made him more irritated. "Honest? You were being an annoying little bitch. Even whores are less annoying than you." The silence between you two lasted a few seconds, until you reached out to caress the hand he was squeezing on your arm. "I don't care if you seek comfort in other women, darling. Even an annoying little bitch like me knows that our marriage is purely political."

"Idiot Woman, you won't have my presence even in our duties as husband and wife." He cupped her face in his free hand, squeezing her cheeks until her face formed a pout. "Good luck explaining to the court that you're not an infertile idiot." He spat out the words and left, leaving you alone behind.

Author's notes: I know it seems a bit incomplete (and it is) but it's my first fanfic posted on Tumblr so I was eager to publish it.

If you want a sequel, please let me know.

Please make a fanfic request for me.

[miserymorgue]

how i'd love to go to paris again (and again) | j. abbot & m. robinavitch

pairing jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch

summary after jack casually floats the idea of adding a third, you don’t let it stay theoretical for long—what starts as curiosity turns into something a lot more real when robby gets pulled into the space you and jack have built together. (#threesometime #neverforgetchallengers) (ao3)

tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship with you and jack, living together, unlabelled jack and robby sexualities (bi?), attempt at a true love triangle (et tu, challengers (2024) except no cheating & u and jack r <3. but rabbot under(over?)tones), unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (f/m, m/m), masturbation, praise & teasing, dom!ish robby, bratty!ish reader, lowkey switch/softdom jack idk, finger sucking, domestic, drinking, brief hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), porn with... context?, hint at robby internalised homophobia? possibly ooc for jack sorry, title reference to the 1975 but not inspired by the song more just bad pun bc... paris... threesome... get it

wc 18.3k words

spin off of the fic: my (wo)man on willpower | j. abbot - can be read solo!

Robby doesn’t look confused so much as… unconvinced.

He sits back in the booth, one arm slung along the backrest, beer loose in his hand, eyes moving between you and Jack like he’s watching a consult go sideways.

“…You two wanna try that again,” he says, slow, “but in English this time?”

Jack huffs under his breath, already regretting opening his mouth. He drags a hand over his jaw, glancing at you like he’s half-tempted to pull the plug on the whole thing.

“Told you,” he mutters, low. “Bad pitch.”

You nudge his knee under the table—not hard, just enough. Don’t bail.

Robby catches it. Of course he does. His eyes flick down, then back up, something sharpening.

“Oh, don’t tap out now,” he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. “You brought it up. I’m listening.”

Jack opens his mouth again—

“—No,” Robby cuts him off, not even looking at him. “She talks.”

There’s that tone. The one he uses with residents when they’re dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just… direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactly—more the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.

Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.

You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.

“It’s not… open,” you start, careful. “We’re not looking to—change anything. Not really.”

Robby watches you the whole time. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence for you.

“It’s just—” you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, “—we trust you. Both of us do. And you’ve been… there. With us. For a while.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters.

Jack snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

But Robby doesn’t look away from you.

You hold his gaze. “It’s not random. It’s not… about finding some person to fool around with. It’s you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it tightens around the edges.

“…Right,” he says, slower now.

Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. “It’s not a free-for-all,” he adds, dry. “We’re not pitching some kind of ER orgy.”

“Shame,” Robby says flatly.

You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.

Jack shoots him a look. “Be serious for one second in your life.”

“I am serious,” Robby says. Then, to you—“I’m just making sure I understand what the hell you’re asking me.”

His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, the way they’re curled loosely around your glass—then back up again.

“What are you actually offering here?” he asks.

You hesitate—not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.

“It’s not just sex,” you say, quieter now.

Robby’s brow lifts. “No?”

You shake your head. “It’s… us. Still us. Just—” you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, “—with you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.”

There’s a long beat.

Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.

“You two have been together, what,” he says, glancing at Jack, “two years now?”

“Nearly three,” Jack corrects.

“Nearly three,” Robby repeats. “You know, you… you live together. Don’t kill each other. That’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” you say, dry.

His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.

“And you’re both telling me this doesn’t… complicate things.”

Jack answers this time, steady. “Everything’s already complicated. This wouldn’t change what we’ve got. We’ve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.”

Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. There’s history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.

“…You’re serious,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to reset his brain.

“Jesus Christ.”

You don’t rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, it’s different now. Less amused. More… considering.

“You’re asking about the three of us…” he tries, trailing off.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jack’s, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.

“And you’re both just- you’re… good with it,” he says.

Your voice is quieter when you answer. “Wouldn’t be sitting here if we weren’t. You’re attractive, smart, funny. And I think you’ve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.”

Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.

“...Christ,” he mutters again, but there’s a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.

Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.

“You always this persuasive?” He wonders.

You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Only when it matters.”

That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”

Jack shifts beside you, not tense—but alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.

Your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.

You glance down, already half-standing. “I’ve gotta go. Park needs me—Isla called in sick.”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with him.”

You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. “Thanks, baby.”

You lean down—meant to be quick, but it doesn’t quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turning— Robby’s already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.

“Michael,” you say, softer, a small nod.

He repeats your name—flatter, rougher, like he’s testing how it sits in his mouth.

You don’t linger. You head out.

The door swings shut behind you.

Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s resetting.

Robby doesn’t look at the door. He looks at Jack. There’s a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just… processing.

“Alright,” he says. “Who’s idea is it?”

Jack doesn’t bother pretending. “Mine.”

Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“When?”

Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. “Remember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?”

Robby snorts. “Yeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself I’ve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Walking around like—” Robby gestures vaguely, “—like a cat in heat.”

Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our… you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -”

“-get to the point,” Robby says, with a slight snicker.

“Some point, I mention… I don’t know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and… we’re just talking.”

“Talking,” Robby repeats, deadpan.

“Yeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.”

“Hard pass.”

Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What we’d be into, what we wouldn’t.”

“And you landed on me,” Robby says.

“Yeah.”

Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. “…Both of you.”

“Both of us.”

That lands differently.

Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking now—not just reacting.

“That’s your girl,” he says finally. “You’ve built something there. I’m not—” he shakes his head slightly, “—I’m not interested in screwing that up.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought you would.”

Robby glances at him, sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“No,” Jack agrees easily. “But I do know you.”

A beat.

“And I trust you,” he adds.

it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

Jack’s brow lifts, faintly amused. “That I trust you?”

“That I don’t take that lightly,” Robby shoots back.

Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.

“And you’re fine with it,” he says. Not a question. “Me and her.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

Robby studies him—searching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesn’t find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasn’t a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.

“…She’s—” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. “You know what she is.”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

“Twenty-something,” Robby continues. “Smart. Looks like—” he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. “You’ve seen her.”

Jack smirks faintly. “I have, yeah. A lot of her. It’s great.”

Robby’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“And she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,” he adds.

Jack’s expression softens just a fraction. “Sometimes.”

Robby nods once, slow. Then—

“…You really telling me you’ve never thought about it? About her” Jack asks, casual—but not careless.

Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.

“That’s not a fair question.”

Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.

Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.

Then he looks back at Jack.

“…Well I’m not blind,” he says.

Jack doesn’t react much. Just watches him.

“She’s—” Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, “—she’s a lot. Sweet.”

Jack’s mouth ticks. “She is… You ever think about her while jerking off?”

Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, they’re being honest. “Yes.”

Robby’s a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable. 

“What?” Robby scoffs. “You’re cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is… what, some sort of line being crossed?”

“I didn’t say anything, alright. I’m all good here. Just didn’t think you’d admit it,” Jack nods with insistence. “What about during sex? Thought about her then?”

“...On occasion, yes, I’ve- she’s popped up there, yeah.” Robby admits with brief hesitance. 

That’s as far as he pushes it—but it’s enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesn’t threaten anything.

“Fair,” he says.

Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. “You’re taking that a lot better than I thought you would.”

Jack shrugs. “She’s hot. You’re not dead. Tells me you’ve got a working dick, at least.”

Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.

Jack took a sip of his beer, then—because he wasn’t finished, because he never really was with Robby—tilts his head slightly.

“What about me?”

Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. “Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously,” Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. “No shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.”

Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Have you?” Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.

A pause.

Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.

“…You first,” he mutters.

Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.

“Man, it’s not even—” Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. “Half the time that shit doesn’t mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesn’t make you anything.”

Robby let out a short, humourless huff. “Right.”

“What,” Jack presses lightly, “you worried about the gay implications?”

Robby shot him a look. “Don’t—”

“—What? Say ‘gay’?” Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.

Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.

“We’re talking about whether I’ve jacked off thinking about another guy,” he says, flat. “Yeah, the… ‘gay’ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.”

Jack just nods, like that was fair.

“I just… I guess, I didn’t realise—” Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, you know, are you—”

Jack shrugs, easy. “I’ve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Don’t really care to.”

Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “Figrues. Army man.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “You don’t have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesn’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”

“I’m aware,” Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter—like it cost him something— “…It’s crossed my mind.”

Jack’s mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruel—just… satisfied.

“Crossed your mind,” he repeated. “Interesting wording.”

“Don’t start,” Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “It was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. That’s saying something.”

“Fuck you,” Robby mutters, rolling his eyes—but there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.

Jack shrugs, taking another sip. “Options apparently on the table.”

Robby shakes his head, but didn’t argue. Didn’t fully look away, either.

Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.

Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history there—years of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.

Jack didn’t push. Just leaned back, easy.

“Think about it,” he tries. “Or don’t. Nothing changes.”

Robby nods once, short. “Yeah.” A few seconds of quiet. “…You still need that ride home?” he asks.

Jack snorts. “Oh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.”

“Shut up.”

“Flirting now, are we?”

“You are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, don’t think otherwise,” Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.

★★★

2 WEEKS EARLIER

threesomenoun — three·some — ˈthrē-səm

1: a group of three persons or things : trio

2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately

3: a sexual encounter involving three people

“Are you trying to say you wanna play golf?” Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter—onions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. He’s got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.

You’re perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.

“Yes,” you say dryly, scrolling. “I’m deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the balls—”

“—I get it,” Jack cuts in. “You want a threesome.”

You look up at him, unimpressed. “I don’t want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.” A beat. “But I’m not opposed to… expanding the sample size.”

Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. “Expanding the—Jesus. That’s how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?”

“You brought it up,” you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea. ‘Oh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notes’—”

“I did not sound like that.”

“—If anything,” you continue over him, “I think you wanna fuck your best friend.”

“Alright,” Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. “Not what I sound like. And c’mon—you know you’re all I wanna fuck.” He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. “I think these are done.”

“They’re not.” You don’t even look up when you say it. “Anyway… I doubt he’d even be down for it,” you say. “I barely think he likes me as a friend.”

Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I think he’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. Then, distracted again—“I really think these are done, hon.”

“Test the carrot,” you say, still scrolling. “If it’s soft enough, it’ll break with pressure.”

He presses the spoon into one. It doesn’t budge.

“…Needs longer,” he admits.

“How do you know that?”

“I just did what you said, I—”

“No,” you interrupt, looking at him properly now. “How do you know Robby would fuck me?”

That slows him down.

Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.

“I know him,” he says. “Twenty years of it. And I know you.” A beat. “There’s something there. A thing. You’ve always had good chemistry.”

You huff lightly. “A vague… thing, maybe.”

You hesitate, then—because you don’t really do half-truths—

“I did have a bit of a crush on him,” you admit. “Before I met you.”

Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I don’t anymore,” you add quickly. “It faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was early—before I started coming down to ED properly. He’d come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was just…” you shrug, searching, “…older. Authority. Bit of an asshole.”

Jack’s mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.

“Glad to know you don’t have a type,” he mutters.

You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.

“Hey,” you murmur. He glances up at you. “I like them a little shorter,” you say softly.

Jack blinks.

Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips. 

★★★

The thing about a third—about this third—was that it… kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.

It wasn’t sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.

Robby had never been separate from Jack. 

Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edges—this is where I end, this is where you begin—but that had never been the case with them. 

Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either. 

They’d dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settled—somehow—into their forties without ever untangling.

They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.

And Robby had always lived in that tension.

He didn’t soften easily. Didn’t trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that rule—steady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didn’t mean absence.

There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didn’t exist, but because saying them would’ve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding. 

It was easier to file it under something else—loyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didn’t have to be examined too closely.

Then you came along. And you didn’t disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it. 

You didn’t wedge yourself between them, didn’t ask Jack to choose, didn’t look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.

And God—there was something about you.

Not just that you were beautiful—though you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.

The way you saw Jack—fully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.

And worse—

The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.

He’d noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didn’t pull back when he got too close, didn’t flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.

You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And that—more than anything—was what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.

That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.

But wanting you like this—in the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didn’t have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines he’d spent years pretending weren’t there.

And Jack…

Jack, who didn’t do anything halfway, who didn’t offer things he wasn’t sure about—was sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasn’t a risk so much as… an opening.

That was what threw him. It wasn’t the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.

And Robby didn’t trust himself nearly that much.

That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simple—but real in a way that resisted being dismissed.

Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.

Not in the way people usually were about relationships—careful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasn’t built like that. He didn’t gush, didn’t sentimentalise—but if he’d had a couple drinks in him and it’d been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.

Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.

In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there. 

The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.

Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like… he didn’t know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jack’s mouth like that that sat strange in his chest. 

“What the fuck do you mean six times?” Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.

They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadn’t aged out of it—backs damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didn’t talk about sat heavier.

It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasn’t being watched over by the hospital.

Jack didn’t even open his eyes. “I mean she came six times,” he said, easy. “Working up to eight.”

Robby snorted. “You’re talking like it’s a personal best.”

“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t set goals, you stagnate. That’s what my therapist says.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. “What’s your number?”

Robby shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I don’t have a number.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Nope.”

“Bull.”

Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. “…Four. Maybe.”

Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.

“Four,” he repeated.

“Some of us aren’t treating it like a competitive sport,” Robby muttered.

Jack huffed. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s her. She’s a natural.”

“She really that good?” Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack would’ve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.

There was a beat.

Robby stared up at the sky like it didn’t matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.

“She’s—” he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didn’t sound ridiculous and failing. “She pays attention. Like she’s studying you. Figures out what works and then—just… doesn’t let up. Like I’m constantly high around her. And man, she-” Jack cleared his throat. “She does this thing with her tongue.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.

He didn’t say anything.

“She swirls it, right around the underside, traces it—the entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then she’ll—fuck,” Jack had mused. “…She’ll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I can’t describe how good it feels,” Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. “Fucking… incredible.”

Robby couldn’t have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.

“She makes the prettiest noises, like a… I don’t even know,” Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. “Moans and screams, and so… Christ. Like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, possessed.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.

Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. “You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for a breakdown.”

“Semantics.”

Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.

A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Then—

“What’s the deal with you and Noelle?” Jack asked, casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all.

Robby’s jaw shifted.

“She’s… fine,” he said.

Jack cracked one eye open. “That sounds promising.”

Robby huffed. “It’s not—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like he’d expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself

“Yeah,” he said. “Bummer.”

Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.

“Don’t think I’m built for it,” he said finally.

Jack didn’t move. “For what?”

“This,” Robby gestured vaguely. “Relationships. The staying. The… showing up part.”

Jack was quiet for a second.

Then—

“Now that’s bull,” he said, not unkindly.

Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other, what—twenty years? You’ve stuck around that long.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Robby didn’t answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.

“You don’t get to pretend you can’t do something just because you haven’t done it right yet,” he said.

Robby scoffed lightly. “Didn’t realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not some unfixable case.”

Robby laughed at that—short, real.

“Garcia said I’d make a good ex-husband,” he said.

Jack snorted. “See? Even she thinks you can commit.”

“That’s not what that means.”

“Close enough,” Jack sighed. “Lie down, will you. You’re so damn tense.”

Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second. 

The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.

They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after years—no need to fill it, no need to perform.

“Aw, you two are so cute.”

Jack sat up immediately.

You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlamp—scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like you’d been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jack’s old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there. 

For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason they’d been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.

“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. “You finish alright?”

You just nodded, already moving toward him.

You didn’t hesitate—never did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.

“Miss me?” you murmured, barely pulling back.

“Always,” he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.

Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.

You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediately—instinct, habit—sliding over your arms, grounding, checking. 

Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.

You exhaled like you’d been holding it all day.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?” Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.

“Mhm.”

You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.

Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always got—half amused, half something else he never quite named.

“Robby,” you said, glancing over at him, “how the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.”

“Sometimes a drink’s all you get,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—brief, involuntary—to where Jack’s hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. “Ortho must’ve been a dream, though.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.”

“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered.

Jack’s hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re gonna fall asleep right here.”

“Honestly?” you said, eyes half-lidded now, “tempting.”

There was a beat. Quiet again—but different this time. Fuller.

You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.

Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.

You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.

“…You been talking about me?” you asked.

Jack snorted, immediate. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” you said, squinting at him. “And he’s looking at me weird.”

“I always look at people weird,” Robby said, flat, from the grass.

You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but this is a different weird.”

Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. “We were just talking about your—what was it—immense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.”

His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. “It’s not far off.”

You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.

“What did you say to him,” you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t entirely serious—but not entirely not.

Jack leaned in, said something under his breath—too quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.

You smacked his leg—right on the prosthetic—with a sharp thwack.

“Jack.”

He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.

“If you actually told him that,” you said, pointing at him, “I swear to god I’ll take this thing off and beat you with it.”

“That’s dramatic,” Jack murmured, still holding your hand. “And also physically unlikely.”

“It’s true, though,” he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. “You’re very good at it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.

Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadn’t agreed to sit through, but couldn’t quite look away from either.

“So the tongue thing’s real then?” he asked, almost idly.

Jack groaned. “Alright. We’re done here.”

You laughed—bright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of you—and turned into Jack properly this time.

It wasn’t quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.

Robby looked away. Not fast enough.

You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jack’s.

“I’ll drive,” you said quietly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said automatically.

“You’re pretty drunk,” you corrected.

A beat.

“…Alright. Could be a little drunk,” he conceded.

You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.

“Don’t lose the car,” he muttered.

“No promises.”

You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.

“You good?” you asked, softer now.

He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”

You nodded like you believed him.

“Night, Michael.”

There was a flicker at that—something small but real.

“Night,” he said.

Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.

“Text me when you get home,” he called back to Robby.

“Sure. Have fun with your girl.’ Robby had said, lying back down.

“I definitely will,” Jack nodded.

You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laugh—something private, something just for him.

Robby watched you both go.

Didn’t move.

The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.

So, when you and Jack finally put it to him—cornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you had—Robby wasn’t as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably should’ve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermath—those were the things a smarter man might’ve led with. But that wasn’t where his mind went first.

It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.

Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruel—if he held your head down and made you choke on him?

And Jack… steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robby’s hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?

It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasn’t even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.

About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existed—intimate, closed, complete—and being told there was room for him inside it.

And that—more than anything else—was what made it difficult to dismiss.

★★★

Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.

The patient is already under—intubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.

“Yeah, that’s a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,” you say, pen tapping the screen. “You can see the displacement here, and the overlap—this is why the leg looks shortened clinically.”

Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. “Fuck.”

You shake your head. “It looks dramatic, but it’s stable from what we’ve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.”

Santos lets out a breath.

You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. “We’ll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But she’s straightforward.”

“Thank god,” Santos mutters. “I was so not bothered to call for another consult.

A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.

Robby.

He’s already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.

“Ortho’s down in ED?” he says.

“Yeah,” you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. “Santos messaged me. Femur fracture.”

He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shifts—clinical, but not entirely neutral. He’s tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.

“Looks like a clean nail,” he says.

“Assuming ortho behaves,” you reply.

He huffs something like a laugh. “They won’t.”

“No,” you agree. “We never do.”

Santos clears her throat. “While I’ve got you—Huckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.”

You pause slightly.

“A Parisian party?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” Santos says, warming to it. “Paris-themed. Like… French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.”

Robby makes a quiet sound behind you—almost a laugh, quickly disguised.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the scan like nothing happened.

Santos continues, mildly confused. “Have either of you been to Paris?”

“No,” you say.

Robby: “Nope.”

Santos nods like that still tracks logically. “Yeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.”

There’s a beat.

“Anyway,” She adds, already backing toward the door, “You’re invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. You’re all close”

“...Sounds good, Santos, we’ll let you know,” Robby says with a nod. “North Twelve?”

“Consider it done.” Santos says dry, nodding.

The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back in—clean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that you’re aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be during a trauma consult.

He glances at the CT again. “Paris-themed party,” he repeats flatly.

“Don’t even,” you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.

“What?” he says innocently.

You turn slightly toward him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“You’re absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.”

“I’m thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,” he says.

“Liar.”

That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.

“You think you’ll go?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Jack and I have the night off. We’ll be busy.”

“Right,” he nods.

A beat.

“You?” you ask.

“I’d rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,” Robby says with a quiet exhale. “So, no.”

“Come over then,” you offer, stopping at the nurses’ station.

Robby gives you a look. “Thought you said you two were busy.”

“You can be busy with us,” you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. “Or just Jack. Or just me. He told me you’ve thought about it either way.”

A faint sigh leaves him. “Right. I forgot he can’t keep anything to himself.”

He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the station—Dana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like she’s clocking something she hasn’t labelled yet.

“Have you?” he asks softly.

“Thought about you? In that way?” you clarify.

He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.

You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.

“Yes,” you admit. “You’re tall. Kind. Your beard’s nice. You’re probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.”

That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.

“Abbot’s a lover boy at heart,” Robby says. “Gives in easily. ‘Specially for you.”

You nod, like that tracks. “Most of the time, yeah.”

That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, “Is it true you had a crush on me?”

You tilt your head. “God, he really just— Doesn’t keep anything to himself.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “Not at all. I’ve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.”

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.

“Was it a yes?”

“To the crush?” You consider it. “Yeah.”

That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.

“Before Jack,” you add, like it matters in a technical sense. “Older, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable… I think I might just have a pattern.”

Robby hums, low. “Tracks.”

There’s a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, “And now?”

You don’t look away when you answer. “Now, it’s just… different.”

That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.

You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.

“I’ll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.”

And then you’re gone—already walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.

A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.

Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.

“What’s with that?” she asks.

“...What’s with what?” he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.

“I mean,” she says slowly, “what’s with flirtin’ with Abbott’s girl in front of everybody?”

He doesn’t look at her when he answers.

“That’s not flirting,” he says evenly. “We were just talking.”

Dana hums, unconvinced. “Talkin’ real close.”

Robby exhales, already shifting focus. “New patient?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward the bay. “Just rolled in. Need you over there.”

“Alright,” he says.

And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.

★★★

“—Hey. Hold on a second,” Jack says, breath a little uneven.

“No, don’t—don’t hold on,” you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waist—firm, grounding, stopping you.

“Hey. Easy.” A breath. “Just—gimme a second, alright?”

You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit.  “This better be good.”

He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I’ll try not to waste your time.”

A beat. He looks at you properly now—focused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.

“Just… wanna get this straight,” he says.

Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Okay. Then say it.”

He nods once. “He can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.” A pause. “But there are lines.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “Such as?”

His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, enough to mean something. “Such as—you don’t forget who you’re with.”

You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Hard to forget when you’ve got your dick in me half the time I’m not at work.”

“Smartass,” he mutters. Then, quieter—“I’m serious. He doesn’t get to know how you taste. That’s mine.”

“Uh-huh…” You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. “So this is allowed?” You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.

“Yeah, allowed,” Jack nods, his jaw tight.

“Mm. This?” You lean down and kiss him—sweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.

He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.

“Yeah? What about this?” You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.

“All allowed,” he grates out, “but his mouth isn’t getting near this, alright, that’s all—” He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of you—loud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.

“Yeah? That good with you?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, already starting to ride him—slow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. “What about you and ’im?” you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.

Jack shrugs—or tries to. “What don’t you want?”

“No blowjobs either, then,” you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. “’S for me.”

“Sounds good to me.” His hands find your hips again, but he doesn’t guide—he just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.

You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.

“Right here,” he murmurs.

You meet his gaze. That same look—steady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.

“Good,” he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.

And when you move again, it’s slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him again—dirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips. “That’s better.”

★★​​★

It’s late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.

“No, can’t,” Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. “I’m home. She’s cooking. Smells like I’m about to get fat and happy.”

“Baby, can you come try this?” you call from the kitchen.

“One sec,” he says, then quieter, back into the phone—“What’d you wanna do?”

“Nothing,” Robby mutters. “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like crashing Santos and Whitaker’s… house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.”

Jack stops mid-step. “A hike,” he repeats. “At nine-thirty at night.”

A beat.

“Yeah, not happening,” he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.

You’re at the counter in that barely-there nightgown—soft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.

Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.

Then—business as usual.

“Alright,” he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. “What am I trying?”

You nod at the stove. “Carbonara.”

He leans over, tastes it, hums—low, approving.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “She’s showing off.”

You bump his arm lightly. “I am not.”

“You are,” he says, kissing you quick, easy, like he’s done it a thousand times. “It’s working.”

You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.

On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.

“Hike’s dumb,” Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. “What’s actually going on.”

“Nothing,” Robby says. “Just… can’t sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldn’t shut the fuck up—”

“—Hey,” Jack cuts in, calm, steady. “Take a breath.”

You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you anymore—focused now, locked into that mode.

“You’re good,” he says. “You’re not thinking anything dumb, right?”

A pause.

“…No,” Robby says. “Just need to… get out of my head, I don’t know.”

Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.

“He can come here,” you say, like it’s obvious.

Jack looks at you—quick, assessing—but there’s no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Come over. Food’s ready soon.”

“I don’t know, man—” Robby starts.

You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jack’s hand.

“Hey, Michael.”

There’s a beat.

Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.

“…Hey,” Robby says, slower. “Heard you were cooking.”

“Mhm,” you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jack’s where he stands beside you. “Plenty to go around.”

Jack’s hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessive—just there.

Robby hears the shift anyway.

“This a setup?” he asks.

You smile slightly. “You always this suspicious, or just with me?”

A quiet scoff from him.

“You should come,” you add, softer—but not innocent. “You sound like you need it.”

A beat. Jack’s thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.

Robby exhales. “Yeah. Guess I can make it.”

“Guess you can,” you say easily.

Silence again—but it’s different now.

You glance at Jack.

He nods once.

“Door’s unlocked,” you say. “Twenty minutes.”

You hand the phone back.

Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. “You heard her. No pressure.”

A pause.

“…Alright,” Robby says.

The line clicks dead.

Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.

“What?” You raise a brow.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll finish the laundry.” He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. “You gonna stay in this?” He asks.

“‘S that alright?” You wonder, leaning into his touch.

He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. “Sure.”

★★★

You’re out on the balcony when it comes up.

Jack’s place sits high enough that the city feels almost staged—Pittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. It’s one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. There’s music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you can’t see but can feel in the background.

The balcony’s not small—wide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, it’d be on something worth standing still for.

Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.

“Have either of you done this before?” Robby asks.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “No.”

You don’t answer.

You’re thinking—actually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jack’s arm like you need him to hold on a second. That’s when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadn’t come up when the idea itself had.

“…Have you?” Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.

“I am thinking,” you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.

Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.

“What do you mean you’re thinking?” Jack presses. “That’s not… I don’t know, something you half do or something. You’d know.”

“Or something,” Robby mutters under his breath.

You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. “Okay—no. I don’t think I’ve had a threesome.”

“How can you not think you’ve had a threesome?” Jack wonders.

You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You don’t notice how both men’s gaze drop there.

You exhale, already regretting engaging. “Because—technically—no one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?”

There’s a beat.

Robby’s mouth twitches.

Jack blinks. “...Right.”

“Okay?” you continue, defensive now. “It was—hands. That’s it. Group situation, but not… full commitment.”

Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Group situation,” he repeats.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Another guy or girl?” Jack asks, too quickly.

You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. “…Both.”

Jack leans back like you’ve just told him something deeply inconvenient. “...Huh.”

Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. “So not a threesome. Just… poor project management.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Oh my god.”

“That’s a foursome that lost direction,” he adds, dry.

“Whatever,” you shrug. “Med school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.”

Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.”

You smirk faintly. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

Jack scoffs. “I’ve had opportunities.”

“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced.

Robby glances at him sideways. “That sounds like a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” Jack says, defensive now. “I just—never felt the need.”

“Right,” Robby says. “Till now.”

Jack gives him a look. “Till now.”

Something passes there—quick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.

After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.

Inside, you hear Jack moving—plates, running water. Robby’s voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.

“Thanks, baby,” you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.

You push him away lightly. “Don’t start.”

Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.

“Next to the fridge?” he asks, like he hasn’t been here a hundred times already—like tonight isn’t slightly different.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Recycling. Thank you.”

He gives a short nod and turns— You catch his wrist. It’s not forceful. Just enough.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

He looks down at you.

There’s a pause—his eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. You’re close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.

You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightly— and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s far from tentative either. Close. Testing.

His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a second—then responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided where it’s allowed to land. 

Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. That’s what does it.

“Starting without me?” Jack’s voice cuts in, dry. “Bit mean.”

Robby pulls back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—even though—

Even though.

You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.

“Next to the fridge,” Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.

Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.

Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesn’t move out of the way.

He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.

You end up on the couch.

It happens naturally—plates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.

Jack’s in the middle, halfway through some story from work—one of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he can’t quite let go of.

You’re tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neck—fingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.

Robby’s behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thigh—slow, absent movement, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.

Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.

Jack keeps talking.

You lean in without really thinking about it—your lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.

Jack’s hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.

Robby’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, it shifts—just slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.

Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your back—then relaxes again.

He doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.

And for a second—just a second—you’re aware of both of them at once.

Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavier—watching more than speaking.

Jack’s gaze lifts. Meets Robby’s. There’s a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between them—wordless, measured. Something you can’t read.

Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robby’s jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.

Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this time—slow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.

When you pull back, it’s not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.

Robby’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like it’s nothing—like it’s always been this simple—and kiss him too.

Different. Not softer, not harder—just new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like he’s grounding himself in it.

There’s a quiet breath from him—almost a huff, almost disbelief.

“This is fun,” You murmur.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.

Jack’s mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.

Robby hesitates for a fraction of a second— then doesn’t.

The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s learning something he’s not used to having.

You exhale, a soft sound you don’t quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctively—one finding Jack’s hair, the other Robby’s, fingers threading through both, holding them there.

For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.

Then you shift, just slightly—hands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robby’s hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.

Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like he’s checking in—like he always does.

His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.

You lean back into him, lips finding his neck again—dragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.

When you pull back, it’s only barely. Your breath catches—not dramatic, just… aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.

Jack’s hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. “Feeling needy?”

You nod against him, answering with your mouth instead—kissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. “I know, hon.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You want me, or him?”

You hesitate. Not long—but long enough to matter.

Robby’s hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightly—testing, not taking. Waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

“It’s alright,” Jack starts, voice still calm, like he’s talking you through something he already trusts. “Go ahead. She likes it when you—”

“—I’ll ask you for help if I need it, alright?” Robby cuts in, low and even.

They exchange a look—brief, sharp, understood.

You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jack’s cheek—something sweet, grounding—before shifting your weight and climbing into Robby’s lap.

He stiffens for a second. Just a second.

Robby’s always been hard to read. Time’s etched itself into his face, but there’s still that wall there—something held back, something controlled. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s you. His best friend’s girl, sitting on him like this—close, warm, curious.

“You okay there, Sasquatch?” you tease, tilting your head up at him.

His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicks—down, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.

“Sasquatch? Really?” he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Beard, tall… same thing, no?” you shrug lightly.

That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.

“She always cracking jokes before getting fucked?” Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties

“Depends,” Jack admits. “One time I got G.I Joe for an hour.”

“He was in uniform, in my defense,” You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robby’s fingers, eager. “Come on, Michael.” 

Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him. 

“What a cute noise you make, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs. “Ask me nicely now.”

You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.

“Ask or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,” Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.

“Please,” you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”

You crash your lips to his—harsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussy—no mercy, no prep.

You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digits—walls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.

“Move your fingers toward her ventral,” Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.

Robby exhales sharp through his nose—mild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.

“Christ, you’re making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Huh?” Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sight—your swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic. 

He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrust—wet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.

He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot. 

“You getting close?” He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. “That right?”

Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.

“What else she like?” Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.

Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.

Robby yanks his fingers free abrupt—your pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively. 

His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deep—tongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.

“Atta girl, you’re a fuckin’ mess now aren’t you?” Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. “You wanna cum?”

You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.

“Not yet,” Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. “Barely seen what you can do.”

You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.

“Go over to him. Make him feel good,” Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.

You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.

“On the floor, knees, now,” Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.

You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.

“You alright there?” he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.

You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining there—heat pulsing under your touch. 

You tug the waistband down, freeing his cock—thick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.

Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead first—tongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.

“Look pretty down there,” Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.

“You’re so soft with her,” Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.

Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steady—saliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.

Robby's gaze burns hot—flicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalp—not shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm. 

Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.

He groans low, head lolling back, “Fucking… perfect. So perfect, always.”

Tension crackles thicker between them—Jack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.

“You alright there, man?” Jack scoffs, a light smile. “Can’t handle it?”

It’s a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.

Jack knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the tells. The slight tilt of Robby’s head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. He’s seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.

Robby doesn’t back down from anything. Least of all him.

Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jack’s—steady, unflinching.

“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” Robby agrees with his own smile. “Go ‘head.”

Jack groans at your relentless mouth—fast and wet, then slowing perfect against him—his hand stroking over Robby’s clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby's—sloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.

You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fist—pumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.

“Oh fuck,” Jack moans into Robby’s mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.

Your free hand joins Jack’s on Robby’s cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jack—your hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure. 

Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jack’s cock.

Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. “Fuck, feel that grip? She’s got hands made for this,” he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.

Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. “Let him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.”

You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes over—fist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheek—wet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.

“Dreamt about this once,” he admits, voice low. “The way Jack described it, you’d think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?” He wonders.

You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.

“Oh, baby, you’re touchin’ yourself too?” Robby notices. “God, so desperate.”

“Seemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,” You remark, not looking away from Robby’s gaze.

His jaw tightens. “He’s pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.”

You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutal—half his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw. 

You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robby’s thigh.

“Shit—yeah, like that,” Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the pace—pulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in. 

He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.

You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robby’s cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robby’s hand tightens harder in your scalp.

Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.

Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.

“I’m good,” Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. “Slow down, sweetheart.”

Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroat—throat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.

Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: “Fucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?” He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheek—left, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skin—before you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.

“She can take it,” Jack murmurs, voice thick. “Can you, baby? Come on, speak now.”

You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. “Mhm.” You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.

“So damn sweet now,” Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. “That feel good?”

You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberate—thumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.

“No more of that, alright?” Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. “Yeah? You listening?”

You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. “Fuck you—you wanna cum, I get to cum too.”

Robby tilts his head, that piercing look—the one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. “Not how it works,” Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.

You glance at Jack, pleading.

“Don’t look at him,” Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. “Put both hands behind your back if you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat.”

Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lips—slow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.

Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob frantic—suction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist. 

You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.

“Jesus Christ—yeah, there we go…” Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight. 

He floods your mouth suddenly—hot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.

“Fuck,” he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.

You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.

You smile at that. “Go on,” Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. “Jack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?”

Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.

“Atta boy,” You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. “You think you can still fuck me, old man?” You whisper.

“Watch it,” Robby murmurs.

“You can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.” You whisper. “Jack,” you grab Jack’s hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.

“Up and at it,” Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.

“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.

You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.

In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined panties—crotch soaked dark—and a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.

Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yours—passionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.

Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.

Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neck—sucking a mark deliberate.

“Baby, lie down for me,” Jack instructs.

You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robby’s lips trail over his skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. “You gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?”

“Fuck off,” Jack murmurs. “Go sit in a corner and wait, or somethin’,” Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.

“Think I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,” Robby says. “Unless you’re not as skilled as you’ve been bragging to be.”

“Oh, my god, one of you make me cum or else I’m doing it myself, Jesus,” you whine.

“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. “I’m leaving you waiting here.”

“She’s being a brat. Have some patience, honey,” Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. “But she’s right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.”

Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh. 

Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show. 

"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck," 

Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.

Jack’s tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise. 

Your eyes stay fixed on Robby’s as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.

“Wider,” Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. “Stop squirming. Take it.”

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissection—calm, analytical, utterly in control. “How close are you?” he asks, his tone clinical.

“Mm, close,” you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jack’s tongue flicks hard over your clit.

“You make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,” Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. “Callin’ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.

Jack’s tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes don’t leave Robby’s as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.

“Want me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?” Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips. 

He doesn’t miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like he’s holding you together.

You’re too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.

“Answer me,” Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. “Who do you want first?”

“You,” you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.

Robby’s smirk widens. “You hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.” He doesn’t look away from you as he says it.

He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robby’s fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.

“I was right,” you murmur, breathless. “Knew you’d be mean.”

“Yeah? You like it?” Robby wonders, though he already knows.

You bite your lip, refusing to answer.

He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure command—dark, expectant. Obey.

“I like it,” you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jack’s hair. “Fuck—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”

“Yeah?” Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. “Eyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep ’em right here.” His gaze holds yours captive. “Good girl… good girl, aren’t you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isn’t that right?”

You whimper as Jack’s tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.

“Good job, baby. Fucking hell,” Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise. 

He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robby’s on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.

“My favourite girl in the world, you know that,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.

You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robby’s mouth.

“You aren’t a brat, are you baby?” Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. “No, honey, not for me, isn’t that right? Yeah, I know, I know… my sweet girl,” He replaces Robby’s mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss. 

“Told you. Lover boy,” Robby remarks to you.

You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robby’s lips.

You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. It’s harsh and sweet all at once—a clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest. 

Robby stands, briefly cupping Jack’s jaw in a gesture that’s both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robby’s hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.

He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.

“Ass up, sweetheart,” Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.

You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a word—a seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.

"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.

Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.

Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.

“Shit,” Robby mutters. “Fuckin’ hell, you know much Jack’s raved about this pussy? Callin’ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.”

His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythm—pounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. “Perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?”

You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him. 

“How the fuck do you leave home, Jack— Jesus Christ,” Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.

“Life or death, and that’s it,” Jack says. 

“Come on, give him some love, kid,” Robby tells.

Jack’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. “Fuck, just like that,” he rasps.

You’re split between them—Robby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jack’s length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robby’s hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet. 

“You like being used like this baby?” Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him. 

You don’t answer, focused on the sensation of Robby’s cock harsh within you.

“He asked you a question,” Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. 

“See? Not so hard,” Robby groans.

Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jack’s cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Just like that… Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."

The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."

You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.

"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you. 

Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.

"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder. 

Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fucking—hell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"

His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke. 

"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. 

You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.

"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."

“Go ahead, cum,” Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electric—each thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Now.”

You moan around Jack’s cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robby’s thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.

He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you. 

“Goddamnit,” Robby murmurs, a pant. 

Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jack’s cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.

“Your turn,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.

But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until you’re straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jack’s chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robby’s cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jack’s length.

Jack’s hands come to your hips, steadying you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. He’s kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jack’s fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.

You open for him, tasting Robby’s salty tang on Jack’s skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jack’s eyes never leave Robby’s as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.

Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Atta girl,” Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.

Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.

You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jack’s thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

“That’s it,” Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your body—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.

You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Eyes open, sweetheart.”

Robby’s command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. He’s moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where you’re joined with Jack. He’s watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.

“Look at you,” Robby murmurs, his voice thick. “Takin’ him so well."

His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Your moan, soft.

“Fucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum f’me,” he moans. 

Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.

Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. “Fucking—just like that—”

As you’re pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jack’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. It’s raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.

Robby breaks the kiss. “Lift up for a second, kid,” he breathes against your skin.

Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jack’s slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robby’s hand replaces you, wrapping around Jack’s shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.

“Missed the taste of you,” Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friend’s face as he works him.

Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jack’s cock until you’re fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.

“Go ahead, finish,” Robby growls, his command for both of you.

You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. He’s close—you can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.

“Come on, Jack,” Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. “Fill her up. Give her what she needs.”

That does it. With a shattered cry, Jack’s hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robby’s already there, flooding you.

Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarbone—checking, not asking out loud but asking anyway. 

Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it’s been all night.

“Mhm,” You nod, catching your breath.

“There she is,” Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.

Robby doesn’t move right away.

He’s sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier now—but there’s something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least… dialed down.

You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, there’s that flicker—uncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just… recalibration.

Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.

Robby’s hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demanding—just holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto something.

When you pull back, you stay close.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

“Hey,” he echoes.

Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when he’s settling you.

Jack kisses gently at your bare back, “Be right back,” he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic. 

You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.

You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jack’s shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.

“Jesus,” you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. “I think my legs might actually fall off.”

That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.

He’s sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks… different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Think you’ll live.”

You glance over at him, managing a small smile.

He’s already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low light—the Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. There’s something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.

There’s a beat.

Then, softer—

“…You good?” You ask.

He turns your head toward you. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admit– “Needed that. Needed to be… not alone, I think.”

You watch him for a second—something thoughtful in your expression.

“That something you’d wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?” You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. “

Robby doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at you—really looks, like he’s trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.

Your hair’s a mess, Jack’s shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just… asking.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“…You always this direct after something like that?” he mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m an ortho resident. I don’t have time for interpretive dance.”

That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like he’s trying to settle something under the surface.

“It’s not—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “It’s not really a ‘one and done’ kind of question.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why not?”

He glances at the door—where Jack disappeared—then back at you.

Because Jack’s not just some guy. Because this isn’t just sex. Because there’s history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.

You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. “Do you have… like, real feelings for him? Or me?”

Robby scoffs a chuckle. “I don’t have time to think about that.”

“Just time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure he’ll give me a complaint about that later.” You murmur.

Robby smiles a bit. “You two are… perfect for each other. I still don’t get how he found you.”

“I don’t know either, to be honest,” You admit. “But he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And it’s not just because your dick is great, promise. You’re always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We aren’t picky people.”

“Picked up on that,” Robby nods, quieter now. “What are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.”

You smile a little—more to yourself than anything—your hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.

“No idea,” you admit. “However long he wants me around, I guess.”

Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Well, if age’s anything to go by, you’ve got a good couple of years.”

You smack his arm lightly. “You’re literally older than him.”

“I’m not marrying you,” Robby shoots back, deadpan.

“You’re an ass,” you sigh.

That earns you a small smile.

The door opens.

Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweep—quick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.

“My leg’s killing me,” Jack mutters, like it’s an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like pain’s just background noise. He hands you the glass. “Drink.”

You take it, still watching him. “You say that about everything.”

“Because everything’s fine.”

Robby snorts under his breath. “Yeah. That’s a healthy coping mechanism.”

Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to compare notes?”

Robby raises his brows. “Not particularly.”

Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automatically—absent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.

His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.

“What’d I miss?” he asks.

You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. “Marriage.”

Jack huffs. “One night with my girl and you’re already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.”

Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.

“With you, idiot,” you correct.

Jack glances down at you. “Oh, him and I are getting married now?”

You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby instead—curling lightly into his side.

It lasts all of two seconds.

Jack’s arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.

“Relax,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.

Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.

Robby stays the night.

Not in the same way—there’s a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.

He’s not intrusive. Never has been.

But he doesn’t leave, either.

if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D

a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.

anyway thank u guys all for the support on my (wo)man on willpower, so proud of that fic and so sweet the reblogs and comments! i wish u could see my grin every time! and yall hammered me for this so i hope its up to standard, meets an expectation or two. i had a lot of fun just exploring the dynamic, you x robby, robby x jack, jack x you, like i am a true believer in true love triangles, so hopefully that came across, but admittedly, still keeping jack and reader endgame obvi, so.. also sorry if it aint gay enough, i told yall i do not read mlm stuff, just not for me. i love it! just dont like, actively read it yk! i also just wanted to have fun with the prose, emotional stuff, etc, and idk. hopefully the smut isnt terrible, that shit is hard as hell! like, positions, dirty talk?! dirty talk is hardddd guys!! then like the build to it, ugh. i wish i had a smut class at my uni or something so i could really get into the weeds of it, and spend time endlessly editing it. i really couldve spent another few days editing this but honestly wanted it OUT and DONE !! need to lock in got exams soon team. okay sorry for this long as hell authors note ! lmfaoo. hope yall liked!

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ show me.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – nerves bring the night to a pause, only for trust, curiosity and garrett’s complete lack of pressure to turn it into something even more intimate. warnings – 18+, explicit sexual content, mutual masturbation, nudity, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple piercing stimulation, consensual dominance, manhandling, masturbation discussion, orgasm, aftercare notes from me – as requested here!!! i am s o o o down bad for them 🙂‍↕️ word count – 5.6k

navigation – masterlist | princess!reader masterlist

The hockey house is too quiet for what they’re doing. There’s no Logan yelling at a video game, no Tucker opening and closing cupboards, no Dean wandering into Garrett’s room without knocking because he’s never accepted that doors are intended to prevent entry.

They’re all still at the Sigma house, where the party is probably entering the stage of the night involving broken furniture and someone insisting they can perform a backflip.

She should feel relieved. Instead, the absence of everyone else seems to have made the room smaller.

Garrett is sitting against the headboard with one leg stretched over the mattress and the other bent slightly beneath her, his hand warm against the back of her neck while he kisses her like the last thirty minutes have been leading to this rather than the two of them abruptly abandoning a frat party under separate, extremely unconvincing pretences.

She had told Claire she was tired. Garrett had told Dean he needed to check whether the back door was locked.

Now she’s kneeling beside Garrett on his bed, her bare knees sinking into the comforter, sneakers abandoned near his desk and the short skirt of her cream dress gathered dangerously high around her thighs.

The dress has tiny black polka dots and a halter neckline tied behind her neck in a soft bow. It had looked sweet in her dorm mirror, feminine enough to make her feel polished despite the fact that the back barely covered the top of her underwear.

Garrett had stared at it when he picked her up. He’s considerably less subtle now.

His mouth moves over hers slowly, his tongue catching against her own while his fingers slide through the hair at the nape of her neck. She has one hand twisted into his shirt and the other against the hard plane of his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath her palm with the same fast, uneven rhythm as hers.

It feels so fucking good. That’s part of the problem.

She’s kissed men before. She’s kissed a lot of men, actually, some of them long enough that she learned the precise point where their technique would stop improving and she could begin calculating how much sleep she would get if she left immediately afterward.

She knows how to have sex. She knows how to make the right noises, move at the right moments and smile afterward as if the whole thing has been mutually transformative rather than something she endured with polite enthusiasm. She knows how to fake an orgasm convincingly enough that nobody has ever requested additional evidence, then collect her clothes and move on with her life.

Garrett already knows the noises she makes when she actually comes. He knows the difference.

The thought sends another nervous flutter through her stomach, irritatingly delicate compared to the heat gathering lower down.

Garrett’s thumb strokes beneath her jaw. His lips catch her lower one and tug gently before releasing it, drawing a soft sound from her that he answers with a quiet hum. He shifts his weight and catches her around the waist.

She moves without resisting when he pulls her over his thighs, settling astride his lap while his back presses more firmly into the headboard. The position brings her directly over the hard shape beneath his jeans. Her breath catches.

Garrett’s hands disappear beneath her dress. His palms slide up the bare skin of her waist, broad and warm, gathering the soft fabric as they go until the skirt bunches around his wrists. He traces the curve above her hips, then tucks both thumbs beneath the thin elastic sides of her underwear.

He doesn’t pull them down. He only strokes there, small movements against the delicate skin at the front of her hips while he kisses the corner of her mouth.

Her stomach tightens beneath his hands. Garrett pauses. The kiss breaks slowly. His face remains close enough that his nose brushes hers, dark eyes moving over her expression while his thumbs go still inside the waistband.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she insists, although the words emerge too quickly and slightly breathless, which means they sound exactly like every other time she has said she’s fine while visibly not being fine.

Garrett draws one hand from beneath her dress and cups her chin. His thumb passes over her bottom lip, smoothing across skin already swollen from kissing. “Princess.”

She looks at his shoulder instead of his face. His black shirt is slightly wrinkled beneath her fingers, the collar pulled sideways from where she has been holding him. “I’m just a little nervous,” she admits.

Garrett nods once. There’s no laugh. No smug comment about her being the one who dragged him out of the party or climbed into his lap. His thumb moves over her lip again, gentler now. “Baby, we don’t have to have sex tonight.”

Her gaze lifts to his. “We don’t?”

His eyebrows pull together. “No.”

“But…” She glances toward his closed bedroom door, as though Logan, Dean and Tucker might materialise behind it if she references their absence too directly. “The house is empty.”

“That doesn’t mean we need to have sex.”

“Oh.”

Garrett studies her face. “Okay?”

She nods slowly. “Okay.”

His brow remains furrowed. He strokes the centre of her lower lip once more, watching the small drag of his thumb as if he’s trying to smooth the uncertainty out of her by hand. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She huffs, but her chest loosens enough for a little more air to enter it. “I don’t know. I thought you’d be annoyed.”

“Why would I be mad?”

She shrugs, the movement small beneath his hand. “I dunno.”

Garrett’s expression changes in a way she cannot name without becoming uncomfortable. Something soft and unhappy crosses his face before his mouth curves, not quite into his usual grin but something close enough to make the room feel familiar again.

“I’m not mad,” he says. “I like having you half-naked in my bed whether or not there’s a scheduled activity.”

Her mouth twitches. “Scheduled activity?”

“Sex.”

She presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “I understood.”

“Good. Didn’t want to overwhelm you with the terminology.”

She rolls her eyes, properly this time.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

She leans forward and kisses him. Garrett makes a pleased sound and settles his hand back at her waist, allowing her to choose the pressure, the pace, the slow movement of her mouth against his. 

The butterflies don’t disappear, but they loosen, turning warmer and less frantic beneath her ribs. She kisses him again, then once more because his mouth is soft and hot and his lower lip fits perfectly between hers.

“I like kissing you,” she whispers.

Garrett’s eyes remain closed for half a second after she pulls back. “Yeah.”

She waits.

He opens one eye. “What?”

She huffs. “That’s all?”

“What do you want, a written review?”

She pinches his side.

He laughs, catching her wrist before she can do it again. “I like kissing you too, princess.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Perfect.”

“Glad we cleared that up.”

She presses her smile into his mouth. Knowing he’s not waiting for anything seems to have removed the imaginary timer ticking somewhere in the room. She can kiss him without wondering when the kissing is supposed to become something else. She can sit on him and feel his erection beneath her without believing it’s become her responsibility.

Which, naturally, makes her want to get naked. She keeps kissing him as she reaches behind her neck and catches one end of the halter tie. The bow slips loose beneath her fingers. Garrett notices when the front of the dress begins to soften against his chest.

His hand closes around her waist. She draws the ties forward and pulls the dress up. The cream fabric slides over her hips, catches briefly at her breasts, and then disappears between them in a soft, polka-dotted heap.

Garrett stares. She’s left sitting in his lap wearing only a tiny pair of cream underwear, her nipples already hard in the cool room, the silver bars glinting faintly beneath the light from his bedside lamp.

“Hi,” she says.

Garrett’s eyes drag upward with visible effort. “You’re evil.”

“You said you liked having me half-naked.”

“That was before you launched a targeted attack.”

She smiles, pleased, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. Garrett grips the fabric himself and drags the shirt over his head in one impatient movement. His hair catches in the collar and springs free in complete disarray. She laughs.

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“You’re naked,” he mumbles. “I don’t care about my hair.”

He tosses the t-shirt toward his desk without looking. It lands nowhere near it.

She places both hands against his bare chest. Garrett’s warm beneath her palms, skin smooth except for the faint roughness of hair beneath his navel and the small marks hockey has collected across his body without permission. A fading bruise sits over one rib. There’s a pale line near his shoulder she has seen a hundred times at pools and practices, although touching it now feels like learning it again.

Garrett’s hands return to her hips. She kisses him harder. The relief of having nowhere to get to makes everything more intense. His mouth opens beneath hers. His fingers spread over the bare curve of her ass, drawing her forward until the damp centre of her underwear rubs over the hard length trapped inside his jeans.

Her lips part on a moan. Garrett does it again.

She begins moving without waiting for him, rolling her hips into the pressure, arms winding around his shoulders as she grinds against him. The denim is rough through the thin fabric between her legs. Every slow drag catches against her clit and sends another bright pulse of pleasure through her.

Garrett groans into her mouth. “Fuck,” he breathes.

His head lowers to her chest. He catches one breast in his palm and closes his mouth around the piercing.

Her entire body jolts. “G.”

He hums around the metal, the vibration moving straight through her. His tongue traces the bar before he sucks carefully, one hand holding her hip steady while she continues grinding over him.

Her forehead drops against his curls. The room contracts around the wet pull of his mouth, the heat of his body beneath hers and the heavy friction building between her legs.

This is what she likes most about him. Not only that he knows what he’s doing, although he does, which remains both deeply satisfying and personally irritating. It’s the way he makes the constant noise inside her head go quiet.

Garrett puts his hand somewhere and her body stays there. He tells her to look at him and she does. He catches her jaw, her hips, her wrists, and suddenly she doesn’t have to manage the angle or the rhythm or what expression belongs on her face. She doesn’t have to orchestrate her own pleasure while guiding a man toward the conclusion that he caused it.

She can simply let him handle her. Garrett releases her nipple with a soft, wet sound and moves to the other. His thumb circles the one he has abandoned, keeping the metal slick beneath the pad while his tongue finds the second bar. She whimpers and tightens her thighs around his hips.

“That good?” he asks against her breast.

“Yes,” she gasps.

His teeth graze her nipple. The rest of the complaint dissolves. Garrett laughs softly and turns them.

One second she’s above him, fingers twisted into his curls, and the next her back meets the mattress. He follows her down, fitting himself between her thighs while his mouth travels over the centre of her chest.

She stares at the ceiling as he kisses beneath her breasts, along her ribs and over her stomach. His hands hold her hips in place, thumbs moving absently along the elastic of her underwear.

By the time his mouth reaches the skin below her navel, she’s breathing too quickly again. She pushes herself upright, and Garrett glances up.

His face between her thighs does something dangerous to the rhythm of her heart, but her hands have already reached for his jeans. She catches the button and begins working it open.

Garrett straightens immediately. One hand closes around her jaw, fingers firm beneath her cheeks, and he kisses her. Deep. Slow. Thorough enough that the button remains trapped uselessly beneath her thumb while his tongue slides against hers and the hand at her face keeps her exactly where he wants her. Her thoughts blur.

When he finally pulls back, her lips chase his before she can stop them. Garrett’s thumb presses gently at the corner of her mouth. “Thought you didn’t want to.”

“I…” She glances down at his open fly, then back at him. “I don’t know.”

He watches her. She hates how easily he can see the confusion inside her, the desire winding itself through relief and nerves until she cannot tell where one stops and another begins.

“I want you,” she says, because that part is true. “I just don’t know if I want to, like…”

“Have sex.”

She nods.

“Okay.”

Her brow furrows. “But I don’t want to stop.”

“I didn’t say we had to stop.”

She blinks at him. Garrett’s head tilts slightly. His gaze shifts over her face, then down the length of her body, lingering where her thighs remain open around his hips.

“I have an idea.”

She nods immediately.

His mouth twitches. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“I trust you.”

The words leave her without ceremony. Garrett goes still for one quiet moment. Then he bends and kisses her, softer this time, once against her lips before sitting back on his knees. “You get yourself off, yeah?”

Heat crawls across her chest. “Yeah.”

“Mhm.” He drags the sound out, visibly pleased with the information. “Well, show me.”

Her arms loosen. “What?”

“Show me.”

Her stomach drops pleasantly. Garrett holds her gaze. There’s no mockery in his face, though his eyes have darkened and his mouth keeps threatening a grin.

“And I’ll show you,” he adds.

She looks down at the shape straining against his jeans. Her thighs press together without permission.

Garrett notices. “Interested?”

She nods.

“Words.”

“Yes.” Her voice comes out softer than intended. “Okay.”

He kisses her again as if rewarding the answer, his hand sliding into her hair while his mouth opens over hers. She feels him reach between them and push his jeans down, fabric dragging over his thighs before he breaks away long enough to stand at the edge of the bed.

She watches him strip. His jeans pool around his ankles. He steps out of them, then hooks his thumbs beneath the waistband of his black boxers and pulls those down too. Her breath catches.

She’s seen his cock before, held it and taken it into her mouth in the bathroom at Malone’s, but the cramped stall and the urgency of kneeling between his legs hadn’t allowed her to properly consider the fact that he’s… big.

Garrett’s proportionate to the rest of him, which isn’t comforting when the rest of him is built to drive grown men into plexiglass.

Garrett catches her staring. “Problem?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just observing.”

He grips himself loosely, giving one slow stroke that makes his stomach tighten. “Observing what?”

She looks at him. “You know.”

His grin appears. “I’d still like to hear it.”

“Absolutely not.”

He drags his bottom lip through his teeth. “Worth a shot.”

She shakes her head, but her hand has already found the side of her underwear. She lifts her hips and shimmies the fabric down her thighs, kicking it toward the foot of the bed. Garrett’s grin disappears. His gaze travels between her legs and remains there.

The attention makes her want to close them, because nobody has ever looked at her as though the sight itself is doing something to them. Garrett reaches down, catches both her ankles and pulls her toward him. A startled laugh escapes her as her body slides over the comforter, stopping at the edge of the mattress with her knees bent and Garrett standing between them.

“Bossy,” she says.

He wraps one hand around himself. “You love it.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but Garrett strokes once, slowly, and the words disappear. His fist moves from the base to the head, thumb sweeping through the wetness already gathered there. The muscles in his forearm tighten. His lower lip catches between his teeth for half a second before he releases it.

Her mouth goes dry.

“Go on, baby.”

She lets her knees fall wider. Her hand slides down her stomach, fingertips brushing over skin still sensitive from his mouth. Garrett watches every inch of the movement.

She finds her clit and begins circling slowly. Pleasure moves through her at once, less sharp than Garrett’s fingers but familiar, controlled. Her body knows her own touch. She knows the exact pressure to use, the rhythm that will carry her there if she keeps it steady.

The difference is Garrett. Garrett standing over her naked, stroking his cock while his eyes remain fixed between her thighs.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. Her fingers falter. He gives himself another slow stroke. “Don’t stop.”

She resumes, cheeks hot.

“That’s how you touch yourself?”

She nods.

“Words, princess.”

“Yes.”

“Show me properly.”

The instruction sends heat pouring through her. She presses more firmly, circling in the rhythm she uses alone beneath her blankets. Garrett’s breathing changes.

His fist moves faster, not much, but enough to make the muscles low in his stomach flex with each stroke. She watches the head disappear into his hand and emerge again, wet beneath the lamplight.

“You think about me when you do this?” he asks.

Her eyes lift to his. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he repeats.

She bites the inside of her cheek.

Garrett tilts his head. “How many times is sometimes?”

“Garrett.”

“Every week?”

She says nothing.

His grin grows slowly. “Every day?”

“No.”

“That answer came suspiciously fast.”

She speeds up her fingers, partly because pleasure has begun coiling low inside her and partly because it’s becoming difficult to maintain an argument.

Garrett watches her thighs twitch. “What do you think about?”

“You know what.”

“I know what you told me before.” His thumb brushes over the head of his cock. “My hands on your tits. My mouth.”

Her breath stutters.

“What else?”

She shakes her head.

“Come on, baby. You can lie in my bed with your legs open and touch yourself while I jerk off, but you can’t tell me what you think about?”

The words move through her like another hand. She circles herself harder. “You holding me down.”

Garrett’s fist tightens. “Yeah?”

She nods.

“Moving you around?”

“Yes.”

“Putting you where I want you?”

Her hips lift faintly into her own hand. “G.”

“Thought so.” His voice has dropped lower, the amusement thinning beneath something rougher.

She watches his hand slide over himself. His shoulders are tense, broad beneath the low bedroom light, curls falling over his forehead as he looks down at her. He wants to touch her. She can see it in every small movement he refuses to make – the way his free hand flexes at his side, how his body leans toward the mattress before he corrects himself, the dark concentration in his eyes whenever her fingers slip lower and gather more wetness.

But he doesn’t reach for her. He gave her an idea. He gave her a boundary inside the moment, and he keeps it even while his breathing turns uneven. The restraint is so much hotter than touching would have been. She drags her fingers through the wetness and returns to her clit.

Garrett groans. “Jesus Christ.”

Her head presses back into the mattress. “You’re staring.”

“You’re putting on a show.”

“You told me to.”

He huffs. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”

She laughs breathlessly, but the sound breaks when she finds the right pressure again.

“That’s it,” Garrett murmurs. “Keep doing that.”

Her eyes drift closed.

“No, look at me.” They reopen immediately. Approval flashes across his face. “Good girl.”

Her stomach clenches so sharply that her thighs shake.

Garrett sees it happen. “There we go.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles. 

“You’re lying there touching yourself because I told you to, and you still think you’re in a position to boss me around?”

She makes a soft, frustrated noise.

“Yeah,” he says, stroking himself faster. “That’s what I thought.”

Pleasure builds steadily beneath her fingers, every circle tightening the coil inside her. She watches Garrett’s fist move, watches the muscles in his thighs tense and the bead of sweat beginning to shine faintly at his temple.

His bottom lip disappears between his teeth again. She’s never seen him like this. Not in the bathroom, where she had been too focused on doing everything correctly, and not the morning he fingered her, when he had kept all his attention fixed on her.

Now she gets to watch pleasure move across his face without disguise. His jaw loosens when his hand twists near the head. His brows draw together whenever he strokes down more firmly. His breathing leaves him in quiet bursts through his nose until she moves her fingers faster and a rough sound breaks from his chest.

“Fuck, princess.” She whimpers. “Look so pretty like this,” he says. “All spread out for me.”

Her fingers slip slightly.

Garrett’s eyes sharpen. “Keep going.” She obeys. “That’s my girl.”

The pressure climbs higher, her stomach tightening beneath the remains of his release-free touch. She bends one knee farther, heel digging into the edge of the mattress as her hips begin moving faintly beneath her hand.

Garrett watches.

“What would you usually do?” he asks.

She pants through the next circle. “What?”

“When you’re alone. What else do you do?”

She shakes her head, unable to organise an answer.

He tilts his head. “You use a toy?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“What kind?”

Her face burns. “A vibrator.”

“Where is it?”

“My dorm.”

“Shame.” She lets out a broken laugh. Garrett strokes himself harder. “Next time, bring it.”

The phrase next time sends another pulse through her.

“You’d like that, huh?” His voice has become rougher, words breaking slightly around his breath. “Letting me watch you use it?” She nods. “Maybe I’ll hold it for you.” Her fingers press harder. “Keep you still while I make you come with it.”

“Garrett.”

“Or make you hold it and tell you when you’re allowed to finish.”

The pleasure spikes. Her back arches slightly from the mattress.

Garrett groans. “Fuck. You like that.”

She cannot pretend otherwise. “Yes.”

“Course you do.”

She’s never been spoken to like this without finding it embarrassing. Other men have tried. They have repeated phrases clearly acquired from pornography, asked questions they didn’t wait for her to answer and called her names that felt disconnected from everything happening inside her body.

Garrett knows where the words need to land. His bossy best friend, who wants control over every detail until his hands close around her and take the responsibility away.

Her fingers move faster. The orgasm begins approaching in heavy, gathering waves, her muscles tightening around nothing while the wet sound of Garrett’s fist fills the space between her breaths. “G,” she whimpers.

“I know.”

“I’m close.”

“Yeah?”

She nods quickly.

Garrett’s head tips back for half a second, throat working. “Me too.”

His hand speeds up. She watches him, mesmerised by the slight loss of control in his body. His hips begin meeting his fist in small, involuntary movements. His free hand grips the edge of the mattress beside her thigh hard enough that his knuckles pale.

He still doesn’t touch her. “Don’t stop,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Come on, baby. Let me watch.” Her body tightens. “That’s it.”

She circles herself faster, no longer capable of maintaining the slow performance of showing him. Her thighs shake, knees drawing inward before she forces them open again.

Garrett notices. “Keep those legs open.”

She moans.

“Good girl.”

The orgasm breaks through her. Her mouth opens around his name as pleasure pulses hard beneath her fingers, hips jerking upward from the mattress. She half rolls onto her side automatically, curling away from the intensity while a broken moan leaves her.

Garrett catches her. His free hand closes around her hip and pulls her flat onto her back again. “No, stay there.”

The firm movement sends another aftershock through her. She gasps, fingers still pressed uselessly between her thighs while her body continues fluttering around the remains of the orgasm.

Garrett steps closer. His fist moves once, twice, faster now, eyes fixed on her face as his breathing fractures. “Fuck.”

His body tightens. Warm release spills across her stomach, landing in thick streaks over the soft skin below her navel. Garrett groans, head dropping forward, his hand slowing as the last of it pulses over her.

For several seconds, neither of them moves. Her chest rises beneath the silver bars through her nipples. Garrett’s does the same above her, shoulders shifting with every unsteady breath. The room smells like sex despite the fact that, technically, they have still not had it.

A laugh bubbles out of her. Garrett looks down. She presses the back of her wrist to her mouth, but another giggle escapes anyway, loose and delighted from the endorphins still moving through her.

His mouth curves. “Good?”

She nods, hair shifting against his mattress. “So good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Garrett wipes his hand against the inside of his discarded boxers, then drops onto the mattress beside her with all the grace of a man whose legs have temporarily resigned.

The bed bounces beneath his weight. She turns her head toward him. His face is flushed, curls damp near his temples and chest still rising too quickly. He stares at the ceiling like it’s witnessed something life-changing.

She shuffles closer and settles the side of her head against his shoulder. Garrett’s arm lifts automatically around her. Neither of them speaks for a moment. His fingers move slowly over her upper arm while their breathing returns to normal. Downstairs, the refrigerator makes a loud mechanical hum and then stops.

She glances down at her stomach. “G.”

“Mhm?”

“You’ve got to clean me up.”

Garrett closes his eyes. “Gimme a second.”

She giggles again. “You made the mess.”

“I’m aware.”

Her nose scrunches up. “It’s getting cold.”

His eyes open. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s true.”

“Can you give me thirty seconds to recover from the most intense mutual-masturbation experience of my life?”

She tips her face toward him. “The most intense?”

Garrett looks down at her, completely serious. “By a humiliating margin.”

Her smile spreads.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not.”

He nudges his nose into her hair. “You are. I can feel it happening.”

She traces one finger absently over the centre of his chest. “You were staring at me.”

“You were naked and touching yourself,” he mutters. “What did you expect me to look at? The curtains?”

“They’re nice curtains.”

“They came with the house.”

“You should wash them.”

“There she is,” he says, laughing softly as he catches her hand. “Back for twelve seconds and already assigning chores.”

She threads her fingers through his. “You like me bossy.”

Garrett brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. “I like you all the time. The bossiness is an extra.”

The softness of the answer catches beneath her ribs. She looks back down at her stomach so he cannot watch it land. Garrett notices that too. His arm tightens around her briefly before he sits up with a groan and reaches for the tissues on his nightstand.

“Elegant,” she says.

“You want a warm towel?”

“Yes.”

He pauses with the tissue box in his hand. “Seriously?”

“You asked.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

She waits. Garrett stares at her. Then he drops the tissues and climbs out of bed. Her grin widens. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Nobody likes cold tissues.”

“Nobody else orders room service after getting come on them.”

She grins. “I’m your best girl.”

He points at her as he pulls on his boxers. “Weaponising my own words against me is low.”

“You love me.”

Garrett stills for barely a fraction of a second. It’s nothing. A tiny interruption in the movement of his hand as he pulls the waistband over his hips. So brief she could almost convince herself it didn’t happen.

Then he shakes his head and reaches for the door. “Unfortunately,” he says.

She throws a pillow at him. Garrett catches it against his chest, grinning, then tosses it back onto the bed before slipping into the hallway.

She listens to his footsteps move toward the bathroom. Her dress remains crumpled near the headboard. Her underwear has landed beside one sneaker, while the other shoe is somehow beneath Garrett’s desk. His clothes are scattered across the floor. The lamp casts everything in warm, uneven shadows.

Nothing has happened the way she expected. There was no awkward attempt to pretend Garrett’s size didn’t make her nervous. No pressure to continue because the house was empty and they had already taken their clothes off. No need to monitor his pleasure while manufacturing her own.

Garrett had watched her come and known it was real. The thought should leave her feeling exposed. Instead, she sinks deeper into his pillow and smiles at the ceiling.

He returns a minute later with a warm washcloth in one hand and a bottle of water tucked beneath his arm.

“You took forever.”

“I had to wait for the water to heat up.”

“Excuses.”

Garrett climbs back onto the mattress and catches her knee when she starts to close her legs. “Hold still.”

She goes still. His eyes flick toward her face, amusement warming them, but he doesn’t comment. He cleans her stomach carefully, the cloth soft and warm against oversensitive skin. Then he folds it and wipes gently between her thighs where her own release has dried tacky against them.

Her stomach turns over at the quiet intimacy of it. Nobody has ever cleaned her up before. Most men have barely noticed there was anything to clean.

Garrett finishes, tosses the cloth toward his laundry basket and hands her the bottle of water. “Drink.”

She twists the cap and takes several obedient swallows.

He shakes his head. “More.”

“You’re very demanding for someone who claims I’m bossy.”

“Drink your water, princess.”

She drinks again, mostly because the low instruction does something pleasant to the remains of her nervous system. Garrett lies beside her and pulls the comforter over them. She sets the bottle on his nightstand, then curls into his side, one bare leg sliding over his.

His hand settles on her hip. “You okay?” he asks.

She nods against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“No regrets?”

She thinks about it. “I regret that you know how often I masturbate.”

“I don’t know how often. You refused to provide figures.”

She grins. “And I’ll continue refusing.”

“We’ll see.”

She smiles into his skin. Garrett’s thumb begins moving in slow strokes over her hip, exactly where it had rested inside the waistband of her underwear before he noticed she was tense.

“You still nervous?” he asks.

“A little.”

“About what?”

She lifts her head. He’s looking at her seriously, curls pushed away from his face and all the sharp hunger from earlier softened into patient attention.

She could say his size. She could say their friendship. The deal. The unsettling fact that sex with him will not allow her to hide inside a performance because Garrett will keep looking until he finds the truth.

Instead, she touches the small gold hoop in his ear, turning it lightly between two fingers. “You pay too much attention.”

His eyebrows rise. “That’s a complaint?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Garrett studies her face for a moment, then turns his head and kisses her fingertips. “Take your time.”

The answer settles through her more deeply than anything dirty he said earlier. She lies back down and presses a kiss against his shoulder.

Outside, a car passes along the road, headlights briefly sweeping across the curtains. Somewhere across campus, their friends are still drinking inside a crowded fraternity house, entirely unaware that Garrett is naked beneath his comforter with her polka-dot dress tangled near his pillow.

The secrecy sends a final, lazy spark of excitement through her. She smiles against him. “Dean’s going to know.”

“Dean thinks he knows everything.”

“He saw us leave.”

“I told him I was checking the door.”

“You left a frat party to check the door at your own house?”

Garrett frowns toward the ceiling. “It sounded better when I said it.”

She begins laughing. Garrett catches her around the waist and rolls her beneath him, pinning her lightly into the mattress while she squeals.

“You’re becoming irritating,” he informs her.

“Becoming?”

His mouth twitches. She looks up at him, bare chest warm above hers, one forearm planted beside her head and his knee resting carefully between her thighs. The nervous flutter remains, but it no longer feels like something warning her to leave.

She slides both arms around his neck. “I like kissing you.”

Garrett’s expression softens. “Yeah?”

She nods. He lowers his mouth to hers, slow and warm and smiling slightly when she kisses him back.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because that’s all you’re getting tonight.”

She catches his lower lip between her teeth. Garrett groans. “We’ll see,” she whispers.

His eyes narrow with immediate understanding. “Bossy.”

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[mariposium]

✧ : A DRAGON'S FIRE — valarr targaryen

summary — your new husband is the epitome of chivalry, especially when it comes to you, but he cannot quite divorce himself from his less-than-perfect family, either. when his cousin fancies you as his new target to publicly humiliate, valarr is forced to strike a balance between his head and his heart. (8.2k)

featured — prince valarr targaryen / fem!baratheon!reader, aerion targaryen, maekar targaryen, lyonel baratheon, baelor targaryen (mentioned), daeron targaryen (mentioned)

content — post-events of akotsk: spoiler warning, angst w a side of fluff, asshole!aerion, sexist!aerion, emotional constipation, dead baelor (sorry ☹), canon-typical misogyny, prob ooc!maekar, virgin!valarr, aerion is back from the free cities and he didn't learn much, au where the sickness doesnt happen and everyone is happy :D, smut (MDNI, 18+): fingering, p in v, first time, they get off to the idea of killing aerion??

a/n — first fic posted on tumblr im in the big leagues now :D

(cross-posted on ao3)

He’s been staring at you all night.

On your wedding night of all nights, for the Seven's sake. 

You did not know much about the Targaryens until shortly before you were set to be wed to one. What you heard existed only behind the cupped hands of serving women between their rounds, their pitying eyes following you through the halls. They knew better than anyone the things that hid behind the immaculate black and red robes and flowery rhetoric.

The most you had heard about any of them concerned Prince Maekar’s second son, Aerion Targaryen. None of which you particularly cared for.

But you also know better than anyone that rumors could be fickle things, easily molded to fit the recipient’s favorite form. That is why you give him a soft smile when he comes to pay his respects, a feeble attempt at disregarding his leering gazes from across the room.

Sitting beside you, your new husband Prince Valarr tightens his grip around your trembling fingers. Fingers that had trembled for as long as you had existed behind the walls of King’s Landing and could not seek to be stilled no matter how much wine you drank from your goblet.

“Cousin,” Prince Valarr greets him, not unkindly, but not without a trace of suspicion falling off the lilt.

The grin that curls upon Prince Aerion’s face in that instant makes you regret ever giving him a benefit of the doubt. His eyes move away from yours to rest upon his cousin and it feels like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders.

“I just came to offer congratulations,” Prince Aerion says. His bright amethyst eyes hide something behind them that you are not entirely sure you want to know the answer to. “It’s not every day you see a stag in a den of dragons. I wonder how long they will last until they catch hold of her scent?”

You try not to let the loosely-disguised threat bother you, but it makes the back of your neck prickle with goose flesh.

You notice Prince Valarr’s cordial smile fades as he considers his cousin’s words. His eyes, much warmer and without deception coating their film, narrow only slightly. You silently stroke the back of his hand and he squeezes yours in return.

“I look very much to the bedding ceremony,” Prince Aerion continues, his attempt at cordially devolving into a lascivious grin. His eyes fall on yours again for only a brief moment before they trail down to your bust. You suddenly feel like not much more than a whore roaming the Street of Silk, a commodity to abate the noblemen’s lewd impulses. 

“There will not be a bedding ceremony,” Prince Valarr replies simply. No dissuading of Aerion’s flirtations or a chiding, just a laying of the facts. 

You feel your heart drop to your feet. Truly? He is not going to defend your honor any more than that? 

Prince Aerion rolls his eyes as if it were all some minor inconvenience to him. Your body, a toy ripped from his hands.

Your eyes drift away from the white-haired prince to where his father sits across the room. His cold eyes stare daggers in the back of his son’s head, like a part of him could sense from there the impropriety of his second son.

“Well,” Prince Aerion says, “welcome to the family, cousin.”

The prince leaves before either of you can say much else. His lithe form disappears with the throngs of people milling about like a vapor cloud disappearing under the sun.

You remove your hand from within the grasp of your new husband’s without really even realizing it. You have the want—no, need to hide away. To not be seen in that objectifying way ever again.

His mismatched eyes fall onto yours with startling intensity, as if he were peeling back your skin layer by layer and could see straight to your very core.

“I apologise for Aerion,” Valarr says with half a smile, “he never learned to hold his tongue.”

You feel what seems to be something lodged in your throat. It steals your very breath from your lungs. If you were to describe Aerion, it would be less in jest and more in disgust.

“Is he always that… crude?” you ask him quietly.  

Valarr lets out a sigh that borders on being laborious. “He’s not always been that way, but he has for so long now I can scarcely remember his personality before it.”

You frown as you take in your husband’s profile. It would have been easy to disregard Aerion as being the black sheep of the white flock, but a part of you wonders whether or not he is just more confident with his desires than his family—if within every dragon, slumbers a flame waiting to erupt.

Perhaps your husband had just learned to control his flame better. The thought makes you push away the rest of your dinner.

“Forget Aerion,” Valarr tells you, “his only lot in life is to get under others’ skin. Don’t let him.”

Easier said than done, you think. Your skin burns with shame and prickles with anxiety. Not an uncommon concoction of feelings for young women on the precipice of their wedding nights, but less common for the same reason you feel it.

A moment passes in silence. You watch, half-dazed, as family and friends and Targaryens mesh together in a hypnotizing display of red and black and yellow. It is a ceremony that has passed since the beginning of time, yet only a fair few women could say they were as blessed as you were in marriage. 

Still, a pit weaves itself deeply into your stomach.

“Ah, is that my darling niece I see?” the voice cuts through the fog of your somber thoughts and immediately brightens your mood like the sun chasing away a storm.

“Uncle Lyonel!” you exclaim breathlessly. 

The Laughing Storm is a fitting name for such a figure of roaring humor and physical prowess. You recall your father speaking fondly but with a touch of jealousy at the free will his brother was able to exert as the secondborn son. You did not see him often, except in big gatherings such as these, but whenever you did he held a drink in his hand and a wide grin on his face.

You stand to give him a hug over the table. It is warm and comforting and just what you need at this exact moment. You pull away and sit back in your chair.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” you tell him, “I heard you had just been to a tourney and…”

“And miss my only niece’s wedding?" Lyonel scoffs as if the notion itself were preposterous. “Your father is rolling over in his grave at just the mere notion.”

He turns his eyes toward your new husband. His grin still takes up half his face as he takes the prince in. 

You know what he’s thinking. Prince Valarr is all straight-edges and proper social etiquette. He is not the prince to be found wandering the Streets of Silk like Aerion or the local watering hole like Daeron. He is incredibly handsome, as all Targaryens are, but it is a carefully controlled beauty that makes one do a double-take to wonder how in the Seven Kingdoms he is related to the rest of the riff-raff. 

“You are Baelor’s son, yes?” your uncle asks. It is not the question you had been expecting. 

Your husband’s face sobers at the mention of his recently-deceased father. The father that had missed his eldest son’s wedding and would miss everything else in his future.

“He was a good man,” Lyonel says, “the best of them, really.”

Prince Valarr’s smile is tight. You can tell he has reached his limit of what he wants to speak about regarding his father, but you do not intervene.

“If you are anything like him, you will make a good husband to my niece,” Lyonel continues, “and if you don’t, I’ll hang you by your stones from a tree.” 

Valarr’s face drops. 

His face is deadly serious before he breaks out in raucous, drunken laughter. “You should have seen your face!” he wheezes.

Valarr smiles only slightly, seemingly off-put by the brazenness of the Baratheon.

Your uncle stumbles away without another word, giggling to himself all the while. You watch him go with an affectionate pang to your chest and with it, the only security and normalcy you felt within the room’s four walls. 

You look away from your uncle to the rest of the party goers, and inadvertently get hung on a pair of purple eyes staring daggers at you from across the hall. You feel a spike of fear hit your heart like a dagger.

“—Perhaps we should retire,” your husband says, offering forth possibly the best suggestion of the night, “before anyone else comes to enlighten our meal.”

If he notices your fear, he does not show it. You nod almost catatonically as you stand beside him. He grabs your hand and squeezes it gently in what should have been reassuring, but only makes you realize how sweaty your palm is.

All eyes in the room follow the two of you as you exit the room. A chorus of cheering erupts from behind you, but you do not look back to see the commotion. You did not need to know that all those people were looking forward to you losing your maidenhead. Even the thought makes your body cringe like a grape left in the sun for too long.

As you take your first steps into the heir prince’s bedroom, you gaze around in awe at the large four-poster bed and the array of burning candles that bathe the walls in flickering shadows. At the far wall, an ornate copper mirror reflects your visage back to you and you only realize from it the speed of your heaving chest.

You hear the door click shut behind you. Your hands tremble as you try to clutch at the laces at the back of your gown, attempting to unravel them.

Prince Valarr comes up behind you and wraps a gentle arm around your quivering middle, stilling your hastened movements. He presses a soft, barely-there kiss to your shoulder and his hot breaths against your flushed skin make you shiver in anticipation. He chuckles softly at your reaction and you smile.

As he continues to leave soft kisses across every inch of exposed skin, you feel a deep burning beginning to form at the base of your stomach. 

In that moment, you remember the mirror and your eyes dart to see the lewd display in a fulfillment of some voyeuristic impulse, but you jolt when you see not your husband behind you but a light streak of hair and a familiar eye that cuts through the night. You let out a sharp gasp before your brain can process that all you are seeing is your husband’s streak of silver in his auburn locks and his own one purple-blue eye, but the damage is done. 

The slight hint of arousal you began to feel is gone and has been replaced by the fear and disgust from earlier in the evening. 

Valarr pulls away and looks at you with furrowed brows. “Are you all right, my love?”

You go to reply, but find your mouth seems to be filled with cotton. You swallow and try again. “My apologies, my prince. I just… thought I saw something.”

Valarr follows your gaze to the mirror and he takes a step back from you. You turn to meet his gaze unobstructed by the distorted reflection.

“You seem anxious,” your husband says, “we… do not have to consummate tonight.”

You begin to protest, but he interjects.

“I would rather it be a happy occasion, not one wrought with fear.”

You do try to hide the sudden rush of relief you feel from your face, but some of it must slip through as he quickly averts his eyes to the floor.

Valarr strides over to the end table in his room where two goblets of wine sit untouched on its surface. He hands one to you as he passes your side to the bed. He tilts his goblet until a few drops land on the sheets, giving the impression of a perfectly sound marriage night.

He lifts a finger over his lips with a teasing smile. “Shh. No one will know.”

You cannot find it within you to return the smile. You worry your lip between your teeth and set the goblet back down. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, watching his hand slide away from the goblet to gently grasp your heaving shoulder, “I do not know what has come over me.”

Valarr smiles and gives your arm a gentle squeeze. “Come, let me help you untie your laces.”

As you eventually are able to lay in bed beside your new husband, listening to his quiet exhaling snores, you cannot ever fully relax for every time you do, you see a pair of predatory eyes staring back at you and a silent husband watching from the side. 

The anxiety has all but left your mind after a few days' distance from the wedding and, more importantly, Prince Aerion. 

You begin to fall in a sort of rhythm that takes your mind off all other pressing matters by weaving between embroidery and lengthy lessons on the history and founding of the Targaryen rule. The lessons had not been something required, but as the future queen, you thought it especially prudent to be educated in all there was to know about the kingdom. 

It makes you feel a bit like a child again, being taught an extensive curriculum on the language and culture and social etiquettes expected of a young noblewoman. It becomes a nice escape from your adult worries.

By the fifth day, you realize an important thing, however, and that is that in King’s Landing, no one can disappear completely.

“You have been working hard,” your husband says, surprising you as you step outside of the makeshift classroom. 

You stare at your husband for a moment in mute shock. His usually-quite tidy hair is unruly and standing in every direction on his head. He’s wearing a thick breastplate and underneath a thin shirt of cotton that is rolled up to his elbows, exposing his muscled forearms. His face is flushed and perspiring as if he ran all the way here. 

You swallow back a groan at the sudden rush of heat to your head at the sight. Who knew your sweet, disciplined husband had the ability to look so… well, wild?

It makes you wish for a moment that you had never postponed your wedding consummation—something that still had not been amended.

“I’ve been trying,” you finally force yourself to reply, “though not as much as you have, apparently.” You gesture to his sweaty, heaving body.

Your husband grins and cocks his head to the side. “Oh, this?” he says, pointing to his tunic, “I’ve just been warming up. Perhaps you’d like to join us, cheer me on from the stands?”

You bite your lip to try to hide the smile creeping up on you. “You’re quite vain, has anyone told you that before?” you say teasingly, “needing a pretty woman to cheer you on while you play with swords.”

You tuck your arm in the crook of his elbow as he leads you down the hall.

“Not just any pretty woman,” he says, “just my wife will do.”

You duck your head and grin like an unflowered girl of ten and two.

You follow your husband through the winding hallways of the castle before he stops in front of an open archway leading to a large, outdoor courtyard. Several men of the kingsguard take turns battering dummies and dueling each other with dull blades and thin armor. 

You gaze around at the open courtyard with a swell of excitement that quickly disappears when you notice a familiar head of white hair standing near the sidelines. His eyes find yours almost immediately and your stomach drops to your feet.

“Your cousin is here,” you say in a lilt that almost sounds like a question.

Valarr nods as his eyes sweep across the courtyard to where his cousin stands. “Yes, Aerion often trains with me.”

You swallow thickly and take a step back. Your husband cocks a brow toward you in a silent question.

“I can watch from here,” you tell him, your enthusiasm at seeing your husband in his element all but dissipating with the next spring breeze.

Valarr opens his mouth as if to say something else, but he’s interrupted.

“I thought I saw a little doe wandering around here.”

You angle your head toward Prince Aerion as he approaches. There’s a swagger to his walk that accentuates his crass words in a way that no other person’s movements can. You realize in that moment, if you show any slight outward expression of fear, he will find it and exploit it.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” you tell them, “just here to watch.” It’s your polite way of saying to Aerion, ‘fuck off.’

He grins as he takes in your presence. “Disturb me?” he laughs. “Now how could a doe disturb a dragon?”

You look over at Valarr, who seems annoyed but not giving the impression he is going to do anything to tell him off. Your blood boils with indignation.

You clench your fists into the fabric of your dress as your eyes meet Aerion’s again. Your husband won’t protect you? Then you will have to protect yourself. “You might be surprised, Aerion,” you tell him in a sickeningly-sweet tone, “a stag still has antlers plenty sharp enough to pierce a dragon… or an arsehole pretending to be one.”

If Aerion were truly a dragon, you would be but a pile of ash from the fire alight in his eyes. “Did you just threaten me, wh–”

“Enough!” your husband shouts. You fall silent at the violent eruption. You quickly look over at Valarr, expecting him to be finally protecting your dignity.

You hadn't noticed the three of you had drawn in quite the crowd. It only makes you feel more abused by the words of  the prince in that he does not care to antagonize you in front of other people. 

“You two have done nothing but make childish insults toward each other since our wedding night,” Valarr says, “apologise and move on.”

“I – what?” you croak, your heart thundering in your ears. You, apologise? For what? Defending yourself?

You feel a bit like a young doe caught in a bramble as a pack of wolves stalk forward from the shadows. Each of the kingsguard stares at you in expectation–not at Prince Aerion, at you. They all expect you to be the bigger person, to bridge the gap between you and Aerion because you are the woman and of course you should always seek to solve issues even if you did not create them.  

You look over at your husband as if half-expecting him to change his mind. He does not. You clench your jaw and shake your head. You look at Aerion who stares at you with that same shit-eating grin on his face and you realize like being struck with lightning that even though you had been welcomed into the fold by all appearances, you are still the outsider.

You do not say anything as you turn your back, pick up your dress ends, and begin to walk away.

“My love?” your husband calls out as you stride away. You hear the grating laughter of Prince Aerion as you step back inside the castle. You do not turn around.

The inside of the castle seems colder than it had just a short few minutes ago. As people pass you in the halls, you think anyone looking at you for a moment too long is plotting your demise. It is an awful feeling, you think, to not feel truly welcome in any part of the castle you now had to call home.

You do not regret marrying Valarr. Far from it, actually. But it would be wrong to say you did not feel some trepidation. Perhaps if you had known all those moons ago that your husband would not protect you and that your new cousin by marriage would be such a contemptuous bastard, you would not have agreed so hastily, leaping at any chance you could to bring notoriety to the Baratheon name.

“Princess?” you hear a voice say from behind you.

You turn to see Prince Maekar standing there in his signature black and red robes, his arms crossed behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed. Considering you knew very little about the man or his personality, you had not been keen to interact with him in the lingering fear that perhaps every Targaryen is a bit off in the head. The stark white hair and the gleaming violet eyes strike a chord of fear deep within the instinctual part of your brain that still has not fully recovered from the incident moments before. 

The little you did know about the prince makes you nervous. You had heard one of your handmaidens imply that he had played a role in his older brother’s untimely death. You think if he is at all similar to his second son, then perhaps he had played a bigger role than anyone could realize.

The man standing before you does not seem guilty, though. He looks tired. Weak in a way you did not know many nobles to appear.  

“Prince Maekar,” you greet, trying to hide the anxiety from leaking into your voice. What it ends up coming out like sounds a touch shrill.

His light eyes dart across your face. He comes to your side and tilts his head inquiringly. “What is the matter?”

To tell Maekar of his son’s warped obsession with seeing you suffer seems misplaced and so you just sigh and avert your eyes. “Just busy,” you tell him with a forced chuckle, “if I had known I’d be doing so much, I’m not sure I’d have agreed to be a princess.”

You aren’t sure what spurs the confession and if it is entirely removed from the truth. You are tired and overwhelmed in a way you’d never known before. 

Prince Maekar’s face does not shift from stoicism. “Walk with me.”

He turns his back and begins to walk down the hall. You have to speed-walk to catch up to him.

You fall into step with the prince—which is easier said than done, considering the length of his strides—and try to focus your attention elsewhere so as to not become too nervous in his presence.

“My sons have always struggled with their responsibility to the throne,” Prince Maekar says, his voice graveled and tense. “One copes with liquor, one with whores, while the last two will do anything they can to abdicate.”

You swallow thickly, trying to understand the point of what he is saying.

“Their cousin is not that way, he never has been. He takes everything he can in stride, hides his weaknesses behind duty and honor. He cares deeply about what others think to his own detriment.” He pauses, an emotion cringing across his lips. “Just like his father.”

Prince Maekar shakes his head. “I’ve never been good with words,” he says with a sigh, “just… what I’m trying to say is, you do not have to worry about Prince Valarr. He is the best of the lot.”

You frown. “Why… are you telling me this?”

Prince Maekar comes to a stop, staring at something over your shoulder. You look to where he stares at a framed gold portrait of Prince Baelor and his young boys and wife. You study the smiling faces, the naïve unknowingness of the horrors they would face in the future. You avert your eyes, feeling a well of hurt on behalf of your husband.

“They are all products of their experiences,” Maekar tells you, “Valarr was taught from a very young age to value his family above all else. Even when that family is the source of his suffering.”

He pauses, eyes roving over yours in search of understanding. “Do you see what I am saying?”

“I… believe I do.”

He leans forward. “My son does not deserve his concessions, yet he gives them anyway. Give your husband grace, but do not let him tear you down in the process.”

You nod silently and Prince Maekar heaves a heavy sigh as he looks back at the portrait hanging on the wall. You gather from his silence that is all he had to say as his eyes move as slowly as painting drying on a canvas.

You slip away with a mind more dizzied with conflicting thoughts than before. 

The Red Keep’s library is the one place you can always escape to when you have nowhere else to go. Its framework of dusty tomes and leather-bound books makes it incredibly easy for you to spend hours at a time there, sinking your teeth into the mottled pages and reading them until your eyes begin to hurt and the words blur together.

But now the books that used to provide comfort now just seem pretentious. You stare at the favorite you’d chosen from the collection—Ancient Targaryen Rulers and Legends—but nothing about it cheers you up. The usual delight you’d felt at reading about Aegon the Conqueror or Jaehaerys I’s accomplishments just makes your stomach turn today.

Were all Targaryens, even the ones known to be honorable by all accounts, corrupted by a dragon's desires? 

Every time you study the expressive eyes of his forefathers, you cannot prevent your mind from wandering to Valarr. If a man cannot even stand up for his wife in fear of backlash, how would he stand up for his kingdom?

Time passes slowly in the library. Although it is your safe haven, it starts to feel more like a prison the more time you spend inside. There’s nothing preventing you from leaving, and yet you can’t find it within yourself to do so, like invisible bars surrounding you on all sides. What would be there to greet you once you leave? An angry husband at your disobedience? Aerion, coming back to finish you off? Your maesters wondering when you would come back to your lessons? Nothing at all, and therefore a subsequent feeling of suffocating self-worthlessness?

When amber light begins to creep across the floors through the ornate windows, you finally think you might be mustering the courage necessary to leave. Then, the doors to the silent library creak open and your eyes dart to the person walking in.

Valarr tumbles through the doors like he’d been looking for some kind of refuge for eons. He hasn’t seen you yet—or he’s incredibly adept at playing coy—and he stands leaning up against the door for a moment, his chest heaving and eyes closed.

You are not used to seeing this side of him. The vulnerability, the raw anguish wrought across his face. You avert your eyes when his finally open.

You do not look up at him again, even though you are sure he’s seen you at this point. 

You can hear him shuffling around the room for several minutes. You re-read the same sentence thrice before you ignore the rest of the page and simply skip forward.

Your mind is too focused on the sound of his heeled boots against the floor as they go from bookshelf to bookshelf—and as they inch closer and closer to you.

“May I sit?”

His voice sounds like a little boy’s, soft and underlined with anxious tension. It makes your heart wrench. But you stay stoic as you nod curtly.

Valarr sighs at your silence and takes a seat diagonal to you, dropping a heavy book onto the table. He hasn’t changed since you last saw him, aside from the addition of a black and red cloak—one you recognize distantly as having belonged to his father. You swallow thickly and force your eyes down to the book. It’s a simple, unimpressive thing—no title or extra flair, with crumpled pages and dog-eared corners.

Your fingers itch to break the spine and delve into its contents.

You look back at your own book, a book you’d practically memorized at this point. The page it has been flipped to is about Rhaenyra Targaryen, The Realm’s Delight. Her violet eyes cast a magnificent glower onto your own. You get immediately sucked in, as you always do, to her story and how she fought in the Dance of the Dragons.

You do not notice your husband's eyes burning a hole into the side of your face until he speaks.

“Are you going to ignore me?”

Your eyebrows furrow and you slowly lift your head to look at him. 

You are at once struck by how tired he looks. Dark circles you hadn’t noticed before rest under his eyes. His hair is all but stuck to his skin from the perspiration. However, as you think about earlier, your skin crawls all over again and you cannot muster up sympathy. His throat bobs under your heated gaze.

You purse your lips and look back down at your book. “I have nothing to say.”

“Is… this truly about earlier?” he asks. “I misspoke, saying you ought to apologise, but surely…?” he trails off, his meaning left to interpretation.

You can feel your jaw clench beneath your skin. A tension-fueled ache pulling at your temples. 

You cannot contain the storm brewing beneath your skin. Baratheons had never been very good at that.

“I have lived around men like Aerion my whole life,” you start, your voice carefully controlled, “they break you down, strip you until you are nothing, and cut you until you bleed. All with a laugh.” You swallow thickly. “But the problem isn’t Aerion. It is you.”

Your husband’s eyes widen at this. 

“Have you truly never noticed?” you ask, “how your men always look to you when a problem is at hand? How they laugh at my pain, at my womanly insults, but praise Aerion for his quick wit with his own?” 

Your eyes begin to overflow with tears. “How do you think it looks when their own heir prince, the only man of higher standing than Prince Aerion in presence, does not stand up for his own wife? Like I’m worth less than dirt? It is humiliating.”

Your husband ducks his head as if he has been struck. His fingers clutch at the table, knuckles white and bursting at the seams of his skin.

“I… did not realize the breadth of my power,” he replies softly, “of what it matters for me to speak up on matters such as this.”

His eyes dart to yours and a muscle in his jaw jumps beneath his skin. “The problem is, I do not know how to react in those moments,” he says, eyebrows furrowed, “and it kills me because it is expected of me to know how to react in any uncertain situations. Like a king would. Like my father would.”

Your own eyes widen at the confession, and at the tears beading in your husband’s eyes. Tears that seem so unused to falling. 

“My father would have been able to handle this so much better than I could. You, the throne, Aerion,” he tells you, “I… I’m just a boy playing with his father’s sword.”

You shake your head. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Valarr says, “Father would have been able to handle everything so much better than I. It makes one wonder why I am here and he isn’t.”

You reach forward to place your hand upon his. Valarr drags his gaze to meet yours. “You cannot think that way,” you tell him, eyes serious, “it is destructive. It eats you alive. What happened, happened. The Seven took your father for a reason just as much as they allow you to live and breathe as you are now.”

You pull away once your husband nods. 

“I did not know him,” you say softly, “but I would imagine you live up to his estimations quite well.” You pause. “At the very least, you are not Aerion.”

He smirks at that comment.

When you finally take your leave a few minutes later, you wrestle with conflicting ideas of marriage, family, and nobility, and balancing those with your own personhood and demands for respect. And if it is an ideal that can even be realistically achieved and how. 

As you go to relax in your bath, you decide to let your worries sink for the moment. It is a notion you have not had since you first came to the Red Keep and you welcome it with open arms.

Later that night, you sit halfway folded over a piece of parchment, dragging your quill across the page. You are making a list of all the new things you have learned in your studies. Targaryen naming customs, the common verbiage of High Valriyan, the locations of all the important facilities in the Red Keep. 

You pause for a moment to stretch your fingers, but overshoot your arm and knock your ink well and can only watch in mild horror as it spills on the table. 

“Shit,” you say, quickly pulling the inkwell to sit upright again. You look around for anything to stop the puddle from seeping, but your eyes get caught on a figure lingering in the doorway.

Your eyebrows furrow and you look away.

“Am I allowed to come in?” your husband asks, “or should I resign to sleep with the hounds?”

You do not crack a smile at the quip as you often do. You simply nod and begin to wipe away the ink with a nearby cloth.

The door shuts with a soft click that reverberates through your skull. You hear a rustling of clothing and watch with solemn eyes as your husband begins to untie the laces holding his form-fitting shirt together. His densely muscled back is revealed to you in one fell swoop as he removes the shirt and begins straightening out his sleeping outfit. The softened candle light flickers across his pale skin, highlighting faded scars and moles that form a constellation across his skin.

You avert your eyes before you can feel yourself losing your nerve, beginning to read over your notes untouched by the ink spillage.

Your husband has other ideas.

“I suppose I should apologise,” you hear him say, his voice slightly muffled through the mild preoccupation of changing his breeches, “for… earlier.”

You swallow thickly, the parchment’s corners crumpling under the weight of your grip. Your voice is quiet as it comes out next. “Thank you, but that is not necessary.”

“No.” He turns half his face toward you. His one brown eye glows amber under the firelight, whilst his other remains bathed in the cloak of night. “Allow me to rephrase… I need to apologise.”

You look down at your parchment and place it quietly onto the table, folding your hands onto the sheer shift covering your legs. You hear his footsteps creak across the wood floor as he steps closer, taking a seat next to you on the chaise. He stays a respectable distance apart, enough that you can feel his presence without being oppressed by it.

“You… do not deserve to be spoken to like that,” Valarr says softly, “no one does, but certainly not you.”

You shrug one shoulder. “Prince Aerion is foul-mouthed and ill-tempered, you said so yourself,” you say, “I should have expected it.”

“Listen to me,” he tells you sternly. Your eyes move on their own accord. You are startled at once by the intensity of his mismatched gaze, his set jaw, and his furrowed brows. “You are to be queen. Prince Aerion has acted entirely out of line and I have made excuses for him because of his relation to me but I cannot any longer. You deserve better.”

“Where is all this coming from?” you ask, your lips pulled into a frown. “Just a few hours ago, you made it seem like I was the embarrassing one, not him.”

“I…” he pauses and his intensity dims, “took a walk to the Great Sept after our conversation in the library. I was reminded of something my father often said…” he looks pained, “that while family is important, a good knight always stands up for the innocent. And I want to be a good knight—a good husband, for you.”

You feel a rush of joy surge within you. You could cry, you think, but you force it down. Not out of shame, but out of not wishing to see the moment broken.

“I’m glad to hear that,” you say through a voice laden with strong emotion, “I… have been very stressed lately, but this will help.”

He places a finger underneath your chin to angle your head toward his—to capture and hold your full attention. You can feel his hot breath flush across your cheeks.

“Tell me what I can do to help more,” he tells you earnestly, “tell me so I can help unburden you.”

You trace the sincerity of your husband’s eyes down his lightly-freckled nose to the heart-shaped lips opened just barely to allow his breaths to escape. You should not forgive him so quickly, you know. Not without knowing if he would follow through with his promises. But all you can think is how delicious he looks on his metaphorical hands and knees and how much you wish you could kiss him senseless with one hand while (lovingly!) strangling him with the other.

“Kiss me,” you whisper, a small smile curling on your lips.

Valarr’s eyes widen almost comically before his senses return to him and he meets your lips with a soft grunt. 

It is a bit clumsy at first. Like the kissing between two virgins—but perhaps you both are ones and in that case, it is incredibly on point. Your teeth clip and your noses bump as you try to figure out the perfect position. He tastes like the red wine he’s been sipping from all night and it feels like you’re drowning in him.

You can feel everything all at once. The heat from his skin burning against yours. That sly hand seeping through your clothes. The smell of sweat gleaning off his skin.

He pulls you closer with the palm of one of his hands against your back, reclining his body against the cushion of the chaise as you cover him. You bring your hand up from where it was leaned against the arm of the chair to his neck, keeping him perfectly poised to receive your affection.

When you finally pull away to catch your breath, his eyes are so dilated that you can no longer tell which one is brown and which is blue. His chest heaves from the exertion. 

“I want to…” you start to say, but trail off.

He regards you seriously. “Are you sure?” his eyes look back and forth between your own, “we do not have to.”

You reach forward to place a hand against his cheek. He leans into your palm to place a gentle kiss against where your pulse thrums.

“I want you,” you tell him softly, reverently, “I want you more than life itself.”

Your husband's throat bobs and you notice a line of sweat cross the sharp line of his jaw to slide down his neck. You lean forward before you can stop yourself to plant a kiss to where it stops. You pull away, a bit flustered, but your husband does not allow you to stew in your thoughts for very long before he surges forward, kissing you hard and fast and with teeth clipping and nose bumping but landing just right all the same.

As you kiss, you feel his warm, calloused palm drag up the side of your thigh to hike up your shift. When it reaches the top of your hip, you feel yourself unconsciously shiver. He breaks away.

“Cold?” he murmurs against your lips.

“No,” you whisper, “hot.”

He lets out a laugh through his nose as he leans back to take in your newly-exposed skin. Not ever one to be enthralled by exposition, rather more interested in the climax, (pun definitely intended) you grab the end of the shift and pull it over your head. You throw it to the side and immediately you feel the cold air hit your exposed skin and cause a flurry of goose flesh to rise upon your limbs.

You glance up at your husband’s expression to find his face to have darkened considerably. You swallow thickly at the complete absence of light within his eyes as they leave a trail of flame from your thighs to your stomach to your breasts to your face, where he blinks slowly, eyes hooded, as if existing within a dream. In between his thighs, you notice a suspiciously hard lump.

“Much better,” you say with a mischievous grin.

He grabs your chin in his hand and looks you deeply in the eyes. “I need you to heed me when I say this,” he says solemnly, “you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes upon.”

You avert your eyes in a sign of bashfulness, though your heart strums behind your ribs like a drum. “I’m sure that’s not true. There are plenty of beautiful women that wander the Streets of Silk.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says, “never been.”

Surprised, your eyes find his again. “Honest? I thought all princes went at least once.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “You are the first woman I’ve laid with, love. I’m surprised you couldn’t tell.”

You lean forward to seal your mouths back in a passionate kiss. He wraps an arm around your back and you fall forward onto him like a newborn fawn finding its feet for the first time. 

His clothes are removed just as quickly and thrown to where your shift lays limply in the corner. For a moment after it is all laid bare, you stare at your husband’s masculine form in complete silence. His chest heaves with each breath he takes, his stomach is lined with lithe muscles and deep scars. As your eyes trail south, you get caught on the white hair at the base of his incredibly impressive…

“Perhaps we take this to the bed?” Valarr suggests. He rubs the back of his neck and he looks like the picture of a blushing boy caught with his hand in the pastry plate. Your stupidly angelic, devilishly handsome husband. He was truly going to kill you. “My back does not approve of this arrangement currently.”

You follow him to the bed as if in a trance. How far gone did one have to be to find even the bare backside of a man to be attractive? You did not remember your mother mentioning that in her sexual education crash course. To think back on it now, she mostly lingered on the logistical side of baby-making because she really wanted grandchildren.

You fall back on the plush bed and dissuade yourself from thinking anymore of your mother in a time like this. It is like you are purposefully trying to ruin the moment again.

Valarr places his hand gingerly on the side of your inner thigh, eyes staring at yours as if beckoning some kind of unspoken permission. You give him a nod. He slides his hand up toward your cunt and the warmth is so immediate and strong that you recoil at first.

“Sorry,” you say with a nervous laugh, “not used to hands there that are not my own.”

“I will be gentle,” he says quietly.

“I know you will.”

Your skin feels like it is on fire as he works one long finger into your sex. You let out a sharp gasp when he brings it all the way out to go in again.

“Gods be good,” your husband groans, bringing his finger to the light of the nearby candle. It glistens beneath the flickering flame.

You thought it was impossible for you to become more aroused in that moment until your husband sinks the finger into his mouth to suck it clean. You suddenly feel close to bursting into flames.

“Just… would you fuck me now?”

Valarr’s eyes shoot open and his finger falls from his lips. He grins, pulling his body to lean over yours, his throbbing cock leaned on your thigh.

“Who am I to deny the orders of a future queen?” he whispers against your lips. 

He seals your mouth with his and at the same time, carefully lines his cock to your cunt. He slides in with one quick thrust that has you gasping and tearing away from the kiss. A momentary pain dulls swiftly to an aching throb. You squint your eyes shut until the pain disappears completely.

“Are you okay, my love? Did I hurt you?”

You nearly forget yourself at the sweet lilt in your husband’s tone. It is so pure, so kind, you feel close to tears. What were you mad at him for, again? You couldn’t remember your own name much less that with his hard-as-steel cock throbbing inside you.

“Move,” you grit out, “fuck me, Valarr.”

Your husband does not need to be told twice and soon he’s hitting his rhythm. Every thrust of his hips feels like bliss. His hand slides up your arm to grasp your own and you watch, enraptured by his facial expressions. As he picks up speed, however, you can no longer fully focus on anything but your building release.

The grunts and groans and moans and the shaking of the bed frame collapse into one long, obscene melody.

A thought pops into your head at that moment that does not fully pass all the required checks and balances of every other sentence you say and it tumbles out before you can stop it. 

“I wish Prince Aerion was here to see this,” you say, the words gritty and raw and broken off by a loud moan tearing its way through your vocal chords, “I think his horrified expression would-ah!-make my year.” 

“Fuck Aerion,” your once-chivalrous, now completely debauched husband bites out. His eyes are alight with a fury you had never seen before. Hm, you think, perhaps he did harbor some dragon fire.

“Seven hells,” you moan, “you’ve never said anything more attractive.”

“Tomorrow,” your husband grunts out, “I’m going to kill him for denying me this pleasure.”

“Oh, please let me be there to see it!” you gasp. You can feel your climax quickly approaching.

“I’m going to—“ your sentence breaks off as you are enraptured by pleasure. Your husband leans down to stuff his face into your neck as he thrusts one last time before his seed fills your cunt.

Your husband rolls off of you at the end of his peak, heaving a labored sigh of well-earned pleasure. Your limbs tremble with a mix of exertion and delight, and you suddenly let out a giggle.

“What’s so funny?” your husband mumbles as he turns on his side to peer closely at your face. His reddish hair sticks to his forehead like a second skin and a small grin curls at his lips at your amusement. 

You put your hand over your mouth in an attempt to calm your laughter. “Did we just…” you let out another snort, “get off to killing your cousin?”

Valarr’s grin takes over the entire bottom of his face as he remembers the conversation from just moments before. “I guess we did,” he says with a soft, disbelieving laugh of his own.

Once the laughter calms and the quilt is pulled to cover your bodies and the candles are extinguished and the only thing you can hear is the sound of your own breaths, you realize your husband has not drifted asleep yet.

He strokes his fingers across the back of your hand in his comforting hold against your back. “I meant what I said, y’know? before we consummated," he whispers into your neck, “I will not tolerate it again.”

You turn to face Valarr and your heart skips a beat at the devotion reflected in his hooded eyes and the small smile on his face. “Thank you,” you say just as quietly. You place a barely-there kiss to his mouth. “Sleep well.”

He repeats the sentiment back to you and you close your eyes and drift to sleep with a pleasant ache between your thighs and a hope for a promise to remain fulfilled.

Bonus:

Prince Aerion sits across from you and Valarr in the dining hall. He looks between the two of you with suspicion clear on his face.

He goes to call out what is an obvious afterglow clinging to your skin, but his cousin’s eyes dart to his with a startling glare that halts him in his tracks.

“Not a word,” Valarr grumbles.

Aerion’s hands shoot up in the universal “I come in peace” symbol. “What’d I do?”

“I know what you were thinking,” Valarr says, “don’t say it or I will go straight to Maekar.”

Aerion scoffs at the childish threat, but he abides by it. He looks down at his plate wondering who in the Seven hells had pissed in his cousin’s goblet. 

From beside him, you squeeze your husband's hand and shoot him a smile.

[obeymeworld]

I've been hyperfixated on Valarr for a couple weeks so when this came across my deskkkkk.

“I have lived around men like Aerion my whole life,” you start, your voice carefully controlled, “they break you down, strip you until you are nothing, and cut you until you bleed. All with a laugh.” You swallow thickly. “But the problem isn’t Aerion. It is you.”

“Have you truly never noticed?” you ask, “how your men always look to you when a problem is at hand? How they laugh at my pain, at my womanly insults, but praise Aerion for his quick wit with his own?” 

"Your eyes begin to overflow with tears. “How do you think it looks when their own heir prince, the only man of higher standing than Prince Aerion in presence, does not stand up for his own wife? Like I’m worth less than dirt? It is humiliating.”

WACK HIM AGAIN FOR ME!!

“I…” he pauses and his intensity dims, “took a walk to the Great Sept after our conversation in the library. I was reminded of something my father often said…” he looks pained, “that while family is important, a good knight always stands up for the innocent. And I want to be a good knight—a good husband, for you.”

And that's how it's supposed to be! 💗😩

I loveddd this omg, he's so cute and Aerion is going straight to hell, omg. 😭

[sasaririri]

So why is my heart broken?

pairing: Valarr Targaryen x wifereader!

summary: I won't consume him, or let him consume me.

warnings: angst, dubcon marriage, public humiliation, an emotionally guarded protagonist, non happy ending. (yet)

a/n: Sometimes I make beautiful things out of my most miserable thoughts, I cry and project myself onto characters who don't even have a name. I don't know if you'll like this, but I really hope you do; writing in this tone isn't usual for me, I generally prefer my main characters to be more expressive. Thank you for reading and sticking with me through such a different chapter. It means a lot to know it connects with someone. I hope to keep surprising you with what's coming!

Btw, the song at the end was actually a big inspiration for me, it gives such strong medieval vibes that fit the setting, jeje.

part one.

Sometimes I considered Valarr beyond the crown that weighed upon his temples; I contemplated him as a man crushed beneath the burden of his own expectations, a being filled with contained silences. I would often find him seeking air, leaning upon the sill of the window in his study that commanded the gardens. From there he watched the gatherings of betrothed maidens and damsels, and it did not escape me the way his sighs died upon looking at me. Was that a gaze steeped in pity? Or did my eyes deceive me, and in truth his longing sought the young woman who laughed at my side, the beautiful Kiera? I wondered then whether it would be Valarr’s ardent blood that would consume my youth until it begot an heir, or whether I would be the slow flame that devoured his spirit, becoming the bitter reminder of a life he never chose.

After what happened that afternoon, the day had only to ruin itself further. The Tourney at Ashford had already been a disaster from the first day, yet to finish spoiling everything, the cruel Prince Aerion had provoked yet another colossal scandal. It all began when he brutally assailed a modest company of puppeteers, which forced the intervention of a giant of a hedge knight known as Ser Duncan. The youth, unable to tolerate the prince’s cruelty, inflicted upon Aerion a historic thrashing in the midst of the camp, unleashing the demand for a Trial of Seven to settle the affront.

As if the spectacle were not enough to hold the attention of the entire realm, the search for the culprit brought to light a revelation still more astonishing: the modest, shaven-headed squire who accompanied the giant was none other than Prince Aegon, the last lost prince of House Targaryen, the youngest son of Maekar who had been wandering in disguise.

Against all expectation, the combat to the death did not end in the tragedy all had feared. All had survived the bloody fray; though they bore considerable wounds and bandages beneath their tunics, they walked upon their own feet. He who suffered the worst was Aerion himself: disfigured, beaten to a pulp and humiliated, he could scarcely hold another’s gaze.

Seeing him there, bent and with his pride in ruins, a dark and comforting thought crossed my mind. It comforted me to know that the worst had fallen to him, that the justice of the gods had returned to him even a fraction of the pain and humiliation he dispensed with such liberal hands. Still fresh in my memory was the bitter recollection of the banquet the night before, that closed-door supper which yet stung my soul.

With such a whirlwind surrounding the royal family, the banquet that night held nothing of festivity. We gathered behind closed doors in the principal pavilion: a long table laden with jugs of wine and dishes scarcely touched, where the princes sought to trace the strategies and alliances for the combat on the morrow. The air within the tent was dense, heavy, dominated by the grave tone of masculine voices and the shadow of the blood judgment that would take place at dawn.

I remained seated beside Valarr, maintaining an impeccable posture with my hands crossed in my lap. The discomfort between us was almost palpable, an invisible yet icy barrier that separated us though we sat shoulder to shoulder. From time to time Valarr’s arm brushed mine as he reached for his cup of wine, and a rigid tension seized his body before he apologized with a clumsy murmur to which I scarcely replied with a slight inclination of the head.

On the other side of the table the atmosphere was no better. Aerion and his betrothed sat together, offering their own grotesque spectacle. The young woman made not the slightest effort to disguise the disgust and anger that gnawed at her face. She kept her arms crossed, her brows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line, utterly outraged at having been dragged into such shame on account of an absurd puppet show. For her, that her future husband should have become the talk of the entire realm for brawling with puppeteers and a knight of the streets was an intolerable humiliation.

Aerion, far from appearing repentant or ignoring his betrothed’s fury, seemed to take pleasure in provoking her. With that twisted, malicious smile that turned my stomach, he goaded her subtly. He gave her little playful nudges with his elbow in her side and whispered cutting remarks into her ear solely to force her to react, watching with delight as the poor girl’s cheeks flared with pure contained rage; then he let out a rasping laugh before pouring himself more wine.

“Come, Valarr,” said Aerion, pointing at him directly with his silver cup, wearing that twisted smile that always churned my insides. “Enough of your contemplations and don your armor tomorrow. Be one of my seven champions. A true dragon does not remain in the stands watching a wretched peasant trample the family’s name.”

Valarr did not lift his gaze from his plate. He merely clenched his fists upon the fine tablecloth until his knuckles showed white. A heavy, weary sigh escaped his chest before he answered in a voice that sought to be firm, yet sounded empty:

“I will not take part in that spectacle, Cousin. My intention is to return to my chambers whole… and in one piece for my wife.”

For his wife. My stomach clenched in a blind knot. Those words rang to me as the cruelest and most calculated of lies. A phrase rehearsed to fulfill protocol before his own, like those caresses upon the cheek that appeared only when we were observed.

Aerion leaned back in his chair, letting escape a mocking guffaw laden with a venomous malice that froze the blood in my veins.

“Your wife?” Aerion spat, regarding him with open contempt. “By the Seven, cousin, what endearing devotion… Though from what I have heard this afternoon between cup and cup, I doubt very much the poor girl will care whether you return whole or in pieces. In fact, after hearing you insinuate that to touch her feels an infamous punishment and that you would rather have any other in your bed, were I in her place I would pray that a lance run you through at dawn.”

A bucket of icy water seemed to fall upon the entire table.

The impact of hearing the humiliation laid bare thus, so raw and miserable before the eyes of all House Targaryen, provoked in me an unbearable burning behind the eyes. My pride stung like an open wound. I felt I was drowning in my own shame, trapped in the certainty that everyone at that table now knew the secret of my marriage: that I was merely an unwanted burden.

Daeron’s hand, which held his cup clumsily beside him, trembled until it spilled wine upon the wood, knowing himself guilty for having opened his mouth. For an instant Aerion’s betrothed ceased her gestures of annoyance toward him and crossed her gaze with mine; in her eyes there was no mockery, but a grimace of genuine apology and a discomfort so profound that she had to press her lips with pity. A few seats away, Kiera of Tyrosh remained motionless. Upon hearing Aerion’s venom and knowing herself the involuntary shadow in the midst of this disaster, Kiera shifted awkwardly in her chair, dropping her gaze abruptly to her plate, unable to meet anyone’s eyes in the tent while the flush of mortification covered her neck.

But before Aerion could savor his provocation a second longer, Prince Maekar rose abruptly from the head of the table. The entire board trembled.

Without uttering a single word, Maekar stretched out his arm and dealt Aerion a dry, heavy blow to the back of the head. The impact was so strong that the cruel prince’s forehead crashed against the rim of his plate, cutting his laughter short.

“Shut your mouth, you piece of an imbecile!” thundered Maekar’s voice, hoarse with pure fury, regarding his son with true disgust. “You have already covered us with enough dishonor this week by brawling with puppeteers without your mouth now spewing excrement. Focus on the judgment tomorrow if you do not wish to end up dead upon the grass.”

Aerion rose slowly, passing his hand over the nape of his neck with teeth clenched and eyes blazing with wrath against his father, yet he dared not speak another word.

At my side Valarr did not move. He kept his eyes fixed upon the table, but I saw how his throat swallowed a knot and how his breathing grew rapid, uneven, crushed beneath the weight of the situation.

In a desperate, clumsy movement, his hand sought mine beneath the table. He squeezed my fingers with a trembling force, a pleading, blind grip, like that of a man drowning who clings to the last scrap of wood in the midst of the ocean. He wished to hold me, to feel that something still remained to which he might cling amid the ruins of his own disaster.

But I withdrew my hand slowly, without harshness, leaving him with empty fingers upon the tablecloth.

Now, as night fell on the following day, the shadow of that supper still projected itself over us, yet death had claimed no one and the royal pavilion had transformed into a hall of grotesque, deafening merriment. The atmosphere was a seething of cruel laughter, silver cups clashing, and the strident music of the lutes that seemed to drill into my temples.

My eyes settled first upon the opposite table. There sat Aerion with his face disfigured by the bruises and swellings the hedge knight had inflicted upon him in the trial. At his side the young woman who would be his betrothed made no effort to disguise her mockery: she pointed at him brazenly, laughing in his face at the blackened eye and the pride reduced to shreds of the prince. Aerion could only let out a heavy sigh and lower his head, chewing his humiliation in silence.

Seeing the scene, I could not help it: a small, dry, bitter laugh escaped my lips.

At that very same instant, beside me, Valarr let escape a smothered guffaw at the same scene. For the briefest second the two laughs crossed in the air, brushing like ghosts of what we once might have been, sharing the same involuntary measure. Yet the moment our eyes met and we realized we were laughing together, the illusion tore.

We fell silent at the same time.

The cut was so drastic, so painfully automatic, that the air between us froze again at once, leaving a silence still heavier, a void that burned my skin.

Beyond, the dancing floor was an insult to my misery. Little Egg, his shaved head gleaming beneath the torches, turned awkwardly yet with a genuine smile, hand in hand with the young daughter of Lord Ashford. A few steps away the enormous Ser Duncan danced, careful not to tread upon the feet of the puppet girl, Tanselle, whose happy laughter drowned amid the bustle. Maekar had yielded; his youngest son would go to roam the realm as a humble squire, and the child’s freedom filled the air with a strange innocence, while in my breast everything rotted.

At the high table Prince Baelor wore bandages upon his shoulder and a split lip, yet he laughed with the strength of a man who possessed the world.

And in our corner… reigned a septic pit of silence.

I sat beside my husband, Valarr. The distance between us was an abyss of broken glass. Since the incident in the tent and the infamy of the supper, we had not addressed a single word to each other; not one glance, not one touch. I had become pure stone; he, a shadow consumed by a guilt that no longer served any purpose.

It was then that my eyes descended, traitorous, toward his chest. A knot so violent pierced my throat that I nearly choked upon my own saliva.

Valarr wore a doublet of dark velvet I had never seen him wear. Upon the cloth, sewn with a trembling yet meticulous precision, shone the blazon I myself had designed months earlier, needle in hand, pricking my fingers in the most absolute solitude of my chambers. That embroidery which united our houses—a token of blind devotion he had let die at the bottom of a dusty drawer—now covered his torso. It was an attempt so pathetic, so mute and desperate to beg my forgiveness that it hurt me physically, as though an rusted dagger had been driven into my ribs.

I turned my face abruptly, swallowing the tears that threatened to betray me. Too late.

“What ails the heirs of the crown that they seem to be at their own funeral?” The deep voice of Prince Baelor broke our bubble with affable cruelty. He regarded us with a luminous smile. “Take to the floor, my children. Show the realm how happy and in love you are.”

Valarr rose at once, with desperate swiftness, and offered me his hand. We could not disobey the Hand of the King. I rose with a ghostly grace, my body rigid as an elegant corpse, and laid my hand upon his, letting myself be drawn toward the center of the floor.

The music changed to a slow, dense-enveloping melody, a trap from which I could not escape.

Valarr took me by the waist. We glided to the measure of the strings, fulfilling the macabre choreography the courtiers expected of us. Yet in the midst of a turn, desperation broke his composure. In a blind impulse he closed the space between our bodies, pressed me against his chest with unbridled force and, setting his brow to mine, left me without breath.

The heat of his skin burned my face. I could feel his tremulous breath striking against my lips, the wild and chaotic rhythm of his heart galloping unchecked, and that cursed scent of leather and clove that so many nights I had wept for in silence.

“You look extraordinarily beautiful this night, my lady…” Valarr murmured in a thread of voice so broken, so pleading, that it sounded like the lament of a wounded animal. “And this doublet… the truth is I have never worn so fine a garment. You have marvelous hands.”

The tremor in his words tore me within, yet my face remained inert, an icy mask.

“I thank you for the compliment, my prince,” I replied in a measured murmur, so formal, so docile and empty that it sounded like a tombstone. “It is but simple work to fulfill my duty as your wife.”

Valarr blinked, and I felt the tremor of his hand become spasmodic. I could perceive the absolute desperation seeping into his fingers as he realized my courtesy was a wall of ice spikes. He tried to smile, a pathetic gesture that begged for mercy.

“It is not simple; it is beautiful… as everything you do,” he insisted in a desperate whisper, tightening the curve of my waist with a painful force, as though he feared I might vanish into the air. “This silence pains me, my love… I would so wish that the laughter of a moment ago were for me as well. These halls need it so… I need it.”

I. The words resonated in my head like a cruel echo.

“It is very kind of you to notice, my prince,” I said without a single muscle of my face trembling, granting him an inclination of the head so perfect it froze the blood. “I endeavor to maintain the decorum and the joy the occasion demands.”

Valarr shuddered with such violence that I nearly held him. His pupils, entirely flooded with contained tears, sought me blindly, pleading for a miracle. He tightened his fingers upon my waist with a childlike entreaty, crumbling into a thousand pieces while the music forced us to keep turning in an endless circle.

“Speak to me… shout at me if you will, by the gods, tear the skin from me, but do not remain in this silence of death,” he begged in a smothered sob, dragging himself in his misery before my absolute indifference. “I am drowning in this distance… I beg you, my lady… say something to me… look at me truly!”

And then I opened my lips. I let my words fall between us like pure ash upon an open wound.

“I wanted that at least we might have some manner of affection. You and I. I wanted you to look at me in the same way I looked at you. Was that so much to ask? I believed that marriage would, one way or another, draw forth the best in us. I understand that you did not wish to marry me; you know, I supposed that at least you would try, my prince, but instead what did I have? Murmurs at supper hour, sidelong glances and awkward encounters in our chambers. Until I heard your words I had not realized how much I pretended your attitudes did not matter to me… and now the least I would wish is to look at you and not feel so wounded.”

At that precise instant my feet stopped completely in the midst of the floor, compelling the music to halt with our stillness. Valarr froze with his face dislocated, awaiting the final blow, the cry or the open scorn. Yet I did none of that. In a brutal act of submission he buried his face in the hollow of my neck, brushing his trembling mouth against my skin without regard for the gaze of hundreds of nobles. He clung to my fabric with white knuckles, breaking entirely in a dragged and pathetic plea:

“I do not know what is wrong with me… What must I do to regain you?” he sobbed against my neck, stifling a moan of pain while his tears soaked my skin. “I wish to keep hearing you, please, my beloved, tell me what I must do to be worthy of you… Last night I dreamed of you. I dreamed of your voice brushing my skin, of your lips seeking mine… I dreamed of your body drawing near to mine, of a kiss that burned slow. As if desire had memory.” The tremor of his body was so humiliating that he seemed a beggar pleading for a crumb of pity.

Leaning slightly forward, with a ghostly softness, I raised my hand to rest my fingers in his hair, burying them delicately in his characteristic white-and-silver lock. Without withdrawing my gaze for a single second, I held his flooded eyes while I felt how Valarr instinctively inclined his head toward my palm, seeking desperately the refuge of my touch at the very moment I set my lips upon his.

It was a brief, dry kiss, devoid of all heat and of any promise, a farewell disguised as affection. Valarr’s eyes opened still wider, fixed upon mine without blinking, shining with the weeping he strove with every fiber of his being to contain; his jaws tensed until they marked with pain, swallowing the tears by force, refusing to break completely before the realm.

Upon separating, before he could articulate a single sound or recover his breath:

“Despite everything, though my mind may wish to say that it hates you and that it would never see you again, my heart does not recognize those feelings,” I pronounced in a murmur so measured, so mortally calm, that his face decomposed entirely. “Because thanks to you I discovered beautiful emotions I did not know I held within me.”

Valarr shuddered again, swallowing with atrocious desperation, his eyes flooded in a weeping he could no longer contain.

“You were the beacon that kindled my capacity to love, the light with which I learned to deliver the soul without reserve,” I continued, with a thread of voice that tore the air between us. “And though you have also taught me the atrocious cold of solitude, I cannot curse the hand that showed me the beauty of my own heart. I do not hate you, Valarr… for one cannot hate the storm that taught one to value the sun, nor the abyss that made one discover how deeply one could feel.”

I made a small pause, feeling how the last remnant of warm air abandoned my lungs forever, leaving him face to face with the definitive void.

“Yet to love a ghost exhausts life…” I concluded, regarding him fixedly in the eyes, without a single tear, without a single spark of life. “And I have no more light left to burn for you.”

The rhythm of the music continued about us and the courtiers burst into enthusiastic applause. Believing it the culmination of a romantic and suffering reconciliation, the entire hall celebrated the royal couple with cheers and smiles alien to the tragedy that seethed between our hands.

But before Valarr could close his fingers once more upon mine, an enormous and clumsy shadow loomed beside us.

It was the gigantic hedge knight, Ser Duncan, who had approached with an unusual timidity in one of his size, scratching the nape of his neck awkwardly while regarding the prince with respect.

“Forgive the intrusion, my prince… my lady,” Ser Duncan murmured in his hoarse voice, making a clumsy bow. “Would you grant me this dance, my lady?”

Valarr remained motionless, his hand still extended in the air, trapped between the etiquette of the court and the presence of the hero of the day.

And then, very slowly, with a deliberate and cruel deliberateness, my fingers began to slip from his. I unbound my hand from his millimeter by millimeter, breaking the last point of contact between us, until his palm remained completely empty upon the cold air of the hall.

“It would be an honor, Ser Duncan,” I replied with a soft smile, turning toward the knight and leaving my husband behind, converted at last into a shadow for which I no longer felt any pity.

There is something curious that occurs when one ceases to feel loved. There is born a kind of bitter pride, an icy armor that tints every emotion that struggles to spring in our breast when we realize that the other never loved us. In that definitive instant which all of us are obliged to face sooner or later, we attempt desperately to convince ourselves of a pious fallacy: all will be well, because in truth I did not love him so much either; I was only at his side out of habit, out of duty, out of being… is that not so?

Then.

Why is my heart broken?

. .

In the end, acts will always have the last word.

.

.

.

do i clench my fists? - Single by ridgeclub | Spotify

ridgeclub · single · 2026 · 1 songs

@jellyfrogz @salermotatis @bruher @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @artistadistrada2002 @ellabellabus07 @winx333-blog @daryldixonhoney @slut4acotar @cassieblake4285

[sasaririri]

The Illusion of Being Loved

pairing: Valarr Targaryen x wifereader

summary: It only took three words from his cousin to shatter everything.

warnings: Angst, arranged marriage, unrequited love, mentions of fertility pressure, non-explicit intimacy. Reader's house and physical appearance are not specified.

a/n: haha so this is a draft I've had sitting around for a while, it's not fully edited so if you spot any mistakes just pretend you're blind lol. also apologies in advance, English isn't my first language. hope you enjoy it anyway!

part two

The weight of the linen between my fingers was the faithful reflection of an entire year of my life, returned in the form of silences, perfect courtesies, and a quiet sterility that devoured me alive from the inside out.

In the freezing corridors of the Red Keep, I had learned a skill as bitter as it was solitary: talking to myself so I wouldn’t die of emptiness.

I sat across from him at those dinners we only shared out of the strictest dynastic obligation. He remained with his back straight as a steel blade, shoulders firm, and manners impeccable the kind Prince Baelor had hammered into him with honor and discipline. And I, at the other end of the long oak table, spoke.

I told him about the old septon in the small chapel who always stammered through the afternoon prayers; about the one-eyed cat that had given birth to four kittens behind the royal stables; I read him trivial, everyday fragments from the letters my sister sent from our home. I spoke of everything and nothing, spilling words like stones thrown into a bottomless well.

Sometimes, in the gloom of my chambers, I rocked myself alone in the dark, asking myself the same questions over and over: Why, when he looks at me, doesn’t his face light up? A man in love should adore me. Yet he barely speaks to me. Still, sometimes I feel like his heart whispers to mine. He smiles when I laugh. 

Because he did it. On a few occasions he said beautiful things to me. He spoke well of me, making the courtiers praise his chivalry. I deluded myself, clinging desperately to small mirages. I remembered when he would approach, reach out, and brush a strand of hair behind my ear. In those seconds, my heart would race, thinking he was finally seeing  me.

It took me months of torment to understand the truth: Valarr only caressed my hair or reached for my hand when Prince Baelor was nearby, watching us. The moment his father turned away, his hand would drop and his face would return to that stone mask. He wasn’t loving me, he was performing for the man he feared disappointing. And I treasured those rehearsed caresses as if they were real promises.

And then she appeared.

Kiera of Tyrosh. Every time I saw her at court, impeccable and destined for Prince Daeron a bitter thought stung my soul: Maybe I should have been in her place, and she in mine, married to the drunken prince.Daeron isn’t a bad man, but his drinking problem complicates everything. At least, thank the Seven, Kiera was spared the misfortune of being betrothed to Prince Aerion.

But when the image of Valarr beside her took root in my mind, it stole the breath from my lungs. My eyes filled with rage and my hands trembled with helplessness as tears streamed down my face. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Yes. She is. She’s better than me in every way.

I stared at the walls of the Red Keep and the longing burned in my throat: How I wish your love would disarm me. Wrap me in your cloaks and strip me with your eyes. Later, when the time comes, silence me with your lips and tear me apart. Let your soul be mine and let us live in harmony. Wouldn’t you like that? Breathing in the same rhythm, playing the same melody together.

So why did this cruel fate make me fall in love with you? With you, who doesn’t love me. With you, who never calls for me. Why do the words seem to cost your mouth so much? Am I really that hard to love? Is my heart so insignificant?

Maybe we’re only destined to connect glances, never to entwine them. So I’ll look at my pillow, imagining you… and kiss my dream as if I were happy.

But fate had placed me beside the heir, and her in the untouched memory of my husband.

Even in intimacy, the distance destroyed me. Night after night, scheduled on the calendar for the purpose of conceiving an heir, Valarr touched me with a distant delicacy that made me feel invisible. He whispered quiet apologies if he gripped my wrists too tightly and murmured “rest, my lady” before turning to his side of the bed.

And yet the moons passed and my belly remained flat. Cold. Dead.

Every cycle that I bled in the dim light of my chambers drowned me in ravenous guilt. I lay awake staring at the canopy ceiling, pressing my palms against my abdomen, begging the Seven for a child. I thought a baby with silver-and-gold hair would finally break the spell of his indifference. That motherhood would give him a real reason to look at me as his wife instead of a duty of state. But the blood always came, punctual and cruel, reminding me of my double failure: I couldn’t make him love me, and I couldn’t even give him an heir.

I learned to embroider for him because simple words were never enough. With the desperate logic of someone who loves without being loved in return, I thought my hands might say what my mouth could not. I embroidered three-headed dragons on linen handkerchiefs, on soft leather belts, on the collar of a heavy cloak that took me months to finish by the flickering light of candles. I delivered them myself very early, before the sun fully rose over the bay and before he went down to attend his duties. I left them on his desk with a short, shy note.

He never said a word about them. Not a single one. And yet, days later, I would find them folded impeccably on the side tables of his study, among account scrolls and military reports he didn’t care about. They sat there forgotten, neat but set aside as if he didn’t know what else to do with the physical proof that someone loved him, unable to accept it but too well-mannered to throw it away.

That was the worst part. Not cruelty, because cruelty can be hated cleanly; cruelty gives you an enemy to build defenses against. The worst thing about him was that infinite, completely hollow kindness that kept me well cared for and devastatingly alone.

That’s why Ashford Meadow felt different. On the journey from King’s Landing, Valarr had tried to seek me out. He made small efforts at conversation during the stops, asking if the riding fatigued me or if the weather was pleasant. I thought this tournament, far

from the suffocating shadow of the Red Keep, would be the place where we could finally build something resembling love. That perhaps this trip would break the ice between us.

Gods, I was so wrong.

.

.

In Ashford Meadow, the air smelled of trampled grass, campfire smoke, and the sweet leather of campaign tents. I clutched the handkerchief tightly against my chest, pressing the embroidered silk so hard that the golden threads bit into my palm.

I walked between the pavilions of the lords of Westeros, listening to the distant murmur of cavalry and the cheers of the jousts. When I reached the royal tent, the guards recognized my face, bowed their heads in reverence, and lifted the flap without announcing me.

Inside, the warm gloom smelled of spiced wine and horse sweat. Valarr stood with his back to the entrance, wearing a simple dark linen tunic. Beside him, Prince Daeron was slouched clumsily in a wooden chair, holding a silver cup with a limp hand, rocking it with the sloppy ease of drink.

“Tell me the truth, Valarr,” Daeron slurred between loose laughter, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “It’s been a year already, cousin. Tell me right here… Have you learned to love your wife yet?”

I froze three steps from the entrance. The linen handkerchief crumpled violently between my fingers. My heart lurched in my chest.

Valarr didn’t answer right away. I instantly recognized the tension that seized his shoulders: the same stiffness he showed every time I spoke to him at dinner, the same exhausted posture that always preceded his polite silence.

“Ugh…” The sound escaped him low, heavy, choked. A weary groan from someone trapped in a sentence he never chose. “Please, cousin. Don’t ask me for what I can’t give.”

Something inside me snapped with a dry crack, a pain so sharp in the center of my chest that I had to clench my teeth just to keep breathing.

“You know perfectly well it’s not her fault,” Valarr continued in a defeated murmur, dragging a trembling hand across his face, completely unaware of my presence. “Gods, I know better than anyone that she’s a virtuous woman, that she tries to please me in every possible way… but I simply can’t help it. If my father hadn’t interfered with his alliances, Kiera would be—”

“Valarr,” Daeron hissed suddenly.

The drunken prince had shot to his feet. The silver cup slipped from his fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud, spilling a dark pool of wine. Daeron had gone pale as wax, staring fixedly over Valarr’s shoulder.

“Shut up…” he whispered with genuine terror in his eyes. “By the Seven, Valarr, shut up…”

Valarr froze. The hand on his face lowered slowly. And then, very slowly, he turned.

Our eyes met in the middle of the gloom.

I saw the exact, heartbreaking, brutal instant when he realized what I had heard. Every last trace of color drained from his face. For the first time in a year of marriage, I didn’t see the flawless mask of courtesy or the polite distance.

I saw panic. I saw a shame so deep it twisted his features.

And I saw the naked confirmation of something I already knew in the deepest part of my soul: that for a whole year he had been kind to me purely out of pity, and now, trapped by his own carelessness, he had no words to repair what the wine had just shattered.

Daeron muttered a cowardly apology and fled stumbling out of the tent, leaving us completely alone. The distant murmur of the tournament slipped through the seams of the canvas like a mocking echo.

My fingers lost their strength. The embroidered handkerchief slipped from my hand and fell onto the trampled grass, right between us.

“My lady…” Valarr’s voice broke. It was a sound I had never heard from him. He took an involuntary step toward me, raising trembling hands. “I… gods, I didn’t know you were here…”

I didn’t scream. I didn’t raise my voice even a single decibel. Fury or desperation would have required an emotional energy my body no longer possessed. Instead, an absolute, icy void took hold of me, smoothing my features until my face became polished stone.

Inside, the pain wasn’t a fire; it was a thick, freezing poison seeping through my veins, freezing every corner of my chest where I had once sheltered hope. My throat ached from the knot of tears I forced down, my pride was trampled, and above all, it hurt with the absolute certainty that I had been a fool. All those months of anguish, the sleepless nights begging the heavens to make me desirable to my own husband… it all came down to this. To the pity of a man who forced himself to touch me.

Valarr took a step back, unable to hold my gaze. He lowered his eyes to the grass, fixing them on the fallen handkerchief, on the three-headed dragon I had embroidered thread by thread, pricking my fingers in the gloom to have it ready before the tournament.

“You apologize every time you touch me… you thank me like a stranger,” I said in a flat, measured murmur, so devoid of emotion that my own voice sounded foreign. “You make sure I lack nothing… Why? Why does the mere idea of loving me feel like such a terrible insult to you?”

The words fell between us like a block of ice. Valarr froze.

That single word—insult—seemed to pierce his chest. He opened his mouth to justify himself, flustered, eyes wide with sudden panic. He began speaking in a torrent of clumsy excuses, raising his hands desperately, trying to explain his lack of love, his shame, his inability to feel anything for me. He was looking for a reaction, a spark of rage, a scream… anything that proved the woman in front of him was still alive.

But I couldn’t even feel my own breathing or the tingling in my fingers. I was numb.

As he drowned in his own words, I felt the last ember of affection I still held for him extinguish forever. The pain remained, tearing at my insides in a silent scream that would never leave my lips, but on the outside I granted him no comfort in seeing my suffering. I became so cold toward him that I learned his lesson: I turned into an iceberg.

Noticing my immobility, my empty and distant gaze, Valarr’s voice gradually faded. His desperation crashed against my indifference until it left him completely paralyzed. He fell silent, hand half-extended in the air, petrified by the violence of my serenity. He realized, too late, that he wasn’t arguing with a wounded wife, he was speaking to a stranger.

“Forgive me if I have been a bother to you, my prince,” I said at last, breaking the silence with a bow of my head as perfect as it was distant. “All I ever longed for was your affection.”

He shuddered violently, as if those words of submissive resignation hurt him more than a thousand swords.

“No…” he managed to whisper in a shattered thread of voice, unable to take a single step, eyes flooded with water as guilt crushed him. “Please… don’t say that…”

I didn’t even look at the ground. I didn’t bother to bend down and pick up the silk. The embroidered handkerchief, the golden dragon, and all the ridiculous love I had poured into it stayed there, abandoned on the trampled grass.

“I wish you luck in the tournament, my prince,” I added in the same neutral voice.

I turned with a firm step and straight back, letting the sound of my skirts dragging be the only thing that broke the air inside the tent. I left him behind, motionless and destroyed by his own paralysis, alone with his conscience and the wilted silk at his feet.

And yet, in my mind, one miserable question still fluttered:

Will he ever manage to love me?

.

.

.

Ilusión De Amor

Jensine Benitez, Thee Sacred Souls · Ilusión De Amor · Song · 2022

[meadowscarlet]

Desire — A.T. & V.T.

gifs from @notbuckybarnes @christophernolan

aerion targaryen x fem!reader, valarr targaryen x fem!betrothed!reader

summary: aerion delighted in provoking his cousin valarr, whether on the tournament grounds or through casually barbed remarks, but his favorite cruelty was always the same: taunting him about his beautiful betrothed. aerion’s obsession with her was no secret, and valarr knew it. he knew, too, the cruel truth he could never escape; aerion always got what he wanted.

warnings: suggestive themes (u deserve everything valarr) and aerion being his usual self.

author’s note: tysm for all the love in my recent akotsk fics !!!

AERION HAD ALWAYS DELIGHTED IN CRUELTY THAT WORE THE MASK OF CHARM.

It was a sport to him, as sacred and habitual as swordplay or dragon-riding, and one he practiced with the same lethal patience.

On the tournament grounds he did it openly: cutting remarks tossed like gauntlets at Valarr’s feet, laughter sharp and bright as Valyrian steel. In the halls of the Red Keep, he preferred something subtler: a look held a moment too long, a voice lowered just enough to suggest secrets, a smile curved with promise and threat entwined.

But of all the ways Aerion tormented his cousin, his favorite cruelty never changed.

He taunted Valarr about his betrothed.

A woman from a noble house, Y/N L/N.

Her name alone was a blade and Aerion wielded it expertly.

She was everything Valarr was not allowed to protect from Aerion’s attention; beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal, as though the gods had carved her from moonlight and breath. Her presence softened rooms hardened by ambition; her voice carried warmth even when she spoke of duty and politics.

There was gentleness in her eyes, a kindness that made even hardened knights falter in their speech. She smiled with sincerity, laughed without any mocking tilt, and believed, foolishly, dangerously, in the goodness of those around her.

Including Aerion.

Including Valarr.

Including the world that watched her like prey.

Aerion’s obsession with her was no secret and Valarr knew it.

He had known it from the first day Aerion saw her.

It had been at court, months before the betrothal was announced. Y/N had stood beside her father, hands folded neatly before her, listening as the king spoke of alliances and futures. She had worn pale silk that caught the light, her hair braided simply, as though she had not understood how every gaze in the hall would be drawn to her.

Valarr remembered turning to Aerion then, only briefly, only out of habit.

It was a mistake.

Aerion had been smiling.

Not the sharp, mocking grin he wore when he bested someone. Not the lazy curve of his mouth when he bored of conversation.

This smile was intent.

Focused.

Hungry.

He looked like a dragon wanting to devour a lamb.

“Well,” Aerion had murmured, not taking his eyes off her, “isn’t she exquisite?”

Valarr’s stomach had tightened.

“She is spoken for,” Valarr said flatly.

Aerion had laughed softly. “So is half the realm.”

That had been the beginning.

Now, months later, the torment had become ritual.

The tournament grounds were alive with noise; steel ringing against steel, horses snorting, banners snapping in the wind. Valarr stood near the lists, helm tucked under his arm, sweat cooling on his skin as he watched the next bout assemble.

Aerion approached like a shadow given form.

“Well fought,” Aerion said lightly. “You nearly took Ser Harlan’s head off.”

Valarr didn’t look at him. “If you’ve come to mock, do it quickly.”

Aerion chuckled. “Impatient. Is that for me, or for her?”

Valarr stiffened.

“She asked about you,” Aerion continued pleasantly. “Your sweet Y/N. Wondered if you’d be fighting again before supper.”

Valarr turned sharply. “You spoke to her?”

“Briefly.” Aerion shrugged. “She was radiant, as ever. Concerned. It’s charming how she worries.”

“You have no right—”

“No right?” Aerion raised a brow. “Cousin, we are family. And she is soon to be family too, is she not?”

Valarr’s hand tightened around his helm.

Aerion leaned closer, lowering his voice. “She smiled when I told her you fought like a man with something precious to lose.”

Valarr’s jaw clenched. “Stay away from her.”

Aerion’s eyes gleamed. “Or what?”

The unspoken truth hung between them.

Or nothing.

Because Valarr knew the cruel truth he could never escape.

Aerion always got what he wanted.

That night, Y/N sat by the window in her chambers, candlelight painting her features soft and luminous. She was brushing her hair when Valarr entered, his presence filling the room with tension he could not shed.

“You’re late,” she said gently, smiling at him in the mirror.

“The tournament ran long,” he replied.

She rose at once, crossing the room to him. Her hands found his, cool and reassuring. “You weren’t hurt?”

“No,” Valarr said quickly. “I’m fine.”

She searched his face. “You’re troubled.”

Valarr hesitated. How could he tell her that the man who laughed with her at supper looked at her like conquest? That every kindness Aerion showed was a calculated cruelty aimed at him?

“It’s nothing,” he lied, giving her a brief kiss on her forehead.

She nodded, trusting him as she always did. “Your cousin Aerion spoke of you today.”

Valarr’s blood went cold. “Did he?”

“Yes. He said you fought bravely.” She smiled. “He seems… fond of you.”

Valarr forced a tight smile. “He enjoys games.”

Y/N laughed softly. “He does have a sharp tongue, but I think there is warmth beneath it.”

Valarr closed his eyes briefly.

If only she knew.

Weeks passed. The taunts grew sharper.

Aerion praised her beauty too openly. Commented on her kindness in ways that sounded like claims. He found reasons to be near her, at feasts, in gardens, during council gatherings where she had no business but was invited nonetheless.

Always with a smile.

Always with Valarr watching helplessly.

One evening, Aerion intercepted Valarr in a quiet corridor.

“She wears blue tonight,” Aerion said casually. “It suits her.”

Valarr stopped walking. “Why do you do this?”

Aerion tilted his head. “Do what?”

“This,” Valarr snapped. “You know what you’re doing.”

Aerion stepped closer. “I’m admiring what is admirable.”

“She is not yours.”

Aerion’s smile faded, just slightly. “Not yet.”

The words were soft.

Terrifying.

Valarr felt something break then, something brittle and long-strained. “If you touch her—”

“You’ll what?” Aerion interrupted. “Challenge me? Defy me? Beg?”

Aerion leaned in, voice a whisper. “You know how this ends.”

Valarr did. He had always known.

Because Aerion had never been denied.

Not crowns.

Not dragons.

Not people.

And Y/N—sweet, ethereal Y/N—was standing far too close to the fire.

When Aerion finally spoke to her alone, it was in the gardens at dusk.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said gently, approaching her beneath the flowering trees.

She turned, startled, then smiled. “I enjoy the quiet.”

“So do I,” Aerion said. “Especially when it leads me to pleasant company.”

She blushed faintly. “You flatter too easily.”

“Only when it’s deserved.”

They walked together, Aerion matching her pace. He spoke kindly, thoughtfully, of books, of music, of duty and the weight of expectation. He listened when she spoke, truly listened, and she found herself relaxing despite herself.

“You care for Valarr deeply,” Aerion said at last.

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “He is good and honorable.”

Aerion nodded. “He is fortunate.”

She glanced at him. “You speak as though you envy him.”

Aerion smiled. “Perhaps I do.”

Something in his tone made her uneasy.

But she did not yet know the shape of the storm.

And Valarr, watching from afar, felt the future closing in.

Because Aerion was patient and inevitable.

And the cruel truth waited, smiling, with fire in its eyes.

Valarr did not remember deciding to go to her.

He only knew that his feet carried him through the corridors of the Red Keep as though pulled by a cord tied directly to his chest, tight and aching. The torches blurred past. His thoughts were a storm: Aerion’s voice, Aerion’s smile, Aerion’s certainty echoing again and again in his mind.

Not yet.

By the time he reached Y/N’s chambers, his breath was uneven.

He did not knock gently.

She opened the door herself, surprise flickering across her delicate features before relief softened her expression.

“Valarr—”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with more force than necessary.

She turned fully to him then, eyes searching his face. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, he only looked at her.

Candlelight wrapped her in gold. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves, her gown simple but clinging where it mattered, as though it had been made for his hands alone. She looked at him with concern and trust and quiet devotion and something in him fractured.

“I can’t lose you,” he said hoarsely.

Her breath caught. “Valarr—”

He crossed the space between them in two strides and cupped her face, his hands warm and trembling despite all his training. She gasped softly at the suddenness of it, but she did not pull away.

Instead, she leaned into him.

“I can’t,” he repeated, pressing his forehead to hers. “I won’t.”

“Lose me to what?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

He kissed her.

Not gently. Not cautiously.

His mouth found hers with a hunger that startled them both, weeks of restraint breaking all at once. Her lips parted beneath his, a soft sound escaping her as she clutched at his tunic, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring herself to him.

“Valarr,” she breathed against his mouth, her voice unsteady.

He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, savoring her warmth, the familiar sweetness of her, the way she responded so readily, so completely, as though she had been waiting for this same release.

His hands slid to her waist, firm, possessive, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. She could feel the tension in him, coiled and urgent, and it sent a shiver through her.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured, her lips brushing his jaw.

“So are you,” he replied.

She laughed softly, breathless. “Because you’re frightening me.”

He stilled at once. “I would never—”

“Not like that,” she said quickly, lifting her hands to his cheeks. “You frighten me because you want me.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

The word was bare. Honest. Heavy with promise.

She kissed him then, tentatively at first, as if asking permission. When he answered her with a low sound and drew her back into him, her courage blossomed. Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair as she kissed him more boldly.

He groaned softly, resting his forehead against hers once more.

“If I don’t slow,” he said, voice rough, “I won’t stop.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she did not pull away. “Then don’t stop.”

The invitation was quiet.

Devastating.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then the delicate line of her throat, his lips lingering there as though memorizing her. Her head tipped back instinctively, her breath hitching, her hands tightening on him.

“Valarr,” she whispered again, and this time his name sounded like a plea.

“I am yours,” he said fiercely, lifting his head to look at her. “Do you hear me? Whatever comes, I am yours.”

Her eyes shone. “And I am yours.”

He kissed her once more, slower now, deeper, the urgency tempered by reverence. His hand slid up her back, resting between her shoulders, holding her as though she were something precious and fragile both.

They stayed that way for a long moment, breathing each other in, the world outside the chamber forgotten.

Until Valarr pulled back, just enough to rest his brow against hers again.

“There is something I haven’t told you,” he said.

Her smile faded, replaced by concern. “What is it?”

He hesitated.

Because speaking Aerion’s name felt like inviting poison into the room.

But the truth pressed at him, insistent and sharp.

“My cousin,” he said finally. “Aerion.”

Her brow furrowed. “What about him?”

Valarr closed his eyes. “He wants you.”

Silence fell between them.

Her breath slowed. “Wants me… how?”

Valarr opened his eyes and met her gaze. “The way he has always wanted everything he sees.”

She drew back slightly then, not from Valarr, but from the weight of his words.

“He’s been kind to me,” she said uncertainly.

“He is kind to what he intends to claim,” Valarr replied bitterly.

She looked shaken now. “Valarr, surely you exaggerate—”

“I am not,” he said, gripping her hands. “And that is why I came to you tonight. Because if he moves against us—”

“He won’t,” she said, though doubt flickered in her eyes.

“He will,” Valarr said quietly. “And I need you to understand the danger.”

She searched his face, then nodded slowly. “Then we face it together.”

Something in her certainty nearly undid him.

He pulled her back into his arms, holding her tightly, his lips pressing into her hair.

“I swear to you,” he murmured, “he will not take you from me.”

Unseen beyond the chamber walls, fate listened and smiled.

Because Aerion Targaryen had never failed to take what he desired.

And now, desire had sharpened into something far more dangerous.

The Great Hall burned with excess.

Candlelight glimmered against gold and silver, laughter rang too loud, and music flowed in practiced waves meant to drown out thought.

Y/N sat beside Valarr at the high table, serene in appearance if not in spirit. Her silver gown clung softly to her form, luminous beneath the firelight, her beauty drawing eyes no matter how she tried to fade into the background.

Yet she felt exposed.

She could feel Aerion’s gaze as surely as if it were a physical thing; hot, unwavering, intolerably precise.

Each time she lifted her eyes, she found him watching her, not with the careless interest of a courtly admirer, but with something far more focused.

As though the noise of the hall meant nothing.

As though she were the only constant in the room.

Valarr noticed her tension. He leaned toward her, his voice low. “You’re pale.”

“I’m only warm,” she replied, managing a small smile.

“Do not leave my side,” he said, firmer than before. “Not tonight.”

She covered his hand with hers. “I won’t.”

But the hall pressed closer with every passing moment. Voices overlapped. Laughter rang too sharp. When Valarr was drawn into conversation once more, she rose quietly, intending only to step away long enough to breathe.

She did not realize she was being followed.

She had not gone far when Aerion’s voice reached her. “Moonlight suits you better than fire.”

Her heart jumped before she could still it. Turning, she found him standing just within her space, his presence immediate and deliberate. He had left the light of the hall behind; shadows carved his handsome features sharper, more dangerous.

“My prince,” she said carefully, “I should return.”

“You will,” he replied, calm and certain. “After.”

She glanced back toward the feast. “After what?”

“After you stop pretending you don’t know,” he said.

They stood beneath a tall archway overlooking the dark gardens below. Moonlight spilled through the windows, pale and cold, stripping the warmth from everything it touched.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

Aerion studied her as though she were something rare, something he had taken the time to understand. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Her voice tightened. “I am betrothed.”

“Yes,” he said. “To Valarr.”

She lifted her chin. “Then this conversation should end.”

Aerion stepped closer.

Not hurried. Not aggressive.

Certain.

“You mistake courtesy for restraint,” he said softly. “I have shown you only what the court allows. Not what I want.”

She remembered Valarr’s words.

Her breath faltered. “You shouldn’t want—”

He reached for her then.

His hand closed around her jaw, firm, unyielding, tilting her face upward whether she wished it or not. Before she could draw breath to protest, before thought could catch up to instinct, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was not gentle.

It was not searching.

It was a claim.

His lips pressed against hers with unmistakable intent, holding her there, unmoving, as though the world had narrowed to that single point of contact. There was heat in it; control, obsession, a terrible certainty that left no room for misunderstanding.

Her hands lifted instinctively, catching against his chest, not yet pushing, not yet yielding. Her breath hitched sharply, the shock of it ringing through her.

When he finally drew back, it was unhurried.

Her lips still burned. Her pulse thundered.

Aerion did not look away.

“There,” he said quietly. “Now you know.”

Her voice trembled. “You had no right.”

He smiled, not amused, not apologetic, but satisfied. “I take rights, my lady. I don’t ask for them.”

“That was wrong,” she whispered.

“No,” he replied. “It was inevitable.”

She shook her head, fighting the confusion rising in her chest, anger braided tightly with something far more frightening. “You’ve put me in danger.”

His gaze darkened. “You were always in danger. You simply hadn’t realized it yet.”

She stared at him, breath shallow. “You don’t even regret it.”

“No,” Aerion said plainly. “I wanted to brand myself on you. So I did.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

“You should go back to him,” Aerion continued, stepping aside at last. “Smile. Sit at his side. Be the dutiful betrothed.”

She swallowed. “And you?”

“I will watch,” he said. “As I always have.”

She turned away from him then, her steps unsteady as she made her way back toward the light. The sounds of the feast rushed in again—music, laughter, voices—but none of it reached her.

When she returned to the high table, Valarr looked up at once.

“There you are,” he said. “I was beginning to worry.”

She forced herself to smile, though her lips still tingled, though her heart had not slowed. “I’m sorry. I needed air.”

He studied her face, frowning slightly. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she said too quickly.

Across the table, Aerion lifted his goblet.

Their eyes met.

His smile was slow. Possessive. Certain.

And in that moment, Y/N understood, with chilling clarity, that the kiss had not been a transgression Aerion feared the consequences of.

It had been a declaration.

[hoaxswiftt]

THE COMPLETE KNOCK . . ⋆

valarr targaryen x stark!reader

༉ summary. during the midst of your wedding celebration, you seek silence outside on a hidden balcony. not expecting your now husband, valarr targaryen, to come find you.

༉ word count. 5.7k

༉ contains. arranged marriage, inner worry/doubt, kissing, fluff, pining, inaccurate stark family line, idk

༉ authors note. this is just one small, fun, and different thing i wanted to write and i have a variety of different interest. the beginning part is a bit weak before valarr shows up, bear with me. not proof read.

. . ⋆ ˖᯽ ݁

This wedding is meant to be a joyous affair.

And it is, for the most part. There's music and laughter coming from every corner of the hall. You guess that it's more rowdy than anything else these southerners have seen. Your father, Beron, had traveled with a ton of northmen to this wedding.

He was proud of you and wanted people to see it.

You've been playing with the bandage around your hand, protecting the cut you made earlier during your vows.

As Valarr takes a sip of his wine you can see the bandage around his palm as well. It's an old House Targaryen wedding ritual, the blood from your hands joining together symbolizing two fleshes becoming one. How Valarr can drink wine confuses you, the cut you two also made on your lips still stings as you sit on the high table.

You spoke to more people than you could count, more than you could name. That was what it meant to be the prince's wife, the future Queen.

You shook hands, drank many sips of wine that people toasted for you. You did all that was required of you now.

Except you refused to dance with them.

You saved that pleasantry for only your family. Your father, mother, and brother, all dance with you. Once all together. The thing about the North was when you danced, it was free. There were no poised choreographed dances. Just jumping, swinging, and twirling, something that let all the turmoil of the world fade away.

Valarr however, was now a part of your family. Technically your new family that would possibly eventually grow.

So you dance with him

It's slower than with your family, a given as you looked at how all the people from the South danced.

Your bandaged hands hold one another, though you can still feel the heat from the small skin to skin contact.

Valarr keeps looking down at his feet, nervous to hold more than five seconds of eye contact with you.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" You ask, quite enough so only Valarr can hear.

"I am now," he responds.

You smile shyly at his response, "I'm glad."

The dance with Valarr is nice. He holds you closer than anyone else would, it brings a flutter to your stomach. He dances like he is from the South. It's a poised choreographed dance, one that would bore you and turn you away if it were anyone but Valarr.

Eventually Valarr gets swept away by a Lord's small daughter into a dance and you walk back to your seat. You had taken it upon yourself throughout the wedding to move from your seat at the high table with the Targaryen's to the table the Stark's are seated at.

Valarr had looked at you when you did, a small nod was exchanged between the two of you. Understanding that being around your family was important to you.

Eventually now since they were all going to travel back North without you in three days.

Your five paces away from your seat when a woman blocks your path.

She's dressed in green with a tower symbol on her chest. House Hightower.

"Lady Targaryen." A rush shivers down your spine as she refers to you as Targaryen and not Stark.

"How has the wedding been?" She asks louder and happier than anyone would. She's trying to be extra nice, trying to win over your grace since you're now a Targaryen, as she pointed out.

That's what was wrong with the South, they're fake. Yes, people in the North were respectful and kind to your father and brother, but it was out of respect, not duty.

"It's been well. Thank you," you respond, trying to keep it short, wanting to return to your family.

"Yes I would imagine, being with a man like Valarr." Something bitter enters your body as she says that, unaware as to why.

"You know as they say, the Gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born. It seems they favored Valarr when in the womb. Giving him plain features. Who knows, he's still young, time for him to grow mad." You look at the cup of wine in her hand and understand suddenly as to why she's saying all this openly to you.

The wine has made her bold. What she's speaking about is borderline treason, plain featured, she said. As if Valarr wasn't an angle to look upon.

Though something in her tangent struck you. The Targaryens are an odd bunch. Just in this generation, you have Targaryens who if spoken to would make you cry, someone on purpose.

Would Valarr end up like that?

He is your husband, and has authority as to what you do, what he does.

You know Valarr is a kind man who would never. But you can't stop the deep pit in your stomach from forming, worry that brings her drunken words to life.

And all of the sudden, the music that's playing gets louder. The Lords and Ladies chatter grows rowdier. Your wedding dress shrinks into your skin and cuts off your breathing.

All of the sudden you need to be outside. Away from the noise, away from the stares, away from everything.

You look at the main entrance, the doors could fit twenty people standing in a straight line. It takes you five seconds before you realize you couldn't walk out through them.

It takes you five more seconds for you to see the smaller door guarded by white cloaks.

Before you can second guess your decision, you walk towards the significantly smaller door. The guards don't oppose and you assume it's because of the dragon symbol you now wear.

You had come to know the halls of the Red Keep, but they'd never been as empty as now.

There's a few maids and cooks walking around. They look at you funny and you realize the very obvious wedding dress you're wearing.

If there's anything you've learned, the gossip that flows around the Red Keep is started from the maids. You already hear them saying the Targaryen bride was walking around the halls during her wedding breathlessly.

You spot the balcony doors and for the second time today you walk through the doors before you can second guess yourself.

The air immediately causes your breathing to steady.

As you walk to the edge of the balcony you can feel the wind. It almost feels like snow blowing in your face back in the North. The railing under your hand almost feels like ice as you try and fight back the sting in your eyes. Not letting the tears fall.

You don't want to cry, mainly because you know you have no logical reason to cry. Your marriage with Valarr will be fine, he's too kind for his own good.

"It's ok, you're ok," you repeat out loud to yourself.

You start breathing loudly and your hair starts sticking to your neck. Your hands move to the back of your head to gather it and put it up.

“My lady.”

You jump. Your hair falls.

You turn and see your now husband, Valarr Targaryen. He stands just at the entrance, hands at his side, afraid to move any closer.

You take a step forward, just one, unsure if he’d be upset at you for leaving the celebration.

“Your grace.” You bow.

“I could not find you,” he says.

He could not find you and you smile at the thought. Most men wouldn’t bother looking for their wife, too busy drinking their cups or indulging in the women around.

But the way Valarr says it, with genuine concern. You almost let yourself believe that he was concerned for your well being. But he was a prince, and this was his your guys’ wedding. Your disappearance would set a bad precedent for him, Valarr Targaryen the heir’s heir who could not keep track of his wife.

“My apologies your grace, I simply found myself needing some... air,” you say. Truly you wanted space and quiet, you wanted to be away from all the wandering eyes that sat upon you.

“Do not apologize, I understand. All the staring can be a lot.”

The smile you give to his responses doesn't quite meet your eyes. Yes, of course the man who grew up as a prince would understand what it's like to have thousands of people staring at you.

Valarr, seems to understand your unease, if he had come to find you to bring you back to the party he goes against it, fully stepping onto the balcony, not before shutting the doors behind him.

“I hope I am not imposing on your silence?” He questioned, moving to sit on the couch. His expression was soft, almost as if he was analyzing you, the entire situation.

For months you had gotten to know Valarr. You learned Valarr was a shy, honest man, he didn't have the arrogance that most princes had.

Everything about him was real.

“No your grace,” you repsond.

“Valarr,” he replies. "I wonder how many more times I must remind you?” He jests. "We are married now and I'd prefer it much more.”

When you were both betrothed, Valarr had asked you to call him by his first name. You remember he'd said "it would make things less awkward" before he paused before saying "and possibly have us grow more fond of one another." You remember because when you turn and look at him the brightest shade of pink took over his face.

It had brought the warmest sense of relief because you had come to the assumption that this marriage would be nothing more than a duty. A few nods, a couple public outings with one another, and eventually an heir plus a spare.

You sigh, “Yes I suppose we are now.”

“You need not say it with such disgust.”

“No!” You shoot. “Valarr I didn't—”

You're certain the cold from the metal bars you're gripping is helping ease your blood pressure right now. In all honesty, if you were to marry a prince you're happy it's Valarr. The idea of being bound to a drunken or mad man made you yourself want to adventure over the wall and never come back.

“I simply jest,” he interrupts.

"You could come sit y'know?" Valarr suggests nodding towards the empty space next to him. "If it pleases you, of course," he adds, something he always did, put your needs and wants first.

As you move closer to him you can see his features more clearly. Yes, you usually tell him he looks great, and he always did, but you said it on instinct before looking at him, not truly meaning it.

But as you look at him now, the small orange hue hitting his face from the torch lighting up the balcony, and his hair slightly blowing from the wind, it made his white streak more prominent than ever. He, in your opinion, had never looked better.

His light freckles, ones you won't be able to notice unless you're as close as you are right now. Or the dimple that he only has on the left side of his face. More importantly, his purple eyes with a sliver of brown in one. It seems his Valyrian and Dornish sides were competing with one another while he was in the womb. His eyes, not the color, but the look are what made you less worried about this union when you'd first met. The warmth and kindness he carried in them disintegrated your worries into oblivion.

"You look beautiful today." He looks at you with a genuine smile on his face, and the kindest look in his eyes. "Everyday but... in red,” he says, softly.

You laugh a bit. Valarr just confessed that he liked seeing you in his house colors. He liked that people knew you were his now, officially.

"As do you,” you reply. "Truly,” you add, aware of the fact that it didn't sound as genuine as his compliment.

Nonetheless, Valarr blushes.

"You seem to be the kindest person in the South Valarr," you say instead. Aware the compliments about his looks sound like they hold no value when exiting your mouth. You only hope he understands that you do reciprocate his fondness.

"You seem to be the only person I can trust here," you add trying to drive home the fact that he means a lot more to you than you put on.

Valarr's cheeks pink at the compliment.

"As are you," he replies. "Truly," he adds.

His laugh joins yours after that. It’s a poor attempt to poke fun at you.

Your laugh dies down as you realize how close you are to Valarr. Both your knees are touching each other. If you moved your hands an inch, they'd be right on top of Valarr's lap.

Valarr's laugh also dies down, suddenly aware of how close you two had gotten to one another. He looks down at your lips and fixates on them. Your breath hitches, looking at his eyes that are staring at your lip with nothing but hunger.

It reminds you of the first time you guys met.

It was at the red keep. You'd been there to celebrate Aerion Targaryen's name day. The arrogant prince had declared he wanted everyone, in his words: of importance, to show up.

You decided to leave the festivities and sit underneath the godswood tree on a bench, making a daisy chain. A rare almost impossible thing to do back in the North.

"I liked your dancing."

The interruption causes you to jump.

The man was standing with his hand at his front, rubbing his thumb over his pointer finger, clearly nervous. His eyebrows are shot up straight, clearly confused as to why he said that out loud.

The beaded dragon over his heart causes you to still.

As you look at him more clearly you're wondering how you didn't notice he was the prince at first.

Back in the great hall you saw him sitting next to the Hand of the King. He held himself as any price would, attentive, poised, and collected. When he spoke to, who you assumed was his brother, his white streak showed. The famous bit of hair that was talked through the seven kingdoms, the Targaryen features hold on through King Daeron's line by a strand.

You see now why the Blackfyre rebellion is in uproar. The Starks are loyal, but southern wars are not the top priority back at Winterfell. But a great push for the Blackfyre rebellion was over the fact that the heirs for the iron throne were no longer Targaryen. Both represent their Dornish features more. Though, from what little you've seen of the young prince in front of you, he seemed like he wouldn't make a half-bad king.

"Your grace." You bow now noticing you spent too long staring at his hair.

"You need not bow my lady," he says.

"Apologies, I just..." You trail off, not sure what to say.

"I understand," he cuts the silence off. "May I?" He questions pointing to the open spot next to you.

You don't understand why the realms prince has decided to move his attention onto you. You only hope that whatever this is, doesn't extend outside of this garden. A prince's attention is feeble, short-lived, you don't want to find yourself being a prince's plaything that he throws away when inconvenient.

You respond anyway, because he is a prince, "Yes your grace you—.”

"Valarr, you can call me Valarr," he cuts you off again.

"I do not believe that appropriate," you reply, unsure of why this small interaction had given you, what you assume is the privilege, of referring to the prince by his first name.

"We are alone." He looks around the garden, to validate what he says. "I believe."

"I suppose we are," you reply.

"I uh... I saw you dancing. Earlier. In the great hall," he says, sitting down closer to you than necessary, still fidgeting with his hands.

"I apologize, I hadn't noticed you," you say in all honesty, uncertain of why you'd felt so confident in being honest with a prince.

"No I take no offense, you looked like you were having fun..." He wanders off, staring into the sky. "With your betrothed and everything," he adds, with a slight hint of embarrassment.

"Brandon? My brother?" You say, with what only you can describe is the most disgusting look you've ever had on your face.

He's the only person you danced with today. You couldn't stand all the other lords from the South and there, for lack of a better word, stupid sons. You suppose Valarr's Targaryen mindset had led him to believe you were a sister-wife, but even then, the only people used to that custom were the Targaryens throughout history.

"Oh..." he replies. "I hadn't... I just... I'm sorry."

You laugh at the response. The look in his eyes, a sheer hint of humility and the hue of rose on his face. He shakes his head back and forth while laughing, clearly happy that he made you laugh. Here was the first time you noticed the small freckles on his face. They almost make him feel more... human, less like that dragon persona all the Targaryens carry.

"May I ask why you're here my prince?" You question.

He pouts his lips, unsure. "As I said, I liked your dancing. I thought you should know."

"Right," you respond, now looking down at the forgotten daisy chain in your hand.

Silence overtakes the bench you and Valarr are sitting on. Valarr, for reasons you don't know, came up to you yet he doesn't know what to say.

"What do you think of the south?" He asks, breaking the silence.

"I think the men here could benefit from a visit to the wall," you reply, way too abruptly.

That surprises you almost as much as him saying he liked your dancing. To be so brutally honest with a prince who you just met. Well, you don't know what's gotten over you.

"Apologies... my prince," you say, still not comfortable with addressing him by his first name."

"No, I prefer it. Honesty. It's easy to tell you're from the North." He laughs at his last sentence.

You didn't inherit many Stark traits. You were shy, didn't much prefer fighting but you knew how to hold your own. The best traits you had gained was loyalty and honesty. Though sometimes the latter got you in trouble. You're only grateful that Valarr hadn't found your honesty offensive.

He actually seemed to enjoy your company, and honesty. Not some lord who was just pleasing you and your interests for show. No. He was honest, real.

Eventually Valarr's hand moves towards yours, still holding the daisy chain. His finger touches yours lightly. It brings a shiver over your whole body.

"May I ask what it is you're making?" He looks at the daisy chain in your hand. You're sure there are tons of girls who live in the red keep, how Valarr has gone without seeing one you don't quite understand.

"It is a daisy chain," you say, bringing it up closer to his face as if that would make him suddenly understand.

"Would you like one?" You ask shyly.

"Of course." His response is a little too fast and exciting than it should be, though you don't mention it.

You debate with yourself on whether to make him a bracelet or necklace. But as you move your fingernails over the stem of the flower, you know exactly what you should make.

You both sit in silence as you make the chain. But you can feel Valarr staring at you. It takes everything in you to not look back at him. From your peripheral you see his eyes dart back and forth between your face and your hands over and over almost as if he was unsure which was more interesting.

"Perhaps not the most beautiful thing a prince like yourself has owned," you say once finished.

"In years to come you'll get a better one, but for now you can enjoy this," you say, placing the flower crown on top of his head.

Valarr looks up as you place the crown on this head, following your hands. His face has become the same shade of pink from when he randomly decided to proclaim he liked your dancing.

"I much prefer this one," he replies now, finally looking at you.

"Yes, I suppose this doesn't come with all the real problems a king may face in his lifetime."

"Yeah..." He waits, "Exactly." Though his tone doesn't sound as sure as his words.

He keeps eye contact with you as he says it. Though for one fleeting second, he looks down at your lips. So fast, if you weren't looking so deeply in his eyes you wouldn't have noticed the slip.

Though you decide at that moment to disregard it as nothing of importance.

You and Valarr engage in simple conversation after that. You do your best to keep it simple and polite so if a bystander were to overhear they couldn't spin this into something it's not. Though by the ways of the Red Keep, the whispers could convince people that a beetle was really a butterfly in disguise.

You learned mostly about Valarr's horse.

A black mare with the tiniest strand of white hair on her mane. Perfect for him. Though he sincerely doubted that, the first half-year with her she'd refuse to let Valarr mount him. If he did manage it, it was no more than five minutes until she shook him off of her.

He named her Meraxes.

Named after an ancient Valyrian God that you knew nothing about. Though you thought it was sweet that Valarr still held on to that part of his history.

His best memories of riding her was when he went out of the castle with Matarys. Most times they fled from the guards riding behind them, leaving them in a pile of worry.

You'd mentioned that she should meet your horse.

He seemed extremely pleased at the idea.

After a while Valarr had mentioned heading back to the hall. Valarr, ever the gentlemen had offered you his hand to escort you back. Though you advised against it, you knew it wasn't the best idea to enter the hall filled with dozens of lords and highborns with the prince.

After he left you sat underneath the godswoods tree for ten more minutes. One, to not let anyone get any ideas. But two, to understand what had just happened. Prince Valarr came up to you, for seemingly no good reason. And you had enjoyed it, the conversation with him felt good. Real.

He was the most honest person you had met in the South.

As you walk back into the hall, you see Valarr seated at the high table. His father Baelor to his right and brother Matarys to his left. But more importantly you see the daisy chain crown still sitting on top of his head.

"Y/N?" Valarr's hand is now on your shoulder, bringing you back to the present.

The physical contact makes your whole body warm.

"Hmm?" You say.

"I asked..." Whatever it was he was going to remind you of before you got lost in your mind, he goes against it. "Are you alright?"

"Yes I was just..." You pause, debating to share your honesty.

You remember though that the relationship you had with Valarr was built on honesty. It was what made you trust him since the first day you met. It was what gave you hope for this marriage. That if love did emerge, at least he would be honest with you, and you him.

So you tell him the truth.

"I was thinking back on the first day we met. Underneath the godswoods."

"I remember it," he replies.

Your bluntness had already gotten you this far, so you test it a little further.

"Why did you approach me that day? Do not say it was because of my dancing," you ask.

"But it was," he replies simply. "When you were dancing with your brother, your smile was the biggest I've ever seen. You looked happy."

He sighs and continues, "Most dancing that takes place through the Red Keep is a chore more than anything else. To make it seem like everyone is having a great time," he says with a heavy sigh, unhappy with the reality.

"Politics and judgment tend to wear off on people's spirit. The only person I'd ever seen that happy while dancing is Matarys. But you, you danced like no one was watching, like the people in the South were dirt found on the bottom of your shoe." They are, you thought.

"I thought it attractive," he says.

"I thought you attractive." The way he says you, like it was saying something as simple as the sky is blue, made your heart flutter.

Valarr had never told you this. You knew he was looking at you while you were dancing, that he admitted himself the first time he spoke to you. But to retell it to you now, to admit that he was analyzing you, you felt scared and admired simultaneously.

"I wanted to see what could make a person so happy," he admits. "That's why I approached you."

"You should've told me."

If Valarr had told you this, it would've made you way more happy and relaxed throughout this betrothal.

"I didn't want to frighten you."

"You'd never frighten me."

Yes you were frightened. Frightened of moving away from the North, away from your family. Frightened of the court and it slowly pulling you into its andal traditions. Frightened of one day becoming Queen of the seven kingdoms. Frightened of bearing children, children who will become King. Frightened of being in a loveless marriage.

But never frightened of Valarr.

Valarr has been the kindest and welcoming man since this proposal. How Valarr stood from you not more than five feet away these past months with not an ounce of doubt in his face. Maybe it's because he's a prince and knows this is his duty but the way he handles it with such composure, it's mostly unreal.

The warmest and kindest smile takes over Valarr's face. Which surprises you because he says, "I have not been fully honest with you."

He has got a mistress is your first thought. That's how he's been so happy with this arrangement. He knows he doesn't have to fully commit to you, he has an outlet to get away from you.

"My father, the king too, they were not the ones who requested this betrothal."

Oh.

What?

The shock and confusion of your face is what makes him explain himself further.

"I did."

"You...?" Your question fades, still not sure what he's hinting at.

"After the godswoods when I came back into the hall. As my father described it, my face looked as if a child had smeared pink pigment all around it."

Valarr laughs at the memory before he continues, "Mataryas, he... he laughed and pointed at the flowers on my head. He tried to take it from me and I removed his hand more harshly than I should have."

The image of Valarr harming his brother over something you crafted. A simple thing that you've made, something that any girl in the Red Keep knows how to make. It warms your heart, you'd barely known Valarr and yet he kept the flower crown.

"I placed the flower crown on the table beside my bed that day," he continued.

"The next day father had asked me about it but I didn't... I didn't tell him."

He didn't want to make a spectacle of you, of your guys' conversation for the court to know.

"Coincidentally, that day was when the small council decided it was time I got a wife." Valarr shys as he continues with the story, "All the ladies, they were kind but I..." He laughs at himself yet still going on.

"Don't laugh at me," he tells you.

"I kept ending those days in bed staring at the flowers, thinking back on that day in the godswood with you."

"And well..."

Valarr reaches into his pocket, what he pulls out takes your breath away. It's a flower crown, the flower crown from the godswood tree.

It's shriveled up, no longer chained in a circle together, it's balled up. Almost like Valarr had held it in his fist since that day. Most of the petals have turned almost brown, if you'd have shown it to anyone else, they wouldn't understand what it had originally been.

But you do.

You understand that Valarr has held on to a piece of you this whole time, the first thing you'd given at the garden.

"I went to my father and told him if I were to be betrothed to anyone it'd be to you."

Valarr's eyes are filled with nothing but honesty. A small hint of apprehension, like you reject him and his affection.

It's overwhelming how close you are to one another. Like the space between you two was an insult that needed to be exiled from the seven kingdoms.

So you exile it, you lean forward and kiss Valarr. Your arms wrap around him, pulling him as close as you could maneuver, the only barrier being your wedding clothes. Kissing him like your life depended on it, hoping it told Valarr everything words couldn't.

You've kissed Valarr before, once back North. Valarr, his father Baelor, and his brother Matarys, had all made a trip to the North 3 months after your first meeting with Valarr underneath the godswood tree.

You had not become a small fun play-thing to Valarr. From what you were told his father had requested a betrothal between you and the young prince to your father; Beron.

Requested was a nice way to put it because really when one is presented with a betrothal from the royal family, you don't decline it.

But for the three months before he arrived, you both had sent letters back and forth to one another. You'd learned many things about Valarr, and he you. He loved daisies, his brother was his best friend, he preferred discussing politics as opposed to fighting over them, though he never turned down a tourney, and he preferred the winter over summer.

You sent him one too many letters after that complaining he had never seen a true winter and no such room to speak on it.

And when he finally arrived to the North, though not during winter, he didn't seem to like it as much as he claimed.

You'd taken him to the hot springs, thinking it would help him with the cold.

It was there sitting on a rock that you had kissed Valarr. You both sat shoulder to shoulder, knees touching and his face had been more pink than ever. You remember laughing with him, seeing the same look in his eyes that he always has when he sees you, and leaning in.

It lasted no more than 10 seconds, possibly less.

And it wasn't your first kiss but you had been more nervous than ever. The feeling you had gotten around Valarr was different than any other. It was what made you bold enough to lean in and initiate the kiss.

You remember walking back to Winterfell a spread a pink across your face, matching Valarr. Occasionally giggling when you both make eye contact with one another.

The second time you two kissed was back at the wedding ceremony.

It was after cutting one another's lips and sipping on the wine. It was a simple kiss, proper yet sweet enough for everyone watching. Though they would never know how much the kiss stung.

But it was nothing like this.

No. This was completely different.

The kiss was firm, you were both more confident this time. There was no plague of honor hovering over the two of you stopping you from doing more. There was no crowd, staring at you two like dragons that had been hatched again after fifty-six years forcing the kiss to be formal.

The kiss wasn't rushed, it felt like longing and seduction in one. Months of bottled-up feelings from two people who were too shy to speak about how they felt about one another.

Your hands moved to his shoulders, gripping for support. Valarr groaned at the slight nip you made to his bottom lip. He pulled you in closer, one hand at your waist and the other in your hair, deepening the kiss. Almost afraid of this ending, scared this is his only chance so he soaks up all he can get in this moment.

When you pull back to get some air, your forehead rests against Valarr's. A sigh escapes your lips, and before you can speak, Valarr pulls you into another kiss.

This time it's more rushed. Your hands move to Valarr's neck also not wanting the moment to end. You'd guessed if you weren't outside, you'd sit on top of Valarr. Wanting to be as close as possible to him at this moment.

Finally, you pull away. Your hands are still on Valarr's neck, wanting to still feel him beneath you.

Valarr's face is one you want to commit to memory. He looks like a man who's been granted everything in life and then some.

The wind picks up at this moment. The torches flicker and move from the heavy wind and the silence between the two of you causes you to hear the music, stomping, and cheers from people celebrating back in the great hall.

The doors that separate the people celebrating the marriage between House Stark and House Targaryen and the two of you sitting outside.

Away from the politics, duties, and gossip that the Red Keep brings. From this small balcony outside you can just have a real normal conversation with Valarr. You can confess your fears and love to one another without worry.

You can look at one another with love without people being able to see and analyze the two of you.

And now all of the sudden, you aren't as afraid of being married to Valarr Targaryen.

. . ⋆ ˖᯽ ݁

[obeymeworld]

oh my god this was so freaking cute

[cosmictheo]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐦'𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 | valarr targaryen

— summary: as maekar’s eldest daughter, you are a trophy to every man of the realm. and for that, one evening your husband’s protective streak turns into a cruel accusation that escalates into a heated argument. you’ve mastered the art of the silent treatment, and for a man who treats you like his entire religion, one day of being ignored is enough to drive him to the brink of insanity. — pairing: valarr targaryen x wife!targaryen!reader — word count: 5.4k — content: +18 (minors dni!), targcest, light sexual content, established marriage, childhood friends to lovers, jealous & possesive!valarr, a bit of angst, period-typical sexism, marital arguments, emotional tension, hurt/comfort, a LOT of worship and sweet romance bc he is so in love, silent treatment until he can't take it anymore (he's so pathetic).

For as long as memory held its flickering torch, the eyes of men had been fixed upon you.

You were a creature grown accustomed to the weight of their collective gaze—a heavy cloak you wore wherever your feet led. Some looked with shadow of loathing, others with the rigid mask of respect; some with the sharp edge of envy, and many more with the burning, unwashed hunger of desire.

It had begun as simple smiles blooming in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, back when you were but a child clutching your father’s hand. Even then, the Lords of the Court possessed no shame; they would boldly petition for your hand to grace their sons’ beds, or, more obscenely, their own.

As the years stretched your limbs, the courtesies grew deeper than necessity required. The compliments became overwrought, smelling of false summerwine. Their eyes would linger upon the curve of your smile or the silk of your bodice a heartbeat longer than was seemly. They looked at you through a glass of unreality, forcing their kindness and sharpening their flattery, all to carve a place in your favor. They hoped, perhaps, to ensnare your heart and bind you to them in the sight of the Seven.

By right of blood, you were the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen—his firstborn, a flawless alloy of his steel and your mother’s grace. You were a vision of royalty in its highest splendor: hair of spun silver and a smile that dazzled like sunlight on Blackwater Bay. You moved with the terrifying confidence of one who knew exactly who, and what, she was.

You were a Dragon Princess, as beautiful and volatile as the wildfire burning in your veins.

That was a sin the world would never forgive. Nor would they ever permit you to forget it.

The lesson was learned early and with bitterness: men did not see you. They cared little for the contents of your soul or the mettle of your character. They saw only your name, your blood, and the power of your heritage. You were not a woman to them; you were a ledger of utility.

For that, your life had been spent parrying unwanted advances and shivering through uncomfortable dalliances. Your father had grown weary of swatting away marriage pacts like persistent flies. He had even gone so far as to backhand your younger brother, Aerion, when the Prince had dared to claim you as his own by right of birth.

To the realm, you were a trophy to be hoisted. A prize to be corrupted, to be flowered and bedded, a vessel to carry their legacy under the prestige of your name.

To everyone, that is, except for Valarr.

Your sweet cousin had always been the perfect counterpoint to your own existence, for you understood one another with a clarity that defied words. You were two bright spirits the world sought to quench.

He did not look at you as a ladder to the Iron Throne, nor did he squint to measure the span of your waist or the fullness of your breast to judge your worth as a broodmare. He looked at you because, since you were children racing through the gardens, you were the only one who could read the silences hidden behind his shy, quiet smile. You were patient with him when the court was not; you were his confidante, his shield, and above all, his most faithful ally.

You had covered for one another’s mischief, mending the echoes of broken treasures and whispering secrets as you snuck into the Dragonpit. There, amidst the towering, hollow skulls of the ancient dragons, you would play at being Old Valyria reborn, pretending the stone husks still breathed fire at your command.

When the betrothal was finally cried out, the court hailed it as the ‘Perfect Union’ to secure the succession. With the King’s blessing and your fathers’ consent, the pact was sealed. They saw it as a masterful stroke of politics; for the two of you, it was the first true breath of relief you had ever taken.

For you loved him, and Valarr had loved you since his heart first learned to beat. To him, you had appeared like a Valyrian goddess—radiant, laughing, and full of life. As the years turned, he had found himself a devotee at your altar, a prince kneeling before his own religion. He had always been there to shield you from the grasping hands of men who took advantage of your girlhood innocence.

“I don’t like how they treat you, cousin,” he would grumble, squeezing your hand in his, hidden in the shadows behind a enormous dragon skull. Naturally, that was where you both felt safest, under the dark, fierce gaze of the hollow eye pits of the dragons in their lair. “As if you were some kind of property they could claim.”

Valarr was your guardian. And now that you were his wife, the silver prince had grown more territorial, his devotion sharpening into a protective jealousy that burned as fierce as any dragon’s breath.

That evening, at some royal feast in the Red Keep, the weary pantomime played out once more. You were draped in a gown of breathtaking scarlet and black—the colors of your House—mirroring the doublet Valarr wore.

ogether, you were a vision of dragonblood manifest, your silver tresses woven with threads of beaten gold that glimmered under the fire of the lamps. Your face remained serene, a mask of pale porcelain that the lords of the realm, in their infinite dullness, so often misread.

“Your sweetness is truly exquisite, Princess,” a Lord claims, his flattery oiling the air for the third time within the hour. He pressed closer than etiquette deemed holy, mistaking your silence for the soft bloom of shyness. But as Maekar’s daughter, shyness was a stranger to you. “Surely a woman of your... temperament would find respite from the rigors of the capital. My lands in the south are far warmer, and much more welcoming.”

You do not stir or grow desperate. You merely take another slow sip of your sweet red wine, dangerously calm. You sense Valarr’s presence before you hear his boots on the stone, and so you let him handle the intrusion. You let him mark his territory.

Your husband slides to your side with the natural elegance of one born to wear a crown. He has been occupied in conversation with his father—much to his chagrin, for he detests leaving you alone in halls so thick with that kind of men. 

And Valarr, much like his father Baelor, is a man of precise words and measured gestures.

“Lord Tyrell,” he says, his voice so soft it feels like a caress, though his beautiful two-colored eyes hold the dull glint of an ice floe. “My wife already has all the warmth she could ever need here. The Targaryen fire requires no southern sun to burn fiercely.”

Valarr places a hand to rest gently on the small of your back, drawing you flush against him. 

It is a subtle gesture to the prying eyes of the court, but to you, it is absolutely everything. The heat radiating from his palm and the delicate graze of his fingers against the silk of your gown at the curve of your waist are enough to make the insult—which has begun to climb your throat—dissolve into a lover’s sigh. 

Though, you wish you could have that Lord’s eyes served on a platter for the way he undresses you with his gaze.

“Of course, my Prince,” the portly Lord stammers, recoiling before Valarr’s intimidating stare. “I was only looking after... the Princess’s well-being.”

“There is no need. I am here to ensure my wife's well-being, my Lord,” Valarr concludes with a courtly smile that does not reach his eyes. His fingers tighten at your waist, dipping dangerously toward the curve of your backside as you lean against his chest, looking down upon the other man with disdain.

When the Lord takes his leave, babbling your titles in farewell, Valarr does not step away. He leans close to you, pretending to adjust one of your ruby necklaces at your chest, letting his breath brush against your face and his fingertips gently caress the contour of your bosom, pressed together by the tight neckline.

“They are being especially persistent tonight,” he whispers, frustration lashing his tongue. Finally, that perfect calm fractures a mere millimeter, revealing the possessive zeal that simmers beneath his skin. “I wonder if I should remind them every hour that you are wed to me.”

Your hands travel up his chest, tracing a soft path of soothing caresses until they find the broad expanse of his shoulders, seeking to anchor his rising temper. 

You offer him a tight, strained smile, still tasting the bitterness of the situation; you loathe the way any other man dares to look at you, for in your heart, only your husband holds the right to such intimacy.

Your fingers toy with the ornaments shaped like crimson dragon scales upon his shoulders, and you gaze up at him with big, adoring eyes.

“They all know it, my love. I am yours...”

But Valarr does not relax. He does not release that heavy, searing exhale—as hot as the breath of a dragon—that usually signals his surrender to your charms or the sound of your seductive voice confessing your devotion. That you are his.

Instead, his hand moves from your chest, sliding slowly up the column of your throat until it reaches your chin. He tilts it upward, holding you firm, forcing you to look only at him.

“Then you should stop encouraging them, wife,” he accuses in a husky rasp. He leans down, tilting his head to claim your mouth in a sharp, brief kiss that leaves the faint sound of parting lips as he pulls away, never breaking eye contact.

The phrase falls between you like a lump of stone, cooling the air that a moment ago was burning with the heat of his closeness.

Your hands stiffen on his shoulders as you search for any hint of jest in his gaze, that he is just teasing you, but you see only eyes darkened by wounded pride—a temperament he rarely unveils.

“Encouraging them?” you repeat, your voice a mere thread of incredulity. You cling to the hope that this is some cruel play on words. “Valarr, I have scarcely opened my lips. I have remained as motionless as a statue of Baelor the Blessed.”

“And that is precisely the invitation,” he retorts, taking a long step back, causing your hands to fall from his shoulders as the distance grows between you. “You stand there with a serenity that looks like submission, permitting them to circle you like vultures over a jewel. You should rebuff them at once, reject them with the strength of your lineage before they dare to breathe your very air.”

You feel the sting of injustice prick your chest. Valarr, better than anyone, knows the crushing weight of crowns.

“You know I can not do that, much as I wish to cut out their tongues and pluck out their eyes,” you hiss like an angered viper, lowering your tone so no prying ear might catch the fissure in the perfect marriage—your first true quarrel in months. “I am the firstborn of Prince Maekar. If I humiliate Lord Tyrell or any other bannerman before the entire court for a mere ill-intentioned compliment, I invite a political war that neither your father nor mine desires.” You tilt your head slightly beneath his gaze, which now sparks with anger. “Do you wish for me to be the cause of a dispute between the Reach and the Crown?”

“I prefer a thousand political disputes to the sight of other men stripping you with their eyes while you smile at them with courtesy,” he snaps back at you, the bitterness in his voice palpable, his words measured to wound. 

You shake your head in disbelief, the movement causing your silver tresses to shimmer like cold moonlight against your shoulders. A dry, hollow laugh escapes your throat, though there is no mirat in it—only a sharp, stinging disappointment.

This time, you take a deliberate step back, increasing the distance between you until the warmth of his body no longer reaches your own. You look at him as if he were a stranger wearing the face of the man you love.

“Valarr, this is madness,” you breathe, your voice trembling not with fear, but with the sheer weight of your incredulity.

His hands retreat behind his back, hidden away as if he’s afraid of what they might do—not out of malice, but out of a desperate, clawing urge to reach for you and end this distance. He locks them together, his fingers digging into his own skin, clenching into fists so tight that the knuckles turn a ghostly, bloodless white.

It is a physical struggle, a silent war he wages against his own nature—his lifelong instinct to be close to you, the instinctive urge to reach out and touch you.

By hiding his hands away from you, he denies himself the comfort of your touch, choosing instead to let his wounded pride dictate the space between you.

“At times I wonder...” he adds, his voice dropping to a tone of refined cruelty born of an agonizing insecurity. You can tell he's hesitating for a moment before deciding to succumb to his rage and hurl out more poison. “I wonder if you secretly crave the attention. If the daughter of Prince Maekar requires the adoration of the world to feel like a queen for a fleeting moment, even at the cost of her husband's patience.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, a physical weight that seems to drown out the screech of the fiddles, the roar of drunken laughter, and the rhythmic swirl of the dancers. 

It cuts deeper than any insult from some nameless Lord; Valarr is accusing you of common vanity when your entire life has been a battle to survive the scrutiny of a world that views you as nothing more than a prize to be won.

You hold his gaze, your breath hitching as genuine offense turns to a cold, hard coal in your chest, but you don't let the tears fall.

The ancient, inherited fire of your blood finally flickers to life behind your violet eyes.

“You have known me since I was a child of three, Valarr,” you say, with a coldness that rivals his own. “If you truly believe I enjoy being a piece of meat on display... then you do not know me at all.”

And then, you wait for just a moment. You wait for his expression to soften, for guilt to cloud his beautiful eyes, and for his hand to seek yours with that touch of regret that always follows this rare moments of tension. 

You wait for him to ask your pardon, to pull you against his chest and whisper that love drives him mad, that his insecurities, his own fears, are to blame for his sharpened tongue.

But Valarr does not move.

He maintains his impeccable, princely posture, his chin high and his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on a point just above your head. His lips, which have so often whispere promises of eternal devotion, are pressed into a thin, bitter line. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.  There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.

He simply steps aside.

Without a single word, Valarr moves to the right, clearing the path and leaving you the space to depart. It is the most galling gesture of all: a calculated indifference, a silent invitation for you to retire if you are not prepared to accept his terms. Never before has he let you go while you were angry. Always, without fail, he found a way to hold you until the storm passed.

You feel the knot of indignation tighten in your throat. 

“Very well. This is how it will be, t–then,” you mumble reluctantly, swallowing a lump in your throat. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Valarr echoes, dropping his gaze to the floor, still visibly simmering.

You gather the heavy skirts of your scarlet gown with fingers trembling from rage and you walk past him, keeping your back as straight as a dragon-bone spear, and begin to walk toward the exit of the Great Hall.

You feel the weight of the gold threads in your braids, and above all, you feel the weight of everyone's eyes upon you.

Even from a distance, your father can sense that you are visually agitated and very upset, considering that pout you're holding on your lips. His frown deepens when he glances at your husband standing behind you, his jaw clenched, looking down at the floor, clearly forcing himself not to gaze at you, for his act of indignation would likely crumble into a thousand pieces.

Then, Maekar shares a knowing glance with Baelor, who is sitting next to him, as he too realizes that something has happened between their firstborns.

Now, without Valarr by your side as a shield, the gazes feel even more invasive, more ravenous. You can sense Lord Tyrell watching you from afar with a crooked smirk, noting the sudden distance set between your husband and you. So, you hurry to get out of the place, not even bothering to give excuses to your family.

Valarr had hurt you in the deepest way, doubting your loyalty and integrity just because the rest of the world didn't know how to be decent. Every time you thought about it, about the way he had accused you and looked at you, as if he didn't know you, as if you had been a stranger, you grew increasingly furious.

The seconds turned into minutes, which felt like hours. You abruptly took off your jewelry, letting the rubies fall onto the dressing table with a loud clatter. You let your hair down, letting your silvery locks cascade over your bare shoulders like a fountain.

Finally, as you are settling down for a good night's sleep, relaxing in your spacious bed and solitude, the sound of the door creaking open interrupts your peace.

There is no rush in his movements, Valarr walks in with his characteristic serenity, which now irritates you so much that you are unable to even so much as glance at him.

“Maekar was looking for you,” he informs you, his voice unusually monotone, as he begins to take off his cloak. “I told him you were not feeling yourself.”

You lay motionless beneath the satin sheets, your gaze locked on the shadows cast by the burning embers across the ceiling, imagining that they are dragons.

His words hover in the space of the room, unacknowledged. You offer no expression of gratitude, no hum of acceptance, neither even the faintest gesture of your head in his direction.

For you, Valarr is not there that night. In his place, there is only a stranger who wears his face, one who has had the audacity to question the core of your very soul.

You can hear the sound of leather sliding on wood as he begins to take off his doublet. The following is a heavy silence, charged with the weight of all that has not been said.

Valarr takes his time, moving with that regal slowness that you would usually find charming, and that, on any other day, would have you already crawling up his bare back with kisses and caresses, but now seems like a desperate tactic to get your attention.

It's really pathetic, you think.

He steps to the edge of the bed and you sense the mattress dip slightly under his weight as he sits down to untie his boots.

“You could have waited for me at least,” he is bold enough to keep talking, even when he can clearly see that you are still fuming, bursting the ice again and uttering your name in that gentle tone of his. At least that much has not changed on this catastrophic day.

Indeed, his tone has lost the harshness he displayed in the Great Hall, turning into something closer to a resigned lament. Pathetic.

“I had to make up excuses for my father and yours. It's not like us to put on such a display of disharmony in front of them and the King.”

Once again, you don't respond. Instead, you close your eyes, concentrating on the cadence of your own breathing and then, roll overyourself to turn your back on him.

If he doesn't approve of your polite silence, then you will give him an entire ocean of it.

Valarr sighs, a long, weary sound that betrays his own frustration. He finishes undressing and, after blowing out the last two candles, slips under the bedcovers beside you. 

Typically, the instant your bodies lie side by side in the darkness and comfort of your quarters, he would reach for you, wrap an arm around your waist, bury his face in your neck, and whisper how much he loves you, emphasizing his words with sweet kisses upon your skin that would often lead to passionate lovemaking.

But this time, despite sharing the same bed, the distance between you seems to be unbridgeable.

Valarr lies on his back, very close but not touching you. You can feel the warmth emanating from his body, that warmth that has always makes you feel at home. Your skin tingles, betraying you, yearning for his touch, but your sense of pride—the same pride you inherited from your father, so fierce and intense—keeps you cold and distant.

“You're not even going to look at m–me?” Valarr asks into the suffocating darkness of the bedchamber, his voice cracks with the weight of despair. 

There is a trace of bewilderment in his gentle voice. The situation is terrifyingly foreign to him as well; you have always been the one to reach out and smooth things over with patience. He has grown accustomed to your mercy, leaning on it like a crutch he never realized he needed.

But not now. 

“There is a tournament tomorrow. We are expected to be in the royal pavilion, together. We cannot afford this... this whim.”

A whim?, you think, and rage boils in your gut like the fire-breath of a dragon.

You don't give him the luxury of a reaction to his provocation. You simply adjust your pillow with a sharp movement before lying perfectly still again.

At that you feel him grow tense beside you.

Your husband is not a man of violent outbursts, but indifference is the only force that can shatter his composure. 

For the first time, he is facing the abyss of your indifference, and the overwhelming loneliness of that void is beginning to drown him.

“V–very well,” he finally declares, and this time his voice rings with wounded emotion, despite his efforts to conceal it with a veil of coldness. “Good night.”

The echo of the crowd's cheers reaches your terrace, celebrating every lance broken, every fallen rider. Normally, you would be the star of the royal pavilion, seated at Valarr's side, but today you have chosen the cozy comfort of your own bedchamber.

Earlier that morning, you had sent a message to the king and your father, as concise as it was unconvincing: you were not feeling well, a vague discomfort kept you bedridden. It was a lie, and everyone knew it. But since your whole family already knows that something has been going on between you and your husband, they decided to let it slide.

You can just imagine Valarr, looking perfect and stoic on the outside, but burning with humiliation and solitude on the inside, forced to answer all the questions about the absence of his wife, his other half, who isn't there to hand him the favor of her silk when it's his turn to ride.

The sunset bathes the big bedchamber into a bloody shade of orange as the door is flung open. This time, there is no trace of finesse or restraint.

Valarr comes in like a force of nature then. He has already stripped away the cold plates of his armor, but he still wears the dark, sweat-stained gambeson—the thick, quilted tunic of black leather and wool that served as his last line of defense. It clings to the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, damp from the grueling effort of the tourney, mapping out the frantic rhythm of his breathing.

His dark hair is all messed up and sticking to his forehead from the sweat and effort he put into the tourney, and that one platinum streak of his, the one that makes you go feral just by the sight of it, is all ruffled up. His two-colored eyes, normally as calm as a peaceful lake, burn with a fury you've hardly ever seen before. 

He looks handsome like that, you must admit, all fired up and sassy.

He tosses his gauntlets onto a nearby table with a loud bang that makes you sit up in the bed, your fingers instantly clamping shut the book you were so absorbed in reading.

“Not a single word,” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous as he storms across the room towards you. “Not a single glance all day. You left me alone in front of the court, in front of my father, like a fool who can’t even run his own household.”

You remain where you are, sitting with a graceful languor and purposeful poise on the vastness of the bed, surrounded by the soft disorder of the silk sheets. You haven't moved to acknowledge him, nor have you displayed any reaction to the agitation he exudes. Instead, you remain leaning against the cushions, your back straight and your scarlet silk nightgown sliding dangerously down the curve of your shoulder, revealing the smoothness of your skin as a kind of silent provocation.

You look devastatingly beautiful, a vision of heaven that contrasts cruelly with the miserable state in which he has returned to you. Your silvery hair flows down over your chest, simultaneously covering and revealing the delicate curves of your figure, as you hold your book with an elegance that is almost hurtful.

That nightgown is his favorite, you both know it. You are keenly aware of the effect you have on him. You know that while he has been away playing the perfect prince, you have been here preparing to be his downfall.

You gradually raise your gaze, and lock your violet eyes onto his with unnerving calmness. At least you grant him that today: the privilege of looking you in the eyes.

“I gave you exactly what you asked for, Valarr,” you reply reluctantly, stretching out your other hand to put your wine cup down on one of the nightstands and crawling out the bed to stand up. “Didn’t you want me to stop attracting attention? Didn’t you want me to hide myself away? Well, here you have it. I’ve hidden myself away from the world. And from you.”

You stand up with a measured nonchalance that only serves to fuel the fire of his rage. You move with the fluid grace of a predatory creature, walking calmly and intentionally avoiding his menacing figure, passing so close that he can smell the scent of your skin, but without allowing him even the slightest touch.

You head toward the balcony, and that's where you pull off your masterstroke. As you walk away from him, the orange, bloody light of sunset filters through the open doors, turning the thin scarlet silk of your nightgown into an nearly transparent veil.

Valarr stands rooted to the spot, his breath catching in his throat, as the sinful clarity of your body's shape is displayed before his eyes: the curve of your back, the sway of your hips, and the curve of your arse, all outlined by the glow of the dying sun as it pierces the thin fabric.

You lean on the stone railing, watching the horizon where the sun sinks like a glowing ruby into the Black Waters. The night wind begins to dance with the hem of your dress, clinging to your thighs and leaving precious little to the imagination.

And you know he's right behind you, following in your own footsteps with the patient determination of a predator. You feel the heat of his body against yours, smell the scent of sweat exuding from his skin, a fragrance that is purely masculine and dominant, making your insides knot with desire.

His warm hands catch you by the waist and pull you forcefully against his chest. You let out a breathless gasp as his face digs into the crook of your neck, and his hot, hungry lips kiss the sensitive skin just below your ear.

You try to call out his name, to scold him, to remind him that you are still upset about his awful behavior from yesterday. “Valarr...”

“You think this is a fucking game?” he grunts, his voice rumbling down your spine. “You think you can just disappear and leave my mind to rot, imagining every man in this kingdom coveting my woman?”

“You pushed me away,” your voice weakens as one of his hands rises impatiently, cupping your breast over the thin fabric of your nightgown, holding your body close to his. “You doubted me, Valarr. My loyalty. My dignity. In front of all those people. In front of my own father. Do you know how humiliating it feels?”

He sighs heavily into your neck, placing one last kiss on your skin before spinning you around in his arms so abruptly that it knocks the wind out of you. 

Instinctively, your hands reach for his shoulders to hold on to him, and he supports you with his own hands, fitting the curve of your waist, incapable of letting you go now that he has captured you.

Seeing the way you're looking at him, he sighs once more, ducking down to push his forehead onto your chest, closing his eyes as his face nuzzles between your breasts. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him and ensuring that you can't even consider moving away.

“Forgive me,” he pleads then, his voice cracking just slightly, his lips spelling out the words into your skin. “Forgive me—my love, please. I am just a stupid, jealous fool. I was out there all day, feeling like I was suffocating because you weren’t there. I am—I am so tired of your silence. I can't do it—”

He physically swoons when he feels your hand running through his hair, your fingers tangling in that lock of silver hair you love so much, smoothing it back into place.

The prince lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead still pressed against youe body, leaning into the touch of your fingers as if he’s a man dying of thirst and you are the only well in the desert. 

“I can't do it,” he repeats, his voice a muffled, raw rasp against your chest. “I can not live without your gaze upon me. Without your touch, your voice. Don't go back into that silence, p–please. Come back to me...”

You look down at him, your own anger beginning to fray at the edges, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating pull of the devotion he’s offering.

“I am right here, Valarr,” you whisper, your voice finally breaking the seal of that icy silence. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to force him to look up at you. “I forgive you”

“Thank you,” he breathes out, his voice choked with emotion before claiming your lips with his, and kissing you as if it were the first time he’d been able to kiss you in years away from you. He kisses you again and again and again. “Thank you...”

“I believe you are exaggerating now, darling,” you tell him, struggling to contain a giggle at the way he is clinging to your body, his hands sliding down to palm your arse and squish you closer to him, kissing your flushed cheeks.

But Valarr doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. Instead, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression so hauntingly solemn it makes the breath catch in your throat.

“I am not exaggerating, my heartfire,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly earnest register. He looks like a man who has just survived a war. “It has been twenty-six hours and fourteen minutes since you last looked at me with anything other than loathing. Twenty-six hours since I last heard you speak my name.”

He leans his forehead against yours affectionately, letting out a sigh of relief now that he has you in his arms again, feeling the pressure of your breasts on his chest.

“Twenty-six hours, Valarr?” you tease, your heart softening completely as you realize the depth of his devotion.

“And fifteen minutes now,” he corrects immediately, his voice devoid of any humor, lowering sheepishly.

A bright, genuine and sweet burst of laughter escapes you, the sound ringing out like silver bells across the terrace and shattering the last of the tension. You lean back against his loving arms, your body shaking with amusement as you realize just how deeply you’ve unraveled your husband.

You feel the heat radiating from his skin as a deep, crimson flush creeps up his neck and floods his cheeks.

Groaning in a mixture of embarrassment and relief, he hides his blushing face in the crook of your neck, seeking refuge from your teasing gaze.

[cosmictheo]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 | gwayne hightower

| gif credits: @/barbieaemond |

— summary: when you are forced to wed gwayne hightower to secure peace in the realm, you expect a monster—definitely not the gentlest, most patient and loving man in all of westeros. — pairing: gwayne hightower x targaryen princess!reader — word count: ~5.6k (wow) — content: political/arranged marriage, slow burn, probably ooc!gwayne, lots of yearning, mutual pining, idiots in love (mostly gwayne), touch starvation, gwayne wants the reader so bad he is down pathetic for her, hurt/comfort, jealousy, mild verbal harassment/flirting from a third party, gwayne being the best husband ever, tooth-totting fluff. not proofread!

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Life in King's Landing after the wedding was a silent, armed dance. Officially, peace reigned—of course, that had been the entire purpose of it all from the very start, despite your—and especially Daemon’s—persistent objections, your mother had been adamant.

However, unofficially, the black and green servants still avoided one another in the castle's endless hallways, the black guards would grit their teeth whenever they crossed paths with the green ones, whilst you and Gwayne Hightower shared chambers that felt more like a wintry battleground than a bridal retreat.

Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.

And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.

The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.

His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.

It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.

For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.

Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.

Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.

Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.

Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.

Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.

He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”

Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”

Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.

Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.

You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.

There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.

But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.

“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”

Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.

You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”

“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.

The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.

“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.

“I do.”

“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”

“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”

Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.

“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.

But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.

“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”

Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.

The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.

“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”

The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”

Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.

The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.

And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.

One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.

He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.

“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”

Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face. 

Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.

You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.

“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”

You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.

The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.

“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.

With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.

Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.

“...Princess?”

Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.

At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.

He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.

“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.

Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.

“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’  You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”

You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.

“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”

Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.

He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.

“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.

“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.

Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.

Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.

He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.

It is utterly infuriating.

You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.

Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.

Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.

The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.

No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.

You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.

And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.

One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.

By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.

You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.

“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”

The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.

You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.

Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.

Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.

He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.

He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.

You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.

He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.

When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.

“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”

Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.

“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”

“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”

Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.

The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.

Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.

His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.

A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.

Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.

“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”

Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”

“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.

You like Gwayne Hightower.

And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.

Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.

He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.

“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.

Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.

Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.

“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”

With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.

“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.

Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.

Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.

“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”

“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”

Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.

“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”

Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.

Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.

“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.

Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.

“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”

“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”

The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.

Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.

“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”

Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.

You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.

“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"

“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”

Your wish is his command.

The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.

Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.

“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.

Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.

When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.

“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”

You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.

“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.

“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”

“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”

“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”

“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”

His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.

“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”

“You stopped.”

The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.

You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.

“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”

Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”

“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”

Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.

You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”

His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”

“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”

“Yes.”

“And rather intimidating,” you add.

“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”

“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”

You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”

“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.

When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.

But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.

“Oh.”

You blink. “...Oh?”

“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.

And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.

He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.

“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.

You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”

“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.

“Trying what, Ser?”

“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”

You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.

Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.

Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.

You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.

“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.

“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.

A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”

You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”

He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.

You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.

Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.

Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.

His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.

When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.

“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”

You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.

“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”

He closes his eyes and presses his face up against the palm of your hand, seeking desperately to feel the warmth of your affection and melt into the gentle embrace of your love.

[lovebugism]

A FAIR EXCHANGE ─── gwayne hightower

summary: gwayne comes to daemon before the battle at tumbleton to barter for the life of his nephew and gets you in return, the last daughter of an unremarkable house fighting for the black army, who's in want of a wealthy husband. (4k)

characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader, daemon targaryen, ser roderick, mentions of daeron targaryen and ormund hightower

contents: enemies to lovers, arranged marraige, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread soz cw for canon typical violence, coercion, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI), and spoilers for hotd s3 finale!! (gif creds)

The morning hangs heavy with the promise of death. It sits thick in Gwayne’s throat and lungs the whole walk to the Black Army’s encampment. He carries with him nothing but a small hunting knife pressed to Lord Corlys’s back and a fear he cannot quite keep out of his gaze, darting wildly every which way as Daemon’s army cages him on all sides — a Winter Wolf on his left, a small Tully boy on his right, and a stranger looming on horseback; with armor fitted close to fit a woman’s frame, and with a face much too pretty for the throes of war.

“Prince Daemon,” Gwayne greets with a curt nod, still winded from the walk over as his chest heaves beneath his armor. “I’m Ser Gwayne Hightower… Well met.”

“Fuck me,” Ser Roderick laughs; a rough, ugly bark as he looks the small, auburn-haired man up and down. “I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s knife.”

“Daemon, I must say—” Your voice follows, soft and musical and carrying easily over the distant murmur of armed men. It’s the kind of voice that might’ve belonged to a septa or a singer, if it weren’t for the ice running beneath it. “—When you said we were meeting with a Hightower, I expected someone taller than the sigil at least.”

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”

[silverlullabies]

Okaaaaay but Royal!Price who’s married to Reader for like two years and the entire time the court is breathing down your neck because you haven’t produced an heir yet.

And ofc somehow this becomes entirely your fault bc nobody questions Price or considers that the problem might not be you because he’s the king, he’s healthy, he’s strong, he’s already proven himself in every other way that matters to these people, so obviously it must be his wife who’s defective.

And you spend two years being poked and prodded by royal physicians and forced to drink disgusting tonic things and tracking your cycles and praying at shrines and enduring every older noblewoman at court giving you unsolicited advice while rumors about the “barren Queen” spread through the palace.

And Price doesn’t exactly stop them. Maybe in the beginning he tells you not to listen, tells you there’s still time, but as the months pass he starts treating your inability to conceive like a personal failure.

And ofc there’s this one woman at court who makes your life like absolute hell over it. Daughter of some powerful duke or neighboring kingdom or whatever, beautiful and fertile looking and exactly the sort of woman everyone whispers Price should have married in the first place.

She makes little comment about children whenever you’re nearby, brings babies into conversation just to watch you go quiet, maybe even starts getting increasingly bold because Price is starting to favor her. And you know they’re sleeping together long before he admits it. You just don’t have any power to do anything about it.

Then Price divorces you.

And he’s not quietly about it either and that’s the part that really destroys you because he could’ve found a dozen political reasons to dissolve the marriage, could’ve protected whatever dignity you had left and let you save face but instead he specifically cites your failure to provide an heir as the reason for the divorce. Has it entered into the official decree that the marriage produced no issue and that you’re presumed barren, basically stamping it into history that you failed in the single duty expected of a queen.

And to add insult to injury he marries the woman who spent the last two years tormenting you, who becomes Queen, and suddenly all those rumors about how she’d always been better suited for him become accepted fact.

Meanwhile you’re just… there. The discarded Queen. Technically still noble, technically still wealthy enough, but socially ruined because who is going to marry the woman the King publicly declared barren?

Except Simon, Price’s knight who’s his own kind of social outcast cause he’s scarred, disfigured, and everyone assumes will never marry anyway because nobody has ever exactly been lining up to become Lady Riley to a monster, you know.

So when Simon asks for your hand, you say yes. Maybe Price even allows it because he thinks there’s something almost amusing about it. His unwanted wife and his disfigured knight. Two things the court has decided are damaged being tucked neatly away together.

Except Simon doesn’t treat you like you’re damaged. And then the absolute fucking scandal when, before the end of the year, you start appearing in court with a very obviously rounding stomach.

At first everyone tries to pretend they don’t notice because surely not. Surely the former Queen who spent two years unable to conceive isn’t pregnant within months of marrying Ser Simon Riley.

Except you are and it isn’t even ambiguous after a while. You’re glowing with health, Simon is hovering around you like some enormous armored guard dog, the physicians confirm the pregnancy is progressing perfectly, and suddenly all those old whispers start changing direction because Price’s new Queen still isn’t pregnant even after and entire year.

Meanwhile you give birth to this enormous fat healthy Riley baby and suddenly the court has to reckon with the fact that maybe their discarded barren Queen was never barren at all.

Which means maybe the King publicly humiliated and divorced his wife, destroyed her reputation, married his mistress, and announced to the entire kingdom that she was incapable of giving him an heir-

when the problem had been him the entire fucking time.

[inspired by this post by @rawme-price]