#what a performance from the lads

[pernillecfcw]

🎶 Singing don't worry, about a thing. 'Cause every little thing, is gonna be alright. 🎶

[ace-and-the-rpg-horrors]

in hindsight, the sheer amount of hatred towards Arata and Souma for "stealing Toya's screentime" was so fucking funny because you can tell that the people who would whine about that do NOT pay attention to other units

Iori and occasionally Mio appear in Leo/need stories just as regularly. their conflict in Resonating With You felt just as major as Shiho's own dilemma. as for More More Jump! stories, Riho and Ayaka's struggles in Haruka2 and Shizuku4 featured heavily in both events and paralleled the focus characters just as much as Arata/Souma have been likened to Akito/Toya. yet, no one has ever complained about them in the slightest. lmao

[ugartecoco]

a common occurrence developing rn is me mumbling 'you dont have to gif this you dont have to post this' under my breath over and over while watching a ruben press conference

[autistic-beshelar]

rebecca ferguson and alyosha... christ that was an incredible performance

[sege-h]

The kids are not only not alright but theyre just downright stupid rn

[perfectly-clear-from-here]

could we take a moment to appreciate my favourite tags out of context (all to do with milex cause guys. its me.)

(please feel free to reblog with your own ahh!!)

[beloveds-embrace]

rugby player Simon and his pretty little balerina partner. Thats it. Thats whats currently plaquing my mind

Now that you’ve said it I’m thinking about them too because YES 😩 i tried a more headcanony style for this, really had no idea what to write as a drabble

• You first met Simon “Ghost” Riley during an injury rehab session. He’s there nursing a rough tackle, while you’re recovering from an overworked ankle. Despite his intimidating size and silence, he notices how gracefully you move even while stretching, and you can’t help but admire his sheer size even if he’s making the nurses nervous.

• Ghost is, honest to god, shy about approaching you at first; why would delicate, lovely you want someone of his type and build to approach you? But he still gets roped into conversation when you tease him for struggling with a basic stretching exercise. “I’m built for smashing into blokes, not folding like you do.” he grumbles, but he doesn’t sound truly bothered. You are sure you can even hear the amusement. And this is how you end up exchanging number and texting, until he finally asky you out on a proper date.

• He’s genuinely amazed at your discipline and talent, often catching himself zoning out while watching you rehearse. You tease him for staring, but he’s truky awestruck by how effortlessly you glide across the floor, almost looking weightless.

• You love watching him play rugby. Seeing him control the field with raw strength and precision is hot. You start attending his matches, cheering louder than anyone else when he tackles an opponent or scores. His favorite cheerleader- his best girl <3

• Ghost introduces you to his gym routines, and you try (unsuccessfully) to keep up with his weightlifting. You love the view of his muscles flexing, though, and you don’t try to hide it. You also love sitting on his back while he does pushups, giving him a kiss ever so often in encouragement.

• In return, you teach him some basic ballet moves to improve his agility to help him. The image of this massive, intimidating man attempting pliés is hilarious, but he’s surprisingly nimble. “Don’t tell the lads, yeah, doll?” he huffs, though his amusement is clear and it has you giggling.

• Simon loves how tiny you feel when he wraps his arms around you. After games, he picks you up effortlessly, spinning you around as you laugh and lean down to kiss him much to the whistles and hoots of his teammates. Neither of you care anyways.

• After a game, he’s all adrenaline and intensity, body taut. You tease him by saying, “Don’t you dare bring that sweaty self near me, Simon Riley.” but he pulls you into a heated kiss anyway, pinning you gently against a wall in the hallways of the stadium.

• He loves when you practice in front of him wearing your ballet leotard. The combination of your grace and your form-fitting outfit gets his heart and more racing, though he keeps his composure… mostly.

• Simon is also your biggest cheerleader during your performances, sitting in the front row with a bouquet of flowers that looks comically small in his massive hands. He always looks proud, even if he doesn’t say much. And he absolutely glares or shushes anyone who is causing a ruckus and taking the spotlight off you.

• He joins you most of the time in the backstages, and when you’re feeling nervous before a performance, he cups your face in his big, warm hands and whispers, “You’re the most talented person in the room. Show ‘em who you are.”

• You return the favor by helping him relax before games. You massage his shoulders and give him little pep talks, which he pretends not to need but secretly loves. Sometimes of them are even recorded on his phone for the very rare occasions you can’t make it to his games.

• Said it before but I’ll say it again: you love how his body feels next to yours- rugby has made him all broad shoulders and powerful muscles, and he loves how delicate your hands feel running over his skin. Likewise, he loves caressing your skin and rubbing creams and ointments to your aching feet muscles.

• He calls you “Twinkle Toes” which sounds sarcastic at first but is said with so much affection that it melts your heart.

• You call him “Big Softie” because, despite his tough exterior, he’s the sweetest with you. He pretends to hate it, but he secretly loves when you use it in private. Had a stupid smile on his face when saw it was how you had your contact for him saved.

[jinwoosbabyboo]

𝙸𝚜 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚢?

You're an actor and you finally got your big role in a hit TV show. Unfortunately your character only made it to Season 2 before they killed you off. This is how I imagine the lads men react to watching that scene [Requested by: Anon]

𝚉𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎

calm cool and collected on the outside; whole time he's really having an internal breakdown

grips your hand a little tighter in his as the scene progresses

“are you dying? is this a tragedy?”

is very aware that it’s just a show, but can’t stop his heart from pounding at the thought of losing you

rubs his eyes to keep himself from tearing up

stares at you after the episode ends “What?” “The thought of losing you has always terrified me; watching you perform that scene does not help” “it’s my job Zayne besides im right here”

finds himself staring at you more often just trying to commit every feature of yours to memory

never willingly watches that episode again

skips over that part every time or just turns the show off “You still can’t watch it?” “No”

praises you for the phenomenal performance although he claims it was a little too realistic

𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚕

is great at slipping in and out of character so he was the one helping you with your acting skills

sits up straight when he realizes what's happening “is this the scene you've been keeping secret?”

falls out immediately in your lap

bawling his eyes out goes as far to curl up in your lap

would be so proud of not only you, but himself as well for helping you perfect your craft

“Do I get credit as the acting coach?” “Yes would you like a reward?” “You know I do”

Although he’s proud of you he can’t bring himself to watch the episode again also doesn't continue watching the show in general "they killed off my favorite character how can I continue watching it now?"

keeps pushing you to work on crying on command so if you need to cry for your next roll it’s even better

acted out the scene with you at home for fun once and had a mental breakdown

𝚇𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛

Fell asleep in the middle of the show and missed it

“just watch it when you get a chance” “no replay it”

immediately turns the show off in the middle of the scene

“im not watching this” “Xav…” “No”

drills you with questions about why you didn’t tell him you were dying in that episode

“I can’t watch that don’t make me watch it” "You're being a little dramatic don't you think?"

pouts, pouts, and pouts some more

won’t watch it no matter how much you beg

although he never finished watching the whole scene he holds your hand tighter now these days

asks for a warning next time so he can prepare himself …… to fast forward

𝚂𝚢𝚕𝚞𝚜

watches quietly giving away nothing

“You even shed a few tears for your own scene?” teases you for crying at your own death scene “it looks different after the editing okay!”

won't admit it, but one time was enough

“it made you sad didn’t it?” “Well I don’t take pleasure in watching you die onscreen sweetie” “im alive though” “Let's keep it that way”

weasels his way out of watching the scene again

his voice slightly wavers whenever you bring it up

avoids eye contact when you tease him about it

held you tighter at night for at least a month

Bonus: the twins bawled their eyes out and tackled you to the ground with a bone crushing hug

[rafayelxsylusho]

How would the LADS men react if you faked an orgasm.

TW:SMUT

Sylusxreader zaynexreader

xavierxreader rafayelxreader calebxreader **coming soon**

SYLUS

You were so so tired from work you couldn't help it and you thought he wouldn't notice.

Sylus leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs in a low, warning tone. "I may be many things, kitten, but I'm not blind to your little...tricks." His fingers tighten on your waist, a silent reminder of his grip on you. "You needn't trouble yourself with such obvious displays. I can see right through them and I must say, your acting skills leave much to be desired."

"You'll have to do better than that if you want to get one over on me."

Sylus leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he speaks, his voice a low rumble. "But I must admit, your little performance was... entertaining." His hand slides up the curve of your side, a possessive gesture that sends a shiver down your spine. "Keep this up, and you might just make things interesting, Sweetie." His tone is light, almost playful, but there's an undercurrent of something more, a promise and a warning rolled into one. "Just don't expect me to make it too easy for you.

He continues his relentless teasing, bringing you to the precipice of ecstasy only to cruelly pull back, leaving you hovering on the razor's edge of rapture. The night stretches on, an eternity of pleasure-pain as Sylus takes you to the brink again and again, his own desire growing with each of your denied climaxes.

Finally, as the first light of dawn begins to peek through the windows, Sylus leans in close, his eyes blazing with a feral, triumphant light. "Beg for it, kitten," he commands, his voice a low, dark growl. "Beg for your release, and maybe, just maybe, I'll give you what you need." His fingers hover at the entrance to your dripping sex, a hairsbreadth away from the plunge that would grant you the sweet oblivion you so desperately crave.

"Sylus pleasee!" You moan

"Please what, my sweet kitten? His touch searing your over-sensitive flesh. "Tell me what you need, sweetie. I want to hear you say it."

His other hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the column of your throat. Sylus' lips descend, his teeth grazing the delicate skin of your jugular before he sucks a dark mark into your flesh, branding you as his. "Beg for your release, and I'll give you the pleasure you've been denied all night long." His voice is a low, seductive purr, each word dripping with dark promise and unspoken threat.

Sylus' eyes flash with a feral, triumphant light as your desperate plea reaches his ears, your breathy "I beg you, Sylus" like the sweetest music to his ego. "Good girl," he praises, his voice a low, rumbling growl that seems to reverberate through every fiber of your being. "Such a good, obedient little kitten you are."

With a sudden, sharp thrust of his hips, Sylus sheaths himself fully inside you, burying his thick, hard length to the hilt in your dripping, aching sex. "Fuck, sweetheart..." he grits out between clenched teeth, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as your scorching heat engulfs him like a velvet vise. "So fucking tight, so perfect..."

He doesn't give you a moment to adjust, instead setting a hard, deep rhythm that has the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust. "Take it y/n," Sylus snarls, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he holds you in place, a willing victim to his lust. "Take every fucking inch of me, like you were made for it."

His other hand comes up to wrap around your throat, his grip firm but not painful, a possessive hold that sends a thrill of dark excitement coursing through your veins. "Scream for me, sweetie"

As your climax finally bursts upon you, Sylus feels your sex clamp down around him like a silken vise, your inner muscles rippling and milking his cock as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashes through you. "That's my good fucking girl," he praises, his voice a dark, wicked murmur against your skin. "So fucking perfect, y/n,next time you think about trying to trick me, kitten," he murmurs, his voice a sinful temptation, "Remember this moment. Remember how easily I saw through you, and how breathtaking the consequences were."

ZAYNE

You were supposed to make yourself cum on his desk, he was right in front of you and you were so nervous someone would catch you and decided to fake it.

Zayne leanes back in his chair, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow skeptically. "Really, y/n? Faking it now, are we? I thought I taught you better than that. My medical expertise extends far beyond simply diagnosing physical ailments."

"I know exactly how you look when you cum, y/n. The way your lips part slightly,your soft gasps as your body trembles with ecstasy. The flush that spreads across your skin, painting your chest and neck a deep, rosy hue. The way your eyes flutter shut, lost in a haze of pleasure as wave after wave of sensation crashes over you." He says looking up at you.

You feel him hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly peel them down your thighs, revealing your glistening folds to his hungry gaze. "Now, let's see that look of pure rapture on your face as I devour your sweet little cunt," he growls before diving in, his tongue delving deep into your dripping sex.

As Zayne continues his relentless assault on your clit, alternating between long, slow licks, teasing bites, he pauses momentarily to glance up at you, his eyes glinting with mischief and lust.

How many times do you plan on lying to me like this again? He whispers, punctuating his question with a particularly hard suck on your clit, his lips sealing around the throbbing bud as he sucks it into his mouth, his tongue flicking mercilessly back and forth.

He can feel your thighs trembling on either side of his head, your fingers tangling in his black hair as you hold him in place, silently begging for more.

Zayne pauses his ministrations as you mumble incoherently, your pleasure-addled mind struggling to form coherent words. He can feel your body twitching and writhing beneath him, desperate for release, but he needs an answer from you.

With a sharp slap to your dripping sex, the sound echoing obscenely in the room, Zayne growls, "Use your words, y/n. I can't give you what you need until you answer me".

I won't do it again, I..I promise! You say, your voice trembling with desire.

He could see the desperation in your gaze, the way your chest is heaving with each ragged breath, and it only spurs him on.

Without a word, he dives back between your thighs, burying his face in your dripping sex with a low, hungry growl. His tongue deep, plunging into your tight channel as he laps up your sweet essence, relishing the taste of your arousal.

At the same time, Zayne slides two long, thick fingers inside your dripping cunt, pumping them in and out at a steady, relentless pace. He curls them just right, rubbing that special spot deep within you that always makes you see stars, determined to push you closer and closer to the edge.

The obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out of your soaked pussy fills the room, mingling with the lewd slurps and suckles of his mouth on your sex. Zayne is relentless in his pursuit of your pleasure, driven by the singular goal of making you scream his name as you come undone.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark and lust-filled, taking in every twitch, every shudder, every expression of ecstasy that crosses your face. And as he feels your body start to tense, your thighs beginning to quake, he knows you are close. So close to giving him what he wants, what you both need.

Zayne demands against your cunt, his voice a low, guttural rumble. "That's it, baby. Cum for me. Cum all over my tongue, my fingers, my face. I want to feel you, to taste you, to be drenched in your pleasure as you let go completely."

He sucks hard on your clit, his fingers pumping faster, driving you closer and closer to that precipice of ecstasy and with a final, sharp thrust of his finger and a particularly intense suck, Zayne sends you falling over the edge.

Your scream of ecstasy echoes off the walls as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your body convulsed, back arching off the desk as pleasure unlike anything you had ever known consumes every nerve ending. Zayne can feel your essence gushing out around his fingers, coating his hand, his wrist, his face as he works you through each intense wave of pleasure.

He doesnt let up, even as you tremble and shudder through the aftershocks. Zayne's tongue continues its relentless assault, lapping up every drop of your release, prolonging your pleasure for as long as possible, he wants to wring every last second of bliss from your quivering form, to brand the feel of you coming undone on his mouth, on his fingers, into his memory for all eternity.

Zayne's eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with lust, remain locked on you as he finally pulls back, he looks up at you with a smirk of pure male satisfaction, taking in the sight of your flushed face and trembling body as you come down from your intense high.

Zayne glances down at the desk , taking in the mess you made in his usually pristine workspace. Papers were scattered, pens and pencils knocked to the floor and a puddle of your arousal is pooled on the polished wood, dripping down to splatter on the carpet below.

"I can't say I mind the mess, not when it means I've given you the release you so desperately needed. Not when it means I've had the immense pleasure of watching you come apart in my office. But I'm far from done with you. I'm going to make you cum again and again until you learn your lesson"

Zayne punctuates his words with a slow, sensual lick along the seam of your lip, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

[ivymarquis]

The Neighbor

Hello friends I fucked off for a month but I’m back and I bring Price smut as an apology for my absence. @sky-is-the-limit’s “Im here to do what your boyfriend cant” prompt has lived in my brain rent free ecer since I read it and while I didn’t follow it verbatim, I did keep in spirit with the theme :)

Also womp I was gone for the Price challenge by @glitterypirateduck but this actually checks off a couple of the prompt options (first time being intimate, a confession/secret is discovered/revealed) so I’m submitting it.

There are a lot of tags. Make sure you read them.

Pairing| John Price x Reader Rating| M Word Count| 4.8k Kinks/Content/Warnings| Accidental voyuerism by virtue of living in an apartment, the reader has a dogshit boyfriend at the beginning of the fic (there is no cheating), slut shaming (from the dogshit boyfriend), these two idiots are down bad for each other, sex toys, oral (F!receiving), unprotected PiV, gratuitous squirting because I’m me, not really heavy on BDSM elements but mentions of the following: bondage/restraints (John uses his hands, nothing crazy), something akin to subspace from how good the nut is, aftercare, John is a prick to the now-ex, very brief angst due to a quick misunderstanding, very vaguely implied somnophilia, rampant abuse of italics. Lemme know if I missed anything.

His neighbor is clearly used to Price being deployed.

She’s a sweet thing, really, and on the whole isn’t that disagreeable of a neighbor.

He just has one problem with her (not even her, really) that is a thorn in his fucking side- her boyfriend.

The boyfriend was not an issue when they first met- wasn’t in the picture at all.

And no John most assuredly hasn’t had it out for the guy since Day 1. The fact that John had gathered himself up to ask his pretty neighbor out when he came back from his latest mission, only to find out about the new boyfriend, does not color his impression of the other man. He’s grown and this is not the first time his advances have been turned away for whatever reason.

But there are, to his knowledge, no true redeeming qualities about the man and he is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

He catches bits and pieces through the walls. The boyfriend is not attentive, caring, or sweet to her. She is treated as a guest in her own home, and twice he’s heard bellowing shouts that had Price at the door with his fist banging against it- both to shut him up and make it exceptionally well known that if the boyfriend thinks intimidating a woman is going to fly, that Price will not hesitate to kick the door in.

The most appalling part of it all is that John has a front row seat to just how atrocious he is in bed.

For the life of him John does not understand. It’s not even like the lad’s a good lay.

He’s heard many stories of women tolerating absolutely atrocious behavior from the muppets they were with because he knew how to make them see stars.

That is exceptionally not the case here. And John is rapidly finding his patience wearing thin at continually being subjugated to his pathetic performance.

So what the hell is it about the boyfriend that keeps his neighbor so enamored with him?

John stares at the ceiling, watching the blades of the fan turn as he tries to tune out the thumping of the headboard against the wall.

He thinks that if the man was just a bad lay and completely incapable of getting her anywhere, that would be one thing and John would continue to be frustrated but ultimately understand. But it’s the way he seems to actively ruin it anytime she has the audacity to enjoy having sex with him that truly grates on John’s nerves.

It’s not often, but even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then. The thumping of the headboard is accompanied by her sweet voice moaning lowly in short staccato notes as the boyfriend appears to finally be doing something right.

The thumping comes to a halt, and John groans in frustration.

“Why’d you stop?” He can hear his pretty neighbor lament through the thin walls.

“Why the fuck are you being so loud? Trying to give the neighbor a show?”

John squints his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance. The fucking muppet can’t do anything right.

If the neighbor was his, John wouldn’t give a fuck who heard. Let all the neighbors know that he could fuck the sense clear out of her pretty little head. John could show the muppet what loud is.

“No! I’m not trying to do anything- it just felt good,” she defends herself.

“Well, be quieter about it, no one needs to hear that. You sound like a whore,” the muppet snaps at her irritably, and John is nearly at his fucking limit when the god damn headboard starts to thump against the wall again.

“Get out.”

Oh.

John is impressed- pleasure and pride coursing through him as his sweet neighbor stands up for herself rather than letting that ungrateful swine continue to berate her.

Good fucking girl.

“What did you just say?” The thumping stops.

“You don’t get to call me names. Get off of me and get out.”

For all his sins, it seems even the muppet has a line he’s not willing to cross.

There’s a shifting as he presumably pulls out and gets off the bed- the words are muffled but the tone is clear. The muppet isn’t above laying into her verbally though consent is (smartly) a line he won’t toe.

And good thinking on his part- John would probably tear through the drywall and turn him into a chew toy had that conversation gone in any other direction.

The door slams loudly, announcing the boyfriend’s departure.

John can’t help but keep his attention on his neighbor to see what her reaction is going to be. It is taking every ounce of self control he has to not follow the boyfriend and wring his neck in the parking lot.

There’s no conventional guide for how to address this situation with your neighbor. ‘Hello, I’ve fancied you for quite some time and that ungrateful prick somehow swept you up before I got the nerve to ask you out. I've had to hear you have the most lackluster sex ever for the past several months, and equal parts want to check in on how you’re doing emotionally after his latest stunt, and also want to bend you over and pin you to the mattress until you’re squealing. May I come in?’

He can’t say he is too surprised to hear things slamming about in the apartment- his pretty neighbor sounding more pissed off than upset, catching snippets of “Who the fuck does he think he is, talking to me like that” and “Motherfucker couldn’t find my clit with a map and a headlamp but can find the audacity to call me names-”

Okay, John has to fight back the urge to laugh at that last one lest she hear him. She’s quite the viper when (finally) provoked, and it just endears her more to him.

She doesn’t appear particularly distraught, the slamming and huffing and muttering concluding with her tossing herself on the bed.

It’s a very common occurrence that after the neighbor’s rendezvous with her lazy boyfriend, John is treated to a show where she finishes herself off with her toys.

The boyfriend, like many inadequate men, is threatened by them and John has heard the snide remarks.

Hilarious, he finds it, that a man incapable of getting her off is so adamant that she gets rid of them.

She hasn’t listened, clearly, as the low sound of her vibrator can be heard through the wall.

John is soon graced with the sound of her panting moans. His cock stiffens in interest at her voice, which is a frequent occurrence. She makes such pretty noises, mewling and whimpering as she works herself up.

Tonight is a whirlwind of emotions for his pretty neighbor, and at the end of the day her no-good boyfriend left her high and dry.

John will gladly enjoy the consequences of the boyfriend’s actions, one hand wrapping around his cock and beginning to stroke in time with her whines.

What he wouldn’t give for a chance to make her see stars. He’d be so good to her.

The reality of his job makes dating a logistical nightmare, part of what stayed his hand for so long.

He’s not blind. His neighbor is kind and sweet with a killer smile and wandering eyes. He’s caught her more than once ogling him when he’s returned home in uniform, or more nondescript tactical clothing.

Feeling her gaze on him always makes him puff up with pride, enjoying holding her attention no matter how fleeting. If he takes his time after a run and makes a point to pull the hem of his shirt up to wipe at his brow where she can see it, that’s his business.

So John thinks he’s dreaming when he hears that lovely voice whimper his name from the other side of the wall.

He stiffens, quietly waiting to see if he hears it again.

“John- Oh, fuck- please,” is all he needs to hear before he’s well and truly lost any semblance of patience.

Only having the presence of mind to dress himself enough to not warrant any errant looks from the other neighbors, he is at her door in a second.

It’s only after he knocks that he realizes he may well have killed whatever momentum she’s built for herself- given her muttering as she approaches the door- but he fully intends to make up for the stolen release.

She opens the door without looking through the peephole, obviously expecting it to be the ex based on the vitriol poised to spill at John’s chest, approximately eye level with where the (hopefully ex) boyfriend would be.

Once again he has to stifle a laugh, finding her a comical vision when the anger on her face melts away as her eyes flick up to his face with the realization that it is him at the door and not the object of her ire.

“What are you doing here, John?” Christ, he’s always been a sucker for pretty doe eyes. If he held even an ounce less of restraint he’d be mounting her right here for everyone to see.

“I’m here to do what your sorry excuse of a boyfriend can’t.”

Even as he reaches out to pull her in for a kiss, he’s watching her body language- gauging if she stiffens or shifts away.

She doesn’t.

In fact, her arms loop behind him and pull him closer, tugging on his hair and his shirt.

John’s not wasting any more time than he already has, walking her backwards into the apartment and shutting the door with his foot before reaching back to lock it- he’s got no desire for any interruptions from wayward former boyfriends.

They separate for a moment as she paws at the hem of his shirt, clearly wanting it off of him. John is all too happy to oblige, preening under her attention. He’s always had the stockier build of a man who’s fitness came from utility in the field, opposed to the hard defined abs of someone who spends most of their time in the gym.

It’s cute, the way she has to pry her eyes up to his face- clearly liking what she sees and flustered by the fact that John can see her staring.

“I broke up with him,” she clarifies.

“Good,” is his simplistic response, although if John’s being honest with himself he doesn’t really care about the finer details. The little prick never deserved to have her and John finally has his chance to prove himself worthy.

“The bedroom’s this way,” she prompts between kisses.

Their clothes are peeled off in turns as they stumble towards the room. The layout is inverted to John’s own flat nextdoor, so despite having never stepped foot inside before he guides her to keep her from crashing into something behind her.

By the time they are collapsing against her bed, they’re stripped of everything except a scant thong on her and his own boxers.

She’s just so delightfully soft in his grip, John can’t keep his hands or his mouth off of her.

The feeling is reciprocated as she pushes up off the bed to grind against him. As much as he’s relishing in them dry humping and making out like teenagers, he’s wanted her for so long and now that she’s finally willing and pliant underneath him, he’s itching for a taste of her.

Kissing his way down her body- starting at her jaw, the column of her neck, across her collar bone, down her sternum; latching onto each nipple and teasing them to hardened peaks before continuing his path down.

He’s compelled by the urge to turn her into a chew toy as he reaches her belly, although he stifles that urge and keeps his teeth to himself.

He can’t quite resist giving a small nip as she squirms, clearly excited by the implication of where he’s heading.

There’s a damp spot on her underwear already as he kisses along the waistband while his hands tease with the elastic on either side of her hips.

The sound of her breath hitching in anticipation makes him smirk, attention drifting further south.

The fabric is in his way as he presses a kiss against her clothed cunt, gripping handfuls of her hips to keep her still as she bucks in his grasp.

“Easy, sweetheart- we’ve got all night,” he soothes before moving his attention up one thigh to the backside of her knee.

Those sweet thighs are splayed open for him, giving John unfettered access as he continues to tease.

“When’s this sweet cunt been eaten last, hm?”

He knows he’s heard her give that undeserving muppet head, but can’t recall any reciprocation occuring. There’s not much that can shock John at this point in his life, and he’s willing to roll the dice by dragging up her now-ex because he knows this poor thing hasn’t been eaten until she’s begging him off in ages.

“I couldn’t even begin to tell you,” she answers breathlessly, anticipating having her thighs twitching in his hold.

Out of the corner of his eye, John spies a torn condom wrapper that didn’t quite make it into the bin. Well that keeps him from having to ask two questions, then. Smart girl.

“What a shame,” he tsks lightly, peppering kisses back up and down her thigh.

Deciding that she’s waited long enough and he’s had his fun being a tease, John is quick to remove the scant lace and pull it off of her legs before tossing it to who-knows-where.

The sounds she makes as he makes a meal out of her is music to his ears. Each hitched moan and breathy whimper makes him stiffen in interest.

His attention shifts to focus on her clit, tongue circling the sensitive nub as his hands hold her hips in place.

As focused as he is on what’s right in front of him, it takes a moment for John to realize that she’s stifling her noises. One hand is fisting the sheets beneath her while the other is clamped across her lips.

Well. That simply won’t do.

The ex may have trained and shamed her into silence, but John didn’t make it as a military captain without learning how to break someone else’s bad habits.

He ignores her whimper of protest as he stops, one hand abandoning the softness of her hip in favor of grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away from her mouth.

“None of that,” he admonishes gently, pressing a kiss to one thigh. “Let me hear you.”

“I-I’m too loud,” she protests and for a split second John sees red.

To his credit, he does not leave her wet and leaking on the bed to go bludgeon her ex to death with a blunt object.

“No such thing, sweetheart,” he soothes before having a thought to tease her. “Who are you worried is going to hear you?” He asks kindly, a shit eating grin as he speaks again, “the neighbor?”

Her wide eyed expression is thoroughly scandalized and John can’t fight the chuckle that escapes him.

He hasn’t released her wrist yet, deciding that it’s time to get back to his meal. If she abandons gripping the sheet with her free hand to cover her mouth again, he simply plans to hold both of her wrists.

It’s tentative at first, still not entirely trusting John at his word that he wants to hear her.

But John is all for positive reinforcement as a motivator, crooking his fingers to stroke that one spot that makes her see stars to encourage more from her.

She’s a quick study, although when she releases the sheet John is watching her like a hawk.

Rather than clasping over her mouth again, John is pleased when her fingers end up burying in his hair.

More than happy to let her guide him, John takes his cues from how she pulls at his hair. The feel of her thighs twitching as she breathes in staccato breaths is all the reward he needs.

“You’re getting close,” he says against her cunt, pointing out the obvious before getting back to work. She’s anxious, he thinks, the closer she gets to her climax. Poor girl doesn’t know what to do with herself with an orgasm she hasn’t had to put all the work into.

“D-don’t stop,” she stammers, rewarded immediately with John redoubling his efforts.

He’s not going to stop. Pretty thing like her deserves nothing less than laying on her back and enjoying getting her cunt eaten out.

“O-oh fuck,” is his only warning before she’s gushing on his face and John is like a kid on Christmas morning.

He doesn’t even know if she realizes she’s squirted, too caught up in the pleasure of her high.

He’s always thought it was hot- now that he knows his pretty neighbor is a squirter he is more than willing to get on his knees and pray to whoever is listening that this isn’t a one time event. He’ll do anything to get her to keep him.

Even as her high fades he doesn’t let up on her, continuing to work his middle and ring finger inside of her. All he wants is to see her cum- wants to see those eyes roll as she squeezes them shut in anticipation.

Despite pulling his face away from her wet pussy, he doesn’t leave her clit unattended for long before his thumb is gently circling in time with the thrusts of his fingers.

Kissing his way back up her body, John can’t help but be pleased as she pulls him in to make out with him. Snatched gasps and bucks of her hips grace his ears as he works her from orgasm to the next, the wet sound of his palm slapping against her.

“John Im gonna cum again,” she whimpers in warning.

He feels like a god with the way she stares up at him reverently, eyes wide and desperate for another climax.

“Come on,” he goads, “Show me- let me see your face when you cum.”

Christ if her leg twitches any harder it’s going to start vibrating, serving to only encourage him.

“O-oh,” she mewls, “God- don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t-“ she’s pleading with him like he wouldn’t sit at her feet if she asked him to.

The bewildered look on her face is darling, and John nearly finishes untouched; he's so wound up it’s not going to take much.

A few choice thoughts keep his own eminent climax at bay and buys him enough breathing room. She bucks and trembles in his hold, a high pitched squeal escaping her as he proves not only can he make her cum twice, but he can make her squirt like a faucet twice.

As soon as she’s starting to come down from her high she’s pulling at him, drawing up her knees to spread her legs in invitation.

“Greedy girl,” he teases as he kisses her- wet fingers abandoning her cunt in favor of manhandling her, wrapping her legs around his waist as he positions himself.

“Please, please, please-“ she begs so prettily for him, pleading for him to do exactly what he’s been fantasizing about for months.

He’s not a small man and mindful of that fact, but she’s well prepped and takes him easily. The desperate whimper that escapes her sears into John’s memory.

The buildup of everything finally gets to him as he wastes no time setting a steady pace.

“That’s it, sweetheart, just like that. Let me hear you,” he encourages as she cants her hips in time with his, whines of pleasure escaping her on each thrust.

“John, please,” she begs, eyebrows furrowing in pleasure as she watches where they’re joined.

“Eyes up here,” he instructs and Christ he almost loses it when her gaze flicks from between their bodies up to his face.

His hands find hers, fingers lacing together as he lowers his torso in order to kiss the ethereal creature underneath him.

She whimpers into his mouth, her sounds only encouraging John.

Everything about her is warm and inviting, from her soft skin to her warm cunt and the way she sings for him at every thrust.

Maneuvering them so he can grip both her wrists with one of his hands, the other immediately dives between their bodies to find her clit again.

His pretty neighbor has spent months not having an orgasm she didn’t give herself, and John is determined to prove to her that he can give her as many as she can handle.

“John I can’t cum again,” she pleads even as her thighs shake on either side of him.

“Yes you can,” he assures her. “One more time for me, yeah?”

Now, should she insist she’s done and satisfied then John would leave her clit alone and finish up their fun. As it is, though, she nods in acquiescence before the trembling in her thighs increases.

“Good girl,” he praises, fingers continuing their steady pace around her clit as she creeps closer to the edge.

She’s babbling in his ear as he presses a kiss to her temple and he knows she’s almost there.

“Good girl,” he praises again, a cocksure grin pulling at the corners of his lips at her immediate response.

“My good girl,” he ups the ante, testing her response to John staking a claim on her. And God did it ever work. That last little bit is all it takes to finally tip her over.

She clenches down on him like a vice and John immediately loses it, groaning low as the haze of his orgasm washes over him.

It’s everything he wants- she’s everything he wants as he recovers enough from his climax to finally notice that the bed is an utter mess beneath them.

It’s not his immediate concern however, more interested in soothing her through the come down of her high. She’s shivering underneath him, eyes glossy from the intensity of her last orgasm.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs reassuringly. “Just breathe for me.”

He gathers her up in his arms, listening as her heartbeat relaxes in time with his own.

Eventually when enough time passes she’s more alert and happily snuggling against his chest. After giving her a chance to rest he herds her along to the bathroom so she doesn’t give herself a UTI. She tries to brush him off but her legs are taking their sweet time cooperating again.

Of course, she’s not exactly a recruit taking a piss test so he gives her her privacy and she’s able to return on her own albeit on shaky legs.

John pets at her head idly, attention drifting in post coital bliss as his hand strokes down along her back.

“I can’t believe you’re actually in my bed,” she giggles deliriously after a stretch of quiet.

“Only reason I wasn’t here sooner was because of that muppet,” he assures her. He doesn’t want her thinking that this is a one time thing for him. He’s wanted her for so long he can’t possibly be expected to turn her loose at the end of the night.

“I only dated him because I didn’t think you liked me,” she scoffs at herself.

“Oh, it was nearly the first moment I laid eyes on you. But with my work I kept talking myself out of doing anything,” he tells her. “Kept telling myself you deserve better. And then you brought the muppet home and kept him around,” John grouses good naturedly at her. “Think they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.”

“I plead temporary insanity,” she jokes, snuggling closer against his chest. “But I got rid of him. And you finally made your move.”

He hums in agreement, sleep pulling at him now that he has her tucked up against his side.

John doesn’t remember falling asleep but he wakes with a jolt to the sound of pounding on her door.

He’s only been out for an hour or so when he checks the clock on the nightstand, his neighbor sprawled out next to him.

Well, now he knows she snores. The sound is light enough to have never heard it through the wall, but curled up next to him she’s like a cat purring loudly in his ear.

And he’s exceptionally pissed right off at the fact someone has woken him up. Especially considering he has one guess who it is.

He fully debates answering the door buck ass naked to teach the prick a lesson about banging on doors after midnight but settles on tossing his joggers on.

Much like when she opened the door for John, the ex is automatically trained at where her head would be rather than looking at John’s face.

“My eyes are here,” he quips sarcastically. “Why the fuck are you banging on the door this late.”

“Why th-“ the ex starts to parrot back before cutting himself off. “Why the fuck are you in her apartment? Why isn’t she answering?”

“She’s asleep,” John answers simply. There’s no obligation to explain the why and how he ended up in her apartment.

“What the fuck do you mean she’s asleep? How is she asleep after she just dumped me? And why the fuck are you here?”

The boyfriend (the ex boyfriend, he thinks with glee) is either oblivious or…

Well. The ex boyfriend is oblivious. Let’s just keep it at that.

“I’m here because you can’t do your job right. She’s asleep because I can. What part of that is confusing?”

“That stupid slag’s been fucking you behind my back-“

“No.” John is somewhat mindful of not giving a full on “screaming at recruits” bellow, but his voice booms into the corridor outside the apartment anyway. “You watch your fucking mouth. This” John gestures vaguely at his own presence in her flat, “just happened after she dumped you. You don’t get to hurl insults.”

“She hopped off of my cock and straight to yours- what the fuck else is it?”

“You couldn’t get her off,” John hisses in annoyance. “I’ve had front row seats to your shitty little performance more than once. Not 5 minutes after you leave and she’s having to handle it herself.”

“I can’t be expected to compete with a fucking vibrator!”

“Well I sure as shit didn’t need one to get the job done. Poor girl could barely get her legs to work to go to the loo and not give herself a UTI. Your skill issues are what started all of this.”

“You know what? Fucking have her. I don’t need this shit.”

Ah yes, because John needs the ex’s permission to date a newly single woman. Absolutely. That’s entirely how that works.

“Never needed your blessing. Now fuck off. I’m trying to sleep.”

The ex responds with a two finger salute as he spins on his heel and storms off.

John is almost tempted to grab him by the back of his neck and turn him into a chew toy. Given his military career, his patience for muppets giving him attitude is virtually nonexistent.

But the siren call of his pretty neighbor is a stronger pull than the muppet can ever hope to achieve. John’s succeeded in his mission to run the prick off, and he’s going to try to get a few more hours of sleep before seeing if she’s interested in another romp in the morning when she wakes up.

The bedroom is dark and poorly lit but John immediately picks up on the silence.

Rather than being sprawled out and snoring like when he left her, she’s quiet and curled into a ball.

She’s awake.

“Sweetheart?” He calls softly.

She jolts, fabric rustling from the sheets falling off her as she sits up.

“You’re still here,” the surprise in her tone cuts, although he knows she didn’t mean for it to.

She seems to realize how that comes across and clarifies further, “I- I heard the door shut.”

It falls into place for him then- she woke up to the sound of the door and John nowhere to be found. She thought he’d left.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he consoles, making his way back to the bed. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he assures her while gathering her back into his arms.

Sleep comes back readily once the two of them are situated back in the bed.

Come morning, John’s got the patience and the presence of mind to throw a towel on the bed. He finds out for himself that his neighbor makes the prettiest noises with her arse propped up in the air and her face still buried in her pillow.

He can’t help but laugh later when she texts him that one of the neighbors made a noise complaint.

Age in bio/pinned or I will block you ♡

[unintentionalseductress]

this has been on my mind for a while the Lads with an aerial silk acrobat mc, that while they know that's she's an acrobat they have never seen her practice her speciality and 1 day they find her practicing it. If possible would love to see what you think they would be like when they see it (sfw or nsfw your pick)

Hey there! Thank you for your patience as I worked through my queue. Ok, aerial silk acrobatics is insane, Cirque Du Soleil always leaves me in awe.

Dancers of the Air

A/n: No warnings needed, mildly suggestive for Sylus maybe.

Zayne:

He watches you practice in silent admiration. He knows your livelihood depends on your ability to perform, so he's aware of how much effort you put into taking care of your body, but this is the first time he's seen the other side of it.

His mind starts to name the muscles needed for each move you make, realizing how much internal strength each one takes.

He's not the type to make his presence known. He waits till you're done and safe on the ground, then approaches you to tell you how impressed he is.

Rafayel:

He's an artist, and he appreciates all art forms including acrobatics.

When he sees you practicing it takes all his willpower to not shout out his admiration. He doesn't want to distract you though, but he will discreetly take pictures of you so he can see you like this whenever he wants.

Despite the safety net beneath you he can't help but feel nervous as he watches you suspended so high up on those silky sashes. This probably stems from his fear of heights.

Sylus:

He's a patron for the performing arts, giving generous donations regularly.

That's how he met you in fact, during a show. You stood out from the other performers and by the end of the night he couldn't resist asking for an introduction.

Your practice sessions leave him in awe of your flexibility and the coordination needed between your teammates. Unlike Zayne and Rafayel, he'll sit right in the middle of the stage, looking up at you encouragingly while you blush trying not to get distracted by his presence. He wonders if there's a way to get those sashes into the bedroom.

Caleb:

There's always a part of him that's going to worry for your safety despite the reassurances that many precautionary measures have been taken.

His heart hammers in his chest as he watches you flip through the air and are caught by another team member. But your fluid movements and graceful form leave him intrigued.

He likes making his presence known when you're practicing and he does it by using his evol. You'll feel the sudden lack of gravity as you float too high, then the sudden increase as he carefully brings you to the ground and into his arms. You roll your eyes but secretly love it.

Xavier:

Has his eyes glued to you the whole time. Can't bring himself to look away.

He'll do pretty cute things while you practice, maybe create some small fairy lights using his evol and have them hover and trail behind you with each movement. This is how he makes you aware that he's in the vicinity but he doesn't expect you to look for him. It's just his way of letting you know he's around.

He'll call you adorable names based on your profession - Moon Dancer, Sky Chaser, Cloud Ballerina. They might sound a little odd but you know he's doing it out of love.

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

[loveanddeepthroat]

Hiii :3 not sure if you take requests for the other lads boys, but I love the way youu write and wondered if we could get some Zayne fluff 👉🏽👈🏽 Maybe like start of a relationship and mc gets her period unexpectedly when staying at his and gets super insecure about it and tries to go home but Zayne is concerned about her suddenly wanting to leave and finally gets the reason out of her, but he’s just super helpful and eases her worries. Thank you, love your blog!

The Bare Minimum

Pairing - Zayne x f!MC

Summary - You feel as though your world is ending when a day dedicated to some much needed time with Zayne is ruined by Mother Nature. You're desperate to get home without him noticing, but he was more prepared for this than you expected.

Word Count - 2.7k

Warnings - Multiple mentions of periods and blood.

You weren’t sure what was suddenly bothering you, but you were certain that it was catching Zayne’s attention.

It was one of those extremely rare occasions where both of you had a completely free weekend. No hunting, no surgeries, no plans.

Perfection. 

You were both at the very peak of your designated lazy Saturday—squished together on the recliner chair in his living room, eating takeout and watching the kind of TV shows that didn’t require too much attention. Between your impromptu make out sessions that consistently progressed into you straddling his legs, you weren’t even sure what was playing on the television. 

You were just happy to be with him in such an unusual setting for the both of you. A typical day where you were both blessed with synced schedules would be spent outdoors. Long, scenic walks. Trips to the library to pick up and return a few books. You dragging Zayne around the local mall against his will.

Neither of you were up for any of it this weekend. Your missions for the past few weeks had been exhausting, a few ending in swift trips to Akso for wounds that had looked worse than they had felt. Between Zayne’s concern for you and the demanding nature of his own job, he was feeling rather exhausted, too. He didn’t often indulge in lazy days, but you were pretty sure he just wanted to keep you cocooned in the safety of his home after seeing you injured one too many times.

After your fifth rather raunchy performance on his lap, you were feeling oddly uncomfortable. You put it down to aches and pains due to the exertion of your body recently, but even as you settled back beside him again, tucked under his heavy arm, you could feel the sensation creeping down your thighs and across your back.

It couldn’t possibly be that dreaded time of the month. You had another five days to go before you had to come up with reasons to not stay at his place for a week. Your relationship was still fresh and new, so you weren’t comfortable with the idea of being on your period whilst staying the night. There wasn’t a clear reason why you’d be so conscious about it, it wasn’t as if Zayne would chastise you for your womanly troubles.

For you though, it just felt a little too nerve wracking. Discarding sanitary products in his bathroom wastebasket. The possibility of leaking whilst you’re blissfully unaware in the land of sleep. And the most horrifying of all;

Your cramps.

Mother Nature was never kind to you in the first 24 hours of your cycle. There were many a day and night where you couldn’t unfurl yourself from the foetal position you would so quickly find yourself in. Mood swings, hot flushes, and an need for all things sugary and sweet.

Zayne didn’t need to see that side of you yet. The poor man would wonder where the hell his girlfriend had disappeared to, and why there was an emotional, writhing mess clutching a XXL tub of mint chocolate chip to her chest in her place.

As the minutes went by, you felt all of the familiar warning signs. His arm around you had been soothing and sweet all day, but was starting to feel like a furnace on your skin. The unmistakable feeling of the devil himself twisting your uterus with his bare hands was becoming stronger, and your squirming was drawing attention.

“Would you like me to move?” Zayne finally asked, brows slightly furrowed in your direction.

You had to get away from him. More so, you had to get off of the recliner, worried that if you were bleeding, you might have bled through to it.

Shaking your head quickly, you pulled yourself up to your feet, subtly eyeing the thankfully pristine spot where your ass had been perched all day. “No, of course not,” you reassured with a synthetic smile. “Just have to use the bathroom.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you quickly hurried away before he had the chance. There was no time to waste.

As soon as the lock on the bathroom door clicked, you rushed to check yourself. The sight of fresh blood on the stark white toilet paper made you want to cry immediately. Of all the times for you to get your period five days early, it had to be whilst you were at Zayne’s.

You were at a complete loss on what you could do. You didn’t have any sanitary towels to hand, and your light grey sweatpants had succumbed to a slight stain that he may have already seen.

If the ground opened up and swallowed you whole, it’d be a miracle.

Silent panic turned to tears of frustration. All you could do was wrap a wad of toilet paper around itself to act as a makeshift pad, and steer clear of Zayne. Thankfully, you hadn’t yet unpacked the gym bag you brought for the weekend, so swiftly grabbing it and legging it back to your own apartment should be easy enough.

You cleaned yourself up as best as you could and flushed away all evidence of your period, trying to compose yourself whilst you did. The sheer level of agony your cramps were already bestowing upon you had you almost doubling over at the sink as you splashed some cold water onto your face to rid yourself of your tears.

This had to be a nightmare.

A gentle tapping on the bathroom door almost startled a small scream out of you. Zayne’s soothing voice sounded from the hallway, “everything alright in there?”

Things were getting worse and worse by the damn minute. You couldn’t possibly get by him to retrieve your bag without him seeing your ridiculous tears and the evident pain you were in.

“Yeah,” you called out, your shaky voice betraying you.

He remained silent for a moment, clearly not convinced in the slightest. “What’s the matter?”

You weren’t getting away from this. He knew something was up, and he wasn’t going to let you suffer in silence. It wasn’t in his nature to just feign ignorance, especially when it came to your health or comfort.

“Nothing,” you called out again, hoping to whichever god was listening that he would just accept your answer.

Another bout of silence hung in the air, like he was trying to figure you out through a closed door. You were beginning to feel like a cornered animal, desperate for a route of escape.

You waited and waited for him to say something else, but you heard absolutely nothing. A small sigh of relief escaped you as you quietly opened the door, only to find him still standing there. You quickly tried to shut it again, but his foot took place in the small gap to stop you.

Not wanting to jam his foot, you gave up, folding your arms around yourself as if they were going to hide you. “I need to go home,” you say quietly, avoiding his gaze.

He nudged the door open with his socked foot, still saying nothing. You could feel him analysing you from head to toe. 

He was such a bloody doctor sometimes.

Eventually, he folded his own arms across his chest. “Why do you want to go home?”

“Need to go home,” you corrected, not wanting him to think that you didn’t want to spend the night with him. “I…I have to—”

He cut you off with an outstretched hand, waiting expectantly for you to take it. All you did was stare at it, confused by his intentions. 

Well, you also winced as Mother Nature gave you a swift boot to the abdomen.

“Can you come with me for a moment?” He asked in that gentle tone of his, eyes softening. “Please?”

You took his large hand with a small sigh, not seeing any other way out of this situation. Heat pooled in your cheeks in your sheer embarrassment. 

This wasn’t how your weekend together was supposed to go.

Zayne led you into the bedroom, letting go of your hand once you were both inside. Panic flashed in your mind as you couldn’t think of any reason why he would bring you into the bedroom.

“I really can’t—”

He turned away before you could finish your sentence, heading into the en-suite bathroom and reappearing with a small wicker basket.

You almost gasped at its contents as he approached you again.

Pads and tampons of every shape and size were nestled within, along with painkillers and heating pads for your back. You eyed multipacks of brand new, comfortable underwear in there, too, and some small plastic bags to dispose of your sanitary products.

You weren’t sure if it was just the beginnings of your expected emotional rollercoaster, or the innocent way he was holding it out to you, but you burst into very pathetic, blubbering tears. 

He quickly placed the basket down on the bed, holding your waist with his hands. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry, did I get the wrong—”

You quickly shook your head, dragging your forearm across your eyes to diminish your tears. “No. No, I’m sorry,” you reassured him. “I’m sorry. I just—did you buy all of that?”

“I did,” he said quietly, looking a tad bit sheepish. “I didn’t know which ones would be best for you, so I asked a female assistant—”

“You asked someone?” You were in disbelief. He’d gone to the store, looked like a lost sheep in the sanitary products aisle, and asked a clerk to help choose some options for you.

“I realise now that I should’ve asked you, instead.”

You shook your head again. “No, I’m not chastising you, Zayne. I’m…I’m hugely impressed—in awe, in fact.”

Zayne frowned at you, evidently puzzled. “Impressed? Is this not what a boyfriend typically does? I didn’t do anything special.”

Little did he know, he actually had. 

You were certain that you weren’t the only woman on the planet who had previously been made to feel inferior or shamed by others in regards to your period. 

There were so many instances where men—and even the occasional woman had mentioned it as a way of insult. Must be her time of the month. Time for someone to change their tampon. 

Once, you had accidentally pulled a pad out of your bag instead of your notepad in the middle headquarters, and every last one of your male colleagues avoided you for the remainder of the week. It was as if you were infected with a disease that would kill them.

Finding yourself standing before the exception was a shock to your system. A good shock. 

A real gentleman. 

You felt your eyes well up again. Tears of fear and worry had become tears of contentment. Finally, for once in your life, you were comfortable in the presence of a man during your cycle.

“I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed here whenever you stay,” he explained further.

“I love you,” you simply whispered back, a small smile curling your lips.

He still looked thoroughly perplexed at your reaction, like this shouldn’t have been something that was happening to you for the first time. Like every other man you’d ever come across will have treated you the way he has.

“I love you, too,” he said, cupping your face with his large, gentle hand. “Were you really going to leave?”

You nodded guiltily, feeling a little silly about your initial freak out. Something had been healed within your soul by his nonexistent judgement of your cycle, and even if he didn’t understand it, you were so very lucky and grateful to have a man like him.

He brushed away some of the damp streaks on your cheek with his thumb. “I don’t want you to go, but if you want to—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Good. We have more episodes of Love Hospital to watch.”

“I thought we were watching Police Passion?”

He blew out a short laugh before dropping a tender kiss to your smiling lips. It made your heart feel warm and full, a feeling you never wanted to let go of.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he said before taking his leave.

You took the wicker basket of supplies into the en-suite, the smile on your face not wavering as you studied it. He’d even put a rather pricey bottle of body wash in there for you, the description on the label claiming that its contents would soothe and relax you with scents of chamomile and jasmine. 

Everything was so tidily placed inside, a true reflection on how much he actually cared about your needs. Even a single incorrect pack of sanitary towels kept somewhere in the bathroom would have been enough for you to know that you didn’t need to be uncomfortable with him, but he’d made an effort. 

A serious effort that he saw as the bare minimum.

After picking out the best suited candidate in the sea of pads and tampons, you got yourself showered and sorted into fresh pyjamas from your bag. The cramping in your stomach started to bother you as soon as you finished getting changed, so you fished around in the basket for the unopened box of ibuprofen and a heating pad for the seizing muscles in your back.

Once you’d emerged from the bedroom, Zayne was nowhere to be seen in the living room. The area around the recliner you had both been lounging in all day was cleared and tidy, not an empty takeout carton or half drunk cup of tea in sight.

Making your way into the kitchen for a glass of water, you found him steeping a mug of raspberry leaf tea to aid your cramping. You quietly grabbed a clean glass to fill with water, popping two capsules of ibuprofen into your hand to take.

Zayne glanced at the clock to memorise what time you were taking this dose, in case you required another later on. “How are you feeling?”

You smiled softly at him. Despite the storm of misery striking through your body, you still had a reason to smile.

“Happy,” you murmured sincerely. “Despite the devil himself tearing away at my insides.”

He offered a small smile of sympathy back, pulling the sopping teabag out of your mug of tea to discard it. “Do you need anything else? I can go out if there’s anything you want,” he offered sincerely, not at all troubled by the idea of you needing anything more from him.

Good lord did you love this man.

“Just you, please,” you requested, wanting nothing more than to just cuddle back up with him until the painkillers kicked in.

He obliged your request immediately, picking up the steaming mug of tea with one hand and slipping your hand into the other to lead you back out to the recliner. Before you could seat yourself in the little gap beside him, he gently pulled you onto his lap.

You couldn’t help the little flash of panic that shot through you at the thought of sitting on him during your period, but he clearly didn’t care. His hands just got straight to work with the heating pad, placing it where you needed it the most.

The rest of the evening was spent with Zayne giving you some luxuriously soothing back rubs to ease the pain—which had quickly been alleviated thanks to the ibuprofen and tea—followed by your regularly scheduled make out sessions whenever his hands started to wander. There wasn’t an ounce of bother in him whenever he turned you to straddle his lap, his all time favourite place to have you. 

He wasn’t bothered by anything when it came to taking care of you.

A/N: Thank you so much for sending in a request, anon! I adore Zayne so it was nice to have a prompt for my first oneshot for him. 🩵

[user211201]

Listen Up: Swimmer

--- Originally posted on 2021-04-21 by newyoutf ---

Jon twisted back and forth under the showerhead, singing along to the music blasting from his phone on the counter.

The music lowered in volume for a second, making way for two loud dings. Jon reached out from the stream of water and fumbled with the screen in his wet hands. It was a message from Oliver, his best friend, “Hey bro, got something you should listen to.”

“Bro?” Jon wondered. Since when did Oliver say “bro”? Jon blinked, struggling to think for a moment. Oliver talked like that all the time, he was American after all... wasn’t he?

Attached to the message was an audio file. Jon figured it must have been a new song by one of the pair’s favorite pop divas, perhaps a new leaked track. Jon hit the play button, placed the phone back down, and returned to the hot water.

A harsh static buzz and what sounded like garbled speech boomed from the phone, taking Jon by surprise. The corrupted audio cleared up after a moment and a deep, male voice started.

“Welcome. This audio program is custom designed. Just for you. Ensure you are in a comfortable, private place. You will not want to be disturbed.”

“Oliver,” Jon rolled his eyes, thinking that surely something starting this ridiculous would be some sort of joke or meme. After all, Oliver had always been a dumb joker. “Wait,” Jon felt confused, he could have sworn Oliver was a quiet, twinky lad like himself?

Jon realized couldn’t form a solid impression of his friend in his mind. They met at their university in London and became best friends, bonding over their mutual love of pop music and ogling the campus jocks. But now it was like that reality had been shattered. Those memories gave way for ones of meeting each other at the campus gym shortly after Oliver arrived from the US. Oliver was his best, hot, American friend, right? Jon’s cock twitched at the new image of his friend as he placed his face under the stream of hot water in an attempt to clear his head.

“Relax. Take a deep breath, in and out.”

Jon unwittingly followed the instructions. The frown fell from his face and his body relaxed, taking in the warmth of the water.

“You’re Oliver's best friend. Makes sense, given you’re a total alpha too.”

“Both wha- ah! Ah!”, Jon planted his hands against the wet, tiled wall as the words sent pleasure rippling through his body. He looked down feeling a strong warmth against his leg but it wasn’t the hot water. His semi-hard cock had blasted a rope of cum against his leg. “What the fuck?” Jon mumbled.

“What a coincidence that you’re both six-foot-four. It serves him well in the gym, the same way it serves you well in the water.”

Jon howled in ecstasy, spluttering and moaning, as his five-foot-nine body stretched higher. His soft cock drooled hot cum as it rapidly began to rise. His arms pushed against the wall, lengthening for better performance in the pool. He stepped backward as his head struck the showerhead and rose even higher. Hot water poured down the front of his much longer torso and legs.

“Your shoulders are so broad. Typical of you swimming jocks.”

Unable to resist the command, Jon's shoulders crunched and throbbed, thrusting out larger and bulging with muscle. “God! W- What the fuck i- is... ugh... happening?!” he roared, terrified not just by the growth gripping his body, but the incredible pleasure it wrought on him.

“Those are some long, meaty fucking arms, Jon.”

“F- fuck!” Jon roared, spraying a massive load up the back of the shower feeling his narrow arms explode with thick mounds of muscle, rippling across his biceps and triceps. The growth spread down his arms, his forearms bloating with tight, lean muscle. His wrists cracked as they thickened.

“Hands that big must be useful for pushing through the water.”

Stifled screams rumbled from Jon’s tightly clenched mouth. His hands were pressed against the back of the shower, clicking and twitching as they began to swell across the tiles. The fingers accelerated longer and longer. His palms spread monstrously broad. He flexed his hands, in total awe of their disproportionate size; perfect for pushing through the water.

The experience was like nothing Jon ever felt. A sexual eruption taking place across every cell as the words rewrote his body. “Can’t... resist... so g- good,” Jon grunted, gasping for air.

“You clearly work out for the aesthetics as well, not just the pool. Your shredded chest is proof of that.”

Jon couldn’t even attempt to fight anymore, but nor did he want to. His chest puffed and bulged, distorting the path of the water running across it. The previously non-existent pecs pushed outward from his widening chest. His cock trembled as the changes took hold in his abdomen, causing his flat stomach to erupt with tight, thick abs. Jon gripped his ass, feeling it swell into his huge hands while he erupted cum across the tiles once more.

*“That’s the spirit, Jon. You’re a *stud.”

Jon felt those words echo in his ears and rumble down his throat. Grunts and pants became deeper and deeper as his thickened and voice morphed. His head groaned as it enlarged to fit his frame. Hair began to flourish out of his cheeks and across his upper lip while the mop of medium-length hair on his head retreated, leaving a short, handsome cut in its place. He stroked his cock with one hand and clasped his face with the other feeling his jawline refine and the angles of his face sharpen. He turned to the mirror cabinet, seeing just a sliver of his improved visage. Jon gasped at the sight and immediately ejected another load of cum.

He didn’t just look like a swole swimming jock. He felt like one too. He rejoiced in his mind being filled with thoughts of the pool, weightlifting, spotting his bros at the gym, and fucking them afterward.

“Good to see the bottom half matches the top.”

Jon’s legs trembled. He clutched the slippery tiles harder to hold himself up, the pleasure reverberating through his legs almost too much to bear. Muscles spasmed in his calves, swelling with every little twitch. Muscle wasn’t all that was gracing his legs. Dark hair grew forth from the skin, coating his powerful legs in a layer of fur. Jon swore under his breath, impressed by the hair spreading up and down his legs. He thought about how he refused to shave like other swimmers, he liked the hair, and regardless his superior form needed no extra boost. His body responded to the suggestion, triggering a fine layer of hair to sprout from his forearms, between his pecs, in a trail over his abs and across the tops of his feet.

Memories of the pool, the beach, and victories across university swimming tournaments swarmed his brain. Trophies and medals materialized in the bedroom just next to where he was showering.

“Damn, it’s no surprise you outperform everyone in the water with feet that massive. And you know what they say about that, Jon.”

Every one of the toes on Jon’s size eight feet surged with pleasure. He moaned loudly as they began to push across the floor of the shower while his soles stretched to catch up. He recalled new memories of having large feet, how they propelled him to victory in the pool, and the comments people would make: “Bigfoot”, “You know what they say...”, “Where can you even buy size sixteens?”

“Sixteen?!” he repeated in his mind. The brief shock turned to anticipation as he felt his soles continue to march forward longer and wider, his toes twitching while they reshaped long and meaty. Jon growled aloud as he expelled another load, “God, yeah... so f- fucking... big.”

The jock trembled under the stream of hot water, desperate for sexual release. He looked down as the expanding feet settled into excessively large size sixteens, curling his long toes as his six-inch cock began to quiver in its desperation to grow larger as well. It felt as though it were perpetually hardening, only to then push longer and girthier instead. Jon grasped his wet cock and thrust into his grip hard and repeatedly. He relished in the sensation of the veins bulging and the shaft thickening.

*“I guess what they say really is true, isn’t *it?”

The audio toyed with him, pushing his cock just that little bit longer and pumping it ever so slightly thicker. It pulsed and twitched, gradually and slowly with every breath. His uncut, British foreskin slid further backward, as a larger, blunter head swelled outward. Jon smirked as he groaned and growled, stroking faster and faster, enthralled by the beautiful nine-inch weapon he now possessed.

“Cum.”

“Oh yeah! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Jon made three final long, hard tugs on his thick pole before roaring in delight as unspeakable ecstasy filled him. Cum rocketed upward against the water rushing from the showerhead, ejecting what remained of Jon’s old genetic material while orgasm after orgasm pounded his body.

Exhausted and dripping wet, he stepped slowly out of the tub, unsteady on his new legs and feet.

*“Remember to share this recording with your friends*.”

And with that, the playback stopped. Jon looked at himself in the mirror, still shocked, but enraptured with his new body and looks. He grabbed his phone and wiped the water from the screen, struggling to unlock it with his longer fingers. He typed out a reply to Oliver, “That shit was fucking lit mate!”

A few miles away, a sweaty Oliver was busy lifting weights, waiting for his friend to give him some indication that something had happened. He had to place the weight down slowly as his mind blurred for a moment. He saw the images and memories that he had of his friend change and shift. Gone were the images of a quiet little twink, replaced by those of a loud, masculine swimming jock. Oliver smiled cockily realizing what had just happened. Then, as if on cue, his phone vibrated with Jon’s reply. Following was a photo of a huge, semi-hard cock swinging above two gargantuan feet. Oliver felt his own cock stiffen slightly at the image.

“Hell yeah, bro! You should be selling these pics like I do,” Oliver sent in response, getting a deep chuckle out of Jon.

Both men now looked at their phones, horny and pondering who next to share the mysterious audio file with.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik being strong enough to pick Price up when he's in a bad mood and just put him on the bench of his workshop.

Price is in air jail and now at the perfect height for when Nik tugs the zipper of his flight suit down to reveal that fluffy chest, those burly arms, that glorious belly and happy trail that leads to the weapon between his legs.

Honestly I don't think John could work those cargo pants off fast enough, maybe Nik forgoes that entirely and cuts a neat hole right in the crotch and rips to get at his prize.

Price is walking (Maybe a little bow-legged) out of there a hell of a lot happier than when he walked in.

The lads chip in for a nice takeaway for Nik for helping them out (Dealing with Price's shitty mood)

Nik uses his dick as a captain tamer.

cw: anal sex, mild brat taming, a little rough.

John’s temper was nothing new. Nik had experienced it in its various permutations through the years. It was like a hurricane; loud, destructive, and indiscriminate in the damage it caused, taking out friends and foes alike. But it eventually ran out of wind; surviving it was simply a case of moving out of its way until the inevitable conclusion. And, just like a storm, it wasn’t personal, but a natural byproduct of all the pressures and stresses weighing on John’s shoulders. He was only human.

Sometimes, however, the bad mood would fail to wear itself out and John would become more cantankerous as time wore on and his frustration built. If he was particularly tired, stressed, his body wound tight, feeding his brain a continuous flow of cortisol and catecholamines, then his grizzly mood was liable to last for days. A dark cloud hanging over the base and Task Force, suffocating.

It was day three this time and Nik’s patience had worn out. It was time to give the feral bastard what he needed. The lieutenant called it ‘a good seeing to’ and the sergeants, while not quite brave enough to say it to John’s face, said he was always a bit more human after he’d been stuffed with cock. Nik had worked out it was the act of having control stripped out of his hands, his mind emptied of all but pleasure, and his body flooded with endorphins from an orgasm. It stopped the spiral in its tracks. Even if it was only a reprieve to simply clear his head, it was often enough to give him the breathing room he needed to resolve the problem. He would deny it, of course, but John surrendered every time.

Nik finished the maintenance he’d been performing on the Black Hawk’s main rotary engine and washed his hands clean in the workshop sink, careful to remove the grease and grime from his cuticles. It was late. Most of the base had either retired to the barracks, gone home to their local residences, or headed out to the pub, but John was still here, huffing and growling over the laptop on the nearby workbench. “I can’t fuckin’ believe they’re takin’ Simon for another trainin’ seminar, puts him out for three fuckin’ days—“

Nik had invited him in to discuss some intel, citing his need to continue maintenance to stay on schedule as the reason for the location and, ever diligent, John had arrived on time with his laptop in tow, unknowingly sliding right into Nik's trap. Nik turned off the taps and returned briefly to his heli to dip into his duffle bag for the lube before he approached John at the bench. He slid his hands around John’s waist just as he closed his mouth over the soft skin beneath the hinge of his jaw, sucking a mark into soft skin.

“Ah, fuck, Nik—“ John went rigid in Nik’s hands, almost knocking the laptop off the workbench as he span to face him. “You randy bloody bastard, ‘ve got work t’ finish."

Those fierce blue eyes, the stern set of John's face, they would have struck quivering fear into the heart of many a man. But all Nik saw was the stress, the tension, the bone deep exhaustion, all locked up tight behind a safety valve that needed a practiced hand to release it. “Nyet, you are done for the evening.”

“Oh fuckin’ reall—“

He didn’t finish. Nik leaned forward and swept the laptop to the side, before grabbing John’s narrow hips and lifting effortlessly him onto the bench. He shoved his way between John’s knees, not letting him clam up, the expanse of one big hand staying at the base of John’s back to keep him from wriggling away.

John wrestled with him, fists bunching in his flight suit and shoving against his chest, their first kiss more teeth than tongue or lips. But as the heat of Nik's body enveloped him, their crotches pulled flush, chests together, John stopped thrashing in Nik's arms. Nik took it as the first defeat, drawing back to nuzzle John's beard.

"Lemme up, ya muppet."

"Nyet " Nik straightened a little, creating a gap between them even if he remained between John's legs.

"Nik," John growled his warning, but it was a hollow threat.

“You will do as you are told, captain. Good boys get rewards.”

Nik knew the low rumble of his voice, the manhandling, it stirred something primal and receptive in the back of John’s mind. He watched those bright baby blues widen before they dropped to Nik’s hand, following it like a hawk tracking a mouse as Nik grasped the zipper of his flight suit and tugged it down, deliberate in the glacial pace of its progress.

John’s mouth dropped open as curls of black chest hair emerged between parting metal teeth, Nik’s dusky nipples peaking in the cool air, and John’s greedy hands slid across the heat of newly revealed skin, following the firm contours of his tits. Nik leaned forward to kiss John’s neck again, encouraging his touch, and this time his captain relaxed, his legs spreading a little further apart as his hips tilted. He was begging to be fucked. Nik would take John here as planned, and then he would take him to his bed to exhaust him into complete surrender.

Nik tugged his flight suit open to its fullest extent, his cock arching up in readiness where he hadn't bothered with underwear knowing his intentions with John that evening. He popped a few of John's shirt buttons to kiss the furry perk of his pecs, smiling against John's skin as he squirmed, opening his belt and fly with practiced ease. "Oh, fuck, Nik, no, not here..."

"Da, here," Nik replied, listening to John's tone, his body, rather than his words; the way he gasped so desperately and arched into Nik's heat screamed please, please, please. He didn't resist when Nik slid his arms beneath his thighs and grasped his waistband, lifting his arse for a moment to yank his Carhartts and boxers down his thighs.

John hissed as his flushed skin settled back on the cold surface of the workbench, eager for the return of Nik's palms around the upper curve of his cheeks and the dip of his tailbone. John had an exquisite arse; firm, muscular and round. Perfect for bouncing on a cock. Nik kneaded the top of it as he nipped along the edge of John's jaw to his ear lobe, relishing the powerful body writhing enthusiastically in his arms. Who was Nik trying to kid? John was perfect in every way, even with his penchant for sulking.

Nik earned his first needy moan when he let the tip of his cock kiss the tight furl of John's hole, the slightest pressure rubbing his wet slit against the fluttering muscle in an insistent tease. He nuzzled John's beard as he fished the lube out of his pocket and flicked the lid off with his thumb. John's hands pushed beneath the fabric of his flight suit to grip his shoulders, one looping behind Nik's neck to play in the curls at the nape of his neck. John flinched when Nik squeezed the lube onto his balls, the tube clattering on the workbench when it was cast aside. "Bastard..."

Nik smirked, smoothing warm fingers gently down the seam of John's sac to his taint, circling, teasing his rim with little tugs at the opening. When the first finger dipped inside, Nik swallowed John's groan with a kiss, tongue licking into his mouth when it fell open in a shock of pleasure. John didn't need much coaxing, his body opening eagerly around one and then two probing fingers. Nik crooked them up, John's cock flicking as Nik's fingertips rubbed over his prostate. John panted, his head falling back, the filthy noise of Nik's fingers squelching into his hole accented by his soft whimpers. Blunt fingernails dug into Nik's skin as John clung to him, his leaking cock fully hard against the unblemished milky softness of his inner thigh.

"Ah, ah, Nik... Mm, fuck... Ah..."

"Da, solnyshko. Just a little more and I will give you what you need."

Nik could make John come like this, but his balls ached and there was only one place he wanted to empty them; to watch John unspool on his cock was a privilege he deserved. He pulled his fingers out slowly, his thumb tugging down at John's slick, puffy hole as he smeared lube and precum over his crown and down his shaft, tongue between his teeth as he groaned at the sweet anticipation of what awaited. He was so hard, cock throbbing in his grip, balls already tight, and he took a moment to steady himself before sliding his arms beneath John's thighs again, John's booted feet dangling either side of his back, his trousers bunch just shy of his knees.

His fingers pressed into the flesh of John's hips to keep him still as he ground the tip of his cock over the slick skin of John's taint, lower lip between his teeth as John shivered in his grasp, hips tilting again, urging, begging with his body. Nik's tip notched against his hole and Nik held him firm as he thrust inside, John's body gaping wide around the flare of his crown and thick shaft. John quaked in his arms, thighs trembling, his soft, tortured noises nursing a primal delight deep inside Nik's chest.

Nik kept going, sinking into John's body, inch by aching inch, even as it bore down around him in desperation.

"Fuck, Nik, Nik!"

"Da, my love. Surrender to me as you yearn to..."

It wasn't simply the act of sex. Penetration itself was not surrender and John had ridden Nik's cock from above many times, in complete control as Nik ceded, leaning back into the pillows with his eyes closed. But this act, of letting the tension and frustration melt from his body, of giving in to the pleasure of sex with a man who knew how to pluck every string, of finally letting his mind empty and his muscles relax. That was surrender.

Nik pressed deeper, achingly slow, clutching heat struggling with the girth and length. Every time John's channel fluttered, pulsing between relaxing and gripping, Nik seized more ground. John's eyes rolled back as Nik nestled in his guts and finally bottomed out with a satisfied groan, John's stretched hole pressed against the dark curls of his pubic hair. Nik kissed trembling, spit slick lips, rocking gently, staying deep as he hollowed out his place in John's body. "Mm, detka. You are so tight. Relax, breathe..."

"Nik, ah, fuck, Nik. I'so much, hng."

"Ssh, I know, but you are... mm, taking me so well. All you have to do is let go."

Nik didn't give him any choice. He drew out until John's body sucked on his tip, clenching around it in greedy throbs, before he thrust his full length back in. John bit out a soft, startled cry, back arching as his nails bit into Nik's shoulders. Nik leaned into his lover's neck, the downy curls of his chest hair pressing to the warm swells of his firm chest as he clutched his hips tight to pull them into his cock. The next thrust was just as firm, just as demanding, shaking the table on which John sat.

Nik picked up a bruising pace, forcing John's body into submission with each deep thrust, wet skin slapping wetly as the table rattled under the force of Nik's hips pounding against John's arse. John clung to him, unable to find purchase anywhere but Nik's shoulders as he was fucked hard, Nik's palms providing a softer cushion for him to be pressed into, keeping him from being shoved away so that he was made to take every thrust to the hilt at an angle that sent relentless curls of pleasure arcing up the length of his body.

John shook apart so beautifully, his first orgasm was dry, triggered purely by the insistent, relentless drag of Nik's cock over his prostate. Nik felt the first tremors of it and leaned in to coach him through with whispered encouragement, "da, John, such a good boy, let it happen..."

John's body milked him in tight pulses and Nik watched in awe as John's pleasure unspooled through him, his limbs shaking, broad chest heaving in rattling breaths through loud, high-pitched whines, completely overwhelmed at the full body experience of coming on Nik's cock. It was like a molten heat that burned away the last of the tension and left him pliant and open in Nik's arms.

John's hole relaxed, sloppy with lube and wells of precum, the perfect sheath for Nik's cock, still sucking hungrily on Nik's length every time he withdrew before slamming back inside. Nik chased his high, growling into John's neck, nipping at his hammering pulse to taste the sweat on his skin. His climax crept up his spine, a vine of tension pulling him tight, and he nipped John's ear. "Touch yourself, detka."

John grabbed his cock obediently, pumping down its slick length in furious jerks that matched Nik's pace, his moans reaching a crescendo as he was trapped between two pleasure centres. Nik felt John tighten again, another orgasm, and it teased him over into his own. His hips jerked, stuttering against John's arse, as his cock pulsed its first load deep in John's body. John followed him over the brink, the flood of heat inside him making his eyes roll back as his cock painted his hand and shirt in thick ropes of cum as he was filled with it.

Nik's vision greyed, the force of his own pleasure leaving him breathless as his cock twitched in John's channel. He hadn't realised how pent up he'd been, his balls offering a seemingly endless breeding. He panted hot breaths against John's skin, the tip of his nose resting in the bristles of his beard, lips placing soft, fleeting kisses as his body finally finished. When he finally gathered enough coordination to draw out, the filthy noise of his cock withdrawing made him growl with pleasure, his seed welling at John's hole to drip down the curve of his arse to the floor.

When he lowered John's feet, his legs shook, and he lifted him off the table by the hips. "Go to your room. When I get there, I expect to find you naked in bed," Nik said.

John might have argued if he hadn't been completely spaced, his eyes soft in post-orgasmic bliss. Nik helped him right his belt and trousers and then watched him hobble out of the workshop. Once his captain had disappeared from sight, Nik turned his attention to tidying his tools, a little jelly-legged as he strolled about his workshop.

Nik would find John showered and snoozing, naked and warm beneath his blankets, about an hour later. He washed himself, removing the grime and sweat of the workshop, and slipped in beside him to rub his back and shoulders. John roused slowly, content to let Nik ease his aches, legs spreading when those strong fingers slid between them for a second round, his hole buttery soft, eager for Nik's touch. He was impossible to resist.

[astrxq]

Stage Light, Palace Light .I

jacaerys velaryon x theatre!reader

words: 23.6k (… i’m so sorry)

notes: tumblr won’t let me post this as a full fic so i’m dividing in half… though i think that kind of takes away from the whole thing, it’s the only way for me to post it :(( i hope the length doesn’t scare you away 😭

content!!: jacaerys secretly attends a theater in town, disguised as a commoner. captivated by a fearless and enchanting penniless actress, he asks for a private reading of one of her plays for a chance to see her again. — luke is alive in this, notttt following canon events obviously.

both parts will be posted simultaneously!! so you don’t have to wait for me to upload it if you want to read it :) — part 2 is tagged at the end of this post.

The halls of Dragonstone were eerily silent under the pale glow of the moon. Jacaerys paced his chamber, restless energy coursing through him. The heavy burden of duty weighed on his shoulders, suffocating in the castle’s confines. It wasn’t the demands of war or the pressures of ruling that plagued him tonight – it was a hunger for freedom, for something outside the expectations of a prince.

Draping a plain cloak over his shoulders, he slipped out unnoticed. Jacaerys had memorized the guard rotations months ago, making his escape through the servant's entrance as natural as breathing. The rough-spun wool of his cloak scratched against his neck – a far cry from the silks he was accustomed to, but that was precisely the point.

The cobblestone streets of the port city sprawled before him, a maze of possibilities. The salt-laden breeze carried the lingering scents of the day's activities – fish from the docks, fresh bread from late-working bakeries, and something sweeter, more enticing: his own freedom. Jacaerys pulled his hood lower, savoring the anonymity that darkness provided.

He wandered without purpose at first, letting his feet carry him away from the imposing silhouette of Dragonstone that loomed behind him. The wealthy merchant districts near the castle gradually gave way to more modest neighborhoods, where the buildings pressed closer together and the streets grew narrower. Here, despite the late hour, life still stirred.

The sound reached him first – laughter, music, and the unmistakable buzz of a crowd. Following the noise, he found himself in what appeared to be the city's entertainment district. Lanterns strung between buildings cast pools of warm light, and the streets were alive with people moving between taverns and various establishments.

But it was a different sort of building that caught his attention. Smaller than the grand playhouses he was used to, this theater had a weathered wooden facade that spoke of history and character. A hand-painted sign announced tonight's performance, people were filling inside, their faces bright with anticipation.

Jacaerys hesitated at the entrance. He'd attended countless performances in his life, but always from private boxes, always surrounded by the trappings of royalty. This... this was different. Through the open doors, he could see simple wooden benches, packed close together. The air was thick with the smell of tallow candles and humanity.

"Coming in, lad?" A gruff voice startled him from his contemplation. An older man was collecting coins at the door, his weathered face kind despite his rough appearance. "Last few seats available, but you'll need to hurry."

Jacaerys fumbled with the copper pieces in his pocket – another detail of his disguise, carefully planned. The coins felt foreign in his hands; he was more used to others handling such transactions. "Yes, I... thank you."

Inside, the theater was intimate in a way the royal playhouse never was. The ceiling hung low, and the stage was barely elevated above the floor, everything was made of wood. Jacaerys found a spot near the back, where shadows gathered in the corners. From here, he could observe everything while remaining relatively hidden.

The audience around him was different from what he was used to – merchants still in their work clothes, sailors with salt-stained boots, young couples pressed close together on the narrow benches. They chatted among themselves with an easy familiarity that suggested many were regular patrons. It was crowded enough to fill the small establishment.

As the lanterns dimmed and the crowd hushed, Jacaerys felt something shift inside him. Here, in this modest theater with its creaking floorboards and flickering lights, he was just another face in the crowd. No one cared about his lineage or his responsibilities. For these few precious hours, he could simply... be.

The curtain hadn't yet risen when he heard your voice for the first time.

You were berating someone backstage, your words carrying clearly through the thin partition. "If you've lost the prop dagger again, Thomas, I swear by all the gods..." There was laughter in your tone despite the scolding, and something about it made Jacaerys lean forward slightly.

A ripple of anticipatory chuckles went through the audience – clearly, this was not an unusual occurrence. The woman next to Jacaerys noticed his confusion and leaned over to whisper, "First time here, is it? I've never seen you before."

Her eyes lingered on his face, curiosity flickering in their depths. Jacaerys stiffened under her gaze, instinctively lowering his head further beneath the shadow of his hood. The pulse in his neck thundered like a drum, a visceral beat of fear and adrenaline. He was no stranger to being watched, scrutinized, even admired – but here, recognition would shatter his carefully crafted disguise, and the freedom he craved would slip through his fingers.

"Just passing through," he murmured, his voice deliberately roughened to obscure its natural timbre. He shifted slightly, angling his body away from her.

The voice rang out again, this time closer, from somewhere behind the curtains near where Jacaerys sat. The makeshift backstage setup was rudimentary – little more than patched fabric stretched over a wooden frame – but it served its purpose, kind of. Your tone, laced with exasperation, carried through the thin barrier with startling clarity.

"Thomas, I am not stepping out there until you find it. The last thing we need is another improvised death scene where you pantomime being stabbed. The audience already thinks we’re a comedy troupe."

"That's their leading lady. Always keeps them on their toes, that one." the lady next to Jacaerys whispered again, a grin on her face as if she was used to this.

Before he could respond, the curtain rose, and you stepped onto the stage. The lantern light caught you perfectly, illuminating your face as you launched into your first lines. You played a merchant's daughter, clever and quick-witted, running circles around your would-be suitors.

Jacaerys forgot to breathe.

It wasn't the kind of beauty that graced the castle halls. Your dress was simple, a plain brown fabric that had seen better days, cinched at the waist with a leather belt that had clearly been mended more than once. Your hair, pulled back in a practical braid, had several strands that had escaped to frame your face, giving you an appealingly disheveled look that spoke of hours of rehearsal.

But gods, you were magnificent.

A small scar marked your right cheek, barely visible in the flickering lantern light. Rather than marring your features, it seemed to enhance them, adding character to a face that radiated vitality. Your movements were precise yet natural, commanding the cramped stage as if it were a grand palace hall.

The other actors, though competent, seemed to orbit around you like planets around a sun. Even when you weren't speaking, Jacaerys found his eyes drawn to you – the subtle reactions playing across your face, the way you listened and responded to your fellow performers with an authenticity that made the scripted dialogue feel spontaneous.

The play unfolded before him, each scene weaving together with light-hearted jest. Whenever you spoke, delivering witty lines to your partners, Jacaerys found himself smiling in spite of himself. You were effortlessly charming.

In the quieter moments, when your character would stand still, caught in moments of contemplation or while others delivered their lines, Jacaerys’ gaze drifted to the fine details that made you so different from any actor he’d seen in his life. The way the flickering candlelight danced in your eyes, the way your lips curled just so when you were amused – everything felt significant. There was no mask, no role to hide behind. You were raw, real, and utterly captivating.

The final scene came far too quickly. As the audience erupted in applause, Jacaerys found himself on his feet with the rest, though his eyes never left your form. You took your bow with a flourish, laughing as someone from the crowd tossed a wildflower onto the stage. You caught it with practiced ease, tucking it behind your ear as you exchanged playful glances with your fellow performers.

The crowd began to disperse, but Jacaerys remained rooted to his spot, wrestling with an unfamiliar impulse. The logical part of his mind urged him to leave, to return to the castle before his absence was noticed. Yet something stronger held him there, watching as the other actors filtered off stage, leaving you to gather props with the same casual grace you'd shown during the performance.

"Wonderful show tonight, wasn't it?" The woman beside him spoke again, but this time Jacaerys barely registered her words. You had moved to the edge of the stage, sitting down with your legs dangling over the side, somehow making even this simple action seem like part of a performance.

The flower had slipped slightly askew in your hair, and you reached up to adjust it, humming a tune he didn't recognize. In that moment, illuminated by the dying lantern light, you looked more royal than any of the nobles he'd grown up with.

"Thomas!" you called out, your voice carrying that same warm authority he'd heard earlier. "I know you're hiding back there with that dagger. Bring it here before you lose it again."

A gangly young man emerged from behind the curtain, sheepishly holding the prop weapon. "I wasn't hiding, I was... organizing."

Your laugh echoed through the now-empty theater, rich and genuine. "Is that what we're calling it now? Come here, let's go over that scene again while it's fresh. Your timing was a bit off in the second act."

Jacaerys watched as you worked with your fellow actor, demonstrating the proper way to fall after being stabbed. Your patience was evident, even as you teased Thomas about his dramatic tendencies. This wasn't the carefully cultivated refinement of the court – this was something real, something alive.

He should leave. He knew he should leave. Instead, he found himself moving closer to the stage, drawn by some force he couldn't name. The hood of his cloak still shadowed his features, but he could see you more clearly now – the way your hands moved as you spoke, the slight crinkle at the corners of your eyes when you smiled.

You noticed him then, your eyes meeting his across the dimly lit space. "Can I help you?" you asked, your head tilting slightly in curiosity. "If you're looking for the manager, he's already left for the night."

Jacaerys opened his mouth to respond, but for perhaps the first time in his life, words failed him. He, who had been trained in rhetoric and diplomacy since childhood, found himself speechless in the presence of a common theater actor.

You studied his silence for a moment, your eyes softening with understanding – or rather, what you thought was understanding. Wiping your hands on your worn costume, you hopped down from the stage with an actor's grace.

"You haven't eaten today, have you?" Your voice was gentle, free of pity but full of kindness. Before Jacaerys could respond, you were already reaching into a small pouch tied at your waist. "The baker on Mare's Street – you know the one with the blue door? – he's usually still open at this hour. Sometimes he sells yesterday's bread for a few coppers."

The irony of the situation struck Jacaerys like a physical blow as you pressed two golden coins into his palm. Your callused fingers brushed against his softer ones, and he felt the warmth of your touch even as shame and wonder warred in his chest. These coins – they probably represented a week's earnings for you, maybe more.

"I..." he started, his voice catching. The weight of the coins in his hand felt heavier than any crown. "I don’t need this."

"Don't," you cut him off, your smile crooked but kind. "The crowds have been generous." You gestured around the empty theater, pride evident in your voice despite the building's humble appearance. "And I know what it's like to go hungry. Take it."

Jacaerys stood frozen, the coins burning in his palm like hot coals. He, who could buy this entire theater with a wave of his hand, found himself humbled by your simple act of generosity. The elaborate rings he'd left behind in his chambers could have fed your entire troupe for a year, yet here you were, sharing what little you had with a stranger.

Thomas watched from the stage, absently twirling the prop dagger. "She won't take no for an answer," he offered helpfully. "Trust me, I've tried."

You shot Thomas a look that was half-exasperation, half-affection.

You had misinterpreted his hesitation, mistaking it for embarrassment. "No shame in it," you said softly, your voice lowering as if to shield him from imaginary judgment. "Everyone needs a little help sometimes. Just promise me you’ll pay it forward when you can."

For a moment, Jacaerys considered revealing himself – telling you who he was, explaining that he didn’t need the money, that he could give you a hundredfold what you had just offered him. But the thought died as quickly as it came. What would that accomplish? To shatter this fragile, unguarded moment with the weight of his identity?

Instead, he closed his fingers around the coins and inclined his head, the shadows of his hood concealing the turmoil in his expression. "Thank you," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Your smile widened, relief washing over your face. "Good. Now go, before the baker closes." You turned back toward the stage, your attention already shifting to the scattered props and costumes. It was as if the encounter hadn’t marked you the way it had him, as if kindness were simply a part of who you were, given without expectation or burden.

Jacaerys lingered for a moment longer, watching you move through the theater, humming that same tune under your breath. He tucked the coins into his pocket, their weight a reminder of the strange, magnetic pull you had over him.

As he stepped back into the cobblestone streets, the sounds of the city washed over him once more – the distant murmur of the ocean, the laughter spilling from nearby taverns, the clatter of hooves on stone. Yet the memory of your voice, your smile, and your unassuming grace lingered like an echo in his chest.

For the first time in years, Jacaerys Velaryon felt small. Not in a way that diminished him, but in a way that reminded him of how vast the world truly was, and how much of it he had yet to understand.

And as he walked away from the theater, he knew one thing for certain: he would be back.

***

The Maester's voice droned on about the Conquest of Dorne, but Jacaerys barely heard him. His fingers traced the edges of the golden coins in his pocket, worn smooth from hours of anxious handling. The metal had warmed to his skin, yet still carried the weight of your kindness. He could almost smell the copper on his hands, though these were gold – a reminder of how thoroughly his mind had been occupied by that night at the theater.

His younger brothers sat attentively at the long table, Lucerys dutifully taking notes while Joffrey's eyes widened at tales of battle and dragon fire. Jacaerys envied their simple absorption in the lesson. His own thoughts kept drifting to the weathered wooden stage, the flickering lanterns, and your laugh as you demonstrated the proper way to die dramatically.

"Prince Jacaerys?" The Maester's voice cut through his reverie. "Perhaps you'd care to share your thoughts on Prince Qoren Martell's strategy?"

Jacaerys straightened, his hand instinctively withdrawing from his pocket. "My apologies, Maester. I was..." He trailed off, unable to find a suitable excuse.

Lucerys shot him a curious glance. His brother had always been observant – too observant, sometimes. These past few days, Jacaerys had caught him watching with barely concealed concern, noting his distraction during meals and council meetings.

The coins felt heavier than ever. At nearly twenty years old, here he was, a prince of the realm, plotting like a green boy to sneak out to a common theater. The absurdity of it wasn't lost on him. He'd heard countless tales of young nobles who slipped away from their duties – to visit brothels, to gamble in fighting pits, to engage in all manner of sordid adventures. Yet here he sat, fingers stained with the phantom scent of copper, heart racing at the mere thought of watching another play.

But it wasn't just any play, was it? It was you. The way you commanded that humble stage, the genuine warmth in your voice when you'd pressed those coins into his hand, believing him to be nothing more than a hungry stranger. The memory of your kindness burned brighter than any shame he might feel about his age or station.

"Prince Jacaerys?" The Maester prompted again, more gently this time.

"Forgive me," Jacaerys managed, forcing his attention back to the present. "The heat of the day has made me rather distracted."

Joffrey snickered behind his hand, but fell silent at Lucerys's sharp look. The Maester sighed and returned to his lecture, pointing to a map of Dorne's treacherous mountain passes.

As the lesson continued, Jacaerys's mind wandered to the logistics of another escape. The guard rotations would be the same, but he'd need to be more careful – his absence had been noted last time, though thankfully not reported. The thought sent a flutter of anxiety through his chest. What would people say if they knew? A prince, skulking around in common clothes, watching street performances like some love-struck peasant boy.

Love-struck. The word appeared unbidden in his thoughts, and he nearly dropped the coins he'd been fidgeting with. No, that wasn't it at all. He was simply... intrigued. Fascinated by the authenticity of common theater, by the raw talent he'd witnessed. By your smile, your laugh, the way you'd shown such kindness to a stranger...

Lucerys kicked him under the table, and Jacaerys realized the Maester had asked another question. As he scrambled to appear engaged in the lesson, his brother's knowing look told him he wasn't fooling anyone – at least not Lucerys.

The coins clinked softly in his pocket as he shifted in his seat. He would go back, he knew that much. The risk, the anxiety, the potential embarrassment if he were caught – none of it mattered. Not when weighed against the possibility of seeing you perform again, of existing for a few precious hours in that world where he was just another face in the crowd, where kindness was given freely without the weight of politics and duty.

Besides, he thought with a hint of his usual wry humor, there were far worse rebellions for a prince to engage in than a secret appreciation for the theater. Even if that appreciation had more to do with a certain performer than the performances themselves.

After the lesson, Jacaerys retreated to his chambers, hoping to find solitude with his thoughts. His rooms in the Stone Drum tower offered a commanding view of the castle grounds and the sea beyond, though today he barely noticed the beauty. The salt breeze that whistled through the arrow slits carried the familiar scent of home, mingling with the ever-present smoke from the volcano.

He'd barely settled into his favorite chair – a sturdy piece of oak and leather positioned perfectly to catch the evening light – when the door burst open without ceremony. Only one person would dare enter his chambers so boldly.

"Don't you knock anymore, Luke?" Jacaerys asked, not bothering to look up from the correspondence he'd hastily grabbed to appear occupied.

"When have I ever knocked?" Lucerys's footsteps were light across the Myrish carpet, practiced and graceful from years of dancing lessons. The bed creaked as he threw himself across it, a habit he'd had since childhood that no amount of etiquette training had broken.

The familiar scene might have been comforting if not for the tension Jacaerys could feel radiating from his younger brother. Lucerys had that particular quality of false casualness that always preceded his most determined interrogations. It was a talent he'd inherited from their mother – the ability to appear perfectly relaxed while preparing to strike.

The room itself seemed to hold its breath. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors and illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. The walls were lined with books and maps, carefully curated over years of study, while a half-empty glass of wine sat forgotten on a side table from the night before.

Jacaerys shifted in his chair, acutely aware of the coins in his pocket. They seemed to weigh heavier under his brother's watchful gaze, though he knew Lucerys couldn't possibly see them. Yet something in the way those violet eyes tracked his movements made him wonder if perhaps they did.

"You've been strange lately," Lucerys said, lounging across Jacaerys's bed as if it were his own. The evening light caught his hair, making him look younger than his fifteen years. "More distracted than usual."

Jacaerys didn't look up from the letter he was pretending to read. "Have I?"

"Don't play fool, Jace. It doesn't suit you." Lucerys rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands. "Even Joff noticed, and he hardly notices anything beyond his own reflection these days."

"Perhaps I'm simply tired of being interrogated by my little brother."

"Perhaps you're simply avoiding the question." Lucerys's violet eyes narrowed slightly. "You disappeared the other night."

Jacaerys's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the parchment. "Did I?"

"I covered for you with Mother. Told her you had a headache and retired early." Lucerys paused, watching his brother's face carefully. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Thank you," Jacaerys said stiffly, still not meeting his brother's gaze.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sound of dragons calling to each other across the evening sky. Finally, Lucerys sighed dramatically.

"I need to borrow some coins," he said, his tone deliberately casual. "There's a book I want the Maester to fetch from the town."

"Another one? Didn't you just get three new volumes last moon?"

"This one's different. It's about Valyrian steel manipulation. I think I found a reference to–"

"Fine," Jacaerys interrupted, rising from his chair. "Let me get my–"

"Why not just give me the ones you've been playing with in your pocket all week?"

Jacaerys froze, his hand halfway to the door. Lucerys's voice had lost its casual edge, taking on an accusatory tone that made him sound unnervingly like their mother.

"Those are..." Jacaerys started, then stopped, unsure how to continue.

"Those are what, exactly?" Lucerys sat up, all pretense of relaxation gone. "You never carry coins, Jace. You hate dealing with money – you always have servants handle it. Yet suddenly you're constantly fiddling with coins in your pocket like some nervous merchant?"

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?" Lucerys's eyebrows rose. "Nothing has you sneaking out at night? Nothing has you daydreaming through lessons? Nothing has you jumping like a guilty septa every time someone mentions where you were that evening?"

"Luke–"

"What kind of trouble are you in, Jace?" Real concern crept into Lucerys's voice now. "Whatever it is, I can help. You know I can keep a secret."

Jacaerys turned to face his brother, seeing the genuine worry in his eyes. For a moment, he was tempted to tell him everything – about the theater, about you, about the strange mix of shame and wonder he felt every time he touched those coins you'd given him. But the words stuck in his throat.

"I'm not in any trouble," he said finally. "And the coins... they're just coins. Nothing more."

Lucerys studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You're lying," he said simply. "You've never been good at it, not with me." He stood up from the bed, straightening his doublet with precise movements. "Keep your secrets, then. But whatever it is – whoever it is – I hope they're worth all this deception."

He moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. "And Jace? Next time you decide to disappear for an evening, give me some warning. I can only improvise so many headaches before Mother starts calling for the Grand Maester."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Jacaerys alone with his thoughts and the weight of those two gold coins that somehow felt heavier than any crown.

***

The evening guard rotations were meant to be predictable – that was the entire point of having them. Yet tonight, as Jacaerys crept through the servants' corridors of Dragonstone, it seemed the gods themselves conspired against him. Twice he'd had to duck into alcoves as guards passed by, their torchlight casting long shadows against the stone walls.

His heart nearly stopped when he heard the telltale sound of armor approaching from both directions. The corridor stretched before and behind him, offering no immediate escape. For a desperate moment, he considered scaling the wall – the ancient Valyrian stone had enough notches and grooves to make it possible. But the sound of boots was growing closer.

Then he saw it – a tapestry, ancient and dusty, depicting some long-forgotten battle. Without hesitation, he slipped behind it, pressing himself against the cold stone. The space was cramped, barely wide enough for him to stand sideways. Dust tickled his nose, and he fought the urge to sneeze as the guards converged directly in front of his hiding spot.

"Could've sworn I heard something," one guard muttered.

"Probably just those bloody rats again," the other replied. "This part of the castle's full of them."

Jacaerys held his breath as their shadows, distorted by torchlight, played across the tapestry. He could smell the oil from their lamps, hear the creak of their leather boots. One guard stopped so close that Jacaerys could have reached out and touched his armor through the fabric.

"Speaking of rats," the first guard continued, "did you hear about what happened in the kitchens? That new scullery maid..."

Jacaerys silently prayed to any god who might be listening as the guards lingered, exchanging gossip. His legs were beginning to cramp from standing so still, and the dust was becoming unbearable. Just when he thought he couldn't maintain his position any longer, they finally moved on.

He waited until their footsteps had faded completely before emerging, brushing centuries of dust from his clothes. His plain cloak was now grey with it, which actually worked in his favor – he looked even more like a common traveler now.

The rest of his escape proved easier. He knew which door hinges needed oil and avoided them, which stairs would creak under his weight and stepped around them. Years of childhood exploration had taught him every secret of these halls, though he'd never imagined using that knowledge quite like this.

When he finally emerged into the cool night air, the sea breeze hit him like a physical relief. What he didn't know was that his brother Lucerys was watching from the high window of his chambers, violet eyes tracking his progress through the darkness, a mixture of concern and curiosity playing across his young face.

The moon hung low over the water, painting a silver path across the waves. In the distance, he could hear the familiar sounds of the port city coming alive for the evening – and somewhere in that maze of streets, a small theater where you would be performing.

He touched the coins in his pocket, the ones you'd given him last time. He'd brought others tonight, determined to somehow repay your kindness without revealing his identity. The irony of a prince sneaking around with coins in his pockets wasn't lost on him.

As he made his way down the winding path toward the city, a shadow passed overhead – one of the dragons, doing their evening patrol. Jacaerys instinctively ducked into a doorway, though he knew they wouldn't betray his presence. Still, his heart raced until the beating of massive wings faded into the distance.

The closer he got to the theater district, the lighter his steps became. He could already hear distant music floating on the breeze, and somewhere ahead, he knew you were preparing for tonight's performance.

The older man at the entrance didn’t even look up as Jacaerys approached, the hood of his cloak pulled low to shadow his face. The flickering lantern by the door barely illuminated the man’s lined face as he grunted, extending a weathered hand.

"Same as always," the man rasped, his voice rough from years of smoke and salt air.

Jacaerys fished out the coins, the faint clink of silver ringing in the quiet. He handed them over without a word, and the man nodded, stepping aside to let him pass. As the heavy wooden door creaked open, the prince slipped inside, his heart already beating faster.

The theater was dimmer tonight. Fewer torches lined the walls, their flames casting long, flickering shadows across the worn wooden seats. The air carried a faint tang of old wood and wax, mixed with the distant murmur of the sparse audience. He moved with practiced ease, weaving through the rows until he found a shadowed corner near the back. His seat creaked faintly as he settled into it, but no one turned to look.

The hush of the room enveloped him like a comforting shroud. His eyes flicked to the small stage, where the performers were beginning to gather. The dim lighting softened the edges of the set, turning painted backdrops into ghostly outlines. And then he saw you.

You stepped into view, adjusting the folds of your simple costume as you moved to your mark. The faintest smile touched your lips, a fleeting expression meant more for yourself than anyone watching. Your presence lit up the stage, even in the muted glow of the flickering torches. Jacaerys leaned forward, his pulse quickening as he took in every detail: the curve of your fingers as you gestured, the spark in your eyes as you exchanged a glance with another actor.

Tonight’s performance was different from the last. The script was lighter, the words flowing with the cadence of humor and quick wit. You played your part flawlessly, your voice carrying through the small space with an easy confidence that drew even the most distracted onlooker. Jacaerys barely noticed the few other patrons scattered through the seats; his attention was solely on you.

Your dress was different tonight, though it bore the same signs of wear and age. This one reached your feet, its faded fabric swaying gently as you moved. It suited the story, the hem brushing the stage with a quiet grace. Your hair was loose now, no longer bound in the practical braid he'd seen last time. Strands of it framed your face, falling forward every time you turned sharply or crossed the stage with purpose.

At one point, you turned toward the audience, delivering a line with a playful smirk. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your gaze seemed to land on him. He stiffened, holding his breath, but you moved on without hesitation, leaving him unsure if you'd truly noticed him or if it was just his imagination.

When the final act concluded and the sparse audience began to applaud, Jacaerys hesitated. His hands itched to join them, but he knew better than to draw attention to himself. Instead, he waited, watching as you took a modest bow before disappearing behind the curtain.

The theater began to empty, the soft murmur of voices and shuffling feet filling the space. Jacaerys lingered, his heart warring with his head. He could leave now, slip away unnoticed into the night, or he could stay – just a little longer.

From the shadows near the edge of the stage, Jacaerys could hear muffled voices – the actors congratulating one another, the rustle of costumes being adjusted, the clink of props being gathered and stored. Somewhere amidst it all was you.

He leaned against a post, his cloak wrapped tightly around him as if it could render him invisible. The cool night air from a nearby window mingled with the lingering warmth of the torches, creating a strange mix of chill and comfort. He should leave. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk of being recognized – not that anyone in this district would expect a prince of the realm to be skulking in a dusty theater. Still, his responsibilities weighed on his shoulders like a chain, one he was all too eager to shed tonight.

Then, like a moth drawn to light, his gaze caught movement through a gap in the curtains. You. You were speaking to someone, your laughter soft and genuine, a sound that cut through the noise like the first note of a song. He could see the way your hair fell loose from its pins, the slight flush to your cheeks from the exertion of the performance. You looked radiant, even in the simplicity of your stage attire.

As if sensing his presence, you turned. For a brief moment, your eyes locked with his through the narrow slit in the curtain. Surprise flickered across your face, followed quickly by recognition. The corner of your lips tugged upward in a small, knowing smile, and Jacaerys felt his stomach tighten.

Before he could retreat, you excused yourself from the conversation and slipped through the curtain, moving toward him with an easy grace that belied the exhaustion of the evening.

"You’re here again," you said softly, stopping just short of him. The dim light caught the shine in your eyes, the curve of your smile. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"

"Flattered. I would hope."

Your voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. "Did you eat today? I know times are hard, but there are better ways to spend an evening than hiding in theaters."

The irony of your worry made his chest tight. Here you were, in your worn costume, with props held together by determination and twine, concerned about whether he had enough to eat. He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the coins.

"Actually," he said, extending his hand, "I came to return these. And..." he pulled out more coins from his other pocket, "to properly pay for my attendance. Both times."

Your eyes widened slightly at the amount – more than fair payment for theater tickets, though far less than what he wished he could give without raising suspicion. "That's..." you started, then paused, frowning. "Where did you...?"

"I found work," he said quickly, the lie bitter on his tongue. "On the docks." It was a safe claim – the port was always hiring, and the work explained away any calluses on his hands from sword training.

You hesitated, then slowly accepted the coins, your fingers brushing his palm. "Well then," you said, a smile playing at your lips, "I suppose I should thank you for your patronage, good sir." You gave an exaggerated curtsy, a playful mockery of court manners that made him both laugh and wince internally.

You straightened from your playful curtsy, tilting your head as your eyes lingered on his face. In the dim light, his features were shadowed, but there was no mistaking the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his dark hair fell against his forehead. A fleeting thought escaped your lips before you could catch it.

"You’re quite handsome, you know," you said, your voice softer now, almost teasing but not unkind.

The words hung in the air like a spark between them, igniting an unexpected tension that made Jacaerys’s breath hitch. Instinct took over, and he immediately pulled his hood up, the shadow swallowing his face once more. His heart thundered in his chest, panic surging through him like a wave crashing against the shore. How could he have been so careless? The longer you looked at him, the greater the chance you might recognize him, or worse, ask questions he couldn’t answer.

You blinked, misinterpreting his reaction as shyness. "Oh," you said quickly, holding up a hand. "I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It was just a passing thought, nothing more."

Jacaerys kept his face tilted downward, the faint light from the torches barely illuminating the shadowed planes of his features. Beneath the cover of his hood, his thoughts churned.

You stepped back slightly, giving him space, though your brow furrowed as you studied him. "I have a habit of speaking my mind. It gets me into trouble more often than not."

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe. You didn’t know. Of course, you didn’t. If you had recognized him as the prince of Dragonstone, you wouldn’t be standing here so casually, holding his coins like a simple dockworker had handed them to you. Relief trickled in, slow but steady, easing the sharp edge of his panic.

Still, he couldn’t let his guard down. Not here, not now. You hadn’t recognized him but that didn’t mean your peers would be the same. He tightened his grip on the edge of his hood, fingers curling into the fabric as he found his voice. "It’s... nothing to apologize for," he said quietly, his tone measured. "You speak with honesty. That’s rare."

Your brow arched, a small, playful smile tugging at your lips. "Is it? I thought honesty was common among sailors and dockworkers."

His heart leapt, but he forced a soft chuckle. "Only when it suits them."

You laughed, the sound light and easy, cutting through the weight in his chest like a blade through mist. For a moment, the tension eased, and he let himself glance up, just enough to catch the way the dim torchlight softened the sharp lines of your face. You seemed so at ease, as if this exchange was just another fleeting moment in your day, not a conversation with a man balancing precariously on the edge of his secret.

"Well," you said, your tone shifting to something softer, almost kind, "if you ever get tired of dishonest company, you know where to find me."

The simplicity of your words sent a jolt through him, a strange mix of warmth and dread. How could you offer such openness to a stranger? Did you have any idea what danger such kindness could invite? He wanted to tell you to be more careful, to guard yourself better, but that would only draw suspicion, and he couldn’t afford that.

Instead, he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture.

Your words were casual, cheerful, as if you weren’t fully aware of the effect they had on him. Jacaerys’s stomach twisted. Did you truly mean it, or was this simply how you treated everyone who lingered after your performances? Perhaps it was common for men to approach you, hoping for a moment of your time, an exchange of pleasantries, or something more daring. Maybe to you, this was nothing special, just another fleeting interaction with someone who found themselves enthralled by your charm.

He tried to gauge your meaning, but your expression revealed nothing beyond a playful warmth. It struck him that this could be a game for you, a kindness you extended to strangers who sought solace in the illusion of knowing you. If that were the case, you had mastered the art of making people feel seen. And yet, a selfish part of him hoped it wasn’t a performance, at least not entirely.

He forced himself to nod again, the words catching in his throat before he could offer any kind of response.

You told him your name, tilting your head. The torchlight caught the playful glint in your eyes.

You moved closer, fingers playing delicately with the edge of his hood. The fabric shifted just enough to let more torchlight spill across his features and for you to get a proper look at him. "You still haven't told me your name," you said. The torchlight caught the glint in your eyes, warm and inviting. "And I'd love to share a cup of wine with you before tomorrow's show, if you'd join me? Unless dock work calls, of course."

Jacaerys's throat went dry at your proximity, at the casual way you breached the careful distance he'd maintained. Your fingers were still toying with his hood, and he could smell the faint traces of stage powder and candlesmoke that clung to your costume.

"I..." he started, then faltered. Even a false name felt dangerous on his tongue, another lie to add to the growing pile between you. But your expectant gaze and gentle smile made refusal equally impossible. "Jace," he finally said, offering the shortened version of his name – common enough among smallfolk to pass unremarked, yet not entirely a lie.

"The wine?" you prompted with a gentle laugh, noticing his distraction. Your fingers still lingered at the edge of his hood, and this close, he could see the faint smudge of stage paint at the corner of your eye, oddly endearing in the torchlight.

"Yes," he said quickly, perhaps too quickly.

You laughed softly, the sound warm and light, brushing away his unease.

"Good," you said simply, your fingers finally leaving his hood. The absence of your touch left the fabric cool against his skin, but his heartbeat remained a thunderous rhythm in his ears. "I’ll look forward to it, then."

Your words carried a quiet sincerity, and Jacaerys felt a flicker of hope, foolish and persistent, take root. Perhaps you wanted his company, not as some starstruck admirer but as something more. If you’d thought of him as just another man enchanted by your beauty, you might have waved him off with a kind but distant smile, not offered him a seat at your table.

The thought made his chest tighten. He shouldn’t entertain it, couldn’t afford to. But as you stepped back, leaving a space between you that felt far larger than it was, he found himself reluctant to let the moment end.

"Tomorrow, then," you said with a final, teasing glance. And with that, you turned, your departure as graceful as your presence.

***

Jacaerys woke to a sharp sting across his cheek, followed by the sound of laughter – bright, mischievous, and unmistakable. His eyes flew open to find Aegon, his younger brother, perched on his chest, tiny hands poised for another smack. Aegon’s face was a mix of innocence and triumph, his silver curls bouncing as he giggled.

"Wake up," Aegon crowed, his small hand descending toward Jacaerys's face once more, giving him a small and playful smack on his eyebrow.

Jacaerys caught the little hand mid-swing, his reflexes slower than usual thanks to the late night before.

"Enough, you little dragon," Jacaerys groaned, though he couldn't help but smile as he gently moved Aegon off his chest. The morning sun was already high – much higher than he usually allowed himself to sleep. His body felt heavy with fatigue, memories of dusty tapestries and your smile still lingering in his mind.

"You're late for breakfast," came another voice from next to the bed. Lucerys stood there, arms crossed, violet eyes sharp with knowing. "Again."

Jacaerys sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Aegon took the opportunity to climb onto his back, small arms wrapping around his neck. "I was tired," he said carefully, avoiding his brother's gaze.

"Tired from sneaking out again?" Lucery's voice was quiet enough that Aegon couldn't hear, but the accusation was clear. "I saw you, you know. Last night."

Jacaerys's stomach dropped, but before he could respond, Aegon tugged at his hair. "Play with me!" the little prince demanded, blissfully unaware of the tension between his older brothers. "You promised yesterday!"

"In a moment, brother." Jacaerys said softly. To Lucerys, he added, "Close the door."

Lucerys did, but remained standing, his young face serious beyond his years. Aegon whined, squirming on Jacaerys’s back like a restless hatchling trying to get his brother’s attention.

"Soon," Jacaerys murmured, reaching back to ruffle Aegon’s curls gently. He glanced at Lucerys, whose gaze was sharp, scrutinizing, and far too perceptive for his age.

"Out with it, Luke," Jacaerys said with a sigh, shifting Aegon to sit in his lap. The youngest boy immediately busied himself by fiddling with the ties on Jacaerys’s tunic, humming some nonsense tune.

Lucerys’s arms stayed crossed, his jaw tight. "Where did you go?"

Jacaerys hesitated, trying to gauge how much Lucerys might already know. "For a walk," he said, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them.

"A walk," Lucerys repeated, his voice flat. "Through the city, past the gates, and to the docks? Alone? At night?"

Jacaerys stiffened, his fingers stilling where they had been untangling Aegon’s small fists from the ties of his tunic. He met Lucerys’s piercing gaze and held it, though his stomach churned. Lucerys was clever, sharper than most realized, and there was no denying the skepticism etched into his younger brother’s face.

"Yes," Jacaerys said finally, his tone low but steady. "A walk."

Lucerys huffed, shaking his head. "You’re a terrible liar, you know that?"

"A walk," Lucerys repeated, incredulous. His sharp eyes narrowed as if daring Jacaerys to stick to the flimsy excuse.

Aegon, oblivious to the rising tension, suddenly perked up, his tiny voice lilting into a sing-song melody. "Liar, liar, pants on fire!" he chanted, his hands clapping against Jacaerys’s chest for emphasis. "Hanging from a dragon’s spire!"

Jacaerys groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as Aegon’s giggles filled the room. "Aegon," he muttered, exasperated, "you’re not helping."

Lucerys’s lips twitched, though he tried to keep his expression serious. "Even Aegon can tell you’re lying," he said, gesturing to the wriggling boy in Jacaerys’s lap. "And he’s four."

Jacaerys shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening slightly on Aegon to keep the boy from sliding off. "It’s not your concern," he said, his voice low.

"It is when it could get you hurt," Lucerys countered, stepping closer. His voice softened, though the worry in his expression remained. "I’m not a fool, Jace. You’re sneaking out for a reason. If something’s wrong…"

"Nothing’s wrong," Jacaerys cut in, sharper than he intended. Aegon stilled at the change in his tone, glancing up at him with wide, curious eyes.

Lucerys’s brows furrowed, his concern deepening. "Then why the secrecy? Have you gabled? You owe coins?"

Jacaerys barked a sharp laugh, the sound bitter. "Gambled?" he repeated, his tone tinged with incredulity. "Do you truly think I’d risk Mother’s wrath for something so foolish?"

Lucerys raised a skeptical brow, undeterred. "You’re sneaking out past the gates, Jace. It’s not exactly the behavior of someone who cares much for avoiding wrath."

Jacaerys sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. He shifted Aegon in his lap again, the boy’s small hands still clutching his tunic as if sensing the weight of the moment

Lucerys crossed his arms, his expression still clouded with doubt, but he said nothing further. The room settled into a tense silence, broken only by Aegon’s happy hums as he tugged at Jacaerys’s tunic ties once more.

Jacaerys offered Lucerys a faint, conciliatory smile. "You’ve said your piece, brother. Now let it rest. I’ll be more careful."

Lucerys hesitated, then gave a short nod. "See that you are," he muttered, though the edge in his voice had dulled. Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

That same night, Jacaerys’ chest beat with expectation. He pressed his ear against the cool wood of his chamber door, straining to hear the rhythmic clink of the guards’ boots in the corridor. It had taken longer than usual for the keep to settle tonight, and his patience had worn thin as he waited for silence to fall. Finally, the sound of footsteps faded, leaving only the faint whisper of wind through the stone halls.

Pulling his hood over his head, he slipped through the door, moving as quietly as he could manage. The shadows seemed to stretch and shift around him as he made his way down the dim corridor, his heart thudding in his chest.

But his stealth came to an abrupt end as he rounded a corner and collided with someone who immediately called his name.

"Jace," Baela, his cousin, yelped.

His hood slipped back slightly, revealing his startled face as Baela peered up at him with narrowed eyes. She crossed her arms, her expression teetering between curiosity and suspicion.

"I…" he stammered, grasping for an excuse, "I was just going to feed Vermax. I forgot earlier."

"Dressed like that? You look like you’re about to rob a merchant," Baela quipped, her brows arching as she gestured toward his cloak. Her voice was low, but the teasing edge carried clearly in the quiet corridor.

Jacaerys tugged at his hood, trying to steady himself. "It’s cold out," he said, forcing a casual shrug.

She stared at him for a long moment, the corners of her mouth twitching as though she were fighting a smirk. "You’ve always been a terrible liar," she finally said, stepping closer. Her voice softened slightly, concern flickering behind her sharp words.

Jacaerys’s lips twitched into a crooked smile, though it lacked conviction. "And what about you? What are you doing wandering the halls past curfew?"

Her laugh rang out softly, the sound light and unbothered. "Nice try, cousin," she said, shaking her head. "But I don’t need excuses. Her Grace sent me to fetch you."

Jacaerys’s smirk faltered, his stomach sinking slightly. "Mother?" he repeated, attempting to mask his unease.

Baela nodded, her expression turning sly. "She’s been asking after you. Something about wondering if you’d finally gotten a decent night’s rest for once." Her gaze swept over his cloaked form again, pointedly lingering on his shadowy attire. "Though I imagine she’ll have a lot more questions if she sees you like this."

Jacaerys tugged his hood back fully, a small scowl forming. "Fine. You’ve made your point."

Baela grinned, pleased with herself. "Good. Let’s not keep her waiting, then." She stepped aside, gesturing down the hallway with a flourish.

As they began walking together, she shot him a sideways glance. "By the way, you might want to come up with a better excuse than feeding Vermax. She’ll see through that faster than I did."

He groaned softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thank you for the vote of confidence."

The candles in the council chamber had burned low, their dim flames casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. Jacaerys sat stiffly in his chair, his hood abandoned and his shoulders tense as he stared down at the polished wood of the table. His mother’s voice was firm and commanding, carrying over the murmurs of her council, but the words barely registered in his mind.

He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against his knee. The hours dragged on, the droning voices blending into a monotone hum that seemed to sap the energy from the room. Every so often, he risked a glance toward the doors, his heart sinking as the night stretched on without reprieve.

He had planned it all so carefully; waiting for the guards’ change, ensuring his cloak was in place, and rehearsing his path through the darkened halls. Yet here he was, trapped in the suffocating formality of duty, the weight of the room pressing heavily on his chest.

Finally, his mother’s voice broke through his thoughts, a sharp and decisive tone signaling the meeting’s end. The council members began to rise, exchanging pleasantries and nods as they shuffled out. Jacaerys stood quickly, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

But as he stepped into the corridor and caught sight of the sky through a narrow window, his heart sank. The stars had already begun to fade, the first light of dawn creeping over the horizon. His plan, so meticulously crafted, was ruined.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the cold stone wall. Frustration bubbled up inside him, clawing at his chest. He had waited too long, his opportunity stolen by endless discussions he hadn’t even bothered to follow.

The streets of the town would be stirring soon, no longer cloaked in shadow, and the risk of sneaking out now was far too great. With a defeated sigh, Jacaerys pushed away from the wall and started toward his chambers. Perhaps tomorrow night, he told himself, though the thought did little to soothe the restless ache in his chest.

***

The days crawled by like honey in winter, thick and slow. Jacaerys moved through them in a fog of distraction, his mind constantly wandering to the small theater and its worn stage. During his lessons, he found himself staring out windows, counting the hours until nightfall only to be trapped again by some new duty or obligation. His writing grew sloppy, earning sharp looks from his tutors, but he couldn't focus on their corrections when all he could think about was you, waiting in vain that night.

Had you looked for him in the shadows of the wings? Had you saved him a proper seat, as promised, only to find it empty? The thought of your disappointment twisted in his gut like a knife.

Each evening brought fresh torment. A dinner with visiting nobles that stretched late into the night. An urgent meeting about grain stores that couldn't wait until morning. Evening dragon training that left him too exhausted to even consider the treacherous path down to the town. Always something, always another reason he couldn't slip away.

Lucerys watched him with knowing eyes, catching his restless glances toward the windows, his distracted responses at meals. But his brother said nothing more, perhaps satisfied that whatever had drawn Jacaerys into the night had been successfully thwarted by duty.

By the fourth night, Jacaerys lay awake in his bed, imagining what you might think of him. Just another unreliable patron, perhaps. Or worse – had you worried about him? Did you think something had happened to the shy dock worker who couldn't take a compliment? The thought of you being concerned for his welfare, when he was perfectly safe in his castle chamber, made him feel sick with guilt.

On the sixth night, he nearly made it. He'd gotten as far as the servants' corridor before Aegon's crying echoed through the halls – nightmares again. Jacaerys had frozen, torn between his escape and his brother's distress. In the end, duty won out. He spent the night in Aegon's chamber, telling stories until the little prince fell asleep against his shoulder.

A week. A whole week had passed, and he hadn't seen your performance, hadn't heard your voice, hadn't stood in the comforting shadows of the wings. The theater district felt like a dream now, something he'd imagined in a moment of wild fancy. Only the memory of your gentle teasing, the phantom touch of your hand on his shoulder, reminded him it had been real.

The worst part was not knowing if you'd even noticed his absence. Were you wondering about the strange young man who'd promised to return? Or had you already forgotten him, just another face in the crowd of your admirers? He wasn't sure which possibility hurt.

Each night as he lay in bed, he made plans for the next evening, plotting new routes through the castle, calculating guard rotations, imagining what he'd say when he finally saw you again. And each night, something interfered – some duty he couldn't ignore, some obligation he couldn't escape.

But even as he told himself this, he knew he'd try again. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the night after. Eventually, the gods would grant him another chance to slip away, to return to that magical space where titles didn't matter and stories came alive in the torch-lit dark.

Until then, he could only hope you'd understand – though of course, you couldn't. Not really. Not without knowing the truth, which he could never tell.

"A king should know his people." The words had come out smoother than Jacaerys expected, rehearsed as they were in front of his mirror countless times. His mother had looked up from her scrolls, one eyebrow arched in that way that always made him feel transparent.

"And you came to this revelation... suddenly?" she'd asked, her violet eyes sharp with curiosity.

"Grandsire always says the best lessons come from the docks," he'd pressed on, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The trade, the people, the..." he'd gestured vaguely, "...the whole of it."

Now, standing on those very docks in clothes that itched in places he didn't know clothes could itch, Jacaerys wondered if he'd oversold the enthusiasm. The fish merchant before him was eyeing him suspiciously as he fumbled with the copper coins in his hand.

"Bit soft for dock work, aren't you?" the merchant asked, his weathered face creasing with doubt.

Jacaerys cleared his throat, remembering to roughen his accent. "Eager to learn," he managed, trying not to wince at the overwhelming smell of fish that clung to everything, including, now, himself.

He straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with a sleeve that probably made him smell worse. The theater district was visible from here, the colorful banners hanging limp in the afternoon heat. Just a few more hours, he told himself. A few more crates, a few more lectures from his grandsireabout proper cargo distribution, and then...

"Oy! Less dreaming, more lifting!" The dock master's voice cut through his thoughts. Jacaerys quickly returned to his task, though he couldn't help but smile. For once, his fancy education was useless – here, he was just another pair of hands, exactly as he'd wanted.

He adjusted his hood, making sure his telltale hair remained hidden. One more crate. One more hour. One more step closer to seeing you again, this time with a legitimate excuse for his presence in this part of town. Sometimes, he mused as he hefted another load of fish, even princes had to get their hands dirty to keep their secrets safe.

The familiar scent of dust and candlesmoke filled his lungs as he entered the theater, though now it mingled with the lingering smell of fish that clung to his clothes. This time, as promised what felt like ages ago, he took a proper seat. His hands fidgeted in his lap throughout the performance, hyper-aware of every moment you looked toward the audience.

Only once did your eyes meet his, a brief flicker of recognition crossing your face before you looked away, continuing your lines without pause. The dismissal stung more than he'd expected, though he knew he deserved it.

When the performance ended and the sparse crowd began to filter out, Jacaerys remained in his seat, watching as you sat at the edge of the stage. Papers were scattered around you, tomorrow's dialogues that you mouthed silently to yourself, completely absorbed in your work. The torchlight caught the furrow of concentration between your brows, the slight movement of your lips as you memorized your lines.

His heart quickened as he approached the stage, his boots scuffing against the floor to announce his presence. You didn't look up.

"That was beautiful," he said softly, his voice rough from a day of salt air and hauling cargo.

You turned a page, still not looking at him. "Thank you for your patronage," you said, your tone formal, distant – nothing like the warm teasing he remembered.

"I..." he started, then faltered. What could he say? That he'd been trapped in council meetings? That his princely duties had kept him away? "I'm sorry about last week."

"Mm," you hummed noncommittally, marking something on your script with decisive strokes. "No need to apologize. You paid for your seat, same as anyone else."

The coldness in your voice made him wince.

"I wanted to come," he said, the truth of it aching in his chest. "I tried, but…"

"The docks must have been very busy," you cut in, finally looking up at him. Your eyes were sharp, none of their usual warmth present.

"I went there, you know," you said, your voice soft but edged with hurt. "After you didn't show. I thought perhaps you'd been caught up in work, or..." You let out a small, bitter laugh. "But it was quiet. Dead empty by the time I got there."

Jacaerys felt the blood drain from his face. Of course you'd gone to look for him – your kindness hadn't been an act. While he'd been trapped in that endless council meeting, you'd been worried enough to search for him.

"If you weren't interested in sharing wine with me, or..." you paused, a faint flush coloring your cheeks, "whatever it might have led to, you could have simply said so. I'm an actor – I can handle rejection without requiring elaborate excuses about dock work."

The mention of wine caught him off guard. His chest tightened with the realization of what he'd missed, what could have been if duty hadn't intervened.

"That's not..." he started, his voice hoarse. "I did want... I mean, I do want..." The words tangled on his tongue, princely eloquence deserting him entirely.

You gathered your papers with sharp, efficient movements. "Save it," you said, though there was more weariness than anger in your tone now. "I've played this scene before, though usually with better dialogue."

"Please," he said, taking a step closer to the stage. "Let me explain."

You stood, clutching your scripts to your chest like a shield. "Explain what?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, the truth lodged painfully in his throat. He couldn't tell you – couldn't risk your safety, your career, everything you'd built here. But oh, how he wanted to.

"I'm someone who finds magic in your performances," he said finally, the words barely above a whisper. "Someone who would have given anything to be here that night, to share that wine with you, to..." he trailed off, seeing the way your expression hardened at his evasion.

"Pretty words," you said, your voice flat.

"Wait," he called as you turned to leave. "I'll pay you. For private readings."

You paused, one eyebrow rising slightly. "Private readings?"

"Monologues, scenes, whatever you're working on." His words came faster now, desperate to keep you from walking away. "I meant what I said. Let me prove it."

You studied him for a long moment, your scripts still held tight against your chest. "You have coin for private readings?" Your tone was skeptical, though something else flickered in your expression – curiosity, perhaps.

"Name your price."

A small crease appeared between your brows as you considered him. "Why?"

"Because I want to understand," he said softly. "How you make people believe in the stories you tell. And I want to know you."

You were quiet for so long he thought you'd refuse. Then, slowly, you set your scripts down. "Three copper stars per hour," you said finally. "And you show up when you say you will, or the arrangement ends."

His heart leaped. "Done."

"Tomorrow evening then," you said, your tone still guarded but no longer cold. "After the last performance."

He nodded, relief flooding through him. "I'll be here," he promised, and this time, he'd make sure nothing – not even his mother's councils – would stop him.

You pulled the last torch from its bracket, extinguishing it with practiced efficiency. The theater fell into deeper shadow, lit only by a single remaining flame near the stage. Jacaerys watched as you moved through your closing routine, straightening props and gathering scattered programs.

"Help me with these chairs?" you asked, your tone lighter now than during your earlier conversation. He rushed to assist, eager to prove his reliability.

The scrape of wood against wood filled the quiet space as you worked together. When the last chair was properly placed, you pulled a ring of keys from your pocket.

"I usually stay late," you said, twirling the thick keys between your fingers. "Practice keeps the stories fresh, and it gives overeager admirers time to clear out." Your eyes sparkled with meaning in the low light. "Though some are more persistent than others."

Before Jacaerys could respond, you stepped closer. His breath caught as your hand reached for his hood, pulling it back just enough to see his face properly in the dim light.

"There you are," you murmured, studying him with renewed interest. "I was beginning to think you lived in that hood."

He stayed perfectly still, heart thundering as you examined him. Your fingers lingered near his jaw, not quite touching.

"Tomorrow then?" you asked, your voice taking on a teasing lilt. "Unless you plan to stand me up again?"

"I won't," he promised, his voice rougher than intended.

You smiled, stepping back. "We'll see." You moved toward the door, keys jingling. "Good night."

The way you said it – playful, almost knowing – made his pulse quicken. But you were already gone, leaving him alone in the theater's shadows, the ghost of your almost-touch burning on his skin.

***

Jacaerys stunk of fish. He was sure he had scales stuck under his fingernails from messily cleaning the slippery creatures in the early morning chill. The sea air clung to him, sharp and salty, mingling unpleasantly with the damp sweat on his brow. He cursed under his breath as he scrubbed his hands in the frigid water of a wooden basin, but no amount of scrubbing seemed to erase the stubborn scent.

The bath water had grown cold, but Jacaerys barely noticed. His muscles ached from hauling cargo, though the hot water had helped ease the worst of it. He scrubbed his skin again, determined to remove every trace of fish and salt. The scent had clung to him stubbornly, refusing to yield to even the strongest soaps.

He was nearly dozing, head tipped back against the copper rim, when a knock startled him fully awake.

"Decent?" Lucerys's voice called through the door.

"Give me a moment," Jacaerys sighed, reaching for a clean cloth. He'd barely finished dressing when Lucerys entered, expression already set in familiar lines of concern.

"The docks?" Lucerys asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Really?"

Jacaerys ran the cloth through his damp hair. "Grandsire was pleased."

"Grandsire would be pleased if you learned to juggle fish," Lucerys countered. "But that's not why you're doing it."

"Luke–"

"Just..." Lucerys paused, his young face serious. "Promise me you're not in trouble."

Jacaerys met his brother's worried gaze. "I promise. But I need you to keep this secret."

"Which part? The sneaking out or the fish-hauling?"

"Both."

Lucerys studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Fine. But if you get caught–"

"I won't."

Jacaerys caught a whiff of soap from his sleeve. No trace of fish remained. He heaved a sigh, tossing the towel onto the nearest chair. "Fine." He paused, pinning his younger brother with a level look. "But you have to swear not to tell anyone. If you breathe a word, I’ll tell the septa you swore foolishly."

Lucerys’s face flushed a deep red. "You wouldn’t."

"Oh, I absolutely would," Jacaerys said with mock gravity. "So, do we have a deal?"

Lucerys hesitated, then huffed. "Fine. But if this is something stupid, I’m going straight to Mother."

"It’s not stupid," Jacaerys said, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips. He leaned in conspiratorially. "I met someone. In town."

Lucerys blinked. "What?"

"I met someone," he repeated. "She doesn’t know who I am. At least, not yet. She just thinks I’m a dockhand."

Lucerys stared at him like he’d grown a second head. "And this… someone… doesn’t recognize you as the prince? At all?"

Jacaerys shrugged. but the motion was stiff, his gaze skittering away from Lucerys's penetrating stare. "I… may not have been entirely honest with her," he admitted, voice dropping.

Lucerys’s eyes narrowed.

Jacaerys sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "I told her I was just a dockhand. A commoner."

For a moment, Lucerys just stared at him, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. "You lied to her? Does she even know your name?"

"Of course, she does," Jacaerys muttered. "Just not my full name."

Lucerys's expression darkened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. "Are you insane? What were you thinking?"

"I don’t know!" Jacaerys snapped, his frustration boiling over. He began pacing the small room, his words tumbling out in a rush. "I don’t know why I did it. She was just so... kind. So wistful. So beautiful. She spoke to me like I was just another person, Luke, not a prince or a pawn in some court game. It was different. She’s different."

Lucerys’s face twisted in a snarl. "You’re a fool. This is reckless, Jace, even for you."

"Then don’t say anything," Jacaerys bit back, his tone hard. "You swore, remember?"

Lucerys hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. "Fine. But when this blows up in your face – and it will – don’t come crying to me."

Jacaerys didn’t reply, his silence heavy. For the first time, the faint scent of soap felt cloying instead of clean, and the weight of his choices pressed down on him, harder than any fish-laden barrel ever had.

All of his worries about the conversation with Lucerys – the bitter taste in his mouth and the tight pit of guilt in his stomach – melted away the moment he sneaked past the guards. The relief was instant, the tension draining from his shoulders as he let his hood fall lower over his face. He could barely contain the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, excitement bubbling up inside him.

He kept his hand firmly clutching his hood, not wanting to risk it slipping, though it wasn’t as if anyone would recognize him in the shadows. It was his little rebellion, this secret. The life he could steal away from his royal duties for just a few precious hours.

As he neared the theatre house, the muffled sounds of commotion and laughter leaked from the building’s walls, the excitement from inside spilling out into the night air. He could feel his pulse quicken, and without hesitation, he paid the man at the door – just as he had the other times.

He made his way through the narrow hallway, finally arriving at his usual spot – the seats tucked away behind a makeshift curtained backstage.

Jacaerys settled into the seat, adjusting the folds of his cloak. He exhaled slowly, leaning back, the first moments of peace he'd had all day flooding over him.

Then, as he shifted his weight, a hand rested lightly on his arm, squeezing just enough to send a thrill through his spine. His breath hitched as he turned toward the sound of his name, barely a whisper on your lips.

"Jace."

You were already painted for the play, your face a canvas of vibrant colors and delicate lines. The artistry of your makeup only accentuated your natural beauty, your eyes sparkling under the soft light. His heart skipped a beat, and for a long moment, he forgot how to breathe.

You were radiant, more than he could have ever imagined, and his mouth went dry. He gaped, unable to stop his gaze from lingering on you – your delicate features, the way your lips were painted, the playful yet mysterious expression in your eyes. He had seen you countless times before, but tonight, in the flickering shadows of the theatre, you felt otherworldly.

When your fingers brushed lightly against his arm again, the moment snapped back into reality. Your voice, soft and warm, stirred him from his daze. "Jace," you repeated, a gentle laugh in your tone, as if you were amused by the surprise in his eyes. "I need your help."

His mouth went dry, and he nodded quickly, standing up a bit too hastily.

"Come on," you coaxed, giving him a small, teasing look. "It won’t take long."

His mind was in chaos – his pulse still hammering in his ears, the lingering warmth of your touch on his sleeve – yet he couldn’t deny the pull of your invitation. Without another thought, he stood up, following you as you made your way past the curtains into the backstage area.

You smiled, a glimmer of mischief crossing your face. "Follow me," you said.

You led him backstage, the familiar scent of the theatre – of wood, ink, and the remnants of makeup – filling his senses as you guided him past the cluttered dressing rooms and hastily thrown-together props. The atmosphere back here was markedly different from the grandness of the performance, and Jacaerys couldn’t help but feel a sense of intimacy in the narrow hallways, the noise of the crowd just a distant hum.

When you stopped in front of a small mirror framed with tattered curtains, you turned to him, your hands moving through your hair with a practiced grace. You sat down, and reached for a string cord to tie your hair. You handed it to him.

He obeyed without thinking, though his hands were clammy and his chest tight with anticipation. "What... what do you need me to do?"

"I can’t get the braid right," you explained softly, your voice a gentle hum. "I always get tangled in the strands. It’s easier when someone else does it."

He nodded, trying to keep his breath steady, though his heart pounded in his chest. His hands were still – stiff at his sides.

Jacaerys hesitated, his hands feeling strangely foreign as they hovered over the delicate strands of your hair. He had grown up surrounded by brothers, never once considering that there would come a time when he'd need to braid someone’s hair. His mind scrambled for any kind of memory, any sort of knowledge about how to do this, but all he could recall were fleeting moments when he’d seen Baela and Rhaena’s handmaidens working deftly with their hair, and he’d never paid attention, too busy with other things.

His throat went dry, and he cleared it, trying to find his voice. You were looking at him expectantly.

You let out a light laugh, as if to ease the tension. "I’ve seen dockmen tie knots for the boats – braiding is not too different, right?" You gave him a playful, knowing look. "It’s just like that. Easy enough, I’m sure."

He could almost hear his own thoughts racing, trying to latch onto something that would help him make this moment less awkward. But the only thing that came to mind was the idea of knots. The docks. Boats. He felt completely out of his element.

He shifted uncomfortably, his hands still suspended in the air, and then, in a voice that was a little too thick with nerves, he answered, "I’ve never worked as a docksman for boats. Not really my thing."

Not really a lie, he comforted himself, he hadn’t worked with boat knots.

"I’m more on the cleaning-up side. Fish guts, mostly." He winced at the thought, but there was no hiding the truth in his words.

The image of him, his hands deep in fish guts, made you laugh softly, the sound light and musical. "Ah," you said, with a playful wink. "Well, at least you're used to working with your hands."

Jacaerys’s cheeks flushed at the implication, and he let out a sheepish breath. It wasn’t exactly the image he wanted to project, but there was something about your teasing that made it harder to feel embarrassed. He felt a strange warmth flood through him at the lightheartedness in your voice.

"I guess so," he mumbled, leaning closer to your hair, trying to focus on the task at hand. His fingers shook slightly as they brushed the strands, the delicate texture of your hair catching him off guard.

Your smile softened, and you tilted your head, making it easier for him to reach the strands you wanted braided. "It’s alright. I’m not picky," you assured him, your voice softening. "I just need it out of the way, you know?"

Jacaerys took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling fingers. Your hair was silk against his hands – hands that just hours ago had been covered in fish scales and sea salt. He separated the strands carefully, remembering distantly how his mother's handmaidens would work, their movements quick and assured where his were hesitant. He pretended to know what he was doing.

"Like this?" he asked softly, attempting to weave the sections together. The result was clumsy, uneven, nothing like the elegant styles he'd seen at court.

You hummed encouragement, your eyes meeting his in the mirror. "Perfect," you said, though it clearly wasn't. "You have gentle hands for someone who handles fish all day."

He nearly dropped the strands at that, his chest tightening at the compliment. If you only knew how those hands had gripped dragon reins, had wielded training swords, had signed royal documents...

"I..." he started, then swallowed hard. "Thank you."

Your lips curved into a knowing smile. "You're blushing."

"It's warm back here," he muttered, focusing intently on the braid to hide his reddening cheeks.

"Mmhmm," you teased. "Nothing to do with being alone with an actress in her dressing room, then?"

His fingers fumbled, and the braid began to unravel. "I should start over," he said quickly, carefully undoing his messy work.

You laughed softly, the sound sending warmth spreading through his chest. "Take your time. The crowd's still filing in." You relaxed slightly, letting your head tilt back. "Tell me about your day? Did you catch anything interesting in those fish guts of yours?"

Jacaerys bit back a smile, grateful for the simple question even as guilt pricked at his conscience. "Nothing but the usual," he said, trying again with the braid. "Though there was one fish bigger than any I'd seen before. Nearly pulled me into the water when we hauled it in."

It wasn't entirely a lie – he had seen such a fish today, though he hadn't been the one to catch it. The dock workers had called him over to see it, proud of their unusual catch.

"I'm sure you handled it masterfully," you said, your eyes sparkling with mischief in the mirror. "My brave fishmonger."

His heart skipped at the possessive note in your voice, even as shame coiled in his stomach at the deception. He focused on the braid, his movements becoming more confident as he found a rhythm.

"There," he said finally, securing the end with the cord you'd given him. It wasn't perfect – nowhere near the intricate styles of court – but it would hold your hair back for the performance.

You turned your head, examining his work in the mirror. "Not bad at all," you said, reaching back to touch it gently. Your fingers brushed against his as you did, sending a jolt through his entire body. "You might have missed your call. Perhaps you should leave the fish guts behind and become a lady's hairdresser instead."

He laughed despite himself, the sound slightly strained. "I think I'll stick to the docks."

"Pity," you said, standing and turning to face him. In the small space, you were suddenly very close, close enough that he could see the individual brushstrokes of stage paint on your cheeks. "I rather enjoyed having you play with my hair."

Before he could respond, a voice called your name from beyond the curtain. "Five minutes!"

"Duty calls," you sighed, though you didn't move away immediately. "Will you watch tonight?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Good." You reached up, adjusting his hood slightly where it had slipped. "Try not to hide too much in those shadows of yours. I like seeing your face."

Then you were gone, sweeping past the curtain toward the stage, leaving Jacaerys alone with the lingering warmth of your presence and the phantom sensation of your hair between his fingers.

He touched his hood where your hand had been, his heart thundering in his chest. Every lie, every deception felt heavier now, weighted with something more than just guilt. But he couldn't think about that – not now, not when you were about to perform, not when you'd looked at him like that.

Taking a shaky breath, he made his way back to his seat, already knowing he wouldn't see a moment of the play. His mind would be too full of your smile in the mirror, your teasing words, and the way you'd called him yours, even if it was just in jest.

True to his prediction, Jacaerys barely registered the play. His mind kept drifting back to the dressing room, to your fingers brushing his, to the way you'd called him with that teasing lilt in your voice. Even now, hours later, his hands still tingled with the memory of your hair between his fingers.

The last patrons were filling out, their chatter fading into the night. You were moving about the stage, gathering props with practiced efficiency, but your movements seemed slower than usual, more deliberate. Every so often, your eyes would drift to where he sat, still in his shadowed corner.

His braid had held throughout your performance, though a few strands had escaped to frame your face. It made him oddly proud, seeing his handiwork survive your dramatic gestures and quick turns.

"Are you going to help," you called out without looking up, teasing tone "or just watch me work?"

Jacaerys started, realizing he'd been caught staring. He rose quickly, making his way to the stage. "What do you need?"

You glanced at him, a smile playing at your lips. "These need to go back to the prop room," you said, gesturing to a collection of wooden swords and painted shields. "Think your dock-strengthened arms can handle it?"

He gathered the props, careful not to let his familiarity with real weapons show in how he handled them. "I think I can manage."

You led him through the backstage area again, but this time there was no bustling energy, no rushed preparations. Just quiet, broken only by your footsteps and the occasional creak of old wood.

"Your braid is holding up well," he said softly as you walked.

"Mmm," you hummed, reaching back to touch it. "Perhaps I should keep you around. My own personal hairdresser who smells of fish."

"I don't smell of fish anymore," he protested, though he couldn't help but smile.

"No," you agreed, stopping at the prop room door. "You smell of soap. Too much soap, actually." You turned to face him, eyes glinting in the dim light. "Almost as if someone very deliberately tried to wash away the scent of honest work."

Jacaerys's heart stuttered. "I..."

"Careful with those," you said, nodding to the props in his arms, effectively cutting off his fumbling response. "Some of them are older than both of us combined."

The prop room was smaller than he'd imagined, cramped with shelves of costumes and worn set pieces. As he carefully placed the wooden swords in their designated spot, he was acutely aware of your presence behind him, of how the small space seemed to shrink further.

"You're different," you said suddenly.

He froze, his back still to you. "What do you mean?"

"From the other dock workers who come here." Your voice was thoughtful. "They watch the plays, sure, but not like you do. You watch like someone who understands the stories we're telling. Like someone who's read them before."

Jacaerys turned slowly, his throat tight. You were leaning against the doorframe, effectively blocking his exit, though he doubted that was your intention.

"Maybe I just like stories," he managed.

"Maybe," you agreed, but your eyes were sharp, searching. "Where do you live?" you asked, still blocking the doorway with casual grace. "For the readings. If you were serious about wanting them."

"I was," he said quickly – too quickly perhaps. "I am serious."

You tilted your head, studying him. "Then where? The dock district isn't far. We could use your home, if you'd prefer privacy for practice."

Jacaerys's mind raced. The thought of you anywhere near the castle made his chest tight with panic. "My home isn't... suitable," he said carefully.

"Not suitable?" Your eyebrow arched. "What, do you live with a dozen rowdy sailors?"

"It's..." he hesitated, searching for a plausible excuse. "Messy. Very messy. And small." The lie felt clumsy on his tongue.

"Messy," you repeated, and something in your tone made him nervous. "You know, for someone who claims to love stories, you're not very good at telling them."

His heart skipped. "I'm not lying."

"No?" You stepped closer, and in the cramped space of the prop room, there was nowhere for him to retreat. He swallowed hard. "The stage," he blurted out.

You paused. "What?"

"For the readings," he clarified, seizing the chance to change topics. "We could use the stage. You're here late anyway, closing up. It would be perfect – good acoustics, proper space to move..." He trailed off, watching your expression shift from suspicion to consideration.

"The stage," you mused, and he could see you warming to the idea. "It would be fitting, I suppose. Though you'd have to help me close up properly first."

"Of course," he agreed quickly, relief flooding through him. "Whatever you need."

You studied him for another long moment, and he fought the urge to pull his hood lower. Finally, you smiled – that warm, teasing smile that made his chest ache.

The stage felt different in the near-darkness, with only two torches casting long shadows across the worn boards. You sat cross-legged at its edge, a small, leather-bound book in your hands. Jacaerys noticed how carefully you held it, as if it were something precious.

"I brought something," you said, running your fingers along the book's spine. "It's... well, it's not exactly high literature." You laughed softly, almost self-consciously. "I found it while cleaning my shelves. I used to read it constantly when I was younger."

Jacaerys settled beside you, leaving just enough space between you to be proper, but close enough to see the way the torchlight caught the slight flush in your cheeks.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A story about a merchant's daughter who stows away on a trading ship," you said, opening the book with practiced care. "She disguises herself as a cabin boy to see the world." You paused, glancing at him. "It's rather juvenile, I suppose. I should have brought something more sophisticated for this, but..."

"No," Jacaerys said quickly. "I'd like to hear it."

He shifted closer, not wanting to miss a single word. The playfulness, the teasing from earlier, seemed to vanish in this quieter space, replaced by something more vulnerable, more raw.

You opened the book, and the soft rustling of the pages filled the silence as your voice began to weave through the room. The story was indeed simple, a tale of youthful adventure and impossible dreams, but there was a certain magic in the way you read. You held onto the book with only one hand as you recited the lines playfully, moving around the stage like you owned it.

Your eyes flickered to his occasionally, perhaps searching for something in his expression, but he could never meet your gaze for long. His mind, far too preoccupied, ran with the warmth of your presence, the flutter of your fingers near his, the way you’d laughed at his earlier attempts with your hair. The way he wanted so badly to be someone else, someone worthy of what you had to offer.

As the story ended, you closed the book with a soft thud, letting the silence settle between you like a blanket.

Jacaerys hadn't moved from where he sat, leaning back on his hands with his gaze fixed on the stage floor as if still lost in the tale you'd shared.

With a playful grin, you shifted onto your stomach, then rolled onto your back, draping yourself along the edge of the stage. Your head tipped over the side, hair cascading down in a curtain toward the floor, and your upside-down gaze caught his.

"You look like you're a thousand leagues away," you teased, your voice laced with amusement. "Did I lose you in the second chapter, or are you still picturing the cabin boy's grand escape?"

Jacaerys blinked, startled from his thoughts, and his eyes softened as they met yours. Upside down, his lips curled into a shy smile, and the torchlight caught the faintest trace of color in his cheeks.

"I was thinking about how well you told it."

You arched a brow, toying idly with the braid he'd clumsily woven earlier. "Well, I am an actress. Storytelling comes with the territory."

"Not just that," he said, his gaze flicking briefly to your hands as you played with the braid, then back to your face. "Your voice – it's... suited for poetry. Or recitals. You make the words feel alive."

Your playful grin softened into something more genuine as you watched him. Upside down or not, you could see the sincerity in his expression, the way his admiration seemed almost reluctant, as though he was revealing more than he meant to.

"That's high praise from a dockhand," you teased lightly, though your voice carried a touch of gratitude. "Should I add 'poetry readings' to our stage practices?"

He chuckled, the sound soft and genuine. "If anyone could make a dockhand appreciate poetry, it would be you."

You laughed at that, the sound ringing through the empty theater, and you shifted upright, pulling your braid over your shoulder and inspecting it. "Have you got any sisters?"

"Brothers," he corrected.

"Ah," you said, twisting the end of the braid between your fingers as you gave him a thoughtful look. "That explains it, then. No sisters to pester you into learning how to braid properly."

Jacaerys huffed a quiet laugh, his lips twitching into a wry smile. "I suppose not. Though I’m beginning to think I’ve missed out on an essential skill."

You tilted your head, feigning seriousness. "Absolutely. A man who can braid hair is a rare treasure."

He shook his head, his smile growing as he leaned back on his hands. "I’ll keep that in mind. Though I doubt my brothers would agree."

"Probably not," you said with a laugh, leaning forward slightly, your elbows propped on your knees. "How many brothers do you have, then? Enough to form a little troupe of your own?"

"Four," he replied, his expression softening as he spoke of them.

A beat of silence.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked, his voice hesitant, as though testing the waters for something delicate.

You turned slightly, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. "Of course. What's on your mind?"

He hesitated again, his gaze flicking to the ground before meeting yours. "I... I hope this doesn’t offend you," he started, his tone cautious, "but I was wondering... How is it that you can read? I mean, it’s not... common, for someone who's not of noble blood."

His words hung in the air, and you could see the uncertainty in his expression, as though he feared he'd crossed some invisible line.

You gave him a reassuring smile, one that carried no offense.

"It’s a fair question," you said, your tone light and easy. "I wasn’t born into nobility, if that's what you're thinking. But I was fortunate enough to grow up in a place where books were more than just decoration."

Jacaerys looked at you, still uncertain but with a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes. "I didn’t mean to–"

"You didn’t offend me," you interrupted gently, stepping closer to him. "Where I grew up, stories mattered. Not just noble ones, but those passed down through the workers, the farmers, the people. And the only way to keep them alive was to read." You paused, your expression softening as you thought back. "Books were a window to something bigger. So, I made sure to learn."

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, it seemed like he was seeing you in a different light, as if you were a story he hadn't yet fully understood. "I admire that," he said quietly, a note of genuine respect in his voice. "It’s rare to find someone who values stories that way."

You shrugged, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "I suppose it helps to have a bit of stubbornness in you, too." You gave him a teasing look. "Besides, there are some things that can’t be learned without a little persistence."

He chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing. "True enough," he said, his smile soft and unguarded. "Maybe I should learn a few things from you."

You returned his smile, warmth filling your chest as you looked at him, a connection lingering between you that felt both unspoken and understood. "I think you'd be a quick study," you said, stepping back with a final glance.

You smiled. Jacaerys was sure he could get used to it.

***

The sun was high and merciless when you found him at the docks, his face smudged with dirt and hands glistening with fish scales. You weaved through the busy workers with practiced ease, though Jacaerys noticed how eyes followed your progress – dock hands, merchants, even his grandfather's guards trying to be discrete in their observation of their prince.

His heart thundered as you approached, but your smile was as bright as ever, seemingly oblivious to the attention surrounding him. "There's my favorite fishmonger," you called out cheerfully.

Jacaerys relaxed slightly, though he couldn't help glancing around to gauge if anyone had heard. But you didn't seem to notice anything amiss about the way conversations had hushed, about how people kept stealing glances in their direction.

"Let me wash up," he said quickly, already moving toward a water barrel. As he scrubbed the fish scales from his hands, you leaned against a nearby post, watching the bustling dock activity with interest.

"I brought the books I mentioned," he said, drying his hands on his rough-spun shirt. "From that old section of town I told you about."

"The one where the castle's maesters get their volumes?" Your eyes lit up with curiosity. "I still can't believe you found such a place. Have you seen them there? The maesters? Or..." you paused, a different kind of interest crossing your face, "any of the royal family?"

His throat went dry. "I... try to keep to myself when I'm there."

"I've only heard whispers," you continued, unaware of his panic. "Especially about the heir – Prince Jacaerys." You laughed softly, a slight flush coloring your cheeks. "The way some speak of him, you'd think he was something out of a story. Beautiful beyond belief, they say. Dark hair like moonlight, eyes like amethysts." You rolled your eyes. "It seems rather far-fetched, doesn't it? No one can be that lovely."

He nearly choked on air, but you didn't notice, too caught up in your thoughts.

Jacaerys was grateful for the dirt still smudged on his face – it helped hide his burning cheeks. "Perhaps they exaggerate," he managed.

"Oh, certainly," you agreed, a snort coming out of your throat. You looked at his messily washed hands. "You must think of me to be a gossip…"

"Not at all," Jacaerys said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Though I'm surprised you pay attention to such rumors."

You shrugged, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Well, when half your audience consists of castle servants and dock workers, you hear things. Apparently, this prince is quite the scholar too – languages, history, dragon lore." You nudged his arm playfully. "Nothing like my simple fishmonger who can barely get through a scene without stumbling over the big words."

He made a sound of protest that came out more strangled than intended. "I don't stumble that much."

"Oh? What about last night's reading? 'Inexorable' had you tangled for a good minute."

"The light was poor," he muttered, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement at the irony. He'd learned that word at six, but deliberately mispronouncing it had made you laugh so beautifully.

"Of course," you agreed, your tone teasing. "Just like how the light was poor when you couldn't read 'magnanimous.' And 'perpetuity.' And–"

"Yes, yes," he cut in, unable to hold back a smile. "We can't all be as learned as Prince Jacaerys."

You laughed, the sound drawing more attention from the dock workers. "Gods, can you imagine? Teaching theatre to a prince?" You struck an exaggerated noble pose. "'No, Your Highness, you're holding the script all wrong. More feeling in the death scene, if it please Your Grace!'"

Jacaerys nearly bit through his tongue trying not to react. "You'd probably make him practice until he got it right," he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Naturally. Crown or no crown, proper dramatic timing waits for no man." You grinned, then glanced at the sun's position. "Speaking of timing, I should go. Rehearsal soon." You started to turn, then paused. "You'll be there tonight?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Good. And try to wash your face properly before you come. You've got a smudge right..." you reached out, thumb brushing his cheek. The touch sent warmth spreading across his skin, and he had to resist the urge to lean into it. "There. Though I suppose a little dirt suits you. Makes you look more..." you searched for the word, "authentic."

You shifted the books to one arm, reaching into a hidden pocket of your dress with your free hand.

Jacaerys expected you to pull out the coins he'd given you for lessons. Instead, you produced a small wrapped pastry, slightly squashed but still warm.

"The baker's wife likes our performances," you explained, offering it to him. "She gives us treats sometimes, when we have good shows. This one's honey and apple – I thought you might be hungry, working all day in the sun."

The simple kindness of the gesture made his chest tight. Here you were, sharing what little you had with someone you thought was a common dock worker, while he played at poverty with a prince's purse.

"You don't have to–" he started, but you pressed the pastry into his hands.

"Take it," you insisted. "You're too thin for someone who carries fish all day." Your eyes sparkled with mischief.

As you walked away, weaving through the crowd with natural grace, Jacaerys touched the spot where your thumb had been. He caught sight of his grandsire watching from the harbor master's office, one eyebrow raised in obvious amusement.

Well, at least someone was enjoying this.

The theater felt smaller at night, more intimate with just the two of you seated on the stage's edge, legs dangling over the side. You held one of his poetry books in your lap, fingers tracing the gilded edges with obvious reverence

"This binding," you murmured, "it's beautiful. Are you sure you found this in some old bookshop?" You glanced at him sideways. "It looks more like something from the castle library."

Jacaerys's heart skipped, but he kept his voice steady. "The old quarter has its secrets."

You hummed thoughtfully, opening to a marked page. "Listen to this one: 'The sea at dawn holds secrets in her depths, while dragons dance on clouds of morning light...'" You paused, looking up at him. "It's about Dragonstone, isn't it? The way the dragons patrol at sunrise?"

"You've seen them?" he asked carefully

"Everyone has. They're hard to miss." You smiled, turning back to the book. "Though I've never seen them quite like this poet describes. 'Dancing on clouds' – it makes them sound almost gentle."

"They can be," Jacaerys said without thinking. "When they want to be."

You raised an eyebrow. "Speaking from experience, are you?"

He coughed, quickly backtracking. "I just mean... from what I've observed. From the docks."

"Mm." You returned to the poem, but there was something knowing in your smile that made him nervous. "'While sailors dream of distant shores unknown, their vessels rock in harbor's gentle sway...'" Your voice softened on the words. "It's lovely. Sad, though. All that longing for something just out of reach."

Jacaerys watched your profile in the torchlight, the way your lips moved slightly as you read silently ahead. "Do you ever feel that way?" he asked quietly. "Longing for something distant?"

You were quiet for a moment, fingers still running along the page's edge. "Sometimes," you admitted. "When I'm performing, I can be anyone, go anywhere. But when the play ends..." You shrugged, trying to keep your tone light. "Well, we can't all be princes and princesses, can we?"

The irony of your words made his chest ache. "Would you want to be?" he asked, genuinely curious. "A princess?"

You laughed, the sound echoing in the empty theater. "Gods, maybe. But I prefer my freedom, limited as it might be." You bumped his shoulder playfully. "Though I wouldn't mind access to a library like this. Where did you say you found these books again?"

"I didn't," he said, managing a small smile. "Trade secret."

"Secretive dock worker," you teased, turning another page. "With your mysterious books and your perfect manners and your..." you trailed off, something catching your attention in the text. "Oh, this is beautiful. 'In silence dwells the truth we dare not speak, while hearts beat poetry in darkened halls...'"

"What's this?" you asked, tilting the book to catch the torchlight. Your finger traced elegant script in the margin – notes in High Valyrian that Jacaerys instantly recognized as his own. His stomach dropped.

"I didn't know you read High Valyrian."

"I don't," he said too quickly. "Those notes were already there when I got the book."

You hummed thoughtfully, studying the writing. "Strange. The ink looks fresh." Your eyes met his, curious and sharp. "And these appear throughout the book, always in the same hand. Whoever owned it before must have loved poetry deeply."

Jacaerys shifted uncomfortably. Those notes were his thoughts on meter and metaphor, written late at night in his chamber. He'd forgotten they were there.

"Most dock workers I know can barely read the Common Tongue," you continued, your tone deliberately casual. "Let alone write scholarly notes in High Valyrian."

"Lucky find, I suppose," he managed, voice tight.

You traced another annotation with your finger. "Very lucky." There was something in your voice – not quite an accusation, but close. His heart hammered. "We should practice the next scene," he said, reaching for the book.

You let him take it, but your eyes lingered on his face. "Yes," you said softly. "We should."

The weight of unasked questions hung between you for the rest of the evening.

Jacaerys barely heard the words, too caught up in watching how the torchlight played across your face, how your voice gave life to verses he'd read a hundred times before. This was dangerous, he knew. Every moment he spent with you only made the truth harder to hide, harder to deny.

But as you read on, your voice painting pictures in the darkness, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Here," Jacaerys said, reaching for the coins in his pocket, but you placed your hand over his, stoppin

"Don't," you said softly. The warmth of your touch made his breath catch. "You've been paying for almost a month now."

"But the readings–"

"Have been the highlight of my evenings," you finished, your fingers still resting lightly on his. "I would have done this for free from the start, if you hadn't been so insistent."

He stared at your joined hands, his pulse quickening. "I don't want to take advantage–"

"Of what?" You laughed, the sound low and warm in the quiet theater. "Of the pleasure of my company?" Your thumb brushed across his knuckles, deliberate and gentle. "Of sharing beautiful words in an empty theater?"

"I–" he started, but you cut him off again.

"If you try to pay me," you said, leaning closer, "I might actually be upset." Your eyes sparkled in the torchlight as you tilted your head. You reached two fingers to grab his chin, tilting it towards you. "You wouldn't make me sad, would you?"

The teasing lilt in your voice made his stomach flip. "No," he managed.

"Good." You squeezed his hand once before letting go, but you didn't move away. "Because I've grown quite fond of our evenings together."

Your smile was warm, inviting, and for a moment he let himself forget about the deception, about the weight of his true identity.

"As have I," he said softly, meaning it more than you could know.

You carefully closed the poetry book, but kept it in your lap, your fingers tracing the ornate cover. "Tomorrow, then? Unless you have some urgent dock business to attend to?"

The gentle mockery in your tone made him smile despite himself. "Tomorrow," he agreed, even as his conscience whispered warnings about how dangerous this was becoming.

But as you rose to leave, the book cradled against your chest like something precious, he knew he'd keep coming back, keep risking discovery, just to share these moments with you in the torch-lit dark.

***

The weeks had blurred together, each day measured not by council meetings or lessons but by the hours until he could return to the theater. His excuses about dock work had become routine, practiced, though perhaps too easily offered. Even Lucerys had stopped giving him suspicious looks, accepting his absences with a shrug.

Tonight, he barely waited for his mother to conclude the court session before excusing himself, the formalities of his royal duties quickly discarded in favor of a more pressing engagement. As soon as he reached his chambers, the ornate rings on his fingers were removed with haste, their weight clinking together softly as he shoved them into his pocket. His movements were hurried, a far cry from his usual careful precision, as he threw on the coarse cloak he kept for these clandestine outings. With a quick, practiced motion, he ruffled his hair, ensuring he looked less like a prince and more like any other man seeking anonymity.

But when he reached the theater, you weren't in your usual place. Instead, you stood outside, leaning against the wall with an expectant smile and a coat that was far too thin to fight off the bite of the cold night. The chill painted your cheeks a soft pink, and your arms were crossed, whether for warmth or simply to chastise him, he couldn't tell.

"I thought we might walk tonight," you said, pushing off from the wall. "The air's too sweet to waste indoors."

His heart jumped. The streets would be busy, the lighting better, the chances of being recognized exponentially higher. But you were already moving, glancing back at him with that teasing smile he couldn't resist.

The rings felt heavy in his pocket as he fell into step beside you, his hood pulled low against the evening light.

You led him past the rows of market stalls just beginning to close for the night, past a group of minstrels tuning their instruments, and into a quieter part of the city where the cobblestones glistened faintly with frost. He adjusted his hood every time the two of you walked past people. The hum of the crowd faded, replaced by the soft crunch of your footsteps and the occasional laugh or song drifting from a nearby tavern.

"You're quiet tonight," you said after a while, casting him a sideways glance. Your voice was light, teasing, but he caught the question beneath it.

Jace’s lips parted, then closed again as he fumbled for an answer. "Just... tired," he managed, though the weight of the word didn’t begin to encompass the whirlwind of thoughts battering his mind.

You hummed softly, unconvinced, but didn’t press. Instead, you slowed your pace, falling into step beside him. The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken.

"Tell me about your day?" you said, turning to look at him.

Jacaerys hesitated, his fingers brushing against the rings in his pocket. "Fish," he said finally, managing a small smile. "Lots of fish."

You laughed, the sound bright in the cool evening air. "How descriptive. No wonder you need help with readings." You bumped your shoulder against his playfully. "Come now, surely you can do better than that. What kind of fish? Any particularly memorable ones? Anything fun?"

Your eyes sparkled with mischief. "Or did you spend the whole day swooning over thoughts of our next reading session?"

Heat crept up his neck, and he was grateful for the hood's shadows. "The fish weren't very talkative today," he said, trying to match your playful tone. "Though one did give me a rather judgmental look."

"Ah, a critic!" You clasped your hands dramatically. "Was it worse than my reaction to your first attempt at that love sonnet?"

"Nothing could be worse than that," he groaned, remembering how you'd barely contained your laughter at his overly stiff delivery.

"You've improved," you said, your voice softening. "Though you still hold yourself like you're expecting someone to paint your portrait at any moment."

His heart stuttered. "I do not–"

"Yes, you do." You reached up suddenly, tugging at his hood. "Just like now, all proper and–"

He caught your wrist gently, his pulse racing. "Don't."

Instead of pulling away, you let your hand rest in his grip. "Sorry," you asked softly. "What are you hiding under there, my mysterious fishmonger? A second head?"

"Hey," you said gently, turning your hand in his grip until your fingers intertwined. "I'm not really trying to pry. Whatever your secrets are..." You squeezed his hand. "They're yours to keep."

The simple acceptance in your voice made his chest ache. He wanted to tell you everything – about the councils, the lessons, the suffocating weight of duty. Instead, he just held your hand tighter, letting you lead him through the quiet streets.

"Though," you added after a moment, your tone lightening, "if you are hiding a second head under there, I do think I deserve to know. As your reading instructor, of course. It would explain your trouble with dialogue – having to coordinate two mouths and all."

The tension broke, and he found himself laughing despite everything. "Just the one head, I'm afraid."

"Pity. Think of the dramatic possibilities." You swung your joined hands between you like children might. "We could do all those twin soliloquies from the classical plays."

"You're ridiculous," he said fondly.

"Mm, and yet you keep coming back." You glanced at him, your smile soft in the dim light. "Must be my charming personality. Or perhaps you've fallen madly in love with my collection of dusty books."

His heart skipped at the word 'love', though he managed to keep his voice steady. "The books are very dusty."

"A key feature," you agreed solemnly. "I select them specifically for their dust content." You paused at a corner, turning to face him fully. "Speaking of which, I found another one I think you'll like. Unless you're tired of stories about people pretending to be something they're not?"

The irony wasn't lost on him, but your knowing smile held no judgment, only warmth. "Never," he said softly.

A group of late-night revelers passed nearby, their loud laughter breaking the moment. Jacaerys instinctively pulled back, his hand falling from your waist, but you kept your fingers firmly laced with his.

"So skittish," you teased, though there was a question in your eyes. "Always ready to disappear into those shadows of yours."

"Not always," he protested, squeezing your hand.

"No?" You tilted your head, studying what little you could see of his face. "Prove it. Stay in the light with me, just for a moment."

His heart raced. "I..."

"Not the hood," you added quickly, seeing his tension. "Just... stay. Here. With me." You stepped closer again, your free hand finding its way back to his chest. "Unless you have somewhere more important to be?"

The weight of his rings seemed to burn in his pocket, but Jacaerys could only focus on the warmth of your touch, the hope in your expression. "No," he said softly. "Nowhere more important than this."

"You're standing very close," you murmured, though you made no move to step away. Your joined hands were warm despite the night's chill, and your free hand still rested against his chest, surely feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

"Am I?" Jacaerys managed, his voice rougher than intended. The moonlight caught in your hair, turning the loose strands to silver, and he fought the urge to brush them back from your face.

You hummed, a smile playing at your lips. "Quite close. Almost improper for a simple dock worker." Your fingers traced an idle pattern on his chest. "What would people think?"

"Let them think what they will," he said softly, surprising himself with his boldness.

Your smile widened. "My, my. And here I thought you were shy." You tilted your face up to his, though his hood still cast shadows between you. "Are you going to kiss me? Or shall we stand here all night, scandalizing the good people of the town?"

Jacaerys's breath caught. The rings in his pocket seemed to grow heavier, a reminder of everything he was risking. But you were so close, your eyes bright with invitation, and he found himself leaning forward despite every warning his conscience screamed.

He laughed softly, the tension breaking just enough for him to find his courage. "Scandalizing the town sounds like a fine way to spend the night," he murmured, and closed the distance between you.

The kiss was gentle, tentative – everything a first kiss should be. Your lips were soft against his, and you tasted faintly of the mint leaves you chewed before performances. Your hand slid up to cup his jaw, careful not to disturb his hood, and he marveled at how you could be so mindful of his secrets even in this moment.

Your lips moved against his with a softness that stole his breath. You tilted your head slightly, drawing him closer, and the touch of your hand against his chest lingered, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his tunic. The kiss stretched on, slow and unhurried, filled with unspoken promises and a warmth that made the chill of the evening irrelevant.

Jacaerys felt your breath against his skin, the faintest sigh escaping as you pulled him closer, and something in his chest tightened, equal parts exhilaration and disbelief. His thumb grazed the back of your hand where your fingers remained intertwined with his, the subtle motion grounding him even as his heart thundered.

When you finally pulled back, your smile was radiant. "Well," you said, slightly breathless, "I suppose that's one way to keep warm."

He laughed, resting his forehead against yours. "Is that all it was? A practical measure against the cold?"

"Mmm, perhaps not." Your fingers traced his jaw, light as a whisper. "I might need another demonstration to be sure."

This time when he kissed you, there was nothing tentative about it. His free hand found your waist, drawing you closer as your fingers curled into his cloak. This kiss was different – deeper, hungrier. Your mouth opened under his with a soft gasp that made his head spin. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush against him as your fingers slid into his hair beneath the hood, careful even in your passion not to disturb his disguise.

The taste of mint was stronger now, mixed with something uniquely you that made his heart race. Your tongue brushed his, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as he responded in kind. The world narrowed to just this – the press of your body against his, the quiet sound you made when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, the way your fingers tightened in his hair.

The kiss turned messy, desperate, months of tension finally breaking. Your back hit the wall beside you, though neither of you remembered moving. His hood cast both your faces in shadow, creating a private world where titles and duties couldn't reach. Your joined hands finally separated, allowing you to grab fistfuls of his cloak while his freed hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that contrasted with the heat of your kiss.

A door slammed nearby, startling you apart. A group of merchants passed by, paying them no mind, but Jacaerys's heart raced for entirely different reasons now. The reality of the situation crashed back over him – who he was, who you thought he was, all the lies between you.

But you just smiled, squeezing his hand. He exhaled a laugh, hand running over his face to try to hide away his flushing.

You fell silent, you just looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. His thumb brushing over your cheek and your fingers running along his jawline.

You squeezed his hand once before letting go. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Always," he promised, meaning it more than you could know.

Your smile turned playful again. "Good. I have a particularly flowery sonnet picked out, just for you."

He groaned, but his chest felt light despite the lateness of the hour. "Cruel woman."

"You love it," you called after him as he started to walk away.

He did. Gods help him, he really did.

The soft clink of metal against stone barely registered at first, lost in the echo of retreating footsteps and the lingering warmth of his kiss. But something made you turn, some instinct drawing your eyes to the ground where moonlight caught on gold as he walked away.

The ring laid there, innocent and damning all at once. Your fingers trembled slightly as you picked it up, its weight surprisingly substantial for such a delicate thing. In the dim light, you could make out the craftsmanship – the kind of detail that spoke of master artisans, of wealth beyond anything you'd ever known. The sapphire caught the moonlight, seeming to glow from within, while intricate patterns wrapped around the band like elegant whispers of another world.

This was no dock worker's trinket. No simple sailor's keepsake.

Your mind raced backward through every interaction, every careful movement, every measured word. The way he held himself, even in commoner's clothes. The educated lilt to his speech that he tried so hard to hide. His intimate knowledge of the stories you performed, stories that most dock workers wouldn't have heard, let alone read.

The pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity. The careful way he kept his hood low, how he stiffened when anyone walked too close. His mysterious absences. The books, his lack of knowledge about the dock, the annotations on the stories.

You touched your lips, still tingling from his kiss. A prince. You'd kissed a prince. You'd teased him, mocked his posture, made him read love poetry in funny voices. You'd casually touched his hand, brushed his hair, pulled at his hood...

Horror and hysteria warred in your chest. How many times had you called him 'my brave fishmonger'? How many times had you laughed at his 'dock worker' stories, knowing they rang false but never imagining the truth could be quite so... impossible?

The ring felt suddenly heavy in your palm, its presence undeniable proof of a reality you weren't sure you were ready to face. You closed your fingers around the ring, its edges pressing into your skin.

The practical part of your mind whispered that you should forget this, drop the ring in the harbor and pretend you'd never seen it. The curious part wanted to confront him, to demand answers to questions you weren't sure you had the right to ask.

But mostly, you remembered the way he looked at you when you performed, like you were creating magic with mere words. The way he laughed, free and unguarded, when you teased him. The gentle touch of his hands as he helped you stack chairs after performances.

Prince or not, those moments had been real. Hadn't they?

You slipped the ring into your pocket, its weight a constant reminder of the choice you now faced. Tomorrow, he would come again, hood low and stance careful, playing at being a simple dock worker. And you would have to decide – pretend you knew nothing, confront him with the truth, or...

Your fingers brushed the ring through your pocket. Your mind rushing through all the possible outcomes.

***

Jacaerys tore through his chambers like a storm, upending cushions and emptying drawers with increasing desperation. The morning sun streamed through his windows, highlighting the chaos he'd created – clothes strewn across chairs, books scattered on the floor, his bed linens tangled from his frantic searching.

"Seven hells," he muttered, running his hands through his already disheveled hair. He'd checked his pockets three times, retraced his steps through the castle twice, and even gone back to the servant's corridor he'd used for his return.

A knock at his door made him freeze.

"Jace?" Lucerys's voice carried through the wood. "Are you ready for breakfast? Mother's asking–"

Jacaerys yanked the door open, startling his younger brother. "Where is it?" he demanded.

Lucerys blinked at him, then at the disaster behind him. "Where's what?"

"My ring." Jacaerys grabbed his brother's shoulders. "The sapphire one. Did you take it? As some sort of lesson about sneaking out?”

"What? No!" Lucerys shrugged off his grip, indignation clear on his young face. "Why would I–" He stopped, taking in Jacaerys's wild appearance. "Gods, you really lost it?"

"I didn't lose it," Jacaerys snapped, though panic was clawing at his chest. "I just... misplaced it."

"Mother's ring?" Lucerys's eyes widened. "The one she gave you for your nameday?"

Jacaerys slumped against the doorframe. "Yes," he whispered.

"Well, when did you last have it?" Lucerys asked, his anger shifting to concern.

Jacaerys's mind raced back through the previous night. He'd removed it before leaving, along with his other rings. He'd put them in his pocket, not wanting to leave them in his chambers where they might be discovered. Then...

The blood drained from his face as realization struck. The walk through the city. Your hand in his. The way he'd moved so quickly when those revelers passed...

"Jace?" Lucerys's voice seemed to come from far away. "You look like you're going to be sick."

"I have to go," Jacaerys said abruptly, pushing past his brother.

"Go? Go where? What about breakfast? Mother's expecting–"

"Cover for me," Jacaerys called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor. "Please, Luke."

He took the steps two at a time, his mind spinning with possibilities, each worse than the last. If someone had found it, if they recognized the craftsmanship, if word got back to the castle...

But worse than all of that was the thought that you might have found it. You, with your sharp eyes and sharper wit. You, who'd already noticed so many inconsistencies in his story.

The ring would confirm every suspicion, answer every question he'd deflected. And then what? Would you hate him for the deception? Would you understand why he'd lied? Would you...

He burst out of the castle, not even bothering with his usual careful exit routes. He had to find that ring. Had to get to the theater before everything he'd built these past weeks came crashing down around him.

Behind him, Lucerys watched from a window, shaking his head as his brother disappeared into the morning crowd. "Idiot," he muttered, though there was fondness in his voice. Then he turned to head to breakfast, already composing excuses for their mother.

The morning sun was merciless, offering far too much light as Jacaerys retraced your path from the night before. His hood was pulled so low he could barely see, but he couldn't risk being recognized – not now, not like this. His hands trembled as he searched, checking every crack between the cobblestones, every shadow where something might have rolled.

The street looked different in daylight. What had been intimate and magical in the evening was now harsh and exposed. Dock workers rushed past him, giving odd looks to the hooded figure crawling along the ground. He ignored them, focusing on each step, each possible spot where the ring might have fallen.

Here – this was where you'd taken his hand. He'd adjusted his hood then, his other hand brushing against his pocket. Had it fallen here? He ran his fingers along the edges of the stones, feeling for any glint of metal, any catch of sapphire against the morning light.

And there – that corner was where you'd pulled him close, where he'd nearly forgotten himself entirely. The memory of your touch made his chest ache, but he pushed it aside, focusing on his desperate search. His knees were dirty now, his fine clothes beneath the rough cloak covered in street dust, but he didn't care.

A group of children ran past, nearly bowling him over. He steadied himself against a wall, the same wall where you'd stood so close, where you'd offered him a kiss... He shook his head. He couldn't think about that now.

"Come on," he muttered, dropping to his knees again to check beneath a merchant's stall. "Where are you?"

The ring had to be here somewhere. It couldn't have just vanished. Unless... unless someone had already found it. Unless it was already being examined by curious hands, its royal craftsmanship raising questions he couldn't answer.

Or worse – what if you had found it? What if you were holding it right now, finally understanding every lie, every evasion, every careful deflection? The thought made him feel sick.

He'd been so careful for weeks, maintaining his disguise, watching his words. And now, because he'd been distracted by your smile, by the warmth of your hand in his, by the promise of a kiss... everything could come crashing down because of a single ring.

The irony wasn't lost on him. A prince of the realm, crawling through the streets like a beggar, searching for proof of the very identity he'd been trying to hide. If his mother could see him now...

But he couldn't stop. Not until he'd searched every inch of your path together, not until he was certain. Even as the morning grew warmer and the streets more crowded, he kept looking, his desperation mounting with each passing moment.

The ring wasn't just jewelry – it was a symbol of everything he stood to lose. His mother's trust, his carefully constructed freedom, and most importantly, your smile. Your teasing voice. Your gentle acceptance of his secrets, even when you knew he was hiding something.

Would you be so understanding when you discovered just how much he'd hidden? When you realized every moment between you had been built on lies?

The sun climbed higher, and still he searched, his heart growing heavier with each empty corner, each unremarkable shadow. Somewhere in this maze of streets lay the truth he'd been trying to keep hidden, just waiting to be discovered.

And somewhere, perhaps, you were already finding it.

The walk back to the castle felt endless. Each step seemed to echo with accusations, with imagined scenarios of you finding the ring, recognizing its royal craftsmanship, realizing every word he'd spoken had been wrapped in lies. His stomach churned with a sickness that had nothing to do with the morning's frantic searching.

He could see it all too clearly – if you’d found it – you, holding the sapphire ring up to the light, watching it catch the same way your eyes did when you smiled. Would you recognize the dragon motifs worked into the gold? Would you remember the stories you'd performed of ancient Valyrian princes and their deceptions? Would you hate him for becoming one of those characters you portrayed with such devastating accuracy?

The thought of your warm teasing turning cold, of your gentle touches becoming withdrawn, made him physically ill. He'd seen how you looked at the nobles who sometimes attended your performances – with a careful distance, a practiced deference that never reached your eyes. The thought of you looking at him that way, with that same calculated restraint, was unbearable.

But worse than the anger he imagined was the hurt he knew would follow. You, who had shared your stories, your laughter, your quiet moments after performances. You, who had trusted him enough to walk the nighttime streets hand in hand, to offer...

He pressed his palm against his mouth, remembering how close you'd been, how your lips had almost... If you found that ring now, would you think he'd been playing with you? Some bored noble amusing himself with a common theater performer?

The reality was so much worse – and so much simpler. He'd fallen in love with you. Completely, irrevocably, despite every reason he shouldn't. Despite knowing it could never last. Despite the weight of duty and tradition that hung around his neck like an iron chain.

As he slipped back into his chambers through the servant's passage, his head pounded with questions he couldn't answer. Should he go to the theater tonight, try to explain if you'd found it? Should he stay away, let you hate him from a distance rather than see the moment trust turned to betrayal in your eyes?

He collapsed onto his bed, still unmade from his morning's desperate search, and stared at the ceiling. The sapphire ring had been his mother's gift, a symbol of the responsibility he bore, the legacy he was meant to uphold. How fitting that he should lose it on the same night he'd kissed you, almost pretended he could be someone else entirely.

The worst part was knowing that even now, with everything threatening to unravel, he couldn't regret the moments he'd spent with you. The way you'd corrected his posture during readings, your hands gentle on his shoulders. The stories you'd shared in whispers after the other performers had gone. The sound of your laugh when he'd fumbled a particularly dramatic line.

He pressed his hands against his eyes until he saw stars, trying to block out the memory of your smile, your teasing voice, the way you'd looked at him in the dim light of the street. But it was no use. Every moment played behind his eyelids like one of your performances – perfect, haunting, and now possibly lost forever.

The theater felt different tonight. Every shadow seemed to hold potential danger, every glance from you a possible revelation. Jacaerys lingered in the doorway longer than usual, his feet refusing to carry him forward until you looked up from your scripts and smiled.

"There you are," you called out, but even your familiar warmth couldn't ease the knot in his stomach. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost."

He forced himself to move closer, though he kept more distance between you than usual. His eyes darted to your hands as you shuffled your papers – no sapphire ring glinting in the torchlight. But that didn't mean anything. You could have it tucked away somewhere, waiting for the right moment to confront him.

"Are you alright?" you asked, your smile fading slightly as you noticed his tension. "You look... haunted."

"I'm fine," he said too quickly, his voice rougher than intended. "Just tired."

You set your scripts aside, studying him with that perceptive gaze he usually found endearing but now filled him with dread. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"

The words hit too close to home, making him flinch. You noticed – of course you noticed – and stood, moving toward him with concern written across your features.

"Hey," you said softly, reaching for his hand. He pulled back before you could touch him, immediately regretting the action when hurt flashed in your eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered, tugging his hood lower. "I just... I shouldn't be here."

"Why not?" Your voice was gentle, patient, though he could hear the confusion beneath it.

"Because..." Jacaerys's voice caught. You were still watching him, concern etched in every line of your face, and it was unbearable. The candlelight caught in your hair, reminding him of how it had felt between his fingers, how natural it had been to be close to you. Now every inch between you felt like a chasm.

"Because of last night?" you asked softly when he didn't continue. Your hands fidgeted with your scripts, a nervous gesture he'd never seen from you before. "If I made you uncomfortable, with the... I mean, when I..."

"No," he said quickly, the word escaping before he could stop it. The thought of you blaming yourself made his chest ache. "No, it's not that. It's..." He gestured helplessly, the movement sharp with frustration. "It's complicated."

You let out a soft, bitter laugh that made him freeze. "Complicated," you repeated, the word falling heavy between you. "Is that what princes call it?"

The blood drained from his face. You reached into a pocket of your dress and pulled out something that caught the torchlight – a sapphire ring, its dragon engravings unmistakable even from where he stood.

"You dropped it," you said, your voice steady but quiet. "Last night. Before you ran away." Your lips quirked in a sad smile. "Though I suppose 'running away' isn't quite accurate when you're returning to a castle."

Jacaerys couldn't breathe. His eyes were fixed on the ring, on your fingers curled loosely around it, offering it back to him like an accusation wrapped in gentleness.

The memory of last night – your lips soft against his, your hands tangled in his cloak, the way he'd pulled you closer despite every warning voice in his head – crashed over him like a wave.

"I didn't recognize it at first," you continued, your voice steady though your hands trembled slightly. "Just thought it was another prop that needed returning. But then I saw the seal." Your eyes met his, sharp with hurt and understanding. "House Targaryen. Rather expensive accessory for a dock worker, wouldn't you say?"

“How long have you known?" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Known for certain? Since last night." You turned the ring over in your palm, watching how it caught the torchlight. "Suspected? Longer. You're not as good at pretending as you think you are, my prince."

The title made him flinch. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Now there was an edge to your voice, though your hands remained gentle with his ring.

"Don't call me that," Jacaerys whispered, the words rough in his throat.

You let out a soft, hollow laugh. "My apologies, Your Grace. How terribly remiss of me." Your voice was gentle, almost sweet, but he could hear the hurt beneath it. "I've been quite ill-mannered, haven't I? All those times I teased you, touched you..." You took a step closer, still holding out the ring. "Made you braid my hair with those royal hands of yours."

"Please," he started, but you continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"I should have known, really. The way you moved, the way you spoke..." Your eyes searched what little of his face was visible under the hood. "Tell me, my prince, did you get what you wanted? A nice distraction from all those tiresome duties? Some common girl to pass the time with?"

"That's not–" He reached for you without thinking, stopping only when you took a deliberate step back.

"Not what?" Your voice was still soft, still controlled, but your eyes blazed. "Not what you intended? Then what did you intend, Jacaerys? When you sat in my shadows night after night, when you held my hand in the street, when you–" Your voice caught. "When you kissed me back?"

The sound of his full name on your lips made him feel like he was drowning. "I never meant to deceive you."

"No?" You were close enough now that he could see the slight tremor in your hands, still cradling his ring. "Then what did you mean to do? Slum with the common folk for a while? See how the other half lives?"

"I meant to see you," he said, the truth finally breaking free. "Just you. Only you."

You stilled, something flickering in your expression. "And now? Now that I know who you really are? Will you disappear back to your castle, back to your real life?"

"I don't want to."

"But you will." It wasn't a question. You held out the ring again, your fingers steady now. "Take it. Go back to where you belong."

He didn't move to take it. "What if I belong here?"

Your expression softened for just a moment before hardening again. "In the shadows? In lies? That's not belonging, my prince. That's hiding."

The title felt like a physical blow each time you used it. "Stop calling me that."

"Why?" You stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the familiar scent of stage powder and candlesmoke. "Isn't that what you are? What you've always been, even when you were pretending to be my..." You trailed off, swallowing hard. "What were you pretending to be, exactly? My friend? My suitor?"

"I wasn't pretending with you," he whispered. "Not about the things that mattered."

Your eyes met his, and for a moment he saw all the hurt and longing he felt reflected back at him. "Everything about you was a pretense," you said softly. "Even this moment, even now, you're still hiding under that hood."

Slowly, with trembling hands, he pushed back his hood, as if that could make the situation better. The torchlight caught the brown of his hair, the sharp velvet of his eyes that spoke of centuries of dynasty. He looked ethereal, otherworldly – and utterly miserable.

"Not everything," he said, "Not how I feel about you. Not the way I..." His voice cracked. "Not the way I dream about you when I should be focusing on state affairs."

You looked away, your jaw tight. "Pretty words from a silver tongue. Is that what they teach you in the castle, how to break hearts eloquently?"

"They taught me to be proper, and distant, and cold," he said, taking a step closer. "You taught me to laugh. To feel. To be human." His fingers brushed yours where they still held the ring, and you didn't pull away. "Please look at me."

When you did, your eyes were bright with unshed tears. "What do you want from me, Jacaerys? What could you possibly want that's worth all these lies?"

"Everything," he whispered. "Nothing. Just... just to stay. To keep watching you perform. To help you practice your lines. To..." He swallowed hard. "To be the person I am when I'm with you."

The admission struck him like a physical blow. "Please," he said, though he wasn't sure what he was begging for.

"Go home," you said softly, stepping back. "Go back to your castle, your duties, your real life. We both know you have to."

"And if I refuse?"

“We both know you won’t do that”

A bitter laugh escaped him. "You're right. Of course you're right." His fingers closed around the ring, the metal digging into his palm. "I've never refused anything in my life. The perfect, obedient prince."

You shook your head, he didn’t understand how – even when upset – you could look so gentle. “Go home, Jacaerys.”

"Don't," he whispered, catching your hand before you could pull it back completely. "Don't talk about us like we're already over."

"Aren't we?" Your fingers were trembling in his grip. "Tell me truly, my prince – what future did you imagine for us? Secret meetings in the shadows forever? Or did you think you could somehow present a common theater performer to your royal family as a suitable match?"

The title still felt like a blade between his ribs, but he couldn't deny the truth in your words. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything he couldn't promise.

"That's what I thought," you said softly, gently extracting your hand from his. But your fingers lingered against his palm for a moment too long, betraying the steadiness of your voice. "It's not safe for a prince to be out so late."

Jacaerys looked like he might be sick, his face ashen in the torchlight. He swayed slightly where he stood, as if the weight of his title had suddenly become too heavy to bear. The ring in his palm seemed to mock him, its sapphire catching the light like a teardrop.

"I can't–" he started, his voice breaking. His free hand clenched and unclenched at his side, a nervous gesture you'd seen a hundred times before but never understood until now. "I don't want to leave like this."

"There's no good way to leave," you said, your voice gentle despite everything. You reached up, straightening his cloak with careful hands – one last touch, one final moment of tenderness. "Go home, Jacaerys. Before the guards notice you're missing."

He caught your wrist as you withdrew, not roughly but with a desperate urgency that made your heart ache. "Please," he whispered, though what he was begging for, neither of you knew. His eyes were fever-bright, almost wild, like a trapped animal seeking escape.

"You have to go," you murmured, carefully untangling yourself from his grip. You pressed the ring more firmly into his palm, closing his fingers around it. The touch of his skin against yours felt like a brand. "Your Grace."

The formal address seemed to physically pain him. He stumbled back a step, clutching the ring like a lifeline, looking so lost and young that for a moment you almost reached for him again. But you kept your hands at your sides, watching as he pulled his hood back up with shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words barely audible. "I'm so sorry."

You didn't respond, couldn't respond, as he turned and fled into the shadows of the theater. The sound of his footsteps faded away, leaving you alone with the guttering torches and the ghost of everything that could never be.

[tap here for part 2!]

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@mattnott and @earth4angels for beta reading my lovelies <33

[kyliansupremacy]

22:32 - in which jude wins on and off the pitch

england has posted a new tiktok

headphone challenge with jude bellingham

comments

user: suddenly i’m y/n y/l/n

user: stay away from her omg?

user: NOOOOOOOOOO 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

user: i pretend i do not see it 👩🏾‍🦯

user: wait this couple has so much potential though

user: ship

capitalradio has uploaded a new tiktok

y/n y/l/n reacts to jude bellingham’s confession

comments

user: “he’s not really my type” girl bye

user: jude, fight back?

user: bros gonna give an all timer ucl performance

user: she’s just jinxed any club that plays against rma

user: this MIGHT be stronger that UTDTrey jinx 🤔

user: these interviews next level instigators

user: girl, put him on the roster

user: champions league? this babe is serious

yourusername has added to their story

judebellingham has added to their story

yourusername: so where are you taking me then?

judebellingham: wherever you want darling

theshaderoom has uploaded a new post

liked by judebellingham, yourusername, and 4,272,952 others

theshaderoom could this be the start of a budding romance between real madrid star jude bellingham and pop it girl y/n y/l/n after they were spotted on a date in madrid?

comments

user: 6’2”, light skin, handsome, athletic, rich, best player in the world, and now he’s bagged y/n y/l/n? lads we’ve got to find a way to stop him

user: he better take care of her or else

user: so who’s gonna be the jude to my y/n hmm?

user: get u a man that wins a whole champions league for you

camavinga: WAR IS OVER

aurelientchm: freedom at last

user: new it couple about to land

erling.haaland: double date soon 🫡

my first ever fic (scary). pls let me know what you think and send requests as i found making this quite fun!