I write… I guess…?

“patience, baby,” he releases your nipple with a wet pop, blowing cool air on the damp skin, watching goosebumps rise on your skin. “got all night. wanna make you feel reaaal good.” 

he looks up at you, crimson eyes flooded with need that mirrors your own. then he’s kissing you again, his tongue slipping into your mouth, greedily swallowing your moans as his fingers trace a path down your torso. his palm presses flat against your lower belly, right where you can feel the pressure of him inside you. he smirks as he dips into the hollow of your hips, then lower.

“mghh” you’re trembling as his fingers slide through your slick folds. gasping into his mouth, hips bucking involuntarily. he’s so close, but he’s not touching you where you need him most. “please ‘suki,” you whimper against his lips, the word torn from your throat. you need him just as much as he needs you.

“always so damn impatient” he pants but he finally rubs slow, sweet circles on your already swollen and sensitive clit. ministrations too much and not enough at the same time. you’re dripping all over him. filthy, lewd squelches filling the space between your gasps with every pass of his thumb over the bundle of nerves.

you clench down, a vice-like grip around his cock. his thumb presses harder, circles on your clit spinning a little faster. the lotus position leaves you no room to escape the overwhelming sensation. every desperate roll of your hips grinds your clit against his fingers, buries his cock even deeper, and forces you to feel the unyielding pressure of his tip brushing that sensitive spot inside you.

katsuki revels in it. in the mess you’re making just for him. in the way your slick coats his fingers, your inner thighs, the base of his cock still buried deep inside you. he loves the way your body reacts to him, the way your breath hitches, the way your walls clench down even harder around him every time he brushes against your sweet spot. he loves watching you fall apart, loves knowing he’s the one making you feel this way. 

his eyes are fixed on you, pupils blown wide, swallowing the crimson of his irises. he’s memorizing every every subtle shift in your expression. he’s watching the way your eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open. the way your lips part. the bead of sweat tracing a path down your temple, following the curve of your jaw. he doesn’t miss a thing. it’s like he’s trying to burn this image of you directly onto the back of his eyelids.

you feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with your nudity. heat crawls up your neck, burning your cheeks. you instinctively break eye contact and try to hide your face in the sweat-damp crook of his shoulder. and of course, he’s far from pleased

“nuh-uh,” he tuts, his free hand, the one not currently torturing your clit, comes up to tangle in your hair, gripping gently but firmly. he uses the leverage to pry you away from the curve of his neck, “don’t you dare hide from me.”

“well stop staring at me.” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut.

“i’ll stare all i damn want to,” he scoffs. “now open your eyes so i can see how pretty they look when you cum” his grip on you loosens, his voice loses its edge, “please. . .”

it’s the closest he’ll ever get to begging. you can’t really deny him, not when he’s making you feel so good. so you let your eyes flutter open. you let him look. you let him see all of you, you let him see the way your pupils dilate, the way your lips falls apart. the way tears prick at the corners of your eyes as he rocks you into oblivion, coaxes orgasm after orgasm out of you. and he watches it all, committing every gasp, every tear, every tremor to his long-term memory. 

he doesn’t let up. even when your legs tremble uncontrollably and his muscles scream in protest from being folded for so long. he just shifts his weight, pulling you impossibly closer. because this is what he craves. what he needs. what he lives for: being skin to skin, heart to heart, until your very souls merge into one.

the thing is, thomas wasn't staring at the kids playing specifically. he was staring at you, playing with the kids, in nothing but a tank top and some shorts. he'd never seen you in a tank top before in his life. your tanned shoulders with scattered freckles and scars, the strip of skin that peeked out underneath the hem, and most of all: the scoop neckline. he could see your collar bones, your sternum. not that he was paying attention to that, although it was a fantastic view. he was rather distracted. he had never seen your cleavage before, after all.

he had also never seen you well rested and fed. your eyes had a new glow to them as you scooped a kid into your arms and sent her into a giggling fit. your hair looked fuller, and your legs looked stronger.

and you're wearing a tank top.

now, he's trying to busy himself with helping out. construction work is fun to him, because he likes leading a process and seeing the finished result. right now, the glade guys are working on a shelter for the pregnant women to relax in. although it's in the first phase, production is moving along smoothly and thomas is feeling optimistic about the results!

or, he would be. if you weren't wearing a goddamn tank top.

he's lifting a plank over one of his shoulders when you bring a bucket of filtered water and some makeshift cups. your skin looks smooth in the afternoon sun and all thomas can think about is touching it, just there. pressing his fingertips to the curve of your neck. getting his palms familiar with the dip of your waist and the gap where your stomach shows. letting his lips follow. on your cheek, or your jaw, or making home on your pretty thighs-

the plank he was lifting slips out of his grip and flies forward. one end lands on his foot and the other end knocks him square in the back of the head, sending him stumbling forward into the ground beneath him.

a chorus of "ooo" sounds around him from the guys, while you call out a loud "oh, shit!"

and thomas just lies there, honestly. he's mortified with himself and his head and foot are both throbbing like a bitch, so he makes the executive decision to just choke on sand and die where he's laying so he doesn't have to face you.

unfortunately, he's never been so lucky, and you're on him in a second. crouched at his side and forcibly flipping him over to face you, your eyes still have that energized glow he found that morning as you worridly look him all over for other injuries. "are you okay? jesus, thomas! you need to be more careful, you could've seriously hurt yourself!"

your fussing drowns out as he gazes up at you, your head haloed by the glint of the sun and your tank top right up close where he can see the tan lines you're getting, and the scooped cut, and wow have you always smelled this good? and he's telling his brain not to let his eyes stare at your cleavage and your chest but c'mon it's right there and god his head hurts.

"okay, up. up! i'm gonna go check you out and give you a wrap for your toes. why would you do this barefoot? you're bleeding, thomas!" you urge him to sit up and he can see now that his foot does in fact have some cuts from the edge of the wood. he blinks a few times and looks from you to the guys, all watching from a few feet away. minho gives thomas a very telling look and then glances down, like he's trying to communicate with his eyes.

thomas squints, head still throbbing and making him feel all ruffled. he turns to you and mumbles, "i'm fine, i'm okay," as your gentle fingers card through his hair, caressing the spot on his head that got hit. he lets out a small grunt, uncomfortable with the increased pounding at your touch, and flinches away.

"you're not fine, thomas. just let me wrap your foot up, at least?" you look at him with pretty, pleading eyes and your unoccupied hand lands on his knee. and of course, thomas relents.

"okay, fine." he grumbles, pushing himself to his feet. he's embarrassed of the slight limp he's sporting as you lead him off to the med hut.

and, sure. thomas' pride is a bit bruised by the whole situation and he doesn't feel very much like a protector or provider when you wrap his toes to avoid infection. but all of that is insignificant when you line your body against his, letting him lean back against the makeshift counter and finally, finally slide his hands along your hips.

"i'm worried about your head," you muse, gingerly brushing the spot that was hit. thomas admires your lashes as they flutter, humming distractedly.

"i'll be fine." he pushes your hair back, wishing you'd give him an excuse to leave his work and indulge in his daydreams. "what are you doing today?"

"I'm in charge of the reading/writing classes today." you close your eyes and breathe in deep, "most all the kids are clever, but it's so hard for them to learn. just, you know, with the strain WCKD put on their brains, i can't... thomas? are you alright?"

and thomas is listening, he really is. but you're pressing every damn inch of your body to his, and your tank top is pulled low and all he wants to do is listen, can his stupid fucking brain shut off this response now, please?

"yes," he narrows his eyes, huffing as his frustration with himself escalates. you're clearly in the mood to confide in him, and he can't figure out why the only thing his pea-sized brain can conjure up is a vulgar image of the two of you. "maybe. i... i want to hear about this, i promise. and, you know i'm well aware of the damages WCKD does to the brain-"

"oh, of course, i..." you take a subtle step back, and he realizes too late how he sounds more defensive and less frazzled.

thomas' hands pull you back into him by the hips. "no, no. i'm trying to... aurgh! i'm sorry, i'm so sorry. i can't. think."

your eyebrows shoot up as his body grows more and more painfully aware of your hands on his chest, your thighs pressed to his own, the way your lips part in a little 'o' and how your eyes look when you look up at him without lifting your chin. thomas knows he's hard, he's not a blubbering idiot. but it's never really been such an issue before. as long as he fully remembers, there's always been much more important things to think about, like keeping you and the rest of the gladers alive and safe.

but now, that's not so much an issue. and it feels like every little thing you do, every noise and expression and action, makes thomas have the same reaction.

"you can't think?" you prompt, as he feels you press harder against his erection. you must not feel it, then. thomas tries not to roll his hips into the relieving release of pressure.

"i can, i can." he sucks in through his teeth and tries to gently pry you away. your subtle resistance confuses him, and he hates that he'll have to tell you if you don't figure out soon enough here. "i just... i'm, um, really sorry. that you have to start below ground zero with the kids."

there's a lengthy pause of silence as you stare up at him, like you're waiting. he waits too, hoping there'll be some kind of hint to what else he should say to get you talking again so you can both move on from this mortifying ordeal.

instead, you seem to deflate slightly and take a step back. compared to before, and now lacking the sweet press of your body on his, it feels like a mile between you.

"okay." you sigh, tucking some of your hair back. thomas watches with a level of confusion and guilt he can't even fathom. "well, i should head back. it'll probably be time for me to gather the kids soon."

he stays stuck against the counter with an unmistakable boner right up until you're about to push the curtain out of the way and leave. only then does he regain his composure enough to stop you, pushing off of the counter and taking a couple of steps nearer to you.

"wait."

you turn to face him eagerly, eyes wide and wanting something he can't place. thomas swallows thickly.

"i have to tell you something. because i hate not being honest with you. and... you can be as mad as you want, okay? i promise i won't get upset."

he watches the doubt seep into your body language. "...okay."

and it all comes tumbling out of his mouth.

"i can't stop thinking about you. like- in these terrible, horrible ways that i like. and i feel so bad because you have no idea, but it's just- god, when you wear that top. all i can- everything- the only thing i can focus on is your body. and your hair, too. and your legs. and your lips, a lot. and all i wanna do is... it's so bad. i'm sorry."

thomas wasn't aware of how terrible he felt about thinking about you compromisingly until he voiced it, but when he meets your eyes again... he's completely thrown by your expression. you look- not hungry, that's not the right word. but somehow it is, with the way your eyes rove over him and back up again, how you take a few steps closer. your face is slowly melding into that expression you always get when he flatters you. like, all pretty and flustered with eyes that say more more more.

"you're sorry about it?"

he blinks. "yeah. i just, i don't want you to be in any position you wouldn't want to be in. even in my head."

you nod, of course. because that makes sense. but that's not what your face is saying. he watches as your eyes dip down shyly. "thomas, i... i've been having similar thoughts."

"oh."

well, this changes things.

you've been thinking about thomas? like that? on top of you, behind you, under you? panting and begging and sweaty and jesus christ, he's hard as a rock.

"tell me." his voice comes out as a command, instead of a question. you respond before he can correct himself.

"t-tell you what i've been imagining?"

god, imagining makes it sound so purposeful. thomas can see it in his head; you, in your bed, imagining him doing things to you. making you squirm and whine and plead. he has to know. thomas doesn't know a lot of things, and he loves learning them. but his favorite puzzle has been you. and this is another thrilling piece.

"yes." he can barely get the word out fast enough, closing the distance between the two of you so he can guide you to press up against the rickety counters. he would totally have you perched on them, if he trusted the workmanship at all. but this will do, for now. "what have you been thinking about me?"

"it's probably worse, thomas. i don't want to make you uncomfortable." you sound sincere, but he realizes too late that this is you throwing his words back in his own face, showing that it may have offended you when he apologized for wanting you that way.

he kisses his teeth, meets your eyes. "promise it won't. i'll understand. we can do an exchange, yeah? a thought for a thought."

you huff out a laugh. "what, like a trade? are you bargaining for my dirty fantasies of you?"

his dick twitches like it heard your words instead of his head, and he nods. leaning down close, he lets a smile slip across his lips. "yeah, that's a perfect example. we can value them; the more outlandish the fantasy, the more pricey it is."

"and if you have no fantasy pricey enough to match mine?" you tilt your chin up so your plush lips are a breath away from his, and he listens as your voice dips to a sultry hum. "how will you repay me?"

thomas pretends to think, hmm's in wonder. in the meantime, his hands roam from your waist to your hips, growing confident enough to almost reach lower before he responds:

"guess i'll have to find some other way, then."

your lips meet, and thomas gets a few kisses in before he grows impatient and slides his tongue gently across your bottom lip. you only encourage his demanding mouth, pulling him closer by the back of his neck and letting his tongue press against your own.

thomas loves making out with you. it's only happened twice before, and both times he found something new that made you whimper-whipmer!- and it made him feel like he could rule the world. he's never been egotistical, but there's something about the way you pull a bit too rough on his lip with your teeth or how your mixed saliva catches at the corners of his mouth that makes him think he'd be a great father, and a perfect provider for you. when you suck on his tongue, he groans and his hips flex forward. he doesn't even realize his stupid dick is searching for friction until he breaks away to kiss at your neck and leaves you room to talk.

"thomas, you're-" you pant as he litters open-mouthed kisses against your soft skin. "you're hard."

"mmhm, told you." he rakes his teeth along your collar bone before his mouth finds your ear. "been so distracted by you lately. can't go to bed without touching myself," you moan quietly. he about cums right then and there. "thinking of you."

"m-me too." he can hear the nervous stutter from a mile away, and he smiles, pausing against your skin for a moment.

"tell me what you think of." he kisses your neck, long and soft and slow. just once. and then lifts his mouth away enough to speak again. "when you touch yourself."

he can hear you swallow, feel your heart flutter like a bunny. he doesn't know why, but he likes it. and he doesn't feel bad about it.

"it's bad." you exhale, like you don't want him to hear you.

he pulls back so he can tower over you a little, narrows his brow with concern. "it's alright. tell me."

you pout and glance away before your mouth opens again, but you don't protest any further. good girl.

"i... i like the idea of, um, you." you catch your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment as your eyes flit around the dim hut. "you... all over me. just, out of nowhere. most of the time i imagine me in the middle of hanging the laundry out to dry, or prepping for my class, or tidying or something. and you just come in and push everything out of the way and take me, no questions or comments. i know how you look at me sometimes, when there's people around. there's times i... i wish you'd just tell them to get out and act on whatever you're thinking."

he watches you swallow, so tuned into your posture and movements. listening to every word like it's a sacred truth. you take a breath and continue.

"the other night... i was in the shower late. after i helped out with the fertility house. i touched myself." you confess, and thomas notes how you refuse to meet his head-on gaze. "i was thinking of you coming in and using your... your fingers, um, on me. looking at me in that way you do, with your hair wet. making me tell you all the bad things i thought when i saw you, sweaty and working hard."

you're flustered and shy when you finish, chest rising and falling at a more rapid pace than before. thomas tilts his head as he watches your face, being sure he's keeping contact at every point between your bodies. being sure you know he's not scared of you or your wild imagination. being sure you can feel how much he loves it.

"i'm sorry." your voice is a whisper of insecurity.

thomas quickly snaps out of his silence, gathering your precious face in both of his calloused hands. "no, no, no. don't apologize." he pleads, forcing you to look at him finally. your eyes are swimming with worry and unsureness, and thomas wants to swat your thought spiral away like it's a fly. "never. never apologize for telling me something so lovely."

he pushes your hair back and kisses your cheek sensually. when he feels you melt into him a little, he continues onto your other cheek. before he can reach your mouth, you speak in more hushed whispers.

"i was afraid you'd think it's gross."

he laughs just a little at that, but mostly because it's the most unrealistic thing he's ever heard. pulling back, he finds your eyes and holds their focus with a look of sincerity. "l think the idea of you feeling good because you're thinking of me is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"thomas, you saved society from a government domination and a deadly virus."

"yes, and you touched yourself at the thought of me." thomas can't help it, he kisses you roughly. takes you in the way you described; ravaging and sloppy and selfish. it feels good. he laps in your mouth and he likes how uncouth it is. like he's defiling you from your lips downward. "i bet you looked so pretty. all helpless and begging for me. that's..."

that's gonna make him finish in his work jeans, for sure. holy fucking shit, you're the greatest thing that's ever happened to thomas. like, seriously, just the idea of you covering your mouth in the shower, arching your back... all because of him?! everything in him is screaming to bring your fantasies to life. but he wants to respect that invisible line, between imagination and reality. you never exactly said you wanted him to do that, just that you thought of it.

thomas kisses your temple and slides a hand down your body, coming to terms with the boundary he just realized was probably there. "i'm so glad you told me."

but he cant help some of it, you're just so kissable. so he allows himself one indulgence, and kisses you slowly.

"you're beautiful." he murmurs against your lips, feeling you shiver lightly at the unprompted flattery. "so pretty. and smart. you know that?"

"thomas," you swallow, but your hand grips his neck and pulls him closer. "please."

what you're asking for, thomas has not an single clue. but when you use that tone, he'd kill a man just for you.

"yes," he matches your desperation and kisses you hungrily. "anything, yes."

thomas' grip on your hips becomes bruising as you begin to make out more explicitly, sounds of smacking and gasping and quiet sighs filling the med hut quickly. you move your hands from his hair to the front of his jeans, undoing the button without breaking your lips. thomas is grateful for the relief, as the strain was becoming unbearable the harder he would get. you're just so goddamn considerate, he'd be an idiot not to give you anything you asked for and more.

his mouth has a mind of it's own as he kisses down your neck messily, carefully guiding your head to the side enough to give him wide access so he can find your spot. it only takes him moments to make you squirm, and he spends considerable time there.

your hand, still at the button of his jeans, begins palming at his erection heavily. thomas hums, meeting you halfway with his hips before he stutters his movements and stops himself. he's embarrassed at how bad he wants the friction, the pressure. who knows what you want? just because he likes how your hand feels pressing on his dick doesn't mean you want him humping into your palm like a dog.

you whine discontentedly (even though he was so sure you liked how he was marking your neck!) and hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, tugging him into your body ruthlessly. he pulls back to look at you, confused. what do you need? he'll give it to you, whatever it is. but he needs to be sure he's got the right idea first.

"what is it?" thomas frowns down at you, rubbing your hip affectionately.

you huff, tugging at his waistband again. "thomas, i want... i-i... i need...-"

an eruption of innocent laughter interrupts you. both you and thomas whip your heads to the curtain separating you from the rest of the world, frozen in place as you listen for who's nearby.

and, to both of your dismay, there's children setting up their own game of mother may i just outside the med hut. not exactly a great place for a steamy-make-out-turned-something-more.

thomas is the first to move, sucking in a breath and running his hands up your sides. "well."

you worry your lower lip. "yeah."

"i... i can't really, um." thomas clears his throat, eyes roving up to the ceiling. his neck and ears pinken with mortification. "you go first. don't wait up."

"oh. did you not want to walk together?"

"no! no. it's not that. i just can't... really... go anywhere. right now." he murmurs, eyes dropping down before quickly meeting your own.

your eyes fall down to his unbuttoned jeans. you blush. stare. glance back up. "ah. i see. well. i will... see you at dinner?"

"yes, of course." he smiles sweetly at your understanding.

as you begin walking away, thomas grabs your wrist and tugs you back in, kissing your hand.

"i had a lovely time. you're a great nurse." he kisses your hand again for good measure before releasing you for good, watching you walk out of the med hut and look back twice.

☆

thomas rubs at his jaw absentmindedly, mind full of upcoming plans and responsibilities. the bonfire dances in front of his eyes, casting a warm glow on the haven and everyone gathered around it, eating dinner and conversing and being alive again. it's the perfect background noise for him, the buzz of safety and happiness and health. he hadn't heard it before they created this place.

his plans for reinforcing the makeshift counters in the med hut to support human weight is harshly interrupted by minho, plopping down next to him on the log he's sat on.

thomas glances at minho and his overflowing plate. they both nod shortly to one another. thinking that's the end of the interaction, thomas lets his mind wander again. they'll need to put supports underneath, some sort of beams...

"newt and frypan have a bet going." minho speaks with his mouth full.

"oh, yeah?" or maybe having them fully touch the floor, that way there's extra storage space. cabinets aren't too much work with enough hands.

"yep. if you screwed in the med hut, newt doesn't have to do chores for a week." minho picks something out of his teeth. "honestly, i thought i was the only one who noticed. tried to warn you, man."

"wait, what?" thomas blinks, turns to face minho. "you... what?"

minho takes an analyzing look at thomas' features, squinting his eyes in slight disgust. "dude. none of us are blind."

thomas is still clueless. his face must give him away, since minho goes from sorta-grossed-out to totally-making-fun in seconds. "oh, man. you don't know what i mean, do you? curing serum didn't help you remember the talk?"

"i... don't..." thomas glances around them, making sure no one is nearby to overhear. minho barks out a laugh.

"come on, thomas." minho takes a big bite of his food and nods over thomas' head, eyes flicking to someone behind him. "she showed up and it was like all the blood in your brain rushed to your..."

minho meets thomas' eyes.

"little friend."

thomas flushes, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see you press your ear to the belly of a heavily pregnant woman, smiling excitedly. "minho, tell me you're the only one who noticed."

"whatever helps you sleep at night, man." minho stuffs his mouth again, clearly unperturbed as thomas swings his head back around to gape at him. "so did y'guys get busy 'r not? we're all kinda waiting around to find out. hey, you gonna eat? food's running out fast."

"i'm good." thomas lets his eyes wander back to you as you converse easily with a few of the older women, your tank top riding up just enough to give him a peek at your lovely tummy. "uh, hey, minho?"

"yeah?"

"you... so..." thomas is slow to form words at the sight of your gorgeous hair flouncing about. "you think she'd want to do that? i didn't know... i thought it was, y'know, a guy thing."

minho laughs, clapping thomas' shoulder. it takes him a moment to verbally answer as he swallows his food, but his nodding makes thomas' heart stutter.

"oh, it's a girl thing too. trust me, they're having the same thoughts, if not worse. why do you think she took you all the way to the med hut just for some bruised up toes and a head konk? she's trying to get you to do something."

"i mean, my foot could have gotten infected. and i did hit my head pretty bad." thomas rubs the lightly sore spot as minho fixes a glare on him.

"thomas, you've been shot, drugged, stung by a griever, and jumped off a collapsing building. i really don't think some cuts and bruises are anything to worry about." minho wipes his hands on his jeans, his plate clean of any food. "besides, i bet she had to get all close and personal just to take a look at you?"

"i mean... yeah." thomas shrugs. he hadn't really thought much of it, but... well, you did press up against him, and bat your lashes in that way you do... and when he told you what to do...

oh. oh!

you were- oh wow, the whole time?!

thomas blinks rapidly at the ground, and then at minho, and then at you. and when his eyes meet yours and you smile softly, he feels like an idiot.

"yyyyyeah." minho pats thomas' shoulder lightly as you begin approaching, and thomas can feel his whole body warm. minho leaves with a "good luck, dude," and thomas can barely breathe while the whole world melts into nothing but youyouyou.

"hi." you take minho's place, and you look softly radiant in the glow of the bonfire.

"hi." thomas sighs out, stuck on every movement and shift you make. do you still want that? do you still want him?

"you didn't eat." you observe, adjusting the strap of your top.

"mhm." thomas tracks the motion, flicks his eyes back up to yours. "did you?"

your eyes narrow just slightly at the unintentional deflection, and he's enamored by the crease in your brow. the pout of your pretty lips. the way you look so perfect, he just wants to wreck you, a little. you didn't just want to imagine it? you actually wanted him to...

"yes, i did. are you not hungry, or...?"

"i'm starving." his voice drops an octave, and you bat your lashes almost on impact of the tone shift, glancing away from him.

"oh, well, there's still some fish left, and i think some corn-"

"i don't want that." he swallows, you look back at him.

he gets it now. this isn't confusion, it's not hesitance. this is a game of chess for you, and you want him to check you. to snatch up everything and leave you helpless and needy, and then finish you off.

respectfully, of course.

"but you said..." you start, and trail off when he shakes his head just slightly.

"no, i'm starving." his fingertips brush against your knee, slide barely onto your lower thigh. he holds your eyes the entire time as he caresses your knee, thumb tracing a circle. "are you?"

"thomas," you breathe out a flustered laugh, glancing around. "anyone could see."

he shakes his head again, holding your eyes when you return to him. "'s okay, we can head to bed early. if you want."

he watches you consider, deciphering the offer he's laid out. he's not sure how you do it, always reading him like a book, but it only makes him want to show you his appreciation. which... is leading him down a similar mindset. jeez, he really won't be able to shake this, will he?

"alright." you nod your head to the women you were speaking to before. "let me go say goodnight. i'll meet you...?"

"my room." he hums. it feels so illicit to sneak off like this, pretending- even to each other- that you're just tired.

thomas couldn't be further from tired if he tried.

"okay, yeah. okay." you smile shyly at him. "i'll... yeah."

and just like that, you stand and part from him. the lack of your presence makes everything seem blurry and boring, and all thomas wants to do is fast forward to the moment he has you alone. instead, he dusts off his lap and stands, scanning the beach for any watchful eyes.

minho, arm slung over the shoulders of a girl from a different sector, raises his drink to thomas and mouths, 'me too.' the girl wiggles her eyebrows playfully at thomas.

thomas nods awkwardly, pressing his lips together. other than that, he's sure no one suspects anything from the two of you having an innocent conversation. and so, he sets off.

he's out of the beach and the light as soon as possible, making a silent escape to the safety of the dark trek back to his secluded hut. he decided to keep the one that was built further away from the community enough to give him time alone; dealing with the pressure of leading the survivor colony was enough to make him want to lock himself away for a few hours everyday. plus, he liked to be up early and hated bothering anyone. especially since you're a fan of staying up late and sleeping in, and he can't stand to interrupt your rest.

the way your lashes brush against your cheeks, how you drool a little and always deny it, how sweet and heavenly your cheek looks when it's pressed against the pillow...

great, now he's thinking about you pressed into his pillow, mouth open just to gasp since he's going so hard for so long. you whine his name.

holy shit, he has no idea what he's doing.

thomas scrubs his already messy hair. sure, he's thought about this a million times. he's familiar with his right hand, he knows female anatomy, he’s had the talk! but understanding it from the outside and experiencing it from the inside…

from the very inside...

swallowing, he makes his way into his hut with shaky hands and a confusing heap of arousal clouding his brain. he wants this so, so bad. but he needs to do it right.

he fluffs his measly pillows, straightens his blankets. checks the stability of his bed, does a quick smell check (clear)... what's supposed to happen? he just wants to devour you, honestly. to live out every single idea your pretty little head conjures up. he's getting a little dizzy just thinking of it. but, y'know, outside of tackling you like a bear in heat, is he supposed to... say something?

he wants it to be so perfect that nothing comes even close to comparing. he wants to make you sob with satisfaction and see stars and feel how intensely he feels about you. is there something he can do to convey that?

unfortunately, thomas doesn't have time to write a speech, seeing as he can now hear your soft footsteps not too far off. he messes with his hair and feels his nerves thrum with excitement and anticipation. oh god, he wants you.

"how's your head?" you speak quietly when you first arrive, ducking into his humble abode. your prescense snaps him out of his spiral, making his stomach swoop and his mind fuzz out for a moment.

"uh." he swallows, hesitates, before reaching out to pull you close. your skin is so soft, warm from the firelight. "it's fine."

you giggle at his clearly dumbfounded expression and move pliantly as he wraps you in his arms and buries his nose in your hair. "i probably smell like fire and smoke. not too romantic, sorry."

"you smell amazing." he murmurs, taking a deep breath in. it's true. your scent is addicting to thomas, especially when your skin is slick with perspiration and your natural scent is clear. he could inhale it for days and not get bored. "so good."

"alright, okay, you dog!" you laugh, and it only spurs him on, attacking your neck with his nose and making you shrink back from the feather-light sensation. "stop! it tickles!" you shove at his chest to no avail, as he presses you further into him the more you push and laugh. his sniffing turning quickly into kisses, peppered from behind your ear to your collarbone and back again, despite your shrieks of protest and fits of giggles.

"i can't stop," thomas growls excitedly, backing you towards the bed with little to no effort. "my girl tastes as good as she smells."

his hands on your hips are pressing, firm. he wants you make you feel his strength. when he pulls back to meet your gaze, he watches the effect take place. your eyes have a playful glint, like you're exhilarated to not be in control. he feels equally as exhilarated to be in control. then again, you hold all the influence. he only wants this so bad because he knows you want it too. otherwise, it's no fun at all.

thomas stops the two of you just as the backs of your knees touch the edge of his bed, and a silent moment of charged eye contact occurs. he feels like he's falling, his stomach dropping out from under him. his hands are starting to wander, all on their own.

"is your foot alright?" you chirp. thomas blinks.

"it's fine." he dismisses it quickly. his fingers tuck under the bottom hem of your tank top and he tugs on it gently. "i like this shirt."

you tilt your head. "so i've heard."

"it's nice." and then his hands roam again, running along your ribs and then your back with a relaxing pressure to them. as if he's trying to press the feeling into your memory. he finds the outline of your bra and traces it on your back, wetting his lips. "when'd you get it?"

your bodies sway in unison, and he watches your mouth as you speak. the words comes soft, but tinged with feeling thomas was unprepared for.

"last night." you breathe, your brow furrowing as you recall. "some of the girls wanted to trade, and i hated watching them walk around in the same clothes they were given by WCKD. it's so... unfair."

thomas frowns, eyes tracking your features as they melt into something empathetic, sorrowful. he brings a hand to your face and caresses you gently, frustrated that his hands aren't softer, that he's not built with the delicacy you deserve. he tucks a strand of your hair back and cups your cheek, meeting your eyes.

"always thinking about everyone else." thomas states as he runs his thumb across your skin. "I wish you’d focus on what you want."

you let out a disbelieving snort, giving thomas a look. "said the pot to the kettle."

he tilts his head, squinting. "what?"

"it's... never mind, nothing." pressing your soft, perfect hand over his rough one, you turn into thomas' palm. "kiss me again. please."

and thomas is never one to turn down your requests.

he zeroes in on your plush lips this time, trying to go slow enough as not to scare you. he gets lightheaded kissing you like this, so completely alone with all the time in the world and a bed right behind you. he wants to savor you, to drink your skin and lips and hair and scent in and all the same he want to pin you down and force you to beg and whine his name and tug on his hair.

he keeps it slow to feel a sense of self control. his lips slide against yours seamlessly as he guides you by the jaw to tilt your head in cadence with his own, and the way you melt into him is just perfect. he’s obsessed with the way you relax into him, drowning out all his other senses. content with just kissing you for hours and hours, if that’s what makes you happy; anything to make you feel good.

too bad his heart and his dick are fighting for control. his hands slide under your top and across your stomach, finding their way to your bra clasp. his pants are uncomfortably tight already, his body clearly unused to his current situation.

"how..." he mumbles against your lips, fumbling with the hooks. "sorry, i..."

you let out a hushed laugh, pulling away from thomas enough to look him in the eyes as you reach around and unclasp your bra from under your tank top. he watches with parted lips as you pull off your top slowly, and then let your bra slide down your arms.

he swallows, seeming overly focused on holding eye contact.

"thomas," you slowly grin, "you can look."

he sighs with relief as his gaze dips down to your chest, pretty and perfect and all for him. his hands graze up your sides and cup your breasts, and he lets out a small "oh."

"fuck," thomas blurts, meeting your playful look with a pitifully needy one. he swipes his thumbs over your nipples experimentally. "i..."

"is- um, is it what you were expecting?" you reach out and rest your hands on his sides, just to touch him.

"better, somehow. i don't even... wow. can i-?"

"yeah. yes. 'course."

he licks his bottom lip and nibbles it softly as he examines your face, being sure that you're okay with his eagerness. he liked the tank top (no, fuck that, he loved it), but pressing his mouth to your breasts is so. much. his heart is thumping as he sucks and then nibbles softy on your hardened nipple, causing you to whine softly.

the sound alone makes his pants impossibly tighter. he switches to your other side and his movements become a tad more demanding as he tries to draw another sound out of you. and when he sucks harder than before, he's successful. you tilt your head back and whimper.

your pleasure is the hottest thing thomas has or ever will see. he steps back.

your eyes snap open and you look a bit confused and very disappointed at the suddenly ended moment. he raises his brows at you.

"since when do you sound like that?" he challenges, a cocky smirk growing on his face.

you press a hand over your eyes. "jesus, do you want me to be silent? i've never felt this before!"

"no. definitely not silent. i like it." his confidence is growing by the second, and thomas slowly sinks to his knees in front of you. "i wanna hear it again."

"oh." you huff as he kisses your tummy, running his hands up and down the backs of your thighs. his fingers slide carefully under the waist of your shorts, almost casual as he looks up at you. you nod, looking flustered and wanting and all the things he loves to see.

thomas slides your shorts off slowly, kissing along your panties. he can smell your intoxicating scent and the velvety soap you've been making, drawing him deeper into a daze for you. he looks up to find you already watching him, eyes wide and lips kiss-swollen.

"lay down?" he pats the backs of your knees softly. you oblige his request without question and lay on his bed, propping your head up on his pillows.

he returns to soft kisses over your only article of clothing left, realizing the accidental power imbalance he created when he glances up to admire your naked chest.

"oh, baby." he mumbles, sitting up on his knees over you on the bed. you hum in response before he tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it across the room. "sorry. i forgot i had clothes on."

it was an honest comment, but it made you laugh. he smiles sheepishly.

"i dunno how you could. i would assume this is causing some annoyance." you sit up, sliding a deft hand over his painful hard-on. he watches your hand as it glides down his leg.

when you drop it, thomas flicks his gaze back up to your eyes. "you don't have to stop."

"neither do you." your features are focused in a way he's not familiar with, like you're determined to match his confidence. a thrill runs up his spine when you tilt your head challengingly. he smirks, and you match it with one of your own. your hand resumes palming him through his jeans, and you undo the button and zipper seamlessly.

the relief is immense. he stands up when you begin sliding the pants down his thighs so he can finish the job for you, and when you scoot forward to tug his boxers off after, he gasps.

the cool air is less shocking than the sudden sight of his dick. he's slightly embarrassed and very flushed on both heads. his mouth opens when you wrap your hands around the shaft and gently pump him once, experimentally.

"what... feels good?" you watch him through your lashes for a positive response. thomas feels as if his brain is fully submitting to his lust, at this point. "like this?"

he nods helplessly as you begin jerking him off agonizingly slow. you're an accidental tease and he's content with going insane just like this, that is until-

"fuck, holy fuck." he rambles out the moment your lips press an innocent kiss to his tip. his hands feel absolutely useless at his sides and there isn't a single filter from his brain to his mouth anymore. nor is there a filter between your mouth and his cock. you kiss every inch of him as soon as you hear his muffled moaning, spurred on by the sound of his desperation.

"y-you can't," he leans his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, clamping a hand over his mouth when you take him deep inbetween your lips. your tongue swirls around curiously and he shakes his head. "stop, please, please."

you halt immediately, pulling your lips away and dropping your hands. he looks down at you dizzily. you look up at him guiltily.

"not your fault." thomas mumbles with what little consciousness he feels he has. his hand cups your jaw comfortingly. "i didn't want to end this early. i'm... um, i'm sensitive, i think."

"you think?" your smile rests thomas' heart. good, you're not upset. he breathes out a small laugh, stroking the back of your head and leading you up to his face, where he kisses you softly.

you respond easily, and thomas takes that as you being comfortable. thank god, because he needs you relaxed and happy and every positive emotion there is to feel, otherwise he can't take this any further. he just couldn't do it.

you pull him by the neck and lay back down, guiding him to hoover over you. he's definitely nervous, completely out of his depth now. sure, WCKD educated them on health and the technicalities of intercourse, but he's got no clue how to find your sensitive spots and he can't picture the graphs that were presented to them.

he pulls away from your ongoing kiss, thumbing at your panties. "where, um..."

"it's okay." you whisper quietly. your eyes are all glassy and needy and he wants so badly to make you feel good. "you can take them off."

"no, no-" he furrows his brow, "well, yeah, okay. but i don't know how to... what to do, exactly."

"you don't know how to have sex?"

"i remember that part. but i want to make you feel... the way i did, first." he begins sliding your panties down your thighs as he explains, "i know you have a sensitive spot, but i can't remember where it is. show me."

you nod down at him while he kneels back and takes in the sight of you, fully exposed to him. his fingers slide through your wetness and he quickly finds your opening, pressing a finger inside you. "i remember... this one."

he crooks his finger and presses against a spot inside you, making you sigh. you visibly relax further into his cushions and try to close your thighs, but he catches your leg by the knee.

"not from the class i was given, though." he works the spot teasingly as he speaks. "minho gets a little too detailed when he's drunk. says this can make you cry."

his eyes flick up to your face, and he watches you while he teases you from the inside. "show me where it feels good."

"right there." you whine and nod. he chuckles quietly at you.

"no, not this spot." he slides his fingers out of you, leaving you empty and frowning at him. "show me where you touch yourself."

going quiet at the subtle callout, you take his wrist and guide him to press his middle finger against your clit. he circles it carefully and you squirm. "here. i usually... try not to go too fast, too quick. i build up."

"usually?" he raises a brow, grinning evilly. "i guess you have a lot to tell me, huh?"

you throw an arm over your face, partially because you're embarrassed at the accidental admission, partially because he's making slow, small circles against your nerves. "thomas. don't tease me right now."

"i'm not." he lies, scooting forward so that he's bracketed by your legs and sliding a finger back inside you. his finger on your clit never lets up as he starts opening you up for him, mesmerized by the sight of your slick folds.

"y'so pretty. jesus." he barely picks up pace and watches for your reaction, narrowing his eyes at your arm covering your face. "hey. let me see you."

"so much." you sigh as your arm falls. you're flushed and pleading, looking properly pent up. "your fingers are so much longer than mine, i can't ever..."

"mhm, feels good?"

"so good, yes. so good." you arch your back when he uses more pressure on your clit. he smirks proudly.

thomas has you squirming under him after he finds his way around your anatomy. he doesn't know what he was so worried about, it's not so difficult to have you how he wants you. certainly not as difficult as some of the other guys describe it. you're wet and needy and getting closer to the ledge, if your whimpers and whines are any tell, so thomas lets up on his touching and kisses your knee.

"can i...?" he mumbles against your soft skin. you huff at the abrupt ending to the pleasure but meet his eyes with a smile.

"please hurry up and get inside me."

per usual, you never have to ask him twice. he climbs over you and presses a kiss to your forehead before lining himself up.

thomas does his best to go slow, and he stops shortly after pressing his tip into you. he's going insane in his head, overwhelmed with how good it feels. he hears himself whimper in the back of his throat and your eyes snap up to his when you register it.

"that was... um," he huffs with embarrassment. "how are you feeling?'

"i'm alright," you mumble, "just... go all the way."

you don't have to ask twice. thomas sinks into you and his jaw goes slack. later, he's not sure how he didn't come immediately, because he sees stars when he first buries himself to the hilt in your perfect pussy.

"fuck," he breathes, dropping down to bury his face in your neck. "oh my god."

he's in bliss, inhaling your scent while he slowly rocks just barely to press his tip further into you again and again.

"thomas, mmm, hurts-" you gasp out. he snaps to and stumbles back up on his hands, sliding halfway out of you quickly and feeling you both pulse at the sudden sensation.

"sorry, shit, i'm so sorry baby. are you okay? i-i got carried away. i shouldn't have..."

you shake your head just slightly, a hand pressing against his chest to shut him up. he clamps his mouth shut and waits patiently as you pinch your brow together and breathe through your nose.

"it's okay," your voice is higher than usual, soaked in arousal and pain mashed into one. "you're just... bigger. than, y'know, average."

he waits a moment as you breathe, but he can feel a twinge of jealousy seeping in, even if he's halfway inside your lovely cunt and about to be more.

"...how do you know the average?"

"thomas," you roll your eyes, a good sign in terms of how much pain you're in. you're never over animated when you're hurting. "you have a big dick. i'm not talking about any other specific comparison."

"oh." thomas' pride flares in his chest, and he glances down at where you're connected. he props himself up with one hand and uses the other to massage your hip, feeling slightly guilty and slightly proud that he's rendered you helpless like this.

it's just so perfect, how you spend all day helping out everyone else, and now he gets to finally lay you on your back and help you. he licks his lips as he moves just slightly, just to see how your body responds so readily to his. how you clearly feel so much of it, giving him the incentive to make you feel good.

"okay," you sigh just as he feels you begin to relax around him. thomas meets your eyes, and you nod slightly, lips parted. you're perfect, he almost says. but you interrupt him before he can.

"thomas, fuck me."

and you both know he's eager to please.

thomas groans when he slowly sinks back into you, eyelids fluttering closed momentarily. his voice wavers when he tries to speak again "you- oh, god."

you moan right after, back arching slightly off of the bed as your hand goes to grip at his hair. his movements start out slow for your sake, trying to keep enough mindfulness to make sure it feels overwhelmingly good and not overwhelmingly painful. the hand that's not propping him up over you goes back to your clit, matching the pace of his circles with the pace of his hips. you sigh out his name and he twitches inside you.

thomas had no idea two people could be so close to each other. physically, of course, you two are connected, but he feels like you're putting your own claim on him when you tighten around him and whimper how good it feels. when you tell him to go faster, it feels like his brain is melding with yours, like he could stay here forever and feel totally complete. he gasps into your ear and rambles out something or other about how perfect you are, but he can't even hear himself over the roaring in his ears that is just you you you, you, you,you,you,youyouyouyou.

"fuck, thomas, feels so good, gonna-" you writhe pleasantly under him and he presses your chests together.

"yeah?" he huffs. "gonna cum?"

"yes," you meet his eyes and look totally wrecked. he humms loudly and kisses you to muffle a particularly loud moan building in his throat. "please, let me-"

"'m gonna, don't worry baby." he whimpers quietly as you arch under him again, his name leaving your mouth like a prayer. it makes him dizzy and he feels it in his stomach, the chord between you bending, snapping apart.

you roll your eyes back when you finish, and the sight paired with the way you grip his cock like a vice makes him release, almost too stupid to pull out.

almost.

"fuck, so good," he gasps as he hurriedly pulls out just in time to cum outside of your body. you whine at the sudden pullout, and he pops his fingers in his mouth to suck your wetness off of them before cupping your face. "sorry, i know, i know. can't get you pregnant right now."

his dick twitches at the thought.

"...but we can talk about that." thomas mumbles. you breathe out, still nonverbal after your own release. "are you okay?"

you nod, smiling up at him with eyes full of exhaustion. "sooo tired."

your voice is a little shot, probably from the whining and gasping and moaning (that he cannot stop thinking about), and thomas feels a tinge of worry in his chest.

"okay. let me clean up and you can go to sleep. okay? i'll bring you breakfast tomorrow morning, so don't freak out if i'm gone when you wake up."

you nod again, pulling him gently by the arm so he'll kiss you one last time. "i loved it. y're so hot, thomas."

he laughs bashfully and kisses all over your face, feeling your lashes flutter. he knows he needs to get some pants on and grab a rag, but it takes all of his willpower to get him away from you. he kisses down your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. he plants his last kiss to your ankle before peeling himself away. "i'll be right back."

he stumbles out of his tent, shirtless and wracked with euphoric exhaustion from a night that had been long coming. the bonfire is dim, and few people are still out when he makes his way back over to it. after scoring a damp rag and two waters, he runs into gally.

gally presses a hand to thomas' bare chest, his face filled with unrestrained disgust.

"half the bonfire was looking for you. next time, i'm not covering your ass. i'll let them hear all of that."

thomas blinks.

"oh. thanks."

gally wipes his hand on his shirt as he pushes past him, grunting in leu of a response.

thomas is mildly embarrassed that he was so incredibly horny he snuck off without saying goodnight to anyone, but his mind is still preoccupied with getting you comfortable, so he leaves those feelings at the bonfire.

you're fast asleep when he returns, but you wake when he gingerly cleans you up.

"did anyone say anthing?" you mumble when he climbs into bed to spoon you.

"nah." he kisses your shoulder. "i was pretty discreet."

you hum happily and wiggle a little closer to him, falling asleep while he softly rubs your hip.

☆

“Do not pretend to know my mind,” he had sneered in front of his guards as he turned on his heel and strode away.

Neither of you slept a wink.

Now, the afternoon light pours through the lancet windows, bringing warmth over your mahogany desk. You sit alone in the stillness, the silence broken only by the soft scrape of an iron quill across fresh parchment.

The ink glints wet under the sun, tracing thoughts you had carried in your chest for months—words written not to be sent, but to bleed off the ache in your own heart.

I know I ought to harden my heart against his bitter edges,

You write, the delicate script sloping across the page.

Yet I cannot force the warmth from my blood. He wears his wrath like heavy plate, driving the world away before it can glimpse the fragile truths he guards. He glares at the court as though every living soul owes him a debt, yet I have known the strangely soft nature of his spirit when the noise of the realm fades. I find myself thinking of his touch—how his hands, usually so swift to rest upon a pommel, are astonishingly gentle when he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. He speaks endlessly of blood and fire, yet when the keep grows unbearable, he turns to me as if I am his only harbour. I catch him watching me across a crowded hall, and beneath all that terrible fury, there is a steady light I wish I could keep forever.

You pause, setting the quill down upon the bronze dish. You do not write his name at the top. To see Aerion penned beside such soft, vulnerable truths feels foolish, almost dangerous, should any eyes but your own ever find it.

Before the page can dry, a soft knock echoes at the chamber door. A handmaiden peeks inside, curtsying low. “My Lady, your father’s steward is below in the courtyard with the baggage. He asks for a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” you reply, smoothing the wrinkles of your skirts as you stand. You leave the parchment resting open on the corner of the wood to dry, stepping out into the cool corridor and leaving the door unlatched, expecting to return before the hour turns.

Not three minutes pass before the doors creak open.

Aerion steps into the room, and held tight in his right hand, is a small box of carved ivory inlaid with mother of pearl—a ridiculous, needlessly expensive apology.

He has come to make amends in his own terrible, indirect fashion. His ego remains thoroughly bruised from yesterday’s spat, and he has spent the better part of the morning pacing his quarters, rehearsing what to say without sounding like a fool.

“You're not here,” Aerion mutters to the empty silence, a scowl tightening his face as his gaze sweeps the sunlit room. He strides toward the desk to leave the box, but as he passes, a flash of wet black ink catches his eye.

Normally, Aerion would pay no mind to a lady’s private notes or household tallies. But the very first line at the top of the parchment seizes the breath out of his lungs.

…I know I ought to harden my heart against his bitter edges, yet I cannot force the warmth from my blood…

Aerion freezes. His broad shoulders set uncomfortably.

His eyes dart across the opening words.

Because of yesterday’s trouble, his mind instantly leaps to the absolute worst conclusion. A sickening weight drops into his stomach. Another man. His fingers grip the edge of the desk so tightly the wood groans beneath his palm.

He reads the very next sentence, pulse thumping violently in his ears.

…I find myself thinking of his touch… I wish I could keep him forever…

Aerion cannot bring himself to read another word. The sheer agony of it burns through his veins like fire. He snatches the page off the desk, his breath coming in shallow rasps, his eyes darkening with a mixture of profound hurt and panic.

In his haste and fury, his thumb presses firmly over the center lines, crushing the parchment in his fist. He knows only that while he spent the entire night agonizing over how to fix what he broke, you were pouring declarations of love onto paper for someone else.

As if on cue, the doors move open behind him.

You step across the threshold, closing the door behind you with a click. The light atmosphere in your chest withers the moment your gaze lands upon the imposing silhouette by your desk. Aerion stands motionless, backlit by the golden sun. His shoulders are rigid, his knuckles white around the crumpled parchment in his fist. The delicate ivory box sits forgotten on the mahogany wood.

He turns slowly. “Is this why you were so quick to walk away yesterday?” Aerion asks. His voice is dangerously quiet, stripped entirely of his usual prideful veneer. It sounds raw. Bleeding.

He lifts the wrinkled paper, a muscle leaping in his clenched jaw as he fights to keep his composure from shattering. “You sit in your room… writing declarations of love?”

You blink as your heart takes a heavy leap. “Aerion, put that down. You shouldn't be reading–”

“Who is he?” Aerion demands, taking a deliberate step toward you. The suffocating presence of him swallows the space. “Tell me his name. Which lord in this miserable keep has earned such… such absurd devotion from you?”

You stare up at him, taken aback. You look up at the wounded shape of his eyes, at the tight line of his mouth, and then down at the crumpled paper in his hand.

Ah.

“Aerion,” you say softly, taking a step toward him.

“Do not,” he rasps, backing up half a pace, though his eyes never leave yours. He looks so fiercely protective of his wounded pride, trying so hard to play the part of a dragon when his chest is heaving with panicked breaths. “Answer me.”

“You didn't finish reading it.” You stop just inches away from his frame.

Aerion lets out a bitter scoff. “I read enough. I read that you think of his touch. That you wish to keep him–”

“Read the rest.” you interrupt.

Aerion tries to pull the paper away, but you are faster. Your fingers gently catch his wrist, anchoring him in place. The warmth of your skin against his sleeve makes him stiffen.

“Right there,” you whisper, guiding his hand down so his eyes are forced back onto the crumpled parchment.

Aerion’s jaw sets, his teeth grinding together as he tries to resist. But as his eyes flick down to the page out of compulsion, the delicate script catches him once more.

…He speaks endlessly of blood and fire, yet his hands are astonishingly gentle when he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. He glares at the court as though every living soul owes him a debt, yet when the keep grows unbearable, he turns to me as if I am his only harbour…

The silence in the room stretches, and you take notice of the veins in his necks that start presenting themselves.

You watch as the realization slowly washes over him, sweeping away the jealousy that consumed him moments before. His thumb, still resting against the wrinkled paper, remains in place.

A faint, unmistakable flush begins to creep up the collar of his doublet, painting the tips of his pale ears in a shade of crimson.

“You..” Aerion’s voice loses every drop of its harshness. He looks up from the page, pupils blown wide, caught somewhere between utter disbelief and flustered embarrassment. “This is about–”

“About an insufferable prince,” you continue, the shadow of a smile breaking across your face.

Aerion swallows hard while he looks down at the wrinkled page, his fingers moving with care as he smoothes out the creases he made in his panic. He folds the parchment with precision, slipping it deep into the inner pocket of his tunic—safekeeping the confession directly against his heart.

“You ought to have named me,” he almost mumbles, voice dropping into a low register.

“And deprive myself of watching you storm in here like a wounded dragon?” you tease callously.

Aerion lets out a heavy breath, the tension leaving his shoulders all at once. He reaches back toward the mahogany desk, picking up the small ivory box he had abandoned. He does not hand it to you with his usual flourish. He simply cradles it in his palm, offering it up like a silent penance.

Inside, nestled against velvet cushions, sits a delicate hair comb crafted especially to look like seashells catching the light.

“I brought it before I saw the page,” he says, his eyes fixed on your face, yet avoiding your eyes like a disconcerted child. “I thought... I believed I had pushed you past your endurance yesterday.”

“You are difficult.” you add as you reach out, fingers resting against his cheek, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw. “You are proud… and sharp… and exhausting.”

Aerion’s eyes flutter shut at the touch of your skin. A small sigh escapes his lips, his hand rising instinctively to cover yours, pressing your palm tighter against his face.

“Yet you stay," he murmurs into the silence.

Ormund’s cloying perfumes made your stomach turn these days and the entire household reeked of his potpourri. You kept the windows and doors thrown open all day and night. But your husband’s neck was the one thing in the world that did not make you want to retch.

So you scented him constantly. And took advantage of him as you pleased, ravishing his pretty, pale skin. Your poor husband patiently endured his fate, condemned to spend his days feasted upon, the long column of his neck bitten red and purple for the whole of court to see.

“My dragon love is attempting to eat me again,” he murmured, voice low and amused even as he tilted his head to grant you better access. “I have a meeting with the High Septon in the morning, you greedy, greedy woman.” 

You hummed against his skin, the sound making him close his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed and you attacked it. Your teeth scraped at the sensitive skin. He hissed, hand tightening on your hip. You soothed the sting at once with soft kitten licks, tongue tracing the indentations you had left.

“Sorry,” you whispered against his skin, not sounding very sorry at all. “You are just so pretty, husband. And you smell… gods, Gwayne.”

You whined as you buried your face again in the curve of his neck, just breathing him in. You felt like Ormund with his damned pomander.

“How am I to survive a whole week without this?” you asked mournfully.

“Stay.” His hand found the gentle swell of your belly and spread protectively over it. “It is far too much strain to ride in your condition.”

“The babe will be perfectly fine—"

“It is too much strain for you.”

He caught your chin and guided your face away from his throat until you were forced to look at him. Green eyes steady, serious. “You are already ill every morning. You scarcely keep anything down till midday. I worry for you.”

You hummed in reluctant acknowledgment and dipped your head again, resuming your slow, wet kisses, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Rhaenyra is with her second child already,” you murmured against his skin. “We want to go together and choose eggs for the babes to cradle with.” Your hand drifted down to rest over his on your stomach. “Oh, how sweet would it be if they were of the same clutch?”

“Very sweet,” Gwayne conceded, though his tone suggested he found the prospect considerably less charming than you did. He tried, but your husband was not born with fire singing in his blood. You could not fault him for not understanding. “But please, dearest, you should make the journey after the babe arrives and you have recovered.”

You answered him by rolling your hips.

A slow, deliberate grind that dragged your slick walls along the thick length buried inside you. Gwayne’s breath left him in a rough exhale and you felt him twitch inside of you, swelling even fuller. His hands immediately settled at your hips, large and warm.

“Again, for me,” he rasped.

You obliged. Up and down, slow at first, savoring every inch of the stretch, the way he filled you so completely even when neither of you was thrusting hard. The armchair creaked beneath you. You were dripping; his seed from the first round already spilled out with every upward slide, slicking his thighs and balls, making filthy wet sounds that filled the quiet chamber. Mixed with the quiet wash of the bay and the soft rustle of curtains, it was obscene.

You whined and he helped you without hesitation. His strong hands lifted and lowered you in a steady, generous rhythm, strong thighs braced beneath yours.

You kept your face buried to his skin, dipping to suck dark marks at his collar, breathing him in like you were starving for him, licking sweat from his skin, biting down whenever the pleasure spiked too high.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your hair, voice strained. “Have what you need, sweetling. Use me.”

You whimpered and clenched around him, his words going straight to the tight coil low in your belly. Your pace turned desperate, grinding harder, faster, chasing the friction of his cockhead against that perfect spot inside you while your sensitive clit dragged against the base of his dark curls on every roll.

“My love,” he gasped, head tipping back against the chair, his eyes fixed on you. “My beautiful love. Gods, I should keep you always like this— soft and lovely with my babe.”

Your pace quickened, hips rolling with growing urgency. The soft swell of your stomach brushed against his abdomen with every downward slide. One of his hands left your hip to cup the back of your head, holding you close so you could keep nuzzling and biting as you pleased. The other remained firm on your hip, helping you rise and sink, rise and sink, until the pleasure coiled tight and bright low in your belly.

You pulled your head back just enough to grip his chin and drag his mouth to yours. Breath mixed. Teeth clicked.

You came with a muffled cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Gwayne groaned deeply, hips lifting once, twice, grinding up into you as he followed, spilling hot and deep while you rode out every last pulse.

For a long moment neither of you moved. You stayed exactly where you were: impaled, trembling, staring into his green eyes while you stroked his hair and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. His hands stayed wrapped around your back, holding you gently against him even as his cock twitched with aftershocks inside you.

“That was shameless,” he murmured.

“Was it persuasive?”

Gwayne gave you a long, unimpressed look. You smiled sweetly.

“…You are an unscrupulous woman.”

You squealed with joyous victory, peppering thankful kisses to the scar under his eye.

He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it from his face, doing poorly to hide his own smile.

“You have my blessing—provided the maesters find no cause for concern.” His gaze sharpened. “And you will rest once you arrive. You will not exhaust yourself attempting to keep pace with your sister, and at the first hint of pain—however slight—you will stay with her and send for me.”

“You make me sound so terribly fragile.”

He pressed a kiss to your left eye, then to your right. “You are what is most precious to me.”

Then he bent to your throat and began repaying your greedy attentions, one lingering kiss at a time.

HOTD masterlist

@ange0o

Her smile didn't waver. If anything, it deepened, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Shall I kiss them better, my prince?"

Before he could answer, before he could summon the sneer that usually sat so comfortably on his face, she lifted his numb hand and pressed her lips to his fingertips, one by one. The gesture was absurd. Childish. It should have irritated him.

Instead, he felt the stirring of want low in his belly.

"You are ridiculous," he said.

"I am a Tyrell," she replied, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did. Growing strong, their words declared, but Aerion had learned that the roses of Highgarden grew in more ways than one. They grew into the cracks of things, their roots spreading patiently, until they had wound themselves so deeply into the stone that pulling them out would bring the whole wall tumbling down.

She had been doing that to him, he realized. Slowly, insidiously. And he had let her.

The wedding had been a political affair.His father, Maekar, had informed him of the match with the same tone he used when discussing troop movements or grain stores. The Tyrells were powerful, rich, and ambitious. An alliance with the Reach would strengthen the crown's position, given some of the houses in the region had sided with Blackfyres but Tyrells had remained loyal to the Crown. Aerion was a second son of a fourth son with little prospect of sitting the Iron Throne, but he was still a Targaryen.

He had raged, of course. He had thrown a goblet at the wall and demanded to know why he should be saddled with some flowery Reach girl with no Valyrian blood, no dragonlord heritage, no appreciation for the fire that ran in his veins. His father had stared at him with those cold, violet eyes until Aerion's fury had sputtered and died like a torch in the rain.

"You will wed her," Maekar had said. "And you will do your duty."

So he had. He had stood in the Great Sept of Baelor with a cloak of Targaryen crimson and black in his hands, and he had looked upon his bride, who had been trying to appease him ever since she had arrived in King's Landing. She had been beautiful, even he could not deny that, though he had wanted to. But beauty was common enough in King's Landing. What had unsettled him was her composure. She had met his sullen glare with a serene, almost indulgent smile, as if he were a child throwing a tantrum and she was merely waiting for him to tire himself out.

It had infuriated him.

It had also, though he would never have admitted it then, intrigued him.

The wedding feast had been interminable. He had drunk too much, determined to drown the indignity of it all, while she had sat beside him on the dais and charmed every lord and lady who approached. She had laughed at Lord Butterwell's tedious jests, complimented Lady Arryn's dreadful gown, and spoken so sweetly to his brother Aemon that Aerion had felt an irrational surge of something hot and unpleasant twist in his gut.

"Your brother is very kind," she had remarked as the dancing began.

"Aemon is a maester in training," Aerion had replied, his tone clipped. "He has no interest in women."

"I did not say he did." She had turned those eyes on him, and there had been sharpness beneath the sweetness, like a thorn hidden among petals. "I merely observed that he was kind. A quality that seems in short supply among princes."

He had wanted to snap at her. To remind her that she was a mere Tyrell, a flower grown in dirt, and he was the blood of the dragon. But the wine had made his tongue thick and his thoughts slow, and by the time he had formulated a suitably cutting retort, she had already risen from her seat and extended her hand toward him.

"Dance with me, husband. The lords and ladies expect it."

"I do not dance."

"Then you will watch while I dance with others." Her smile had not wavered. "Lord Lannister has been eyeing me all evening. I imagine he would be happy to oblige."

Aerion had danced with her. He had hated every moment of it, or told himself he did, but he had noticed the way the candlelight caught the gold thread in her gown, the way her hand fit perfectly in his, the way she moved with a grace that made the other women in the hall seem clumsy by comparison.

"You dance well," he had conceded grudgingly as the music ended.

"I am a Tyrell," she had repeated, as if those three words were answer enough for everything.

The bedding ceremony had been mercifully brief. His father had forbidden any of the more ribald traditions, a rare show of consideration that Aerion suspected had more to do with preserving the dignity of House Targaryen than with any concern for his bride's comfort. They had been escorted to their chambers, the door had closed behind them, and suddenly they were alone.

She had stood in the center of the room, still in her wedding gown, and for the first time since he had laid eyes on her, she had looked uncertain. The expression had flickered across her face for only a moment before she smoothed it away, but Aerion had seen it. He had seen her hands tremble slightly before she clasped them together.

He had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. The women of Highgarden were said to be wanton creatures, as lush and eager as the summer fruits that grew in their orchards. Men whispered of their exploits, of the lovers they took before marriage, of the skills they learned in secret gardens and moonlit bowers. Aerion had expected a woman who knew what she was about, who could meet him as an equal in the marriage bed, who might even teach him something new.

What he had found instead was a maiden trembling with a fear she was trying desperately to hide.

"Take off your gown," he had commanded, voice rougher than he intended.

She had obeyed, her fingers clumsy on the laces. The golden silk had pooled at her feet, leaving her in her shift, and she had stood there like a sacrifice awaiting the knife. Her eyes had been fixed on the floor.

Inexperienced, he had realized with a shock that bordered on disbelief. She knows nothing.

The knowledge had kindled something dark and possessive in his chest. All those stories, all those whispers about wanton Reach girls, and here was his wife, untouched, unknowing, entirely his. The lords who had boasted of their conquests in Highgarden's gardens were liars, or else they had never met this particular rose.

He had been gentle that first night. Gentler than he had expected to be. Gentler than he had ever been with any woman. He had taken his time, had touched her until she stopped trembling, had swallowed her cry of pain with his mouth when he finally breached her maidenhead. She had clutched at his shoulders, her nails leaving half-moons in his skin, and when it was over she had looked up at him with those big eyes.

"Is that all?" she had whispered.

Despite himself, despite everything, Aerion had laughed.

That had been months ago. The trembling virgin of their wedding night was gone, replaced by a wife who greeted him in the mornings with sleepy smiles and kisses pressed to his fingers. She had learned some things, how to angle her hips to take him deeper, how to use her hands to stoke the fire in his blood, how to read the tension in his jaw and the rhythm of his breath. But there were limits to what she knew, limits that became more apparent with each passing week.

This morning, as the sunlight crept across the bed, Aerion's thoughts had already turned in a familiar direction. He had woken hard, he often did, especially with her warm body pressed against him, and the sight of her sleep-rumpled and soft was doing nothing to cool his blood.

"Come here," he said, tugging her up until she was sprawled across his chest. "I want you."

She went willingly, as she always did, her body pliant beneath his hands. He rolled her onto her back and settled between her thighs. She welcomed him with a soft sigh and the immediate, instinctive clench of her inner muscles that made him groan against her throat.

This was where the mask slipped. This was where all her clever words and knowing smiles fell away, leaving only the truth of her body. She could not lie here. She could not summon what she did not know.

He took her slowly at first, watching her face. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted. She was beautiful like this: undone, unguarded, entirely his. But as the pace quickened, as his need grew more urgent, he could feel her struggling to match him.

"Wrap your legs around me," he commanded, and she tried, but her thighs trembled with the effort and she could not hold the position. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her breath coming in short gasps that were half pleasure and half exertion. She was trying, he could see that she was trying, but her body would not obey.

With a growl of frustration, he pulled out of her and flipped her onto her stomach. "On your hands and knees," he said. "I want to take you from behind."

She pushed herself up, her arms shaking. He positioned himself behind her, one hand on her hip, the other guiding himself to her entrance. But before he could push inside, her arms buckled. She collapsed forward onto the mattress, her back bowing, her body unable to sustain the position.

"Gods be good," Aerion muttered. "Can you not even hold yourself up?"

"I'm sorry." Her voice was muffled by the pillows. "I'm sorry, I..."

"Quiet." He reached for the pillows, stacking them beneath her hips, lifting her to the proper angle. "There. Stay still."

She did as she was told, her body soft and yielding beneath him as he entered her again. The position was everything he wanted: deep, tight, the sight of her rounded backside pressed against his hips enough to make his blood sing. But even as he drove into her, even as the pleasure built and built until it shattered through him, a part of his mind was cataloging her limitations.

Spoiled, that part of him sneered. Soft as a rose petal. She lies there and lets you take your pleasure, and what does she give in return? She cannot ride you. She cannot hold herself up long enough for you to take her properly. She cannot even...

"Enough," he bit out, though whether he was speaking to her or to his own thoughts, he could not say.

He spent himself inside her with a shuddering groan, she took it all, her body milking him with those delicious, involuntary clenches that seemed to pull the seed straight from his stones. When he pulled out, his seed dripped from her, staining the pillows he had arranged so carefully beneath her hips.

She rolled onto her side, her chest still heaving. "Husband," she began, but he cut her off with a gesture.

"Stay there," he said. "I'll want you again shortly."

He lay back against the headboard and closed his eyes, waiting for his body to recover. He felt her shift on the bed, and then her fingers were on his chest, tracing idle patterns through the light dusting of silver-gold hair. The touch was feather-light, and despite his irritation, he felt his cock twitch in response.

"Did I please you?" she asked softly.

He opened his eyes. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide and earnest, her expression vulnerable. He hated that vulnerability. He hated that it made him feel things he did not want to feel.

"Your cunt grips me like a vice," he said flatly. "You drench me like a fountain. You milk me until the last drop is wrung from my body. So yes, wife. You please me."

The vulnerability vanished, replaced by that knowing smile that was beginning to feel like home. "How poetic," she murmured. "The bards will sing of such romance."

"Mind your tongue."

But she was already laughing, and despite himself, Aerion felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He smoothed it away before it could become a smile.

Later that morning, Aerion made his way to the training yard. His body was pleasantly tired, his mind clearer than it had been in days. There was something about taking his wife thoroughly twice that settled his humors in a way nothing else could.

Ser Roland was waiting with practice swords. They sparred for an hour, the clash of steel echoing across the yard. Aerion lost himself in the familiar rhythms of attack and defense. His body knew this dance far better than it knew the dance of marriage. Here, there were no masks to decipher, no vulnerabilities to navigate, no pretty eyes watching him with that mixture of fear and trust that made his stomach clench.

He was mid-lunge when he caught a flash of green and gold at the edge of the yard. He faltered, his blade dipping, and Ser Roland nearly took his head off.

"Your Grace," the knight said, lowering his sword, "you are distracted."

Aerion ignored him. His eyes were fixed on the gallery above the training yard, where his wife had taken a seat beside one of her ladies. She was watching him, her chin propped on her hand, her expression one of polite interest. When she saw him looking, she raised her hand in a small wave.

"My prince," she called down, her voice carrying clearly across the yard. "Pray do not let me interrupt. I wished only to see my husband at his martial pursuits."

Go away, he wanted to say. This is not a place for women. This is not a place for you.

But he did not say it. Instead, he turned back to Ser Roland with renewed vigor, his strikes faster and more precise than they had been all morning. He was showing off, he knew it, he hated that he knew it, but he could not seem to stop himself. His body moved with a grace and power that drew murmurs of appreciation from the other knights in the yard. When he disarmed Ser Roland with a particularly clever riposte, there was a scattering of applause from the gallery.

"Well struck, husband!" his wife called. He glanced up. Her smile was genuine and bright, not the serene, practiced smile she wore at court.

The sight of it hit him like a blow to the chest.

He wanted her. Again. Despite taking her twice that morning, despite the exertion of the sparring, despite everything he knew about himself and the world. he wanted her with a ferocity that bordered on madness. He wanted to climb up to that gallery and drag her back to their chambers and bury himself inside her until neither of them could walk.

Instead, he gave her a curt nod and turned away, barking at Ser Roland to fetch him water.

That night, they dined with his family. It was a formal affair, with all the attendant tensions and undercurrents that characterized Targaryen gatherings. His father was in one of his cold moods, his displeasure settling over the table like a frost. His brother Daeron was drunk and quarrelsome. Even Valarr, usually a steadying presence, seemed distracted by some concern with his father.

Aerion felt the familiar irritation building behind his eyes. He wanted to snap at someone. He wanted to overturn the table and storm out. He wanted...

"Try the pie with Dornish spices," his wife said quietly, nudging the dish toward him. "I had the kitchens prepare it specially. I remember you said you were fond of it."

He blinked. He did not remember saying any such thing. But when he tasted the pie, it was exactly as he liked it: the pastry flaky, the filling rich with wine and spices.

"How did you know?" he asked.

She smiled that smile again. "I listen when you speak, husband. It is a wife's duty to know her husband's preferences."

"Most wives are not so diligent."

"Most wives are not Tyrells."

He snorted, but he took another bite of the pie. Across the table, Daeron was telling some long, rambling story about a whorehouse in Flea Bottom, and Baelor was looking increasingly pinched. Aerion felt the familiar surge of annoyance, could his brother not keep his mouth shut for a single meal? But before it could crest into anger, his wife's hand found his beneath the table.

She said nothing. She did not even look at him. She simply laced her fingers through his and held on, her thumb tracing slow circles on the back of his hand.

The anger drained away. Slowly, grudgingly, but it drained.

Later, when the meal was finished and the family was dispersing, Aerion found himself lingering in the corridor outside the great hall. His wife had stopped to exchange pleasantries with Lady Darklyn, and he was waiting for her. Waiting. Aerion Targaryen, who waited for no one.

She finished her conversation and glided toward him, her silk skirts whispering against the stone floor. "You waited for me," she observed.

"I wanted to walk you back to our chambers."

"There are guards enough in the Red Keep. I would have been safe."

"I know." He did not elaborate, and she did not press. She took his arm, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow. He felt a knot loosen in his chest that he had not even realized was tight.

In their chambers, she dismissed her ladies and began the long process of preparing for bed. Aerion watched her from his chair by the fire as she smoothed scented oil into her skin and slipped into a nightgown of pale green silk that clung to the curves of her body like a second skin.

She was soft, he thought again. Soft in body, soft in manner, soft in all the ways that should have bored him.

Yet he missed her laugh when it was absent. Yet her praise in the training yard had made him feel ten feet tall. Yet at dinner, when his family had been driving him to the edge of fury, she had anchored him with nothing more than the touch of her hand.

"Come to bed," she said. He went.

She curled against his side as naturally as if she had been doing it for decades rather than months. Her head found the hollow of his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest, her leg slipping between his. He felt her lips press briefly to his collarbone before she settled with a contented sigh.

He did not sleep well that night.

His dreams were restless, fragmented, full of images that slipped away as soon as he tried to grasp them. He woke before dawn with his wife still curled against him and his mind churning with thoughts he could not quiet.

The women on the Street of Silk had done things for him that his wife could not even imagine.

He had been a young man when he first visited the city's pleasure houses, full of fire, fury and the desperate need to prove himself. The whores there had been skilled. They had taught him things about his own body that he had not known, had shown him pleasures that existed far beyond the simple act of coupling. There had been one, a Lyseni girl with silver-gilt hair and knowing violet eyes, who had done something with her mouth that had made him see stars for a solid minute afterward.

His wife had never done that. His wife did not even know such things were possible.

Sometimes, in the dark hours before dawn, Aerion found himself wondering what it would be like if she did. If those clever, smiling lips could be put to other uses. If that soft body could be taught to move in ways that would bring him to his knees. If she could learn to take him in her mouth, her throat, her...

He shifted uncomfortably, his cock hardening at the thought. Beside him, his wife stirred but did not wake.

The whores had also done things to him. They had used their mouths and hands in ways that had made him groan and curse and clutch at the sheets. Some of them had seemed to genuinely enjoy it, or at least they were skilled enough at pretending that he had not been able to tell the difference. Would his wife enjoy it, if he did the same to her?

Or would she look at him with those bright eyes full of disgust and disdain?

He is her husband. He has the right. His wife should be pleasing him.

But the thought of demanding it, of ordering her to her knees as he might order a servant, soured his mood. He could imagine how she would look at him: the shock, the hurt, the careful mask sliding into place to hide her revulsion. He had seen that mask before, before their marriage, when he had been cruel to her simply because he could be. He did not want to see it again.

Why? a voice in his head demanded. Why do you care what she thinks? She is your wife. She is yours to command. If she is disgusted, what of it? She will obey you regardless.

But she would not look at him the same way. She would not smile that genuine smile. She would not laugh her low, musical laugh. She would not cling to him in her sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a stormy sea.

And he would miss it. Gods help him, he would miss it.

Perhaps only some things, he thought. To try them out. See if she likes it.

The thought settled in his mind like a seed taking root. He would not demand. He would not command. He would...suggest. He would show her that pleasure could take many forms, that the marriage bed was a garden with many hidden paths. He would demonstrate, and then she'd want to reciprocate. To return the favor.

Then perhaps he would not have to choose between the skilled whores of his memories and the soft, sweet wife in his bed. Perhaps he could have both, in time.

Dawn was breaking outside the window, pale gold light seeping through the curtains. His wife stirred again, her eyes fluttering open. She smiled when she saw him watching her.

"You are awake early," she murmured.

"I have been thinking."

"Thinking?" Her smile became teasing. "How unlike you, husband."

He should have snapped at her. Instead, he found himself reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the soft skin of her cheek.

"There are things I would teach you," he swallowed. "Things that happen between a man and a woman. Things you do not know."

Her eyes widened slightly but her composure did not crack. "And what things are those, my prince?"

"I would show you rather than tell you."

She was quiet for a moment, searching his face. He wondered what she saw there. Did she see the hunger he could not quite suppress? The uncertainty beneath it? The strange, unfamiliar tenderness that kept sneaking up on him when he least expected it?

"Very well," she said at last. "Show me."

So he did.

He started slowly, kissing her with a thoroughness that left them both breathless. Then he kissed his way down her body, pausing at all the places that made her gasp: the hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast, the sensitive skin just below her navel. She was trembling by the time he settled between her thighs, her hands fisted in the sheets, her eyes wide and uncertain.

"What are you..."

"Hush," he said, and pressed his mouth to her.

The sound she made was unlike anything he had ever heard from her. A surprised cry that melted into a moan as he worked her with his tongue. Her hips bucked against his face, her thighs clamping around his ears, but he held her steady and continued his ministrations. She was drenched already, her taste flooding his senses, and he found that he did not mind it. Found, in fact, that he liked it: the intimacy of it, the way she came apart beneath his mouth, the knowledge that he was the first and only man to do this to her.

She peaked with a scream that echoed off the stone walls, her body arching off the bed like a bow drawn taut. He gentled her through it, his tongue soft and slow against her oversensitive flesh, until she collapsed back onto the mattress with a sob.

He crawled up her body, settling his weight on his elbows, and looked down at her. Lips swollen from kissing, eyes glassy with the aftermath of pleasure. There were tears on her cheeks, he realized. Tears.

"Did I hurt you?" he demanded.

"No." Her voice was barely a whisper. "No, I...I did not know. I did not know it could be like that."

"That," he could not quite keep the smugness from his voice, "is only the beginning."

Her laugh was watery but genuine. "The beginning?"

"There is much more to learn." He hesitated, then added, "If you are willing."

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. The gesture was tender in a way that made him freeze. "I am your wife," she said simply. "I am yours, and you are mine. If there are things you wish to teach me, I will learn them gladly."

"Gladly," he repeated, testing the word.

"Gladly," she confirmed, and pulled him down for a kiss.

a/n: Besides the oneshot, I wanted to write from Aerion's pov in those early days of Growing Strong. I think it's interesting that he is aware to some degree that she's trying to placate him, or when she's not being genuine. He's not stupid or oblivious. But it doesn't register to him as manipulation because he thinks it's her trying to please him, as is a wife's duty to be pleasing to her husband. But at the same time he's pissed when it works on him. Reading his perspective after Growing Strong and Married Life adds layers to it, I think.

a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

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you roll your eyes, tutting loud and annoyed. “no ‘good morning baby.’ no, ‘you look so beautiful this morning. sorry for waking you up.’ you’re asking if i have panties on. i should kick you out on the street.”

bakugou’s smirk grows, he can deal with you pissy in the morning. in fact, this is exactly how he wants you. looking at him like he’s dirt on the bottom of your shoe, ready to slap him across his face for being crude.

he’s missed you. he wants you.

you eye his golden biceps. muscled and juicy in his tight thick tank. the bulletproof material hugs his pectorals, every ab and points his nipples. you ignore your name tattooed in cursive on his collarbone, the first and last letters peeking out of either side of his left strap. there’s leftover black eye makeup under his eyebrow and sweet sweat all over his body that makes him look similar to a glazed doughnut. he pull off his trousers last, leaving him in these black shorts he wears underneath. you can see his thighs tense as he lands back on both feet, his stupid thigh tattoo being revealed for a split second before hiding beneath the fabric.

bakugou should be exhausted after working for eighteen hours straight, he usually is. but fuck, if you don’t give him a new lease of life.

“good morning my sweet baby,” he coos, almost mockingly, just enough syrup laced in the words to keep you looking at him, albeit still frowning. he steps in closer to you, fingers gripping your chin, “been thinkin’ about you.”

you look up, head tilted in his grasp expectantly. he should be kissing you, right smack on your lips as a hello, maybe even an apology for waking you up.

instead, you follow his ruby pupils as they flicker over your face. lastly, staring at your lips. not kissing them. you hate how easily your body reacts to his proximity after how long he’s been yours, after him being so annoying.

your heart races when you can feel the heat of his body beaming onto your shorter one. you relax at the touch of his hand, any second now and you’re about to lean into his palm. you hate how even the sweaty smell of working on the streets, lingers loudly and warms you from the centre out. you’re one big reactive nerve for your boyfriend, ready to jump and rub up on him like a cat in heat.

“sorry for wakin’ you from your beauty sleep, princess,” he bends in closer to you, his pretty face right in yours. plucked eyebrows, shaven face, a streak of dirt on his cheek. then he smirks, slow and sexy, “is that enough for you?”

at that, you yank out of his grip, slapping his hand off your face. “why are you being so annoying?” you whine, spinning around to go back to your bedroom. “don’t follow me!”

bakugou’s always been good with following rules but he’s choosing not to today. he bounces after you, right on your tail as you push open the door to your bedroom.

your crumpled white bedsheets, one side lifted over from where you were laying before. there’s a box of condoms on the side of your bed he claimed, left from the last time he was around.

“nuh-uh, i meant it. sorry for wakin’ you. i know you hate mornin’s,” he brushes his lips against your ear when he speaks, his hands finding your waist and he’s not surprised by how you lean into him.

“you need to go shower, stinky,” you mumble with a pout.

despite everything, you’re a fool for his attention.

“i will, i will,” he mumbles, slowly pushing you back onto your bed.

you fall back with ease, head on your pillow and bakugou climbs over on top of you. he’s got one of his knees between yours, hands on either side of your shoulders.

you adjust your hips to wrap your legs around his waist and ignoring his own face on your tee, he looks between your legs.

“ah, so you do have panties on,” he grins, hooking his finger on the fabric at your hip and pinging it to your skin.

you slap his hand, still in a mood, “ouch, idiot. obviously, i do.”

your fiery glare serves as loving warmth and heat at bakugou’s crotch. your eyebrows are furrowed yet your legs tighten around his waist. your fingers fiddle with his clothes, adjusting his tank making sure the straps are equal. you’re fighting against him with that cute little pout. bakugou likes when you’re about to snap, he hardly gets you like this.

“y’gonna let me take ‘em off, beautiful?” he plays, rubbing his thumbs over the fabric of them, your pubic hair peeping out the top.

you pinch his bronzed side, “no. say sorry and greet me properly.”

bakugou grunts a laugh, both hands finding your hips and pulling you to his crotch. he notices how you inhale at the feel of his thickness, blink a few extra times.

“i’m not sorry for wakin’ you up. i wanted to see you,” bakugou knows the rules. happy life, happy wife. agree with everything your girlfriend says. but he’s in the mood to push, play with you a little.

you stifle a yawn beneath your palm at the same time birds chime outside. the morning sun is peeping out below your curtains and in this moment, you’re both levelled with how quiet it is.

“say sorry for forgetting your keys and making me climb out of bed to get you.”

“but then i wouldn’t have you and your little attitude lookin’ like you wanna bite me.”

you flick his forehead, your voice in need of some water this early, “so this is an attempt to seduce me? annoying me out of my panties?”

bakugou shakes his head with a grin, his hair thick with the grime of the day. “i don’t needa seduce you anymore. i bet i could slide right in. i bet you want me to.”

you shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. you refuse to touch him but your legs stay put.

“not true. we aren’t kids in a playground. you don’t have to be mean because you have a crush on me.”

“more than a crush. i love you,” he breathes, ducking into your neck to lay a few kisses down. he kisses a trail up to your jaw, lightly biting down on your skin. the angle pushes his cock between your legs and you fight the urge to grind up into him.

“you haven’t even kissed me hello,” you whine, gritting your teeth. “you’ve been mean to me.”

he lays a kiss to the corner of your lips. “is that all my baby wants? just a kiss?”

he’s got you all softened, he knows it. your eyes turn down at the edges, your lips keep twitching every time his face gets closer, your arms wrap around his neck to keep him close.

you nod slowly, “i’ve been telling you.”

“yeah? sorry, baby. it’s been a long day, f’me,” bakugou grins against your lips before slotting his over yours.

he focuses on your bottom lip. sucking your flesh until it’s tender, feeling all your limbs tighten around him and your hips rub against his cock. you’re so reactive when you’re sleepy, like your body is just acting on need and instinct.

once he gets a long sweet moan out of you, complete with a cute, “kats,” bakugou tilts his head to slink his tongue into your mouth. it’s wet, messy and slow. he works you like you’re a puzzle to unwind, to get you as relaxed as possible so he can fuck you back to sleep. you let him take control, all the fight slowly spilling out of your body.

it’s you that’s needy now, his plan all coming together.

he licks around your mouth. sucks on your tongue in order to draw a few more moans from you. you twitch beneath him, fingers grabbing at his tank top.

“kats, please,” you whine, spit connecting your lips to his.

bakugou kisses it away. he rumbles against you, gives you a grind against your core in return. it gets your back arching, a gasp pulled out of your throat.

“what, baby?” he grunts, so sure his arousal has taken over his face. “say it to me.”

“take off my panties. let me feel you,” you say loud and clear, never shy about your needs. bakugou’s always loved that about you, especially in the early days when he could never spit the words out.

bakugou works quickly, lifting your hips to grab your comfy floral panties. he pulls them up off your legs and he wants to stare at you, needy and ready for him but he’s distracted by something, “might need you to take off the tee too. don’t wanna be lookin’ at my face when i’m lovin’ you.”

you look down at his crumpled face, mid cursing in his hero uniform on your tee. “don’t wanna. it’s cold.” you pull up the fabric, resting it all on your breasts to reveal your stomach. “there.”

bakugou grunts, shoving the fabric under your chin. your breasts rise and fall with every breath and he doesn’t miss the goosebumps that prickle around your nipples, “there we go. i’ll keep you warm.”

you roll your eyes, a smile about to break, “get naked, hero. then i can go back to sleep.”

bakugou chuckles under his breath, unable to take his eyes off your face. the curve of a smile appearing and the squint of your eyes. he’s gonna treat you good, now and forever after.

bakugou pulls off his tank with the skill of a model in a perfume advertisement, sexy and purposeful, giving you enough time to skim down his body.

immediately, your hand flies to a spot just below his armpit, “you have a bruise! where were your sidekicks? did you take them?”

bakugou is quick to shush you, “wasn’t from patrol. was sparrin’ with them.”

“oh,” you whisper, resting your hand over the purplish spot, bakugou adjusts to shuffle out of his shorts and underwear in one go. “they need to go easier on you.”

then you look between his legs. you hope he doesn’t go easy on you.

“no the fuck they don’t. i let them have this one. they didn’t get ninety nine percent of their shots.” he replies, taking his cock in his hand before you can.

bakugou has a gorgeous cock, one you speak about when you’ve had too many cocktails and beg for when he walks out the shower with a towel low on his waist. you’re about to start, pulling him to you by your legs at the sight of his scarred hand looking somewhat small when he gives himself a few pumps.

“okay, honourable senpai. you’re so kind letting your protégés hit you for a confidence boost.”

bakugou smirks, just like he knows how to rile you up, you know how to him. “you sure you wanna talk like this now?”

you smile, ignoring him, “get a condom, you’re already leaking.”

you brush your thumb over his head, swiping his pre and sticking it in your mouth.

“fuck,” bakugou gulps, stretching to grab one from his bedside table. “you win, whatever.”

“yay me.”

it’s exactly what you both wanted. bakugou stuffs a pillow under your back, grips your hips and slides completely into you.

you’re a little tight this morning with no foreplay but it’s a stretch you welcome. bakugou’s already panting, stumbles of swears and even a “get it to-fuckin’-gether,” to himself when you accidentally clench around him.

“h-hold on, baby,” you say, eyes closed as you find the best spot.

he feels so good inside you, thick and hugging, so close to prodding your favourite parts.

“you good?” he flicks his gaze away from where you join to your face, lips parted.

“hm, yeah. there we go,” you only needed a few seconds. “move. move, kats.”

bakugou begins his thrusts short and controlled, testing the waters before he can really go how he wants. you feel incredible, amazing, wet and warm and like the love of his life.

he’s already given you his soul, but during sex is when he offers you more and more.

“i love you. fuckin’ love you so much,” he stutters through pants. every thrust louder with a pat pat pat. “been thinkin’ about you all day. comin’ to you. seein’ your lil face.”

you’re listening to every word but you can’t manage to reply to each comment. “faster, baby. harder.”

you can really smell him now. the smell of the day now becoming sweaty sex. your eyes roll back into your head, your clit pulses in need.

bakugou listens like you’re his north star guiding him home. he plants his knees into your mattress and thrusts. harder, controlled yet always careful of you.

“oh fuck,” you moan, slapping your hands onto his back to pull him in closer to you. his thrusts are strong, every single one sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. “fuck, fuck, fuck, kats. oh, i love you. love this so much.”

you’re rambling, unable to think straight and the harder bakugou goes, your headboard begins to rattle against the wall.

you both couldn’t care less.

it’s a bundle of moans, body parts that have no beginning or end. your bonnet is falling off your head, some of bakugou’s left over eye makeup has smudged into a sweaty substance by his eyebrow. it gets too much when he pushes your knees by your temples, getting you into a mating press.

you sneak your pointer and middle fingers between your legs to rub on your clit. you do swift circles, already lubricated by your own come.

every thrust has you inching further up the bed to the point, bakugou stops thrusting for a second to pull you to the centre of the bed.

“pillow. under your head baby,” he reminds you and as soon as you move to grab it, he’s back to those sweet skilful thrusts.

one hand on your clit, another flat on his clenched abdomen.

“you’re so—,” you start, losing yourself as a spark of electricity shakes down your legs. your dam is about to break any second now. “so beautiful.”

bakugou huffs, sweat beads bumbling on his forehead. your breasts jiggle with every motion, your hand falling on his chest with every shake.

“thank you, baby. you’re everythin’ to me. you know that.”

you nod, eyes lazed, “i do. i know.” then your mouth gapes open and you release a long mewl. you grab at his side, back arching as your hand speeds up on your clit. “i’m gonna come. i’m gonna come, baby.”

bakugou keeps up his pace, ignoring the tightness of his lower stomach. you’re always first. “i’ll look after you. come on, baby.”

you fall apart loudly. incoherent mumbles where bakugou can only make out wisps of his name and a screech from the back of your throat that makes him grin. your body jolts up and down your bed throughout it all, your toes going numb as your legs stiffen in the air. the pleasure is immense, a stream of rushing waves slapping against rocks. you want to tell him to slow down but he knows without you saying.

bakugou does slow down and the second he does, he spills into the condom with a grunt deep enough to make you come again. it comes from the pit of his stomach, all the exhaustion and stress of the day falling off his shoulders and into this bed with you.

bakugou pulls the condom off, ties it and throws it in your bin across the room. then does he finally, lay beside you in bed.

“thanks for that. needed it,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder.

both of you lay with your eyes closed, too sweaty to touch the other so you just brush your fingertips against his.

“you’re welcome,” you giggle before turning into a downturned smile, “we need to shower—.”

bakugou pulls up the duvet over your bodies, mentally resigned, “no, we can do that when we wake up and change the sheets.”

“but—,”

“you’re about to fall asleep. let yourself,” he whispers, adjusting your tee down your body and spooning you from behind. he kisses the top of your head, “goodnight, baby.”

“it’s the morning.”

“i said goodnight.”

bakugou looks for your snappy reply back but you’re already gone, fast asleep with a palm under your head.

Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.

Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.

Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.

He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.

With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.

Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.

“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.

You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.

And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.

Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.

“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.

“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—

“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”

Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.

“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.

He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.

However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.

“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”

One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?

And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.

“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”

You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.

“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”

Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”

You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.

What a fool he was.

He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.

He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.

Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.

“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.

“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”

“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”

“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”

The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.

He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”

You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”

So he had failed, again. Sigh.

What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?

Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.

Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.

With Criston Cole.

The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.

It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!

A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.

“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”

“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”

What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?

“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.

“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”

He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.

But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.

“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”

The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.

“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”

His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:

“May the best knight win, ser.”

Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”

Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.

You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.

Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?

“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”

That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.

He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.

You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.

Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.

However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.

Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.

Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?

Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.

Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.

The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.

And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.

With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.

Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.

Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.

The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.

“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”

“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.

Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.

But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—

“Do not touch me,” he rasped.

The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.

. . .

Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.

It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.

He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.

“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”

It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.

He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.

The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.

But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.

So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.

You are in love with him.

You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—

But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.

“Mrawgh...”

“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.

To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.

Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.

Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.

A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.

“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—

“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”

“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”

Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—

From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.

“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”

This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—

His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.

“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”

This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.

Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.

“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”

Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.

Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?

“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”

He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.

When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:

Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?

As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.

You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.

He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.

“Ser Gwayne!”

Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—

But then he heard you sob.

“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.

“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”

Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.

As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:

Has she... returned my feelings?

When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.

He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.

Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—

—and pressed your lips to his.

Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.

He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.

“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”

Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.

Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—

His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.

In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.

Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.

He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.

“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”

“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.

“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.

Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.

“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.

“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”

In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.