Most laughed the stories off as little more than idle gossip or folklore spun to frighten badly behaved children, while others were perceptive enough to change the subject. Lord Kage was wealthy and well-connected enough that no officials ever questioned his unchanging appearance over the decades. He was powerful enough that no magistrate or imperial official dared investigate his affairs. Lord Kage paid his taxes, entertained the right nobles, and kept Ba Sing Se’s elite well supplied with pleasures they could never publicly admit to enjoying.

Despite Lord Kage’s vast wealth, everyone understood that neither riches nor influence could silence the whispers of high society or the common folk. Those whispers spoke of the grand crimson manor tucked between neighbouring pleasure houses at the far end of the Pleasure Mile, with its lantern-lit balconies and silk-draped rooms. They spoke of the flowers that inhabited its halls, none of which ever appeared to wilt. Much like a peach pear, one could savour its sweet flesh and get lost in the ghost stories murmured in the dark over campfires. However, if one wasn’t cautious enough and bit too deeply, they risked chipping a tooth on the pit at its centre, because in Ba Sing Se, everyone knew that wherever there were whispers, there was always a rotten truth at its core.

As a girl, like many others, you had been fascinated by those stories. After lessons, you and your friends would linger at the edge of the Pleasure District, peering down the streets you had been expressly forbidden from entering. You would stand on your tiptoes between the crowds, trying to catch a glimpse of the House of the Evening Bloom. From a distance, it had hardly looked sinister. Just another elegant manor of dark-polished wood and red-painted pillars, with curved, barrel-tiled roofs that glowed red beneath rows of lanterns when dusk settled over the city. You used to dare each other to sneak as closely as possible, to witness those fabled unwilting flowers. Were they truly as beautiful as society claimed, and did they only bloom at night? You had imagined rare orchids hidden behind the shoji, night-blooming jasmine unfurling beneath moonlight, exotic peonies brought from distant corners of the world.

But you’d never once imagined the flowers were girls.

Girls who had once been just as young and foolish as you, girls with painted lips and empty smiles, girls given the names of flowers in place of their own.

Girls who never grew old.

Girls who thirsted for blood.

And above all, you had never imagined that one day Lord Kage’s attention would settle upon you. Or, that over a century later, you would no longer remember the sound of your true name, only the one he had given you. Because what were you, if not just another unwilting flower in the garden of the House of the Evening Bloom?

There was a rumour, floating like a petal in the wind—a whisper passed from flower to flower, that the Blue Spirit had been sighted in Ba Sing Se.

Although none of you were permitted to step outside the confines of the House of the Evening Bloom, lest you be dragged back screaming, you were all keenly aware of the happenings beyond its walls. Men liked to talk in pleasure houses; they would boast over cups of sake or baijiu, eager to impress whichever flower they had chosen to entertain them for the evening. Merchants bragged of their adventures and riches, generals recounted tales of military victories, and government officials often spoke too candidly of politics after enough wine. It made the flowers, and likely every other courtesan lining the Pleasure Mile, remarkably well-informed despite never truly participating in the world they heard so much about.

You and the others received little compensation for your work—silks and jewels, a place to hide from the sun, a steady supply of blood to stave off the gnawing hunger. Gold was meaningless when every coin you earned ultimately found its way back into Lord Kage’s coffers. No, information held far greater value within the House. Over the decades, the flowers had begun trading whispers amongst themselves. A noble's scandal for details of a political appointment, rumours of war bartered for stories of a distant province she would never see again. It was a pathetic sort of currency when viewed from the outside, but one many of you clung to all the same. The gossip symbolised the world beyond the lacquered gates that still existed, a reminder to stay grounded as the time ticked by and the House remained unchanged year after year.

So, when one patron mentioned the Blue Spirit, the flowers listened. When another repeated a similar tale several nights later, you all remembered. When a third swore he had seen the masked hunter himself stalking the lower ring of the ring, the rumour spread through the House like wildfire.

Tales of the Blue Spirit varied depending on who recounted them. Some claimed the Blue Spirit was merely a man. Others insisted he was something far older, a spirit sent to punish creatures that had overstayed their welcome in the mortal realm—and that was why he wore the blue oni mask, to conceal a face beyond comprehension. Entire covens were reportedly wiped out beneath his blades—century-old demons and beasts, powerful enough to command cities and armies, reduced to little more than cautionary tales and ash. One merchant—though thoroughly drunk and petrified—swore that he had witnessed the fabled man emerge from the Foggy Swamp one evening, with the severed head of a Jorōgumo attached at his hip. Because when it came to the Blue Spirit, details changed, but the outcome never did. He brought death to those deemed monstrosities by the mortal world.

He was a Warden—a monster hunter.

Unsurprisingly, the House of the Evening Bloom had grown restless in response to the talk of his presence in Ba Sing Se. What had once been mere whispers suddenly felt tangible enough to taste. The thought of the masked Warden climbing the manor steps, twin blades in hand, should have frightened you.

It certainly frightened Madame Yoru.

The Mother of Blossoms maintained the same cold composure she always had, but you had noticed there was a strain beneath it these days. Courtesans were snapped at for the slightest mistake, servants hurried from room to room with their heads bowed in the hope of not incurring her wrath, and even the most favoured flowers appeared careful not to linger too long in her presence. If Madame Yoru was worried, then perhaps there was some truth to the rumours after all…thatthought had settled over you with a sick sort of clarity, and you had allowed yourself one dangerous thing: hope.

Though, unfortunately, it was difficult to entertain such thoughts with Madame Yoru’s nails currently digging into your jaw. The Mother of Blossoms stood before you in a haze of crimson silk and gold jewellery, her sharply painted lips stretched into a smile that had never quite reached her eyes. She was beautiful and elegant, yet monstrous. Just after you had readied yourself to enter the parlour to begin a night’s work, she had cornered you in the hallway with a particularly murderous look and forced your face up to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes swept over your face with open disapproval.

“You’re becoming a poor investment,” she tutted.

You remained silent—you had learnt there was little point in arguing.

“You were once one of Lord Kage’s favourites,” she continued. “Men crossed the Earth Kingdom itself to spend an evening in your company. Lately, however… you appear determined to waste his generosity.”

The word generosity almost made you laugh the moment it slipped from her tongue. As if sensing your wayward thoughts, Madame Yoru’s grip tightened.

“You mope, you sulk, you spend every free moment hiding away in your rooms as though sorrow were a particularly attractive accessory.” She paused with a sneer, assessing your reaction for any sign of defiance. “Men do not pay for melancholy, Spider Lily. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madame,” you uttered in response.

“Good.” Her thumb brushed across your cheek with mock affection.

“You are wilting, my dear girl.” She murmured, and that callous, predatory smile of hers had returned. “And all of Ba Sing Se knows that the flowers here do not wilt.”

Your gaze lowered as Madame Yoru leaned in closer, breath cold against your ear. “If you fail to earn your keep tonight, then perhaps another few months in the box will remind you to be grateful.”

For a long moment, everything fell silent. The noise that had wafted down from the parlour—chatter, laughter, the shuffle of footsteps and the clink of cups—faded away, replaced by a sudden, piercing ringing that filled your ears as a sob clawed its way up your throat. Absolute, indescribable terror seized you so suddenly, so violently, that a wave of vertigo washed over you. It wasn’t a gentle lapping at your ankles, but a tidal wave—powerful and large enough that the impact knocked the breath from your lungs and caused you to lose your footing, your body being thrown and spun wildly in the imaginary current. If you were still human, you would’ve emptied the contents of your stomach onto the floor. But in that moment, you couldn’t even find the words. Could get a breath past the lump in your throat, not blink away the tears stringing at the corners of your eyes—

No.

No, no, no, no.

You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it, no, you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it again. They wouldn’t send you back, right? You wouldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it—

Madame Yoru had always been frighteningly perceptive when it came to her flowers, and she caught your reaction at once. The widening of your glassy eyes, the visible tremor that rattled through your body as you gaped at her, still speechless, rooted in place and defenceless—

You couldn’t do it. They couldn’t send you back. You couldn’t do it again—

Madame Yoru hummed, satisfied, wearing the look of someone who had found the knife and knew exactly how to twist it. Only when she had satiated herself on watching you come apart into a thousand tiny pieces, did she finally release your jaw.

“Run along, Spider Lily.” She gave your cheek a little pat, though with the ferocity with which she executed it, it felt closer to a slap. “Best find a client before it’s too late.”

It was the sting across your cheek that finally pulled you from your spiralling thoughts. Your feet carried you down the corridor before your mind could catch up, silk whispering around your ankles as much as your own consciousness as you walked.

You couldn’t go back.

The thought repeated itself over and over, drowning out everything else, that tidal wave of panic returning every time you thought you’d wrenched yourself from the waters.

You couldn’t do it again. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back again—

You would smile, let them touch you, and take whatever they desired. You would perform. You would endure every humiliating moment of it if it meant avoiding the alternative. Because all the flowers knew that the House would never dare beat them. A misplaced blow could split skin and damage a face, leaving a mark no amount of powder could fully conceal, and the Red Prince did not tolerate damage to his property. He had perfected other methods of breaking in his flowers and keeping them broken.

You couldn’t go back there, not again—

You forced the thought away before it could fully form and willed your hands to stop shaking. The world around you blurred into crimson silk, polished wood and the warm glow of lantern light as you stumbled forward. You only became fully aware of your surroundings again when the grand doors of the parlour stood open before you. With Madame Yoru’s threat still echoing through your skull, you stepped inside.

The House of the Evening Bloom was designed to impress. The parlour occupied the very heart of the manor, rising through two lavish storeys, with the high ceiling above hidden behind silk banners and hanging lanterns. Black-and-red-painted pillars rose to support balconies that encircled the upper levels, allowing wealthy patrons to observe the entertainment below from private vantage points. Performers played soft melodies from raised platforms while servants drifted through the crowds carrying trays. The air smelt of oudh incense—potent enough to disguise the scent of predators.

At the centre of the room, sat the flowers. The display platform rose in broad tiers, forming a pyramid of embroidered cushions and low-backed seats. From a distance, it resembled a carefully arranged bouquet, every flower positioned to best display her beauty for prospective buyers. To outsiders, the hierarchy likely appeared backwards. The women seated closest to the floor on the lowest tiers of the display belonged to the most sought-after courtesans. They were the favourites; they occupied the lowest rows because they were the easiest to reach. Patrons entering the parlour naturally gravitated towards them first, and those women had spent decades ensuring it remained that way. They laughed loudly, flirted shamelessly, and guarded their positions by tearing one another apart whenever an opportunity presented itself. Many had been in the House long enough that they scarcely remembered life beyond its walls. The higher tiers belonged to everyone else—the timid and overlooked, the freshly broken, the ones men admired from afar but rarely approached. In recent years, you had found yourself preferring the solitude of the top; it was far more peaceful than the dogfight down below, even if the Mother of Blossom’s threat hung around your throat like a noose.

You climbed the platform in silence.

You couldn’t go back.

Layers of crimson silk flowed around your legs, embroidered with golden spider lilies that shimmered in the lantern light. Golden and tortoiseshell ornaments adorned your carefully arranged hair, delicate chains and ivory-carved blossoms brushing your shoulders with every step. Settling onto your cushion, you scanned the room.

You wouldn’t go back.

Below, the evening had already begun. The men laughed over their cups of sake, baijiu and wine. Flowers smiled and entertained, weaving between servants and guards as they pulled clients into private rooms.

The performance was underway.

And as you folded your hands neatly in your lap, and fixed a pleasant smile upon your face, you allowed only one thought to echo through your mind.

You had to be chosen tonight.

After an hour of observing from atop the display, a disturbance near the entrance diverted your attention from the creeping dread that still lingered despite your best efforts. Ordinarily, you would not have cared. The House of the Evening Bloom was never truly quiet. Patrons drifted in and out throughout the evening, servants hurried along, and every so often, a drunken noble would become convinced that his wealth entitled him to more attention than he had paid for. Such disruptions were common enough that they rarely merited more than a fleeting glance from the flowers.

This disturbance, however, carried an alarming scent.

Your attention shifted immediately. The man standing near the entrance looked entirely unlike the usual clientele who frequented the House. There was no silk draped across his shoulders, no expensive rings embellishing his hands, nor the carefully cultivated confidence of a noble accustomed to buying whatever caught his eye. In fact, he looked as though he had spent the past month on the road. Dust stubbornly clung to his boots and the hem of his clothing. A worn pair of dao swords were strapped across his back, with a small saddlebag thrown over his shoulder. His dark hair had fallen loose from whatever effort was made to tie it back, framing a face marked by an old, marbled burn scar that extended across one eye and down his cheek.

Despite his scar, or perhaps because of it, he was handsome. Beautiful, even.

Not in the polished way of wealthy men, but in the manner of a blade that had seen years of use. There was something undeniably striking about him, from the broad set of his shoulders to the strong, calloused hands hanging at his sides. He possessed the lean, powerful build of someone accustomed to surviving by skill rather than privilege, a man who carried every possession he owned upon his back and trusted only his swords.

Most importantly, he smelt… dangerous.

It was faint beneath the oudh incense and lotus perfume that saturated the parlour, hidden beneath road dust, sweat, and woodsmoke, yet your senses recognised it immediately. Judging by the way heads began to turn throughout the room, you were not the only one. One by one, the flowers detected it, then the guards, then the servants. The mortal patrons remained blissfully unaware, continuing their conversations and laughter without interruption, oblivious to the silent ripple that had spread through the House of the Evening Bloom. Yet beneath the music and chortling, an unspoken understanding had settled over every undead creature present.

A Warden had entered the room.

Beneath the aroma of travel and humanity, something far more familiar lingered—the scent of death. Not the rich scent of fresh bloodshed, nor the stale odour of a battlefield long abandoned. It was something deeper than that. Something that seemed to soak itself into a person over the years, settling deep beneath the skin until it became impossible to wash away. You had encountered Wardens before; every flower in the House had. No matter how often they bathed, no matter how expensive the oils and balms they wore or how carefully they disguised themselves amongst ordinary travellers, they all carried that same scent eventually. It clung to them like a second shadow, marking them as surely as any uniform ever could. And this Waren was especially ripe with it.

“You’re not welcome here, friend.” Your gaze shifted towards the entrance, where two guards had stepped into his path before he could properly pass through the threshold into the parlour. “And Lord Kage isn’t receiving visitors tonight.”

A subtle tension settled across the room. The servants continued their work, carrying trays between tables. The musicians played on without interruption. Flowers laughed at jokes they had likely heard a hundred times before and poured sake for patrons eager to believe themselves charming. The performance continued, yet beneath it all, every eye remained fixed upon the stranger standing in the doorway.

It was never a good omen when a Warden appeared at the House of the Evening Bloom. Over the decades, dozens had attempted to destroy it—Lord Kage, being an impossibly old vampire, had naturally amassed some enemies along the way. Some foes came seeking glory; others sought coin. A handful simply believed themselves righteous and powerful enough to purge the Red Prince and his coven from the mortal realm. Most had perished before reaching the upper floors. But what unsettled you was not that this Warden had come—it was how causally he had done so. There was no attempt at stealth, no disguise beyond ordinary clothing, no effort to conceal the weapons strapped to his back or the purpose that seemed to radiate from him. He stood before the guards with calm patience, despite being a man willingly walking into a den of creatures powerful enough to reduce entire districts of the city to bloodless husks. His stoic expression never wavered. If he felt fear, he hid it remarkably well.

“I have business with him,” the stranger’s voice carried easily through the room, rough from disuse. His tone suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed, or perhaps even feared. Not because he demanded it, but because few people were foolish enough to argue with him once he had spoken.

“Business,” one of the guards scoffed. “What business?”

“Personal.”

The guards exchanged a look. “You’re not with the Crimson Ward.”

At that, the stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, “No.”

Several flowers perked up immediately—you weren’t the only one listening. The Crimson Ward were the only Wardens authorised to enter the House and sample its goods without scrutiny. Lord Kage employed and paid them generously to deal with troublesome do-gooders and fellow, overzealous Wardens alike. Most of the Crimson Ward had long since discovered that guarding a wealthy vampire lord was significantly easier and more profitable than hunting one. You knew for certain that the scarred man was not among their number; you would have remembered him otherwise.

“Then Lord Kage won’t see you.”

“He will.” The certainty in his voice made the guards hesitate. There was no arrogance in his tone, no bluster. He sounded as if he were merely stating a fact—whatever this man had come here for, he was completely convinced he would get it.

You found yourself leaning forward slightly.

Eventually, one of the guards sighed. That alone released some of the pressure rising in the room. “Your name?”

The Warden hesitated for half a breath. “Lee.”

A lie. You had spent a century listening to people deceive one another. The falsehood was obvious. Apparently, the guards recognised it as well. Their expressions soured, but after a moment of consideration, they stepped aside.

“We’ll send word.” There was no kindness in their tone, rather something closer to a snarl. “Indulge a little in the goods, won’t you? It’ll be some hours before Lord Kage can see you.”

Unbothered, the stranger inclined his head and entered, posting himself near one of the pillars at the entrance, appearing entirely unmoved and uninterested by the dazzling display of women before him. The reaction from the lower tiers was immediate—Peony was first from her seat, moving with the effortless confidence that had made her one of the House’s most sought-after flowers. Her crimson robes swept across the floor as she approached him with a smile that had ruined countless men.

“You’re certainly causing a stir,” she purred, a hand stroking down his dusty outershirt. You could only find yourself surprised that she had lowered her dignity enough even to consider looking at dirt, let alone touching it. The Warden looked at her politely enough, clearing his throat as he stepped away from her touch.

Undeterred, Peony continued. “If Lord Kage is occupied, perhaps I could help pass the time?”

“I’ll wait.” The answer arrived so quickly and with such finality that a small crease appeared between Peony’s brows.

Nearby, Orchid stifled a laugh, and moments later, she tried her own approach, only to receive a similarly disinterested response. Camellia followed shortly after. Then Jasmine. You watched the rotating exchange unfold with growing fascination. None of them managed to hold his attention for long, and the rejection irritated the lower tiers considerably. The stranger answered their questions cordially, offered little in return, and continued to scan the room. That, more than anything else, confirmed your suspicions.

While the flowers vied for his attention—the looks they exchanged were nothing less than feral, like a street dog guarding its next meal—his gaze continued to drift across the room. He studied the exits, the balconies, the guards stationed throughout the parlour, and the patrons occupying the surrounding tables, cataloguing each detail unabashedly. A Warden without question, a dangerous one at that. Perhaps—if you dared to consider it—an opportunity. The thought arrived unexpectedly, carrying all the recklessness that hope often brought. You should have dismissed it; any rational person would have. Yet before you could reconsider, before you could remind yourself of all the reasons why such an idea was foolish, you found yourself rising from your seat.

The movement immediately drew attention. Conversations faltered, and several nearby flowers turned to stare. Regular visitors to the House of the Evening Bloom had long since learned that Spider Lily rarely descended from the upper tiers to hunt. In recent years, you had become something of a fixture there, content to remain beyond reach. Most men admired you from afar, too intimidated by your melancholy to ever approach. The fact that you were moving now was shocking enough to silence an entire section of the parlour. You ignored them—ignoring people had become a particular skill you’d developed, along with making a man finish before he even had a chance to stick his cock inside of you. Gathering your skirts, you descended the platform. Whispers rippled down the display in your wake, but none were bold enough to stop you.

The soft rustling of silk followed every step. Gold and tortoiseshell ornaments chimed softly amidst your hair. Around you, conversations resumed in hesitant murmurs, though more than a few eyes continued to track your progress down the tiers. Your gaze never left the stranger, and as he noticed the whispers, he looked upwards—towards the display, towards you.

The change was immediate.

You’d spent decades studying people, studying men, learning the subtle shifts in expression and posture that revealed what words often concealed. You recognised it the moment it happened, the instant his attention focused on you and the room simply… disappeared from his awareness. The guards, the flowers, the patrons, the exits he had been so carefully cataloguing—all of it vanished, and all his eyes could do was remain fixed upon you.

Even from across the parlour, you watched as he inhaled sharply, a breath that seemed to shudder in his chest as he took you in entirely. His shoulders stiffened imperceptibly before relaxing again, and for the first time since entering the House, he looked almost uncertain about what to do with himself. It was almost amusing. Peony had practically draped herself across him and earned little more than polite indifference, yet now he stared as though he had forgotten what he was saying… or thinking, or perhaps where he even was.

You continued your descent, neither of you looking away. By the time your feet touched the parlour floor, the whole room felt strangely distant. Peony gave you a miffed expression that implied she had every intention of exchanging words with you once dawn broke. But none of it mattered—by the time you reached the Warden, your course had already been set.

Lord Kage rarely granted audiences to unknown visitors, particularly Wardens. Any meeting required trust, and trust within the House was established through a simple test. A Warden intending to kill the Red Prince rarely spent an evening in the company of one of his flowers. Those willing to drink sake, share a bed and permit themselves to be fed upon were generally considered safe enough to entertain—at least long enough to determine whether they posed a genuine threat.

You circled the stranger in a slow, lazy loop, close enough to smell the road dust and steel, close enough to confirm that beneath the scent of death lingered something warmer.

Human. He was entirely human.

Your gaze flicked briefly to the burn scar before returning to his eyes, observing how, for the first time since he entered the House, a sliver of emotion leaked through his stoic expression, his brows twitching ever-so-slightly.

“You smell of death, Warden.” You hummed, not even offering him a smile. “You need a bath.”

It wasn’t a request; the words left your mouth before you could reconsider them. Turning, you began walking towards your private room without waiting to see if he followed.

You already knew he would.

And sure enough, moments later, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you as the House of the Evening Bloom watched in stunned silence.

You closed the shoji behind you, shutting out the noise of the parlour echoing down the corridor. Your private entertaining room was mostly quiet, with only faint sounds from neighbouring rooms and the servants' corridor seeping through the walls. Like everything in the House of the Evening Bloom, the space was crafted for beauty. Tatami covered the floor, and silk wall hangings featuring cranes and plum blossoms decorated the walls. Embroidered cushions surrounded a low, polished table near the entrance, while a raised sleeping platform at the back was draped with sheer red silk curtains. Twisted wood carved into flowering branches outlined the edges. It was less of a bed and more of a stage upon which Lord Kage’s prized flowers were expected to bloom.

It was a quiet, feminine gasp that drew your attention, your head twisting fast enough that the dangling accessories in your hair clinked together. Beside the Warden stood a servant girl, a tray clasped to her chest. She was cowering in place, clearly startled as she had just bolted upright from her previous position seated at the low table. The Warden did not appear particularly surprised or bothered by her presence. He dumped the worn saddlebag that had been slung over his shoulder haphazardly at her feet, along with his dao swords. They landed heavily enough that the girl jolted—the poor thing looked as though she had seen a ghost. You suppressed a smile.

She was probably no older than seventeen when she was turned, maybe nineteen at most. Like most servants working for the House, her role didn't tell the whole story. Any patron who took a moment to look at the servants would see that everyone in the manor was unusually beautiful. In truth, she was a fledgling, a flower in training. Just another one of the many unfortunate souls still undergoing the long and often brutal process required before Lord Kage deemed them suitable for receiving clients—there was more to being a flower than simply perfecting the arts of pleasure. Newly turned vampires were dangerous creatures. Their hunger ruled them completely, and few possessed the restraint necessary to feed without killing. Before they could be trusted with patrons, they were subjected to years of training, punishment and correction until they learned precisely how much blood to take and when to stop. Lord Kage liked to call the experience of laying with a vampire a little death—ecstasy from the orgasm, but also the adrenaline of sacrificing the body to be fed on, with the trust that the taker would stop before the afterlife came knocking.

When Lord Kage or Madame Yoru weren’t tormenting the fledglings, it was the other flower’s turn to sink their fangs in. Perhaps that was why you’d become soft over the years, offering the fledglings some reprieve by letting them hide in your rooms. You’d once been the golden girl of the House of the Evening Bloom, the type to lash out, the one who ruled the bottom of the display like Peony or Orchid. You’d allowed them to turn you into the monster they wanted you to be. You weren’t sure what had been the turning point in your attitude—maybe the day you realised none of it had ever mattered, that you’d lived a fuller and freer life in the few decades you’d spent as a mortal than in any of the centuries you’d spent as an immortal. As a result, you had rarely entertained guests in recent years. Most evenings, the fledglings could slip into your room under the pretence of cleaning or preparing you for the night, stealing a few precious moments of peace away from the endless demands of the House.

Judging by this one’s expression, however, she had not expected her moment of peace to end so abruptly—particularly not with a Warden. You simply inclined your head at the girl, and she was quick to rush to your side, practically quivering behind you. You squared your shoulders, and with a practised smile, you turned to face your guest.

“Are you a sake or a baijiu man?” You inquired.

The question caught him slightly off guard. You got the impression that, despite his self-assurance, he wasn’t the type to frequent brothels. Now, out of the parlour and fully under the weight of your attention, you wondered if he expected you to pounce on him then and there? Or maybe he simply didn’t appreciate the art of building tension.

“Tea is fine.”

You arched a brow. Most men requested alcohol before anything else; it gave them the sense that they were more witty and important than they actually were. It gave them the confidence to perform under the scrutiny of an experienced, beautiful woman—or maybe simply the guts to let you plunge your fangs deep into their neck.

“What type?”

“Jasmine.”

That surprised you more than it should have; the answer felt strangely domestic coming from a man who smelled so strongly of bloodshed. Nonetheless, you masked your disbelief with a perfectly composed smile, inclining your head. You waited for the servant girl to move, but quickly realised she was still cowering behind you. Your gaze slowly shifted towards her as you glanced over your shoulder expectantly.

“You heard him, Petal. Have the kitchens prepare tea, and ask the boys to bring up water for a bath and a change of clothing—these are filthy.” You gave the Warden a pointed look, and he huffed in response.

The girl blinked.

“Oh. Yes, Miss,” she replied, bowing so swiftly that she almost lost her balance.

The Warden chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand along his sharp jaw, watching as she vanished through the shoji. “I thought the point of these places was to get your patrons undressed, not dress them up?”

You clasped your hands together, slinking forward with slow, graceful steps.

“It is,” you hummed, coming to a stop before him. “Doesn’t mean I can’t treat you a little, hm? Can’t have you wandering back onto the street in those, the Pleasure Mile will think we serve any ruffian who comes knocking at the door.”

“So, it’s all about appearances and money then?” He asked, his voice lowered now that you had drawn closer. His amber eyes surveyed your every move. “Eliteism… it runs rich with you vampires, doesn’t it?”

You grinned wide enough to show your fangs, testing him with your next words. “It isn’t always about money. You’re not only here because of the mercy of my master, but also on the account of your trade. You can pay in other ways if you have skills deemed useful enough—that is what the Crimson Ward does.”

He scoffed at that. It didn’t take a genius to understand he didn’t think favourably of his kin, likely taking issue with the fact that the Wardens had taken the easy route out by serving the Red Prince rather than killing him. His tongue darted out as he wet his bottom lip, his eyes trailing down the expanse of your silk robes, catching on each embroidered detail.

“I take it they call you Spider Lily?” He asked, the subtle irritation in his expression neutralising. “They’re embroidered on your robes.”

“Yes, very perceptive of you,” you dipped your head. “And what do they call you?”

“Lee.”

The lie arrived quickly this time, and you gave him a sly look. “Your real name, I mean.”

The Warden looked mildly inconvenienced—as if debating feeding you another lie was worth the gamble. A reluctant sort of resignation settled across his features as he must have decided you were far too perceptive to fool.

“It’s Zuko.”

“Zuko,” you drawled, testing the sound and taste of it on your tongue. “It suits you, it is handsome sounding.”

Stoic as ever, he didn’t so much as blink at your praise.

“What is yours?”

A laugh escaped you before you could control yourself, a palm flying to cover your mouth.

“My name?” You giggled. “Spirits—if you had asked me several decades ago, I might have had an answer.”

You twisted your wrist, your hand gesturing as if flicking the thought away. “In truth, I don’t even remember anymore.”

The lie slipped easily from your tongue, and if he didn’t believe you, he didn’t let it show. With a sigh, you felt the fleeting amusement drain from your body; instead, a quiet intensity settled as you met Zuko’s eyes.

“When they turned me into one of them, they remade me,” you uttered. “The girl I was before is dead. She has to be dead, because she never could have survived this place or these people. So I killed her, I tore her apart until she no longer existed. So understand when I say that even though I may smile like her, and speak in her voice, and wear her skin, inside I am something monstrous—”

You cut yourself off as the shoji slid open, servants flooding into the room. The serious look that had taken command of your features dissolved as you smiled in that artful way you had mastered, ushering in the two young men carrying a large, wooden bathing tub. More followed, emptying steaming buckets of water into the tub before retreating. When you glanced back at Zuko, he remained rooted to the spot. You could have sworn there was a crack in his stoic composure. Perhaps your eyes were simply fooled by the lantern light, but for a fleeting moment, as he watched your performance, a look of pity crossed his features.

By the time the servant girl re-entered, carrying a tray with jasmine tea carefully balanced in her hands, the bath was filled, and the other servants had excused themselves with quick bows. You watched as she placed the teapot and cups on the low table before stepping back with a bow of her own. However, unlike the others, she didn’t leave. She lingered, if only for a moment—just long enough to fully draw your attention. When you looked at her, meeting her gaze with the full weight of your eyes, she immediately lowered her eyes. Still, she remained in place, as though she had something she desperately wished to say.

“Run along now, Petal. You wouldn’t want the Madame to catch you gawking.”

The girl’s spine straightened, startled as though she had been caught stealing. Colour rushed to her cheeks, and she immediately dipped into a hurried bow. “Y-yes, Miss Spider Lily.”

She turned towards the door and made it all of about two steps before stopping in her tracks.

Your brow furrowed, “Petal?”

The servant girl hesitated, fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeves. The inner struggle she faced was evident on her face—initially, fear reigned. She took a few more steps until concern clouded her features, and the guilt weighing on her conscience eventually triumphed. Spinning around, she blurted out the words, probably before she had a chance to think better of them.

“Miss Spider Lily, be warned! I overheard the guards and Madame Yoru, they’ll be watching through the hole in the wall—!”

The words died abruptly on her tongue, and her eyes darted towards Zuko. Only then did she seem to remember that the Warden was still present, and mortification flooded her expression.

Between the private rooms, there was a narrow, dark corridor. It was intended solely for servants to move discreetly through the House. It saved the fledglings from weaving around temperamental flowers and clientele who often reached a point of blind lust that they would fuck anything that breathed. But it was not only a safety measure to protect patrons from the fledglings and their uncontrollable thirst, as it also served as an observation point. Each private room was not as private as one might think, as each one had a concealed hole somewhere within. It wasn’t a large hole, just large enough for one to hold a single eye up to the gap and spy without being noticed. One of Madame Yoru’s favourite activities was slipping into the hidden corridor, sliding open the shutter and checking that the flower within was blossoming to expectations.

“Oh,” you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Oh, dear.”

The poor girl looked ready to throw herself from the balcony. Crossing the room towards her, you reached out and gently cupped her cheek. “Thank you, sweet girl.”

You knew, deep down, she was only trying to do you a favour, out of whatever kindness was still left within her undead heart, even if she were simply stating the obvious. The tension left her shoulders immediately at your reassurance. Her gaze lifted to yours, and the look she gave you landed twisted and uncomfortable in your chest. You had seen it before, in Petal, in countless servants before her. An unspoken attachment formed between frightened young women trapped beneath the same roof. Perhaps it was because you listened when others didn’t. Perhaps it was because you remembered what it felt like to be new here and how easy it was to become cruel. Whatever the reason, Petal had attached herself to you years ago. You felt sorry for her, sorry for all of them—the girls who came before, the girls who would come after—each one believing themselves special enough to escape the fate waiting for them.

Your thumb brushed her cheek once. “Hush now, and go before you are missed.”

The girl nodded, and this time she obeyed. The shoji slid shut behind her, leaving you alone with the Warden. His interest seemed piqued by the unfolding events, and he watched expectantly as you let out a shuddering breath, silence settling over the room. For a breath, your thoughts drifted. You hoped, no, maybe you even prayed to the Spirits that no meddling ears had heard the girls' outburst. The House of the Evening Bloom was a dangerous place for those at the bottom of the pecking order. The slightest indication of betrayal or spilling House secrets in front of a client, a mysterious Warden no less… she would be doomed to the box.

A creeping sensation snaked over your skin—cold. So very cold, and dark… and quiet. It had been so quiet, so quiet that your own thoughts had sounded like the tolling of a bell against your skull. And your legs, oh your legs and your back, how they had ached and ached. The gnawing hunger had ached too, until the scent of iron and fear all blended into one, and you would press your lips against the tiny holes and scream and scream and beg—

The Warden cleared his throat.

“From what I have gathered, I won’t be able to meet your master until I lie with you and allow you to feed from me?”

His voice startled you enough that you realised that for a fleeting moment, you had allowed your mask to slip. Nevertheless, he was straight to the point, and you found yourself liking that. He certainly didn’t seem eager to dig into whatever haunted you. You shook off whatever strange, maternal feeling that had overtook you and spiralled into despair. You turned away, crossing the tatami towards the bathing tub, leaving those terrible thoughts far behind. Steam curled lazily from the water’s surface, filling the room with its warmth. You perched yourself lightly upon the wooden edge. While trailing your fingers through the water, you considered the question.

“You are correct,” the corners of your mouth faintly lifted. “All Wardens who pass through our doors must face this test.”

An empty reflection stared back at you as you disturbed the surface, ripples breaking up the shimmering surface.

“If it reassures you, being fed upon is not painful—most patrons become rather fond of it. It heightens the feelings of pleasure during sex; some say it’s the best way to experience orgasm.” You glanced up at him, catching the tail end of his eyes narrowing, as though he were attempting to determine whether you were mocking him. You held his gaze, expectant. He crept closer as he replied.

“What I have heard is that it is addictive. That all those merchants and noblemen out there are no better than those who frequent opium dens.”

His hand vaguely motioned back in the direction of the parlour, and your head tilted in thought.

“Well, yes. That has been said too. It’s a biological thing, I imagine, to make our prey relax. Some find themselves feeling a little lethargic afterwards, depending upon how much blood is taken. Is it not said that the calmer the animal at slaughter, the better the meat?”

The Warden didn’t appear to like that answer, a scowl hanging from his lips as you laughed airily. You pulled your fingers out of the water, then gave them a quick shake to get rid of the droplets.

“Part of our hunt is to become… irresistible,” you reminded him.

Then, apparent that he had nothing more to say, and having allowed the silence to linger just long enough, enough that it rattled you a little—silence bothered you now, much like the dark, it came with the taste of iron—you spoke a single word, regaining control of your own simmering sanity.

“Strip.”

Going off your prior assumptions that the Warden wasn’t one to frequent such places, you had anticipated resistance from him. A snarky remark, perhaps? He seemed fond of those. A challenge, even? At the very least, a flicker of hesitation? Rather, Zuko merely held your gaze before reaching for the ties of his outer shirt. There was a practical, matter-of-fact element to his movements, as though removing one’s clothes—in front of a probable enemy at that—was no different than sharpening a blade or cleaning mud from a pair of boots. Most men who entered your chambers either treated the act as a performance or approached it with nervous anticipation. Instead, he shrugged off the first layer, dumping it atop his saddle bag. Beneath it was a lighter layer, old, stubborn stains soaked into the fabric. Old blood, a mixture of his and others, dirt, sweat, rain… you caught it all in a single whiff. It certainly painted the picture of a man who lived one contract to the next. You watched silently as he grasped the collar, tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. And as you had expected, bare skin revealed all. There was obvious strength in his build, powerful arms and broad shoulders shaped by years of repetition—training, battle, survival. Your eyes drifted down his sculpted chest, lingering on the scars that marked portions of his skin. A rather large impact branded his midriff, similar in severity to the mark on his face, and joining it was a collection of scratches and gashes. Some were faded, nearly white with age, while others remained fresh. You wondered briefly how many creatures had left their mark upon him before he had buried a blade in their hearts.

You were so intrigued by the thought, in fact, that it took you a delayed second to realise that during your pondering, he had already loosened the tie of his pants. Before you had the mind to relish in the reveal, to coax or tease, to enjoy the drawn-out tension of it all, he was already standing completely naked before you. Your eyes drifted down, following the trail of coarse hair to where his cock hung between his muscular thighs. Larger than most, you would give him that—but—did he know how to use it? That was the real question. You found yourself studying him longer than necessary, long enough that he noticed. One dark eyebrow lifted as he watched you expectantly in return. The silent question amused you enough that your lips tugged into a smirk, and from your position perched on the edge of the tub, you motioned towards the steaming water.

“You’ll do.” You teased, which earned the smallest twitch of irritation from him—you considered that a victory. “Get in.”

Without protest, he stepped towards the bath. Steam curled around him as he lowered himself into the wooden tub, water sloshing softly against the sides. You grasped a washcloth, soaking it in the rising water as he settled himself. As he leaned back, sighing through his nose and resting his arms on either side of the tub, some of the tension left his posture. Though not all of it—even at rest, he carried the impression of a drawn bowstring. His amber eyes lifted through the steam to watch as you wrung out the rag. The scent of cypress soap mingled with his musk of death as you placed the cloth against his shoulder and began working away the grime accumulated from weeks on the road. Zuko seemed content to sit in the silence that had fallen between you, leaving only the occasional splash of water as you worked from one shoulder to the other, alternating between soaking and wringing out the cloth.

With a splayed hand, you leaned closer, the washcloth sweeping across his chest, past the line of the water to his sculpted abdomen. You were close now, close enough that your breath fanned across his cheek, close enough that the sleeves of your robes were soaked as your fingers paused just above his groin—

Zuko’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and your eyes snapped to his neck.

His blood smelled delicious.

You could sense it now that you were inches away, the subtle thrum of his heartbeat, the blood pumping through his veins… how many days had it been since you had a full meal? You hadn’t thought you were that hungry, but now, faced with his neck right there, you were ravenous—

“You don’t seem to be afraid of me.”

His observation startled you out of whatever bloodlust-induced trance you had found yourself in, your hands immediately finding his thigh as you swept the washcloth down his leg. You glanced up at him, only to find he had been watching your every movement intently.

“Should I be?” You asked, innocently.

His expression remained unreadable.

“No, I’m here to kill the Red Prince, and anyone who stands in my way.” His husky voice made you go unnaturally still for a beat. “If you stand aside, I will show you mercy.”

If he had expected your reaction to be more instinctual or guttural to his reveal of intentions, something more reasonable to such a threat, he didn’t show it. His heart remained beating steadily, his breath even. You slowly straightened your spine and looked down at him. A smile pulled faintly at the corner of your mouth, which then surfaced into a giggle.

Mercy.

If only he understood what mercy looked like to someone in your position.

“You’re rather blunt, aren’t you?” You murmured, the giggle still on your breath. As if anyone within the House of the Evening Bloom was not aware of his intentions. A Warden simply didn’t just show up to enjoy the goods—no, there was one of two reasons: one, to join the Crimson Ward, or two, to kill you all. “I can’t tell if you’re brave, or simply a fool.”

“Hmf,” the sound he made might have been a sign of amusement or annoyance. With him, it was difficult to tell.

The conversation lapsed again as you worked the washcloth down his arm. Water glistened against his skin, tracing the old scars and faded marks. There were more of them than you had initially realised, smaller nicks that hadn’t been immediately obvious in the low light. Your eyes eventually drifted upward, towards the awful scar encircling his left eye. Without really thinking, you reached forward. A single, damp finger trailed a wet line down the warped flesh.

“How did you get this—”

His reaction was immediate, his whole body flinching as his hand shot up, water splashing as he closed his grip around your wrist. You grasped the edge of the tub harder with your other hand, steadying yourself as you teetered from the sudden motion.

“My father had…” His head turned to face you, his mouth opening as he ran his tongue over his teeth, and then slowly released his hold. “...interesting ideas around how to best punish his children.”

The answer caught you off guard—you had expected something far more heroic, some grand tale of his journeys as a Warden. But as you had come to understand, it appeared Zuko was not one for boasts. You twisted your hand where it was still loosely encircled in his grip, pulling his arm towards you as you placed his palm face up in your lap.

“He did that to you while you were a child in his care?” You asked, head dipping as you focused on his hand. You swept the soapy washcloth down his forearm to his wrist, then across his palm, lacing your fingers with his as you worked the suds between each digit.

The thought of a parent doing such a thing to their child felt deeply wrong. The memory of your own father had faded over time, but what remained was gentle. A hand resting atop your head, ruffling your hair. Laughter around the dinner table. The sensation of being carried to bed, the feeling of safety as you were tucked under the blanket. Those were from earlier on, but the older you had grown, the murkier those happy memories became. You supposed your father had hurt you once, too. Not in a physical manner but rather… expectations that had crushed parts of your soul. Expectations that had strained and bittered your relationship. As you massaged the mound of his thumb, pushing your soft digits against the calluses of his palm, he spoke up once more.

“Does that surprise you?” He asked quietly, though there was thickness to his voice, like he was on the edge of letting a groan slip out. “That some of the worst monsters out there are human?”

Your eyes flickered upward, your fingers continuing to massage down his forearm to the crease of his elbow. You realised how beautiful his eyes were in the low light, like molten honey. His pupils dilated as he awaited your reply, the weight of his full attention solely resting on you. You had been human once. So had Peony, Orchid and the other flowers, Madame Yoru, too, and even Lord Kage himself. You didn’t know at which point you had slipped between human and monster, or if the monster had been within you all along. Maybe that was why all those who remained in the House of the Evening Bloom became the way they did in the end—hungry, spiteful, depraved—because you had all always been that way.

“No,” you uttered. You dropped his arm back into the water to wash the soap off. Slowly, you stood, circling the tub. A trail of water dripped from your sleeves onto the tatami as you perched on the opposite side. Your attention turned to his other arm, and you repeated the same process of carefully working soap between each finger. The task gave you something to focus on besides his distant expression.

“My father was a cruel man. He tried to make me cruel, too, but I was always… resistant to his teachings. He said, I was disrespectful and weak for always questioning him, so he challenged me to an Agni Kai.” Zuko continued, and your brows rose. A firebender—you supposed you should not have been surprised. Many Wardens were benders of some kind; the elements often came in handy when hunting particular beasts. Firebending, especially, since so few creatures possessed an immunity to flame itself. You dimly recalled ancient stories of some of the first Warden clans originating in the Fire Nation, before their trade and message spread beyond borders. “After I was defeated, he banished me. Said I couldn’t return home until I became a real man, brought pride to my ancestors and regained my honour.”

His gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, beyond the House of the Evening Bloom, likely beyond Ba Sing Se itself. “I became a Warden shortly after, like my Uncle, and have walked that path ever since.”

You considered his words, eyes cast down, as you pressed your thumb down his forearm, massaging the hard muscle just beneath the skin. “Well, most would say the path of a Warden is an honourable one.”

A scoff escaped him, though the sound held little amusement. His arm slipped away from your grip as he dipped it back under the water, washing the soap and grime away. “I wouldn’t say that for that Crimson Ward of yours.”

There was genuine disdain in his voice now, enough to make you glance up from the soapy water, a teasing lilt to your voice. “You really don’t like them, do you?”

“They’re an insult to our trade,” his jaw tightened. “Cowards are what they are.”

You found yourself curious despite everything; Wardens rarely spoke about one another—at least not in your experience. Yet something told you that if Lord Kage’s hired hunters and Zuko ever crossed paths, his blood would not be the one to follow shortly afterwards.

Your hand slid under the water once more, scrubbing the washcloth along his submerged thigh, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The lantern light danced across the water’s surface, casting shifting reflections over damp skin and wood alike. You found yourself studying him again as you swept your palm down past his knee, your chest dipping lower towards the water’s edge.

“Does your father know you are a Warden?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Zuko’s gaze lowered to the water, watching as you slowly rose, levelling your spine.

“Oh yes,” there was something dark settled behind his stoic, amber eyes. “Some years ago, I returned home. He was happy to receive me, saying I had become a true man during my banishment. That his judgement had been correct all those years ago.”

The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss. The water shifted quietly as he leaned back against the tub, elbows resting on the edge on either side of him. His broad chest expanded as he sighed. You placed the washcloth over the side of the tub with a quiet slap, water trickling down the wood into a puddle below. You found yourself reluctant to break the silence, yet curiosity won in the end.

“What did you do?” You asked softly, though the words were not accusatory.

The bathwater was beginning to grow lukewarm, the tendrils of steam that had drifted lazily between you now gone. It was the warmth of his body that made up the space between you, that and the weight of his gaze that had somehow grown more scathing than it had been previously.

“I did what any honourable Warden would do if they came across a monster,” he answered with absolute certainty and complete absence of regret or guilt. “I killed him.”

Absolute silence followed, and Zuko watched you from across the narrow gap separating you, waiting. Almost as if he was expecting something, though what exactly, you couldn’t say. Your expression remained carefully neutral, save for the slight crease between your brows as you studied him in return. His pupils were fully dilated now, swallowing almost all the amber in his eyes. Beneath the water, his heartbeat remained strong and steady, each pulse loud enough for your sharpened senses to detect. You could almost imagine seeing the faintest ripple spread across the surface with every thump of his heart against his ribs.

You were hungry, so very hungry, it had been days since your last feeding—

The distance between you suddenly felt even smaller, especially as Zuko leaned forward. Water sloshed against the sides of the tub as he shifted, one arm leaving the edge so his palm could brace against the rim. His gaze dipped briefly towards your mouth, lingering there for a moment that felt a little too long to be accidental before returning to your eyes. His hand snaked around your waist, damp fingers settling against the silk gathered at your side, and before you could fully process the gesture, he was drawing you closer.

One moment, you were watching him and the next, his mouth found yours.

Instinct took over, decades of training clicking into place as you half gasped, half moaned into his mouth, automatic and reactive. He swallowed your breath whole, groaning as your hands skimmed up his shoulders to the hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the damp strands with a tug. His head lulled back, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as your lips parted, then met again properly. His head slanted as he adjusted his grip on your waist, tugging you even closer. His tongue teased along your bottom lip before sweeping into your mouth, and for a fleeting moment, you met him halfway, allowing him to pull you under—

A thought struck you suddenly. You hadn’t heard the telltale sounds of Madame Yoru stalking down the hidden corridor, nor the quiet scrape of the shutter being slid open—

You pulled away abruptly, chest heaving from the effort. Your hand slipped from his hair, down his shoulders to his chest as you pushed back, putting a small but deliberate distance between the two of you as he tried to chase your lips.

“Patience, Warden,” You huffed, watching as he tried to calm his own breathing, one hand still gripping your waist. His expression was guarded, save for the faint narrowing of his eyes as he tried to determine why you had stopped. “You haven’t even had your tea yet.”

Gently, you removed his hand from your side, then rose from where you sat. He didn’t look the most pleased about it, but nevertheless, he relented to your authority. You motioned to the pile of clothes and towels the servants had left nearby before turning back to where the teapot sat on the low table. As you knelt upon one of the cushions, you heard the slosh of water behind you as he rose from the tub. The patter of water over the tatami followed as he stepped out, unhurriedly crossing the short distance to the pile. You kept your gaze averted, not out of bashfulness but rather not wanting to encourage any lingering lust that coursed through his veins before the right eyes were watching.

Your attention drifted to the clay teapot that had been quietly brewing all the while. Your fingers brushed against the warm surface, along the delicately painted cherry blossom petals that embellished its curve. As you gripped the handle and carefully poured the steaming liquid into the cup furthest from you, you could hear the rustle of fabric. By the time you lifted your gaze, placing the teapot back down, Zuko had half-heartedly dried himself off. The small towel hung low across his hips as he settled down onto one of the cushions across from you. He accepted his cup without thanks, eying you as he took an audible sip, the scent of jasmine merging with the cypress soap and the underlying aroma of death.

“How did you end up here?” he asked. For a brief moment, you couldn’t tell if he was asking because he was genuinely interested in an answer, or if he simply wished to distract himself from the fact that his cock was half-hard. A weighted silence settled over you both again.

You smiled at him over the rim of your cup, although it was empty. That was a trick the Madame had taught you years ago, to at least pretend to be mortal. The best way to please a client was to make them feel at ease, and the best way to do that was to make them forget entirely that they were face-to-face with an undead monster. You had learnt to pretend to drink alongside them, to hold your wrist and hand in the perfect position that implied weight, to act as though your cup was always overflowing even when it was bone dry.

“Lord Kage took a liking to me.” The answer came easily. Only because it was an answer that had been practised countless times over the decades, one that had been drilled into you since your arrival. But even if your answer was flawlessly spoken, with the perfect inflexion and sweet, empty smile to match, displeasure flickered across Zuko’s expression.

“When were you turned?” He asked.

You leaned back slightly. Normally, you wouldn’t have entertained such questions, rather you would have artfully steered the conversation away, but you already knew there was nothing normal about anything that had unfolded so far. The memories were distant, a faded quality to them, the edges fraying the more you tried to hold onto them. The harder you reached, the more they seemed to slip, until you began to wonder if you weren’t remembering the moments themselves at all, but rather the memory of memories. Details blurred and condensed until your mind filled in the gaps incorrectly, like they were events that happened to someone else entirely. Sometimes you felt like two beings were warring within you—Spider Lily and the girl you once were. Those fragments felt like they belonged to her, the girl, your true self. But you weren’t her anymore, you were Spider Lily. And no matter how much that girl tried to claw her way out, she was trapped, deep underground in that box. And you had learnt that the only way you could survive was to become the monster, to become Spider Lily, to become just as terrible as the rest of them.

“I couldn’t tell you,” you finally replied after a pregnant pause.

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember pieces.” Your fingers tightened around the cup. “After a while, the years all blur together. Seasons become decades, decades become centuries.”

A faint smile graced your lips. “Though, I remember it was spring.”

The Warden’s brow quirked.

“I was supposed to debut after the summer solstice—my mother had spent all winter preparing the last of my yomeiri-dogu, my father a dowry to ensure I would be secure.” As your eyes lifted to meet his, you could see the pieces clicking together as he realised exactly the type of wealth and status you had once been born into. “I was supposed to be the catch of the season… but I couldn’t help but feel terrified.”

At the time, you believed you had been afraid of marriage, of leaving your home, family, and friends, of marrying a man who would have been a stranger to you. But in recent decades, you began to wonder if, deep down, you had known all along. Perhaps you had a premonition of what was to come.

“Terrified of what?” Zuko’s rumbling voice asked.

“Of making a mistake—” you laughed softly. Your reply had layers to it. It hadn’t just been the idea of making a mistake during your debut, of tripping over your own feet or making a fool of yourself. It had been the fear of making a mistake by marrying, of committing yourself to a life of lies. “—Of marrying a stranger, only to become some trophy wife within a gilded cage.”

The answer seemed to surprise him, and you knew you could both see the irony within your words.

“I had seen my mother live that life, and I did not wish to repeat it. I wanted to… continue school, travel, fall in love. So I ran away.” Your brows knitted together. “I ran away, and made it all of what? A few blocks? Only to end up within another cage entirely, I—”

You reeled yourself back, smoothing over your expression with a pleasant smile.

“I think I was nineteen at the time, maybe twenty at most.”

A beat passed as Zuko studied you, and a wavering thought wondered if he was undergoing some horribly misguided attempt to try and discover a flicker of humanity left within you. Madame Yoru and the guard still weren’t at the spying hole; the most you could do was steel yourself.

“Do you remember who ruled at the time?”

You snorted. “No.”

“No?” He repeated, eyes narrowing.

Did he think you were lying?

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How a girl’s mind works?” Your thumb traced the rim of your cup. “I remember the colours of silk everyone wanted that year and the styles we wore our hair in. I remember the rose hip and hibiscus perfume my friend wore and how she always took her tea lukewarm with honey. I remember the boy I spent months pretending not to like.”

Your smile turned distant.

“But Kings? Wars? Politics? No, not a single recollection.” You shook your head. “It’s all so ridiculous now, thinking back on it.”

The Warden grunted in response, displeased. For a second, you thought that he would allow silence to fall over you both again, to allow himself some peace as he drank his tea, while you sat across from him pretending to do the same. In contrast to your expectations, he spoke up once again.

“I take it that you were turned against your will then?”

The question made you hesitate, and suddenly you had the uncomfortable realisation that this entire time he hadn’t been interested in your replies, but rather your reactions. You lowered the empty cup you had been nursing, properly lowered it until it connected with the table with a soft clunk. It wasn’t a graceful movement, not perfected and artful in the way Spider Lily would, but rather the actions of a girl caught entirely off guard. You looked up sharply, and he simply stared with a smug expression.

The mask slipped. A short, bitter laugh escaped you. “You think any of us are here willingly?”

Zuko’s arrogant expression didn’t change.

“Lord Kage likes to collect pretty faces. Girls, boys—anyone who catches his attention,” you spat. “He turns us and brings us here to be broken in and serve. There’s nothing more valuable than a whore that doesn’t age.”

“And if you refuse to serve?” Zuko questioned.

“Oh,” you hissed. “I think we both know there are plenty of ways to break a person, immortal or not.”

“They beat you?”

“No,” you muttered with a mocking little pout. “You really think Kage would damage his own merchandise?”

“What does he do then?” The Warden pried.

Your gaze drifted towards the floorboards, and for a fleeting second, you could feel it. That creeping darkness at the edges of your vision, shaking hands against rusted iron, and the stench, Spirits the stench—

Your eyes snapped up, and you found he was watching you intently as you teetered dangerously on the edge between reality and a dream. Eerily, you spoke.

“They put us in a box.”

“A box?” he repeated, confused.

Realising he was baiting you for more information, your expression twisted. You sucked in a deep breath, planting your hands hard enough on the low table that the teapot rattled. For a moment, you juggled between indifference and performance, before finally settling on one of your practised, pleasant smiles, even if there were a few cracks in it.

Zuko looked mildly vexed by your sudden withdrawal. It was entirely obvious to you now that he didn’t seem concerned anymore with covering up his true intentions with his line of questioning.

“Are you finished with your tea? I can pour you—”

“You want something from me, don’t you?”

Despite the abruptness of the Warden’s interruption, his tone and expression were entirely calm, perhaps too calm. Your smile fell while his only grew, your composure fully cracking. You pushed up until you were kneeling on the cushion, hands braced against the table as you stared across at him. Had your intentions truly been that obvious? A horrible thought dawned upon you, enough to make a cold chill run down your spine. If it had been that obvious, had the others noticed, had Madame Yoru? Is that why she was taking so long to take a peek? Were they all out there, secretly planning Spiritsknew what—

You couldn’t go back.

You couldn’t go back to that box—

“You willingly came to me. You walked down from the display and sought me out, not the other way around—”

“Careful, Warden.”

The warning came smoothly, so smoothly that the look in your eyes would’ve made any normal man quiver with fear. As you knelt, slightly towering over where he sat, still naked aside from the towel that clung around his hips, an unnatural stillness took over you. It was the kind of stillness only an apex predator on the hunt could hold. Zuko looked unimpressed.

“Is it revenge on your master?” He queried, leaning forward with an emboldened expression. “You want me to kill him, to create enough of a commotion for you to escape?”

Your eyebrows scrunched, head tilting as you examined him with a perplexed expression.

“Escape?” You laughed, though it was humourless. “There is no escape from this place.”

You cut your laugh off shot, expression abruptly steeling as you stared at him, speaking with complete and utter seriousness and sincerity. “The only escape from this place is death.”

That finally seemed to throw him, his face screwing up in confusion. The first genuine surprise you’d manage to get from him all evening. You leaned further over the table, until your faces were inches away, until you could feel his breath tickling your lips. Your next words would require his full attention.

“I want you to kill me.”

“What?” Zuko barked immediately, bewildered.

The words felt strangely easy once spoken aloud, like a weight had been lifted off your tired shoulders. You smiled steadily and unwaveringly, as though you were discussing the weather and not proposing your own execution. “I will help you get an audience with Lord Kage, as long as you promise to kill me before you leave this room.”

The silence that followed was palpable. All Zuko could do was stare, obviously struggling to contain whatever emotional leakage was slipping through the cracks of his usually stoic expression.

“After your master is dead, you will be free to leave this place—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you muttered. “Unless you are the Blue Spirit himself, I do not think you are capable of killing the monster that is Lord Kage. I appreciate the sentiment of your mercy, but the only true kindness you can show me at this point is ensuring I am dead regardless of whether you defeat him or not—”

“What if I am him?” Zuko cut over you, and you blinked.

“What?”

“What if I am the Blue Spirit?”

A scoff escaped you before you could stop yourself.

“If you were the Blue Spirit, we would not be having this conversation. I would already be dead,” you sneered. “So, I am asking you a favour. After I fuck you and feed from you, enough of a performance to get them to trust you, I need you to kill me.”

You watched his expression harden, yet he didn’t even flinch as you leaned in close, a sharp, seductive smile pulling at your lips. You couldn’t even hear his heart change from its steady beat as your breath ghosted his bottom lip. “Do you agree to this?”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed, the scar pulling tight as he leaned backwards sharply, establishing some distance. “Why would I agree to that?”

Anger flooded your face, your fangs peaking out over your bottom lip as you hissed at him.

“I need you to grant me that one mercy. It shouldn’t be hard for you, should it?” The low table groaned under your weight as you dug your palm harder into the surface, the wood nearly splintering under your inhuman grip. “You are a Warden, after all.”

“Hold on—”

His voice sharpened for the first time all evening, and you knew he was about to argue. But the words had scarcely left his mouth before both of you went deadly still in unison, hearing the warning sign you’d been waiting for since the moment you entered the room. It wasn’t anything immediately obvious, no raised voices or knocks at the door. Just footsteps, unhurried, circling the room in the inner, hidden servants' hallway tucked between the walls.

Your head turned instinctively towards the far wall of the room, near the raised bed platform. Anyone ordinary or unfamiliar with the House of the Evening Bloom would have heard nothing more than servants passing by, but you knew better. You had learned the rhythm of those footsteps years ago. Madame Yoru wasn’t one to hurry; she was the worst type of predator—the one that liked to torment and toy with her food long before the thought of ending its misery ever crossed her mind. She wanted you to hear her. The heavier tread alongside her steps was likely one of Lord Kage’s guards. The Madame to confirm you had performed and earned your keep, and the guard to confirm that the Warden had allowed himself to be defiled and filthied by his enemy.

Instinct took over just before the footsteps paused. You surged to your feet, sweeping the low table aside with far more strength than any mortal woman could possess. It skidded across the tatami, a sharp crack sounding as it struck the opposite wall. The clay teapot and cups rattled violently as lukewarm tea spilt across the floor.

Zuko didn’t bother questioning your actions or urgency as you closed the distance between you, just as the cover on the eye-sized hole on the far wall slid open.

You tumbled to the floor, him flat on his back, the towel twisted and barely covering his lower half as you straddled his hips, kissing him. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about it; it was intended to be heard as much as seen. Your fingers tangled into the loose strands of his damp hair as you pressed yourself close. He groaned into your mouth, tongue sweeping against yours as his hand settled on the small of your back. You arched into his touch, only the silk of your robes separating you as you teasingly ground your hips against his already rehardening cock. The movement earned an irritated little grunt from him, and he pushed himself up. You followed the flow of his movements, allowing him to manoeuvre you as you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist.

Zuko lifted you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Blindly, he guided you both to the bed, your lips working desperately and needily against one another. Perching himself on the edge, he settled you onto his lap, the mattress dipping beneath your combined weight. When you finally drew back, the Warden eagerly chased your lips. You huffed out a breathless laugh, resting your forehead against his. The towel had been lost at some point, leaving him completely bare beneath you. You dragged your fingernails across his shoulders and chest, giggling as he kissed a wet trail of kisses along your jaw and neck.

Slipping gracefully from his lap, your bare feet met the floor without a sound. You slowly rose to your full height between his spread thighs. His cock stood flushed and heavy against his stomach, the head already glistening with precum that caught the lowlight. You met his gaze with a knowing smirk, taking two measured steps backwards, fingers finding the fastening of your robe.

Was he performing as well? All too aware of the unseen eyes that were watching from behind the wall? Or had genuine lust slipped through the cracks of his restraint? The question flickered once before you snuffed it out. Zuko had been caught in your web the moment you kissed him, and already the persona of Spider Lily had settled over you like a second skin, fangs digging in. Given the irregularities of the evening, it was startlingly easy to push every opposing thought aside. Decades of training had carved this routine into your bones—the slow reveal, the calculated arch of your back, the precise tilt of your chin. Your mind would quiet, it always did when you let the mask take over. There was no room for doubt when every movement had been rehearsed and executed a thousand times.

You were numb to it.

The embroidered silk loosened around your frame. You eased it from your shoulders, letting the crimson fabric slip down your arms in a slow, liquid cascade. The Warden’s brow lifted, the only outward sign of interest, but neither of you could deny how his eyes tracked the motion hungrily as the robe peeled away from your breasts. Your peaked nipples caught briefly on the silk before the garment continued its descent, sliding over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it pooled in a shimmering circle at your feet.

You stood bare before him. Zuko remained seated on the edge of the raised bed, elbows braced behind him, amber eyes dragging over every inch of your exposed flesh with unapologetic focus. His gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts, the drip of your navel and the smooth line of your thighs. You stepped out of the robe at your feet with unhurried grace and closed the short distance between you. Your bare skin brushed the inside of his knees as you sank slowly to the floor. Your fingertips trailed down the hard lines of his abdomen, mapping each scar and ridge of muscle before your lips followed, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the same path. Zuko’s breath stuttered ever-so-slightly, his throat working as you settled between his thighs. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your mouth, quickening with every brush of your lips, the steady pulse of blood rushing just beneath the surface. The closer you drew his thigh, the stronger the scent became—rich, metallic, threaded with the faint sweetness of arousal. It filled your senses, and the barely restrained hunger that had been growing within you honed. You could smell the artery pulsing beneath his skin, the blood hot and eager, and the need to taste it clawed at the back of your throat. Your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt and the clean bite of remnants of cypress soap, but it was the iron-rich promise beneath that made your mouth water.

There was an ache in your belly, a deep, gnawing ache. You’d known aches in your time. The ache of slick heat between your thighs, never to be satisfied. The ache of sobs that rattled your chest and tears that stained your cheeks. But this ache had nothing to do with desire or agony, but rather everything to do with the veins pulsating so close to your teeth.

With no warning or even an indication of what was to come, you sank your fangs into the saddle-worn, meaty flesh of his inner thigh. The Warden hissed, the sound breaking into a low groan as your mouth sealed over the punctures. His blood flooded across your tongue, thick and warm, laced with the tang of adrenaline. It was far richer and cleaner than the thin, alcohol-tainted taste you were used to from clients. You swallowed greedily, each pull sending a fresh wave of heat through your own veins.

It took everything within you not to consume him entirely, to suck him dry until only a husk remained.

No.

No, you had to remind yourself.

Your hunger would settle, and soon it would not matter at all. You needed him alive for your meeting with Death to come to fruition.

The aphrodisiac in your bite hit him almost instantly, your eyes catching how his cock twitched hard against his stomach, another bead of precum sliding down the flushed head. His thighs trembled beneath your hands as pleasure rolled through him. You lingered a moment, savouring the taste with a muffled, wanton moan, then forced yourself to draw back enough to lap at the bite wound. Your tongue moved in slow strokes, sealing the punctures with saliva, while Zuko’s breath came ragged above you. One of his hands found your hair, fingers threading through the strands and dislodging a few of the gold and tortoiseshell pins that held it in place. The soft clink of metal against the tatami barely registered over the sound of his breathing.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips still wet with his blood and smiled.

“You taste… delicious,” you murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth, every syllable curated for the audience you both knew were watching.

His molten honey gaze burned into yours as you braced your hands on his knees and rose from the floor. Blood still slicked your lips and chin, thin streams trailing down your throat, pooling along your collarbones. You leaned in again, pressing your mouth to the hard plane of his stomach, then higher, kissing and licking your way back upward in a glistening, sticky path of spit and blood. His muscles jumped beneath your lips.

Reaching his chest, you paused, breath ghosting over his nipple before your fangs sank into the firm swell of his pectoral. The flesh gave way with a soft, wet pop, and fresh blood welled up against your tongue. Zuko groaned roughly, his body convulsing beneath you as you drew another slow mouthful from the wound—

The moment did not last long.

With a low growl, his hands clamped around your waist and hauled you upward, dragging you onto his lap in one powerful motion. Your knees settled on either side of his hips, and the length of his cock was wedged between your bodies.

The aphrodisiac-like effect in your bite was taking hold fast. There was nothing left of the cool, calculating Warden who had walked through the door. His breathing had gone ragged, pupils blown wide and dark, the grip on your waist unconcerned with care. His fingers dug into your skin with bruising force, pulling you closer, rutting his cock against your belly in short, desperate rolls of his hips. His heart hammered against your chest, every exhale carrying an edge of a groan he couldn’t quite swallow.

“I can tell,” you cooed, voice syrupy-sweet, “that my bite is taking effect on your system now.”

Zuko’s only answer was a strained, half-irritated grunt, his jaw tight as he fought to keep some thread of control. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lashes fluttering, but the tension in his body told you he was losing the battle fast. Very much aware of the watching eyes from the wall, you continued teasing, hips grinding a slow circle that had his blunt nails biting deep enough to leave marks.

You smiled against his throat, listening to the rush of blood just below the surface.

“That’s it, Warden. Feels good, doesn’t it?” You hummed, taunting. “Understand why men get addicted now? Are you going to get addicted to me too?”

Zuko’s only answer was a strained, wordless sound caught somewhere between indignation and raw need—his sharp jaw set in a way that spoke of a man fighting to keep his composure.

“That’s alright,” you whispered, breath hot against the shell of his ear. “I like you better when you don’t talk, Warden.”

His cock remained trapped between your bodies, each lazy roll of your core smearing his warm, slick precum across your stomach. With the taste of his blood still in your mouth, a wicked thought crossed your mind. “Want to taste yourself?”

Pulling back enough to meet his eyes, you could see the internal battle that raged within him—pride, restraint, the knowledge that this was still a performance? You were unsure. And, as if relenting to some hidden urge, he finally mustered a nod, his eyes glazed over.

Your mouth hovered over his, close enough that the word brushed his lips. “Open.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

You gathered the mixture on your tongue—thick saliva laced with the copper tang of his blood—then let it drip slowly. A long, glistening strand stretched between your mouths before it broke, the warm, pink-tinged glob landing half on his waiting tongue and half across his lower lip and chin. Zuko flinched at the sensation, a low, involuntary sound catching in his throat, but he didn’t pull away.

You watched the slow motion of his throat as he swallowed, his eyes fluttering half-shut like the taste had hit him like a drug. With a soft giggle, you used your thumb to smear the remaining mess across his lower lip, pressing it onto his tongue so he could taste every drop.

To your surprise, he reciprocated the motion, tongue sweeping over the pad of your thumb. You watched intently as he savoured the taste, suckling and nibbling at the digit—

A flicker of arousal pooled warm and unwelcome between your thighs, surprising enough that you felt your cunt flutter in response as your composure faltered. Before he could catch his breath, you withdrew your finger and leaned in again, your mouth crashing against his in a messy, open kiss. Your tongues slid together, the taste of his blood shared between you. His lips parted wider as he chased the flavour, a groan rumbling from his chest. Your hands framed his face, holding him steady as you licked into his mouth, sucking his tongue.

While he was distracted, you rose smoothly onto your knees, guiding the flushed head of his cock between your thighs. The moment you began to sink onto him, Zuko’s hips jerked upward in a helpless thrust. The kiss broke on a rough, breathy moan that spilt from his throat into yours, and you took him in one slow motion, until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt inside you. The stretch forced a shallow sound from your own throat, more for the watchers than from any real pleasure, but the heat of him was undeniable. You could feel every thick inch pulsing within your walls as they adjusted around him.

Once you were fully seated, you began to move, hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that dragged him in and out of you. Each rise and fall was calculated, each squeeze of your inner muscles timed to wring the most reaction from him.

Zuko groaned. His hips bucked up to meet yours, driving himself deeper, and you felt the exact moment his control began to fracture. Your fangs found the strong column of his throat, and the skin gave easily beneath your bite, his hot, rich blood flooding your mouth in a sudden rush. Zuko’s cock jolted hard inside your cunt, pulsing in time with every swallow, his hips stuttering upward in short, desperate thrusts as the pleasure of your bite crashed through him. His head tipped back, a broken groan tearing from his chest, and you felt him throb and twitch as if the act of feeding was dragging him closer to the edge with every mouthful.

“You’re losing control, Warden,” you whispered against his throat. A thin line of blood escaped the corner of your mouth, rolling hot and sticky down your chin. “I can feel it.”

Your hand pressed flat on the centre of his chest and pushed. Zuko went willingly, letting you tip him onto his back until he lay flat against the sheets.

Still straddling his hips, you moved on him with the same poise you had perfected over decades, each rise and fall of your hips made to look desperate while remaining entirely controlled. Your inner walls squeezed him at carefully chosen intervals, timed to the rhythm of his breathing so he would feel every calculated flutter. Every moan pitched just right—soft at first, then louder, breathy, the kind of sound that made men feel powerful. Your hands rested lightly on his chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns across his skin, but your real focus stayed locked on his face. You watched the subtle twitch of his brow, the way his throat bobbed when you clenched just right, the faint flare of his nostrils when you sank to the hilt. You were looking for the smallest flicker of a reaction that told you whether to slow down or grind harder. The head of his cock was dragging against sensitive places you knew were better to ignore. You noted the way his breathing had quickened, the slight tremor in his thighs, and the way his eyes rolled back as he lost himself in the sensation. All good signs—you catalogued each one.

When his grip tightened, and his hips began to lift to meet yours in short, involuntary thrusts, you decided it was time. You let your performance build, your moans growing louder, more breathless, your body moving with just the right amount of desperation. Your head fell back, exposing the long line of your throat, and you let out a carefully crafted cry—high, broken, the sound of a woman coming undone. Your walls fluttered around him, your thighs trembling on cue as you rode out the fake climax, every detail flawless.

But when you looked down again, Zuko’s eyes were no longer half-lidded with pleasure—they were sharp, focused, and unmistakably irritated.

His jaw was set, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his hands had gone still on your hips—

He hadn’t finished.

The tension in his body wasn’t the kind that preceded release; instead, he was watching you with growing displeasure. You felt the shift immediately. The air between you changed, the heat of exasperation swelling. His gaze pinned you in place, and you could see the realisation dawning in his expression: he had seen through the act.

Fuck.

He hadn’t orgasmed.

He hadn’t even been close, like somehow within those last moments he had willed himself not to, just to prove a point, but worst of all—

He knew you had faked it.

For an uneasy moment, you wondered why he was so angry. After all, wasn’t this entire arrangement for the benefit of Madame Yoru and the guard? A performance meant to earn their trust so he could reach Lord Kage? Your pleasure had never come into the equation—only your ability to seduce and filthy what was supposedly an honourable Warden. When had he even noticed the moment your moans turned scripted, your body moving on muscle memory rather than genuine need? The entire evening, it seemed the Warden was determined to unearth something solid beneath the act, as if he were deeply offended by the idea of interacting with Spider Lily, but rather desired you, the girl hidden behind the mask.

“Finished with your fun, are you?” he growled.

Before you could answer, he flipped you over in one swift motion. Your stomach met the sheets, and his hands pressed down hard—one between your shoulder blades, the other pinning the small of your back—so you couldn’t even lift your hips or escape the weight of him. Using his knee, he spread your legs wide, every inch of you open and helpless beneath him.

“What are you—?”

“Does that act really work on other men?” He snarled low enough that only you could hear it. You squirmed under his weight, not entirely from discomfort or the desire to be free. An intense, unwelcome pulse of heat flared low in your belly at the sudden dominance in his tone. “Kind of pathetic, really.”

How had he managed to fight through the aphrodisiac so cleanly? You could only hazard a wild guess that he or Warden’s as a whole must have built up defences to such tricks. Zuko leaned down until his chest was flush against your back, his breath searing against your ear.

“You truly thought I wouldn’t notice that you didn’t finish?” His hand swept over the curve of your spine, fingers sliding between your thighs to stroke through your folds. The touch made both of you pause—his fingers came away slick.

The realisation that you were genuinely wet, genuinely aroused, startled you.

“Pathetic little courtesan act, moaning on cue like I’m some green client you can play. You feel that?” He dragged his fingers through the wetness again. “That’s real. You’re drenched.”

You were suddenly, painfully aware of Madame Yoru’s single watching eye behind the hole in the wall. You could imagine her straining, trying her best to hear the words being rasped into your ear.

“Why do you care?” you hissed back, voice tight. “I’m just trying to help you—”

He cut you off with a hard, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. You cried out, body jerking beneath him.

“If I noticed,” he growled against your ear, hips already snapping into you in a brutal rhythm, “then they certainly did. We’re going to have to make it more believable if I’m going to see your master.”

“Fuck—!” The word tore out of you raw as he drove into you again and again, the angle forcing every thick inch to drag against places you’d spent decades ignoring. You squirmed, trying to adjust, but his weight kept you pinned flat, unable to do anything but take it. Your hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, and for the first time in years, the sounds spilling from your throat were desperate and involuntary.

You weren’t acting anymore.

The pleasure was building too fast, and Zuko seemed to have forgotten this was supposed to be a performance. His grip on you was possessive, his breathing uneven with something that felt dangerously close to real hunger. You were too far gone in the overwhelming sensation to stop it now.

“Fuck—Warden—”

His fingers slid into your hair and yanked, gathering a fistful at the roots and hauling your head back until your throat arched in a taut line. The sharp pull sent a bright sting across your scalp that only enhanced the pleasure already tearing through you. He drove into you again, the wet slap of skin loud, your mouth fell open, each thrust forcing another, a high, shameless moan to spill out of you before you could catch it. The shock of it hit like ice water. This wasn’t part of the act—

Your walls fluttered around him without permission, your thighs trembling, heat coiling and snapping low in your belly so abruptly that you couldn’t breathe. Every plunge of his cock was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the noises pouring out of you, gasps, whimpers, broken little cries that pitched higher each time he bottomed out.

Zuko leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, and hissed words directly into your ear, breath harsh.

“Shut the fuck up,” he commanded. “I’m trying to work here.”

“Ah—fuck, I—I can’t—” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your hands clawed at the sheets, and you realised you were shaking—actually shaking—because the pleasure was cresting too fast, and you had no control over the way your body answered him.

His hand came up, palm clamping over your mouth, then two thick fingers pushed past your lips and pressed down on your tongue, trying to muffle the sounds. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.

“Mmf—please, I’m—mmm—” Your voice cracked, the words muffled around his fingers, and the realisation that you were begging, truly begging, sent another helpless flutter through your cunt.

You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t fake it, couldn’t slow the way your hips tried to push back against him, even though he had you pinned flat. A choked sob left you, half-moan, half-cry, and you felt your walls clamp down around him. The pleasure kept building, surging higher, and you knew there was no stopping it now. You were lost to it, lost to him, and the only thing you could do was moan around his fingers as he fucked you through it. You couldn’t tell anymore if he was still playing his part or if the aphrodisiac and the heat of the moment had finally cracked his restraint. Every snap of his hips drove him deeper, the angle forcing the thick head of his cock to drag over the exact spot you needed him—

“I can feel you’re close,” he breathed into your ear. “Make it real this time.”

You quivered around him, the pressure inside you winding tighter and together until it burst. A raw, broken scream tore out of you, muffled against his palm, your body locking down hard, pulsing and clenching so violently that your vision spotted. You convulsed beneath him, thighs trembling, a flood of slick coating his cock as the orgasm ripped through you.

“Fuck, there you are,” he snarled, voice rough.

He didn’t stop.

He kept driving into you through the aftershocks, using the frantic, fluttering squeeze of your cunt to chase his own release. The wet, obscene sound of it filled the room, the slap of skin against skin loud enough that you knew Madame Yoru and the guard could hear every filthy detail. His fingers stayed buried in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue while his other hand kept you pinned flat. He used the tight grip of your body like a man starved, hips burrowing in short, brutal strokes that dragged your orgasm out until you were sobbing against his palm, over-sensitive and shaking.

You felt his rhythm falter for the first time, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. Heat flooded you in thick pulses, his cock twitching hard as he emptied himself inside you, grinding through the last shuddering waves until he finally stilled, chest heaving against your back.

The room was thick with the sound of both of you panting. Zuko’s weight still pressed you into the mattress, his breath hot against the nape of your neck, each exhale shaking slightly as he came down. You lay beneath him, body limp, every muscle trembling in the aftermath. Your mind was reeling, struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

You had orgasmed.

Really orgasmed.

There had been no performance, no calculated moan, no careful scripting of your reactions. A strange mix of disbelief and fear curled in your chest.

Zuko shifted above you. With a low grunt, he pushed himself up onto his hands, his softening cock still nestled inside you. To your surprise, he didn’t pull out. Instead, one of his calloused hands left your shoulder and began to stroke down the length of your spine, palm warm and unexpectedly gentle. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, too stunned to move, the steady rhythm of his hand grounding you even as your thoughts spun wildly.

The hole in the wall slammed shut with a sharp crack. Madame Yoru and the guard were obviously satisfied with what they had seen. At the sound of their retreating footsteps echoing in the inner corridor, you shot upright so quickly that Zuko’s cock slipped free. Before you could even register the loss, you were on him.

Your lips crashed into his, hands fisting his hair and dragging him down into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. He met you with equal force, one hand clamping around the back of your neck. The taste of his blood still lingered between you, and you poured every tangled, confused feeling into his mouth.

When you finally tore away, both your breathing was ragged, foreheads touching. You could feel his seed beginning to ooze out of you, and all you could do was swallow down the dread lodged in your throat.

Steeling yourself, you finally spoke, your voice scarcely more than a whisper—

“I need you to kill me now.”

For a long moment, Zuko simply looked at you.

He slowly leaned back, putting a few inches of space between you. The warmth that had temporarily blossomed vanished as his expression settled back into that familiar, unreadable mask. It was that stoic look you’d become accustomed to in your short time together, that hardness that swallowed every flicker of emotion before it could fully surface. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was angry with himself; he certainly gave off that impression. Perhaps, even if just for a moment, he had forgotten why he was here—forgotten Lord Kage, forgotten the House of the Evening Bloom and all its flowers. If only for a fleeting second, it was just your two souls meeting—like two stars colliding in the darkness—like the Spirits had willed that you meet on this one fateful day before you were both cast back out into the abyss. Regardless, it seemed your repeated request had shattered whatever illusion he’d allowed himself to entertain.

Without answering, he rose from the bed in one smooth motion. You dared to hope that his silence was a reluctant sort of acceptance. You remained seated, tracking him with your eyes as he crossed the room. His broad shoulder blades flexed beneath weathered skin as he bent to retrieve your discarded robe. For a second, you foolishly thought he meant to hand it back—

Instead, he tossed it at you.

You jolted as the embroidered silk struck your chest, sliding down your lap.

“You’re going to kill me, right?” you asked, voice tight.

He ignored the question entirely, as well as the pile of clean clothes the servants had left out. Returning to his discarded dirty pile, he dragged his blood and sweat stained undershirt over his head, followed by the heavier outer layers that carried the dust of half the Earth Kingdom upon them.

“Warden,” you tried again, rising to your feet as you gathered your robe around yourself. Humiliation curled hot up your spine. “We had a deal—”

He let out a slow breath through his nose as he adjusted his scabbard over his shoulders. “Just run away.”

You scowled, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

You thrust your arms into the sleeves of your robes with more force than necessary, fingers fumbling against the silk as anger began to eclipse despair. “That the only escape from this place is death.”

Only then did he fully look at you, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed in irritation. “Can you even hear yourself—”

A deafening crack echoed through the room as the shoji slid open so violently that it rattled in its frame. At the sound, Zuko had immediately assumed a fighter’s position, feet placed a shoulder-width apart, fists raised, while all you could do was gape in disbelief.

Peony stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling in quick, furious breaths, dark eyes fixed entirely upon you—

“You stupid, greedy bitch.” The words left Peony before either you or Zuko had the sense to react. All you could muster was to stare back at her in complete and utter bewilderment. You couldn’t believe she had the gall to march in, especially knowing the Zuko hadn’t left your side yet.

“Peony—” you started.

She crossed the room in three quick strides—entirely ignoring Zuko, who tracked her every movement with a Warden’s assessment—and slapped you hard enough that the force made your head turn. Pain blossomed across your cheek as your balance faltered, one hand flying instinctively to your face as you recoiled in shock. It took you a few baffled seconds, but you eventually lifted your head to look at Peony. She was trembling, not with fear, but with fury.

“I claimed him,” the words came through clenched teeth. “I was there first.”

You blinked at her, still dazed from the blow. Of course, the flowers often fought among themselves; the environment had always been built to pit you against one another, you were each other's competition after all. Though it was historically in the form of public humiliation or a not-so-subtle tongue-lashing, never anything this unbelievably reckless and blatant. But it seemed Peony had long passed the point of caring about consequences.

“The moment he walked through the doors, everyone saw it.” She took another step forward, eyes frantic. “He was mine.”

You couldn’t place her distress. You had expected her to be angry with you, yes, but this fury came from another origin entirely, like beyond the resentment was all-consuming fear. Deep down, you knew this had the stench of Madame Yoru’s meddling attached to it.

“Peony—”

“No,” she snarled. “Don’t you dare.”

The decades of polished smiles and practised elegance you had observed her hold over the years fractured all at once. The closer you stared, the more you noticed the details out of place. The slight smudge of her painted lips bleeding into her white face powder, the decorative pins in her hair slightly askew, eyes glistening with unshed tears—

“You’ve spent years sitting up on your little perch, pretending you were above the rest of us.” She jabbed a finger towards the direction of the display beyond the walls. “Too miserable to work, too miserable to smile, too miserable to earn your keep. Leaving the rest of us to deal with the disgusting, filthy scraps.”

She took another step forward, a manic laugh slipping past her sharp lips. “But the moment a handsome Warden walks through the front doors, suddenly Spider Lily remembers how to descend?”

Your jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “He chose me.”

“Oh, spare me.” Peony laughed with a gasp, clutching at her chest before her dark eyes narrowed with a hiss. “You challenged me. I wanted to drag you off him the moment you left the parlour.”

She pointed her finger at your chest. “I would have, if Madame Yoru hadn’t ordered me to wait until your little performance was over.”

Peony smiled wider, shoving your shoulder with a single, hard blow. “You’ve always been Lord Kage’s favourite, haven’t you? It has to be why Madame Yoru still keeps an embarrassment like you around.”

She shoved you hard again, hard enough that your calves struck the edge of the bed, her hands catching your robes as she made a fist around the embroidered silk. “I’ll make sure you pay for this. I’ll see you stripped of every scrap of favour you have left.”

“And when Lord Kage hears about this—” she yanked you forward, “—he’ll put you back in the box.”

Your hands instinctively flew to her wrists as dread washed over you, your breath hitching—

Her smile had turned vicious, knowing exactly what she was doing to you. “This time they’ll leave there until you forget your own n—”

Her hand drew back, intending to strike you once more. You braced yourself for the impact, frozen in place by just the mere mention of that box. But Peony faltered, her body jerking. You felt her grip loosen, her jaw going slack, a mixture of shock and horror flooding her features.

Confused, she slowly turned her head, and you followed her gaze.

Zuko was no longer half-dressed on the opposite side of the room. The Warden didn’t even seem to be present, replaced instead by a figure wearing a weathered, blue oni mask that obscured their face. But it was only when twin amber eyes met your gaze through the narrow eye slits that the scene before you clicked—

The Blue Spirit stood before you. Zuko, the man you’d spent all evening with—teasing him, sharing stories from a childhood you’d long since pushed to the recesses of your mind, drinking his blood and allowing him to fuck you senseless—was the Blue Spirit. You felt sick, yet almost laughed aloud at the same time. Was this what the Spirits had rewarded you with after a century of waiting and agony? Was this what fate had considered necessary? Two stars, burning fiercely in the night sky, only to explode on contact. Two stars destined to bring destruction to this place, like locusts to a garden. The petals would shrivel, and the flowers would wilt, and the House of the Evening Bloom, the greatest garden in the Earth Kingdom, would finally perish.

Peony’s eyes widened.

“No…” the word barely escaped her lips, and you followed her gaze down her robes. A wooden stake was punched cleanly through her chest, the pointed tip peaking out through a tear in her robes. For a moment, you both stared down at it, disbelief washing over both your faces.

Then the flesh around the wound blackened.

“Peony—” you gasped.

Lurching forward, your instincts overpowered reason, your hands catching her shoulders just as her knees threatened to buckle. For the briefest of moments, you thought you had caught her—until she began to fall apart. The flesh beneath your fingers cracked with a dry, splintering sound, fine fractures appearing across her throat and jaw. It spread over the rest of her body like frost across glass. You watched, horrified, as the colour drained from her skin. Flecks of ash lifted from her cheeks, drifting weightlessly between the two of you.

Her mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out.

Peony collapsed inward—not to the floor, but instead through your grasp—dissolving into a cloud of grey ash that slipped through your fingers and settled softly across the tatami. Her crimson robe crumpled a heartbeat later, folding neatly into the empty space where she had stood, as though the woman inside it had never existed at all. The room fell deathly silent, your gaze fixed on the pile of ash. Your empty arms were still outstretched where Peony had stood mere seconds before, your hands curved around nothing. Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes. Zuko—the Blue Spirit—stood motionless, stake still clenched in one hand. The carved, wooden oni mask concealed every trace of expression, but something about the way he stood unnerved you all the same.

And to your disgust, and absolute horror… You couldn’t muster a shred of sadness or grief for Peony. Neither of you had been close, no, one did not make friends in the House of the Evening Bloom. But you had been trapped all the same, two gilded cages directly opposite each other so you could watch the other pace like a wild animal.

No, the only thing you felt was envy—envy that she had been taken, freed from this place, and you had not.

With wide, glassy eyes, you swallowed and slowly lowered yourself to your knees. The movement stirred the ashes scattered around Peony’s discarded robe, her essence swirling briefly across the tatami before it settled once more.

“Go on, do it,” you breathed. “I’m ready.”

The mask tilted, and you couldn’t help but feel there was something almost animalistic about his silent assessment. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled behind the carved wood.

“No.”

You stared at him. “...No?”

A laugh bubbled in your chest, tight and high as your chest shook. Zuko remained still, towering above you, watching with what you could only imagine was disdain. It was only as tears began to blur your vision, thick, fat droplets pouring down your cheeks and under your chin, that you realised your laughter had morphed into ugly sobs. They rattled your entire body, rattled you so thoroughly that each wail went a wave of pain and nausea through you, your body folding in on itself as you braced your palms against the tatami.

The longer you sobbed, and the longer he silently watched, the hotter the flicker of resentment deep within you began to burn. Your head snapped up, your tearful expression pulled into a snarl as your voice rose despite yourself, finally unconcerned with anyone overhearing your demands.

“Why?” you shouted. “Why won’t you just kill me?”

Zuko scoffed—actually scoffed—and through the slits in the mask, you could see his eyes narrow. “You said only the Blue Spirit stood a chance of killing Lord Kage, that the only reason you wanted death first was because you believed no other man could achieve it. That you were afraid of the consequences of running if he didn’t fall—”

“Stop—”

“So I will kill him. I will kill him, and you will be free.”

“Zuko—”

“Run, run while you still can. You still have a few hours before the sun rises—”

“This wasn’t our deal!” You snarled, finally cutting over him loudly enough that he paused his spiel. “You agreed to kill me.”

He went quiet in a way that made you think he was making a face behind the mask, and his tone hardened as he finally replied. “I never agreed to anything.”

“You don’t seem to understand, do you?” You snapped, exasperated. Sniffling, you wiped at your face with ash-stained hands, anger finally forcing you back into your kneeling position to meet his eye fully. “Everyone and everything I have ever known is dead! They are all bones and dust in the earth now—where would I go, who could I even turn to? There is nowhere for me to run!”

“Then make a new life for yourself.” His voice was sharp enough to cut as he stared down at you, a hint of coldness in the way he held his shoulders. “You survived, what are you so afraid of?”

You laughed again, bitterly, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. Your next words came out in a snarl. “I haven’t seen the sun in years. I am a relic of a time that no longer exists! I don’t even remember my own name—how am I supposed to simply make a new life?”

“You remember enough, even if you pretend you don’t.” Zuko sneered. “That much is clear.”

“I thought you were supposed to be honourable,” you taunted. Maybe if you angered him enough, he would snap and kill you. Maybe if you provoked him, he would abandon the moral high ground, which he appeared determined to sit upon. “I thought as a Warden you were supposed to kill monsters, not fuck them."

The blue oni mask tilted again, his shoulders rising with a deep breath—the only sign that your words had affected him—before slowly settling. The fingers that had been curled into a fist at his side relaxed, the accusations you had hurled fizzling out as he denied you the reaction you desired.

“You’re not a monster,” he muttered, almost pitying. “I never thought you were.”

His softheartedness surprised you enough that you paused, chest heaving, voice trembling. You were a fool. A fucking fool. Kneeling before him, his seed still inside you, begging him to kill you when it was obvious he had never seen you as a threat. For all his callousness and coldness, you’d never expected the Warden to look beyond the act, to want to look beyond the mask.

“I am broken,” you confessed, head hanging low. “I am broken beyond repair. No matter what I do, I will never be free of this place.”

Whatever begninity had overtaken him waned; the familiar sound of a scoff reverbrating from behind the mask. “You are only broken if you allow yourself to remain that way. Pull yourself together.”

You swallowed hard, nails digging into your palms. “Do you know what they do if we disobey? If we try to run away? He will hunt us down, no matter where we run or where we hide. He will find us, and he will drag us down into that box—”

“What box? You all keep talking about this damned box—”

Your eyes flickered to the floor as his voice faded, shrinking in on yourself. Zuko shifted his weight, an uneasy mood sweeping over both of you as he realised your expression didn’t match the reaction he had anticipated.

Darkness flooded your mind, the weight of silence, walls pressing in…

You couldn’t go back.

“What is the box, Spider Lily?” Zuko repeated himself, his tone suddenly and eerily calm.

You couldn’t go back.

“The box…” You began, although your words sounded distant now, muffled and warped. It reminded you of the quiet mornings when all the clients left and the House fell into silence. You would bathe yourself in the lantern light, then slip under the surface, holding yourself there until your lungs burned. “It’s beneath the manor. They keep it past the cellars and wine stores in a room made of stone.”

A tremor passed through you as you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself, unable to look up at the Warden.

“It isn’t large,” you continued after a long, shuddering pause. “Not much taller than a child. It’s wide enough to fit one person, but only just. You can’t stand or lie down. The best you can manage is crouching—knees tucked against your chest, your back bent, and your head lowered.”

“The cramps start after… I don’t know.” You frowned, frustrated, eyes locked onto the tatami, Zuko’s boots at the corner of your vision. “Hours, perhaps. Maybe days. It’s impossible to tell how quickly or slowly time passes. But eventually, your body knows time has passed, your muscles seize and give out. You slump over from exhaustion.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, the room around you disappearing—the darkness, the silence, the phantom iron walls—

“Eventually, you stop trying to find a comfortable position, because there isn’t one.”

Zuko was deathly silent and still across from you.

“It is completely dark, so dark you can’t even see your own hands in front of your face.” Your breath hitched. There was a reason why you and many of the other flowers always kept your rooms lit, even when morning broke. “And silent too, so very silent.”

“You’d be surprised how loud silence can become—at first, you listen for footsteps, voices, anything. Your own mind becomes so loud, so you try to distract your thoughts. You count, you recite songs, poems, recipes, anything your mind can grasp onto.” You laughed softly, a disturbed little sound. “Then you begin hearing things that aren’t there.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, rushing out like a tidal wave—

“You hear conversations, laughter, people calling your name, scratching and knocking at the walls. I used to hear my mother singing—” You abruptly cut yourself off. You hadn’t meant to admit that.

You exhaled loudly. Loud enough that your shoulders shook as you finally dared to look up at the Warden. Only the blank oni mask greeted you.

“They never feed you at the same time, they’re careful at making sure you don’t recognise patterns. They don’t want you knowing whether it is morning or night… whether you’ve been there for three days or three weeks. They want you disoriented and afraid.”

Your eyes narrowed as you recalled it.

“But the hunger…” Your hands drifted to your stomach without thinking. “It becomes so terrible and all-consuming that you stop caring. You find yourself licking the inside of the box, because the iron tastes of blood. You convince yourself the rust tastes sweet.”

Another tight laugh bubbled to the surface, caught somewhere between your teeth.

“When they finally do feed you, they pour it through tiny holes in the lid.” Your voice was bitter as you recalled it. “And even if you’ve spent hours telling yourself that you’ll keep your dignity, that you won't give them the satisfaction of seeing you beg, you throw yourself under it. You scramble for every drop—it runs down your face, your clothes, the floor. And they laugh. They stand above the box and laugh while you lap it from the floor. They laugh while you beg for more.”

You held the oni mask’s stare, sullen as you recalled it, the sensation of sticky, half-congealed blood running over your head and face, of sucking the clots caught in your hair. “By the time they let you out, you’ve forgotten why they even put you in there in the first place. So you beg forgiveness for a crime you can’t even remember committing.”

“I’ve been in the box three times,” you admitted. “I don’t know how long for, but I am certain it was months, if not years. All I can remember is that when they opened that lid, I thanked them. I thanked them for their mercy and kindness. That I begged them to put me back to work instead of sending me back to that darkness—”

Zuko turned abruptly. He didn’t so much as spare you another glance before striding towards the shoji. His boots struck the tatami with enough force to make the floorboards underneath creak. You still couldn’t read his expression beneath the oni mask or fully discern the emotion behind his silence, but everything he refused to say was revealed in the stiff set of his shoulders and his precise, clipped movements. A predator, a hunter, a killer—whatever the label, he effortlessly adopted the persona within moments, just as casually as you changed into your robe each evening.

He reached the shoji in three long strikes, his hand shooting out. The wooden frame shuddered violently from his grip, his fingers punching through the paper before he realised the force he’d used. For a heartbeat, he remained locked in place, head bowed ever-so-slightly as though overcoming whatever storm threatened to surface beneath the mask. You had a sickening realisation. The longer you watched his mannerisms, the more obvious it became.

He was furious.

When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerous enough to send a chill through you.

“I am going to kill your master.” His fingers tightened around the frame until the splintering wood creaked. “And then I am going to burn this place to the ground. You’d be wise to run while you still can.”

He slid the shoji open, and the distant, faded sound of sanxian strings and the laughter of drunken patrons floated down the empty hallway. You lurched to your feet, so quickly your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

“No!” The word tore from your throat raw. Your foot caught in the discarded folds of your robe, pitching you forward. You stumbled blindly across the room, crashing hard against the abandoned bath. The heavy wooden tub lurched at the impact, long cold water sloshing over the rim and soaking the sleeves of your robes. You barely felt it, your attention locked onto his back as he began to walk away. The one person capable of ending your ongoing, century-long nightmare was disappearing into the hallway. “I need you to kill me!”

A sound escaped your chest, and you shoved yourself away from the path, palms skidding over the wet timber. Half crawling, half stumbling, you threw yourself after him. Your vision blurred so thoroughly by tears that the doorway became little more than a smear of light. But, by some miracle, you caught him just before he crossed the threshold, your knees striking the tatami with enough force that your teeth clattered as you clung to his ankles.

“Please…” The word came out as a sob. You clutched at the worn leather of his boot, as if your sheer desperation could anchor him in place.

“I need you to…” Your forehead dropped against his shin. “Please… please.”

Your shoulders shook uncontrollably. The tears came harder now, droplets pattering across the leather as your breath dissolved into ragged sobs.

“I need you to free me. I can’t…” You choked. “I can’t do this anymore.”

With a quiet exhale through his nose, Zuko looked down. The carved blue mask peered at you, molten honey eyes lost to the shadows. Ever stoic, he shifted his stance. Not to comfort you, but rather free him himself. Stepping back, he broke your grasp with a firm tug. Your hands closed around empty air.

Without another word, the Blue Spirit disappeared down the corridor.

As the shouting began, you remained collapsed in the doorway, hands still outstretched, sobbing so violently that you were sure your ribcage would cave in.

You did not know how long you had remained on the floor. Time had become meaningless again, dissolving into the same shapeless darkness that had swallowed entire decades of your existence. At some point, the tears had stopped falling quite so freely, though your cheeks remained damp and tight with salt. You stared blankly at the tatami beneath your face, following the woven igusa with unfocused eyes.

Beyond the room, there had been screams. The crash of splintering wood as furniture was thrown, the pounding of hurried footsteps through the corridors, and the shoji slamming open and shut. The carefully rehearsed illusion of the House of the Evening Bloom—the laughter, the music, the flirtation—had collapsed into naked panic. You had barely reacted to any of it. The sounds reached you, distant and distorted. Every cry blurred together until they became little more than white noise—like an earthquake, or the sound of blood rushing in a silent room.

At some point, others had tried to rouse you from your catatonic state. Patrons, fellow flowers, the servant girls you had tried and failed to protect. They had pleaded with you, begged you to move before the flames creeping through the manor swallowed you whole.

Unbeknownst to them, you welcomed the idea.

Each of them eventually gave up, leaving you where you lay. All too terrified by the fire—or maybe rather they were fearful of the Blue Spirit that still prowled the halls. The scent of smoke grew stronger as time passed. At first, it had been faint, an almost pleasant layer to the oudh incense that permanently clung to the walls. Then came the heat, creeping beneath the shoji, filling the room one slow breath at a time. You couldn’t quite find the will to care, to even react to the fact that the House of the Evening Bloom was quite literally burning before you. You simply watched as the smoke became thicker, listening as the walls and roof groaned and shuddered around you. If this was how it ended, then perhaps it was fitting.

You had resigned yourself to your fate, that was, until the shrill voice of Madame Yoru sounded over the chaos. It was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over you, waking you from your fugue state, suddenly aware of how hot and suffocating the room had become—

“You!” She hissed, and you slowly lifted your head. She no longer resembled the immaculate Mother of Blossoms. Half of her elaborate hairpins had come undone, black hair hanging loose around a face streaked with soot. One sleeve of her expensive, crimson robe had been burned away entirely, exposing blistered and blackened skin beneath, yet she seemed oblivious to the injury.

Her usually cruel expression had melted into something feral, for once her immaculate posture and composure were shattered. She stalked towards you with a snarl. Her nails buried themselves deep into your hair before you even managed to push yourself upright. Agony exploded across your scalp as she dragged you across the tatami.

“What have you done?” she shrieked. “Do you understand what you have done?”

She threw you, hard. You struck the edge of the low table, which was still pushed up against the wall—one of the ornate carved legs splintered on impact, collapsing onto your side.

“What did you tell him—?”

A kick caught you in the ribs.

“What deal did you make with him—?”

You curled instinctively around the blow, arms shielding your head as another strike glanced off your shoulder. Smoke was pouring through the open doorway now, the ceiling groaning above you. Madame Yoru seized your sleeve, hauling you upright, only to slap you hard enough that your vision flashed white.

“I never understood why you were his favourite,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You were always weak and ungrateful. I should have let you starve in that box—”

Her hand shot towards your throat, and you stumbled backwards instead, managing to wrench yourself free as silk tore beneath her fingers. Instinct seized what little remained, and you tore out of the room. Stumbling down the hallway, you dodged upturned furniture, fallen beams and splintered shoji. Somewhere behind you, Madame Yoru screamed.

You burst into the parlour, your hand flying to your mouth as a series of hacking coughs tore from your throat. Thick smoke clawed at your lungs with every inhale, while a wall of blistering heat rolled across your skin so fiercely that your eyes watered. You knew you should’ve kept running, should’ve sprinted out the doors into the street beyond, taken in the world before the sun crept over the horizon, lost yourself in the maze of Ba Sing Se… but instead you were rooted at the centre of the room. Your gaze drifted upward, and you laughed.

The display was burning.

The great tiered platform, once the pride of the House of the Evening bloom, had become little more than a towering pyre. Flames climbed hunrgily from perch to perch, devouring lacquered timber until blackened and spilt apart with deafening cracks. Silk cushions shrivelled, embroidered fabrics curling in on themselves before erupting into showers of glowing embers. How many nights had you spent up in the highest tiers, looking at the men below? How many times had you prayed never to descend those steps again? One by one, the carefully placed seats where you and the other flowers had spent decades waiting to be chosen gave way. You watched as it collapsed inward, showering you in a spectacular burst of sparks and hot wind.

The fire spread greedily across every familiar corner of the parlour. The paint of the red and black pillars crackled, the draperies that had once enshrouded the room billowed as pillars of flame, and the lanterns that had once hung above were lost in the smoke. The low tables lay overturned amongst shattered porcelain, abandoned cups of sake and baijiu bubbling.

Your laughter caught in your throat as movement stirred beyond the smoke—at the mouth of the corridor stood Madame Yoru, and with no hesitation and fangs bared, she lunged.

But to your surprise, and maybe horror, she made it all of half the distance before a blur of blue and black crossed your vision. And much like Peony, Madame Yoru was frozen in place, mouth agape in confusion as she slowly looked down at the wooden stake protruding cleanly through her chest.

Almost immediately, cracks spread across her skin, the shrill sound of her scream cut short as her body fractured, collapsing into a pile of ash that scattered across the burning floor, revealing Zuko. The masked Warden’s chest was heaving, visible wounds poking through slices in the fabric of his clothes. Despite it, deep down you knew. You knew that if Zuko was standing before you… That if the House of the Evening Bloom was burning around you… No, Lord Kage would never have allowed it. So it could only mean… You knew it could only mean that…

Lord Kage, the Red Prince of the Pleasure District, was dead.

The monster was dead.

The Blue Spirit had killed him—he had done what centuries of Wardens before him had failed to accomplish.

He had killed him.

Your knees buckled, and you collapsed before him, a sound caught somewhere between a cough, sob and a laugh escaping you. Suddenly, the smoke no longer felt so unbearable, nor did the heat radiating from the fires surrounding you. As Zuko stepped closer, over the pile of robes and the scattered ashes Madame Yoru had left behind, you raised your chin to meet his gaze with a sniffle. Up close, you could see the full extent of his wounds; some were deep, but nothing life-threatening or crippling. You could even see the bite mark you’d left on his neck peeking out at you from under his undershirt. Blood and ash were smeared over the oni mask, and you studied the blank, smiling expression carved into the wood.

“Lord Kage is dead.” Zuko finally spoke, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the flames, though his voice was gravely from the smoke. “You’re free now.”

Free.

The word felt foreign.

You smiled up at him, not the practised smile of Spider Lily, but simply your smile. Perhaps the first honest smile you had worn since entering the House of the Evening Bloom. And it seemed to tell him all he needed to know, as he didn’t appear surprised as you reached out with trembling hands for the stake still clenched in his fist. He did not stop you as you guided the sharpened point towards your chest, resting it directly over your undead heart.

Still smiling, though tears blurred your vision, you pressed it into your skin, just hard enough to feel the promise waiting on the tip. When you finally spoke, there was no performance left within you. Only the girl Lord Kage had stolen all those years ago, asking for one final act of mercy. You curled your fingers around his and spoke what you hoped would be your final words.

“Kill me.”

There are a few reasons why it’s a fabulous time of year, in his humble opinion. For one, he fights best in the heat, making this his peak season for pro work. For another, your students are on break, which means so are you, which means Katsuki can finally take you on the long-awaited trip he’s been promising. Most importantly, though, summer is your favorite season, and that’s enough reason for him to like it with you. 

Then a shriek cuts through the room, pulling him from his thoughts before he can even sit up and properly rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Kats!” you cry, voice pitched high with panic. “There’s a spider on the sink! Wake up!”

“God dammit, woman,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he rises from bed and pads over to where you are. “You teach kids how to be heroes for a living, and something as dumb as a spider gets you all fucked up?”

“Don’t start,” you hiss. “Just get the thing out of here, I don’t—oh my god! Katsuki, it’s moving! Hurry!”

He sighs, gently nudging you out of the way before grabbing a napkin and scooping up the (very) small arachnid. He tosses it into the trash as you let out a sigh of relief.

“There,” he grumbles. “Quit squealing now.”

“Thanks, baby,” you beam, turning to wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his lips, and he happily returns it. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he mumbles, pulling you against his chest. “Shower yet?”

“No, I’ll probably take one later—”

“Perfect. You can join me,” he says with a satisfied grin.

You give him a flat look. “I just did my skincare for the morning. I’m not washing it all away—”

“Let’s get this off’a you,” he says, promptly deciding to ignore you as he lifts your shirt over your head. You sigh in defeat (though you never really put up a fight anyway), groaning as your shirt goes flying, followed by your bra, and he can’t help the smirk of victory that spreads across his face.

“You’re super annoying,” you tell him seriously. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. “And you’re a fuckin’ idiot. Wanna exchange some more facts while we’re at it?”

It’s summer. Katsuki enjoys summer. He likes the warm weather, the extra time you have on your hands, and the way the two of you can spend a few days somewhere nice and far away from everything. You don’t bring along papers to grade. He doesn’t check his emails during the rare paid time off he’s taken. His paychecks finally come in handy for a nice, well-accommodating hotel room. No one interrupts when he wants you to himself.

There’s no reason not to love summer. Katsuki looks forward to it every year. He fights long, bothersome fights with villains and delinquents out there through the cold winters and tells himself that if he works hard now, he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor when the warm weather rolls around. It’s the only thing that gets him through long days at the agency, or the stupid interviews and social bullshit that his publicist forces him through. 

All of it endured for this. This singular, peaceful week and a half with you by his side, enjoying his life without any other nonsense for once.

Katsuki likes summer—and he’s gonna like it a hell of a lot more when he puts a shiny ring on your finger when you say yes to being his wife in just a little bit.

“Here,” you hand him your body wash, “if you’re going to waste my freshly applied skincare, you better make it worth my while. You do the work.”

“Not a problem—anything for my lazy fuckin’ sunshine. You deserve to be pampered,” he agrees smoothly, chuckling when you throw your loofa at his chest. 

“Lazy?”

“S’what I said,” he hums easily. “Glad to know your ears still work.”

“You take that back, you asshole—mmph!”

He cuts you off with a kiss. It’s a good fucking kiss, he thinks. Warm water is cascading down his back, you’re in his arms and pressed against his chest, your arms are looping around his neck, there’s a scenic ocean view from the small one-way window next to both of you, and your nails do that thing that he loves with the hair at the nape of his neck. This is all that he wants. 

Katsuki can get used to a life like this—in fact, he already is used to a life like this. Ever since you moved in with him two years, three months, and twelve days ago (not that he’s been counting), he’s spent every morning waking up and moving through his routine with you woven into it. 

You in his bathroom, your toothbrush tucked beside his. You at his table while he slides breakfast onto your plate. You in his kitchen, wearing your stupid little apron while you cook as he comes home roughed up after patrol. You on his couch after dinner, legs tucked beneath you as you grade assignments. You in his bed, dragging the blanket he kicked off right back over the two of you while you shiver and complain.

Katsuki is used to this life. He fucking loves it, even. He wants it for the rest of his days. He wants you tangled up in his space, threading yourself through every corner of his existence, and he wants the comfort of knowing the next day will look the same.

So he’s going to marry you. He’s got it all figured out.

Raccoon Eyes helped him pick the ring—it’s exactly what you’d want, according to her. Apparently, she has access to the Pinterest board you’ve had for years. Ponytail Girl took you to get your nails done—something pretty and dainty and perfect for the photos. He was strictly warned not to propose unless your cuticles were in flawless condition. Pink Cheeks dragged you out to pick up a few new outfits, as if you didn’t already have enough clothes. Still, if Katsuki gets to see you in something new, he’s not about to complain. Flat-Face and Shitty-Hair even looked over his speech.

Well. It’s as close to a speech as he’s going to get. Katsuki doesn’t do stupid, sappy bullshit the way people insist he should. It wouldn’t be him. He’s going to tell you what matters off the top of his head—the things he’d never forget. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and he’s not going to stop. That he’s going to take care of you no matter what. That you’re the only person on this planet who doesn’t drive him up a wall. That you’re worth keeping, worth never letting go of, so you better get used to it and just marry him already.

But since Kirishima insists that Katsuki at least go over the main points first, he sends the idiot a few bulleted outlines just to get him off his back.

More people than Katsuki would prefer already know that this is going to happen. It was supposed to be just Kirishima and Mina, and that was it. Kirishima simply because—well, the annoying bastard is decent enough at advice when it comes to this kind of thing, so Katsuki allows it. Mina simply because he needed someone to approve the ring, and he sure as hell wasn’t going shopping with his hag of a mother.

But the pink-haired fucking gossip ends up running her mouth, and suddenly, everyone comes to him with an opinion of their own.

She’ll be mortified if you let her get engaged with bare nails! 

You can’t let her repeat an outfit for the pictures. They have to be special!

Kirishima says you’re gonna wing your proposal??? C’mon, man, you have to plan what you’re going to say, you gotta make this good!

Katsuki has put a lot into these plans. Took you to that resort across the globe you’ve always wanted to visit, planned out your nails and outfit to match so that the pictures come out flawless, practiced the stupid speech that he didn’t need with Kirishima and Sero against his will, and he’s going to make this proposal good. Better than good. The greatest. Because that’s what he does—he does things the best, and it’s going to stay that way because that’s what you deserve. 

The fucking best that he’s got. 

“Baby,” you pull away from his lips, holding a hand to stop him when he leans back in for more. He grumbles when you do, displeased, and you laugh as you murmur, “As much as I would love to shower with you forever, we have places to be.”

“Yeah, and we got all day to be places,” he insists, hands wandering past your bare hips, grabbing a handful of your ass, and squeezing. 

“You said we’d explore,” you whine, “and I wanna do it before all the other people get there and busy everything up!”

“I’ll shove ‘em out the way,” he offers, grinning when you giggle. 

“Maybe some other time,” you snort, “maybe when you’re not in Japan’s top ten hero rankings and always land on the news. Then, maybe, I’ll entertain that lovely idea of yours.”

“Never let me have any fun,” he complains playfully, grinning as he leans back in to kiss you again. You kiss him back, and fuck—Katsuki wants to be here forever. He never wants summer to end, and he wants this for the rest of his damn days. 

He almost wonders if retiring this young is a plausible option for him when you slip your tongue into his mouth and run it against his. 

His cock is half hard already—he can feel the way it presses against you, and you move your thigh, bringing it up to rub against him and make him groan. He rolls his hips for a moment, grinding against your skin as he grows to full hardness. He doesn’t have to touch you to know that you’re dripping between your legs, not because of the shower but because of him. And he takes a little bit of pride in that. In knowing that just him and his lips on yours is enough to turn you into a pliant, needy mess in his arms. 

“Katsuki,” you try to warn. 

“Jus’ let me have my fun,” he smirks, “you know you want it. We have time.”

—————

The shower takes a bit longer than expected. But not too long—you and Katsuki are still on schedule for the day he’s planned, so he’s not worried. 

You’re still in the bathroom getting ready when Katsuki is getting dressed. He grins to himself at the thought of you doing your makeup and dolling yourself up just for him. He’s going to kiss you senseless with that lip gloss of yours smeared all over his mouth once you let him slide the ring he picked onto your finger.

He reaches into the pocket of the last pair of pants he wore to grab the small box that currently holds the most valuable thing he owns. His old hag of a mother nagged him not to keep it on him like that—that he’d lose it, or accidentally expose it, or absentmindedly throw it through the wash. He doesn’t listen, of course. Mainly because he never listens to the hag, but also because he refuses to keep that ring anywhere but within reach of his own two hands. He needs to know it’s there at all times or he’ll lose his damn mind.

So, like he always does, he grabs yesterday’s pants and reaches into the right pocket, ready to move the familiar velvet box into the pocket of the pair he’s wearing now.

Except when he reaches in, the pocket is empty. He stills. His pocket is fucking empty. 

No, it isn’t, he thinks, trying to keep a level head—it’s in there. Of course, it is. There’s nowhere else it’ll be, so he just needs to check again. His fingers sweep through the pocket again, slower this time, then harder, pressing into the seams as if the box might be tucked into some hidden corner of fabric. Some secret pocket within his pocket that was always there, and he just never noticed. 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Katsuki curses under his breath and checks the left pocket. Then the back pockets. Then he turns every single pocket he’s got inside out. Then he gives the pants a sharp, thorough shake like his life depends on it.

Nothing. Still absolutely fucking nothing.

From the bathroom, you’re still humming softly to yourself, the faucet running for a moment before clicking off. Your makeup bag zips open, then shut. You’re completely, blissfully unaware of his growing dilemma. 

His pulse spikes so hard it feels like there’s an explosion behind his ribs.

No. No, no, no. He had it. He confidently knows he had it. Last night, before bed, he checked for it—just like he always checks for it. He remembers the shape of the box against his palm. Remembers putting the pants over the chair. Did he take it out? No. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? Did he? He can’t think straight, his mind a busy swarm of worst-case scenarios and nightmare possibilities. 

“Babe?” you call through the bathroom door. “Is my lip gloss in my purse? Can you check? I don’t think it’s in my bag.”

Shit. The last thing he needs right now is you coming out while he searches for this fucking ring that he knows he had in this room as of last night before bed. Where the hell could it have gone within the few hours he slept? It’s a ring. Sure, weird and unnatural things happen—he causes explosions at will with his palms, for crying out loud, but it’s a damn ring. Weird and unnatural enough things do not happen that his ring could have grown legs and run off. 

“No!” The answer comes out far too loud. He cringes when he hears his own voice and clears his throat. “No, baby, s’not here. Keep lookin’.”

Silence for a beat. Then, “Um...okay?”

Katsuki drops to the floor and looks under the bed. Nothing but dust and an old pair of slippers from previous guests. He checks beneath the chair, under the dresser, behind the nightstand. He yanks the sheets half off the mattress, searching for the familiar sight of velvet that he knows deep in his heart is not going to be there, lying between wrinkled sheets.

But he checks anyway, and sure enough, nothing. His breathing turns shallow.

“Babe, I found my lip gloss,” you call, “right under my nose, too. It was in the bag that I was looking. I think I’m going crazy.”

“That’s good, baby,” he says, not paying proper attention, “you wear that gloss.”

If only he could find what he’s looking for, too—he really will go crazy if he doesn’t. 

Maybe it fell in the suitcase. That has to be it—right? He lunges for the luggage, unzipping it so fast that the zipper almost rips right off from his force. Clothes get flung over his shoulder in frantic handfuls—shirts, pants, socks, boxers, toiletries, charger cords. Still no box. From the bathroom comes the pop of a makeup compact closing. You’re still humming, still taking your sweet time as you get ready, and he really hopes that you’ll take a long fucking time today. He’ll never, ever complain about you taking long ever again if you just take as much time as you need today, of all days, when he needs you to, for once. He needs you to continue having no clue that the single most important object in his life has apparently vanished into thin air.

Katsuki straightens, hands flying to his chest as he tries to force air into his lungs. 

Think, moron, he says to himself in his head. He had it yesterday. He fucking knows he had it yesterday. He paid for lunch and felt it in his pocket after. He felt for it in the elevator on your way back to your room. He felt for it before bed. He always checks every chance he gets.

So it has to be here. It has to be.

It has to be, because if he somehow lost the ring meant for you—the same ring he spent months choosing, the same ring he’s supposed to slide onto your finger today—he might actually tear this entire hotel room apart with his bare hands, floor by floor, room by room, until he finds what’s his.

“Katsuki?” you call again, a little concerned this time as you hear him rummage around. “You okay out there?”

He stares at the disaster zone already forming around him, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“Fine, sweetheart,” he forces out. “Just couldn’t find my watch, s’all.” Then he drops to his knees and starts searching the floor all over again.

“Lost something too, huh? Feels like everything’s going missing today,” you laugh from the bathroom. 

No kidding, he almost says. And then, because apparently the universe needs to hate him more than it already does, the bathroom door clicks open.

Katsuki’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

You step out looking beautiful—you are so, so painfully beautiful. You and your pretty new outfit with those pretty little nails and those pretty lips that are glossy exactly the way he’d imagined they’d be when he’d get to kiss them. You look so perfect, so ready to be asked to be his wife—and yet, here he is. No ring, and his plans all but turned upside down.

Your gaze drifts over the room he’s practically destroyed, glancing at the overturned suitcase, the sheets half-hanging off the bed, the clothes strewn across the mattress, the pockets of his pants from last night inside out, the drawers wide open, and Katsuki crouched on the floor near the nightstand with his expression looking like he is one second away from going unconscious.

You blink once. Then twice. Then you walk over to him.

“Oh no,” you say, frowning, “you still didn’t find your watch?”

He rises to his feet so quickly that it almost makes his head spin. “Nah. Got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup. Nothing to worry about.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Then why were you on the floor?”

“I was stretching.”

“Katsuki.”

“Just warmin’ up and getting my blood flowing—what’s so weird about that?”

“Warming up for what, exactly?”

“For the day,” he says, giving you his best face that says, isn’t it obvious? Like you asked a stupid question, and you’re the one who’s being weird. 

You stare at him for a long, silent moment, then glance down at his empty wrist that most definitely doesn’t have the watch he claims to have found. He wants to kick himself—you’re seeing right through his frantic lie. 

“Okay…” you say slowly, “so then why aren’t you wearing your watch if you found it, Katsuki?”

His eye twitches, and his jaw grits, and he just really wants to go home if he’s being honest. Summer is over. It’s ruined. There’s no going back from this, so he might as well just give up for now. He’ll try again next year—he’ll be more prepared and listen to his old hag of a mother for once and swallow his pride to admit she was right. All he wants to do is just go home and sleep for a week and forget this whole thing ever happened. 

“You sure are askin' a lotta questions this morning,” he says tightly.

You take a few slow steps toward him, studying his face. He knows he looks awful—that you’ll see right through him and his cracking composure. His jaw is tight. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. His breathing is just slightly off. He’s avoiding looking directly at you, which alone is enough to tell you something is deeply wrong. And you know him better than anyone. Usually, he’s grateful for it—but sometimes, at times like this, he couldn’t hate it more. 

You see right through him. 

“Katsuki.” Your voice softens. “What happened?”

“Nothing fucking happened. Who said anything happened?”

“Something definitely happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m fine. Room’s gonna be fine—room service’ll clean it. Everything’s fine. We’re leavin’ in five.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you argue, giving him a rather defiant look. He knows that look—that look that’s as stubborn as he is himself. You’re not going to drop this. 

“I’m not lying—”

“You are. Bakugou Katsuki, don’t take me for a fool, you hear? I’m not an idiot, so just tell me what’s going on, or I’m not leaving this hotel room.”

He rubs a hand down his face and turns away from you before you can see the panic written all over him. The despair. The heartbreak, truly—he’s absolutely devastated. If he leaves this vacation without the certainty that you’re going to be his wife, he thinks he might not even live long enough to make it to next summer so that he can try again. He’ll die of heart failure before then.

And it has to be summer. He refuses to go back home and squeeze some proposal into a random weekend just for the hell of it. It has to be perfect. It has to be meticulously planned. It has to be your favorite season, with the best plans and flawless execution. It has to be everything you deserve and more. It has to happen when the two of you can actually celebrate it together—not spend one night happy only to be thrown right back into your whirlwind lives the next morning with patrol this and extra lessons that.

And he was so close—so fucking close to making it happen. 

You’re here, you’re dressed, you’re absolutely perfect, and you’re ready to go. But he doesn’t have the ring. How could he be so useless that he couldn’t even keep a single ring safe? 

This is the most helpless he’s ever felt—the moment he’s been planning for months is slipping right through his fingers like sand. The reservation he made. The beach spot he picked out. The speech he definitely did not need and definitely did not rehearse in the shower like a fucking loser. Every part of today has been planned down to the second, and now he can’t even follow his perfect plan because he doesn’t have the one thing that matters.

You know him well, and just like he figured you would, you’ve pieced together that something is seriously wrong as you move closer, voice gentler now. “Hey. Kats, look at me.”

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything. Your hand grabs his and tugs him towards you as you hug him from behind, rubbing up and down his abdomen in that soothing way that you always do. He melts against his will. 

“Katsuki. Baby.”

He slumps back and sighs.“What?”

“You’re scaring me a little.”

That makes him deflate even more. “Don’t be scared. S’nothing to worry over.”

“Well, I always worry over you, and I especially worry when you leave our hotel room a disaster scene,” you poke his belly. 

He still says nothing.

Your voice softens impossibly more. “Baby...just tell me what’s wrong. We can figure it out together—I’ll buy you a new watch if that’s what you’re sad over. It’s a watch! I know you liked it, but hey—material possessions are temporary, okay?”

“S’not the watch,” he mumbles.

“Then what is it? Tell me.”

For a fleeting second, he almost does. He almost tells you and just gets it off his chest, almost blurts the whole thing out, almost says: I lost your ring. I lost the ring I was gonna propose with, and I ruined everything. You’d know what to do. You’d make it better. You’d fix it like you always do. But he doesn’t want you to fix it—he wants to make things good for you, for once. You’re always fixing his fucking mistakes. Always dealing with his disasters and dealing with his nonsense. Katsuki knows he’s not easy to deal with. He knows you’re a saint for putting up with him. So he sighs, ready to swallow down the words, tell you everything is fine, and make sure you have a good time tonight—and for the rest of this trip, too, for that matter. 

“S’nothing, okay? C’mon, we have a good time ahead of us—I’m one hell of a planner, baby,” he says as he turns, pulls you into his arms, throws on his best smug grin, and kisses your forehead. 

—————

Katsuki is lying to you. 

You know that he is. When you come out of the bathroom and see your hotel room an absolute mess, you know something weird is up. Katsuki hates messes—hates when something is out of place for longer than five minutes. He grumbles about your stray hoodies thrown about the apartment and the way you have so many pillows on the bed just to toss them to the floor when you get ready to sleep. He huffs when you don’t clean as you cook and save everything for the end, messing up the kitchen to make one meal. He gives you a flat look when you have empty coffee cups in the cup holders of your car and throws them all away himself with an exasperated shake of his head. 

Katsuki hates messes. He’s not messing up your room, then leaving it a mess without cleaning up unless something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.

But he won’t tell you. You know he won’t tell you until he decides that he can, and sometimes, he might even decide that it will never happen. Getting Katsuki to tell you anything before he decides to is like pulling teeth—except you’ve never met such a stubborn fucking tooth that won’t budge. 

When he tells you, S’nothing, okay?, and turns around to give you a kiss on your forehead as if that will just make you forget, you’re mildly insulted. But he’s on vacation, too—he’s on the rare time off that he lets himself take once a year for a week and a half at most, and you want it to be good for him. Need it to be good for him. You need him to have a good time and enjoy himself because summer, with you, is the one time he lets himself be selfish and do what he wants. He ignores phone calls and emails, and he even sleeps in after staying up late. 

You know he’s lying, but you decide if that will keep him happy, if just for a week and a half, then you’ll let him lie and hide the truth and forget about whatever it is that’s got him so panicked. 

“You’re sure it’s nothing?” You kiss his jaw. 

He relaxes, shoulders slumping as you drop it. “Yeah, I’m sure. Now let’s go. You look hot, by the way—m’gonna rip that skirt right off’a you when we get back.”

“Don’t even think about it,” you huff, “Ochako spent a long time planning this outfit. She’ll be so sad if it doesn’t make it back.”

Ochako has never been so particular about your outfits before—you’ve never shopped with her at such fancy stores, either. She is never one to spend money on excessively expensive things, but for some unknown reason, she’d insisted that your dream vacation spot requires just as dreamy of a wardrobe, and you let her entertain her whims. A part of you wonders if it’s because she’d never dare take herself on such a nice trip or wear such nice clothes even if her paycheck now more than allows it of her, so you let it happen for the sake of allowing your friend to indulge a little, even if it’s not for herself. 

Katsuki huffs out a rather strained chuckle at your comment. “Leave it to Pink Cheeks to ruin my fuckin’ fun,” he grumbles. But he’s distracted. You can tell. “She hangs out with that nerd too much.”

You’re just about to correct him for what feels like the millionth time over the years—their names are Ochaco and Izuku, Katsuki. You’ve known them long enough to get it right by now. 

But then your eyes focus on the floor behind him at something. Your blood runs cold when you squint and get a better look—because if you’re not mistaken, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t, you’re looking directly at a tiny velvet box half-hidden beneath the edge of the dresser.

Your eyes flick from the box to the inside-out pockets on the pants that lay about. To the overturned suitcase. To the half-stripped bed. To the sweat at his temples. To the look in his eyes that feels like the world is ending over something he refuses to tell you about. And then back to the small velvet box peeking out from beneath the dresser. 

You have a sick feeling you know exactly what’s in the box—and suddenly, it all feels so…so obvious. How did you ever miss it? The way Yaomomo insisted on getting your nails done together. How she insisted on picking for you what to get, on matching your nails to hers—oh please, let’s just match this once together! The way Mina seemed so interested in your rings, trying them on as she rummaged through your jewelry and asked, oh my gosh, I think we’re the same size…what’s your ring size? The way Ochako grabbed your hands and stared at your nails as she’d complimented them with such satisfaction before planning your outfit accordingly—you have to have at least one fancy outfit for the trip, don’t you think?

Everything clicks into place so suddenly, it almost leaves you breathless.

The way he’s so panicked. The way he tore your room upside down. The way, even before all of that, he insisted on this trip being so carefully planned. 

Oh—it hits you all at once. Oh. 

Your heart gives one hard, dizzying thud against your chest. Then it starts pounding so loudly, your ears feel like they’re ringing. 

Katsuki is talking, saying something about how you need to grab a jacket and the air will be chilly when the sun sets at the beach, and he’s not going to share his like he always does this time. “Hey,” he huffs, “are you even listening—”

You step around him quietly, paying him no mind. He stops mid-sentence, brows knitting as he watches you crouch near the dresser. Your fingers reach beneath the edge of the wood and come back holding the little velvet box. And just like that, silence drops over the room—his words cut off mid-sentence. 

Katsuki goes completely still.

You straighten slowly, box cradled gently in your palm like something fragile and delicate. Like the wind will blow it away if you’re not careful. Like you can’t bear to lose this one thing you’re holding. His face drains of color as it pales, and his shoulders sag as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.

For the first time since you’ve known Bakugou Katsuki, for the first time in the years and years you’ve loved him and seen him through every lens and angle possible, he looks utterly, completely, spectacularly defeated.

You glance at the room again—at the chaos, the evidence of a frantic search, the proof of how badly he’d been spiraling trying to find this box that he’d been carrying around for you. Then you look back at him. At your Katsuki—your angry, grouchy, gruff Katsuki who loves you so carefully, so delicately, so effortlessly, he teaches you a whole new side of love that you never knew of. 

Your chest aches with fondness, and your eyes feel that familiar sting at the back of them that you try to fight back. 

You take a step closer, voice quiet as you murmur, “Kats...” Another step. One more. He’s stiff, and his jaw is clenched as he keeps his gaze fixed on the box in your hands. You lift the box slightly between you. “Is this what you were looking for?”

His eyes close as he lets out a shaky breath. A rough exhale leaves him through his nose, and you’ve never quite heard him sound so helpless. 

“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely, rubbing his temple. “I…fuck—yeah, sweetheart. That’d be it.”

You fight back a watery smile. “It was under the dresser.”

“I can see that.”

“I think you were too frazzled and missed it.”

“I’m painfully aware.”

“It’s okay—it happens to the best of us, baby. We all lose things.”

His eyes crack open into a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna keep rubbin’ it in or are you done?”

You can’t help it—you laugh softly, stepping into his personal space and bringing a hand against his chest, rubbing slow circles. His heartbeat is still pounding wildly beneath your palm.

“You were planning to propose?”

He looks away immediately. “No. Who the fuck said that—you see a box and think I’m gonna get on my knees for you? Don’t get so confident—”

“Katsuki.”

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Can’t you just let me have this? Fuck—yes, I was going to propose. Happy? Wanna hear my speech too, just so you’re in the loop?”

“I mean, if you’re offering,” you shrug playfully.

His head slumps forward to your shoulder as he hugs you close. Hugs you tight and close like the proximity is the only thing keeping him together. “Be quiet.”

You turn your head and kiss his temple, letting him stay like that for a few moments before stepping away. Before he can protest as you pull back, you lift his hand and place the small box carefully into it, curling his fingers around it.

“Here,” you murmur. “I found your watch.”

“What the fuck are you saying—”

“Put your watch on and hurry up, we’re already twenty minutes behind schedule, and you said we have lots to do before our dinner reservation.”

You turn on your heel, stepping over the clothes on the floor like they’re not even there. Behind you, there’s a long stretch of silence. Then, “...You cannot be serious.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s still standing where you left him, the velvet box clenched in one hand, staring at you as if you’ve grown two heads.

“What now?” you give him a flat look.

He gives you a look right back. “There’s no point in actin’ like it’s still a surprise, idiot.”

You blink, looking almost convincingly confused. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow as he scoffs. “Don’t start this shit.”

He’s pocketing the ring, though. That dejected look on his face is gone and…and you would almost dare to say he’s fighting back a grin as he walks over to you. You reach for your perfume and spritz your wrists as you hum, “I’m not starting anything. Anyway, do I look okay?”

“Woman, you can’t be real.”

“Katsuki, I’m being very real.” You mimic right back, smiling sweetly at him as you gesture to your outfit. “How do I look?”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Beautiful. You fucking know that—you make everyone else look hideous.”

“Maybe we don’t have to put others down when you compliment me,” you scold.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” he snickers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against him as he kisses you. Hard. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Your lips on his, your body against him, and your head cradled in his palms. You bring your hands up to bury into his unruly tufts of hair, and in a few hours, there will be a cool, metal band on one of the fingers that so regularly tangles into his hair. 

You can hardly wait.

“You’re wasting time,” you breathe as you pull away, lip gloss smeared against your lips and his, “Now we’re twenty-five minutes behind schedule.”

“Then move it, smartass. We’re burnin’ daylight,” he says, and when he drags you through the doors and takes you outside, when the sun hits his skin and his eyes meet yours, you think about how it’s summer. You like it when it’s summer. 

Summer is when Katsuki is going to ask you to be his wife, and summer is when you will say yes. Summer is when you’re going to spend the rest of your life with Bakugou Katsuki.

READ THE PROPOSAL HERE!

“Get up,” Aerion hears, blinking blearily as his sheets are ripped off his body. “Aerion, get up! Now!” 

What the fuck—

Half awake, Aerion’s heart races as he pushes himself into a sitting position, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening. The only reason he doesn’t reach for his blade is that he recognizes your voice. He lets out a disgruntled noise when he feels fingers grab his cheeks hard, glaring when he sees your face inches from his.

Outraged, he sees movement from the corner of his eye and realizes that you did not come alone.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, still trying to wake himself up. He tries to look to the side to see who the fuck you brought into his chambers, but your grip on his face tightens. He grimaces, giving you an annoyed look. “Answer me, you miserable wench. Why—”

“The Golden Company is in Lys,” you say, and Aerion doesn’t think that he hears you correctly at first, staring at you blankly. “Caelyx has clothes for you. Get up, and get dressed now.”

“What did you just s—”

Aerion’s head snaps to the left, a sharp pain spreading through his cheek as he stares at the open balcony looking over Magister Vyrano’s manse. 

Did you just strike him?

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, brows furrowing in disbelief. Before he can look back at you and demand to know what the fuck is the matter with you, he feels your hands cradling his face, forcing you to look at him again. 

“Aerion, wake the fuck up,” you say again, and he should be angry—he is angry, his chest is hot and bubbling, and his face stings, and indignity and pride flare terribly, and it all fizzles when he hears the fear plain in your voice. He’s never heard you sound this way before. He’s heard you furious, mocking, teasing, happy, but never scared. “Get up, and get dressed now. Stop asking questions. We do not have time.”

Aerion stares at you for a moment longer before he pushes himself out of bed, hardly given a chance to orient himself, before someone—your whore, Aerion realizes disdainfully, the silver-haired pillow boy who always attaches himself to you—is forcing silk chiffon over his shoulders. He looks at the white fabric that he’s being dressed in: revealing and clinging in a way that feels entirely inappropriate for the situation. Dress for a whore, not a prince. And then he looks at the fitted leathers you’re wearing, the red cape attached to your shoulder, the sword at your hip, and he shoves your whore away from him, sneering as he watches him stumble back into a table. 

“I am not fucking wearing this,” he spits furiously. “What the fuck is going on?”

“You’re going to wear whatever the fuck I tell you to wear,” you reply, undeterred by his fraying temper. You step closer again, and you grab his cheeks to force him to look at you. You don’t let him yank his face away when he tries. “We need to get you out of the manse and into one of the whorehouses so that your kin don’t come and slit your throat. I’ve arranged for the Second Sons to take you on a ship out of Lys to the Disputed Lands, but the ship doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning, and they cannot leave earlier without drawing suspicion. So for the next day, you’re going to be Ari of Lys, dragon prince, and Aerion Targaryen will have left Lys a moon ago because he grew bored with whores and wine. Do you understand?”

Aerion shakes his head, and when your whore tries to get the clothes on him again, he raises his hand furiously, threatening to put his fist into his face. You immediately raise your hand in response, threatening to strike him again. Aerion gapes at you, betrayed.

“If you strike him, dragon prince, I will parade you around as you are,” you hiss, pointedly looking down at his current state: bare-chested and hair sleep-mussed. “Caelyx was kind enough to let you borrow his silks so that you may not be entirely indecent when you step outside. Or would you prefer to be dragged through the streets half-naked for all of Lys to admire?”

“It is transparent,” Aerion says furiously. “I may as well be bare.”

“It is disguising,” you shoot back. “No one will look twice at another silver-haired whore on an island full of silver-haired whores.”

“I am not a fucking whore.”

“You will be whatever the fuck I tell you to be if it keeps you alive,” you shout. Then you exhale, rubbing your face. “Aerion, please—they are docking, they have probably already docked by now. We do not have time for this.”

Frustrated, Aerion glares at you, and then he glares at your whore, who has the audacity to give him a sweet smile. Aerion bares his teeth at the boy, a disgusted expression on his face as he returns to dressing him in the soft silks.

Aerion spits, “How many men have you let fuck you in this?” 

The whore raises his eyebrows, lips curled up. “They are my special silks, prince,” he purrs. He looks pointedly at you as he answers, “Only one person has fucked me in them.”

Aerion’s blood pressure skyrockets, pulse thudding dangerously in his ears as he turns to look at your whore. There’s no way that he’s being dressed in something that another man was wearing while you fucked him. The boy only gives him a smug smile, and Aerion’s gaze cuts toward you, questioning, and he blanches when he sees your eyes slide shut. 

Instead of denying it, you give your whore a long look—a warning. 

Aerion gapes again. “You cannot be serious,” he hisses at you, ripping his arm away when your whore tries to finish dressing him. “Will you—”

“We do not have the time for this,” you say through your teeth, turning a cold look on Aerion now, as though Aerion isn’t the victim in this situation. “Caelyx, stop antagonizing him. Aerion, get dressed.”

Aerion’s nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth as he wills himself to calm down. His gaze flicks back toward the open balcony as your whore—Caelyx—returns to wrapping him in the fine silks. He can’t see anything—Aerion’s balcony faces the west, and Lys’s ports are to the north, but he’s heard enough about the Golden Company in passing to imagine the fleet of ships with golden banners docking in the harbor. Recent reports have put their numbers at over twelve thousand—all of Essos has been whispering about them since the sacking of Qohor. 

“How many are here?” he asks you, jaw tight. 

“Enough,” you answer, arms folded over your chest as you stand in the doorframe of his chambers, one hand on the hilt of your sword, looking down the hall, as though you expect Aegor Rivers to come barreling down any moment. Aerion’s heart is pounding, he realizes, as the situation finally begins to hit him. “One of my harbor boys came running to me as soon as he saw the gold banners in the distance. I came here as soon as I got everything handled.”

Aerion lets out a sharp breath through his nose, dragging his hand through his hair as he paces once across the room, away from your whore, silk clinging to him in a way that makes his skin crawl.

“After you got everything handled,” he echoes, incredulous, turning on you, trying to turn the nasty panic that climbs his throat into something more manageable: anger. “Instead of waking me, you decided to—what—build a whole fucking scheme while I was asleep?”

“I did not have time to argue with you first,” you hiss. “By the time I reached the harbor to confirm the banners, the first ship was a mile out from docking. I—”

“You should have come to me first,” he interrupts, heat rising in his chest. “You should have—”

“Aerion.”

Aerion’s teeth grind, something uncertain spiking in his chest with his heart rate as he fists his hands at his side to hide the way his fingers tremble—he pretends it is fury and not fear. You look back over at him, gaze lingering on the way the sheer silks cling to his slim hips, hiding little more than necessary—barely what is necessary. He glares at you, but there is a lump in his throat, and he cannot swallow it away. 

Aerion could die today.

There is a really good chance that Aerion will die today. 

He exhales as he paces over to the balcony. When his back is to you and your whore, he lifts shaking fingers to his chest, over his rapidly beating heart. The last time it beat like this—wild and erratic, like it was trying to tear itself out of his chest—was during the Trial of Seven. In the mud, with blood in his mouth, in his eyes, iron on his tongue, vision blurring and head half in the clouds because he lost so much blood, staring up at a hedge knight who could have killed him if he wanted. 

He had been afraid. 

He’d been lying in the muck; he knew he had lost even before he yielded. He knew it the moment the oaf stood back up after Aerion had given it his all. He had no energy left, and he was bleeding out, and when he hit the ground that final time, he knew that he wasn’t going to get up. He remembers hearing his father yelling for him—my boy, Aerion! My boy!—and he remembers thinking that at least he would die in battle, at least he would die with his father’s voice in his ears, he would die knowing that his father cared enough to fight for him, to beg for him.

He is afraid now. 

And there is no oaf in front of him this time, no enemy wielding a blade that he can try to strike down, and no father to save him; just ships on the horizon, men he cannot see yet, and the suffocating feeling of knowing that they are coming from him. The Blackfyres are here, on this island, searching for him, and there’s nothing he will be able to do if they find him. There will be no yielding, no surrender. If they figure out he is here, they will cut his throat, and he will die cowering in silks instead of armor, in silence instead of with his father’s voice in his ears. 

He wonders, briefly and bitterly, if Maekar will even care. 

Probably not—no, there’s no probably about it. His father will not care. He did not care when Aerion was choking over his own blood, hardly able to speak, when he delivered the news that he would be sent across the Narrow Sea. He did not care to hear Aerion beg him not to do this, did not care when Aerion reopened the stitches on his thigh, trying to scramble after him when he turned his back on his own son. His father knew that the Blackfyres and their allies were across the Narrow Sea. Knew that this was a risk. And he sent Aerion here anyway. Aerion died to Maekar the moment Baelor’s heart stopped beating.

He will not care.

Maybe, even, he was hoping for this. 

A tragedy to befall the mad prince that he can work into a way to gather sympathy back home. Aerion was never useful to him alive, cost him far more than he was worth, but maybe in death—

Distantly, he hears you tell your whore to leave and then your boots clicking against the ground as you make your way over to him. He half wants to tell you to fuck off, to let him handle this himself, that he doesn’t need nor want your help, and he can face the Blackfyres himself, but then you slip your arms around his waist, rest your forehead against his shoulder blades, and the protests die on his lips. His throat bobs as your hand slides up his torso so that your palm is over his heart, feeling the rapid, fluttering pace of it. 

“Do you trust me?” you ask quietly, lips against his shoulder.

It terrifies him how easily the answer comes to him. “Yes.”

“Then trust me,” you say. “Go with Caelyx. He will bring you to the Perfumed Garden. The First Magister and I will be meeting the Golden Company in the central square. The Garden sits on the north end of the central square. You will be able to watch and listen to what we say to the Golden Company, and if things go south, Caelyx will make sure you get to the west side of the city and—”

“And what about you?” Aerion demands, whirling around to face you. “If things go south, you expect me to cower and hide while you—” While you die. He cannot even bring himself to say it. “I will not. You cannot expect that of me. You—”

“I’ll be fine,” you say dismissively. “I—”

“Do not take me for a fool,” he hisses. “There is a reason you are armed.”

You press your lips together, staring at him for a long while, and Aerion feels sick. They are here for him, they will kill him if they get their hands on him, and you are trying to send him away so they cannot, but if they realize what you’re doing, they will kill you. 

Aerion might die today, and Aerion might get you killed today, too.

He has never felt so useless before.

“They won’t kill me if things go south,” you finally say, shaking your head, and Aerion bristles, because you do take him for a fool and he should see your tongue removed for it, but all he can do is try to swallow his own as fear claws at his chest. “They won’t, Aerion. They will not risk making an enemy of Volantis. We have been over this before. If anything, they will take me hostage and—”

And what the hell do sellsword companies do with their hostages? he wants to scream at you. You are capable, he knows this. You are capable, and you are influential, and you are dangerous, but you are a woman. He wants to shake you to make you understand—if they take you hostage, then—

“They will do worse to you if they get their hands on you,” you say quietly. “They will make a spectacle of you. They will want something to show for it—something to carry back across the Narrow Sea and boast of. The Brightflame finally put out, the mad dragon tamed. They will keep you alive long enough for word to spread, long enough for your family to send men after you, and while they have you alive, they will do everything they can to break you—”

Aerion does not need to hear this from you. Doesn’t like the way it makes his skin crawl. 

“You are a fool if you think they would break me,” Aerion says through his teeth. “They—”

“They will,” you interrupt, voice so firm that it makes a chill run down his spine. “Aerion, they will break you. They will take their time, and they will make you into something that can be passed from hand to hand, something they can laugh over and parade about as a prize to mock your family. And once word has spread, and there is nothing left of you worth keeping, then they will kill you.”

“I would sooner kill myself,” Aerion hisses, but his stomach is turning, and the room feels too small, and the silk is too tight, and the air is too thin. “I would—”

You grab his face between your hands hard, pinching his cheeks, and Aerion loathes what you must see in your eyes to make the frustration and anger drain the way it does into something softer, grip on his face more gentle as your thumbs stroke his cheekbones.

“They would not let you, Aerion. Please stop fighting me. We do not have time for this.”

He glares at you, fury and indignation rising rapidly in his chest, because he knows that you are right. He knows it in the way his pulse will not slow, in the way his thoughts keep circling back to the same suffocating end, no matter how hard he tries to twist them into something else. He knows, and he hates it, hates that you have named it, hates that you are forcing him to look at it, to feel it.

Will his father even care? 

Will Maekar spare a second thought or go on his merry way?

“Do you trust me?” you ask again, firmer this time.

Aerion’s jaw tightens, and he nods.

“Then trust me,” you repeat, hands sliding from his cheeks to hold the back of his head, fingers threading through silver hair. “Trust me. Please. I need to meet with the First Magister before the Golden Company reaches the central square. Go with Caelyx and listen to him. He will relay everything else I don’t have the time to explain, okay?”

Aerion does not like it. He stares at you, and he is angry and helpless and so frustrated that he can feel his stomach churning, and he knows you know it from the way your eyes search his, begging him to just agree, not to make things more difficult.

He lets out a noise caught between a scoff and a sigh. “Fine. Fuck. Fine. But I do not like this at all, and if things go wrong—”

If things go wrong, then what? He’ll be dead, or worse. You’ll be dead, or worse. 

His throat bobs as he swallows.

Still, you say with a smile, “If things go wrong, you may hate me for it, and you may tell me I told you so when we meet in hell.”

Aerion snorts. “That is not funny, wench.”

You hum, lips still curved up. “It is kind of funny.”

“Not even slightly.”

You laugh, leaning in to press your forehead against his temple, and he sighs, eyes sliding shut. You ghost your lips against his cheekbone, and then turn his face slightly to the side so that you can brush your lips against his.

You say quietly, “Pāsagon nyke. Nyke gīmigon skoros iksan gaomagon.”

Trust me. I know what I’m doing.

“Gaoman pāsagon ao,” he murmurs. “Issa pōnta qilōni gaoman daor pāsagon.”

I do trust you. It is they whom I do not trust.

He feels you smile against his lips. The nerve.

“Eman ossēntan lēda qubykta vali,” you tell him, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Mirri kessa ivestragon iksan qubykta vali.”

I have dealt with worse men. Some would say I am worse men.

Aerion scoffs, but he finds himself smiling. “Iksā iā mittys, iksis skoros iksā,” he replies, voice weaker than he intends for it to be. “Māzigon arlī naejot nyke. Konir sagon iā udrāzma.”

You are a fool, is what you are. Return to me. That is an order.

Your lips curve up again, and you tilt your face to ghost your lips against his temple. “Kesan va moriot māzigon arlī naejot ao, zaldrīzes dārilaros.”

I will always return to you, dragon prince.

It should bring him some semblance of comfort, but the pit in his stomach only worsens.

———————

 “You should be paying attention to me, prince,” your whore drawls as he leans against the  doorframe to the room Aerion is waiting in. “I am trying to teach you how to behave properly as a courtesan.”

Aerion’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t look back at him, staring into the central square as you talk quietly to the First Magister, standing between him and his son, several of the Second Sons and the magister’s household guard lingering behind the three of you. 

This is the first time he’s seen the man look so serious—he’s always been quick to smile, friendly enough to be overlooked, though you are quick to tell Aerion that he is quite the cruel gossip behind closed doors. A vicious tongue and sharp mind to match, because one does not become First Magister in Lys without both at his disposal. 

Aerion has always dismissed it when you would tell him this; he’s never been able to reconcile the man you lauded as quick-witted and ruthless with the jovial man he portrays himself as, but now he can, with the way his eyes are cold and expression is stern as he stares in the direction of the ports, head tilted slightly toward you as he listens to whatever you’re saying. His son stands slightly behind the two of you, stiff, hand on the pommel of a decorative sword, gaze flicking nervously, visibly taking deep breaths to calm himself. 

“Did you know Marcellus asked her to marry him when she first arrived in Lys?” Caelyx says as he makes his way over to where Aerion is sitting, lounging on the cushions across from him. Aerion gives him a cool look, but the whore only raises his eyebrows, smiling easily, as though the Golden Company isn’t about to come down on Lys. 

“Who the fuck is Marcellus?” 

Caelyx lets out a huff of laughter and then nods out to where you’re standing. Aerion realizes he must be referring to the First Magister’s son—Aerion never even bothered to learn the idiot’s name. He scoffs and says, “Him? He is a fool. I once saw him trip over his own silks walking into a feast. Nearly took half the table with him. Then had a servant whipped to make it seem as though it was her fault.”

“He is an idiot,” Caelyx agrees, taking a sip of wine, unbothered, “but he is also pretty, and he is also cruel, so that makes him just her type.”

Aerion sneers, gaze flicking back out to where he’s standing just a smidge too close to you. He isn’t sure if he’d go so far as to say pretty—he’s sun-kissed, tall and thin, not toned, missing the lean muscle Aerion has, missing the silver-gold hair of Valyria, even if he does have the purple eyes. It’s a tawny brown instead, braided over his shoulder; he finds himself shaking his head, a scoff on his lips. 

No, Aerion thinks bitterly, not pretty at all. Not nearly your type.

“She liked him well enough for a few months,” Caelyx notes, smiling to himself as he watches the square. “Lasted longer than most, poor boy actually thought she might marry him. Eight whole moons, then he didn’t exist to her anymore. The two of you are coming up on that, aren’t you?”

Aerion stills, gaze sliding from the square to the whore sitting on the cushions next to him—too close to him, too smug. Aerion does not have time for this. Does not have time or patience. The Golden Company will arrive any moment, but—

—but he does not like the mockery in his tone. The implication. Aerion is not stupid, he knows what your whore is trying to say, and it settles very, very poorly. 

Caelyx leans in a little, so close that Aerion can smell the cherry wine on his tongue. “I could teach you to pleasure her,” he murmurs, leaning in closer to brush his lips against Aerion’s ear. “So that she does not become bored with you like she does everyone else.”

Aerion shoves him away hard, seething. “I should take your tongue, whore,” he spits. “Who do you think you are?”

Caelyx is unbothered, smiling still as he leans back against the cushions again. “I only mean to help, prince—”

“My prince.”

“Would that you were,” Caelyx drawls smugly. “Think on it. We both know she grows bored easily, and we both know that in the five years she’s been here, she’s never grown bored of me. I love nothing more than to be of use. We could have fun—the three of us.”

“Do not speak to me again,” Aerion says through his teeth. “If you speak to me again, I will have your tongue removed, and not even she will be able to save you.”

“Did you know that sometimes she enjoys taking the lead?” Caelyx continues, unperturbed, silver hair falling in his eyes as he tilts his head to the side. As Aerion’s about to spit out a yes, reminded of the countless times you forced him onto his back and climbed on top of him, Caelyx adds, “In ways most men are too proud to learn.”

Aerion pauses, brows furrowing as he casts a side eye toward the whore, unsure of what exactly he is implying. He fights a snarl when he’s met with another too smug smile. 

Caelyx only smiles wider. “It can feel good for men too, prince,” he purrs, leaning in again. “Taking it the way a woman does. She knows how to make it feel good.”

Aerion’s face burns hot as soon as Caelyx’s words register. He flounders, lips parting, attention drawing from the square fully now. Vile words threaten to burst from his lips, pride and indignity warring, insult for this whore to say something so crude, but they die in his throat, strangled by the heat that floods his chest and the unwelcome flicker of curiosity that follows. He hides it with a scoff, but—

His thoughts traitorously cling to the idea, envisioning what your whore dared to imply. He can see it too easily—your hands on Caelyx, pushing him back against the bed, holding him there, his head tipped back, mouth parted, gasping, moaning, violet eyes rolled back as you press deep inside him and take what you want.

Something green and ugly twists in Aerion’s chest, breath quickening, rage curdling, and then—

Then it turns. Then it is your hands on him instead, firm at his hips, nails digging into his skin as you force him down, as you hold him there, and all he can do is take everything you’re willing to give him. It would be a fight—everything is always a fight with the two of you, a war for dominance with blood drawn and bruises painted on smooth skin. He would not yield to you, not so willingly, not like your whore, but you would make him yield, and Aerion would—he would enjoy it. Aerion has never let anyone take control like that, has never given it, has never even considered it. The very idea should disgust him, should make him recoil the way he did just a moment ago, but it doesn’t.

He chokes, breath catching in his throat, heat flooding his face as he realizes how much his thoughts have drifted—that Caelyx has noticed it too, from the way satisfied expression on his face—and Aerion jerks his gaze away like he’s been struck.

“Shut up,” he snaps hoarsely, jaw clenched so tight it aches, because he cannot tell if he wants to rip Caelyx’s throat out for saying it or himself for imagining it.

Luckily, or unluckily, maybe, Caelyx does not have the opportunity to respond, because the Golden Company finally approaches the square. 

Disgust curdles in Aerion’s stomach when he recognizes Aegor Rivers standing at the head of the group, black hair loose at his shoulders and dressed in plain armor, the Valyrian sword Blackfyre sheathed at his hip. 

For a moment, he nearly rises. The impulse is sudden and violent—grab a blade, any blade, and cut his way through them until the bastard bleeds out in the dust and that stolen sword is returned to where it belongs. 

Behind the bastard are the false claimants. Aerion recognizes them without introductions, and it makes him sick. It makes him sick that they look like him. Sick that they have the same silver hair, the same violet eyes, the blood of Old Valyria running just as true through bastards and pretenders as it does through him—and they dare to stand beneath the banner of the black dragon. 

His body shifts, nails biting into his palm and teeth grinding together. 

He hates them. He hates the way they stand there like they have a right to be, like they have not stolen everything they are from his family and twisted it into something lesser. Hates the way the city seems to hold its breath for them, as though they’re something to be reckoned with instead of something to be stamped out. 

He starts to rise, and your whore tenses on his opposite side as though to stop him, and then—

—and then the First Magister steps forward, and Aerion loses the opportunity. 

He draws blood from how hard he bites his tongue, feels it dripping between his knuckles, too.

“I must say, if you have come to conquer our fine city with such… modest forces, then you will find us less accommodating than you might hope,” the First Magister says, eyes sharp as he stares down at the Golden Company from the top of the marble steps. “We do not take kindly to uninvited guests.”

Aegor Rivers does not rise to the bait. He paces a few steps forward, standing at the foot of the steps, gaze sweeping from the First Magister to you to the First Magister’s son, and finally to the men arrayed behind the three of you—a small regiment of the Second Sons, Lys’s gonfaloniere, and the household guard. The other magisters are nowhere to be seen. 

It is a statement of unity, Caelyx had explained when Aerion first made note of it—the Golden Company is not welcome in Lys. 

“We are not here to conquer, magister,” Aegor Rivers replies at last, inclining his head to the First Magister. “We hear you harbor a guest of particular interest to us, and we hope to come to an… understanding.”

“How unfortunate that you have come all this way for a rumor,” the First Magister replies with a thin smile, and he exchanges a quick look with you that Aerion isn’t able to read, “and without the decency to give notice before your arrival. One would almost think you meant to insult us. Did you mean to insult the magisters of our lovely Lys, my lord?” 

“He is no lord,” you interrupt blandly. “You are being far too generous, magister.”

Aerion’s lips curl up despite himself. But then you throw a wink back at the First Magister’s son, Marcellus, who snorts at your words, and his smile flattens, irritated again. He side-eyes the two whores who slip into the room with them—two girls, he’s seen them hanging around you before, but he doesn’t know either of their names.

“Caelyx,” the taller one says, glancing nervously out to the square. “How is it going?” 

“She’s only insulted them once,” Caelyx says as he smirks into his wine. “So I would say well.”

The shorter girl laughs, settling onto the cushions next to Aerion, resting her head on her arms as she looks out into the square. Aerion finds himself irritated again all of a sudden—the silk clings to him, too soft and too light and too wrong, and the scent of perfume and wine hangs thick in the air, cloying and suffocating. 

He should be down there—at your side, at the First Magister’s shoulder, steel in hand, not hidden in silk and pillows and painted smiles, not tucked away among whores. His fingers curl into the cushions, nails biting into the fabric as his eyes track you. This is fucking humiliating. He exhales hard through his nose, trying to calm his temper.

“Watch yourself, prince,” Caelyx drawls, watching him carefully from the corner of his eye. Aerion sneers at him. “I only mean to say that you know what is at stake. Do not let your pride get the best of you.”

“I do not need you reminding me, whore,” Aerion scoffs.

Still, his stomach flips as he remembers what you said earlier. He does not want to think about that, because if he thinks about that, he thinks about how he got here, and if he thinks about how he got here, he thinks about his father, and if he thinks about his father, he will wonder—will he even care? And Aerion will not like the answer he comes to, so he cannot think about what will happen if the Blackfyres see through the lies, so he does not.

“I had thought Lys better governed,” Aegor says after a moment, “than to allow its… wards such freedom with their tongue.”

You tilt your head, considering him. 

“And I had thought you more impressive,” you reply. “Given the stories.”

“Across the Narrow Sea, a ward who spoke so carelessly would find herself corrected. Firmly,” Aegor says after a moment, voice low and edged. “It is a failing of the Free Cities that they keep such a gentle hand in the face of such disobedience.” 

“If you are so fond of firm hands, I suggest you sail back to your Sunset Kingdom and find one willing to keep you,” you say, smiling, until you are not. “If you ever imply I need to be firmly corrected again, I will skin you alive and pour salt over every inch of your body.”

Aegor’s mouth curves, faint and humorless. “A bold threat,” he says. “Though I wonder—would your hosts thank you for starting a war in their square? It would be a shame to see Lys burn for your temper.”

“Lys would not be the city that burns, sellsword. It will be your ships and your men,” you drawl. “The sacking of Qohor has made you bold, but Lys is not Qohor—nor is Volantis, and you tread on making an enemy of both.”

“You are an exile, my lady,” Aegor says coolly, tilting his head. “You think your city will go to war at your whims.”

“Exile, maybe, but I am old blood, and you are the son of an Andal whore. They would never suffer the insult without consequence.”

Aerion barks out a laugh.

“It’s good to know you haven’t lost your teeth in the years you’ve spent amongst silk boys,” an unfamiliar voice says from the crowd of sellswords. Your expression shifts instantly, the irritation disappearing, eyes widening, and a pit inexplicably forms in Aerion’s stomach. He spares a glance at Caelyx, but Caelyx put down his wine, frowning as he straightens from where he was leaning back against the cushions. “I warned him that you would eat him alive if he tried to play this game. You should have listened, Rivers.”

Aerion watches as a man with silver hair, braided back from his face, makes his way across the marble toward you, all careless smiles and casual arrogance. He is tall, thin, but lean in the way of a man who knows weaponry, not the pillow play of the Lyseni silk boys—and he is very, very pretty. He dresses like you in black leather with a red cape over his shoulder, and he wears Valyrian steel like it’s fucking gold on his fingers, on his neck, on his ears, a sword at his hip and a dagger at his forearm. 

Aerion knows before either of you speaks. 

All of the tension bleeds from your body, disbelief spilling across your face, and Aerion feels sick to his stomach already. 

“Jaenys?” you gasp, a breathless smile spreading across your face as you make your way down the steps to meet him halfway. Aerion doesn’t realize he’s rising to his feet until he already has, jaw tight as he watches the way the man reaches for your waist, pulling your body close until it’s flush to his. Your hands rise to his face, gentle, your cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones like you need to make sure he’s real. Aerion’s stomach twists. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“That’s one of her friends,” one of the girls says, and Aerion’s teeth grind because that is not the way friends hold one another. “From back home. I recognize the name.”

That is the way—that is the way you’ve held his face in the cove, in bed, when it is only you and only him. He watches as you let out a bright laugh, genuine and pretty as a bell, more real than anything Aerion has ever heard from you before. And Aerion feels fucking sick—he feels sick, and he does not want to see this, but he cannot draw his gaze away, watching as the other man draws you in close, burying his face in your hair, pressing his lips to your temple, your neck, laughing into your skin. 

“Why is he with the Golden Company?” the other girl asks warily. “Caelyx, what should we do?”

Caelyx is no longer drinking. He has set his wine aside, watching the scene with calculating eyes, and he’s holding a small bowl in his right hand, and distantly, Aerion recognizes the fine powder that sits inside it from the corner of his eye, but he’s more focused on you, on the way your gaze traces Jaenys’s face, the way you’re holding him, the way he’s holding you. You’re talking to him, but your voice is too quiet now for him to overhear from the Perfumed Garden, as though you’d forgotten he was listening, forgotten you’d promised that you would talk loud enough so that he’d know what was happening, forgotten about him. 

Aerion’s fingers curl at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he watches the way Jaenys lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles, your wrist, your pulse, smiling into your skin—the two of you curling into one another like the Golden Company is not in the square, like there’s no danger and no one is watching. 

What the fuck?

You say something again, too quiet again, and then you nod toward the Perfumed Garden, and Aerion’s heart drops to his fucking feet. No—no, you wouldn’t. His mind scrambles to make sense of the motion you just made, to force it into something that doesn’t feel like a blade sliding between his ribs. You wouldn’t just—you wouldn’t just give him up so easily, not like that, not after everything you said, not just because, not just because—

He can’t even finish the thought, because he can’t even fucking convince himself of it. He knows well how much you long for home, more than he does; he knows the way you speak of the people you left behind, the future you lost, and he knows—

“It’s not what you think,” he hears Caelyx say, but it feels like there’s fucking cotton in his ears. Everything feels distant and far away, and he can only stare out at the square, at the way your head is bent together with Jaenys, at the way you motion again to the Garden, to Aerion. “It’s not—”

“I know,” he spits, and then he laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You do not need to—I do not need—”

He can’t even get a fucking sentence out, and his face flames red with humiliation, and his breath is too shallow. You wouldn’t, you wouldn’t—iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon. You said it, he said it. You would not give him up so easily. 

“She told me to tell you that if the Golden Company pressed for negotiations, she would bring it to the Perfumed Garden so you could listen in on what’s being said in the chance it pertains to your house,” Caelyx says, and then shifts closer. Aerion shifts away, bumping into the whore on his other side, and he suddenly feels too closed in and too distracted, because he can’t drag his eyes from the square. “You need to take this.”

“I am not drugging myself when they are five feet from the fucking door,” Aerion snaps, rounding on him, voice low but vicious. His hands are shaking now—he curls them into fists to hide it, nails digging deeper into his palms. “When they will be in the same fucking room as me. Have you lost your damn mind?”

Caelyx doesn’t flinch. “You will give yourself away the moment they start talking about you or your family,” he says, lifting the bowl slightly, the fine powder shifting inside. It’s not the same one you took with him in the garden at the revel—this one is a shimmering blue. “Look at you.”

“I am fine,” Aerion spits.

“You are not,” Caelyx replies flatly. 

Aerion’s pulse won’t slow; his thoughts are spiraling, circling back to you, the Golden Company, Jaenys, that gesture, to the way it looked, to the way it felt, to the way it hurt. Aerion isn’t even sure if he’s breathing properly.

Will his father care?

Will he think twice when news reaches him?

Will you care?

Will you—

Caelyx’s gaze flicks behind Aerion, and Aerion catches it a split second too late. His gaze snaps behind him as the woman on his opposite side grabs his right wrist hard, pinning it to the cushions, while the other one grabs his left. Aerion thrashes, but they are stronger than they look, and Aerion is thoroughly distracted.

“What the fuck—” Aerion snarls, twisting hard, muscles straining as he tries to rip himself free. The cushions shift beneath him, silk sliding, his footing useless, and fury spikes hot and immediate, cutting clean through the panic. “Get your hands off me—”

He jerks again, violently this time, and one of them gasps as his shoulder clips her, but her grip doesn’t loosen. The other tightens, digging her fingers into his wrist hard enough to bruise, and Aerion cannot get his footing for leverage to pull away.

“Hurry up, Caelyx!” 

“You think you can lay hands on me? I am a prince of the blood,” Aerion spits, voice dropping into something more dangerous but riddled with panic that he cannot quite push down. His eyes flash, violet gone almost black in his rage. “I will have your hands for this—I will have your tongues, your lives—every last one of you—”

“Hold him,” Caelyx snaps, all softness gone.

Aerion bares his teeth, lunging forward despite the hold on him, trying to get at him, to hurt him, because this—this humiliation, this loss of control, this—

Caelyx moves faster. A hand fists in Aerion’s hair, yanking his head back hard enough to make his breath hitch, his throat exposed, jaw forced open on a startled inhale, and then fingers are shoved into his mouth, the powder coated on digits, and Aerion chokes, thrashing hard now, rage turning wild and frantic as he bucks against their hold. Your whores, to their credit, look guilty—the girls do at least, Caelyx is only watching with thinly pressed lips, holding his face and his nose so that he cannot breathe, forcing him to swallow the powder he pushed into his mouth.

“Sorry, prince,” Caelyx murmurs, though he doesn’t sound all too sorry. The powder is already dissolving on Aerion’s tongue, bitter and strange, and when he tries to gasp for air, he swallows. “She told us to use whatever force was necessary if it came to this.”

He shoves Caelyx away hard, scrambling off the cushions to the marble floor, on his hands and knees, vision blurred as he tries and fails to gag up whatever they forced him to take. One of the girls has the audacity to creep closer to him, worried, and he bares his teeth at her furiously, grabbing whatever is closest to him—a glass— and flinging it hard at her head. It misses, shattering against the wall, but it still has its desired effect, as the girl scrambles away.

“I’ll kill you,” Aerion gasps, eyes wild and furious as he stares up at Caelyx, who hasn’t budged from the cushions. “All three of you, her, I’ll kill you all, I’ll—”

Caelyx sighs, gaze drifting out to where you’re still laughing with your friend, limbs entwined, faces too close together, to where the Golden Company is waiting for the two of you to stop talking, and he says quietly, “Let’s make sure you live long enough to have the opportunity, yeah?” 

Will you care? Will you care? Will you care?

———————

Everything feels distant and faraway. 

After Aerion settles down, Caelyx explains that they give the younger ones this powder when they take their first clients. Men pay extra for whores who haven’t been passed around yet—cruel men, violent men, the kind that want to see the blood, that want to cause it, that want to hear the sound a girl makes when they hurt, but still want to convince themselves that they’re not doing anything wrong, because it’s only sex with a whore, after all. 

The powder makes it easier for them; it softens the worst parts, turning something unbearable into something survivable. Not painless, because it’s never painless, but it makes everything more distant and manageable. 

Aerion stares forward as you enter the room, laughing in the arms of your friend Jaenys, and there’s not even a tug in his chest or a twist in his stomach—as though everything happening around him belongs to someone else.

He knows what he should feel—the bitter, ugly flood of it, the heat and the humiliation, he knows it is there, but he just… cannot reach it. It sits somewhere behind his ribs, muffled and dulled down to a distant pressure that cannot claw its way to the surface.

Aerion watches you as you cross the threshold, Jaenys’s hand at your waist like it belongs there, like it has always belonged there, like Aerion is an imposter and never truly had a place in your life—the sight registers cleanly, but it does not cut the way he knows it should.

Your gaze slides over him like he’s not even there. 

He should not have stayed.

(“You don’t have to sit in the room for the conversation,” Caelyx says as he gets the main room ready for the meeting about to take place—only the Perfumed Garden’s best permitted in the area. “You can wait in the back or upstairs. You’ll still be able to hear it all, but—”

“No,” he says after a moment, voice slow to his own ears. He cannot even reach the anger he knows he should feel. It is infuriating. “No. I need to be here. They won’t recognize me. Not like this.”

Because this is humiliating. This is shameful. This is everything Aerion Brightflame is not. Even if they do see a ghost of the Targaryen dynasty in his face, the whole world knows him well enough to know that he’d never be caught dead dressed in silk posing as a whore. That’s exactly why you insisted on this, exactly why he fought it. 

He will put it to the test, he decides, and if it fails, and he is butchered in silk by the Blackfyres, then it will be your fault.

Will you even care? Will you even—)

He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like this at all. He doesn’t like seeing you with your friend. He doesn’t like the way you don’t acknowledge him. Doesn’t like the way the First Magister’s son trails behind you, looking out of place and like he wants to cling to you. Doesn’t like the pit in his stomach that forms when he sees Aegor Rivers duck into the Perfumed Garden with a twisted expression, distant and unreachable as that pit may be. Doesn’t like the sight of the Blackfyre bastards that follow in after him—three of them, silver-haired and violet-eyed. 

“My lady,” Caelyx greets you with a demure smile, pressing his lips to your knuckles. You are leaning your body against Jaenys, as though you do not wish to stand on your own, as though the two of you are husband and wife, lovers who can’t bear to part. The sight of it makes Aerion sick—or, it should make Aerion sick. He cannot reach that either. He does not like this. “We’re here to serve as you please. Let us know how we may make your guests comfortable.”

“We’ll take the room,” you reply, and you shift to stand up straight. Aerion can breathe again. You finally look around the room, disinterest flicking across your face until your eyes settle on him resting against the cushions. He catches the irritation that flashes briefly in your eyes. “Get me Vaella and Rhalla. And a couple of the other girls. Boys too. And wine. Lots of it. Gods know I need it.”

You are a fucking idiot, you tell him without saying anything, fighting a frustrated sneer as your gaze lingers on him a moment too long. Why are you lounging about so carelessly? Why didn’t you go upstairs?

Aerion doesn’t raise his eyebrows mockingly, but he thinks you know he wants to, because your eye twitches before you mask it and turn back to your guests. 

“We do not need whores,” Aegor Rivers says roughly. “Let us—”

“Do not speak to me unless I address you first,” you cut in, casting an annoyed look back to the sellsword. 

Aerion knows it’s because you’re frustrated with him and taking it out on the first person who dared to speak to you, and it pleases him—or it should. He cannot feel anything beyond this muted numbness. 

The silence stretches, taut, as Aegor stills at your interruption, something dark flickering behind his eyes, his jaw tightening just a fraction before he reins it in. You turn your back on him, dismissing him, then make your way over to the cushions, exhaling as you drop back onto them, head rolled back as you stare up at the ceiling for a moment. He wants to know what you’re thinking, he wants to know what’s happening, he hates this. He hates all of this. 

The others begin to seat themselves—Aegor Rivers and the Blackfyre pretenders across from you, Marcellus on your left, Jaenys to your right. After what feels like an eternity, Caelyx returns to the room with the two girls from before, along with several others, boys and girls alike, all soft smiles and lowered gazes as they drift into the room, trying to figure out who to go to, where to stand, like they are nothing more than decoration.

Your head rolls to the side, gaze cutting across the room, straight to Aerion. 

“Ari,” you purr, lips tilted up into a lazy smile. Aerion doesn’t react only because he can’t. The muted panic sits low and unreachable in his stomach when he realizes that you’re purposely drawing attention to him. What the hell are you doing? “Come here. I’ve missed you.”

The instinct to refuse is there, buried beneath the haze, sharp and stubborn and his, in spite of the drugs dumbing him down. He wants to bare his teeth and stay exactly where he is, wants to force you to come to him instead. But it never makes it past that first flicker, because Aegor’s gaze shifts, the room tilts in his direction, and Aerion is suddenly very aware of every pair of eyes that might look at him with suspicion if he hesitates or lingers too long or does anything other than exactly what is expected of him.

Because he is a whore of the Perfumed Garden. Ari of Lys. 

Aerion fucking hates you. Aerion wants you dead. Not even this stupid drug can force away the resentment that bubbles in his chest as he forces himself to his feet, silk scraping uncomfortably against his skin as he makes his way across the room toward you. 

Are you purposely doing this to humiliate him? Why would you do this? Will you care? Will you—

“Do you know all of the whores on this island by name?” one of the Blackfyres drawls across from you, distracted as he glances up at a pretty golden-haired girl who smiles sweetly at him. 

Aerion realizes that no one is really looking at him anymore, not beyond the short glance when you first addressed him. By the time Aerion reaches you, the attention has already shifted away—he has been dismissed, just another pretty thing in silk. 

That was your play, he recognizes too late, lowering himself into your lap when you guide him down. You pulled him into the center of the room, forced their attention onto him for a heartbeat, just long enough to see him clearly, to register him, and then discard him. Better this than the edges of the room, where he would linger, where sharp eyes might wander back to him, and suspicion might build, where he might become something worth noticing.

Now, he is nothing—a prop, a distraction already spent. 

“Most of them,” you agree with an easy smile, one arm slinking around his waist possessively as you pull him close and he settles against you, shoulder pressed against your chest, hand sliding to rest loosely at the side of your neck, fingers grazing the edge of your jaw. “The ones worth remembering, at least.”

He hates this. 

He hates the silk clinging to his skin, too soft and too revealing, nothing like the leather everyone else of note in the room wears, nothing like anything a prince of House Targaryen should ever wear. He hates the way they look through him like he’s not even there. He hates that his body sinks into yours, and he cannot help the way his eyes half-lid when your fingers slip beneath his silks, thumb rubbing soothing circles over his hip, out of sight from everyone else. He hates that it comforts him. Hates that his head dips toward yours instinctively. Hates that he can feel the heat roaring through his veins, that he knows he should be ripping himself out of your hold, baring his teeth, reminding them all exactly who the fuck he is: a dragon and a prince, better than them, all of them, but he cannot fucking reach it. He cannot reach the fire he knows is there; it dies before he can hope to grasp at it, and he—

Someone is still looking at him. 

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and Aerion’s gaze shifts to the side, trying to figure out who is still looking at him, and he pauses when he sees that it’s your friend, Jaenys, watching him with sharp, calculating eyes, trained not on his face, but—

—Aerion forgot to take off the steel.

Aerion forgot to take off the fucking steel.

The Valyrian steel at his throat—the steel you gifted him, the steel you placed on his neck, the steel you found in the ruins of Valyria, likely with the boy sitting right next to you, weighs on his neck like a fucking shackle. How the fuck did he forget to take off the steel? He’s become so used to the weight of it that he doesn’t even notice it anymore. He didn’t even think anything of it until now, until someone who recognizes it stares at it like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room, because why the fuck would you gift the last relic you have of your home to some random Lyseni whore?

Aerion’s fingers twitch against your neck, a useless, delayed reaction, his mind scrambling sluggishly to catch up with what his body should have already done—hide it, move it out of sight, do something. But he doesn’t, because it’s too late, because moving now would draw attention and confirm exactly what he knows Jaenys must be suspecting.

Jaenys watches him for a moment longer, gaze lifting from the steel at last to his eyes, and Aerion hates the look in his eyes—amused and knowing and far too perceptive for Aerion’s liking. His lips curl, just slightly, but then he turns his attention back to you, lithe fingers reaching for your free hand. 

Jaenys holds eye contact with Aerion as he lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles again before he leans in to ghost them against your ear. He says something quiet, only for you to hear, and Aerion can only make out the word special, but whatever is said is enough to make you physically tense, grip on his hip tightening. 

“How is everyone back home ?” you ask, ignoring the Blackfyres and Aegor Rivers to focus on your friend. 

“Miserable without you,” Jaenys says with an easy grin and a wink in your direction. “You could not imagine how boring things have been. You’ve probably been having more fun on this whore island than we are in Volantis.”

Aerion feels you huff out a laugh, chest rising and falling against his back. “Do not be dramatic, Jaenys,” you reply. “There is little to do here beyond fucking and drinking, and we both know I can only handle so much of that without some blood in between.”

Jaenys hums, amused, lithe fingers sliding absently up and down your forearm. Aerion’s gaze follows them, watching how easy the movement is, how familiar—thoughtless in a way that makes Aerion’s chest tight even though that powder should have him dulled into oblivion. 

“You always did prefer a little chaos to keep things interesting,” Jaenys murmurs. “I’m surprised you haven’t burned this place to the ground yet.”

“If you are quite finished reminiscing,” Aegor cuts in, tone clipped, bold considering the way both you and your friend raise your eyebrows at one another, smiles easy, but not entertained. “We did not come here to hear tales of your boredom.”

You do not even look at him.

“Then perhaps you should not have come uninvited,” you reply smoothly, eyes still on Jaenys, as though Aegor is little more than background noise. You ask Jaenys quietly, “Why did you come, Jaenys? Why are you here with these Andal cunts?”

Jaenys exhales hard through his nose, averting his gaze for the first time since he entered that room, the easy amusement slipping into something more serious.

“I told you, it’s miserable without you,” he says with a sigh, fingers still against your arm, sliding down to entwine your fingers with his. Aerion can’t draw his gaze from it, can’t ignore the pressure rising in his chest, muted and distant but still somehow all-consuming. “The Tigers are restless, and the Elephants grow bolder by the day. Every assembly turns into the same argument and—” Jaenys exhales through his nose, and Aerion’s stomach twists. He doesn’t like where this is going before he even really knows where it’s going. “We are tired of waiting. Everyone is.”

Your thumb stills at Aerion’s hip.

“And you think I am the solution to that? Eight hundred miles away?” you ask, voice light and dry, but Aerion can feel the tension in your body now, the way your grip tightens at his hip. “Do not be ridiculous, Jae—”

“Not from eight hundred miles away, but yeah. You are.”

Aerion does not like this.

His fingers twitch at your neck, and he instinctively starts to shift in your lap, only to be stopped when the hand on his hip becomes painful, warning him not to move around and make a scene. Whores are meant to be pliant and obedient, seen but not heard, decorations not meant to react to anything being said around them.

But Aerion does not like this. 

His heart thuds in his chest. He does not know if the powder is wearing off on its own or if he’s just so bothered by the implications of what’s being said that it’s forcibly sobering him—or worse, this is the muted version of what he should be feeling. 

“What the fuck are you talking about, Jaenys?”

“You’re not meant to rot away on this island of fucking whores,”  Jaenys says, grip tightening on your hand to force you to look at him. “We were never going to let you, and now we’ve finally got a way to get you back.”

Aerion can feel your heart against his back, racing in a way that he’s never felt before. Aerion’s is too. His mind is too slow right now—if he wasn’t drugged up on this stupid powder, he would’ve been able to put together what’s happening by now, but instead, he’s stuck, lagging behind his own thoughts, watching everything happen in pieces instead of all at once. 

Aerion swallows hard, breath shallow, fingers tightening at your neck like he can ground himself there, like if he holds on tight enough, it will force everything to click into place like it already should be. 

“And the Andals have something to do with this plan to get me back to Volantis?” you ask, voice riddled with disbelief, nails biting into his skin the same way his are biting into yours, trying to ground yourself with him the same way he does with you. “Jaenys, you—”

“They offer a path,” Jaenys interrupts, glancing briefly toward Aegor Rivers before returning his attention to you. “Just hear it out, okay?”

They’re supposed to be here for him, Aerion thinks desperately. They’re supposed to be here for him, are they—are they here for you? They’re here to—to take you?

“The Golden Company has the men and the means,” Aegor Rivers says, finally pushing into the conversation. Aerion expects you to shut him down again. You do not. “We would be willing to lend our support to the Tiger Party in the event of conflict. To ensure that the outcome is favorable.”

“Conflict?” you echo. Your voice sounds far away. Underwater. Aerion does not like the word, what it means, what it implies. Sellsword companies do not do anything for free. So what do they want from— “You mean to throw Volantis into civil war, Jaenys? What the fuck? We don’t need the help of the Andals if we want to take Volantis by force, but we don’t want—”

Jaenys says your name. Aerion hates the sound of that too—the way he says it, soft and lilting, begging for you to listen, and he hates the way you actually do, halting in your venomous rant as soon as he speaks. Your fingers on his hip are bruising, and his on your neck twice as hard. His gaze drags over to Aegor Rivers from where he was staring over your shoulder; the man stares right past him—at you—and Aerion doesn’t know if he’s breathing properly. His head feels light, and each breath is shallow.

He could kill him right now. 

The thought cuts through the haze, and for a moment, Aerion almost feels like himself again. 

Aegor Rivers sits barely five feet away—this registers for the first time since everyone seated themselves. No armor, no helm, no guard between them but a room full of distracted men to expect a blade from a whore’s hand. The Blackfyre bastards, too—silver-haired, violet-eyed mockeries of his blood, close enough that Aerion can see the faint scars on their hands and faces, the way their chests rise and fall as they breathe. He could do it. He could lunge forward, rip free from you, seize the fruit knife on the table between the cushions, and drive it through Bittersteel’s throat before the man could react. He could carve through the rest of them after, one by one, leave them bleeding out on cushions and marble like they deserve.

He might die.

He probably would die.

But—but his father would hear of it. Aerion Brightflame, striking down Bittersteel in a way that neither he nor his uncle was able to during the rebellion, cutting through pretenders with his own hand before falling in battle. Not an embarrassment. Not something to be ashamed of. Not an inconvenience to be sent across the Narrow Sea and forgotten about. A Targaryen prince. A dragon in full, not silk and perfume and humiliation. 

You would probably die, too. 

That is what makes him falter. If he jumped forward now, if he cut Aegor River’s throat and then carved up each of the Blackfyre bastards, you would be caught in the middle. You’re armed, yes, and the moment the lingering Golden Company sellswords drew their blades to cut Aerion down, you would draw yours (right? you would, wouldn’t you? would you defend him? would you even care? would anyone care?). And you are skilled, he knows you are, but there are dozens, hundreds, thousands of Blackfyre loyalists on this island right now, and not even you—

“We could do it,” Jaenys says quietly. “A full coup, rout the Elephants—”

“That’s not how things fucking work in Volantis,” you hiss, interrupting Jaenys, whose lips tighten with irritation at your words. “We are not Andal cunts who chop each other up over inheritance—who destroy our houses and birthright for personal ambition. The Triarchy is not won by butchering half the city in the streets and hoping the rest fall in line.”

“I thought you would want to come home—”

“Of course, I want to come home,” you spit, voice rising in anger. Your grip on Aerion’s hip is painful, and it grounds him, pulling him away from the violence and blood that threatens to put him into a situation that will get both of you killed. “But gods, Jaenys, does my father even know about this? The rest of the Tigers? This could destroy everything, this could—what?”

Jaenys tosses his head back, beckoning someone to come forward from the edge of the room. Aerion’s gaze drags, following the motion as a man steps forward from the line of sellswords. He carries something wrapped in dark cloth, held carefully, and Jaenys reaches forward to take it from him, peeling back the cloth to reveal a sheathed sword—ruby-embedded hilt, dark, rippling steel, the patterns in it catching the sunlight. 

Aerion’s mouth dries, and you inhale behind him, leaning forward, lips ghosting his shoulder as you look over him at the sheathed blade. Jaenys gives you a pointed look before he places it between the two of you. 

“He gave this to me before I left,” Jaenys says softly, “to give to you.” Jaenys continues, voice lower now, only for you to overhear, “He wants you to come home. We all do.”

Oh. 

Aerion feels the change in you immediately. Your spine straightens, and your grip loosens on his hip. You don’t let go of Jaeny’s hand—you let go of Aerion as you reach out to brush your fingers against the hilt of the sword resting between the two of you. The aggression fizzles out of you, and you exhale in a way that is not frustrated or irritated; it’s contemplative. 

Aerion’s throat goes dry. His fingers twitch at your neck again, a delayed, useless motion, like he’s trying to remind you he’s still there—he’s still here—but it feels weak, inconsequential, swallowed by everything else that just shifted in the room.

“And what? The Golden Company wants to displace the Elephants and put us in power out of the goodness of their hearts? What do they want in return?” you ask. 

There is no derision in your tone. There is no bite or mockery, no easy dismissal waiting behind it. 

It is a real question.

Aerion feels it like a blow to the gut, wind knocked from his lungs. His fingers falter against your neck, the last weak attempt at grounding slipping away into nothing as a slow and suffocating reality settles in around him. You’re not shutting this down, and you’re not laughing it off anymore. You’re really fucking considering it.

You might actually accept it.

The thought lands heavier than anything else—heavier than the Golden Company arriving in Lys, heavier than the thought of war, than his father not caring about him, than dying here. His lashes flutter, and the next breath he lets out is shaky. 

This is what you’ve always wanted.

He knows that. Knows it in the way you talk about Volantis, about home, about what was taken from you. Knows it in the way you’ve never quite belonged here, no matter how easily you play at it, no matter how well you’ve carved a place for yourself in Lys. Knows it in the way you always look east. 

You never wanted to be here—you just never had a way back home.

And now you have a way back.

But you promised him. 

You promised him that you would come with him back to Westeros. You said it: iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon, you told him you loved him, he asked you to come with him and you said I will. You promised, you promised—

“Well, we would like the Bright Prince, for one,” one of Daemon Blackfyre’s wretched sons says easily, gaze lingering for a moment on where Caelyx sits on the cushion next to Jaenys, before he focuses on you. “We heard he was here in Lys.”

Aerion’s pulse spikes hard and fast, blood rushing loud in his ears as his fingers lock at your neck—not gentle or grounding this time, clingy in a way that’s pathetic. 

Do not give me up, he says without saying anything at all, desperate and pleading, not half as commanding as he would like, do not betray me, do not leave me. 

He would not even be able to defend himself right now, he realizes, tense. He does not have the means—no armor, no sword, and if his body is half as sluggish as his mind is, he does not stand a chance. He is sitting right across from Aegor Rivers and the Blackfyre bastards, he is drugged with nothing to defend himself, and you might give him up to them now. 

His breath catches shallowly against your skin, the haze fracturing as fear edges out the last of the powder. You don’t react to his fingers at your neck, not for a long, long time, but then your hand smooths over his hip, squeezing it lightly before you lean back against the cushions with a sigh. 

“Even if the Bright Prince were here, I wouldn’t give him to you,” you say with a shrug, and Aerion doesn’t know if that was the right thing to say, but it puts him at ease, something terribly warm bubbling in his chest. “I’m fond of him. We got on well while he was here. He kept me—entertained.”

“Really?” another pretender drawls, mocking. “I hear he’s temperamental. Prone to mad fits. Not the sort one keeps for long.”

Aerion’s throat bobs at the words, remembering your whore’s comment from before: the two of you are coming up on that, aren’t you? So that she does not become bored with you like she does everyone else. Annoyance flares, teeth grinding; he shifts in your lap before he can stop himself, an instinctive movement like he’s trying to settle into you more firmly. Your grip tightens—a warning—you must realize that he’s coming down from the powder. 

“Which one are you?” you ask suddenly, gaze roving over the Blackfyre. “Wait. Let me guess. Another Aegon? You Westerosi seem fond of that name.” 

Jaenys snorts, turning his face toward you, a smile curving at his lips.

The silver-haired pretender flushes red, an irritated expression on his face. “Haegon, actually.”

You bark out a surprised laugh. “Wow, almost,” you drawl. “Well, Haegon, you’ll find I’m quite skilled at bringing temperamental little dragons to heel. I’m fond of it, even. You seem rather ill-tempered yourself. That, at least, is promising.”

Did you just flirt with that miserable fucking wretch?

A ripple of amusement moves through the room, and Haegon’s flush deepens, pale lashes fluttering as his gaze shifts to the side. Aerion wants to rip his eyes out. Aerion wants to rip your eyes out. Your tongue. His tongue. Aerion can’t deal with this anymore, Aerion—

“The Bright Prince is out of the question,” you say dismissively. “He’s not here, and I’m not wasting my time chasing ghosts. I assume you came with more demands than that, otherwise you make for poor bargainers, and I do not entertain poor bargains, be they in my favor or not.”

Aegor’s lips quirk into a smile, and Aerion feels unsettled. He knows what is coming before anything is said, but the words still make his stomach flip when Aegor Rivers finally speaks them:

“Once you are installed as Triarch, we would expect Volantene support during our campaign in Westeros and taking the Iron Throne from the Targaryens.”

———————

“Is this how it’s going to be, then? We’re not going to speak?” 

Aerion doesn’t reply. Can’t reply. Doesn’t. This is the third time you’ve tried to start a conversation with him since returning to your chambers, and Aerion remains seated on the cushions on the far side of your room, face turned away, fiddling with the dagger he should have taken to the whorehouse so he could plunge it into Bittersteel’s throat. Your throat, too, maybe. His fingers slide along the edge, and the pain helps ground him, brings him back to the present, away from the shame eating at his stomach and the rage threatening to consume him.

He never should have let any of that happen. He never should have agreed to let you dress him in silk, never should have hidden himself away in a whorehouse, never should have allowed those stupid whores to drug him stupid and pliant. He should have just died with his blade in hand, one final stand for his father to be proud of—maybe he could have even taken one of the Blackfyres or Bittersteel out with him. His face is hot with mortification; he can’t even look at himself in a fucking mirror.

He cuts through the pads of his fingers once, beads of blood welling up and dripping down his skin. He watches impassively, and then he slides the edge of the blade through them again, deeper this time. A third time, then a fourth, then—

“Aerion.”

Aerion doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t react when you snatch the dagger from his hands and put it to the side. He doesn’t look up at you when you spit out a curse at the sight of his bleeding hand, and he doesn’t let you bandage them when you reach out, pulling away and pressing the injured fingers to his lips, staring blankly at the wall as he sucks the blood from the cuts. You kneel in front of him, and Aerion hates the expression on your face more than he hates anything else—you’re pitying him, you’re pitying him. 

“Do you really want to?” Aerion asks, voice low and edged. “Because I do not think you are going to like what I have to say.”

You exhale hard through your nose, and Aerion can see the irritation thinly veiled. You have some nerve, he thinks. Some nerve to be irritated. Some nerve to question him. Some nerve to fucking pity him. He doesn’t need your pity, doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want anything, he doesn’t want you, he doesn’t—

Something wet tracks down his cheek, and his spiraling thoughts come to a halt. His brows knit, breath catching, and then—another, his opposite cheek now, more after that, one after another. His uninjured hand comes up quickly, swiping at his face, and he stares at the wetness smeared on his fingers like it’s something foreign. 

What the fuck?

Aerion clenches his jaw hard, teeth grinding, panic flashing hot through the anger still clawing at his chest. He’s not—he’s angry, he’s frustrated, ashamed. He’s not fucking—he’s not upset. He scrubs at his face again, harder this time, like he can force it to stop, like he can drag whatever this is back down where it belongs, bury it under the anger, turn it into something that makes sense. 

“Stop,” he hisses, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking to you or himself. 

His breath hitches, quick and loud and fucking mortifying, and that only makes everything worse. Fuck. He’s sick of this. He’s sick of being in exile, he’s sick of the constant humiliation—things had been different for a while, different because of you, different because you made it feel like it didn’t matter. The exile, the rumors, the looks, and the shame—you made him feel like it could all be ignored if he just stayed close to you because iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon, because he is yours and you are his, because you said you would come with him, because you said you wouldn’t leave him behind, and now—

Now it is back to those first few weeks of humiliation, when he was chasing you around like a fool, losing his temper before magisters and merchants, making a spectacle of himself every day. He trusted you—you told him to trust you, and he did. He trusted you. 

And now you’re going to give everything up. 

You’re going to give him up. 

He knows it—he knows it’s the truth in his gut, in his heart. He knows it. You are going to give this up so that you can go home. 

“Get the fuck away from me,” he tells you when you try to reach for his bleeding hand again. He rises to his feet and paces away. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, and his fingers sting, and his vision is blurry, and he cannot stop the fucking tears. He’s not even upset—he’s angry, he’s frustrated, he’s—he’s fucking betrayed. “You humiliated me. You—”

“I kept you alive,” you counter, rising to your feet and turning toward him. Aerion hates that you’re not angry, and he hates that look in your eyes—you’re still fucking pitying, you’re still— “I—”

“You had me drugged,” Aerion interrupts, furious, voice rising. “You had me drugged, dressed up in silk like a whore, and sat me in your lap like a damn pet. You made me sit there while you conspired—”

“I did what I had to do,” you spit, pity finally shifting to anger, and Aerion can deal with this. He prefers this. He’ll take all of your anger if it means he won’t be on the receiving end of pity. “If you had walked into that room as yourself, you would be dead, and you know it.”

That’s not the point, Aerion wants to scream. He wants to tug at his hair and fight you for the dagger you stole from him, so he can put it through your throat. He wants to—

“I do not care,” Aerion says, and he shuts it all down, pushes it deep, deep down, just like when he was young, when his mother died and Daeron changed and Maekar refused to speak to any of them. He pushes it down, and he blinks once, twice, three times, and he pushes away the anger and the frustration and the tears. “I trusted you. You told me to trust you, and I did, and then you couldn't trust me. I would rather have died than sit there like that. I do not care if it was necessary, or if it kept me alive, or even if you were right. I do not care. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you,” you reply, and glee briefly bubbles in Aerion’s chest when he hears how your voice loses the heat, weaker. Aerion huffs out a laugh through his nose. “I didn’t, Aerion—”

“You did,” Aerion hisses. The heat bubbles again, and Aerion smothers it with another deep breath. He doesn’t look at you, raising his chin as he stares out over the balcony, over the gardens of the First Magister’s manse, where he has spent hours laid up in your arms, watching sunrises and sunsets, magisters’ sons make fools of themselves after too many glasses of wine, laughing and sharing breath, kisses, touches. His eyes slide shut. He pushes this away, too. “You did. You lied to me. You told me that I was yours, and you were mine. You told me that—” Breathe. “—that you loved me. That you would come with me. And you sat in there—you sat in there listening to them, conspiring with them—”

“Do not be a fool, I—”

“Do not call me a fool,” Aerion snaps, whirling on you again. It bubbles again, hotter and faster this time. Too much—you’re across the room, but he can feel your hands around his waist, running through his hair, your lips on his skin, and your breath against his ear. All of the promises, all of you. All of the fucking lies. “You were. I know you. The moment your friend showed up, when he gave you that sword—”

“Of course, I was, Aerion,” you shout at him. “They offered me an opportunity to go home. How could I—”

“Then go!” he shrieks right back, defensive, voice pitching higher than he intends. He needs to get ahead of it, needs to be the one to send you away so that you aren’t the one to choose to leave him. “Go back to Volantis. Take their deal, your city, your war. March against my family, march against me—fucking hand me right over to them while you’re at it, would you?”

“Wow. I knew you were hiding a secret, ñuha jorrāelagon, but I didn’t realize your special whore was the Targaryen prince everyone is looking for.”

My love.

Aerion goes stiff at the familiar voice coming from the entrance to your chambers. Your friend, Jaenys, leans against the doorframe like he owns the place, an easy smile curling at his lips, like he hasn’t just walked into something he was not meant to see. You’re as frozen as Aerion is, eyes widening as your gaze cuts to the side, anger draining into something far worse. 

Jaenys pushes himself off the marble, slinking forward in your direction. 

Aerion watches you, not him. Watches the way your mouth presses thin and the way your shoulders are tense. You never spoke much about your friends back home with him. Aerion hadn’t even recognized the name the way your whores had, he realizes bitterly. But he does know how you describe Volantis and its courts—cruel and vicious, people always looking for the next step up the ladder.

Will Jaenys give him up to the Blackfyres? 

Will you let him?

Will you care? Will you care? Will you—

Aerion’s gaze snaps over to you, trying to gauge where you’re at, but he can’t tell, and all of the frustration begins to bubble again, the heat in his chest and behind his eyes. His pulse climbs, and he cannot push it back down. He has to stop him—has to stop both of you if that’s what it takes. He’s never fought you for real; the two of you have sparred occasionally, but always while drunk. He’s never seen you fight at full force, but he knows you’re skilled—knows your friend must be too, from the way you talked about the upbringing of Tiger children. Can he take you both out? Aerion is confident in his swordplay, but he was confident at Ashford, too, and everyone knows how that went, and you two would be much more skilled than that oaf of a hedge knight. But he can’t allow himself to be caught, can’t give his father another reason to—

Fuck. 

“Is this how it’s going to be, then?” Jaenys asks you, raising his eyebrows mockingly, tilting his head to the side. “You’re going to choose some Andal cunt over a chance at coming home?” His gaze flicks over Aerion once, dismissively. “He’s not pretty enough for you to be so pussy-whipped, and we both know you’re not so sentimental.”

Aerion cannot stop the words from leaving his lips.

“What did you just call me?”

Everything is burning. 

He thinks he laughs as he whirls on your friend, but it’s not really a laugh; it’s too quick and too sharp, breaking halfway through. Your friend tosses an impassive look over his shoulder, violet eyes sweeping over Aerion once before he rolls them, as though decided Aerion isn’t even worth the effort to properly address.

His pulse roars. Something breaks loose in his chest, hot and violent, and it feels more like him than the haze he’s been stuck in all day. All of the muted emotions that he couldn’t sort through in the whorehouse come surging: the rage, the humiliation, the frustration. He exhales hard and takes a step toward Jaenys.

“What did you just call me?” Aerion repeats, slower this time, voice dropping as he makes another noise in the back of his throat—laugh, scoff, something in-between. 

“You heard me,” Jaenys replies, unbothered, barely looking at him. Aerion wants him dead. Aerion wants you dead. “Careful now. One word from me and every Blackfyre loyalist in this city will know exactly where to find you.”

Aerion’s lips pull back into something that might be passable as a smile if it weren’t so strained.

“Try it,” Aerion says, though he doesn’t even really register himself saying it. This whole day has been—fuck, wrong. It’s all been wrong. Wrong from the moment the Golden Company ships arrived in Lys. Wrong from the moment you looked at that sword. Wrong from the moment he sat in your lap, and you didn’t feel anything at all. Wrong, wrong, wrong—even he feels wrong now, like he’s not even in his own body, like he’s watching himself from somewhere just behind his eyes, feeling his mouth moving, hearing his voice as though it belongs to someone else. “Try it. See if you get the chance to finish the call out for them. I do not care who you are to her, I do not care where you’re from. If you say one word, I’ll have you skinned and hung from the—”

Jaenys laughs, loud and bright and mocking, genuine glee threaded through the sound. 

“You? Kill me?” Jaenys echoes, a condescending smile on his lips as he looks over Aerion once. “Little prince, I would eat you alive.” He looks back toward you, dismissing Aerion again. He winks at you and says, “You know, I shouldn’t be so surprised you went for this one, ñuha jorrāelagon. You always did like the fiery ones—Visedor, Naera, Aenys. Can you tire of him already? Let’s give him over to those Andals and go home already.”

Aerion’s jaw locks.

You say through your teeth. “It’s not like that, Jaenys—”

“You say that every time,” Jaenys scoffs, “and every time it is the same. I am not going to sit here and let you destroy your shot at going home for a boy you won’t think twice of in a few months.”

Why does everyone always speak around him? 

Why does everyone fucking talk about him as though he’s already half gone?

Aerion is a prince of the blood. A dragon. He is the one who takes and discards. He is not—

He is a prince nobody wants around. At best, a problem that cannot be fixed, and at worst, a mistake to be forgotten. To you, to his father, to the rest of his family, to everyone. 

It is infuriating. 

No one ever says it in those words, but they don’t fucking need to—they cast him out like he’s nothing, they do not say goodbye to him when he leaves, they do not send ravens unless someone has died, and even then, they still do not want him home. 

And you—everyone seems to be certain that you’re on the verge of tiring of him. Caelyx says it off-handedly when he has far more important things to be worried about. Jaenys stands there speaking as though Aerion were some passing amusement you would soon tire of. As though Aerion should be grateful for whatever scraps of loyalty anyone saw fit to throw him, and Aerion is fucking sick of it. He’s sick of hearing it, sick of believing it—he just wants—

He just wants you. He wants you to want him. He wants you to choose him. He thought you would, because you told him that you would. Iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon—he is yours and you are his. 

And yet, he does not think you will anymore. Not now, and maybe you never planned to. 

He should have expected it. He should have known better than to take you at your word, than to believe that—

He cuts the thought off before it can finish. He’s not going to stand here and pick himself apart over it—not in front of Jaenys, not in front of you.

Still, the idea sits under his skin, festering. That you might leave him, you might choose them, you might hand him over. 

Fuck.

“… always told you, didn’t I?” Aerion hears Jaenys saying, drawn back into the conversation at hand when he notices him take a step back toward the open door. You don’t move to stop him. Aerion’s jaw tightens—he’s going to have to do this himself. Will you draw a blade against him if he attacks your friend? Did you ever actually care the way you claimed to? “I’m not going to sit back and let you make mistakes like this. I—”

Aerion does not flinch at the sudden crashing noise when you move forward and drive your foot into the open door, slamming it shut before Jaenys can leave, but his breath does hitch when he watches you shoulder Jaenys into the marble hard, putting the dagger you took from Aerion against his neck and pressing deep enough that blood dribbles down his pale skin.

The room is silent for a long, long time.

“I’m not letting you do that, Jaenys,” you say quietly. “You are my dearest friend. Do not put me in this position.”

Jaenys stares at you with an unreadable expression on his face. “You’d draw on me for him?” he breathes, voice riddled with disbelief. You do not respond, because the blade at his neck is answer enough. Oh. All of the tension that had spread through Aerion’s body, the heat beneath his skin and pressing behind his eyes, fizzles as he stares at you, throat working to swallow the lump that formed in it. “But the only person you’ve ever done that for is—”

Jaenys doesn’t finish the sentence, but understanding crosses his face instantly as he glances between you and Aerion one last time. Another few seconds pass with neither of you moving, staring at one another, and then Jaenys exhales, shoulders slumping as he shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. 

“You are impossible,” he mutters, and when you don’t immediately drop the knife from his neck, he raises his eyebrows tauntingly. “If you keep that there for much longer, you’ll make my cock hard, and if you do that, you will be taking care of it, ñuha jorrāelagon—favored prince or not.”

Aerion’s lip curls up in disgust. Jaenys notices. 

“He really doesn’t like sharing, does he?” Jaenys laughs, head rolling to the side to look over Aerion. He says lazily, “You’re lucky it was me who came, little prince. Naera or Visedor would have snapped your pretty head off if you wanted to keep her all to yourself. Lucky for you, I understand and will oblige you—for now, at least.”

Aerion gapes in fury, hand darting to grab the sword you’d rested against your wall so he can put it through the other man’s neck, but you give him such a cold look that he falters.

You’re choosing him. You’re choosing them. You’re choosing—

“Skoros iā qrīdronnor. Ao gīmigon skorkydoso naejot iderēbagon zirȳ, ñuha jorrāelagon,” Jaenys sighs, more serious now, silver hair falling in his face. “Skoros gaomagon gaomi sir?”

What a mess. You really know how to pick them, my love. What do we do now?

The tension bleeds from your shoulders at his words, and you drop the blade from his neck. Jaenys wanders over to your bed and sits at its edge like he belongs there, burying his face in his hands, and you lean against the wall you just had him pinned against, staring at the blood staining the blade. Aerion does not budge from the opposite side of the room—he doesn’t know what to say, if he should say anything. The way you stare down at Jaenys’s blood, and the way Jaenys is looking at you from the corner of his eye, it feels too personal. Aerion feels uncomfortable—he just, he wants to go back to how things were yesterday.

You’re choosing him. You’re going to choose Jaenys. You’re going to side with the Blackfyres. You’re going to march against his family—against him. You’re going to betray him. You’re going to—

You exhale, sliding down the wall until you’re seated on the ground, still staring down at the marble.“Eman iā kȳvanon naejot jiōragon zirȳla hen se tēgembōñ. Kessa henujagon lēda se Tȳni Trēsi hemtubis.”

I have a plan to get him off the island. He will leave with the Second Sons tomorrow.

“Gaomagon daor ȳdragon yno hae lo iksan daor kesīr,” Aerion hisses, still wound up, not sure what to do with himself anymore, but you let out such a heavy sigh that he physically falters, zeroing in on the exhausted expression on your face.

Do not speak of me as though I am not here.

Jaenys’s eyes flicker with interest at Aerion’s words, lips parting, but before he can say anything, you give him a cold look. He pouts and shakes his head, and then he says more seriously, “Pōnta jurnegon syt zirȳla sir. Issi jāre rȳ mirre hen lenton. Gaoman daor gīmigon lo kessi jurnegon bisy.”

They search for him now. They are going through all of the manses. I do not know if they will search this one.

You throw the dagger on the ground, frustrated, and the metal clatters against the marble loudly. You tilt your head back against the wall, and you hiss, “Nyke qogralbar ivestretan zirȳ īles daor kesīr!”

I fucking told them he was not here!

Jaenys shrugs helplessly and drawls, “Pōnta gōntan daor pāsagon ao.” Then he nods at Aerion, who sneers at him. “Nyke daor pāsagon skoro syt.”

They did not believe you. I cannot imagine why.

You knock your head back against the wall once, twice, a third time. Aerion makes his way over to you to stop you, but Jaenys is closer, and Aerion freezes dead in his tracks when he sees how Jaenys kneels in front of you, one hand slipping behind your head to stop you from smacking your head against the marble a fourth time. His throat is tight as he watches his free hand come up to cradle the side of your face, the way your eyes slide half open to peer down at him, the way you look so exhausted and still lean into his touch. Your eyes are soft, and vulnerable, and—

Have you ever looked at him this way? 

“Jurnegon rȳ nyke,” Jaenys says softly, and Aerion’s skin fucking crawls. How could he ever compete with this? He’s known all along that you yearn for home and the people you left behind—more than he ever has, ever will—but it’s different seeing it in front of his face like this. The way you look at him, the way he looks at you, the tone of voice the two of you take with one another and the implicit trust. Aerion has never had that with anyone. “Kesan ziry, ñuha jorrāelagon. Kesi mirre ziry mirre hen hēnkirī.”

Look at me. I will handle it, my love. We will figure everything out together.

“Jaenys,” you start to say, voice quiet. “I—”

Your eyes slide shut when Jaenys leans in to press his lips to your temple. “We can talk another time,” he tells you. “If you have a plan for the Bright Prince to get off this island tomorrow night, then we will see it done. Until then…” Jaenys’s gaze flicks over to Aerion briefly. “Spend time with your little dragon, ñuha jorrāelagon. It might be your last with him.”

Aerion’s stomach lurches at his words, and you only sigh, gaze lowering again. Jaenys rises to his feet, tilting his head back slightly, a smirk curling at his lips as he looks over Aerion blatantly. Aerion sneers at him, but can’t help the way his eyes widen in disbelief when Jaenys hums:

“Perhaps if things work out—if I am still here and you are still interested in him when he returns to Lys, we can share him. Like old times. It’ll be fun.”

Jaenys lets out a huff of laughter, brushing his braid over his shoulder as he leaves your chambers, shutting the door behind him, and the silence that follows his exit is suffocating, pressing in from all sides, thick and heavy and ringing with everything said and unsaid. 

Aerion does not move. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at the door as if it might open again, and then at you, curled on the floor, gaze trained on the marble. You are not looking at him. You are not really looking at anything, he realizes. Your eyes are empty, expression just as vacant. Aerion has gotten good at reading you over the last eight moons, but now he cannot read a damn thing. 

And then you sigh again, heavier this time, shoulders curling inward, making yourself small in a way he’s never seen you do before.

“I am sorry,” you say after a moment, so quiet that Aerion almost doesn’t hear you. “I should not have had them drug you.”

Aerion stares at you for a long moment. There are insults on his tongue—cruel and defensive, because he does not forgive you, he cannot forgive you. He needs to brace himself for what is about to come.

Then, his feet move before he knows what he’s doing, dragging against the ground in your direction. His back hits the wall next to where you’re sitting, and then he slides down it to sit with you. Thighs pressing, shoulders knocking together, Aerion’s jaw tightens when he feels you lean against him, resting your head on his shoulder as you let out another shaky breath.

“I would be dead if you didn’t,” Aerion replies quietly, the admission tastes like poison on his tongue. He inhales deeply, eyes sliding shut, head hanging forward. “I would not have been able to sit there listening to them. To—”

To you.

“I should not have had them drug you,” you repeat again, something hollow in your voice that makes Aerion press his lips together tightly. “I do not know what to do.”

The admission comes out so small that Aerion almost doesn’t hear it. You exhale through your nose again, sharp and shaky, jaw tight. You look up at the ceiling briefly, and Aerion falters when he sees that your eyes are glassy with unshed tears. His lips part to say something, but he cannot find any words.

“I thought it would be easy—that if an opportunity came for me to go home, there would be no question about it, I would take it no matter the cost,” you continue. “But this? This is—”

You let out another breath, head hanging forward as you shake your head. You look at him again, gaze dropping to his cheek, and your face twists—he’s not sure why until you lift your hand, fisting the fabric of your sleeve as you bring it to his face and wipe off the makeup Caelyx put over his scars so that he would not be recognized by them. 

“If I return to Volantis this way, it will be the beginning of the end for our city,” you say, and something clenched terribly in Aerion’s chest when he realizes that this is the reason you’re wound up, not because of him, not because— “Volantis has existed as long as it has because of the Triarchy, because there are elections and we do not cut each other up over inheritance and right to rule. If I come back through a coup and am forcibly installed as Triarch, everything will change and not for the better.”

Aerion does not respond. 

He doesn’t have anything to say that is not bitter and angry and vile, that would be more humiliating to admit out loud than to just keep it in, because he spent months battling with the fact that you would not return with him to Westeros, weeks questioning you, trying to gauge whether or not you would come if he asked you. The relief he felt when you said yes—it was enough to be debilitating, enough that he did not even care how he looked, did not care that he should be ashamed, did not care about anything, just that he would not have to part from you when the day came. And yet—

And yet, he does not even cross your mind. 

You care about what it would mean for Volantis, you care about—

Shame floods him so quickly that it almost makes him sick. His next breath is quick, almost painful. Shame, humiliation, anger—he had always known in his gut that this was never as serious for you as it was for him. He tried to pretend the same, but it was intolerable. Aerion has never been good at handling his emotions; no matter how hard he tries to shove them down and pretend they don’t exist, they always bubble back to the surface at the worst possible times, unrelenting and all-consuming. And he could not bring himself to pretend that you did not matter to him—not when you were the first thing he thought of when he woke in the morning and the last that crossed his mind before sleep, not when the sound of your voice was sometimes the only thing to get him through bad days, not when he had begun to dread going home because he did not want to leave you behind. 

His throat works as he swallows, fighting the heat that rises to his face, that presses behind his eyes. He has known this even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself, but still, hearing it with his own ears, seeing it with his own eyes—it hurts. Hurts the same way it hurt when Maekar turned his back on him when Aerion begged him not to send him away. The same way it hurt when he waited weeks for ravens from him, or Daeron, or Valarr, and never received anything. 

And Aerion does not beg. 

He does not beg anyone—not even you, especially not you. So if you wish to throw everything away and act like this never mattered, and maybe it never did to you, then so be it. He will get on the ship tomorrow, sail to the Disputed Lands with the Second Sons, and he will never think of you again.

He knows as soon as the thought crosses his mind that it is untrue. 

There is no world where the two of you part ways and he will never think of you again. You will cross his mind every day, every hour, every minute—he will see you in the ocean and the sky and in every person that passes him by. He will spend the rest of his life chasing you, and you will be forever out of reach.

“I lied to you,” you suddenly say. Aerion’s thoughts come to a halt when your words register, brows furrowing. “I was never planning to go back to Westeros with you. I only said I would to get you to stop asking.”

A noise leaves Aerion’s throat before he can stop it—a scoff, maybe, a laugh, something in between. He stares at you, eyes wider than they should be, face hot and he’s sure red, because how dare you. Are you trying to rub it in? To make him feel worse about this? Are you trying to shove in his face just how little he meant to you? His stomach flips, and he—he feels embarrassed, again, because he had known this too. He knew it in his gut as soon as you agreed. He had known it was too easy, and nothing is ever easy with you, but he had let himself believe you anyway because—

Because he is a fool. He is a fool, and he loves you, and he wanted to believe you were telling the truth, wanted to believe that you would come home with him. Aerion hates you—he hates you. He hates that he cannot hate you. He hates that he wants to hate you, but cannot muster anything close. He wonders, briefly, if this is meant to be punishment—penance for getting his uncle killed—because he cannot imagine why else he would love someone who puts him through what you have. 

Lying to him in the same breath you tell him you love him, humiliating him in the same second you step between him and a blade—nothing can ever be simple. There’s always some form of whiplash, and Aerion just—

“Right,” he says after a moment, trying not to let his thoughts spiral, voice thin with something he cannot quite contain. “Of course you did.”

He laughs then—short and brittle and entirely without humor—turning his face from you so that you cannot see how his expression crumbles. You do not deserve to know how much your words have wounded him—you cannot know.

“That makes far more sense,” he goes on, words coming quicker now. Harsher. “Gods forbid anything between us be that simple. I must have been so insufferable asking you to come home with me for you to be forced to lie just to silence me. My apologies. I shall not make that mistake ever again.”

“Aerion—”

“If I am such a bother to you, then maybe you should just hand me over to the Blackfyres,” he hisses, face flushing with fury and mortification, the weight of what you said hitting him in full. He is a fool, and you are—you are fucking cruel. “I would—”

“Aerion,” you interrupt, louder this time, grabbing his wrist when he tries to rise to his feet and pull away, but you do not let him. 

Your grip tightens as you hold him in place, and he bares his teeth furiously, shoving you back when you won’t let go of him, but he cannot fucking get free. He cannot be free of you—he will never be free of you. His breath hitches traitorously, and his eyes feel hot again. Fuck—he is furious, and embarrassed, and he is—

Hurt. 

He is hurt. 

“Let go,” he spits. You do not. “Let go of me, you wretched fucking whore. I do not want to be here. I do not want to—”

Your hands find his face, cradling his cheeks, fingers soft and warm against his skin, and Aerion sucks in a breath that sounds like a whistle. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away—distantly, he knows he can push you away. You’re off-balanced right now, half-leaning over him to force his face angled to you, so it would be easy to knock you away and storm off.

He does not.

“Listen to me,” you say. “Let me finish.”

No, he wants to say, because if he lets you finish, if he lets you try to explain your way out of this, he will listen, and if he listens, he will be weak. And Aerion is tired of being weak; he is tired of it—he has been weak all day. Longer than that, even—since the day he met you on that sun-warmed rock, and he let you mock him without consequence. He is sick and tired and he just wants—

“I thought it would be easy to disappear when the ship arrived to bring you west,” you tell him, and Aerion does not want to hear this. He does not need you to rub in his face how much of a fool he’s been. He tries to turn away again, but you do not let him, and he does not shove you away even though he could. “I convinced myself it would be—I would hide away in a cove and wait for the ship to leave port, would watch it leave with you on it, and go on with how life was before you showed up. But I have only been truly lying to myself, I think, because I do not know how I was ever going to disappear when the time came, when now I am handed an opportunity to go home on a silver platter, and I am hesitating because I know if I take this opportunity, I would lose you—for good.”

—you. 

He still only wants you.

Fuck. 

“It is… easier for me to focus on the logical flaws of Jaenys’s plan,” you continue, hands dropping from his face as you sit back on your heels and look away. “Easier for me to convince myself that I do not want to go along with this because it could spell the end of Volantis as we know it. The only thing I have ever loved more than my home is my brother, and it—it terrifies me that I find myself more upset over the thought of leaving you behind than I am at the idea of my city being on the brink of collapse. That I have a chance to see Viserys again, and—”

You do not finish that sentence, but you do not need to. 

“You do not make any sense,” Aerion tells you, voice hoarse. Are you being honest this time? You do not look him in the eye now, gaze averted off to the far side of your chambers, expression downcast in a way he’s rarely seen from you. “You—How am I supposed to take this? Eight moons, and you have only just realized I matter to you? After all of the times you’ve said—”

He can’t spit out the words he wants to say, thoughts jumbled and dangerous, and saying them out loud would only make him feel more pathetic than he already does.  

Avy jorrāelan, iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon. All of the nights in the cove that is only yours and only his. All of the hunts through the streets that ended with you in his arms, legs entwined, tangled in sheets. All of the days laughing on balconies, drunk on wine and each other’s breath. And you are only just now realizing—

“That’s not what I meant—”

“It sure sounds like what you are saying—”

“Kessa ao ivestragī nyke tatagon ȳdragon?” you hiss, temper fraying. 

Will you let me finish speaking?

The sharpness of your voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, right through the mess of everything he’s trying and failing to make sense of. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak again, waiting for you to continue.

“I did not just realize you matter to me. Do not twist my words into something easier for you to be angry at,” you say, inhaling deeply as you shift to sit next to him again, gaze pinned on your lap. “This is not simple for me, Aerion. I—I’ve known for months, since you came down with fever. Before that, since the first time I brought you to the cove, I just—”

He remembers that day—the way you disappeared all day, how he spent hours looking for you, only for you to show up in the middle of the night, dragging him through the dark, over rooftops in a storm to the cove that you claimed was only yours, and now only his. He remembers a couple of days after that, too, when you disappeared again: boredom is survivable, you had scoffed, and I’m not? he asked, and you did not answer. 

You tilt your face to the side so that you can look at him, and his falls to the side, too. His gaze meets yours, and Aerion feels weak because he can feel the anger draining as the two of you share breath, as your eyes search his face. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, and Aerion isn’t sure if he’s ever seen this expression on your face before. It is open—open and vulnerable in a way he’s only ever caught glimpses of when you tell him about home. 

“Avy jorrāelan,” you tell him, and Aerion’s jaw tightens as he fights the instinctive need to look away, face hot and eyes burning. “Nyke drējī jorrāelagon ao, Aerion, se iksan zūgagon kesrio syt eman mērī mirre dija sīr kostōba syt mēre tolie issaros isse ñuha ābrar, se nyke pryjatan ñuha giez ābrar syt zirȳla. Tubī, nyke shifang bona kesan gaomagon keskydoso syt ao, se gaoman daor gīmigon skorkydoso naejot mazōregon lēda bona.”

I love you. I really love you, Aerion, and I am scared because I have only ever felt so strongly for one other person, and I destroyed my whole life for him. Today, I realized that I would do the same for you, and I do not know how to cope with that.

Aerion inhales quickly, breath hitching in a way that should leave him mortified, but he cannot even bring himself to care. He admits, voice hoarse, “Nyke pendagon īlē jāre naejot tepagon nyke bē rȳ mēre jēda.”

I thought you were going to give me up at one point.

You shake your head, and he is only consoled by the fact that your eyes are as wet as his are. “Dōrī,” you say. “Kesan daor emagon tepagon ao naejot zirȳ. Daor syt mirros.”

Never. I would have never given you to them. Not for anything.

Aerion doesn’t know why he says what he says next, because he should be taking advantage of this. Drive the nail into the coffin and make you stay with him with just a few well-placed words. 

Aerion is not above it. He’s spent his whole life curating a softer, more palpable personality to put on for his father and grandfather and anyone of importance. He knows how to smile demurely, knows how to lower his lashes and give people exactly what they want to see. He knows what to say to make people give him what he wants, and he knows how to say it. Knows how to soften his voice just enough, how to let it catch on your name, how to make it sound like it costs him something to say it. Knows how to look at you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like choosing you is not a question for him, was never a question for him. Knows how to reach for you slowly, carefully, like he is giving you time to pull away, even though he knows you won’t. 

He has done it before. Not like this—not with something that matters so much to him—but the mechanics are the same. And the worst part is that it would not even be a lie this time.

“I love you,” he could say, and mean it.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he could say, and mean that too.

“I won’t survive it if you go,”—that might be a stretch, because Aerion would survive, he would just be forever haunted by the memory of you, but it would sound right, and you would believe it, because you already want to.

It would be enough to make you stay. Enough to make you choose him. Enough to pull you away from Volantis, from your brother, from everything you have ever wanted, and bind you to him instead.

He should do it.

He knows he should.

You’re halfway there already. He can see it already—the way your guard has cracked and your eyes search his face desperately. It would not take much. He knows how he can finish this and get what he wants, and Aerion has never hesitated in that regard. He always takes what he wants, regardless of the consequences it may have for others. It is his right as a prince, after all.

Instead, he says, “You could go home.”

His voice comes out too weak. He knows how much you’ve wanted this, knows it better than anyone. You should not be hesitating. 

“I could go home,” you agree, voice just as weak as his. He finds comfort in that. “I might never get an opportunity like this again.”

He’s not sure which of you moves in first, but your lips are on his in the next breath—the kiss is chaste in comparison to the ones the two of you normally share, mouths sliding innocently against one another’s. It is slow and gentle in a way you both are so rarely.

It makes Aerion’s heart drop.

It feels like goodbye. 

“I could come with you,” Aerion says quietly, a desperate hitch to the words that he cannot quite mask, lips brushing as he rests his forehead against yours. He hears you sigh, and before you can reject him, he continues, “I have little back home. I am the second son of a fourth son. My own father sent me away as an embarrassment, my brother does not write me. I—”

“And you would be okay marching against your own family? Cutting down your own kin?” you reply doubtfully. “You heard what the offer was. I would be installed as Triarch in return for Volantene support in taking the Iron Throne. Would you back the Blackfyre claim, Aerion? Betray your own blood?”

Aerion presses his lips together, rocks settling in his stomach as he squeezes his eyes shut. “You could not go through with it. Use them, and then—”

“We cannot go back on our word like that, Aerion.”

Desperately, Aerion tries, “You might lose, then.”

“If Volantis marches against Westeros, we will not lose,” you interrupt.

Aerion is frustrated. Why won’t you let him latch onto anything, even if it isn’t true? Why must you be so— “You do not know that.”

“I do, because I would be leading the campaign, and I do not lose,” you tell him. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me that you would be okay with it. Returning home with me, knowing I will march against your family, wage a war that ends with your blood executed—father, uncles, brothers, sisters—and you will not regret it, then I will take you home.”

Aerion’s eyes slide open to meet yours. His lips part. And—and he sees his father teaching him how to hold a sword, hears his voice, my boy, my boy, remembers the way he used to smile at him and Daeron when Dyanna was still alive, before everything changed. And Daeron—he remembers Daeron teaching him to fish. Daeron, finding him on the ground, clawing at his throat, and holding him until the madness passed, teaching him breathing exercises to calm him. Daeron, who would be no better than a trembling fawn on a battlefield, because he never took to combat the way Aerion did.

His throat bobs, and Aerion does not respond. Your lips curve up into a smile that does not reach your eyes, and he knows you know his answer without him needing to say anything.

Is this goodbye?

Will you choose to go home?

Are you going to leave him?

You lean in so that you can kiss him again, more firmly this time, one hand coming up to cradle his face, and Aerion’s drops down to your waist, sliding against the leather of your pants before his grip tightens on your thigh so he can pull you closer to him, onto his lap so that your bodies are flush. Your arms snake around his shoulders, and Aerion sighs into your mouth as you tilt his head back to deepen the kiss. You taste like firewine and faintly of blood—Aerion wonders how hard you must have been biting your tongue when he kept interrupting you. 

“Gaomagon daor jikagon lēda zirȳ,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back slightly so that he can meet your eyes as you slide his shirt off his shoulders. His breath hitches when you smooth your hands over his collarbones, nails scratching lightly at the hollow. He tilts his head back against the wall to look up at you, eyes half-lidded and lips slightly parted. His chest rises and falls beneath your palms, and his eyes slide shut when you lean in to kiss him again, slower this time. “​​Gaomagon daor henujagon nyke.”

Do not go with them. Do not leave me.

You do not answer him, and Aerion hates that it makes his heart sink. You are going to make him beg, and Aerion does not beg. He does not beg anyone, he does not beg you, but—but he will. And he hates that. He hates that he would bend, strip himself of every last shred of pride just to keep you here, that he would allow himself to become something smaller—not a dragon, not a prince of the blood, just… just a boy. Just a boy who will dig his nails in and won’t let go, ask you to stay, even if it costs him everything that makes him who he is. 

“Kostilus,” he breathes into your both, shuddering when you press your lips to the corner of his, to his jaw, kissing down his neck. You drag your tongue from the hollow of his throat to the underside of his chin, and he fights a whimper. His chest heaves as you hover above him, lips ghosting his, tongue darting out to swipe teasingly against his upper lip. “Hah—shit. Kostilus. Kostilus.”

Please. Please. Please.

You kiss him again, deeper this time. You still do not respond, and Aerion hates this even more. Is it because you know he will not like your response? Is it because you cannot bring yourself to say that you do choose him, when it means you are choosing him over a chance at going home, over a chance at seeing your brother again? Aerion does not know, but he knows one answer is far more likely than the other.

“Aerion,” you start to say, and he decides immediately that he does not like the tone of your voice. There’s something in it—careful, hesitant, guilty—and Aerion’s heart rate spikes, because it sounds like the beginning of an answer he does not want to hear. 

His hand comes up, fingers tangling in your hair, and he pulls you down into another kiss—harder, less hesitant, less asking. The words die on your tongue before you can get them out, and Aerion kisses you harder still, teeth biting into your bottom lip as his hands slide down to your thighs. He lets out a low grunt into your mouth as he shifts, lifting you with him off of the floor. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist as he carries you a few steps over to your bed.

He drops you onto the mattress, following after immediately, hips slotted between your thighs, forearms braced on either side of your head, breath uneven as he searches your face for the answer he wants to hear.

But he does not find it. You press your lips together as you look up at him, and Aerion isn’t sure if he’s ever seen this look on your face before. His lashes flutter shut when you lift your hand to ghost the pads of your fingers against his cheekbone, tracing the lines of his face reverently. 

“Iksā sīr gevie,” you say softly, two fingers resting over his lips as he stares down at you, hair curtaining either side of his face. Aerion fights a shudder, throat bobbing at your words. “Kesan tepagon ñuha giez ābrar lēda ao lo kostan.”

You are so beautiful. I would spend the rest of my life with you if I could.

This is goodbye, Aerion realizes, breath wavering as he stares down at you helplessly. You’re going to choose them. You’re going to go home. You’re going to march against his family, and you’re going to leave him.

“Kostā,” he tells you, pretending his voice doesn’t break over the word.

You could.

You exhale through your nose, brows furrowing, expression twisting; you let out a sigh that tells him you are still uncertain, battling between two warring desires, and Aerion leans down to kiss you again, pouring everything he has into it. All of the mornings spent hunting you through the streets of Lys, all of the afternoons spent indulging in wine and each other’s arms, all of the evenings at the cove that is only yours and only his, all of the times you cradled his face and said iksan aōhan, iksā ñuhon. 

You kiss him back with the same intensity, legs wound around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair, back arching off the bed because even when your bodies are pressed together, it is never close enough. You whimper into his mouth when he rolls his hips, hands sliding from the back of his head to his cheeks, lips parting so that Aerion can swipe his tongue along the inside of your lip.

“Kostā,” he says again, dragging his lips from yours, to your cheek, your jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Kosti umbagon kesīr. Iā kosti jikagon naejot Vesteros. Kosti aerēbahon—naejot Qohor se Brāvos. Naejot Qarthi se Ashī. Skoriot mirre jaelā, kosti jikagon.”

You can. We can stay here. Or we can go back to Westeros. We can travel—to Qohor and Braavos. To Qarth and Asshai. Wherever you want, we can go. 

It is a nice dream, he thinks, eyes sliding shut as he slides off your tunic and kisses down your chest. It is a—he lets out a shaky breath, nails biting into your waist as he rests his forehead to your sternum, face buried between your breasts—it is a really nice dream. He feels your fingers thread through his hair, and he presses his lips to the swell of your breast, fingers trailing down your body to slide your pants over your hips, and then does the same to his own.

He can almost imagine it when he closes his eyes. With your hands in his hair and your breath rising and falling unevenly, the warmth of your skin and the way you breathe his name—he can almost pretend that the two of you are on a ship to another city, just you and him, together, because he is yours and you are his, and nothing matters more than that.

It is childish, he knows that in his heart. He has known it since the argument in Vyrano’s manse, when you shouted at him and told him that things aren’t so simple, that you are bound by politics and the weight of your station, your titles, and your blood. Aerion knows one day he will be called home, and as much as it’s nice to dream of a world where he burns his father’s letter in retaliation for months of exile and chooses you instead, it just—

It is not so simple.

It will never be so simple, and that is why Aerion cannot get rid of the pit in his stomach, because he knows it is not simple for him, and it is even less simple for you. You could very well choose to go home, and Aerion wouldn’t even be able to blame you—not really. He would be angry, he would be cruel and cold, and he would pretend that he didn’t care half as much as he truly did, but he would not be able to blame you for it, even if you did end up on the opposite side of the battlefield one day. Even if you did—

You cradle his cheeks and lift his face again, bringing your lips to his as he rolls his hips against yours, eyes sliding shut as you kiss him deeper this time, gasping into his mouth when you feel his cock slide between your folds, tip pressing heavy on your clit before he drags it to your hole. His lips part, jaw half-ajar as he slowly sinks inside of you.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you whisper into his open mouth instead of giving him a proper answer, dragging your fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp. “Sīr olvie.”

I love you. So much.

Aerion lets out a hitched noise into your mouth, a gasp, a moan, something in between, lashes fluttering as he buries his cock deep in your cunt. One hand drops to your waist to hold you in place when you try to roll your hips up, and he presses his face into the crook of your neck, savoring the feeling of being inside of you, of your thighs around his waist, your chest pressed to his. He mouths absently at your neck.

I love you, you say—you’re hardly the first to say it to him. Many whores crawl into his bed professing their love as they paw at his chest and kiss his neck, thinking it’ll coax him into giving them an extra coin. But it’s… different coming from you, because you mean it. You have seen the very worst of him—vicious and violent and half-mad—and you mean it still. He knows it in the way you say it, the way you look at him, the way you drew your blade against your own friend to protect him. He knows you mean it, and he doesn’t know if anyone has loved him—truly loved him, all of him, even the worst bits—since his mother died. 

And he is going to lose you, just like how he lost her, because you love him, but it is not enough to make you stay.

Fuck.

The next breath he lets out is shuddered, and his eyes burn, so he is glad he has his face pressed into the crook of your neck. His chest feels heavy all of a sudden, lust slipping away, and Aerion is frustrated—he’s so frustrated that he cannot even hold onto this. The feeling is there: your body wrapped around his, the heat, the closeness, the way you breathe his name and arch your back into him. His cock is buried in your cunt, warm and wet and tight, walls fluttering around him, but—

His hips still against yours, and for a moment, Aerion cannot move at all, pressed against you, breath uneven at your throat, grip at your waist tight, but not with desire. He does not want to lose this. You.

You card your fingers through his hair, a slow, soothing motion that makes him ache.

“We do not have to do this,” you say quietly, and he hates that you understand. You always understand. Nobody ever understands Aerion, but you always have; with little more than a glance or a look exchanged, you’ve always understood what he wants and needs. He does not want to lose this, he thinks again desperately. He does not want to lose you. “We can just lay together, if you want.”

Aerion’s jaw tightens at your words, frustrated with himself and the situation, because he let himself get too attached to you, because he loves you and now he is going to lose you, because he doesn’t want to just lay with you, he wants you, wants this, but he cannot pull himself out of his own head long enough to even fuck you properly.

“No,” Aerion says, voice strained. “No, I want this.” 

His grip tightens at your waist, almost bruising, trying to anchor himself to you. He forces his hips to move again, slow at first, then rougher, chasing something he cannot quite reach, and it feels wrong—disconnected, like his body is moving without him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead still resting on your shoulder, so frustrated that his eyes burn with tears that he can feel on the verge of spilling over. Aerion has not cried in years, and today he has twice. It is mortifying. “I just—”

He does not even know what he’s trying to say. That he’s angry? That he’s scared? That he does not know how life will be after he loses you? That he wants you to tell him that you will still be here when he returns, even if it’s a lie? 

You lift his face from your shoulder and press your lips to his again, lips moving slowly against his, coaxing him out of his own head and back into the moment. 

“Tell me something,” you say against his lips, fingers carding absently through his hair.

“Like what?” he mutters, sighing as he presses his nose against your temple, basking in your warmth, trying to settle back into the now with you beneath him, your hands in his hair, voice soft in his ear, cock buried deep inside of you. 

“Anything,” you reply unhelpfully.

Aerion exhales through his nose, and then, he inhales deeply, drowning himself in the new lavender oil you bought at the market last week. 

After a few moments, he says without thinking, “Your whore said something earlier.”

You hum. “Caelyx says a lot,” you say, amused. Aerion almost rolls his eyes when he realizes you know which one he’s talking about without him having to say anything. “What did he say this time?”

Aerion’s face is hot as he registesr exactly what he just said, remembering what it was that threw him so off kilter earlier, unsure why he even brought it up. His mouth opens, then closes again, jaw tightening because he already regrets it. You give him a curious look and he scowls.

“Something stupid,” he mutters, trying to brush it off, but your fingers tug lightly at his hair, trying to coax the answer out of him.

“Tell me.”

“That you—” Aerion cuts himself off, eyes flicking to the side until you press your fingers to his cheek and force him to look at you again. Irritation and embarrassment war within him, begging him to shut the fuck up. “That you like to take control. In ways most men are too proud to learn.”

You are silent for a long moment, and then you laugh—it is bright and pretty, and Aerion pulls back slightly to look at the way your eyes shine, and your smile splits your face. Your fingers drag through his hair as you look up at him, an adoring expression on your face that leaves him breathless.

“Gaoman raqagon bona, zaldrīzes dārilaros,” you purr, leaning up to nip his lips. “Issi jaelā naejot sylugon mēre tubis? Ivestragī nyke gūrogon toliot? Mazverdagon ao dijāves sȳz.”

I do enjoy that, dragon prince. Are you wanting to try one day? Let me take over? Make you feel good?

Aerion’s face flushes hot, and he instinctively moves to press his face into your neck again, but you do not let him, forcing him to hold your gaze. There are a dozen things he wants to say, sharp and cutting, to salvage what little pride he has left. But none of them can make it past the heat crawling up his throat.

“That is not—” he starts, then falters, scowling when your expression only grows more amused. 

“Not what?” you murmur, thumb dragging slowly along his lower lip before pressing in slightly. His lips instinctively part for you, letting you trace the inside of his mouth. “Did you imagine it, prince? Taking it? Letting me set the pace, letting me decide how deep, how slow, how hard?”

Aerion’s cock twitches inside of you, breath shuddering, letting out something between a scoff and a strained breath, grip tightening. He stares down at you with wide eyes, and you watch him raptly.

“I think you’d like it,” you continue, thumb sliding further in his mouth to press down on his tongue. He thinks to bite down just to make a point, but he finds himself too consumed by what you’re saying to even try. “Being held down, stretched open, made to take it inch by inch, fucked hard until you forget how to fight me at all—forget to think, forget to breathe.” 

Aerion chokes on nothing at the lewd words, face flaming red, pupils blown wide, breath quick and chest heaving. Something close to a whimper spills from his lips.

“You’d curse me for it at first,” you say, lips curved up, almost thoughtful, like you’re envisioning it yourself—him beneath you, back arching, jaw slack, eyes rolled back as you hold his hips. He is envisioning it too. “Try to push me off, tell me to stop—” Your lips brush his jaw, lingering there. “—and then you wouldn’t want me to, start to realize how nice it feels.”

His nails dig crescents into your skin, so deep that he’s sure he’s drawing blood. His hips twitch, but you stop him this time, legs tightening around his narrow waist to hold him still. He fights a complaint, teeth grinding together as he tries to hold himself together with the sliver of pride he has left.

“It is easy to make someone loud, you know? But I could make you feel so good you’d go quiet,” you tell him. “Turn this pretty head of yours to mush, until all you can do is lay there and take it.”

“You—”

Aerion does not even know what he wants to say, breathing ragged and heavy, cock aching in your cunt. He tries to move again instinctively, only able to grind his cock a little deeper inside of you, and it is not enough, not nearly enough. Your thumb slips from his mouth and Aerion’s head hangs forward, eyes half-lidded, a low groan escaping his lips when you roll your hips up.

“Jaelan so naejot qogralbar nyke se ñuhoso kesā jaelagon nyke naejot qogralbar ao,” you breathe, tilting the lower half of your face up to ghost your lips against his. “Sīr bona skori ao māzigon arlī, kostan gūrogon ao isse manta lēda.” 

I want you to fuck me the way you would want me to fuck you. So that when you return, I can take you apart properly.

When you return—hope flares in his chest with a vengeance, and Aerion is rutting his hips into you before you even finish the sentence, choking over a breath, one hand flying to your hair to crane your head back so he can press his lips to yours. He moans into your mouth, eyes rolling back at the feeling of your walls tight around him, drowning in the lewd sound of skin on skin, the sloppiness of his cock pounding your wet cunt. 

“Aerion—” you gasp, and he loves the sound of his name on your lips, loves it even more when you sound like this—whiny and needy, fucked out in a way you only ever get with him. Aerion will never get enough of you. He could have you forever, and it’ll never be enough. “Hah—shit—”

He grabs your thigh with his free hand and hooks your leg higher to reach deeper inside of you, bracing his knees on the mattress so that he can fuck you properly, relishing in the way you cry his name, back arching into his chest and—

—and for a second, he cannot stop himself from imagining that it’s him instead. That it’s your weight pressing on his body, your fingers pressing bruises into his thigh as you push it up to his chest, his back arched off the bed as you press deep into him, so deep that he cannot breathe, that all he can feel, all he can think is you. And—and it is wrong. Aerion is a prince, a dragon, he does not give up control to anyone like that, much less a woman, much less you, and he is angry. Angry at you for putting the image in his head, angrier at himself for wanting it.

Aerion’s hand slips down to your throat before he can think twice, pretending that it’s yours on his instead, fingers squeezing just enough to cut the air to his lungs, watching the way his face reddens as he gasps for air he cannot breathe in; he imagines the burn in his lungs as your lashes flutter and lips part, the way his head would go light and fuzzy, vision darkening at the edges.

Your hand flies to his wrist, nails digging deep into his skin, eyes rolling back with each thrust of his hips, lips wet and swollen as you try to suck in the air he deprives you. Your eyes are hazy as you stare up at him, hardly able to hold his gaze, his fingers cutting off the pretty moans of his name that he knows would be falling from your lips. 

He cannot get enough of it—he cannot get enough of you. He will not let you leave him, cannot let you leave him. But—but he cannot stop you. He cannot stop you, and you love him, but it is not enough, and Aerion should not be surprised, because when has he ever—

—Aerion does not want to think about that. He does not want to think about it at all, so he leans down to press his lips messily against yours, groaning into your mouth as your walls flutter around his cock. You barely kiss him back, too focused on trying to stay conscious; he can feel the soft, breathless whines against his lips, the ones he cannot hear from his own doing, and he chokes over a moan when he feels you writhe beneath him, jaw falling slack when one particularly rough thrust has you cumming on his cock, hips jerking and body spasming beneath him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to finish with you, even as his cock aches, head hot and heavy, each drag against your tight walls making his whole body shudder violently. He only lets go of your throat when your fingers start to slacken on his wrist, when he notices the way your head starts lolling back against the pillows.

“Fuck,” he groans, watching as you inhale the air greedily, imagining the rush to your lungs, the way pleasure has started to shift to overstimulation as you squirm against him, hips still slapping against your ass as he fucks you hard, chasing his own high now, abdomen tense, body hot and prickly, mind half-way gone already.

“Aerion,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you seek something to hold to, head tossed back, throat bared to him, and Aerion bites down hard, relishing in the familiar taste of iron in his mouth, the way you cry out, hips jerking as you cum a second time already.

He cums with you this time, hips stuttering when he feels your walls tighten around him again, moaning into your neck as he spills his seed deep inside of you.

He collapses against you, chest heaving as he tries to regain his breath. His eyes slide shut when he feels your fingers on his back, tracing his skin lightly as he comes down from his high. He presses his nose into your neck, ghosting his lips against your skin.

After a long moment, he lifts his face from where he’s buried it in your skin so that he can look at you. There is an expression on your face that makes Aerion’s chest tighten—too sad, too close to goodbye, like you’re memorizing something that will soon be ripped away from you.

“You could come with me,” he says, grateful that it does not come out as a plea, because it certainly feels like one. “Tomorrow morning, on the ship. Join the Second Sons with me until the Golden Company leaves Lys. Come with me to the Disputed Lands.”

Aerion knows your answer before you say it. He sees it in your eyes, and his jaw goes tight, helplessness and frustration, pride and anger eating away at him. But before he can spit out a string of vile insults, accuse you of being a liar and a traitor and a whore and whatever else spills from his lips in a desperate attempt to salvage his mangled pride, you lift your hand to his face, fingers brushing beneath his eye before you hold his cheek in the palm of your hand.

“I do not want to fight tonight, Aerion,” you tell him quietly when you see the expression on his face. 

Aerion does not care. You do not get to want anything; you do not get to ask him anything. Frustration bubbles and bubbles and bubbles, and he stares at you accusingly, angrily, because how dare you tell him this when, for all he knows, as soon as he leaves tomorrow, you’ll be on a ship with the Golden Company returning to Volantis. 

And yet, it does not spill over. He does not know whether he is the one who does not allow it, or whether he is just tired and cannot muster it. 

Aerion lets out a breath as he lowers his head to your chest, eyes sliding shut when he feels your fingers thread through his hair again, carding through the long locks gently. He sinks into your warmth, the feeling of your arms around him, legs entangled, so wrapped together that he can no longer tell where he ends and where you begin—as it should be, as it won’t be soon.

Will you be here when I return? he wants to ask desperately. Is this the last time we will be together like this?

He cannot bring himself to ask, because he’s not sure if he really wants to know the answer. 

———————

Aerion wakes to the early morning light spilling through your curtains. He lets out a soft puff of air, pressing his face into your chest before he cracks his eyes open. 

The sun only seems to be just breaching the horizon, and Aerion’s eyes slide shut again briefly when he realizes what that means. He feels your fingers still in his hair, absently twirling the ends, and his jaw tightens. 

“How long have you been awake?” he rasps, not wanting to move from where he’s laid up in your arms, but he knows it’s only a matter of time.

“I did not sleep,” you say quietly after a moment, and Aerion pauses, staring absently out to the balcony looking over the First Magister’s manse, watching the sun rise over the sea. 

For a few seconds, he does not respond. He just listens—to your breathing, to the faint sounds of the city beyond the manse, to the rhythm of your heart beneath his cheek. His fingers smooth over your forearm, sliding down your wrist to entwine his fingers with yours, the movement so instinctive that he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he feels your fingers tighten around his. 

“Why?” he asks finally after a minute, feeling your fingers pause in his hair before you resume the slow strokes. 

“You’re prettier with your mouth shut. I was appreciating the view without all of the snark.”

Aerion clicks his tongue harshly, but his lips curl up into a small smile despite himself. He mutters, “Miserable wench. I should have your tongue.”

He feels you huff out a laugh, and he shuts his eyes again, letting himself rest in your arms, exhaling softly when he feels your hand drift from his hair to trace idle patterns along his shoulder and back. He does not want to move. Does not want to ruin this moment. Does not want to leave when he doesn’t know if you will be here when he returns. He just wants to stay like this.

He thinks you want to, too, because your arms tighten around him, and you make a noise in the back of your throat. He feels you tilt your head down to ghost your lips against the top of his head, sighing into his hair. 

“We need to get to the harbor before the rest of the island wakes,” you finally say, voice quiet. 

Aerion wants to pretend that he doesn’t hear you, that the world outside this room does not exist and the Blackfyres aren’t a breath away, seeking his head—that it is only you and only him, as it should be, as it is meant to be—but his pride is already in tatters and he refuses to shred what little is left of it, so he pushes himself up, out of your arms. 

He hesitates at the edge of the bed, sitting there, staring into the horizon, until he feels your arms slip around his bare waist, nails scratching lightly at his abdomen, your lips on the sun-warmed skin of his shoulder, and he lets his eyes flutter shut again.

Will you still be here when I return?

“I do not have proper clothes to wear,” he says instead. “I will not wear silks to—”

“You can wear something of mine,” you interrupt, and Aerion regrets brushing you off the moment you pull your arms back and shift off the bed, wandering over to one of your chests, pulling out black leathers for him to put on. “We’re going to have to move through the alleys—I’m sure the Golden Company still has men patrolling the streets looking for you. Once you get on the ship, you’ll be fine. They won’t risk starting a conflict with another mercenary company.” 

Aerion knows all of this, and if it were any other day, he would make a snide comment about how you should put your tongue to better use than telling him something he already knows. But it is not any other day, and Aerion can only grind his teeth together as he pulls on the clothes you handed off to him.

The two of you dress in silence after that, quickly so as not to waste too much time, but slowly all the same, casting looks toward one another when the other is distracted, savoring in a sight that you will both soon be deprived of.

On opposite sides of the room, the two of you stare at each other after getting dressed. Your jaw is tight, and he’s barely keeping his breath steady. This is goodbye, he knows that, but he does not know for how long. 

A few months, maybe. 

Forever, maybe. 

His lips part to speak, but no words leave them. You exhale through your nose and reach to your bedside, grabbing the steel you’ve carried the past eight moons. You stare down at it for a minute, fingers tracing the red gems embedded in the hilt—it’s not the Valyrian steel that your friend gave to you earlier, but it’s still one of the finest blades Aerion has ever seen. 

Your grip tightens on it briefly before you make your way over to him.

“This was a gift,” you say quietly. “From the First Magister on my arrival. My father took my sword, my armor, my jewelry, and put it all back in the family vault. He allowed me only the necklace I took for myself from the ruins, and a short dagger to defend myself with. The magisters do not typically allow people who aren’t household guards or hired sellswords to carry steel, but the First Magister gave me this in hopes of making me feel more comfortable as I was not… adjusting well—” Aerion snorts, and you scowl at him, but then hold out the hilt of the blade to him. He gives you a questioning look. “We will not have time to stop by Magister Vyrano’s manse so you can grab the rest of your belongings. Take it with you. A sellsword without a sword makes for only—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” he mutters, chest tightening as he takes the blade from you. It’s light in his hands, balanced, the morning sun glittering against the rubies in its hilt. He admits, “It is a nice blade.”

You give a wry smile that does not reach your eyes. “Do not lose it, dragon prince, or I will take offense.”

Aerion would never lose something of yours, he thinks to himself, but does not say out loud because he cannot bear to admit more than he already has. He thinks you know, though, because your smile fades at the edges, expression slipping the longer you watch him.

“In my chambers in Vyrano’s manse,” Aerion says after a moment, chest tight, exhaling as he looks away, “there is a chest. A black one. It is important to me, will you—”

Aerion cuts himself off, lookin away, unsure what he’s really asking. But you nod, because you know—you always know.

“I’ll make sure nothing happens to it while you’re gone,” you say softly. 

You turn your back on him without another word, making your way to the door, and Aerion’s lips part to call after you, panic spiking hard and fast, clawing up his throat. Once you leave this room, everything will end, and Aerion does not want this to end—not now, not ever. Your hand wraps around the handle of the door, and your name is on his lips, but—

—but he closes his mouth, eyes sliding shut as he follows after you instead, unable to rid himself of the heaviness weighing on his chest.

———————

It takes less than an hour to get to the harbor. There was only one brief scare at the market where one of the Blackfyres—Haegon, the one you flirted with—was lingering, talking to a Tyroshi merchant. Aerion had half a mind to put a blade through his throat before making his way to the Second Sons’ ship, but you stopped him before he could, much to his irritation. 

He stands at the edge of the harbor now, the smell of sea thick in the air, watching as the sellswords move about the deck, preparing to set off to the Disputed Lands. The ship looms ahead of him, its shadow dwarfing the pier, and the lump in Aerion’s throat feels terribly uncomfortable.

His thumb tightens reflexively around the hilt of the blade you gave him, thumb brushing over the embedded rubies. Behind him, the city is just beginning to stir, voices carrying faintly from the square as merchants open their stalls, and the harbor children chasing one another down the docks. Life goes on, as it always does whenever Aerion feels as though his life is falling apart.

He lets out a breath, then turns to you.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything.

Up close like this, with the morning light catching in your hair, you almost don’t look real. Like something he imagined into being during those long, empty months of exile. He almost wouldn’t be surprised—Aerion is the last person who deserves to have met his other half, like in the stories and poems that Daella used to have their mother read to them, and madness always has run in Targaryen blood. 

But you are real, you are here, and perhaps it does make sense that he has met you, only to lose you. That is a just punishment, he thinks, for who he is and what he has done. His gaze drifts over your face, lingering, memorizing—the curve of your mouth, the glint of your eyes under the morning sun, the way your lips part as you let out a soft sigh.

He swallows thickly, trying to find something to say, but before he can, you say, “Māzigon arlī naejot nyke, zaldrīzes dārilaros. Konir sagon iā udrāzma.”

Return to me, dragon prince. That is an order.

But will you even be here when I return? he wants to ask, the words lodged in his throat, because he is terrified of leaving you here with your friend and the Blackfyres, where they can whisper in your ear and convince you to go along with their plan to bring you home and he will be out of sight and out of reach, too far away to convince you not to forget about him. He is terrified of returning to find you long gone. 

“Gaomā daor udrāzma nyke, quba ābra,” he says instead, grateful that his voice comes out steadier than he feels.

You do not order me, wretched woman.

Your smile lightens at his words—the curve of your lips softer, and the look in your eyes gentler than he has ever seen it, a flash of longing crossing your expression before you hide it with another quiet sigh. 

A yell from the deck of the ship signals that it is almost time for it to disembark.

“Kesi rhaenagon arlī, mēre ñuhoso iā tȳne—bona iksan gīmigon hen,” you say easily, turning on your heel to leave without so much as another lingering look in his direction. Aerion almost calls after you, but he stops himself, watching you leave with his heart in his throat. “Ēva hembar jēda, dārilaros”

We will meet again, one way or another—that, I am sure of. ‘Til next time, prince.

———————

Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.

And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.

If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?

That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.

You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.

You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.

“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.

You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.

“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”

“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”

Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else. 

If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”

“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.

“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.

You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.

Huh.

You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.

As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.

First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.

And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”

“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”

He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”

Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.

At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”

You pause.

“What?” you blink.

He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”

You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”

You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.

“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”

“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.

Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”

“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.

You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.

“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.

His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.

The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.

He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.

“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.

”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.

”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.

His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.

”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.

”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”

You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”

You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?

You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”

”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.

”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”

Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.

Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.

The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.

Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.

It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.

The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.

Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.

But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.

That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.

And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.

You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.

The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.

(If anything, you hope it will.)

You clear your throat. “So.”

He doesn’t look at you. “So?”

“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.

He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”

“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”

Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.

Holy fuck.

“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?

“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”

He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”

“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”

“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”

“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”

“He said you don’t take breaks.”

“I don’t need breaks.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”

That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”

You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” he mutters.

Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.

For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.

The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.

He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”

You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”

“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.

“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”

You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”

“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”

“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”

He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”

You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.

He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.

So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.

“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”

“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”

You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”

“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”

“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”

“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”

“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”

“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”

“So then what’s the big deal?”

You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”

Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”

“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”

“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.

It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“W-what?” you stutter.

“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”

It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.

Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little. 

But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.

If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares. 

Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you. 

—

When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”

You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally. 

Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember. 

He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is. 

“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”

“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”

“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”

“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”

He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive. 

“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.

He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”

“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly. 

“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”

“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”

He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”

“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”

“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”

“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”

“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”

You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“Hah?” he grunts.

It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple. 

“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”

Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”

You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”

“Then what is?” he shoots back.

You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”

Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.

You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.

“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”

“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”

He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”

“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”

Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)

But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”

And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.

But then he takes you by surprise.

“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”

You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”

Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.

“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”

All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.

“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile. 

He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.

“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.

You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.

“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.

“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”

You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.

“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.

He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too. 

You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.

“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.

What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same. 

So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.

“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here. 

“You’re still staring,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.

“Then stop staring.”

“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”

“I think you were staring.”

“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”

“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”

“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”

You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”

“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”

You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”

“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.

You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”

It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded. 

He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was? 

You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.

“Bakugou—”

“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it. 

And then he leans in.

He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you. 

You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so. 

And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.

Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”

“You just kissed—” 

You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”

You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.  

And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly. 

It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.

It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do. 

“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”

“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.

He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”

He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.

“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.” 

He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance. 

“Hey—”

“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”

Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple. 

“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored. 

Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.

He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts. 

You nod quickly as you breathe heavily. 

He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”

That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles. 

“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”

“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”

He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.

“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—

“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”

“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”

He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.

It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”

“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”

“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”

“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.

And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.

Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.

Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.

You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.

“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.

You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.

“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.

“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”

“Then do it, baby.”

You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.

You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”

When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.

“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”

He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”

He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”

“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”

“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.

“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.

“Eat you out?”

“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.

He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.

Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”

“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”

“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”

“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff. 

To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”

You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”

In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.

It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely. 

And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him. 

And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”

“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts. 

It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him. 

It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything. 

At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy. 

You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks. 

You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.

“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back. 

Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive. 

You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him. 

“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused. 

“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”

You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit. 

“Be quiet,” you warn.

“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”

“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”

That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”

He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient. 

For him—just for him, you’ll be patient. 

“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”

“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving. 

It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good. 

“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”

“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”

Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips. 

Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily. 

“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”

“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”

“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”

“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”

“Only me, huh?”

“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you. 

Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more. 

Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to. 

You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for. 

“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it. 

“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”

“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”

“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”

He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.

It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.

It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him. 

“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”

“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say. 

“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”

And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it. 

“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”

“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble. 

He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more. 

You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.

—

When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.

Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).

One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”

You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him. 

“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”

“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”

“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.

He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”

“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”

“Nope,” you answer easily. 

You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question. 

“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”

You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

“Great. Go out with me, then.”

You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”

“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”

“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”

“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”

“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”

“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”

Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.” 

“That was a demand, not a question.”

“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”

“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki. 

—

One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡

Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready

Ochaco: absolutely! 

Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap

Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys. You: holy fuck. guys… You: i slept with bakugou last night

Mina: WHAT?

Toru: WHAT?

Tsu: WHAT?

Kyoka: WHAT?

Momo: WHAT?

Ochako: WHAT?

Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW

You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN

Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too

Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P 

You: [ one attachment ]

Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK

Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!

Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO

Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him

Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?

Toru: never lol let’s be real

You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him

Mina: oh god it begins

Toru: she’s already making excuses for him

Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??

Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?

You saw it in the news. First, the funeral of the former Zenin clan head, who died of old age. And then the killings. Half of the Zenin clan was wiped out. In the official news, it was called an attack between rivaling clans, and they said that the police didn't have any suspects yet.

The rumors you heard, though, clearly state two names: Maki Zenin and Megumi Fushiguro. Both are Zenins by blood but were never bound to the clan by honor. Blood traitors, who worked for another family. But that still doesn't change the fact that Megumi Fushiguro is the highest-ranking male Zenin now.

You don't know exactly why Megumi's father left the Zenins all those years ago, but what you know is that the Zenin clan has a bad reputation. While the other clans were interested in making business contracts and mostly kept the peace, the Zenins were the ones who were to blame for most of the violence that put this city into fear.

Until the Zenin Killings happened and the clan got a new leader.

And now he is walking into this bar, in his tailored black suit, with an aloof expression on his pretty face, and his cold, dark blue eyes glaring at everyone as if he hates nothing more than being here.

Before today, you knew him as the bodyguard of The Young Tiger, Sukuna's younger brother, who was sometimes sent here to attend meetings in the name of the Itadori clan. And Megumi Fushiguro was the silent shadow following Yuuji Itadori, tagging along behind him, blue eyes stern and attentive to their surroundings. Only sometimes risking a small smile or soft laugh when Yuuji said something to him.

Tonight, the man who walks into this bar is another person. This isn't Megumi Fushiguro, the loyal bodyguard who only exists to protect someone else with his life. This man in front of you is Megumi Zenin, the youngest Yakuza boss this city has had in years. He is now one of the most powerful men in this country. One of the most dangerous. And he is clearly not happy about being here.

He is towering over you, tall and intimidating, his fine black suit not able to hide how fit he is beneath it. His face is a clear giveaway that he has the Zenin genes. Beautiful, elegant features, framed by unruly black hair and dark blue eyes, which stare you down coldly.

The woman behind him steps forward, Maki Zenin, you realize, his cousin, or first cousin once removed, if you remember correctly, who also used to work for the Itadori clan, and now apparently functions as Megumi Zenin's bodyguard. She gives a curt nod,

"Megumi Zenin, for the meeting, please."

"I don't need you to state my business, Maki."

He grounds out through clenched teeth. His voice is low, sounding just as cold as he looks. You feel goosebumps on your arms, but stay professional and bow deeply, greeting both of them with a polite smile,

"Of course. Welcome back to our establishment. We are very pleased to serve you tonight. Please follow me."

You escort him to the private backroom, where the meeting is held, and show him to his seat at the large table. He thanks you when you place the menu before him, and you can't help but notice that he smells good before you straighten up again and put your professional smile back on your face, and ask for his drink order.

He is surprisingly polite now, placing his order in a calm voice, thanking you again, and even handing the menu back to you so you don't have to collect it. You think that maybe his earlier bad mood came from disliking those kinds of business meetings, or maybe he is someone who, in general, isn't very fond of being around other people.

You give him a more genuine smile,

"Thank you, Mr. Zenin. I will be right back."

You notice how his jaw clenches when you say his name. You quickly bow again and leave to get the drinks, trying to ignore the nervous flutter of your pulse.

You return a few minutes later, balancing a large tray on one hand, serving the guests silently. You know that in here, you have to be discreet when the powerful men talk. Practically invisible.

That is as long as one of the men doesn't decide to flirt with you. Then you are expected to play along, smile and giggle a bit, and endure it even when you hate the way his hands trail over your body.

One of those old guys does exactly that right now, when you place his wine in front of him. His voice drawls sugary-sweet,

"Ah, thank you, sweetheart. Have I told you how lovely you look again tonight? Always such a sight for my old, sore eyes."

He leers at you, his eyes wandering greedily over your body. You put on a fake smile, laughing softly, and thanking him for the compliment. You force yourself not to pull away when he reaches out to pat your ass and then lets his large hand rest there. Your job forbids you to tell him to stop, and so all you can do is smile and wait until an acceptable amount of time has passed so you can leave without affronting him.

But it is someone else who speaks up. A low, cold voice, dripping with contempt,

"Stop wasting my time with molesting the poor waitress and just start with what we came here for. I don't have all night."

Megumi Zenin. Your gaze flickers to him, and you give him a small grateful smile, quickly stepping away from the other guy. You leave before the following discussion can start, letting out a long breath as the door softly slides shut behind you.

You spend the next hour serving tables in the front area of the bar, knowing that no one is allowed to enter the private rooms as long as the occupants don't explicitly demand a waitress.

You enter the kitchen, pushing the swing door open with your hip as you balance two arms full of plates. Your favorite coworker waves at you, looking stressed,

"Hey, I am so sorry, but can you please take the trash out for me? My mom isn't feeling well. I have to leave early."

"Sure, no problem. Go home and say hello to your mom."

You smile reassuringly as she walks past you and gives your shoulder a grateful squeeze. You put the dirty dishes away and grab the two large trash bags before exiting the kitchen through the back door.

Cold night air hits you as you step into the dimly lit back alley behind the bar. You throw the trash bags into the large dumpster and are about to head back in when you catch a movement in the corner of your eyes.

You jump, breath getting caught in your throat, when you see a tall, dark figure leaning against the brick wall. The figure moves and steps into the dim light of the street lamp. Your pulse flutters. It's him again. Megumi Zenin.

He locks the screen of his phone and shoves it back into the pocket of his suit jacket while walking towards you with large steps.

You feel frozen in your spot, somehow unable to move. You have no idea what it is about him that makes you so flustered. You stare at him, not even caring how rude this is. He raises an elegant eyebrow, blue eyes scanning your face with an unreadable expression. And then he stops next to you, murmuring to you in his low voice as if he is sharing a secret with you,

"Don't you hate it? Acting like everything is fine when those sick assholes sit in there, thinking they can do whatever they want, and bend this world to their will? How can you put on that polite smile while those disgusting old creeps put their dirty hands on you?"

Your eyes widen as you stare straight ahead at the door, your heart beating to your throat, intimidated by his presence. He is so close that you can smell his fresh, masculine cologne again, and you imagine you can feel the warmth emanating from his tall, strong body.

You make a helpless little noise and shrug,

"It's my job."

For a moment, there is only silence, only the distant muffled sounds of the nightly city reaching your ear as if through a glass wall. Then he huffs softly,

"Yeah, I guess. The disgusting things we have to do to be allowed to live."

His voice is hard, his posture rigid and almost threatening, but you can't help but think you hear a hint of sadness in his tone. Maybe that is why you lift your head and look up at his beautiful face, half hidden in the shadows, and say softly,

"I can imagine that your job must be very tough, Zenin-san."

His dark blue eyes narrow,

"Don't call me that. I hate that name."

"I'm sorry... um Fushiguro-san, then?"

He stares at you for a moment, jaw clenched, and something flickers over his blue eyes, something akin to sadness once again, as if, in his mind, he is looking at a fond memory that slipped through his fingers. The moment is gone quickly, though, and his eyes are the same cold pools again.

"That's not who I am anymore either."

You feel strangely trapped here in his gaze, unable to step away even though he doesn't even touch you or stand in your way. You open your mouth, about to ask how you are supposed to address him, when the heavy metal door of the building across the alleyway gets kicked open with a loud bang.

And then hell breaks loose in the narrow back alley.

Two men in black suits step into the street. Everything happens too fast for you, but you realize that they both carry a katana. And they aren't here by accident. Before you can react, you get pushed to the side. You scream as you stumble and then fall onto your knees.

You look up and see Megumi Zenin, or Fushiguro, or whatever he wants to be called nowadays. He pushed you out of the way and is putting himself between you and the attackers, pulling out a knife of his own.

You watch everything in front of you unfold as if in slow motion, frozen in fear, unable to move and run or scream for help or anything.

The two armed guys attack the Zenin heir simultaneously. But he counters the attacks with efficient, elegant moves. The movements of someone who has been in a situation like this countless times before. A former bodyguard, trained to react fast and smart.

You watch in a daze as Megumi kicks one of the guys in the stomach, making him tumble back a few steps. But his colleague instantly takes his place and lashes out with his sword, his blade meeting Megumi's.

He calls out to the other guy,

"I got this! Go after his woman! Kill her too!"

His words barely register in your brain when the second guy already turns to you. You stare up at him. And finally, the adrenaline in your veins wins, and you can move again. You jump to your feet, backing away from the armed man, who is approaching you with a low, cruel laugh, as if he enjoys the thought of killing a woman.

Your instincts kick in, and you start running. But you don't get far. A strong hand grabs your arm and pulls you back, and then you get slammed into the wall. Your back hits the brickstone hard, knocking the breath out of you.

Your eyes widen in panic as you look at the man in front of you with the deadly glint in his eyes. You struggle against his grip, fighting for your life, but he is too strong. You watch in horror as he lifts his katana and brings it closer to your throat, letting the blade slowly trail down your neck and over your breasts, resting it against your ribcage, where your heart is beating frantically.

You feel tears run down your cheeks, and your body is shaking violently as the hopeless conviction fills your mind that you will die now.

But suddenly your attacker's eyes widen, and he stumbles backwards. Through a curtain of tears, you see your savior: Megumi Zenin is standing behind the man, one hand brutally grabbing the guy's hair to pull him off you.

His other arm goes around the attacker's throat, holding him in a chokehold, while the blade of Megumi's knife presses against the guy's throat. Megumi's teeth are gritted, making him look savage.

The man in Megumi's chokehold is breathing heavily, but his eyes are filled with hatred, and he hisses,

"Let go, pretty boy. As if you are man enough to end it."

And then Megumi Zenin starts laughing. It's a scary sound. Cruel, sadistic, insane. His face is a grimace, beautiful but deadly. Blue eyes filled with a mad glint, his lips lifted in that insane smirk, and he says in a smooth, almost seductive voice,

"What? You think I haven't done this before? You think I have any qualms killing trash like you? Wanna know what I hate even more than spineless worms killing for some made-up power structures? Scum, like you, who enjoys killing innocent people. She has nothing to do with any of this. It's you who deserves to die, not her."

Megumi's gaze snaps to your terrified and shaking form, where you are slumped bonelessly against the brick wall. His dark blue eyes are hard when he says in that scary, calm voice,

"Cover your eyes."

You are too shaken up to react, and when your brain finally catches up with what Megumi is about to do, you already see him dragging his blade across your attacker's throat with a sure, precise movement.

You gasp, quickly pressing your hands over your eyes, but it doesn't prevent you from feeling the disgusting, warm and wet sensation of blood spraying over your face and hands. Your breath is coming out in short, panicked huffs as you feel your legs give away, and you slide down the wall.

You hear a dull, heavy thud. The body of your attacker is getting dumped onto the asphalt.

You sob silently into your hand, shoulders shaking. A soft touch against your arm makes you flinch. You pull your hands off your face, your wide, terrified eyes looking up at Megumi Zenin.

Megumi Zenin, who just killed a man in front of you without any remorse. He looks scary with the bright red splatters of fresh blood on his beautiful face and white dress shirt. "But he saved your life", you think, and maybe that's why you don't try to run when he crouches down in front of you.

His dark blue eyes are filled with worry that catches you by surprise. He lets his gaze trail over your face and body, and you realize that he is checking on you.

His low voice is soothing,

"It's ok. You are safe now. He can't hurt you anymore. Are you ok? Do you have any injuries that I can't see?"

You manage to shake your head,

"N... no... I don't have any injuries. Wh.. where is the other one?"

You look around frantically, feeling panic threatening to drown you again, when your gaze lands on the dead body lying in a gradually growing pool of dark red blood.

A strong but elegant hand cups your cheek, making you turn your face back to focus on Megumi's face in front of you.

"Don't look. The other one ran. It's safe for now. But let's get you away from here."

You barely register how he pulls you to your feet. Any other time, you would be embarrassed by how weak you feel and how you fall against him, legs too shaky to stand. But right now, you aren't in any state to care about something like that.

And Megumi doesn't comment on it either. You feel his strong arm wrap around your waist, steadying you, making sure you don't fall. You lean against him, instinctively searching the safety of his tall, firm body.

You can feel his firm muscles through his clothes, can feel his deadly strength. You know that the hand that is currently cupping your cheek and soothingly trailing a thumb over your blood-stained skin is the hand that only a few minutes ago killed a man. But you can't help but feel safe here in Megumi's arms.

The same thought is repeating in your mind over and over again. "He saved your life. Megumi Zenin killed a man to protect you."

Tears spill over your eyes again, and you press your face against Megumi's chest, feeling slightly guilty for ruining his white dress shirt even more, but not able to hold yourself back. He feels safe and warm, the only good thing in this dark, violent night. You mumble a weak,

"Thank you. Thank you for saving me...."

He cradles the back of your head, just standing there in the dimly lit back alley with you for a long moment, holding you, letting you bury your face in his chest and desperately inhaling the fresh scent of his cologne to chase away the smell of blood.

His long fingers brush over your hair, and then he pulls away, but only to lift you up into his arms, apparently deciding that you are not in any shape to walk on your own at the moment. You are grateful for it, slinging your arms around his neck and letting him carry you back into the kitchen of the Black Dragon bar.

He sets you down on a chair next to the fridge, wordlessly handing you a wet towel to clean the blood off you, before he methodically starts to rid himself of the blood on his skin, too. But you are still too dazed, too shocked to do anything, and just let the towel dangle limply from your hand as you watch Megumi.

He is standing at the sink. His suit jacket abandoned on the counter, the sleeves of his white dress shirt pushed back, revealing a pretty pattern of black and blue tattoos as he washes the blood off his hands. His gaze lands on you again, and he sees the towel uselessly hanging in your hand. He sighs softly and steps closer, taking the towel out of your hand.

"I'll do it for you."

He sounds detached, but his hands are surprisingly gentle when he dabs the wet cloth on your face and wipes the blood off your skin.

The kitchen door gets pushed open at that moment, and Maki bursts in, holding her phone in one hand, glaring at her boss,

"Megumi, what the fuck? Are you ok?"

You half-heartedly listen to the two of them talking. Your mind registers vaguely that they assume the attackers were sent by Naoya Zenin, who managed to escape the Zenin Killings and is now trying to claim the position of the clan head for himself.

It's just background noise in your tired mind. You smile gratefully at Maki when she hands you a glass of cold water, and feel embarrassment wash over you when you try to take a gulp from it but spill half of it over your blouse.

It's Megumi once again who takes the glass from you and cups your chin with his other hand, helping you drink. He brings the glass carefully to your lips, holding you in place with a gentle but firm hand, making you drink the whole glass, before he sets it down beside you and straightens up again. His dark blue gaze wanders over you searchingly.

"Go home and get some rest. I'll call you a taxi so you don't have to drive yourself. And you should quit your job here and look for something new. Not a Yakuza bar, preferably."

His face has that stoic expression again, his words business-like. You nod and thank him again, but he doesn't acknowledge it, his broad shoulders tense as he turns away and asks Maki to help him get rid of the body behind the bar.

You stay in your chair a few minutes longer, staring unseeingly at the wall, before you manage to leave, muttering an excuse about not feeling well, as you walk past your coworker in the reception area.

The taxi is already waiting for you, and you get in, stating your address, and then stare out the car window. But the blinking neon signs and glittering streetlights get drowned out by the pictures in your mind. Fancy black dress shoes standing in a pool of dark red blood. Dark blue eyes filled with worry. Small rivulets of blood and water running down tattooed forearms. Strong arms carrying you. Elegant long fingers gently wiping the blood off your face.

When you exit the taxi and cross the street to your apartment, you stop for a moment, breathing in the night air deeply and tilting your head to look up at the night sky illuminated by a full moon. It looks pretty. Midnight blue, like Megumi Zenin's eyes.

OMGGG THIS WAS THE FIRST CHAPTER!!

If you have followed me for a while, you probably know that I love writing Yakuza AUs and that my first big fanfic was a Sukuna x Reader Yakuza AU. This is where Yakuza Megumi's story started, too. He was Yuuji's bodyguard, and that's the background story he has in "So it goes" too. But "So it goes" is an alternate path for Megumi's Yakuza life. In the original story, I imagine that he and Yuuji are endgame. But I wanted to write a version with Megumi x Reader, and that's what brought us here ;)

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I am so invested in this story, and I hope you will all fall in love with Yakuza Boss Megumi, too 🖤

Reblogs and comments would be super sweet. Or send me and ask. I would love to hear your thoughts!!

(Also, can I just say that I am so turned on by Megumi's soft-dom moments in this chapter, like holding our chin to make us drink the whole glass of water AAAHHH!! I am already such a mess for him 😵😭)

Honestly, Shoko might be one of the Queen’s most favored healers- but you really think she’s been neglecting the health of her eyes lately. Daring to elbow her in the side, “Don’t jest!”

She snickers, and you’re sure you detect the nearby daughter of a merchant family haughtily sniff your way—“I do no such thing.” Though, not for too long, fortunately for the two of your necks, because just then Duke Nanami’s stepping into clear view of the party - and you’d never glimpsed so many aristocratic mouths drop.

So many ladies (and some gentlemen) fluster, and so many older heads of families water at the mouth like they’d just spotted the most delectable prey. 

Understandable, however.

Because if Nanami was thoroughly agreeable to your eyes in the few peeks you’d stolen at him- then he was almost other-wordly now.

With the most charming, tidy golden hair pushed back, a few curls coiling at the nape of his high collar. A towering stature that made even the most accomplished generals hunch in on themselves, and you nearly audibly gulp at the broad flex of his arms within his navy jacket. Stern. Stoic. 

His molten, intense eyes peek over thin-rimmed glasses at the buzzing guests ahead, and you swear that they begin to stray somewhere near you—

“Heavens! Must I repeat myself, you common scullion?”

Ah, at the way Marquess Zenin Naoya was saddled right behind you and spitting hellfire, surely. 

You rush to bend into an apologetic bow, so low that the knobs of your spine start to ache- “Please forgive my impudence, My Lord-”

“Have you nothing between your ears but lint?” He’s growling, spindly hands tightening on his empty goblet of wine until you hear the silver material creak. And it’s hitting you right then n’ there that in your haste to ogle Duke Nanami, you must have failed to heed Naoya’s calls for more drink-

He turns his sharp profile to the side and spits on a patch of clean-cut grass, “A servant that knows not her place is no better than dirt. What do you gawk at like so?” 

“N-nothing, My Lord.”

And you can only watch, in slow-motion terror, as Naoya flicks his beady gaze behind you- and his sour face tenses at the vision of the tall newcomer that’d easily - and very obviously - ousted his mantle as the most eligible bachelor present. “That ol’ duke? Heh- dreaming that he’d bed a wench, did you?”

“Forgive me, sir, it was not my intent to give offence.” You’re breathing out, first clenching as you feel the withering looks that were starting to prop up around you two. Everybody loved a scandal. Trembling hands reaching out for his cup, “I-if you would allow me to just refill-”

“Don’t touch me!”

CLANG!

It happens all at once. 

The heavy goblet clatters to the floor, a warm chest nuzzles your back, and a strong hand was locked right around Naoya’s raised wrist. Right before he could strike. 

“It seems her highness’s liquor is exceptionally strong.” Nanami’s deep baritone sounds above your head and makes your skin bead with a blanket of goosebumps. 

And it’s slightly husky. So attractive. 

Especially when he’s tilting his head down so close, something primal in his eyes that made it feel like he was on the very verge of devouring you whole. Right there in the middle of the bustling garden party. Humming sternly, “Yuji, please escort our impaired marquess somewhere ah…quieter.”

“Y-yes, Nanamin- I mean, Your Grace!”

You’re watching, speechless, as a younger boy with the most vibrant head of pink locks runs up from behind and grabs onto both of Naoya’s shoulders to bodily steer him away from you.

He must have been stronger than he looked, clearly, because the proud heir was being lugged away like a sack of potatoes no matter how much he squirmed and fought - much to the amusement of the party-dwellers. And you.

But you’re quick to bite back your startled laughter once you’re realizing that Nanami Kento was still holding onto you. And not just stood behind- you must have stumbled amidst all the commotion because he had a large hand gripped onto your hip to steady you.

You were in his arms. 

Gasping, “O-oh.” You couldn’t have broken off faster from him, knees strangely weak as you’re forcing them into yet another curtsy, “I am so-”

“My deepest apologies, Honorable Miss.” The duke beats you to it, a strange smile playing along his stern lips as he bends into an even deeper bow. “I should have asked prior to touching a lady.”

“A-a lady!” You’re squawking, in what was most definitely an unladylike manner. Hands wringing to gesture him to straighten as much as you could without it being seen as defiance against one of the crème de la crème of nobility. “I assure you I am no such thing, Your Grace.”

Just then he kisses the back of your hand in greeting, “Please, call me ‘Nanami’- or ‘Kento’, should you wish, ma’am.”

“It- it is beneath you to be designated that by me-”

“I insist.”

And if everyone here was watching the upending chaos before, then they simply couldn’t remove their eyes by now. 

Whilst Nanami - still bowed - only tilted his head up with a smile, looking at you through his long, pale lashes.

You lift the humble fabrics of your working dress, a thick, dark-colored wool that marked you different from the tittering daughters of the upper-class. “B-but I am only in service to her highness.”

“Is that so?” And you’re breathing a sigh of relief as he stands back to his broad, proud figure- finally, he’s understood and would prance off as all young bachelors did to- “For I only gaze upon the most beautiful lady that has graced the floor this evening, and my blessed gaze.”

What?

“Have a charmed night-” Nanami has a dimple- he has a dimple that winks from the side of his grin as he turns and nods down with the velvety brim of his hat. “-My Lady.”

My Lady.

Utahime’s hands clap down on your rigid shoulders. “Sole heir to the Nanami fortune. Rich, handsome, aware when to cease talking.” Her low whistle rings in the air- tinged with such scandal, “Fiend seize it! I should hasten to practice your new title then, Duchess Nanami.”

“You have a lamentable deficiency in wit-”

Utahime, reputably sensible tutor to the offspring of the royal ladies-in-waiting, and known blockhead around your little trio. “And you have a lamentable deficiency in eyesight.” Sighing, “The look he bestowed upon you, my dear…”

“Or would it be ‘My Lordliness.’” Shoko croons in as well, sipping on a flute of bubbly champagne definitely not meant for her. “Oh-so-beautiful wife of Duke Nanami-”

“Attend to your duties!”

.

.

.

Dearest gentle reader,

It has come to my attention - and certainly to that of all the ladies who frequent the halls of Mayfair - something for which you should do well to brace your hearts. Whispers spread that the most eligible bachelor of the season, gentle Duke Nanami Kento, erupted quite the scandal during her majesty’s garden soirée by fixing his much sought-after attentions upon none other than a humble chambermaid. 

Yes, you read that correctly, dear reader. For someone reputed in the upper echelons of society for being as stoic as he is handsome, Duke Nanami shares his first spark of interest as he searches for a bride this season.

So heed this author’s advice; as the famed noble resides in the royal palace for the rest of his stay, keep an eye about. For you may just be lucky to be named Duchess of the House of Nanami.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

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.

.

“This is preposterous!”

“It is absolute truth-”

“It is a sham is what it is.” You’re nearly crying out as you shove Lady Whistledown’s latest scandal sheet back into Shoko’s arms. “He- the duke never fixed his attentions on me.”

And your best friend didn’t spare you a word, only a long, narrowed stare of her intelligent eyes that made your stomach twist. 

Did Nanami fix his- no. While you and Shoko huddled into a hidden alcove within the sprawling walls of the palace to read the latest on-dit gossip, you smacked yourself back into reality. 

The nobility often did have nothing much to entertain themselves with outside of fanning scandal. He was powerful. He was attractive. And he has as many prospects as there were knights in this palace, surely!

Because - of course, for the universe did love to laugh at your expense - he’d taken residency in the palace until the season ended, as one of the Queen’s guests. 

Days later you could count every look, every smile, every bow- goodness, there was that one time that you’d been placing cutlery along the winding royal dinner table. Only for Nanami’s engulfing fingertips to brush against yours and make your skin scorch with his whisper, “Thank you, my lady.”

You’re almost befogged why that wasn’t splashed across Lady Whistledown’s writing- chambermaid loses her wits, hear ye!

“Wh-whichever way one looks at it.” You’re stammering out, realizing that you’d been quiet for much too long. “His grace is simply raising some kind of mischief.”

“Certainly.” She was not certain.

“Just you wait- by the end of this season, Duke Nanami will be married to a lady of high standing and I shall–”

“Be disengaged?” That wasn’t the monotone, sarcastic voice of your longest friend.

It was something masculine, something amused. And it was emanating right from the open space of the corridor reading up to the alcove. 

You don’t have to turn your head to realize who it is - Nanami Kento. 

Though, you do turn anyway. And you almost regret it when you’re stuck by the sheer intensity of his stare, of his face leaned down so close. So intimately that you can’t stop yourself from flitting a sharp glance down at his plush, curving pink lips. 

Perhaps Lady Whistledown wasn’t all that wrong - especially about him being handsome…

“Apologies for startling you, ma’am.” Nanami cuts your traitorous thoughts short by slowly tilting something flat and cream-colored in one hand. “Permit me to explain- will you hopefully be disengaged to attend the upcoming Royal Diamond Ball? Perhaps?”

You’re bowing, confused. “Y-yes, Your Grace. I shall be of service during her highness’s ball.”

It was only the most anticipated assembly this entire year, the annual gathering right in the Queen’s Great Hall to announce the diamond of the season. 

And in only a week, every single servant of the palace was to work themselves to the bone - welcoming, chaperoning, making note of the newly-made unions to titter over much later. 

“Ah, allow me to clarify.” Rubbing a free hand behind his neck, the famed Nanami Kento almost looks…sheepish. “What I meant was- might you be disengaged to…” Staring right at you, hypnotic. “-join me?”

“…What?”

“Of course, it would be no trouble at all if you can not spare a moment, I should be happy to merely converse with you.”

It slips out- “Th-that’s madness. All those ladies-in-waiting-”

Then he’s clasping your hands, he’s pressing the invitation in- but, more importantly, he’s holding you. “And yet, I would like nothing more than the pleasure of your company.” Close. Too close. His breath wafts your lips, “I hope this is not too forward of me. But should you let yourself, trust that I will take care of everything, My Lady.”

And just as soon as you think he’ll kiss you - how uncouth (though, you admittedly wouldn’t complain) - he bends at the waist to gently grasp your hand. 

“Everything.” Whispering a soft kiss into the back, Nanami lingers his lips - his gaze - for a long while. “I await eagerly for your word.”

He’s gone almost as softly, and sweetly, as he’d appeared.

Taking with him the scent of golden caramel, and the racing beat of your heart. You swear you’d have been stuck within the alcove staring behind his muscular back until nightfall had it not been for Shoko.

“So…” She plasters a wry smile once you’re turning her way, invitation trembling in your grip. And you’re noticing that upon its envelope dazzles swooping calligraphy of your name, almost certainly written by him. “Would you prefer ‘Your Gracefulness’ or ‘Duchess Nanami’?”

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.

.

Dearest gentle reader,

The ton is abuzz as her majesty the Queen’s Royal Diamond Ball nears closer. And the sole heir to the house of Nanami is certainly no exception. 

This author hears directly from a reputable source within her highness’s Chamberlain Office that Duke Nanami Kento was uncharacteristically fastidious in securing himself an extra invitation. Most claim this as confirmation of his grace’s dedication to finding a bride, most also claim they’d seen the aforementioned, infamous chambermaid being handed it.

Take care of artifice; but such intrigue of a commoner attending the most prestigious ball of the year may be much more than my readers may be able to bear.

So, ladies, grab your finest gowns and shortest shawls to make haste for a chance to snag the eligible bachelor’s heart once and for all this season! And I shall, of course, be in attendance to report on all the scandals that unfold.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

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.

.

“I look…”

“Enchanting.” Utahime nods. 

“I was thinking more toad-eaten.” You have to mentally remind yourself to close your maw and do your very best not to gape at the reflection in the decadent mirror displayed in front of you. 

Despite your words, even you couldn’t deny that the deep, sapphire-encrusted gown you were donning made you look every bit the noblewoman that you weren’t. Its Empire waist snugly crowning the flowing muslin, sleeves fashionably puffed, with tasteful gold jewelry that you wouldn’t have so much as dared to look at let alone be dolled-up into.

It was made for you.

Quite literally. Utahime had been the one to write your letter of acceptance to Duke Nanami (after shrieking herself hoarse in excitement first.) And through a week of hushed conversation with his grace, the ball evening had crept up closer and you had an army of modistes and maids knocking at your servants’ quarters.

Scrubbing you raw, painting your face, slipping you into a dress he’d ordered tailored to your exact measurements- how did he even know?

Shoko had to let you use her office, and she was deriving her payment back for it by beaming at the sight of you. “And I was thinking more Duchess of the house of Nanami-”

“Cease!”

“Ah, so you observe? You are noble in all but title already.”

Whilst Shoko and Utahime - the traitors - burst out into peels of laughter, you’re left fiddling with the silken coverings of your gloves. “You…you don’t suppose he’s making a mockery out of me, after all?”

That makes them quieten down, and Utahime hugs your shoulders in a way that thoroughly displeases the attendants and their ruffles. “You shine everyone else down, my dear. He should be lucky to have such a lovely date this evening.”

“Quite so.” Shoko nods, “And should he dare fool around, I have long sought a specimen upon whom to test my latest scalpel-”

“Shoko!”

“Do let me join.”

“U-um, ehem.” The tense, honestly frightened clearing of Itadori, his protégé’s, throat cuts your morbid conversation short. And as he looks at you, the poor boy blushes- whispering something shapes strangely like a little—“Divine.”

Before you know it, you’re being escorted down the high-ceiling corridor just as you’d always watched the sisters and wives of nobility being guided so. 

It’s a pathway more than familiar to you, yet seems so foreign once you approach the grand, imposing double doors opened to the ballroom. It was a magnificent thing; one of the Queen’s proudest possessions - with diamond chandeliers that dripped yellow light like a second sun, and a grand polished staircase kissing down from the doorway to a dance floor at the bottom.

Faint orchestra and chatter tainting the sparkling atmosphere, you breathe in nervously and even the flower-scented air seems too expensive for you.

Itadori hands the chief footman your invitation - something that makes the latter’s bushy eyebrows raise as he recognizes your name. And then the boy squeezes your hand before he leaves you off at the edge of the entrance, “His grace will be utterly bewitched, My Lady. He already is.”

Oh- what?

In the blink of an eye, he’s melted back into the crowd of other youngsters networking outside. And with nearly every guest already inside - you could only descend.

Down.

Down.

Down, the massive carpeted staircase- and it felt like every pair of eyes were on you. Most stopping mid-dance. Some whispering behind their fans. 

And one, Nanami Kento, staring at you breathless and awestruck where he’d been politely conversing with the Queen herself, and a gaggle of entranced admirers. But he only had eyes for you.

Almost frozen. Almost shocked-

Enough so that your satin-covered feet were just a few steps away from reaching down to the marble ballroom floor before you’re thinking of turning right back around and running-

“You.” A hand on your wrist, a soft pair of lips on the back of your hand. Nanami Kento had broken through just about every rule of aristocracy to storm through packs of nobles and catch your wrist before you escaped. 

And when he kisses you, it felt like he was finally breathing for the first time after years. “I had- I had not dared to hope that you would truly appear.” Staring at you through thick, golden lashes as he bends deeper into a bow. “You have honored me with the presence of the most beautiful lady to ever grace these floors.”

Languidly, you’re twisting your body back to face him - to face the crowd - and the way that the distracted orchestra has to begin their slow quadrille from the top, several teary debutantes looking between you and Nanami before shoving their faces into their fans, and even Lord Naoya was casting great attention.

Muttering.

‘Might I inquire as to that lady? Does she have prospects-’

‘Do tell- is it true what Lady Whistledown’s paper said- Bollocks! I wanted to bed Duke Nanami.’

‘My, the chambermaid? The scandal! Oh, but they are a most remarkably striking pair…’

You’re gasping when you catch a glimpse of her highness shifting on her throne to peer over curiously. Nanami had authority- but this?

Gulping, “Is this…is this folly really alright?”

“Oh, My Lady.” He fixes you with a lingering look, “For you, nothing would be folly. May I have this dance?” 

.

.

.

“M-mmm, Your Grace-”

“What did I tell you, My Lady?” Nanami’s hot, simmering pant tingles your lips as he’s lavishing you with the swirling edge of his tongue. “Call me Kento.”

And you didn’t have any reason not to.

Well, first of all you two were far, far from any of the prying eyes of the ball by now - tucked away inside the empty, luxurious royal office allocated to him by the Queen. And then he had you pushed against the corner of the wide mahogany table in the middle- hands fisted into your gown, mouth searing against yours. 

Nanami flicks the slimy edge of his tastebuds between your spit-glossed maw and groans once you’re eagerly sucking. Gasping. Heaving. “O-open your mouth.”

You’d just made the stern, stoic Duke Nanami stutter. And the thought itself is enough for you to knit your brows together and unhinge your jaw even further, “Like this?”

“Wider.”

“Mmm- like-” A glittery ribbon of saliva slicks down the corner of your lips the moment he’s parting his plump, puckered mouth and kissing you in a way you’d never even heard of. “-this?”

So primal. So heated. He’s huffing out a clouded breath through his flared nostrils, and you’re all but melting with each sleazy scour of his tongue. 

“Yeah, wider. Lest I be thought ungentlemanly-” With a thumb latching onto the point of your chin, he has one hand angling your face, and the other curving ‘round your waist to support your weakening knees easily. “Suck on my tongue, ma’am.”

Kissing you and kissing you like he’s parched and every drop of sweet, syrupy water was just drooling from your mouth.

Your whirling head barely even realizes when Nanami has you softly falling back onto the frigid surface of the table. Splayed out completely. His beefy forearm eases the impact, mouth decorating with a few strings of spittle when he’s pulling back with a dampened pwah!

Lungs still clouding out in scorching breezes, “If you would allow it, My Lady.” And you’re whimpering when the doughy mountain of his palm comes rovering down your front. Not resting for a split-second until it was right between your poor legs- “I confess, not a morsel crossed my lips throughout the ball- and I find myself quite famished.”

You’re gasping, trying to close your legs- but it’s like his palm was glued to your drivelling core. Hungry. Desperate. “B-but it is beneath your touch to do such a thing-”

“You’re never beneath my touch.” You swear you catch him look down at your clothed cunt and gulp. Fawny irises dark and dilated, “Never.”

And almost as if he’s proving his point, his free, left hand clasps around your own and flies down gingerly to the absolutely massive bulging tenting Nanami’s trousers.

Oh.

He groans.

Oh.

And he’s looking at you through narrowed, predatory eyes- words so gentle even though the way the thick cylindrical curve of his erection was anything but. “See how you make me?” And with a teary nod, your hips find themselves bucking- “Witness how you- ah.”

Rutting. 

So carnally, with your gown and chemise falling back, it makes Nanami snap his half-lidded eyes down at you like he’d just stumbled upon a five-course meal. A predator blood-thirsty for prey.

Drooling in a thin, slow trail, he hastily wipes it away like a gentleman. He wasn’t just famished - he was starved. 

And by the way his touch shakes ever-so-slightly on your body, it’s a damn miracle that he hasn’t just lost it right now. “We wouldn’t want to waste your talents on just my hand, ma’am.”

Before you can even begin to wonder what his cryptic words meant, Nanami’s making use of the years of his noble training in combat.

Flipping your two positions, laying himself out on the far table, clinging onto your squirming waist to seat you right above his heavily respiring mouth. With your chemise tugged off with one hand, he’s stealing a good look at your naked, geysering pussy and moaning–

“I-I really am quite famished.”

And his voice breaks.

Making you jerk your hips in a slight gyration- unsure where to rest. “Wh-what are you going to- oh.” Whimpering, once he’s planting a firm kiss near the inner parts of your thighs where slick travelled like an adhesive sheen. Only pushing your gown to bunch upwards, “Please!”

“I shall be having my dinner, My Lady.” Lurching you ever-closer, he had your knees straddling each side of his face and it still wasn’t close enough. “Bon appétit.”

All five of his coarse fingerpads digging into the cheeks of your ass, he flicks his wrist and drags you straight into the gaping cavern of his maw. His glistening tongue was propped out just right to spank the surface of your pussylips on his tastebuds. 

“A-ah.” Thighs trembling, it feels so strangely and erotically wet with him salivating all over. 

He feels a slippery splosh of your juices leak from your slit and straight into his gullet, the creamy taste flooding up his tongue. “O-ohhh–” Savoring. “Has anyone ever made you feel like hah- this?”

“N-not at all, Your Gr-”

“Kento.”

“K-Kento–!” It’s all that you can squeal when the flexible tendril of his muscle crowns your hole and you’re seeing stars. His tongue is just so long n’ girthy that it makes your poor, filthy entrance clench when he’s slipping just an inch inside. “Fuck- n-ngh- fuck–!”

“Charmed you’re enjoying, ma’am.” And he sounds so genuinely elated - breathy, shaken - at the pretty moans falling from your mouth like music. 

Though, it’s not enough.

It might never be enough, so the duke can only prop up slightly on one of his strong elbows just to angle his mouth into the perfect French kiss with your cunt. Slapping his tongue right over the puffy folds of your pussy, he’s licking and licking each stray bead of slick bubbling out of you until you’re all tender and glossy.

Only then is he wafting his right thumb vertically down your cute slit, “Though, not to overwork my dear lady- but might you mind lending me a…hand?”

You’re snapping your head down so fast that your chin knocks against your heaving chest, “Wh-what do you need, Your- ah, Kento?”

“Oh, nothing much, my darling. Just…” Tilting his head, Nanami’s rendering you stupidly dizzy each time he twists the callused knob of his thumb in and out of your folds. “Spit in my mouth.”

“Wh-would that be appropriate?” He was filthy.

Feral. “I would love nothing more.”

And he meant it- he truly, completely, and utterly meant it. You’re watching his prominent Adam’s apple bob greedily once the bead of pearly saliva bubbles between your lips and dead-on into his mouth. Only swirlin’ inside for a mere second before spitting right back into your polished cunt. Hard. 

Letting the fat wad slip between your lips, and Nanami doesn’t waste a single second before pushing his rugged middle finger inside your hole. 

“There we go.” Gazing in pure lecherous wonderment at the way your needy ring of muscle was swallowing him up, every single solid inch right down to his mountainous knuckle. What a tight fit. “There- there, atta girl.”

“It just feels so- ngh- so-” You don’t even know how to control yourself, hips jerking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until the globes of your ass strike his chin and make you keen. “Ah!”

“Eeeeeasy does it, ma’am.” 

And he’s still grunting your name out with that title- even as he’s pryin’ apart your bloated lips and sticking in yet another digit. The fat ends of his index swiping across, engraving his family signet ring against your very walls-

“This is only a prelude, darling.” You’re flinching at the chilling scrape of the band on his second finger, and he grins. Glueing that very grin against your throbbing clit, he spits again- “Only just getting started.”

“Fuck- fuck!” Going against every policy you’d learned in polite society, you’re throwing your hips back and gyrating out looong sloppy drags of your cunt. 

Straight from the treacly base of your pussy to where Nanami was nuzzling your sensitive clit with his nose. Again. And again and again- the duke’s kiss-bitten lips were burning and he’s still craning his neck for more. Panting, “Make a mess of me, My Lady. S’what I’m hah- here for.”

“N-ngh, it feels so gooood, Kento.”

And you don’t even have any inhibitions about that little slip-up of titles anymore, back arching into a perfect curvy ‘S’ shape at the way he’s salivating all over your pussy.

Rovering the ridged edges of his tongue in a cutesy lil’ heart over your clit, pressing down just enough pressure on it like a button. And it’s exactly what he needs to make you gasp, your hole winking- so that he can easily slide-slide-sliiide a third finger in with a resonating squelch!

“So wet. So divine.” He’s groaning at the sight of you suckling in on him and all his inches. Fitted in so deeply that your orifice is struggling to even squeeze, thighs clamping over his sweaty temples. Feeling inside you. Searching. “I must ask that you ruin me, darlin’. Ride me faster.”

Thighs aching, breaths shortening. His metal glasses thump the scorching front of your cunt and you whine. 

“Faster.”

“P-pleeease!”

It’s like he’s ravaging your pussy with his thrusts, blond brows furrowing in so tight as he’s leaning in even closer. Tuggin’ apart your folds, he’s discovering every sleek, leaking inch of your cunt like he didn’t have enough time. Never would.

And it’s with only spank after spank of his metallic ring that he’s somehow skidding it right down your saccharine walls and directly into your g-spot. “H-here.”

“There.” Even with the kaleidoscope of tears dazzling your vision, you can make out the completely pussydrunken grin that smears across his face. 

Rutting up against the swollen slope of your pussy, he laps up every sodden ounce of slick that escapes you once he hits his slimy target. “With greater fervour now, My Lady.” Your throat clogs up every time he reels his fingerpads down to the curvaceous edges and slams back in. “Harder-”

You grip onto the straight ends of his deltoids, flexing with muscular strength. “I-I’m not sure if that is possible-”

“Do not be gentle with me.” And it almost sounds like a command. Though he’s acting upon it like it’s a complete beg- swerving his palm to sticky clammily onto your left ass cheek and pushing you. “Let yourself hah- go. Give me all of you, I beg.”

You had the most powerful, stoic duke of all the season begging. 

And he needed it- he was toying with the lacy circle of your garter and snapping it down onto your flesh with a flick of his fingers. 

Only to make you wetter.

So wet with sappy, meady slick that he’s gulping down like his favorite liquor- splashing down between his lips and making him more n’ more inebriated by the second. 

Glasses still on. Pumping his hips up into the empty air, all he could do was fuck his fingers into your hotly-glossed walls and pretend he’s doing it all with his aching cock. “Do you think you can handle a fourth, darling?”

Gasping, “P-perhaps-”

“Then…brace yourself…”

You couldn’t brace yourself. You couldn’t even intake a steady breath even if you tried. 

Because while you’re perching your dripping pussy near the line of his straight nosebridge, Nanami’s slipping in the coiled edge of his lengthy tongue. Not his fingers. His tongue. 

In addition to all he was rummaging your melty insides with, he swabs over the texture of his tastebuds down where you were the most delicate and strokes his tongue inside—

“Sh-shit- shit shit shit-” Your mouth juts out into such an adorable pout that makes the man beneath you thrusts his rugged hips upwards. “I-I think I’m…close, Kento.”

“S’that so? Gonna cum?”

So difficult to even breathe when he’s strobing his fingertips down your bulging g-spot, already battered and bruised with the slamming impacts. With the way he swats the side of your thighs stinging with your garter, “Mhm—hck!”

Probin’ every velvety nook and cranny with his touch, Nanami can’t have you on his weeping cock so he’s twisting all his three- now four fingers, and his tongue inside until his wrist aches. His jaw strained. Tastebuds raw, just as much as your pussy was.

“The orchestra is playing, you can be as loud as your heart desires. Say the words, ma’am- I beg of you to please just hah! say the words.”

It makes your vulnerable lips tremble just to formulate the next few scandalous words, never before having been so fucked-out. “Y-yes. Yes, please. Gonna…cum.”

And you swear that the ever-sensible Nanami Kento is gurgling out a wet giggle right between the space of your puffy pussylips, sending white-hot shockwaves down your bowed spine. “I would be-” He wetly gasps out, before slapping his handsome features right back down. 

Addicted. He can’t even move. 

“I would- hah- I would be quite-” And his spectacles dig in deep until the metal surface sizzles against your core, pushing and pushing himself back. His tongue’s going wild, stirring around with the wettest slurps. “I would be quite offended if you didn’t, my love.”

He doesn’t just mutter the words - he’s biting them right ‘round the perky knob of your clit. Teething his glinting canines just hard enough while he’s slipping his tongue back out - right on time, right at the very second to tastefully receive the way you throw your head back and squirt.

Hot. Hard.

It feels like your entire body’s caught on fire and no matter how much you’re slobbering your hips to the front n’ back, it only makes the sensation worse. 

Your eyes water, mouth hanging open stupidly. “Yes- yes yes yes yes- I’m cumming-” Thighs trembling down upon either side of his eardrums at the friction- tight, and he doesn’t even care. “I-I’m cumming.”

“Squirting, My Lady.” Nanami corrects you, gently. Though, it’s a fucking miracle he even had the patience to considering that he’s gasping and panting for air but only pushin’ himself closer to the oodles of cute slick seeping out from you. 

He doesn’t even care. 

Doesn’t even need air- not when he can perk his head just right and push against your thighs. Wide maw unfastened gluttonously ajar to let the thick trickles of sap drip into his mouth after each zap! of bliss. Drowning him. 

Mouth sagging further open, lungs screaming at him. So many bucketloads of syrupy sweet sap that sprays his features until they’re all glittery. “Squirt- oh. You’re- ngh-”

And something’s breaking at the back of his throat when he’s roaming his dexterous, looong tongue between the plumpness of your pussylips, and you’re taking him in so easily.

Overstimulated till you can let off only whines n’ sobs when he’s lazily dabbing his way inside your quivering hole. 

“I’m so ruined, Kento.” Riding and riding. He wanted you to use him and you were- “It feels s-so strange.” The peak of your high was one big wave, and it tingles underneath your skin and makes your eyes roll. 

Never - even during all those long, lonely nights with your hand slipped underneath the covers - did it ever feel like this. Never were you leaking your essence this much, with your sappy juices falling all down the sides of his rosy red lips. “Never f-felt this ngh- way before, Ken.”

And that makes him groan.

Slowly, gingerly - almost like it hurt for him to detach his hungry lips with yours, he’s pulling you off with one hand stuck to your hips. Surging backwards with- no, he can’t surge backwards.

The duke’s planting one more firm kiss onto your cunt, open-mouthed. And then jerking back- and forth. Another kiss. Another repeat until about five times later and he’s finally ready to say goodbye to your sweet, overspilling pussy. 

But he’s not done with his little show- oh, the moment you’re finally spying a good, long look at him, you think you might cum again from just that.

Because Nanami Kento was ruined - blond hair astray, spectacles drooping down his nose, your pussy juices worn all over from the apples of his blushin’ cheeks down to his jawline like a lewd medal.

Waterfalling between the curves of his pectorals, gleaming wherever his pale skin was flushed. He looked as if there was a part of him that was feverish - barely even registering what he’s doing once he’s tugging off his slick-glazed glasses and sucking those pearly beads off of the frame.

Licking his completely wet glasses clean, Nanami tilts his head with a grin like he’s never been more accomplished. “I only live to please you, ma’am.”

“But that’s not fair.” You huff out a stubborn breath, shuffling down his tall body to try and cup the bulging outline between his legs that almost looked painful. “I, too, wish to-”

“Tonight is not the night, I’m hah- afraid.” He’s cleanly cutting off both your plea and your palm. Instead bringing up your shaky hand to kiss the inside of your wrist. Gloves off, his eyes primal and dead set on you. “I could never ask you to get on your knees. Tonight, I only ask that you let me drive you wild, darling. Let me devour you whole.”

And he meant it.

Oh, within sultry seconds Nanami was moving himself off of the tabletop and standing adjacent. Tall. Strong. Not letting you lift a single finger before he loops two hands underneath your thighs and draaaags you to the very edge.

Moistened thighs pasting to his obliques, “Pray, allow me to see to it. To everything.”

And you just wanted to rip the gossamer fabric of your dress off, but Nanami was oh-so-delicate with his hands all over you. Even though he’s fitting himself animalistically between your lewd legs and rutting-

“Why-” His breath catches once your petticoat and stocking are peeled off, both thumbs spreading your swollen pussylips like a lotus. Completely exposed now. “-hello, my love.”

Your mouth parts when you’re realizing that he’s not just talking to you- he’s talking to your cunt. Maw stretched into a smile so utterly lovin’, Nanami keeps that same dopey grin on as he’s leering his face down to spit. 

Again.

“Please, Kento.” You’re bucking your hips up impatiently, still shaky with the aftershocks of your high but you wanted more more more. Needed it. “P-put it in.”

He groans- oh, was it him that taught your sweet mouth to say those words. Corrupting you with every second he’s drawing soppy circles on your wet outer pussy, the duke can only tear down his dress coat and his trousers. Careful with yours but he was ripping his own clothes off. “As you wish, my darling.”

It’s just then that he’s finishing tugging down his sensually tight breeches—and you’re drinking in all of him. And fuck- was it a sight only for your most light-skirted dreams.

Because Nanami Kento was naturally chiseled, to the point where you could count each of his eight washboard abs. Every dip and muscular curve of his hardened front just tensed when the cool air hit him, leading a path of gold along his middle. 

A light happy trail down, down, down to where his red n’ aching cock sat heavily, so hard that his bulging tip looked just about ready to burst. Eight maybe even nine inches long, and so girthy that it made your mouth drop as if you wanted him fitted inside already. 

 You’re watching as his pre-glazed tip only coats an even more glistening layer of sap at your sinful attention. Trickling all the way down to his tightening balls, “You’re staring—”

“C-can you blame me?”

“I suppose not.” And the warmth of his towering proximity hits your body like a furnace, making you squirm restlessly when Nanami’s leaning over the edge of the table to tap-tap-tap his thick cockhead down between your legs. Rock-hard. “Brace yourself, ma’am, mhm?”

Then he’s splitting you apart-

And then he’s arching his sculpted shoulders to cage you underneath him and swearing–“Fuck.”

The first time ever that you’re hearing him spew profanities, just barely slipping the pointed globe of his shaft past the texture of your tight, hot cunt was ruining him. 

“I-I apologize, My Lady.” It was making him gasp, “I apologize, how uncouth of my character. I didn’t mean to-” It was making him urgently snap his head down in panic and watch with primal awe as he ruts- deeper. “F-fuck!”

“Oh my god-” You’re throwing your head back at the pressure, only to be grappled back in by Nanami just so that he can sliiide his lips across yours. Open-mouthed. “H-how are you going in so deep-”

“I cannot help myself.” Grunting, Nanami doesn’t even feel the stinging pain when he’s slamming his capped knee down on the plane of the desk. Angling his slender hips to shove the slimy crown of his tip into your gooey entrance, “It’s simply- it’s just-”

And Nanami Kento, so articulate and calm, doesn’t have the damn words anymore.

Stuttering, falling over his panic to thrust in and in between your trembling legs. He feels the cute rimming circle of your cunt tighten ‘round his fattened girth, and snaps his head down in panic. Spitting. “I-I must have it fit inside, darling. Please, allow me just the tip, at least.”

“Will- ngh! will it even-”

“Of course.” And he’ll apologize for interrupting your sentence later - much, much later. 

But for right now, the only thing that sparks in his fuzzy mind was to raise his toned left forearm up to your drivelling maw. Where you start gnawing wetly down on his skin, he spits- 

“Bite down. Harder.” Hips sloppy, knee hiking up even further to maze his flared cock inside. You feel your elastic hole stretch a wider diameter as he’s slipping yet another solid inch in. “Come now, harder. You can ngh- take it.”

“It’s going in.” And you don’t know whether you wanted to slam your hips forwards or jerk vulnerably at the sheer weight of his body leaning down. 

He breathes, “Yes- yes.” The breeze of his pants fanning your face, making your entire body erupt in flames by the time he’s squeezing past the tender slit carved onto his shaft. Cementing the bulging edge of his cocktip to the roof of your pussy with a raw sluuurp. “I have you. shall not let you fall- bite.”

And it’s all that you can do.

Because Nanami’s fucking you into office table like he wanted you to splinter straight through. 

The half-lidded peripherals of his eyes latching onto where you were speared open like he was watching his personal show, “I hope you know…I’m no- hah- easily satiated man, my love.”

“Wh-what do you- fuck!”

Just on cue, he’s slamming the lines of his hardened hipbones against your inner thighs and making you recoil back near the edge of the table. Dangerously. Barely even giving you a second to pick yourself back up before he reaches over to lace both his rugged palms on top of your clammy scalp. Intertwining. Holding you there. 

‘Just the tip’ he said. And yet here he was, pinning you down just to bully his vein-covered length between your snugly stubborn lips. 

“Do not think to run from me-”

“Could never- ngh- could never-” You’re babbling easily at this point, because the curvy trails that his veins left along your walls were only driving you mad. “Just want more, Kento.”

“…Pardon?”

You blink your teary eyes up at him in a way that makes his throbbing girth fatten up, every ounce of blood in the duke’s head rushing to the ballooned-up knob of his tip. “M-more, I say-”

“More.” He’s echoing out, more to himself. Higher-pitched. Almost tasting the pure need in that one word, and the very repetition makes him half-thrust straight into the goopy depths of your pussy. “More…more.”

Nanami pants out a husky giggle—“More.” Oh, he’s just so in love with the way your cunt was struggling to swallow him whole n’ yet squeezing as you try. He leans back down and spits once more, thoroughly ungentleman-like. “Forgive my haste. You just m-make- me-”

And you swear you hear the tail end of that particular sentence break off into a whine once he’s finally, finally bottoming out. 

So sensitive that all it takes is one, two, three lucious swabs of his drivelling orifice to get you to cum. Throat torn with hoarse moans, head throwing back- “I’m- once more…?”

“F-fuck. You are.” Easing in the girth of his cockhead to be spanked against your cervix and make you see stars. Nanami’s already flooding your pussy with a pour of his scalding hot precum. “What a wonder this enchanting body is for me.”

Again. He has you orgasming all over him again.

He’s feeling just a twinge of disappointment in himself for not making you squirt yet another time- but the night was still young. And your sappy cunt was already so wet, with beads of sparkly juices smearing down his happy trail every time he’s whipping his hips forwards.

Slam after slam. 

Your entire body twitches with startles of euphoria, mewling. “Th-there’s so much- so- ah.”

Ah, how he would love to reach his hands over and wipe away the glistening tears streaming down your pretty face. 

But no, right now he had them locked on top of your head and was using the leverage to pound you stupid. Harder. Spiking the peaks of your high with each thorough probe of his stout, mushroom tip. “I know. I know I know I-”

CRACK!

Oh. 

The desk.

It takes a split-second for both your hazed minds to realize that the ancient mahogany table was sagging on one end, Nanami’s raw natural strength too much for it to handle. And then not even that for him to pull out his cock with a wet plop! 

Manhandling you down onto the hardwood floors like a doll, on all fours. It’s such a sinfully new angle to have him looming behind you, tense core plastered against your back once his lengthy cock siiiinks in-

Orgasm still dwindling, entire body shaking. “Fuck- nghhh- fuck, Kento–!”

“You are doing so well, darling.” One hand glues onto the side of your left ass cheek and tugs you back down with his grip. The other carefully rovers just underneath your tummy, “M-makes it so easy to wish to hah- give away to my inclinations.”

A primal sob wrenches from your throat when you’re feeling the slimy drag of his globular, pointed tip. Drawin’ out a zig-zag down and down where you were most delicate, until he reaches the target of your cervix, spank! “Th-then proceed- I beg of you.”

You didn’t know what those guttural words would mean. You didn’t even know if you would make it out alive- but right now you’re starting to doubt it once Nanami gasps.

Once he’s slamming one of his flattened feets by the side of your thigh, deeper. The raw, sensual feeling so much that he can’t control himself. Rutting and rutting away as if he’s gone feral—

“Is this to- to your liking then, ma’am?” The duke’s gurgling out through a translucent froth of spittle, splat-splattering right down the middle of your arched spine. “H-how about now?”

He shutters his eyes furiously and rams the remaining few inches of his cock. Bottomed out and still trying to probe even deeper inside, so all he can do is plant his sock-covered foot over the top of your head and press. Bending. “N-now?”

“I adore it—” You’re keenly whining, “Love it- ngh- please.”

Proudly, Nanami dares to snicker as his left thumb brushes down the plump, roaming tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushin’ down just on the curvy tip of where you could feel his split-ended cockhead thrashing your poor insides. “And I should love to hah! make this gorgeous cunt mine- make you mine.”

And he was a man of action.

It was high time you realized that, because within exactly three repeated swats of his plummy, rose-colored shaft- he’s discovering your g-spot. He’s kissing that bullseye with a looong, soppy glide.

“Though…that is what I am doing, that should be no hngh- sham.” 

Feeling all the crimson rush to your head, he presses down just as his aching hot cock presses in. “It’s- it’s just- fuck.”

Faster. Harder. So sloppy that the planks of the floorboards start to sing out in singing creaks of protest, soiling with a trickle of syrupy precum and slick being poured from straight between your legs. Constantly. 

Rubbing himself swollen n’ redly raw on the cavern of your tight pussy, Nanami doesn’t even want to blink to break his staring contest with your bulging pussylips. 

Milking himself. 

The sweetest smooch for your sweetest spot, Nanami coos as you shake- struggling to keep your weakened arms straight as you hold yourself up in this lecherous position. “Come now.” Your overstimulated vision spots with pure white as he darts the hand at your stomach to loop around your throat like a necklace - a headlock. Springing you upright—“I have you, My Lady.”

Spittle waterfalls in embarrassing bucketloads from your mouth and stains the front of his beefy forearm, squeezing your airway. Dilated pupils swirlin’ stupidly every time his strawberry divot circles the entrance to your womb. Squealing, “Y-you…ngh!…mm–”

“Hmmm—?”

“You- hck! please, Ken-”

His warm, ravaging cock was so big that the constant stretch of your walls finally had you stupid. Your brain nothing but a pulp of melted mush every time he snaps his clammy hips to your ass with a stinging pap! of skin-on-skin.

 “Me…I’m-” And it’s like each time the puffy veins decorating each side of his overworked shaft gets squeezed, Nanami finds himself seeing stars. Sweaty, bulging biceps tightening on your throat even harder- you scream. “I have you, My Lady- I’m yours.”

Your hole gaping, thighs wet. Just taking everything he’s giving as he finally cums—and you do, too.

Though, you’re not registering it at first. 

Not when that leaky hole at the very end of his cherry-red shaft pipes out a creamy icing of cum, layering thickly across every inch and cranny of your rummaged insides. Pump after pump- each one has your pathetic pussy overspilling with so many knotted wads of seed, and yet he always had so much more more more-

“O-oh.” He’s grunting out, feeling a particularly big splash of sap at the base of his cock- and it’s only then that you’re both realizing that you’d just squirted. All over again.

It’s traveling down like a flood between your thighs, painting a glistening ring on the tawny curls at his hilt. Soaking him utterly n’ completely that Nanami finds each thrust to let off the most primal sluuuurp! 

“You- you really are the most beautiful hck! lady that has graced this Earth, my love.” Your gaze, your smile, that soul. It was your soul he found most beautiful, the instant he laid his eyes upon you. 

He simply knew.

“Y-yet, I’m a chambermaid-”

“I care not.”

“You’re just-” It’s a damn wonder that you even could still speak by now, because every rubbin’ massage of his fat cock only left your mind blank. “-saying- mmm- saying that, Kento.”

“I fear you are mistaken.”

His veins indent your walls with lightning bolts, his cum cobwebbed across your spongy cervix and was splashing after each jackhammer. 

Nanami drills into you low and slow now just to help your dripping wet cunt suck him dry. Loving the cute, velvety way you were clamping around his rovering shaft tiredly, “Only allow me to prove my ngh- heart.”

You’re so fucked-out that you’re barely even flinching when he’s finally freeing you of his sinful headlock. Taking mere nanoseconds to pluck that infamous House of Nanami signet ring off of his finger- and pushing it straight down the ring finger on your left.

An engagement. A promise. 

“I shall get you another ring- one that is proper, one you deserve, when- if you shall have me, My Lady.” The smoky tone of Nanami Kento’s bass tickles the side of your stinging throat, almost a purr. “I swear it upon my word-” He guides that very same boneless hand of yours to cup his plush, thumping left pectoral. “-and my heart, to forever keep you the most beautiful lady upon this Earth. You shall never want, for I pledge to you my body, my soul for your happiness.”

You whimper, thighs still shaking with your high. Tears slipping down your face that he kisses away, “I-if you’ll have me, Your Grace.”

“Kento.”

“Kento.”

And by the time the last of his wadded ounces of cum had finished spraying out, Nanami pulls his hips back with a bellowing squelch that makes your body heat flare. Such a creamy mess of ivory glossing your pussylips that he’s taking one glimpse at and gasping-

You mewl, “K-Ken, what are you-”

“It seems…” He drawls, manhandling you spread-out onto your back with his sculptured hands. Snaking his face down to mouth a hot puff over your swollen folds that stick together. Tasting. Drooling like he’d just happened across his favorite dessert. “-that the ball is far from finished, my wife.”

.

.

.

Dearest gentle reader,

It seems we have a rather special (and scandalously romantic!) special announcement. Yes, whilst your lips were whispering at her majesty the Queen’s Royal Diamond Ball the previous night, those of his grace, Duke Nanami Kento, have certainly been up to worse. 

The ton reached new heights of hysteria over Duke Nanami’s attendance of the ball with his lovely chambermaid acquaintance. This author personally confirms that her highness’s royal orchestra was barely audible over the sound of shattering hearts!

However, if this was where the story ended, dear readers, we would still possess our wits. Not only had her highness titled this unnamed belle of the ball as the Diamond of the season; aforementioned diamond was not in audience of her naming!

Where was she, you might ask? Why, nowhere else but bedding a certain handsome duke—or so palace patrol whisper amongst the halls. 

An impatient dalliance or stirring the pot? You tell me, dear reader, though it certainly doesn’t help that said new diamond was spotted near the end of the evening with both a real diamond and the Nanami signet ring upon one’s betrothal finger!

 It’s said that the House of Nanami - and particularly a once-stoic Duke Nanami Kento - has been exceptionally lively in preparation for the blessed union and his new bride.

On the other hand, this author shall have to purchase new robes for a summer wedding. 

Yours Truly, 

Lady Whistledown.

A/N. Tell me why it was SAUR difficult to write in regency speak I feel like I don’t even know this language anymore pls-

his face is completely revealed to you, sans two tendrils framing the sides. pretty amber eyes never leave your body, filled with a lust you’re unable to take in all at once. to be so desired overwhelms you, let alone it being the strong fire lord who’s only duty in his chambers is to have you reach your pinnacle. his shoulders are wide, thickened with muscle over the decade and you cannot even start on his biceps. holding the weight of his body as a smirk flutters onto his cheeks.

he smells like fire crackle and honeycomb. you feel as if you’re about to explode.

“because i want you so,” you push, then dropping your head back on the feather filled pillow behind you, “i’ve wanted you to do this for so long, i’m close to begging.”

zuko knows. all you’ve done is makeout and you’ve been dating steadily for a month after being aware of each other for so long. though there has been quite a bit of grinding, body to body, up against any closed door you can find in the royal fire nation palace. it’s been him tugging all these sweet whines and moans from you, as he looks down at you and smirks.

so to say you were excited that finally, you have him between your legs is a dream you’ve been having multiple times a week, now come to fruition.

“but you haven’t. you haven’t begged, princess. not even once,” he runs his nose from your ass cheeks, up your slit and nudges your clit.

your whole body yelps, heats over like you’ve been dunked in a bath, your hands twitching in unadulterated lust. you’ve never been so aroused in your life. you look down at him with wide eyes, meeting his sharp amber orbs. he leans against your thigh, large warm hands gripping your hips to manoeuvre you right in place.

“zu,” you whine, back arching off the bed, hips inching towards his face in a hedonistic manner, “you can’t play with me now. ‘ts not fair.”

men in your earth tribe didn’t look like this. neither in your city or whole kingdom. none of them have made you want more after a first time, none have even raised such arousal from the idea of future pleasure. you brush your thumb over zuko’s scarred under eye and his gaze softens, only slightly.

“tell me how much you want me,” his voice is gravely as if pulled from the pit of his stomach where everything dangerous within him lies.

your thighs tense around his head and you’re sure slick is pooling down by your ass.

“you’re being mean,” you tremble, however zuko is yet to move. only rubbing his thumb into your thigh with the means to soothe but does anything but. there’s a huff and a sigh from you, “please. please i want your lips over me.”

that seems to please the fire lord, a new glint finding his eye as he slowly pushes your legs up to pull off your underwear. he flings the fabric somewhere across the room. your feet plop flat down onto the mattress, leaving your intimates laid out bare for him.

zuko knew he only had a few minutes before he becomes ravenous for you. you’re covered in your own shine and the more you spread your legs, he can see how you pulse around nothing, hole quivering for him to fill you up. his cock drags beneath him, he’s got half the mind to start grinding down into the mattress, especially as you bite your lip just in time so your whine doesn’t reach his guards patrolling outside of his room.

“fuck, princess. this is because of me? all the teasing?” two thumbs spread your labia apart and the string of your come, causes a groan to release from him. usually you’ll tell him you’re not a princess, not like he’s a lord but semantics is the last thing that matters right now.

“for you. i’ve been so patient, zu,” you push and push, lifting your hips to his mouth.

zuko inhales, your tinge hitting the back of his brain that runs pressure throughout his body.

“so patient, my love,” he whispers before flattening his tongue over you. he licks up a stripe, soft controlled limb gathering everything you’ve leaked so he can know truly how you feel about him. your reactions are instant, a gasped mewl that comes from the back of your lungs. you clutch a tuft of his hair as he laps you up, pushing your thighs for more more more.

“you taste delectable,” he utters and you have to blink a few times to take in the fact that that’s you all over his lips and chin. that he’s got the same deranged look as you, almost like he’s been dying to do this too.

“i need more, ‘zu,” you complain and zuko decides then and there to clamp your hips down.

he dips his tongue into your hole because he wants to. licks around, tucks his pink muscle in as far as he can. he moans into your pussy like you’re the final part of his royal banquet, the dessert. sweet and rich, something he doesn’t quite deserve and is close to overindulgence.

“fuck, baby,” you breathe. despite being held down you still twitch, pleasure ripping through you with the force of a current that can light up a city, “feels so good. feels… oh don’t stop.”

you don’t notice how harsh zuko’s grip is on you because it only adds to everything you love. his breath is panting, kissing up your drool as you shake around him. then he’s swiftly moving to the puffy button at the top.

“you’re so pretty. how are you so gorgeous everywhere?” he speaks to your pussy, sweet words meant for her as if you’re not present in the room. you softly giggle, running your pointer finger over his nose bridge.

he runs his thumb over your clit, his grin electric when your eyes close and your lips drop open in a moan. you sink into the pillow, like you’re giving yourself completely to all that can aid your release.

“that feels so good,” you mumble, scratching his scalp ever so softly as he replaces his thumb with his lips, placing them over your bud and licking. “oh! mhm.”

zuko lets your hips move in rhythm with his face, mess up his ponytail and moan as loud as you want. he doesn’t think he’s seen anything more captivating in his life.

your braids, with olive coloured string woven into them, spray over his pillowcase, your eyes clenched shut like the pleasure is too much for you to handle. every other second, your face disappears because of your heaving rising chest.

he takes his mouth off you just to tell you, “you’re so beautiful, you must know.”

if he didn’t tell you daily, you’d still know but it’s nice to be reminded. he looks over at you with these innocent eyes, like his lust is locked away for a moment to simply admire you. it only enrages yours, how can someone so sweet be so powerful be yours?

“so are you, zu,” you utter, hand rubbing up your side to clutch a breast. you squeeze your flesh impatiently, pads of your fingers and thumb brushing over your nipple. then you’re snatched away by the roll of heat that shoots through you. “i’m so close. so close.”

zuko’s face flushes with the compliment but the need to see you undo rises. his cock aches at the sight of your twitching hole, your squished breast in your hand. “okay, okay. i’ll get you there.”

he slides two fingers inside of you, loving how your body softens out like calm waters. but it’s not for long until you’re more reactive than ever before. zuko thrusts his fingers into you, your come creating the smoothest friction, loud and sloppy with every move.

he tries a few things at first, finding his harmony with your body. there’s nerves that are bubbling, to make you come for the first time with him and to make it good enough for you to come back. he watches every reaction you make, when he presses down on your softest points, when he curls his fingers and then when he increases his pressure when he thrusts.

your own sounds alight you, moans flowing from you quick and exaggerated.

“oh zu, zu, that’s… fuck!” you yelp, every brush of his long digits along your walls serves as the centre for your whole body to rumble. you clutch at his forearm, running your hand up his bicep, “knees!”

he knows what you need despite it being his first time ever being so intimate with you. zuko throws your knees over his shoulders, making the angle inside you deeper, better.

“how’s it feel, princess? tell me.”

his voice is soothing, the same way he’d speak if you were trying on a new dress or trying a new food. not when he’s drenched down to his wrist with everything you have to give. you clench around him, body speaking for itself.

“need your mouth again! s—so, i’m so close,” you blubber and zuko takes to you like a finely tuned instrument. one he’s only had in his hands today and has already mastered. he suctions his lips over your clit, sucks a few times while he keeps thrusting and all at once, you fall apart.

your body trembles, you squeal in a way that zuko will keep at the back of his mind for nights when he’s alone. he doesn’t mind the possibility of dying between your legs as you lock him there with your thighs, riding out your high for as long as possible. he loves the idea of you using him, getting what you want and he’s making it happen. with the long list of responsibilities the fire lord has, perhaps this one is his favourite.

you string consonants and vowels to make haphazard sounds, messing up his ponytail as your peak is reached. your body tenses and builds then breaks like a burst broken well at the top of a hill. nothing about you now is contained, all left exposed and vulnerable for zuko to see.

“off, mhmpf,” you breathe, as your body cools down, opening your legs to push zuko out and away. he lifts up on his forearms, sliding his fingers out of your pussy and placing them on his tongue instead. he doesn’t stop staring at you, the pure amazement that he has you in his bed, like this.

“you can’t like the taste of me that much,” you whisper humorously, pulling down your red nightie just to your stomach. you don’t miss zuko still staring between your legs, at the mess you made because of him, his lips sucking around his digits.

“but i do, princess. i don’t know if i can ever have enough of you now,” he says once he’s sure he’s got everything off his fingers.

your eyes widen, you know you wanted him desperately but you didn’t consider the fact that he enjoyed it, maybe even as much as you.

zuko climbs up over you and instinctively you make room, keeping him as close as possible. his broad shoulders make you sigh delightedly, running your hands up every dip and muscle to link behind his neck.

he doesn’t make a move like you expected, instead you get his sleepy eyes, tendrils of his obsidian now loose from his ribbon, staring down at you. admiring.

“well, we can always do it again. as much as you want,” you giggle.

the fire lord’s grin is slow to rise as he drops his head in slight embarrassment, “i don’t want to sound too eager… but i do like you falling apart. in my bed, wearing my colour, because of me.”

he kisses your cheek, the only appropriate thing he’s done all evening.

“will you let me do the same to you? sometime?” you try, biting down on your bottom lip in fear of rejection. you’re not ready to do it now but you can feel the weight of him against your stomach. strong, thick and hefty. you think you’re leaking again at the thought of him.

“yes,” he nods then kisses your lips, his next words puncturing into your heart, “there’s no rush. whatever you want to give me.”

“it’s my granny’s birthday this weekend,” you drawl, looping your finger around a lock of his hair. you hold it straight underneath your nose like a moustache just so you can see his eyes quirk in amusement.

“i thought your grandparents were dead?” he asks, robust yet tender like the flames he uses to reheat your cold teas.

you let go of his hair, slapping his arm lightly.

“my blood grandparents, yes. i’m talking about my granny! she’s looked after everybody since we were babies. i’ve never known life without her.”

zuko hums, listening and unmoving.

“how old is she turning?”

“one hundred and eighteen. impressive, right?”

zuko pouts at you out of habit. just because you’re so close and he’s right there. you meet his lips in a wet smack, stretching your leg to rest over his lower stomach.

“you want me to come to her birthday i’m assuming?” he cocks his head slightly, picking an eyelash off your cheek.

that bluntness, the obvious statement now held between you both, makes you horribly shy. instead of his eyes, you’re looking at his nose. grumbling to yourself.

having a relationship with the fire lord, whilst you were a earthbender (one of the best, might you add!) from one of the smallest tribes wasn’t the easiest. for one, you knew the fire council wasn’t the most supportive with wanting fire royalty to stay firebenders, your dates would occasionally come with an entourage of help and your schedules often proved difficult to line up.

though you and zuko made it work, which lead you to the next stage. introducing him to your tribe.

“everyone’s inviting their boyfriends. a few have some from different tribes and kingdoms!” you draw your finger along his hard chest making incoherent shapes, missing out the clear fact that none of them are royalty, however. it’s a slow whisper, “i want you to be there too.”

your hand is snatched from his chest, curled into a fist and your knuckles are pressed against his lips. the eye contact alone gets your stomach swirling with lust. your leg hitches higher on his chest.

“i’ll be there. for sure.”

your smile could light up the night sky. could rule the tide and guide boats home. zuko finds it difficult to say no to you, especially when all your wants and asks are pretty much within his means. besides getting you a flying bison. he still hasn’t broken the news that it’s not likely you can have one since neither of you are airbenders. anyway.

but to you, as much as you love the luxuries his life can provide, you don’t see him as the royal fire lord. you treat him casually, like his friends do and at this earth tribe party, his only title will be yours. it’s times when you try to demand him to return back to bed in the morning that will always drive him crazy. these aren’t dynamics that are supposed to work, but they do.

“okay,” you roll your lips in, then out before flinging your whole body onto him in an embrace. it’s easy. how his arms circle around your smaller frame, your face tucking into his neck to place a kiss and how his gravely chuckle jumps out of him.

“okay, okay,” he squeezes your asscheek playfully, “what does your granny like? i can go down to the market and get her a few things.”

“you don’t need to get a gift, zu. i’m making her a bracelet that can be from the both of us.”

zuko’s grin doesn’t let up. the idea that even though he is your boyfriend, he will turn up empty handed and name your gift as his? 

“sweet, but i’m not doing that. heavens forbid.”

you roll your eyes but lay your lips over his in a kiss which only turns into him pushing you onto your back into his bed and opening your legs so he can slot between them.

on the day of your granny’s birthday, you meet zuko without his entourage outside of your home.

“hello baby.”

you pause for half a second before resuming your pace. that doesn’t last long until you’re jogging up to meet zuko, just to look at him closer and faster.

“hi! you look adorable,” you coo and he doesn’t swat away your fluttering hand. he lets you cup his cheek, your eyes gazing all the way down his body.

he’s still in fire nation robes, but civilian ones. he stands before you, in your kingdom, sans a crown or any golden jewellery, his armour off. just burgundy trousers, black boots, a classic grey long sleeve undershirt and a maroon tunic on top. you know the fire insignia will be sewn on the inside of the sleeves if you had a look. the gold thread on the collar and ends of his undershirt are the only signs of wealth and quality. aside from that, he appears to just be your firebending boyfriend, going to an elder’s birthday.

zuko’s got his hair all up in a bun, one he’s embarrassed to have attempted numerous times to get perfect, so you looking at him with gooey eyes causes him to puff out his chest in pride. he lets a few hairs frame his face and like always, you tuck the side that covers his scarred eye behind his ear. the one thing that will always make it difficult to not mistake him for being the fire lord.

you’re too engrossed in his appearance to notice the wooden box he’s holding, about the width of his chest and four inches outwards.

“you look beautiful,” he hums, bending down to meet your face, “kiss me hello, princess.”

“thank you, kind sir,” you play, slinking your arms around his neck as he adjusts to hold the box on one hip.

outside your quiet apartment, zuko slips his tongue into your mouth, pulling you to him with a bare hand on the sliver of skin exposed from your sage bandeau and loose brown linen trousers. he grunts into the kiss, feeling the rumble of his large body with your hand on his chest.

“i’m so nervous for this,” he whispers against your lips, pulling you back in by sucking your tongue. you don’t have to reply before you’re practically moaning into his mouth, careful not to mess up his bun with the desperate need to rake your fingers over his scalp.

you manage to pull away, slightly breathless, “no, you don’t have to be! i’ve told everyone i’m bringing someone.”

he drops his head to your shoulder with a sigh, “but do they know it’s me?”

you smile, just a tiny one, “they’ve never met you.”

he growls into your neck, “you know what i’m asking.”

“do they know you’re the great and powerful fire lord?” he pokes your side and you yelp in a giggle, “two of my friends know of you. but nobody knows you but me.”

zuko lifts his head.

“nobody knows zuko, my zuko.”

he exhales, rubs his hand down his face.

“if i love you, so will everyone else,” you comfort, taking his hand in yours to start walking to the party, “now what’s in the box?”

the only people that mention zuko being the fire lord are a group of your little cousins who run circles around him, pulling at his maroon garments to get his attention.

there’s three of them— all missing teeth, holding stones to practice earthbending and full of questions for your boyfriend.

“are you the fire lord? you look like him!”

“no. he doesn’t have the crown.”

“but he’s only got one eyebrow,” your cousin points to their own eyebrows, “see, we have two.”

“is it true you know the avatar?”

“can i see some fire tricks? i can show you my earthbending!” complete with your cousin throwing her rocks in the air and them all plopping onto the ground with a clonk.

“zuko can talk to you all later about firebending. now where’s great granny?” 

amongst all the balloons, banners and food, you follow the little fingers to the back where there is a stone stool, covered in forest coloured cushions and orange flowers. your granny is seated right in the middle, surrounded the older members of the tribe and all your agemates.

zuko smiles at the kids, lays his palm out in front of him to show off a quick small burst of fire. they all release a chorus of wows. “i’ll show you later if my lady here lets me.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing his heated palm as the kids squeal, “c’mon!”

zuko’s grip gets tighter when you near your family. all in multiple different shades of mossy green to honey yellows with the earth insignia at the sleeves. 

“happy birthday granny!” you squeal, letting go of zuko to kiss your granny’s wrinkled yet soft cheek and hold her calloused hands. “are you enjoying your day?”

“my dear, i’m happy to see you’ve made it,” she squeezes your fingertips, crinkled eyes squinting up at you. there’s screams of kids in the background, the teens playing further back and your siblings chatting at one of the tables. but in the presence of your granny, your world stills, listening to every word she says.

“of course!” then you gesture zuko to come forward. he does cautiously, bowing lightly to your granny, the woman who’s taken part in raising you your whole life. “this is zuko,” then you giggle girlishly, “i think he’s the love of my life.”

you tell zuko this often, without the i think at the beginning. wrapped in his arms in bed, sugar dusted confessions beneath the sheets or when you take walks along the ocean at midnight. a few times it’s slipped out when he served you plates of food in front of his friends and every single time, he ends up with cheeks as red as his clothes.

“is it now? let me see this boy.”

zuko takes that as his turn to talk, hoping the sweat along his brow isn’t reflecting in the sun, “hello granny. it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

the smile your granny had for you falls, eyeing down the man you brought with you. you watch as she runs her eyes over his clothing, the golden stitching of his undershirt, his new freshly ironed robes. then his eye, the raised reddened skin around it.

“is this the fire lord?” she asks you and zuko’s wide pupils bounce to yours.

“that’s just his day job—,”

“do you love my child?” she presses, her attention back on zuko. 

even you can’t judge where she’s going with this, your posture straightening as you await zuko’s answer, like there’s a possibility he will deny you in front of everyone you love.

it seems to be the easiest question of the day as zuko, still holding his gift, nods. “of course, with my whole heart. the easiest thing i’ve ever done.”

“awe,” you whisper and zuko grabs your hand with an ease unlike before.

one of your (rather annoying) aunties butt in, arms folded, seizing up the fire lord. “yn is one of our most beautiful women.”

“yn’s beauty is the least interesting thing about her.”

it’s as if the whole tribe goes silent, not quite understanding what zuko means. though here you see the qualities of the fire lord rise to the surface with the speed of a wildfire. 

he stands tall, straight, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand.

your granny squints with questioning, while your aunties gather with furrowed brows.

“yn is strong, kind and an intellectual. strong with her bending, strong in her willpower, strong to handle everything life throws at her and still stays by me day after day. the kindest human i’ve ever met. i’ve never seen her think about herself first and she’s shown me love in a way i’ve missed my whole life.” he kisses your palm, “checks for my wounds, offers to manage my accounts. then the smartest smartest person. proves me wrong daily, knows the most random facts and could rule a kingdom if she wanted. though she’d never admit it.”

you swat his arm at that, shyly looking to the ground, “stop zu!”

he laughs, his amber eyes are the softest they’ve ever been. he looks nothing like the fire lord who sits on his throne with the layers of robes and heavy golden jewellery. here he looks like a local boy from another nation, convincing his family he’s made for you.

“but also yes, yn is beautiful. i knew from the day i saw her that i’d love her.”

there’s a range of emotions on the members of your tribe. some with watery eyes, others with gleeful smiles. a few in awe, at the fire lord so effortlessly baring his soul for you in front of everyone who loves you.

“hm,” your granny huffs but you don’t miss the crescent moon smiles in her eyes, “you’d look good in green. yn you must have a shawl you can give him. a scarf?”

a peace offering. you chuckle, nodding unable to take your eyes off zuko, “yes i can, if he wants?”

earth nation robes reminds zuko of a specific period of his youth. he did look good in them. “sure. a shade that goes with the red.”

“also, i got this as a gift for you,” zuko bows when he hands the box to your granny, lightly settling it on her lap. 

your granny loves a gift, a fact you didn’t mention to zuko because you knew it would only stress him out more. “oh! you didn’t have to, my boy.”

zuko glances over at you, in shock already. my boy? you shrug playfully.

“delicacies from my kingdom.”

the wooden chest is opened to find cheeses, fruits and chocolate over green fabric. some foods you’ve yet to even try. you point to a chocolate in the corner, white chocolate stripes over a block of milk chocolate. 

“that one looks tasty!”

but you’re forgotten as your granny takes zuko’s hand with a greedy smile, you’re wondering if your boyfriend is about to get poached. “what a thoughtful gift. i will be trying these all.”

“everyone loves you here,” you whisper to him as you drunkenly sway to the music your family members play in the distance. “almost as much as i do.”

after practically sharing zuko with every mother, father, auntie, uncle, cousin and your granny who even told your boyfriend to pull up a chair after dinner to talk, finally they’ve given him back to you.

all in one green and red piece. 

he’s only had a few drinks, nothing close to how many you’ve thrown back but with your tribe, you’ve always been able to relax. for zuko, it’s the first time he’s ever seen you so… yourself in public.

you’re not overthinking every comment you make. your laughs are booming, not covering your mouth. you also inhale all the food on the tables, swearing it’s better than anything he’s ever tasted because your tribe made it.

you’ve danced with every family member, dragged him away from your cousins when he had to answer his twentieth question about the avatar but just as you get him, your teen cousins ask him to spar. this time you fold your arms in front of zuko, protecting him from their weedy selves, “he’s here for granny and me! not to fight you!”

“sorry, have to listen to the misses here.” he pipes up.

so in zuko’s arms, away from your tribe, you appreciate the reprieve they give. 

“how about i give up being the fire lord and just become your husband here?” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as he sways you to the music. zuko’s hands appropriately stay on your hips, despite the desperate want to grope you just a little.

you stare at him with wet round eyes, bottom lip jutted out, “don’t tempt me and you better not be proposing to me here.”

you’re pretty with the candle lights surrounding you, braided hair dancing to the opposite way of your hips. there’s even a daffodil tucked into a braid by an auntie earlier. the more you’ve drunk, zuko’s been on watch that your skirt is still facing the correct way and your bandeau isn’t revealing too much cleavage that you’d usually allow. every clothing adjustment attempt zuko’s made has been met with a deviant smirk from you.

you’re about to kiss him, yank his hair out of his bun and have his gorgeous locks flow all around his face. instead you have to throw up a wall of dirt when a little cousin comes zooming to your feet. “go back to auntie! zuko’s mine now.”

there’s a loud whine when the kid spins around, pottering back off.

“i’m not proposing to you now. you’ll know when i’m proposing to you.” he hums, kissing your cheek, pulling you tight to his chest. he inhales your hair like he always does, peppermint and wafts of orange. 

“okay. not now though, i’m not ready yet,” you tell him firmly and zuko’s smile stays put. he nods in understanding. “i loved your little speech earlier.”

his cheeks beam a berry red, looking away from your piercing gaze. you look like you want to eat him in one gulp whilst simultaneously take your time with him. 

“just wanted everyone to know i am serious about you and you know, despite my title and priorities… you’re important to me.” his lashes flutter over to you at the end. the grip on your hips tighten, pulling you in to feel his hardening length against your stomach. your next inhale is sharp.

“d-don’t. my family is here.” you warn, but you still snuggle against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and rubbing your nose against his, “you can’t be adorable and…” he brushes his lips along your jaw. you clench your eyes shut. “zu… we can’t. later.”

“i know, i know,” and you hear the lust heavy and thick in his voice. he lays one kiss behind your ear, “i love you more today than i did yesterday.”

you want to tug his hair, have him expose that throat so you can mark it up. “i love you too, so much more. you were so sweet with everyone, made me want to cry. take you home for myself.”

you shiver at the brush of cold air as the sky darkens, the lights surrounding you getting brighter to manage. zuko is quick, shrugging off the shawl you gave him earlier to wrap around your shoulders and lightly heating his hands to hug you back into him.

“i was on my best behaviour, wasn’t i?” he grins, stunning as always. your stomach can’t help but heat.

you nod, chewing down on your lip, “one more hour, we pack up the food and we go, okay?”

“it’s up to you, baby. whenever you want.”

“i’m rewarding you when we get back.” your tone ends on a sensual tilt, one that has all the blood in zuko’s body rushing south.

“you’ll be on my face then,” he mumbles and you can’t reply because aunties are rushing over to you, dragging you back into the crowd to sing songs and listen to stories.

The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.

It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.

It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.

Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.

"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"

Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.

Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.

"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.

"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."

There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.

"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"

He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.

Why is he looking at you like that?

It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.

"You were saying?" He prods gently.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"

His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."

"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.

"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."

"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"

"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."

You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.

"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"

"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.

You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"

He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."

No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.

"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."

"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."

Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.

"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"

A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.

"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.

He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."

"Was the view bad then?" You prod.

"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.

Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.

"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."

The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.

"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.

He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."

Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.

"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.

"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.

Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."

"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"

Surprise colours your features.

Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.

Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.

He's— "Beautiful."

By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.

You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."

"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.

"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."

It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.

He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."

You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."

"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."

You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?

You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.

"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."

He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.

"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."

The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"

"Never."

He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"

"Who's finding who attractive?"

Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.

"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"

"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"

You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.

Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.

"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"

"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.

"Agreed." He mutters.

Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."

His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.

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“I thought you said you knew how to fish.”

You do not know how you got yourself into this dreadful situation.

“I do know how to fish, dragon prince,” you scoff, taking your time with getting the rod Aerion found for you set up, because you do not, indeed, know how to fish, and you’re waiting to see how he sets up his so you can mimic him. “Who doesn’t know how to fish? It is a basic skill.”

He watches you for a moment longer than necessary—gaze trained on your face, your eyes, watching the way they flick toward him and then away again, keeping track of what he’s doing. You pointedly keep your eyes ahead when you realize that he’s picked up on the fact that you’re mimicking him.

His mouth twitches.

“Mm,” he hums, turning back to his own rod at last, fingers working easily through the motions, and you watch in disbelief, hardly able to keep up with how quickly he moves, like the whole thing is second nature to him. He agrees, “It is a basic skill.”

You try to follow along with him, but by the time you’ve managed one step, he’s already two ahead, and you’re forced to slow yourself even more so it doesn’t look like you’re scrambling to catch up.

It is deeply irritating.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he says after a beat, not even looking at you.

The nerve.

Defensively, you snap, “I am not.”

That makes him look over at you, head falling to the side so that his gaze can drop to your hands. You resist the urge to adjust your grip on instinct, forcing yourself to raise your chin and hold it exactly as it is. His brow lifts, amused, lips curled up into a smug smile. He knows damn well you’re lying—probably has known since the two of you were strolling through the market trying to busy yourselves with finding the new merchant ship that arrived from Qohor—but you’re far too proud to admit it. 

You wish to drown him.

“You are,” he says, lips curling up into a smug smile. 

“I know what I’m doing,” you say, raising your chin and giving him a snide look. Why you dig your own grave by doubling and tripling down? A mystery. 

“Do you?”

Your eye twitches, and you turn your attention back to your rod with exaggerated focus, pretending not to hear the way he snorts in amusement. 

This is your own doing, you think miserably. You are not sure what possessed you to lie when Aerion mentioned offhandedly that he used to enjoy fishing, but the words had slipped out anyway—not only did you claim to know how to fish when you’ve hardly even seen a man fish in passing, but you claimed to be better than him in the same breath, which naturally spurred him challenging you to a competition to prove he is better. 

You had half thought he was full of shit anyway—what sort of prince spends his time fishing? There are far more princely hobbies in Westeros, you’re sure. No need for a prince of the blood to spend his time as a common fisherman. You thought the worst that would happen was that you both make fools of yourselves and end up lounging in the sand, but alas, the only fool seems to be you.

But you do not regret it—not yet, at least. The humiliation is still only surface-level; your answer might change by the end of the hour. There had been something strange in his voice when he said it—quieter than usual, stripped of its usual bite, like the thought had come from somewhere further back than he ever lets himself reach. And because Aerion so rarely indulges in that, you have developed a habit of pressing at it when he does.

He had been off all morning, too—wound tight in a way you could not understand and he would not explain. You know that he didn’t get much sleep last night, and he was woken up early to break fast with Vyrano, but it didn’t seem to be because he was tired. When you tried to pry, he turned sullen and defensive, deflecting you at every turn.

So, when he offered up fishing as a peace offering after hours of him jumping down your throat every time you tried to make conversation, you seized on it without thinking. A careless “I used to fish too. Bet I could catch a bigger fish than you,” fell from your mouth before you could stop it—despite the fact that you have never touched a fishing rod in your entire fucking life.

But then he had looked at you—really looked at you, eyes going wide, alive and glittering in a way you have not seen in days—and it had been too late to take it back. You swallowed the truth, doubled down on the lie, and when he demanded to know if you meant it as a challenge, you said yes.

Now you are standing at the edge of the water with a poorly assembled rod and a prince who clearly knows what he is doing, and you can feel the consequences of your own pride settling in around you like a noose.

He steps closer to you, and your spine goes rigid, attention snapping sideways even as you pretend you’re wholly focused on the rod in your hands.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice lower now. His hands close over yours, adjusting your grip so that you’re holding it lower. “If you hold it like that, you’ll snap the line the second something pulls.”

You mutter, “That’s how I was holding it.”

It was not how you were holding it.

“Mhm,” he agrees, thumb pressing briefly against your wrist, correcting the angle, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss beneath your ear. You tilt your head to the side, letting out a soft sigh, and then he lets go and moves back over to his rod, an irritatingly smug smile on his lips. 

You watch as he steps back half a step before casting the line forward, and you mimic the motion—it is not nearly as smooth as his, but you pretend it is. 

Neither of you says anything for a long while, and you find yourself frowning as you wait for something to happen, squinting out to the calm waters of your cove, waiting for a fish to latch onto your hook. You huff, glancing at his line, but his is equally slack. How long until something happens?

“You do not even know how to fish, wench,” he mutters after a moment, but there is no bite behind the accusation. If anything, it is almost fond. Irritatingly so. “Why did you lie?”

“Yes, I do,” you snap, because you’ve come too far to admit the truth now. “I am fishing, am I not?”

Aerion doesn’t respond, but you can see the way his lips are curled up into an amused smile. You have half a mind to take your rod and shove it up his ass, but before you can, he asks, “Who taught you then? They did a miserable job.”

You side-eye him. “My father, of course. You should watch your tongue, prince,” you reply, lying through your teeth. You think your father would sooner beat you with a fishing rod than teach you how to use one. Aerion snorts softly, and you scowl at him. “And who taught you how to fish, then? You are hardly better than I am.”

He gives you a disbelieving look, but then rolls his eyes and looks ahead again.

He doesn’t respond for a while.

“... My brother, Daeron,” Aerion says after a moment. His voice is quiet, eyes a bit more distant as he looks out toward the water. He exhales deeply through his nose, jaw tightening. He smiles wryly, too tight at the corners, knuckles white around the rod. “Though he has not touched a fishing rod since he picked up a bottle.”

Your gaze shifts to him, curious. Aerion is standing stiffly now, gaze fixed on the water—you do not think he meant to say that. It slipped out, too quick and too honest, and now it lingers between you, heavier than anything that has been said all day. 

He doesn’t often talk about his family. You know who he’s referring to; you’ve heard enough rumors about the Targaryen royal family to recognize most of his siblings by name. Daeron the Drunken—the eldest son of Prince Maekar, who can hardly pull himself out of a bottle long enough to sit a horse, much less ride in a tourney. 

You shift your weight slightly, sand crunching beneath your feet.

“My brother is also fond of the bottom of a bottle,” you say dryly. 

You try to keep your voice light, but it is hard—you think Aerion understands, though, because he lets out a huff through his nose. There’s a heaviness in your chest when you think of the number of times you came home to find your brother drowning himself in wine, miserable and glassy-eyed because once the euphoric wave of reckless laughter and dancing comes to an end, he crashes hard, only wanting to bury himself in your arms—but if he is to be father’s embarrassment, it is easier to be drunk, he tells you as you clean the vomit from his hair and he presses his nose into your neck.

You could protect him from everything back then, but never from himself. 

Now, you cannot protect him from anything at all.

You do not like thinking about this. 

“The two of you aren’t close anymore?” you ask after a moment to distract yourself from your thoughts, gaze tracing the way his hair frames his face. His hair grows so fast, you think woefully—much faster than yours, faster than even your brother’s. You think you will try to get him to let you braid it later; you’ve been itching to since you realized he was letting it grow out, but he always bats your hands away when you reach for his hair. 

“No,” Aerion answers, voice flatter now, more closed off. Then you see his jaw tighten, lips pressing together hard. He adds bitterly, “He did not even see me off. Was probably off drunk in a ditch somewhere.” His throat bobs as he swallows, and then he exhales hard through his nose. “I do not wish to speak of this.”

“We do not have to,” you say easily when you see the expression on his face. Your fingers thrum against the wood of your fishing rod before you hum lightly and test, “Can I ask something else, then? Or are we to sit in silence until a fish deems our bait worthy?”

Aerion lets out an annoyed breath, already side-eyeing you. “You only ask that when you are about to ask something particularly irritating.”

Usually, you would answer that with a teasing smile and a nip at his jaw, but your grip only tightens around the fishing rod as you stare ahead, trying to articulate exactly what you want to ask without him throwing a fit. You see him look at you from the corner of your eye, suspicious, realizing that this question might be worse than all of the rest, which it probably will be.

“What is it, wench?” he asks when you don’t immediately speak. “You look as though you’re about to swallow a lemon.”

You ignore that, still trying to figure out how you want to broach the subject. “I was curious,” you finally say, “as to what actually occurred at the tourney in Ashford.”

Aerion stills the way you expect him to. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. His voice is cool and defensive as he asks, “Why, exactly, are you asking about Ashford?”

You raise your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side to meet the daggers he’s shooting at you with an innocent expression. Tread lightly, you remind yourself—he’s been testy all morning, you might be pushing it. “Curiosity, I said. You know the whole grand story behind my exile. I want to know yours.”

Aerion wants to argue with you—you know him well enough by now to know his tells. His shoulders are tense, and his fingers are twitching around the fishing rod he holds, half-inclined to snap it in half. His teeth grind together as he holds your gaze for a second longer, and when you expect him to spit venom—

—he deflates.

You physically turn to him now, concern worming in your chest when you see how his shoulders slump and he lets out a puff of air. The pale scars that line his cheeks gleam under the mid-afternoon sun, and he looks away from you, gaze dropping to the shallow waves brushing his feet. 

“It was not grand,” he finally says, voice smaller than you expect. “It was not grand, or righteous, or something to be proud of. It was not like yours. It was—”

He exhales hard again, shaking his head, expression twisting up as he tries to find a word to describe it.

“It was a mistake,” he finishes quietly. “A stupid one. One of my own design, no less.”

You don’t respond right away, because Aerion seems inclined to continue, lips parting over words, but he can’t seem to force them out, brows furrowing before he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. You lower the rod you’re holding a little, fingers twitching to reach out for him, but you stop yourself.

“They say it started with treason,” you say after a few moments, when he can’t bring himself to add anything else, and Aerion looks at you with such a hollow expression, so tired, so defeated in a way you’ve never seen from him before, that you know what he has been trying and failing to say. “There was no treason.”

Aerion’s eyes slide shut again, breath ragged now as he inhales deeply through his nose once and lets it out. For a second, he looks like he wants to fight the statement—of course, it was treason, you can hear threatening to burst from his lips, because he doesn’t dare splinter the flimsy shield that absolves him of responsibility for what happened, but then his expression twists.  

“It was a puppet show,” Aerion finally says with a bitter scoff. “I was not even supposed to be there. I do not even know how I found myself there. I was supposed to be at dinner with my father and uncle. I must have looked like a damn fool standing there among the rabble, watching like it was meant for me.” He lets go of the rod with one hand to rub his face harshly. “It was ridiculous. A woman dressed up as a knight playing at hero. A dragon made of wood and cloth. I—I was enjoying it, at first. It was—”

He doesn’t finish what he was about to say, but you can imagine. The way he speaks of dragons, dreams of them—sometimes, you hear him mumbling in his sleep, restless and tormented. You can’t catch every word he slurs out, but you always catch one: zaldrīzes. He likes to ramble about them when you let him, telling you about all of the dragons of the Targaryen dynasty—their names, the colors of their scales and flames, how big they are in comparison to the Temple of Yndros on the northside of the isle. Every time you think he’s told you everything he knows about them, he comes forward with half a dozen new facts he hasn’t shared yet. You think you must know more about the Targaryen dragons than half their dynasty because of him. You imagine that he must have been fascinated by it before whatever happened next that made it all go south.

“And then she killed it,” Aerion says flatly. He does not look at you when he continues. “They celebrated it. They cheered. The whore smiled. So I—” Aerion doesn’t finish for a moment. He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face as he stares at you, as though gauging your reaction before he even says anything. “I broke her fingers—and had her tent burned later.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Merciful of you,” you say wryly, leaning in to knock your shoulder against his. “That you did not take her hands.”

Aerion huffs out what you think is a laugh, expression easing, tension bleeding from his shoulders and a smile softening his face. You wonder if he expected you to scorn him, and the thought nearly makes you snort, because he is a fool, and you know damn well he’s heard the tales of your first year of exile.

He tosses you a smile that leaves you breathless for a split second. He is pretty, you think, watching his pale lashes lower as he looks down at the water, skin golden from the time the two of you have spent lounging in the sun. You have half a mind to reach out and brush your fingers through his hair, but you refrain when he continues talking.

“No one else thought so,” he says quietly, smile fading. “That oaf of a hedge knight—he threw me across the tent after he bashed my face in. Demanded a trial by combat after being accused.”

“He struck you before a whole tent of people? And he lived to demand a trial by combat?” you ask, voice riddled in disbelief, and when Aerion grimaces as an answer, you laugh and shake your head. “Your Sunset Kingdom is… fascinating. I don’t even know what would happen if a Freeborn or a slave struck one of the old blood. They certainly wouldn’t live long enough to demand combat.”

“Yes, well, perhaps if my uncle and wretch of a younger brother didn’t intervene on the oaf’s behalf, it would have gone down similarly,” Aerion scoffs, lips pressed together tightly as he stares at the rippling water again. “But they did, so I demanded a Trial of Seven and—”

“You must explain your Andal customs, dragon prince,” you drawl, lips curling up in amusement when he gives you a suspicious look, not sure if he should take it as an insult or not. “I do not know them.”

“They are not mine—”

“Yet, you called upon them.”

“Do you want the whole story or not, you miserable wench?” he hisses, tanned cheeks pink as he glares at you. You smile and pointedly shut your mouth. “It is self-descriptive, if you would use that brain you claim to have. A trial by combat where seven champions are declared for each side, and they face one another in battle.”

“An apt name, then,” you say. And then add, “We have a very similar custom, you know. Iderenne hen perzys.” 

Trial of the Flames.

Aerion doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. He stares at you hungrily, waiting for you to explain, as he always does whenever you off-handedly mention a Valyrian tradition that his family has not retained over the years. You raise your eyebrows at him, but oblige—you suppose you could grant him this without teasing since you’ve decided to pry on a sensitive subject. 

“It is declared between families of the old blood,” you tell him flippantly, eager to get back to his story. “There is an accuser and an accused. Each must name six other representatives of the Fourteen Flames to stand for them, and those chosen meet in a battle to the death. We revere all of the Flames, of course, but each house keeps a patron—and only a votary of a Flame may represent them during the trial. Whichever side loses the trial is exterminated to the tenth degree. It is a dishonor to their patron otherwise. The stain must be cut out entirely for it to be restored.”

Aerion, who had the wide-eyed look he always wears when listening to you talk about this, blinks at the last sentence. 

“To the tenth degree? What does that even mean?”

“The loser of the trial, of course, and their representatives, if they did not fall in battle. Their ascendants to the third generation, and their descendants to the third. All collateral kin of their line—siblings, and the issue of those siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. Their consorts, and the blood of those consorts in equal measure,” you tell him, watching the way his eyes widen as the list goes on. “In short, anyone who shares their blood, or has bound themselves to it. It is not often invoked because the declaring process can get quite chaotic, and many families are tied through marriage now, so the extermination process would be, ah, messy, and blood magic is always finicky. I think the last time it was invoked was during the Century of Blood, actually.”

“Ah,” Aerion replies, clearing his throat. “Well—it is similar in a way, yes.”

You snort. “You were saying—the Trial of Seven? What happened with it?”

“Ah,” he says again, inhaling deeply. “I… did not think the hedge knight would be able to gather six champions to defend him. I meant to—” His jaw tightens. “—I meant to embarrass him. Make a quick thing of it. I did not anticipate that—”

You think you know this part.

“That your uncle would side with the hedge knight,” you finish for him quietly.

Aerion grimaces, fingers tightening around the fishing rod again. “I did not mean for him to die,” he admits, voice cracking over the words. He clears his throat again as though to cover up the weakness in his voice. He says more firmly, though his voice is strained, his pitch betraying his attempt at ambivalence, “But if the Trial of Seven was really meant to be the gods' bidding, then that speaks for itself, does it not?”

It is another flimsy shield, a weak one that already has cracks in it from the way his brows pinch and his lips press together so tightly, throat bobbing as soon as he speaks them. A way of convincing himself that it really is not his fault, blaming gods he doesn’t even believe in to absolve himself of the blood spilled in his name—the rest of the world labels him ‘the Monstrous’ and a kinslayer, along with his father, but…

You sigh. “It is not your fault, Aerion,” you say dismissively. “Even if your trial isn’t some work of the Andal gods. Your uncle chose to ride for the hedge knight—he knew the risks.”

Aerion makes a noise in the back of his throat, but he does not respond for a long while. You glance at him from the corner of your eye and exhale softly when you see that his shoulders have hunched inward slightly, that he turned his face away from you to collect himself.

“I think my father would have preferred it,” Aerion rasps after a moment, staring down at his hands, a dull expression on his face. His fingers are trembling. “If I had died instead of Baelor. I think he would have preferred it.”

Your lips part, but you have no words to respond to what Aerion just said to you. You think he didn’t mean to say that either—a thought that has been plaguing him for nearly a year that he never dared to speak out loud—because his expression crumbles, a breath leaving him as though all the air was knocked from his lungs with just three simple sentences. 

“A—” You can’t even get his name out before the fishing rod nearly goes flying from your hands. Your grip, which had loosened during your conversation with Aerion, tightens before you can lose it. “What the—a fish!”

You don’t know what to do. You dig your heels into the sand when the line jerks violently in your hands, the rod bending in a way that feels like it’s about to snap clean in half, and you make a startled, undignified noise as you scramble to keep hold of it.

“What do I—” you start to ask, gaping when the line yanks so hard that you have to take half a step forward. “What type of fucking fish—Aerion!”

You toss a panicked look in his direction, and you falter when you see the wide-eyed expression on his face. And then—

He laughs. Not the sharp, cutting sound you are used to, or the mocking huff he gives when he is amused at your expense, but a real, bright, unrestrained laugh, bursting out of him before he can stop it. He leans forward as the sound spills free, easy and unguarded in a way you have never heard from him before, amethyst eyes glittering, crinkled at the corners and lips curled up into a pretty, boyish smile.

For a moment, you forget the fish entirely, breathless at the sight of him, and then it reminds you of its presence when it nearly rips the rod from your hands again.

“Aerion, stop laughing!” you sputter, scandalized, as the line jerks again and he laughs harder, like watching you struggle against the fish is the most entertaining thing he has ever seen. “What do I do?”

“I thought you knew how to fish,” he mocks. “Didn’t your father teach you?” 

“My father is a fucking Triarch, not a fishmonger, you buffoon,” you spit as he makes his way over to you, still snorting through laughter. He comes to stand behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back, his chest brushing your shoulder blades as he reaches around you.

“Gods, you are hopeless,” he says, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling, so you scowl as his hands close over yours, taking control of the rod before you lose it entirely, guiding your hands into place before you can even think to argue. He murmurs near your ear, amusement still lacing his tone, breath warm against your skin, “Do not fight it like that. You will lose the line.”

“I am not losing it—” you start to snap, but the line jerks again, harder this time, and your grip slips enough to send a jolt of panic through you, but his hands tighten over yours immediately to correct your mistake.

“Hold,” he tells you, laughter fading as he focuses on the issue at hand, adjusting your stance with a nudge of his knee against yours. “Let it run a little—do not drag it in all at once, you’ll snap it.”

You grit your teeth and let him take the lead, following the guidance of his hands, loosening when the fish pulls, tightening when it falters, until he shifts his grip entirely, one hand sliding down to the line to take over. He works it in easily, drawing the fish closer, and you turn your head to watch him instead of the line, gaze focusing on the way he pokes his tongue out slightly in concentration, silver-gold strands falling loose across his brows, catching the light as the sea breeze puts it in his eyes.

You want to braid it, you think again, almost forgetting entirely what the two of you are doing until the fish breaks the surface with a violent splash, thrashing as he drags it through the shallows and onto the sand at your feet, red scales gleaming under the sun.

Your eyes widen. “I caught it!” 

Aerion gapes at you. “I caught the fish, you useless wench. I did all of the work.”

You give him a smug look. “It is on my rod, isn’t it?” you say, raising your chin, delighted. He stares at you in disbelief. “It is my fish. I told you I would catch the bigger fish.”

“This is my fish,” he snaps, stepping forward to crouch down as the thing flops in the sand, trying to work the hook free before it tangles itself. You lean over his shoulder, watching how he handles the fish with nimble, uncharacteristically gentle fingers. “It was my effort.”

“Our fish, then,” you say, chest brushing his shoulder as you stare at the fish. It is pretty, you decide—a fitting fish for the two of you. “What do we do with it now?” 

Aerion huffs, but there is no real irritation in it, only the ghost of that earlier laughter lingering at the edges as he shakes his head. “You are insufferable,” he tells you. “We can kill it or put it back in the water.”

You hum. “Put it back in the water.”

He looks at you from the corner of his eye and then reaches out to grab the fish by its tail and toss it back into the water. You watch it splash, leaping out of the shallows once before swimming far away, and then you slink your arms around Aerion’s shoulders and drag him down until he’s sitting in the sand between your legs. He lets out a startled noise as you pull him down, but he doesn’t pull away as you settle your chin on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks dryly.

You don’t respond for a long while, fingers slipping underneath his silks to flatten your palm against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, and the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. You ghost your lips against his shoulder, inhaling once as you choose what you want to say carefully, his words from before still ringing through your head.

“I cannot speak to what your father would prefer,” you say quietly. He stiffens in your arms, heart jumping beneath your touch, but your grip tightens, forcing him still before he can bristle. “Fathers are—” You press your lips together, remembering how willing your father was to send your twin off to his death if it meant you would remain his heir. You finish quietly, “—cruel. But I can speak for myself, I would not have preferred it.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, eyes sliding shut as words work over in your head, trying to figure out how you want to articulate yourself. For a moment, you think he’ll pull away, but then he sinks back into you. 

He’s tired, you realize—you should take advantage of it when he dozes off so that you can braid his hair the way you want. 

“I am glad you are here. With me,” you tell him softly. And it is the truth—you are glad. Aerion burns, and he cuts, he bristles and rages and screeches, and there is a good chance that this story that the two of you are living is not going to end happily, because you do not know what will happen when he is called back to Westeros, but you would not have it any other way. “I would not have it differently—not for anything. I am glad you are here.”

Aerion does not respond for a long time.

“You are a fool,” he tells you. His voice is thin. It wobbles. You both pretend that it doesn’t. “Since when are you so sentimental?”

“Do not fret, I do not plan to make a habit of it,” you say with a smile, kissing the crook of his neck once. Twice. A third time before you sigh. “Let’s sit here for a while, okay?” 

He exhales hard. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Okay.”

————————————

“What are you doing?” 

Aerion feels you pause from where you were about to section off a third part of his hair. He was startled awake when he felt you pull through a knot, and he squints when he realizes that you seem to be preparing his hair for something. 

The sun is setting, he realizes, blinking twice blearily. It was noon, not too long ago, wasn’t it? How long has he been asleep? He doesn’t even remember falling asleep. His eyes almost droop again as he sinks back into your arms, until he notices the sweet smile you’re giving him and instantly becomes suspicious. He lifts a hand to rub his face, trying to recall the last thing he remembers.

I would not have it differently—not for anything. I am glad you are here.

Oh, he thinks, a lump suddenly lodged in his throat.

“Nothing,” you reply easily, lifting your hands to force his face forward again. He lets out a noise in the back of his throat, indignant at the feeling of you manhandling him, but he is too tired to snap his teeth at you. “Do not be a child, dragon prince. I am braiding your hair.”

He scowls and shakes out his hair from the neat sections you’ve divided it into. You let out a frustrated noise at him and tug his hair furiously. He sees the way your fingers twist in the sand, as though you’re about to grab a handful of it and fling it at his face. Sensing your waning temper, he shifts away from you, turning to give you a more accusing look head-on.

“You will not play with my hair like I am some maid, you wench,” he mutters with a yawn, brushing his hair back over his shoulder, thoroughly away from you. Your lips curl down into a frown, but he ignores it as he toys with a stray strand framing his face. He muses, “It has gotten too long. I should have it cut. It is becoming irritating.”

“If you cut your hair, I will cut your throat, dragon prince,” you say with another sweet smile, and you ignore the appalled expression he casts your way. You add, “I prefer it longer.”

“I do not,” he scoffs, “and I do not care for what you prefer.”

You stare at him for a moment and then hum, looking away. Aerion’s eye twitches because he can sense the snide comment that’s running through your head without you having to say a word. 

“What?” he demands, irritated. “It is obvious you have something to say, so spit it out.”

“It is nothing,” you say dismissively, and Aerion’s eyes narrow even more when he sees how you’re fighting a smile, bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say, because it’s certainly going to be infuriating, and he is far too tired to argue with you right now. “It’s only that I thought you, too, would prefer your hair at a longer length. It is the typical style Valyrian men wear their hair, but the Andals do prefer their hair cropped short—or so I’ve heard—so I suppose it makes sense you prefer it that way.”

Aerion stares at you, blinking once, slowly, as your words process. It takes a second for him to realize what you’re implying, and when it does, his pride flares violently, teeth grinding together as you give him that despicable smile. 

“... You think me an Andal?” he asks through his teeth. You said it earlier, too, didn’t you—your Andal customs. He should have your tongue. You irritate him terribly. You call him an Andal, you claim his fish as your own, you tell him—

You shrug lazily, brushing the sand from your palm as you say, “I think that if the look suits—”

He catches your wrist before you can finish the sentence, fingers warm and tight as he yanks you closer to him. You let out a delighted laugh as he pulls you half into his lap, and Aerion has half a mind to wipe the smile right off your face. He would, he determines, if you were worth the effort—and if his chest didn’t flutter at the sight of it, but he won’t admit that. You make yourself comfortable on his lap, to his displeasure, settling there and draping your arms around his shoulders, toying with the ends of his hair, leaning in to brush your lips against the corner of his mouth, his jaw, beneath his ear. 

He shudders, but he pretends he doesn’t.

“Do not finish that sentence,” he says, voice low.

Your lips curl up tauntingly, and you lean in to finally ghost them against his. Aerion almost lets out a sigh when he feels you bite down lightly on his bottom lip. You are despicable, and he cannot stand you. Still, he brings his hands to your hips to hold you close, one hand sliding around to your lower back.

“Or what?” you breathe out.

For a moment, he only watches you. The sea wind lifts strands of his silver gold hair from where they’ve fallen loose around his face, and you lift your hand to tuck them behind his ear. He should bat your hand away, but he decides against it—not worth the energy. Instead, he lets his lashes flutter as you brush your fingers lightly through his hair once before cupping his face between your hands.

“You are insufferable,” he murmurs, though there is little heat behind the words now, and he feels as though he’s half a second from dozing off again, letting the weight of his head fall heavy in your palms. 

It is not his fault, he tells himself, exhaling heavily as his head lolls between your hands. 

He is exhausted—he spent all night trying to write a letter back to his father, unsure what to say in response to the news that his grandfather and his cousins, Valarr and Matarys, have all passed. Maekar did not even ask how he was doing. Did not spare any pleasantries. It was a clipped message, a report, if anything. Devoid of heart, devoid of care. Aerion almost doesn’t want to respond at all, but he needs to know if he’s being called back to Westeros any time soon. 

Then, to top it all off, Magister Vyrano had woken him up at the ass-crack of dawn to join him and his daughter when he finally started to fall asleep to break fast, and then you showed up, far too energized as you dragged him to the square to find a merchant from Qohor who evidently only makes it to Lys twice a year, and then, you had the nerve to all but challenge him to a fishing competition when he off-handedly mentioned he used to fish.

But you were a welcome distraction from the letters in his chambers, unlike Vyrano and his irritating daughter and even more irritating attendants. You are always a welcome distraction, he thinks, bitterly, adoringly, warmly—even when you are lying through your teeth and claiming to be better than him. 

He cannot stand you, and he cannot get enough of you. 

After a long moment, he opens his eyes again, studying the oddly open expression on your face, and then decides, “You may braid my hair.”

You blink. “Really?”

“I will not say it again, wench,” Aerion mutters, but he leans his face into your hand, lips brushing your palm once before he raises his eyebrows at you, waiting for you to get on with it. 

A smile splits your face, and Aerion falters, eyes softening as you shift off his lap to sit behind him, immediately getting to work at combing your fingers through his hair. His throat feels terribly tight for a second before he forces the feeling away. 

“Nothing too ornamental. I am a dragon, not a Lyseni whore,” he barks after a moment, but you only wave him off dismissively. He shudders when you drag your nails against his scalp to part his hair. You are oddly meticulous in your efforts to section it off evenly—sighing and picking at individual strands if you feel one section is smaller than the other. “I did not take you as the type of person to enjoy styling hair.”

You let out a huff of laughter through your nose. “Not my own,” you admit. “But I often braided my brother’s hair back home. He was a terribly whiny little thing—after our mother died, he would never let anyone else touch his hair besides me. When my father sent me away to deal with pirates or bandits or a khalasar that rode too close to our city, I would come back to his hair so knotted that it took hours to untangle.”

Aerion pauses when he hears the wistfulness in your voice—open and vulnerable as it always is when you find yourself talking about home. You don’t often; he doesn’t think you like talking about it, and he can’t necessarily blame you. He does not like talking about Westeros either, and he loathes how much you had gotten him to say earlier, so perhaps you will let him make it even now by answering his questions.  

He hears you sigh lightly, running your fingers through his hair before you start to braid it.

“Are you the elder?” Aerion asks after a moment, eyes sliding shut as he lets you do what you please with his hair. He assumes that you are the eldest from the way you talk about him, but he is curious to know for sure. “Between you and your brother?” 

“We are twins,” you say simply after a moment, and Aerion rolls his eyes. He knows that. 

“Yes, but you did not pop out of the womb at the same time, did you? Which of you came out first?” Aerion asks dryly, scowling when he feels you pointedly tug at his hair in response to his attitude. “It is a genuine question, wench, answer it or not.”

“I am the elder,” you say after a moment, “by less than an hour, according to my father.”

Aerion hums. “I thought so,” he says, pleased with himself, sighing lightly when he feels you tie off his hair. 

He tilts his head to the side slightly to look at you when you smooth your hand over the finished braid, and then both down his shoulders before you shift closer to slide your arms around his waist, propping your chin on his shoulder. He hates that as soon as he’s resting back against your chest, his eyes feel heavy again. 

Fuck, he’s exhausted—he can feel it in his limbs, sluggish and weighted, unwilling to cooperate when he has half a mind to push you away. He should have just gone back to his chambers instead of following you out to the market and then to the beach, but he can never seem to help himself when it comes to you, and he fucking hates it.

“What gave you that idea?” you ask dryly, burying your face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. 

Aerion lets out a slow breath, eyes still closed, head tipping back just enough to give you more space without quite meaning to. He murmurs, “The way you look when you speak of him. It is—” The same way Baelor used to look at Maekar, before Maekar caved his skull in while trying to protect Aerion. The same way Valarr used to look at Matarys, before they both succumbed to fever. The same way Daeron used to look at Aerion, before everything changed. “It is telling.”

“Telling,” you echo, and he can hear the mockery in your voice, but you kiss the crook of his neck before he can make a complaint. You sigh, and then say quietly, “He has always been mine—to protect, to scold, to drag back by his collar when he forgets himself.” There is a smile in your voice, but he can hear it fading as you add, “To stand in front of things he should never have to face.”

Aerion’s brows furrow faintly, though his eyes remain closed. He remembers, “Your brother was the spare. You never told me his name. Tell me about him.”

You hum in agreement, nipping playfully at his neck before you rest your forehead against his shoulder. 

“Viserys,” you say softly. Aerion is unsure why something ugly and green pits in his stomach when he hears the warmth in your voice as you say his name. You always sound this way when you speak of him, and Aerion inexplicably hates it. “He loves music and reading—wine too, even when he was far too young to be drinking. He spent so much time in the library when we were children that my father had to drag him from the cushions, kicking and screaming, when it came time for war games. My mother would try to convince him to let Viserys sit them out—said it was not for him and that there was no use forcing it —but our father would not have it. It’s one thing for the Maegyr family to have a useless son, his words, not mine, but it’s another thing to have a son who wouldn’t even try. So, he would try. He hated it, of course—and he was terrible at defending his territory, I would have to fight my way to him every time—but he tried.”

Fathers can be cruel, you had said. Fathers in power with high expectations for their children are crueler, you had not said, but he supposes you must be intimately familiar with that, more than most, more than Aerion, probably. A daughter of a Triarch of Volantis and the second son of a fourth son of the late Lord of the Seven Kingdoms—the two of you make quite the pair, don’t you?

Aerion hums, deciding to prod some more since you’re in a talkative mood. “And your mother? What happened to her?”

“She died,” you say after a moment, fingers stilling against his body. He shivers when you slip your hand into his silks, palm flattening against his bare abdomen, nails scratching lightly at his skin. “Childbirth. Viserys and I were ten. It was a boy—he was small. Quiet. He didn’t cry.” You pause, and then you add, “Didn’t survive either. My father refused to deal with funerary rites, shut himself away for weeks after she and the baby died, and Viserys was hysterical, so it fell on me.”

Aerion exhales, hand sliding to his abdomen to rest over yours, palm covering the back of your hand, fingers entwining with yours. He swallows thickly and says, “My mother died the same way. Also, when I was ten. I—”

He shouldn’t have said that. The moment it leaves his mouth, Aerion knows it—it feels sharp and wrong, something that should have stayed tucked neatly away. He doesn’t like speaking of his mother, doesn’t even like thinking about her. He can still feel the ghost of Dyanna’s hands running through his hair, can still hear the softness in her voice as she pulls him into her lap and calls him her little star. 

Eight years later, and his mother’s death is still an open wound.

“It does not matter,” he forces out, voice much too weak for his liking. “I do not wish to speak of this. Tell me more about your family.”

You do not push the way you usually would; instead, you hum lightly and return to nosing his neck. And then you speak—you tell him of the gardens in your family’s palace, the trees of blood oranges that you and your brother loved, the fountains of fresh water and pools that looked like liquid gold under the setting sun. You tell him more of cyvasse, of the first time you beat your father and the last time you ever lost, and then tales of war games where you would bring all of the other Tiger children to heel. You speak of the heat and palaces and long, languid afternoons spent draped across marble, listening to your brother play the harp or the lyre.

Aerion listens as you tell him all of this, and Aerion also—he also remembers.

His mother used to do his hair like this, too, Aerion realizes dully as he lifts his fingers to trace the braid you created—an old memory he’d locked away, resurfacing with a vengeance as you tell him a time when you and Viserys pretended to be one another to trick your peers during a war game. 

His throat bobs as he swallows, and something hot presses behind his eyes as he squeezes them shut. He blames you for forcing him to remember these things—you prodded at him all day with questions about Daeron and Maekar and Baelor and the Trial, and now it’s all hitting him at once. He tries to push the memories away, desperate, but he cannot. 

He used to sit on a stool too tall for him, he remembers against his will, legs swinging, impatient and fidgeting, until she tapped his shoulder and told him to be still. Her hands had been gentle, brushing through his tangled hair, the same way yours had moments ago. He kept it long back then, longer than it is even now, long enough to brush his waist, soft and silky, bright when it catches the light. 

She had liked it that way, said it suited him, called him pretty, and kissed the crown of his head before she braided it neatly and sent him off running after Daeron. 

He had cut it the moment she was gone. He remembers the way the blade had slipped in his hand, cutting through his palm; he remembers ignoring the blood and the pain, tears streaking his face as he cut it to his ears. It was uneven and ugly, too short and too jagged, and he had thrown up the moment the silver hit the floor, because he looked at himself in the mirror, and he knew his mother would’ve hated it. 

He had kept it that way for years, because it was easier to manage, easier not to have to look in the mirror and be reminded of his mother, and yet now, it brushes past his shoulder blades again. He should have cut it already—he had meant to, he had taken his blade to his ears multiple times with the intention of cropping it short again, but he had set it aside.

Why hadn’t he?

“If you cut your hair, I will cut your throat, dragon prince.”

It’s you, he thinks bitterly, eyes sliding shut again as he sinks back into your chest. It’s the way your fingers always find his hair, absent and instinctive, toying with the ends when you sit too close, winding a strand around your finger as if it belongs there. It’s the way you smile when you see it loose over his shoulders, eyes flicking over it with something that feels far too much like approval. 

It’s always you, he thinks again—angry, bitter, yearning, wanting, adoring. He hates all of the things you make him feel. You make him want to carve his own heart out of his chest just to stop the way it jumps whenever you’re near. You make him want to hurl when he finds his lips curving up into a smile while he watches you argue with someone from afar. He wants to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze until your eyes bulge, and he wants to cradle your face between his hands and press his lips to yours. He wants to lay you back against the sand and run his hands over your body, mapping out every inch of you until he knows you better than he knows himself. He wants you to know all of him—the good, the bad, the mad—and he wants to know you the same. He wants to stop fearing that one day you’ll see him the same way everyone else does, and he hates that he fears it at all, hates how much he relies on your promises, the way you brush your fingers against his face and tell him, iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon. Hates that all he wants is to be with you.

You infuriate him, and you terrify him—he has never felt so intensely like this about anyone before, and he doesn’t know how to cope with it.

For now, he settles for letting himself fall asleep in your arms, head rolling back against your shoulder as he listens to you tell another story, a soft puff escaping his lips as the last of the tension bleeds out of him, the exhaustion of the day and lack of sleep finally catching up with him. He can feel your hands on him as he drifts, fingers absently tracing along the braid, across his face, outlining the shape of his lips and the slope of his nose, and he is much too exhausted to make a snide comment or put up a front of prickliness like he usually would. 

“Hm? What was that?”

The argument begins with a conversation while the two of you are drunk on firewine and lounging in the sand, watching the sunset, though neither of you knows quite yet the disastrous path Aerion’s line of questioning will lead you down. 

It’s been almost a moon since the two of you came down with sea fever, and Aerion has been acting odd ever since. At first, you assume it is simply one of his moods—Aerion has many of them, after all. Some days, he wakes restless and sharp-tongued, prowling through markets like a caged beast looking for something to bite. Other days, he is languid, stretched across cushions with a goblet in hand, while you entertain yourself by irritating him until he snaps. Recently, he has been quieter, more prone to lashing out, quicker to assert himself at your side when you drift away. 

Which is normal-ish. 

If it were just that, you might be able to brush it off as another strange, territorial mood. But it’s also the way he watches you now—like he is calculating something, weighing your words before they have even finished leaving your mouth. It’s the way his questions come, one after another, circling the same subjects as though he is trying to pin them in place. Volantis. The Black Walls. Your father. The factions at court. Old rivalries. Trade. 

At first, you laugh it off, answer lightly, deflect when you can. But he does not let things lie—he has never been inclined to do that, but it appears even less so now. He presses and doubles back. He remembers what you say and returns to it days later, asking the same question from a different angle, as though he’s watching for inconsistencies.

It’s not how one makes conversation. It’s how one… interrogates when they’re trying not to be obvious about the interrogation. You know the difference because you have done this before—because you have had it done to you. There was an Elephant heir once—Aenys Vyninar, son of one of the current ruling Elephant Triarchs—clever and smiling, pretty and soft-spoken in a way that made men and women underestimate him. The two of you spent years circling one another at court, trading questions dressed as pleasantries, testing for weaknesses, loyalties, and limits, anything that could be turned into leverage later. You learned quickly that the most dangerous questions are never the ones that sound like interrogations—they are the ones that sound like curiosity. 

Aerion does not smile the way the Aenys did, and he does not try to lower your guard with stolen kisses and touches as he asks the questions—he is far less subtle—but the pattern is the same.

And when the red flags start waving, when you start paying attention, you notice other things. The servants say he stays up most nights trying to write up letters to send by raven to Westeros. That ravens come more frequently now, dark shapes cutting across the sky toward the Vyrano’s manse at odd hours. One of your harbor boys tells you the same—that the prince has been sending more birds west than he had when he first arrived.

Which—that upsets you, because when you put it all together, it leads you to one conclusion: that he’s trying to get information out of you to send back home. It upsets you far more than it should. More than it ever has when men try to use you. It is logical, you tell yourself. He is an exile trying to regain favor with his family; of course, he would look to a foreign noble from a city that has bordered on enemies with his family for three hundred years to try to get information to curry favor. It is logical, and it would not bother you so much if he were anyone else, and yet—

And yet, it makes your stomach twist. Terribly so.  

“I asked,” Aerion says again slowly, as though he suspects the wine has dissolved whatever good sense you possess, “whether you have ever been west.”

You pause, fiddling with your wine glass. 

A broad question. Broader than the last few he’s asked, but questions do not have to sound precise to be useful. Sometimes the broadest ones tell you the most—where someone has been, what they have seen, which courts have shaped their thinking. It is how you learn, not just what a person knows, but how they know it.

You assume he’s talking about western Essos, and you imagine that he’s going to ask about Volantene political relationships with the rest of the daughters of Valyria. Yesterday, he asked about the Tiger and Elephant parties—it would be the next logical step, from internal politics to foreign. You can picture the reports to his father, telling him which Volantene nobles would be amenable to a trade negotiation, which Westerosi goods would be most profitable, which Free Cities might take issue with a Westeros–Volantis alliance, and how they might take advantage of it. 

The most important thing an exile can do in exile is prove to his family that he is still of use—that he is worth bringing home.

You know this because you have tried it yourself.

In the first year, when the sting of exile was still fresh and pride had not yet slipped into hopelessness, you played this same game. You listened more than you spoke once the anger passed, collected names and allegiances, traced who held power and who only pretended to. You sent word where you could, careful little reports dressed as courtesy and loyalty and proof that distance had not lessened your value. That you were still worth the future they had taken from you.

You still do, sometimes.

But they never answer. Never acknowledge the work you put in. Not you, not when exile is a mercy, but Aerion—

Aerion’s exile isn’t permanent, and it isn’t mercy. Aerion’s exile centers on the question of when he will go back, not if. Aerion’s exile can be shortened if he proves to his father that he has been properly chagrined by his time abroad, if he proves that he is useful to his family. You told him this yourself when the Tyroshi and Myrish envoy docked in the harbor.

You should not indulge it, not when you know what he is doing. You know this.

“West,” you repeat vaguely after a moment, when the silence has stretched on too long.

He hums, silently beckoning you to continue, and your brows furrow.

You wave a lazy hand in the air. “A couple times,” you say. You speak even though you know better, and your voice is light, but there is a pit in your stomach that you cannot seem to rid yourself of. “When I was younger. Pentos and Tyrosh when I was two and ten. My father was threatening some merchant lords, and thought I should join to see how it is done. The Stepstones several times to rout pirates who looted our ships.”

Aerion’s gaze does not leave your face, lips flat, deadpan.

“I meant farther west, you fool.”

Westeros? 

You blink, trying to figure out why he would be asking you about Westeros of all places, unless he’s trying to gauge the old blood’s opinions on his homeland—in that case, he will be seriously unhappy with the answers he receives, and you will have to tread carefully.

“Oh.” You consider that for a moment, fingers sliding through the fine-grained sand as the sun begins to set over the sea. “No.”

Half-draped over his lap, you peer up at him curiously, watching the way his lips pinch together. He doesn’t look down at you, gaze pinned on the sunset, even though you can tell he’s not really watching it at all. You do not watch it either, even though you were the one who insisted on coming out here to watch the sunset. 

You watch him instead.

It is easier, you’ve found, to understand Aerion when he’s not speaking at all. When he speaks, he is sharp and cutting, and never truly says what he means, using words as weapons or shields depending on his mood. But when he is quiet, you can see all of the things he would ordinarily hide behind his chosen mask, how his lips tighten and his eyes shift as he stares into the distance, how his brows furrow and his nostrils flare as he exhales. As though this is just as difficult for him as it is for you—you like the idea of that, at least. That he is using you for information, but it is not easy for him to do so. 

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, it pisses you off—you like the idea of that? Consoling yourself by telling yourself that at least it is not easy for him to do this? Who even are you?

“Why?” you ask, propping yourself up on one elbow, watching as he hisses in annoyance when the bone digs into his thigh. You give him a sweet smile as he shoots you an accusing glare. “Hm?”

“I was just curious,” he says after a moment, still shooting you a vicious glare. “What do you know about it?”

Yes, you realize, tongue pressing to the back of your teeth when you realize you were correct in your assumptions. He’s trying to figure out Volantene opinion on Westeros. Why does it bother you so much that he’s using you for information? It shouldn’t. It’s logical. You would be doing the same if he were from a kingdom worth the old blood’s time. So, why can’t you push away the way your chest tightens? Worse, why are you allowing it to happen? Why haven’t you shut this down and accused him of what he’s doing? 

It all comes back to the same questions that have been plaguing you for weeks: What will you do when he leaves? Is this really just a taste of fire? Indulgence? Distraction? Why do you not sabotage, when you have never been above such methods before? Why, ever, would you think of home, and then think of bringing him to see it? Why would you sit at his bedside while he’s sick and nurse him back to health? Why do you sit here and let him use you as a source of information to report back to his family?

It is becoming increasingly intolerable to pretend this isn’t what it is—and what it is, is entirely unacceptable.

You press your lips together and raise your eyebrows. “That is a very broad question, dragon prince.”

Aerion scowls. “Answer it.”

You huff softly, shifting your weight so that you’re more comfortably draped across him, fingers idly brushing patterns into the sand.

“Fine,” you concede. “Let me think.”

You tilt your head, gaze drifting toward the horizon as you lay your head in his lap, lashes fluttering when his fingers lift to toy with the ends of your hair. You hum, mind racing from thought to thought as you try to remember something not totally unpleasant to give Aerion as an answer. Westeros is not fondly spoken of in Volantis, or throughout Essos generally, really, and the Targaryens are—well, the Volantene old blood have low opinions of the western dragon family for countless reasons. 

“I know that it is called the Seven Kingdoms, even though there are technically nine,” you say after a moment, proud of yourself for coming up with something neutral. You hear Aerion snort above you. “I know that House Targaryen rules over them. Though from news that has crossed the Narrow Sea, I hear that rule has been… contested, recently.”

Aerion’s fingers still in your hair. Touchy subject, you realize, and decide to move on.

“Your people call themselves more civilized than the rest of the world while chopping each other apart over titles and inheritance disputes,” you continue wryly, unable to help yourself, but you catch yourself when Aerion scoffs. “Your winters are long enough to kill cities, and your summers long enough to make men forget the cold exists at all.”

“Go on,” he murmurs, absently smoothing your hair back from your face.

“I know that your men love the idea of honor until it becomes inconvenient for them,” you add, lips curving, “and that half your court would sell the other half for a slightly better seat at your king’s table.”

Aerion bristles with a huff. “That is hardly unique to Westeros.”

“No,” you agree, “but you dress it up in prettier words and act as though you are better than everyone else.”

Aerion scowls. “What are the Volantene courts like, then?” he asks after a moment. 

“Vicious,” you say immediately, a small smile curling at your lips as your eyes slide shut, and nostalgia floods you in an instant. You miss your home. Miss it so much that you’re willing to talk about it with someone who is clearly only trying to fish for information from you. When did you become so sentimental? “But we are honest about it. Mostly. We do not pretend otherwise, or cloak it in honor or chivalry or whatever pretty words your lords use to justify their ambitions. We want power, and we take it when we can. If we cannot, we position our pieces on the board so that we can”

It is the pride of the old blood, you do not say out loud, who refuse to hide their nature behind gentler fictions. 

It is said that thousands of years ago, while the rest of the world prayed to gods, the Valyrians became them, and though the Freehold burned, that arrogance did not. Gods are not bound by the morality of men. They do not temper themselves to be palatable, and they do not soften themselves to be loved, or feared, or understood. They simply are. They take what they want, and the world bends around them—or breaks.

Even the Elephants, in all of their coin and venom, live by that same understanding—smiles sweeter and daggers in ledgers instead of hands, but no less sharp for it. They do not pretend their wars are anything but wars. They just prefer quieter battlefields. You do not have to question who your enemies are in Volantis; the lines are drawn clearly, etched in blood and coin and old grudges that no one bothers to soften with pretty words.

“We are what we are,” you finish, voice soft with wistfulness, though your eyes remain closed. “We do not dress it up to make ourselves easier to stomach.”

Aerion’s fingers slow in your hair. “And what is that?” he asks.

You smile faintly.

“Cruel,” you say simply. “Ambitious. Patient when we must be, vicious when we can be. We remember what we were, and we do not pretend we have become something lesser simply because the world hopes we have.”

Unlike the Targaryens, the old blood of Volantis lost its dragons during the Doom, but it never lost its blood, its rites, or its rituals. You’re not quite sure why you try to get that dig in, because you know it will irritate Aerion, but you’re feeling quite irritated yourself, so you think you should share the wealth, so to speak. You shift slightly, turning your face more fully into his lap, his warmth a pleasant contrast to the cooling sand beneath you. He doesn’t lash out the way you expect him to. 

“And you think we do,” Aerion says, voice cool. 

“I think your Sunset Kingdoms dress its power in virtues it does not actually believe in. Honor. Duty. Piety. As though naming something noble makes it so,” you reply. Then, you add, “I think your family has learned to soften what it is to make it palatable to those who would fear it otherwise.”

“That is untrue,” Aerion scoffs, jaw tight.

“Is it?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, but you decide against pushing further, because you don’t want to argue—not really.

You think, bitterly, that if any of your friends could see you now, they would laugh in your face. It is not that you want to argue, you understand, not really, you are just frustrated with yourself for giving Aerion everything he wants without protest, even when you know what he’s doing, even when you know that if anyone back home knew this, they would lose their mind. You befriending and fucking the dragon prince is already bad enough, but giving him information like this? 

They’d never look at you the same. Never. 

The Westerosi royal family has long been spoken of with disdain. They are dragonlords who traded their blood for crowns, who bent themselves to lesser men and called it conquest. They are diminished, your father would say, softened in a way the Volantene old blood refuse to be, and when the last of the dragons died for their inheritance dispute after years of the old blood trying to work with the Targaryens to restore the Freehold… 

Well, many of the old blood would prefer a union between rival houses than anything to do with the Targaryens.

Aerion drawls, “You seem to have a very low opinion of my family and my homeland.”

“I have never been, dragon prince,” you remind him, dismissive, hoping to shift the conversation back to him. “I only know what I have been told.”

“And yet you speak as though you have seen it yourself.”

You crack one eye open to glance up at him. “Is it inaccurate?”

Aerion’s lips press together. “…Not entirely.”

You smile faintly, satisfied, and let your eyes slide shut again. “Tell me about your courts, then.”

Aerion does not immediately reply, and you think he has some nerve—so quick to seek information from you, but not even willing to put on the front of reciprocation. But then he speaks, and the brief spark of anger is extinguished. 

“They are not so different from what you described,” he admits. “Ambitious and petty, although they pretend as though they are above it. They speak of honor and duty and loyalty to the Realm, and then they undermine each other at every opportunity, scheming and lying and making alliances that last only as long as they are useful. Everyone has their own nest of vipers, but they insist on pretending the snakes are doves.”

You snort. “How exhausting.”

“It is,” he agrees. “You are expected to smile at men who would gladly see you dead, call them allies, break bread with them, trust them, invite them into your home—”

“And then poison them later,” you finish lazily. “In Volantis, if a member of an Elephant family sets foot in the palace of a Tiger family without invitation, it is known that their life becomes forfeit if they are caught. And vice versa. We do not waste time pretending we are anything but enemies, would sooner break a neck than break bread.”

“It is not all bad,” Aerion says quietly after a moment. “It can be amusing—at times.”

“How so?” you ask, gaze lifting to his face as you stretch in his lap, fighting a yawn.

“Watching them,” he replies. “They whisper behind closed doors and pass notes through servants they think loyal, make careful little moves across the board as though no one else can see them. They are so convinced of their own brilliance that they cannot see that they’re not as clever as they believe themselves to be. It is like here—sitting on the balcony above it all, watching the magisters and merchant princes scramble with their alliances below. I think that—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, jaw tightening as he looks away. You tilt your head curiously. “You think that…?”

“Nothing,” he says after a moment, voice unusually subdued. 

You watch him for a beat longer, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You were about to say something,” you press.

“I changed my mind.”

“Well, change it again.”

Aerion huffs softly, irritation creeping back into his expression like a mask snapping into place. “No. I decided it was not worth saying.”

You watch him carefully for a moment, noticing how tense he suddenly is, fingers flexing where they rest against your body, restless energy thrumming beneath the surface of his skin. He is terribly on edge, all of a sudden, and though it makes you curious, you have little desire to antagonize him after the mind-numbing day of feasts and politics you had.

“If you say so,” you say lazily. Then you add quietly, “It does sound like it could be amusing, watching it unfold—at times, that is.”

Aerion’s gaze flicks toward you, an unreadable expression on his face, something terribly and uncharacteristically soft in the amethyst of his eyes. His throat bobs. Briefly, you wonder if maybe your assumptions were wrong because Aerion has never looked at you like this, not so open, not so hopeful, but you disregard the thought immediately, because what else would it be?

“Yes,” he agrees. “At times.”

——————————

Several days later, he prods again, and you are aggravated, though you try to play it off.

“Did you just say something?”

Aerion rolls his eyes, irritated. “I asked you what you did as a child.”

You pause, mind working to figure out what information he might be trying to gather from this. “That is a strange question.”

“It is a simple one,” he counters. “Try to keep up, wench.”

You scoff, rolling your head back against the cushions and swinging your feet onto his lap, ignoring the indignant look he shoots toward you. You lift your wine glass, beckoning for one of the courtesans to come fill it for you, and as she does, you tilt your head to look at Aerion again, calculating.

“What does it matter?”

Aerion shrugs, though his gaze remains fixed on you in that sharp, assessing way he’s been the past few weeks. “I am curious.”

“You have been unduly curious these past few weeks,” you note, subtly calling out his attempts at intel gathering, swirling your glass once it’s filled and lifting it to your lips, taking a long sip and staring at him from over the rim. Aerion flushes and gives you an accusing look. Some nerve. “Why do you care to know about my childhood?”

Aerion sneers, realizing you’re not going to drop the why. “Children are taught what matters long before they are old enough to understand it,” he says after a moment, voice clipped and logical. “How they play is how they learn to think.”

“Ah,” you realize, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You are asking how the old blood raise their heirs.”

Aerion does not deny it, but he does squint lightly with a small frown, so you wonder if you got something wrong. You don’t press again, though, humming lightly, head falling back to look up at the ceiling as you decide how you want to answer. You feel his hand curl around your ankle, thumb running absent circles around the bone protruding there. Your gaze traces the impeccable marble above, considering your words. 

You should not indulge him, you think as you do every time he snoops for information. You know what he’s doing. 

Yet, you find yourself wanting to anyway. You want him to understand you—where you came from, who you are, how you became this way—and you want to understand him to. 

This is not indulgence, not a taste of fire or a distraction, this is—

“Well,” you say lightly, “we did not play at knights and maidens, if that is what you are imagining.”

Aerion scoffs. ”I am not.”

“Good,” you reply. “Because that would be terribly dull.”

He fights a sneer and then presses, “So? What did you do then?”

“We played cyvasse, of course,” you say first. “Before we could properly hold a blade, we were taught to move pieces across a board. Have you played before?”

“I have not,” he says after a moment. “How is it played?”

“It is a strategy game,” you explain, despite better judgment, despite knowing that if he were anyone else, you would have told him to fuck off and take his snooping to shove it up his ass. But he’s not anyone else—he’s Aerion, and you hate that it changes anything, everything. “Two players, each with their own set of pieces—elephants, dragons, heavy horse, spearmen, trebuchets, more—arrayed in secret behind a screen before the match begins. The board is made of varied terrain, so positioning matters as much as the pieces themselves, if not more. Each piece moves differently, and the goal is simple: outmaneuver your opponent and capture their king. It is more about learning foresight and patterns, and how to weaponize them, than anythign else—anticipating moves, controlling space, forcing your enemy into mistakes before they even realize they’ve made them. I will teach you to play one day—” The promise slips out before you can catch it, and you hate how easily it does. “—but you must promise not to cry when you lose, dragon prince.”

Aerion bares his teeth at you. “I do not lose.”

“You will,” you say with an easy curl of your lips, head lolling to the side to look at him. “I have not lost a game of cyvasse since I was a child.”

Aerion huffs and raises his chin. “We will see.”

So arrogant, you think fondly, a small smile on your lips as you roll your head back again to look up at the ceiling, exhaling through your nose as you recall the first time you remember sitting across from your father at the game table. 

You were young—four or five, maybe. You vaguely recall staying up half the night flipping through a war book detailing the Century of Blood. You didn’t understand half of the words yet, but you understood the pictures, and that was enough. 

He was proud of you—your father was always proud of you. You were his pride and joy, his sharpest blade, the child he paraded before the Tigers as proof that his bloodline would not falter when it came time to name a successor. Your brother was always your mother’s favorite, her soft little boy who only wanted for music and laughter, but you were your father’s daughter, cut from steel with a mind honed for war. 

You had not won back then, you were still only a child, but you remember how the room had gone quiet when your father realized what you’d done. How you’d unwittingly shaped the terrain to choke his advance, funneled his stronger pieces into narrow passes, sacrificed just enough to bait him forward. You had not understood the full scope of it then, only moving pieces in the way you’ve seen others and in books—you were just happy that you had made your cold father smile, determined to do it again. 

But the men around the table had understood. 

The old blood weigh their children in potential, and you proved in one game that you were not merely clever for your age, but prodigious in a way that could be honed with time. You saw patterns quicker than most, and moved pieces with an an instinct that could not be taught. You were invited to more tables after that, tested and pressed and always watched—and you always, always rose to the occasion. 

You were fucking inevitable, and everybody in the Black Walls knew it—from your peers to the elders to the Elephant cunts who watched you with wary eyes the moment you began shadowing your father at council meetings. 

The Tigers were desperate for someone sharp enough, ruthless enough, visible enough to rally behind without fracturing themselves in the process. Old blood bred pride, and pride made men difficult to follow—that was especially true amongst the warhawks of the Tiger party—but you made it easy. You were young, brilliant, charismatic, undeniably of them, and you made victories look effortless. You gave them something that they had not had in generations—momentum, the miracle needed to steal the majority from the Elephants after three centuries of losses dressed up as compromise.

Until you weren’t. 

From future Triarch to a prince’s whore.

Now you’re lounging with a fucking Targaryen, letting him pick you apart piece by piece, drive a blade into your chest, after you hand him the steel and stand there with open arms, smiling as he does it. 

Who the fuck even are you? What have you let him make of you?

A fool, that’s what.

Your teeth grind together, tongue pressing against the back of them as you school the heat that rises at your train of thought. 

“We played at war, too,” you force yourself to continue, clearing your throat, forcing the lingering thoughts away when you see Aerion watching you with those calculating eyes, trying to figure out where your mind is when it drifts. You do not want him to know, so you push it all away. You do not know whether you are more angry at him for asking, or at yourself for answering. “Much more violent than Cyvasse.” You toss him a wink and a smile that barely makes it to your eyes. “And much more fun.”

He raises his eyebrows. “War?” he echoes, and when you hum in affirmation, he says blandly, “War is not a game.”

“It is when you are a child,” you say. “Or rather, when your tutors wish to see what you might become. They would divide us—children of the Tiger families against one another. Give us each a stretch of garden, or a section of a family’s palace, or even an entire courtyard, and tell us to take one another’s. Whoever has the most territory by the end is crowned victor.”

Aerion’s eyes narrow, amused, curious. “How would you take territory?”

“With whatever we could find,” you say easily. “Wooden swords, practice bows, servants bribed into acting as informants, other children convinced to betray their sides. Once, I set fire to the stables one of the boys was given as his territory to smoke him out, and then had him hunt down another in exchange for keeping him in the game as a vassal.”

His lips twitch faintly. “That sounds less like a game and more like training.”

“It was, partly,” you admit. “Cyvasse showed them how we think. War games showed them what we would do with that thinking. They were able to determine which of us were worth investing time in, and which should only be used as broodmares and trophies for the ones who were.”

Aerion raises his brows slightly, as though considering your words. He asks at last, “And what did you do with your thinking?”

You give him a sharp smile. “I won, of course.” 

Your eyes slide shut, your smile softening. Your brother would always wait for you to find him during war games. He would try to slip away to some hidden corner of the palace whenever the bells rang to signal a day of games, but your father’s men always found him in time for the starting horn. So he learned to wait instead—counting on you to reach him first, so he wouldn’t have to face your father’s wrath for being the first to lose his territory. 

You’re too old for war games now, but you can’t help but wonder what your father has roped him into now that he’s his only heir left. You know well what it looks like—long days in the yard until your arms tremble and your grip fails, tutors who strike first and correct later, lessons in strategy that bleed into lessons in cruelty. You thrived under it, but he never did, fingers better suited to strings than steel, temper too gentle for the kind of world your father demanded you both to master. You stood between him and the worst of it for as long as you could—taking the harder paths and drawing the attention away, winning quickly so he wouldn’t have to lose slowly—but there is no one left to do so now.

Your throat tightens, and you ask after a moment to change the subject, “And what do Westerosi do as children, dragon prince?” 

Aerion doesn’t answer for a moment too long. You crack one eye open to peer at him, seeing how his expression is all twisted. He says after a moment, voice little over a mutter, “Knights and maidens.”

You laugh loudly, ignoring the way he sneers at you, a smile pulling at your lips as you roll onto your side to look at him more clearly. 

“Were you the knight or the maiden?” you tease, laughing again when he gives you an offended look, grabbing your ankle to drag you closer to him, until your head is flat against the cushions. He shifts so that he is hovering above you, forearms pressed on either side of your head, narrow hips slotted between your thighs. You lean your head up to brush your lips against his as you purr, “I would be your knight, zaldrīzes dārilaros.”

“I was the dragon,” he says, snapping down on your bottom lip. Your eyes flutter shut as he bites hard enough to draw blood before sucking lightly, running his tongue over the wound. “I am the dragon.”

“Yes, yes,” you agree, lifting your hands to cradle his face between your palms, fingertips skimming against his temples. “And a ferocious dragon, you are. Even back then, I’m sure.”

His eye visibly twitches at your words, and you fight another laugh as you lean in to press your lips to his again, sighing lightly into his mouth as he lets out a pleased hum, instinctively sinking into you. You drag your tongue lightly along his, tasting the honey he was picking at earlier off his tongue. After a few moments, you exhale through your nose and lay your head back against the cushions again. 

He tilts his head, gaze sharp, trying to figure out what you’re thinking.

“I think it sounds nice,” you admit quietly, tracing your fingers along his face before you let your hands drop. His brows furrow. “Knights and maidens growing up. It sounds…”

You trail off with another sigh. Your brother would certainly have preferred it. He might have actually been happy when the two of you were younger if he’d grown up in a place that had children play pretend instead of war. A lump forms in your throat. You swallow it away.

“Peaceful,” you finish at last. “A better way for children to be raised.”

Aerion’s expression is unreadable as he stares down at you.

“You think so?” he prods, an odd tone to his voice.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Yeah. I do.”

——————————

“Hm?” you ask during the final conversation, the damning one, head lolling to the side so you can look up at him, mind fuzzy from the copious amounts of firewine you’ve consumed, limbs warm and weightless from the incense creeping around the gardens of the First Magister’s estate. “What did you say?”

“Do you ever pay attention when I speak, you useless whore?” Aerion snaps at you.

From the gardens below, a flutter of giggles reaches the balcony you’re lounging on with Aerion. You frown, peering forward through the marble bars to shoot a glare down at the gaggle of courtesans entertaining the First Magister’s eldest son, though they’re too drunk on wine and clouded by incense to feel your ire.

“Go silence them,” you mutter, even as you return to where you were using Aerion as a cushion, head against his shoulder, back to his chest. “They give me a headache.”

“You do not order me, wench,” he replies immediately, but there is a distinct shortage of heat behind the words, and he sounds thoroughly distracted. 

You squint, tilting your head to the side before you look up at him again, catching an unusually contemplative expression on his face. 

“Careful, dragon prince, you might strain yourself thinking so hard,” you say with a lazy smile, to which he instantly shoots you a sneer. Even that is lacking in its effect, so you ask again, “What did you say?”

Aerion exhales through his nose, arm returning to where it was snug around your waist. After a moment, he says stiffly, “Do you enjoy gardens?”

What type of question is that?

It is both the question itself that catches you off guard and the way he asks it—careful in a way he only is when he’s trying to fish for information, like he is circling something larger and cannot quite bring himself to say it. 

But what the hell would he gain through asking about your interest in gardens?

“What?” you say immediately, voice so riddled with confusion at his question that Aerion’s grip on you tightens, and when you glance at his face, you see the tips of his ears going red. Baffled, you back track, “Well, who doesn’t?”

Aerion frowns, as though not satisfied with your answer, and you stare at him, bemused.

“Now who doesn’t listen?” you say petulantly instead of answering, still trying to figure out the purpose of the question. All of his questions have led somewhere. This one must, too—you just cannot see where yet. “I told you all about the gardens in Volantis a few weeks ago.”

Aerion glares at you. “When?” he demands. “You did no such thing.”

“I did,” you hum, looking away spitefully.

“You did not.”

“I did. But I shall remind you, since I am feeling generous,” you tell him after a moment. “Back home, my family’s palace had a garden that stretched larger than the docks here in Lys. We had flora from all over the known world—Yi Ti, Ghiscar, even your little Westeros—my brother cried once because he could not understand why winter roses would not bloom in Volantis. He was so distraught that my mother asked my father to go down to the spellslingers and bloodmagickers to see if there was a way to sequester a section of the garden and alter the climate so that the roses might bloom for him.” 

Your lips curve up into a smile at the memory. 

Your brother wailed when your father came back with the unfortunate news that there was no way to make the roses bloom in the palace’s garden. The two of you were only six then, and he was already openly softer than you, more than what was acceptable to your father and your tutors, and this incident only further confirmed what they already feared—that he would never rise to be the kind of heir they demanded. They hoped to nip the weakness in the bud by separating the two of you, because you were always quick to rise in his defense whenever they tried to beat the fragility out of him, but they only succeeded in making sure that the two of you became very creative about disobedience.

You were meant to spend the mornings being bored to death in the music hall learning the harp and the flute, while your brother suffered through sword drills and archery in the yard below. Then, in the afternoon, the two of you would swap: you would take to martial studies while he would take to the arts. 

It only took three days for you to begin switching places after you discovered that the eastern corridor connecting the music hall to the training yard had a servants’ stair that no one bothered to watch.

You would double down on your favorite lessons and abandon the rest entirely. No one ever realized what the two of you were doing, or if they did, they didn’t dare tell anyone who mattered. You were both good enough at lying anyway—the only tells you had, squinting lightly before you speak and smile tightening slightly at the edges, were ones that you could only ever pick out in each other. No one ever knew either of you well enough to catch them. It worked out. 

It always worked out for the two of you until it didn’t anymore.

Your heart aches suddenly, and you blame it on the wine still wet in your mouth.

You do not like thinking of your brother, or home, or anything. You wish Aerion would not ask about it, but he does not seem keen on stopping anytime soon, and you clearly lack the ability to stop yourself from answering.

It is aggravating. You are aggravated already.

“There was no way, of course,” you finally say, blinking once as you realize you lost yourself in your own thoughts, and Aerion is waiting for you to finish your story, watching you carefully. “Or if there was, they were not going to waste blood and sacrifice on roses to dry my brother’s tears. But even without the winter roses, it was beautiful. We would spend hours chasing each other up and down the rows of flowers and shrubs, climbed the orange trees even when our governess yelled at us to get down.” You sigh and finish softly, voice heavier, “They were easy days, back then.”

You can feel him listening more closely than the story warrants, as though this—of all things—is what he had been trying to draw out of you.

It makes no sense, you think, frustrated. What are you missing? 

And then he says:

“You speak of magic casually.”

His voice is quieter than usual, thoughtful in a way you do not often hear from him. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head where you lean against him, and you feel the vibration of his words through his chest.

You scoff softly. “Of course I do,” you reply. “It is casual. Half of our rites are steeped in it. If your family hadn’t fled to the west before the Doom, you would know of them.”

“If our family hadn’t fled to the west before the Doom, we would’ve perished alongside the twoscore families of dragonlords who remained,” Aerion drawls. Then adds more curiously, “But you make it sound simple. As though one can simply walk into a shop in Volantis and purchase a spell the same way a Lyseni merchant buys silk. Is it truly so common there?”

Ah, you think, mood souring even more as Aerion reaches the intel he wants. You can feel the turn in questioning now, the question beneath the question. Not just what Volantis is, but what it still has, and what might be taken. What he might bring to his father to prove himself a worthy son. 

You tilt your head with a hum, eyes sliding shut as you force away the bitterness. You should stop here—redirect the conversation elsewhere. 

You don’t. 

You say lazily, “Within the Black Walls? More or less. When I was nine, I had a bloodmagicker curse an Elephant boy bald after he pulled my hair in court.” Aerion snorts behind you, but his arm tightens slightly around your waist, as though he wants to ask more but can’t formulate the questions. You know exactly what he’s doing. You press anyway, giving him the opening he needs. Your eyes slide shut in frustration—you do not know if you hate yourself or him more. “Are you interested in magic?” 

He doesn’t answer right away, and his voice is clipped when he says, “Well, it is our blood, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you agree blithely, running your fingers along the back of his hand, enjoying the way his fingers twitch under your touch, though you shouldn’t be enjoying anything at all. “Though your Westerosi maesters pretend otherwise, like to claim that magic died with the old city. The magic of Valyria will not die until the blood that birthed it does. Your family kept it alive with dragons, for a time, and ours keeps it alive through old rites and rituals passed down from our ancestors.”

You should not be telling him this.

Aerion makes a sound in the back of his throat. You feel him shift slightly behind you, velvet cushions rustling as he leans back against them, pulling you with him. Your limbs are heavy and weightless at the same time; you sink back into him because you can do naught but, head rolling back against his shoulder with a hum. You hate yourself for it. 

“Our family has not passed down many rites and rituals,” he admits quietly after a moment. “I—” He cuts himself off, and you crack one eye open to peer up at him, seeing the way his jaw works as he tries to find words. “I sought them out. Hoping to bring them back.”

He does not have to say what they are. You know by the wistfulness in his voice, the yearning in the way his grip tightens on you. You remember the expression on his face that day he woke after his fever broke—nyke ēdrugon ēdan iā zaldrīzes—and the bitterness that had begun to claw at your chest dissipates. Your gaze traces up to his face as he stares up at the night sky with the same unreadable expression he wears whenever the conversation edges too close to something he actually cares about.

At last, you hum and say, “Well, the old blood still remembers what your family abandoned. We retained many of the rites and rituals of our ancestors.”

It is easier to bicker with him than it is to acknowledge that you understand him far better than you should—because acknowledging that means admitting that you have really, truly known what he was doing from the very beginning, and that you have been giving him everything he wanted anyway. And that is an admission that will lead you to both a question you are not ready to face and an answer you’re not ready to hear.

Aerion bristles immediately, snapping him right out of his spiraling thoughts.

“We abandoned nothing,” he hisses.

“You did,” you reply, voice airy, though there’s an edge to it now. “Your family crossed the Narrow Sea, wrapped itself in Andal customs and Westerosi superstition to appease your new people. You built a kingdom among people who feared the very blood that made you powerful.”

His jaw visibly tightens.

“We conquered them.”

“Is that what you call it?” 

He makes a sharp sound of disbelief, and you continue, because it is also easier to provoke him than to sit with the way he looks when he speaks of wanting to understand Valyrian customs and tradition, because that only makes you want to indulge more, because it makes you want to tell him things you should not be telling him, because that makes you angry—at yourself, at him, at everything. Because you want him to understand you, where you came from, where he came from, even though you know his intentions. 

“You married outside the blood, and adhered to their laws and justice,” you say, counting lightly on your fingers against his hand. “You took their Faith, their maesters, their customs. Do you even know the names of the Fourteen Flames?” 

“The mountains?” Aerion scoffs, becoming increasingly more irate the more you speak. “I—”

“Our gods, dragon prince,” you say, gaze shifting out toward the gardens again. Aerion cuts himself off immediately, going silent. “I speak of our gods. Not the mountains.”

“I know the names of our gods,” he says through his teeth, face reddening. “Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar, Syrax, Ty—”

“But you did not know that the mountains were named for them. You do not know the proper rites. Have never stepped foot in a temple,” you finish lightly. Then continue lazily, tone far too conversational for the touchy subject. “I have heard stories of your Half-Year Queen letting smallfolk claim dragons in her little war with her brother.” You tilt your head slightly, amusement curling at the corner of your mouth. “I oft think I, too, was born in the wrong generation, because I would have paid dearly to see the faces of the old blood when that particular bit of news reached Volantis. They must have been absolutely aghast.”

His grip on you turns briefly bruising. Aerion’s voice becomes colder, more defensive. “They were dragonseeds.”

“Commoners,” you correct.

“They carried Valyrian blood.” 

He speaks as though the words are poison in his mouth, as though he agrees with you, but cannot bring himself to say it plainly—will not speak ill of his own house to someone who does not share its blood. 

“So do half the whores in Lys,” you say mildly. “Should we have allowed them to become dragonlords, too?

You don’t know why you’re pushing him like this, needling a subject that is clearly sore.

No, that is a lie. You know exactly why. Because you would prefer to turn this into a fight than admit that you are still answering his questions, than admit you are weak for him, than admit that you lo—

Aerion’s arm tightens around you again. “That is not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I tire of this conversation,” Aerion says through his teeth, shifting as though to rise to his feet. “You are exceptionally irritating tonight.”

“You are the one who brought up the topic,” you disagree, settling back against him when he tries to move you off of him. He bares his teeth at you furiously when he finds that he cannot move while you’re on top of him. You give him a sweet smile in return. “You can only blame yourself, truly.”

“I did not,” he spits. “I only asked if—”

He cuts himself off, looking away, and you raise your eyebrows, curious. 

“You asked about gardens,” you recall, stretching languidly on top of him, a pleased sigh escaping your lips as his body shifts beneath you. “A terribly riveting topic. Why is it that you asked me about them again?”

It couldn’t have been to get to the topic of magic in the Black Walls—you had been the one to bring that up. There must have been some ulterior motive that he abandoned when the topic of Valyrian magic presented itself. 

But what was it? You find yourself stuck on it even now—all of the pieces he’s handed you fit together perfectly except for this one, and it’s bothering you. Because you feel as though you should know how it fits, like the true reason for his question is on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t put it into words.

“It does not matter now,” he scoffs, looking away. When you glance up, the tips of his ears are red. You squint, suspicious. “It was only a question.”

Only a question, he says—like all the others.

“Well, did you intend to follow that thought somewhere?” you ask mildly. “Or were you simply struck by a sudden and unprecedented interest in my opinion of landscaping?”

Aerion exhales through his nose sharply. “You speak far too much,” he mutters, but his expression has gone distant now, uncertain, and you tilt your head to the side with growing interest. 

“You were going to follow the thought,” you say, voice soft in realization, sharp in accusation. “With what?” 

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

Aerion scowls.

“You are intolerable.”

“And you are very bad at being evasive.”

Instead, he stares out over the gardens again, his arm tightening faintly around your waist as though grounding himself in the present moment.

After a moment, he says stiffly, “I only meant to say that there are gardens in Westeros.”

What does that mean? you think to yourself, bemused, thoughts faltering mid-turn, trying to figure out how this fits in with everything else, but you find yourself at a loss, because it doesn’t fit. Not with the others, with the pattern you have been so certain of this whole time. What the hell do Westerosi gardens have anything to do with intel to send back to his family? Flora for trade?

Or—have you been off mark since the beginning? 

No. That is ridiculous. It was obvious. 

Right?

“Well, I would certainly hope so,” you reply dryly. “Nine kingdoms and not a single garden would be a strange place indeed.”

Aerion bristles like a furious cat. “Forget I said anything, you impudent wench. I no longer wish to speak of this subject.”

This time, you do laugh, turning in his arms to look up at his face. He does not look down at you, but he does hold you, one hand cradling the back of your head so you don’t have to strain your neck to hold it up, the other resting on your hip, nail biting into your skin.

“Very well,” you say lazily, mercifully letting him retreat from whatever thought has him so wound up. “Then I suppose we should return to more pleasant subjects.”

Aerion glances down at you suspiciously.

“Such as?”

You hum, nosing into the soft silks draped around his shoulders, thoroughly comfortable, though your thoughts are no longer quite so loose, still trying to figure out what this might mean.

“Well,” you muse, “we could return to arguing about how your family has abandoned Valyrian tradition.”

Aerion hisses angrily. He really is a lot like a cat, you think, terribly amused as you lift a finger to his lips only for him to snap at it. “You speak boldly for someone in my arms. I should snap your neck.”

You grin up at him easily. “I would enjoy the feeling of your hands around my throat.”

Aerion scoffs with a roll of his eyes, but he doesn’t quip back a snide retort as you expect. You can feel his mind turning again, circling something, and you wait for him to speak. Finally, he says, voice quieter, “If it still lives there as you say—magic, the old rites and rituals—why has Volantis not conquered half the known world? Why have you not—”

Why have you not brought back dragons?

You snort outright at that, and you can feel Aerion’s indignant gaze trained on your face.

“Oh, dragon prince,” you sigh, lifting your hand to cradle the side of his face, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. You don’t wince when he bites it hard, irritated by your condescension. Instead, you slip it into his mouth, stroking his tongue lightly to make his face flush. “Now who sounds like a child listening to stories? Magic is old and costly and temperamental. It only answers blood, and rarely in the clean, simple way men want. One can ask for rain and receive flood. Ask for victory and receive it at devastating costs. Ask for life and pay in something worse.” You pause, slipping your thumb out of his mouth, back to resting on his cheek, and you say more quietly, “There is no blood in this world valuable enough to restore what was lost.”

“You are wrong,” he replies after a few moments. You raise your eyebrows at the certainty behind his words, gaze flicking up to his face again, but his attention is somewhere beyond the gardens, and his body is terribly tense. “There must be.”

“Must there?” you ask dryly.

“Yes,” he says through his teeth. “Yes. There must. I’ve seen it. I—” He cuts himself off again, exhaling through his nose. You lean up slightly now, tilting your head to the side when you see the feverish intensity that suddenly spreads across his face, a frown settling on yours. “They will return. I know it. We just need to find the right price.”

“And what blood would you offer, dragon prince?” you ask him, voice light, but a bit more cautious now. “A thousand slaves? A hundred magisters? Our bloodmagickers have tried it all, I assure you.”

Aerion scoffs. “Volantis thinks too small.”

You’re more amused than offended as you ask, “Do we now?”

“Yes,” he says, amethyst eyes sharp as they cut toward you. “You speak of magic as though it’s some crude exchange. A goat for rain, a king for victory.”

“Because it often is,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “Are you to lecture me on magic now?”

“Dragons are not rain or victory,” he hisses. “They were bound to blood. Dragonlord blood. Goats and common blood would never be enough, regardless of the droves they come in.”

You pause now, tilting your head to the side, lips curving down as you realize where his thoughts are turning. “If it were blood alone that was key, Volantis would have solved this problem centuries ago. Do you imagine our bloodmagickers have not thought of that? The old blood still runs thick and pure within the Black Walls, and it has spilled more of its own veins than you would find tasteful in its attempts to return life to our stone eggs.”

Aerion’s gaze flicks down toward you, jaw tight. “I do not mean Volantis.”

You hesitate, recalling the way he insisted that his poppy dream was not a dream, not really, and you feel unsettled. You do not like where this conversation is going. You do not like the feverish look in Aerion’s eyes, nor the certainty in his voice. You do not like any of this.

You scoff and say, “Then who? You sound as though you would be willing to offer yourself to the flames.”

“I am not afraid of fire,” he says after a moment. His gaze drifts once more to the sky, and you sit up from where you’re lying in his arms, lips pressed together, suddenly not feeling all too drunk at all. Your stomach drops. He adds quietly, “Dragons are born in fire.”

“Now it is my turn to tire of conversation,” you say after a moment, looking away, a pit in your stomach and a lump in your throat. You especially do not like the image that this evokes—fire and pain and charred bone and Aerion. “I think I preferred to speak of the gardens. Tell me more about Westerosi gardens. I might like to see them one day.”

You need to pull this back to something simple. Something you understand. Except, you don’t understand the gardens either, you realize desperately. You don’t understand any of this. You suddenly feel terribly out of depth, but you would rather he keep asking his pointed little questions, picking at you for answers you should not give, than sit here and speak so easily of throwing himself into the flames for a mummer’s farce.

Aerion’s attention snaps back toward you, expression caught between something wounded that you refuse to acknowledge and something hopeful that you also wish not to see. As though he can’t decide if he wants to be hurt by your dismissive words, or if he wants to lean into the fact that you’re willing to indulge his initial question. 

He evidently decides on the former and says tightly, “I thought you would understand.”

You exhale through your nose, watching the glittering courtesans below, though they feel strangely distant now. “Understand what?”

“That some things are worth more than comfort,” Aerion replies.

You scoff. “I understand ambition, dragon prince,” you say mildly. “Volantis practically breeds it. But ambition and martyrdom are not the same thing.”

“I did not say anything about martyrdom,” he replies, watching you with an intensity that makes something uncomfortable twist in your stomach. Is he fucking serious right now? you think incredulously. You are aggravated. You have been aggravated for weeks. You’ve been aggravated with yourself. You’ve been aggravated with him. You’ve been aggravated with this situation, the way you’ve handled it, the way he handles it. And now you are fully aggravated because how dare he come to you with I am not afraid of fire, and expect you to understand. He continues, frustrated, “You just spent the better part of an hour explaining that magic answers blood. That the rites of Valyria still live in your city. That the old blood still have access to the dragonlords’ secrets, and yet the moment I suggest that perhaps the answer lies closer to us than your bloodmagickers believe—”

“You suggest setting yourself on fire,” you say through your teeth, trying to rein in your temper. “I prefer my dragon princes alive and breathing, not charred bones.” 

“I am not suggesting dying.”

“You quite literally suggested burning.”

“I said dragons are born in fire.”

“And men die in it.”

Aerion shrugs faintly. “Most men.”

You withhold a deep sigh and instead ask, “Why did you ask me about gardens?”

Aerion stiffens, scowling at you from the corner of his eye. “I told you I no longer wish to speak on the subject.”

“And I no longer wish to speak on this one, so either sit here silently or put your mouth to better use.”

Aerion sneers at you, seemingly just as aggravated as you are, hand darting out to fist your hair roughly. “Perhaps I should force your mouth to better use,” he spits. “Put that vile tongue of yours to work at the only thing it’s good for.”

You lean in to press your lips against his before you can stop yourself, huffing sharply against his mouth when you feel his breath hitch as you shift back into his lap. His grip on your hair eases as he cradles the back of your head, and you slide your hands beneath his silks, nails grazing his abdomen in the way that always makes him shiver.

“I will teach you,” you say after a moment, before you really understand what you’re offering to him. You rest your forehead against his, lips brushing his as you speak. His lashes flutter as he opens his eyes to look up at you. You keep yours closed. “The old rites, the rituals, our gods and traditions—all of what your family has lost over time, but you will promise me something in return.”

What the fuck is wrong with you? 

All of the questions ring through your head again: What will you do when he leaves? Is this really just a taste of fire? Indulgence? Distraction? Why do you not sabotage, when you have never been above such methods before? Why, ever, would you think of home, and then think of bringing him to see it? Why would you sit at his bedside while he’s sick and nurse him back to health? Why do you sit here and let him use you as a source of information to report back to his family? Why do you find yourself so aggravated by this whole situation? Why did your stomach drop when he spoke of himself in terms of blood sacrifice? Why are you willing to teach him all of the things his family willingly abandoned, knowing how much it would infuriate your people?

You don’t have to look at him to know the rapturous look that must be in his eyes, amethyst slivers around widened pupils, lips parted. He always gets this way when you talk with him about Valyria and what is left of it. Aerion is almost breathless as he says softly, “Anything.” 

Your hands slide up along his ribs until they rest flat against his chest. The words leave you far more bluntly than you intend. “You will not burn yourself alive trying to bring life to stone.”

Aerion blinks, and then his brows draw together. His hands go still at your waist and in your hair. He says slowly, “You think that is what I intend to do.”

“I think you are arrogant enough and reckless enough to try, if you convince yourself you can, and you sound half there already,” you reply, nails digging slightly into his pale skin. One hand slides up further—to the Valyrian steel he wears on his throat—and rests there firmly. He tilts his head back slightly, baring his neck to you. “You are mine. You will not go somewhere I cannot follow, and I will not follow you into the flames.”

Aerion’s lips part as he stares up at you. Instead of becoming defensive, like you expect, his breath catches in his throat as he asks, “And where would you follow me?”

Would you follow me back to Westeros? 

The real question he’s been asking this whole time lands all wrong. Lands late. Like this question has been hanging between the two of you for weeks, waiting for you to catch up. The uncertain, wide-eyed look on his face now is the same one he’s worn every time he’s asked about Volantis—every time he circled and pressed, every time you told yourself he was picking you apart for something to send back across the Narrow Sea. Volantene politics, the Black Walls, what you knew of Westeros, how you grew up, the gardens. 

You knew from the beginning that he was never quite asking what he really wanted to ask, but you didn’t realize it was this. 

He was not asking what Volantis could give him; he was never trying to figure out information to send back to his family to shorten the sentence of his exile. He was—he was trying to gauge whether or not you would follow him back to Westeros; he was trying to make sure he would not have to leave you behind when it ended. The thought is almost laughable—that he has been dancing around the same question that has been haunting you for months—but the more you think of it, the more it makes sense. 

He wanted to know your opinions of his homeland to know if you would ever be willing to make it your own. He asked you about your childhood and the way you were raised to understand what you would be leaving behind if you did. He circled around politics and simple things like gardens to find where you might bend—to see what angles he should press if you proved reluctant, which arguments might sway you, and which might make you dig your heels in deeper if he brought it up. 

Your jaw tightens, remembering all of the ways you had inadvertently implied you would because you did not realize what he was asking.

It does sound like it could be amusing, watching it unfold—at times, that is.

I think it sounds nice. Knights and children growing up. It sounds… peaceful. A better way for children to be raised.

Tell me more about Westerosi gardens. I might like to see them one day.

Fuck.

Your throat tightens. “That is not a promise.”

“And that is not an answer,” he counters, matching your quiet tone. “I will decide whether or not I will give you my word after I’ve heard your answer.”

Would you follow him back to Westeros?

You do not know, you realize blithely. Lys without Aerion Brightflame here to warm your bed, to chase you across rooftops and join in your mockery of this island of silk sounds like a dreadful existence. Now that you have had a taste of life in exile with him, you do not want a life without him. 

But would a life in Westeros be any better? 

Aerion is a prince, and you are an exile. You would never be allowed to marry him—it would be a political disaster for the Targaryens if they allowed it. The Elephants could even take it as a declaration of war—and though you do not believe your father and the rest of the Tigers would back military action against you, the Elephants have their own means of war through coin and secrets. They’ve felled many an empire with gold and words, and you do not wish to see Aerion cast out permanently, as you have been, because of you.

And what would that mean for you, then? Would you be a mistress while he frolics with a proper lady wife? While she bears his children and his name? You would rather slit her throat, his, and then your own. You would rather set fire to their keep and give him the flames he so desires. You do not want to share him, and if you cannot have him, you do not want to be anywhere near him and the woman who does, lest you find yourself doing something regrettable. 

“I do not know,” you say at last, shifting away as his expression twists. He did not expect that response; you can tell from the way his lips part, from how he blinks once and then furrows his brows, recalculating.

“You do not know,” he echoes flatly. 

“I do not know,” you repeat stiffly, gaze shifting to the garden. 

Aerion scoffs suddenly, pushing you off his lap to rise to his feet, his face a war of pride and anger and embarrassment and hurt and disbelief. He convinced himself that your answer would be anywhere, everywhere, iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon, and you cannot even blame him—weeks of careful questions to build up the courage to ask you more directly, and perhaps if you hadn’t been so blind, so quick to assume the worst, you could have subtly dissuaded him from this answer. 

Instead, you unintentionally led him right to it, not realizing his ultimate goal.

Fuck.

“Of course, you do not know,” he says bitterly. “I will make your answer easy, then: do not follow me anywhere.”

“Aerion—”

“Remain here, and play your games, drink your wine, fuck your whores,” he spits, making his way off the balcony, back into the First Magister’s manse. He casts a derisive look over to where you’ve risen to your feet. “You have made a life here. One that suits you well enough.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean?” you ask.

Aerion pauses in the doorway, one hand braced against the carved wood as he glances back at you over his shoulder. For a moment, he says nothing. Then his mouth curls. It is not a pleasant expression.

“It means,” he says slowly, “that you have grown very comfortable amongst silk and pillows for someone who was once meant to preside over the Black Walls.”

Your spine straightens, fury flaring hot in your chest as he uses what you told him against him.

“You—”

His gaze drags over you, distasteful.

“A daughter of Volantis,” he continues, voice edged with something cruel. “Heir to one of the oldest bloodlines in the city. Future Triarch, if I recall correctly.”

You stare at him in disbelief, anger hot, hurt worse, burning deep in your chest, in your lungs, behind your eyes.

“And now?” he adds. “Now you lounge about, bickering with courtesans and playing at being amused by everything around you. You speak of your city’s power as though it still belongs to you, but you do not even live within its walls.”

“Fuck you,” you say, the words a low hiss because you cannot manage anything else. 

“Done that, as has half of the city, I’m sure,” he says with a sharp smile. The steel on his neck gleams traitorously in the moonlight. “You were meant to rule the last standing city with the secrets of Old Valyria, and you cower at the idea of leaving your pillowed prison. Perhaps you are not who I thought you were. I have no interest in dragging a coward content on being a whore across the Narrow Sea.”

You stare at him blankly, words ringing in your ears long after he’s finished speaking. You don’t know why you’re so wound up, don’t know why it feels like there’s fire flooding your veins, why your heart is racing and your pulse thuds in your ears. You have not felt this way in a long, long time—not since you were on your knees in the Ivory Yard with shackles on your ankles and wrists. Even in that first year of your exile, when everything was still jagged and new and unbearable, when you were learning of the existence of new wounds every time someone spoke to you, no one managed to get under your skin the way that he has right now.

It is infuriating.

It is humiliating.

It is—it is fucking ridiculous.

You should not be so upset. 

You rationalize that it’s because he’s caught you while your guard was down, because you let him wear your guard down, even though that is something that you haven’t allowed in a long, long time. He’s been inadvertently whittling at it for weeks. All of his questions about Volantis, talking about your past, your father, your brother, your childhood—it reminded you of the future you were promised and denied—you should have deflected or redirected, but you answered, and it has put you in a state of wistfulness, of yearning, of what was and never will be again. You miss being home. You miss your brother. You miss your father. You miss who you were before exile. You miss who you could have been. Years of resentment, of anger and bitterness, have long since settled into something bearable—a still, glassy lake you’ve learned to live beside without looking too closely at your reflection in it. And Aerion—

Aerion has hauled a fucking boulder over and dropped it straight into the center. The surface shatters. The calm you’ve built annihilated, replaced with violent waves that drag everything buried beneath it back up—old anger, old pride, old longing, all of it rising too fast, too consuming, too much. 

And he has the audacity to stand there and look at you as though you’re the one who has done something wrong. 

Worse than anger, worse than pride, worse than longing, is the fucking hurt that spreads through your chest, cruel and unrelenting. Is it because you feel like a fool for not realizing all of this sooner? Because this was avoidable? Because this feels like your own fault? Because he’s using what you confided in him against you? Because you trusted him with something that he used as a knife to drive into your back? 

Or is it because he’s right?

You say, “Get out of my sight before I cut your fucking throat.”

“Gladly,” he hisses through his teeth. “You may find me when you remember who you are.”

——————————

“Remember who I am,” you echo, spitting the words at Caelyx. “Who does he think he is? He has no idea who I am. He thinks he knows me after a few months together on this island? I should have drowned him the moment he called me a whore on that rock, let him drink that poisoned wine, put my fucking blade into his throat. I—what?”

Caelyx is smiling into his wine next to you. “Nothing,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I just have not seen you so wound up in a very long time.”

You scoff loudly and look away, gaze flitting across the hall of Vyrano’s manse, where you have been forced to make an appearance for yet another of his ridiculous feasts. You got into an argument with the First Magister earlier in the day because you did not want to attend, but he insisted that your presence tonight was necessary, so now you are forced to sit in the same general area as Aerion as he lets two whores paw at him while wearing your Valyrian steel.

“I should kill him,” you say after a moment, teeth grinding together as your gaze draws over to where a girl with your hair color is kissing up his neck, and another with silver hair is positioned half in his lap. You don’t even want to look at him, but your attention keeps pulling back toward him. He’s not even looking at you. You want him dead. “Can you fucking believe this?”

Caelyx hums, shifting to face you. He lifts his hand, fingers grazing your chin before he tilts your face toward his, smoothing his fingers over the line of your jaw to try to make you ease how it’s clenched. You relent after a moment, sighing, and he runs a thumb over your bottom lip before he murmurs, “You are giving him what he wants, my lady. You must not keep looking at him. He grows more smug each time your eyes draw to him.”

You know that he is right. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth, eyes sliding shut. 

You can feel his gaze on you now that your attention has been forced away from him. 

That is as it has been for the last fortnight—you watching him when he is not looking, him watching you as soon as you look away. Both of you far too aware of one another while pretending not to be aware at all. 

You have not spoken to him since that argument in the First Magister’s manse. He has not sought you out, nor you him, and the days have been long and agonizing, terribly boring. You drink, you find whores to entertain yourself with, you lounge on sun-warmed rocks and velvet cushions. You do as you have done for five years, and it is unbearable in a way that it has not been since the first months of your exile. You are bored and restless, and your temper has been outrageously quick to snap, and you find yourself looking toward the east at dawn and dreading your bed at dusk. 

Is this how it is meant to be once he leaves?

You are furious. You are furious at the situation. You are furious at Aerion. But most of all, you are furious at yourself for allowing yourself to get attached to this Targaryen prince the way you have, for allowing him to become more than just another distraction, for allowing him the power to hurt you. You never should have let him become more than what he was that first night at the mid-summer festival: a plaything, fun to antagonize and toy around with, fun to pass the time, but nothing worth fussing over. The moment that Caelyx caught on to what was happening, and you felt your temper fraying just at the mere idea of him leaving for Westeros and you staying in Lys should have been warning enough for you to start pulling back.

Instead, you sat there and convinced yourself that it was worth it—that you would prefer a taste of fire at the risk of being burned to a lifetime of ash. Here you are, burned thoroughly, not for the reasons you anticipated, and you have no one to blame but yourself after lighting the fire and handing him the flame. 

“This is not who I am,” you say through your teeth, turning your face slightly into Caelyx’s palm. “I am not so—”

Weak.

“You are furthest from weak,” Caelyx murmurs, knowing what you’re about to say without you having to say it at all. You can feel Aerion’s eyes boring into the side of your head. It takes all of your will not to turn to meet his gaze. You distract yourself by letting Caelyx hold the weight of your head in his palm, lips curving down when he lifts his other hand to cradle your face with both. “You are the first daughter of the oldest bloodline in Volantis. Lady of the Sorrows—how many men can say they’ve made the River Rhoyne run red?

“Do not pander to my ego,” you mutter, but you do traitorously find yourself feeling better at his words. 

Do not forget who you are, he tells you without saying anything at all, which serves to irritate you because it reminds you of what Aerion had the gall to say to you two weeks ago. But Caelyx actually knows who you are, you tell yourself—he was here when you were at your worst, eased you through the rockiest days of your exile when you were angry and violent and only wanted to go home. It is different coming from him than it is from Aerion, who only threw it in your face to wound you.

“Ah, but you have always liked when I pandered to your ego, my lady,” Caelyx says with a familiar teasing smile, leaning in to ghost his lips against your jaw. He breathes out, “Though it’s true that you never did care much for words when I had you distracted properly.”

You huff out a soft laugh, tilting your head back slightly to give him better access to your neck. Your pulse flutters as his soft lips trail down your throat, nipping and licking at your skin the way you like. Caelyx has always been good at this—soothing you, pleasuring you, being with you when no one else dares to. Even now, even as fury clouds your mind and desperation runs through your veins, you find the terrible pulse pounding in your ears easing beneath his touch.

“You are shameless,” you accuse, though there’s no real heat behind it, letting him kiss down to your collarbone, and then back up to the corner of your lips. He brushes them there once, pale lashes fluttering as you tilt your face to him so that your lips ghost one another.

“Only for you,” he replies easily, hand from your face to your abdomen, fingers smoothing over your bare skin after he slips his hand beneath the silks. 

You do not answer. You do not trust your voice not to betray you. You still feel Aerion’s eyes on you, and it is maddening, the way your awareness of him lingers even when you refuse to look at him—like heat at your back, a blade hovering just shy of your skin. You know the threat is there even if you cannot see it with your own eyes. You itch to look at him, but Caelyx stops you before you can make the mistake.

“Let him stew,” Caelyx murmurs. You let out an airy sigh as he sucks lightly at the underside of your jaw. “You do not chase. Do not start now.”

A bitter laugh threatens to rise, but you swallow it down. “I am not chasing.”

“Not yet,” he says, lifting his face to brush his lips against yours again. 

“Not ever,” you reply, and his violet eyes glitter, pleased by your words. He nips at your lips. You let him. You click your tongue. “He is an idiot. He thinks the world should bend to him. That I should bend to him.”

“He is a prince,” Caelyx corrects, thumb stroking the line of your jaw. “He thinks the world belongs to him.”

And he thinks you do too.

The thought once sent a thrill running up your spine—iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon, I am yours, you are mine. Now, it only frustrates you, because he was never yours, not really, and the months you’ve deluded yourself into believing otherwise have finally caught up to you now that he’s asked the question you’ve been dreading since Caelyx first brought up the topic. You slide your tongue along the back of your teeth, frustrated. 

“He is a fool,” you insist with a scoff. “Do you think I would get in too much trouble if I shoved him over the balcony?”

Caelyx laughs, a pretty sound, one that has always settled your nerves. “If you want him gone, my lady, all you need to do is say the word. I will have it done, and no one will know it as anything but a terrible accident.”

And yet, therein lies the issue. 

You do not want him gone. You want him. You want him completely, and you hate the idea that one day, someone else will have him. That the day will come where you either have to bid him goodbye or be okay seeing someone else have him in a way you will never. 

What a double-edged blade it is, you think, that exile is the only reason you were able to meet him, and it is also the reason you will never be able to have him.

Or maybe you would have found your way to one another anyway, you think wryly—somehow, someway. Though you cannot imagine how, because had you not been exiled, you would have been elected Triarch and married to your brother, but Aerion is—well, Aerion. And he matches you in a way that no one has ever been able to. You cannot fathom a life where the two of you never met.

Perhaps through war, you consider at last. You are both violent little things; it would be fitting that you met on opposite sides of the battlefield.

“I dislike seeing you like this,” Caelyx murmurs, a heavy look in his violet eyes as he pulls back to look at you, more serious than you’ve seen him in a long time.

“Do you? I’m surprised you haven’t hit me with an ‘I told you so’, yet,” you say, more a joke than anything else, but Caelyx flicks a disapproving look toward you.

“I find no satisfaction in being correct. If you remember, I only brought this up out of concern,” he says. Then his lips flick up into a familiar smirk. “Though if you insist, I did tell you this would be an issue.”

You roll your eyes, nipping playfully at his fingers, and he lets out another pretty laugh, leaning slightly into you. You mutter, “You are incorrigible. I cannot believe that you were the one sent to deal with me all those years ago. How did I not kill you?”

He winks at you. “You were too distracted to manage it.”

Your brows lift. “Was I?”

“Mhm,” he hums, voice dipping lower, amusement curling through it. “If I recall correctly, you were far too occupied with my tongue to be thinking about murder. Hard to stab a man when he’s got you too busy forgetting your own name.”

You snort despite yourself, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “Arrogant.”

“Is it arrogance if it’s true?” he replies smoothly, catching your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a brief, teasing kiss to the inside of it. “You’ve always had a weakness for my particular talents.”

“Mm,” you murmur, though your lips twitch. “A tragic flaw, truly.”

“A devastating one,” Caelyx agrees solemnly, though the smile in his eyes gives him away. His thumb traces slow, absent circles against your pulse. “Though I would be happy to remind you of it.”

“Perhaps I should take you up on it,” you murmur, lips curling up into a small smile when he leans in to ghost his lips against yours. “I find myself in desperate need of a distraction.”

Caelyx hums softly, pleased, the sound vibrating against your lips as he closes the distance properly this time, his mouth settling against yours with a familiarity that puts you at ease. He shifts closer, sliding closer to straddle your lap as his hands come up, one to the back of your head, fingers entwining with your hair, and the other slinking loosely around your shoulders.

“Desperate?” he murmurs against your mouth, amused. “That’s not a word I hear from you often, my lady.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” you scoff, but you’re smiling, eyes sliding shut as he kisses down your throat, one hand dropping to slide beneath your silks, skin warm against yours as he trails his fingers up your abdomen, your body instinctively shivering. “I—”

Aerion is across the room in a heartbeat, though neither of you notices until too late. 

You hear Caelyx let out a hiss in surprise, violet eyes flying open, and your attention snaps upward as he’s forced off you, yanked away with brutal force, balance lost as he’s dragged backward by his collar. 

“Aerion, what the fuck?” you start to snap when you recognize Aerion standing at the edge of the cushions, amethyst eyes ablaze, jaw tight, a type of fury rolling off of him that you’ve never seen from him before. 

He doesn’t even acknowledge you, and as you’re pushing yourself up to sit straight, you see steel flash in his right hand. Your eyes widen, and you’re moving before you even really understand what’s going on, hand wrapping around Aerion’s wrist as he tries to drive a dagger forward, fast and vicious, aimed straight for Caelyx’s throat. 

The force of his swing jolts through your arm when you stop it, a hair's breadth from plunging through Caelyx’s neck. Your fingers press bruises into his skin as you hold him in place, grimacing slightly as he strains against you, trying to force the blade forward anyway, driven more by fury than sense. Distantly, you notice courtesans and magisters alike fleeing the room, and you gape at Aerion in sheer disbelief, but Caelyx has the nerve to let out a breathless laugh, eyes wild. 

“Careful, dragon prince,” he purrs, voice smooth, despite the fact that the tip of the blade grazes his skin. “You’re looking rather unstable.”

You give Caelyx a sharp look, but he only winks at you, which only serves to set Aerion off even more from the way he bares his teeth. He drops the blade out of his right hand, left hand darting out to catch it by the hilt midair, but you jam your shoulder into his chest before he can swing outward with his free arm. He stumbles backward, eyes flashing furiously as he finally turns his attention to you, and you shift so that you’re standing in front of Caelyx, head falling slightly to the side as you stare at Aerion. 

“Is this how it’s going to be?” you ask him, voice light despite the tension in your shoulders as your fingers wrap around the grip of a fruit knife. The blade is much too thin for you to actually be of use in a fight with him, but it’ll be enough at least to deflect the blade. You just need to disarm him. “What the hell is your problem? There’s no way this isn’t going to get back to your father.”

That only serves to irritate him—maybe you should have bit your tongue. He says coldly, “Get out of my way.”

Who the fuck does he think he is? 

You smile sharply, although it doesn’t reach your eyes. It is only the two of you now—everyone else has fled the room, even Caelyx’s better judgment finally got the best of him, leaving the room as soon as you were between him and Aerion. “Make me.”

Steel clashes as Aerion lunges forward again, faster this time, both of you letting loose two weeks of frustration and fury onto each other as the dam finally breaks. The fruit knife in your hand catches the dagger with a sharp noise, the impact jarring up your arm as you deflect the strike just enough to send it skidding past your side instead of through it. You step into him, closing the distance, and you drive your elbow hard into his chest, knocking him off balance enough for you to lift your leg and put your foot into his thigh, forcing him down to one knee. 

“You’re out of practice, dragon prince,” you mock, pressing the tip of the fruit knife under his chin, enjoying the way his eyes flash furiously at your words, “or perhaps you are better off a whore than a knight. Your father chose the right Free City to exile to after you embarrassed him.”

His jaw tightens at that, something ugly crossing his face, but you are angry—his words echo through your head. You may find me when you remember who you are. He has no idea who you are, but if he wishes to know so badly, then you will show him the worst of you. 

“If you ask Caelyx nicely, he might be willing to give you some tips—he’s quite good at what he does, and I doubt your father will take you back anytime soon after this little display. You might be able to make some decent coin with his help when Vyrano inevitably kicks you out of his manse for causing too much trouble,” you continue when he doesn’t immediately respond, voice cutting, lips curled up into a small smile. “You cannot even hold yourself together long enough to stand in a room without drawing steel like a rabid dog, and you think—”

You don’t notice that he’s wrapped his hand around your ankle until too late, the air ripping from your lungs as he yanks your foot off the ground to knock you off balance, dragging you down onto the floor with him. Your back hits the ground hard, knocking the air from your lungs, and you grimace in pain when the back of your head smacks against the marble. Aerion is on top of you in a second, weight heavy on your hips as he leans over you to press his dagger against your throat, amethyst eyes wild.

“How many times have I warned you that your tongue was going to get you in trouble?” he breathes, dragging the blade up your neck to press it against the corner of your mouth. “Do you think this is a game? That you can say whatever you want and walk away untouched? That you can take what you like and leave the rest in pieces at whim? I’d sooner see you dead, whore.”

Your lips curl up despite the sting of the blade sliding against your skin. You ignore the taste of iron as you murmur, “And what, exactly, do you think I’ve taken from you, dragon prince?” 

His grip tightens on the dagger, and he doesn’t answer, but his expression tightens, jaw flexing and amethyst eyes shifting into something far more vulnerable than the rage that has consumed him. You hate the way it makes your throat swell. You hate even more than you know the answer to your question as soon as you ask it.

His breath comes out unevenly, and the dagger is still at your lips, pressing deep enough for blood to trickle into your mouth, but the expression on his face is all twisted, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

You notice, absently, that his fingers are trembling around its hilt—at your collar too, where he fists the silk you wear.

It would be so easy to mock him.

The thought rings through your head traitorously. You would if you were back home and he were any of your peers—you have in the past, laughing in Aenys’s face when brought up binding the most powerful families of the Elephant and Tiger parties through marriage, telling Jaenys to fuck off when he told you that he might love you. Only one person has ever been spared from your cruelty, and that person is not Aerion. You could make him bleed right now in a way that’s far more painful than the blade he has pressed against your mouth. 

You do not.

“You know what you’ve taken,” he replies, voice hoarse, little over a breath. The dagger slides down your cheek to your jaw, and he drags a thin red line until the tip of it is pressed to your pulse point. His eyes fixate on the droplets of blood that bead at the shallow wound before they flick back up to meet yours. “Do not play the fool. You knew what you were doing this whole time—clinging to me, mocking me, covering for me when you could, telling me about your home, taking care of me while I was ill, bringing me to places that you claimed were only yours. You knew what you were doing, and you do not get to pretend that you don’t. You do not get to pretend as though this is nothing. You do not get to walk away.”

“Aerion—”

“It is infuriating,” he spits, the tip of the blade digs a smidge deeper into your skin. “You’ll take everything someone is willing to give you, but the second they ask something back, you run—as though you think you do not owe anyone anything. You get close, you take everything you want, and then you leave before it can cost you anything, like nothing ever mattered. It is infuriating. You are despicable. I will not allow it. I am not a silk boy for you to toy with—I am a dragon. I am the one who takes. Not you.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, lips parting and breath coming out too shaky for your liking as you stare up at Aerion. You can feel his breath fanning across your lips, the haze in his eyes reflecting a war of pride and fury and indignance and desperation. You’ve seen this before—never this raw and never this close, but you have seen it nonetheless. You have known that this volatility was there from the very beginning, tucked beneath the sharpness of his tongue and the arrogance he wears like armor. He burns too hot and too fast; everything in him is always just on the verge of spilling over into something uncontrollable, because Aerion feels everything too intensely, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it so he shows it in the worst ways possible.

“When I am called back to Westeros, you will come with me,” he says at last, eyes searching yours for an answer even though he speaks it as a command, dagger pressing into your neck a bit deeper as though reminding you that you do not have a choice, threatening you that he will go through with what he promised should you deny him, because he would rather you dead than with anyone else. “Say it.”

“No,” you reply.

Aerion lets out a noise caught between a hiss and a whistle, eyes flaring dangerously. “You think I won’t? I’ll kill you before I let you walk away from me. I’ll—”

“I don’t think you will,” you reply quietly, and Aerion makes another noise, this time in the back of his throat, wounded and furious like he didn’t expect you to call him on his bluff, “and you cannot make me come with you.”

Aerion grinds his teeth so hard that you’re sure it must be painful. He digs the blade into your skin deeper, as though trying to force himself to do it, and then he lets out a terribly broken exhale, letting the blade clatter to the ground next to your head. Frustration, rage, desperation all swim plainly through his face. 

He vows instead, “Then I will kill everyone else. If you stay behind when I leave, I’ll have them all hunted down.” When you sigh and shake your head, looking away, his hand darts up to grab your chin, forcing you to look at him. “The whores you surround yourself with, the harbor brats that cling to you—anyone dares who comes close to you when I cannot. I will have them burned for it, and I will have their corpses delivered to you with Brightflame branded on their face, so that every time you look at them, you think of me—so that you may never dare to forget me.”

You exhale through your nose. “I will not forget you, Aerion—”

He bares his teeth. “Then I will make you wish that you could.”

You roll your eyes. “This is deranged—”

“I do not care,” he snaps immediately. His grip on your chin tightens, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. “You do not get to walk away from this. You don’t get to walk away from me. This was not nothing. I was not nothing. I am not nothing.”

“You’re wrong,” you say after a moment. A lie, it tastes bitter on your tongue, makes your chest ache so terribly that you want to take it back as soon as it leaves your lips. “It was nothing, Aerion. Just a bit of fun. You made it into something it isn’t. It—”

“Liar!” Aerion accuses, voice loud and shriller than he intends, expression twisting violently. “Iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon—” His voice breaks over the High Valyrian. “—you’re the one that said it. You are the one who said it. You do not get to say that and leave; you do not get to make me say that and leave.”

“It is not as easy as you’re making it out to be!” you finally explode, hands driving upward to push him off of you. He tumbles back onto the marble, and you grab the dagger he dropped near your ear. You swivel so that you’re the one straddling him, pressing the blade to the apple of his throat. “You are a fucking idiot, Aerion. You are an idiot, and I will not go to Westeros with you just to watch you get married off to some noblewoman—”

“You dare to call me the idiot,” he hisses, leaning into the blade without fear, forcing you to pull it back when it starts to sink into his neck. “You think I’ll let myself be married off to some dumb cow when I have you? You—”

“It is not up to you,” you spit, shoving his shoulder back down so he’s lying flat against the ground. He sneers up at you, lips parting, blood trickling down the length of his neck, amethyst eyes wide and wild, slivers around dilated pupils. You repeat more calmly, because one of you desperately needs to calm down before you end up killing one another, “It is not up to you, Aerion. You are beholden to your father and king, and they will never allow—”

“Fuck my father, and fuck the king,” Aerion interrupts viciously. “They can both fuck off. I will wed you here. Now, even—” What?! “They cannot stop me from having you.”

You exhale, shaking your head and closing your eyes, setting the dagger to the side. You look away as you sit back on his thighs, frustrated and just wanting this conversation to be over, because he will not listen to what you have to say. He sits up, one hand lifting to grab your chin again, more gentle now as he turns your face to him, thumb stroking the line of your jaw.

“I will do it,” he says, quieter now. “Here. Before we go back, so they cannot stop it. We can do it in Valyrian tradition—by blood and fire.”

Your throat bobs as your gaze meets his, the fervor still there, but the fire behind it has tempered into something less volatile, something warm and steady that settles over you like heat rather than wild, open flame that has been licking at your skin. It would be easy to lean into it, to let yourself rest in it. You want to—desperately, desperately you want to.

“I thought your family didn’t retain any of our rites,” you say, voice hoarse as you try to rebuild the walls that he has broken down stone by stone over these last few moons together, so that you can put this to rest. 

“We retained one,” he amends, thumb pressing against your lower lip. “Let me have it with you. We do not need anyone’s blessing—not my father, not my grandfather, not anyone’s. We do it here. We bind our lives in blood and fire, and it’s done. They can rage about it later, but it won’t matter. You’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours—iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon—no one will be able to take it from us.”

You want to agree.

You so desperately want to agree. You do not think you have wanted anything so bad since the Triarchy was within reach. Since you were chained in the Ivory Yard, staring up at your brother for the last time as you waited for your fate to be decided. Since you were put on the ship to Lys, not even able to say goodbye to those you love. And you think it is ridiculous. It is ridiculous that you want this as badly as you wanted to be Triarch, as badly as you wished for a life with your brother, as badly as you wished to say goodbye—it is simply not possible that Aerion managed to carve himself this deeply into you in six short moons. 

It is ridiculous, it is absurd, it is exactly the sort of thing you have spent your entire life learning how to avoid. You have had men before him—men and women, better men and better women, safer men, safer women, easier men, easier women. You have had partners who would have given you everything without demanding anything in return—Aenar joined your campaign through the Shallows and Slaver’s Bay, knowing the risks, knowing it was treason, fighting at your side, spilling blood in your name, Jaenys almost started a war for you when the Elephants dared to chain you, Aenys would have set aside three centuries of family grudges and risked disinheritence to wed you—and yet—

And yet, your chest aches, and you cannot drag your eyes from his, wide and searching, tracing your face for a hint of an answer before you speak. You have never wanted any of them the way you want him. Never felt anything close to this—the tightness in your throat and the pull in your chest, the terrible, overwhelming urge to give in. 

You start to shake your head, and Aerion’s jaw tightens. “We can’t.”

“Why—”

“Because I will not see you exiled as I have been, Aerion!” you say loudly, shifting to get off of him, but he grabs your wrists to hold you in place before you can. His face is riddled with confusion, like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying—of course, he doesn’t, you think bitterly, because he hasn’t thought so far ahead. “You—you do not understand the gravity of my exile. I should be dead right now, Aerion. I should have been torn apart in the Ivory Yard. I parted on good enough terms with my father and the Tiger Party, yes, but the Elephants are the majority, have been the majority for three centuries, will likely be for the next three after what I’ve done. I am lucky that I am not dead, and if word gets back to the Elephants that the Targaryens have taken in someone they exiled for high treason, they can take it as a declaration of war, Aerion.”

Aerion presses his lips together. “They cannot do anything to Westeros—” You laugh, it is a harsh, cruel sound, and you roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. He is a fool—an arrogant, idiotic fool. “—They can’t. I would like to see them try to declare war on us. They would—”

“Westeros has been facing civil unrest for over a decade, Aerion,” you spit. “Do you think we are fools who do not pay attention to what happens across the Narrow Sea? Your lords are already looking for excuses to turn on you. The court bristles over Rhoynish influence, and the Blackfyres did not rise from nothing. They had support, they still have support. Men who lost lands and sons and pride for backing them, men who would seize any chance to see your line weakened again. They sit here in Essos now, building their power in that sellsword company that just sacked Qohor, and all the Elephants would have to do is whisper in the right ears, send the right coin—”

You shake your head. You cannot swallow away the lump in your throat. You knew all of this already—it has been hanging over you for several moons now, but it is different speaking it out loud. You will never be able to be with him, not unless he accepts that being with you would mean setting aside any hope of ever being able to go home. 

“Your father will not risk it—your king will not risk it,” you tell him. “Westeros cannot afford to make an enemy of Volantis when there is so much unrest already, and I will not see you bind yourself to me through blood and fire, knowing that as soon as you do, your father will have to permanently exile you to avoid a war with my people.”

He’s quiet for a long moment—too quiet, and too long. You expect him to argue, to snap and deny and twist your words into something easier to fight against, but he doesn’t. His grip on your wrists loosens slightly, not enough to let you go, but enough that it no longer feels like he’s trying to restrain you, so much as it is that he just wants you close.