The night had been a blur from the start, a dizzying cascade of laughter, music, and warmth that seemed too good to be real. You hadn’t meant to drink as much as you did, but one thing led to another - cocktail after cocktail, the thrum of the club’s bass pulling you in, the glittering velvet walls wrapping your vision into a cocoon of red and black. And then there was him. Baelor Targaryen. Tall, lean, impossibly composed, with those eyes... seemingly piercing right through you.

You first noticed him across the room, leaning against the railing above the VIP section, nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey, calm as the storm of flashing lights and screaming music around you. There was an effortless gravity to him, the kind that made you forget the crowd, the thudding music, everything but the way he moved, casually commanding attention without needing to do more than exist.

Somehow, in the course of the next hour, you found yourselves side by side, laughing at something or perhaps nothing, stepping closer with each round, the heat of the dance floor catching at your skin. Drinks clinked, laughter spilled over, and the world narrowed to him and the way his fingers brushed yours, sparking a thrill you hadn’t anticipated. The music roared, but the space between you had its own pulse, a rhythm all its own. You had gone from hanging with your friends – to them leaving you – to now dancing with this strangely beautiful, and strangely familiar man.

At one point, his hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently across the skin, tilting your head toward him. “Perhaps, we should go to my place..” he murmured, his voice low, quiet enough that even through the pounding music, you could hear it clearly. He was much older than you, and you did not know him – your mother would have scolded you if she knew anything about this. But, you nodded before thinking, arms looping around his shoulders, feeling the warmth of him pressed against you. He placed a firm, steadying hand on your arm, rubbing it with the faintest pressure that made your heart stutter. And then, with a confidence that was both intoxicating and terrifying, he grabbed your hand, lacing fingers with yours. You let yourself be led, heart in your throat, to the sleek black car waiting below the club. You couldn’t help but marvel at it - the shine, the polished curves.

The driver was waiting, discreet, no words exchanged; Baelor slid towards the car first, holding the door open for you. You stepped in gingerly, and he closed it gently behind you. You tried not to stare, but the interior - tasteful, elegant, almost unreal - made your chest tighten with awe and anticipation.

The ride was a blur of city lights, murmured conversation, and the occasional brush of his fingers against yours - every small touch made your pulse jump, every glance from his sharp, mismatched eyes setting your thoughts spinning; You clung to the moment, to the tiny, electric closeness of it all, and to the way his presence filled the car without effort.

Finally, the car stopped; he led you up the elevator, floor after floor until the city sprawled below, glittering and endless, windows catching the neon glow. The apartment door opened, and your breath hitched. High ceilings, vast windows overlooking King’s Landing, light spilling across sleek floors that gleamed like marble - everything screamed perfection. You froze for a moment, mouth slightly agape, and then felt him behind you, one long-limbed arm curling around your waist.

The heat of his body pressed against yours, grounding and overwhelming all at once. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your shoulder, the nape of your neck, murmuring, You flushed as he pressed himself against you; you felt everything rub against you as he did so. “How about we…” He lay down another kiss again, low and intimate, “…take this to the bedroom?”

You swallowed, your pulse hammering, mind spinning as you felt the weight of his hands and the quiet, unspoken dominance in the way he guided you forward. You didn’t need to see further; the heat, the closeness, the slow, teasing intimacy of it all spoke louder than words. You stepped forward, following him, caught between flustered nerves and the thrill of wanting, heart hammering like it might burst from your chest as the bedroom door swung open in front of you.

And then the world fell into touches, hot kisses, whispers of promise and moans dripping in lust and sin, the city outside irrelevant, the night stretching impossibly long, full of the memory of warmth, touch, and the kind of connection that left you dizzy before morning ever came.

The light that crept through the curtains hit your eyes with a force you weren’t quite prepared for - your head throbbed in perfect rhythm with a dull, persistent pounding behind your temples, the kind that only came from a night of reckless, thoughtless drinking. You groaned; curling back into the sheets, willing yourself to just stay there, to close your eyes and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. But reality clawed its way back almost immediately: your first class of the new semester was starting in two hours. You had a new professor, and you couldn’t afford - couldn’t even imagine - the embarrassment of arriving late.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes fluttered open, and everything hit you at once. The blur of neon lights, the thrum of pounding music from a club that’s name still lingered faintly in your head, the flash of Targaryen-red and black velvet walls in the VIP room, the sharp click of a car door slamming shut. You shivered at the memory of hands that had roamed freely, that had brushed against your skin in ways that sent both shivers and a faint, shocking thrill through your body. And beneath all of it, there was the warmth - the steady, surprising heat pressed beneath you as you had fallen asleep without realizing it.

Panic surged. You froze, your head turning just slightly, and there he was. Baelor Targaryen - eldest son of Daeron Targaryen, man who, until recently, had held more sway over Westeros’ than you could ever hope to tally - he lay fast asleep beneath you, utterly still, and somehow impossibly beautiful even in rest. His face was comely, sculpted with the kind of precision that made you catch your breath - he looked almost Dornish, strong jaw, lips that were both commanding and unnervingly soft. His eyes, they were pierced into your mind from last night; mismatched and startling - one deep brown, the other a piercing blue - were hidden now behind relaxed lids, but even like this, he exuded a quiet authority, a kind of silently dominant presence that seemed to seep into the room itself.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as your heart hammered; you clumsily shifted, rolling off the bed with as much care as you could manage, hoping fervently not to disturb him. Your eyes swept the apartment with a mixture of awe and dread - sunlight poured through the tall windows, illuminating sleek, modern furniture that was far beyond anything you had ever seen, glinting surfaces, and subtle details that screamed wealth and exquisite taste. This wasn’t just an apartment – it was a fortress, and you were painfully aware of how exposed you felt in it – you were stark naked.

Your gaze darted to your clothes, strewn in a chaotic heap across the floor; you scrambled, hands trembling slightly, tugging the shirt over your head and wiggling into your jeans with more urgency than grace. Your phone was already in your pocket, a small comfort, and you fumbled through the Uber app with trembling fingers, you had no clue as to where you were - but by looking out the window, you were in the richer part of Kings Landing. Your eyes flicked nervously toward him. Baelor shifted ever so slightly, stretching, and you froze, caught somewhere between admiration and panic. His chest rose and fell in steady, easy breaths. His body, long-limbed and beautifully tanned, relaxed in a way that was almost taunting - untouchable, untamable, and entirely his own. For a moment, you let yourself just watch, caught in the memory of last night: the heat, the closeness, the way his hands grabbed at your thighs– No. Not even. Not now. Not ever.

Pulling yourself together, you dressed as best you could, securing your bag over your shoulder, and finally made your way toward the door. Each step was careful and measured, carefully picking which overly polished floorboard to step on - the doorknob was cool beneath your hand, and when you slipped through the doorway, descending in the elevator and into the hub of apartment; the city of King’s Landing hit you like a splash of reality. The smell of Kings Landing wafted towards you – in the distance someone was cooking, but the salt of the sea wafted towards the centre; you grimaced as you inhaled. In the distance, the poorer districts of the city stretched out, modest and messy, a stark contrast to the perfection you had just escaped. You swallowed hard, leaning back against the curb for a moment, letting the sun warm your face, and hailed your ride. Cheeks still flushed, head still pounding, mind still reeling.

The thought gnawed at you, relentless: He’s my professor. He’s my professor. Somehow, it made your chest tighten and your stomach flutter at the same time yet somewhere behind the panic and the hangover, there was a spark of awe you couldn’t entirely suppress. The man who had spent last night pressed impossibly close to you, touching and kissing each part of you was now the man who would lecture you on the fucking history of Westeros. You sighed, slouching into the backseat.

You finally make it home, fumbling through the door with one hand clutching your bag, the other tugging at your hair in a half-panicked, half-conscious attempt to gather yourself. The house feels impossibly quiet now, the remnants of last night’s chaos lingering faintly on your skin, the faint scent of alcohol and perfume haunting and clinging to your hair. You take a slow breath, trying to steady the flutter in your stomach, then set about pulling clothes from the closet. Each piece is chosen with care - comfortable enough that you won’t feel suffocated, but deliberate enough that you won’t step into the classroom looking completely disastrous. Black jeans and a matching black long sleeve; with plenty of jewelry.

You shower swiftly; yet thoroughly. The bathroom mirror greets you, merciless in its reflection, and you take a moment to steady yourself. Taming your hair, you work it into shape – you swipe on a little makeup, enough to even out the redness on your cheeks and tame the slight shadows under your eyes - every movement feels ritualistic, measured, almost sacred in a way, as your mind flickers through the images of last night: the heat, his lips, his eyes, his voice, his hips– gods.. the impossibility of it all.

By the time you slip into your shoes and grab your keys, your pulse is still quick, your stomach fluttering like a warning that the day ahead may be more daunting than any hangover. The city outside your window hums with its familiar soundtrack: the low roar of traffic, the chatter of people moving through streets, the distant aroma of roasted street-side coffee drifting up from vendors already on their feet. You slide into your car, taking a steadying breath and gripping the wheel until your knuckles whiten. Your head thuds faintly in time with your heartbeat, a reminder that last night was far more vivid than a simple memory, far more than something you can neatly tuck away.

He can’t be teaching my class, you remind yourself, swallowing against the sudden dry lump in your throat. Maybe you should text a friend, see if he’s theirs. But no - time is bleeding away, creeping closer to ten minutes past the start of the semester, and hesitation is a luxury you don’t have. You start the engine, ignoring the dull protest of your skull, and pull onto the street, weaving through the early-morning traffic.

Arriving at campus, the usual hum of students and footsteps feels charged somehow, sharper, as if the air itself has shifted. You park quickly, grab your bag, and weave through the halls with eyes lowered, heart hammering, mind repeating the impossible thought: Baelor Targaryen - eldest of Daeron’s children, second in command of the company that practically owns all of King’s Landing is your professor. Everyone knew about the Targaryen family – they’ve had their claws dug into Westeros’ since the beginning of time it seemed.

You slip into the classroom quietly, hoping to blend in, hoping no one notices your flustered entrance. At the front, behind the desk, stands him. Baelor. Calm, precise, the kind of control that doesn’t need to be shouted to command attention. Dark cropped hair, glasses perched delicately on the bridge of his nose, which he adjusts with a tilt of his hand that somehow manages to look casual and deliberate at once.

Your body stiffens – for a heartbeat, he doesn’t notice, eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the students, the empty chairs. Then, slowly, subtly, his gaze lifts, and something shifts. Recognition flickers in his expression, bright and sharp, as if he’s just caught sight of something he didn’t expect. A quiet, knowing smile spreads across his face, faint amusement lighting the lines of his features. He pushes his glasses up, tilting his head slightly, grounding himself in the moment.

“Welcome to class,” he says, voice calm, deliberate, carrying that effortless authority that makes it impossible not to listen.

You nod, sliding into your seat, grimacing slightly as the awkward weight of the situation settles over your shoulders. The lecture begins, words spilling from his mouth in a measured rhythm, and you scrape out notes in careful handwriting, trying to anchor yourself. Your mind drifts back to last night, the memory of his hands on your throat and the feeling of his lips against yours- and you bite your lip to stop from imagining things you shouldn’t. He is all-consuming, even the thought of him.

His gaze cuts across the room, precise and piercing, and though he surveys every student, it lingers too long on you. You keep your head down, pretending to focus on your notes, heart hammering every time the corner of your eye catches him; the pulse in your ears matches the faint ache behind your eyes, your stomach twisting with every glance.

Finally, the bell rings. Relief surges through you, muscles loosening as students shuffle, chairs scraping against floors, papers rustling. You shove your notebooks into your bag, ready to escape the oppressive weight of his gaze, eager to leave the room and forget that any of this had happened.

Almost ready to leave, you hear it–

“Except you. Come to my desk.”

Your hands falter over the zipper of your bag. Slowly and carefully, you turn back. Thankfully, everyone has left by now. He is leaning against his desk now, arms folded, calm and measured, every inch the presence you remember from last night. His eyes are steady, unyielding, and they roam your body - taking everything in.

You take a deep breath, cheeks warming, and nod. “Yes… Professor?” Your voice is soft, tentative, betraying none of the boldness you wish you could summon.

His faint smile meets yours, approving but unreadable, and you start walking toward him, heart still hammering, mind spinning. Somehow, the semester has just become infinitely more complicated, and you know - without question - that nothing will feel quite the same again. His faint smile meets yours, approving but unreadable, and you start walking toward him, heart still hammering, mind spinning. Somehow, the semester has just become infinitely more complicated.

You stop in front of his desk, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. He unfolds his arms, straightening just enough to close the distance without crowding you - yet. His voice drops, low and teasing, as if he's savoring every word. "You left rather quickly this morning, angel."

His lips tweak into that knowing curve, eyes piercing through you like they did last night, stripping away any pretense. Heat floods your cheeks at the petname, and you flush under his watchful gaze, the memory of waking up tangled in his sheets crashing back – gods... "I-well..." You stutter, fingers twisting the rings on your hand, the metal cool against your heated skin. He steps forward, invading your space just enough to make your breath hitch. His hand lifts, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckles, a feather-light touch that sends sparks racing down your spine. "Where's that tenacity from last night, hm?" he murmurs, voice laced with challenge.

You lean into it instinctively, the warmth of his skin drawing you in like a magnet. That simple contact reignites something fierce inside you, a sudden wave of boldness bubbling up past the embarrassment - your body aches for more, the way he looks at you making your thighs press together, a dull throb starting low in your belly. You want him - god, you want him so badly it hurts, the need coiling tight and insistent.

"Maybe I was just... surprised," you whisper back, your voice gaining an edge as you tilt your chin up, meeting his gaze. The fire's there, flickering back to life, and you see it register in his eyes, that spark of approval.

He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and nods toward the door adjoining his office. "Come on, then. Let's talk about that surprise." His hand settles at the small of your back, guiding you with a firm press. You follow, pulse racing, as he leads you into the smaller room - his private space, walls lined with bookshelves and a wide desk dominating the center. The door clicks shut behind you, and you hear the lock turn, the sound echoing like a finality.

He has no more classes today, you realize dimly, the thought sending a thrilling shiver through you; It's just the two of you now, no interruptions, no excuses. He turns to you, leaning against the door for a moment, watching as you stand there, breath shallow. He’s dressed finely; decked out in some extravagant brand. His fingers trail up your arm, wandering slow and deliberate, mapping the curve of your shoulder before dipping to your collarbone. "Nervous?" he asks, but there's no mockery in it - just that teasing pull, drawing you closer; the same teasing tone he used last night whilst whispering promises into your ear.

You shake your head, stepping into him, your hands finding his chest. "Not anymore." The words come out bolder than you feel, but the heat in his eyes makes you believe them. He captures your lips in a kiss then, slow at first, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that's been building since the beginning of class. His tongue slips past your teeth, tasting you deeply, and you moan softly into it, your fingers curled into his finely pressed shirt.

His hands roam, one sliding down to grip your hip, pulling you flush against him so you feel the hard line of his cock pressing through his pants - the other tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, his beard scraping lightly against your chin. He breaks away only to trail his lips along your jaw, nipping at the skin there before moving to your neck, sucking a mark that makes you gasp. "That's my girl," he whispers against your pulse, voice rough with want. "Knew you'd come back fighting."

You push against him, guiding him toward the desk, the need for him and solely him making you reckless. He lets you, but only so far - his grip tightens, reminding you who's in control. When he sits in his chair, you don't hesitate; the fire surges low in the pit of your stomach- you want to please him. And so you do; you drop to your knees, slipping under the desk with a determined glint in your eye. His legs part for you, and you look up, hands already working his belt open, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.

"Eager, aren't you?" he says, voice dropping to a growl as you tug his zipper down, freeing his cock. It's thick and heavy in your hand, already leaking at the tip, and you wrap your fingers around the base, stroking once to feel him twitch. He hisses through his teeth, one hand coming to rest on your head, not pushing - just holding, guiding.

You lean in, tongue flicking out to trace from his balls upward, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin. He groans, low and guttural, "Ah, fuck," as you lap at him, swirling around the underside before reaching the head. Your mouth waters, and you take him in, lips stretching around his girth, sucking with a wet pull that makes obscene sounds fill the space. Saliva drips down your chin as you bob your head, tongue pressing flat against the vein pulsing along his length.

His hips buck slightly, fingers tightening in your hair. "Just like that, angel - suck it like you mean it-" The subtle praise hits you harder than expected, heat pooling between your legs, soaking through your panties. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, gagging a little when he hits the back of your throat but pushing on, the burn only making you wetter. He moans; the sound raw, and you feel him throb against your tongue, pre-cum bitter and slick.

You pull off with a pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock, and lick a stripe back down to his balls, sucking one into your mouth gently before releasing it with a hum. His free hand grips the armrest, knuckles white, as you work him over, messy and thorough, your hand pumping what your mouth can't reach. The desk creaks faintly above you, his control fraying.

"Enough," he rasps finally, pulling you up by your hair - not rough, but insistent; you almost moan at the tension in your scalp. You rise on shaky legs, lips swollen and glistening, and he yanks you into another kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands are everywhere, shoving your shirt up to palm your breasts under your bra, thumbs circling your nipples until they're hard peaks. He pinches one, drawing a sharp noise of surprise from you, and you arch into it, grinding against his thigh.

He stands, spinning you around so your back is to the desk, and lifts you onto it with ease. Papers scatter, but neither of you cares. His mouth is on your neck again, kissing and biting down your collarbone as he yanks your pants open, fingers diving straight into your panties. You're drenched, and he groans against your skin when he feels it, two fingers sliding through your folds. "So wet for me already. Dirty little thing, getting soaked in my classroom."

His tone makes you clench around nothing, a whine escaping as he circles your clit. "Please," you beg, hands fisting his shirt. He kisses you hard, swallowing your pleas, his beard rasping against your chin. His fingers plunge inside you, curling just right, and you buck against his hand, moaning at the stretch burning sweet.

But he pulls away too soon, smirking as you whimper at the loss. "Not yet." He strips you efficiently - pants and panties off in a tangle, shirt pushed up but left on, bra unhooked - then spins you again, bending you over the desk. Your cheek presses against the wood, ass up, and his hand comes down in a sharp slap, the sting blooming hot. You yelp, but push back for more, the pain twisting into pleasure.

"That's it, good girl." he praises, rubbing the spot before slapping again, harder. His cock nudges your entrance, slick with your spit and his pre-cum, teasing through your folds. You rock back, desperate, and he chuckles darkly. "So needy. Beg for it, sweetling."

"Please, fuck me," you rasp, the words tumbling out. He doesn't make you wait - thrusts in with one smooth push, filling you to the hilt. You cry out, walls fluttering around his thickness, the burn exquisite as he stretches you. He stills for a beat, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging into the flesh. This is far, far better than the drunken sex of last night.

Then he starts moving, slow at first, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the desk jolting with each thrust. You moan steadily, pushing back to meet him, the slap of skin on skin echoing. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, wandering over every inch he can reach - tracing your spine, squeezing your breasts - before settling on your throat from behind.

He leans over you, chest to your back, cock buried deep as he tightens his grip just enough to make your head swim. His lips find your ear, breath hot. "Taking me so well,” He thrusts deeper before continuing his litany of murmuring. “My perfect little slut, arching and clenching around me already." He groans; the noise sending a flutter through your body, your pussy tightening, and you moan louder, eyebrows knitting as the pleasure builds, sharp and overwhelming.

He thrusts harder, angling to hit that spot inside, his free hand slapping your ass again - once, twice - each impact making you gasp and squeeze him tighter. "You love it, don't you? Being fucked like this in my office, where anyone could hear." His taunts whisper hot against your ear, mingled with praise: "So tight, angel - fuck, you're dripping down my balls. Last night just wasn’t enough…" You clench at that, the dirty truth of it pushing you closer, your focus narrowing to the coil winding in your core, breaths coming in pants.

He kisses your shoulder, your neck, lips trailing fire even as he chokes you lightly, the dual sensation making stars burst behind your eyes. "Come on, let go for me. Milk my cock like the good girl you are." Another slap to your ass, and you shatter, climax crashing over you with a strangled moan of his name - walls pulsing around him, soaking his length as you tremble.

But he doesn't stop, drawing it out with relentless thrusts, his groans mixing with yours. "That's it - fuck, yes." He pulls back suddenly, hands clamping on your hips, holding you still as he watches where you're joined. His cock slides in and out, coated in your release, a sticky mess glistening between you. You tighten instinctively, still sensitive, and he groans deep at the sight. “Gods.. so tight f’me..”

The sight - or the sound of his voice - makes you whimper, aftershocks rippling through. He leans in again, kissing your spine, your hair, anywhere he can reach, hands wandering to pull you upright against him. One arm bands around your waist, the other hand slipping between your legs to rub your clit, prolonging the high. You kiss sloppily over your shoulder, tongues tangling, his cock grinding deep inside.

He picks up the pace, chasing his own release now, thrusts turning erratic. "Gonna fill you up," he mutters against your lips, nipping at your bottom one. You nod frantically, another orgasm building fast from the friction, his fingers working you mercilessly. "Yes, Baelor… please!" you gasp, and he slams home one last time - the sound of his name on your lips sending him into overdrive, groaning loud, "Ah, fuck," as he spills inside you, hot pulses flooding your pussy. You come again with him, clenching down, milking every drop until you're both spent, his weight pressing you into the desk. He stays buried, softening slowly, as you both catch your breath. His lips find your temple, kissing softly now, hands stroking your sides in lazy patterns.

After a moment, he pulls out gently, a slight gush of cum following, sticky and warm down your thighs. He turns you around, lifting you for a proper kiss - deep, passionate, his tongue exploring - even after all of that, he can't get enough.

His kiss lingers, warm and reassuring, before he breaks away with a soft chuckle, his mismatched eyes sparkling with affection. "We can't stay like this forever," he murmurs, glancing toward the office door as if someone might intrude any second.

He steps back, grabbing a box of tissues from his desk drawer - practical as ever.

Gently, he wipes the sticky trail down your thighs, his touch careful and intimate, like he's memorizing every inch. You take a few for yourself, dabbing at the mess between your legs, the cool paper a stark contrast to the heat still flushing your skin. He helps you straighten your shirt, fingers brushing your hips as he tugs your pants into place, then buttons his shirt with your assistance, your hands lingering on his chest as you straighten it from your incessant pulling.

Aerion: Need your help. Urgent.

The message comes just after nine—no greeting, no context. You stare at it for a second before typing back.

You: That sounds like a you problem.

Aerion: Get over here.

A beat. 

Aerion: Please. 

Aerion: And bring that face I like.

You exhale through your nose, thumb hovering over the screen longer than it should. 

You: You’re impossible.

Aerion: I know.

Aerion: See you soon, pretty girl.

By the time you reach his apartment, the hallway was quiet as the building settled into the late hour. You stop in front of his door and knock once, barely having time to pull back before it swings open.

Aerion stands there, already stepping aside like he expected you down to the second.

"Took you long enough.”

You brush past him without answering, the door clicking shut behind you as you shrug off your coat.

"You said urgent," you reply, "not life or death."

The living room has been half-dismantled, lamps dragged into corners and blinds drawn low, the overhead lights killed entirely.

On the coffee table sits a bulky VHS camcorder surrounded by a stack of labeled cassettes, and in the corner an old CRT monitor hums faintly, washing the room in a pale greenish glow. 

Aerion moves past you toward the coffee table without a word. He picks up the camcorder, cradling it in both hands before fiddling with it.

"…What is all this?" you ask, something between curiosity and amusement edging into your voice. 

He finally glances up, gaze dragging over you and lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. 

"Character study," he says. "Isolation. Routine. Subtle shifts in behavior." 

He reaches for one of the cassettes before popping it into the camera. 

"Professor wants something original." 

"That sounds like bullshit."

"It is," he agrees easily. "But it looks good on paper."

You drift closer, drawn in by the setup—the space he's arranged spare and specific, every element placed with intention.

“Stand there,” he says, nodding toward a cleared space in front of him.

You glance at it. “You didn’t say I was acting.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Just… exist there.”

“So you just called me over to make me your… what, subject?”

His mouth twitches faintly at that. “Something like that.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then tilt your head just slightly. “And what do I get in return?”

That earns you something—his gaze sharpening, interest flickering as he adjusts his grip on the camera.

“Depends,” he says after a pause. “Are you here to argue, or are you going to do what you came for?”

You blink at him, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Wow. Bossy today.”

His mouth twitches again as if he’s trying not to give you too much of a reaction. You hold his gaze for a moment, weighing it, then move to the spot without further argument. 

The camcorder comes up and you hear the soft mechanical click of it starting to record.

“Stay right there,” he says again, quieter this time, more to himself than to you.

You let your weight settle, arms loose at your sides, and look back at him through the lens.

It’s strange being watched this intently, not uncomfortable exactly, but present in a way everyday life rarely asks you to be.

You barely shift before his voice cuts in, calm and immediate. 

"You're thinking too hard," he says, without looking up from the viewfinder.

"You're pointing a camera at me."

"I've done worse." The smirk is audible. "Relax. Pretend I'm not here."

Easier said than done, but you try, letting your gaze slip off the lens before it lands on him instead.

The way his hands work over the camcorder, steady and precise. The quiet focus in his expression, the set of his jaw in the pale glow of the monitor—and lower, where his shirt has ridden up just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waist of his jeans.

God, he looked so good tonight.

You force your attention away before it lingers too long.

A few seconds pass and gradually you start to move. Slow and aimless, the way you might cross a room when no one's watching, picking something up off the shelf and setting it back down.

After a minute or two, you pause mid-step and glance toward him, one brow lifting.

“How long am I supposed to be doing this?”

“Until it stops feeling like a performance,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Keep going. Touch your hair. Roll your shoulders. Whatever feels natural.”

You exhale through your nose, somewhere between annoyed and amused, but you do it anyway.

One hand lifts to push your hair back, fingers lingering at the nape of your neck a beat too long. You can feel the lens tracking the movement.

He stepped closer, boots quiet on the hardwood. The camcorder stayed glued to his eye, but his free hand reached out, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

“Better,” he murmured.

The pad of his thumb grazed the shell of your ear, then trailed down the side of your neck, slow enough to raise goosebumps. 

“You’re tense. I can see it in your shoulders.”

“I’m being filmed by a man who texts like a hostage negotiator,” you shot back, but your voice had already softened, breath catching when his fingers continued their lazy descent, tracing your collarbone.

Aerion hummed, the sound vibrating low in his chest. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his body. 

The camera dipped slightly, angling down to capture the way your nipples had tightened visibly against the fabric.

A flush of heat rushed to your face as you became painfully aware of just how sheer the material was, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

You regretted not putting on a bra earlier—though, if you were being honest, a part of you had half-expected that coming over to Aerion’s, you wouldn’t really need one anyway.

"Take a breath," he said. "Let it out slow."

You did as he said, though the exhale came out unsteady, catching slightly as your chest rose and fell under his lens.

His thumb found the hollow of your throat, resting there just long enough to feel your pulse jump.

“Good girl.”

The praise landed hot and low in your belly. You hated how easily he could flip a switch from casual to charged with nothing more than a look and a few quiet words.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips. “This still for your project?”

“It was.” 

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s for me.”

The air shifts with it, subtle but immediate. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the air feeling thicker, more electric. 

He lowered the camera for a moment before taking a step fully into your space, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as he tilted your face up to his.

“Tell me to stop if you want,” he said against your lips, breath warm and mint-tinged. “But I think you like being watched.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead you rose onto your toes and kissed him. Slow at first, testing, then deeper when he groaned and pulled you flush against him.

His tongue slid against yours while his hand drifted down to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

When he broke the kiss, his lips brushed your ear.

“How about we make this a little more exciting,” he whispered, voice rough with want.

“Strip for the camera. Slow. Let it see everything.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. He pulled back, just enough to look at you—whatever he found in your expression seeming to satisfy him—then stepped away before raising the lens and finding you again, and this time there was nothing clinical about it.

Your gaze drops without meaning to, catching on the front of his jeans that pulled taut, the outline of him pressing against the denim in a way that made your mouth go dry. 

"Go on," he said quietly before stepping back and angling the lens towards you once more. 

You held his gaze for one second, then reached for the hem of your shirt, peeling it up and over your head.

The cool air hit your skin, nipples pebbling instantly under the camcorder’s indifferent stare.

Aerion’s eyes tracked every inch like he was memorizing you. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Keep going.”

You hooked your thumbs into your waistband next, pushing your pants down your hips, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your underwear.

The lace was already damp, and you knew the camera would catch that dark little spot when you turned just right.

Aerion made a low, appreciative sound. 

Without breaking eye contact, he sets the camcorder down on the coffee table. The red light keeps blinking, angled just right to keep both of you in frame. 

Then he closes the distance again, his hands finding you. He cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you arched into him with a soft moan. One hand slid down, slipping beneath the lace to find you slick and aching.

“So wet already,” he murmured, two fingers gliding through your folds before circling your clit with firm pressure. “All this just from me pointing a camera at you?”

You bit your lip, hips rocking instinctively against his hand. “Aerion…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw and down until it reached the sensitive spot beneath your ear. 

Suddenly he pushed two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right, and your head fell back on a broken moan.

The wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out filled the room, accompanied by the faint mechanical hum of the camcorder still recording every second.

Aerion’s mouth found your throat, sucking a mark into your skin while his thumb kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praised, voice dark and filthy. “Let the camera hear how pretty you sound when I touch you.”

Your legs trembled making you grab his shoulders for balance, nails digging in as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.

He pulled his fingers free suddenly, making you whimper, before bringing them up to his mouth and sucking them clean with a low groan.

He looked at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with heat as he licked the last traces from his fingers.

Without breaking eye contact, he undid his belt before shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, freeing his cock. 

It sprang out, thick and heavy, the flushed head already glistening with a bead of precum. He wrapped a hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, his thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive tip as he watched your reaction.

Then, softer but still commanding, he spoke with a wicked little smile, “On your knees, baby.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine.

You sank down without hesitation, the hardwood cool against your skin. Aerion moved closer, one hand tangling gently in your hair as he guided the head of his cock to your mouth, tapping it against your lower lip once, then twice.

“Wanna show the camera how good you use your mouth?” he murmured, the words dripping with filthy promise.

His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender.

“Open up for me, pretty girl. Let it see how deep you can take me.”

Your pussy clenched at the words. You looked up at him through your lashes, then parted your lips before taking him in.

The first slide of his cock over your tongue drew a deep, guttural groan from his chest. He was thick—stretching your mouth in that perfect, slightly overwhelming way.

You hollowed your cheeks and sucked, tongue swirling around the head before you sank lower, taking as much of him as you could.

“Fuck,” Aerion hissed, fingers tightening in your hair. His hips twitched forward, pushing another inch past your lips. “That’s it… just like that. Look at the camera while you suck me.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking toward the blinking red light.

The knowledge that it was recording every second, your spit-slick lips stretched wide around his cock and the way your throat worked when you took him deeper, made you moan around him. The vibration pulled another curse from Aerion.

He kept one hand in your hair as he started to rock his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts. 

“Gods, you look so perfect like this,” he rasped, voice strained with pleasure.

His gaze kept darting between your face and the camcorder.

“All sloppy and eager… taking my cock so well while the camera watches. You like knowing it’s filming how wet your mouth gets for me, don’t you?”

You hummed in agreement, the sound muffled and obscene. Drool had started to slip from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin but you didn’t care.

You bobbed your head faster, one hand coming up to stroke what you couldn’t fit, twisting gently on every upstroke the way you knew he liked.

Aerion’s head tipped back for a moment, a low, broken moan escaping him. His stomach flexed visibly under the hem of his shirt, and his cock throbbed against your tongue.

“Shit—slow down or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warned, but he didn’t pull away.

Instead he looked straight at the camera, lips parted and cheeks flushed, his signature arrogance melting into raw lust. 

“So fucking good with that pretty mouth… that’s my girl,” he groaned, violet eyes half-lidded as he stared back down at you.

He pulled out suddenly, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head of his cock.

You gasped for air, lips swollen and shiny, and he immediately tapped his cock against your tongue again, letting the camera catch the messy sight.

Aerion cursed under his breath, the sound raw and reverent.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek.

His voice dropped even lower, thick with lust.

“But first I’m going to fuck that tight little cunt while the camera records every second of you falling apart on my cock.”

The words hit you like a spark.

You looked up at him, lips parted and shiny and you barely had time to respond before he was hauling you up off your knees with strong hands under your arms. 

He spun you around and bent you over the arm of the couch in one smooth, possessive motion, your stomach pressed against the soft fabric, ass raised high for him—and for the camera.

He shifted the camera slightly so that the lens was perfectly positioned, capturing the curve of your back, the way your tits hung heavy and swaying, and the slick shine between your spread thighs.

Aerion stepped up behind you, one large hand smoothing possessively down your spine before gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

His other hand guided his cock, dragging the thick head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes that made you push back against him desperately.

“Eyes on the camera,” he reminded you, voice a dark rumble.

He leaned over your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he finally pushed inside slowly, allowing you to drink in every inch as he stretched you open.

A broken moan tore from your throat the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.

The stretch was perfect, almost too much, the slight burn only making the pleasure sharper.

“Fuck… so wet,” he groaned, hips flush against your ass.

He gave one shallow thrust, then another, letting you feel every thick inch.

He started moving faster, each snap of his hips driving deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely through the quiet apartment.

One hand stayed anchored on your hip while the other reached around to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.

Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, eyes locked on the blinking red light as he fucked you harder, the couch creaking beneath you with every powerful thrust.

The pleasure was already spiraling, sharp and relentless, but Aerion wasn’t done with you yet.

Without warning he pulled out, the sudden emptiness dragging a needy whine from your throat.

Before you could protest, his hands were on you flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion.

Your shoulders hit the couch cushions, legs splayed wide as he loomed over you, silver-blond hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving.

“Much better,” he murmured, voice rough. “I want to see your face properly when I ruin you.”

Aerion reached for the camcorder on the coffee table, scooping it up with one hand. The red light never faltered.

He held it steady, angling the lens down as he knelt between your spread thighs, framing the shot perfectly—your swollen, dripping cunt, the way your chest rose and fell, the desperate look in your eyes.

He stroked his cock before spreading your arousal along his length, then pressed the thick head against your entrance.

The camera captured every second, closer this time: the slow push as he sank back into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you open again with a wet, obscene sound.

A low groan tore from his chest the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.

“Fuck… still so perfect. Gripping me like you never want me to leave.”

He started thrusting immediately—deep, rolling strokes that made your back arch off the couch.

The camcorder stayed in his grip, pointed shamelessly between your bodies so it could record the way his cock disappeared inside you over and over, slick and shining with your combined wetness.

“That’s it,” Aerion growled, voice strained with pleasure.

“Let the camera see your face. Show it how pretty you look getting ruined. How your eyes roll back when I hit that spot riiiiight…there—”

A broken moan tore from your throat as white-hot pleasure exploded behind your eyes from the new angle.

Your back arched sharply off the couch, legs trembling uncontrollably while your fingers clawed desperately at the cushions beneath you.

“Oh fuck— Aerion!” you cried out, voice cracking as another precise thrust sent sparks shooting through your veins.

The coil in your belly tightened viciously, threatening to snap at any second.

He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Listen to those sweet little sounds you’re making for the camera. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, baby. You gonna come already? Gonna show the camera how beautifully you fall apart on my cock?”

“Gonna watch this later,” he snarled, slamming in deep with a brutal thrust.

“Gonna stroke my cock raw to the way your greedy little pussy clenches and milks me.” 

Another vicious thrust.

“Gonna cum so hard to the sight of you falling apart while I flood…” thrust “this…” thrust “tight…” thrust “sloppy fucking cunt.”

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, the pressure building fast and overwhelming under his relentless pace and the wicked swirl of his fingers on your clit.

The camera kept recording, merciless and intimate, capturing every twitch of your face, every bounce of your breasts, every slick thrust as Aerion fucked you closer and closer to the edge.

“Cum for me,” he demanded, voice breaking with his own impending release.

“Cum on my cock while the camera watches. Let it see how good you look when you’re mine.”

The coil snapped.

Your orgasm crashed over you violently, walls fluttering and clenching hard around his thick length as you cried out, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before you forced them open again, staring straight at the red light like he’d ordered.

Your whole body shook with the force of it, a broken sob of pleasure tearing from your throat.

Aerion groaned loudly, hips stuttering as your pussy milked him.

“Fuck—yes, just like that—”

He fucked you through it, kept the camera trained on your face through it all as he chased his own release with deep, punishing strokes until, with a guttural moan of your name, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard.

You felt every pulse as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you until it started to leak out around his cock with every shallow thrust he gave to ride it out.

He stayed buried for a moment, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat. Then he leaned down, pulling out just enough for the lens to catch the thick white cum leaking from your swollen pussy before he pushed back in, fucking it deeper with lazy rolls of his hips.

Finally, he reached over and stopped the recording, setting the camera aside on the coffee table with a soft click.

He looked down at you, eyes still dark but sparkling with mischief, a cocky grin spreading across his face.