k. 𓃴

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

Days had passed since that night.

Days when you'd wake with Aerion's name on your lips and your body still burning where the wax had marked you. Days when you'd sit at the breakfast table next to Maekar and feel your stepson's eyes on you, always on you, as if he could see right through your dress, through your skin, through all the layers of silk and shame you'd woven between you.

Maekar hadn't noticed a thing… 'course he hadn't.

The prince remained as distant as ever, as cold, as busy with his duties and his books and his legitimate children; the ones he'd had with his dead wife, never with you. He didn't see the marks hidden beneath your skirts, didn't see the way you avoided Aerion's gaze during meals, didn't see the tension settling into your shoulders whenever his son entered a room.

He didn't see 'cause he'd never looked.

And Aerion knew it, and he used that knowledge like a dagger, twirling it slowly between his fingers, admiring the blade's gleam before he struck.

Aegon's name day celebration would happen within a few hours, and all of Summerhall was getting ready for the feast, but first came the lunch, just the family, a prelude to the festivities that'd follow after nightfall.

You'd sat down next to Maekar, as always, and tried to focus on the salmon swimming in saffron sauce on your plate. The fish was cold, or maybe hot, you couldn't tell anymore, not with Aerion sat right across from you, five places down, carving a pomegranate with the same dagger he'd used at the dinner where they'd served boar.

Pomegranate.

The fruit seemed to haunt you.

Aerion bit into the seeds slowly, red juice dripping down his long fingers, staining his lips, and he watched you as he chewed, as he swallowed, as his tongue licked the ruby remnants from his mouth.

Next to you, Maekar argued with Daeron about taxes, maybe, or lands, or some other dull matter that didn't require your input. You thanked the gods silently for that — for not having to pretend interest, for being able to concentrate on not trembling under that gaze.

Aerion.

He tilted his head, slightly, like a dog scenting fear. Those violet eyes travelled across your face, down to your neck, to the pearl choker covering the teeth marks he'd left there, then back up again.

His lips moved, forming one word.

Mine.

You looked away.

Your hands, resting on the table, clenched into fists hidden beneath the embroidered cloth. You breathed deep, counted to ten, tried to remember what life had been like before Aerion, before his hands, before his mouth, before his taste on your tongue.

You couldn't… you couldn't remember anymore.

"The lady looks pale."

Aerion's voice cut through the table's murmur and you looked up. He wasn't eating the pomegranate anymore; now his fingers were wiping the juice on the tablecloth, leaving ruby stains that looked like blood.

"Does the salmon not please you?" he went on, tilting his head with that false concern only he could fake so well. "Shall I call a servant? Have something else made? A lamb, perhaps? Something sweeter... a fruit, maybe?"

Pomegranate.

"I'm fine," you answered, and your voice sounded braver than you felt. "Just not hungry."

"Ah." Aerion rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers under his chin, and his eyes gleamed with a malice no one else at the table seemed to notice. "But a woman must eat, stepmother. Especially a woman hoping to... fill out, shall we say."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Daella dropped her fork, Rhae went crimson to the ears, Valarr coughed, clearly uncomfortable, and Maekar finally looked up from his wine cup.

"What do you mean by that, Aerion?"

"Nothing, Father." The word was said with such perfect, natural disdain that it sounded like an insult. "I only remarked that my stepmother seems... different, of late. Lovelier. More... full."

Full.

The word echoed in everyone's mind around that table, loaded with double meanings Aerion made no effort to hide.

"A son's eyes see what a father's cannot," he added, and his eyes met yours again. "Or will not."

Maekar shoved his chair back.

"Aerion."

"Father." The reply came in the same tone. "I'm merely complimenting my stepmother. Is it forbidden now to praise a woman? Or is the problem that the praise comes from me?"

The whole table went tense, even the servants had stopped moving, wine jugs suspended mid-air. You looked at Maekar, who seemed to be starting to rage, and the hands that'd never touched you were clenched into fists on the table, his knuckles white with strain.

"Your place is five seats down from mine," Maekar said, and each word seemed to splinter from his teeth. "Remember that."

"I remember." Aerion tilted his head, and the movement was so graceful, so serpentine, it reminded you of a dragon preparing to strike. "I remember my place, Father. I remember every slight, every harsh word, every time you called me mad or an abomination for wanting what's owed to me."

He stood up and stepped behind his chair. You felt the heat of his body before you saw him, felt his closeness like a flame nearing your skin without yet touching it.

"And what's owed to you, brother?" asked Daeron, who'd watched in silence till then. His voice was calm, but there was a warning in it that only fools would ignore.

Aerion smiled.

"Everything."

His hands landed on the back of your chair. You felt his fingers brush your shoulders, and you shuddered.

"But for now," he went on, leaning down till his lips nearly grazed your ear, "I'm content with little. Just my stepmother's attention, since she seems so... interested in me as I am in her."

"Enough!"

Maekar stood up with such force that his chair toppled backwards, echoing on the stone like thunder. His face, usually impassive, was overtaken by a fury you'd never seen — a fury not directed at you, but at the provocation, at the humiliation, at the truth Aerion hinted at without ever speaking aloud.

"Come with me," he ordered, and his hand gripped your wrist hard enough to leave marks.

You didn't resist. You couldn't. Not when Aerion laughed softly behind you, that low, metallic laugh that'd haunt you till the end of your days.

"Enjoy yourselves," he said, as Maekar dragged you from the hall. "I'll wait for you at the feast. Don't be late... it'd be a shame for Aegon to miss his parents on his special day."

The doors closed behind you, but the laugh kept echoing in your mind, in your blood, in every inch of your skin that Aerion had marked as his.

Maekar didn't say a word as he dragged you through the corridors. Didn't say anything as you climbed the stairs, as you crossed the anterooms, as you finally reached the chambers you shared... if you could call that sharing.

Only when the door closed behind you, when the bolt slid into place with a click, did he let you go. And then, finally, he looked at you.

"What's between you and my son?"

The question was direct, without the slightest courtesy. Maekar didn't circle around it, didn't measure his words, didn't give you the comfort of an easy lie.

"Nothing," you answered, and your heart was beating so fast you swore he could hear it.

"Don't lie to me." He stepped forward, and you stepped back — one, two steps — till your back hit the cold wood of the door. "I saw how he looked at you. I saw how you tremble when he gets near. I saw the marks on your neck."

Your hands flew instinctively to your pearl choker, but it was too late. Maekar had already seen. Maybe he'd always seen, and had only chosen to ignore it till Aerion's provocation grew too big to ignore.

"They're nothing," you lied again, and you hated yourself for how your voice shook.

Maekar stepped closer. Now you were so close you could feel the heat of his body, could see the small wrinkles around his eyes, could count every silver strand in his hair.

"Take off the choker."

"Maekar…"

"Take off the choker or I'll take it off myself."

Your hands shook as you reached for the back of your neck, as you undid the clasp, as the pearls spilled through your fingers like white tears. The choker fell to the floor with a soft sound, and the silence that followed was deafening. Maekar looked at the marks on your neck. Bites. Bruises. The undeniable proof that another man had been there, that another man had touched you, that another man had claimed you as his.

"How many nights?" The question came out low, controlled, but there was something you'd never seen in Maekar; something that wasn't coldness, wasn't indifference, wasn't the resignation of a man who no longer cared.

It was jealousy. It was wounded pride.

"Maekar, I can explain…"

"Explain what?" He laughed, and the sound was so bitter it hurt to hear. "That while I slept alone in my chambers, my own son…"

"You didn't sleep alone." The truth escaped before you could stop it. "You slept away from me by choice, 'cause you don't want me, 'cause you never wanted me, 'cause you told me plain as day I'd never be your dead wife!"

Maekar stepped back half a pace, and for the first time since entering the room, he looked uncertain.

"She's dead," you went on, and now the anger you'd held in for months, for years, finally spilled out. "She's dead, Maekar, and I'm alive. I'm here! in your bed, in your castle, under your name. And you... you'd rather have a woman rotting in the ground than touch the wife the gods gave you."

"How dare you…"

"Dare what?" You moved away from the door, and now it was you stepping forward, pressing him, finally saying everything you'd kept silent. "Speak the truth? Tell you that your son touched me where you never did? Reveal that he made me feel more wanted in one night than you made me feel in our whole marriage?"

Maekar's hand rose, and for a moment, you thought he'd hit you, but no. His hand closed around your arm, pulled you against his body, and his lips found yours in a kiss that wasn't love, wasn't desire, wasn't anything you'd dreamed of in the lonely nights when he slept with his back to you.

It was possession.

It was the fury of a man who, even without wanting you, couldn't stand the thought that another man had had you.

The kiss was hard, almost cruel — lips pressing against yours hard enough to hurt. His beard scraped your skin, and when he finally pulled back, his eyes were as dark as Aerion's had been on the night it all began.

"Undress."

"What?"

"Undress," he repeated, and there was no love in his voice. Just order, command, the demand of a husband who'd finally decided to exercise his rights. "You're going to consummate this marriage. Now. Here."

"Why?" you asked, anger rising. "'Cause your son touched me first? 'Cause the thought that he had me wounds your pride?"

Maekar didn't answer, his hands were already working at the laces of your dress, pulling, tearing, destroying the seamstresses' hours of work.

"'Cause you're mine," he said at last, when the dress fell at your feet and you stood before him in your slip and nothing more. "By right. By contract. By the gods and by men. You're my wife, and I'm going to make sure everyone knows it."

"Everyone, no," you answered, and then it was your turn to laugh a bitter, tired laugh. "Just you. 'Cause I was never yours, Maekar. Never. You never wanted me, never touched me, never looked at me like a man looks at his wife."

He stopped.

"The marks on your neck," he said slowly. "The bites. The bruises. It was him, wasn't it?"

You didn't answer.

"How many nights?" he pressed. "How many times did my own son…"

"Enough to know," you went on, 'cause you were at rock bottom and there was no reason to stop now, "what it's like to be touched by a man who truly wants me. Enough to know that there are men, even madmen, who look at me like I'm a feast, not a burden."

Maekar stepped forward, his hands grabbed your shoulders, shoved you against the door, and his body pressed against yours with a force that stole your breath.

"You want to be desired?" he snarled, his hot breath burning on your face. "That what you want? To be touched like a piece of meat?"

"I want," the word escaped before you could think, "to be desired by my husband. I want the man who took me as his wife to truly want me. I want…"

"You'll get what you want," Maekar cut in, and then his hands went down, tore your slip, bared your naked body before him. "But you won't like it. 'Cause I'm not my son. I'm not soft, I'm not sweet, I won't fool you with pretty words while I tear your dress off."

He pulled you by the hair — just like Aerion had done — and you hated how your body responded, how your cunt grew wet, how your nipples hardened under Maekar's gaze.

"I'm going to fuck you," he said, and the word sounded strange in his mouth, almost out of place, like he wasn't used to saying it. "I'm going to fuck you till you forget my son's name. Till you remember nothing but my weight on top of you. Till your body knows, without a doubt, who you belong to."

He threw you on the bed.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't like Aerion, who'd guided you with firm but careful hands, who'd put you on your knees with something close to reverence. Maekar just shoved you, and you fell onto the sheets, your breath caught, your naked body exposed to the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

He didn't undress in a hurry.

There was no seduction in his movements, just efficiency. When he came to the bed, you saw the desire in his eyes, but it was a strange, twisted desire, born not of attraction but of the need to prove something. To himself. To you. To Aerion.

"Turn over," he ordered.

"What?"

"Turn over. I want you on all fours. Like a bitch."

The shame burned on your face, on your chest, on every inch of your skin. But you obeyed. 'Cause part of you — the part Aerion had woken, the part that craved being desired, even if in the worst possible way — wanted to see how far Maekar would go.

Wanted to know if he was capable of cruelty.

Wanted to know if he was capable of being, even for a moment, the husband you'd always wanted.

The bed creaked under his weight. You felt his knees between yours, spreading your legs, exposing your wet cunt to the room's cold air. And then you felt his fingers — rough, calloused from the sword — tracing your back, down the curve of your spine, finding the path between your arse cheeks.

"You're already wet," he observed. "Was it for him? Did you get wet thinking about my son?"

"No," you lied.

But his fingers found the entrance to your cunt.

"Liar," he spat, and then his fingers moved away, and you heard his breathing change, felt his weight shift over you.

The first thrust went wrong, his cock grazing your thigh instead of finding its mark. The second was surer, the head pressing at your cunt, and you held your breath.

"You're going to feel this," Maekar promised, and then he pushed.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't like Aerion. Maekar just pushed deep, all at once, like a man driving a sword into an enemy. The cry that escaped your lips was surprise, pain, a pleasure so sudden it hurt. He was different from Aerion — thicker, maybe, or maybe it was just the angle, the position, the lack of preparation — but your husband didn't wait for you to adjust.

He started moving straight away, hard thrusts, rhythmic, that made the bed bang against the wall. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, and he pulled you against him with each stroke, like he wanted to bury himself even deeper, like he wanted to merge with you.

"Yes," he groaned. "Yes. Now you know. Now you know what it's like."

Your hands fisted in the sheets, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short gasps. Maekar fucked you like a man possessed, like a man who'd woken from a long sleep and found his wife in another's bed. There was no tenderness in him, no care, just a raw, hungry need that bordered on violence.

And God help you... you wanted it.

You'd wanted it for so long. Wanted your husband to look at you like this, to touch you like this, to take you like this. Not the cold courtesy he'd shown you since your wedding night, not the distant respect he gave a stranger sharing his roof, but this... this brutal, honest, desperate claiming.

"Maekar," you gasped.

"Say my name again," he growled, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. "Say it. I want to hear it from those lips he kissed. I want to know you know who's fucking you."

"Maekar!"

Your body tightened around him, not from your peak, not yet, but from the shock of it, from the strangeness of having him inside you after so long of having nothing. He felt it, and his hand snaked around your hip, found your clit, and started rubbing in rough circles that made you see stars.

"That's it," he grunted. "That's it. You're going to come for me. You're going to come on my cock like a good wife. And then you're going to forget he ever touched you."

His fingers pressed harder, moved faster, matching the rhythm of his hips. Your body was no longer your own, it was a storm of sensation, of heat, of pleasure building like a wave about to break. You heard yourself moaning, felt your cunt clenching around him, felt the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

"Come," Maekar ordered, and his voice was raw, desperate. "Come now."

And you did.

Your body arched, your mouth opened in a silent scream, and the wave crashed over you; pleasure so intense it was almost pain, pleasure that blotted out everything but the feeling of your husband's cock buried inside you, of his fingers on your clit, of his body pressing you down into the sheets.

Maekar kept moving through your peak, his thrusts growing more erratic, more desperate. You felt him thicken inside you, felt his movements grow shorter, more frantic, and knew he was close.

"I'm going to come inside you," he warned, his voice almost a growl. "I'm going to fill you with my seed. You're going to get pregnant. You're going to give me a son. You're going to…"

"Maekar."

The voice wasn't yours; it came from the other side of the door, muffled but clearly male. Daeron.

"Father, everyone's waiting for you. Aegon's asked for you three times now. The celebration's about to start."

Prince Daeron, the heir, the king's favourite and who was now just outside the door, just a few yards away, while his father… Maekar stopped. His body was tense over yours, his cock still buried inside you, his breath ragged against your neck.

"Not now," he answered, his voice hoarse, strained.

"Grandfather insists." Daeron sounded uncomfortable (and who wouldn't be?) "He says he won't start without you. That it's your son's name day, and you ought to be there."

You felt Maekar hesitate, felt his body fight against reason, against duty, against everything he was as a prince and a father. And then, slowly, he pulled back. His cock slipped out of you with an obscene sound, and the room's cold air hit your wet, exposed, throbbing cunt. You felt his seed dripping down your thighs, 'cause he hadn't finished, not completely, and you wouldn't have his child tonight.

"Go," Maekar said at last. "Tell your brother we'll be along."

You heard footsteps retreating, then silence once more.

You stayed on your knees on the bed, your body still trembling from the remnants of your peak, your mind spinning with thoughts you couldn't organise. Maekar moved away, sat on the edge of the bed, his back to you.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "And don't say a word about what happened here."

"Maekar…"

"Not a word."

He stood up, started dressing in sharp, jerky movements; like he could erase what had happened just by covering his own body.

"And your son?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. "What'll you do about Aerion?"

Maekar stopped, one hand on the clasp of his trousers.

"He'll be sent away," he said, and now his voice was terribly, irrevocably calm. "As soon as the celebration's over. Tonight, before dawn. He'll go to Lys, or maybe Myr, or to the edge of the world if the gods are kind. It doesn't matter. What matters is he won't stay here."

"Why?"

"'Cause you're my wife." He finally turned to look at you. "And I won't have him near you. Not anymore. Not after this."

"And then?" you asked. "After he's sent away? What'll become of us?"

Maekar stepped closer, and for a moment you thought he'd touch you — but no. His hands stayed at his sides, clenched into fists.

"Then we'll try," he said. "We'll try to have a child. We'll try to be husband and wife. We'll try to... build something."

"And if we can't?"

"Then," Maekar answered, and his gaze slid away, "you'll have no choice but to accept what I give you. 'Cause he won't return. And even if he did... he won't be the same."

He turned away, grabbed his cloak, and headed for the door.

"Get dressed," he repeated. "Aegon's waiting."

The door opened and closed, and you were left alone in the room that smelled of sex and tears, your body still marked by the hands of two men.

Aegon's name day feast took place in the gardens of Summerhall, beneath a sky that was starting to darken, speckled with the first stars. You arrived late — Maekar was already there, greeting guests as if nothing had happened, as if his seed wasn't still trickling down your thighs — and you were met by a whirlwind of smiling faces and cups of sweet wine.

But there was one face not among the crowd. You looked for him through the guests, through the tables covered with delicacies, through the musicians tuning their instruments, and you couldn't find him anywhere.

Until you felt that gaze burning on the back of your neck like the wax on the night it all began. You turned slowly, and there he was — leaning against a distant column, away from the lights and the music, a cup of wine in his hand and that crooked smile on his lips.

Aerion wasn't dressed for the feast.

He wore a dark tunic, almost black, which made his silver hair shine like a beacon in the twilight. Those pale eyes were fixed on you — only on you — and when your gazes met, he raised his cup in a toast.

Cheers, his lips formed.

You looked away.

You found Maekar in the middle of the crowd, talking with Daeron, his face as serious as ever. For a moment, you thought about going to him, about grabbing his arm, about pretending everything was fine — but your feet wouldn't move. And when you looked back at the column, Aerion had vanished as if he'd never been there.

Night fell completely, and the torches were lit, turning the gardens into a sea of dancing lights. The children ran between the tables, laughing, while the adults drank and danced to the musicians' songs. You danced with Aegon, who barely reached your shoulders and already showed the grace of a true Targaryen, then with Valarr, then with Daeron, who was polite and distant as always.

Maekar didn't dance with you.

Until, in the middle of a waltz, you felt a hand on your waist that didn't belong to your dance partner.

"Excuse me," Aerion said to the knight you were dancing with — some stupid young man from a minor house — and he dismissed him with such a cold look that the lad practically fled.

Then he pulled you to him.

"Where were you?" he asked, as he led you in a dance that wasn't the one the musicians were playing.

"With your father," you answered, and saw his eyes narrow.

Aerion's hand tightened on your waist hard enough to hurt, even through the velvet and silk of your feast-day dress — a dress you'd chosen carefully for that night, low-cut enough to attract but not enough to scandalise, black and lilac like the eyes the dragon didn't have.

"I know you were with him. I know what he did."

It wasn't a question, but you answered anyway.

"Yes."

The musicians played a cheerful song, one of those melodies that invited laughter and carefree spinning, but Aerion led you with precise steps, and each time he made you turn, his eyes travelled across your body as if he could see right through your dress.

"And did you like it?" he asked. His voice was low, just for you, but there was something in it that made you shiver. "Did you like having my father inside you?"

"It was..."

"It was what?" He pulled you closer, so close your bodies nearly touched, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him like a dragon. "Was it better than with me? Did he make you scream his name like you screamed mine?"

You looked away.

"Look at me."

You didn't obey.

His hand left your waist, found your chin, forced your face up with a gentleness that was more threatening than any violence. Those violet eyes — almost black in the torchlight — burned with an intensity that stole your breath.

"I told you to look at me."

So you looked.

"He didn't finish," you said, and saw surprise cross Aerion's face before he mastered it. "He... heard your brother outside. Daeron. And he stopped."

"Stopped?" The word came out as a whisper, and then Aerion laughed. "My father stopped in the middle of the act? My father, the great Prince Maekar, the man of duty and honour, couldn't finish what he started?"

"He's going to send you away," you went on. "Tonight. Before dawn. He said he'd send you to Lys, or to Myr, or to the edge of the world."

The dance carried you to a more secluded part of the garden, where the shadows of the trees stretched like skeletal fingers over the grass. Aerion stopped dancing, but he didn't let you go. His hands stayed on your waist, and his eyes examined you as if reading every thought on your face.

"And you?" he asked at last. "Do you want me to go?"

"My place is here."

"Your place," he repeated, and then his hands went up, found your face, and his thumbs traced the outline of your lips with tenderness. "is beside me. It always was. From the moment I first saw you, from the moment you walked into this castle in that awful dress your mother picked and that frightened look you thought you hid so well."

"I was just a girl."

"You were." He tilted his head, making him look younger, more vulnerable, more human than you'd ever seen him. "You were a frightened girl who got sold to a man who didn't want her. And now you're a woman who's going to be had by two men in the same day, and neither of them asked you what you wanted."

"People don't ask women what they want."

"People don't," he agreed. "But I do."

His hands were still on your face, his thumbs still tracing slow circles on your lips, and you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.

"What do you want?" Aerion whispered. "Not what you should want, not what they expect of you, not what's proper or right or acceptable. What you want, truly, at the bottom of your soul where no one else sees?"

The word formed in your mind, on your tongue, in every cell of your body — but you didn't say it. You couldn't. Saying it would make real what was still just a dream — a nightmare, maybe, but one you didn't want to wake from.

"I want to go with you."

"What?"

"Take me with you."

"Where?"

"To Pentos. To the Free Cities. Anywhere but here." The words spilled out now, a flood you couldn't stop. "I can't stay, Aerion. Not after today. Not after him. If I stay, I'll spend the rest of my life in that bed, letting him use me whenever his pride gets bruised, and I'll grow old and bitter and I'll hate him and I'll hate you and I'll hate myself most of all."

"And what would we do in Pentos?" he asked, and his voice was strange — cautious, like a man afraid to hope.

"Whatever we want." You reached up, touched his face, felt the slight roughness of his jaw beneath your fingers. "You said you have friends there. Men who don't care about names or titles or who a woman should or shouldn't fuck. Men who owe you favours, and who'll pay those favours with gold and safety and a ship that'll take us anywhere we want to go."

"You're mad."

"I'm mad," he smiled, and the smile was as beautiful and as terrible as you could imagine. "And you're desperate, and together we're the most dangerous combination Westeros has ever seen."

His hands left your face, went down your arms, found your hands.

"My father consummated the marriage," he said. "That means, in the eyes of gods and men, you're his. Forever."

The blow struck true, and you felt the weight of his words like a knot in your stomach.

"But no one saw," Aerion added. "No one knows. It happened behind closed doors, with no witnesses, no septon, no blood on the sheet that fools demand to prove what did or didn't happen."

"Maekar knows."

"Maekar won't tell. What would he say? That he finally decided to fuck his own wife after years of neglect, and that he did it 'cause he was jealous of his son? That's not consummation, that's... weakness. Shame. Things my father will never admit."

You knew he was right, and you hated it. Hated how Aerion could see through people, how he could find the crack in every suit of armour, the weak spot in every heart.

"The marriage can be annulled," he went on, and each word was a hammer blow, forging something new from the wreckage of your life. "It wasn't witnessed. There was no blood. No proof. Maekar can shout from the rooftops that he had you, but without proof, it's just his word against yours."

"And why would anyone believe me over a prince's word?"

"'Cause I'll be at your side." Aerion lifted one of your hands, brought it to his lips, and kissed your knuckles with a reverence that made you shudder. "'Cause I'm a prince too, no matter how much my father likes to forget. 'Cause I have friends in places that matter, and enemies in places my father can't even imagine. 'Cause..."

He hesitated, and for the first time since you'd known him, you saw uncertainty in his eyes.

"'Cause I can give you a child," he said quietly. "Not tonight, not tomorrow, but when the time comes, when we're safe, when no one can part us. I can give you a child, an heir — someone who'll be yours truly, not by marriage or by duty, but 'cause I'll put them inside you with my own hands, with my own mouth, with every part of me that burns when I touch you."

"You're asking me to leave everything behind."

"I'm asking you to choose something," he corrected. "For the first time in your life, I'm asking you to choose. Not what you've been told to choose. Not what's expected or safe or sensible. What you want."

The feast went on around them, and you could hear Aegon's laugh, Maekar's deep voice giving some toast, the clinking of cups and the sound of stolen kisses in the dark corners of the garden.

"If I go," you said at last, "I can never come back."

"If you stay," Aerion answered, "you'll never be free."

He let you go, stepped back, and you felt the lack of his warmth immediately — like someone had pulled a blanket off you on a winter's night.

"I have a carriage waiting at the rear gate," he said. "My father thinks he's sending me into exile tonight, but it's me who's leaving of my own will. I'll take what's mine."

"And what's yours?"

His eyes met yours.

"You."

The silence stretched between you, full of everything unsaid, of all the nights you'd dreamed of something you dared not name, of all the touches given and received in the shadows.

"I have to..." you began, but you didn't know how to finish that sentence.

"Think," said Aerion. "But don't think too long. The carriage waits till midnight. After that... after that, I'll be alone on the road to Pentos, and you'll be alone in my father's bed, letting him fuck you whenever his pride aches."

He turned and started walking, his steps silent on the grass.

"Aerion."

He stopped, but didn't turn.

"Where do I find you?"

The question escaped before you could think, and you saw his shoulders tense beneath the dark tunic.

"East corridor," he answered. "The one leading to the abandoned tower. Midnight."

"What if I don't come?"

"Then," he said, and finally turned around, "I'll know you've made your choice. And I'll respect it. In my own way."

He was gone before you could reply, disappearing into the shadows of the trees as if he'd never been there at all.

The next few hours were a blur.

You danced more, drank more, smiled more than you'd ever smiled in your whole life. You talked with Aegon about his toy dragons, with Daella about her plans to marry a knight in shining armour, with Rhae about the books she read in secret. You pretended nothing was wrong, that nothing had changed, that your body wasn't a battlefield where two men had waged war.

Maekar watched you from afar, but he didn't come near. Maybe he felt ashamed of what he'd done, or maybe he just didn't know what to say. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

At eleven, you said your goodbyes.

You said you were tired, that your head hurt, that you needed to lie down before the wine took too strong an effect. Maekar just nodded, distant as ever, and went back to talking with Daeron about matters that didn't need you there.

You climbed the stairs towards your chambers, and inside the room, you closed the door, slid the bolt across, and then... then you just stood there in the middle of the chamber, looking around as if seeing that furniture for the first time. The bed where Maekar had fucked you hours before, the sheets still rumpled, the damp patch where your body had been. The vanity where you sat every morning so the maids could do your hair. The wardrobe with dresses you'd never asked for, jewels you'd never worn, shoes that pinched your feet.

Nothing there had ever been yours.

The button on your dress was fake pearl, and you tore it off with your teeth, spitting it on the floor like a pomegranate seed. The dress fell at your feet, and you stepped on it as you walked to the wardrobe.

You took nothing.

Just your underthings — a tight corset, wool stockings, and leather boots that'd seen better days. No jewels, no gold, nothing that could be traced or remembered — just yourself. And the dagger you'd found in Maekar's drawer, one night when you'd been looking for something to cut the laces of a dress. A hunting dagger — short, curved blade, a handle of bone blackened by time. You hid it in your boot and felt the cold metal against your shin like a promise.

Midnight.

The castle was silent — the guests had left, the children were asleep, the servants had gone to their beds. You opened the chamber door, peered down the corridor, and saw no one.

You took the back stairs, the ones the servants used, the ones no one remembered were there. The east corridor was the darkest in the castle, the one leading to the abandoned tower where they said a Targaryen had gone mad centuries ago. The torches were out, and you went forward blindly — one hand on the wall to guide you, the other on the dagger hidden in your boot.

"I knew you'd come."

The voice came from the darkness, and then hands grabbed you, pulled you against a warm body, and lips found yours in a kiss of possession — one of hunger, of a man who'd waited too long and couldn't bear the wait any longer.

Aerion.

He kissed you like he wanted to devour you, like he wanted to suck your soul out through your lips, like the world would end that night and he needed every moment. His hands roamed your body with an urgency that stole your breath, finding the curves the dress had hidden, the places he already knew so well.

"You said you consummated the marriage," he murmured against your mouth, and then shoved you against the stone wall, his body pressing into yours, his erection evident even through his clothes. "You said my father was inside you."

"Yes."

"Then you'll pay for it," he snarled. "You'll pay for every inch of you he touched. Every moan he pulled from you. Every drop of pleasure you felt in his arms."

"That's not fair. You…"

"Fair?" He laughed, and the laugh echoed in the dark corridor. "There's no justice here, my sweet stepmother. Just me and you and what I want to do with you."

His hands grabbed your slip, tearing it from neck to hem, baring your naked body under the faint moonlight coming through a distant window. You heard his breathing change, heard the low groan that escaped his lips as his eyes travelled over your marks — Aerion's bites still red on your neck, Maekar's fingers bruising your hips.

"Look at you," he whispered. "All marked. All used. All mine."

"You weren't there."

"I was." He kissed you again, and then his hands went down, found your cunt, and his fingers slid through it with a familiarity that made you moan. "I was there in thought, in spirit. And now I'm here — in flesh and bone — and I'll do more than my father could ever dream of."

He turned you around, forcing you against the wall, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding your ear.

"I'm going to fuck your arse," he said, and the word sounded obscene, forbidden, delicious. "To punish you. For being disobedient. For letting another man touch you. For forgetting — even for a moment — that you belong to me."

"Please," you heard yourself moan, the plea escaping before you could stop it.

"Please, what?"

"Please punish me."

Aerion groaned — a guttural, animal sound that vibrated through his body against yours. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, and you felt his fingers dig into your skin, pulling you back against him.

"That what you want?" he asked. "Want me to fuck you hard? To fill you till you can't remember your own name? To make you forget there was ever another man besides me?"

"Yes. Yes, please, Aerion — yes."

He let you go for a moment — just long enough to hear the sound of his trousers being undone — and then his hands were back, pulling at your hips, positioning you exactly where he wanted.

"Just so we're clear," he said, and now his voice was terribly calm, "this isn't about pleasure. This is about punishment. It'll hurt. You'll cry. You'll beg me to stop, and I won't stop. I'll keep going till you're so full of me you can't think of anything else."

"I just want you to fill me."

The words came out before you could think, and you heard Aerion's low laugh behind you.

"And you will be," he promised. "But first…"

The first thing you felt was his finger — cold, slick with spit — pressing at the entrance of your arse. You held your breath, your body tense, your hands pressing against the stone wall in front of you.