Not when the maids gushed about Targaryen beauty, and fantasized about how many white-haired children you might bear. Not when your father spent lavishly on you, paying attention to you for what felt like the first time in your life. Not when your mother cupped your face and told you about the secrets of the bedchamber, and how it wasn’t that bad, in fact, it could even be enjoyable.

No. Especially not then.

In the end, a mere three weeks from the wedding, you realized it did not matter how you saw it. As depressing as the thought was, it also bought a sense of freedom. The wedding was happening. There was no changing that. But you could change your feelings.

You resigned yourself to the reality of impending married life.

Aerion Targaryen did not have a good reputation. You had attempted to bring it up with your father several times, only to be hushed and scolded.

Aerion had a proclivity for cruelty and was rumored to be quite the brute. You got yourself used to the idea of him that way. Used to the idea of grabbing hands and blank eyes. You ran over it all again and again until you felt nothing more than a dull disdain.

You could handle the cruelty of a stupid boy, you decided. Even if he was a Targaryen prince. You would do your duty, no more, no less, and survive.

Two weeks before the wedding, your family journeyed to Summerhall. The journey was long and tiring and you hardly registered a moment of it.

The castle was grand, the grounds larger than comprehension and well kept. You had never seen so many staff, nor larger rooms and nicer furniture. You noticed it all with dim interest, your mind focused on the task at hand – marry the Targaryen prince. Bear him children. Live.

Aerion Targaryen was beautiful. They all were, of course. He had a rather delicate look about him, despite all the rumors that whirled around him. For a moment you thought you had been wrong in your assumptions – and then you saw his eyes. They looked like the eyes of a dead man, cold and distant and greedy.

Then and there, you made the choice that whatever children you would bear, would never grow up to be anything like him.

You were not sure what to expect of his siblings. The youngest, Aegon, stayed mostly out of the way. You wished you could have done the same.

His father, Maekar, had a habit of worming his way into your eyeline, into your mind and conscious. Tall, white-haired and stoic. You had met him for the first time on the day you had arrived, before you had even met Aerion.

He had looked at you intensely. It had made you want to scream. He knew what his son was like, more so than anyone else. How dare he drag you here as a sacrifice to placate the dragon?

Maekar had held your hand with surprising tenderness and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His beard had scratched at your skin, breaking the panic building in your chest. You had inhaled then, loud and clumsy, and he had held you for a beat longer than appropriate. The air had been heavy as you awoke from what felt like a dream, blinking as sensation seemed to flood back into your body. He had let you go then, but you had felt him watching you as you disappeared with the rest of your family.

With your mind practically turned into mush, you did not deign to notice much else. Aerion’s brothers were nice enough, even the one who was with a cup of wine more often than not. His youngest brother looked at Aerion with something that you did not care to name. If he was cruel to his family members, what hope did you have?

Marry the Targaryen prince. Bear him children. Survive.

But when the ceremony came, and you were stood opposite your betrothed, it was not Brightflame who lifted your veil and slid a ring onto your finger.

In your mind, Summerhall had been drenched in heat and stickiness. Always green grass, fresh fruit and long hours of daylight. No matter how you felt about your husband-to-be, you’d never been able to shake the fanciful image of a place suspended year-long in the peak of Summer.

Nestled in the window nook of your room, you laughed quietly to yourself. The weather outside was grey and dreary, and it had been drizzling for days. Not a proper rain, just a pathetic spattering that made you cold to the bone and lazy.

You twisted the ring on your finger, as you had been wont to do ever since the wedding. It fit you perfectly, despite supposedly being a family heirloom. It was an elegant thing, gold and studded with tiny, blood red jewels than glittered even in sparse lighting. You ran your fingernail over them, wondering who had owned the ring before you.

It had been your husband’s own pick. You liked it more than you cared to admit and had felt a little ashamed of the plain gold band you had shakily slid on your husband’s wedding finger. If he noticed the difference, or cared, he did not say. He had only watched you with the same intense eyes as the day you had first met him.

Aerion Brightflame would have cared. You could imagine it even now; the curl of his lip as he scoffed at the plain gold. He probably would have made some ugly comment right then and there, determined to get in one last public jab against you and your family.

Luckily your husband, his father, was not like that.

Maekar had pulled his hand away from yours as though he thought you might snatch the ring back. Maybe you should have. At the time, you had been startled by the man standing before you and had fallen into a shock you weren’t entirely sure you had recovered from, even now, a month later.

You had glanced over at your father, only to meet his encouraging, greedy eyes. No explanation, no apology. You had shut down then, following along with the rest of the ceremony as though your body was not yours. It wasn’t, really.

You had been prepared for a spoiled, callous prince. Not a man who had looked at you in the way Maekar Targaryen did. Like he was intent on peeling back every defence you had until he could touch the real you.

There had been one small relief in the back of your mind. It was unlikely that the expectation to bear him children would be quite so crushing. Maekar had been married before and had several healthy sons and daughters. Was there really need for more?

It seemed not, for the marriage still remained unconsummated, one whole month later.

You watched idly as rain spattered onto the stone and glass. You thought about that night often. With Aerion you had expected brute force and pain.

When Maekar had closed the door behind him, leaving the pair of you alone in his chambers, your heart had been on the verge of working its way up your throat.

The look in his eyes had been so heated that you could have sworn you felt fire burst along your skin. You had stood there, wide eyed and shivering, vulnerable in a way you did not know how to be.

He had approached you then, hand rising to hover next to your cheek as though he would cup your face and make you hold eye contact. It had remained there for a beat before dropping to the laces on your dress.

You had assumed that would be it. The marriage would be consummated. You had been wrong. Maekar had undressed you with a tenderness that had you near tears, and then redressed you in a nightgown and ushered you to his bed.

Never in a million years did you think you would have been able to sleep. Not when your new husband undressed and joined you, warm skin brushing against yours beneath the sheets. Sheer exhaustion must have kicked in at a certain point though, because you slept deeply, and when you awoke, he had been gone.

You had slept in his chambers for several nights after that. It was only after the third that you began to realise, he had no intention of touching you. Sometimes his hand would hover above your skin, fingers clenching and unclenching, but the only time he touched you was when he would help you dress in your nightgown.

It had made you angry. Angry then and angry now. His restraint was admirable and you held nothing against him for that. It was miles better than what you had built yourself up to expect.

You hated the way your stomach would clench in anticipation. The first time you had realised you wanted his hands on you, the room had seemed to spin. When you lay awake next to him, thighs clenching, nipples hard, you were furious. And afraid. This was not what you had prepared for.

At some point you had realised that was what he was waiting for. Reciprocation. So you hid your desire behind blank faces and shaky legs and tried to pretend that you did not want your husband. It was foolish and torture but you just could not make yourself take that step.

After a full week in Maekar’s chambers, you had finally built up the will to ask the maid to sleep in your own. You had had one full night to yourself before Maekar reappeared, now familiar hands helping you into your nightgown before falling into bed next to you. You had not had the heart to ask him to leave. Still, he did not touch you. Not in the way you wanted.

“My lady?”

You jumped at the sudden intrusion, near falling from your window seat as you whirled to face your maid.

“My apologies, my lady,” she continued, “dinner is ready. Your husband is asking after you.”

You got to your feet, brushing off imaginary dirt from your dress. Another of Maekar’s strange demands; every meal had to be taken together.

“Thank you, Mary, I will come now,” you said.

Your voice shook a little. Mary pretended not to notice.

The table was set beautifully, as always. More food and wine than your entire family could consume. Maekar did not sit at the head of the table; at least not when it was just the pair of you. Instead, he sat opposite you.

You curtsied and he waved you away. A little routine of yours. Mary pulled out your seat and you sat, eyed glued to the table. The servants left then. The first time that had happened, you had been entirely bewildered. Who would serve you, then? You had grown even more concerned when Maekar had been the one to fill your plate and top your cup.

He did so now, not stopping until there was more food piled on your plate than you could eat. You would have to finish most of it or he would look at you in that disapproving way of his. At first you had been mortified. At some point that had changed to mild amusement.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Eat,” he said.

The two of you had fallen into a routine of sorts. Nerves still buzzed in your stomach every time you saw him but you were not afraid. No, very much not afraid.

Some part of you warmed at the gentle command in his voice. There was some concern there. After the ceremony, you had eaten very little for two or so days. Still numbed by the shock of the sudden change in groom and the absence of your family. Maekar had sat with you for every meal, watching you carefully until you ate to his satisfaction.

Aerion probably would’ve shoved the food down your throat, if he cared at all.

“Do not think of another man when you are with me, wife,” Maekar said lowly.

You blinked. “I was –“

“Even when that man is my son.”

You inhaled sharply. It was uncanny how he sometimes seemed to read your mind. Embarrassed, you shot back, “I was his betrothed first. It is normal that I should think of him on occasion.”

“You were never his,” Maekar spat.

Was I yours, then? The words sat heavy on your tongue, almost spilling over. Scowling, you shovelled a forkful of potatoes into your mouth. If you asked that question, you were not sure you would be ready for the answer he would give.

Maekar always appeared in your chambers exactly when you began to get tired. You still hadn’t figured out exactly how he knew. You suspected he had maids reporting on you but you had never been quick enough to catch them in the act.

He always waited until you were sleepy and pliant. You did not mind.

It was easier, then, to allow him to maneuver you to your feet. To allow him to deftly unlace whatever lace held up your dress, to slowly peel layers from you until you were stood bare before him.

You liked it like this. When you were tired enough to be able to pretend your own fatigue was why you let him position you like a doll, raising your arms and nudging apart your legs as he admired you.

Your nipples stiffened under his gaze. Heavy lidded and near panting, you let him see you. His eyes focused on the tips of your breasts, hands fisting at his sides.

They dropped lower, then, to the tuft of curls between your legs. You were thankful for the slight coverage; that way he could not see how his gaze caused your cunt to leak, smears of arousal threatening to coat your upper thighs.

You kept still, core clenching. Any sign that you wanted it, wanted him, and it would be over. You knew he would not hold himself back.

You raised your arms as he lifted your nightgown over your head, sliding it down over your body. You hissed when the material caressed over your nipples, stepping back before Maekar could examine the sound.

You turned away from him and crawled into the bed, arranging yourself beneath the sheets as Maekar blew out the candles. You could still see a vague outline of him in the darkness. You hoped he could not see you, for you could not tear your eyes away as he undressed. He turned to the side and you nearly gasped out loud. You could see the hard shape of his cock bobbing before him. The image seared itself into your mind before he pulled on his own sleep clothes.

He joined you in bed and got comfortable. There was no telling how much time passed before soft snores echoed around your chamber. You relaxed at the sound.

Sleep refused to come. Instead, there was only a persistent throbbing between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together, breathing heavily at the sensation it provided. But it was not enough.

You glanced over at Maekar’s side of the bed. In the dark, you could only make out the vague shape of him beneath the covers. He was still snoring.

Emboldened, you let your legs part. You had touched yourself before but that had been leisurely, with the knowledge that you would not be discovered. Now, you let your fingers slide down to your swollen clit, teasing gently at it, all while your husband slept next to you.

There was no time for teasing, you realised. You spread your legs as far as you dared and began to rub in earnest, nearly crying out at the relief that enveloped you. You needed to get rid of the desperation, to take the edge of, else you were at risk of climbing atop your husband and taking what you wanted like some common whore.

The slick sound of your own fingers on your cunt was almost too loud. You bit down on your lip so hard that you felt blood well. You could taste the coppery slide of it on your tongue as you squirmed beneath your own ministrations.

Your orgasm shot through you, hard and fast. You clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your cry, yanking your other hand from between your legs as it became too sensitive to bear. Your toes clenched as the sensation wracked through you. You could feel the sweat on your upper lip and forehead, though the room was on the cool side.

It took a moment for you to regain your senses. Pleasure curled lazily around your bones, wanting to drag you down into your sleep. You almost nodded off, but then you noticed something. Or rather, the absence of something.

At some point, without your realising, your husband’s snoring had stopped.

Before you could panic, you felt a rough hand close around your right wrist. You yelped at the sudden contact and tried to pull away, but Maekar held fast, bringing your hand up to his face.

You realised your hand was still sticky. “No, wait –“

All protests died as Maekar slid those fingers between his lips. You felt your cunt clench around nothing as he used his tongue to thoroughly clean your digits, licking over and between them until he had chased down every bit of your arousal.

When he was done, he pulled your fingers from his mouth and pressed a wet kiss to your knuckles. Shock and arousal kept you silent.

“Sleep, wife,” he murmured.

There was no anger in his voice. It was something worse. A promise that he would not forget what had happened tonight, and your games would no longer be tolerated.

Maekar did not let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

Unlike other mornings, Maekar was not gone when you awoke. He pressed a meaningful kiss to your hand, the same one from before, the same one he had been holding all night, and did not leave.

He stayed when your maid came, who squeaked with surprise to see him sitting at a table in your chambers eating breakfast. He stayed when she ushered you behind the room divide and helped you wash and then dress. He did not leave until your heart was pounding with enough force to make you dizzy, and he told you that he would be seeing you later.

Later.

Dull panic lit a fire in your chest. With every intake of breath, your cunt pulsed. You spent the morning attempting to read a book, only to end up launching it at the wall with enough force that you bent the spine.

Your maid watched the incident with raised brows. She scurried from the room before you could say anything. You swore. No doubt she intended to report to Maekar.

It was a blessing for married couples to find one another desirable. Noble pairings, specifically, for they were so often formed out of duty and decades-old promises. It was a miracle to find love under such conditions.

But that was not what you had planned for. And your fragile state relied upon everything going to plan. Already things had changed when Maekar had been the one to put the ring on your fingers – and now for you to actually want him? It felt like your world was crumbling beneath your feet.

Then you would have to confront the fear that still lingered in your chest every time you so much as thought of the name Brightflame. You would have to think about the betrayal of your family selling you off to someone who was known to be a senseless brute. You would have to think about your siblings, who you missed dearly, and the fact that you might one day have children of your own and not hate the man who made up half of them.

Maekar Targaryen was kind, handsome, and gentler than you had ever expected. You had not prepared for that! He had wormed his way into your heart and you had been too preoccupied with the possibility of Aerion to see it coming. You were angry, betrayed, and now you were afraid.

The weather still hadn’t let up. If anything, it had begun to rain heavier. You tilted your head back, letting the fat drops fall on your face. They were ice cold.

You had used the opportunity of Mary’s absence to leave the castle. At no point had your brain kicked in and steered you back to the warmth of your room. Panic had full control over you.

You glanced over your shoulder to see if anyone was around. The grounds were clear. Chest tight, you began walking. You did not have a destination in mind – only away. Away from the man who made you dizzy and wet and desperate.

Summerhall was surrounded by dense forest that held all manner of beasts. The trees were packed so tightly that little light was able to get in, thus is remained in nearly year-round darkness. You did not think. You headed for the treeline and entered as though you knew where you were going.

Instinct still did not kick in. You picked up the pace, walking one hundred, two hundred, three hundred feet in. You stopped then and looked back. You could see the light of the treeline. You could just about make out the path you had taken.

Then, in the distance, you heard dogs. It wasn’t unusual. Maekar employed hunters who used dogs regularly when stocking the castle with meat.

They sounded different this time, though.

You could hear people in the distance, too. Back toward the castle. You began slowly walking forward again, put off by the noise. And then, you heard him.

“Where the fuck is she?”

You did not think. You only ran. Your shoes were not suitable for the terrain. Roots sent you sprawling before you regained your footing, only to nearly slip every few steps as you charged deeper into the forest.

A wild laugh bubbled through your lips. Rain pasted your hair to your forehead and trickled icily down your back. You felt crazy. You had felt that way for a month, now, and now you were acting in a way that matched your inner turmoil. You’d come too far to turn back now.

Suddenly, a hand was fisting in the fabric of your cloak. You gasped at the pressure against your neck as you were yanked back against a hard chest.

You were not sure how far you had gone. Not far enough.

Your chest was heaving, breasts near spilling from your dress. You did not need to turn to know that it was him. You could feel his heart pounding against your back, even through all the fabric of your clothes. Finally, you thought, he feels a little of how I feel.

“Where,” he said slowly, “do you think you were going?”

“Anywhere,” you answered, turning to face him. “It doesn’t matter.”

You placed your hands on his chest, intending to push him away, only to find yourself simply resting them there.

 Maekar’s cheeks were flushed in a way that made him look almost youthful. He grabbed your hands, keeping them in their position on his chest. He exhaled, warm air caressing over your cold cheeks. You shivered at the temperature difference.

“You make me feel crazy,” you finally admitted.

The words were heavy. You felt relief when they finally rolled off your tongue. Maekar stilled, eyes flitting around your face. The silence lasted only a beat longer before being broken by a laugh, of all things. His. It echoed through the surrounding area, raspy and loud.

“I have felt like that from the moment I first saw you,” he said lowly, bringing your hands to his face and pressing kisses to your frozen fingers.

“Since I first arrived here?” you asked. You had to know.

Maekar closed his eyes for a moment. “No,” he murmured, “before. It was perhaps a year ago.”

“What?” you choked.

“I saw you then,” he continued, “at the tourney. I knew my father had suggested you might be a good match for my son but I – I coveted you. I thought I might be able to bear it. Until you arrived here, and I realised I could not stand to see you by any other man’s side.”

It should have scared you a little. The idea of being on his mind for so long. The knowledge that, from the moment you had arrived at Summerhall, he had never intended for you to marry his son.

Your breathing was still heavy, but it had nothing to do with the running. Maekar still hadn’t let go of your hands. He continued pressing kisses to them before stopping on your right, gently squeezing.

His eyes met yours. “You touched yourself last night, wife.”

Your knees went weak. “I did.”

“You’ll never have to do that again.”

Maekar backed you against a tree. The damp from the bark immediately began seeping through your clothes, chilling your skin, but you hardly noticed. His words had turned your core into a molten ball of need, and the denial of the past month was quickly catching up to you.

“Pull up your skirts,” Maekar commanded. “I – I won’t have you here. Not like this. But I can’t leave my wife feeling needy. Not any longer.”

Each word made your temple pulse. Trembling, your fingers curled in your skirts and you began to pull until they were bunched around your waist. There was still the physical barrier of your undergarments. Maekar nudged your legs apart with a single foot, nestling his thigh against your core with a confidence that made you sway.

His fingers worked their way down the front of your undergarments until they found the thatch of curls above your core. He caressed you there.

“You’re so soft here,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It is a crime that you have kept this from me.”

It was still raining. You could not decide what sensation to focus on. You were torn between the water trickling between your breasts and the fingers stoking the fire at your core. You whined a little and tilted your hips, eager for his touch to delve deeper between your thighs.

“Please,” you paused for a beat, “husband.”

Maekar swore. His lips met yours at the same time his finger finally swept across your clit. You gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound, licking into your mouth with a practised move that had your knees weak.

He stayed there, tasting every sound you made as his middle finger began to circle your swollen flesh. Each swipe had you seeing stars behind your eyelids. It felt more intense than anything you had ever done to yourself.

He paused only to dip a finger into your hole, swiping up more arousal to lave over your clit. You let your head fall back against the tree, dimly blinking up at the canopy of trees above. Maekar pressed his lips to your neck, teeth grazing over your pulse point before settling onto the flesh between your neck and shoulder.

He bit down at the same time he pressed with his fingers, making you mewl as he rubbed your clit.

‘Fuck,” he rumbled, “I could hear you last night. Every godsdamned minute of it. You were wet then but I think you might be wetter now.”

You nearly sobbed as your orgasm began to build. You could feel your cunt convulsing, eager for your husband despite being out in the open. This was what he did to you, and there was no hiding from it. Not anymore.

Your orgasm hit so suddenly that your back arched off the tree, pressing your breasts into Maekar’s chest as caressed you through it. You were babbling through it, apologies and promises and pleading. Maekar kept his fingers on you until you were squirming, too sensitive and aching to withstand his touch.

Still, he did not remove his hand. He cupped your soaking flesh, gently rubbing his fingers over you until you were shuddering and speechless.

“I intended to see you round with my child,” he whispered into your cheek, “then you will understand that you are mine.”

“Yours,” you mumbled, delirious and soaked. You still could not feel the cold from the rain, only the heat the pulsed out from your cunt.

“Mine,” he agreed.

He pressed the hard line of his cock against your hip, reminding you of his earlier promise. Later.

a/n - so this is basically when you’re so horny for your husband it’s scary I hope you like it lol

reblogs/comments/likes mean the literal world to me, please don’t forget to leave them if you enjoyed♥️

dividers @pixopix

Part 1

Part 3

In the end you get some of what you want. You get to watch him fray at the edges. You get to feel him and hear him and taste him — get to savour the last piece of softness that hasn’t been starved out of him. It’s still dark, and you’re still sat in his lap. Still touching and nuzzling that strange, animal’s mouth with your own. He calls you that name again, lapine, as your fingers find the hem of his kilt, stirring just beneath the fabric and coming to tease the cool, bony dome of his kneecap. 

The reaction is immediate. He goes completely taught beneath you. His breath shuddering and his chin tucking — it pulls his mouth from yours. And your first instinct is to chase it with your own, capture it, keep tasting. Only — only Ole’s eyes have slammed shut. You can detect the subtle uptick in his breathing. The tension in every limb. You stop, your fingers completely abandoning their planned route of a long, slow meandering trail up his thigh, towards the hardness you can see tenting the front of his kilt. Instead, you just rest them there on his skin, not too light, not too firm. His own hands, one which he’d been clenching and unclenching in the fabric on the sofa, the other hesitantly resting on the no-man’s-land between your ribs and hip, are both hovering now. You pull your focus to his face, which is doing something complicated, tilting to one side by a fraction, a half-aborted head-shake.

You know conflict when you see it. You remove your hand from his knee entirely. Lift it to his jaw. “Hey,” you tell him, with a gentle swipe of your thumb. “Where’d you go, hm?” The backs of your fingers, petting.

Another half head-shake. A noise. What might have been the beginning of a word that splinters into nothing like old wood. You brush your hand over the long brown strands of hair that hang near his undamaged ear — a story you want to learn one day, later, you think, when the time is right. When your heart isn’t pounding. You watch his throat work, thinking. 

It’s not that you think he hasn’t done this before — not quite. But his desperation, trepidation, makes you suspect that it’s been a while. More than a while. And you suspect that there’s been a whole lot of loneliness, a whole lot of hurt, and a whole lot of time between now and the last instance where he was touched like this. You stroke his hair again, gently, feeling its texture beneath your hands — slightly waxy, uncared for. 

“S’Okay,” you tell him, the words as gentle as you can manage. You barely put any breath behind them but you mean them, every one. “It’s okay, we don’t have to… anything. We don’t have to do anything.” 

He makes a noise at that. Half-shakes his head again, that awkward, gentle, jerking motion. The man’s eyes find your own, and you’re struck still by the look in them. It’s that same trembling look of reverence, only tempered with something darker, hotter, his pupil’s blown, searching — for what you don’t know, but for something — and the sight pieces through you, clean and painful, like an arrow. 

“A man wants,” and again, he hisses the words out like they hurt. All crooked, crowded teeth. And there’s shame and longing and heat and all other manner of knotted, complicated things in those small, heavy syllables. It creeps up on you, out of nowhere, the utter strangeness of this situation. This man, who had broken into your home and disappeared at all hours and came back with blood on his hands. That you’d made him pancakes, climbed into his lap, and coaxed him into a kiss. This strange, dangerous man who sometimes didn’t feel like a man at all, who was shaking beneath you at the prospect of a tryst on a worn out sofa. It leaves you with the feeling that you’ve swallowed a star. It sits and burns in your belly. The trust. The inexplicable, tender hunger that had grown between the two of you. 

You stroke a hand over his hair again gently —  over that awkward, blunt, sixties-esque style you’re oddly endeared by. His chest shudders. You feel like you’re gentling a felled animal, petting its fur, your fingers careful around a wet, wide and mortal wound.

You understand, you think. “You’ll have,” you tell him, and watch as his eyes drift to yours once more. Blue eyes, but so dark. Endlessly so. Another slow pet of his hair. “Any way you like.” You mean these words too.

You watch the words settle over him. Watch the subtle lift of his eyebrows, the stillness of those chapped lips — their shape, as flat and straight as a knife’s edge, so unusual. To be the focus of that primordial, all-seeing gaze is — there’s no other word for it — intense. 

You want to kiss him again. Want him solid and pliant and desperate beneath you once more as much as you want to break this trembling thread of tension between you. Want to temper that darkness with softness. The arousal you’d been feeling, which had dimmed in the face of his conflict, stretches and curls once more as you become aware again of how close you are. Your position in his lap. That he wants this enough that he almost seems afraid of it. You keep on petting his hair. 

“Is more kissing okay?” You ask, after a long minute of silence. Because you want to put your mouth back on him, but only if he wants it there.

The moment trembles onward. Then: he gives a short nod, almost shy. Almost deferent. Chin tucked. You stifle a smile, but let the warmth of it shine through in your eyes. “Good,” your murmur, running a hand from his hairline to the nape of his neck, watching him shudder. “That’s good.” 

“And…” you bite your lower lip. His eyes follow. It’s like a watching him watch you suck sugar and lemon off your fingertips all over again. You shift your hips slightly, feeding that hot, sweet ache in your stomach, and lower. “Is more of this okay?” His breath stutters a little. Another nod. 

“Now?” You ask. You need to be sure. “Or some other time?” 

The surly set of his brow furrows. He looks like he’s trying to read in a language he can’t quite translate. “Now. Now is…” Sounds like he’s almost forgotten how to speak. Like every word in a monumental effort. You gentle him through it, and don’t push, petting the hair at the nape of his neck, watch him settle. At last, he nods again. 

“Okay,” you tell him. “Now, then.” 

And you lean in, just as slowly as you did the first time, coaxing his jaw up to kiss him once more — slow and full and sweet. It takes him a minute to get to grips with the sensations again, takes a minute for him to soften into it. But you’re patient, despite the warm, thick satisfaction you’re feeling. Never pushing, just — guiding, until his mouth is meeting yours with equal parts hunger and hesitation, like a beggar being presented with a banquet. His hands close slowly over your waist, not holding or gripping. Resting. Reverent. Those large, graceful, capable hands — hands which you know, in some primal, bone-deep way, have handled weapons, flesh and blood, and all manner of dark, awful things. You shiver against his mouth, and reach out to touch his lower lip with your tongue. The breath he releases is as sharp as a blade, cuts through you, slicing down from sternum to core, where you’re slick and soft and wanting. 

You part ways with a suck to his lower lip — feel all of him tense beneath you, and it makes you pulse. You slow right down, meeting him with light, lingering kisses, until you’re barely kissing him at all, just ghosting your mouth against his. He follows you press for press, breath for breath. You hear the sound of fabric on fabric, Ole’s ragged exhales, expelling that smoker’s breath and earth-scent that makes your stomach twist. You withdraw just enough until your mouth is drifting to the corner of his, until you’re kissing his cheek, his jaw — then nosing up underneath it while he swallows and curls his hands into the fabric of your t-shirt. 

You let him feel your breath, the softness of the tip of your nose and your lips. The scent of him — all smoke and wet dark earth and metal — is thicker here. Warmer. And you find yourself pulling in deep lungfuls of it before you press a handful of kisses to his skin. Scarred and pitted, but otherwise surprisingly soft. “Lapine,” he says, strangled. And something in his tone makes you glance down, taking in the sight of him straining against the fabric of his kilt. Knowing he’s there, hard and aching for you, just beneath a thin layer of fabric, makes all of you itch. 

You dare to scoot forwards, just a little, soothing the way with a little kisses to his jaw, throat. Pleasure lights up your spine as the movement drags your achingly slick core against him — you let out a little stuttering breath of your own, and feel a tremor break through him. You draw up to kiss the slope of his chin, his cheeks, the sharp edge of his nose, that furrowed brow, drawn low.

Before he can draw another breath, you’re dipping down to tease his neck once more. “Do you want me to stop?” You murmur, letting him feel every word. He shakes his head, stiffly. You nod, nuzzling, and wonder if he’s already dripping for you under there — think he must be, from the sound he makes in his throat when you hum in response —a half-rumble, half-whine. And you’re aching for it too, you’re not ashamed to admit it. Want to feel him in you, want to banish all the empty hurt inside of you — all you can do is roll your hips against him, slick, desperate little shifts. You keep mouthing at the skin of his throat, open and wet. Pressing your mouth to his pulse point gets you a harsh breath. His jaw, a thick swallow. Lapping at the soft, defenceless spot of skin beneath his ear, a low, croaking moan. A tightening of his grip.  

The heat is getting to you. The damp, heady little ecosystem you’ve created in the crook of his neck, the rising warmth of his skin and your breath, his skin gleaming with this hedonistic, possessive coating of your saliva. It only allows for a smoother glide, your mouth skimming down to the space where his neck meets shoulder. You stroke your mouth there too, over the barrier where his skin meets the fabric of his knit, and imagine how maddening the sensation must be. You roll your hips, and feel his thighs tensing and bunching beneath you. He must be so desperate, so desperate to rock up into your weight. He doesn’t move a muscle.

It makes you want to bite down. To take. To mark. So you do. Only gently, so gently, the barest graze. Only sensation, no pain. You have the feeling he’s had enough of that in his lifetime. And you want to be sweet to him. So sweet to him. You feel Ole’s answering rumble through your teeth, and you soothe the spot you’ve worried anyway, a soft, slick little swipe of your tongue. His strangled shudders of enjoyment feel as good as your own. The urge to grind down, to feel him blood-hot and hard beneath you, is too much. You adjust your position, seating yourself right over the thick line of him. And you start to move in earnest now, tiny little liquid shifts, stoking the fire, that star burning in you from heart to gut. 

One of you is trembling, or is it both? You keep kissing every inch of skin you can reach, sweet friction building. You’re chasing it desperately with deeper grinds of your hips, when you feel him pawing at your back with his fingertips. You pull up — catch a glimpse of his flushed, dazed, desperate expression, all pinched brows and eyes and ragged teeth, half a prophet, half a pauper — you pull him in to kiss, mouth catching awkwardly against his before you adjust. You kiss and grind and pet, and a wretched noise builds in his chest. 

It won’t take much more, you can tell. He’s going to come. He’s going to come without you even wrapping a hand around his cock. You’re driven by the feel and the heat of him and the sickly twist of your own ego and your loneliness and his strength and the desire to see and know. Some hunger in you has you dragging yourself out of the kiss to plant your mouth on his neck again. You take a modest, tiny mouthful of flesh and give the skin between your teeth a soft, slow suck — there’s a shattered, hitching gasp, one sudden, juddering thrust upwards — and he’s coming. A breath breaking its way from his chest. Fingertips digging into your back. A slow spread of warmth beneath you. 

“Lapine,” he says through a breath. Gritted teeth. 

“Please,” you gasp back, “please let me.” 

You chase your own release with deeper presses of your hips, pulling in desperate sips of air. You feel the rough-chopped strands of his hair and the soft wool of his cardigan against your cheeks. Feel the furnace-heat of him and the reality of his bounding heart. Your own heart knocks itself against your ribcage as your pleasure dawns — steady, warm, like the spread of a bloodstain. Pressure, a little friction, rhythm, building and building until you tremble. Until you’re wet almost through the seat of your pants. Until the feeling finally crests — until you come too, groaning into cradle of his shoulder. 

Details return to you slowly. How he’s still lean beneath the warmth of your thighs. The wiry texture of his kilt. How his panting breath is stirring your hair. How the night has slunk in and around and beneath the furniture, creating a little island for you both in the dark. For a minute, you just nestle contentedly into his shoulder, enjoying the wiry strength you can feel there; the buttery afterglow of your orgasm. His smoky, wet-earth scent. Denser now. Wilder. His fingertips are flinching at the small of your back, touching almost furtively. You give his shoulder a parting snub of your nose, and withdraw to see the mess you’ve made of him. 

You’re not disappointed. His hair is ruffled from your constant petting. His eyes glisten like wet, dark stones. His face — those sharp, pitted features — is flushed. He’s trembling like an arrow pulled taught. It does something complicated to your insides: to see him so sated and yet so… You can’t resist the urge to soothe, leaning forward to touch his sharp nose with your own. 

“Hi,” you say, softly. 

He visibly hesitates — then sags, his forehead dropping forward to meet your own. He rubs it there, a gruff, leonine gesture of affection. You bring your hands up to frame his face — mindful of his damaged ear — and let the quiet settle over you both. You can feel him thinking, breathing in everything that had just occurred between you both. You can feel the humming of his skin; the wetnesss in your lap, his and your own, and out of nowhere, you’re struck again by just how beautiful you find him. He turns his face away from yours a fraction, and speaks: 

“A man did not see,” his voice is low, halting. You pull back to meet his eye, put your head to one side, not understanding. Ole pushes on, his voice coming clipped and quiet. “Your… pleasure. You did not let a man see.”

Affection, understanding, something warm and pink and shivering, flushes through you. You’re aware, in some distant way, of how strange the situation is. This ridiculous, reckless thing you’ve just done. You don’t care. 

“You wanted to watch me come?” You ask. 

“…Yes,” he says. And it’s that same tone you recognise from when you first laid eyes on him. That almost petulant I broke nothing. You nudge his forehead with your lips, trying to coax him to look at you once more. He complies, speaking his next words right into your mouth, soft as smoke. You taste them as much as you hear them: “A man would have liked to — make you. ” 

You shiver all over. Feel warm all over. “Next time,” you tell him quietly. You say it like a promise. 

Meetings in the Connections are always boring. Some scientist brings in a pitch for a bioweapon, you all figure out what to do with it, and move on. Even today, with someone bringing in an actual bioweapon, you're prepared to be bored. You hadn't bothered to read the report sent to you--it's probably just the millionth rendition of a Licker.

Of course, in your bored scribbling in your notebook while you wait for the weapon to arrive, you miss the way your colleagues look at you. Between you and the door, every couple of seconds, like they're scared they'll miss your reaction when the weapon walks in. You also miss the distinct lack of animalistic noises when the door slides open, the simple click of shoes echoing through the room. In fact, the sounds are so normal, you don't look up until your boss says something to the weapon's handler, thinking that the silence means they hadn't arrived yet.

You nearly throw up when you finally do look up from your notes.

You can tell the man standing beside the handler is the weapon by the amber glow of his eyes behind his tinted glasses, but you don't care about that. No, you don't care because you're far too preoccupied with the fact he looks just like Albert Wesker. Sure, there's some differences, his hair is a little more white than blond, his eyes are different, his style is more flashy than practical, but his face is exactly the same. You'd heard rumors of successful cloning, but this...

You must look as sick as you feel, because you can feel your colleagues' eyes on you, like they expect you to get up and leave. You're tempted, but you refuse to be so openly weak. You steel yourself, gripping your pen tight enough to nearly snap it, focusing on remembering how to breathe.

Of course, any composure you've regained completely falls apart when the weapon--clone, man, whatever he is--looks at you, glowing eyes narrowing at you with slight recognition. Which is impossible. You've never met him, you'd certainly remember if you had--

"...It's imperfect, but we were able to complete the memory transfer, too. Ask him something Wesker would know." The handler is acting like this man is just another weapon, talking about him like he isn't even there. Despite knowing he's not Wesker, and you have no reason for loyalty, you feel a little indignant on his behalf.

Your boss, bless his heart, does his best to be normal about it, but the bitch from the pathogenic research division across from you interrupts before he can. "What's her name?"

The man's eyes follow her pointing back to you, and it takes him a second to answer, like the memory is blurred. The corner of his lips twitch upwards, like whatever memory he finds is a pleasant one.

"...__. It's __."

Any sympathy felt for you in the room is discarded as everyone oos and ahs over the development, while the man with your... well, you don't really know what you were to Wesker. You know for a fact you felt more strongly about him than he did you, but that didn't stop you from feeling like your chest had been cracked open when you got news of his death. It's certainly not stopping you from feeling ill as you watch this man with Wesker's face try to dodge everyone's eyes and questions.

He seems to tense whenever Wesker's name is brought up, which isn't surprising. They're big shoes to fill, and based on the handler's statements, he's meant to be a replacement.

The meeting ends, and you spend the next half hour in the bathroom crying.

--

You think this must be some divine punishment for throwing in your lot with Wesker, then the Connections. There's no other explanation for why the man--Zeno--would be taken in by the Connections, and seems insistent on following you around. It feels like every time you turn around, he's there, and it's slowly driving you insane. The break room, your office, the lab, it doesn't seem to matter what dark corner you've holed yourself up in, he shines a light in.

You try not to think of how much it reminds you of Wesker. How he'd always manage to find you, no matter how upset or far away you were. You're unsuccessful, to say the least.

Though, he is quite different from Wesker, certainly in personality. He seems warmer, a little less detached from humanity. Sure, he's no saint, but you can be relatively sure his goal isn't to watch the whole world collapse. He's generally more human, too, even with the mutated T-virus in him. He gets anxious easily, even if he won't show it plainly, he needs corrective lenses, he's insecure about his status as a clone. He strikes you as someone who's rather tormented when he's alone, and you feel... sorry for him, for lack of a better term. You find yourself being kinder to him, even if it makes your chest ache for what you once had. It doesn't help that the nicer you are, the more he clings to you.

At least Zeno is quiet, for the most part. You've gathered he sort of just likes to hover, occasionally asking a question here and there about your work, but otherwise staying silent. It contributes to you nearly dropping a vial in surprise when he starts an actual conservation, late at night in the lab--he shares your penchant for avoiding sleep.

"Who were you to Wesker?" His jaw is tight, and he says your former lover's name like it's a curse. He looks like he might not want to know the answer.

You stall out, stabilizing the sample in your hand before setting it down with a deep breath. "How do you not know? I thought- they gave you his memories, didn't they?"

"They're... not all there." His jaw twitches again, like the notion bothers him. You've noticed he doesn't like to admit any mishaps with his cloning--from the corrective lenses to his memory, it would seem. "I recognize your face. Your name. Some positive association, but that's it." He hesitates for a brief second, like he doesn't know if he should say what's on his mind. "You looked frightened when you saw me the first time. You go pale, even now, when I've been here for months. Were you one of his experiments?"

Your laugh rings dry and hollow, echoing off the clinically white walls. "Something like that. He probably was just playing with me. But I wasn't scared of you, y'know. I... I had a relationship, of a kind, with him. I cared about him more than he did me, but still. It felt like seeing a ghost when you walked in." Your voice tapers off into fragile, and you can't quite meet his gaze. "I know you're not him. You're much different, but it's taking some adjustment. Please know it's nothing I hold against you."

He looks briefly startled by your words, like he's not used to anyone commenting on anything but his similarities with Wesker. He smooths it back quickly, regaining his composure. "So you're alone then, now?"

You nod, turning your back to him to set the sample in an incubator. "I keep busy. Keeps my mind off it."

It's silent in the room for so long you think he'd left, but you find him right behind you when you turn back around. "Jesus! Weren't you ever taught to not sneak up on someone like that?"

His lips curl, amused, and the corners of his eyes crinkle a little. Begrudgingly, you find it cute. "No. Raised in a lab, and all."

Smartass. You roll your eyes, side stepping him to throw away your gloves. "Well, do take note-"

"Let me take you to dinner."

You freeze in place, head snapping in his direction like you'd heard a gunshot. "What?"

He suddenly looks a bit nervous, maybe a little flighty--expressions you haven't seen on him since that first meeting. "Dinner. I'd... like to get to know you. The memories I have, they're-" He huffs, making a frustrated gesture towards his skull. "They're tangled, but I don't think he treated you how you deserve."

You stall out, sure you look like a gaping fish, and he takes the opportunity to take a few hesitant steps closer to you, pushing his glasses up so you can see his eyes clearly. There's something dark, maybe a little obsessive in those amber pools that excites you more than it ought to. "I feel drawn to you. I want to find out why."

"Okay." The word leaves you before you can really think about it, quiet and breathless. "I'm- I'm free Saturday."

He straightens up a little, jaw unclenching. He looks the picture of pleased, eyes glittering and mouth set in a smirk. You're overcome with the urge to kiss it off him, and you have to white-knuckle the bench to stop yourself.

"I'll pick you up at six?"

"You have my address?"

That smirk morphs into a smile, gaze sharp, and you have a feeling you just sold your soul. "I can be very resourceful when I want to be."

He's quick to leave, and you feel just as sick as the first time you saw him. Though, the despair from before seems to have flipped to excitement, your mind already racing with what you should wear, and how you can get him to smile at you again.

Whatever has happened to him, he still has good instincts. He's ripped a pistol from its holster and has it leveled between your eyes in less than a second- which is fast, but not as fast as it should be.

“Impressive getting into one of our safe houses, you-“

“You really do look just like him.”

Even behind the sunglasses you can see his eyes change from the cool persona to real, living hatred. His lip curls up into a snarl and that, too, is so much like him.

“It seems you've wasted your time coming here.” He bites out and you can see him weighing on lowering the pistol. “I have none of my predecessor's secrets and I've no interest in his businesses.”

You step forward, out of the shadows. “Yes, I can see that.”

In the light, the recognition is immediate. To think the new global powers still teach their dogs about what should be no more than a footnote on Albert Wesker's biography is alarming. Or, perhaps, simply the fact that the man before you is not Wesker is exactly why he knows you. Zeno shifts his stance, properly bracing the gun now. It's smart- whatever has happened to him, he no longer has the physical advantage over you. Though, you're pretty sure his gun wouldn't stop you either; you haven't really ever experimented on the limits.

“I'm not here to hurt you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I…” The explanation dies on your tongue. There is no reason that is not disgustingly pathetic- even this weak facsimile of him would deride you for it. Your hesitance makes him tip his head, already reading you- and in the shift, you catch just a glimpse of blue. “You're cured.”

His face hardens again. The plan forms as you say it. “Your masters- will you have use to them without the viruses? Will they go through the effort to reinfect you?”

Zeno only keeps the sight on his pistol centered between your eyes. The options before him are so few. “Are you concerned for this face or are you here to make a deal?”

The bitterness almost makes you flinch. “Nothing is ever binary.”

With an exhale, Zeno finally lowers the gun. “I've no use for your sentiment. What are you offering and what do you want?”

“My blood. And for you to take those glasses off, first.”

He does so with as much flourish as you expect, tossing them aside onto a dresser. When he looks back, the ache in your chest burns. Blue eyes- you haven't seen those eyes in decades- since before—

“Raw blood is a weak offer. Filtration, isolation, and synthesis are considerable legwork.”

“I have Ouroboros.”

Glistening white teeth peak from his lips- and the smile grows further until he laughs. Laughs and turns away from you, holstering the pistol and slumping onto the bed. “You may leave now.”

You march closer. “It's stable in me. Think about it! I was infected twenty years ago and I'm still here to have a lucid conversation with you.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes in a display so petulant it's absurd to see it on Wesker's face. “Ouroboros was beyond aggressive- our research indicates even he began to mutate. My physiology is nearly identical and I've no interest in losing my mind.”

“I…” You falter, looking away for a moment. “I think he used a different strain on me. A… tamer one.” The weight of it makes you chew your cheek.

Even with your gaze averted you can see the shift in Zeno's posture. The defeat drips off him and the cold core of ambition you know so well forms before your eyes. “You're sure?”

It's so close- his voice. It's right, but the accent is all wrong. But it's close enough that it makes some part of you need to stand upright again, to meet his icy gaze. “I'm no virologist, but I had access to his work. He notated my dose differently than his. He wanted me to survive it.” When Zeno doesn't respond, you continue. “At worst, it's just formed antibodies and congratulations you have a resistance to Ouroboros. At best… it's more power than you had before.”

He stands- and you hadn't realized just how close you'd gotten to him in your attempt to change his mind. “Fine. I accept your terms.”

It's your turn to scoff, “We haven't discussed my terms at all, actually."

“No?” He questions, his voice lilting in that infuriating tone, like he always knows everything- “I have a likely guess.”

His lips are on yours before you can speak. Soft- softer than his. You open your mouth to protest- to- to pretend this wasn't exactly what you wanted when you tracked him down, but his tongue slips into your mouth and you only shudder. He tastes so wrong- the wrong cigarettes, the wrong age, the wrong curl of his tongue behind your teeth, but it's the closest you've seen in twenty years.

All consideration of the differences between them fades as a gloved hand closes around your throat. Just tight enough to make your pulse thud against the leather and you're melting against him. Which makes you almost whine when he pulls his mouth from yours.

You pant, open-mouthed and already half-wrecked as Zeno judges you with those cool eyes. “Was he kind to you?”

“No.”

“Mm. Pity.” And he's on you again, nipping at you with sharp incisors- his other hand dragging you towards the bed. He pushes you down onto the narrow space. You peel off your shirt and start to unbuckle your pants before Zeno is on you again, swatting your hands away. With one hand on the center of your chest, he presses you down- and with the other he makes a show of biting the fingertip of one glove and pulling it off with his teeth.

You can barely murmur a soft “fuck,” then his hand is slipping into your pants. His fingers slip right through your folds, humiliatingly soaked from one kiss. It's been so long. With so little attention you're already keyed up, fingers trembling as you grab at him- one hand scrabbling at his fine black shirt, the other burying itself in his short hair. The touch spurs him on and he sinks a finger into you with little preamble.

They're his fingers. The size, the shape of them- technique, oh, technique you can wash away. Twenty years- he, oh, in so long he could've tried something new and-

Zeno crowds over you, the hand on your chest moves up to your hair, curling and pulling, keeping you grounded from your fantasy. So close now, you can feel his breath on your skin again, hot and humid as the bitterness seeps into his voice again. “Usually, this face only earns me enemies, not often-”

You surge upwards, catch his mouth and force him to be quiet. Approval rumbles from his chest, makes your lips hum. The kiss only breaks when you gasp, shaking again as he pushes a second finger inside.

“Can't- can't wait,” You manage, tugging at his shirt collar. “Please, need it.”

Zeno obliges, leaning back onto his knees to unbuckle his belt. The sight is so familiar- the image so deeply conditioned that you feel another wave of arousal making you ever slicker. He hardly lets you get sight of his cock, immediately taking it into his gloved hand and repositioning himself. You oblige- any position he wants- anything so long as-

He pushes into you with little preamble. In some remote way, it hurts. Been too long, even as soaked as you were- but the faint pain is nothing in the face of this fullness, of the weight on you. His catching breath and his hands on your hips. You fight back tears, focus on the heat in your belly. He grips you, hard- fingers and glove alike biting down into your flesh as he stays very, very still.

You catch his eye and see what almost looks like panic. The severity of being human again catching up to him, the endless stamina he's accustomed to gone, left with the limits of an aging man.

You grab his exposed hand, “Please, I'm close, I just—”

He drives his hips in again before you can even finish the thought. Over and over, delving in deep and hard punctuating thrusts that make your eyes roll back. His rhythm is perfect, all rough thrusts and power and all you can manage is to hold onto him and moan- a droning oh that makes his lips curl into a smirk. Even that- the expression, the single strand of hair that's come unbound, curled over his forehead, breaking the illusion of perfect control- and his eyes. Those blue, cerulean eyes like before- before it all-

The name builds on your tongue- and Zeno feels it too. He buries two gloved fingers in your mouth before you can even get past the W. He curls over you now, pounds into you with a fervor that should be painful, but all you can feel is Wesker's cock in you again and the taste of his oiled leather gloves and with a cry you cum, digging your nails into his hand and his scalp.

The tightness of your orgasm makes him bite down on you, his tempo staggering until- “Fuck- fuck!” He yells, and you swear for just a moment the accent is perfect.

You laze for a while afterwards, basking in the afterglow. With your eyes closed, you can almost pretend. He's squished up next to you on the tiny mattress (which may be the most unbelievable part- Wesker's safe houses were always verging on decadent, not this unmemorable and pedestrian) and the heat of him is agonizing. You shuffle closer- and, no, the most unbelievable part is the arm that slings over you, pulls you into being fully pressed to him. But you can't complain. It's nice being held.

He pants against you, still catching his breath and it's… strange. Wesker was so untouchable- and Zeno likely was as well before whatever has happened tonight. Likely will be again.

A few minutes after his breathing levels, you slip away first. The meager bathroom has washcloths and you cleanse yourself in silence. In the mirror you prod at the bite mark he's left on you- and feel warmth that it looks the same as you remember.

You bring him a washcloth as well, which he wordlessly accepts. As he wipes his fingers, you lean against the doorway and watch. “How's it feel? Being human, I mean.”

He doesn't pause, doesn't look away from the meticulous cleaning of his nails. “Weak.”

“Well, can't have that, can we?” You smile, then roll your arm out to present your vein.

===