such a pretty world

As Maegor got older, around his first birthday, the crying turned into full-blown tantrums. He'd scream and thrash in his crib; he'd refuse to settle no matter what you tried. Aerion would snap sometimes, his patience having already worn thin by a lack of sleep and the endless demands of being a first-time parent.

"For fuck's sake, what do you want?!" he'd yell, throwing his hands up. "You're fed, you're dry, what the hell is the problem?!"

That's when you'd step in, gently prying Maegor from his crib and cradling him against your chest. "Aerion, you're not helping."

"I'm not tryna help! I'm tryna not fuckin' lose my mind!" He'd storm out of the room, usually heading to the porch for a smoke, but he'd always come back a few minutes later, once his anger deflated. "My bad. I just... I don't know how to fix it, baby."

"You don't have to fix it," you'd say, rocking Maegor until his cries quieted. "Just be here. That's enough."

Even now, Maegor sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night, calling for you or Aerion. On the nights he stays with Aerion, you'll get a call or a text well after midnight: Bug's cryin' for you. Can you come over?

And you'll go most times, because you know Aerion is out of his depth. When you arrive, he'll be standing in the doorway of Maegor's room, looking helpless and annoyed, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," he'll grumble. "I gave him water, I checked his blanket, I even sang that damn dragon song he likes. Nothin'."

Maegor will be sitting in his bed, clutching his dragon with his small hands. His face will be all red and blotchy when you see him. He'll reach for you immediately, whispering, "Mommy, mommy..."

You'll sit and tuck him into your side so you can start smoothing his hair back from his tear-streaked face. "What's wrong, baby? Did you have a bad dream?"

He'll nod furiously, tears soaking into your shirt as he hiccups, "I missed you."

"I'm here now, come on. It's time for bed, bug. Too late for you to be up worrying your daddy."

Aerion will hover in the doorway, watching the two of you with his jaw clenched and his nostrils flaring before he retreats to the kitchen to give you space. Later, after Maegor has fallen back asleep, you'll find Aerion on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a cigarette in his hand.

"He's just a kid," you'll say as you sit down beside him.

"I know," he'll mutter, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Doesn't make it any easier when he's cryin' for you and I can't do a damn thing about it. And you just refuse to live here where you belong. It's not fuckin' normal, him bein' passed back and forth like some kinda fuckin' toy—"

"Aerion—"

"No, I'm serious! He needs you here. I need you here. This place is big enough for all of us. You're just bein' stubborn."

And you'll sigh because you've had this conversation too many times. "It's not just about space, Aerion. It's about... everything else."

He'll look away from you then. Because he doesn't want to look you in the eye when he knows you're right. "Yeah, well, I'm workin' on the 'everything else,' alright?"

Valarr is not an easily jealous man. 

In fact, Valarr would say he is not jealous at all. Jealousy is for lesser men—insecure men. Men who fear losing what is theirs because, somewhere deep down, they know it was never truly theirs to begin with. Valarr has never counted himself among them. He is a prince of the blood, second in line to the Iron Throne after his father. He has had the world in his hands since the moment he was born. There has never been much that could be taken from him. 

Or, perhaps more accurately, there has never been much he cared enough about to fear losing.

So, when his wife spends an afternoon hawking with the twins and returns bright and smiling in a way that Valarr has hardly ever seen from her, he does not care.

When Aerion lingers around her, keeping her so engrossed in conversation that she does not even notice Valarr entering the room, he does not care.

When she laughs at Daeron’s jokes during a feast while Valarr is forced to entertain a balding marcher lord, Valarr does not care.

He notices, certainly, because Valarr notices everything, but noticing is not jealousy. 

In fact, it makes Valarr happy. It does. He knows that you have been struggling to adjust to life in Westeros. He knows that you are lonely. He is happy that his family is welcoming you, that they are making efforts so that you might feel comfortable. He is happy that the court is starting to warm up to you.

He is.

He really is.

He is glad that you come back to your shared chambers smiling more often than not now, because his heart ached every time he returned to find you sitting by the window in silence, staring east toward a sea that would never carry you home. There had been nights when he woke to find your side of the bed empty, mornings where your eyes were red, days where you smiled, strained at the corners, forcing yourself because courtesy demanded it. 

It had haunted him—truly haunted him. When he joined his father at meetings, he would find his mind drifting to you, wondering what you were doing, if you were alone, if he would have time to stop at the kitchens to have them make a Qartheen dessert to bring up to you. When the two of you were in the same room but separated, his eyes always followed you, searching for the cause of every frown and distant look, because maybe if he could identify who was upsetting you, he might be able to fix everything.

Valarr could win jousts and navigate court politics, but he had spent months watching you wither beneath loneliness and homesickness, and there had been little he could do about it. So, yes—he is happy that you are enjoying time with his family, and you return to your shared chambers with stories and smiles instead of tears.

He is. 

Mostly. 

The trouble is that sometimes he gets a little—well, peeved when he realizes you might enjoy spending time with his cousins considerably more than you enjoy spending time with him. Not that Valarr is keeping track of who you seem to enjoy spending time with the most and who you don't, because he isn’t, that would be absurd. He notices things. 

For example, he notices that you are quick to seek out Aelor and Aelora during events. He likes to believe that it’s because you know that he’s frequently occupied with princely duties and do not wish to burden him when the twins are more readily available company. It is a much more pleasant explanation than acknowledging that the twins care little for keeping up appearances, so you might feel more comfortable around them. They are quick to jump down someone's throat if they look at you the wrong way, whereas Valarr is bound by his duty and his future to keep the peace, so he is forced to take more civil approaches, even when every instinct is telling him to be considerably less diplomatic.

He notices how Aerion listens whenever you speak of home as though the subject genuinely interests him, asking questions and remembering details that Valarr himself sometimes struggles to keep straight, and he finds the realization oddly aggravating, especially because Aerion has never been known for his patience. His cousin is sharp-tongued and capricious, and he possesses a sort of cruelty that occasionally borders on artistry, yet somehow all of that seems to vanish whenever you are involved. 

And he especially notices how Daeron somehow always manages to appear wherever you are. If you are in the garden, Daeron is in the garden. If you are in the library, Daeron is in the library. If you are attending some unbearably dull feast that neither of you particularly wished to attend, Daeron will inevitably materialize at your side before the first course is served. 

Worse, you always seem pleased to see him. Valarr will look across a room, hoping to find your eyes on him, but will find Daeron leaning against your chair, saying something undoubtedly idiotic, and you will be smiling, and then comes the laughter—the real laughter, bright and unrestrained, not the polite courtly ones Valarr has become used to—and Daeron, naturally behaves as though drawing the sound from you is his life’s greatest achievement, and it—

It is irritating. It is deeply irritating. 

Not because Valarr dislikes seeing you happy—quite the opposite, really. For months, he would have given anything to hear you laugh like that. The aggravating part is that Daeron accomplishes it so effortlessly. Valarr spends hours carefully choosing gifts from home, remembering passing comments, searching for ways to ease your loneliness, while Daeron simply appears, says something absurd, and suddenly you are laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

Valarr thinks about it far more often than he’ll ever admit, but it is not jealousy.

If anything, Valarr is grateful, because Daeron is succeeding where he has failed. When you first arrived in Westeros, Valarr spent months trying to draw you out of your shell. He took you riding, and he brought musicians from Essos to court; he commissioned cooks to learn Qartheen dishes and listened patiently whenever you wished to speak of home.

Yet, it is Aelor and Aelora who convince you to leave your chambers when homesickness threatens to swallow you whole.

It is Aerion who can keep you talking about Qarth for hours without ever looking bored.

It is Daeron who manages to make you laugh until tears run down your face.

His eye twitches, knuckles whitening around the goblet in his hand as he stands at the window of the chambers he shares with you, staring out over the Blackwater. You have still not retired for the night; you left the feast early to join Aelor and Aelora in wandering the gardens, and Valarr had assumed you would be in your shared chambers waiting for him by the time he finished entertaining the Lord Tyrell and Lord Hightower with his father, so he’d brought up a Qartheen spiced liquor, hoping to share it and spend some time with you before bed.

Rationally, he knows you have done nothing wrong. 

You had smiled at him when you entered the hall earlier. You had kissed his cheek before taking your seat. You had even sought him out briefly between courses to tell him where you were going and who you would be with. He had just—he had hoped to spend time with you. That is all. 

Unfortunately, jealousy is not a particularly rational emotion.

Not that Valarr is jealous.

He straightens when the door finally creaks open, turning to look just as you slip into the room. It is awful, truly, the combination of fondness and bitterness that washes over him at the sight of the breathless smile on your lips as you enter the room.

“I hope Aelor and Aelora walked you back,” Valarr murmurs as he places his goblet down and makes his way over to you. He relishes the way your expression softens when you turn your attention to him. It’s almost enough to overwhelm the greenness eating away at his chest. Almost. “You should not be wandering the halls alone at this time of night, wife.”

You tilt your face up as soon as he draws near, and he dips his head down to brush his lips against yours. You make a soft noise into his mouth, curious, and he fights a flush when he feels your tongue dart out to lap at his lower lip.

You pull back, eyes alight as you ask, “Is that Qartheen?”

Valarr hums in agreement, hands sliding down to your hips as he looks down at you, thumbs smoothing easy circles over the fabric of your dress. 

“It is,” he says simply, and then he raises his eyebrows, beckoning a response to his initial unspoken question.

“Oh. Aelor and Aelora retired to their chambers early,” you tell him. Valarr’s brows immediately furrow, incensed by the idea of his cousins leaving you to make your way back alone. “Daeron walked me back.”

In Valarr’s defense, he truly does not mean to scoff. He doesn’t even realize he has until he sees your face change. You blink once before your brows raise questioningly, beckoning an explanation for the reaction.

“Is that a problem?” you ask after a moment, bemused. 

“No,” he says immediately, and he also does not mean for his voice to come across so strained, but from the way you raise your brows further, he fails miserably. He clears his throat and repeats more carefully, “Of course not.”

You study him for a moment too long. Valarr can hardly hold your gaze, so he resigns to looking at the painting to your left as though it’s the most interesting thing in the room. From the corner of his eye, he sees the moment your face smooths out in realization, and a pit forms in his stomach.

But all you say is, “I missed you today.” 

Valarr exhales through his nose, sinking into you when he feels your arms wind around his waist. What little fight remains drains from him immediately; for all of the time he spends stewing in his own thoughts, for all of the ridiculous conclusions he manages to draw from a few hours apart, it is remarkably difficult to maintain any sense of grievance when you are standing in front of him looking at him like this. 

“I missed you too,” he admits quietly, one hand lifting to cradle the back of your head as you prop your chin on his chest to look up at him. He dips down to brush his lips against the crown of your head, eyes sliding shut. “Lord Tyrell and Lord Hightower kept me occupied for the better part of the evening. I am beginning to suspect it was deliberate.”

“There was a conspiracy against you, was there?”

“There usually is,” Valarr agrees mournfully.

“My poor prince,” you coo, lifting your hand up to brush your fingers against his cheek. 

Valarr leans his face into your touch. “Your poor prince indeed. I am suffering terribly. You should do something to fix it.”

You laugh prettily, and Valarr feels the last of his irritation dissolve into something much uglier: guilt. Because here you are, smiling up at him, arms wrapped around his waist, telling him that you missed him, and all evening he had been sitting at the high table feeling resentful because you’d spent time with his cousins. 

You have spent months lonely in a foreign kingdom, struggling to find your place and navigate a court that had viewed you with disdain from the moment you arrived. Now, you finally have people who seek you out and make you laugh, people who make Westeros feel a little less cold, and Valarr, instead of being grateful for it, spent half of the evening sulking like a child over it.

The realization is profoundly embarrassing, and he cannot help the sigh that escapes his lips. 

“What is it?” you ask him, thumb stroking over his cheekbone in a way that only serves to make him feel worse, but he takes advantage of the comfort you offer him anyway, because he is greedy for anything and everything you deign to give him. “Valarr?”

“I was unfair to you,” he says after a moment, voice quiet. 

Your brows furrow, and you tell him, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I have,” he insists, fingers tangling gently into your hair, nails scratching your scalp lightly in the way that always makes your lashes flutter shut, because he knows that you know what was bothering him when you entered the room, and he would prefer for you not to think you might be doing something wrong just because he is petty. “I am happy that you have my brother and cousins. Aelor and Aelora… Aerion and Daeron. I am, truly. I desperately wanted you to have friends here—wanted you to feel welcome. I spent months worrying about you; every time I saw you upset, I felt as though I was failing you somehow. I am glad.”

He hates that he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

There is a terribly knowing expression on your face as you search his face, and then you press closer to him, arms tightening around his waist, face burying into his chest. Valarr sinks into the warmth of your embrace, pressing his face into the top of your hair and inhaling the saffron hair oil he’s become intimately accustom to. 

“You know I would always prefer to spend time with you than them,” you murmur after a few moments pass. “You need not be jealous.”

Valarr closes his eyes, mortification washing through him instantly.

Apparently, he is not nearly as subtle as he thought. 

“I am not jealous,” he mutters petulantly into your hair. “I only—”

What exactly is his defense here?

I only spent the entire evening staring across the feast whenever Aelor and Aelora made you laugh?

I only felt irrationally irritated when Aerion remembered some insignificant detail about Quarth that you mentioned months ago?

I only had a distinct urge to throw my own cousin into the Blackwater when you said he walked you back to your chambers?

I only wish it could be me with you instead of them? 

None of those sound particularly persuasive. 

“I am a little jealous,” he admits at last, shoulders slumping in defeat. Valarr grimaces when your shoulders begin to shake, face heating up again. He says, affronted, “You are laughing at me.”

“I am not,” you disagree, but he can hear the laugh in your voice.

“You are,” he accuses, pulling back to look down at you with a scowl that lacks heat, considering he cannot help the way his lips curve up at the sight of the smile on your face.

“I would never.”

The blatant lie is so outrageous that Valarr actually huffs. 

You lean up on your tiptoes to ghost your lips against his, and he sighs lightly into your mouth, one hand sliding to the small of your back as though drawn there by instinct. The annoyance that had been simmering beneath his skin all evening dissipates a little further when he feels you smile against his lips. 

He follows when you begin to pull away, stealing one more kiss before finally relenting. Even then, he cannot quite bring himself to put any real distance between the two of you, pulling you so that you’re flush to him, walking backward slowly until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. 

He sinks onto the mattress with a quiet exhale, drawing you with him until you’re comfortably settled on his lap. 

Impossible woman, he thinks fondly.

He can never get enough of you. He has known since he was young that his grandfather or father would arrange a marriage for him. It was simply the reality of being born who he was. Princes did not marry for love; they married for alliances, and for peace, and for duty. As a boy, he prayed that if he could not find love in whatever match he was assigned, he would find the same type of friendship his parents had found in one another. He would have ocnsidered that enough—more than enough.

Valarr knew the moment he laid eyes on you descending from your ship that he was doomed. The memory remains painfully clear—the harbor had been crowded that day, warm and sunny, and he was filled with dread and anxiety as he waited for the Qartheen ships to dock. Lords, ladies, gold cloaks, servants gathered nat the docks—all eager to catch a glimpse of the Qartheen daughter who had crossed half the world to marry into House Targaryen. 

Valarr remembers very little of them, but he remembers you. The sea wind had caught at your silks as you descended the gangplank. Gold and sapphire glimmered at your wrists and throat; chin lifted high despite the hundreds of unfamiliar eyes fixed upon you. You had looked terrified—you had hidden it beautifully, but he had seen the tension in your shoulders and the way your gaze swept over the crowd, searching for something familiar and finding nothing.

He rehearsed his introduction to you a thousand times before that day, and he still fumbled over his words the moment you were finally in front of him. He remembers the brief look of confusion that crossed your face, and the way he wanted the ground to open to swallow him hole.

Then you smiled, wide and bright, a laugh bubbling from your lips, and he lost whatever hope he had of approaching this marriage sensibly, because he has spent every day since chasing the memory of it, hoping to draw that sound from you a second, a third, a fourth time, hundreds of times, thousands. 

It became more difficult as court life weighed on you. He would seek out trinkets from Qarth in the market and commissioned a musician who knew songs from your homeland, but nothing ever seemed to be enough to wash away the morose expression on your face at the day's end. Every difficult day that ended with you smiling at him instead of staring silently out at Blackwater Bay felt like a battle hardwon.

Perhaps that’s why the jealousy cuts so deeply. It is not because he begrudges his cousins for making you happy; it is because they are enjoying something he spent months fighting for. But looking at you now, in his lap, eyes bright and lips curved up into a smile that exists solely because of him, Valarr finds that he cannot bring himself to resent any of them for long. 

“Perhaps I will join you next time then,” you muse, looping your arms around his neck. Valarr lets his eyes slide shut again when he feels you peck his jaw, trailing kisses along his flushed skin. “I can spend the entire day listening to Lord Tyrell discuss harvest, and Lord Hightower complain about tariffs from Braavos. Then we can be miserable together.”

“A compelling proposition,” Valarr replies, lips curving up into an easy, lidded smile as he looks up at you. “Though I fear you might start dozing off mid-conversation, wife.”

“I would never!” you gasp, faux-offended, and Valarr laughs, arms tightening around your waist, and he smiles when he hears the yelp that spills from your lips when he lays you back gently against the mattress, following you down until he is hovering above you, forearms braced on either side of your head. 

For a moment, he can only look at you. His wife, in his arms, in your shared bed, smiling and happy, looking at him as though he’s the only thing in the room worth seeing, and Valarr loves you. He loves you more than he knows how to articulate, so much that it scares him sometimes, because you awaken instincts in him that he scarcely recgonizes in himself.

Protectiveness, of course. Possessiveness, maybe. 

But also something much darker. 

Valarr has always considered himself a rational man, but that composure seems to evaporate whenever you’re involved. Every time he sees you upset, every time your smile falters because of some careless remark, something ugly stirs inside him. He wants to know who caused it; he wants names and answers. The urge is immediate and irrational, a vicious thing that he’s not particularly proud of, but it makes him understand why men have started wars for the woman they love. 

But you are smiling now, warm and happy beneath him, and for the moment, that is enough.

Valarr dips down to press his lips against yours again. He kisses you slower this time, savoring in the faint taste of lemon on your lips; when he pulls back slightly to take a breath, you chase his lips, nipping at his bottom lip before you pout and lay back against the mattress, looking up at him with big eyes that make Valarr’s heart jump. 

He lifts one hand to your face, cradling your cheek gently in one hand, thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. 

“I mean it,” you say after a moment, nosing into his palm briefly before looking up at him again. “The court probably expects it of me anyway—to be at your side while you handle all of your princely duties, I cannot keep running off with your cousins to socialize.”

Valarr’s expression softens. “No,” he says immediately. “Do not martyr yourself for my sake. I spend enough time trapped in those conversations for the both of us. You should enjoy yourself. The Seven know you’ve spent enough time miserable in this Keep already.”

You look unconvinced, and Valarr feels ashamed, because this is his fault, his pettiness, his jealousy that got you to this point. You are finally at a place where you are starting to feel comfortable; he has spent months wanting nothing more than to see you smile, and now that you finally are, he has somehow managed to make you question whether you should.

“I do not care what the court expects, and I certainly do not care what some lord thinks my wife should be doing during a feast,” he tells you. “I want you happy, and if that means spending an evening with my cousins while I suffer through discussions of grain yields, then so be it.” 

The court might slowly be warming up to you, but they still love to get their snide comments in just to see how you react. He would sooner carve out his own heart than watch that careful, guarded expression return to your face because he had been selfish enough to keep you at his side, forced around people who seek to remind you that you do not belong instead of the few people in this keep willing to bare their teeth on your behalf the moment someone forgets their manners.

He sighs lightly as he leans down to press his lips against yours again, hand sliding from the side of your face to rest at your throat. His thumb presses lightly into your skin, and he swallows thickly when you flutter your lashes up at him. 

“Will you come with me to the gardens tomorrow then?” you ask after a moment, lips curved up as you look up at him, and how is Valarr ever supposed to deny you when you look at him like this? “I saw a flower tonight. It reminded me of your eyes. I wanted to bring it up here to show you, but I didn’t want to kill it.”

A lump forms in his throat, because yes, you had spent the evening with his cousins, but you had still seen something beautiful and thought of him.

“Of course,” he says without hesitation, and your smile widens, bright and full of light in a way that Valarr will spend his life guarding. 

For a moment, he simply watches you—the way your eyes shine and the way your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem of his tunic. You are his, and Valarr was never really a possessive man until he met you, but now there is no denying it, because the sight of your tears ruins his day, and a careless remark from a lord leaves him imagining increasingly creative ways to make someone regret opening their mouth. Because seeing you hurt awakens something so violent in him that he almost forgets that he is meant to be his father’s son. 

There is concerningly little that Valarr would not do for you if it meant making you happy.

So he will join you in the gardens tomorrow, because he cannot deny you at all, much less when you are laying beneath him with wide eyes and a small smile. Because you are his wife, and he loves you.

Tomorrow, he will abandon the small council meeting he’s supposed to attend with his father, and he will endure whatever disapproval is directed his way, because his wife found a flower in the garden and wants to show him it, and that is infinitely more important than whatever trivial issues that are going to be discussed in the Tower of the Hand.

Valarr is a prince of the blood, a dragon, a knight, but before anything else, he is a husband who is deeply and desperately devoted to his wife. 

“I am sorry if I kept you waiting tonight,” you say quietly after a moment, reaching up to tuck a dark lock behind his ear before absently running your fingers through the silver streak that runs through his hair. “I hope I didn’t ruin any plans you had for the evening.”

Valarr’s expression softens. He ducks his head down to press his lips against your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he replies, “You could never ruin anything, ñuha jorrāelagon. My only plan for the night was to spend it with you.”

My love.

“Well, you’ve got me all to yourself, husband,” you say with a teasing smile. “What do you plan to do with me?”

Valarr gives you a sharp, boyish grin. “Oh, I’m sure you have an idea, wife.”

“Tell me anyway please?”

The living room of his apartment. The air is thick. Nanami is meticulously organizing his briefcase for the next day, his face a mask of absolute calm, which only makes you angrier.

You crossed your arms, as you stared to him while he pack his things for the following day.

“You pop out like it was nothing. I didn’t even hear anything from you for almost a fucking week. I almost thought you were dead.” Your voice was slightly trembling due to your frustration.

Nanami stops on pack, placing the folder down on his hands before he looks up to you.

“It was a classified mission. You already know that we’re not allowed to disclose the details of our work.” He explains.

“It’s a matter of safety. For the both of us.”

You scoffed. “Oh wow. Now it’s for our ‘safety’? I need a partner. I need a sign of life!” You exclaimed.

“You treat me like a roommate you're trying to keep at arm's length. It feels like you’ve already prepared yourself for the day you’ll be gone.”

Nanami was getting a bit irritated, adjusting his glasses. “I am being realistic. The death rate in my profession is high. I cannot let my emotions affect the missions.”

“You see? That’s the problem. Your line of work is dangerous. What I only need is for you to communicate with me. Just say that you’ll be on a mission for certain days and you’ll not be able to update me within that timeframe and I’ll understand!” You looked to him, with your hands shaking which you placed on your pockets.

His jaw tightens, a flicker of irritation breaking through his calm facade.

“You need to calm down, Y/n. You’re being emotional and irrational right now. We have discussed this. My silence is a protective measure."

You laughed. Raised your hands, admitting defeat. “You know what? I give up. I think it’s easier for you to protect a memory of me than to actually let me in."

You grabbed your car keys on the counter.

“I can’t do this tonight. I can’t stay in this room longer when I feel this shitty next to you.”

Nanami stood up, tries to prevent you from leaving. “It is past midnight and it’s pouring heavily outside. Sit down. We will discuss this calmly in the morning—“

“Goodbye, Kento.”

You didn’t let Nanami finish and left the unit. You slam the front door and walked towards the elevator.

Once you got into your car, you pulled out your phone, turned off your location, and even your signal, activating the airplane mode on.

Nanami sat back down to the sofa, placing hands on his face as he tries to calm down.

He reaches for this phone, tries to check on your location. It beeps for a while and soon it disappeared.

The moment your location dot disappears from his screen, his pragmatic, calm demeanor completely shatters. In the Jujutsu world, a sudden loss of signal means danger. His heart drops, replaced instantly by a cold, calculating panic.

While Nanami panics, you were out in the city, driving, to cool your mind.

You’re driving down a dark, winding, rain-slicked highway just outside the city, trying to clear your head. The roads are empty, and the rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers is the only sound.

Soon you stopped by a convenience store, bought three canned beers and even bought a box of cigarette. It’s been a while since you smoked. You stopped when Nanami told you it wasn’t good for the health. And you obeyed him, which was a struggle for you as it helps you relax.

Going outside the store and you lit one stick. You inhaled the smoke into your body and soon exhales.

“It’s been a while.” You spoke quietly and you chuckled. You also opened one can and gave yourself a drink.

“Ah. That hits the spot.”

Your mind drifts for a while before you unlocked your door.

You looked back, and noticed a white car. You squint your eyes, trying to see if there’s someone inside. But the lights were off and the engine was soundless.

You ignored the thought of someone was staring at you and went inside your car. You also realized that you weren’t wearing your glasses.

“Shit. I must’ve left it at Kento’s.” You mumbled and sighed. “I’ll just go back there later.”

You rested at the car for a while, taking sips from your canned beer. You also opened the window of your car, smoking that one stick a bit longer. Thankfully, the parking spot you chose has a shade on it, allowing you to leave your window open. You just wanted to do one smoke and just throw the whole box later on.

After a while, you looked to your watch. It was already 3am. You rested enough. You closed your window and started to drive.

Roads were still pretty empty. And dark. You drive around town, making a turn. You opened your window again, checking the other side of the road, when you noticed a car behind you when you looked through the side mirror.

The white car has been tailing you all the time. Its headlights are completely turned off. It’s a ghost tracking your exact speed, cornering perfectly.

Your adrenaline spikes. You hit the gas and closed your window again, but the ghost matches you effortlessly. It’s terrifying—until you recognize the precise, aggressive yet calculated way the car drifts behind yours.

You realized it was Kento. It’s him. He didn't need your GPS; he knows your driving habits, your favorite escape routes, and your mind too well.

Without realizing, you pulled over at the front of your home building. Furious and trembling, the white car glides in right behind you, finally cutting its engine.

The door opens. Nanami steps out into the rain. He isn't wearing his suit jacket; his dress shirt is slightly unbuttoned, tie loosened, and his hair is damp, clinging to his forehead.

He looks undone, dangerous, and incredibly intense.

He walks to your driver's side, knocks firmly on the glass, and waits. When you roll it down, the scent of rain, expensive cologne, and sheer, intoxicating authority floods your car

He could smell the tobacco and beer from the inside. He doesn't yell. Instead, he leans down, placing both hands on the frame of your open window, effectively trapping you in his space.

"Turning off your location, especially in our world. Do you have any idea what that does to my sanity, sweetheart?" His deep voice is a low, rough purr that vibrates straight down your spine.

“I just wanted to cool some time off, Kento.” You looked away, avoiding his gaze.

But he reaches in, a warm, heavy hand gently cupping your jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear. His gaze is dark, heavy with a mix of leftover adrenaline and intense desire.

"I am a pragmatic man, but the thought of losing you makes me entirely feral. I apologize for shutting you out. I was trying to protect myself from the vulnerability of loving you this much."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against the cold night air.

“Kento…”

His fingers slide down to your neck, tilted just right. His voice drops a tone, dripping with a seductive, unyielding promise.

"Unlock the door. Let me show you exactly how sorry I am. We aren't waiting until we get home."

You both parked your cars in the basement of the building. Went inside the elevator. It was quiet until Nanami walks over to you and kissed you on the lips.

“I apologise.” He whispered between kisses. “I can’t hold it back any longer.” Nanami’s kiss was getting impatient.

With a little time remaining, Nanami kissed you deeper, and you just melt into him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and Nanami instantly picks you up.

The elevator door opens, signaling Nanami to get out. Opening the front door to the unit and hurried over to the kitchen counter to place you down.

“Your lips tastes like tobacco & beer.” He mumbles.

“It’s because I smoked one & drank beer earlier.” You whispered, catching your breath while Nanami leans down, kissing your jawline down to your neck.

“You shouldn’t be smoking anymore. That’s bad for you.” Nanami pulls back, making eye contact with you with intense desire.

“I think you deserve to be punished.”

Before you could even react, Nanami had your arms above your head, then reached for his pockets, pulling out his necktie and wrapped it on your wrists.

“Kento.”

His fingers touched your lips. “Shh… sweetheart.” He looked to you.

“I’m the one’s in charge right now.”

You pout. “But this doesn’t mean I have forgotten what you did.”

Nanami chuckles, then looked back to your eyes. “Then, allow me to make you forget it.”

Without delaying it further, Nanami lifted you up again and walked towards the room. He gently laid you down on the bed and started to undo your clothes, leaving you in your lingerie.

You could feel beads of water fall down from your skin, since Nanami was soaked in the rain when he approached you. 

His kisses went to your collarbone down to your cleavage, smelling the scent of chocolate from your perfume. He inhales the scent slowly before he took off your bra in one click to the hooks and latches his lips to your nipple.

You gasp and tried to break free your hands on the tie he wrapped on you. You looked down to Nanami, who was still sucking on your breasts while his other hand is massaging the other and also making his way to slip off your lingerie.

Before he went down, he stared back to you as he kisses went lower, seeing the visible marks he left on your neck and breasts. He lets out a small smile before lowering down, in between your legs.

You began to shiver, felt cold to his touch and tries to close your legs as you feel his finger going to your folds.

“You’re excited.” Nanami whispered.

“Shut up.” You moaned out, biting your lower lip.

He pulls back, unbuttons his shirt and unbuckles his belt, releasing the unconfortable feeling underneath his pants. He was definitely hard. You could see that he was still holding back since you still need to be prepped a little bit longer.

Nanami went back down to you again, leans closer to your sensitive folds and gave it a slow lick before using his two fingers to spread your folds wide as his tongue starts to work on you.

You made a mess up there, arching your back, gripping tight from the bed sheets, with your arms swelling a bit from the tie.

You feel his warm tongue flip up and down, hearing the slicking sounds coming from his mouth, making sure you can take him in one go. Before he pulled back, he circles his tongue through the entrance which almost made you cum.

He pulled back, reaching for the night stand, getting a condom.

“No…” you whispered, panting.

“But we need protection.”

“I want you. Raw.” You demanded.

Nanami was left speechless but soon was replaced with a soft chuckle. He tossed the unopened pack and looked back to you.

“Bend over. Please.” Nanami orders you and you slightly turned your body around, bending over as he told you to do so.

Nanami slides down his boxers, letting his dick out finally, that was already twitching. He positions on your back, guiding his tip on your entrance and slowly goes in.

He lets out a soft groan, while you held onto the sheets again. Nanami reaches for your hands, pinning them above your head as he slowly moves deeper, letting your insides take all of him.

“You’re so warm.” Nanami looks down to your hips, seeing how full you were. He stayed still for a while, before he started to move. He leaned down to you, whispering to you ear.

“It seems that down there..” he pauses as he pounds on you. “Has already forgiven me for what I did..” he makes another thrust.

You couldn’t respond properly. You were too busy trying not to pass out. “What the hell.. are you.. talking about..?” You moaned out while Nanami chuckles.

“Do you feel every thrust?” He asks. “It’s so smooth.”

“You’re so wet.” He states which you finally realize that he was teasing you. You could feel your face warming up and you decided to muffle your voice on the pillow which Nanami didn’t allow you to.

Nanami flips you over, then rests for a bit as he catches his breath. His one hand, trailing to your stomach and felt the bulge on your stomach which he lets out a small smirk.

He knew he was filling your stomach completely. He made some deep thrusts, which he could see from your stomach. You hid your face on your arm and Nanami reaches up to untie your hands and started to kiss you.

You instantly wrapped your arms around his neck, as he continues to move deeper on you.

“Nanami, I’m close..” you moaned out while Nanami looked to you and nods.

“I know, sweetheart. Don’t hold it back.” He whispered as his thrusts were continouosly at the same pace and strength.

After one final thrust, you both came and you feel his hot thick cum flow inside you. Nanami rests on top of you for a little bit and soon helped you rest properly on the before  going to the bathroom to prepare warm bath.

As soon as it was done, Nanami walked back to you and carried you to his arms, going inside the bathtub to take a quick dip.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, then kissed your shoulders.

“I’ll make sure to you update you more when I’m working.”

You smiled. “Okay.”

“I love you, Kento.”

“I love you too, Y/n.” Nanami whispered in soft tone then kisses your forehead.

Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.

And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.

The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.

His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.

It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.

For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.

Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.

Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.

Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.

Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.

Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.

He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”

Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”

Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.

Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.

You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.

There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.

But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.

“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”

Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.

You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”

“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.

The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.

“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.

“I do.”

“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”

“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”

Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.

“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.

But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.

“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”

Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.

The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.

“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”

The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”

Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.

The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.

And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.

One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.

He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.

“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”

Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face. 

Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.

You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.

“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”

You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.

The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.

“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.

With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.

Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.

“...Princess?”

Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.

At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.

He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.

“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.

Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.

“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’  You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”

You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.

“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”

Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.

He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.

“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.

“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.

Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.

Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.

He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.

It is utterly infuriating.

You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.

Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.

Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.

The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.

No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.

You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.

And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.

One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.

By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.

You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.

“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”

The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.

You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.

Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.

Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.

He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.

He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.

You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.

He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.

When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.

“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”

Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.

“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”

“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”

Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.

The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.

Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.

His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.

A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.

Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.

“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”

Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”

“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.

You like Gwayne Hightower.

And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.

Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.

He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.

“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.

Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.

Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.

“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”

With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.

“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.

Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.

Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.

“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”

“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”

Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.

“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”

Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.

Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.

“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.

Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.

“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”

“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”

The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.

Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.

“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”

Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.

You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.

“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"

“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”

Your wish is his command.

The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.

Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.

“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.

Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.

When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.

“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”

You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.

“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.

“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”

“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”

“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”

“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”

His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.

“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”

“You stopped.”

The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.

You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.

“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”

Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”

“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”

Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.

You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”

His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”

“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”

“Yes.”

“And rather intimidating,” you add.

“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”

“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”

You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”

“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.

When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.

But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.

“Oh.”

You blink. “...Oh?”

“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.

And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.

He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.

“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.

You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”

“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.

“Trying what, Ser?”

“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”

You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.

Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.

Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.

You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.

“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.

“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.

A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”

You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”

He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.

You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.

Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.

Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.

His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.

When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.

“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”

You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.

“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”

Dressed in long, heavy dark red robes embroidered with golden dragons and plush auspicious clouds swirling around the wide sleeves. Gold earrings and a pearled necklace adorned your lovely face as the warmth smooched cheeks rested on your throne–propped hand. Jade bracelets contrasted beautifully with the shade of your skin and the green hues, as you waved your hand and sighed deeply, tired of the constant bickering between your two highest chiefs.

Suguru Geto, the Grand Chancellor, looked your way swiftly, the fan folded in his hand.

"Your Majesty shall soon make the decision. The people are starving, and the recent flood has severely reduced crops for the coming year," he said, striking his palm with a fan.

And as if the court etiquette revolved around everyone but those two young men, Grand Marshal Itachi Uchiha sneered quietly, yet kept the roll of his crimson eyes to himself.

"The enemy forces are knocking on our walls. We need to allocate more funds into the defence," he looked at you, before glancing in irritation at the Grand Chancellor. "Isn't it your duty to keep track of the administrative system? How could you not be safe enough in case of a flood?"

Suguru, however, didn't look at him at all, as if a Grand Marshal, the greatest military leader in the whole empire, was nothing more than a mere pest.

"And how could you not train your men well enough to protect our heavenly empire from the enemy forces?" Suguru chuckled, his snake-like eyes peering at Itachi's flushed face. "I believe you still lack manners, Grand Marshal. Such an esteemed position for a young fool like you, and yet you cannot keep yourself calm in front of Her Majesty?"

The rage inside Itachi's kind, youthful heart bubbled wickedly at the mere sight of the man who smiled at him in this cunning, treacherous manner. Always treating him as such a foolish child, even though in reality the Grand Chancellor was not much older than him.

Itachi often felt a strange sensation tightening deep in his chest at the very thought of the Grand Chancellor keeping you company for much longer than he did.

His crimson eyes looked up at your lovely face, basking in the deep, evening glory of the slowly setting sun.

The court meeting has been going on for hours, with bickering between the Grand Marshal and the Grand Chancellor taking up most of the time.

From the monetary locations to the division of responsibilities.

From "why the Ministry of War received a lower salary this quarter" to "why my scholars are being harassed on the streets by your soldiers?"

The fighting has been going on for two years already, while, in the meantime, the emperor has grown gravely ill.

Till you, the childless empress, needed to take the throne, as both the Grand Marshal and the Grand Chancellor did not accept any other kin of royal lineage.

And because the two held power stronger than the emperor himself, maintaining a tight military force on the one hand and administering on the other, ministers and scholars could do nothing but shut their mouths and allow the woman to take over the empire.

Lovely, beautiful as the moon goddess herself, with lips slightly pouted and eyes always a bit wicked, as she looked with a gentle smile between the two grand men.

Red and golden hairpins swooshed over your forehead as you finally lifted your head and sighted.

"That's enough," red-stained cheeks shone beneath the lamps the servants had brought to lighten the heavenly child's face. "Let's end the meeting here. Everyone can leave now, we shall make a decision soon."

All the scholars and ministers standing in the court took a deep breath, thanking the most beloved empress for seeing the weariness heavy on their eyelids.

"In the meantime," your fingers tapped on the throne's armrest. "Grand Marshal and Grand Chancellor shall accompany us to the emperor's quarters later. A matter of crucial importance must be discussed."

Everyone's ears suddenly pricked up, the tired, wrinkled faces of ministers lifting with a furrow.

The news of the emperor's sickness had lain tragically upon the nation's foreheads. If the heavenly son himself remained in a state of illness, the empire would soon crumple! Tragically it lay upon the fretful minds of ministers, scholars, eunuchs, and all the people of the Empire who loved their emperor dearly. The sickness had taken a toll on them all, and although the empress was nothing but mannerly and witty enough to rule the empire, senior ministers simply couldn't accept it.

And thus ministers and scholars tried in vain to peek into the emperor's most intimate quarters.

To seek help from the best physicians across the whole empire. Pay the servants of the inner palace handsomely to get news of the emperor's well-being.

Unfortunately, the only people who had seen him over the past few months were the empress, the palace's physician, a few servants, and… the Grand Marshal, together with the Grand Chancellor.

"Your Majesty, is there anything wrong with the emperor?" a quiet voice echoed off the palace's walls. "We've been kept in darkness far too long. If someone had reported it to the Ministry of Justice–"

Yet before the minister could finish his thought, both Grand Marshal and Grand Chancellor turned their heads. Grand Marshal tsked under his breath, his deep crimson eyes narrowing to slits, and the perilous gaze that swept over the poor minister was strangling his sweating neck.

Suguru looked over his shoulder, a peculiar grin tugging at his lips, lavender irises kissed by calmness as usual. Although the scholars in the first row must have admitted it, there was a weird, nasty feeling behind his eyes that sent shivers down their spines.

"The Ministry of Justice, as I recall, remained under my control," Suguru had noted boldly, as if the empress weren't the one to whom all control truly belonged. "Don't worry, dear friend, I always make sure to obey the rules of our empire."

The minister lowered his head, letting the hefty glob of spit trickle down his tightened throat.

Yet, nevertheless, it didn't feel right.

"Her Majesty shall not claim the throne unless she's with an imperial child," he felt their gazes weighing on his beading forehead. Yet the heart seeking justice had been hiding the mixed feelings of resentment for far too long. "The emperor's closest cousin may take the power. Grand Marshal, Grand Chancellor, you both should work for the empire's greatness–"

"But she is with a child," Itachi's sudden, sly notion brought all the heads up. "Her Majesty is with an imperial offspring, you see."

The minister, with a face flushed red and eyes fixed on the Grand Marshal's tightened fists, wiped his wrinkled, wet forehead with his robe. His gaze immediately bounced up to the empress, sitting straight on the throne, her chin still propped on a hand.

"Your Majesty, is that true? Are you with an imperial child?"

A thread of silence had wrapped around each throat, while the ministers' eyes looked shyly at your kissed cheeks and eyes bouncing between the Grand Marshal and the Grand Chancellor. Slightly lidded, wicked, as if whatever was hiding behind your gaze could've been encoded only by the three of you.

After a moment, your deep sigh filled the court as you finally stood. Three servants immediately ran forward to help you descend the short marble stairs, as the crimson robe swooshed behind you.

"That's true, minister. We are with child. Yet it's still early in the pregnancy, so we haven't had the chance to announce it to the court." Your eyes fell on Itachi's blushed face before slipping back to the humiliated minister. "Is that answer satisfying enough?"

The man nodded, then bowed his head low and wrapped it in linked arms. "This humble servant apologises, Your Majesty."

You looked at him for a while, keeping a warm smile on your lips. You were, after all, benevolent. Kind, of warm heart that burned only with love for your dearest, poor emperor.

A truly perfect empress.

"Well, allow us to rest now, as dusk has settled low. Please return to your residences."

And with eyes glancing at Grand Marshal and Grand Chancellor one last time, you allowed yourself to disappear in the darkness of the inner court.

ㅤ♡ㅤ♡ㅤ♡

The gentle flickering of flames dancing inside the red lanterns led both men through the twisting halls of the inner palace. The night was warm and sweet, tasting of osmanthus cake the imperial kitchen had prepared for the empress to satisfy one of her cravings, and of the bitter tea that suited their delicacy.

Cicadas sang softly when they finally arrived beneath the empress's chamber. The rice-paper walls let the warm flames flickering inside leak through, yet paintings of dragons, flowers, and tall mountains from the southern regions, stretching across their soft surface, fully covered the moving shadows within.

Suguru reached to slide the door, yet it opened before his fingers touched the carved handle.

"Oh?" He smiled, letting the short teenager greet him with an always-slightly displeased frown. "Good evening, Mao Mao. I didn't know you were visiting. How's Her Majesty?"

The girl looked over her shoulder, and both men followed, glancing at your body sprawled on the red, baldachin bed. Dressed in nothing but a flimsy robe that barely covered your swollen, already quite full breasts.

"Pregnant, as you can see," the girl said, letting them both in. "But Her Majesty and the baby are doing well. It's only the beginning of the fourth month, but Her Majesty is growing healthy."

Itachi nodded, already slipping further in to bring you a plate of osmathus cakes. Your lovely smile lit up the room; your hair, free of all the golden pins, now flowed gently over your shoulder as you reached towards the man and giggled.

Suguru glanced at you both before going back to the little miss.

"And how's the emperor?"

The girl smiled cheekily, pulling something from her pocket. "Still very much poisoned."

A few herbs rested on her palm, with flowers Suguru didn't recognise. Yet he smiled and patted her round, green head, even though he knew how much she hated it.

After all, she wasn't that small either, barely eighteen, with the chubby, girlish cheeks still puffing out her face. But Suguru treated her more like his annoying sister than the most qualified imperial physician, and so he enjoyed pushing all her buttons just to see that frown, which amused him so much.

"Good, keep it that way. If Her Majesty shall have a boy, let the Emperor die right after the birth."

Mao Mao often wondered what Her Majesty saw in those wicked, snake-like men. Handsome, indeed, yet both of truly devilish nature and with the obsessive traits that made the young girl rather intrigued. They seemed sweet towards Her Majesty, yet cunning in the imperial court. Holding the power over it all tight, as no other men could challenge them.

The moment the emperor fell ill, exactly five months ago, both Grand Marshal and Grand Chancellor wrapped themselves around the empress's lovely fingers, keeping themselves always close by.

And when the Mao Mao was called to examine the empress's pained body and discovered that her restlessness stemmed from all the nights spent in the Minister's and Commander's presence, she frowned deeply.

"I should inform the court," she said, looking at the Grand Marshal's always smiling face.

Like a fox, with moon-lidded eyes and a hum of assurance, yet a gentle nod of the head.

"You should."

Mao Mao bit on the inside of her cheek. "But I won't."

Suguru simply kept smiling. His hands were tucked into the wide sleeves of his robes, while Itachi and you chattered happily behind him.

"No, you won't."

"Because I would need to bring it to the Ministry of Justice. But all the ministries lie under you," she said, following another wicked smile that curled his lips.

"That's true."

"And if I brought it to the emperor's private guards, the Grand Marshal would be notified," her eyes peeked at Itachi's crimson eyes, which were fixed on your flat belly.

"Yes, little miss. You're right," Suguru bent gently until his gaze was level with Mao Mao's. "And because you love Her Majesty dearly, you'll allow her to be happy."

He was right. Mao Mao loved you like a big sister, and so when you'd asked her to poison the emperor just a little, just enough to make his legs bend and his forehead covered in a feverish sheen – she agreed. It's not that you didn't want the children. Just… you didn't wish for them with him.

Because Mao Mao always felt slightly lonely and craved the warm embrace of someone who could show her that the world is not purely evil. That gentleness and love and kindness are still somewhere there, so when Mao Mao felt them seep past your warm fingers, she clutched herself to you like a leech.

She looked over her shoulder, watching your plush cheeks nibble the sweetness of osmanthus cakes. Itachi rubbed your belly slowly, his long, dark hair pinned in a loose ponytail.

"Just let her rest. And be gentle with…" She coughed, avoiding Suguru's slyly curved eyes. "You know. She's entering a vulnerable state, so don't do whatever you did when you broke the bed."

Suguru hummed, and when Mao Mao finally left the chamber, he turned back towards his empress.

Your eyes immediately looked at him, hands petting Itachi's head as he pressed his ear to your belly.

"Must you always be so mean to him, Suguru?" you giggled as Suguru's lavender eyes rolled back.

He joined you on the bed, settling himself comfortably behind your back, nuzzling his face against your warm skin. "It's not my fault he's incompetent at his job."

Suguru's plush lips traced kisses down your neck. Hungry, needy fingers slipped robes off your naked shoulders.

Your sweet hum filled the warm chamber, the nearby candles' flames flickering as Itachi shifted. Taking the robes off your body, he pressed himself against your swollen breasts.

"He's always so mean to me, Your Majesty," he murmured, looking up at your lovely cheeks with a scowl. Crimson eyes that reminded you of a beaten puppy, yet not fitting his muscular body at all. "You should punish him for me."

You giggled, biting on a lower lip when his mouth slipped to your nipples. Fully perked, he licked one of them gently while grabbing the other with his fingers. Your breasts sat heavily in his palm, spilling through the fingers as you parted your legs wider to let him in.

Suguru sucked on the soft skin beneath your jaw, his fingers tracing down your naked skin till he pressed his big palms to your rounded belly.

"He was the one who spilt our secret." His voice felt like velvet against your skin, yet it sent shivers down your spine. "Now the court knows that you're pregnant."

A sugary purr fell from your tightened throat as you felt Suguru's fingers go lower. And lower, lower, until he parted your drenched, sticky folds.

"She's so wet, isn't she?" Itachi chuckled around your nipple, sucking it with a sweet moan. "Your Majesty, I wonder if you leaked down the throne again."

A scowl wrinkled your face. Your lips fell slightly open, yet before you could say anything back, Suguru grabbed your chin and turned your head to the side. His lips quickly found their way onto yours, plush and filled with mischievous sweetness as his fingers pressed to your clit.

"Don't be mean, Itachi," he muttered, spreading the wetness of your cunt all over the soft slit. "Her Majesty carries our child. You should have more empathy within your heart. After all, accidents happen."

His voice was calm, yet you sensed the cheeky undertone that showed through.

Itachi hummed, biting your puckered aureola softly. "How could I be mean? Even if she did leak, I would lick it clean. Again."

Suguru's lavender eyes followed the pleasure melting on your face, fingers scooping a hefty, sticky glop of your cum. He lifted them both, pushing all the sweetness right into your parted lips.

"Aren't you simply delicious, Your Majesty?" Suguru cooed, feeling your warm lips wrap around his fingers. Sucking them dry, till your juices coated the full wetness of your tongue.

You nodded and bit on them gently. Just to pull a groany hiss past his throat. "Stop wasting my time and fuck me already. I've been waiting for you a whole day."

Both of them chuckled. Itachi pressed his tongue one last time to your nipple, before tracing kisses down your body. Ribs, belly, parted thighs slicked with wetness that was pooling heavily beneath your hips.

Since you've entered the stage of pregnancy, they've never seen you wetter. Sweet and plush, always letting them get drunk on your sensitive pussy as you melted in moans beneath their fingers.

Suguru's damp fingers moved up, exchanging places with Itachi's lips. Still moist with your juices, he grasped your breasts with a squeeze, pushing a muffled moan out of your throat.

Itachi's big hands spreaded your legs wide, crimson eyes already fixed on the sticky mess of your pussy. A cheeky smile tugged on his lips as he parted your folds and pressed a finger to your hole.

"Oh?" he chuckled, as it tried to swallow it in, covering it in creaminess. His thumb weighted on the clit, pushing it till another lovely moan escaped your throat. "That desperate, aren't you?"

You mewled, letting his big palms spread your legs wider. Fingers digging into the softness of your thighs, until the flesh spilled past his long fingers.

Hot and desperate, with your head already heavy and clouded with pleasure, as you felt their tongues, teeth, and fingers on your body.

Suguru nipped on your neck, his pads rolling your nipples gently. Itachi finally lay on his stomach, with a head between your parted legs, just to press his tongue against your clit. Sucking on the button softly, with one hand keeping your thighs open and another pressed gently to your rounded belly.

The pregnancy was making you hornier than usual. As if the week of ovulation turned into whole months of agitation, constant hits of heat, the wetness pooling on your undergarments and warmth filling you up till fingertips.

It felt awful. Humiliating. Your thoughts filled with nothing but the burning neediness to feel the heavy cocks of your lovers split you open. Stuff your weeping cunt full, fold your body in half and fuck restless, leaving you trembling and blacked out and starving for more.

But now they were gentle. Almost too gentle, and soon your fingers slipped into Itachi's dark locks, pulling them harshly.

"Itachi, ngh, p-please just fuck me," fell moany, as his tongue flickered your clit. Dropping down to slurp on the fresh batch of cum dropping from your hole, before giving a hearty lick over your slit. "Stop, I n-need you inside."

Suguru chuckled behind you. His palm cupped your cheek, thumb tracing over the parted lips.

"Your Majesty, the imperial physician clearly stated that we should remain restrained for a while," he hummed, pushing a thumb between your parted fingers. "Let us pleasure you another way instead. Besides, aren't you already full enough?"

Your cheeks flushed with warmth upon understanding his illusions. Itachi's hand on your belly rubbed the stretched, swollen skin, as he pushed two thick fingers deep inside your pussy.

"So sweet," he groaned, fingers of another hand digging into your fat thigh. "Your Majesty, you taste much sweeter than before."

Suguru chuckled, brushing the wet strands of hair from your forehead, wrinkled with pleasure. Your eyes were slightly glossy as your hand threaded through Itachi's dark locks, pulling his face closer to your pussy.

His tongue lapping, slurping, fiddling with the swollen clit as two fingers pumped your cunt gently, pressing against the spot which made your toes curl.

Suguru played with your sensitive breasts, squeezing the nipples with his pads as if wishing for something sweeter to spill.

"Such a pretty empress," he whispered, placing gentle pecks on your teary cheeks. "Your Majesty, the pregnancy enhances your beauty so well. It makes us want to keep you filled up all the time."

And you knew it did, because both men had never acted more feral than since the moment Mao Mao informed them of your state. They became much softer, gentler, yet still fucking you deep and raw, kissing, biting all the rolls of fat that slowly formed on your body.

Hiding pregnancy in front of the court wasn't that hard – the long, wide robes were enough – yet the moment you stepped into your chamber for a rest. Oh dearest…

Drenched pleasure coated your spine, eyes rolled back when Itachi sucked on your clit, pushing another moan past your lips. His hips moved against the bed, while Suguru's cock stayed pressed to your back. Thick and leaking, wetting your skin through his thin robes.

"I'm c-close," you moaned, letting your hips roll against Itachi's tongue. "Oh, fuck, I'm g-going to–"

"Don't tense yourself," Itachi muttered against your pussy, his palm rubbing your belly. "Just like that, mhm, we cannot hurt the baby, Your Majesty," your walls felt slightly loosened around his fingers, as he abused your sweet spot. "You're doing so well, so well, Your Majesty. Keep this pretty pussy loose for me, hm?"

His words flooded your mind with warm splashes. A heat that bubbled deep in your lower belly, dangerously close to overflowing. Fingers gripped his hair tighter as you felt the familiar pleasure seep through your heavy, moaning breaths.

"I'm close," you muttered against Suguru's lips. "Ngh, I'm going to, ahh, p-please I'm going to come."

Suguru's hips rolled against your back, fingers still playing with your full breasts as he gladly drank all your heavy moans spilling into his lips.

"You're doing so well, Your Majesty. Our pretty mama, come for us," fell in a whisper, yet a groan followed right in as you finally let your head fall against his chest, back bent gently into a delicious arch. "Feels so good, hm? Your two devoted ministers always make you feel so good."

You nodded, yet with eyes blanked and lips fallen open, as your pussy finally tightened around Itachi's fingers, the splash of crystalline cum gushing all over his face.

He drank it with a cry, crimson eyes half-closed until a scowl appeared between his eyebrows, hips pressing firmly into the mattress. He finished it all, slurping on the cum and digging his fingers deep into your swollen thighs.

A second later, something wet coated your back. Sticky, creamy, and Suguru moaned into the crook of your neck, squeezing your full tits.

The foggy chamber was filled with nothing but your heavy breaths and Itachi's careless kisses over your soaked, sticky cunt. Irritating your sensitive folds, until you had to push him away with a giggle.

"Stop, it's too much," a pout curled your lips, as Itachi finally pulled himself away.

A thin, crystal thread still connecting his maw with your pussy, as he licked his lips clean.

Suguru finally let your breasts fall soft, wrapping his hands around your belly instead.

"How do you feel, Your Majesty?"

Allowing your eyes to close, you nuzzled yourself more tightly into his chest. Itachi stayed by your legs, his long, strong fingers gently massaging your calves and thighs, slightly swollen and tired.

"Mhm, it's okay. You don't have to treat me like a doll, you know," a soft purr slipped past your lips when you felt Suguru's fingers thread through your hair. "I know you're all worried about hurting the baby, but I'm really fine. We can have normal sex too."

Suguru chuckled, pressing his thumb into the middle of your forehead to smooth out a small wrinkle. "We know, Your Majesty. But Mao Mao told us to stay calm for a while. We're not in a rush, are we?"

He was right.

You were not.

"Just relax, Your Majesty, and let us take care of you." Itachi kissed the inner thighs you'd slightly parted, and you giggled.

Lovely, warm, letting yourself drift back into a deep sleep in the arms of the men you loved most.

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