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He's so gorgeous, and you don't even know why. With that dark hair hiding his face and those heavy eye bags. Jeez, even the stubble is unkempt. But by god, you find him so attractive. And no one. No one has made you feel this way. No man besides him has flustered you so intensely before.

Who are you talking about? Well, the president's favorite, of course. Leon S Kennedy. Apparently, he used to be more muscular and put together emotionally. Lately, he's been sarcastic, tired, and just a little rude. Yet, it works for you. . . and your lady bits. Doesn't hurt that his voice is raspy yet smooth as butter. Make it make sense.

It doesn't. Nothing about him does. It just is. Exactly like this big fat crush you've got on him.

Oh, and you are coworkers. Yep, you nearly see him every single day. Does he know you have a crush? Well, the agent hasn't said anything. But you'd be a bit shocked if he hasn't figured it out yet. You're a clumsy fool around him. Eyes can't meet his. Never really know what to say.

Though, he looks for you quite frequently. Maybe it's because you listen so well or 'cause you don't judge the way he's been so gloomy. You don't ask questions about it either. A lot of the time, you'll just sit in silence.

A deep sigh exits your mouth. You haven't been focusing at all. Therefore, you've stayed way too long at work, and your report is nowhere near finished. You had been so optimistic that you could finish before the day's end. And you just had to prove yourself wrong.

You lean back in the office chair, causing it to squeak while you groan in frustration and run a hand down your face.

"What's that for?" A snort of amusement follows the comment. It startles you. Immediately making you straighten up and look towards the source of the sound.

"Leon." You acknowledge your crush with a slight nod. Briefly, your eyes meet before you chicken out.

A smile breaks out on his face. "Shouldn't you be home by now?" The wall of your cubicle creaks as he leans over it to peer down at you. His blue eyes are so bright, and not even his emo hair can hide those gems.

"Um. Yeah, probably." You shrug with a lopsided smile in reply.

"I can walk you home." He leans in further, and your eyes flick upwards to Leon. He offers a devastating wink. "I got an umbrella, too. Protection from loneliness and the rain for no cost." You laugh lightly and shake your head.

He's utterly ridiculous, and yet you got butterflies filling your stomach. It's so unfair. "Sounds good. Let me get my stuff together. This report will just have to kick my butt further tomorrow."

Leon laughs, "That's the spirit." He slaps the top of your rickety cubicle before going for his own things. You both walk out of DSO headquarters side-by-side. Now, you see the rain clearly. It's calm for the moment but consistent.

His pitch black umbrella springs to life, and he holds it over both of you. Childish dreams of sharing an umbrella with your crush pop into your head. You stab at the happy bubbles, trying to stop heat from rising to your cheeks before it's too late.

For a while, neither of you say anything. It's footsteps on wet pavement, and rain drops hitting an umbrella. Your hand is securing the bag hanging from your shoulder. You try to balance being under the umbrella and not brushing up against the seasoned agent.

Leon clears his throat, ending your shared silence. "So, how are you? Anything fun going on?"

Oh god. This is where he finds out you're super boring. "Um, yeah. I'm good. Nothing much going on. You?"

"Yeah, nothing fun these days. I should probably just kill myself, huh?" He laughs it off, a warm raspy chuckle that would normally make you hot and bothered.

Yet, he's been making a lot of jokes like that as of late. It upsets you. A lot. Zero love or respect for himself. It's a heavy, serious subject that shouldn't be taken lightly.

"You know. I wish you wouldn't make those jokes anymore." You huff, walking faster towards your apartment.

Leon snorts, and quickens to keep up with you, umbrella continuing to shield from the rain. "Why? It's just a joke besides no one would actually miss me."

Your feet halt instantly, and you whip your head around to him. "Excuse you? I would miss you." You point to yourself and glare at the blue-eyed man. "Me. That's who."

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "You'd go on without me. As a matter of fact, you'd be better off without me." The certainty in his voice and the pain he's so clearly trying to hide is a knife to the gut. Every joke and the way his body shifts uncomfortably is an obvious sign to you that he's genuinely hurting.

Your bottom lip starts to tremble, and your eyes begin watering. "How can you say that?" The question tumbles out, weak and crushed.

He sighs your name, setting his work bag down to free his hand. Then, that hand is brushing across your cheek. Your breath catches, and his eyes soften. "You don't need me." He whispers, sounding utterly defeated. How long has he been feeling this way?

You knew he wasn't in the best place mentally, but you didn't think it was this bad. Foolishly, you hoped it was a phase. Something fleeting that he could escape. You must be an idiot.

You step closer, also dropping your bag to grasp his shoulders. "Maybe. Maybe I don't need you. But Leon, I want you." You smile even if it is wobbly from your crying. "We're friends. Aren't we?"

His eyes widen slightly, and he inches closer to you. Gradually, his head dips into a nod. "Yeah," he follows up with a whisper. Your world flips upside down when his eyes drop to your lips.

Does he want to be friends? Or something more? Suddenly, his free hand lands on your waist, and you're gasping. No longer are you crying. It's just the sky that cries alone.

"If I'm about to ruin everything. Please tell me." Leon sounds like a dream come true. Voice low and full of yearning. Yet breaking into beautiful shards of glass and wishing for your delicate hands to glue them back together.

You'd bleed a thousand times over. Cut yourself on every shard if it meant he'd be whole once again. "No. You're ruining nothing. Please kiss me." Your hands curl in his shirt, and your eyes plead with his.

He takes his time. One hand holding an umbrella and the other slipping to your lower back. Leon drags you closer and dips his head to meet your lips. It's absolute magic. I mean, what else can make your toes curl and drench your body in heat?

You part from the kiss, a sigh of relief escaping you both. He pulls back, and you follow his lead. Then, your eyes meet, and a shy smile takes you over. He looks shocked, blinking at you stupidly.

"What?" You feel embarrassed, laughing and picking random fuzzies off his shoulder.

"You kissed me." He shakes his head, appearing completely dazed and confused.

"Um, yeah." You answer with a soft chuckle. "I wanted to kiss you. I've been wanting to kiss you. I thought you knew."

Another shake of his head. "You did? How long?"

"Very long." You shrug as if it's no big deal. As if this hasn't been going on since the start. Since the first day you met the skilled man.

He grabs your chin, his spark returning. A smirk on his delectable lips and a promise of trouble in his ocean gaze. "How. Long?" He punctuates each word, slow and intense.

You burst into flames, heat crawling up your neck and covering your face. "I don't know. Months?" You bite your lip and dart your eyes around. The sidewalk, your apartment in the distance, wet grass, or the gray sky. Anything except the object of your desires.

"Hmmm." He hums thoughtfully and takes notice of your teeth indenting your lip. His thumb pulls your lip loose, and your knees weaken in response.

"You can kiss me again." You whisper, small and feeble like a mouse.

His eyes glimmer with lust, and he tips your head back before pressing his lips to yours. Shy yet, sure you slip your hands to his nape and play with the ends of his midnight black hair. His lips slant, and the game changes. His stubble is scrapping against your skin, and a moan is spilling from you.

He groans hungrily, and the umbrella falls to the pavement. His now freed hand is cupping the back of your head, and the other is on your back, pushing you into his chest. Your knees buckle, knocking into each other. Your hand slides up further, fisting in his hair.

A rich guttural noise leaves Leon, and a needy one escapes you. Both of you are becoming soaked as the rain intensifies. A threatening rumble of thunder can be heard in the distance. Neither of you stops. Your lips meet again and again. Both of you cling to the other like a lifeline.

Your heart drops when he pulls away. But then his lips meet your jaw. "Leon," you sigh like a lovesick maiden. He sucks on your skin and licks a strip up the column of your throat. Your hands slide down his chest and then under his shirt.

He melts, sighing against your heated skin. A few more kisses grace your skin before he's hugging you to himself and nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "Thank you." Your name follows so affectionately from his lips.

"You don't have to thank me." You drop a kiss to his wet hair and rub his back. A steady up and down motion while the rain soaks into your clothes. This continues for a while, and you don't mind one bit.

When Leon raises his head once again, he seems lighter. "I guess I needed this. Huh." He shrugs as if to say, 'who would have thought?'

"I guess so." You shrug in return and drop your hands from his amazing body quite reluctantly.

"We should get you inside. You're soaked." Leon bends over to pick up the forsaken umbrella and his work bag.

"So are you," you mumble and reach for your own bag abandoned on the sidewalk.

The umbrella is wrapped up and held under his arm. The rain is still brutal, but you've been standing in the rain too long for it to change anything. His hand grabs yours, and your fingers interlace. Angels start singing, and you're dancing from one cloud to the other.

The next few hours are spent with your crush. Maybe boyfriend soon. Two cups with steam floating off the top decorate your coffee table. Two towels lay crumpled in your bathroom. He decides to go home after the storm lets up. But you make sure he leaves with a pocket full of rainbows and a heart full of love.

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I'm so happy with how this ended! Yay!! Please enjoy, my incredible taglist!

Now, Leon was a different story. He's hated you since day one. Short, blunt replies and no smiles. Yet, the horses at his stable adored you, and you assume that's why he keeps letting you visit. You've always been curious about the man. He's devastatingly handsome even if you got a feeling he's nearly twice your age.

You've noticed how kind and patient he is with his employees. Farm hands, veterinarians, and anyone else he happened to have under his wing. He makes plenty of dad jokes. Though, there's no wedding band, and everyone you've talked to says he's a loner. Long story short, you're extremely interested in the man.

The sun is setting, and the horses are all in their stalls, but that stupid girl is still here. Leon tried to talk his friend, Chris, into politely kicking you out. In which he replied, "I'm off the clock. It's your problem now." He's sick of it being his problem.

That damn girl has been a problem since day one. Gorgeous, bright, and intriguing. But young. Too fucking young. He'd rather lie to himself and everyone around, acting like he hates your guts.

His heavy, work boots kick up dust as he stomps into the stable. His eyes find you, a moth to the flame. You're so breathtaking. Golden light falling on you and offering an angelic glow. An innocent smile on your face as you talk lowly to a black mare. Your feminine hands brush over the horse's nose before hugging its big head to your chest.

He forgets to say anything, completely mesmerized. That is until you say your goodbyes to Storm and turn to him. Your smile should evaporate at the sight of him, but it just widens. "Hey, Leon." You wave at him, and he scowls in answer.

"What are you still doing here? Get out." He points his thumb behind him and towards the exit.

"Why are you so mean?" You pout, the smile now fading. "I was just leaving."

"Good." Leon grins with satisfaction and crosses his beefy arms. He notices the way your eyes flick down and follow along the defined veins.

A huff leaves you and your arms cross in front of you to mimic him. Now, his eyes are drifting down, but for different reasons. They find your breasts, and his dick comes to life. They're so perfect and highlighted by your arms.

"Why do you hate me?" She snaps. The young thing says it like he should be frightened. But he's just turned on. Ain't that pathetic. It's just some attitude and narrowed eyes. Oh, but your scrunched up nose is so cute.

"Hate you?" His footsteps are harsh and kill the space between you. Your bodies brush, but you don't step back. Though he notices you lean away from his broad frame. "Why would I hate you? Have you done anything to deserve it? Have you mocked me? Tripped my employees? Drugged my horses?" He quirks his eyebrow up, having fun messing with you.

"Drugged your horses?!" You gasp, a shocked expression taking over your pretty features. "How could you say that? I love Storm, Daisy, Mr. Lucky and all the other horses. Hell, I knew most of them before you even came on the scene."

Now, you're fired up. Poking at his chest and shooting daggers at him. More insults and accusations fall from your lips. The noise becomes irrelevant, like it's coming from underwater. No, he's set on your lips. So lively, so unique, and such an enchanting color.

He wants to pull the bottom one between his teeth before sliding his tongue inside. He wants to suck on your top lip and hear you whine. If only he could kiss you until there's saliva strung between your mouths.

Leon wishes he didn't know you were single. He wishes you were married and carrying some other guy's little toddler. If you were dating some idiot he could let you go. But somehow. Someway, no one had claimed you, and he loathes it. Because his foolish, senior brain believes that means he has a chance.

"Are you even listening to me?" You pat his prickly cheek and wave your hand in front of his face. He frowns and grabs your hand.

"No, I'm not listening." He growls, "get out of my stable."

You yank your hand from him and give him a death glare. It's exactly what he wants. Yes, hate me enough to never come back. Then, I can forget you. Live out the rest of my life, not craving a woman that I can't have.

Leon's ashamed doesn't matter that he tried everything he could to avoid this. A cold shower and watching the most boring things on his tv. But you kept coming back to his mind. And no, he couldn't paint you in a bad light. Couldn't come up with a single thing that disgusted or angered him.

No, everything just made him hard. He should be asleep. There's an alarm on his nightstand blinking 2 a.m. in accusing red. But his hands are itching. "Come on, Leon. Don't do it." He whispers in the emptiness of his bedroom. Yet, his hands are sliding down, and his breathing deepens.

Boxer briefs are slid down to mid-thigh. His large hand wraps around his semi-hard member, and it doesn't take long to get it to full mast. He grunts as images of you spring up and along with it snippets of your voice.

The fire in your eyes and the bite to your words. The friendliness you bestowed upon his employees. The gentleness his horses received from you.

He groans louder, head falling back against the headboard. Precum glistens on his tip, and he quickly spreads it over the pulsing veins of his dick. His hands quicken, and you play like a film reel in his mind.

It's too much. His groans building. The slick noises and frenzied jerks of his hands. All he can think of is you. Every small detail of your body and how magnificent it is.

Leon comes with your name on his lips. He chants it, falling apart while imagining you there with him. Your cries of bliss and your tired, shimmering smile underneath him.

It's not the first time he's touched himself to thoughts of you, and to his disappointment, it won't be the last.

You stayed away for a few weeks. He was . . .okay. Leon thought he'd forget you given enough time. Yet between brushing down horses and fixing fences, he'd catch himself looking for you. He was not with it, and Chris was starting to get worried. The muscular brunette was practically begging him to take a vacation.

Leon doesn't do vacations. This is his ranch. His peace. His work. His home. A young woman with delectable curves and a pure heart was not gonna be his undoing.

You didn't wanna come back. Leon's a miserable, old fart and you were upset with him. But a phone call from Chris changed everything. He told you Storm, that magnificent mare, had become sick. The vet on hand didn't know if she'd make it as old as she is. So, you jumped in your car and rushed over.

Your wheels crunch over gravel, and your car door slams before you're racing to the stables. No longer can you hold back your tears when Storm comes into view. She's lying on her side and hooked up to some drip. She makes a horrible wheezing noise, and sweat covers her tar black coat.

"Hey, pretty girl." You muttered softly, attempting a smile. Tears drip down your cheeks. You don't know how long you sit there in the hay, speaking to her and petting her. Footsteps and voices force you to wipe your tears and clear your throat.

That deep, smooth voice belongs to Leon, and the other you assume is the vet. One stays and one goes. You keep your eyes glued to Storm and her alone.

Leon sighs, exhausted and forlorn. "Chris tell you?" You nod in response, and the latch to the stall clicks open. Then, you feel him standing over you. His scent washes over you, masculine and laced with leather. He drops to Storm's other side, across from you.

She gives a weak yet welcoming sound. His large, calloused hands carefully ease her head onto his lap. "It's alright, girl. You're alright." You whimper, tears flooding over once again. Something in his smooth, deep voice tells you she won't make it. Even worse, it sounds like he's said goodbye before, like death is an old friend.

You curl in on yourself, holding your head in your hands. Logically, this is stupid. Crying in front of a man who hates you, crying in general, and not being stronger. Storm was getting old, and you knew that. You just didn't want to face it.

But it hurt so bad. All those memories overcoming you. You remember Storm being around when you were just a little girl, watching her from afar and bringing her snacks as you got older. Mr. Hammond always encouraged your love for the horses.

A warm weight settles on your shoulder. "Hey, you wanna talk to her? I'll step outside." You lift your head to find Leon. A kindness in his eyes and a smile forming on his handsome face.

A shaky breath leaves your lips, and you nod. His hand pats your shoulder, and a sense of calm comes over you.

He leaves you to say your goodbye.

Then, you and Leon stay with her until her final breath. The whole night is spent together, learning about one another and reminiscing about moments with the black mare. He forgets that he hates you. You forget why you were angry with him. There's a shared respect for one another, bonding during one of the darkest moments of your life.

Months pass, and healing has its way. You come over more, and Leon doesn't treat you with cold cruelty. He's welcoming, warm, and soft with you. You fall hopelessly in love. No longer experiencing just curiosity or attraction. It's so much more.

"God, it's so peaceful out here." You exclaim, stretching out in the rocking chair. Leon's next to you in his own chair, rocking at a leisurely pace. He holds a beer bottle in one hand, looking way too hypnotizing.

His warm chuckle reaches your ears, "Yeah?"

"Yep. It's almost better than my farm." You reply, a little playful and winking at the older man.

"Pfftt. That itty bitty teenie tinnie thing you call a farm?" Leon snorts, returning the friendly teasing.

"Uh!" You lean forward and face him. "It's a beautiful farm, and at least I don't need fifty million people to help me run it."

"I don't have fifty million people employed." He tilts his head to you and points his beer bottle to you before taking a swig. His dirty blond hair falls over his bright blue eyes.

"Forty-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine?" You ask with a grin and a special twinkle in your eyes.

Leon bursts out laughing and nods. "Yes, definitely. That many." His laughter sets a fire in you, hot and filling. It flickers inside you, and you melt. You give him a tender smile, eyes glued on him.

He feels the air shift, and he turns to you. You're smiling at him, and there's something in your gaze he doesn't wanna name. You look so gorgeous that his chest is in pain. Pain worse than a bullet wound. His hand clenches and unclenches, longing to touch you. What'd he give to caress your cheek and brush his lips over yours.

"Leon," you whisper, eyes drifting down to his lips. His own gaze drops to your lovely mouth and a thirst he's never known bubbles up inside. Leon has an out of body experience. There's no control as his hand reaches for your arm.

He sees his hand drawing you in. You leaving the safety of your rocking chair to stand in between his legs. Your hands cup his scruffy cheeks, and his hands find the small of your back.

Then, your lips meet his own.

It's so light that he could mistake it for a figment of his imagination. But then you sink into him, lips pressing harder, and a needy noise scrapes along your throat. He's shocked by the needy noise that he gives in response.

He should have more control. You're not his first kiss. Definitely, not his first girl. And for fuck's sake he's too old to be this desperate. But it makes no difference. His hand curls around your hip while the other caresses your back, mapping out the curves of you.

The moon shines behind you, painting this moment in glimmering silver. Fireflies dance in the open fields, and a simple porch light flickers above. Your lips meet over and over. And Leon. He's lost in you in all ways imaginable.

You pull away, and his lips chase yours. A low whine in the back of his throat can be heard. "Should we stop? Do you want to stop?" Leon hears your concern and the defeat in your voice as if you're already expecting a 'yes.'

"Hell no." He replies in a gruff tone, nearly growling in anger. Leon doesn't want to be separated from you. Maybe he'll regret it in the morning. Maybe he'll even despise himself for kissing a woman your age. But he might just be in love with you. And yes, he's most definitely turned on by you.

It's the most stunning thing he's ever witnessed. The way desire sparks in your eyes before turning into a low simmering heat. Your whole body language changes and your confidence skyrockets. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, and your lips find his adam's apple. Kissing and licking on it like a sweet candy apple.

He stands up from the rocking chair and scoops you into his muscular arms. Your legs lock around him, and his head tilts back, letting you have your way. The wooden planks of his front porch squeak as he carries you inside. The door shuts behind him with an audible creak of hinges.

He lays you down, your hypnotic body laid out on cool sheets. The same sheets he's been sleeping in. "Oh, darling. You're so beautiful." He kisses your brow before stepping back. His heavy-duty working boots hit the floor. Then, his flannel, along with the tight shirt underneath.

"You wanna do the rest, honey? Or should I undress you first?" Leon smiles, a hint of teasing in his words. You're looking at him as if he's every dream you've ever had come true. Openly admiring with wide eyes and shaky breaths.

"May I?" You gesture towards his lower half, face hot and now licking your lips.

He steps forward and answers in a low, sultry tone. "You can do whatever you want to me." His reply leaves you wet and aching. A feeling so intense that you've never encountered. Your fingers tug at his belt loops. The bulge in his jeans is nearly at eye level with you, causing your thighs to press together.

You unzip his wranglers, and it's all too loud in this tense moment. The room is burning hot as the denim is pulled down. Then, your hands curl in his waistband, and you catch his jaw ticking. The simple muscle twitching beneath his stubble makes you hotter than the sun.

You feel like a blazing inferno here in this old rancher's home. When he's left naked and you're fully clothed, things couldn't be more clear. He might be older and stronger, but you're in control here. Nothing will be forced on you, and you'd rather die before forcing anything on this man.

"Come here." You whisper, eyes burning into his. You grab at his massive, scarred shoulders and sink into the mattress, dragging him with you. His naked, tan body is hovering over you. His lips drag along your neck and collarbones. You sigh in bliss, and low content noises slip from his chapped lips.

Over time his body sinks into you, hard cock nudging at your hips through your clothing. Your hands cease their exploration of his toned body and squeeze his shoulders. "I need you to undress me, Leon. Please." You're breathing, hard and heavy. Cunt aching for friction and desperate for no more boundaries.

"Yeah, baby. I'll undress ya." His hands, worn from hard labor, are gentle with you. They slip off your shirt, strip down your jeans, and peel off your undergarments. It's slow and intimate. Your heart races the whole time, and your body closes in on itself in an attempt to cover up.

He calls your name, yearning and mesmerized in equal measure. His hands palm your breasts and follow the curve of your torso. A restrained groan leaves him as he follows the lines of your body. Over your hips and down your legs. "You're so damn gorgeous. I can't breathe."

His sky blue eyes have darkened into a raging sea. He really has wanted you this whole time. Yet he was such a jerk, doing anything and everything to push you away. To make you hate him and you never understood until now.

He was terrified of this. Wanting you. Needing you. In such a desperate manner. With such all consuming desire.

"Leon, I need you too." It's all you can think to say. Your voice hoarse and quiet in the dark. Tears pricking at the corner of your eyes.

His heavy body falls into you, and his lips collide with yours. You become a writhing mess on his mattress. Kissing and touching what you both thought you couldn't have. Two of his fingers slip inside you, and you cry out from the unexpected sensation. His thick fingers brush over your walls as his thumb plays with your throbbing rosebud.

"Oh, god. You sound so damn good. Better than I imagined. So fucking sweet." He's breathless, hips rutting into the bed as he fingers you. You're just as bad. Rocking into his hand and moaning unabashedly. "That's it, baby. I need you to cum so I can slide into you. Nice and painless."

The thought of his dick finally inside you finishes you off. Your nails leave marks in his tan skin. Your back arches, and your head is thrown to the side. The older man watches the whole thing without any shame.

"Beautiful. So fucking beautiful." He kisses you, thumb brushing over your clit lightly as you come down.

The tender kisses abruptly end with you gasping. He has his tip nudging at your wet folds. "Is this okay? You ready?" Leon whispers, laying kisses on your face from forehead to chin.

Your heart pounds fiercely, but you clasp onto him and spread your legs wide. "Yes. Please, Leon. Own me."

The weary rancher groans loudly as he pushes forward. Little by little, his throbbing dick slides inside your slick walls. A whimper slips free as he finally settles to the hilt. He sighs, hiding his face in your neck. His hot breath washes over you and sends a tremor throughout your body.

His thrusts start off slow, holding you close and mouthing at your shoulder blindly. You rub his broad back and follow the edges of his shoulder blades.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've jerked off to you?" The older man slurs, hips thrusting into you again and again. His muscular body is covered in sweat and curved over you. That combined with his breathy noises in your ear drives you to whimper.

"N-no. Tell me. Please. How much?" You stutter. Nails bitting into his skin and walls pulsing around his dick. It's like you can see the pearly gates now.

"All the time. Every night. Can never forget your smile. When the sun gives you a halo. When you laugh or talk to the horses. Every glimpse of skin and curve hinted at . . ." He groans, speeding up, and you cry out. "It drives me crazy. You drive me crazy."

You call his name, legs quivering like a foal. You throw your head back and his calloused fingers reach for your clit. The sweetest release rushes over you. Fireworks exploding behind your eyes.

He pulls out at the last second, jerking his cum onto your stomach instead of inside. It's a shame, but next time he'll wear a condom so he can at least stay connected with you. Great, now he's thinking about doing this another time. He was a fool to believe he could let go of you.

His eyes trail all over you as he catches his breath. Your eyes are shut, lashes kissing your cheeks. Your breasts rise and fall with your uneven breaths. His mess is splattered on your stomach. He runs a hand through his dirty blond hair and tries in vain to be normal about this.

You're too young. Way too young. But that doesn't sound like a good enough reason to push you away anymore. No, you're a bright and stunning woman who loves this ranch, the horses, and possibly him. The thought of you not feeling the same way he does crushes his heart, making it bleed.

"I'll . . .I'll clean you up." His voice falls flat, and the bedroom no longer feels warm in a pleasant way. More like stuffy, and no one wants it on their skin. He walks to the bathroom, not even noticing he's still naked.

When he returns with a warm wash cloth, he finds you in his flannel shirt and a shy expression on your face. He groans and runs a hand down his face.

"What?" You laugh lightly, looking even more uncertain.

"Nothing." He shakes his head, knees sinking into the mattress as he starts cleaning you up. The wet cloth roaming your stomach and inner thighs.

"You sure?" You brush his hair back as he lays a kiss on the curve of your tummy.

"Hmmm, nothing." He hums and sits back up. "You need anything else?" His large hands rub up and down your thighs in a soothing manner.

Your head shakes back and forth. "Just need you to hold me." Your voice is so small and timid. His chest tightens, and he envelops you in his big arms. The mattress shifts beneath you both as he holds you to his chest.

Silence falls like a warm blanket, and his calloused hands idly rub your back. A clock ticks on the wall, and the old ranch house creaks in a familiar pattern. There's no doubt in his mind that he's fucked. He wants this. Wants you forever. Every night from here on out he wants to share it with you.

To fall asleep next to you. To bring you pleasure. To hold you close and feel your breath on his skin.

"Hey, Leon?" Your voice breaks through his spiraling thoughts. He hums in acknowledgment. "You're not gonna push me away anymore, right?"

He takes a deep, fortifying breath and gently pulls you away from his chest. He caresses your cheek and whispers your name. "No more pushing you away. I know I'm older. A bit broken and I don't have much to offer. I know your tiny farm is better than my ranch." He smiles at your responding giggle.

"But I do want this if you want me." Heat tingles at the back of his neck and spreads to his face. God, he feels so stupid. His eyes widen in surprise when you kiss him. Just a single press of lips that lingers.

"I want you, Leon. No more pushing me away, or I'll make you wish you were dead." You give him a playful grin and nip at his jaw. He just laughs and rolls you two over. Laughter spills into his bedroom, spelling out a new future with you two intertwined.

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Holy crap! I broke a personal record! This is now my longest fic ever!

It felt like life was too good to complain. All your dreams were coming true so why were you feeling sad? Now, wide awake against your will the answer revealed itself. It's your family. You're missing them.

They weren't perfect by any means, but you loved them. When Leon proposed you packed up. A few weeks before the wedding you were settled into his place. Well, his place was in Washington D.C. So, things had to change.

Not that you minded. You were excited for it, really. But its been a few months and you used to see at least one family member every week. Not anymore. You sigh and burrow into your pillow. You really shouldn't be bothered so much by this.

Silent tears begin to fall and small sniffles are muffled into the pillow. You're angry at yourself for being so whiny and ungrateful. You're a grown adult. It's not a big deal to be away from family. Leon's your family now. That should be enough, right?

The warm husk of your husband's voice reaches you. Your name falling from his lips in a concerned tone. "Go to bed, honey. It's nothing." You try to hide the way you swipe at your eyes and erase the wobble from your voice. Leon, of course, is not having it.

"Liar." His muscular arm rolls you over so he can look you in the eyes. Your red-rimmed, watery eyes. His own are soft and searching yours. "Tell me what's wrong."

You sigh, knowing you can't hide from your husband. "I'm just missing my family and feeling stupid for it."

"That's not stupid." His calloused thumb arches over your cheek and his lips meet your brow. You melt, a part of you already soothed by him like you received the loveliest lullaby.

"I could book us a flight. We could leave tomorrow." His kisses trail off. Lips caressing every inch of your face. Right down to your chin and the column of your throat.

"You'd really do that?" He shifts on top of you and your hands glide along his spine. Your head falls back into the pillow, exposing your throat to his affectionate marking. The blanket shifts on top of Leon, barely covering his ass.

"Of course. It's no problem." He mumbles against your skin as if it's the easiest thing in the world. No doubt he'll pull some strings, but your thoughts are drifting. More and more you're focused on the heat building between you two.

His kisses deepen, worshipping the curve of your shoulder and the plains of your chest. You moan, grip tightening on him. His hardening member teases your entrance and in response your legs lock around his waist.

His sultry chuckle in response signals the end of your rest. It's safe to say, you're both whipped for each other. In the morning, he'll have scratches down his back and you'll have bruises on your hips.

The next day Leon wakes you up with a gentle shake of your shoulders and a kiss on your forehead. The sun is high in the sky, revealing that he let you sleep in. You groan, gradually waking and rubbing at your eyes.

"I got your bags packed. Should have time for breakfast and a shower." He sighs, and continues in a sarcastic tone. "And double check what I packed you because apparently I always forget something." He evens adds air quotes. You just laugh in return, grinning at the man you chose to share the rest of your life with.

You leave the comfy bed and head straight towards Leon. Your fingers curl around the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him forward and kissing his prickly jaw. "Thank you, honey."

His lashes flutter and his whole body relaxes. Muscles melting and thoughts narrowed in on you. Before his arms can trap you and his mouth can consume your attention you slip away. "I'm gonna go shower now, okay?"

You walk away but not without leaving a flirty wink. You hear his answered sigh and mumbled complaint.

The afternoon slips by, a filling breakfast and a satisfying shower. It's a struggle to not go at it at least one more time before leaving especially when Leon's eyes are always devouring you. But you somehow manage to keep on track, reaching the airport in time.

Its luxury and opulence is out of this world. It's clearly for the rich and elite. Most of it is too much to process at the moment. "Ready?" Leon's hand is on your lower back, his other one on a suitcase's handle. You nod, smiling up at the ruggedly handsome man.

Some employees in formal outfits guide you along until you're both in a private jet. "Leon, this is insane." Your eyes are wide as you take in the interior. Large leather seats, cushions, flowers, and furnished wood. Only you and your husband as passengers.

He laughs before approaching an iced dish holding a wine bottle. "Only the best for Mrs. Kennedy." His eyes dance over you causing your heart to pick up speed and fire to spread throughout you.

He pours two glasses, handing you one. A voice over the intercom startles you. It declares departure and a necessity to buckle into a seat for lift off. Both of you find seats, Leon claiming one by the window and you naturally finding a spot next to him.

It's a bit bumpy even as a luxury vehicle. You give Leon a shaky smile and his free hand takes yours. His hand large and calloused. Yet his grip is gentle and speaks volumes of his love towards you. You lean into him and peer out the window past his shoulder.

"You like it, huh?" Leon murmurs with a faint smile.

"It's incredible!" You nod and let out a chuckle. It's an indescribable sight. A powerful feeling that swirls in your gut and threatens to affect everything in its reach. Tall buildings becoming specks and cars disappearing all together. The steady green earth is all but abandoned. Clouds rise up all around the flying masterpiece. The second prettiest blue you've ever seen is filling your view.

"So, we got a while up here. How do you want to spend it?" Your husband's voice steals your focus. His wine glass is already empty and his thumb is rubbing over your knuckles.

Your eyes lock on thee prettiest blue which is found in the depths of Leon's eyes. Heat crawls up your spine at his expression. Playful yet intense. He might keep this sweet and wholesome. But clearly he wants to indulge in more lustful things.

You reach out, hand brushing his bangs away before cupping his cheek. His lids fall shut and he leans into your palm. A surge of confidence and joy runs through you like a shot of electricity. It's certainly better than an adrenaline rush or the poor attempts of an energy drink.

"What do you wanna do? What do you usually do on your long trips?"

He groans, snuggling further into your palm before placing a kiss on its surface. "Nothing fun I can assure you. It's just a lot of contemplation."

You hum in acknowledgement and he pulls away. His hypnotizing eyes blink at you almost like a puppy wishing to cling to its owner.

"I don't care what we do. I'm just happy I'm here with you." His reply is sincere and quiet. His low voice is a precious thing vibrating in your chest.

And how can you say no to that? Without hesitation you leave your seat and crawl into his lap. "Oh." He laughs, his arms instantly going to grab you and keep you. There's not much room in the row though and you're sliding off. Both of you are laughing now and with awkward maneuvering he unbuckles.

"Alright, get off for a second." You climb off with a defeated sigh and step into the aisle way. He joins you shortly after and scoops you up. Your legs and arms lock around him like a koala. Giddy noises escape you and bury themselves in his skin.

Leon finds a cozy looking seat that's by itself in the luxury jet. Nothing is in front of it to make things difficult. He settles into place, your body snug on his lap. "So, where were we?" Your husband gives you a devastating grin.

You grin in return. Then, your lips are meeting his and things take off.

You're on fire. His rough, thick fingers are playing with your nipples. You squirm in his lap, freeing yourself from your strapless bra yet keeping your top on. You're breathing heavy, nipples aching and back arching. "Oh, god. Leon, I need you." His hands squeeze and caress your freed breasts.

Your hips meet over and over. Two starving animals, humping on one another. Your nails bite into his large shoulders while he bites at your neck. It's only a brush of pain, but he's always careful and his tongue soothes over the mark. "Beg louder, baby. No one is gonna stop us. They're too busy keeping us in the air."

The reminder of your situation in his deep, hungry voice makes your thighs clamp tighter around him. You're thousands of miles up in the air. Located in a private jet with the only other passengers being pilots. It's you and your husband alone.

"Leon, please. I wanna feel you. I want you all over me. Please, honey. Please." His hand tugs your head back as he ravishes your neck. Drawn out sucking and long licks along sensitive skin. You grind harder on the bulge caged in his jeans.

"All over you, huh?" His husky breath washes over your ear. You're sure he would have had you on your hands and knees in an instant if it wasn't for the limitations of this particular seat. No, you'll have to ride him. The thought alone has you whining with shame but no control.

"All over me, Leon. Please, I want you inside me." Your hands grow frantic, clawing at his denim pants and your own clothes. Your clit is throbbing in anticipation of being skin to skin. Yes, marriage has absolutely been a blessing. And neither of you have any desire to stop this.

Leon growls when cool air hits his freed cock. His mouth moves to capture your own, tongues fighting for dominance and spit being shared. One tasting the other in an endless cycle of pleasure. His large hands clamp down on your hips and you know what's next.

"Leon!" You cry out, breaking the kiss when his tip sinks in. Then, his hips roll again. Again and again until he's buried inside your snug warmth.

He says your name, "Fuck. You feel like heaven. You're too good. I'm not gonna stop. We're not stopping until the plane lands."

When you're finally adjusted there's no mercy.

You cling to him as he thrusts up into you. Your hips shake and jerk, eager to contribute. But he's taking you for the ride. Your cries and his groans grow to a concerning volume. So, that's when his lips crash into yours. He's holding you tight to his chest while thrusting up into you.

He's fast and relentless, strong arms holding you in place. Your eyes roll back as your cunt squeezes his dick ruthlessly. Your orgasm is fierce and all consuming. His mouth leaves your swollen lips and glides down your throat.

"I'm not done yet." His voice is deep and rasping. His dick twitches inside of you, but it's still rock solid and holding you open. You whimper, rolling your hips into his desperate thrusts.

You plant your hands on his chest and get to work. You lift yourself up and drop down. You're shaking something terrible, but he slows down so you can take over. You ride your husband in the belly of a private jet. His hands worshipping your body and his groans music to your ears.

He calls your name again followed by curses. The smell of sex surrounds you and sweat causes your remaining clothes to stick. Slick noises from your pussy meeting his dick is all too mesmerizing. "Baby, I can't . . ." Leon trails off, losing it first.

His teeth sink into the crook of your neck as his hips stutter beneath you. His cum filling you up. Your hands tighten on his shoulders and your head falls back as the second orgasm crashes over you.

Shuttered breaths and trembling limbs are the aftermath. Leon gently brushes kisses where he bit you and mumbles an apology. Your hand curls around his nape, fingers playing in the ends of his hair.

You could stay here forever. Both of you intertwined in every way imaginable. His arms holding you on his muscular thighs. His head buried in your neck like a tired dog.

"So what now? There's a shower . . ." He scoffs, "sorta. Oh, and there's a bed."

You choke out a laugh and pull his head back from you. "If there's a bed, why did you take me here?"

"I don't know. Wasn't thinking with my head." He shrugs, amused and far too proud of himself. You both know what was doing the thinking for him.

"Yeah, okay. Well, let's go to the bed." You just shake your head at him before carefully climbing off.

Before he's even done zipping his jeans back up he's mentioning a round two. "You're crazy." At this point you're laughing. No longer able to fight how giddy he makes you. Leon picks you up bridal style this time.

"Maybe, but something tells me you like it." Leon tilts his head and adds a devious smirk to completely wipe out any reservations you might have.

"Shut up and take me to bed." You flutter your lashes at him, voice lowered in a flirtatious manner.

"Yes, ma'am."

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I'm sorry this took so long. I've been teasing it for it awhile. It's because I was scared of getting his character wrong. 😅

You were so bright and beautiful. He returned the smile and a simple nod before diving into the blissful solitude of his own apartment. Yet, you remained on his mind the whole day through. Then, the next day and the next.

It had become a pattern while others actually stopped by and greeted you. He would steal glances and walk by as if he couldn't care less. Not that his brain got the memo. Leon was constantly wondering about you.

What are your hobbies? What's your dream job? Do you have a big family or are you alone? Are you dating? Are you happy? Did you like your breakfast this morning or do you skip that meal entirely?

He had to at least learn your name, right? He's been hearing the music you play next door. Occasionally, he even hears you sing along with them and that never fails to lighten his mood. You're so full of life and a part of him, a big part of him, just wants to be in your orbit.

It's a rare day off for Leon when he wakes to his phone ringing. Light is seeping through the thin gaps in his blinds. His dark gray sheets wrinkle under him and the mattress dips as he sits up. "Yeah?" He speaks into the phone, sounding extremely groggy.

"Hey, Leon. Just checking up on you." A steady, rich voice can be heard on the other end of the line.

"Hey, Helena. You have to check up on me so early?" A yawn escapes him and he rubs at his eyes with his free hand.

"Early? It's already ten a.m." A warm chuckle reaches his ears.

"Yeah, that's too early on my days off." His soothing voice replies. Leon can practically see the young woman shaking her head at him now. He pushes out of bed and heads to the kitchen for breakfast.

He stretches, muscles rippling and scars shimmering. He's only wearing boxers and boring pajama pants. His go to when going to bed alone, which is lot more often than not nowadays.

The conversation remains casual and easy while he fixes some food. A nice black coffee, some scrambled eggs, and crunchy bacon. When he finally gets to sit and eat, the topic shifts. "Have you seen Ada since that night?"

It's an instant stab of pain in his chest. That woman has always had a grip on him. Is it love? Was it love at some point and now it's nothing? They always had a connection. Trauma bonding if you will. But he doesn't wanna wait for her. He doesn't wanna wait at all for someone that'll never stop running.

"There's a girl that moved in last Friday night." The words slip from his lips so easily. Your face pops into his head and his heart feels lighter somehow.

"Oh?" Helena responds, obviously intrigued by the way he dodged the question about Ada.

"Yeah, she's pretty and interesting. Seems really nice." His shoulders shrug though the brunette can't see it.

Her voice cuts through the phone, "So, what's her name?"

He chokes on his coffee and heat rushes up his neck. Shit. "Her name?"

"Yes, her name. Leon?" The young woman sighs, putting the pieces together. "You don't know her name, do you?"

"Well, I . . ." He rubs his mouth and gives a defeated sigh. "I've seen her around. I don't know. The chance to introduce myself hasn't really come up."

"How do you expect things to escalate if you don't? I swear, you men." An audible sigh can be heard from her end of the call.

"What do you suggest then? Bake her cookies and say, 'welcome to the neighborhood?'"

"Uh, yeah. Why not?" He just scoffs in response. Leon leaves his seat and places his breakfast dishes in the sink.

"You would say that." He sighs, but there's fondness in his baby blues. "Should I bring her flowers too and ask for her number?" Leon adds in a sarcastic tone.

"Yeah, if you want to scare her away. Look, I expect you to at least have her name before we talk again." Helena's familiar voice sounds through the phone. They exchange goodbyes and Leon begins brainstorming.

It's a week later when he finally works up the nerve to knock on your door. And not with baked goods. He can't remember the last time he baked something. So, he bought a fruit basket.

He shakes his head, feeling like a fool. Who wants a fruit basket when they move in? They want sweets or to be left alone. He even second guessed his opinion on the flowers, but stopped himself. Thank god because he certainly would have blown his shot with that one.

Three knocks on your wooden door. Why is he so nervous? He's been face to face with death more times than he can count. And yet he hasn't been this antsy in years. He's shifting his weight from left to right when the door opens.

"Hi, can I help you?" Leon has heard your voice dozens of times, but it's incredibly different as he gets to look into your eyes.

He clears his throat and holds out the basket. "I'm Leon Kennedy. I live next door and I've been meaning to welcome you."

"Oh?" You grin, grabbing the basket heavy-laden with bananas, apples, and plenty of other goodies. You share your name with him and life blooms in his chest. It's like puzzle pieces falling into place.

"Yeah, sorry it took me so long to get around to this. How are you enjoying it here so far?"

"Oh, um." You run your fingers over the delicate curve of your ear in a charming way. A light airy laugh slips through your lips. "It's nice to live by myself."

"But the apartment itself isn't exactly the best." Leon finishes for you, already aware of what you mean.

"Yeah, well, the fridge leaks and there's a crack or two in the walls." You shrug and a comfortable companionship grows. Common ground to bond over.

"Welcome to the neighborhood." He smiles and your enchanting name leaves a sweet taste in his mouth. Your eyes are soft when you respond with thanks.

You are so stunning, he quickly loses his nerve. "I'd like to stay. But I'm kind of in a rush." Leon keeps his composure, smooth as always. But inside his heart is fluttering like a little school boy.

"Alright. Well, thank you for the welcome and the fruit." A kind smile curls your lips. "Leon."

The weeks fly by and he can't stay away. Even when he's away he's thinking of ways to start conversations with you. He knows he should have asked you out by now, but he's enjoying the slow pace. Learning about you and being friendly.

He has come to your apartment perhaps too much just to "borrow" things. It never seems to ruffle your feathers. If he could be so bold, he thinks you might actually like it.

Every time he asks for sugar, dish soap, or spices Leon feels lighter. Every laugh, smile, and gentle gaze. If anything it sparks hope in his chest.

That is until one night, everything comes crashing down.

He hears your laughter in the hall when he makes his way up the stairwell. Are you giggling? He might be a fool for this, but he watches through a crack in the door. There's a man outside your door.

Not much is visible at this angle, but he can make out you kissing his cheek. His heart drops, you're lighting up in a way he's never seen before. His shoulders gradually slump the longer he watches the exchange.

Eventually, the man leaves and your door shuts. He just can't understand it. You always smiled at him and he could've sworn you flirted with him a few times. But there's someone else. He's too late. He's always too late.

Why is Leon always left in second place? Maybe if he had another job. If he wasn't leaving all the time. More and more, Leon is starting to believe he won't get a happy ending.

The door to the stairwell creaks open and he steps out. For once, hearing your singing next door does nothing to uplift him. No, Leon is six feet under and sinking further. Tonight was a punch to the gut.

He's been avoiding you. Missions in distant places have only helped so much. Now, he's watching you struggle with a basket full of laundry. He can't stand not helping so with a disgruntled noise he approaches you.

"Here, let me." His calloused hands swoop in and he carries the basket with complete ease. Your eyes are wide in shock and his heart still beats faster in want.

"Wow! Thanks." You laugh, charming as ever. He follows you down the stairs and to the apartment's laundry room.

The laundry room is simple to say the least and he's already spent quite a lot of time down there. Time spent trying to remove blood stains from clothing, half of the time though he just throws those items away.

There's light gray walls and a few tiny windows. Washing machines lining one wall and dryers on the other. Only one door for entering and exiting. Not the safest nor smartest thing in his opinion.

He sets your basket on the floor by the washing machine perhaps a bit too sharply. An article of clothing lands on the floor and he reaches to pick it up. You do as well with a weak protest.

"You don't have to do that." An awkward chuckle leaves your pretty lips and his eyes discover your uncomfortable expression. Why do you seem so flustered? He finally looks down to see he picked up some lacy pair of underwear.

Immediately, red rushes up to consume his cheeks. "I'm sorry." Leon stutters while handing you the panties. Panties that you've worn recently. That have touched your sex. Oh god. Now, you're both horribly embarrassed.

"Thank you." You answer with a fake yet polite smile and another forced laugh. The two of you just stand there for a few agonizing, quiet moments.

"Well, uh, I should go. If you need anything my door is always open." Leon gathers himself together and offers a smile. Your offered thanks still gives him butterflies and a seed of hope.

Maybe just maybe he has a chance. Maybe that other guy isn't what you're looking for.

A day or two later, he's knocking on your door. After a brief silence, he hears the lock give and your lovely face comes into view. "Leon, I'm not the grocery store." You laugh, already sensing what he's here for. You don't seem angry though only amused.

"That's too bad. You're a lot more welcoming." His smooth voice reaches your ears and he's pleased to see your eyes brighten.

"What do you need this time, Leon?" You lean against the doorway, head resting on the frame. You're dressed in lounge clothes but it's by far the best thing he's seen all week.

His prepared excuse comes to mind. "Yeah, do you have chocolate chips? Was gonna make some cookies, but they'd be pretty plain without 'em."

"Do I look like I bake?" You flutter your lashes at him and it makes his head spin. Are you flirting?

A smirk slips into place and he finds himself inching closer to you. You remind him of that hypnotizing snake in Jungle Book and he's just that kid. Hopefully, your intentions are a lot more pure though.

"Yeah, I think you do. And I'm willing to bet you're damn good at it."

"Such a charmer. Come on." You roll your eyes in a playful manner and start walking towards the kitchen in your apartment. He follows like an obedient pup and closes the door behind him.

He imagines what it would be like to spend evenings in your apartment. Watching movies on the couch. Cooking together at the stove or ordering take out. Late night conversations on the phone and holding your hand in public.

What can he say? He just wants to be that someone that you're with.

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I was struggling with this one. For real. It hurts to leave him single, but I hope the ending leaves a happy note.

he is only half paying attention to you, stretched carelessly across the cushioned chair near the hearth, until you speak in that calm, absentminded tone that changes everything.

"i shall leave after breakfast," you say simply, smoothing a crease from one of your dresses before setting it aside. "i should arrive by nightfall if the roads remain clear."

your voice is so casual, so entirely unconcerned, that for a moment the words do not even seem to register properly with him. then the sound of metal abruptly striking wood echoes through the room as one of his rings slips from suddenly still fingers.

the silence that follows is immediate and unnatural, so heavy that you finally glance up from your packing. aerion is staring at you in complete disbelief.

"you shall what?" he asks carefully, every word measured with the quiet horror of a man being informed of an approaching execution rather than a routine family visit.

his expression remains perfectly still, though only in the dangerous way storms pause before breaking apart the sky. even seated, there is something sharp about the way his shoulders straighten, violet eyes fixed entirely upon you.

you blink once at him, mildly startled by the intensity of the reaction already forming. "to visit my family," you repeat carefully, beginning to suspect you may have made a terrible mistake in timing. "only for a few days."

the words worsen everything.

"a few days," aerion echoes faintly, rising from the chair as though sitting has suddenly become impossible. he repeats it again under his breath like someone attempting to comprehend profound suffering.

"and you neglected to inform me of this before tonight?" there is genuine betrayal in his voice, affront written plainly across every sharp line of his face. one would think you had secretly arranged your own disappearance from the realm itself rather than planned a short visit.

he looks at you as though trust itself has been shattered within these chambers. you stare at him for a long moment, entirely unimpressed by the dramatics already unfolding before you.

"aerion—"

"no," he interrupts immediately, lifting one hand with startling urgency as he begins pacing before the bed. "do not attempt to soften the matter now."

the silver of his hair catches the firelight as he moves, every bit the distressed prince from some overly dramatic tale sung by traveling musicians.

"tomorrow?" he repeats incredulously, turning toward you again with fresh disbelief. "tomorrow?" his hand drags down his face slowly, physically burdened by this revelation.

"you intended to vanish from this castle and only informed me mere hours beforehand. had i not wandered into these chambers tonight, would i have discovered your disappearance through rumor?"

your mouth falls open slightly at the sheer absurdity of it. you remain seated exactly where you are, one dress still half folded in your lap while your husband behaves as though civilization itself is collapsing around him.

the fire continues crackling peacefully nearby in direct contrast to the emotional devastation aerion has apparently chosen to endure.

"i was going to tell you after supper," you reply flatly, watching him pace the room who's searching desperately for reason within chaos.

he stops immediately upon hearing this, offended in entirely new ways. the look he gives you suggests this explanation has somehow deepened the betrayal rather than softened it.

"you should have told me weeks ago."

"it is four days."

"four endless, miserable days."

the sincerity with which he says it nearly destroys your composure entirely. you press your lips together hard in a desperate attempt to maintain seriousness while aerion resumes pacing the room with mounting distress.

there is something deeply entertaining about watching a man feared by the realm unravel over temporary separation.

"and what exactly am i expected to do while you are gone?" he demands suddenly, stopping at the foot of the bed to stare at you accusingly. "speak to people? attend meetings alone? endure the mornings without you there to torment me?" he says it as though these are unimaginable cruelties inflicted upon him personally by the gods themselves. "this castle will become unbearable."

you slowly set aside the garment in your hands. the mattress dips softly beneath your shifting weight as you turn fully toward him, equal parts exasperated and amused.

"you are acting exactly why i did not tell you sooner," you inform him carefully, laughter threatening beneath the words. aerion immediately looks scandalized by the accusation.

"that is nonsense," he says at once, deeply offended by the suggestion.

you gesture vaguely toward the sight of him pacing your shared chambers in emotional ruin. "you are currently behaving as though i announced my permanent exile."

aerion points at you immediately. "because you blindsided me."

the sheer conviction in his voice nearly makes you laugh outright. then, without warning, something changes in his expression. you watch realization strike him in real time. he almost looks like a commander suddenly forming strategy during a battle. the distress remains, certainly, but now determination settles beneath it as well. aerion straightens slightly before narrowing his eyes at you with terrifying seriousness.

"my love—"

"what if i buy you everything? or everyone? anyone?"

the abruptness of it catches you so entirely off guard that you simply stare at him for several seconds in silence. somewhere beyond the windows, the wind stirs softly against stone.

"no, listen carefully," he crosses back toward the bed before lowering himself onto one knee beside it. "jewels. dresses. that necklace you stared at three moons ago and claimed you did not want despite clearly wanting it."

he speaks quickly, fearing you may reject negotiations before hearing the full offer. "i can also become significantly kinder to everyone within this castle." his voice lowers slightly with grave sincerity. "i shall stop threatening the maesters."

"that should not be considered a generous offer."

"i can do more," he insists immediately, leaning closer with the urgency of a desperate negotiator. "i shall tolerate musicians during supper. i shall smile at lords i dislike. i will even permit that dreadful cousin of yours to speak uninterrupted."

he pauses briefly, visibly pained by the enormity of his own sacrifice. "for at least several minutes."

your shoulders begin shaking with restrained laughter. the image alone is enough to undo you completely. your husband nobly suffering through conversation for your sake.

"aerion," you manage through growing amusement, "i am not canceling my visit because you offered basic decency."

his expression falls immediately afterward, so genuinely wounded that it only worsens your laughter. "then my efforts mean nothing to you," he says quietly, sounding devastated beyond reason.

you cover your mouth briefly, trying and failing to compose yourself.

"i can be... sweeter," he presses on desperately, climbing onto the bed beside you hoping proximity itself may strengthen his argument. "or more agreeable. i shall compliment people voluntarily."

he visibly grimaces at the mere thought.

"i shall personally ensure fresh lemon cakes await you every morning for an entire moon."

you finally break fully into laughter then, filling the chambers entirely while aerion watches you with resignation.

"name your price," he says solemnly, taking your hand into both of his with absurd seriousness. "i am prepared to negotiate."

you shake your head slowly, still laughing.

the sight of him sprawled across the bed beside your neatly folded travel things is ridiculous enough already, yet somehow he continues committing himself to the performance.

"i am leaving for four days, not abandoning you forever," you remind him gently once your laughter softens enough to speak clearly again.

aerion exhales heavily before collapsing backward against the pillows with theatrical despair. "to me," he mutters darkly toward the ceiling above, "there is little difference."

you shift closer against the pillows until your shoulder brushes his, your amusement slowly melting into fondness as he immediately reaches for your hand again without thought. his fingers lace through yours, ensuring you cannot disappear before morning arrives.

"why did you not tell me sooner?" he asks again eventually. you glance toward him, already knowing exactly how this answer will be received.

"i told you," you say patiently, squeezing his hand gently, "you would react exactly like this."

aerion immediately opens his mouth to argue. then frowns deeply because he realizes, with great personal offense, that you are entirely correct.

the firelight flickers warmly against the sharp lines of his face while he continues holding your hand with unnecessary firmness, clearly displeased by this entire conversation. then, quite suddenly, his expression changes again.

you recognize the look immediately and dislike it at once. it is the exact face he wears moments before making deeply unreasonable decisions with absolute confidence.

"then i shall come with you," he announces. the statement is delivered with such certainty one would think the matter already settled.

you stare at him for a long moment again, genuinely unsure whether to laugh or throw something at him instead. aerion, meanwhile, appears entirely pleased with himself now that he has clearly solved the problem through sheer brilliance.

"i will leave with you after breakfast," he continues calmly, already planning the arrangement in his head. "the journey will be safer with additional guards. we shall remain there together until you are prepared to return."

"like hell you are."

aerion looks startled by the immediate rejection.

"you are staying here," you continue firmly before he can interrupt, shifting to sit properly upright against the pillows. "you have duties, councils, meetings, and an entire castle depending upon you not abandoning your responsibilities because your wife is visiting her family for four days."

aerion opens his mouth, clearly prepared to argue every single point like always, but you lift one hand sharply before he can begin.

"and while i am away, you will remain here waiting for my letters. that is what you will do."

you have rarely seen a man appear so personally devastated while technically being told to stay inside his own castle.

aerion stares at you as though you have condemned him to isolation atop some freezing mountain rather than instructed him to behave normally for less than a week.

"letters," he repeats faintly, almost hollow with despair. "you expect me to survive entirely on letters. letters?" his voice drops lower with every word until he sounds haunted by the concept. "ink upon parchment. scraps of affection sent across distance."

"oh, stop it."

"no."

the refusal comes immediately. he releases your hand only to collapse again sideways across the bed, one forearm thrown over his eyes. the mattress shifts beneath his weight while you simply sit there watching him in exhaustion.

"this is misery," he mutters toward absolutely no one. "cruelty within my own chambers." he reaches blindly for one of the pillows beside him and drags it over his face. "abandoned by my own wife."

from beneath the pillow comes another muffled complaint. "i shall wither here."

"four days, not four decades."

"no one understands. four days! perhaps longer if the roads turn poor. i may never recover."

you shake your head slowly and reach over to pat the lump of pillow covering his head. aerion immediately grabs your wrist from beneath it, clinging to your hand like a deeply wronged prince facing exile.

"three?"

"no."

"fuck."

"i will be back home before you know i—"

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

It was one of those rare days where your heart was calm knowing Leon was going to be home for the long weekend.

You guys came back from a shopping trip a few hours ago. You had thoroughly drained him and his wallet. But hey it’s not like you forced him to, he was the one who insisted on taking you every time.

You’re sure he regretted it whenever you dragged him into yet another store with no couches. Once he did find one in the dressing room though, he sat like he did now.

Head leaned back, nearly dozing off if it weren’t for you stepping out every so often to ask him what he thought.

He wasn’t really a fashion guy, so he opted for safe compliments like “Yeah, that color looks nice on you honey,” or “Buy it, you look beautiful.”

Sometimes if you were really sick of him being so boring and lazy, you purposefully stepped out in something skimpy just to see the way his eyes bulge.

“What about this one?”

“Hm?” He lifted his head, expecting to see another well put together outfit.

When his eyes landed on you he nearly choked, jolting up quickly.

“I—great! You look gorgeous.” He sputtered.

You suppressed a giggle as he stood towering over you near the dressing room door, obviously trying to hide your silhouette. “…Get dressed and I can get you home all to myself yeah?”

All while his hand on your waist practically shoved you back inside so no one else saw you so exposed. You rolled your eyes, how smooth.

Needless to say, you enjoyed seeing the spark of energy kindling back in his eyes, face still a little flush as he checked out at the counter.

Now he was sprawled across the couch yet again, long legs stretched out as you sit on his lap.

His head was tipped back against the cushions, the pale expanse of his throat exposed, Adam’s apple shifting every so often when he swallows in his sleep heavy state.

Most days you’d find the sight mouth watering, but today you don’t know why you found his little eepy sleepy state absolutely adorable.

You sneakily slipped a fluffy baby blue headband onto him five minutes ago. You thought he was gone, but he peered one eye open, raising a brow at your antics but didn’t even bother to move it.

He just sighed, shifting with a grunt and let you do what you wanted.

His hands are resting loosely on your waist where you sit between his knees, thumbs idly brushing against your warm skin under the fabric of your shirt.

“Alright,” you murmur, leaning in, inspecting his face like you’re about to perform surgery, “I’m gonna give you a makeover.”

He hums, a noncommittal sound.

You made the mistake of starting with his eyebrows. They were already shaped really nicely, long and thin, framing his brow bone perfectly, but there were a few outliers you wanted to pluck off.

You lean in, gently cupping the side of his face to steady him.

From this close up you can even take a moment to admire the length of the lashes resting against his prominent cheek bones. The stress lines on his forehead, the crows feet near his eyes, the little cleft on his bottom lip and chin.

Sure, Leon is hot and all and, maybe it’s your hormones talking, but he’s so adorable tonight you have to physically resist squishing his face until he pops.

Anyways, back to your objective. When you pluck the first stray hair, his cute little sleepy face tightens.

“—shit,” he hisses, eyes snapping open just enough to glare at your tweezers. “What was that?”

You don’t move an inch. “Relax.”

Another pluck.

He winces harder this time, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Aw, don’t be a baby,” you tease, holding his chin steady when he tries to pull back. “Don’t tell me Mr. Bioweapon Destroyer is scared of tweezers.”

“Bioweapons don’t—” he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you pluck another one. “—do that.”

You grin, softly, “C’mon, hold still soldier.”

He grumbles, but his grip on your waist tightens just a little, like he’s bracing himself through you.

Leon’s shoulder droop in relief when you finish shaping them clean. You lean back to admire your work.

“See? All done!”

“It better be,” He squints, “felt like you plucked every little nerve out of me.”

“Hm,” you shrug, “beauty is pain.”

You don’t touch his precious grey stubble, no way.

As much as you hated the way his mouth left red marks on your cheek, neck, stomach, and inner thighs and—well whatever, you get the point—it looked too good.

Shaving it clean would be a crime!

But you do grab your little face razor and gently tilt his head to the side to clean it up a bit.

He shifts restlessly, trying to sleep through your makeover.

“Quit squirming, I’ll cut you.”

“You threatening me?” He slurs, peeking one eye open again with a faint smirk.

“Only if you mess me up,” you reply, carefully lining up the edges of his beard.

The blade glides lightly under his jaw, just enough to clean it up without taking away that rugged look that suits him way too well.

He watches you for a second, then his eyelids start to droop again.

By the time you’re done, he’s barely awake.

Perfect, now you can continue with part three of your makeover plan.

You quickly hop off his lap to go grab the skincare products you bought for him.

They were lined up on the counter of your shared bathroom, perfectly intact with some still in their original packaging.

That kinda pissed you off. You spent hours making sure to pick out cleansers and moisturizes and toners, tailored perfectly for his skin, only for them to be abandoned.

You sigh, grabbing a damp face cloth while you’re at it too.

You shuffle back to the living room and reclaim your place in between his thighs. You gently scrub his face with the cleanser and he exhales slowly at the motion.

“There,” you murmur, voice softer now. “Your skin is so dry, Leon. Do you even use the moisturizer I bought you?”

He grunts.

“That’s not an answer.”

A longer grunt.

You roll your eyes fondly and start wiping his face off with the warm towel.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you imagine your wiping away the stress, everything he carries around without a word.

His breathing slows and his grip on your waist loosens just enough to tell you he’s gone.

You smile to yourself, continuing anyway.

You apply moisturizer, patting it in carefully, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. He hums leaning into your touch unconsciously, like he always does.

You pull your own face mask out, smoothing it over your skin before grabbing another for him.

Carefully, you press it onto his face, it’s a little too small for him but it’ll do, so you adjust it around the broad slope of his nose.

He doesn’t even stir. You whip your phone out to snap a few pics.

You snicker quietly, setting one of them as his profile pic.

When the masks have set enough, you take them off and gently shake his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

You shake him a little harder. “Baby, wake up.”

He jolts, eyes snapping open, body tensing for half a second like he’s expecting something bad, then he sees you.

Sees where he is, his shoulders drop.

“…what?” he mumbles.

“Look.”

You grab his chin, tilt it toward your little handheld mirror.

He squints at his reflection, blinking a couple times, then a reluctant but amused smirk takes over his tired features.

“Wow. You did a good job gorgeous.”

You bit back a grin, face heating up at the little praise.

“You look so cute!” You coo, aggressively pinching his now supple cheek.

He winces, prying your hand off and lacing it with his. “I’m glad you feel that way,” he murmurs, eyes glimmering in amusement, “but I look like an old glazed donut.”

“A delicious, matured, glazed donut.” You correct, grabbing his head and turning it side to side to peer at your work in admiration.

“If you say so,” he shakes his head, still half out of it, but there’s a melty softness in his gaze now that wasn’t there before, filling your chest with a nice and fuzzy feeling.

He’s about to get up, get you both to bed when you quickly press him back into the cushions.

“Wait! I’m not done,” you say.

He groans quietly, “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Hair next.”

He gives you a look.“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothings wrong with your hair,” You roll your eyes, “but you’ve had the same 90s boy band hairstyle for, like…thirty years.”

“…it works,” he quips back, attempting to escape your eager hands.

“Whatever, sit still.” You command, pushing his chest back, making his back meet the couch cousins again.

He exhales, surrendering, “Yes ma’m.”

His hair is soft under your fingers, a little messy from sleep. You admire the plethora of gray strains littering his temples.

You remember years back when he stood in front of the mirror every so often, murmuring something about dying it in passing, but you vehemently protested.

Sometimes you wondered if he realized you actually liked him older and weren’t just trying to flatter him.

You push it back, adjusting, experimenting, ignoring his intent gaze.

“There,” You mumble once you’re done.

His hair is styled up, pushed away from his face, his forehead fully exposed.

You blush a little.

It makes him look sharper. Somehow even more…

“Hot,” you say without thinking. You reach over to bring the mirror back to his face.

He huffs a quiet laugh as he angles his head down to get a better view, dragging a few unsure fingers over his hair.

“Yeah? It’ll only take me an hour every morning to get it like this.”

“So what? It’s worth it.” You grin, arms circling his shoulders as you rest your head against his chest.

He wraps his arms around your waist immediately, resting his head on top of yours as he shifts you both to get comfortable.

He turns off the TV, the room dimming without the screen.

“Happy now?” he murmurs.

You hum. “Very.”

His fingers trace slow, absent patterns against your arm as his lips press a gentle kiss to your temple.

“…thanks hon,” he adds quietly.

You smile against him, “Did I make you feel pretty?”

He hums lazily, “So pretty.”

You snicker, squishing your arms around him and hugging him impossibly closer.

I pretty much failed my technical interview today yayy

to my cutie requester: you can send me my trillion billion million kajillion dollars now 👉🏻💰