Lucy

You open the fridge, scanning through the scarce contents while attempting to drown out the vibration of your phone. Your jaw clenches as anger builds inside you. 

You hate your father. You hate him with all of your heart.

You hate him for never truly being a father to you, always an inconsistent figure that would drop by every few months to play house with you and your mom, always with the promise of getting better and trying harder, only to leave in the quiet of the night a few days later, your mom’s savings shoved in his pockets each and every time.

You hate him for giving hope and then snatching it right back, never truly fulfilling his end of the bargain, for never really caring enough for you and your mom.

You hate him for being such a ghost of a father, for never putting in the effort to be around you or to get to know you, for not taking you out on father-daughter dates, for looking at the five-year version of you and not being sober enough to remember that you were his daughter.

You hate him for all the times he promised to come back for you, all the times he kneeled down and told you to be ready cause this time he was finally taking you out to the movies or to that one amusement park you’ve always wanted to go to only to never show up, not a single phone call or a message to explain as the hours went by and you’d remain seated in the porch steps, trembling with cold but hopeful and insistent that your dad would show up, no matter how much your mom would try to convince you to get inside the warmth of the house. 

You hate him for abandoning you and your mother in favor of needles and white powder. For not being strong enough to stop, for allowing the thrill and euphoria of the drugs to get the best of him.

You hate him because while he is a bad father to you, he was even worse to your mother, never once caring for your mom’s health problems and the bills that come with it or for rent or for your college tuition or for groceries. 

And right now, as you stare at the nearly empty fridge with the loud buzz of the old appliance increasing the longer you stare at it, your hatred for your sperm donor only grows in volume. 

The vibration in your phone sizzles down until it dies off. A moment later, it buzzes once and then twice, before finally quieting down. When the screen finally goes dark, you tap on the old phone’s screen.

A missed phone call and two messages.

You don’t even have to read through the text to know what it says. It’s unpleasant but routine by now. A clockwise visit that you’ve learned to expect as the days drag closer to the end of each month. 

You hate your father for many reasons and one of said reasons being his brother’s monthly visits.

Uncle Baelor, like he insisted you call him back when you were a cheerful child and he would lift into his lap and sneak some candy into your hands like it was your little secret. You don’t like to call him that anymore. 

Your mom’s eyes dig into you as she plates your dinner, a meager dose of omelette and a dry  thin slice of bread. 

“Who is it?” she seems reluctant to ask, much like she already knows the answer. 

“Baelor.” 

You hesitate for a moment. “He says he’ll drop by tomorrow.” 

Tension gathers in your mom’s face.

Her face, once pretty and full of life, now turned into a rather haggard one, the hollow cheeks and dull skin coming as a reminder of her soul-sucking job and the health that keeps failing her and the dark circles beneath her eyes only seem to get worse with each month. Another reason to hate your father. 

She opens her mouth, but no words come out.  

“It’s fine, mom.” you shrug your shoulders and close the fridge, slamming the door harder than the old appliance deserves. “We’re almost running out of food and your meds also need a refill. It's good timing I guess.” 

Her frown deepens at that, much like it does every month. She shakes her head, eyes carrying a helplessness so deep that you have to look away.  

When she speaks, her voice is nothing but a frail, broken whisper. “I wish things were different…”

And in that moment, you feel just as helpless as she does. 

–

You hate your father for a never-ending amount of reasons, but the one that cuts you the deepest is the fact that he was born into money.

A Targaryen, a family that revels in copious amounts of old money and their successful multiple-venture family business. A powerful surname, nearly as distinct as the silver-hair and violet eyes that the majority of the family members have.

You inherited none of them.

Not the surname and certainly not the looks. Your father never married your mother, never bothered enough to sign on the birth certificate and neither did his genes, allowing you to come out as an exact copy of your mother. And while you’re grateful for the latter, you can only dream of how much better-off you and your mom would’ve been had he given you his last name.

A whole world of out-of-reach fantasies haunt you at night, when hunger and stress won’t let you sleep. 

Had you been given the Targaryen surname, not a day would be spent scraping and saving all the pennies you can, of counting every single note and coin only to realize you’re gonna be short for something, of having to stand in the lines of the food banks only to be told that there was nothing more to be given.

You wouldn’t have to make hard decisions, to pick between paying electricity or refilling your mom’s medicine, between paying rent or falling short on the college tuition. If you were a Targaryen by name you wouldn’t have to decide whether you preferred to skip breakfast and dinner altogether for the better part of a month or if replacing your only pair of shoes wasn’t worth it. 

No. If you were a Targaryen you’d be a trust fund kid, spoiled and carefree, living your best life. Your mom would be taken care of with the best doctors and expensive treatments and she’d be able to rest instead of working her ass off for the minimum wage. 

If you were a Targaryen you wouldn’t have to thank your uncle for the check he brings once a month, feeling your cheeks burn with shame as he gives you the money, fully aware that you and your mom are nothing but a side project of his, a little charity project he works on from time to time as you’re sure the rest of the family thinks.

As if he’s offering you the money out of his heart’s kindness instead of giving you what you are rightfully owed. 

But then again - it’s not really charity work, is it?

There is no such thing as a free lunch in this world and you sure do pay a hefty price for what he gives. He gives you something and you give him something else in return. Because that’s how the world works. 

If you were a Targaryen, you wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of being a charity work of your billionaire uncle.

Things would’ve been so much different for you, and sometimes while laying awake at night, mind unable to shut off with all the bills and expenses that keep adding up, you like to imagine how different your life would've had been.

Maybe you’d be a less bitter person, less stiff, less negative.

Maybe you wouldn’t look at your classmates and seethe with jealousy at the clothes and phones and laptops they own. Maybe you wouldn’t cry hidden in the bathroom because someone mentioned that you’ve used the same jacket for nearly three weeks - because that’s the only jacket you have.

Maybe you wouldn’t have to juggle between college and the part-time job at the shitty restaurant, the long hours of standing and serving and tolerating disrespectful clients, all with a smile on your face just to earn scraps that barely get you by. 

Life could’ve been so much different and it hurts when you think about it. 

Maybe you’d be able to go shopping and have fun and drive a nice car. A sleek, expensive black car much like the one your uncle is parking in front of your house.

There’s uncontained jealousy as you observe him exiting the car.

It doesn’t go unnoticed to you that this is a different car from the one he drove last month, you don’t even know why you’re surprised. You live in completely different worlds and his family changes cars like someone changes socks. They’re filthy rich while you and your mom remain dirt poor - the sad reality of your life.  

You hide behind the curtain of the window, bitterly watching Baelor lock the door of the shiny car before heading towards the house with quick steps. 

The knock to the door comes a moment later but you don’t rush. Instead you take your sweet time walking to the door, not exactly eager to face him.  A second knock resounds, more firmly this time. With a deep breath, you prepare yourself to face your uncle. 

His face eases up when the door opens, a small smile dangling on his lips.

He stands confidently tall, dressed with a formal black suit and pants and silver personalized cufflinks much like he just came from the office. His outfit, judging by the appearance, looks like it cost more than your house.

“Y/n.”

“Uncle.” you nod at him as a greeting. You stopped hugging him years ago. 

“May I?” 

You pull the door wider and watch as Baelor enters with the confidence and steadiness of someone who knows their way around.

A hint of annoyance flares up at that, at the arrogant way he walks in much like he owns the house. Which he technically nearly does. It’s his money that pays for the rent and covers for the utilities, a thought that begrudgingly comes to you. 

Instead of following Baelor to the minuscule living room, you head over to the kitchen.

You grab a clean glass and place it underneath the faucet. As it fills up with tap water, you check behind you and then quickly bring your face to the glass.

A globe of spit drops to the water as silently as you can. What Baelor doesn’t know can’t hurt him and God knows he deserves much worse than this. 

When you enter the living room, you find Baelor seated on the couch, reading something off of his phone - which you vaguely recognize as the latest model of the expensive brand.

He has removed the black blazer, leaving it folded in the back of a chair. But even while wearing the simple white shirt and black formal pants, he still appears quite the tycoon. A tycoon that has no business sitting on a second-hand couch in the middle of a small living room whose walls have paint peeling off in pieces. 

He looks up when you hand him the cup, thanking you. Petty satisfaction blooms in your chest as he takes an unsuspecting sip of the water. Serves him well. 

He places the glass on the small coffee table and puts his phone face down next to it. And then looks at you, his gaze assessing you as you stand at short distance.

You stare back at him. 

Same as you, your eldest uncle also failed to inherit the Targaryen genes. The short dark hair matches with his beard, both of them sprinkled with grey. 

There’s a maturity and a severity in his face that often makes him look much older than what he truly is, though you know he just recently celebrated his thirty-seventh birthday. His eyes, one violet and the other brown, perspect you attentively. 

He gives you a small, kind smile that you don’t retribute. 

“How have things been? With the two of you.” 

As if he cares. Fighting back the urge to scoff at him, you shrug your shoulders. 

“Fine.”

He gives a small nod, eyes searching around the division. “And your mother?”

You try not to show how much that question bothers you. 

“At work.”

Baelor’s attention returns to you. “And how’s college going?”

“Well, I guess.”

“That’s good. Education and knowledge are two things you can never have enough.” he says with an approving nod. “College is a good experience, prepares you for the future. Do you have friends there?”

“A few.” you lie. 

“Good.” Baelor’s eyes dig into you. “And boyfriends?”

You shift the weight between your legs. You despise how every question sounds like an interrogation and you wish he’d just hand over the check and get over with the rest.

“No.” you speak the truth this time. “I don’t have time for that.”

Baelor lets out a quiet hum as he reclines on the couch.

“You do well. You should focus on your studies before anything else.”

The silence grows for a few moments. When Baelor speaks again, it’s with a softer tone.

“You didn’t attend my birthday celebration.” he gently brings up. “I was quite sad not to have you there. The whole family was in attendance except for you, that is.”

You know that.

Your cousin Daella’s Instagram is public and you’re not a stranger to stalking her posts from time to time, a habit that you can’t let go of, no matter how much you try.

She posted quite a lot for that day - mostly her own photos, with the stylish gown and glamorous makeup - but a few videos of the event also appeared through the flood of selfies. 

Something had rotted in your chest while you used the college’s wifi to watch the numerous shots of the tower of cake and the huge pile of presents, all the sparkly designer dresses and the shiny jewelry and for once, you were glad you didn’t attend.

You would have made a fool of yourself, dressed in the best outfit you own - washed away jeans and a pink blouse. It’s not like you have a dress at your disposal when you can’t even afford a new pair of shoes. 

Baelor continues.

“Matarys was quite eager to meet you. He kept asking for you, if at last he was going to meet you.” 

You swallow and shrug your shoulders. “I was busy.”

The silence prolongs itself for a moment and Baelor looks at you as though he’s expecting you to elaborate. When you don’t, remaining with a blank face and arms crossed, he lets out a small sigh.  

“Yes, I’m sure you were.”

You can’t contain the flare of anger at his tone. 

“I was working the entire day. So, yeah, sorry for missing your fancy birthday party over that.” 

Baelor grimaces at your small outburst. His hand begins to toy with the expensive, golden rings adorning his fingers. 

“I know. You are a very hard-working girl and I did not mean otherwise.” he says, as a justification. “I only meant that you have a family that would very much like to meet you, if so you wished.”

You bite your tongue to avoid telling your uncle that if the rest of the family is anything like him or your father, you’re better off not meeting any of them. Your mom is all the family you need. All the family that is actually here for you, unlike those rich fake uncles and cousins.

“And it’s not just my son Matarys. Your grandmother Myriah speaks of you quite often. Asks me about you all the time.” 

“Right.” 

All the internet pictures of Myriah Targaryen showed a woman with kind features and grey hair, pretty jewelry always adorning her neck and hands. She looked much like a modern grandmother, dressed impeccably.

Then again she knows where you live, she knows where you study, she knows her eldest son comes to your house with a check every month. So what’s stopping her from coming to you herself or God forbids, giving you a call.

Your uncle’s eyebrows rise at your silence. 

“She’d be most glad to meet you. All of the family would.” Baelor assures you, before adding. “If you agree, next month we could-”

“Like I said, I’m busy. College, work, my mom. My plates are full at the moment.”

You cut him off more indelicately than you should considering he’s the one with a big wallet but you’re getting tired of walking in circles. You’re growing impatient and anxious and you just want him and his arrogant ass out of your house, the only place you find some solace in. 

You take a step forward. 

“Can we… get it over with?” you ask. “Please. I’ve got exams to study for.”

Baelor expression falls in the slightest, brows furrowing and then easing up. He’s quick in molding his face back to normal, wearing that mask of composure he always does. 

“Of course.” he answers. “Let me get it for you.”

You exhale shakily as Baelor stands up and reaches for his jacket, digging into the pocket until he retrieves the white envelope, where inside lays the check.

Finally.

Your skin prickles with anxiety and anticipation as Baelor places the paper on the coffee table before coming to stand before you.

He stands much too close, your nose catching the distinct fragrance of his cologne. A hand rises to your face, the back of his long fingers caressing your cheek with a feather-light touch.

His gaze darkens as it lands on your lips, still humid from the lip balm you put on earlier. 

“I’ve done my end of the bargain.” his voice deepens as he inches closer, his hand slowly descending until the back of your neck is trapped in his palm.

“You fulfill yours now.”

–

You hiss at the uncomfortable feeling.

You dig your nails into the back of your thighs, the self-inflicted pain helping you distract from the thick cock that is splitting you in half. A single tear escapes from the corner of your eyes, quickly slipping down your neck.

Baelor leans forward until his body is molded on top of yours, his weight pressing you down on the bed. His forearms rest against the pillow on each side of your head, trapping you in. 

“That’s it, sweet girl. Taking my cock so well.” he praises you, lips hovering over yours before capturing them into a kiss. He pushes his hips and swallows down your whimper as he buries himself to the hilt.

He groans, a deep sound that vibrates through your chest, but remains still, letting you get used to him. You squirm, feeling a dull ache at his cock stretching you to the fullest and yet twitching at the short curls at his base that tingle your clit. 

His kiss turns insistent and you take the cue, obliging by parting your lips and letting Baelor deeper into your mouth, his beard scratching at your skin.

Nausea gathers in your stomach when your brain reminds you that the man whose tongue is inside your mouth and whose cock is balls deep into your pussy is none other than your own uncle. 

You hate your father for an endless list of reasons, all of them valid on their own, but the one that truly breaks you is that he’s the sole reason why every month you have to lay on your back and let his older brother fuck you raw.

All because life is unfair and you were born with shitty luck, because your uncle has money and you don’t.  

Baelor parts the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, mismatched eyes boring deep into your soul as he begins to move.

He starts at an excruciatingly slow rhythm, calm and unrushed as he intently studies every shift and expression that appears on your face, easily catching on whenever a sparkle of pleasure brightens your face and being quick in adjusting the angle to keep hitting that spot. 

Your cheeks burn with betrayal and humiliation as wetness begins to accommodate his intrusion, as pleasure begins to build inside you and Baelor is fast in catching that, the corner of his lip twitching. He forces you to hold his gaze as he begins to build a steady, firm pace that has your single bed squeaking at the effort.

Your tight walls cling to his cock, the stretch feeling just delicious and it doesn’t help that his pelvis keeps brushing against your sensitive bundle of nerves, sparkling in a way that has you clenching around him. 

You release your hands from your thighs that are now burning from the strain of keeping them apart for so long, and slither them around his back, clinging onto the older man as he fucks you vigorously. His warm breath fawns over your face, flushed cheeks and Baelor groans when your walls clamp around his shaft like a vice, eager to get the release you so desperately desire. 

“Baelor…. ah, uncle, please.” you beg, feeling your climax right around the corner.  

Baelor fucks you with strokes that reach deep enough to nearly make you lose your head, each slam of his hips against yours hard enough to have breathless sounds punctured out of you and the coil inside of you keeps dangerously tightening with each rigorous thrust. 

“Go on then, sweetheart. Take what you need. Cum all over my cock.” he pants, clenched jaw and strained voice telling that he’s getting closer as well. 

A few more strokes and the coil inside you finally snaps like a storm, pleasure exploding like a million little stars that have your back arching and your lips falling apart in a soundless moan and in this moment, you couldn’t care any less that the cock you’re coming all over belongs to your uncle, because your own fingers are never able to deliver such a devastating orgasm. 

Your impending orgasm has Baelor reaching his as well, slamming himself home with a harsh thrust as he comes inside you with a heavy groan and a curse, forehead pressed against yours.

The aftermath washes away the pleasure and replaces it with something less pleasant, the disgust and horror slither underneath your skin like it always happens every month, after the deed is done.

Baelor breathes heavily on top of you, attempting to catch his breath and you remain underneath him, frozen like a statue. Feeling impure and disgusting for doing what you did, even if there was no way of escaping it.

And then the silent, cold anger returns and you feel upset. At yourself for just giving in without much a fight, at the world for being so unfair but most especially, at your father because he’s the root of your problems. 

And with your uncle’s cum slowly dribbling down from your pussy and his cock still stretching you out, you close your eyes and swallow back the disgust. 

It's done now. For this month, at least.

The fire has burned low, reduced to a bed of embers that glow like a watchful eye. His chambers smell of heat and smoke and something sharper; wine, maybe, or the faint metallic tang that never quite leaves the Red Keep.

Night presses against the windows, black and endless, but inside the room it’s too warm.

Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the light. He hasn’t turned since you entered. He doesn’t need to. He knows where you are.

He always does.

“How long has it been?” he asks, casually. Almost idly. As though he’s commenting on the weather.

You don’t answer fast enough.

He tilts his head, just slightly. “Since your last bleeding,” he clarifies, voice smooth, patient in the way that makes your shoulders tense. “I keep asking and you keep hesitating. It’s an odd habit for a wife to develop.”

You swallow. “Two weeks.”

He hums, low in his throat, finally turning to face you.

His eyes flick over you with open ownership, your hair, your hands, the shape of you beneath the thin layers of silk. There is no shyness in it. There never has been. You were married before you had time to learn it.

“Months,” he says. “Married for months. Bedded properly. Regularly.” His mouth curves, faintly. “Faithfully.”

You feel the word settle on you like a hand at your throat.

“You were chosen carefully,” Aerion continues, stepping closer. Each measured stride eats the space between you. “Do you know that? I didn’t take just any cousin offered to me. I insisted.” His gaze lifts to your face, sharp and assessing. “Pure blood. The look of Old Valyria is written all over you. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes. No dilution.”

He reaches out, catches a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. Twirls it once.

“You were supposed to take quickly.”

Your breath stutters despite yourself.

Aerion notices, of course. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t look frightened. This is not an accusation.” A beat. “Yet.”

His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face up whether you want it or not. His touch is warm, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse.

“I’ve done my part,” he says quietly. “Night after night. I have not spared you effort. I have not spared myself.” His eyes darken, intent sharpening into something hungrier. “So we must ask why nothing has come of it.”

You stiffen. “These things can take time.”

He laughs. Soft and disbelieving.

“Time,” he repeats. “That is what men say when they fear the truth. That is what septons say when they have no answers.” His grip tightens just enough to remind you who he is.

“Dragons do not wait.”

He releases you abruptly and turns away again, pacing now. You track him without meaning to, the restless energy rolling off him like heat.

“My father sired heirs without difficulty,” he says. “So did his father before him. It is not in our blood to struggle.” He stops, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless something is wrong.”

The word hangs there. You feel it settle in your chest, cold and heavy.

Aerion studies your reaction with unnerving focus. As if he’s already learned something just by saying it.

“Have you done anything,” he asks, voice low, “to interfere?”

Your heart jumps. “No.”

“No teas?” he presses. “No foolish advice from handmaids who think they know better than centuries of Valyrian truth?”

“No,” you repeat, firmer now.

Good, his expression seems to say. Because there would be consequences.

He returns to you, close again, crowding your space. His hand slides to your waist, possessive, grounding.

“You understand what you are meant to give me,” he says. “An heir. A living, breathing proof that the blood remains strong.” His gaze drops, lingering. “I did not marry you for only companionship.”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned that silence is safer than the wrong words.

Aerion leans in, his mouth near your ear, his voice dropping into something quieter and far more dangerous.

“Every night I lie beside you and think about it,” he admits. “About what should already be growing inside you. About how it will bear my name. My fire.” His breath ghosts your skin. “I won’t be denied that. Not by fate. Not by gods. And certainly not by a body that forgets its purpose.”

His hand flexes at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to bruise tomorrow.

For a moment, that is all there is.

Then his grip loosens.

Aerion exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, as if reining himself back from the edge of something sharp. His forehead comes to rest briefly against your temple.

“You were always my favourite,” he says quietly, like it’s a fact he’s just remembered. “Did you know that?”

You still. He hasn’t said anything like that before.

“When you were three and ten, and I came home from battle,” he continues, voice lower now, less performative. “You listened. You didn’t fawn, didn’t flinch. You looked at me like you understood what I was meant to be.” His fingers trace the seam of your sleeve, grounding himself as much as you. “That is why I chose you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His eyes search it, not for fear this time, but for alignment.

“I want this to work,” Aerion says. The words sound strange on him, unfamiliar, but no less intense. “With you.” A pause. “Not because I doubt myself. Never that.” His mouth tightens. “But because I will not have the realm whisper that I chose wrongly.”

His thumb brushes your jaw, almost reverent now, as though convincing himself of something.

“We are of the same fire,” he murmurs. “It will take. It must.”

Then the moment closes. The mask settles back into place, seamless.

“We will try again tonight,” he says, not as a question but as a decree. “And tomorrow. And the night after that, if we must.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright with conviction. “Until the realm has its proof.”

He straightens, already done with the conversation, already certain of the outcome.

“Go,” Aerion orders softly.

The summons comes at midnight, delivered by a servant who won't meet your eyes. "Prince Aerion requests your presence in his chambers, Princess."

You dismiss your handmaid with a wave, rising from your seat by the window where you've been pretending to read.

Your stomach tightens with the familiar mixture of anticipation and resignation that's become your constant companion these past months.

The walk to his chambers feels longer than usual. Your hair, unbound as he prefers it, cascades down your back. You're wearing a simple silk robe; there's no point in anything more elaborate.

He'll have it off you within moments anyway.

His door is already open when you get there. You step inside to find him standing by the window, backlit by the dying sun. He's removed his doublet already, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and breeches, and when he turns to face you, his eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"Close the door."

You obey, and the soft click of the latch feels final, sealing you in with him and his purpose.

"Come here."

You cross the room, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. When you're close enough, he reaches out and catches your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb traces your cheekbone, then your lower lip, pressing against it until your mouth parts slightly.

You hold still under his examination.

You've learned that he likes to look at you like this, cataloguing your features as if reassuring himself of your worthiness. He releases your chin and begins unlacing your robe with deft, impatient fingers.

"Tonight we do this properly."

The silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him. His eyes rake over you with undisguised hunger, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your belly. Despite everything, heat blooms low in your belly.

"On the bed. On your back."

You move to obey, climbing onto the massive four-poster bed that dominates his chamber. The sheets are cool against your skin as you settle against the pillows, and you watch as Aerion strips off his remaining clothes with efficient movements. His body is lean and strong, all taut muscle and pale skin, and when he's naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed.

He joins you on the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing you completely to his gaze. You feel yourself flush under the scrutiny, but you don't look away.

His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers reach your centre they stroke through your folds without preamble. This is preparation, nothing more, making sure you're ready to take him. But your body responds anyway, growing slick under his touch.

He pushes one finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with methodical efficiency. His fingers curl and thrust, finding that spot inside you that makes your breath hitch. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction, and a soft sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Aerion's eyes snap to your face, a slight smirk gracing his features.

He withdraws his fingers, and you watch as he brings them to his mouth, tasting your arousal on them. His eyes never leave yours as his tongue slides along his fingers, and the sight makes something clench deep in your belly.

Then he's positioning himself over you, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance. He hooks his hands under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The position leaves you completely open, vulnerable, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.

"Dragons breed dragons," he says, his voice rough. "Our children will be worthy of our blood."

And then he's pushing inside you in one long, brutal thrust that fills you completely. The angle is so deep it borders on painful, and you can't stop the sharp cry that tears from your throat.

Your hands clutch at the sheets as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, angled to go as deep as possible, and you can feel him everywhere; the thick length of him stretching you open, the blunt head of his cock hitting something deep inside that makes sparks shoot up your spine.

His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place, using you. The wet sounds of him fucking into you fill the room, obscene and unmistakable. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your body opening for him despite the intensity, despite the way he's taking you like you're nothing more than a vessel for his seed.

"You'll take it," he grits out, his hips snapping against yours. "All of it. You'll give me an heir worthy of our name."

The words wash over you as he continues to drive into you, relentless.

Your body responds despite yourself, or maybe because of yourself, because some part of you has learned to find pleasure in this, in being wanted so intensely, even if it's only for what you can give him.

The pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with each thrust. You bite your lip to keep from making more noise, but small whimpers escape anyway as he fucks into you harder, faster.

One of his hands releases your thigh, sliding between your bodies to find your most sensitive spot. He circles it with his thumb, rough and insistent, and the added stimulation makes your back arch off the bed.

"Come," he commands. "Now."

It's not a request, and your body obeys.

The pressure explodes and you shatter around him, clenching rhythmically around his cock. Your mouth opens in a silent cry as waves of pleasure crash over you.

Aerion hisses, and his thrusts become harder, more erratic. He buries himself as deep as he can go and stills, and you feel the hot pulse of his release flooding you. His cock jerks inside you as he empties himself, filling you with himself. His head drops forward and for a moment the only sound is both of you breathing hard.

But he doesn't pull out. Instead, he carefully lowers your legs, then shifts his weight, rolling you both so that you're on your side, still joined. His hand slides to your hip, holding you against him, keeping everything inside you.

"Don't move. Don't let any spill."

You obey, feeling the warm fullness of him inside you, his seed deep in your womb. His hand splays possessively over your lower belly, and you can feel his cock still twitching occasionally inside you, still half-hard.

His hand moves from your belly to your face, turning you so he can look at you. His violet eyes search yours, and for a moment, you see something beyond the obsession, something almost like satisfaction.

"We'll keep trying. As many times as it takes."

You feel him beginning to harden again inside you, his cock swelling and lengthening. Your eyes widen slightly, and he sees your reaction.

A small, satisfied smile curves his lips.

"Did you really think once would be enough?"

He begins to move again, slow shallow thrusts that make you gasp. You're oversensitive from your first release, and every movement sends sparks of almost-painful pleasure through you. But he doesn't care, doesn't stop. He pulls out only to push you onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and hauling them up.

"This way. Deeper."

He enters you from behind in one smooth thrust, and the angle is entirely different. You cry out into the pillows as he fills you again, his cock hitting new places that make your toes curl. His hands grip your hips bruisingly tight as he begins to move, fucking into you with renewed purpose.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your muffled whimpers and his harsh breathing. One of his hands slides up your spine, then tangles in your silver hair, gripping it tight and pulling your head back.

"You'll swell with my child," he pants, his hips snapping against yours. "Everyone will see. Everyone will know you carry the dragon's heir."

His words are filthy, possessive, and yet they make you clench around him, make fresh wetness gather between your thighs.

"Touch yourself."

You slide one hand beneath your body, finding your sensitive clit. You're so swollen, so oversensitized, that even your own touch makes you whimper. But you obey, circling the bundle of nerves in time with his brutal thrusts.

His grip on your hair tightens, and he uses it to pull you back onto his cock with each thrust. The pleasure builds again, impossibly, and you can feel yourself climbing toward another release.

"That's it," he growls. "Come on my cock again. Your body knows what it needs."

Your second release crashes over you without warning, somehow even more intense than the first. You muffle your cries in the pillow as your body convulses around him, your inner walls clamping down on his length. You feel him swell inside you, his rhythm faltering, and then he's coming again with a guttural groan, flooding you with more of his seed.

This time when he pulls out, you feel the warm trickle of his spend beginning to leak from you. But before more than a drop can escape, his fingers are there, pushing it back inside roughly.

"Can't waste it. Every drop stays inside you."

He manoeuvres you onto your back again, then reaches for one of the pillows. "Lift your hips."

You obey, and he slides the pillow underneath, elevating your lower body. Then he presses his palm against your entrance, as if he can physically keep his seed inside you. You can feel it—the warm, wet fullness of his release deep inside you, more than you've ever felt before.

"Stay like this. Don't move."

You nod, your body limp and trembling, and watch as he rises from the bed. He pours wine from a carafe on the side table, drinking deeply. His cock is still semi-hard, glistening with your combined pleasure, and you can't help but stare at it, at the evidence of what he's done to you.

He brings a cup to you, helping you drink without letting you lower your hips. The wine is cool and sweet on your tongue, a stark contrast to the heat still coursing through your body.

He sets the cup aside and returns to the bed, stretching out beside you. His hand returns to your belly, splaying possessively over the flat plane.

"Not much longer now, I can feel it," he says quietly.

There's something almost desperate in his voice now, beneath the command. As if his entire sense of self, his entire purpose, rests on seeing you pregnant with his child.

"Sons," he says. "Strong sons with the blood of the dragon in their veins." His hand moves up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, making it harden. "Though daughters would be acceptable. If they have the proper features. If they look like you."

He's hardening again against your thigh; you can feel it.

The man's stamina is almost inhuman, driven by his obsession. His hand trails back down your body, fingers dipping between your legs to feel where you're swollen and wet with his seed.

"Still so much inside you. Good."

He strokes gently, almost idly, his fingers sliding through the mess he's made of you. Not trying to bring you pleasure, just touching.

Reminding you both of what you are to him.

The hour passes slowly. He doesn't let you move, keeping you positioned with your hips elevated, his seed deep inside you. Sometimes he talks about the children you'll have, about their dragon blood, about the legacy you'll build together. Other times, he's silent, simply watching you with those intense violet eyes, his hand possessive on your belly.

When he finally deems enough time has passed, he removes the pillow and immediately moves over you again.

"Once more."

You're sore now, tired and oversensitive, but your body still responds to him. Still opens for him as he pushes inside, filling you once again with his thick length. You can feel how swollen you are, how tender, but he doesn't care.

He needs this.

This time he's slower, more controlled. He fucks you with deep, measured strokes that seem designed to reach as far into you as possible. His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression, every reaction.

"Pure and perfect. You were made for this. Made to carry my children," he murmurs, voice low and hypnotic.

His words should horrify you, should make you feel like nothing more than a broodmare. But you're too far gone, too lost in the sensation of him moving inside you. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and despite your soreness, despite everything, you find yourself meeting his thrusts.

His hand slides between your bodies again, and you whimper at the touch, but he's insistent, circling with his fingers.

"One more time. Come for me one more time."

You're not sure you can; you're wrung out, exhausted, overwhelmed. But his fingers are relentless, and his cock is hitting that perfect spot inside you, and somehow, impossibly, you feel the pressure building again.

You arch beneath him when you peak again, a broken cry tearing from your throat, and you feel him follow you over the edge, his seed pulsing into you once more. There's so much of it now, so much that you can feel it leaking out around his cock even as he's still buried inside you.

He collapses onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath hot against your neck. His cock is still inside you, still twitching occasionally, and you can feel the warm wetness of his seed pooling beneath you.

"It will take this time," he murmurs against your skin. "It must."

He rolls off you but immediately pulls you against his side, arranging you so that you're still on your back, still keeping his seed inside you. His hand returns to your belly, possessive and protective.

"Sleep. But don't move. Stay just like this."

You're too exhausted to do anything but obey. Your eyes drift closed, your body heavy and sated despite the soreness, despite the ache between your thighs. His hand remains on your belly, and the last thing you're aware of before sleep claims you is his voice, quiet and determined:

"You're mine. You'll give me heirs worthy of our blood. Worthy of dragons."

And in the darkness behind your eyelids, you can almost see them; the silver-haired children you'll bear him, the legacy you'll create together.

Morning comes slowly, like it’s unsure whether it’s welcome.

You surface to awareness in fragments, heat first, then weight, then the dull, echoing ache threaded through your hips and thighs. The bed smells like smoke and skin, and your body feels heavy, overused, tender in places you don’t want to think too closely about yet.

You try to move and hiss quietly instead.

Aerion stirs beside you.

You’re naked. So is he, stretched out on his back, one arm flung carelessly above his head. The sheet is tangled around your legs, useless. There are marks on you. You can feel them without looking.

Dark bruises blooming along your inner thighs, your waist, the soft underside of your arm where his hand lingered too long.

His eyes open.

They’re already focused.

“Don’t,” he says immediately, voice rough with sleep. Not angry. Not gentle. Just certain. His hand comes down, firm on your hip, holding you still. “You’ll make it worse.”

You freeze, breath caught.

He looks you over openly, assessing. There’s no embarrassment in his gaze, no softness, but there is satisfaction.

“You pushed yourself,” Aerion murmurs, almost to himself. “I told you not to tense like that.”

You swallow. “You didn’t stop.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

“No, you are right, cousin,” he agrees. “I didn’t.”

He shifts then, carefully, rising onto one elbow. The movement makes you more aware of your own body, how sore you are, how every small motion pulls.

Aerion notices your wince immediately.

“Hmh.” His thumb presses into your hip, not unkindly, testing. “You’re not injured.”

It isn’t reassurance. It’s a verdict.

Still, he reaches for the bell without asking, gives it a single sharp ring. When the servants come later, he dismisses them just as quickly, taking the basin himself. You watch from the bed, dazed, as he wets the cloth and returns.

“If I ruin you, you’ll be no use to me.”

The cloth is warm. He cleans you with deliberate care, efficient, thorough, avoiding nothing.

His touch lingers where it doesn’t need to, thumb brushing bruised skin as if cataloguing it. You feel him pause once, just long enough for his breath to change.

“Good,” he murmurs. “They suit you.”

Your stomach flips.

When he’s finished, he sets the cloth aside and smooths the sheet back over you, palm resting briefly on your abdomen. Possessive. Thoughtful. As though imagining something beneath his hand that isn’t there yet.

“You’ll rest today,” Aerion says. “No walking the galleries. No visits to court. You stay here.” He looks at you, eyes bright with quiet certainty.

He lies back beside you, close enough that you can feel his heat again, his arm settling around you like it belongs there.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just Aerion Targaryen, ensuring that what is his remains intact and ready.

By the time you realise it, Aerion already has.

It’s in the way his questions change, less accusatory, more precise. The way he watches you when you think he isn’t. The way his hand lingers at your wrist when you grow light-headed, his thumb pressing there as if counting something only he can feel.

“How many days?” he asks one evening, voice deceptively calm.

You hesitate. He looks up from where he’s seated, expression sharpening instantly.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Aerion says. “You know what I’m asking.”

“…Nearly three weeks,” you admit.

The room goes very still.

Aerion leans back slowly, eyes flicking to the fire, then back to you, already doing the math. You can see it happen behind his eyes, neat and ruthless. When he stands, he closes the distance between you in three strides.

“You’ve been nauseous,” he says. Not a question. “In the mornings. You haven’t touched wine. And you’ve been tired.” His fingers tilt your chin up, possessive but controlled.

“You should have told me.”

“I wasn’t sure,” you say quietly.

His grip tightens.

"I am"

The maester is summoned the next morning. You sit on the edge of the bed while Aerion paces like a caged animal, every movement coiled with tension.

The old man finally clears his throat, "It is without doubt, my Prince. The Princess is with child."

For a heartbeat, you think he hasn’t heard.

Then he laughs.

It’s low and incredulous, like something has finally aligned in the world. He turns to you, eyes bright.

“You see?” he says, almost triumphant. He crosses the room and takes your face in both hands, thumbs warm against your cheeks. “I told them. I told them all.”

The maester is dismissed with a wave and the door shuts. Silence falls, thick and charged.

Aerion doesn’t let go of you.

“My heir,” he murmurs, then corrects himself, “Our child.”

He studies you like he’s seeing you properly for the first time, pride written openly across his face. His hand slides to your abdomen, reverent now, protective in a way that feels startling on him.

“You did well,” he says. Praise, bare and unguarded.

You look up at him. “Was it ever in doubt?”

Something flickers in his expression, something almost like fondness.

His forehead rests briefly against yours. When he kisses you, it’s not hungry. Not demanding. It’s slow, claiming, deliberate, like a seal pressed into hot wax.

When he pulls back, his hand never leaves you.

“No one touches you now,” he says softly. “No one questions you. You are carrying fire.”

And for the first time since you became his wife, Aerion Targaryen looks at you not just as a means, but as something precious he intends to guard.

You focus on the pain. It's easier to swallow and think about the throbbing of your heart than the presence looming behind you with dark eyes and curled fingers. His rage emanates from him like mist in the northern hills. Rolling, they curl around you, tripping you up as Johnny's breathing smacks against the back of your head like Simon's fist.

When you brave a glance behind you, you find Johnny's arm slung over Simon's shoulder as if he were wounded in battle. Your eyes ache at the sight of the blood trickling down his head. It soaks into Simon's clothes, mixing with the gore of the doe he cleaned. It doesn't seem to bother him—if anything, it seems to be a comfort with the way he leans into the warmth seeping from his perfect pup.

"Keep your head forward," Simon warns. Knowing better than to toy with his temperament, you comply. "Bad girl."

Simon tells you to sit on the couch and to not move a muscle once you've reached the house. All you can do is obey as your body sinks into the stale cushions. The last thing you focus on before you're left alone in the living room is the distant look in Johnny's eyes. It's the first time you've seen the crisp bite of their blue clouded over.

There's a storm in his eyes. It penetrates through the ocular nerves and straight into his brain, lightning scrambling all his senses until he's nothing but an empty husk being dragged around by a brute that you can't tell truly cares for him or not.

The walls close in on you like a casket. You can't even bring yourself to get comfortable as you listen to the quiet shuffling towards the back of the house. Bloodied gauze, bandages and saline—all you have to accompany you is your reflection in the television. Hands folded, back uncomfortably straight like you're back in school trying to bite back your anxiety.

Dirt and stray leaves cling to your clothes and hair, but the mess is the least of your concern. Careful fingers prod against your throat to feel the damage done. You can't get the image of Johnny out of your mind, as if he were possessed by something wicked, something more terrifying than even Simon. His weight, the pressure, capillaries popping in your face and eyes.

At least when he rapes you, there's a place for you to go. A make-pretend palace where you're safe and untouched, so far removed from everything happening to you. You can put on a smile and an alluring voice so that it hurts less, but you can't pretend that you want to die. You can't act like you enjoy it when he hurts you.

Salted tears mix with the stale doe blood on your face when you break your gaze off of the television and out the window to be greeted with her carcass. The adrenaline that had soaked your muscles in the woods begins to dissipate, leaving you with nothing but cold sweat and trembling flesh.

You think of your mum and the food she used to make, your childhood cat and how she would purr on your chest at night, you think of your job at the pub and your old apartment—all that was a lifetime ago. You died the day Simon walked into that pub, and you've been trying to crawl out of your grave ever since.

"Feelin' guilty?"

Like the incomprehensible creature that he is, Simon sneaks up on you without a sound—not the huff of his breaths nor the beat of his algid heart. You can't bring yourself to look over your shoulder at him. Instead, you press your palms into your eyes and will them to stop leaking.

Blood and venison fills your nose as he pushes further into the living room. His pace is slow and even. Unhurried, and with too much confidence. You want to stay buried in yourself forever, to hide your face behind your hands so he can't witness you, but the thud of his knee hitting the floor prompts you to look at him.

Uncannily stoic, he tosses a decent sized bag on the cushion next to you. The zippers are already open, revealing an assortment of neatly packaged first aid items fit to go to war with. Tourniquets, gauze, items labeled as chest seals and quick clot—your mouth goes dry at the thought of Simon attempting to take care of you. Kindness isn't even buried in the deepest parts of him.

"I didn't mean to hurt him." You can't tell if you're speaking in an attempt to convince him not to hurt you, or to simply fill the aching silence that settles between your sniffles.

"But you did." He's rummaging through his kit, fingers ghosting over sorted containers and compartments as he sets aside things with seemingly no rhyme or reason for their retrieval.

Your body shifts as your fingers ghost over your throat again. "He scared me. I didn't mean it. Is… he okay?"

Simon doesn't answer you. It's hard to tell if it's because he thinks you're too stupid to understand the truth, or if he wants you to suffer more. He's still focused on his stupid kit. You're always an after thought. Like a pet that a child begged so long for only for them to grow bored of it once they realized the effort it would take to keep it alive.

Unprompted, you say your name. Your real name. Not the one engraved on your throat like a mark of ownership. Simon pauses and finally looks at you, having fully piqued his attention for once.

"You call me Bonnie, but that's my real name," you say decisively as you wipe your nose on the back of your hand. "You can put this collar around my throat and try to pretend otherwise, but I'm human just like you."

He scoffs, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. "I think you believe you're human. Doesn't make it true."

Your molars clack together and your jaw begins to ache at the migraine building up from oxygen loss. "Alright, maybe I am an animal. But I've got fingers and eyes like you, all the same organs, same skin… what does that make you?"

Your gaze locks. Simon reaches for something without looking away from you, and you're too scared to break the view lest he lunge while you're distracted.

"God."

His answer stuns you into silence as your brain finally begins to comprehend the depths of his delusions. There's nothing but a void in his eyes as his hand moves over the back of yours, thumbs dancing over dirt stains and minor scrapes. You shiver as his fingers wrap around you, pressing into your palm, nails digging into the fatty flesh.

"It was this one, yeah?" he asks.

Your brows furrow? "What?"

Snap!

Shock takes a hold of your body too fiercely for you to scream. Your hand goes numb, tingling as if you've slept on it wrong, before an immense heat swallows it. The pain doesn't settle in until you look down and see displacement on the back of your hand. A goose egg swells on it, but you can't tell if it's because of your bones or the soft tissue pleading not to receive any more pain.

You pull your hand to your chest and gasp. Clutching your wrist with your good hand, you don't know if you should cry or curse while Simon goes back go rummaging through his kit again. Writhing, you force yourself to look at the damage as if it'll magically fix itself, but each time your eyes settle on your hand it only seems to get worse. Your breathing quickens until your throat dries. Nausea slithers into your stomach. You think you might be sick.

"Give it 'ere," Simon demands, dragging your hand toward him.

"No—ah!—stop!" you plead.

"Want me to fix it, don't you?" he challenges. To prove his point, he wiggles a pack of items you're assuming is meant to splint your shattered hand. "Then sit still and be a good girl."

You cry the entire time he sets your broken hand. Pain radiates up your arm, shocking electricity digging into your muscles, forcing your elbow to twitch as he toys with your fingers and checks your nail beds for proper blood flow. As he works, you find yourself staring at the unloaded hunting rifle propped up in the corner of the room and you remind yourself that it could always be worse.

Though he is thorough, Simon is not at all caring. Once he's finished with splinting the damage he's caused, he hands you pills to swallow. You don't have the energy to question what they are or what they're for, you just know they make you feel better.

Enervation weighs you down as he drags you to the bedroom. Johnny lies in bed like a corpse. Bloodstained gauze obscures his face from your view, and he doesn't rouse at your sniffling nor the creak of the cage as Simon unlocks it and prompts you inside.

You've lost the energy to fight. You crawl inside like a freshly broken horse. Once your head hits the pillows, your eyes close as you cradle your hand to your chest. Your last thought before sleep takes you is that you're glad it's at least your non-dominant hand, as if you should be at all grateful to face any part of god's wrath.

Nothing feels the same when the dust settles and the next day dawns with the same sun. Your hand still hurts, and Simon still stares at you as if he wished he caused more damage, but Johnny is a different man. A husk. Empty eyes and slouched posture. He doesn't talk at breakfast and his hands don't wander over you when Simon finally allows you back in bed for the night.

In the daytime when Simon is at work, you and Johnny sit in his room but the air is too stiff to be comfortable. You write in your journal while he scribbles away with pencil and pen, but his artwork is twisted. It's all heavy eyes that mirror the tears in his own, hospital rooms, dead bodies, and a house you think might have once been his childhood home.

From what you can gather, he isn't mad at you. Really, he hardly seems to regard you at all. Your existence has turned into a passive thing in his life—a constant he's grown blind to as his nails scrape over his skin until the abrasions he's creating are drawing blood. There are times when his brain seems to fracture and he turns more animal than human. You hide in the bathroom when these episodes happen. All you can hear are cries comprised of pure agony and items hitting the wall. When you gain the courage to leave the room, you always find him covered in bruises and scrapes that line his throat, like he's trying to claw his collar off.

It takes two weeks for your hand to stop throbbing and for the swelling to go down. Simon checks on it twice a week; suddenly attentive and painfully doting. As you sit at the dinner table, you can't help but stare at it as you wait for Simon to serve. Across from you, Johnny stares too as if this is the first time he's noticed your injury. Eyes wide, fists clenched—it's the most emotion you've seen in his gaze since that day in the woods.

Before everything went wrong.

A wave of nausea smothers you as Simon sets your plate on the table. You stare at the food—roasted potatoes from the garden, green beans he begrudgingly bought from the store, and steak. It smells wrong.

You wouldn't put it past Simon to poison you. It would be a quiet way to take you out while hopefully throwing Johnny off the scent of his transgressions. It isn't until you poke it with your fork that you realize why your food seems to make your stomach twist; it's the doe. Her flesh taints her meat, and the scent of it still seems to linger on your skin even after these last couple weeks.

An attempt is made to eat. The potatoes are salted nicely, but the proximity to the meat soils it. Your throat tightens. Your good hand begins to shake around the fork.

You can't eat this. You won't.

"Quit pickin' at your food and eat," Simon grumbles.

His chastising reminds you of your mother but with a fraction of the kindness and none of her beauty. Silver prongs tap the face of your plate as you shake your head.

"I'm not hungry."

"Didn't ask if you were, I told you to eat."

You think of the dull pain that still echoes throughout your hand and how you can't make a fist since the day Simon shattered it, and you tell yourself you're too tired to fight right now. This battle is not worth fighting. Not right now, anyway.

Simon doesn't make your job any easier. The steak isn't cut, and it's impossible for you to rip it apart with your fingers or slice it with the side of your fork. You opt to stab it and bring it up to your mouth and bite chunks out of it like an animal.

The faint seasoning isn't enough to overpower the flavor of the meat. You choke down one bite, then another, and another, until your stomach feels as if it's growing too big for your body. Pressure builds in your abdomen as saliva gathers in your mouth in waves, forcing you to swallow lest you drool all over your lap.

"I'm not in the mood for you to be fuckin' 'round with your food, Bonnie," Simon warns.

When you try to answer him, dinner comes back up to say hello. You barely have enough time to twist to the side to heave your guts all over the floor. The flavor is twice as worse coming up as it was going down—acid hits your nose, the back of your throat, the sides of your cheeks and teeth. Even when your stomach is finished contracting, you continue to gag.

Silence deafens you as your watering eyes focus on the floor just enough to see that some of the vomit has splashed onto Simon's shoes. A deep, frustrated part of yourself is satisfied at the sight.

"Finished?" he asks, tone impossible to read.

You spit onto the floor, then nod.

"Good. Get up."

You must not move fast enough for Simon, because within moments his hand is wrapped around your upper arm and he's dragging you toward the bathroom. As he shoves you inside of the room, you panic as you remember your first weeks here. Clothes on the floor, body ruined from Johnny's inhumane desires—your skin perks with gooseflesh as you recall the feeling of Simon's hands washing you.

Fearing he might do the same, your arms retract into your chest as he kneels in front of the vanity. He's rummaging through the items underneath the sink. You've never been brave enough to really search through it yourself before. Having only ever retrieved extra toilet paper, you're surprised when he grabs a small, white and pink box and places it on the counter. It's hyper-feminine. Something you'd never expect him to have.

More of your disgusting dinner threatens to come back up to say hello when he turns to face you with a small plastic stick in his hand. "Toilet. Now."

It's a pregnancy test.

This is more degrading than anything either him or Johnny have ever done to you, but you know better than to fight. Simon watches with shadowy eyes as you pull your bottoms down with your good hand before sitting on the toilet. You reach for the test, but he pushes you aside before demanding that you open your legs. Kneeling, he rests his elbow on your thigh while holding the test himself—you suppose he can't trust an animal to do anything itself.

You try not to focus on the ache in your bladder or the heat creeping along the back of your neck as you stare at the wall over Simon's head. When he's content, he lets you finish in peace before capping the test and placing it on the counter. Legs pressing together like you can hide yourself from his all-knowing gaze, you stare at him with dry eyes as he points at you.

"Stay 'ere. Gonna clean up your mess, then we'll see 'bout this," he orders.

Simon closes the door behind him when he leaves, giving you a marginal amount of privacy to clean yourself up and conceal the most vulnerable parts of your body. You rush to the test so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. It's a digital one—fancier than the old line tests. Right now the mini screen blinks with growing ellipses. It's reading. Sitting. Forcing you to wait.

Teeth digging into your lip, you mentally recount the pills Simon has been shoving down your throat every evening since you first arrived here. Birth control pills. A precaution you're glad he made you take. Simon doesn't forget. Attention oriented, you haven't missed a single one. Seven at night sharp. Not a minute sooner or later.

It's just like him, you realize, for him to think there's something wrong with you. Refusing to take responsibility for his actions, it's always the mutt's fault. It's not his fault that you can't handle his creations—this self proclaimed god.

Yet when the screen on the test stops blinking and you're staring down at the word pregnant, you realize that Simon is terrifyingly correct, as all gods are.