Mariax

Namor/K'ul'ku'kan

🐍 Love under the sunset (in progress)

🐍 Underneath the waves (completed)

🐍 Dragon fruit (completed)

🐍 Fantasize ( completed)

🐍Gods Falls Sometimes ( completed)

🐍 I Wish Under The Same Roof ( completed)

🐍 In The End, I Gave In ( completed)

🐍 Between the shadows of pain and the ligth of life. ( completed)

🐍 Losing You Little By Little (completed)

🐍 Someday, I'II be someone´s love (completed)

🐍pillor bird ( completed)

🐍Red Sea ( completed)

🐍The gods also love (completed)

🐍The Salt River and the Winged Man (Namor x oc)

🐍Red Coral Lips (completed)

🐍 The nine Layers of red ( completed)

🐍 Saltwater Longing ( completed)

🐍 What the Sea Cannot Keep ( completed)

Baron Helmut Zemo

🫐Blueberry (shortly)

🟣 The love you offer me ( completed)

Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

🔫Cherry (completed)

🔫 Boy, I want your attention (completed)

🔫Love me, love my pain (completed)

🔫Freudian Behavior (completed)

Steve Rogers/Capitain America

🗽 Blackberry (completed)

AKOTSK (Aerion, Valarr, Baelor, Maekar)

The air in the royal chambers was so thick it seemed to require physical effort to breathe. You stood by the fireplace, your fingers buried in the velvet of your skirt, your knuckles as white as the marble of the statues in the gardens. You were not Dornish , you did not possess the desert fire in your blood; you came from a lineage of silences and duties, raised to be the gentle breeze that would soothe Maekar 's temper. Targaryen .

But the breeze had become a vacuum.

"Where is she?! Where is my wife?"

His scream echoed down the corridor, making your shoulders heave in a spasm of silent agony. You closed your eyes, but the image of that night refused to leave you. The banquet, the wine, the lights... and that excruciating moment when you, seated beside King Daeron the Good, heard the monarch sigh as he looked at you.

"It's a miracle of mercy," the King had said, his voice choked with nostalgia. "Looking at you, my dear, is like seeing my Dyanna return from the grave. Maekar has finally recovered what death stole from him. You are the mirror of his happiness... you are Dyanna herself reborn."

Those words were the knife that finally pierced his armor of caution.

The door was flung open. Maekar entered, the aura of a warrior prince emanating from him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity you once called love, but now recognized as possession.

"What was that?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously hoarse tone as he closed the door. "You rose from the royal table without a word. The King was confused. I was... humiliated. What troubled you, wife?"

You didn't answer immediately. You turned your back to him, staring at the mirror. In the reflection, you saw a young, beautiful, and pale face—the face he had handpicked from among so many other noblewomen in the kingdom.

"Your father complimented me today," you said, your voice so low it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the embers. "He said I'm a miracle. That I'm Dyanna 's return ."

Maekar stood motionless. The silence that followed was a silent confession. "My father is an old and sentimental man. He sees what he wants to see."

"And you, Maekar ?" You turned slowly, your eyes filled with a deep sadness that seemed ancient. "What do you see? Because I spent months being the perfect wife. I accepted the jewels that belonged to her. I accepted the rooms she decorated. I even accepted you calling me by nicknames that, now I know, were exclusive to her."

"I gave you my name!" he exclaimed, trying to regain control of the situation, approaching with heavy steps. "I treated you with honor. What more do you want from me?"

"I want to exist!" The word exploded from within you, a cry for help you had kept inside for too long. Caution shattered like glass under the weight of your despair. "I want to be seen! I am not a receptacle for the soul of a dead woman! I am not a painting you can retouch to feel less guilty about her leaving!"

You began frantically tearing the diadem from your head, tears finally overflowing, hot and bitter. "I wondered why you insisted so much on keeping me in the shadows at night. Why your hands seemed to grope my face as if searching for features that aren't there. Today I understand. You don't love me, Maekar . You love the ghost that inhabits my flesh!"

"Shut up!" Maekar lunged forward, his pain transforming into a defensive rage. "You have no right to dig up what I tried to bury so I could live again!"

"But you won't live again!" you screamed, recoiling until your back hit the cold stone wall, your chest rising and falling in spasms of pure suffering. "You're just trying to steal my youth to feed your grief! I'm barely older than your eldest son! I should be your new life, but I'm just your macabre consolation!"

The distress on her face was so raw that Maekar seemed to hesitate for a second. He tried to reach out and touch her face, a gesture that would once have been affectionate, but now seemed like a profanation.

"Don't touch me with the hands that seek her!" You pushed him away, your voice faltering, despair draining your strength. "You destroyed my chance to be loved for who I am. You condemned me to compete with a woman who never makes mistakes because she no longer breathes!"

Maekar lost what little patience he had left. In a sudden movement, he grabbed his arms, pinning them against the wall above his head. The impact was sharp, and his body—massive, hot, and oppressive—crushed his against the rough stone.

"You're my wife," he hissed, his face millimeters from hers, his breath mingling with her sobs. "I chose you. I brought you to my bed. Do you think I could bear to look at you every day if there wasn't something real here?"

"What's real, Maekar ?" you whispered, your eyes locked on his, challenging him through the haze of tears. "Say my name. Now. Without thinking of the mother of your children. Without thinking of the woman Dayne gave you. Say MY name and convince me you know who I am."

His silence was the cruelest answer he could give. The grip on her wrists tightened, not from desire, but from the agony of a man caught in his own lie. He held her there, immobilized, while the weight of the substitution hung over them both, heavier than the walls of the fortress itself.

How do you cope with the fact that, even now, in his rage, you can see the reflection of another person in the depths of his pupils?

His silence wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a vacuum that sucked all the oxygen from the room, leaving you dizzy, suffocated by the realization that, for the man who held your destiny in his hands, you were a blank page on which he insisted on rewriting an old poem.

Maekar kept his wrists pressed against the cold stone. The warmth of his skin contrasted with the ice of the wall, creating a symphony of sensations that made your stomach churn. You could feel the frantic beating of his heart against your chest, but you knew, with a bitterness that burned your throat, that this rhythm wasn't for you. It was the gallop of a man chasing a ghost.

“Say it …” you pleaded, your voice faltering, tears tracing hot paths down your pale face. “Please, Maekar … say my name. Just once. Claim the woman who is here, bleeding before you, not the memory you hold in your chest.”

His eyes, as dark as the sea before a storm, scanned every inch of her face. He analyzed her forehead, the curve of her nose, the trembling line of her lips. For a second, you saw the conflict—the agony of a man who wanted to love her, but who was chained by a grief that had become his very skin.

“You don’t understand,” she finally hissed, her voice hoarse, laden with a pain so dense it felt palpable. “Do you think you’re the only one who suffers? Every time I look at you, it’s like a wound is reopened. I try to find you, I swear I try … but fate was cruel enough to give you the same light in your eyes, the same tilt of your head…”

“So it’s a punishment?” you interrupted him, your distress exploding into a desperate sob. “Am I your punishment, Maekar ? Am I the torture you chose for yourself so you wouldn’t forget what you lost?”

He released one of her wrists, but only to bring his hand to her neck, not to choke her, but to hold it with a possessiveness bordering on delirium. His thumb caressed her jaw, and for a moment, the touch was almost tender, if it weren't for the shadow of another person lingering between you.

“I wish it were different,” he murmured, drawing his face closer, his warm breath brushing against her skin. “I wanted to walk into this room and see only you. But when the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the similarities become chains. I see her movements in you. I hear the echo of her laughter in yours. How can I love you for who you are, if everything about you screams at me what I can no longer have?”

That confession was the final blow. You stopped fighting his grip. Your body felt heavy, the will to resist draining away along with the tears. Despair was now a calm, deep sea, where you were sinking with no intention of surfacing.

“So you admit it…” you whispered, closing your eyes so you wouldn’t see the denial he was still trying to maintain. “I’m just a shadow. An echo of flesh and blood. You brought me to this castle to be a living tomb.”

Maekar released her other wrist and, instead of pulling away, he pulled her into a violent embrace, burying his face in her neck. You felt his body tremble—a tremor that came from the depths of his tormented soul.

“ Don’t leave me,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin, sounding less like a prince and more like a man lost at sea. “Even if it’s a lie, even if you’re just a reflection of her… I can’t lose her again. I wouldn’t survive burying that face a second time.”

You felt his hands slide up your back, gripping the thin fabric of your underwear, a mixture of desperate desire and a morbid need for confirmation. In that moment, in the oppressive silence of the royal bedroom, you understood the extent of your tragedy: you loved a man who could only love you through the lens of his own loss.

You were both his cure and his disease. And, as he held you tightly as if his life depended on it, you wondered if there would ever be anything left of you to save, or if you would end up disappearing completely, consumed by the ghost of the woman you never knew, but whom you already hated with all the strength of your broken heart.

Maekar 's hands , once iron claws, now tried to find in you a refuge you no longer had the strength to offer. His embrace was heavy, an anchor pulling you to the bottom of an ocean of melancholy. But, inside you, something had died the moment he confessed that you were merely a reflection of an absence.

You didn't hug him back. His arms hung limply at his sides, useless, like those of a porcelain doll whose strings had been cut.

“Let me go…” you whispered, your voice devoid of any warmth, cold as the crypts where Dyanna lay.

“No,” he growled, squeezing her even tighter, his face buried in her shoulder. “You’re my wife. Your place is here, with me, in our bed.”

“This bed was never mine, Maekar, ” you said, and the sound of your own voice, so hollow, startled her. “I’m just an intruder occupying a ghost’s space. I smell her scent on the sheets, I see her trace in your eyes when you look at me… I’m dying here. Every touch of yours takes a piece of my soul.”

With a desperate effort, you broke free. The separation wasn't violent, but it was definitive. You walked to the darkest corner of the room, where the candlelight didn't reach, wanting to disappear into the shadows so he could no longer use your face as a source of comfort.

(...)

In the days that followed, the castle became a silent mausoleum. You began to dress only in gray and pale colors, rejecting the vibrant silks he so loved. You stopped wearing her jewelry, let your hair fall straight and unadorned, and avoided parties, banquets, and, above all, his gaze.

You became a ghostly presence in the Red Keep. You ate little, spoke even less, and when Maekar entered a room, you left as if his presence were poison. Maekar , in turn, began to crumble under the weight of your silence.

At first, he tried to act with the arrogance of a prince. He ordered your presence, demanded that you dine with him, but you remained there, an ice statue, your eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a single word or a glance of affection. His desire, which had previously been fueled by resemblance, had transformed into a dark and painful obsession with you—with the woman he was truly losing.

One night, he broke into your private chambers. He smelled of strong wine and a despair that stifled the air around him. You were sitting by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass.

“Look at me!” he roared, grabbing his chair and turning it violently. “I’m your husband! I demand you look at me!”

You looked up. But there was no gleam in them. There was no "light" he so desperately sought. There was only a gray emptiness, an abyss of indifference that struck him harder than any sword blow.

“What do you want, sir?” Her voice was a monotonous whisper. “Do you want me to smile? Do you want me to bow my head as she used to? I’ve forgotten how. I’ve forgotten who I was supposed to imitate.”

“I don’t want you to imitate her!” he shouted, falling to his knees before you, his large hands gripping your thighs, squeezing the fabric of your dress with trembling strength. “I miss your voice… your laugh… I miss when you looked at me and I felt there was something alive in this castle.”

“You killed that woman,” you replied, and a single, solitary tear rolled down your cheek, not of anger, but of mourning for yourself. “You suffocated her with the weight of a dead woman. Now, all you have is what’s left. The body you so longed to inhabit. You can use it if you want. I’m no longer inside it.”

Maekar let out a broken sound, a sob he tried to stifle in her skirt. He realized, too late, that in trying to reclaim the past through you, he had destroyed the only future that could have made him happy. He missed your genuine touch, your spontaneous affection, the unique woman you were before he tried to mold you into someone else.

He began kissing her hands, desperate, almost feverish kisses.

“Please…” he pleaded against her cold skin. “Come back to me. I’ll do anything. I’ll burn the portraits, I’ll move to another castle, I…”

“You can’t burn what’s etched in your mind,” you said, pulling your hand away with cruel slowness. “And you can’t bring me back. I’m not Dyanna , I can’t be resurrected.”

You stood up and walked towards the bed, lying down and turning your back to him, leaving him there, on his knees on the cold floor, a powerful prince reduced to a man begging for a crumb of attention from the woman he himself had broken.

The room was utterly dark, but his suffering was almost visible, a black shadow enveloping him as he realized that he now had two dead women in his life: one buried in the earth and the other lying beside him, alive, but forever out of his reach.

(...)

Night crept like a wounded animal along the walls of the Red Keep. Maekar could no longer bear the silence you had erected between them—an ice wall more insurmountable than any fortification he had ever besieged.

He entered the room, the sound of his boots echoing like the beating of an anxious heart. He found her standing before the fireplace, her eyes lost in the flames, her body enveloped in a white linen nightgown that made her look like a specter. She didn't move. She didn't recognize him.

“My sons asked about you today,” he began, his voice low, trying to find a way through the fog of indifference that surrounded her. “ Daeron is drinking more than he should, Aerion is growing increasingly cruel, and even little Aegon misses you… Aemon tried to explain his sadness to me with maester ’s words , but none of them understand why the light in this house has gone out.”

You remained motionless. The names of his children—the four princes Dyanna had left as his inheritance—hung in the air. You loved them, in a melancholic and distant way, but every time you looked at them, you saw the traces of the one you could never overcome.

“They are her children,” you finally said, your voice devoid of emotion. “They have her blood. They don’t need an echo to comfort them.”

Maekar growled, a sound of pain and frustration, and lunged forward. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his strong arms encircling her waist with an urgency bordering on desperation. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with a hunger that seemed to devour her soul.

“I want children of yours ,” he whispered against her skin, his warm lips tracing the outline of her ear. “I want daughters who have your spirit, not hers. My sons are a disappointment, but my daughters, I know they will be glorious. I saw them in my dreams, beautiful girls. Beautiful like you.”

His hands moved up, bold and possessive, squeezing her breasts through the thin fabric, trying to rekindle the flame that once burned so easily. He turned her forcefully, pressing his body against hers, his muscular thighs trapping hers. His desire was evident, a rhythmic and dark pulse that demanded surrender.

He kissed her with desperate violence, his tongue invading her mouth, his hands feverishly exploring her curves. He wanted to possess her, he wanted pleasure to make her forget, he wanted her moans to drown out the screams of his own conscience.

But you remained rigid. Your arms lay limp at your sides. Your lips didn't move beneath his. Your eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling, cold and empty like those of a corpse. You were marble beneath his fire.

Maekar stopped. He stepped back only a few inches, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps, his face flushed with lust and growing anger.

“React!” he ordered, his voice trembling. “Scratch me, hit me, hate me if you have to, but be here !”

“You wanted a dead woman, my prince,” you replied, your voice as calm as a frozen lake. “Here I am. You may use my body. It is yours by right, by law, and by conquest. But do not ask me to participate in your fantasy. Do not ask me to pretend you are looking at me.”

He let her go as if he had been burned. The humiliation of being rejected not in body, but in soul, was a wound that the pride of a Targaryen could not bear.

“You’re torturing me!” he yelled, kicking a chair that flew against the wall. “I’m trying! I’m begging for a fresh start! I talk about future daughters, about our legacy, and you treat me like a rapist in my own bed!”

“Because you don’t want a fresh start!” you exploded, the first sign of life in days being a bitter rage that lit up your eyes. “You want redemption! You want to put children in my womb to prove to yourself that life has conquered death, but you still wear her wedding ring! You still sleep on her side of the bed! You want my daughters so they can grow up and become part of your fantasy!”

"That's not true!" he roared, moving closer with his finger pointed, his face inches from hers.

“It’s the purest truth that exists in this castle of lies!” you retorted, your chest rising and falling with a vibrant agony. “You miss her, Maekar . You miss her so much that the scent of my skin punishes you because it’s not the scent you memorized. You hate me for not being her, and you hate yourself even more for desiring my body while thinking of her soul.”

Maekar remained silent, his breathing erratic. He looked at his own hands, the hands that had just tried to seduce her, and saw the trembling in them. His despair was so intense it seemed he would collapse right there.

“I miss who I was when I was with her,” he confessed, his voice almost a broken whisper. “But I miss who I thought you would be…”

“ I could have been everything,” you said, sadness returning to extinguish your fury. “But you turned me into nothing.”

You walked to the bed and lay down, covering yourself up to your neck, leaving him alone before the ashes of the fireplace. Maekar remained there, a prince without a kingdom, a husband without a wife, realizing that the "love" he had tried to force was the very rope that was strangling what remained of both your hearts.

(...)

The weeks that followed were marked by a Herculean effort on Maekar 's part. He was not a man of delicate gestures or poetic words, but the silence you maintained was a punishment he could no longer bear. He began to act with desperate caution, as if he were trying to tame a wounded creature that could vanish at the slightest rough touch.

The room, once a battlefield, had become a sanctuary of silent offerings. In the morning, you would find flowers that were not Dyanna 's favorites , but wildflowers that grew on his own family's lands, brought by knights he had hastily sent. On his dressing table, the jewels of the deceased were no longer there, but new pieces, recently forged, with designs that he himself tried to describe to the blacksmiths—something that would be uniquely his.

But her soul only found rest away from him, in the gardens or in the library, surrounded by his children.

“Look, Mommy!” Little Aegon, with his tousled silver curls, ran toward her, holding out a stone dragon egg that he swore he could feel warming.

You smiled—a real smile, the first in a long time—and pulled him onto your lap, sitting on the stone bench. Aemon sat beside you, a heavy book on his lap, reading passages about the history of Westeros in his young, serious voice.

“The egg isn’t hot, Egg, ” Aemon corrected, though his eyes shone with affection for his younger brother. “But the sun is. You should be careful not to burn your skin.”

You stroked Aegon's face, feeling the purity of that child who, unlike his father, loved you unconditionally. Daeron , the eldest, lay on the nearby grass, a jug of water (which you insisted replace the wine) within his reach. He watched you with a look of melancholy understanding; of them all, he was the one who best understood the shadow that hung over his father's marriage.

Even Aerion , whose cruel tendencies were beginning to blossom and frighten the court, became docile in her presence. He approached with an almost predatory beauty, but knelt at her feet to show her a dragonbone dagger he had acquired.

“ If anyone in this castle dares to make her cry again,” Aerion hissed, his violet eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, “I will make them forget how to breathe.”

Aerion 's hair , a gesture of affection that seemed to ease the tension in the young prince's shoulders.

"No one will make me cry, Aerion . We are at peace here."

It was in this scene that Maekar found her. He stopped under the stone arch in the garden, observing the scene in silence. His chest ached at the sight of the smile you so generously bestowed upon his children, but which you categorically denied him. He felt a pang of envy for his own children, but also a profound admiration. You were what held that broken family together, even though it was shattered inside.

That night, he didn't enter the room with the weight of authority. He entered slowly, carrying a small tray with tea and honey.

“I saw you with them today,” he said, his voice hoarse, keeping a safe distance. “You have a patience I never possessed. They love you… and I’m beginning to realize they love you for who you are, not for who you represent.”

You turned around, the moonlight framing your melancholy silhouette.

"They are pure. They don't look back. They look to the present."

Maekar set the tray down on the table and took a step forward, his hands open in a gesture of surrender.

“I want to learn to do the same,” he whispered, distress etched into every line of his stern face. “I know what I did… the way I tried to mold you… was a crime. I was lost in my own hell and dragged you there with me. But today, seeing you with Aegon and Aerion , I realized it’s not the past I want to reclaim. I want to conquer your present.”

He knelt down, not to demand, but to beg.

“Let me try again. Not like a man chasing a ghost, but like a man desperately in love with a woman who hates him for good reason. Give me a chance to prove that I know your name, that I know who you are in the dark and in the light.”

You looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, the stiffness in his shoulders eased an inch. The pain was still there, deep and dense, but the sight of Maekar Targaryen — the Prince of Summerhall , the relentless warrior — knelt and vulnerable, and began to pierce the ice around his heart.

“Words are easy, Maekar, ” you said, your voice still trembling with sorrow. “Time will be my judge.”

“Then give me all the time in the world,” he replied, taking her hand with a tenderness you never imagined he possessed, kissing her knuckles with a reverence that seemed like a blood oath. “I will spend the rest of my life in your shadow, if it means that one day you will smile at me again as you smiled at Aegon today.”

(...)

Time was no longer measured by the beating of the stars, but by the cautious rhythm of Maekar 's breaths . He kept his word. In the following months, he became a silent observer of his own life, a man who seemed to be relearning the alphabet through his gestures.

He no longer forced her into bed. In fact, he began sleeping on a small divan in the corner of the room, or often spent sleepless nights in his office, just so she could have the vastness of the real bed to herself, free from the weight of his body and the suffocation of his memories.

However, his true healing came not from his apologies, but from the boys' laughter.

One autumn afternoon, the wind was blowing strongly from the Bay, and you were sitting in the inner courtyard with Aegon and Aemon . Little " Egg " was desperately trying to balance himself atop a low wall, while Aemon read aloud passages about dragons of old.

“If I had a dragon,” Egg exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with an innocence that almost made her cry, “I would take her flying far away from here, to where the sun never sets!”

You laughed, pulling the boy to the ground before he fell.

"And what would I do in a place where the sun never sets, Egg ? I wouldn't be able to sleep."

"You don't need to sleep to dream, Mom," he replied, hugging her neck tightly.

The word "mommy" still vibrated in her chest with a bittersweetness. You felt a pair of eyes on you and looked up. Aerion was leaning against a nearby column, watching the scene. He didn't join in the games, but his posture was less aggressive when you were around. He approached and, with a rarely gentle gesture, placed a perfect red apple in your lap.

“For you, ma’am,” he said, with a half-smile that hid the darkness everyone said inhabited his soul. “It’s the sweetest in the orchard.”

"Thank you, Aerion, " you whispered, touching his hand briefly.

Maekar watched from the upper balcony. He saw how you flourished among his children, how you were the glue that held those distinct and difficult personalities together in harmony. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, a mixture of gratitude and a heart-wrenching loneliness. He desired you, but that desire was now purged of any trace of Dyanna ; he desired the woman who knew how to soothe Aerion 's fury and nurture Aegon's dreams.

That night, the cold intensified. You were in bed, almost asleep, when you heard his hesitant footsteps. Maekar didn't go to the divan. He stopped beside the bed, his imposing silhouette cutting through the light of the fireplace.

“ They’re growing up so fast,” he said, his voice muffled by weariness and melancholy. “ Daeron challenged me today. He said I don’t deserve his silence, that I should be grateful you still breathe the same air as me.”

You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets up to your chest.

" Daeron is too observant for his own good."

Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance, but his eyes were fixed on his with a desperate hunger for connection.

"He's right. I don't deserve this. But today, seeing you in the courtyard... I realized I can no longer live in this self-imposed exile."

He reached out, pausing mid-way, waiting for your permission. You didn't recoil. He touched your face, his scarred fingers gliding across your skin with the lightness of someone touching broken glass.

“I don’t miss her when I’m with you now,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. I miss the woman you were before I tried to bury you alive. Please… let me back in. Not as a ghost, but as the man who wants to be the father of the daughters you will still have.”

The despair in his eyes was so real, so raw, that the last barrier of ice in his heart cracked. You saw the man, not the prince, not the widower, but the broken man being consumed by his own mistake.

“ Maekar …” you whispered.

He leaned in, sealing his lips with a kiss that was anything but violent. It was a kiss of supplication, of mourning for what was lost and of hope for what could be built. His body trembled against hers, and for the first time, when he whispered words of desire in her ear, he used her name. He called for her, and only for her. The night was long, marked by a kind of surrender they had never experienced—a surrender made of pain and a dark need to feel alive amidst so many shadows. And as he possessed her under the dim light of the embers, she realized that, although the scars would never disappear, perhaps, just perhaps, there was room for a new story to be written upon the ashes of the old.

Maekar 's heavy breathing . When he finally uttered your name, the sound wasn't an echo or a comparison; it was an invocation. It was the acknowledgment that, in that bed, there was no room for anyone else but the two of you.

He pulled her to the center of the mattress with an urgency that didn't stem from pure lust, but from a desperate need to anchor himself in the reality of his existence. Maekar undressed with abrupt movements, shedding layers of pride and sorrow, until his warm, calloused skin met hers. The contrast was almost painful: his brute strength against her melancholic tenderness.

“ Look at me,” he ordered, but his voice was a broken whisper, a plea. “Don’t close your eyes. I want you to see who is here.”

He positioned himself between her legs, the weight of his body a welcome burden that finally chased away the cold. Maekar 's hands , large enough to encircle her wrists, rose to her face, holding her head with a possessiveness that she now understood as a fear that she would disappear.

When he entered you, there was none of the impatient rush of before. There was a sigh. A deep, slow entry that made you arch your back, letting out a trembling sigh against his shoulder. It was an invasion, but also a surrender. With each rhythmic and deliberate movement, Maekar seemed to be trying to fill the void he himself had carved in your chest.

His hands moved down to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with a force that would leave marks—marks that, for the first time, she wanted to bear as proof that she belonged to herself and to him, and not to a dead past.

“You…” he gasped, his face buried in the crook of her neck, their sweat mingling in the warm light of the embers. “It’s just you. The scent of your skin… the warmth of your body…”

The rhythm quickened, becoming more raw, more intense. The pleasure was tinged with a latent anguish, a tension bordering on suffering. Maekar possessed her with the intensity of a man trying to exorcise demons through flesh. He kissed her violently, sucking on her lips as if he could extract the life from her to sustain his own, while their bodies collided in a dull, constant impact.

You felt your nails dig into his broad back, scratching the Prince's skin, leaving red furrows that he received as if they were medals. Pain and pleasure were threads intertwined in a rope that tightened ever more. The desperation of being loved for who you were finally exploded in a climax that left you breathless, your body trembling in spasms of pure emotional and physical exhaustion.

Maekar followed close behind, a muffled roar escaping his throat as he spilled inside you, collapsing onto your chest as if all his strength had drained away in that act of surrender.

For long minutes, the only sound in the room was that of ragged breaths. Maekar did not move; he remained there, heavy and protective, his face hidden in his disheveled hair.

“I will never call you by another name again,” he whispered, his voice heavy with a grim promise. “I will dedicate each night to erasing the shadow I cast upon you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, sensing the vulnerability of the man the entire kingdom feared. Dyanna 's ghost was still there, in some dark corner of memory, but that night, between the sweat and dried tears, you finally felt that your own name was the only one echoing within the walls of the Red Keep.

The silence that followed the first climax was not one of rest, but of a hungry vigil. Maekar did not withdraw; he remained anchored to you, feeling the residual tremors that still coursed through your legs. The light from the dying embers traced the contours of his muscles, transforming him into a creature of shadows and reliefs.

He slowly raised his torso, supporting himself on his elbows to face you. His eyes were clouded, his pupils dilated until they almost extinguished the violet iris. Dyanna 's ghost was no longer between you; there was only an earthly and visceral obsession with the woman who, for the first time, met his gaze.

“I feel you,” he growled, his voice so deep it vibrated against his sternum. “I feel your heart beating against mine. Say it’s real. Say you won’t disappear when the sun rises.”

In response, you slid your hands down his back, feeling the war scars and the furrows your own fingernails had just carved. You pulled him down again, seeking his mouth with a thirst that was no longer for comfort, but for dominance.

The second act began with renewed ferocity. Maekar turned her onto her back with a brusque, possessive movement, pinning her against the silk sheets. He knelt behind her, his large hands gripping her hips with a force that compelled her to arch, exposing the vulnerable curve of her spine.

“You are mine,” he hissed close to her ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. “Not the prince’s, not the Targaryen name . Mine.”

When he penetrated her again, the angle was deeper, more invasive. Each thrust was a dry impact that drew hoarse moans from her throat. Maekar moved with the cadence of a conqueror, one hand buried in her hair, pulling her head slightly back so he could bite the soft skin of her shoulder, leaving a purplish mark that would be her secret under her high-necked dresses the next day.

The pleasure was intense, almost painful in its intensity. You felt his heat burning against your cold skin, a contrast that drove you wild. The room seemed to shrink until the entire universe was reduced to that frenetic contact, to the sound of flesh against flesh and the weight of a man's desire, who was trying, through that act, to fuse his soul with yours.

Maekar increased the pace, sweat dripping from his forehead onto his back. He was on edge, his breath turning into short growls. He didn't just want pleasure; he wanted your complete surrender. He wanted you to feel that, in that moment, he was the only man in the world, and you, the only woman he had ever desired.

With one last violent thrust, he held her tight, his nails digging into her hips as he surrendered to the climax. You felt the wave of heat wash over you, a spasm of ecstasy that left you powerless, collapsing onto the pillows as he fell on top of you, exhausted but finally present.

He remained there, his face buried in the back of her neck, his heart pounding against his back. The air was thick with the scent of sex and the unspoken promise that, though the past was a scar, the present was a fire neither of them wanted to extinguish.

(...)

The days in the Red Keep lost the gray hue of mourning and gained the dark, dense tone of suppressed desire. Maekar did not become a bard or a knight of light romances; he remained the Prince of Summerhall , a man of few words and a stern temperament. But his "good husband" manifested itself in acts of protective possessiveness.

He began to notice what you enjoyed when you didn't think you were being watched. He noticed that you liked the cool wind on the battlements at dawn, and he started to be there, waiting for you with a heavy fur cloak to wrap around your shoulders before you could shiver. He noticed that you lost yourself in thought in the septum, not out of devotion, but because of the silence, and he started to ensure that no one disturbed you, posting himself like a sentinel at the door.

The reconquest wasn't made of flowers, but of presence. And of a carnal urgency that seemed endless.

On a rainy afternoon, you were in the royal library, searching for a manuscript for Aemon . The smell of old parchment and dust always calmed you. Maekar entered, his armor still damp from combat practice, the sound of metal echoing in the silence of the room.

He said nothing. He simply walked toward you, trapping you between two tall oak shelves. His weight was a promise.

“ Maekar … the servants may come in,” you whispered, your voice faltering as his calloused, warm hand moved up your thigh, lifting the layers of silk from your dress.

“I told everyone to leave,” he hissed against her lips. “This place is mine. You are mine.”

He lifted her, setting her on the solid wood table, scattering scrolls carelessly. There, amidst tales of dead kings, he possessed her with a savage hunger, his kisses muffling her moans as the sound of the rain outside competed with the frenetic rhythm of their bodies. There was no trace of Dyanna there; only the raw heat and sweat of a man rediscovering pleasure through every inch of his skin.

There was a morning in the glass gardens, where the humid heat of the exotic plants made the air feel like honey. You were tending to some herbs when you felt his hands on your waist. Maekar turned you around so your back was to the broad foliage, undoing the laces of your bodice with an impatience that made you gasp.

“You’re different today,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her back as he penetrated her from behind, his hands gripping her breasts with a force that was almost a claim.

“It’s because I can finally breathe, Maekar ,” you replied, throwing your head back, feeling the sun through the glass and the constant impact of his body against yours.

He paused for a second, his face buried in her hair, and whispered her name as if it were a prayer of gratitude. The sex wasn't just physical; it was his way of asking for forgiveness without needing to use words his soldier's throat couldn't pronounce.

Maekar began to integrate himself into your afternoons with the children. He would sit at a distance, watching you play with Aegon or discuss philosophy with Aemon . Sometimes he would intervene to teach Aerion how to hold a dagger more efficiently, but his eyes always returned to you, seeking your approval.

One evening, after a family dinner where Aerion had behaved himself and Aegon had fallen asleep in his arms, Maekar took her to their chambers. He didn't lead her straight to bed. He sat her down before the mirror and, with infinite patience, began to brush her hair.

“You’re getting to know yourself again,” he said, looking at his reflection. “And I’m having the privilege of getting to know this new woman along with you.”

He dropped the brush and began kissing her shoulders, his hands sliding down to the front of her dress. The act began slowly, almost tenderly, on the wolfskin floor before the fireplace. He explored her with his tongue and fingers, mapping each new reaction, each sigh that was uniquely hers. The pleasure became a dense fire, a struggle of bodies where melancholy finally gave way to a dark and absolute passion.

Each time he took her—at the privy council table, in the stables, or in the dead of night in the royal bed— Maekar made it clear that the past was being buried beneath the weight of the present. He wasn't just being a good husband; he was becoming her world, and you, for the first time, didn't feel like a shadow, but the very light guiding him out of the darkness.

(...)

The following weeks were not marked by major events , but by a subtle and persistent change in the very substance of her body. Maekar 's devouring passion , which had previously seemed to be the only fire capable of keeping her warm, began to exact a price she did not understand.

The first sign came on a gray morning, typical of King's Landing. Maekar had already left for training with the sons, and the room still held the scent of his sweat, sex, and musk. When you tried to get out of bed, the world spun violently. A sudden, acidic nausea rose in your throat, forcing you to put your hand to your mouth and sit up abruptly.

In the Great Hall, the smell of fried bacon and warm bread, once your favorite, had become an enemy. You sat between Aegon and Aemon , trying to maintain a regal posture, but each breath of air laden with the odor of food made your stomach churn.

Maekar , seated at the head of the table, noticed immediately. His eyes, now always attentive to every nuance of your face, narrowed. He saw you push away the silver plate with a hint of revulsion, your skin paler than usual.

“You didn’t touch the food,” he observed, his deep voice cutting through the boys’ conversation. “Are you sick?”

“Just a passing dizziness,” you lied, your voice coming out weaker than you intended. “The heat in the glass gardens yesterday must have been excessive.”

He didn't seem convinced. He stood up, walked over to you, and placed his immense hand on your forehead. His touch, which used to set your skin on fire, now brought a comfort that made you want to close your eyes and cry for no apparent reason.

“You’re cold. And trembling,” he murmured, ignoring the curious glances of his children. “ The maester should examine you.”

“It’s not necessary,” you insisted, but the smell of the wine Daeron was serving beside you was the final blow. You stood up hastily, muttering an inaudible excuse, and fled into the hallway before the humiliation of fainting in front of the court could materialize.

You didn't get far. Maekar caught up with her in the chambers, slamming the door shut with a bang that made his head throb. He found her hunched over the porcelain basin, her body trembling with nausea.

He didn't recoil in disgust. On the contrary, Maekar approached and gently brushed her hair back with a delicacy you never imagined a warrior possessed. He waited for the discomfort to pass, wiping her face with a damp cloth before helping her lie down.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression wavering between extreme concern and something deeper, darker.

“Some days…” you admitted, your chest rising and falling with difficulty. “I feel tired. An exhaustion that doesn’t just come from our nights. It’s like my body is being claimed by something… or someone.”

He remained silent for a long moment, his hand resting cautiously on her belly, on the thin fabric of her garment. The touch was possessive, but imbued with a new reverence.

“The blood?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper. “Did it come this month?”

You shook your head. The penny finally dropped, bringing with it a wave of distress and terrifying joy.

“ I am not Dyanna , Maekar, ” you whispered, tears beginning to well up. “The child who grows up here… he will not be a replacement. He cannot be a ghost.”

Maekar closed his eyes for a second, and you saw his jaw tremble. He leaned in and kissed her—a kiss that tasted of desperation and a solemn promise.

“He will be my new beginning,” he declared, his voice hoarse against her lips. “And you will be the mother of my daughters. They will be the fruit of our desire, not of my memory.”

He pulled her to his chest, embracing her with a strength that said he would never let her fall. The unease was still there, the nausea persisted, but under the protection of Maekar 's arms , you began to feel that, for the first time, the future was not a shadow of the past, but a new territory, dangerous and beautiful, that you two would explore together.

The Prince of Summerhall no longer had ghosts to chase; he had a new life pulsing within the woman he had finally learned to love completely.

(...)

The news of the pregnancy, which should have been a balm, became the trigger for a new and profound affliction. While Maekar saw it as the seal of his redemption, you saw only the danger of a repeating cycle. The nausea in your stomach wasn't just physical; it was the viscous fear that this child would be condemned to carry the weight of a legacy that didn't belong to them.

Maekar tried to approach, his eyes gleaming with possessive satisfaction, but you flinched, recoiling from his touch as if his hand might mark the baby with the same shadows that had marked you.

“No…” you whispered, stepping back until the vanity table blocked your movement. “Don’t you dare celebrate this like it’s a trophy, Maekar .”

“It’s life winning, my wife,” he said, his voice vibrant, trying to ignore the distance you were keeping. “It’s our blood.”

“It’s my body being used again to soothe your grief!” You exploded, tears of emotional exhaustion streaming freely. “I won’t allow it, Maekar . I won’t let you do to this baby what you did to me. I won’t let you look at this child’s face and search for traces of children who have already grown up, or of a woman who has already passed away.”

You hugged your own belly, a gesture of instinctive and desperate protection. The anguish in your voice was raw, an open wound bleeding before him.

“And if they are girls…” her voice faltered, becoming a whisper laden with threat and pleading. “If they are the daughters you mention so often, you have no right to be disappointed. You have no right to look at them and sigh because they are not the sons Dyanna gave you. You have no right to demand that they be ghosts of the princesses you once imagined.”

Maekar stopped. The silence that followed wasn't tense like the previous ones, but filled with something unexpected. He didn't growl, didn't defend himself furiously. Instead, a low sound escaped his throat—a short, hoarse laugh, devoid of mockery.

“Disappointed?” He stepped forward, but this time kept his hands down, submitting to his guard. “Sons are a curse of toil and stubbornness, as Daeron and Aerion prove every morning. My sons are my pride, but they are also my eternal battle.”

He moved a little closer, and the candlelight revealed a melancholy gentleness in his features that you rarely saw.

“Girls are all I want,” he confessed, his voice falling into a tone of somber confidence. “I want daughters so I can learn what sweetness is, something that war and duty stole from me long ago.”

Maekar extended his hand, and this time you didn't recoil, allowing him to lightly touch the tips of your fingers.

“I am not a devout man, you know that well. The Gods and I rarely speak,” he continued, with a sad half-smile that broke through what remained of his resistance. “But for them, I will kneel. I will pray to the Seven, every day, that they do not inherit my hardness or the shadow of those who came before. I will pray that they are exactly like you. Sweet, resilient… and entirely themselves.”

The sincerity in his words, the desire for his future daughters to be a reflection of himself and not a mere memory, struck you with the force of a blow. The despair that suffocated you began to give way to a fragile and painful hope. Maekar pulled you close, not with the force of a conqueror, but with the weight of a man who finally understood that the greatest victory was not recovering what was lost, but protecting what had just blossomed.

The months that followed transformed the Red Keep into a stage of contrasts. As your belly grew, rounding out beneath the fine silk, a new, almost ethereal beauty emanated from you. The pallor of suffering had been replaced by a warm glow, a vitality that seemed to defy the cold stones and the whispers of the corridors.

You were radiant, and that was what irritated the "snakes" of the court the most.

Congratulations poured in from all sides, though you received them with cautious courtesy. King Daeron the Good often sought you out in the gardens, gazing at your belly with a tenderness that no longer looked to the past, but to the continuation of your lineage. Your brothers-in-law, Princes Baelor , Aerys, and Rhaegel , brought gifts and kind words, recognizing in you the strength that kept Maekar 's temper in check.

Even her stepchildren seemed to orbit around her. Aegon hardly left her side, fascinated by the baby's movements beneath her skin, while Aerion , in his lucid moments, stood like a personal guard, threatening with his gaze any courtier who dared whisper anything malicious about the prince's "new favorite."

But it was the whispers that still hurt her. The gossip in the dark corners about how you were "just a surrogate womb" or about Maekar 's "sick obsession . "

“We can’t stay here,” you murmured one night, as Maekar undid the braids in your hair. “The walls have ears, and the tongues here are full of poison. I don’t want them to be born in a place where the air is made of lies.”

Maekar stopped, his large hands resting on his shoulders. In the mirror's reflection, his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.

“ Summerhall, ” he said, the name of the summer residence sounding like a promise of freedom. “We’ll go back home. There, the sun warms the stone and there are no courtiers to measure your worth by the face of a dead woman. There, it will just be us.”

But, while the match was still far away, Maekar seemed unable to keep his hands off you. The advanced state of your pregnancy, instead of pushing him away, seemed to draw him in with a gravitational force. He was obsessed with your form, with the fullness of your body that carried the life he so desired.

The scandal was inevitable. During a formal dinner, attended by the Queen and half the nobility of Westeros , Maekar couldn't hide his hunger. He ignored his plate, preferring to lean towards you, whispering dark, hot words in your ear, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your belly under the table, but sometimes rising boldly to caress the exposed skin of your cleavage.

“ Maekar , everyone is looking,” you whispered, your face flushing, a mixture of embarrassment and a desire you could no longer suppress.

“Let them look,” he replied, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on her lips with an intensity that made the ladies-in-waiting look away and the Queen cough discreetly behind her fan. “They see a princess. I see my whole world.”

That same night, he didn't wait for them to reach the private chambers. The moment the hallway doors closed behind them, he pressed her against the heavy tapestry. His calloused, urgent hands moved up her thighs, lifting her heavy skirts, ignoring the bulge of her belly that lay between them.

“You ’re so beautiful it hurts,” he hissed, his kisses trailing down her neck as he possessed her right there, standing, in an act of lust and adoration that defied all protocol.

You let out a muffled moan against his shoulder, feeling the baby kick amidst the warmth of your bodies. Maekar paused for a second, feeling the small movement against his chest, and the hard expression on his face dissolved into something bordering on religious adoration.

“Feel this…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “They are coming. And they will be your reflection, my love. Only yours.”

Maekar 's desire for you had become absolute, a flame that no longer sought to illuminate the past, but to ignite the present you were building, one step at a time. King Daeron the Good rarely lost his temper, but that morning, the walls of the Privy Council trembled with a voice that hid no dissent.

“This is no journey, Maekar , it’s a delusion!” the King exclaimed, slapping his open hand on the map of Westeros . “She’s on the seventh moon. The road to Summerhall is unforgiving, cut by rain and unstable terrain. Do you want to risk her life and my grandson’s out of sheer pride? Out of a lack of the whispers of courtiers?”

Maekar remained motionless, his jaw so clenched it seemed made of iron. His eyes did not waver before his father.

“It’s not pride, Your Majesty. It’s self-preservation,” Maekar retorted, his voice low and dangerous. “I will not allow her to give birth in a viper’s nest that counts her heartbeats, waiting for a mistake. Summerhall is my right. It’s the place where the air doesn’t reek of ulterior motives.”

“You’re a stubborn fool!” Daeron sighed, massaging his temples. “If anything happens to her on that road, no exile or title will protect you from your own conscience. But I see you’ve already decided. Leave, then. But take the boys. If you want your ‘private kingdom,’ take your whole house with you.”

(...)

The entourage set off under a heavy sky. The journey was a military operation. Maekar ordered the carriage to be reinforced with extra springs and lined with twice the amount of furs, but not all the luxury in the world could mask the reality of his body.

Inside the carriage, the space was shared with little Aegon, who wouldn't stop asking questions, and Aemon , who tried to read amidst the jolts. Outside, mounted on their horses, Daeron and Aerion followed the procession. The tension between the brothers was constant; Aerion provoked the guards, and Daeron , in his sober moments, exchanged worried glances with his father.

You felt every mile as punishment. The heartburn was a constant fire in your chest, and the nausea returned with a vengeful force, aggravated by the smell of horse and sweat coming from outside. Sometimes, the world spun so fast that you had to dig your nails into the upholstery to avoid fainting.

"Are you alright?" Aegon asked, touching her hand with his small fingers.

“I’m fine, darling,” you lied, forcing a pale smile as you tasted something bitter in your mouth. “The baby is just eager to see the new house.”

Maekar never left his side. He rode so close to the carriage that you could hear the creaking of his saddle. Whenever the caravan stopped to rest, he was the first to open the door.

"Everyone out!" he ordered his children, his voice not allowing for any delays.

He would enter and find her pale, with cold sweat covering her forehead. Without saying a word, Maekar would pull her into his arms, letting her nestle against his neck. He would bring her water with lemon and pieces of ginger, forcing her to eat it to soothe her stomach.

“I warned you it would be difficult,” he murmured, guilt glistening briefly in his eyes before being replaced by a grim determination.

“I don’t regret it,” you whispered against his armor. “Just get me out of here, Maekar .”

Despite his condition, Maekar 's desire for you seemed to have mutated. It was no longer mere lust; it was a hunger for possession, a need to reaffirm that you were still alive and that you belonged to him. During the nightly stops, inside the royal tent, the outside world would cease to exist.

Even with the discomfort, you sought him out. There was something visceral and comforting about his strength. Maekar undressed you with torturous slowness, his eyes devouring the fullness of your belly, the curve of your breasts that now weighed heavily under his touch.

“You drive me crazy,” he hissed one night, kneeling between your legs while you propped yourself up on pillows to ease the pressure on your back. “This body… this life you carry… I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you now.”

He took her with an almost sickly reverence, slow, deep movements that made you forget the nausea and dizziness. The sex was dense, wet, and charged with a shared anguish. He kissed each nascent stretch mark on her skin as if they were scars from a holy battle. With each moan that escaped her lips, Maekar seemed to reclaim a piece of his own soul.

Outside the tent, the sons listened to the whispers and muffled movements. Daeron merely rolled his eyes and drank more wine, while Aerion kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring that no one approached their father's "sanctuary."

(...)

The journey lasted weeks. But when the towers of Summerhall finally appeared on the horizon, bathed in the golden light of dusk, Maekar looked at you—exhausted, beautiful, and pregnant—and knew that, despite the King's scoldings and the dangers of the road, he had finally brought his queen to the place where shadows were not allowed to enter.

Summerhall was, at last, the balm Maekar had promised. Unlike the oppressive stone and smoke of King's Landing, the summer residence was bathed in a constant golden light, surrounded by fields that smelled of damp grass and wildflowers. But for you, the final stages of pregnancy had transformed that paradise into a gilded prison of weariness and affliction.

Her body seemed to have reached the limit of its endurance. Her belly, now low and heavy, made every movement a Herculean task. Her feet and ankles were so swollen that she could barely fit into her soft suede shoes, and heartburn was a constant companion that prevented her from sleeping more than a few hours at a time.

Maekar , however, had changed. The stern prince whom the kingdom feared had given way to a man whose life revolved entirely around his discomfort. He refused to participate in hunts or long exercises with his sons, preferring to spend the afternoons sitting beside them on the terraces of Summerhall .

“You’re having trouble breathing,” he observed one afternoon, closing a war map he was trying to read. He stood up and stopped behind his armchair, beginning to massage his shoulders with firm, experienced pressure.

“The space is getting too small for her, Maekar ,” you murmured, placing your hand on your belly, which was visibly moving as if an internal storm were raging beneath your skin. “I feel like my lungs have nowhere left to expand.”

He knelt before her, ignoring the dignity of his position. Maekar pressed his ear against her stomach, closing his eyes. The silence that followed was thick.

“They are impatient,” he whispered against the thin fabric of her dress. “Like their father. Forgive me for causing you this burden.”

Her stepchildren also seemed to have felt the change of atmosphere. Aegon brought her fresh flowers every day, sitting on the floor beside her to tell stories he heard from the maesters , trying to distract her from her back pain. Aemon brought her herbal infusions to soothe her heartburn, watching her with an academic seriousness that concealed a deep concern.

Even Aerion had become a constant and strangely protective presence. He refused to let any servant get too close with heavy objects or food that gave off strong smells that might trigger his nausea.

“She will be the most beautiful princess Westeros has ever seen,” Aerion once declared, polishing his dagger as he watched the garden entrance. “And I will teach anyone who disagrees the price of offending my father’s blood.”

(...)

Despite his exhaustion and the feeling of being "broken," as you used to say, Maekar continued to look at you with a hunger bordering on the sacred. To him, your stretched skin, your swollen lips, and your difficulty breathing were the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed. It was physical proof that you were building something new, something that belonged only to the two of you.

At night, the heat in Summerhall was stifling. You would often stay in just an open silk robe, trying to find some coolness.

“Don’t look at me now, Maekar, ” you pleaded one night, feeling heavy and awkward as you tried to settle into bed. “I feel like a burden.”

“A burden?” He leaned closer, his voice hoarse with restrained desire. He helped her lie on her side, gently placing pillows under her belly with an almost painful delicacy. “You are the most perfect sight that has ever graced these halls.”

He lay down behind you, his massive, warm body protecting your back. His hand slid down to the curve of your hip, slowly moving up to the side of your stomach. Maekar began kissing the nape of your neck, your shoulders, his trembling fingers sliding up the fabric of your tunic.

Sex, in these last days, was a slow and moist celebration of survival. He didn't penetrate her with the force of before; he explored her with his tongue and fingers, searching for her pleasure points with infinite patience, wanting to relieve the tension in her body through ecstasy. When he finally entered, it was with an almost tearful gentleness, a rhythmic movement that accompanied her whispers of distress and desire.

“You are my life,” he whispered against your ear, while you moaned softly, feeling the pleasure momentarily ease the pressure on your ribs. “My queen of Summerhall .”

In that darkness, with the scent of jasmine wafting through the window and the warmth of Maekar 's body merging with yours, the Red Keep and its cruel whispers seemed to belong to another world. There, you were the center of a universe that Maekar... Targaryen had sworn to protect with every drop of his blood, anxiously awaiting the moment when the cry of a new life would finally silence the echoes of the past.

The afternoon in Summerhall was filled with the sweet scent of hay and the lazy warmth of the autumn sun. You sat on a carved stone bench beneath the wisteria pergola, watching your stepchildren. Your back felt like a mass of red-hot iron, and an uncomfortable pressure in your lower abdomen came and went, like waves of a persistent tide.

You ignored it. It had already been days of discomfort, and you didn't want to interrupt the rare moment of peace between the boys.

Aegon was at her feet, trying to draw a dragon in the dirt with a stick, while Aemon recited passages from an ancient tome about the stars. Daeron , exceptionally sober, polished the hilt of his sword, and Aerion watched the horizon with that restless look that always kept her on edge.

A sharp pain made her gasp for a second. You dug your nails into the edge of the seat, your forehead beaded with cold sweat.

“You’re very quiet,” Aemon observed, raising his eyes with that insight that would one day make him a maester .

“It’s just the weight, my dear…” you began, but the words died in your throat as a sudden, uncontrollable sensation of heat spread between your legs.

The sound of the liquid hitting the stone floor was faint, but in the silence of the garden, it sounded like a crash. Her light silk skirts instantly darkened, soaked through.

Aegon stopped drawing, his violet eyes wide as he pointed to the puddle forming beneath his feet.

"Mommy... did you... did you pee?" the boy asked, his voice thick with innocent confusion.

Aerion let out a short, nasal laugh, a sound devoid of empathy that cut through the air like a razor blade.

“It seems the great lady of Summerhall has lost control of her basic faculties,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “What a scene worthy of a peasant.”

“Shut up, Aerion !” Daeron roared, leaping to his feet and dropping his sword to the ground. He saw his face—the deathly pallor, the trembling lips—and realized what was happening. “It’s not urine, you idiot. It’s life coming.”

A violent contraction hit her, causing her to bend forward with a muffled groan. The agony was profound, a tear that seemed to want to split her hips in two.

" Aemon , help me!" Daeron ordered, putting his arm around her waist to support her.

Aemon slammed the book shut, acting with the precision that study had given him. He gripped his other arm, the two boys forming a cradle of strength for his now heavy and trembling body.

“Breathe, slowly,” Aemon instructed, his voice trying to remain calm as they guided her out of the garden toward the royal chambers. “Aegon, run! Find our father. Tell him the child is coming! NOW!”

Aegon shot like an arrow through the stone corridors.

"And the midwives?" Daeron asked, sweat glistening on his brow as he felt the weight of his body sway.

“I’ll have the maids summon the Maester and the women,” Aemon replied, looking at you with a troubled tenderness. “We’re past the preparation stage. They’ve decided the world has waited long enough.”

You could barely hear the voices. The world had shrunk to rhythmic pain and the terror that the moment had finally arrived. Each step was torture, each breath a battle. As they climbed the stairs, you could only think of one thing: Maekar . You needed him. You needed that toughness, that fire that was now the only thing capable of keeping you whole as your body prepared to break and give way to the future.

(...)

The delivery room at Summerhall was thick with the metallic smell of blood, hot water, and bitter herbs. The autumn sun, which had once seemed so sweet in the garden, now streamed through the gaps in the curtains like a cruel invader. You lay there, your body arched in agony, your hands digging into the linen sheets until your knuckles were white and lifeless.

The midwives moved like frantic shadows around her. The pain was no longer a wave; it was an ocean that was drowning her, pulling her hips in opposite directions. The Maester prepared the ropes and cloths, his face tense under the light of the candles that were beginning to be lit as the day died.

“Breathe, milady! Push with your belly, not your throat!” ordered the oldest midwife, a woman with a wrinkled face who had served House Targaryen for decades.

You let out a scream that tore through the silence of the hallway, a sound of pure despair and exhaustion. Your forehead was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your pale face. In the fog of pain, you heard what you shouldn't have heard.

“So fragile…” the old woman murmured to the assistant, while wiping the blood from between her legs. “With Lady Dyanna it was much easier. She had the wide hips of the women of her lineage, she was strong as a mare. Here she looks like she’s going to break in two.”

Those words, spoken at her most vulnerable moment, were the final blow. The tears, which she had tried to hold back to conserve her strength, overflowed, hot and bitter. Even there, on the threshold of death to give life, the ghost of the other woman was present to humiliate her.

“I am not her…” you sobbed, your voice faltering as a new contraction hit you. “I am not…”

The bang of the door being opened made the silver goblets vibrate on the table. Maekar burst into the room like a furious god of war. He was still wearing his riding tunic, his chest heaving, his eyes bloodshot from riding like a madman after Aegon's warning.

“Leave, my Prince!” the Maester exclaimed, raising his hands in protest. “The birthing room is a place for women and gods. It is impure for a man of your position!”

“Impure?!” Maekar roared, his voice making the old midwife recoil. “To hell with the gods and to hell with your purity! This is my wife, my blood is in her! I will not leave her side even if the Warrior himself comes to get me!”

He strode across the room heavily and fell to his knees beside his bed. He grabbed his hand, ignoring the sweat and dirt, and brought it to his face.

"I'm here," he hissed, his eyes fixed on hers, an anchor in the midst of her shipwreck.

The old midwife, trying to regain her authority, approached with a basin.

"My lord, the comparison was purely technical; Lady Dyanna had..."

Maekar turned his face to her with an expression of such cruelty that the woman almost dropped the silver. The fury in his eyes was absolute, dark, lethal.

“If I hear the name of my late wife come out of your withered mouth one more time, ” Maekar said, his voice low and deadly, sending shivers down the spines of everyone in the room. “I will cut out your tongue myself and feed it to the dogs. She is not Dyanna . She is my only princess, and you will treat her with the reverence due a queen, or you will leave here dead.”

He turned to you, softening his touch just enough not to break it.

“Forget what she said. Forget the world outside. Look at me. Only at me. Bring our daughter, my love. Bring her to me.”

Inspired by the fire emanating from him, you felt a new strength, a fury born of love and pain. You dug your nails into Maekar 's hand , feeling his blood beneath your claws, and pushed. You pushed with every fragment of your soul, determined to banish the shadows from that room once and for all and bring light to Summerhall .

The room had become a battlefield where time seemed to have stood still. The smell of blood and sweat was suffocating, and the only audible sound was Maekar 's noisy breathing and screams, which were no longer of fear, but of a transformative agony.

“Once more!” the Maester ordered, his face bathed in sweat. “I can already see the crown on your head! Push!”

You felt your body being torn in two, as if a Valyrian steel blade were climbing up your spine. Your hands crushed Maekar 's fingers , and he didn't flinch; he absorbed your pain, his violet eyes fixed on yours, conveying a brutal, almost violent strength that prevented you from collapsing.

“You can do it!” he roared close to her ear, his voice hoarse with desperation and adoration. “Bring them to me, my love! Bring us our future!”

With a scream that seemed to rip the last of your strength from your lungs, you made the final effort. There was a feeling of sudden relief, a damp vacuum, followed immediately by a sharp, crystalline cry that cut through the tension in the air like a lightning bolt.

“A princess!” exclaimed the midwife, her voice trembling, as she wrapped the tiny creature in warm linen. “A perfect little girl, my lord!”

Maekar let out a sigh that sounded like a sob, but there was no time for celebration. The Maester turned to you urgently.

"It still hurts ..." you sighed. "It still hurts a lot!!"

Don't stop now! I see another head, and he's in a hurry!

The second stage of labor was a blur of pain and exhaustion. You felt like you were going to die, that your heart wouldn't withstand the effort, but Maekar 's hand was a shackle that kept you grounded. He kissed your sweaty forehead, whispering your name between curses directed at the gods, demanding that they spare you.

“Just one more… ” he pleaded. “Just one more and it will be over, I promise.”

You gathered the ashes of your will. With one last push, laden with all the suffering of the past months and all the hope that Summerhall represented, the second life was expelled. Another cry, as strong as the first, echoed through the room.

“Another princess!” announced the Maester , his face finally relaxing into a tired smile. “Two girls. Twins, healthy and strong.”

The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic crying of the babies and the sound of their panting breaths. Maekar didn't look at his daughters first. He remained kneeling beside them, burying his face in the crook of their necks, his broad shoulders shaking slightly. For the first time, the Iron Prince was surrendered.

The midwives cleaned the babies and brought them to the bed. When they were placed in their arms—tiny, with tufts of almost white hair and rosy skin—the pain disappeared.

“What names shall we give these beautiful princesses?” you whispered, your voice almost fading. “Decide, my love. You dreamed of them.”

Maekar raised his head, his eyes moist and fierce with pride. He touched his daughters' tiny foreheads with a gentleness that would make any knight of Westeros doubt his own eyes.

“They don’t resemble anyone,” Maekar said, his voice solemn, gazing at you with absolute devotion. “They are only ours. They are you. Beautiful girls, beautiful like their mother. I will name only one, the one who came into the world first. The second, you must name.”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from shouting. “I like Rhae for girl. Yes, Rhae . Like in a poem my sweet Aemon once told me in the garden. I don’t remember now. It hurts too much to remember.”

Maekar let out a sound through his boot, something that oscillated between laughter and mockery. It was hard to tell.

“ Daella ,” he said simply, without even bothering to explain the name or where it came from. But you suspected it was a tribute to his father or, perhaps, to his own son, because even though it was a disappointment, Maekar still loved him very much. You accepted it, simply accepted it. You had had two healthy girls in a single birth. Nothing else mattered.

Baelor Targaryen

The Winter Of Baelor Targaryen- one, two, three, four, five

Maekar Targaryen

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

Your family had always been large—too large. Your mother had borne children in such abundance that you never even met them all; by the time you entered the world, a third of them had already started families of their own. “Winter’s daughter,” she would say when speaking of you: a child born of the improbable, at a time when fertility had long since abandoned her. “There is no more blood,” she used to say. “No more phases of the moon, nor signs in the body that herald life.” Yet, your father remained deeply in love—so much so that, as they neared fifty, he gave her one more daughter. Your mother believed she carried a tumor in her womb; your father, overcome with despair, wept. Until a maester examined her and confirmed: there was a strong seed growing there.

There was neglect. There was laughter. And, finally, tears of joy.

You were born without difficulty, in a birth that was quick and surprisingly simple, costing your mother only fear—not of pain, but of raising a child at such an advanced stage of life. And so you grew: surrounded by love, pampering, and attention. A late-born daughter, an unexpected miracle—all honors were bestowed upon you.

But large families bring even larger expenses.

Your father was no longer a man of great glories, and many of your brothers took more than they offered. As he approached the end of his life, he had accumulated a massive debt to the Crown, supporting children, grandchildren, and even villagers who depended on his leadership. The debt grew; the interest suffocated them. His few sensible brothers tried to help, but their efforts only delayed the inevitable.

Until the solution fell from the heavens—or from the Seven Hells themselves, depending on who told the story.

The prince—the firstborn, the heir, the Hand of the King—needed a new wife. His first wife had died years ago giving birth to their second son, and the eldest son, Valarr, a victim of the Great Spring Sickness, had died with youth still in his body and a gentle soul. Only the youngest son remained, a prince even younger, to ensure the stability of the realm.

And so they chose you. You were perfect: young, beautiful, from a prestigious family—but without enough power to threaten the court.

You saw him for the first time at the Great Sept. He was older than you, but still younger than your father. He smiled—a sweet, welcoming smile, almost a silent plea for forgiveness. You returned it with another smile, equally restrained: I understand, I accept.

The words were spoken. The cloaks, exchanged. And the kiss, sealed.

(...)

The reception that followed was not just a feast—it was a demonstration of power, wealth, and promise.

The doors of the great hall were opened with solemnity, revealing endless rows of polished oak tables, covered in white linen cloths so pure they looked like freshly fallen snow. Wrought iron chandeliers held dozens of tall candles, whose golden light flickered softly, reflecting in silver and gold goblets. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, roasted meats, and ripe fruits—a mixture that enveloped the senses like a warm embrace.

Servants moved like a silent tide, placing generous platters before the guests. There were whole boars, roasted until the skin took on a caramelized sheen, decorated with red apples between their teeth. Swans, roasted with their own feathers replaced for effect, rose like living sculptures upon the tables. Fresh fish, brought from the rivers and seas of the kingdom, were served with herb and lemon sauces, exuding freshness.

Bread fresh from the oven—soft inside, crusty outside—was accompanied by butter seasoned with garlic and honey. Bowls of fruit overflowed with grapes, figs, and split pomegranates, their seeds shining like rubies. Cheeses from every region were presented in wheels and slices, some mild and creamy, others sharp and pungent.

And then came the sweets: apple and cinnamon tarts, dense cakes drizzled with golden honey, caramelized almonds, thick cream served in delicate cups. The wine flowed without restraint—deep reds, soft golds, and even rare sweet wines reserved only for royal occasions.

Musicians positioned in a raised gallery filled the hall with harps, flutes, and lutes. The melody was joyful, but carried a formality that reminded everyone that this was not just a wedding—it was a pact.

You sat beside him at the high table, above everyone. The position was not comfortable—it was strategic. Everyone could see you. Everyone was watching.

He raised his cup first, as was expected. His voice was not loud, but the hall fell silent nonetheless.

"To my wife," he said, with a slight smile that seemed more real than rehearsed. "Who arrived in my life like spring after a winter far too long."

A murmur of approval rippled through the hall, followed by applause and the clinking of cups. You raised yours shortly after, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes.

"To my lord," you replied, keeping your voice steady, even though your heart beat like a war drum. "Who welcomed me not as a duty... but as a choice."

There was a second of silence—brief, but perceptible—before the applause returned, stronger. He leaned his head slightly toward you, coming close enough that only you could hear.

"You speak well," he murmured. "Better than many here."

You did not turn your face immediately. Your eyes remained fixed on the hall, observing the faces—curious, calculating, some even hostile.

"I learned early," you replied in an equally low tone, "that words can feed... or ruin an entire house."

He let out a small breath of laughter, nearly inaudible.

"Then I hope you continue choosing to feed mine."

This time, you turned your face to him. Up close, it was possible to see the exhaustion behind his appearance—subtle lines around the eyes, a weight that did not belong to the youth he still carried.

"That depends," you said calmly. "Does your house intend to welcome me... or consume me?"

For an instant, he seemed genuinely surprised. Not offended—just... attentive. His fingers drummed lightly on the table before responding.

"Perhaps both," he admitted. "But I can guarantee that I will not let you face it alone."

Before you could respond, a new course of dishes was brought—this time, even more elaborate. A large roasted peacock, its feathers reconstructed into a majestic fan, was placed in the center of the main table. The aroma was intense, seasoned with rare spices from distant lands.

He watched the dish for a moment, then turned his gaze back to you.

"They say this is my father's favorite dish, the king's," he remarked. "I've always found it excessive."

"It is," you replied, analyzing the bird with a critical eye. "But I suppose excess is the language of royalty."

He smiled sideways.

"And you already speak that language fluently."

You tilted your head slightly.

"I am learning."

A comfortable silence—or a dangerously comfortable one—settled between you as the banquet continued. Laughter echoed, toasts were made, alliances were reinforced in every exchange of glances and every shared cup. But there, at that high table, amidst gold, wine, and expectations, something else was beginning to take shape.

You had the first dance with him—and it was magnificent, almost solemn. He led you with firmness and tenderness, the calloused hands of one who had wielded a sword countless times contrasting with the care with which he held you.

Afterward, you danced with Matarys, your now stepson. Though four years younger, he was tall, elegant, and surprisingly kind. He smiled at you throughout the music, offering sweet words that made you relax.

Then came the youngest brother, Maekar—a surly and grumpy man, who seemed to grumble at every step. Still, there was something curious about it; you couldn't help but find amusement in the sounds he made, making the dance, in a way, fun.

The last was the king. Already advanced in age, he could barely maintain the rhythm of the music until the end. At the conclusion, he apologized, visibly tired. You simply smiled and said he had been the best dance partner—which made him offer a sincere smile. Daeron the Good smiled with the few teeth he had left, clearly satisfied. A member of the guard came to his aid, leading him back to his seat, while you remained on the floor, waiting.

“IT IS TIME!” shouted a young man with white hair and pale eyes—one of Maekar’s sons, the one they called Aerion Brightflame. “LET’S TAKE THE NEWLYWEDS TO BED!”

You barely had time to think when several pairs of hands grabbed you. It was your now brother-in-law who escorted you to the chambers, hurling insults and pushing away, with brutal efficiency, any bolder touch that approached.

Still, one or two daring hands managed to escape his vigilance—you immediately recognized Aerion’s. Curiously, they were the only ones your father didn't see... or pretended not to see. A young lord with black hair and blue eyes—a Baratheon—tore another layer from the crimson wedding dress you wore, ripping the fabric with an insolent smile.

“Go fuck yourself, Baratheon!” roared Maekar, red as an ember. “If you tear off one more piece, I’ll pluck out your eyes and shove them up your own arse.”

The procession followed amidst laughter, shouts, and provocations. You struggled to free yourself from Aerion's persistent advances, while the young Baratheon continued his annoying game, tearing pieces of the dress whenever he could—to Maekar’s growing disgust. When they finally stopped before the door of the room you would now share, Maekar was pushed back, brushed aside without ceremony. Then, other hands—young, firm, and soft—wrapped around your waist. The body pressed against yours from behind; a nose nestled in your hair, and the warm breath against your skin made you stiffen, seized by discomfort.

“Very well, my lady aunt...” Aerion murmured, low enough that only you could hear. “What a waste to hand you over to an old man. If he can’t manage... find me. I’ll give you a dragon hatchling myself.”

“You—”

The word died before it was born.

A brusque shove sent you into the room. Without time to react, your feet tangled, and the world seemed to tilt suddenly. You fell, instinctively reaching out to brace for the impact against the cold floor, the shock shooting up your arms as your breath escaped in a short, disordered gasp.

For a moment, you remained where you had fallen, hands still braced on the cold ground, body rigid as pain throbbed in your arms and knees. The impact hadn't been strong enough to truly hurt you—but the shame... that burned, slow and deep, spreading through your chest like a fever.

Carefully, you took a deep breath and began to rise. Every movement felt heavy, as if you carried something invisible on your shoulders. When you finally managed to stand, your fingers trembled as you smoothed your dress—or what remained of it. The crimson fabric, once flawless, now hung in irregular tatters. Tears exposed your skin, marks of the cruel path there. It was no longer a bridal gown... it was almost a caricature, a living reminder of what they had done to her amidst laughter and applause. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to straighten your posture, to recompose at least the appearance of the dignity that still remained.

It was then, as you were still fully rising, that the door opened again. Baelor entered without haste, closing the door behind him with almost solemn care, as if the world outside ceased to exist at that moment. His eyes found you immediately. And stopped. There was a brief silence—heavy, strange—as he observed you there, still disheveled, dress in tatters, hair out of place, breath not fully recovered.

That was not how a bride should be seen. Not on that night. His gaze descended, slow, tracing the tears in the fabric, the evident signs of what had happened on the way there. Something changed in his expression. It wasn't open rage, nor blatant shock—but there was a subtle hardening, a shadow that crossed his eyes before disappearing under control. He took a step forward.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, his voice low, restrained, but carrying a weight that didn't need to be raised to be felt.

The question hung between the two of you. You still felt your body ache, your skin sting where unwanted hands had passed, and, deeper than all that, that bitter sense of exposure, of having been... reduced. But now he was there. Waiting. Watching. And, somehow, that made it even harder to bear.

You held his gaze for a moment too long. There were so many possible answers trapped in your throat—anger, shame, humiliation—all vying for space, all too dangerous to be said aloud. Your fingers still gripped the torn fabric of the dress, as if they could hide everything that had happened. Then, you took a deep breath. Squared your shoulders. And lied.

“I am fine.”

The voice came out firmer than you expected, almost calm—almost convincing. Only a slight delay, a small weight between the words, betrayed the effort required to sustain it. Your eyes shifted for a brief second, not enough to seem like flight... but enough not to feel completely exposed.

“It was just... the haste. And their drink,” you added, with a slight shrug, as if it were little, as if it were nothing. But your fingers still trembled. And the dress in tatters said otherwise.

Baelor watched you for another moment, as if weighing every word, every small gesture—the subtle tremor in your fingers, the brief shift of your gaze, the way you kept yourself upright by sheer force of will. He knew. But still... he nodded.

“Right,” he said simply.

There was no judgment in his voice. No insistence. Just a quiet—almost gentle—acceptance of what you chose to show. He took a step back, creating space between you, as if he wanted to return to you a bit of the control that had been taken from you minutes before.

The silence that followed was not heavy like before. There was something softer in it now, more careful. You hesitated for an instant, then brought your hand to the torn dress, lightly pulling one of the loose threads.

“I think... I should change,” you murmured, avoiding direct eye contact. “If... if you don’t mind waiting.”

Baelor didn't answer immediately. He just tilted his head slightly, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course,” he said at last, his voice low and warm. “Take all the time you need.”

There was a small pause, and then he added, with almost unexpected care: “There is no rush.”

That hit you in a strange way. Softly.

He moved further away, partially turning, offering you privacy even without leaving the room—as if he wanted to ensure, in every gesture, that there was no demand. For the first time since you had been pushed through those doors... you could breathe a little better.

You nodded, almost without realizing it, and turned quickly before he could notice any more hesitation. Your steps took you to the small chamber attached to the bedroom—the bathing room—where you could finally recompose yourself... or at least try.

As soon as you crossed the door, you released the breath you didn't even know you were holding. And then you looked at yourself. The dress. Or rather, the disaster.

“Seven hells...” you murmured, hands going to the torn fabric.

You tried to pull it over your shoulders—it got stuck. You twisted your body, trying to reach some clasp that no longer existed—you pulled the wrong place and nearly lost your balance. A piece of cloth snagged in your hair, and for a brief and tragic moment, you were half-trapped between the dress and yourself, arms raised awkwardly.

“No... no, no.”

You pulled harder. Mistake.

The fabric gave way all at once, making you take a small stumble backward, almost slipping on your own foot as you finally freed yourself from it—leaving the dress heaped on the floor and you standing there, breathing a bit raggedly, as if you had fought a real battle. For a second... silence.

Then you let out a small, nervous laugh. Short. Incredulous. Desperate.

You wiped your hands over your face, trying to push away the chaos—inside and out—and, with more care, began to clean yourself. You took a damp cloth and ran it over your skin, starting with your arms, then your neck, lingering a bit longer there, as if you wanted to erase the heat and the traces left by unwanted hands.

When you reached other parts of your body, your movements became faster—almost methodical. It wasn't vanity. It was necessity. As if every gesture was a silent attempt to reclaim something that had been taken from you. You took a deep breath. One more time. Then, you turned to your hair. You picked up the brush and began to untangle the knots carefully, though now and then you pulled too hard, wincing in pain. Stubborn strands insisted on not cooperating, and you sighed impatiently, trying to tame them.

“Control yourself...” you whispered to yourself, as if that would solve anything.

When you finished, you took the small vial your mother had given you earlier. You remembered the instructions well—“little, just enough.”

Of course, in practice, that was harder. You put a bit of the cream in your hands... hesitated... put a little more.

“Maybe... just one more.”

And then you realized it was already too much.

You let out a frustrated sigh, but there was nothing to be done. You began to spread the cream over your skin, trying at least to even out the excess. The soft scent spread through the air, familiar, almost comforting—and for a moment, it brought you back to a safer place, far from that chaotic night. When you finished, you stood there for a moment. Still. Breathing. Trying to gather the pieces of yourself. On the other side of the door, Baelor waited. And for the first time since it all began... it didn't seem frightening.

You returned to the room with more measured steps, as if every movement needed to be calculated after everything that had happened. The bathing chamber was left behind, taking the steam and the sound of water with it, and gradually, the main room enveloped you again.

Now, you wore a long nightgown, with thin sleeves and light fabric, with a discreet transparency that suggested the silhouette without exposing too much—fluid, soft, falling over your body naturally. There was something quieter about you, as if the fabric had replaced the weight of the previous dress with a sense of relief and vulnerability at the same time.

Your hair was already combed, though still with a damp sheen at the tips. You hesitated for a second upon crossing the threshold, as if crossing an invisible line between before and now.

Then you saw him. Baelor was by the window, holding a glass of wine. The doublet was no longer there; in its place, he wore only a light linen shirt and black trousers. He was barefoot, without adornments, without formalities—a simpler, almost domestic image that contrasted with all the pomp of the previous ceremony.

You entered in silence, observing him for an instant, before giving a slight shrug—a small gesture, almost automatic, as if saying “I am here” without needing words.

Baelor turned. His eyes found you again, now with a different kind of attention—calmer, more direct. He watched you for a moment, as if recording not just your presence, but the way you had returned.

“You look beautiful,” he said naturally. It didn't sound like a rehearsed compliment. It was simple. Direct.

Then, after a brief pause, he tilted his head slightly, as if the next question were as important as the previous one: “Do you know what happens now?”

You held his gaze for a moment. And nodded.

“Yes.” The answer was short, controlled.

Baelor also nodded, as if that sufficed for both. He swirled the wine slowly in his glass, his gaze drifting for a brief moment to the window before returning to you.

“Well...” he began, his voice lower now, almost reflective. “To be honest, this marriage is too political for my taste.”

There was a small silence. The words didn't come with harshness—but they didn't come with warmth either. He shrugged subtly, as if commenting on something distant, almost administrative.

“It was not... a choice made out of desire.”

The sentence hung in the air. And although it wasn't said with the intent to hurt, the way it was phrased left room for interpretations that weighed more than they should. He continued, still in the same tone, as if explaining an inevitable reality rather than declaring feelings: “But we need to fulfill what was agreed.”

The way he said “fulfill” sounded practical, functional—almost impersonal. And then, after a brief pause, he added: “And... well. I need an heir.”

There was no explicit cruelty in his voice. No deliberate coldness. But there was also not enough softness to hide what that meant when said so directly, so devoid of emotional involvement. The impact wasn't just in the words—it was in what they seemed to omit.

You felt the weight of it immediately. Not as open rejection... but as something more subtle, harder to contest. A feeling that, for him, this was an obligation. A duty.

And in that instant, the distance between the two of you seemed to grow a little—not by clear intention, but by lack of communication, by unspoken differences, by expectations that had not yet been aligned. Baelor remained there, waiting, as if nothing had changed. But for you... something had already changed.

“What must I do, my lord, husband?” you asked.

He let out a sound from his mouth, perhaps a laugh, perhaps scorn. You continued. “Should I take off my nightgown?”

“No.” He said, drinking the last sip of wine and leaving the glass on the windowsill. “Just lie down and wait for me.”

You tried to hide your disappointment. Your sisters—defying all tradition and respect for the septas—had done you the favor of preparing you for that moment. And, oh, the stories you heard from them were so beautiful they almost seemed like dreams. The marital act, the act of love, was described as something light, intimate, and sublime. One of your sisters even explained to you about the so-called “little death,” a term that, at first, caused you a certain horror. But she soon softened it, describing it as a moment of ecstasy so profound that it seemed the soul detached from the body for a brief moment, before returning, renewed. The way she spoke—so rich in detail, so confident—made those words stick in your mind.

You nodded, even with the disappointment weighing on your shoulders. In silence, you climbed onto the wide canopy bed, resting your head on the pillows and letting your hair spread around you. Your eyes were lost in the dragon embroideries sewn in gold thread, following the contours with a distant gaze, while the expectation you carried mixed with the restlessness of what was to come.

You heard him walking from one side to the other, the sound of fabric sliding and detaching from his body filling the silence of the room. Your heart throbbed hard in your chest, and your eyes stayed fixed on the embroideries, seeking in them a refuge to push away the growing fear.

“Lift...” he said, his voice low, almost choked. “...the nightgown. Lift it to your hips.”

You did as you were ordered, a flush taking over your entire face as you obeyed. Your legs were still straight, rigid, as you exposed your intimacy. He crawled, kneeling beside you; you did not dare look. You just stayed there, cold and rigid as a door, merely waiting for more commands.

“Lift.” His voice was not a request; it was a decree, firm and without edges. The slap that followed on your thigh was short, a sign of possession that made your skin sting even before the rest. Your knees, trembling, obeyed; they rose and parted, exposing you completely. He settled into that gap, the weight of a grown man against your fragility. You closed your eyes tightly, trying to build a mental wall against the shame that flooded your face.

Your legs, forced to fit between his, seemed small. Then, he came. The penetration with that long penis was not gentle; it was an invasion that brought a dull pain, a stretching that seemed to tear what was most intimate. You bit your lips so hard that the iron taste of blood began to spring. It was like a knife. Entering and leaving. Entering and leaving. A blunt blade that didn't cut at once but flayed.

You felt the protuberance of his belly—the heat of the flesh of a man who eats well and lives for power—pressing against yours, crushing your breath. His heart beat against your chest, a war drum, while he continued to force himself inside, ignoring your rigidity. He was there, consuming you, using your body as a conquered territory. Fucking you.

It hurts. By the Gods, how it hurts.

Your eyes desperately sought the dragon embroideries on the tapestries, trying to count the threads, the scales, anything that wasn't the sensation of being split in half. It didn't work. You bit your lips again, seeking an external pain to distract from the internal intrusion, but the flesh down there screamed louder.

“Gods...”, his growl came between groans and heavy sighs, warm against your skin. “You are so tight. So tight. I can barely penetrate you.”

He buried his face in the curve of your neck, almost pressed to your ear. His groans were muffled there, as if he were ashamed of his own lust and wanted to lock it between the two of you. That forced intimacy caused a churn in your stomach, a heat that was not pleasure, but a nausea of anxiety. You felt his member sliding now with a cruel ease, lubricated by your own maiden’s blood dripping onto the sheets. The sound was the worst: the wet smack of flesh clashing, the sound of his member violating your cunt in a rhythm that didn't stop.

With a stronger thrust, your hips contracted involuntarily. Your breath failed, the air caught in your throat, and tears finally overflowed. A sharp cry escaped, cutting the air before you went back to crushing your lips with your teeth. The voices returned like ghosts: the Septa, that woman with a face like a dried plum and a sour soul, hammering that a woman must open her legs and endure everything the husband imposes.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice broken, the fear of having offended the lord of your life overcoming the physical agony. “I’ll be quiet... please, I’m sorry.”

He stopped the movement. He backed away, but didn't leave; he remained buried in you while he raised his head. His mismatched eyes, which were once his trademark, were now only black abysses. His pupils were so dilated with desire that the blue and the brown had vanished into the darkness. He was sweaty, panting, his face red from the effort.

“It’s alright,” he said, and for a moment his voice seemed almost human. “I know it hurts. It will get better, I guarantee you. You just need to get used to me. It won’t hurt next time.”

Next time. The phrase echoed like a death sentence. Your mind spun in nausea. You didn't want a next time. You didn't want him inside you, over you, tearing apart your body and your will. But a wife’s desires were ashes in the wind. The Septa said to obey; your sister spoke of pleasure and refusal. But there, under his weight, theory was useless.

You were at a crossroads: cry out that he was hurting you, that you wanted him away, or stay quiet and survive. Before the doubt found an answer, you felt his cock contract inside you, pulsing with a hungry life of its own. He went back to forcing himself inside, burying his face in your neck again.

That was the final answer. You would endure in silence while he claimed his right. One does not challenge the most powerful man in the kingdom. He would be king, and you would be his queen, the vessel for the countless heirs to the Iron Throne. The blood on the sheet was only the first tribute.

The agony seemed to have no end, a rhythmic cycle of flesh and impact that transformed your body into something that no longer belonged to you. Every thrust was a reminder of your capitulation. The wet sound of friction filled the room, mixing with his heavy breathing, which now failed to fight against his own pleasure.

He became more erratic. His hands, once firm on your thighs, moved up to pin your arms against the mattress, holding you there like a butterfly pinned in a display case. You felt the scratch of his beard on your sensitive neck skin, the heat of his breath becoming erratic, almost desperate.

"Almost...", he growled, a raspy confession that vibrated inside you.

His cock seemed to grow even larger, pulsing against the inner walls of your body that begged for a truce. The pain, once a sharp knife, became a latent burning, a fire spreading through your lower belly. You closed your eyes so tightly that spots of light danced in the darkness of your eyelids, trying to transport yourself far away, to the gardens of your childhood, to any place where the weight of a man was not your reality.

But the sound betrayed you. The dry smack of hips clashing, the creak of the oak bed, his final gasp.

With an animalistic growl, he gave one last thrust, so deep it seemed to touch your soul. His body tensed, the muscles of his back becoming rigid cords under his sweaty skin. You felt the warm, thick spurt flooding you, an unwanted seed that carried the weight of a dynasty. He collapsed onto you, his chest rising and falling in spasms, his face still buried in your shoulder.

The silence that followed was heavier than the act itself.

Slowly, he withdrew. The sound of their bodies separating was a cruel reminder of your nakedness and your new condition. You felt the liquid run down your thighs, mixing with the blood already cooling on the silk sheets. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to you, his broad shoulders blocking the candlelight.

“I will send for the servants to bring warm water,” he said, his voice regaining its former cold authority, as if the moans of minutes ago had never existed. “You need to clean yourself.”

He stood up, without looking back, and began to dress with mechanical efficiency. You stayed there, lying down, legs still slightly parted by the memory of the trauma, staring at the ceiling. The Septa’s words echoed like a mockery: a wife’s duty.

You felt hollow. It wasn't just the physical pain that remained, but the realization that this was only the first day of the rest of your life. You would be the Queen. You would have crowns of gold and velvet dresses. But every night, when the royal bedchamber doors closed, you would return to being just that: the soil where he would plant his kings, the body he would use to appease his own hunger.

It wasn't in her nature to be so headstrong—nor so mischievous, daring, or delightfully brazen. That change began almost imperceptibly, during her monthly visit to her homeland: Wakanda . Seeing her family again, the familiar faces, the memories that never ceased to throb, always filled her heart with an ancient warmth. Even though she loved Talokan , loved the weight and honor of being queen, and loved her husband even more, her roots insisted on bowing back home.

With great reluctance, K'uk'ulkan had granted those visits: once a month, for a whole week. Enough for you to exist between two worlds—without belonging completely to just one of them.

Your time in Wakanda was always fruitful. Laughter filled the corridors, lingering embraces took place, and only the necessary diplomatic meetings were held. The marriage had sealed the peace between the nations; though still fragile, it grew stronger year after year. And you, firmly at the center of this delicate balance, remained as queen—always diplomatic, always a bridge between two kingdoms.

It was at that first dinner that his older brother handed him what would later prove to be his sweetest downfall.

A Polaroid. Old, scratched by time.

At first, you almost laughed. The temptation to mock was strong—after all, you had easily become accustomed to the silent luxury your husband offered you. Your brother, however, simply shrugged. He said it still worked. And, with a nostalgic smile, he recalled how much you loved photographing everything: people, landscapes, mundane moments that seemed eternal to your eyes. He even joked about the iPhones you hid in your teens—small acts of rebellion against traditions that, at the time, seemed too big to you.

The night wore on slowly, and dinner began to dissolve into quieter conversations and peaceful farewells. You walked through the hall with gentle smiles, touching hands, receiving goodnight wishes and affectionate words. Wakanda had always known how to welcome you, even now, divided between worlds.

"Rest, my queen," some said. "Until tomorrow," others replied.

You bid farewell to everyone with the elegance you had learned early on, but there was relief in your shoulders when you finally turned towards the quieter corridors.

Two talokanil guards were already waiting, steadfast and attentive. It was a demand of her husband—non-negotiable. She had accepted with a mixture of resignation and affection; she knew it wasn't distrust, but zeal. They walked a few steps behind, silent as disciplined shadows.

Namora was walking beside him.

She still held the Polaroid camera in her hands, gazing at it distractedly as they walked. Every now and then, she turned the device around, as if trying to understand that ancient artifact on the surface.

"Your brother has curious tastes," she commented, with a slight smile.

"He always had it," you replied, chuckling softly.

Upon reaching the room, the guards remained outside, assuming their positions naturally. The door closed behind you with a soft sound, muffling out the outside world.

You entered first, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh, and walked to the dresser near the window. Without much ceremony, you removed your jewelry and adornments, let down your hair, and took off your heavy ceremonial dress. You put on a thin, pearly-toned linen and silk nightgown that reached your thighs; it was light, short, and comfortable.

The room remained enveloped in that soft, almost golden light, which made the shadows dance on the walls adorned with ancestral symbols. The silence was comfortable, broken only by the distant sound of the city falling asleep. Soft fabrics were piled on the bed, light perfumes still lingered in the air—and you felt, there, a rare sense of rest.

The Polaroid camera now rested between you, as if it had gained weight.

You watched Namora handle it carefully, his firm fingers contrasting with the almost youthful curiosity in his eyes.

“At first,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence, “I thought you would never like me.”

Namora looked up, surprised. "Because she's from the surface?"

You nodded, chuckling softly. “For everything. I was the foreigner. The wife. The bridge.”

She took a deep breath, setting the camera down on the table. “I thought it would be difficult too.” She smiled slightly. “You represented change. And change is always scary.”

You leaned back, supporting yourself on the pillows. "And now look at us."

Namora laughed, a short, genuine laugh. "Now we're a problem together."

The two laughed, conspiratorially.

The friendship between you two didn't begin easily. In the beginning, there was too much formality, too much distance. You, a surface dweller, surrounded by protocols and watchful eyes; she, a general of Talokan , shaped by discipline and absolute loyalty to her people. But, little by little, small conversations replaced silences. Laughter arose where before there had only been restrained respect. Until trust settled in—firm, unexpected, and beautiful.

“You never treated me like I was fragile,” you said, your voice low. “That… meant a lot.”

Namora tilted his head. "Because you never went."

She picked up the Polaroid again, twirling it between her fingers. “And now… you underestimate how much he would miss this.” She pointed at you. “You.”

You snorted, laughing. "You talk as if you know him better than I do."

“I know enough,” Namora replied calmly. “Even though he’s a god-king, he’s still a man.” His eyes gleamed at the analogy. “And men… follow simple instincts. The compass always points to what they love. The spear always seeks the sweetest cocoa.”

You put your hand to your chest, feigning outrage. "You're terribly bold."

"I'm honest," she retorted, smiling.

She stood up and positioned herself in front of him. "Stay there. The light is good."

"Date someone, you're having too much fun with this."

“I am,” she admitted without guilt. “And so are you.”

Clack .

You watched the photo slowly emerge. You laughed as you recognized yourself there—relaxed, carefree, different from the formal queen the world knew.

“He would love it,” Namora said with conviction. “Not as a leader. As a husband.”

You bit your lip, thoughtfully. "What if he thinks it's... silly?"

Namora sat down beside him again. “He’d find it intimate. Genuine.” He paused and added, with an almost childlike smile, “And perhaps maddening.”

You laughed loudly. "You want to cause chaos."

“A controlled chaos,” she corrected. “One or two, maybe three photos a day. A small gesture. A great longing.”

You sighed, feeling your heart race. "And you promise to help me?"

“I promise,” Namora said firmly. “I deliver. I encourage. I watch the damage.”

You laughed together, leaning shoulders.

"That's crazy," you repeated, but now smiling.

"It's trust," she replied.

And in that room warmed by friendship, loyalty, and easy laughter, you realized: what began as distrust between different worlds had transformed into something rare—an alliance between strong women, free to laugh, conspire, and care for one another. And perhaps, just perhaps, provoking a god-king was also part of it.

(....)

The great hall of Talokan seemed alive under the light filtered by the waters that fell in slow veils over the pillars of living stone. Currents of bioluminescence intertwined in the columns, snaking like liquid fire. Each breath of the ocean reverberated off the walls, as if the whole world were aware of its presence.

K'uk'ulkan stood erect, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the maps carved in stone. Advisors spoke, presenting reports, discussing borders, resources, signals from the surface. He listened to every word, every pause, every whisper of hesitation. Nothing went unnoticed. Nothing could escape his attention. Each decision carried the weight of generations, each choice was measured as if shaping the future of humanity and the ocean simultaneously.

Still… nothing truly mattered while you were away.

The mere thought of you ripped a tightness from his chest, a silent tension that no battle could dispel. He hated sending his queen away. He hated the distance that not even his spear or his power could bridge. Wakanda might be necessary, diplomacy essential—but the void her absence left burned within him like liquid fire. Each step he took in another world was a wound he endured with discipline … but with pain.

When the hall finally emptied, K'uk'ulkan remained alone. The sound of the bioluminescent currents seemed to whisper his name, reminding him that, even surrounded by power, he was vulnerable to you. He walked to the unfinished mural at the back of the hall, his fingers crossed behind his back. Each line of stone, each carved curve, carried patience, care, and devotion—a silent work made for her, so that she would know, even in her absence, that he revered her absolutely.

Then the water changed.

A talokanil soldier approached, his steps measured and precise, reverence in every movement. In his hands, a simple envelope, carefully sealed.

“ K'uhul “Ajaw ,” said the soldier. “It was handed over by General Namora. It belongs to the Queen.”

K'uk'ulkan stopped. She was still somewhere else. Not even a full day had passed since she left. And yet… you had thought of him.

The idea ignited in his chest. Something deep, dangerous, and intense stirred within him—a heat that not even the ocean could extinguish. He reached out and carefully took the envelope, as if touching a living flame.

" Yum" “Bo'otik ,” he murmured. “Thank you. “ Ma ' a k'áat chi'.” I don't need anything else.

The soldier bowed: “In wojel , Ajaw .” I understand.

Alone, K'uk'ulkan retreated to the side chamber. There the water was calmer, the light softer, and the silence seemed to envelop him like a blanket. No map, no decision, no report could compete with what was to come.

He broke the seal.

Three photographs.

The world seemed to shrink in size.

In the first photo, you were seated, your pearly pajamas reflecting the water's light in soft, iridescent tones. There were no jewels, no crown, no sign of ceremony. Yet, she was more of a queen there than in any ballroom. Relaxed. Confident. Whole. Personal. Just for him.

On Monday, a sideways smile. Intimate, familiar, devastating. The kind of smile that appeared when she allowed herself to exist without the world, without obligation—just being herself.

In the third, the gaze. Fixed. Direct. Defiant. As if she were crossing oceans just to reach him. Every detail reminded him that she belonged to him, that his compass would always point to him, and that his spear would always seek the sweetest cocoa—the taste of his queen, whom he loved more than any throne or sea.

K'uk'ulkan felt his breath quicken. Each photo ignited something that wasn't just desire, but reverence. His masculinity, his strength, his very essence as a god-king was suddenly deadly in your presence. A single breath from you sent him madness, consumed by the same silent fire that accompanied you.

He traced the edges of the photos with his fingers, almost trembling, reverent. It wasn't just physical beauty. It was presence. It was soul. It was the certainty that, even from afar, she held him, ignited him, consumed him.

You belonged to him. Not in empty possession, but in total devotion.

K'uk'ulkan 's spear always sought her sweetness, and never missed. His body and heart were aligned with hers. He knew that, however much he ruled seas, battles, and destinies, his queen was his universe, and every gesture of hers pierced him as if it were unique.

He pressed the envelope against his chest, letting the heat invade his entire body, igniting everything that was reason, discipline, and duty. The silent, intense, almost obsessive passion consumed him. Every line, every shadow, every gesture captured in the photos ignited his heart in a way impossible to contain.

The king would return to his duties, to his decisions, to the ocean under his command. But deep in his heart, beneath the calm that everyone saw, burned something alive, tireless, insatiable:

His queen was far away. But she had never been so present within him.

Each of her breaths, even from a distance, was like a flame that burned his reason, his strength, and his very heart. Every gesture of hers bewitched him, every smile ignited his obsession, every glance made him bow before her as if he were a surrendered man.

You were beauty, strength, sweetness, fire. You were his. And he knew that no distance could ever erase that.

The following day was consumed by the obligations of a leader: endless meetings, decisions about borders, resources, and treaties. The advisors talked incessantly, but K'uk'ulkan barely listened. His mind was filled with another kind of anticipation, a silent fire burning within: the promise of another envelope, another fragment of his queen.

When the messenger finally approached, he extended his hands almost instinctively. The god-king's heart raced with anticipation. Each delivery from the queen was like receiving a piece of his own soul.

He opened the envelope.

And he immediately realized that he had made a "mistake".

The images weren't like the first ones. They weren't delicate, nor gentle. They were bold, erotic. Each pose, each gesture, each smile was a silent declaration: you knew the power you wielded over him, you knew the effect you had on his heart, his body, and his mind.

In the first photo, you were lying down, relaxed, elegant, and completely naked. A playful smile lit up your face, and the pose was effortlessly provocative—pure intimacy and mastery over your own image. He felt the heat rise from his chest to his erection just from contemplating you, your strength and beauty.

The second image showed her under the moonlight, in a lake. The reflection of the water caressed her lines with a pearly sheen. He could see her graceful, elegant, almost ethereal silhouette. The way the light touched her skin reminded him that she was a queen and a goddess in herself, and that no throne or mural could contain her essence.

The third photo was even more intense, provocative, brimming with personality. The queen was kneeling, confident, displaying control and power over her own body and presence. Her gaze seemed to pierce the paper, penetrate his mind, challenge his discipline, and seduce his heart. He felt his stomach churn, an almost physical tension. This was the queen he loved: audacious, self-possessed, irresistible, capable of setting his heart ablaze with her mere presence.

K'uk'ulkan pressed the photos between his fingers, taking a deep breath. Each image awakened in him obsession and veneration, desire and devotion. You were beauty, power, and sensuality condensed into human forms—and he didn't need to touch to feel dominated, surrendered, completely consumed. Every gesture of hers, every look, every smile was a reminder that he ruled not only seas and peoples, but also his own heart, given entirely to you.

The next day arrived, and with it, more photographs. This time he opened the envelope alone, and upon seeing that sin in the flesh, he almost came in his pants like a teenager. In the first photograph, you were facing away, leaning over the parapet while contemplating the sunset, and your ass, your beautiful, firm ass, was sticking out.

The second one was even bolder; you were still naked, but looking directly at the camera as you posed beautifully. Your nipples were hard and stiff, ready to be sucked, and your pussy, oh your beautiful, juicy pussy, was right there in plain sight, just for him. K'uk'ulkan licked his lips, eager to suck your breasts, lick your firm abdomen, and devour your beautiful pussy until only a wet, panting mess remained.

The third photo, by Chaac , the third photo, made him let out a groan that was too loud for his liking and his cock ache from being so hard. You were sitting on the windowsill, your hands firmly gripping the edges, your face turned to the sky and your legs spread as if you were waiting, waiting for him.

"Naughty girl." He cursed as he pulled his penis out and stroked it.

Seeing that beautiful pussy with its wet and glistening labia majora and minora, its swollen clitoris just waiting to be filled with your cock. K'uk'ulkan held the base of his penis with his right hand and with his left he held the last photo firmly in his hand, he groaned and writhed, while his hand moved up and down stimulating himself just for you. He moaned softly as the liquid filled impressively quickly, hard and throbbing as he continued rubbing.

" Shit ." The orgasm of K'uk'ulkan takes him by surprise. His legs spread shamelessly as his cock awkwardly spurts onto the hand that's wrapped around his body, lost in the sad illusion that it's his pussy holding him so tightly. He milks it until the last drop. He curses inwardly, but his mind is so confused that he truly cares.

Another day, and three more photographs. The young soldier seemed radiant with the position of official messenger to the queen—something that didn't exist until three days ago, but thanks to you and the effort of letting him indulge in his own lust, he became generous and rewarded the young man.

K'uk'ulkan grabbed the envelope like someone picking up a bomb about to explode, and in a way it was. He still kept the last three photographs and had used them quite frequently in the last few hours. He dismissed the young man with just a wave of his hand, and without delay, opened the envelope only to roll his eyes and sigh at the sight.

That one had been even worse. You . Wearing only one of your cloaks, carefully wrapped around your slender body. The second one, you posed beautifully in front of the mirror with your stiff nipples pointing at the reflection. The third one, by the gods, you. Completely naked. Lying on your stomach with your hips raised, giving him a privileged view of your open pussy waiting for him. His cock throbbed just remembering the heat that your pussy emanated around him.

He had broken down, he couldn't take it anymore. He was... K'uk'ulkan , and he wouldn't be deterred by mere distance and a few ill-mannered photos. He was a patient and refined man, but everything has a limit, and you had crossed all the limits.

" Attuma !" he shouted to one of his most loyal soldiers.

It wasn't long before the great blue beast appeared. K'uk'ulkan didn't turn around, he couldn't; his erection ached, crying out for release.

"Yes," said the soldier, awaiting orders.

"Go to Wakanda and bring the queen back. Now!"

(...)

You hurried out of the water, ignoring the distressed calls of Namora and the other servants, who warned you about the slippery ground and the excessive weight of your soaked dress. There was no time for caution—you needed to see your husband immediately.

The shock still reverberated in her chest from the moment Attuma had appeared in Wakanda , breathless, his eyes filled with urgency, demanding her presence in Talokan without delay. She had questioned him, but he had simply said that they were orders from K'uk'ulkan . Nothing more.

Her restless mind began to weave dark possibilities. Her husband had always respected her time in Wakanda ; he had never summoned her in such haste and desperation. No further explanation was needed. You simply followed the great blue warrior to Talokan , without even having time to say goodbye to your family or organize your belongings. Your entourage followed close behind, trying to keep up with your hurried pace.

"Stay calm," Namora pleaded, following her closely. "You could get hurt."

"Something happened, Namora." Her voice came out firm, though her heart was in turmoil. "My husband has never seemed so desperate."

You arrived at the cabin and paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, as if you needed to gather strength before crossing that invisible door. Then you turned to face her.

"Go. Leave me alone with him."

"My queen..." Namora began, hesitantly.

You stared at her.

"Something serious and private happened. He didn't even want to share it with Attuma ." You sighed again. "Go, Namora. Dismiss everyone. I'll call if I need anything."

Namora simply nodded in agreement. If you hadn't been so consumed by despair, you would have noticed the malicious smile hidden beneath the breathing mask she was wearing.

As soon as you stepped through the door, strong hands grabbed your waist and kissed you. It took you a fraction of a second to realize who it was—your husband. He devoured your mouth, taking your breath away, forcing his tongue inside, and you awkwardly reciprocated. He pulled away, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

"My beautiful wife," he murmured, pressing her waist tightly. "I think we have something to discuss."

You tilted your head innocently.

"What happened?"

He stepped back, resting his hands on the edge of the table, circling you. His gaze slid over your body, the curve of your neck, the fullness of your breasts, the slope of your waist. The dress, though wet and heavy, gave him a privileged view of your silhouette.

He turned you around abruptly, you let out a little gasp of surprise, he moved your head until your gaze was down at the table. At the photos you had sent him.

You swallowed hard.

"How audacious," he murmured in her ear. "A beautiful and scandalous display, indeed."

He slid his hand over her waist, pressing her buttocks even harder against his erection.

"Feel it, my beautiful wife. Feel what you do to me."

And then he turned you around again, leaned in, and captured your lips with his.

A moan escaped her throat as he pressed his tongue against her lips, the kiss hot and passionate. His free hand slid down the curve of her waist, gripping her thigh and wrapping it around her hip.

"You were very naughty, my love. Teasing me for days right under my nose," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her jaw, and then another, slowly sliding his lips down the back of her throat.

"Do you know how many times I've gotten excited thinking about your vagina, or those sweet, tempting lips around my cock?" He bit the sensitive spot where your neck met his shoulder and you moaned.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the table, spreading your legs and settling between them.

"And to involve a young messenger? That's cruel. What did I do to deserve such a vengeful and cruel lover?"

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. "Are you saying you didn't like it?"

His fingers danced over your cleavage and, without delay, he ripped the dress. He tore the wet fabric off like a sheet of paper, leaving you in only your sheer panties. Your breasts sprang out with the action and he wasted no time; he held the soft flesh in his hands, massaging, kneading, squeezing until you gasped.

He hovers over chest, his breath sliding across her warm skin until he leans in to kiss her soft flesh. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand, gazing at her face as his thumb brushed her nipple. She gasped sharply, her mouth opening and her hips closing.

Moans escaped his mouth and their hips rubed together eagerly, his hard cock rubbing against wet center.

"Don't stop." You moan. "Please don't stop."

He alternates between breasts, using his hand to tug and twist your neglected nipple. You feel your stomach tighten and your breath quicken. His tongue swirls around your nipple before letting his teeth gently graze the turgid tip, biting softly. He is immediately rewarded with a sweet sigh.

He steps back momentarily, looks at you with glistening lips, then returns to your breasts.

"I'm going to devour you, wife," he purred, leaning in and trapping a firm nipple between his teeth. You whimpered, arching your back. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails scratching his scalp as he kissed, licked, and nibbled at the curves of your body.

" K'uk'ulkan ," you moaned softly as he knelt, parting your thighs and licking a warm, wet strip against the fabric of your panties.

He pressed his thumb against the moisture that was already seeping out, then intertwined his fingers at waist, peeling the delicate lace down thighs, leaving it tangled at one ankle.

"Tão linda", suspirou ele, beijando a parte interna de suas coxas, seus lábios subindo cada vez mais.

You gasped, your head falling back as his mouth found your pussy, his tongue sliding between your slits, a low moan vibrating against you.

Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him close as he feasted on you. You moaned, writhing as his tongue swirled around your clitoris. Your legs trembled, threatening to give way, but his firm hands held you tight. He groaned against you, the vibrations sending another pulse of pleasure through your body. He inserted two fingers inside you, moving slowly and deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world to undo you. His tongue moved, teased, circled, lifting you only to pull you back just before you could give up the edge.

His fingers curved just right, and his mouth returned to her clitoris, sucking hard enough to make stars explode behind her eyes. The spiral in her belly tightened, so tight she thought it might break.

That was all it took. Your body arched as pleasure washed over you, a muffled moan escaping your throat as the orgasm consumed you. He held you throughout, absorbing every shiver, every sigh, until you trembled in his arms.

Only then did he pull away, his dark, hungry eyes as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He placed a lingering kiss inside her thigh before rising to his full height, his body hovering above hers.

"You're so sweet, my love," he whispered as he showered kisses on her thigh. "Completely broken. And yet, we're not even close to being over."

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted you into his arms, his legs instinctively wrapping around your waist. He carried you effortlessly toward the padded reed bed in the corner of the hut, laying you on the bed and turning you over, face down with your bottom in the air. The position of a prostitute, and you couldn't be happier.

He stood at the edge of the reed, removing his gold-plated vibranium ornaments with slow, deliberate precision. "Tell me," he said, letting the large necklace slip from his shoulders. "Was all this worth it?" His eyes gleamed as he untied the ties that fastened his loincloth. "Because now, I'm going to make sure you remember exactly why you shouldn't mess with me."

You bit your lip, unable to contain the moan that escaped your lips as his palm slid across your buttocks, massaging and squeezing. He pressed his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of his hard cock through his pants.

You pushed yourself against him, rubbing against the bulge, your body aching with anticipation. You whimpered, burying your face in the sheets. You felt the heat spreading through your body, desperate and needy. And then the firm, burning heat of his cock as it settled between your thighs, the thick head teasing your vagina, covering itself in your arousal. He groaned at the wetness clinging to him, the way your body pulsed with need.

"Please," you whimpered, wiggling your hips.

He made a tsk sound , a dark laugh vibrating in his chest. You screamed when he finally entered you, his cock stretching you impossibly. Your toes curled, the delicious burning sensation of being overfilled all at once. He let out a low groan as he plunged in, his cock buried in your tight, wet heat. He gripped your ass, his fingertips digging into your skin, and began to thrust slowly.

He quickened the pace, his hips slamming against hers, the wet smudge of skin against skin echoing through the room.

"That's my good girl," he praised, tightening his grip, his hips quickening, fucking you harder.

You screamed, his cock hitting you deep inside, a series of moans escaping your lips. He let go of your hair and leaned over, supporting himself with one hand, the other trying to squeeze your ass and give you another hard slap.

You came, a cry of pleasure escaping your throat as you climaxed, the fire inside you roaring through your veins.

"That's it," he groaned, his hips slamming against yours, pushing you even further into the mattress. You shuddered, pleasure overwhelming you as the world melted away.

He shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and with a brutal thrust he reaches that special spot inside you. Trembling and crying, you finally come again all over his body and the sheets, your orgasm hitting you so intensely that your vision blurs.

"Aqui está você. Me fazendo de bobo como a boa puta que você é." Seus dedos cruéis continuam a apertar seus quadris, esmagando sua carne. Ele te fode com força, com movimentos desajeitados e brutos, enquanto busca seu próprio prazer.

It's only a matter of seconds before he comes inside you, driven to the edge by the thought of finally filling you with his cum. His cock throbs inside you, and then the heat fills you as you sigh. You've never felt so full.

Your legs are now sore, your hips are sore, and your poor, completely wrecked pussy is the kind of pain that deliciously penetrates the skin all the way to the core, but you can't suppress a moan when he takes his hands off your hips and his cock out of you. Your body collapses onto the sheets. You were a complete mess, just a shadow of what once seemed to be a queen.

“Look at you,” your husband murmured, you were still lying face down, barely able to look at him. “It seems your audacity is limited to scraps of paper.”

You sigh. And with great willpower, you propel your body to stand. You turn around, still seated on the reed, only to find him still naked. Your eyes briefly scan your husband's sculpted body; his well-defined chest, thick arms, and muscular thighs. His limp penis lay still glistening with arousal. With courage, or perhaps stupidity, you dare to say:

“My audacity was enough to drive my lord, my husband, crazy.” You crawl through the reeds to him, kneeling until you are face to face. “Remember that it was you who took me from Wakanda, desperate to fuck me.”

His hand slides down her neck until it finds her scalp, where he squeezes lightly and tilts her head.

"Don't mess with me, girl. I can be very cruel when I want to." He places a kiss on her neck. "Do I need to remind you how ruthless I am?"

You sigh as he places wet kisses on your sensitive skin. His lips burned like hot coals.

“Yes.” You plead. “I need you to remind me how ruthless you are. I have far more where those came from.”

He stops kissing you and stares intently at you.

"Where are they?" You feel the grip tighten and you smile, loving to tease him.

"You received them, husband. Periodically, as I had planned. I still had a few more days in Wakanda , but your longing made me leave there far too hastily."

"You need to give them to me," he says, or rather, orders.

"You will receive them, my love," you say. "When and where will be up to me to decide."

He lets out a cold laugh, knowing he was completely lost.

"What a cruel creature I have by my side. The gods are punishing me by placing something so seductive and daring beside me."

You approach him and kiss him.

"You love this."

He let out a low laugh, and then with a sudden movement you were lying on the reed again and he was on top of you. He held you down beneath him, his eyes burning with desire and lust, his erect penis already clamoring for attention.

"You, my taster," he growled, his lips capturing hers in an intense kiss, "will pay for every provocation."

You simply smile, letting the feeling show in your eyes, before giving him another passionate kiss. This time, the kiss is slower and longer, as if the world around you disappears. Your lips meet delicately and intensely at the same time, allowing you to fully taste his mouth, feel the warmth of the contact, and the silent complicity that forms between you. It's a kiss that speaks without words, full of affection, contained desire, and a tenderness that makes the heart beat faster. You pull away, only to flutter your eyelashes and smile shamelessly.

The sun was about to touch the horizon when you escaped your daily obligations and walked toward the rocky shore, where the waves crashed in deep murmurs. The sand was dark, almost black, dotted with fragments of ancient shells and stones rounded by time. A warm wind blew off the sea, lifting your hair and carrying the salt to your skin. It was as if the ocean whispered stories to anyone who dared listen—and that afternoon, you decided to listen.

You loved that hidden spot. No adults ever appeared there, just you and the sound of the world pulsing in silence. But that day… something was different. A barely perceptible vibration ran through the air as your feet touched the first submerged rock. You looked around, your heart racing, as if sensing something was about to happen.

And then, you saw him.

Emerging from the waters with the lightness of someone who belonged there, a boy with indecipherable eyes appeared. His skin had the golden sheen of wet bronze, and his hair, black as the seabed, clung to his angular face. He wore adornments you didn't recognize—jade ornaments, shell necklaces, and bracelets braided with metallic threads that seemed to pulse. There was something ancient about him. Something too ancient for his apparent youth.

His eyes met hers, and for an instant, everything stood still: the sound of the waves, the rustle of the leaves, time itself.

You didn't know whether to run or speak. But you stood there, paralyzed by the beautiful strangeness of the moment.

He didn't seem scared. Quite the opposite. He watched you with calm curiosity, as if studying you silently. Then he took a step forward, emerging completely from the water. That's when you noticed: he had wings on his ankles. Small wings, which beat slowly in the air with an almost magical grace.

“You’re not from here,” you said, without thinking.

He inclined his head, and then answered, with a soft accent, like the sound of a wave breaking on fine sand:

“And you are?”

You smiled involuntarily. That answer was a question, a provocation. And a bridge.

They were silent for long seconds, just staring at each other in the golden light of the late afternoon. A silence that didn't bother them. A silence filled with unspoken questions, and a promise neither of them knew they were making.

From that day on, you returned to the hidden coast with a frequency you couldn't justify to anyone. You told yourself it was just for the silence, the view of the sea at sunset, the smell of salt and wind. But deep down, you knew: it was for him.

And he was always there. Sometimes he'd emerge from the water with the subtle sound of a ripple. Other times, you'd find him sitting on the rocks, his feet in the water, his eyes fixed on the sky, which was beginning to turn orange. He was beautiful in a way that hurt your eyes. A silent, unsettling beauty, like the storms that gather at the bottom of the ocean.

Little by little, he began to talk more. Short words. Direct questions. Comments about the sky, the sea, the sound of the sand underfoot. He observed everything intensely. As if he were learning the world in his own way.

“ Aren’t you afraid of the sea?” he asked one day, without looking at you.

“No,” you replied. “I’m afraid I don’t feel anything anymore.”

He turned, and his eyes narrowed. For the first time, he smiled.

You realized then that this half-human, half-legend creature understood things no one else did. There was something in his eyes—an ancient loneliness, an ancestral weight—and yet, he seemed to find himself when he looked at you.

One afternoon, he moved closer. He sat beside you, so close you could feel the heat emanating from his skin, even damp. The scent of the sea mingled with a different aroma, mineral, almost sweet. Your heart beat faster. Instinctively, you turned your face toward him—and your eyes met again.

But now there was no strangeness. There was curiosity.

A thick silence fell between the two of you. You could hear your own thoughts trying to escape, trying to name that moment. But there was no name. There was only desire. A timid, confused desire to understand. To feel more.

“How did you get here?” you whispered, almost breathless.

He touched a finger to the sand, drawing a line between you two. Then he replied, his eyes still on you:

“The sea brought. The sea knows where to leave what is precious.”

You felt your whole body react to those words. As if you'd been called by something greater. Something you didn't even know you were expecting.

And it was there, with your feet almost touching, your eyes carrying a storm of feelings too young to understand, that something inside you gave in. And for the first time, you wanted him to stay.

Time passed, like waves that come and go without asking permission. You grew up. Still young, but now your body bore the marks of time—not the time of years, but the time of discovery. The world around you seemed to change in small ways: in the clothes that began to cling to your waist, in the glances that lingered a second longer, in the conversations that were once inane and now held secrets.

You hadn't seen K'uk'ulkan , or rather, Namor, for months—the name had become quite difficult for you to pronounce; at first, he'd been patient in trying to teach you, but your inability to pronounce it correctly forced him to pronounce the name only his enemies dare say. He'd vanished without warning, like everything that belongs to the sea. But you still went to the shore every now and then, like someone waiting for the tide to come back. Even though you didn't know what to expect.

That day, you were sitting with your friend Nia in a tall field, full of dry grass and the scent of sunshine. You were braiding small strands of straw to make bracelets. It was a silly, peaceful thing that kept your fingers busy while your minds wandered. The sky was clear, and the world seemed at peace.

“Do you think the sky misses the earth too?” Nia asked, looking up, as if speaking to her own thoughts.

You smiled at the poetic simplicity of the question.

“Maybe. But I think the sky likes to be seen from afar. To imagine without touching.”

“Hm… like certain people, right?”

You laughed, complicit, without needing to name names. Then you were silent for a while, listening to the sound of insects and the gentle wind.

“Yesterday… ” Nia began, her voice low, half guilty, half proud. “The Djemi … did something to me.”

You looked at her. Nia was fiddling with the straw, not looking at you. A faint blush crept across her face, but she didn't look remorseful. Just vulnerable.

“What thing?” you asked, not out of hasty curiosity, but because the silence left was too great.

“He… licked me. Down there.”

The sentence hung in the air for a full second.

You felt your body react before your mind. A strange, uncomfortable heat rose somewhere inside you. Your breathing became shallow, and your eyes took a long time to blink.

“You let him?” you whispered, more amazed by his courage than by the act itself.

Nia now stared straight ahead, as if reliving it all. Her fingers tightened on the straw.

“Yes . At first… I laughed. It tickled. But he went slowly. Really slowly. Like he was exploring a secret. And then… I don’t know. My body started… begging for more. No words.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine. Nia continued, her voice lower, almost reverent.

“It was like everything inside me was pulsing. Hot, alive, and out of control. Like I was going to explode. But not in a bad way. In the best way possible. When it happened… I screamed. But softly. And I cried. But with pleasure.”

You fell silent. The grass beneath your hands felt distant, and the world around you had taken on a different texture, a different color. You didn't know what to say. You only knew that what Nia had described… you had never felt.

And you wanted it. You wanted it so much.

It was like having heard of a song so beautiful it made your heart ache—but never having heard it for yourself. It wasn't just curiosity. It was a kind of hunger. An ancient hunger, from within, for touch, for presence, for being unveiled. For someone who knew how to listen to your body as if it, too, were a language.

You didn't know if it was envy or desire. You only knew that, ever since that conversation, something inside you had been relentless. Something wanted to be seen. Felt. Known.

And in the depths of his memory, among the stones of the beach, among the waves of his youth, a nameless name began to pulse again. K'uk'ulkan .

You almost couldn't believe it when you saw him again.

It was like seeing a piece of the past still whole, alive, breathing at the edge of the world. It was there, in the same spot between the rocks, where the sea lapped insistently. And for a moment, you thought it was a mirage—a memory concocted by longing. But it was him. K'uk'ulkan .

The same calm demeanor, the body shaped by stories you hadn't yet heard. His eyes were as intense as before, but now more attentive, more mature. As if he, too, had carried time on his shoulders during the months of his absence.

You approached slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. You felt the wind push your hair back and your chest open as if you were about to say a thousand things—but no words came out.

He was the one who spoke first.

“You ’ve grown up.”

You laughed, surprised by the simple phrase. So simple, yet so full of meaning. It was as if he'd actually seen you. Not just with his eyes—but with that sensitivity that seemed to come from the sea, from the silence of the depths.

“You too.” was all he could say.

They stared at each other, smiling without smiling. And time seemed to have folded in on itself, as if their reunion were inevitable, as if the universe had been waiting for exactly that moment.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back,” you confessed, your voice soft but shaky.

“The sea calls me when it is time. And now… it was time.” he replied.

You spoke little. Random questions, comments about the wind, the sea, the days. But there was a tenderness between you that hadn't existed before. A new, silent, dense layer. And you felt it in every long pause between one word and the next. You felt it in his eyes, which sometimes rested discreetly on the curve of your face, your neck, and then departed, respectful.

You sat down on the sand. So did he.

The sky was already beginning to turn golden, and the shadows were taking on more delicate contours. The sea murmured nearby, and the world seemed smaller. More intimate.

You wanted to talk. You wanted to ask. You wanted to touch. But something inside you was shrinking—not out of fear of him, but out of fear of yourself. Of what you were feeling. Of what you wanted to ask.

Nia 's words came back to her with a vengeance. The sensations she'd described. The shivers. The surrender. His mouth. The cry of pleasure. It was all so distant from you… and yet so close now.

Your body longed to know. To feel. To be touched. But your mind was full of doubts, voices, and shame you didn't even know you carried.

You have been silent for a long time.

And then he said:

“You are restless.”

The phrase came as a caress. Not a judgment, not an accusation. Just a gentle observation.

You bit your lip, looking out at the sea, trying to find courage in the foam of the waves.

“There’s something I… thought. Something I…” you hesitated, your face burning.

He turned slowly to you, attentive. Present.

“But it’s weird,” you continued. “I’ve never… never asked anyone for this. I’ve never felt… this. I’ve just thought it. And now I don’t know if I should.”

His body was shaking a little, even in the late afternoon heat.

He tilted his face, curious but gentle.

“Then tell me,” he said. “I don’t promise I’ll do it. But I promise I’ll listen.”

You took a deep breath. That was the time.

“I … heard something, ” you began. “That … some boys do. With girls. With their mouths. Not like kissing. But… more intimate. That… makes us… feel.”

His eyes burned, not with embarrassment, but with exposure. It was hard to tell, even for him.

He didn't smile. He just kept his eyes on hers, as if he was holding his courage with his own eyes.

You continued, almost in a whisper:

“I thought… if you… would do this to me. One day. Not now. Or now. I don’t know. But… you. Not someone else. You.”

Silence fell like a warm wave.

And then he approached slowly. He didn't touch you. He just closed the gap, carefully, reverently.

“I’m glad you asked me,” he said, his voice low, almost grave. “Because I’d rather it be me… than some little boy from the surface who wouldn’t know how to listen to his body the way it deserves.”

His heart raced.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” you confessed, your eyes full but firm.

He nodded.

“And I won’t until you are,” he replied. “But when you are… just say so. And I will be patient. Like the sea.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting that answer sink in.

In that moment, she understood: it wasn't just about desire. It was about trust. It was about being safe. About being seen and touched not in haste, but with respect. And Namor knew it. He'd always known.

It took you a while to build up your courage.

There were days when your mind clung to the memory of the conversation with your friend, to the sound of her voice describing every sensation, every tremor. Deep down, something inside you twisted—with desire, with envy, with curiosity. You wanted this. You wanted to feel your own skin burn from the inside out. You wanted to discover the taste of being touched.

But only for him. For no one else.

And that afternoon, when the sea was calm and the wind kissed the leaves gently, you knew.

It was the day.

He arrived as he always did: silent, intense. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. There was something different about you—he could tell before you even spoke.

“I… want that,” you murmured. “I want what she felt. But with you. Only with you.”

There was silence. He came closer and placed his hand on her leg, firm and warm. His eyes didn't waver.

“If it’s going to be someone’s…” the voice came low, almost a hoarse whisper, “let it be mine. I wouldn’t let some kid from the surface touch you without knowing what to do with you.”

Your entire body shivered with the raw certainty he held. You were about to undress, but it wasn't the clothes—it was yourself. He laid you down calmly, removing the remaining fabric with animalistic reverence.

And when she finally stood naked before him, the air around her seemed to heat up.

His eyes slid down your skin to between your legs, and he smiled slightly when he noticed how wet you already were.

“So receptive,” he murmured, trailing two fingers down the inside of her thigh.

The touch didn't reach directly where it hurt, but it was an unbearable provocation. Then he moved down. Kneeling between your spread legs, he pushed you apart with his large hands, thumbs pressing lightly against your pussy lips, gently spreading you open.

You shivered as the air touched your sex—hot, wet, pulsing. The first touch of his tongue was a shock. He licked you from bottom to top, slowly, savoring as if discovering something sacred.

Your clit was swollen, sensitive, and his touch there made your hips arch involuntarily. But he held you firmly.

“Easy…” he whispered against her skin. “I’ll make you shiver just right.”

He came back, with more intensity. His tongue now traced slow circles around your clit, then dipped down and dipped, penetrating you with warm, deep wetness.

You moaned loudly, surprised by the pleasure exploding from the center of your body as if igniting from within. His lips closed around your clit, sucking lightly, then hungrily.

The tongue alternated between sliding inside and caressing outside, keeping you on the edge without pushing you in. You writhed, your breasts erect, your breath hitching.

It was as if every nerve was screaming for more.

“That’s it… like that…” you whispered, feeling his fingers now exploring along with you, one slowly sliding inside you as his tongue focused on the most sensitive spot on your body.

You couldn't take it anymore. The orgasm came hard. A hot, wet, intense explosion. You felt your whole body shake, moaning his name on your lips, like a prayer. And he didn't stop.

He continued until he felt you relax, until the pleasure turned to a sigh, until you trembled silently, completely surrendered. Then he climbed on top of you, kissing your stomach, then your chest, your neck, your mouth.

“Now you know,” he said against her skin. “What it’s like to be touched by someone who knows how to listen to your body.”

You were breathless, your eyes watering. No one had ever made you feel so discovered.

And for the first time, you understood: the body wasn't just skin. It was a place of worship. And without another word, he stood beside you, his fingers intertwined with yours, as if he'd sworn to keep you from the world.

The days that had passed since the last time seemed to glow with the memory of him. Every moment away was a flame burning within you, a silent thirst for the touch only he knew how to give. It was as if the sea itself had kept his secret, waiting for the right moment to reveal its truth.

That afternoon, the sun gilded the sand, and the cool wind carried a salty scent that seemed to invade your senses. You walked barefoot, feeling the texture of the sand between your toes, until you found him. He was there, standing among the rocks, gazing at the horizon, as if the ocean had given him a silent invitation. When your eyes met, a slow smile formed on his lips, filled with that ancient promise.

Without hesitation, he walked toward you, his wet body glistening in the sunlight, his intense gaze fixed on yours. His hands opened and wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you into a hug that seemed to dissolve all distance.

“I waited for you,” he said, his voice husky and low, like a whisper of the sea.

You sighed, feeling his warmth against your skin, the scent of the ocean mixing with his.

“I waited too,” he replied, his voice trembling, his fingers tangling in her hair.

Their lips met with a restrained urgency, exploring, discovering, returning all the longing he'd accumulated. The kiss was hot, wet, charged with desire that grew with each passing second.

He slid his hands down your body, caressing your back, down the curve of your hips, holding you tightly, almost as if he didn't want to let go.

“ Are you ready?” he asked against her mouth, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine.

You swallowed hard, your body already craving the answer more than the certainty of it.

“Yes . I want you. I want everything that is yours.”

He smiled, and his fingers ran over your thin waist, reaching your thighs, which he held tightly, opening you to the world.

You felt the cool sand against your skin as the sea slowly crept in, lapping at your feet, slowly rising, bringing an unexpected shiver that made your body tense, wanting more. He knelt between your legs, his eyes fixed on yours, expressing a mixture of reverence and hunger.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, sliding his wet fingers over your skin, teasing and exploring, opening you with care and attention.

His tongue followed the path of his fingers, hot and wet, patiently licking your swollen clit, making you gasp and hold your breath.

“Do you like it when I do you like this?” he asked, his voice deep, between kisses and licks.

“Yes … ” you moaned, feeling the pleasure rise like a tide.

He played with you, sometimes sucking, sometimes sliding, deepening each touch until you felt the pleasure building like a wave ready to crash.

Your moans mingled with the sound of the waves, creating a symphony just for the two of you. When he finally entered you, it was a moment of total surrender.

“I want you,” he said, moving slowly, feeling every part of her.

“Pick me up…” you begged, your voice thick with desire.

Your bodies met and recognized each other in the rhythm of your movements, in a complicity that went beyond the physical, touching the deepest part of your being.

You felt the heat growing, your clit throbbing, your moans getting louder, the pleasure spreading like fire throughout your body.

“ Let me take you,” he whispered, as he sped up, steady and intense. “Let me spill my seed inside you. Make you mine, only mine. Love you to the depths of the sea.”

“Yes...” You replied, breathless.

The sand mixed with the salt water, running down your bodies, making everything even more alive, more intense. The sea was both witness and accomplice to that moment, enveloping you in its eternal embrace.

When your orgasm came, it was an explosion of sensation, of surrender, of connection. You cried out his name, a sound that seemed to come from within the earth, the sea, the sky itself. He surrendered with you, strong and deep, completing the perfect dance between you.

Lying on the wet sand, with the sea still kissing your bodies, you remained silent, sharing the warmth of the aftermath, the calm after the storm.

“I never thought the sea could be so intense,” you whispered, a wet smile on your lips.

“Neither do I,” he replied, pulling you closer, as if he wanted to cherish that moment forever.

Time flew by, and you savored every moment, every touch, every discovery. He was patient, carefully and respectfully teaching you the rhythm of your body, showing you that pleasure isn't a race, but a dance learned with trust and surrender. You explored together all that desire can bring—every sigh, every moan, every heat that rises and explodes.

Last night, you were the one who took the lead. You rode him with a strength you didn't know you possessed, feeling his body, firm and pulsing, respond to your wild rhythm. Every movement was a silent cry of desire and surrender. It was deep, urgent, and overwhelming. Now, even as you walked, you could still feel a hot, aching throb between your legs—a raw, genuine sensation that reminded you of how long he'd been inside you, large and dominating, filling every space with his presence.

At lunchtime, he ran into Nia at the small coffee shop near work. Their embrace was warm, a safe haven amid the chaos of the day.

“This dry weather is impossible,” Nia commented, pulling open her coat.

“Impossible, ” you agreed, but your smile hid something else, a secret that made your heart race.

They chatted for a bit about the heat that punished their skin, the fatigue from work, the hectic pace of everyday life. Then Nia turned to you, her eyes curious.

“And you? Anything new in life? Any secrets to tell me?”

Your heart skipped a beat. You felt a twinge of shyness mixed with the desire to share something only she would understand.

“Yes, it does,” he replied, his voice lowering, almost a whisper. “ Last night, I rode someone. It was so intense that I still feel a throbbing pain between my legs. A hot pain, that aches and burns, but that makes me remember every moment, every touch.”

Nia stood still for a moment, absorbing every word. Her eyes shone with that sincere curiosity, a genuine interest only a friend can possess.

“Really ? Tell me everything. I want to understand what it’s like to feel that way,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on hers.

You felt the heat rising in your throat, the memory of his warm skin against yours, the muffled moans, the bodies meeting in a mixture of strength and tenderness.

“He was patient with me,” she said, her voice soft, almost intimate. “He taught me every movement, every touch, every way to breathe. He showed me that pleasure takes time, that it’s not just a matter of getting there, but of feeling everything that happens in between. And you know what? I gave him a name: Roman.”

Nia frowned curiously.

“Roman? Why?”

You smiled, feeling an almost mischievous satisfaction.

"It's a joke. One of his names spelled backward," she explained, amused. " His name is difficult to say to people here, and the other should only be pronounced by his enemies. I'm not an enemy, and my tongue gets tangled when saying the other name. So I created this nickname just for myself. I like the idea of having a name that's just ours, something that only I use. I feel smart for having thought of it."

Nia laughed, enchanted by the creativity and complicity you conveyed.

“It must be something incredible, right? How does it make you feel? Tell me more, I want to feel that too, even if it's just through your voice.”

You took a deep breath, the memory of his skin against yours, the heat of the night, his moans and whispers, invading your senses.

"He makes me feel alive in a way I never imagined," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "Every touch, every kiss, every penetration, it's like the whole world disappears and it's just the two of us. The intensity is so intense that sometimes it hurts, but it's a good pain, and I don't want it to end. When he's inside me, I feel every nerve awakening, every part of my body pulsating, a mixture of desire, surrender, and satisfaction that leaves me breathless."

Nia was silent, letting the weight of the words fill the space between you. Then she smiled sincerely.

“I'm glad you're experiencing this. Enjoy every moment. You deserve it.”

She got up to go back to work, and you sat there, a silly smile on your lips, feeling the heat still pulsing inside you, the memory of his body, the name he created, and the certainty that soon, very soon, you would return to lose yourself in it all again.

The following days were a mix of waiting and intense memories. Every sound, every smell, every touch of your skin seemed to awaken the desire you couldn't suppress. You found yourself smiling to yourself, remembering his body, the warmth he brought, his strength filling you completely.

When they finally met again, it was as if time had stopped. His gaze met yours, filled with the same intensity you felt. Unhurriedly, he approached, his fingers gliding over your skin with care and promise.

You walked to the seashore, where the waves crashed gently, the wind playing with your hair. The cool water ran down your warm skin, creating a contrast that made every touch even more vivid.

He held you tight, guiding you slowly onto him. You felt his hard body, pulsing with strength and desire, as he entered you slowly, respecting your rhythm, feeling your every reaction.

The sensation of the water flowing beneath you, cool and salty, mixed with the heat of his body, heightened the pleasure. His every movement made your skin crawl, a moan escaping your lips.

You surrendered to the moment, bodies and souls connected in that unique encounter. With every thrust, every moan, every sigh, the world around you faded away, leaving just the two of you and the pleasure that exploded in waves within you.

He whispered dirty words in your ear, telling you how hot you were, how much he wanted to feel you like this, all his. You responded, your words broken, trembling with desire, begging for more, wanting everything.

It was the first time they'd made love like this, right there by the sea, the water washing over their bodies and washing away any doubt or fear. It was wild, intense, and, above all, real.

When they finally reached their peak, you felt your body shudder, pleasure taking over every part of you, an explosion that seemed to connect your heart to his.

The icy wind kissed your skin, raising goosebumps on every exposed inch. You could have worn more clothes, covered your arms and legs—but he didn't like it. He was impatient. He demanded less fabric and more skin. And for that, you hated him a little.

The cold sea at night was excruciating. For him, nothing changed. You even objected once, murmuring about how the wind bit your skin as you waited for him. The look he gave you was enough to silence any further attempts. So, like a good little lamb, you began going to the seaside in the early hours, wearing only a too-short, almost translucent dress, jade necklaces adorning your waist, hair loose in the breeze.

Your feet followed the path to the water. You shivered as the cold foam reached your heels. You released the small shell and watched it drift away. You waited. And waited. And waited.

He emerged from the water. Beautiful. Ethereal. Like a god coming to claim what was rightfully his. You stepped away, your back to him—part of a now-familiar ritual. He followed you. He always followed.

You climbed the porch steps and opened the wooden door. He stepped in close behind. You took a deep breath, inhaling the salt and musk scent he exuded. It was good. Exciting. Damp. You turned and smiled—like you always did. This time, he smiled back. He rarely did.

“Hi,” you said in a whisper.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice firm.

“You took your time this time.”

He walked around the small room, examining the photographs on the table: smiling faces, happy moments from a life that seemed so distant. Now, everything was about him. For him. Only him.

“I know,” he said. “Ruling a nation takes a lot out of me.”

“I see.” You didn’t understand, but you said it to comfort him—as you always did. He stopped and stared at you.

“I need to ask you something,” he said, approaching.

You hated it when he talked like that. He didn't ask. He demanded. And you could never refuse, not when you depended so much on him.

“Of course,” you replied automatically. “Ask, and it shall be done.”

He smiled, showing all his teeth.

“Good girl. My good girl.” His hand rested on her cheek and caressed it. “My battle with Wakanda opened my eyes to something frightening.”

“What would it be?”

“If my spirit were to meet my ancestors today, Talokan would have nothing of me. Nothing. It would be vulnerable to invaders from the surface.” His hand slid to the back of her neck, tightening its grip on her hair. It wasn't painful, but enough to keep her trapped. “It made me realize I need to start a dynasty. I need heirs to protect what I love most if I'm gone.”

Your heart raced. You knew exactly what he was getting at.

"I need you, my girl. I need you to close your mind and open your womb to me. Receive my seed and let it grow strong. Be the fertile soil of my lineage."

Your body froze. You couldn't. Not under these conditions. Prisoner of a god-king, at the mercy of his whims. Your breath faltered. Your blood ran like fire through your veins. A child would mean eternal imprisonment. You took a deep breath and, with a trembling voice, tried to escape.

“We’ve been together for three years. You always... come inside me, and I’ve never conceived. Maybe I can’t.”

He smiled—not that gentle smile, but the cynical, cutting one. You knew it was a lie. He gripped your hair, tilting your head. You grabbed his wrist, trying to ease the pressure.

“You’re young and healthy, my love.” He leaned close to her ear. “We just need to get rid of that contraption in your arm. And I’m going to do it. Even if I have to rip it off.”

“Please,” you begged, breathless. “I’m just a woman from the surface. Your people would never accept a child of mine.”

“Silly detail.” He smiled. “They’ll accept it. If I order it, they’ll love it.”

“Lover...”

You tried to argue. In vain. Begging never worked. He always took what he wanted, ignoring your wishes.

“Is that what you call me? Am I your enemy? Is the father of your children your enemy?” He growled, tightening his grip on her hair.

"No no..."

“Good girl.” He released her hair and caressed her face. “Now come on. Let’s get this damn thing out of your body.”

You hesitated ... but your feet already obeyed, moving on their own, submissive, like puppets guided by hands that weren't yours. You were no longer inside your own body—only the mold he'd sculpted with time, fear, and desire. As you walked across the wooden floor, each creak beneath your footsteps felt like a lament coming from the depths of your soul. And it was there, between one step and the next, that you sank into the bitter reflection of your own misery.

So young—still with a newborn soul—she was called a prodigy. She entered university before her breasts even appeared, before she could understand what it meant to have a body. Then came the government job. Then… him.

The memories of the moment you met him seemed shrouded in a dense fog, as if the memory had been ripped away with cruel delicacy. Trauma? Or had he poisoned your memories with some kind of charm, hypnosis, domination? You didn't know—and that hurt more than any answer.

Only echoes remained: fragments of innocent curiosity, smiles offered with affection, promises whispered in a language that seemed sweet before turning to poison. After that… darkness. Like a forest overtaken by fog where each tree is a distorted reflection of something you once were.

Your family? You remembered them because of the photographs he'd given you. But even those images seemed fake now. You wondered: were they really your memories... or just memories he'd allowed you to have?

The small scar on her arm was the only concrete clue to the woman who might once have existed. The device… you knew it was there. But how had it gotten there? Was it before… or after? A protective measure? A demand from her mother? A final gesture of autonomy?

You asked yourself these questions in the rare moments you still dared to think. But you already knew you would never find the answers. Because now… you were just a shadow of what you might once have been—if you were anything more than a vessel waiting to be molded.

A shell with borrowed memories.

A busy body.

A name that no longer meant anything.

You walked to the bedroom as if each step were taken with someone else's body. Your consciousness watched from afar, separated from your body, a prisoner of itself. The sound of his feet behind you—wet, firm, possessive—filled the silence like a tribal beat. The wood floor creaked under the weight of inevitability.

The room was plunged into darkness. The candles lit at the ends cast flickering shadows on the walls, like specters dancing around what was about to happen. You stopped beside the bed. You didn't dare sit up, or speak. You just waited. Waiting had become your silent language.

He approached from behind, his fingers tracing her spine with the lightness of someone who knows he's in control. Her hair stood on end again, not from the cold, but from the defensive instinct her body insisted on activating—even as her mind pleaded for escape.

“Let me see,” he murmured.

Her hand trembled as she pulled up the sleeve of her dress, revealing the thin scar on her left arm. Discreet. Invisible to many, but not to his. It was what protected her. A simple device, implanted by friendly hands, that suppressed her fertility. A last thread of autonomy.

He looked at the spot with disdain, as if it were a personal offense. As if each month without conception were an affront. His finger passed over the spot, and for a second, there was a reverent silence. Then, the outburst.

With restrained strength, he grabbed her arm, bringing it to his eyes. The smell of salt and fury mingled with the sweat that now beaded on her skin.

“You lied to me, my girl,” he said, too calmly. “You lied with your mouth and with your body.”

You tried to pull your arm back. He wouldn't let you.

"Please…"

He didn't answer. With a swift movement, he cut and pulled. The pain came fast, searing—as if a piece of you had been forcibly severed. You choked on your own scream. You fell to your knees. Blood gushed. He hadn't been gentle at all; he'd cut too far and too deep.

The sound of your own blood dripping was too loud. The pain came dull, hot, a wave of red running down your forearm where he had ripped away, with divine fingers, what was yours. The cut hadn't been clean. There was no precision, only will. And his will always hurt. You fell to your knees, dizzy, the world spinning around you as if the ground were sinking. Blood ran in thin rivers, staining your pale skin and mingling with the tears you no longer noticed as they began to fall.

It was then that he knelt too. Namor. The god-king . The warrior who split empires in half.

Kneeling before you.

“ Shhh … it’s okay now,” he whispered, his voice deep as the sea before a storm. One of his hands, still damp from the ocean salt, touched her injured arm. Warm. Strong. Resolute.

You shivered. Not from pain—not anymore. But from something deeper, more confusing: that moment when a predator caresses its prey after a blow. When love disguises itself as care, and the victim forgets, for a second, that they're bleeding because of him. With slow, almost tender movements, he tore part of his own robe and wrapped the fabric around the wound. Blood darkened the blue silk, staining the throne's insignia with his suffering.

“You should have told me, my girl,” he said, tying the cloth tightly. His fingers pressed, knowing just where to press to stop it but not hurt too much. “Hiding something from me… hurts me more than you know.”

You tried to say something, but your throat burned, dry of words. So you just looked at him. A look that said it all: You hurt me. You hurt me more than this cut.

But he didn't see it. Or he pretended not to see it.

He finished the bandage and ran his red-stained fingers through his disheveled hair, brushing away the strands that stuck to his sweaty forehead. That touch. That gesture. It was almost sweet. And that was what hurt the most. Because a part of you... wanted to believe in that sweetness.

He tilted his head, and for a moment, his face was too close. You could smell him—salt, iron, and something ancient. His eyes shone with something between adoration and possession.

“Look what they did to you,” he murmured, as if he himself weren’t the executioner. “Fragile. Broken. But I will fix you. I will make you whole again. And this time… mine alone.”

That sentence pierced her flesh like a needle. Because you knew: what he called "cure" was just a new form of imprisonment. A gilded cell. A womb sealed with promises. He took her by the shoulders and, with superhuman ease, lifted her. Her feet floated for a brief moment, not touching the ground. He laid her on the bed with the reverence of someone offering sacrifices to the gods—even though he himself was one of them.

You felt dizzy, feverish, empty.

“Rest, my girl,” he said, sitting beside her. “Tomorrow, when the sun rises, your body will finally be free.”

“Free.” He said that word as if he never knew what it meant.

You closed your eyes, your arm throbbing beneath the soaked cloth, and whispered to yourself, Maybe I need to bleed out to remember who I am.

(..)

You woke up like someone rising from an abyss.

He couldn't tell if he'd fallen asleep or passed out. His body felt too light, but his mind… felt heavy. Everything was a blur, as if time had melted away overnight and memories were slipping through the cracks in the mattress.

Pain was the first thing he knew for sure. A slow, deep throb in his left arm, as if something inside still insisted on remembering what had been ripped out. The cut no longer bled—not openly—but the sheets spoke volumes. Stained dark red, stiff and dry in some spots, still damp in others. A silent signature of the violence that had occurred.

You turned your face with difficulty and saw him there.

Namor. Lying beside you.

He slept on his back, one arm folded over his head, the other resting loosely, almost touching his waist. His chest rose and fell with absurd calm, as if the world weren't in ruins—as if he himself hadn't caused the ruin.

His serenity was an affront.

You stared at him for long seconds, trying to make sense of what you saw. That face... so beautiful, so sculpted, almost celestial. How could something so divine carry such power to destroy? How could it love and wound with the same hand?

She felt lost. More than ever. It was as if she were living another woman's life. One who was desired, yes, but used. One who belonged, but owned nothing. Not even herself.

You slid your fingers down your abdomen, feeling around as if searching for something. You didn't know what. Maybe traces of who you used to be. Maybe a sign that there was still something there that belonged to you. But everything felt contaminated. As if every part of you had been marked by him.

“Are you awake…” his voice broke the silence, hoarse and warm, like the morning breath at the bottom of the sea.

You shivered. You didn't answer right away.

He turned and leaned closer, leaning his weight on his elbow. He smiled. That smile that confused tenderness with power. His dark eyes held the gleam of a man who believes he's saving the world—even as he consumes it.

“I took care of you,” he said, gently touching her face. “You slept soundly. It was a bit much for your body … But you were strong. As always.”

His thumb caressed her cheek, a touch so tender it almost made her body forget the pain it had caused hours before.

"Tonight is a special night, you know?" she continued, whispering, as if sharing a secret with a lover, not a prisoner. "Full moon. The gods will be watching. Blessing. They will listen to our bodies… and hear my request."

You looked at him as if you were watching a man about to offer flowers to the grave he dug himself.

He sat on the edge of the bed, gently held her bandaged hand, and kissed her fingers, taking his time. The touch of his lips was warm, intimate. Unacceptably gentle.

“ Tonight, my girl… I want you clean. Purified. Whole. I want you ready.” He smiled, his eyes shining feverishly. “I’ve prepared something special. A bath with salt from the Talokan caves , sacred seaweed oil, and hot stones. It will ease your pain. It will open your body. They will sense your openness.”

You felt your stomach churn, but your face didn't move.

“Why are you doing this to me?” her voice came out small, fragile, almost childish.

He tilted his head, as if the question were strange.

"Because I love you. And you belong to me." He brought his lips to her forehead and kissed with a slowness that seemed ritualistic. "And because you were born for this, even without knowing it. To create the future. To be the mother of my dynasty."

You closed your eyes and held back your tears. Because if you cried now, he would think they were tears of emotion. But they weren't. They were tears of grief. You were lying next to a man who believed he was creating life…

But all he did was slowly kill his own.

You sat up in bed with effort. Your body still felt heavy, as if carrying more than flesh and bone—as if your soul were being dragged along with it. Your feet touched the cold floor, and your toes ached as they gripped the worn wood. The morning silence was broken only by the sound of the sea, always there, always calling, like a memory that could not be forgotten.

He approached without a word, helping you to your full height. His hand rested firmly on your waist, as if the mere act of touching was already asserting dominance.

“Come. I want you to see what I have prepared for you,” he said softly, but with unspoken intentions.

Walking beside him was like crossing a minefield. With each step, fear and wonder intertwined within you, difficult to distinguish.

The bathroom was in the back, separated by a wooden door carved with ancient symbols, circles, and intertwined serpents. Pushing it open revealed a space that seemed to exist between two worlds.

It was rustic, but not shabby. The walls were black stone and greenish coral, and the ceiling was openwork, allowing natural light to filter through in golden shafts. In the center, a tub carved from volcanic rock steamed gently, filled with warm water. Ceramic bowls were scattered on low tables, scented candles lit, and herbs dried on hanging ropes.

He turned to you with a look that mixed reverence and desire.

“May I?” she asked, but the question was just a pretense. He was already beginning to undo the laces of the dress that barely covered her body.

The garment slipped from her shoulders, and his fingers ran over her skin with the familiarity of someone who believed they had a right to everything. He felt her shoulders, the curve of her back, the sides of her breasts, as if checking to see if the object was still intact. His touch was careful, but not gentle. It was possessive. Ritualistic.

You tried not to react.

As she stepped into the water, the heat enveloped her like an embrace that wasn't her own. She let out an involuntary sigh. The pain in her arm eased. Steam rose, caressing her scarred skin.

He watched her. Standing, his dark eyes fixed on you like a predator contemplating its offering. The desire in his gaze was restrained, but present. Dangerous. Almost sacred. With calculated delicacy, he began pouring ingredients into the water:

“ Iximte , sacred corn leaves,” he said, throwing handfuls of crushed leaves. “For fertility. So that your land, your womb, may flourish.”

You just stared at him. It was hard to hate him in that moment. There was something pure in the way he spoke of his culture. He seemed to believe it was all beautiful. That he was doing something right. And you found yourself asking—a question that tugged at your heart: Was that what made me love him? The way he was passionate about his heritage? His burning faith in something greater than himself?

He continued:

" Balché ," he poured an amber liquid into the water, releasing a sweet aroma. "It's an infusion used in mating rituals. It connects body and spirit."

Then he took small greenish crystals and threw them around the tub:

“Chak Lu'um ... red clay from Talokan . The ancients said it removes what is dead within us.” His eyes locked with hers. “You must let die what prevents you from flourishing.”

You sank a little deeper into the water, trying to hide your breasts, your body, your soul. It was all too much. The scent of the herbs, the heat, his gaze, the hidden pain in your arm. He knelt beside you, watching silently. Then he dipped a linen cloth in the hot water and gently wiped it over your shoulders, your neck, your collarbone.

“ Tonight... you will be light under the full moon,” he whispered. “The gods will see in you the mother of my lineage.”

After the bath, he wrapped her in a white, almost ceremonial cloth. The water was still running down her hair as he sat her on a stone bench and, with almost surgical precision, removed the makeshift bandage from the night before. He cleaned the wound with a warm tea, blew gently on the skin as if calming a flame, and applied a new bandage with braided linen ribbons. This time, clean, firm. Caring for you seemed part of the same ritual.

You didn't speak. Neither did he. He pulled your hand and led you to the balcony.

There, a carved wooden table awaited. Two chairs, also carved, adorned with snake and spiral motifs. The table was set: small plates of corn tamales stuffed with fruits and seeds, toasted pepitas, slices of pure cacao with chili, and a glass of fermented balché . All this faced the vastness of the sea, now glistening in the morning sun.

He sat down and motioned for you to do the same.

"Eat," he said. "They are sacred offerings. The ancients said the body must be nourished before it can be consecrated. Corn strengthens the flesh. Balché sweetens the blood. Cocoa..." he smiled, "awakens the instincts."

You picked up a nugget with trembling fingers. Light. Small. But it tasted like something that didn't belong to you. Across the table, he ate slowly, as if everything was in balance. As if this morning were perfect.

And you? You chewed in silence, the taste of the past stuck in your throat.

And with the terrible certainty that, that night, the sky would be too bright…

And the gods would have their eyes open.

Night fell like a slow veil over the house.

The sea wind blew warm, carrying the scent of salt and something ancient. The large window in the room remained open, as he had instructed, and the full moon spilled its liquid light onto the stone and wood floor. It was a pale, silvery light, almost sacred. Almost complicit.

You stood barefoot, clad only in a light white fabric that streamed down your shoulders like mist. The cloth danced in the wind, and your skin—once so scarred by pain—was now merely warm, sensitive, waiting for the inevitable. The room was silent except for the sound of the sea. And then... he walked in.

Namor walked toward you like a feline who knows every step of its territory. His body covered only by a sash of dark fabric, adorned with jewelry made of bone and jade. His hair was damp. His skin was slicked with scented oil. His eyes were filled with something more than desire—it was devotion mixed with possession.

“My girl...” he murmured, as he approached from behind.

You didn't move. You just felt it. The heat of his body. The electricity that trickled from his palm as it rested on your waist, firm, like an anchor.

“The moon is full.” His voice slid down her neck like a warm breeze. “And as beautiful as you.”

Your eyes were fixed on the moon's reflection on the ground. Silver. Untouchable. But he was there, touching you with fingers that didn't tremble.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered, pressing his lips to her ear. “The gods are here. They are watching. They know who you are. What you are destined to become.”

His other hand moved slowly up your stomach, as if holding something delicate, alive. It moved up, circling the side of your breast, but didn't rush the touch. It simply sketched. It studied. As if you were sacred territory.

“They want you to blossom,” he continued, low and soft. “They want you to let fear die. To let the legacy be born.”

You closed your eyes, your body wavering between the cold of fear and the heat of touch. It was wrong. You knew it. Something inside you was screaming. But another part... silent... gave in. Not out of love. Not out of pleasure. But out of exhaustion. Out of a desire for peace. Out of a desire to resist no longer.

“Do you love me?” you asked, your voice fragile, almost invisible.

He paused for a moment. Then he slowly turned his body, making you face him.

“I love you more than the sea loves its own fury.” His eyes were sweet abysses. “I love you as the gods love their offerings. Because you are this…” he leaned his forehead against hers. “…a gift the world has given me. And I will protect every part of you. Even from yourself.”

You swallowed, your heart beating so fast you couldn't tell if it was escape or surrender. He cupped your face in both hands and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—not hurriedly, but reverently. The kiss was warm. Slow. Velvety. A prayer. His hand slid down your bare back, and you let yourself be led to the center of the room, where the cold floor contrasted with the warmth spreading between you. The moonlight spilled over you like a silent blessing, watching.

He knelt before you, as if in devotion. He pulled the fabric down from your body with both hands, and the sound of it falling to the floor was like the trigger of a spell.

“Today, you will become more than a woman ,” he said , his eyes fixed between her thighs, but his face lifted solemnly. “You will be the land where my legacy begins.”

And you...

You let him touch you. Not with desire. Not with love.

But with that kind of sad surrender that happens when the soul just wants to rest. A rupture has occurred within you, but not to free you.

To accept. And it was in that instant that you stopped resisting—not because he won … But because you lost yourself. And under the moonlight, silver as steel, you cried without sound.

The room was plunged into darkness, and the light of the full moon streamed through the window like a sacred beam, illuminating the stone floor, their bodies, and their unspoken intentions. The air was thick and warm. There was a scent of salt, of burning oil from candles, and of something else—something primal, ancient, emanating from him.

His body still ached in spots. His arm throbbed beneath the new bandage, but it wasn't the physical that weighed him down: it was the emotional. The exhaustion of existing between fear and fascination. Between the desire to escape and the desire to belong.

He approached slowly, as if time itself obeyed his steps. The dark cloth covering his hips fell before he touched you, and then he was naked, before you—a sculpted, taut body, with eyes that never left yours. His eyes, those of a hungry god.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, pressing his chest against yours. His hand slid from the curve of your neck to your waist, holding you tightly, pulling you against him. “My temple. My offering.”

You felt his erection against your belly. And you didn't pull away. Not because you wanted it. But because you were tired of resisting. Because, somewhere, you still sought meaning in that devotion he insisted on showering upon you. He kissed you. Deeply. His mouth was hot, precise. He didn't ask—he took. His tongue invaded your mouth with cruel calm, and his hand moved down, cupping your buttock, squeezing with dominance. You let out a low sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. And he smiled against your skin.

He took her by the waist, his delicacy belying the fire in his eyes. He guided her to the soft floor, where cushions and fine fabrics were spread out like a makeshift altar. Silk, linen, and cotton mingled beneath her body, enveloping her like a sacred bed. She lay down, feeling the cool, smooth texture of the fibers against her warm skin.

The evening light filtered through the gaps in the flowing curtains, golden and warm, bathing her bare skin in almost ethereal reflections. Every curve of her seemed to glow—her shoulders, her belly, her hips—as if the sun itself were touching her in reverence. The glow caressed her breasts and highlighted the soft contours of her waist, making her seem like a living sculpture, made of heat, flesh, and light.

He hovered over you, his eyes fixed, absorbing the sight with reverent silence. There was no rush. There was fascination.

“Let me... make your body the beginning of our lineage,” he murmured.

His hand found her breasts, his thumbs caressing her nipples, which were already hard from anticipation, the cold, or the ache of being there. He sucked one fervently, biting lightly, leaving a hot trail of saliva down the center of her chest. His other hand moved between her legs, parting them with dominance and reverence.

“You’re wet,” he whispered, his fingers dipping between her intimate lips with an almost reverent slowness. “Your body knows. Even when your mind resists… it calls to me.”

You shivered. It wasn't just from his touch—it was from his low, husky voice, which seemed to blend with the heat of the night. A short moan escaped you, involuntary, sincere. He smiled with his eyes, as if receiving a secret.

“Tell me, my girl...” he begged, his fingers moving with mastery. “Tell me what you feel. What you want.”

The silence was heavy, but your body spoke—in your legs that gave way, in your goosebumps, in the way your breath was lost in the air. He didn't need your response in words. He felt every subtle contraction, every involuntary tremor. Desire was an ancient language between you two—one he knew well, like someone who knows the way even with their eyes closed. Your gaze met his—and there was something more than surrender there: it was conscious surrender.

“You don’t even know how beautiful you are like this… given over to the light,” he said, his voice low, almost a prayer.

Her hair spread across the fabric like a dark veil, her lips parted in anticipation. And he descended, bracing himself with his arms on either side of her, never breaking the moment, as if he were about to inhabit something sacred.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips against the corner of her mouth, breathing in with her. “You’re mine,” he murmured, as if it were an ancient truth.

He knew how to touch you, how to stimulate your pussy until it was nothing but wet, sensitive flesh. He was skilled, stimulating your swollen clit and your g-spot simultaneously, and he smiled as you writhed with pleasure.

“Oh my god!” You cried out as he pressed your clit hard and moved his fingers faster.

“That’s it… let it come,” he whispered against her skin, his fingers delving deeper, soaking, dominating every beat of her pleasure. The wet sound of his movements was lewd, too intimate—and for that very reason, utterly irresistible. Her body arched involuntarily, her hips seeking more contact, more friction, more of him. Each thrust of his fingers was precise, as if he’d mapped every nerve ending, as if he’d been born for this—to discover you, to tease you, to possess you.

He brought his lips to your neck, leaving a hot bite in the curve between your shoulder and throat, and you moaned again, louder, more surrendered. You felt on fire, melting inside. His breath was coming in ragged pants now, his desire almost as wild as yours.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and her eyes searched his, clouded with pleasure. “I want to see you come. I want to see your soul escape through your mouth.”

You gripped his shoulders tightly, your nails digging into his skin, trying to hold back the wave that was building inside you like a raging sea. He felt it. His voice was a dirty, sweet promise. “Come for me, now. I want to feel everything.”

And then your body shattered into spasms, your inner muscles contracting tightly around his fingers. A hoarse moan tore from your throat, uncontrollable, as your body shook in seemingly endless waves. He didn't stop. He only slowed his pace, riding you on the tide of your own ecstasy.

When the climax passed, your knees could barely support your weight. He held you tightly, tenderly. He kissed your forehead, then your lips, as if sealing a pact.

“You were born for this,” he murmured. “To be mine.”

He pulled back a little, just enough for you to see—and what you saw made your belly contract again, in spasms still alive. His member was there, thick, firm, large. So erect it throbbed, the glans glistening, red, dripping with desire. A drop trickled slowly down the warm skin to the base, and your body reacted as if that liquid had touched you.

“Look what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger, but with that touch of affection only he knew how to inject into the chaos. “You make me so... desperate.”

Your eyes couldn't tear themselves away. The size, the hardness, the way he held the base with one hand, as if trying to control his own momentum—it all burned inside you. You felt a blush creep up your neck, your cheeks burning. It was embarrassment, yes, but it was accompanied by something deeper... an undeniable excitement.

You bit your lip, halfway between embarrassment and impulse. The wetness between your legs grew by the second—and he knew it. He smelled it. The scent of the two of you mingled was already filling the air. And then he positioned himself between your open legs, looking at you as if he saw everything she was: desire, fear, courage, and surrender.

He gripped her hip firmly and, with his other hand, guided his own member to her warm, wet entrance. The tip brushed against her inner lips, spreading the already accumulated liquid, sending a sharp shiver up her spine. He rubbed slowly, savoring the moment when they were both still on the brink, about to cross a threshold of no return.

Then he pushed in—just the head first—and you moaned softly, your body contracting around his invasion. He was thick. Hot. Alive. Your channel molded to him with effort, as if your flesh needed to make room inch by inch. The sensation was too intense, almost unbearable... and yet, good. Good in a torturous way.

“ Shhh ... let... let me,” he whispered against her lips, panting.

Another inch. And another. You arched your body, your hands gripping the cloths. beneath you , his eyes clenched between pleasure and something bordering on pain. But it was a good pain. A hot, heavy pain that throbbed between his thighs like the beat of an ancient drum. It hurt, yes—the muscle stretched, the body surrendered, almost begged—but that pain seemed to have a purpose: to open you up completely. To make you a home for him.

“You’re so tight… it’s like your body never wants to let me out,” he said through gritted teeth, now almost all the way inside your pussy. You bit your lip, a louder moan escaping. And then, in one slow, deep movement, he filled you completely.

You felt everything. You felt how big he was, how he seemed to touch places no one had ever reached. How your body filled and, at the same time, lost itself. It was stretching, pressure, pleasure—a pleasure that burned at the edges and left you gasping, as if your own body were trying to adapt to what it wanted most.

“It’s too much…” you managed to whisper, your voice breaking.

He stayed there, buried in your pussy, his eyes fixed on yours. And then he began to move. Slow. Deep. And the sweet pain became an addiction. You felt him coming and going, each thrust ripping the breath from you and returning it in the form of moans and tremors. It was intense, raw, and yet reverent. As if he were worshiping something sacred. And you wanted more. Even when it hurt. Even when your body begged for rest. Because in that pain lived the deepest, wildest, most genuine pleasure you had ever known.

Each thrust was measured, deep, rhythmic. His hips slammed into yours with controlled force, as if performing a ritual. His breathing became heavier, sweat trickled down his temples, and his eyes... always on you. As if he wanted to imprint his existence within yours.

“You are mine,” he whispered. “My queen of the surface. My fertile womb. My eternity.”

And you, with your head thrown back, wept silently. Because part of you wanted to believe it. That you were loved. That you were chosen. That there was something beyond domination.

Your orgasm came like a forced confession. A pleasure taken, ripped from within, as if it were his—not yours. And his came right after, with a deep, possessive groan. He trembled inside you, his hips still pressing, as if to seal his seed with his own strength.

Then he lay down on her chest, panting, and whispered between kisses:

“The gods saw. They know. It is done.”

You looked at the ceiling. The moonlight was in your eyes.

And for the first time…

In the deep nation of Talokan , where sunlight is a forgotten whisper beneath the dark waters, you have learned to exist in silence. The sound of your breath caught in your respirator, the cool touch of stones beneath your feet, the murmur of shells being carefully stacked—all part of your invisible routine.

You are one of the servants of Namora , the king's cousin. She is powerful, respected, admired by all. And you? You observe. You follow orders. You keep quiet. Your eyes lower when the king's voice echoes in the halls. You revere him, as everyone else does. But you never expect to be seen.

Still, you dream. Silently, like everything you do.

That day, something about Namora was different. She was finishing training with the group of warriors when her eyes met yours. You hurried to look away, but she was already walking towards you with the same confident gait she used on the battlefield.

"You look sad," she said, tilting her head slightly.

“I’m not, ma’am. Just… focused,” you replied, struggling to maintain your composure.

She arched an eyebrow. "Concentrated is a fancy way of saying the world tires you."

You looked at her, surprised by the veiled kindness.

"Come with me. I want to show you something that not everyone knows."

There was hesitation in your chest, but there was something about her invitation that felt like a gesture of affection. You nodded.

She led you through hidden tunnels, up the rocky cliffs of the great royal cavern, to a crevice camouflaged by coral and lichen. There, they both emerged—leaving their respirators and rising above the surface, where the air was thick and warm, the ceiling of the cavern shiny with minerals reflecting the filtered sea light.

Namora smiled, pulling out a small box made of translucent scales hidden in one of the rocks.

"This cave belongs to my cousin. Almost no one goes up here. But I grew up in this place. It's where adults spoke truths... and where young people came to play at forgetting them."

She opened the box and took out two small vials. The liquid inside was a deep red, shining like blood in the light.

"Ruby fruit and petal liqueur. Forbidden to young soldiers ... but we're not in training now, are we?"

You took the vial hesitantly. It seemed to pulse in your hand.

"I don't know if we should..."

"That's exactly why we should," she said, a teenage glint in her eyes. "Come on, just one sip. Maybe two. It'll make your lips shine like summer coral."

You laughed, surprised at your own boldness. And you drank.

The taste was intoxicating: sweet, warm, with a gentle acidity that made his tongue tingle. His skin felt warm, his limbs relax, his heart race.

Namora lay down on her back on a flat rock and laughed, a real, free laugh.

"You are beautiful when you allow yourself to be alive," she said.

"You too. But I already knew that."

"Ah, but you don't say that often. You look at me as if I were a distant star. Now here you are... with red lips. And they suit you."

Namora's eyes shone with freedom, hers and yours reflecting something childish, pure and deliciously forbidden.

"When you get back down there, everyone will think you kissed a sea spirit."

"Or that I was bitten by an enchanted coral," you replied, and you both laughed so hard that you lay side by side, panting.

"If he sees you like this... with those lips... he'll look at you differently."

"Who is he?"

Namora smiled, turning to the side.

"You know who."

You looked away, pretending not to know. But you knew. You knew as if your heart was silently screaming the name: K'uk'ulkan .

Back at the palace, you returned to your duties. No one noticed the lightness in your step. The breeze of laughter still stuck to your lips. The heat of the liquor still warming your veins. You believed you had kept the moment like a secret between shells.

But he forgot about your lips. They were red as velvet. Like fire. And that was what made him stop. K'uk'ulkan was crossing the hall with slow, majestic steps. As always. But when he passed you, he stopped.

"You."

The word made your entire body stiffen. You turned around, slowly, feeling the blood drain from your face.

"My lord?" His voice was low, almost a whisper. His eyes—eyes like the bottom of the ocean—landed directly on her lips. Then, on her eyes.

“There’s something about you today,” he said, his voice softer than you expected. “It’s more alive.”

You tried to respond, but there were no ready words.

"It was Namora , wasn't it?" He smiled, as if he guessed. "That girl knows how to light up the world around her."

You smiled shyly, eyes still downcast. "She just... reminded me that I can laugh."

“I hope she reminds you of that more often,” he said. And then he moved a little closer. You felt the warmth of his body. His presence. An entire world contained in an instant.

"Your lips... seem stained with blood."

Your heart was pounding so hard you almost thought he would hear it.

"It was just... a liqueur," you mumbled. "Nothing important."

"Maybe not for you. But for me... it was enough to make me stop. And that doesn't happen often."

You looked at him. For the first time. And there was a gleam in his eyes. Not of a king. But of a man. Curious. Alive.

"It was good to hear your voice," he said. "I hope she doesn't hide so much next time."

Before you could say anything, Attuma 's voice cut through the moment.

" K'uk'ulkan , the counselors await." He nodded, but before he left, he took one last look at you. And smiled.

After that day, the world seemed to have shifted slightly. The walls of Talokan no longer seemed so cold. The shells you arranged as offerings to the blue goddess had a different glow. And the corridors you once walked alone began to hold echoes of a presence—his.

But you never realized how much he already looked at you. How much he always looked at you. For you, everything seemed new. For him, it didn't.

You returned to your daily duties, believing that the conversation with K'uk'ulkan had been a kind coincidence. A gesture from king to subject. Nothing more. But then came the other encounters. Always brief. Always unexpected. And increasingly... intimate. Once, while you were arranging the ritual jade amulets, you heard his voice rise like a calm tide beside you.

"You always organize them in color order... Why?"

You jumped, turning around so quickly that you almost dropped one of the amulets.

"I... think colors have a music of their own," you replied. "And together, they tell stories. If they're out of order, the story feels wrong."

He smiled, as if savoring the answer.

"Interesting. I never thought of colors as sounds. Just as symbols. But you... always see beyond that, don't you?"

You blushed, looking away. "I guess I only see what's in front of me."

He leaned forward, looking at the amulets with his face close to hers. Then he said, in a lower tone:

"Sometimes, those who see little are those who see most."

Her hands began to shake. Not from fear. But from the heat. From the presence.

The truth you didn't know Since the first days. When you walked with your face down, carrying pots of sea salt for rituals. When you passed behind columns, making no sound. When your hands arranged ceremonial robes with an almost reverent delicacy.

K'uk'ulkan , the winged serpent god, saw the entire world through the eyes of a king. But every now and then, his eyes would rest... on you.

It was your silence that attracted him. The way you listened more than you spoke. As if you carried an ancient wisdom. A tenderness that he barely saw in the world of fighting and strategy. But he never called you. Never spoke. Until the day of the red lips.

And now... he didn't seem to want to stop anymore.

Days later, you were assigned to help prepare for the lunar ceremony. The chamber where the water was blessed was in the presence of the king. You were to leave the incense, arrange the ceremonial cloths, and leave before he entered.

But as he turned to leave, his voice reached the door before he could.

"Stay."

You stopped. Goosebumps.

"Yes, my lord."

He walked across the room, his bare feet touching the wet stone as if he were dancing on it. He approached slowly.

"Do you know the prayer they say here?" he asked.

"I've heard it a few times. But I've never recited it."

"I'd like to hear what it sounds like in your voice."

You hesitated. You never thought you would use your voice in his presence. But there was something in his eyes that wasn’t an order—it was an invitation.

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and recited.

His voice was low but firm. Soft as water flowing between corals. He listened to you as if he were listening to the ocean itself. And when you finished, he said, in a tone that held the tide of contained desire:

"You have the voice of one who came from the depths."

You looked at him, trying to understand what that meant. But you didn't know how to respond.

"I... am just a servant."

"Don't say that again," he replied softly. "You carry more silence within you than many a man in battle. And silence, sometimes... is louder than the scream."

Since then, it began to appear. In simple moments. In routine tasks.

When you helped Namora train the young warriors, he watched from afar. When you served dried fruit to the councilors' tables, he was the one who noticed when your hand shook.

He always approached you naturally, but there was a tension in his gestures. As if something inside him wanted to touch your world ... but couldn't. One night, you were alone, tending the offering nets. The hall was almost empty, only the seaweed danced between the pillars of shells. And then he arrived.

"Do you always work late?"

“It’s easier to think when everyone’s asleep,” you replied, without turning around.

"Or easier to feel?"

You stopped. What did he mean by that?

"I don't know how to feel what I don't understand."

"But not everything you feel needs to be understood," he said, now at her side.

The silence between you felt thick, almost physical. As if the air and water between you vibrated at a different frequency.

"You look at me like I'm an unknown quantity," you said suddenly, without thinking.

"Because you are," he replied. "But I don't try to figure it out. Just... observe."

"Why?"

"Because there is beauty in mystery. And in you, there is a lot of it."

You felt your heart skip a beat. His words were always measured. Never vulgar. Never excessive. But there was something there, a melody between the sentences, that made you lose yourself in your own thoughts after he left.

Namora began to tease, as if he knew more than he should.

"You know you're not invisible anymore, right?"

“What are you talking about?” you said, trying to hide the heat in your face.

"Have you seen how he talks to other people? To the generals? To the priests?"

"He is respectful to everyone."

"Yes. But never... curious."

Namora held her chin, looking at you closely.

"And he looks at you as if he were looking for something he forgot... and that you carry without knowing it."

The weeks passed with the fluidity of the tides. In Talokan , nothing seemed to change … but inside you, everything was different.

K'uk'ulkan was no longer a distant, invincible, unattainable figure. He was still the serpent god, the protector, the king. But now there was a gentleness between you. A language made of pauses. Of gazes held for too long. Of phrases that seemed simple but held depths you didn't know how to touch.

And he kept coming closer.

Always subtle.

Always contained.

But always there.

One morning, you were called to assist in a ceremonial patrol of the outer reefs. It was a sacred area, guarded by sea creatures linked to ancient Talokan legends . Normally, only generals or priests participated in these communion rituals. But for some reason, K'uk'ulkan had asked you.

You hesitated when you heard the order.

"Me? I'm not a warrior. Nor a priestess."

Namora, with a smile on the corner of her mouth, said: "And even so, he wants you by his side."

You tried not to think too much about what that meant.

When she met him at the coral gate, he was wearing light armor. His gold bracelets vibrated with the energy of the sea. His eyes were calm but alive.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"I hope so."

He smiled. "The ocean doesn't require strength, just presence. If you can listen to it, it will guide you."

The journey was silent. You swam side by side through the underwater ruins covered in glowing anemones. Tiny stingrays followed your movements like gentle shadows. At one point, he reached out to brush a thick patch of seaweed out of your path, and his fingers brushed lightly against your arm. The touch lasted less than a second, but it lingered on your skin like a trapped sigh.

You tried to concentrate. But he was so close… and the sea seemed to hear everything. When you reached the sacred reef, he placed his feet gently on a rock covered in phosphorescent moss. The water there was warmer. There were gentle currents that swirled slowly around you.

"Close your eyes," he said.

You obeyed.

"Now listen."

You heard it. The sound of water. The soft crack of shells opening. The distant beating of a heart—perhaps yours.

"And what do you hear?"

"Silence. But… a living silence."

"This is Talokan . The spirit of our people. And today, I wanted to share it with you."

You slowly opened your eyes.

“Why?” you asked, your voice nearly swallowed by the bubbles.

He took a while to respond.

"Because there's something in you that doesn't need to scream to be felt. Like this place."

He stepped a little closer. The current made his hair touch hers. Their eyes met, fixed. There was something in his gaze that seemed to say more than words ever could.

But you didn't ask. And he didn't tell.

Tension hung between you like an invisible thread pulled between the tides.

Back at the palace that same night, you were summoned to the upper terrace, where water trickled in gentle drops between mother-of-pearl columns . K'uk'ulkan was there, sitting on the edge, watching the sky through an opening.

"Do you see the stars?" he asked without turning his face.

“Yes,” you replied. “They remind me that the world is bigger than I can touch.”

"Or that you are part of it, even without touching it."

You walked slowly, sitting close but keeping your distance.

“Why did you bring me to that place today?” you insisted softly.

He finally looked at you.

"For there is a time when a king must be just a man. And a man wants to know that which soothes him."

You didn't understand right away. But the sound of those words stayed inside you, like a soft echo, returning hours later, when you were already lying in your chamber, your eyes open in the dark.

"…that which calms you."

The encounters continued. Always brief. Always filled with something that had no name. Once, he touched your hair as he brushed away a petal that had stuck there. Another time, he smiled as he watched you hum to yourself as you polished your sacred bracelets. Every gesture, no matter how small, was a silent offering. And you still didn’t understand why. Why, among so many women, so many warriors, so many possible queens… he chose to be close to you.

But you knew. You knew that K'uk'ulkan had been watching you long before the velvet red lips. That he remembered the way you dove differently from the others—without making waves. That he saw your delicacy as a strength. Your shyness as a mystery.

And his silences… like verses from an ancient song that he longed to decipher.

The next few days were like sailing under an invisible current—you didn't know where you were going, but you didn't fight the flow either.

His name had come to dwell in your thoughts like a persistent whisper. K'uk'ulkan . The living deity. The untouchable warrior. But to you, now, he was more than a king. He was the man who saw you.

You began to notice the details: how he tilted his head when he listened to you, how his eyes darkened when the silence dragged on, how his presence made you feel as if the entire sea fit inside your chest.

Namora had been missing for two days, on a mission outside the palace. You, on the other hand, had received a new assignment directly from him: to take a codex of ancient prayers to the chamber of lunar crystals, in the heart of the palace. Only K'uk'ulkan and the oldest priests had access to that place.

You went with the codex held tightly between your arms, your bare feet touching the cold stone, your heart in silent turmoil.

When the door opened, he was already there.

Alone.

Waiting for you.

The chamber was made of translucent quartz walls. Water ran through the cracks in the rocks, creating reflections that danced across the surfaces like underwater constellations. The only light came from the bioluminescent algae that hung like veils.

He turned around slowly when he heard her footsteps.

"You came," he said.

You just nodded, your eyes trying to escape the intensity of his.

"Leave the codex there," he pointed. "But don't leave yet."

You looked at him, surprised. "Do you wish anything else, my lord?"

"Yes," he replied. "I wish... you would listen to me."

You approached, hesitantly.

He stood before one of the crystal walls, his fingers touching the natural veins of the stone as if they were lines on a secret map.

"Since I was young, I was taught that love is dangerous. That the king should not desire. That everything we feel should be given to the people."

You listened, your heart beating like a deep drum.

"But there are days when I find myself wanting to keep something just for myself. A presence. A look. A specific silence."

He turned, his eyes boring into hers.

"You."

The word fell into the air like a warm drop into the cold sea.

You felt your stomach sink, your entire body freezing.

"You are like a hidden reef. Most people swim over it, without realizing it. But I saw it. From the beginning. I saw the way you move. How you observe. How you care. And I wanted to... swim deep."

His breath hitched. For a moment, there was no sound. Just the drum of his heart echoing off the walls.

“But... why?” you whispered. “I’m just a... servant.”

"You are many things. But you are not 'only'. You never were."

He came closer. Slowly. Like a rising tide.

"I have watched you in silence for too long. I wanted to understand why your silence called me more than the song of a thousand voices. And now I know: it is because in it, I hear myself too."

His eyes were so close to yours that you could see the reflections of the water in them.

"You calm me down. And at the same time, you make me burn."

You opened your lips to say something—maybe to deny, maybe to doubt—but he lifted his hand and, very slowly, touched your face. His thumb brushed the curve of your mouth.

"Your lips still hold the red of that night. You don't notice. But I noticed. I always noticed."

You shivered at his touch. He wasn't hasty, nor was he rough. It was as if he was asking permission with the gesture. As if he were saying: if you don't want me to, I'll stop here. But you didn't want him to stop.

Your body leaned into him. Not in surrender, but in acceptance. Your eyes closed, and your forehead rested against his. The silence between you was heavy. He was breathing heavily, his lips almost brushing yours.

"If you'll allow me..." he murmured, his voice hoarse. "...I want to kiss you. Not as a king. But as a man."

You felt the world spin.

"Then don't ask."

And he didn't ask.

The kiss was slow, warm, almost reverent. His lips tasted of salt and promise. His hand wrapped around your waist with a gentle firmness, as if he was afraid of breaking you. And you, for the first time, allowed yourself: to feel, to burn, to dissolve.

The water around them vibrated with the energy of the moment. The seaweed shone more intensely. It was as if the sea itself surrounded them, blessing what was growing there.

When the kiss ended, he rested his forehead against hers, breathing heavily.

"Now you know," he said. "It's not imagination. It never was."

You smiled shyly, your lips still parted.

"I'm not sure I know what to do with this."

"Then don't do anything yet. Just… feel."

And in that instant, you felt it. More than ever. You felt desired. Seen. You felt like the king hadn’t just noticed you now—he’d chosen you. Your bodies were still pressed together. Your chest rose and fell in a different rhythm now—fast, hot, as if the water around you was no longer able to soothe what burned between you.

K'uk'ulkan watched you in silence.

And then… he kissed you again.

This time, there was no hesitation. There was desire. A longing that had been held back for too long. His hands, which had once touched you with sacred respect, now traced your body with boldness and intent. His warm palm ran down your neck, down your collarbone, and reached your waist. He pulled you closer, fitting your curve into his with ease. The kiss became deeper, more urgent. Your skin, even covered by the thin fabric, felt every line of his hand—the heat, the firmness, the want.

You moaned softly as he ran his hands down your back and firmly pressed your hips against his. Your body reacted instinctively: your fingers closed around his shoulders, your legs gave way slightly.

K'uk'ulkan held his breath for a second, his eyes half closed, and said against her mouth:

"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?"

You couldn't answer. Your body knew, even if your mind tried to deny it.

His hand moved up the side of your body, circling your breast with his open palm, his fingers touching with the courage of someone who respects but desires. He devoured you with his touch, with his gaze, with his own body pressed against yours.

But that's when you walked away.

In a quick, firm, necessary gesture.

“No,” you said, your heart beating like a furious drum. “Not like that.”

He stopped, panting, his eyes still filled with the hunger he could not satisfy. But instead of protesting, he smiled. A man's smile—not a god's.

"Maybe I'm getting old… and in too much of a hurry."

You shook your head, face flushed, breathing heavy.

"It's not that. You're not rushed. You're… intense."

"Ah. A veiled compliment."

"It's just…" you looked away, feeling the ground shaky beneath your feet. "I was raised to understand the value of my body. Of my touch. And if I'm going to give myself to someone, I want it to be within a commitment. Within something… sacred."

He frowned a little, but his eyes were shining—maybe surprise, maybe admiration.

"Are you... proposing to me?"

His reaction was immediate—he nearly stumbled back, eyes wide.

"No! I— no! That's not what I— I mean, it wasn't a demand! I just meant that… that…"

You were stuttering, your hands shaking , your face burning. You were completely disoriented. And he was laughing. Really laughing. A low, warm, enchanted laugh.

He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her lightly again—this time with gentleness. His lips didn't seek to set her on fire. Just to comfort. To soothe.

" Shhh … no need to explain."

"But I didn't mean to seem like—"

"You haven't done anything wrong. You're just protecting what's precious. And there's no shame in valuing yourself."

He kissed her forehead.

"What you want is not too much. It will never be too much."

You closed your eyes, feeling his words sink into your skin like the sun's warmth into cold water.

"You are strong, even in your shyness. And that's why... you are more than right in choosing who you will give yourself to."

There was a pause. He looked into her eyes—as if he were saying something he wasn't sure he should say yet.

"It's time for Talokan to have a queen."

Her lips parted, her eyes filled with tears.

"A queen?"

"Yes. One that doesn't shout. That doesn't impose itself with its voice ... but with its soul."

He smiled with deep affection, as if he were holding a secret.

"A queen as beautiful and silent as the corals."

You felt the ground crumble, the sea open, time stop.

Maybe that was what love was: a god bowing before a woman…not to dominate her, but to honor her. And that night, even without more kisses, without bare skin, without consummated pleasure—something inside the two of you came together. A desire. A promise.

And a wait that, instead of cooling down, only made the heat grow.

Night fell like a blue velvet blanket over Talokan , the starlight reflecting on the calm surface of the sea that surrounded the sunken city. You were at home, in the modest room you lived in, feeling the gentle weight of another day of tasks accomplished. The distant murmur of the water intertwined with the silence of the night.

When the first sounds echoed—a succession of trumpets made from seashells—a shiver ran down his spine. The omen was clear: something big was happening.

firm voice but always worried eyes, was the first to stand. The expression on his face changed as he looked at the gate. “That’s him,” he said, with a mixture of reverence and uneasiness. “ K’uk’ulkan .”

Your heart raced. The serpent god. The king who had always been in the shadows, watching but distant. The same one you barely dared to look in the eyes.

When he appeared, it was as if the sea had taken on human form, enveloped in a deep glow, and even with all the grandeur, there was an intense calm in his presence.

You felt your hands shaking, your mouth dry, as he approached with silent steps, his gaze fixed on you.

“Little choir,” he began, his voice firm yet soft, “I come today to ask for your hand. Formally.”

The world seemed to go silent.

His mother stepped forward, surprise evident on her face. His father frowned, his hands clenched, and his voice was firm but filled with genuine concern.

“If that is her will...she will have my blessing. But understand, K'uk'ulkan , this changes everything for our family.”

You couldn't think straight, time seemed to slow down. A whirlwind of emotions churned inside your chest: fear, doubt, hope, desire and a silent fear of the unknown.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” his voice broke on the first word. “It’s all so fast...”

He knelt down, a gesture he never expected, holding his hands reverently.

“I know we are not just king and servant. We never were. From day one, you have illuminated my darkness. I want this to be no secret. I want it to be forever. I want to be your companion, your guardian, your love.”

You felt tears well up, a mixture of joy and fear.

“But what if I fail you? If the world forces us to be two strangers?”

“There will be no failure,” he replied, his gaze steady and tender. “I will be by your side, always. In every storm, in every calm.”

Your chest tightened. You knew the answer was within you, despite your doubts.

“Yes... I accept.”

In the weeks that followed, everything in Talokan seemed to revolve around the upcoming union. Preparations began quietly, but with an ancient urgency.

The day of the ceremony dawned with a clear sky, the waters reflecting a crystal blue that seemed like a promise. The streets were decorated with garlands of sea flowers and candles floating in small boats made of leaves.

You were dressed in a huipil woven especially for you—a handiwork that seemed to tell the story of your journey. The white fabric was embroidered with patterns that imitated the waves of the sea and the scales of divine serpents, all in gold and deep blue threads.

quetzal feathers , delicately intertwined, reflecting the light like submerged stars. Her feet were painted with red paint, symbolizing life, blood and commitment.

As you arrived at the temple, a sacred hall carved from living stone, you felt the weight of ancient history. The air was thick, scented with copal and resin incense, and the walls were covered with inscriptions and reliefs that recounted the deeds of Talokan's ancient kings and queens .

The priests, wearing white robes with blue and gold accents, began to chant ancient chants, their voices resounding in the sacred space, reverberating like waves.

In the center of the temple, a circular stone platform surrounded by a thin layer of crystal clear water was prepared for the ritual.

You and K'uk'ulkan stood there, both barefoot, feeling the connection of earth and water. Hands joined, you dipped together into an obsidian chalice moistened with sacred water and leaves from the ceiba tree , a symbol of life and the connection between heaven and earth.

The priest declared, in a tone that seemed to dance with the melody of the sea:

“Just as the river meets the sea, two souls meet in harmony. May the water that surrounds you be a witness to the union that transcends time. May the solid ground be the basis for the love that grows strong and unshakable.”

You exchanged deep glances—there were no longer kings or servants, but two beings connected by something much greater.

The celebration was a feast of colors, sounds and flavors. Traditional dances mixed movements that imitated waves, fish and sacred serpents. The music — a mix of drums, flutes and chants — seemed to call the stars to witness the union.

You were surrounded by the women of the kingdom, who offered you necklaces made of shells and pearls, painting the palms of your hands and feet with natural dyes, symbols of fertility, protection and strength.

Namora was at his side, her eyes shining with emotion:

“You are more than the silent sister to us all now. You are the queen Talokan deserves. I admire you.”

You felt a lump in your throat, the warmth of a friendship that had grown in silence and now blossomed into joy. K'uk'ulkan watched from afar, his gaze full of pride and silent passion.

As night fell, the music grew softer, the guests began to disperse, but you and he remained. He approached, his voice low and enveloping:

“My queen, are you ready for our last dance... our most private one?”

You smiled, feeling the heat rise to your face, and held out your hand.

Together, you walked down the corridor adorned with flowers and shells, towards the chambers where your wedding night awaited you.

The silence that surrounded them was filled with unspoken promises, contained desire and an intimacy that was only just beginning.

You enter the temple's private chamber, a space shrouded in soft shadows and dim lights that dance across smooth stone walls covered in blue moss that exude a subtle marine scent. The air is fresh, but charged with that silent electricity that only the most important moments can carry.

In the center, a bed of sea leaves and fine fabrics rests, like a promise of surrender. The fragrance of aquatic flowers mixes with the growing heat of the body that pulses within you. He remains for a moment by your side, his eyes fixed on yours, so intense that they seem to see into your soul.

With a delicate gesture, he brushes a lock of hair away from your face, letting the touch of his warm skin send a shiver down your spine.

His voice, low and hoarse, whispers:

“You are more beautiful than the stars I have ever seen reflected in the sea. I wish I could spend eternity unraveling your every secret.”

You feel your body responding to the silent invitation—your heart pounding, your breath shallowing.

He approaches you slowly, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that starts out soft, almost a velvet whisper, and grows more intense, more urgent. His hands boldly explore the curve of your waist, sliding over your skin, awakening every inch of you.

But the moment your skin feels like it’s about to melt together, you pull back—not out of fear, but because you know what’s between you deserves respect. He smiles, a smile that’s half mischievous, half knowing.

“I’m too old and in a hurry,” he says, in a light, almost playful tone.

You raise an eyebrow, countering:

“You need to respect that I am more than a wish, and that this act should only happen after marriage. Not before.”

He laughs, a deep sound that reverberates in the room, and teases:

“Ah, my queen, imposing marriage? That is the most fun way to trap me.”

You blush, your heart almost jumping out of your mouth. You stutter, trying to explain, the words coming out in shaky whispers, almost a secret:

“It’s not that… it’s just… I just… I want it to be special. To be ours.”

He interrupts her with a soft kiss, putting calm into every touch.

“Nothing you have asked for is too much, and I admire your strength, your light that never goes out. It is time for Talokan to have a queen as beautiful and silent as the corals.”

Narrated by you, the mother goddess of tides and eternal silences.

You don't remember exactly when it stopped hurting. Time, for us eternal beings, is just a tide that slowly recedes, carrying with it fragments of pain. And even though you are a goddess, made of light and sea and silence, you have known the void—the one Kukulkan left when he turned his back on you, centuries ago.

She remembers the day. The salty smell in the air, his golden scales glistening in the last ray of the setting sun. His farewell was brief, and yet it took ages for it to dissipate from her body. His absence became an invisible presence that whispered in the underwater caves and echoed in the deep currents.

But you survived. And like all mothers created from pain, you were reborn through others.

Attuma was the first. A wild, strong baby, dissatisfied with the fate that the ocean had offered him. You found him in a whirlwind of fury, eyes like a storm, fists clenched as if he were fighting against the world itself. And yet, you welcomed him.

Then came Namora —soft as the foam on the waves, but with a fire behind her eyes that reminded you so...so much of him. Kukulkan . You never dared to admit it, but you always thought the gods sometimes toyed with the fates of children who weren’t theirs.

You raised them with care. With firmness. With a love you had never directed toward anything before. Love without possessiveness, love without end. A mother's love.

It was on a golden afternoon, while the two played among the singing choirs, that you felt the presence.

He hadn't changed. Kukulkan —majestic as a sunken sun, his eyes glittering like restrained lightning. The heart in his chest beat so strongly, so human, so alive, that for a moment you forgot about immortality.

"I came to see the children," he said in the voice that still lived in his earliest dreams.

You hesitated. You felt the water around you shudder, as if the sea itself was holding its breath.

"They're not kids anymore," you replied, feigning firmness. "But they're okay."

He came closer. So close that you could feel the familiar vibration of his power, that electricity that once lit stars in his divine womb.

"You raised them well, Yáa K'áak ' ," he whispered, using the ancient name that no one else dared to speak. The name that only he spoke with tenderness. With reverence.

You wanted to run away. You wanted to swim to the depths where memories couldn't reach. But his eyes... they still knew all the secret entrances to your heart.

And then, for the first time in centuries, you let your defenses down. He saw. Oh, how he saw.

The care you gave Attuma , even in his fits of rage. The way you braided Namora's hair before the ceremonial dances. The stories you told him on moonless nights. He felt it all, he understood it all.

"And you?" he asked, voice low as the deep currents. "Who takes care of you?"

The question hurt more than a thousand goodbyes. Because you knew the answer. No one.

You smiled, one of those broken smiles that gods learn to disguise with wisdom. But Kukulkan was never fooled by you. And there, among the ancient waters, among the whispering shells and the children who would one day be kingdoms, he touched your face.

"I still love you," he said.

You trembled. Not out of weakness. But because, for a goddess, to love is to become vulnerable before the universe. You didn't answer. You just took his hand and brought it to your heart — where, despite time and wars, his name still pulsed like a whisper. Kukulkan . And there, in silence, love began again.

That night, you didn't sleep.

Not that gods need sleep—but you always liked to pretend. You liked to lie among the golden seaweed and listen to the song of the lightfish dancing in the currents, as if their song could lull the parts of you that still dreamed. But tonight, the sea was restless. You felt every swirl, every shift in pressure as if it were your own skin. Kukulkan was still there. Somewhere above the coral bed, watching over the sleep of children who were not his—and yet he looked at them as if they were.

You asked yourself, with a heavy heart: Why did he come back now?

Was it love that survived the centuries... or just curiosity?

Her body moved automatically through her maternal routines. Adjusting the pearls that Namora wore as earrings. Collecting Attuma 's training weapons that he always left scattered as if the world was in constant war. And as she did so, his thoughts infiltrated her. Like a lightning bolt piercing the cracks of her memory.

You remembered the last time he had kissed your forehead. It had been on a forgotten beach, before the first sunken cities. Kukulkan held your hand with an almost reverent care—as if he knew that even though you were made of sea and power, you were still made of pain. He had left because the gods love in silence, but rule in noise. And the two of you... there were too many gods to fit into one destiny.

You swore you'd never give in again. But then you saw him, that morning.

Kukulkan stood at the entrance to the pearly ivory hall, watching Namora train. His eyes were slightly crinkled—not from time, but from feelings too contained, from memories too heavy.

"She has her courage," he said.

You approached without thinking, your bare feet on the damp stones. "And the anger of the father you never had."

He was silent. It hurt him. But you were bleeding inside too.

"I never thought I'd see myself here again," he murmured. "And I never thought I'd see... you like this."

"Like what?" you asked, crossing your arms, raising your chin with the same haughtiness he always loved.

"Beautiful. Stronger. But with a tiredness that wasn't there before."

You laughed. A bitter laugh, loaded with the weight of centuries. "Because I loved alone. And loving alone... is tiring."

There was silence. And then, without warning, he came closer. So close that the tide around you stopped. Time, perhaps, too.

"You did not love alone."

His words came like a gentle current, sweeping everything away. You didn't respond. You couldn't. Your heart was caught between anger and longing. Between pride and the desire to throw yourself into his arms and cry like a mortal.

But gods don't cry. Not where they can be seen.

“You didn’t have to come back,” you whispered finally. “They’re not yours.”

"But you are."

What to do with it? How to carry, again, this love that destroyed cities inside you? And yet... you wanted him. You wanted him to stay. That night, you invited him to sit at the table with the young people. A rare thing. Almost sacred.

Attuma was suspicious, his eyes narrowed as if he sensed a storm. Namora, on the other hand, smiled. "He looks like you when he smiles, Mom."

You hid the tear that insisted on welling up. You hid the tremor in your voice as you answered softly:

"Maybe because one day... we smiled together."

And at that table, under the light of the bioluminescent corals , you felt — for the first time in a long time — that maybe, just maybe, it was still possible to love.

Even after everything.

Even though she is a goddess.

Even though my heart is made of sea.

The silence that followed your sentence at that dinner was heavy, but it had something of reconciliation. The smell of the roasted fish mixed with the freshness of the seaweed. The soft light of the corals illuminated the faces of your children, who were now quieter, observing the unspoken words that floated between you and Kukulkan.

He never needed words, you thought. The power he carried within him was not in his speech, but in the way his eyes roamed the water, as if everything he touched was transformed into pure energy. And his children—his children... the thought that they might not be yours, but his, washed over him with the force of a tidal wave.

Namora was the first to notice him. Always so attentive, she looked at Kukulkan , her eyes shining like dark waters that never reveal their secrets. She had been created to hunt and conquer, but there was something delicate about her, like a rare flower that does not bend to the winds, but blooms among thorns.

"Mother..." She hesitated, her voice a whisper that carried through the stone room. "You never told us about him."

You didn't know what to say. The revelation, so subtle and so long ignored, now seemed to pulse like an electric current that ran through the room. You and Kukulkan had always known, deep down, that his presence was there, even before he became visible.

You looked at Attuma . His eyes were fixed on Kukulkan , but there was no anger, no jealousy. Just... understanding. It was as if he knew, deep down, that this had always been part of a bigger story.

“The gods have no need of words, daughter,” you said, trying to keep the calm in your voice. “Neither do their children.”

Namora frowned, confused. But Attuma —always the calmer of the two—looked at you, his eyes seeming to see right into your soul. “You didn’t tell us,” he said, his voice grave. “And that makes us feel… distant from you.”

Those words cut you more than any coral sword. He wasn’t complaining, he wasn’t demanding. He was just sharing the pain he felt at not having been fully embraced by the truth. Not being truly his, perhaps, had made them both feel like children of a wandering wave—without a source, without an anchor .

It was then that the truth fell from your mouth like the tides breaking against the rocks. "I created them alone," you whispered, "but their hearts... their hearts are made of the blood of Kukulkan ."

The silence that followed was heavy, but there was also something ancient about it, something that sounded like a cry shared between generations of immortal beings, a truth that had never been spoken but that now, somehow, made the universe feel more... whole.

Kukulkan looked at you with a look that mixed surprise and a sadness so deep that you could barely contain it. He didn't speak, but his eyes never left his children, as if trying to find an echo of himself in them.

"How?" Namora asked, curiosity taking over her tone. "I don't understand... you and him?"

“We didn’t know,” you said, more firmly now. “Our fates were not always the same. The blood that runs through your veins is an ancient lineage—and yet, you are mine. I raised you, every second. I taught you to breathe underwater, to see the world not as it is, but as it can be.”

Kukulkan sighed, and for the first time since he had returned, he seemed deeply affected. His presence—always imposing, almost majestic—now became more... human. As if the truth was too heavy for the god to bear alone. His eyes softened, as if the weight of the past was finally becoming visible to him.

"Life... life always has its own ways," he muttered, almost to himself. "I never knew. I never knew... they were with me."

You nodded, speechless. There was no need. The truth was in the air, like a storm about to form.

It was Attuma who, surprisingly, stepped forward. His large hand touched hers, immensely strong and yet gentle. “We don’t care,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “What matters is that we are your family. You made us who we are.”

Namora followed him, her eyes sparkling like the surface of the sea at a still dawn. "You created us with love. And if the blood of Kukulkan runs in our veins, then that is the only bond we need."

Those words were more powerful than any spell, more touching than any oath between gods.

Kukulkan looked at you, and you looked back at him. There was no more distance, no more secrecy, just a silent understanding. He came closer, now not as the distant god who had once departed, but as the father who now understood the weight of fatherhood.

"I am your father," he said, and the words sounded new, like a promise finally being fulfilled. "But you, Yaa K'áak ' , you will always be their mother. You will always be the one who made them."

You didn't answer. You just stood up, walking towards your children. They weren't children anymore, not anymore. But they were yours. The children of Kukulkan , their souls forged in the depths of the ocean and the fires of the sky. Your children.

And in that moment, with Kukulkan by your side, with your children around you, you finally knew what it was to love without reservations. What it was to be complete, without forgetting who you were, without losing who you could still be.

Night descended upon the underwater kingdom like a soft blanket. The ocean was calm, without the furious crash of waves against the reefs, as if the sea itself were in awe. Moonlight filtered through the waters, creating a silvery light that made the corals look like floating stars at the bottom of the world. There you stood, at the edge of the sacred emerald pool, watching your children.

Namora and Attuma trained with relentless discipline, each fighting the elements of the ocean as if they were the forces of nature itself. You had always known that the blood of Kukulkan ran in their veins, but now, seeing them, with their graceful and fierce bodies, like true warriors, you understood the magnitude of their heritage.

“They are extraordinary,” Kukulkan said, his voice low but full of admiration.

He was standing behind you, so close that his presence was like a subtle heat that made the air around you move. You didn't look at him right away, but you knew he was watching the same scene you were. It was as if the energy between you, the same one that had once driven you apart, was now creating a new bond.

“They are everything you and I could ever be together, Kukulkan ,” you replied, turning to him. His eyes shone with starlight, and you felt the weight of his presence beside you—no longer as the distant god who had departed, but as the man who had once been yours, and who now, perhaps, was again.

Kukulkan took a step forward, the tension between you growing with each movement. “I see them too, Yáa. K'áak ' . But more than that, I see their future... and our future.”

There was something in the tone of his voice, something deep and almost intimate. The salty smell of the water, the scent of the wet earth in the background, it all seemed to swirl around you. He took another step, and now he was so close that you could feel his breath, warm and soft, against your skin.

“And what do you see, Kukulkan ?” You asked, your voice a whisper, almost lost among the currents of water that surrounded you. It was not an ordinary question. It was an invitation. Not of words, but of a soul that, at last, allowed itself to feel.

He smiled, a subtle smile, but with an intense glow, as if everything that had happened between you had been a long preparation for this moment. “I see a future where our children, no longer divided between the sky and the sea, become immortal with the strength of both. I see a future where they, under our gaze, will be warriors ... but also, they will be gods.”

You felt his warmth against your side, almost as if the tide had risen, drawing you once more to him. But instead of pulling away, as you had done so many times in the past, you stayed. Stuck.

“I never imagined a future like this...” His voice trailed off a little. “But you were right, you always were. They are the union of everything we were, Kukulkan . And now, perhaps, they can also be what we always wanted to be.”

His gaze softened, as if the years of distance and silence had been a preparation for this—for this new truth. He touched her arm gently, almost as if testing the closeness, as if the words that said nothing still needed to be said.

“I love you, Yaa K'áak ' . I have always loved you, even when the pain was greater than the memory. But now... now I see that the pain was what brought us here. And there is nothing left, nothing that holds me back, that prevents me from making you my consort, my everything.”

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t need to. The truth was there, clear as the moon reflected in water. You felt Kukulkan ’s heart align with yours. The heat of him, the strength of his touch, the heat of desire and the past—it all merged together, creating something new. Something only the gods could understand.

“I love you too, Kukulkan ,” you replied, with a softness that was almost not yours. “I have always loved you. Even when we tried to run away from each other, the sea always brought us back. But now, together, we will be more. For our children... for ourselves. For the future.”

He stepped closer, his voice lower now, more intimate, but filled with deep meaning. “Yes, together, we will be more… not just gods, but warriors. And with you by my side, Yáa K'áak ' , nothing can separate us.”

The words fell, heavy and soft, between the two of them. It was as if the entire world was suspended, as if immortality and humanity met there, in the silence of the ocean, only to be lived between the shadows of the night and the silver light.

Kukulkan touched your face, a gesture so delicate it seemed almost sacred. And for the first time in a long time, you were not afraid to surrender. Not to the force of the sea, not to the fierce currents of fate, but to what lay between the two of you.

The tide that had once separated you now united you, and you knew that nothing else mattered. Eternity would be the stage where you would write the story of your children, warriors and gods, intertwined like the waters that dance in the depths of the ocean.

The kiss that followed was not urgent, but enough to make the sea around them tremble. Wordless, but with promises deeper than any oath a god could make. It was the promise of a future where, together, they would be invincible—not just as warriors, but as those who had always loved each other, even when time tried to tear them apart.

The trunk creaked softly every time you pulled another fold of fabric out, trying to rearrange the clothes that insisted on getting tangled up as if they had a life of their own. The floor was covered in small piles of fabric: crumpled dresses, old scarves, a blouse that smelled sweetly of easier days . You moved slowly, one hand resting on the edge of the old piece of furniture, the other pressing the base of your belly with almost instinctive care. The cramps weren’t a sharp pain, but rather a constant and stubborn presence, like waves crashing against the rocks inside you—stronger and stronger, closer and closer.

You sighed, closing your eyes for a second, allowing yourself to feel the weight of the pain that throbbed in spasms. The soft cloth you had placed between your legs was already beginning to weigh down with the warm blood that was running silently, as if your own body was mourning something you still couldn't name. But there you were, folding clothes, dragging memories, breathing deeply — surviving another cycle like so many others before you.

You try to focus. Your hands continue to fold the linen blouse you used to wear in the late afternoons, when you could still see the sun coming through the window and everything seemed less cramped inside. Now the fabric is heavy. Maybe because of the memory, maybe because of the pain that is intensifying in short, merciless waves. The cloth between your legs no longer brings relief, only a thin sensation of containment, as if it were a fragile barrier against the fatigue that comes from within. You sit on the floor, the cold of the tiles penetrating your thin clothes, but somehow, it helps. Just for a moment. A trickle of sweat runs down the back of your neck, even though the air is cool.

The trunk remains open, its edges worn and its smell of old wood mixed with the perfume of clothes stored away for too long. You stare inside the trunk as if there were answers inside—as if among the lace, loose buttons, and crooked seams there was something that could explain why your body insists on screaming like this, month after month. Another contraction. You curl up a little, close your eyes. Try to take a deep breath. Count to four, hold it, release it slowly. It works for a second, until the discomfort sets in again, dragging a tiredness that is not just physical. It is a kind of old exhaustion, almost inherited.

You rest your forehead on your hands, sitting there, among clothes and memories. Everything is quiet, except for the distant sound of the world outside and the muffled murmur of your own body asking for rest. And yet, even so, you keep going. Because no one is going to fold those clothes for you.

“A task too menial for a queen” No no No. You feel your strength fading into dust, your moment of scourge being cut short, the pain in your lower abdomen worsens just by looking at him.

“There’s not much to do here,” you reply shakily, reaching out to grab another piece of clothing. It takes strength to look away from the man standing before you, with all his wealth studding strategic points on his body.

“If you weren’t so stubborn you would have more important tasks to perform.”

You're not surprised when he kneels down beside you, taking the piece from your hand with a wicked smile. A smile you knew well and had been dealing with for over half a year.

“I don’t understand their language.”

“Theirs.” He repeats. “We are your people now. Your home. It’s been over half a year and you still haven’t gotten used to it or even had the decency to learn the customs.”

“This is not my home,” you say indignantly. “Your demands to take me as your wife were not the right ones.”

“Perhaps. But before you think of painting me as the monster, remember that they were the ones who accepted my proposal without a fight.”

The salty taste still seems to stick to your tongue, even after so many moons have passed. You rummage through the clothes inside the trunk with contained anger, as if the fabrics could absorb the bitterness that boils inside. The cramps pulse in your belly like an ancient drum, marking the rhythm of your revolt, of the memories that never cease.

You never chose that fate. You were given as a living offering—a covenant sealed between the surface and the depths. A body given to the man of the sea in exchange for calm and favorable tides. A cold bargain, wrapped in ceremonial veils and smiles that disguised the sentence. Your voice rose against it. You screamed, you struggled, you begged. But your family would not give in. They could not go against tradition. Against the “ancient agreements.” Against the whispers of the ocean.

His face, so calm, so strange, still comes to mind often. You admitted, silently, between salt-soaked sheets, that he knew how to touch your body like someone reading the currents of the sea. A skilled, careful, even gentle lover—when he wanted to be. But that was never enough. Because no caress can undo invisible chains.

You were from the surface. And his people never let you forget it. Wry looks. Whispers that sank into your ears like cold seaweed. A kind of silent, constant rejection that left you increasingly silent, more withdrawn, more... absent. As if you were always submerged, even on dry land.

A sharper stab makes you arch your back, the damp cloth between your legs sticking to your warm skin. The pain is sharp, like something inside you is trying to claw its way out. You hurriedly reach your stomach, gasping for air between clenched teeth.

"What was that?" The deep voice echoes through the chamber of stone and shells. He stands there, watching, attentive.

You shake your head. "It's nothing." The answer comes out dry, almost automatic, and you try to walk away.

But his hand catches your wrist before you can take a step.

"It doesn't look like anything," he says, quieter now, almost like someone trying to decipher a storm in the distance.

You stare at his hand on your skin, warm and firm. The silence between you is thick. The pain still vibrates inside your body, like a broken bell. You try to pull your wrist away, but he wraps his arms around you and pulls you to his chest. Your knees buckle and your legs buckle, knocking a few pieces of clothing off your body. You struggle against him, fascinated and frightened by his strength.

“Stop!” you demand.

“Tell me what’s going on.” He demands back.

You shake your head, declining.

“Stubborn child.” He spits. “I’ll check it out myself.”

Her heartbeat accelerates even more when K'uk'ulkan hurriedly begins to undress her without the slightest care for the richly embroidered fabric. He squeezes and pulls each breast as it is exposed and moves lower.

“No.” You say, trying to push him away in vain. You push yourself up and manage to dodge his tight embrace for a few seconds, but he follows you, standing up and pulling you even tighter towards him.

His hand reaches down and pulls down your panties. The carefully folded cotton inside your panties comes loose and falls to the floor. You cry in embarrassment.

“It’s bleeding,” says K’uk’ulkan , the wretch. You close your eyes to avoid the humiliation.

“Yes.” You cry out, still trying to escape his tight embrace. “That’s why it hurts. I’m bleeding. Are you happy?”

Your rambling ends as quickly as your husband tells you to shut up. He maneuvers your body until your back is pressed against his chest and your arms are tightly pressed against his chest, he holds you with only one hand. The other roams freely over your body; first over your belly, down your lower abdomen, until it rests on your methodically trimmed mons venus.

“A little blood doesn’t scare me, my queen.” His hand comes down and, with his index finger, explores her bloodied pussy. “I don’t see it as something dirty, or as a burden. To me, it’s a sign of the strength you carry, of the ability to create and renew, like a flower that closes and opens with the passing of the days. It’s a mystery that should be revered, not feared.”

He takes his finger out of your pussy and plays with it quickly, rubbing it with his thumb. This was too much for your eyes. It was an absurd level of humiliation. You wanted to protest, scream, run, but his grip kept you pinned in place. You expected him to let go, but what he does next makes you gasp. He brings his fingers, index finger first, to his mouth and licks them clean of all the blood and repeats the same with his thumb.

You can only be shocked by such boldness and courage. He turns you around again, you face him, and you look away, not having the courage to look him in the eyes. He doesn't seem to care about your shame. He reaches your pussy again, this time with two fingers, one he sticks inside your bloody cavity and the other plays with your clitoris.

K'uk'ulkan 's thick fingers sliding inside you make you scream.

“You want me, my queen. You want me, but your stubbornness speaks louder.” He maneuvers his finger and reaches that spongy part. “Confess that you want me, girl. Confess! And I will make the pain go away.”

“I...” You gasp at the pleasure of his caressing your two pleasure points. Your hips move trying to find him, to welcome him, but he seems intent on torturing you; his movements become slow and his grip prevents you from seeking more.

“Confess,” he demands. “Be mine and I will give you everything; the sky, the earth, the sea. You will be my wife, my queen, the mother of my child. I will make Talokan kneel before his parents. I will bathe your skin in gold and fill your soul with power and pleasure.”

What happens next is too fast for your eyes. He pulls his fingers out of you, grabs you by the waist, and maneuvers you so that you are sitting with your legs wide open on the wet wooden table.

“Wait, wait...” You ask, but he doesn’t listen, or pretends not to listen.

He kneels over your legs and puts his mouth on your pussy, you go limp. Your eyes fill with tears that soon slide down your cheeks and your mouth opens to exclaim a loud moan of pleasure. He buries his face even deeper between your thighs, and your excitement builds up and mixes with the blood.

You ask him to stop, but he ignores your sobs and continues to eat your pussy with his mouth. Your hips move involuntarily in search of more contact. He licks your clit and then pulls it with his lips. Each breath you take is a soft symphony, marked by the cadence of a reverent silence. Your eyes are closed, but the world seems to vibrate around you, as if the earth itself, in its vast dance of cycles, is with you, following the rhythm of your body. The pain is there, a constant presence, like a weight on your body, pulsing in waves that crash against your insides. Each breath seems to amplify the discomfort, as if you are a tide that refuses to retreat. But even under this weight, there is something moving inside, something tenuous, almost imperceptible, a thin line that connects the pain to the possibility of another sensation, one that still seems distant.

It was then that his mind began to quiet, and his breathing, which had been ragged, began to slow. A new rhythm was emerging, delicate as the first ray of sunlight touching the cold earth. The pain, with its overwhelming force, did not dissipate immediately, but began to transform, like a shadow that dissolves at the touch of light. What had been sharp now seemed deeper, longer, and suddenly there was a space inside him, like an empty field, waiting to be filled.

Pleasure came like a soft, slow current that flowed over her skin, caressing the most sensitive points of her being. It insinuated itself, gently, like the breeze that mixes with the summer heat, transforming the ardor into something that spread with unexpected tenderness. Her body, previously rigid with pain, opened, like a flower that is breaking free from its shell. The sensation took over every fiber, like a wave that slowly overcomes the rocks, until it reaches the earth with a peaceful force, unhurried, but full of certainty.

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to be carried away, as if the pain itself had been transformed into something softer, sweeter, and your skin, once marked by discomfort, was now vibrant with a new warmth. The pleasure, which had once seemed like a distant echo, now became the sound of your own breathing, of your body giving in to what was due it. And in the silence that followed, you found yourself in the center of yourself, where the pain became memory and the pleasure a part of your essence.

He pulls away from your thighs. Your eyes meet instantly. K'uk'ulkan 's beard is so wet and red, his lips and tongue are the same. He uses his free wrist to wipe his mouth, but it doesn't do a very good job; your arousal and menstruation have done too much damage. It's embarrassing, profane, arousing. You were so confused.

“The pain...” he begins. “...still bothers you?”

“No.” You reply. “It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

The heat between them still hung in the air, thick and dense like steam rising from the depths. The moment felt like it was about to unfold into something irreversible, something that threatened to undo the bonds you had tightened around own chest.

K'uk'ulkan pulled away like a wave receding before it touches the sand. His eyes, once filled with veiled desire, were now two calm, calculated tides. He regarded her for a long second—not coldly, but with a kind of solemnity she could not name.

“I will ask the servants to care for You during your periods,” he said, the words low but firm, laden with centuries and ancient seals.

He rose in a single fluid movement, as if his body obeyed some tide greater than human will. The light from the liquid shells that graced the chamber shone on his shoulders as he walked away, leaving behind not just his touch, but something deeper: his absence.

You didn't say anything. You didn't even try to stop him. You stood there, your body still trembling and your senses half-open, like a flower that dared to bloom before its time. The pain was gone. You had withdrawn silently, like a sated spirit. And in its place, there was now the echo of something warm, vibrating inside you with the strength of a newly discovered secret.

Alone, you felt your own body pulsate. No longer in agony, but in waves that seemed made of light. You were alive, completely. And the pleasure that had once seemed like a foreign land now inhabited you naturally. It was strange. It was beautiful.

There, in the space where his touch had been interrupted, you found no lack. You found question. You found desire.

Why did he stop? Why did he leave you like this, adrift, in the middle of your own sea?

And, what's more, why did you first think of calling him back?