Elle

a — aftercare

he’s incredibly hands-on and sweet after. caleb will pull you close under the blankets, kiss away the sweat from your neck and chest, and literally lick any leftover mess off your thighs (which usually makes you twitch all over again). once you’ve caught your breath, he’ll carry you to the shower, holding you up under the warm water while washing you down, though he definitely can’t resist giving your cheeks a playful squeeze while he’s at it.

b — body part

what he loves on you: your waist and hips. his hands are huge, and he loves locking them right there to guide your rhythm or drag you completely flush against his lap.

what you love on him: his back and shoulders. flying and working out gave him this incredibly broad, muscular frame. it’s the ultimate handhold for you to dig your nails into when he starts going a bit too fast.

c — cum

he’s not super picky about where he finishes, but he’s definitely a fan of leaving his mark. coming on your stomach or thighs hits that low-key primal, possessive button for him. that said, if you tell him he can come inside, he completely loses his mind.

d — dirty talk

caleb has that deep, smooth voice that gets crazy raspy when he’s turned on. he’s not super loud, but he’ll lean right into your ear and whisper things like:

"sweetheart, you're so wet... can you feel how deep i am inside you?"

"squeeze me tighter, girl, show me how much you like it."

e — experience

the man knows exactly what he's doing. he treats your body like a cockpit he’s mastered —he knows every single button, just how much pressure to apply, and exactly what angle will make you arch your back and lose your mind.

f — frequency

when he’s back from a long deployment, he is absolutely insatiable. one round is never enough. for the first few days, sex is a long, heavy, frequent thing. he basically needs to physically ground himself by leaving his scent all over you.

g — g-spot

he hits it every single time. caleb loves throwing your legs over his shoulders to get a better angle, and then he’ll just smoothly, heavily drive right into that spot until you can barely find your voice to scream.

h — hair

he honestly couldn’t care less about what your grooming situation looks like down there — he just wants you to feel comfortable and happy. but he is a total sucker for the hair on your head. caleb loves to run his fingers through it during intimacy, gently wrapping the strands around his fist to tilt her up for kisses, or simply burying his face in it, inhaling the scent of her shampoo mixed with the heat of their bodies.

i — intrusion

as a pilot, he is used to high-stress situations, so a bit of risk excites him. having sex in the backseat of a car or in a semi-public place where they could theoretically get caught gives him a massive rush of adrenaline. however, he would never actually let anyone see u.

j — jealousy

he is highly possessive, though he hides it skillfully behind a relaxed smirk. if someone has been openly staring at u during the day, caleb will display it in the bedroom that night: his grip will be tighter, his thrusts deeper, and his reminders of exactly who u belong to will be much harsher.

k — kink

edging and light spanking. he loves bringing you right to the edge, watching your muscles twitch and clamp down around him as you’re about to blow, and then just... stopping. he’ll make you whine and beg for it before he lets you come, usually giving your butt a few firm slaps to keep you behaved.

l — location

the kitchen island (where he can just lift you up, spread your knees, and slide all the way in) or right in front of the bathroom mirror so you both have to watch how messy it looks when he takes you from behind.

m — motivation

your absolute vulnerability. seeing a tough, independent hunter completely unravel in his arms, whimpering and letting him take total control of your body, is his biggest turn-on.

n — no (turn-offs)

absolutely no cruelty or real pain. bruises from his fingers on ur thighs, lingerie torn in a fit of passion, or love bites on ur neck are the absolute limit of his "aggression". u must always feel cherished and desired, never hurt.

o — oral

he treats going down on you like a full-time hobby. he takes his time, eats you out thoroughly, and uses his fingers to stretch you open so he can watch your face. when it’s your turn, he likes gently but firmly holding your hair and guiding your head down his length while groaning under his breath.

p — pace

he’s a master at shifting gears. he’ll start with these slow, agonizingly deep friction slides that make you squirm against him, and then, the second you start begging, he’ll switch to a fast, heavy, punishing rhythm.

q — quickie

oh, absolutely. especially right before he has to head out for a flight or the exact second he walks through the door. a messy, breathless session against the wall where you don’t even take your clothes all the way off is his specialty.

r — roughness

on a scale of 1 to 10, he’s a solid 7. he’s got a dominant streak, so expect some hair-pulling to guide your face, bites on your collarbones, and leaving red handprints on your thighs.

s — stamina

thanks to a pilot's incredible physical conditioning, his stamina is astounding. he can easily go for multiple rounds, and even during the first round, he is fully capable of pacing himself for as long as u need him to

t — toy

he has nothing against them, but he vastly prefers the raw connection of skin-on-skin. if he does bring something into the bedroom, it’s usually a compact bullet vibrator that he will hold against ur clit while pumping into u from behind.

u — unfair

he is notoriously unfair with his smirks. caleb loves to deliberately press his clothed crotch against u through his jeans or whisper incredibly filthy things directly into ur ear when u are out in public, knowing damn well u can't do anything about it right then and there

v — volume

he is a heavy groaner. he tries to pace himself, but when he hits the perfect spot or when u tightly clamp down around him, he lets out deep, chest-vibrating grunts and quietly curses under his breath

w — wildcard

he absolutely adores doggy-style. he loves gripping u firmly by the waist, looking down to watch his length repeatedly disappear inside ur wet, flushed heat, and slapping ur thighs for the raw sound and extra stimulation

x — x-ray

above average. ge is thick and heavy, which means the initial stretch can feel quite intense for u. because of this, caleb always takes a lot of time with foreplay to ensure u can take him with maximum comfort and pleasure.

y — yearning

during deployments, he becomes incredibly romantic but with a heavy, sensual undertone. caleb will call u late at night, his voice deep and raspy as he describes in vivid detail exactly what he is going to do to u the minute he gets back, leaving u burning with desire from thousands of miles away

z — zzz

With shaking hands, you fixated on smoothing out the pleats in the skirt of your wedding gown. The dress was heavy and not because there were yards upon yards of fabric tailored to you or because of the silver embroidery and precious stones, but because of what this dress meant—the loss of your freedom.

"Stop fidgeting, girl. It is unbecoming." Your mother's shrill voice came through the fog, clouding your thoughts. "Now, stand up straight, it's time."

"Mother, please, I would rather be sent off to war than this. Anything but this." You held her hand like a vice, begging her for some way out.

She only shook her head and snatched her hand away. "I thought I taught you better than this. Do as your father says, and do not embarrass this family in front of the Prince." She pinched your cheeks to give them color before turning to leave. "The choir will begin in one minute, you will enter then."

It was no use calling after her, and it was no use trying to run away; there were guards at every entrance to the church, making it impossible, especially in this dress that needed at least two maids to help you remove. So, down the aisle to your doomed fate it was.

As the choir began, your heart leaped, beating faster than you ever thought it could. The giant oak doors opened, and every guest rose to their feet, all looking your way, all except your husband to be. He stood, back facing you, dressed in an armor chest plate and a white doublet and breeches with a sword attached to his left hip. The air that surrounded him felt thick as you approached, your dress restricting your movements. The Princeonly turned to you once you reached the stairs; he offered his hand to you, and you took it hesitantly, letting him guide you.

You took the few spare moments before the Priest began to examine the man you were to wed. His hair swept around his face, almost blocking him from your view, but as his head turned and you saw him fully, your breath caught in your throat. The stories told and the rumors whispered had led you to believe that this man was a monster, beastly and garish to look at, but the man before you was anything but. The candlelight made him look almost angelic with his sharp angles and full lips. His skin was white as milk and freckled. What demon would ever look so sweet? But that was exactly it, wasn't it? The devil will always come in a form you may trust.

The ceremony went by in a blur. You followed instructions and repeated words, but only because your body was guiding you; your mind floated miles above, enraptured with the man who was beside you.

It wasn't until you were being ushered into a carriage that you came back to your senses. As the door slammed, you realized it was just you and your newlywed husband. The silence was so thick, you could have cut into it. What were you to say? You didn't know the man, only what was said about him, and you doubted that it was an appropriate conversation to be held.

The ride was bumpy as the carriage took you farther away from the home you knew and towards an unfamiliar place. It had only been an hour, and still, neither of you had broken the silence. That is, until a quite harsh jerk had you toppling across the coach and into the Prince. He caught you in his strong hands and set you up right again.

"I am sorry," you apologize.

He waives his hand, dismissing you. "It is quite all right."

You couldn't help the blush that formed on your cheeks, his voice… this was the first time you were hearing it clearly, the thoughts in your head not distracting you from the low tenor that vibrated soul. You wanted to hear it again.

"Is your home far?"

He looked at you, eyes scanning, deducing why now you were asking him questions. "A three-day ride if the horses are fast."

"Oh, then we will be lodging somewhere for the night, I suppose?"

"We will make camp in a few hours. There are no lodgings on this road."

Your eyes widened. You were to spend your wedding night in a tent in the woods?

The carriage stopped just before dusk, and the men worked quickly to build tents, gather wood for a fire, and cook. It was dark when your husband helped you to your tent. He stayed for only a moment to tell you dinner would be ready soon before leaving quickly.

Sighing, you went around opening your trunks, trying to find something more comfortable to wear other than this outrageous wedding dress, although you didn't know how you were to extract yourself from the copious amounts of pleats and lace when your ladies' maids were nowhere to be found. You refused to go looking for them as you were tired from travel and wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

It took almost fifteen minutes for you to even begin to loosen the tight bodice, but it only did so much when you had been tacked in at certain spots. Your hands ceased their flailing when you heard footsteps and the curtain over the entrance of your tent flung open. You turned slowly, face heating as you realized someone was watching you trying and failing to undress.

"My Lord," you startle when you see the Voivodestanding there.

He narrows his eyes at the awkward angle your arms are bent, "What are you doing?"

"Undressing," a huff, "well, trying to at least." You answered.

Taking a step forward, he lets the curtain fall behind him. "Would you like some help?"

You eyed him wearily. From the stories you had been told, he was a brute of a man, taking anything he wanted without asking, and yet here he was asking if you would like his help.

Reluctantly, you accept.

He strides toward you slowly, as if you were a terrified fawn ready to bolt at any moment. "If you could turn around, please."

His hands never left your shoulders as you turned.

A shiver ran down your spine at the electric touch of his thick fingers as he gently caressed the skin of your neck he moving your hair out of the way. Gradually, the lacing of your dress fell away, the cut the strings tacking you in with his knife. The moment was intimate, and you could feel your heart racing. His fingers brushed against the thin fabric of your shift, goosebumps rising in their wake.

"I shall leave you, dinner will be by forthwith." He gave you no time to respond before he left you, with a heart full of confusion, and clinging to the bodice of your unfastened dress to your chest.

Quickly, you untied your skirts and folded them neatly into a trunk before dressing yourself in a less restrictive dressing gown, as you weren't leaving your tent for the rest of the night.

Food was brought to you on a pewter plate. Bread and some kind of meat, it didn't look too appetizing, but you were starving.

And then, you waited. And waited. And waited.

Yet, your husband never came. The candles began to die as you laied on the makeshift bed and the only thoughts in your head were, Where is he? Shouldn't he be here? Wasn't this supposed to be our wedding night? Does he not find me attractive? You couldn't understand why they were swarming in your mind. You shouldn't be concerned whether or not a man you were forcefully wed to liked you.

You awoke the next morning to the rustling and murmuring of the men around the camp. The smell of porridge cooking had your stomach growling.

Elina and Alba, your ladies maids, found their way into your tent with breakfast, apologizing for not attending to you the night before.

"We thought to leave you and your husband be," they said, cheeks tinged pink at the implication.

"Your efforts were in vain, ladies, for he left quite abruptly after unfastening me from my wedding gown." You replied between bites of your porridge.

"How peculiar," Alba hummed. "Usually, men can't wait to get to the marriage bed; they always want an heir sooner rather than later."

You gasp at her forwardness before laughing softly; you had never known her to speak so forwardly.

"I believe I overheard a few of the men whispering around the fire earlier that the Prince had forgone supper and was acting out of sorts after leaving your tent. Are you sure nothing happened?" Elina asked.

"Yes, I'm sure. All he did was help me undress, and then he left, before anything could have happened."

You didn't catch the look the two women gave each other before starting to gather your garments for the day.

After having dressed, your tent was taken down, and you were again ushered into the carriage, only this time, your husband did not accompany you. Instead, he sat stoically atop a striking dapple grey steed.

He was so alluring, you couldn't bear to take your eyes off him even as the long journey began. The way he moved in rhythm with his horse became your entertainment in the boredom of the carriage box. You admired his hair as the sun shone upon it, bringing out the gold and copper tones, and imagined your fingers running through the tresses.

The curve of his lower back and the broadness of his shoulders completely captivated your attention. Your mind wandered to places it shouldn't have, explicit thoughts, unbecoming thoughts.

"What are you doing?" You shake your head, clearing the visions. "This man has murdered people, and here you are gawking at him like a Christmas roast."

Later on, the night progressed much the same as the night before, only your ladies' maids helped you undress.

Around midday on the third day of travel, your new home came into view.

Large and imposing with its spires slicing into the clear sky, and yet it was beautiful, magnificent. It was larger than any estate you had ever laid eyes upon. The stone itself seems to have been carved in the foot of the mountain behind it, leaving the western side a sheer cliff to the lake below.

Once the carriage stopped, the Prince opened the door, offering you his hand as you stepped down.

"Thank you, my lord."

He nodded curtly before speaking. "I am sure you are tired; allow me to walk you to your rooms."

You couldn't help the small smile that bloomed on your lips. "Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you."

Again, as you followed behind him upstairs and through twisting corridors, you became distracted by his straight posture and poised shoulders—enough so that you almost collided with him as he came to a stop.

He opened a heavy, creaking door and motioned for you to enter before him. The room beyond was beautiful. Red velvet curtains hung at every window, matching the duvet, a lovely contrast to the dark wood furniture and light stone walls.

You turned to him, still standing in the threshold. "This is wonderful.

"I'm glad it is to your tastes." A small smile crossed his lips. "I'll leave you then, let you rest."

As he turned to go, you called out to him. You hadn't been able to push from your mind the fact that he hadn't once tried to consummate the marriage or what Elina had said the day prior.

"I- my lord, am I not desirable to you?" You were surprised at your emboldened words.

He turned, an eyebrow raised in question. "What do you mean?"

"We have been married for two full days, and you have not once…" You couldn't bring yourself to say it out loud.

"Ah. Yes." He took two long strides and was standing before you, his heat penetrating your skin. "Contrary to the beliefs of many, I am no brute. I will not touch you unless you ask it of me."

His words left you dumbfounded, and your preconceived notions of him started to crumble.

Several days later, you were taking a stroll through the gardens alone when you heard heavy footsteps on the ground.

"Hello," you smiled at him, and he gave you one back. You had learned rather quickly that he was a man of few words, but all that needed to be said shone through his eyes, like a fathomless ocean.

"Would you like to help me pick flowers? I'm making a crown." You held up your half-finished flower crown to him.

He reached out and touched one of the delicate petals. "I would love to."

You tasked him with holding your pickings until you had enough to finish the crown you were working on and to make another. He sat with you on the cool grass as you wove the stems together

"What is your favorite flower?" His voice softly broke the silence.

You thought for a moment before speaking. "I'm fond of Snowdrops. I haven't seen any in the garden, but there's still time for them to bloom."

The Prince only hummed in response.

"Do you have a favorite?"

"I haven't thought about it," he answered.

"Well," you look at the two finished flower crowns in your lap, "tell me when you have."

Standing to your feet, you placed a crown gently upon each of your heads before returning to the castle.

The next morning, you awoke to a vase filled with snowdrops greeting you on your nightstand.

You couldn't pinpoint the exact moment you began to fall for your husband, but as you sat across the informal dining table from him, you felt a warm tug in your heart. It had taken a while before your dinners were spent here rather than the extravagant dining room, where you both sat awkwardly at either end of the long table, taking sneaking glances at the other.

Now you were in a private parlor, seated only an arm's length away, enjoying food you could only describe as heavenly. Roasted chicken cooked to perfection with a variety of vegetables, breads, and fruits—but there was one thing you did not recognize. The dish was white; you could tell there were layers to it, but what you did not know, and pomegranate seeds were sprinkled atop.

The man in front of you, perceptive as ever, noticed your eyes examining the dessert. "Try some. It is good."

"I'm not sure I want to." You reply, unsure. "I haven't a clue what this is; we have nothing like it where I am from, my lord."

He rolls his eyes and scoots the dish toward you. "Eat it."

"I don't think so, no, thank you." You try to push it back to him.

"Then close your eyes."

"What?"

"I said close your eyes. Trust me."

Eyeing him wearily, you shut your eyes. You hear a stenciled scrape against a serving dish.

"Please, open your mouth."

Reluctantly, you did as told, and when you did, you were met with an interesting flavor. Sweet and milky with the slightest hint of rose, followed by the crunchy texture of slightly ground pistachios.

Opening your eyes, your husband is staring right at you, his eyebrows lifted, waiting for a response.

"That's actually really good," you express, and you reach for your own spoon to take another bite. "What is this called?"

"Güllaç. It comes from the Ottomans, and is one of the only fond memories that come from my time spent in the empire." His eyes darkened at the mention of the ever-looming Ottoman Empire.

You knew from stories what might have happened, what he could be thinking about. So you reached over and touched his hand, running your thumb over the back. "If it brings you pain to think of, please, don't relive it on my behalf, my lord."

"You are most kind… I believe I will retire. Good night." He kissed the back of your hand in goodbye as he stood abruptly and exited the room, leaving you with your hand tingling where his lips touched and wondering if he was alright.

Two nights after, you found your husband in the library, book in hand, lounging by the fire. He looked so peaceful as his eyes scanned the pages. You wondered what he was reading.

His eyes flickered to where you stood barely in the room and then back to the book. You took that as your cue to make your way to him, sitting in the chair next to his. The fire cracked, fending off the night chill.

You watched him for a good five minutes before he spoke. "You are staring."

Heat crept up your neck as you blushed. "I'm sorry, my lord, I was just admiring."

Looking up at you, he snapped his book closed and placed it on the table between the two of you. "I do have a name, you know," he said seriously.

"Yes, I know that."

"Then, I would prefer if my wife used it from time to time."

You smirked at him. "Only if you do the same, Vlad."

And he did, he said your name. It made butterflies erupt in your stomach. How could your name, the one your mother shrieked when you were in trouble or your father said with greed as he signed your life away, make you react this way? The way it rolled off his tongue like a prayer had you swooning, thankful that you were seated and not standing on shaky knees.

When you went to sleep, you dreamt of all the other ways your name would sound coming off his lips.

The next morning, you woke early, the sun barely peaking into the valley. The quiet footsteps of the servants that sounded off the rock walls let you know that the castle was wide awake, preparing for the day.

Slowly, you clambered drowsily out of bed, shivering at the cool morning air. Faint glowing embers shone through the ash in the fireplace, the minuscule emittance of heat not enough to reach you from feet away.

With shaking hands, you grabbed your dressing down, wrapping it around you snuggly.

Your slippers made soft thwacks against the flagstones as you walked aimlessly through the castle, letting your heart guide you. Before you knew it, you were outside and were met with the sound of metal ringing. As you ventured closer to the source of the sound, you began to hear muffled grunts.

'What could be happening at this time of morning?' You thought.

Turning a corner, you were met with the source. Vlad stood before some contraption made of wood, his sword in hand, chest bare. Your eyes examined him, watched each precise movement he made. It was like watching a dancer perform, entrancing.

He wasn't big and corded with muscle, but you could tell he was strong with the way he held himself upright and the amount of power behind each slice and lunge.

You couldn't help the flutter in your stomach, and you couldn't stop it as it traveled further down.

The rising sun brought along better light to which you were able to see the sweat covering his pale and freckled skin.

Your heart began to beat faster, and your legs crossed. A frisson of excitement could be felt in the warming morning air.

Vlad continued his training, oblivious to your audience or how his ragged breaths made saliva pool in your mouth and sent a pang to your core.

You wanted to touch him, dig your nails into the soft skin of his back, and have him take you hard and animal-like. You had to have him now, and you would.

When he finally lets his sword rest, you stroll to him, swaying your hips just enough. When he spotted you, his eyes trailed your body in its state of undress, lingering on the swell of your hips in the fine fabric before locking on your own.

"Good morning," you spoke, voice soft.

"Good morning," he smiled back. "You're up early."

Wrapping your arms around yourself your you spoke, "I was cold."

"I can send for someone to relight your hearth."

Shaking your head, you placed a hand on his bicep. Your heart skipped a beat when it sent a tingle up your arm.

Looking at him through hooded eyes, you bit your lip anxiously, clearly nervous about what you were going to suggest. "There are other ways to warm up."

Vlad's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles going white.

"Are you-"

"Yes." You were never more sure about anything in your life. You couldn't wait any longer.

Slowly, he stepped forward, and you took one back. He cocked an eyebrow at you, and you just grinned a wicked grin before turning on a dime and sprinting to the castle. "Catch me!" You called out, stooping briefly at the threshold to see if he was following. He was, and at top speed.

Screaming in excitement, you bolted down the hall, almost crashing into a group of servants as you rounded a corner. "Sorry!" you yelled after them, not stopping lest he apprehend you before reaching the bedroom.

While climbing the stairs two by two, you tripped over your nightgown, causing you to stumble slightly. You could hear Vlad bounding up behind you, gaining on you quickly. Swiftly, you regained your composure and raced for the door. You could just see him down the corridor, gaining on you.

You were almost to the door when he grabbed your wrist and pushed you against the wall. You shrieked in joy. His lips were parted, letting his heavy breaths escape, mingling with your own.

"Vlad…." Your chest heaved against his own.

His eyes were dark, void of that bright blue you were so used to seeing. They flickered from your gaze to your lips over and over, making you dizzy. Finally, before it was too much to take, he surged in and kissed you. His lips were warm and soft against your own. Hands roamed your body, scrunching in your night gown, groping for anything they could.

goosebumps appeared on your skin when his hand drifted up and lingered at your neck. You leaned into it, the feeling of him, wanting him, needing him to put pressure.

"My Prince-" a yelp severed your sentence. He was lifting you into your arms and carrying you through the door to your room, all without breaking the kiss.

You were only parted when your husband gently tossed you to the sheets. It was overwhelming, the lust you felt for him in this moment. It was almost paralyzing.

"I have waited for you to say those words to me for weeks. Have wanted you in silence; I could barely keep my hands to myself. You are a temptress, a succubus, and I will gladly fall to ruin for you."

He stepped into your open legs, pushing your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side, exposing you.

You barely noticed your nakedness, all you knew was that you wanted him then and there, you disnt care how, as long as he touched you. "Please, please, I need to feel you." You pleaded, hips grinding into the air.

"Be patient, my Beloved, I will give you what you desire in time." He said as he fell to his knees, large hands caressing your skin, pulling you closer to him, and settling your legs over his shoulders. The air from his mouth cooled the wetness at your core.

Vlad let out an eager groan before licking his lips, like a lion about to devour its prey. In a single, fluid motion, he placed his mouth upon your center. The gasp that escaped you quickly turned into an uncontrollable moan when he began to softly suck. Your hands shot to his hair, gripping onto the strands for dear life. It had never felt like this, not when you had touched yourself.

His teeth nipped greedily at the sensitive nub until your hips bucked and strained against his hold. Your breath hitched and caught in your throat when a pang of arousal echoed through you.

Your legs snapped closed around his head, his low growl vibrating against you. His fingers gripped the tops of your thighs, but he did not loosen them; he only dove into you deeper, plunging his tongue into your opening.

"Oh- ahh." You threw your head back, closing your eyes tight. You could feel that spark, the growing electric feeling deep within your bones. He was bringing you to the very precipice of your being.

His tongue coaxed and teased until you finally gave way, body tensing in his grasp. Pulling your legs away from his head, he leaned up only slightly so that he could speak. "Look at me."

You shook your head in answer.

"Look at me. I want you to look at me." He punctuated his sentence with a sloppy kiss to the inside of your thigh.

Giving in, you propped yourself up, shakily, onto your elbows and gazed at him with lidded eyes.

Vlad kept contact with your stare as he sank back onto you like a man starved. The intensity of the moment, of being watched as you fell apart, had you coming undone in a matter of seconds.

He licked you through the shockwaves, pulling strained moans from your swollen lips.

Breathless, you stared at the canopy above your bed. "That was…" You didn't know where to start, how to describe what you had just been through.

Taking his time, Vlad crept back up your body, his hands began to move, sliding across your curves, fingers tracing over the flare of your ribs as you took a deep breath in. The warmth of his pals as he cupped your breasts had you sighing. His thumbs passed over your sensitive peaks, causing them to pebble in his wake.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," he breathed, voice filled with reverence. Leaning down, he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your breasts, tongue flicking over your hardened bud.

Pressing his body to yours, you could feel the evidence of his arousal straining against his trousers. Wanton need built up inside, emboldening you as your hand inched its way down to undo the ties of his pants. Before you could unlace them completely, Vlad stopped you.

"I told you, have patience. I don't want to hurt you." He muttered, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, nipping at your pulse point.

"But I need you so much, so I feel like I might die," you bemoan dramatically.

He only chuckles, "You'll have me soon enough."

With a fervent motion of his hand, Vlad pushed the waist of his trousers down his hips, exposing himself. Your eyes widened at the sight, and your breathing became ragged as he slipped himself past your folds into your aching center.

The stretch wasn't painful, only slightly uncomfortable. As he sank into you deeper and deeper, the pressure built. Your legs wrapped around him, urging him further into you.

"Yes, my love, my prince, yes- ahh," you keened, shuddering as he bottomed out.

Vlad's right hand cupped your thigh while the left tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you in to kiss him. "I want nothing more than to map your body in kisses, learn every secret, sensitive spot that brings a moan to your lips and causes your body to writhe."

His mouth barely left yours, locked together like you were his lifeline, tethering him to this plane of existence.

Your fingers clawed at the expanse of his back, no doubt leaving long, red marks as a testament to your ecstasy.

"Move," you whine, "I need you to move."

Vlad obliged, slowly beginning to rock his hips. Your own rolling to meet the shallow thrusts. Moans mingled in the air shared between you.

He sat up onto his knees and grabbed your waist. From this angle, the thrusts were more intense. You could feel him better this way, punching into you.

"Faster," you begged him, needing to find release from the throbbing ache building inside you.

"I don't want to hurt you." He rasped.

Shaking your head, you cry out, "You won't, my love, you won't hurt me."

He studied you for a moment before gripping your hips and pistoning in and out.

The room might have been cold when you awoke, but now it was stifling hot. Sweat was beading across both your foreheads and where skin touched skin.

A chorus of grunts, groans, and whimpers echoed through the room as he began to rut into you.

And then, it was like something snapped within you. Your cries became louder and your back arched off the bed. "I- I'm-" you stutter out, hand reaching for him.

He locks his finger's with your own. "I know." The rhythm of his thrusts begins to falter, "I am as well."

With one last drive, you came undone, body shuddering rapture. Vlad wasn't far behind, spilling himself into you.

Exhausted, you both lay there, catching your breath. As you came down from your high, the room began to feel cold once again. Vlad noticed you shivering and pulled you into him before covering you both with the duvet.

His fingers played with your hair, pulling you into a blissful sleep, but before falling into slumber, a voice kept you.

"You," Vlad says before kissing your lips.

"What?" You ask with confusion etched on your face.

"You," he says once more, his fingers caressing your face. "In the garden, you asked me what my favorite flower was… It's you."

Thank you for reading, everyone! Please take the time to like, reblog, and comment! It is really encouraging to read all of your reactions!

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As soon as the two of you walked into your childhood home, it was clear as day that your brother wasn't going to leave you alone.

"So, Y/n, how did the two of you meet?" your father questioned, as everyone sat around the table.

It genuinely seemed like he and your mother were interested in getting to know him, and you were so happy.

"We met at the library. I was there to do some research for my thesis and he helped me find the volumes that I needed".

It was not true, but you had to say something.

Your brother, Paul, scoffed.

"You have something to say, boy?" your father scolded him.

"It's just typical of Y/n." he said, as he put down his knife and fork. "Don't you ever do something else than reading?"

Dream took your hand in his, in sign of solidarity. He was not going to interfere, for now.

And you sure as hell were not going to allow your brother to direspect you in front of him.

"I actually want to get my degree, Paul. It seems like you, on the other hand, want to keep living at our parents' expense" you replied "By the way, I do lots of other things."

"Yeah? Like what?" Paul chuckled "With a boyfriend like that, I highly doubt it"

You were about to say something, but Dream spoke before you could even breathe.

"For your information, I take great care of your sister, and she's an amazing partner. It seems like your ex-wife did not think the same about you"

"You don't know what you're talking about"

"Oh believe me, I do. And I suggest you stop offending Y/n"

"I was just having a chat with my sister, so mind your own business pal"

Dream's expression hardened: he was losing his patience, and you were embarassed of how tense the situation was getting.

"Paul, stop it!" your mother exclaimed "Morpheus is our guest, and you're disrespecting him! Now let's eat this wonderful meatlof that I-"

"That won't be necessary, mum" you spoke up "The two of us are going."

"Darling please, dont go. Norman, say something!"

Your father shrugged his shoulders. "Y/n is right" he stated "Paul is disrespecting her by being so stuck up, not her partner. If she does not want to stay, she can go. "

You looked at your father and the both of you smiled, while your mother was staring angrily at your brother who was keeping his head down in shame.

As you got up from your seat, Dream soon did the same and thanked your parents for their hospitality.

With that, the two of you walked out of your family home and breathed a sigh of relief .

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know. Paul has always been like that, and honestly- I have much better and important things to think about in my life than a frustrated thirty-year-old man" you caught your breath "And yeah, you take great care of me so I don't have to worry about anything"

The sept is quiet. Too quiet. Only the faint hiss of candle flame dares disturb it. The light trembles as it burns, catching in the carved faces of the Seven so that their expressions seem to shift. You do not look at them. The air smells of incense, thick and sweet to the point of suffocation, settling heavy in your lungs, coating the back of your throat until even breathing feels like a kind of penance.

You do not move. Your knees remain pressed to the unforgiving stone, the thin fabric of your gown offering no mercy. Your hands are clasped before you, tight enough that your knuckles pale and your nails bite into your skin, still—you do not loosen them.

You have prayed your entire life, speaking the same devout words into the sweetly thick air since you were old enough to understand prayer. Even before that, you think.

“I do not want this,” you whispered, the confession slipping out before you could reshape it into something more obedient. “I do not—please, I do not want this!”

Your voice rises without thought, the desperation in it twisting into something dangerous. The sound carries, strikes the ceilings, and returns to you in mocking echoes.

I do not want this—this—this—

Your breath catches, and you lift your gaze involuntarily to the statues towering above you: the Father’s judgment, the Mother’s mercy, the Stranger’s shadow. Suddenly, you stripped bare beneath them.

You swallow your sin, it tastes syrupy. Or perhaps that is the incense.

You lowered your head again, closing your eyes. “Forgive me.” You said, softer this time. “I want to serve you. I would give everything. I would take vows.” More desperate now, words spilling out faster than you intended.

You can feel your nails biting deep into your flesh. Your lips press against your tightly folded hands, breathe warm and uneven against your skin as you whisper into them. “Please… please… please—“

A cough.

Your eyes snapped open from the sound, and for a moment, you do not move. You think perhaps you have imagined it. But then you can hear something shifting, a faint drag of fabric. Then, you realize you were not mistaken.

You unfolded your hands slowly and placed them flat against the altar, bringing yourself back to your feet. Your skirts fall back into place with a soft rustle, and you turn to reveal the empty pews before you.

Until you see it.

Something— No, someone. They are slouched back against a pew, head tilted back, with one arm thrown loosely over their eyes. In his other hand, a bottle hangs low, caught loosely in his grip.

“Do not stop on my account,” he murmurs, voice rough, “I’ve no wish to interrupt whatever bargain you were trying to strike.”

His arm slips from his face, falling lazily to the side, and for a moment, he does not fully move. Then, only one eye opens, fixing on you with a dull, unfocused awareness. You drop quickly into a curtsy once the realization sets in.

“My prince, I did not realize.”

In the wavering candlelight, he is a poor likeness of what a prince should be. His hair, a pale gold and unmistakable, hangs loose and uncombed about his face, falling in uneven strands. It looks as though no brush has touched it in days. His clothing is of good quality, richly woven, yet worn with no care as if he had slept in them or thought little of how he appeared.

He does not reply, his eye closes again, and he allows his head to loll back. You swallow, the motion tight in your throat. “My prince,” you say again, softer now, more careful. “I will leave you to your… prayers.” You take a step back, your skirts whispering faintly against the stone.

He laughed, low and without mirth. “I do not pray,” he mutters, the words slurring faintly as the bottle is lifted and set once more to his lips.

“This is a sept.” You say with a hint of uncertainty.

“I know.” He answered with more certainty, moving to sling his arm around the pew lazily. A long stretch of silence settles between you two, and you wonder why you have not left yet. Then, slowly, as if realizing you were still there, he opens his eyes. His head tilts in your direction, his chin resting on his shoulder. His gaze drifts toward you, half-lidded and unfocused at first. Then it clears, just enough.

In the dim, wavering candlelight, you can make out his eyes, a pale violet; they remind you of the lilacs in the gardens. “I am hiding.” He added plainly without explanation.

Your gaze flickers across the empty sept before returning to him. Your brows knit. “In the sept?”

He shrugged. “They do not look for me here.” His hand lifts, the bottle tilting loosely as he gestures around the sept. You follow his movements with your eyes. “So here I am.”

“Right,” you say at last. You dip your head, gathering your skirts as you make to take your leave. “Then I shall leave you to—”

“Oh, fuck me, where are my manners?” He spoke abruptly; you felt your chest tighten slightly at his ill-suited language. There is the soft shift of him upon the pew, the dull knock of glass against wood as he stirs. When you turn, his hand is already lifted as he extends the bottle toward you as though it were some common courtesy.

Your gaze follows it, the dark red liquid sloshing around the glass. You raise your hand slightly in decline. “No, thank you, my prince, I do not partake.”

It was not a lie; you have never drank. Never at feasts, your cups left untouched, never at tourneys, where wine flowed as freely as the bloodshed. You have seen men make spectacles of themselves beneath its influence. They become foolish. Your gaze flickers, briefly, to the prince. Such as him. You thought. Alcohol loosens restraint, and it invites poor choices. It stirs thoughts best left buried. Impure thoughts.

For a moment, he only looks at you. Then, “Never?” He asked with a note of disbelief.

You shake your head, his lips curl into something close to a smile, and he laughs. Not mockingly, more like amused. He lowers the bottle from your reach and shifts slightly in the pew.

“Sit,” he says, with a careless flick of his wrist toward the space beside him.

You stare at him for a moment. “I should not, my prince—“

His hand lifts again, cutting you off with an easy motion, “Ah, ah, ah, your prince commands it,” he says, a faint hint of amusement threading his voice now. The words are spoken lightly; you do not think he truly cares whether they are obeyed.

You glanced back at the exit once and then to him. Regardless of whether he meant it or not, he was a prince. So, despite yourself, you move towards him, settling onto the space beside him. You placed your hands in your lap and straighten your back. You can feel his warmth from beside you, and the strong smell of sweet wine that seems to cling to him. He shifts slightly, and his knee presses into yours.

You are unsure of where to look, so you look down. You can still see the crescent shapes that formed on the back of your hands.

“You could do with a drink,” he says after a moment. “Sounded as though you need one.”

“How do you conclude that, my prince?” You asked.

You hear him chuckle, feeling the movement beside you. “From all that begging.” He said, referring to your prayers not long ago.

You look at him at once, “I was not begging.” You say too quickly.

Your offended expression obviously amuses him. A smirk on his lips as his eyes move across your features. He is handsome. You think.

And quickly you push the thought down, realizing how close you were to him, you drop your gaze again. “I was praying.” You say.

He laughs again, and it is really starting to annoy you.

“Is it not the same?“ His head cants slightly. “You ask, they do not answer, you ask again. It sounds an awful lot like begging.”

You feel a heat rise in your chest. He is mocking you, you are sure. Your fingers curl faintly in your lap. How dare he? A spoiled prince, drunk in a sept, daring to speak so lightly of what you have given your whole self to? You want to say something, but you do not. Holding it back through a clenched jaw.

Daeron looks back at you again. He must have noticed your tense expression. “Ah,” he says softly, lacking his previous amusement.

“I did not mean to mock you.” He says, moving his hand suddenly to your face, swiping a stray strand of hair gently from your cheek, letting his hand fall back without care.

His gaze drifts from you for a moment, settling somewhere just past you, a faint smile on his lips. “I used to pray when I was a boy.” He said, then sighed as if he was holding his breath.

“Prayer can be of much comfort, my prince.” You said.

Daerons' eyes met yours again, and his amused smile returned. “This is comfort.” He said, lifting the bottle to your lips. “Only a sip.”

The smell of the sweet wine was sharp as he held it close to your face. It stung your nose. You stare at it for a moment, and hesitantly, you reach for it. Fingers curling around the glass.

Daeron watched with something close to satisfaction. His brow raised slightly as if he was daring you. You did not know why you took it. Perhaps it was because it was a prince who urged you; who are you to deny a prince a second time?

Maybe if you took a small sip, he would be content, and you could leave this terribly awkward situation. Your eyes moved up towards the statues peering down on you, judging. Your eyes lingered on the Maiden for a moment before returning to Daeron. You swallowed hard and brought the bottle to your lips. Gods, forgive me. You thought.

It was sharper than you expected, bitter on your tongue. You could not help but grimace as you pulled the bottle away; the taste stuck to your tongue even after you swallowed. Daeron laughed, amused by your distress. “Good girl. Was that so terrible?” He asked.

“It burns,” You admit.

A faint smirk touches his mouth. “You did not drop dead. The gods did not strike you down.” He said, pushing the bottle closer to you. His hand covering yours. “Have another. See if they care this time.”

You want to say no, to set the bottle down and leave. You want to yell at him for mocking you, but you do not. You take another sip, bigger than the last, though it burns no less.

When you look back at him with his satisfied expression, you realize you want to cry. You want to fall to your knees and beg—no, pray —for forgiveness. You want to throw the bottle, let it shatter on the stone floor, and scream. You want to scream at the gods, at your father, at the prince.

So instead, you take another drink, and then another until the prince pulls the bottle from your lips. “Slow down.” He laughed softly.

You swallowed hard, and wine slipped at the corner of your mouth. His thumb finds it before you do, brushing it away—then, without thought, to his own lips. You forget what you meant to say and your throat burns, but not from the wine this time.

You feel like you have to squint to look at him all of a sudden, and you’ve long forgotten your posture when you lean back into the pew. You felt odd.

Daeron, seemingly, had noticed your change in posture and leaned back as well. “Do you feel better now?” He asked.

“Huh?” You turn to look at him, your movements feeling lighter.

“I asked if you felt better.”

“Oh.” You thought for a moment. “I do not know.”

Daeron chuckled. “Then you must.” He turned, his head falling to the side to look at you. You do not look away this time.

You can still smell the sweet scent of wine that clung to him, but something else as well. It reminds you of an oak tree.

“I would like to kiss you.” He said bluntly.

Your eyes widened, but you do not move. Perhaps you cannot speak either because, when you open your mouth, your throat feels intensely dry. It is a jest, surely.

“I am quite drunk, and you are quite beautiful.” He said.

You felt heat rush to your face. “My prince—“

You attempted to speak, but he let out a sigh, rubbing his brow as if you had said something to cause a headache.

“Daeron.” He corrected.

“I cannot kiss you.” You said.

“You do not drink, you do not kiss. What do you do?” He asked, but then it looked like something dawned on him. “Have you ever kissed anyone?” He asked.

You shook your head.

He looked over to you, his smirk returning, “You have not tasted wine until today.”

You hated that he had a point. “I am—“ The words get stuck in your throat.

Daeron raised a brow, “You are what?”

You did not answer.

“Married?”

“No.”

“Betrothed then?”

He watched your reaction to his words. “Ah.” He said. “Think of it as practice then.” He said.

His eyes moved from yours to your lips, and suddenly, you did not want to run away anymore. He was handsome, you thought again.

No, no, no.

“My prince—“ You begin to say.

“Daeron.” He corrected again.

Your heart felt faster, you could almost hear it. This was not right, it was wrong, very wrong. But you felt so much lighter, and the unease in your stomach flutters.

Fuck the gods. What have they ever done for you?

“I will kiss you.” You agree.

He looked at you for a moment, most likely expecting you to change your mind. But when you did not, he scooted in closer, closing the little space between you. You could feel his arm draped around the pew behind you.

You did not mean what you said about the gods, you thought. Then his other hand cupped your cheek. Lifting your head slightly as he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. It was neither soft nor rough. Clumsy maybe. You did not move, the warmth in your face only worsened, and you closed your eyes.

You felt his fingers mend into your hair. He tasted like wine, you expected that. Then he pulled away, still lingering close. You could feel his breath on your mouth.

What were you doing?

“Was that so bad?” He asked, " You opened your eyes. He was looking at you, his lilac eyes glossy, and you noticed the faint red rims, his hand still cradling the side of your head.

You shook your head.

“Would you like to stop?” He asked.

Yes. No? Damn you.

You shook your head. That must have satisfied him, because he smirked again, pulling you closer until, again, your lips met his. You fell forward slightly, steadying yourself by placing your hand on his chest. He felt warm. He must have liked that, too, because his other hand found your waist.

It lingered there for a moment, absentmindedly caressing the fabric of your gown. You jumped slightly when you felt his tongue swipe at your bottom lip. He smirked against your lips, his hand on your cheek fell to your waist and he pulled you onto him. Your hands flat against his chest as you were now settled on top of him, your knees straddling his lap.

His tongue was in your mouth now, his hands gripping your waist firm enough to hold you there. When he pulled away from your lips, he did not stop; instead, he only moved lower, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses onto your neck. His breath is warm, and your skin feels incredibly ticklish. Your head fell back, your lips parted slightly, and your breaths were uneven. You liked this. You thought.

But when you opened your eyes to see the Mother standing over you, you felt a sickening realization. You were warm and light from wine, and in the sept, alone with a man absolutely ravishing your neck. You gripped his tunic. “My prince—“

“Daeron.” He muttered against your skin.

You tugged on his tunic, and he pulled away from the crook of your neck. Looking up at you with furrowed brows. You lowered your head to look at him.

“I must stop, this is…” You try to speak, but the way he is looking at you. Gods. “This is sinful.” Your voice dropped to a whisper.

He chuckled at that, shifting slightly so he was holding you close to his chest by your waist. You gripped his tunic tighter so you would not fall back. “You are very uptight.” He said.

You huffed. “You are very…indecent.”

He was caught off guard by your insult, and you felt yourself go still, realizing you may have just insulted a prince of the blood. But he does not get angry. Instead, he laughed again, and it was not as annoying as it was before.

His hand moves from your waist to trace your collarbone; his touch is light. “If I must suffer in the seven hells for kissing a beautiful woman, then the gods are cruel.”

“This is a place of worship, my—“ You swallowed, “Daeron.”

He laughed and sighed, letting himself fall back onto the pew. His grip on your waist loosened slightly as his eyes moved from yours to where the two of you met on his lap. “I am starting to see that.” He said.

You bit your lip. Why have you not left yet?

Daeron continued. “If you would like to stop, you only have to speak it.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “I do not wish to stop.”

“Very well.” He said. “I have taught you drinking, I have taught you kissing.” His fingers tapped idly on your waist as he pondered something.

Then he moved, shifting you from his lap so you were now the one sitting, and unexpectedly, he sank to his knees between your legs.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

He did not answer; instead, he hiked up your bundle of skirts to your waist, and your eyes went wide. He pressed a few light kisses to your inner thigh, his hands sliding up to hold your hips, squeezing your soft flesh.

“My prince—“

He did not look up. You felt him hum against your thigh, and your words fell short. And then you felt his warm breath on your core. Your hands clench at your sides, and before you could speak again, you felt his tongue drag a slow line up your center.

Your breath caught, and you felt your shoulders go slack against the wood. That must have encouraged him because you feel his tongue again. More confident this time. You felt his thumb draw lazy circles on your hip, but you could not focus on that right now.

His tongue worked, swirling your bud, and your back arched. Your head falls back, and you can no longer bite back the noises that leave your lips. Without warning, Daeron pulled away from your center, looking up at you with a lopsided smirk. His lips glistened with a mix of saliva and your slick. “Would you like me to stop?” He asked. Giving you another chance to abandon this sin before you are condemned.

You shook your head. Without hesitation, he dove back between your folds. moving his tongue against your cunt. “Good girl.” He muttered again, the vibration sending a shock through your core. Your hand instinctively moved to his shoulder to steady yourself, and then intertwined with his hair. It was softer than you expected.

He sucked at your clit, the only noise filling the silent sept was the wet sounds between his tongue lapping at your cunt and your hushed whimpers. He appeared utterly devoted on his knees before you, pressing you closer against his mouth. You could feel him mutter incoherently between your folds, but the feeling coiling low in your stomach was too overwhelming to pay closer attention.

After a few more unbearable moments of this, you felt yourself gripping his hair harder than intended. Still, you did not think he minded because he continued to delve his tongue into you without faltering. You tried to buck your hips away, but he held you against his mouth, your knees clamped around his head.

“Gods!” You moaned out. The words echoed against the walls, and by the time they made it back to you, you were overcome with an almost blinding sense of pleasure.

Daeron moved from between your legs, looking utterly satisfied with himself as he lazily wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His hair was messier than before, if that was possible. Lifted slightly from where you had grabbed it.

You looked at him for a moment before realizing you were still exposed. You moved and yanked your skirts back down. He laughed, and you felt like he was mocking you again.

“I was right.” He said. He moved and was sitting now, his back against the pew with one leg drawn up. His arm draped lazily over his knee.

“I’m sorry?” You asked.