18+

You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.

You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R. 

You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.

“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”

Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.

Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose. 

“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”

“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”

Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”

Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.

You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.

You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.

“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”

“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him. 

He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)

“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.

“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.

Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.

“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.

You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”

The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.

Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up. 

“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.

“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”

“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time—  Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”

“I wasn’t—”

A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.

The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)

“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.

You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip. 

“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”

You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.

“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”

Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments. 

You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Oh, my god—”

“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.

“—That’s what this is about?”

“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”

His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted. 

“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”

You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.

“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”

Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out. 

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.

Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours. 

“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”

“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff. 

Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.

“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”

You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.

Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers. 

In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.

“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”

“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”

“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.

You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song. 

Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.

“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”

You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”

“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”

“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.

Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.

Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”

“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”

His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”

“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”

Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter. 

You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”

“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.

Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.

You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”

The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.

“Jack,” you echo softly.

The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out. 

“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.

The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”

“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”

“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”

Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”

“Eh. Maybe a little.”

You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”

“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.

“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”

“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”

Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”

“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?” 

“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”

“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”

“Still counts.”

“Does it?” you squint.

Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”

“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”

You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more. 

“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”

Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”

Your eyes harden in an instant.

Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.

“It’s casual,” you tell him.

Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage. 

“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”

Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne. 

For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.

Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.

Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.

You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before. 

There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.

Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.

Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.

Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.

You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.

You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.

Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”

“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head. 

“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”

You exhale a soft laugh. 

Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’  today?”

“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”

“Brutal,” he scoffs.

“You’re fault.”

“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”

“No,” you answer instantly.

“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”

Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”

“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”

“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”

Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”

Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.

“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”

“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.

“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.

You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.

Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.

“Am I?” you hum.

“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”

“You usually only do that at my place.”

Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”

His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can. 

Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.

“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”

“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”

“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”

You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day. 

The realization hit him like a truck.

His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.

“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”

Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.

“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.

You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”

“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”

An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”

Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.

“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”

“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.

“Because being with him made me feel good—”

“I said alright!” 

“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”

Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.

Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”

“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is what I wanted—”

The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again. 

Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.

“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.

She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence. 

“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”

The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you. 

“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.

“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”

“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”

Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.

You couldn’t hide from him if you tried.

When Simon comes back, he’s dog-tired.

As soon as his feet touch the welcome mat of your quaint little apartment, he feels all of his muscles relax – as if they’re unpinning themselves from his bones – and he has to give himself a pep talk to muster the energy to drag his hand up to ring the bell.

But he doesn’t have to, because you’re ripping the door open – shining like the sun – and pulling him into your body, rendering all 6,4 ft and 240 pounds of the super soldier to complete mush.

For five minutes, you don’t speak. Just hold him, as you gently rub the corner of his jaw, and brush your fingers through his dirty blonde hair. He clutches you to him.

His fat, paw-like hands hold your upper back, and you hold him with the same vigour. His body – wrapped in his black compression shirt and army pants – is rock solid.

It’s a weaving of muscles that have been tensed for the last two months. It’s going to take a minute for them all to soften, but like he always does when he’s been away, Simon lets out a deep and resolute sigh.

The breath warms your neck, causing it to tingle, and you grasp him tighter, your body waking up.

It’s been a long two months.

He manages to push your intertwined bodies through the doorway, using his boot to kick the door shut. His house smells like home -- funny how you can’t smell it until you’ve been gone a while.

Vanilla and a citrus fruit, mixed with the savoury scent of his favourite meal. He hums again, and you scratch the back of his head, sending shivers down his locked spine.

He knows the route to your bedroom like the back of his hand, and he maneuvers the pair of you inside.

The curtains are closed and the bed is made. You know him. You know him so well.

You let him push you back onto the bed – a blur of familiar limbs and hair – and he settles lower, burying his face into the crook of your neck. Immediately, you drag your legs up and cross them over the curve of his ass.

You’re all warm and soft and pliable. Dressed in a pair of simple cotton shorts and a vest top, he wants to grab fistfuls of you and remind himself of how you feel in his palms. Wants to drag his lips over your skin, bully his way between your legs and remind himself of how you taste.

Fuck, he wants you, in a carnal, almost primal sort of way, and you the same. He can smell it. A sweet but sweaty longing that melts from you and causes his senses to wake.

But he’s so God damn tired.

You know. Know this routine. Know that he has to settle back in.

In the meantime, you’ll just have to wait.

You fiddle with his hair. “There’s dinner if you want it,” you whisper into the dark bedroom, looping the strands between your fingers, committing the soft feel to memory.

Simon shuffles just an inch on top of you, but still, the slight movement of his clothes and hard, clenched body against yours makes you take your bottom lip between your teeth.

It’ll be chewed raw by the time he has enough energy to take you. He grunts something into your skin, and after a second, you gather it’s, tired.

His scent clouds you.

When Simon comes back, he always smells the same.

The soap at the barracks is pine scented – shampoo a strict lemon.

But there’s always a leftover grit to him. A hidden layer the soap can’t clean off, and it makes you delirious. Makes you flex your ass up – just an inch, a sweet, gentle inch that has you feeling the hard lines of his thighs and the metal of his zipper, and Simon’s breathing hitches.

You freeze. With your hips pushed tight against his, you stare at the ceiling, hoping that your worn-out soldier hasn’t felt you move.

Simon stays quiet. His breathing settles. You go to apologise, but Simon doesn’t grumble or make a sly comment. Listening closer to his breathing, you gather that he’s asleep.

Jesus, you think, that’s a record. Barely in the door and he’s asleep, he must be burnt out. Figuring that you won’t be able to crawl from under his weight, you decide it’s your bedtime too.

Sleep comes fast.

Hours later, you blearily blink awake. Not much has changed – the room is still dark, Simon is still heavy on top of you, yet now, you’re sticking to him with sweat.

He’s usually a human furnace, but this is different.

Your skin prickles, vibrating at a frequency that has nothing to do with heat. No, this is…you feel a pulsating between your thighs, and wiggle, feeling your slick coating your underwear.

Fuck, why are you so wet? You clench, and the resulting ache forces you to hiss and push your head back against the pillows. What did you dream about? Thinking back, you come up short. Then why--

Simon shuffles on top of you. It’s a slight movement, but it continues, and all at once, your heart clenches.

Holy fuck, he’s—

“Simon?” you whisper, and your boyfriend whines into your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, the words wet and desperate. The puzzle pieces lock into place.

He knocks his hips into your crotch once more, and you gasp, clenching, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Simon’s apology comes out again, except this time, it’s christened with a “s-shit – fuck.”

Blinking at the ceiling, you huff and try and glance down, and in the dark, you just about manage to see the outline of his burly body grinding into yours.

You take stock of the situation.

Feel his fat palm around your hip, and squinting, see that he’s got your shorts pulled down around your thighs, and has the band of your underwear looped around his fingers.

Jesus Christ. You fall back into the pillows. “How long have you?” you whisper. “Five – fuck – minutes,” Simon grunts, continuing to roll his thick hips against you. His bulge knocks the edge of your throbbing clit, causing you to gasp again. There’s been no build-up to your want, it’s just there, humming electric, and spread tight over your thighs.

Simon meshes his wet mouth against your chest. He’s tugged your vest top down, too, and his lips close around the skin of your breast. Jesus. He was undressing you as you slept.

“Thought about fuckin’ you, but couldn’t get my pants down, so – shit -- tired. Jus’ woke up and you were just so fuckin’ soft. And wet, Christ, felt you through my trousers.”

Your whole body goes numb. “You were gonna fuck me as I slept?” you whisper, belly flipping. You’d told him – ages ago – that he could, but he hasn’t been here. You’d forgotten.

The image of him pulling your underwear down as you slept streaks across your mind. Imagine waking up with him inside of you, so full and wet and just on the precipice of coming.

Simon grunts. He tugs at the band of your underwear, “I’ll fuck you right, at some point. Just –”

In your delirious state, you manage to finish his sentence, “Tired, I know – I know baby.”

You kiss the crown of his head and whimper into his hair. “Just use me until you’re ready.”

Simon groans out deep and loud. It rumbles against your chest. Echoes through your heart, and you’re so turned on that you begin fidgeting.

You try and squirm away from the stifling ache of your pussy, but Simon’s built like a brick shithouse, so you can’t run from it, just gotta take it and take it and take it, until you can’t anymore, and you break.

You’re so fucked that you don’t even announce that you’re coming, but Simon knows, shit, and as your pussy clenches up tight, he growls low and hard, mumbling, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it, until his movements go sloppy, and his breathing goes laboured, and he’s coming into his pants and mewling your name.

When he finally does manage to get inside of you, he doesn’t last long. No, he pushes all the way to the hilt, and you tighten up.

“Stay” you gasp, clenching your pussy around his shaft, and Simon grunts deep and long into your throat.

“S-Stay there,” you moan, then, in case he didn’t hear you, “Stay,” you whisper, and push the ball of your palm into his thick, scarred shoulder. 

You were teetering on a knives edge.

You’ve come once since Simon was home, and your second orgasm of his return was right there.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Simon groans into the shallow of your throat, “Did we do enough prep?” 

“Yes,” you immediately whisper, not wanting him to pull out. 

He’s thick and pulsing inside of you, hard and heavy on top, and God, he kisses at your throat — soft and gentle. You try to swallow down the ball that has swelled in your throat, but tears prick at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill. 

No no no no, you think. Not now. Not now not now. You try to stifle the tears, but you unconsciously sniff, and despite Simon being perfectly still, he still manages to freeze.

“Sweetheart?”

You inhale, “Yeah?” 

Simon looks up; and seeing tears on your cheeks, his face falls, “Did I hurt you?”

You furiously wipe the tears away, shaking your head.

“M’just overwhelmed,” you whisper, and he presses his forehead against yours, going to kiss you, but the movement causes his hips to flex against you, nudging his cock, and you whine, immediately gripping onto the back of his dirty blonde locks. 

Simon drops his face into your chest and lets out a pained rasp, “Tightening around me, kid.” 

You unclench, “m’sorry.” 

“Gonna come quick.” 

“S’okay.” 

“I’ll fuck you right, just gotta…” he trails off and grabs fist fulls of your hips.

“Fuck,” he huffs wistfully, “This pussy. Missed this fucking pussy.”

You go dizzy with need. Shake your head, and bend to kiss him, tasting his wet and swollen lips. Gently, you knock your hips up into his, and when he lets out a surprised grumble, you flex your hips higher, trying to stuff his cock deeper, further – till you can see it pressing into your belly.

Catching onto your plan, Simon grunts and pushes your hips with his fat palms, pinning your ass to the mattress. 

“Stop,” he orders, and the demand goes straight to your cunt. Jesus. He hasn’t been very dominant since his return, and that little instruction has you chomping on the bit.

“Want you, Si.”

“One stroke and I’ll be fucked.” 

“Just gotta practice.” 

He chokes on a laugh, muttering, “Practice.” 

You try another tactic. Clench around his cock and pout, “Want you to come inside me.”

“Fuck,” Simon cuts. You curl your legs back his back and push your foot into the dense muscle of his ass, at the same time rocking your hips up. Simon lets you. Let’s you try and fuck yourself on his cock. With wet lips, you push your mouth into the shell of his ear, shakily uttering his name.

“Gonna fill me up, Si?”

“Fuckin’ filthy, you know that?”

Simon pulls back, and your heart stutters.

You think he’s going to pull out, until he uses your hips to pull you tight against his cock -- your ass nearly sitting on his thighs. His thick, scarred chest is puffed up.

Cheeks red, and he’s got that animal glint in his pretty eyes.

It knocks you for six.

“Where you want it?” he asks, and you’re confused, until he presses the heel of his palm into the middle of your tummy.

“Shoot my load here, huh?”

Your body goes numb. Eyes white out. It happens so suddenly that it scares you, and you’re a mixture of turned on and frightened, but the fear turns you on even more.

All you can do is blearily look up at him as he slides his paw to the other side of your tummy, “or shoot it here. Fuck it so deep that you can taste it.”

He pretends to think about it. Even hums, before he drags his palm up and stuffs his thumb into your mouth. “Or just directly here, huh?” He snarls a smile, “know you like it when your mouth is full.”

You suck at his thumb, and tighten your cunt around his cock, causing his mouth to open, and eyes to flutter, and just like that, you’ve won.

He comes in record time.

But Simon keeps his promises.

A couple of days later – on the seventh day he’s back -- he fucks you so good, that when you wake up the next morning, you get shy just thinking about it. 

Lay in bed, staring at the ceiling – your boyfriend fast asleep on your chest -- remembering the debauchery you’d gotten up to the night before. 

The pair of you are a little tipsy, drunk on beer and wine, but all it’s done is heighten your senses, and made you fully aware of your desires, so much so, that they pulsate behind your eyelids like a migraine.

Simons got you face down, ass up, and as he pushes you face first into the mattress, he presses his thumb against the tight, fluttering hole of your pussy.  

“Gonna let me inside, baby?”

You sink into your thighs and spread yourself wider for him, humming into your crossed arms. Simon watches your pussy spread further, and he can’t help himself, he has to slide his thumb deeper.

He presses, just barely pushing the tip of his thumb into your wet hole, and you gasp, trying to chase the feeling by inching back against his fat palm.  He laughs at you. “Look at your pussy sucking my thumb in, baby. Wish you could see what I’m seeing. So fuckin’ sexy.”

You hum, the words making you wetter – dripping over his thumb.

“Been dreaming of fucking you right, gonna take you whenever I want.”

“Okay,” you whisper, so delirious that you’re not sure what you’re agreeing to. Simon raises a brow,

“Yeah?” he asks, tone breathless. Thought he’d get some pushback on that one, but for a second, he forgot that you said the nastiest shit with his dick inside of you.

You nod into your crossed arms, and Simon laughs again, “Free use pussy,” he sounds, then lightly smacks your sodden folds, causing you to flinch, bucking forward. 

“Oh fuck,” you choke, eyes rolling back. Heat ricochets through your crotch and swamps your belly, before settling back in your aching pussy. Once you manage to collect yourself – and it takes a second -- you huff. “Bein’ mean.”

Simon snorts, grabs your hips, then rams the underside of his cock against your pussy, grinning so big that his scars stretch, “don’t know the half of it, babe.” 

You sob, real tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Your desire is visceral, enough for you to taste it on your tongue. Simon pulls back, and your slick coats the length of his dick, earning yourself another light smack to your cunt.

“Soakin’ me,” he grunts, and you sob into the sheets. “Please,” you whisper, then, please please please, and Simon hears your breathing hitch. 

This time, instead of checking up on you, he chuckles, “Crying again, baby?”

You sniff and wipe your eyes on your wrist, face heating.

“No,” you mumble, and Simon sighs.

He reads you like a book. Always has. Always will.

he’s not gentle.

it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.

maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.

he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.

you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.

“don’t fuss,” maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, “fuck, you always take me so well, don’t you?”

he doesn’t really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.

“how many times…” maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. “will i have to spill in this tight cunt before you’re full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before you’re round with my child?”

you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but it’s lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.

maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.

“is that what you want, little dove?” he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. “you want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt ‘til she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?”

“maekar,” you manage out, and it’s low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.

“i’m right here,” he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. “oh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill her—wants me to make you a mother.”

you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. it’s right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.

maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. “fuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we go…”

he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.

but he’s not far behind you—as you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with “that’s it, there we go” and “good girl, just like that” as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.

maekar groans loudly. “gods, you’ll look perfect round with my child—fuck, i’ll be good to you, little dove, an’ i’ll keep you full all—the—fucking—time—” thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before he’s letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.

he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.

he doesn’t pull out, but he collapses half way on top of you—the hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.

“it’ll take,” he says like he’s sure of it. like he knows it will.

“and if it doesn’t?” you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.

maekar chuckles. it’s a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.

“then we keep trying,” he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. “i’ll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until you’re too full to even move… understood?”

you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.

———

me next

His hands did not leave your body as you spoke. Instead, they explored further. Your back arched into his palm when his thumb flicked over your hardening nipple, leaving goosebumps on your skin. You could feel the other one slowly drifting between your thighs and you opened them up for him. The silence between his request and your compliance was louder than words. He let out a grateful sigh from behind you, his face buried in your neck. His beard there provided a ticklish sensation that had you squirming in his firm grasp.

"You're so bloody tempting like this."

Your hips began to move in rhythm with the flick of his fingers against your slit, his cock stiff against your lower back. He sighed again, this time with the effort of keeping still while you did the work. The curve of your ass grinding back against him was enough to make his eyes roll back in his head. But after days of not touching you, he planned on taking his time that morning. On making it last.

You pleaded soundlessly, urging him to slip his fingers inside. He indulged you after a moment. One at a time, unhurriedly. The stretch was more than pleasant but you could think of nothing you wanted more than for him to bury himself inside of you this very instant.

"I thought-- ah, I thought you had letters... to write..."

His name crawled out of your throat in a moan before you could even register the sound. You buried yourself further into the warmth of his chest, one hand clasping his wrist between your thighs while the other clutched at the pillow. It was torture to hold yourself so close to the edge like this. The effort left you shaking in his arms, hips bucking wantonly to chase your release that he was keeping at bay by slowing down.

"They can wait.", he whispered against your ear.

You felt too hot under the covers, suffocated. The motion of his fingers inside you, so long and so rough, was too much for your sleep-addled brain. You were so close, so close you almost turned around and--

"Father, he's burned my training shield again!"

Without so much as a knock, Aegon burst in the room followed by two Septons who were desperately trying to drag him out. But the boy was quick, ducking around furniture and evading them like a fresh water eel.

You all but threw yourself away from your husband, clutching the covers close to your chest and thanking the Gods that you still had your night clothes on. That you both did. Maekar jumped and cursed loudly at the intrusion, shoving the bed curtains open roughly. You would have likened this experience to having a bucket of freezing water thrown at you on a summer's day. All you could do was sit in a corner of the large bed, mortified, like a deer caught in a hunter's crossbow. You were sure that you were red enough to be confused with Targaryen heraldry. Good, that way you would fade into the walls and disappear.

"The sun has barely risen and you are already testing my patience, Aegon.", Maekar hissed through gritted teeth, voice low and caustic.

"It's his fault--", the little prince argued back, or attempted to before being interrupted.

"Wait outside!" he shouted.

You did not need to ask who Aegon was referring to. Maekar's second born Aerion was a troublesome beast who enjoyed tormenting his brothers. It was a habit you had been trying to coax out of him by showing him gentleness to compensate for his father's stern hand but given his age, you guessed he was beyond teaching. No matter, try you must. For all of the boys' sakes.

Gently, you pressed a hand to your husband's back as the Septons departed with hushed apologies. It had not escaped you that apart from the initial shock of seeing the two of you in bed, their eyes did not once rise from the floor. Maekar's fingers were pinching the bridge of his nose, his legs thrown over the edge of the bed to rise. Clearly nothing would be happening that morning between the two of you, any drive for lovemaking vanishing the moment his youngest stepped inside the doorway of his chambers. You could not blame him for it. His mind was already elsewhere, disciplining the boys.

"Fucking idiots, the pair of them.", Maekar glowered as he got up.

── .✧. ──

Later, you found him in the library. Blessedly alone between the stacks.

You took a moment to observe him without a sound before approaching him. His posture was slouched back, the opposite of what you would have expected from a Prince of the Realm. But Maekar had never been anything like his father or his eldest brother. As the last in line, he was afforded more license to do as he pleased. And there was very little that pleased him, apart from you.

"What are you reading?"

For the second time that day, your husband jumped out of his skin. He scowled at you, eyes dark and brows furrowed together. At the sound of your laugh, however, his expression mollified. He reached for your elbow with his free hand and pulled you closer. You glanced around to confirm that you were not being watched. This was your home, but you would have been glad to not have to deal with the whispers of servants in every corridor.

"I'm sorry about my son this morning.", he said tiredly, as if it were the hundredth time that day he had had to repeat the words.

"I hope you weren't too harsh on him, he's just a boy and there was no harm done."

"He has to learn, gods be damned."

"There will be other times... like now.", you hummed in return.

His lips parted in protest but you silenced his words with a kiss. The tip of your tongue darted out to deepen the kiss and he rewarded you with a groan. The book he had been holding was completely forgotten in his grasp as he pushed you back against the stacks with intent. Your hands flew to his face and cupped his scar-lined cheeks, unable to stand the absence of his lips on yours after the abrupt ending of that morning.

"You're impossible...", he scoffed, amused at your desperation.

You wasted no time in dropping to your knees in front of him. Your hands traveled up the length of his powerful thighs. When they reached his hips, his fingers tightened in your hair and brought your face closer. You mouthed over the fabric at his hardening girth while your eyes remained staring into his own icy ones. A promise, if he stayed patient enough to earn his reward. He whispered a curse in a language you haven't had time to master yet, a sound guttural and smouldering. His hips bucked when you trace the outline of his cock with your teeth, making you smirk. Maekar had both hands on the shelf behind you now and thank the Gods above for that. He could feel his knees buckling and you hadn't even started yet. In truth he had been pent up, thinking about you in every position known to him, since that morning. It was hardly fair of you to keep him waiting any longer by toying with him.

"Hurry up."

Before your hands could undo the fastening of his pants, you heard a voice from behind your husband calling out his name. You whirled on yourself and grabbed the first book you could reach, pretending to read in your awkward crouched down position. It was a tactless subterfuge but it should have avoided the worse. You cringed and hid yourself behind Maekar's legs, too embarrassed to rise from the floor now. He had shuffled a foot back and was rapidly flipping through pages of his tome. His eyes were everywhere but you and they spoke volumes about how aggravated being interrupted for a second time that day had made him. The mood was not only sour, it was near violent. You had half a mind to send the Septon away before he could reach you.

"The texts you requested, Your Grace."

The Septon's face was a mask of beatific calm as he glanced at you furtively. He handed over a handful of scrolls to your husband before departing. Rather hurriedly, you noted. With horror, you realised this was one of the same Septon from the pair that was in his chambers chasing after Aegon that morning.

Maekar thanked the man tersely, watching him depart in heavy silence. You both waited until you heard the doors of the library close before looking at each other. You cleared your throat and rose, dusting your skirts.

"I shall see you at dinner.", you squeaked out.

There was no point in continuing now. You'd lost your nerve.

── .✧. ──

It was much later, after dinner, when you saw him again. He had taken his supper to his solar to catch up on his missives. Or at least that was what you'd gathered from the servants you had questioned when he hadn't come to the hall to meet you.

You had already bathed when you came to his rooms. Instead of getting dressed for bed, you had opted for an overlong robe tied at the waist and nothing else. At this later hour, the day turning into night, it was easier to sneak around without being seen. You didn't risk running into a servant or guard. You hoped the surprise will be welcomed by your husband. At least the two of you could end the day on a happy note.

"Husband.", you called from the door as you closed it behind you and leaned back.

The lock you turned deftly made a noticeable clicking sound, but Maekar did not acknowledge it. He only made a sound as a reply but did not lift his head from his papers. His fingers were visibly stained with ink. Sheets of parchment laid at his feet around his desk, discarded after being ripped or scrunched in frustration. This would be another one of his long nights... unless you had anything to say about it.

"Maekar.", you tried again, more determined.

He finally looked up at you and sank further into his chair. Miserable was the word you would have chosen to describe him on that particular evening. But that was about to change.

"Have you come to torment me again?", he grumbled.

You did not reply. Instead, your hands undid the tie of the robe at your middle. The fabric parted around you, revealing an expanse of soft and warm skin down your middle. Maekar's chair was loud against the floor as he pushed it back and almost toppled it over in his rush to pounce on you. He crossed the space in an instant, his hands and lips immediately making contact with your skin, supple from the bath. They roamed your naked stomach and sides greedily. You went limp and pliable in his arms.

You let him turn you around, palms bracing against the door as his foot nudged your legs apart. He only had the time to line himself up and push inside you with a shared moan before a knock rasped on the other side of the door. He did not seem to care at all, hips already moving at a punishingly rough pace. You clawed against the wood desperately but found no purchase there. His thrusts seemed to force whimpers from deep in your throat, each louder than the last. If he kept on going like this, he'd have you screaming soon.

"Your Grace?", a voice probed on the other side.

"What?", Maekar growled back with effort.

"A raven from the Hand of the King."

"This fucking family...", he muttered.

His large hand came up abruptly to press against your lips, clutching your cheeks and jaw and stifling your sounds. This proved inefficient, if not utterly pointless. You moan helplessly, the sound barely muffled by his palm. His hips stilled, buried so deep you felt it in your gut. Still you chased after the friction, rocking back against him as much as the space would allow.

"Keep quiet unless you want us to stop, again.", Maekar reprimanded in your ear.

You acquiesced with a frantic nod and bit down on the fingers he slipped in your mouth instead. You could taste the ink and parchment on his skin, the metal of his rings. Your tongue rolled around the digits greedily and it was his turn to groan.

"Leave it here and go.", he said with effort, biting your neck soon after to muffle himself.

He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades and began moving again, the rhythm slowly building until you were gasping for your release. You were glad of the press of the door and his chest against you as your legs began to shake and you writhed at the drag of his cock inside you. The pressure built on and on, almost unbearable so, your eyes rolling back inside their sockets.

"I've waited all fucking day... to be inside you...", he panted between each thrust.

You nearly howled as your peaked barrelled over you, a litany of curses mingled with his name blabbered through the fingers still in your mouth. Both of his hands came to grab your hips tightly as he picked up the pace and pounded into you, chasing after his own release. You felt him bottom out and still, a choked out moan leaving his lips.

After what felt like an eternity to catch your breath and feel stable enough to stand by yourself, you pulled away from each other. But only for a moment. Soon, your lips were locked with his and you were driving him back towards his solid desk. A flatter surface, at least.

"Again.", you said with a wry grin.

You sigh and feel along the seams of your jacket. You miss your brother, you always were, but there’s new peace in the thought of him. There is honour in his memory.

“You’ve a gift for attracting beasts,” Mr. Shelby remarks.

You stop and Sergeant kicks at your heels as he does too. You turn as the horse nuzzles your cap. You touch his thick neck.

“He’s not a beast. He is only… a creature who reserves himself.” You stroke Sergeant’s short hair. “He does not hate people, only the chafe of a bridle.”

“Mm,” Shelby hums as he approaches. He rubs his gloved hands together. “Or he longs for the spring as I do.”

“I don’t mind the cold so much.” You say.

“Ah, you mustn’t. Or at least, you bear it well.” He comments.

You stare at him. You think his words carry more than one meaning.

“Is there something on your mind, Mr. Shelby?”

His brows flick as he stops close to you. “Mr. Shelby,” he echoes decisively.

“Husband,” you touch his sleeve.

He watches you. His lips part slightly as his forehead creases. He's measuring his words carefully. Before he can begin, there's a pinch at your elbow.

You face Sergeant as he raises his head and kicks his hooves. He shakes his mane and snorts. You back up and stare as the horse makes a small circle then bends his knees, lowering to his stomach before you.

Mr. Shelby steps up beside you and sighs. “It seems you've an even more demanding man than I at your beck and call.”

You laugh, “what a strange creature you are, Sergeant.”

“Do not leave him wanting. I know how you can have a man bound up in patience.” Shelby tuts. “Go on.”

You look at your husband.

“He's tossed a dozen different rides, myself included. Yet he welcomes you. I think he has made claim to his rider.” Shelby goads with the tilt of his hand. 

You near Sergeant. Gently, you touch his mane and back. The horse is immense even upon his stomach. Carefully, you lift your leg over him and settle on his bare back.

You cry out as he sets his hooves and stands with a jerk. You lean forward and hug his neck. Sergeant sets his posture and you sit up, squeezing with your thighs.

He begins a soft pace across the dirt. You laugh again as the rhythm fills you with delight. It is a soothing rock though a bit hard upon your bottom and thighs. You brace his shoulders and lean in to keep your balance.

“Another wild animal tamed, Hen,” Mr. Shelby calls after you.

🚬

You are as reluctant to leave the stable as Sergeant is to have you go. Still, you must. The day out was a welcome respite, unexpected too. Now, you are tired and the sky setting.

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby, that was lovely.” You say as you walk beside your husband.

“I should've brought you sooner. Well, some events delayed us,” he replies.

“It must be nice in the warmer weather.”

“It is. Lively. Flowers, gamblers, riders, and foaming pints all around.” He regales.

As you approach the car, you circle around and meet him at the driver's door. You pause and recoil as he gives you a keen look. His mouth twitches.

“Hen…”

You smile. “Apologies, I wasn't thinking…”

You avert your eyes guiltily. What would he think if he knew of your little lessons? You shift back on your heel.

“Should you like to drive? I could show you.” He offers as he taps the car with his knuckles.

“Me? Drive?” You feign surprise. “Well, is it safe, sir?”

He laughs. “I trust you, wife. You will keep us on the road. As you have thus far.”

He turns and opens the door. You hesitate but accept the invitation. You have this blooming in your chest. A bit of mischief. As you would feel as a child when you hid acorns in your father's pockets.

You settle into the seat and he closes the door. He comes around to the other side and slips in. As the door snaps shut you grab the wheel. He clears his throat.

“So yes, keep your hands on the wheel like that,” he points. “Turn where you want to go…”

Before he can continue his lesson, you turn the fuel valve and flip the spark. You turn the choke and press your foot down on the starter. The engine chugs to life as you smile and replace your left hand on the wheel.

“Hen?” Shelby utters. “How did you…”

You look at him and grin. His brows furrowed and you shift into gear. You pull away from the stables and follow the beaten road. You peer over the wheel as the tires spit up cold dirt.

“I'll only need you to tell me if I miss a turn,” you say.

“Hen? How?”

“I'm not entirely helpless, sir,” you shift again, picking up speed.

“Hen, you should slow down.”

“I've got my foot on the brake.”

“Yes, but are you engaging it?”

“I don't mean to stop.” You grin even bigger.

He braces the back of the seat and the door. “Hen…”

“Mr. Shelby, I am a rather capable driver.” You assure him. “And the road is clear.”

“What have you been up to?” He grits.

“Oh, don't worry so.” You chide.

“Wife, you are careless. Nonchalant. As never I've seen.”

“I rather enjoy to drive,” you shrug. I never saw a car before I came to Birmingham. I was afraid at first but I see now how fun they are.”

“Mm, certainly they are quite the invention. But as dangerous as they are useful.”

“Suppose if you don't know what you're doing.” You preen.

“Hen, are we in such a hurry –”

“You doubt me, Mr. Shelby.”

“Not at all.” He rocks with the momentum. “It is only my duty to keep you… safe.”

“Well, sir, you will find I am not to be doubted.”

You push your foot down and speed ahead. He gasps and grabs your arms. You twist the wheel as you pump the accelerator and the brake, cranking the wheel as you slice a circle with the wheels. Mr. Shelby hollers and reaches up to slap his hand against the roof.

He calls you by your proper name as he squeezes your arm. You cackles and bring the car to a stop in a cloud of dust. He falls back and gulps.

“Bloody hell, Hen, what are you about? Do you still seek to torture me?”

“Sir, this is no punishment. It is a touch of fun.” You set your sights and step down again. “Is that not what you've been seeking?”

“Christ,” he growls as you speed ahead. “Not quite what I had in mind.”

You beer around the curved road and slow as you come in sight of a farm truck. You pass patiently but as you go to rev, Mr. Shelby grabs your knee. He squeezes.

“Hen, stop.”

You sense the tension in his tone. You hate to push the mood too much. You let up your foot and engage the brake. You look at him.

He stares at you. You lift your brows innocently and pout. His blue eyes blaze as they search you.

You gasp as he frames your face and pulls you to him. He smothers you with a hungry kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth as he snarls. He devours you as his fingers curl into your skull.

He releases you with a heave and sits back. His lips glisten as his spot clings to yours. You taste it as you puff out shallowly.

How much of a choice is it? Can he even get a refund for the ticket? Your mom would always tell you never to turn your nose up at kindness, even if she chided for the excess of your own. You should call her and ask her what to do...

If she even picked up. Besides, you're an adult. This isn't really a problem. A trip to Europe is a dream. A wish come true.

Before you can do anything, your phone flashes beside your empty mug. The water! You haven't even made your tea.

You forget the bag waiting to steep again as the Caller ID snags your eyes. N Fowler. Shoot, shoot, shoot.

You tap answer and the little speaker icon. You clasp your hands together and sway on your feet.

"Hullo?" You eke out.

Nick laughs softly. "Sorry, sweetheart, I wake you up?"

"Uh... No." You stammer and shake your head. "No, I'm making my tea."

The words jar you into action. You grab the kettle and pour the steaming water over the breakfast tea. You watch the how it slowly tints reddish.

"Tea?" He echoes. "What kind? I'll have to make sure they have some waiting for you at the hotel."

You gulp and try to put the kettle down, struggling to line it up with the base. You clear your throat.

"Oh..."

"You said you didn't have work..." He intones.

You chew your lip. "I... Don't but... Leon could call today."

"He could." Nick says. "And you would choose him over me? Over Venice?"

You frown. "I didn't say..."

"No, you haven't said yes, have you?"

You sigh quietly.

"It's far away and... It must've been expensive--"

"Don't worry about the money. It's a work trip. All a write off." He insists.

"Mhmm." You hum. "It's so very nice and... I just don't want to distract you and I don't want to be in the way--"

"Sweetheart, I don't keep people around that get in my way. I also don't make offers lightly." He sniffs. "I promised to take you out for dinner, didn't I?"

"You did?"

"Well it's not exactly stir fry but genuine Italian pasta might just compare." He snorts.

"It sounds lovely."

"It can be. With good company." He prompts.

You nod as your stomach flips. You feel worse and worse more he talks. And why are you so resistant? It's not exactly a violation to offer up a free trip and once in a lifetime experience. If anything, it's ungrateful to throw it back in his face.

"Well, I have to pack..." You say.

"Sunglasses. Oh, there's a pool at the hotel. Hot tub. Sauna. And you want something light and breezy. Dresses. It's humid." He rambles. "You want me to send an assistant over to help?"

"Um, no, I don't got much. I can manage." You assure him as you pinch the string of the tea bag and bob it in the water. "Nick?"

"Yes, sweetheart," his voice is brighter.

"Thank you. It's very... Too generous."

"You don't get it, sweetheart. I'm not the one doing a favour here." He preens. "You just made my day."

🎥

You look up suggested packing lists. You’ve never really gone on a big trip like this before. Sure, you moved to LA but that was a matter of bringing everything you could fit in a duffle bag and knapsack. This time, you’ll stick to just the latter.

Toiletries. The most basic need. You tally those up first. Then underwear. You hope you have enough or at least there’s some sort of laundry access. Clothes… well, you don’t exactly have anything in Venice chic but you have a pair of flowy pants and some leggings. You still haven’t shopped for the LA heat, let alone the Italian. 

You suppose it will do. You add in a few odds and ends; a well-worn crossword book, earbuds, and a novel. The bag is ready but you’re not sure you are.

You pace back and forth, checking your phone. Leon hasn’t called at all. What would he think? He told you to avoid Nick and now you’re going across the world with him? And you would have to tell him something when you can’t take whatever job is next.

It’s all so complicated but you can only really blame yourself. You said yes. You could say no but you didn’t.

But didn’t you come to LA for experiences? This is an experience!

The knock at the door sends your phone to the floor. You yipe and quickly scoop it up. Your buzzer didn’t even go off.

You scurry over to the door and peer out the peephole. You nearly screech. You expected an assistant or a driver, but it’s him. Nick. Standing in your hallway!

Shoot.

You fumble with the lock and slide back the chain. You open the door slightly and peek out. “I’m ready just give me a sec.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says calmly.

He’s in a short-sleeve button up and loose slacks. He looks relaxed. You feel anything but.

“Hi. Um…”

“Gonna leave me out here all alone?” He winks.

“Erm… no.”

You back up and let him in. You stare at him as your thumb brushes over your phone screen. You look down at the cracks as you feel them.

“Oh no.”

“Damn, that doesn’t look good.” He comments as he gently shuts the door.

“It’s just the protector,” you peel off the plexiglass.

“Oh, sure.” He clucks.

“I’ll… grab my bag. And my shoes. Oh, my passport…” You put your phone down on the corner of the counter near the door and rush across the apartment.

You’re all too aware of his presence. It’s a small place. A bit cluttered.

“Nice apartment,” he comments.

“Mm. It’s affordable,” you hike up your knapsack on one shoulder and fight the strap of your belt bag.

“Excited?” He asks.

“Sure, yes.” You answer as you look at him. His hand rests on the edge of the counter as he leans on one foot.

“Been a while since I’ve been to this part of town.” He says.

“Well, yeah…” you approach him.

He reaches around you and grabs your bag. You squeak. “Oh!”

“I got it, sweetheart.” He drags the bag off your shoulder. He examines the buckle barely hanging onto the flap and the tattered pockets.

“Thanks, erm. My shoes.”

You bend your knees and squat down to pull on your sneakers. You stand and clip on your belt bag. You unzip it and grab your phone, slipping it inside. You push your finger into the side pocket to feel your passport.

“Okay, I think that’s everything.”

“Just this?” He swings the back onto his shoulder effortlessly.

“Um… oh.” You turn and grab your crochet bucket hat with the frilly trim. “That’s it.”

You pull on the cap and swipe your keys from the hook near the door. He stares at you a moment and his cheek dimples. He turns and opens the door. You exit first and he follows. You turn to lock the door as he looms close.

“I wasn’t expecting you…” you twist the keys.

“No?” He startles you again as he reaches to touch the bunny charm on your key chain.

“No. The note said a driver…”

“I’m a disappointment?”

“No. No!” You face him as he looms over you. “I just… I figured you’d be busy.”

For a girl who lived in a modest castle, Summerhall was a paradise. It seemed to be airy, endless, rich in everything; from history to its gardens to its food — oh, the food! The plump berries bursting with red juices that dribbled down and stuck to your chin, the meats and fish, always fresh and cooked so that they were glistening and fell slightly off the bone, and the cakes – crumbly, golden and moreish.  

The palace seemed to exist in a place you’d only heard of in fairytales, where the drama of the Kingdoms seemed to be non-existent and days felt like an eternity. Even the water seemed to heal, one dip erasing the tiredness of your body and making you feel brand new again. 

It was there that you met Daeron, Dyanna’s eldest of the same age as you. Sandy blond haired Daeron, whose siblings looked at him as if he lit the moon at night, a boy who did not particularly enjoy combat (though endured it for his brother) but was skilled at reading and was rather well spoken. 

In the rare moments where Aerion was off entertaining himself, you’d spend time together, quizzing you on the bizarre riddles he’d heard from his uncle, or climbing trees, a right that only the pair of you had from being the eldest. 

“Aerion doesn’t like being left out,” he’d remarked. “He’s not allowed to climb because he’s too small. Sometimes I quite like it up here. It’s quiet.” 

It had been a joyous time then; a time where the weight of responsibility or the distinct boxes your opposing sexes, though discussed, hadn’t yet materialised. You were simply two happy young children whose lives were shortly about to grow more complicated. 

As the seasons passed, Dyanna had more children and visits became less frequent, communication received in the form of letters to your mother. They were mostly light-hearted, but you caught word of Daeron’s growing nightmares; his gradual shrinking from cherished older brother to tormented soul, a victim of Targaryen madness.  

It was hard to imagine Daeron – your Daeron - restless and hysterical, even if he’d always been a dreamer, a Romantic…which is why when Dyanna had died, you’d first thought of him. The one who had her the longest yet was taken away from him too early.  

Your mother had grieved, hard, and you couldn’t imagine what the walls of Summerhall felt like; cold, barren with the echoing of children crying for a mother who would not return and the silent unravelling of a father. It was horrible, and as your mother held you to her chest you innocently vowed that you, nor your father, would ever die so that she would never have to cry again.  

In one of life’s cruel ironies, when you were eight and ten your mother was the first to die. Crabs in the belly, they’d said, words garbled amongst the muffle in your ears, as if your body were literally trying to push away the news from settling in. Nothing mattered now; not the sunrise the following morning, not the taste of freshly baked bread, and certainly not the colour of your dress, which sat crumpled in a corner, unused and unneeded as your father postponed your match-making feast.  

“She must be allowed to miss her mother,” he’d said. Your father was good, attentive. So much so that when he noticed you started refusing your breakfast oats or would not leave your room for hours he wrote to Maekar, in a desperate, final plea to take you for a month. 

‘I have no doubt you understand the grave implications of losing one’s mother, a wife. My daughter is ill, I’m afraid, and no cure imagined or maesters have been able to soothe her. Your home used to make her so happy. If you would have her for a while, allow her to enjoy a change of scenery in the Stormlands, I hope she can return in better spirits.’ 

Graciously, Maekar had taken you in, and though a room was fitted to be yours it didn't feel the same. There was something about returning to a place like this with a fresh pair of eyes and a different body entirely that forced you to realise just how quickly royalty had been forced to grow up.

Aerion was no longer a playful boy, still a little on the smaller side (you would never say this to his face), but chiselled and hungry in a way a grown man would be. Daella wore regal dresses and pinned her hair in a particular way. Aemon was no longer even around.

And Daeron, well, Daeron was stuck somewhere in between, a man in age and certain experience but still seemed to have the quiet essence of a child. Even during the separation, amidst all the trauma, he never forgot you. 

It was late into the first moon of your visit where you’d witnessed Daeron drunk. Surprising, as word was that he was intoxicated rather frequently, but you figured Maekar had given him strict instructions to not do so around you. The rule was to be broken eventually, and was, in the form of a thudding sound below you during what had been a quiet evening on your balcony. With a peek over the ledge you noticed Daeron, swathed in grey, scrambling to his feet after presumably scaling a gate. You’d called out his name, and he’d answered, head lolling, but finding itself looking upwards in your direction.  

“Daeron? Are you alright?” 

He’d blinked, slowly. 

“Perhaps you could — let down your hair? Lend a hand?” He chuckled to himself, tripping over his feet even as he stood upright. 

“You’re in no condition to climb.” 

He drew in air through his teeth. 

“I’d hoped you’d have more faith in me.” 

You tutted playfully. 

“Go through the castle. I will meet you halfway, and if we get caught, I can say I found you in the stables.” 

Though it had taken some time, Daeron had followed your word, chin tucked to his chest as he appeared at your door, cloak beginning to fall off his body. The scent of alcohol didn’t bother you as much as the smell of stale food did, and with a glance to a damp wet spot on his torso you concluded that he might’ve had an accident on the way home – and chose not to question it.

What you did comment on, however, was the bleeding from just above his ear. 

“You should go to the maester—“ 

“And be scolded from my father for sneaking away when I haven’t been caught?” He interjected, raising an eyebrow. It’s but a scratch. The remedy is simple; I’ve administered it myself.” 

The remedy came in the form of his half-empty wine skin, decanting your silver pot of dried petals and holding it above the flame of a candle, unrefined, like a commoner from the streets of Flea Bottom.  

“I fear it will take a while to boil,” you remarked, looking down at the liquid, heat beginning to escape the surface. 

“I have nothing but time,” he’d hummed, silent until he heard the quiet bubbling from the pot before speaking again. “...You were crying. I heard you.” 

“I miss her.” 

“Our mothers were always the finest pair of friends,” he began slowly, eyes fixated on the floor. “Perhaps they are together like double stars. Never truly gone....” he trailed off before nervously looking up at you, eyes wide and cadence thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect a drunk man could be.  

“Maybe you are right,” you sighed, dipping one of your spare handkerchiefs into the boiling wine placing it upon the wound and holding it there. “How did you manage this, anyway?” 

Your touch was gentle, skin soft in a way a maesters’ wouldn’t have been, and, as you focused on slowly dabbing the blood away, didn’t notice how Daeron instinctively nuzzled his head towards your chest, eyes half lidded as he peered at you, gaze especially focused on your lips. He swayed, but you accounted that to the wine, or possibly a mild delirium.  

“It is just an iron gate. The walls of the Red Keep are impossible,” he laughed, swiping his tongue over his lips. “Luckily there are many secret routes that work to my favour.” 

“You speak as if you’ve tried.” 

“I have. My cousin caught me that time. He’s a fine lad, but I much prefer having you find me,” he spoke earnestly, eyes scanning your face for a reaction. Daeron saw your smile, but he didn’t feel your cheeks warm. 

“Must I keep a wineskin in my chambers for the next time you come to me bloodied?” 

He cocked his head, satisfied. 

“Why not? Might do you a favour when you get thirsty.” 

Perhaps it was because you hadn’t chastised his habits, or that the stars of your late mothers had spurred you together, or even a third thing in between, from that moment Daeron became attached to you more than ever before. On paper it made sense, you were a similar age and understanding, but most importantly you were the only female that wasn’t his sister, a septa or a whore. 

In essence, you were just what he needed. 

As for you, well, Daeron made you laugh, crack a smile at a time where it felt impossible to do so – and he was a great listener, content in simply resting his head on your shoulder whilst you nattered. It was always done away from the eyes of his father, but never Egg, who became almost like a brother to you also. With them, it was easy for one month to turn into two, and eventually, five.  

On the six month, with the wounds of your mother’s death slowly healed, you decided it was time to leave.

Daeron was staring at you.  

It wasn’t unfamiliar. He looked at you a lot. So much so you could tell he was sober without even sparing him a glance – his body was always impossibly still, not fidgety but focused. He’d joined you out on the grass for the afternoon and had lay beside you without a word, an arm draped over his eyes. The light stung.  

You’d learnt to enjoy each other’s company like this; usually you were doing some banal activity and Daeron would watch, tell you about his dream, or perhaps end up dozing off entirely, to which you’d leave him in whatever room or position only for him to find you and start the process all over again. You likened him to a stray. 

Moments passed before he broke the silence. 

“Do you think I should cut my hair? My sisters seem to think I would be much handsomer if I did.” 

You shrugged and kept reading. 

“The ends are the slightest uneven, but it suits you just fine.” 

Lazily, he pushed the messy blonde strands back with his fingertips and looked you up and down. 

“Would you care to cut it for me?” 

“Would you ask me to trim your beard, also?” you snickered. “There are a dozen maids who are trained to do that for you.” 

“Well, from what I’ve heard the mundane seems to be of a great interest to you.” 

Sarcasm lingering, Daeron didn’t look away, watching as you lowered your book but kept the pages open, using your finger to note where you’d stopped. You squared your shoulders and turned to look at him. 

“What did Egg tell you?” 

The blonde chuckled again, but it was far emptier than before.  

“He overheard…I know you’ve spoken to my father about leaving. About the motherhouse… becoming a novice.” 

You closed the book entirely, face falling as the weight of your secret was finally spoken aloud. It was easy to write to your father about it – even easier to speak to Maekar – but certainly not to Daeron. 

It wasn’t because you regretted your choice, but the nature of how he’d discovered – even if you couldn’t be mad at Egg – wishing you had taken the chance to speak to him slowly, rationally…on your own terms. You knew the revelation would sting regardless; this wasn’t a matter of a brief distance or separation, but a life away.  

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” you began, clearing your throat. “But you have to understand I’ve given it much thought. There have been nights I’ve barely slept.” 

“That makes for the both of us,” he grinned, before laying on his side, propping himself up by his elbow. “But it feels rather grand, don’t you think? You would leave this life behind? Truly?” 

The tremors in his top lip and fingers were now apparent, knuckles red as he loosely clutched at the blanket underneath you. 

“I was never supposed to stay here, Daeron,” you mused, fiddling with your beaded necklace. “This isn’t my home. Soon enough I would’ve had to return to my father, but…I’ve found such a peace in being away from it all. I don’t care to be a bride or carry the responsibility of the courts. Surely you understand?” 

“I do, but I don’t think anyone would disagree in that I am not designed to be a septon,” he said flatly, mind racing as he contemplated your reasoning. “You would never be able see us again. What of my sisters or Egg?” 

“Of course I will miss them,” you sighed. “Egg is a smart boy, I’m sure he’s already begun to understand. The girls have you. You are a well-meaning brother, I know that. I trust you will take care of them.” 

Rather ungracefully, Daeron snorted. 

“It’s wondrous to know you would put so much misplaced faith in me.”

Tutting, you lowered your chin, bringing your face slightly closer to Daeron’s in a failed attempt to avoid the rays of sunset from obscuring your view. What was a minor annoyance to you was a holy portrait to Daeron; the sun kissing the length of the outline of your body, appearing to him like an angel – or otherworldly being would. For a moment he was captured, in awe of the deity before him. 

“You used to tell me how Egg would climb into your bed at night when he was frightened. And now, here he is, still running to you when there’s something greater than him. Is that not enough to show he admires you?” 

His lips twisted into a messy line, somewhere between a grimace and a chuckle. It was painful, wasn’t it? You’d not yet officially become a novice and yet here you were, speaking like a skilled septa as if the Seven had designed you for the very role.  

The corner of his lips twitched. “But what of you? You would live a life of innocence, never to know the joys of the flesh?” 

“Daeron…” 

“It’s but a jest, but equally a worthwhile question,” he continued, lips parted as he watched you shift your weight. “It is a human instinct. Nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“It does not bother me,” you replied flatly before standing to your feet, smoothing your dress in the process. His ask had been the first of its kind; rightfully, you’d never spoken to Daeron about such things and had never expected to, and it made you all the more uncomfortable, like your skin had suddenly been plagued with mites or a horrid fever.

“Besides, I suppose you’ve done enough whoring for the both of us.” 

Daeron pulled a face, eyebrows upwards in equal shock and disgust at your sudden snipe. 

“I only asked out of curiosity.” 

“I do not shame your choices, yet you belittle mine. Unfortunately, my mind is decided and it is not your choice to make.” 

Your jaw was tight as you turned to leave defiantly, only to be stopped, physically, by the feeling of Daeron’s hand on your skirt. 

He’d reached out towards your hough, three fingers clinging to the lacy fabric, careful not to rip it but enough for him to make his presence known. 

Blonde strands obscured most of his face, but you could see his eyes clearly; bright blue and glossy, but beggared. Startled by the action you felt fused to the ground, stuck between wanting to walk away completely but also wanting to hear his reasoning. He was still the same Daeron, after all. 

“I’m sorry, that was crude of me – please…forgive me, would you? 

His voice was small and honest, more of a pauper than a prince. It was likely just a slip of the tongue, a young man saying the first thing that came to his mind instead of considering their impact first – harmless, really, but not enough to placate your very real and very current anger. You waved his hand away from your skirt and sighed. 

“Not now, Daeron. Let me be.” 

He relinquished, rather quickly, but you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your neck as you retreated back into the indoors, far away from the blazing sun. 

Full and crescent moons passed, indicating that the day of your departure grew nearer. Your family’s carriage was to arrive at Summerhall one morning, take you home before embarking on a long journey to King’s Landing and begin your training. Where the days had been long, they now seemed to lapse in rapid succession, and you wondered if it was because the gravity of your choice was now real.  

Daeron hadn’t spoken to you since the afternoon on the green, but it hadn’t stopped him from watching you from afar; peering into the dining hall when you would eat your dinners, or ‘accidentally’ walking past your chambers.

If he wasn’t hovering, then he disappeared completely, either in a cup or in a whore, something that was repeatedly made apparent to you by Egg. 

“Daeron’s out again, so I came to you. He told me he hurt you. I don’t think he meant it. He does silly things sometimes.” 

“I know,” was all you replied. “I was mad at him, but not anymore. We’re friends. It happens. One day you’ll understand that.” 

Little Egg, forever the messenger, must’ve carried word, as on the morning of your final day, amidst your dressing, you were greeted to a knock on the door. On the other side was Daeron, his hair tousled in a way that made him look rather handsome, eyes widening and seemingly straightening his back as you glimpsed at him. 

“For you,” he murmured, shrouding his body behind your door as he outstretched his hand. His palms were shaking, and squeezed under the weight of his clenched fist were the stems of an assortment of flowers, baby blue, pink and yellow. “A gift for your departure. I-It’s not much, I know, but jewellery seemed ill fitting…” 

With an exhale, you took them off him, momentarily soothing his trembling hand. 

“Thank you,” you said, voice firm but not rude. “I should finish gathering my things —“ 

“I can help you—“ he insisted in a raised tone. 

“I’ll be down for breakfast,” you cut him off, uneasy at the notion of the pair of you being alone. “You could see me there?” 

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“I listened to you. I-I left you alone like you wanted.” 

“I never asked for you to stop speaking to me.” 

“But you implied it. I just wanted to be good for - to you…” he corrected quickly. “Please. It is your last day.” 

You glanced down at the flowers – they were pretty - and back at Daeron’s trembling figure. It was so easy for him to break down your defences, tugging at your heartstrings with the great notion of friendship and eternity. You knew it would kill you if you left Summerhall on bad terms, never never able to truly rectify them again.  

“Allow me this moment, please?” You said softly. “I must sleep early as my carriage leaves at sunrise, but we can spend the afternoon together, I promise. Like the days of old.” 

“The days of old…” he contemplated, nodding. “If that is what you wish, my lady.” 

He backed away, and unbeknownst to you that would be the last time you would see him until late that evening, long past the afternoon and beyond supper. You’d queried everyone in sight, to which they shook their head or diverted their eyes — a reminder that his word would always carry more weight than yours. 

By the time the evening arrived you were sick, tired, exhausted by Daeron’s flakiness that you wished the moon would be replaced with the sun already.  

You were ready in your nightgown when a guard knocked for you, and sure enough Daeron was alongside a pair of them; hunched, sweating and looking plain awful.  

“He called for you,” they spoke flatly, guiding him into your arms the way a mother would a newborn. You didn’t argue, nor spare Daeron even a scolding glance, but took him, silently, arm around his waist as you guided him back towards his chambers. It was an arduous affair, he was drunk, and far heavier than you could’ve imagined, his arms around your shoulders feeling as if you were carrying a baby ox. 

Once you reached his room, you helped pull off his shoes, heaving him those final few steps to the bed, spine bouncing against the pillows.  

“I’m terribly sorry to wake you,” he drawled. “I-I just needed to…” 

“Talk? We’ve only had all day to do so, Daeron.” 

His lip wobbled. 

“One could say I had cold feet.” 

“We’re not getting married.” 

“No. It’s the opposite. A funeral of sorts. Both are lifelong, aren’t they?” He paused. “There were – things I wished to say to you, but I couldn’t bear it…” 

“Without help?” You replied. “We have been friends for a lifetime, Daeron. What is so difficult that you cannot say it without influence?” 

He didn’t reply, but thrust his head to the ceiling in exhaustion and began to paw at his clothes, trying to remove his tunic. 

“It is soon to be my twelfth moon, and yet I am the same man. A coward. It’s silly — I thought I reckoned with it…” 

You sighed, watching him fail to undress himself, and, in an act that would soon become you hamartia, decided to help him; fingertips grazing over his as you steadily undid the buttons.  

“You mustn’t think that way. Change is always possible.” 

“Not for men like me.” 

He paused and placed a clammy hand on your wrist, voice barely a whisper. He had that look again, the look you’d come to know as one of love, or at least intense affection. 

“Must you leave before my nameday?” 

You hadn’t done it intentionally. It was just a coincidence that happened to work in your favour.  

“Your father might make you a match. It would be inappropriate for me to remain here.” 

“I think he has given up with such a thing,” Daeron murmured, his grip still on your wrist. You’d discarded his outermost layer down the foot of the bed. “He’s always been wise under it all.” 

You pursed your lips. 

“He loves you.” 

“Do you?” Daeron said abruptly, and it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. “L-love me? I care not if you think me foolish, but I cannot imagine a life without you.” 

So that was what he’d wished to say. In a sense he’d said it many times throughout the months you were with him, but you’d been too passive, too ignorant to say. Now it was in-front of you, very real and too hard to ignore.  

“I care for you, Daeron,” you said honestly, swiping a tongue over your lips. “I do. But my call to the Seven is much stronger.” 

“It is grief talking. I know just how much it can consume… I know what it’s like to wake on the morrow and regret your choices.” 

“What are you suggesting?” you breathed, chest heaving and words unsteady. 

He tutted, and chuckled to himself.  

“My mother always thought we’d be a fine pair…let us indulge her wish, please. Marry me and I vow to make you happy for the rest of your life…I will be so good for you, I swear it…” 

His words were like an anchor, weighted and sharp, sinking right to the bottom of the ocean that was your heart. Had this revelation come earlier - had your mother never died - would you have accepted it? How true were the words he were speaking, and how much were influenced by the cup? It was impossible to look him in the eye, not when he was sweaty, shaky and on the verge of tears, for you feared you might see the sincerity in it all. 

“The arrangements have been made. I leave at sunrise.” 

Swallowing, you made an attempt to pull yourself up from the side of the bed, but Daeron gripped your forearm, his trimmed nails digging into your skin.  

“Then let us spend this moment together. You keep me still.” 

Daeron might’ve been nothing like his brother or cousin, but he was still a prince. Needy. Consuming. Unmistakably above you in terms of status. You might’ve been friends, but in the eyes of tradition and the way of the world you weren’t equals. You never would be. Even if you were married.  

The blond was nuzzling his head against your arm now, a sneaky hand wrapped around your waist as if to try and pull you onto the bed. You didn’t budge; instead, dignified, you gently cupped his cheek to placate him. 

“Daeron. I think it’s time for you to rest.” 

He listened, guided by his fondness for you and your light touch to his torso, pushing down on his soft stomach to guide him back to bed. Relaxed, it seemed he was about to give in completely when his grip, still around your waist, tightened, slowly becoming a silent battle for dominance.

He was strong – attributed to the liquid courage, no doubt – and before you knew it you were face-to-face with Daeron, all that was left were your legs dangling over the side of the bed. You were crudely balancing yourself on an elbow, the silk of your nightgown slowly sliding down, and showing off the bare skin of your collarbone and shoulders. He seemed content now, unabashed as his eyes fluttered over your body, tears still pooling in the corners and threatening to spill when he was ready. 

“My dear friend,” Daeron crooned, “it has been a silent torture to watch you grow into a woman. You’re beautiful, truly…” He paused, enough to let his words linger. “Might you gift me with a kiss? Just one?” 

A kiss was innocent enough, surely, and if there were anyone in the seven kingdoms to share your first one with it made sense to be your Daeron, right? You felt a little foolish as your heart raced as you brought your face towards his; ungraceful as you pressed a gentle peck to the corner of his mouth, tasting a mixture of salty sweat and sweet wine.

Unsure of where to place your hands you opted for the space between his pectorals, drawn closer to him by his hand pressed against the small of your back, the other on your face as he guided you to the centre of his mouth. You were kissing, properly now, Daeron leading messily – switching between his tongue flicking at your own, and eventually moving from your mouth entirely, kissing your cheek, up to your ear and back down to the crook of your neck.

He chose to nestle there, pink lips shiny from your saliva as he inhaled your scent. Intuitively, you cradled him. 

“I am going to miss you so,” he whined. “My heart…I adore you —Just let me hold you, please…” 

Opening your mouth to object, you felt a sudden wetness on your skin. He was crying – softly, but it was there all the same. How could you leave when he had no one else to cry to? His father? A whore? No, he was safest with the girl he’d known since he was a boy, his best friend who was soon about to leave him to serve a life of devotion…just not to him.

That was why you held him, traced soothing patterns on his bicep, and slowly let him strip you; pull at the tie of your nightgown to reveal your body and let him cup your breasts. You didn’t know how to feel as he let out a deep, ragged moan as he toyed with your nipples, placing a sloppy kiss to the flesh of them before taking them in his mouth, nor if the suckling sensation was pleasurable at all. He glanced up at you intermittently, desperate to see if you were coming undone the same way he was, but it ultimately didn’t seem to matter to him. 

You were like this for a few moments, slippery, but in a safe place until he slowly began to buck his hips against your legs. The fabric of your nightgown was sheer enough for you to feel his hardening manhood poking at your skin like a dagger, enough for you to grip his bicep. 

“Daeron —“ you stuttered, heat rising as he began to tug at his underwear, pulling enough of it down so that his shaft were freed. It slid fittingly between your thighs as Daeron’s fingers made their way to your privates, fingertips running over your folds with such a painful attentiveness, careful not to cross that invisible line. It sparkled, almost as if he were injecting life into you. 

“You burn for me as much as I do for you,” he slurred, satisfied as his eyes gleamed. Hard and throbbing, his privates twitched against you. 

“Do you feel that? That is my love…all for you…” 

Words evaded you, but none of it seemed to matter. Daeron’s mouth was back on your chest, squeezing the fat and latching onto your nipple as he began to pump himself between you, in a kind of unholy method of self soothing. 

You couldn’t gauge the length but it felt heavy, slick and slimy with his arousal as it glided between you, dangerously close to your entrance as his tip rubbed against the flesh of your ass.  He peered up at you for encouragement, and, sensing your hesitation, spoke gravely, like he were believing his own words. 

“Let us have this moment… I won’t — you will still be pure. It’s not wrong. I’ve – I’ve wanted to have you for so long, please…” 

His thrusts continued, cuddling into you as you passively placed a hand on the back of his head and stroked his hair. It mollified him no doubt, but was equally your way of making sense of it all. He’d always needed you, and you weren’t sure why you’d thought any different. Perhaps he would somehow arrange to have you become a Septa for his sisters, or whichever of his siblings had a child first. Maybe he would sin just so he could seek you out for confession. Whatever happened after this, he was imprinted on you for life. 

His motions grew uncoordinated, and, throwing his head back he let out an obscene moan, one that twisted your insides and made every nerve in your body quiver. 

“I’m almost there, my love…” he heaved, hair muffling his words. “Did you like that? You drive me mad. Madder than my dreams ever could. God’s above, let me worship you —“ 

His knuckles turned white as he gripped your ass, your thighs — any exposed area of skin – before he hastily reached down, hand snaking around his shaft and angling his wet, bulbous tip to your folds, not enough to penetrate but enough to feel the pressure against where you were sensitive. With a few strokes and furrowed brows he came, smearing his release like a paintbrush against your wetness, instinctively pushing as much of it into you as he could.  

Daeron collapsed completely, sticky forehead buried in your neck as his spent coated the valley between your thighs, slowly beginning to dry – all in a confusing picture for the maids to discover the next morning. He whispered sweet nothings in your ear before he began to fall asleep, dreaming of you, no doubt.

The flat was settled into the kind of cold that lived in the stone of the walls and didn't come out for the radiators no matter how long they ran. The tip of your nose was cold, your hands felt cold, but they’d felt that way since you'd come in from the street two hours ago, and the warmth of your Captain’s arm under your fingers was the warmest thing you'd touched all night.

Price was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table with his shirt off and the medical kit open beside him. He'd peeled the shirt off without comment when you'd told him to, dropped it onto one of the chairs, and now he sat there in nothing but his tactical trousers with his good arm braced behind him on the wood.

The kitchen light was a single yellowing bulb above the table and it caught the thick slope of his shoulders, down into the dark hairs on his chest, the old scars that ran in pale pink jagged lines across his ribs and left shoulder. There was a fresh bruise the size of your fist coming up below his left collarbone where something must have caught him through the vest.

And sure, you'd seen him without his shirt before in the gym, the locker room corridor, the time he'd come in after a run and you'd been at the coffee maker.

You looked then, you’re looking now.

The difference was now you had a reason to be.

The cut on his forearm was longer than he'd lead on at extraction – a six inch clean split where a piece of debris sliced him open on the way out – and you’d looked at it under the kitchen light and said ‘table, sit, now,’ and he'd sat without protest which, from Price, was practically a ‘thank you’.

You’d settled your hip against the outside of his knee and worked in silence.

He didn’t flinch when you flushed it out with the antiseptic. You watched the muscle in his jaw work once – a small involuntary movement of it as the alcohol bit into the wound – but his arm under your hand didn't so much as twitch. He held it perfectly still for you.

You were on the second pass with the gauze, blotting the area dry so that the butterfly zips would hold, when you noticed his arm was still quite warm under your touch, and how you could feel that same heat radiating from his chest. It was a heat you were familiar with, you were still feeling the same kind now, the kind that had to do with being shot at just a few hours before. It was still in your hands as you worked. You could feel it on him; the small imperceptible vibration of a body that had spent the entire day dumping chemicals into its own bloodstream to keep you moving.

His flesh beneath the pads of your fingertips felt electric, there was this specific current, a buzz that could only be recognized if you understood it.

You reached for the first butterfly and peeled it off the backing. He turned his arm half a degree to give you the angle and his knuckle brushed the inside of your wrist, and you felt it all the way up to your collarbone. It went through you like a livewire.

You took a steadying breath and set the butterfly, smoothed it, pressed the edges once to make sure it stuck.

You glanced up without meaning to and found him already looking at you and locked on to him unintentionally.

He didn't drop his eyes when you caught him at it. He just held your gaze for one long second and then went back to looking at his arm. His throat moved, you watched the swallow travel down the cord of muscle running from his jaw to his collar, and you had to remind yourself to inhale.

You picked up the second butterfly and applied it, then straight on to the third. You kept your eyes on the work because if you looked up again you weren't sure you'd be able to look back down. Your fingers were doing fine, you’d done this kind of thing a hundred times. The trouble was everything around the you – the heat coming off his skin, the way his chest was moving in quicker and deeper breaths than a man at rest ought to be taking, the way you could see his pulse at the side of his throat going too fast for someone sitting still.

On the fourth butterfly, the side of your hand dragged across the outside of his bicep on the way to setting it and his hand flexed against his thigh.

You smoothed the last strip down with your thumb.

“Just have to close them. Might hurt a bit,” you murmured.

You moved in front of him to pull the zips properly, settling between his knees, drawing his arm forward across your hip. You pulled the tabs one bandage at a time, the split flesh tugging closed under your fingers.

When you were done, you didn’t move right away.

You could smell him this close. Two days of sweat and gun oil and the cheap jasmine soap from the bathroom he’d used to scrub under his fingernails just before this. His bare chest was at eye level. You could see the small movement of his breath below his ribs.

You looked up. His face had no expression on it at all, which was how he looked when he was holding something back – eyes dark, mouth slightly open. The light caught the bob of his adams apple as he swallowed thick, and you understood, with a clarity that had nothing to do with adrenaline, that he wasn’t going to move either.

Somehow, you don’t remember when, your face had arrived very close to his, your noses a shift of weight from bumping. Close enough that you could feel his breath across your lips. His eyes were on yours and they didn’t move, and you were acutely aware of your own heart thumping up in your throat, and you stayed there because your body had committed to crossing the line a beat before your brain had caught up.

He didn’t move or lean in. He didn’t lean back either.

His jaw flexed again.

You closed the distance with a bit more force than you thought you were going to.

His mouth was hotter than you'd expected, his lips were soft but dry and tasted like tobacco and the whisky he'd had with the lads when you all got in.

His hand came up to the back of your neck inside of the first second, like he’d been waiting. The warm weight of his palm rested against your nape, his fingers spread at the base of your head. He kissed you back like a man who'd be damned to waste the opportunity. His tongue found yours and swept across it, and he made a low quiet sound into your mouth that you felt in the soft of your stomach, low, lower.

His other hand came forward and found your hip, the grip of it told you everything about where this was going – wide calloused palm, fingers spread across your hipbone, thumb pressing into the soft just below it.

You broke away long enough to look at him, breathless with your lips puffing up already. His eyes had gone dark, the pupils had eaten most of the cerulean you’d come to admire.

And that look was all the conversation you had.

You went back in and his hands went to your trousers and yours went to his belt. You got him open faster than he got yours and slid a hand inside and closed your fist around him.

He was hot there too, fully hard, the skin tight and silky, and he jumped against your palm with a push of his hips that you felt in your own pelvis. His mouth went to the side of your throat. His teeth were on your skin, not biting, just pressed there, and his beard scraped along your jaw and you felt that drag travel down the entire side of your neck like a struck match.

He shoved off the table in one smooth motion, walked you backward until your spine met the counter and his hand reached through your open zipper and went between your thighs, fingers sliding down through the wet of you. Your breath hitched and he responded with a groan low in his chest. He stroked through your folds once, twice, three times before the pad of his middle finger found your clit and circled it slowly. You bit the inside of your mouth so hard to keep quiet that you tasted iron.

He took his hand away just as quickly as it arrived and rucked your trousers and knickers down off your hips and just one leg, hoisted you up by the waist onto the counter's edge like the lift of you was nothing to him, and stepped between your knees. He held his cock in his hand and dragged the head of it through you once, entrance to clit and back, slick and sticky, before he lined up and pushed in with a relieved exhale against your temple.

The stretch of him went up your spine. He was thick, maybe thicker than anyone you’d ever had before. The head of him caught at your entrance and he pushed past, and the slow drag of him into you made your whole body go tight around him in a way you couldn't help. Your hands came up off the counter and gripped his shoulders. His skin was softer than you expected under your palms.

The hand at your hip was shaking, just slightly, and you felt the fine tremor of him holding himself in check more than you saw it. He was breathing through his teeth above you. He bottomed out and held there for a beat – the deep low ache of him fully in you bloomed up through your stomach and you made a small sound you couldn't catch – and then he moved.

The first stroke pulled almost all the way out and pushed back in just as slow as the first time. He did it again. Then again. Then he gave up on slow.

There was no version of it that was going to stay slow, not like this, not in here. He started fast. The angle was deep and the buzz was still in both of you and you were running on the chemistry of having survived something you likely shouldn’t have. His hips were snapping against yours hard enough to bump the loose counter against the wall behind it on every thrust. You hooked one ankle behind his thigh to anchor him in tighter, anchor yourself to him, and he made a low broken noise into your hair when you did.

His rhythm shortened, deepened, found the spongy spot inside of you that made your breath go out in strangled puffs.

He hit it again. And again. Then again. He'd found it and he wasn't moving off it.

Your forehead went to his shoulder, brain dizzy with it.

You felt the heat start to gather in your stomach low and tight, a wound spring you couldn't undo, and you made a small desperate sound into his shoulder that you couldn't take back. His response was immediate – his hips drove harder and his free hand came up off your hip and slid into your hair, gripping, holding your face against himself, and you understood that he was keeping you quiet by giving you something to bite.

So, you bit.

You bit down on the meat of him – bare skin, a slope of muscle salt-warmed and humming under your lips – and he made a sound through his teeth that was akin to a hiss, his hand at your hip tightened to the point of bruising, and that was where it stayed, gripping to ground.

Your nails were at his back. You didn't remember putting them there, but you dragged them down across the flesh below his shoulder blades and felt skin give under the blunt of your nails, felt the wet sting of it where you'd broken through him. He grunted a low ‘fuck’ into your hair. And that was the first word he’d uttered since you started on his bandages.

The wound spring in your belly pulled tighter.

He was breathing in short hot bursts against the side of your head. You could feel the strain in the muscle of his arm when it came off your hip and braced on the counter, the small fine tremor of a man holding himself in check. His chest was slick where it pressed against your shirt, the cotton damp now, clinging to you beneath it. His entire torso was tight. Every snap of his hips drove the breath out of you in a bitten-off sounds that started to make you worry you’d wake someone in the house.

His hand left your hair and came up to cover your mouth roughly.

You moaned into his palm – the sound your body wanted to make, all of it caught against the rough skin of his hand – and you felt him shudder against you at it, a full spine shudder that went all the way down to where he was inside you. His thumb stroked once across your cheekbone. You bit at the heel of his hand on a particularly deep stroke and came around him without any warning.

The coiled spring let go in one long pull of a wave that started low in your stomach and went out through every limb, and your thighs locked around his hips and your body clenched down hard around him and he made a noise into your hair that you’re not sure you’ll ever forget, just a low broken sound of a man coming completely undone. You felt him try to keep his rhythm and lose it. Felt him try to slow down and fail. Felt him break, half a minute later, with two hard stuttering thrusts deep within you walls.

He held himself there, pushing into you like he was trying to make more space inside.

You felt the pulse of his release. Felt the warmth of it. Felt him breathe out shakily against the side of your face.

His hand slid off your mouth slow. His forehead came down to your shoulder. You could feel his heart going against your ribs. You both stayed like that until the atmosphere had cooled.

Eventually, he kissed the side of your neck once like some sort of apology and stepped back.

You slipped down off the counter on legs that nearly didn't hold. He caught your elbow without looking. He let go as soon as you were steady.

You fixed your trousers. He fixed his. He picked his shirt up off the chair and pulled it back over his head, and his hair came out of the collar tousled, and you watched him push it back through his fingers. He was completely flushed from chest to ears.

You both moved like you were trying not to wake anyone, which was true, but it was also the only speed your bodies had left.

Once you were dressed you stood there. The radiator hissed, Soap snored from the other room.

You looked at him, he looked back, and you both stood in the middle of the kitchen not knowing what came after. You hadn’t exactly thought that far. Or at all, frankly.

There was probably, definitely, something either of you could’ve said, you could feel the shape of it on your tongue but didn’t know what it was. He didn't know what it was either. You both opened your mouths and neither of you found it.

He looked down at his arm and took a breath.

"We should, uh… get some sleep," he said finally. "Thanks for the— the arm,” he gestured to it.

You felt the corner of your mouth twitch and saw a faint pull at the edge of his.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Anytime, Cap."

He nodded once, you turned and you went down the hall to an empty room and shut the door behind you, then stood with your back against it for a full minute before you moved.

Your hands and thighs were shaking.

You weren't sure if it was the adrenaline finally letting go or something else entirely, but you didn't try to work it out.

———

The kitchen looked different in the daylight.

You'd come down the hall expecting it to feel like a scene from a film – the counter where it happened, the table with the kit and bloodied gauze still there– but instead it just looked like the safehouse kitchen. Someone had cleared the kit off the table, put the antiseptic and the leftover butterflies back in the bag and zipped it shut. Which meant either Price had done it before going to bed or someone else had got there before you did this morning.

Soap was at the stove with a pan and a bag of bacon looking deeply offended that the safehouse only had one decent knife. Gaz was reading something on his phone at the table. Ghost was leant in the doorway with a steaming mug.

Price was at the window with his back to the room.

You went to the coffee machine beside him. The pot was full and he nudged a clean mug toward you, which was a kindness you didn't read anything into, then poured yourself a cup, drank it black because there was nothing there to add to it.

He turned from the window and looked at you. He tipped his chin slightly; A Good Morning, or I see you, or we're alright. You couldn't tell which it was and it didn't really matter because you simply tipped yours back the same fraction, and that was the whole conversation before he turned back to the window.

By the time you were on the helo home that afternoon you'd both spoken to each other twice about logistics and once about the weather and not at all about anything else, and you understood without having to talk about it that this was how it was going to be: neither of you would bring it up.

You leaned your head against the bulkhead and closed your eyes for the flight.

the hearing aids have been sitting in the dish by the bathroom sink for weeks, untouched. they’re good ones too. tiny things. they sit down in the canal, you’d have to be nose-to-nose with him to spot the little nub of them, and even then you’d have to know to look. nothing hooks over the ear or catches in the light.

he just wont wear them.

“i’m not seventy,” he’d said the once you really pushed it. “m’not puttin’ in hearing aids.”

“you’re wearing them, john. you already had them fitted.”

“i don’t need them,” he’d protested. “not day to day.”

which is how you ended up here, two weeks later, watching the back of his head while he reads and ignores the sound of you existing.

so you change tactics.

you don’t say his name again. you take the book out of his hands gently, dog-ear his page with your thumb, set it on the table next to his feet. and before he can do more than open his mouth you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, settling yourself down onto him.

his hands land on your hips instinctually, his whole expression changing. the annoyance smooths out and something warm comes up slowly in its place, you can read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d said it out loud — ‘well, this is alright’.

“well, hello,” he says low, hands sliding up your sides.

he thinks he’s won something. he’s already tilting his chin up for you, lips looking for yours.

you reach into the pocket of your cardigan and pull them out, cupped in your palm where he can see, and his face drops.

“oh, you’re joking,” his shoulders sink with disappointment.

“hold still,” you grumble, leaning forward.

“i was comfortable,” he complains.

“john.” you get the first one in before he can turn his head, fingers careful at his ear, and he huffs through his nose like a dog that’s been told no. “other side.”

“this is entrapment.”

“mm-hm.” you fit the second one in, tucking his hair back where it’s gone astray. you sit back against him to look with your hands resting on his chest. “there,” you grin, satisfied.

“i was reading.”

“and you weren’t hearing a single word i said all night.”

“i can hear!”

“so you’re choosing to ignore me then?”

“i wasn’t— i just—,”

“you answered ‘fine’ when i asked if you wanted chicken or fish for dinner.”

his jaw works. he doesn’t have anything to say to that. “they itch,” he tries instead, pressing a finger against the front of his ear, rubbing the cartilage there.

“they don’t itch. you’re being dramatic.” you shift your weight, just slightly, settling in more solidly against him, and watch his breath catch. “tell me they itch now.”

he’s still scowling, but his hands have tightened on your hips. “i don’t see what hearing’s got to do with this…” he looks down at where you’re pressed to him.

you roll your hips down against him, folding forward, letting your mouth go to the side of his face, right up close to his ear, and you breathe out — soft, the smallest sound, half a moan and half a laugh because you can’t help yourself.

you feel him go still beneath you.

you do it again. rocking down against the shape of him through his trousers and let the noise come up out of you naturally, quiet and close and meant only for him, the kind of sound you make without thinking when his hands are on you. his fingers flex and splay and grip harder, his head turns toward you like it’s being pulled.

“there you are,” you murmur.

“…christ.”

“you hear that?”

he doesn’t answer. his eyes have gone heavy lidded and his hand’s come up into your hair and he’s turned fully into you now, chasing it, the small wet sounds of your breath against his ear, the catch in your throat when you press down and he pushes up to meet you.

these little intimate things he stopped hearing a long time ago and never noticed he’d lost because of how gradual it happened. this way you sound when you want him, the quiet things. the things you only ever say just for him, the things you’ve been saying into the dark for a year now with no return.

“say my name,” you breathe.

“…what?”

“in bed. i always say your name and you never—,” you rock against him and his breath stutters, “you never answer anymore.”

his hand comes up to the side of your face. he pulls back just far enough to look at you, and there’s something that’s gone serious under the want, something that’s caught up with what you’re telling him.

“m’so sorry, love,” he nudges his nose under your jaw, kissing the soft of your neck. “say it now. again,” he says, rough. “go on.” he’s gone hard under you, rolling his hips up, hands keeping your hips down. the seam of his zipper pushing through the thin cotton of your joggers

“john,” you breathe.

he hears you and you watch him — watch his eyes close for a second like it’s gone straight through him.

“yeah,” he says, his thumb moving slow against your cheek. “heard that.” then your name unfurls from his tongue and you kiss him before he can pretend he wasn’t affected, and his arms come all the way around you, and he doesn’t say a single word about the hearing aids again.

As you hear up a pre-made tray of stir fry, you bounce on your feet and count down with the microwave timer. You really should eat better. Leon showed you a few tricks even you could manage. And he always fed you during your shift, despite your modest rejections. He's a good boss. You got lucky so the thought of losing this job has you spiralling.

He won't fire you, will he? Why? You keep reminding yourself what he said. He wasn't mad at you but it sure felt like it.

You sigh as the beeper shouts at you. You wait until it's quite and hit the button. Steam puffs out above the small tray. You put it on a plate to keep from burning yourself.

You put it on the table by the couch as you sit. Your phone flashes. Oh no.

You've been avoiding the screen despite your promises. The reason greets you in a floating notification; 'sweetheart?'. Shoot.

If Leon doesn't fire you, Nick could...

You scoop up your phone and quickly respond. 'srry. Heating up dinner. 🐰' You hit send and sit back, your cell clasped between your hands. Your stomach grumbles but your appetite wilts.

The vibration shakes you again. You check the answer.

'What does the rabbit mean?' Nick asks.

Oh. You hadn't even thought of how odd that might be. You just texted like you normally would.

'No meaning. It's just cute.'

You stare at the three dots that pop up. As they pulse, your anxiety does too. You can get a reply from him but your mom can't pick up her dang phone.

No, don't be mad. Everyone is busy. It was her who told you not to come out here. Maybe she's mad too.

'You're cute. What are you up to?'

'like I said dinner.'

'Ah no cute bunny this time?' he challenges.

You frown. Even over text, you can hear his tone. You can't figure out what he wants.

'no but you can have this🐹'

You chew your lip. Your phone buzzes again but more incessantly. You twitch and fumble to answer. You're shaking. Why?

You tap speaker and balance the phone on the wide arm of the sofa. 

You babble dumbly. "Hello?"

"Sweetheart," Nick purrs.

"Um..."

"Just wanted to hear your voice." He drawls. "So... Dinner? What are we having?"

You gulp and glance over at the cheap tray of veggies and noodles. "Stir fry."

"Mm. You ever been to Ellio's? They do good stir fry." He intones, a soft rustle on his end.

"Erm. No. I mostly eat at work." You turn away from the food. Your stomach hurts but you feel sick.

"I'll have to take you then." He insists.

"That's nice but..." You shrug and stare at the phone. "What are you doing? You must be busy. I don't want to... Bother."

"Day's wrapped. I'm editing the script for my next shoot." He says. "Venice..."

"Venice." You repeat. "That's far."

"Yep. But I hate shooting in LA." He says.

You hum, unsure of how to reply. You don't know much.

"I've never been further than LA. It's nice."

"Yes. You like the trees. You'd like the canals in Venice. And the coffee. And pastry." He says. "The sunshine but... It gets humid."

"You've gone before?" You touch your cheek.

"A few times. Film festivals... Boring director stuff." He sighs. "What about you? Where's Leon shipping you off to?”

“Well… I don’t know yet.” You say.

“No? That’s too bad. Not very fair.”

You’re quiet. If Leon has somewhere to send you. You know exactly how he feels about drama. There’s enough of that in Hollywood.

“Sweetheart?” He prompts.

You sniff and force a smile, even if he can’t see it.

“Sir… Nick. You’re busy. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Sweetheart, you’re never in my way.” He inhales and laughs softly. “I’m kinda… Well, I was planning on asking you to… watch another movie but today didn’t exactly go as planned.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Mm, well, allow me to be pathetic for a minute and confess something to you… it’s not often I get to just, what would you call it, chill? With someone else. It’s all business. All fake. Schmoozing. Trying to get funding. Reciting studio reads.” He scoffs. “The city hasn’t got to you yet.”

You twiddle your fingers nervously. You feel bad. Maybe he’s just looking for a friend but you don’t think you can afford to be his friend. You’ve never heard of any of the restaurants he’s been to or been to the big cities that are like a second home to him.

“Um, thanks? Erm… Nick?”

“Uh huh?”

“My mom’s calling.” You lie.

“Oh… okay. Of course, sweetie. I wouldn’t… wanna get in your way.” He says. “Have a good night and… make sure mom knows you’re okay.”

“Alright. Thank you. Um, good night, Nick.”

“Mm. I think it will be.” He says.

There’s a moment of dead air before the call ends. You slouch and shake your head. You don’t like lying but you just had to get off the phone. You never had to perform for anyone before but with Nick, it feels like you’re trying to play from a script you’ve never seen.

🎥

You miss Nick’s call. And the next one. And the next one.

Well, you saw him calling but you couldn’t pick up. You text him. ‘Srry 🐰 phone was charging. Think the battery is broke.’

Ugh. A lie. Another one. But how can you tell him he scares you? You don’t even know why he does. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s been nice to you. You’re just out of your depth and too embarrassed to admit it.

‘Damn, that’s too bad, sweetheart. All good. Finishing on set today. Busy anyway.’

You’re barely reassured. You don’t even know how to answer. So you send ‘🐼’. To your surprise, he responds with ‘🐺’.

You leave your phone alone for the rest of the day. You go out and wander around. You can’t afford to do too much so you window shop before heading back to your apartment. You sit on your bed and stare at the pages of a book. You give up on that and watch something on your tiny second-hand television.

You fall asleep but wake in spurts. You haven’t tossed and turned since your first night in the city. It’s just the anxiety of waiting on your next assignment. That’s all.

You wake up before eight and put the kettle on for tea. As the water boils, your buzzer goes off. You blink and rub your eyes. It’s early but it could be a neighbour locked out. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hello?” You rasp out.

“Lookin for…” the woman says your name.

You hesitate. “Is this a delivery? I don’t think I ordered anything.”

“Sent for you, miss.” The voice responds.

You move your finger slowly to the other button. You let her up and go to wait by the door. You keep the chain on as you watch through the peephole.

You recognise Jeanette, one of Nick’s assistants, as she reads the numbers on the apartment doors. She gets to yours and her eyes search it before she knocks. She has an envelope in her hand.

You unlock the door and open it.

“Um, hi.” You greet. She probably doesn’t recognise you.

“Mr. Fowler sent me to deliver this.” She holds out the envelope.

“Oh, uh… what is it?”

“I don’t know. Please take it.” She insists. “He said I can’t leave until you do.”

You look into her tired eyes. You accept the envelope. “Are you okay? Do you want to come in for tea?”

She winces. “He’ll fire me.”

Without another word, she marches off. You watch her until she’s gone then back up into your apartment. You close the door but linger as you open the envelope. You slide out a note folded around something else.

Their only purpose was to obey their masters. What was that kind of blind devotion like, you wondered? Did they feel regretful as they lay bleeding in the mud? As they charged and bled for the honour of their riders?

You stayed far away from the tourney field as you wandered. It was relatively quiet, since near everyone else had gone there to watch the jousting. Faintly, you could hear the cries and cheers and the whinnying of horses.

It became easier to walk the further you went. The mud dried out and patches of grass began to appear as you wove through tents and empty stalls. Your dress was inconspicuous and you looked plain enough that no one would bother sparing you a glance. Just as you liked it.

Eventually you found yourself at the bottom of a small hill. You climbed it with little difficulty. The sun was glaring down at you and you could feel sweat beginning to form down the line of your back. You walked into the line of trees, finding the shadiest one and settling yourself at the base of it.

From here, you could not hear the jousting. The view was rather pleasing. It reminded you of the first day you had arrived; all the splotches of colourful tents and the faint scent of cooking meat tickling your nose.

This is why you had come. For the peace, the anonymity. Here, resting against the base of the tree, you could almost fool yourself into thinking you were normal.

Frowning, you rubbed the fabric of your sleeves between your fingers. The one thing you couldn’t seem to forget, though, was Daeron Targaryen. After he had left, you’d fallen into a sleep more restful than you had expected. If you dreamed, you could not remember.

Upon waking, however, reality had begun to seep in. Daeron had been here, outside your tent, only hours ago. You struggled enough under the attention of your lord father. The attention of a Targaryen prince was another thing entirely.

You studied the blades of grass as you thought. What was it that he wanted? Well, there was that thing that all men supposedly wanted. Your cheeks warmed at the idea. It seemed a strange way to go about it, though. And why would he bother with the bastard daughter of a nobleman rather than much easier prospects?

Princes did not have to stalk, to seduce. They needed only to look, to crook their jewelled fingers and command. Women followed men like that around in droves, hoping to bear bastard children and secure income, secure safety and shelter.

Had your mother been like that? The thought came sudden and bitter. It was not that you judged her. Pitied her, perhaps, for she may have secured that future for her daughter but what had become of her?

Sometimes you prayed that the rumours were true and that your mother was, in fact, highborn. Not because of the difference that could make for your status. But because then her future may not have been so bleak.

Caught up in your musings, you did not notice the approaching figure until he was almost in front of you. You saw the clothing before anything else. The red, the black, the scaled pattern pressed into leather coverings.

Daeron did not ask for permission. He did not say anything as he sat an arms length from you, sweat beading in his hairline as he took in the view.

You noticed the subtle way his fingers trembled, and the absence of the flask he was rumoured to carry everywhere. Perhaps the sweat was from more than exertion. You could smell it on him, the sourness from alcohol consumed previously. It smelled like desperation.

“Is this a game to you?” you wondered out loud.

Daeron finally turned to look at you. His pupils were blown and his breath was coming in hard puffs. It took him a moment to register your words. “I – what do you mean, my lady?”

“Are you trying to ruin me?” you continued, surprised at your own boldness, “Is that what this is? A game to sully the reputation of Lord Arryn’s bastard daughter?”

Daeron blinked hard. “No. No, of course not.”

You shook your head, unconvinced. “There would be little point, anyway. I am not so easily won.”

That was an almost-lie. Perhaps you were easily won; you wouldn’t know, because you typically fled before any potential suitors got the chance to even look at you twice.

Marriage was made difficult by your status as a bastard. Men rarely saw you as the lady you had been raised to be. They invented ideas of you, created them with notions of what sort of woman your mother may have been. It made you fiercely defensive over the woman you had never known.

Your father did not bring up marriage, even when Lady Anabel nudged and whispered in his ear. He seemed content to let you roam as you wished. As an apology, maybe, to your mother. You could be free, like she never had been able to be.

Daeron nodded slowly. “As I have heard.”

Your head snapped toward him. “What have you heard?”

A smile, full and unrestrained, stretched across his lips. He had been teasing you. You looked away quickly and tried to downplay the embarrassment flitting across your face.

An uncomfortable silence descended between the two of you. You felt it every time he looked at you, this buzzing awareness of him beneath your skin. You wanted to tear at it with your bare hands, scrub away every thought of him until Daeron Targaryen was only a name and not a man with shaky hands and a pretty face and eyes that looked at you as if he knew you.

“Really, though,” you said quietly, “why are you here?”

At some point he had drawn closer. You sucked in a breath as his shoulder brushed yours. You could feel the warmth radiating off of him. Despite reason screaming in your head, you made no move to draw back.

“You seem…lonely,” he said after a moment.

Shame curdled in your gut. Were you so easily read? You opened your mouth to deny, to praise your lord father for his warmth and the fact that he so easily accepted you into his family, but Daeron interjected.

“I feel that way,” he continued, “I do not know what you know of Targaryen dreamers but I – I feel that way.”

Your heart was near thumping from your chest. What did you know of Targaryen dreamers? Not a lot. And what you did sounded fanciful and like something a child would believe. You looked closely at the man next to you. He did not seem like a liar.

You did not like to admit to the loneliness that curled around you, crowding up the space that your mother would have filled. The space that you kept coldly empty, because you did not like to allow anyone too close for fear of the repeat of a possible rejection that you could not even remember.

You felt naked sitting next to Daeron. Your first thought was that you did not like it; you did not like the way he seemed to look right past all the barriers you put up and into the core you protected. And yet there was a thrill to it. The beginning of excitement to the end of the sheer exhaustion you felt from holding everyone at arms length.

Daeron nudged you with his shoulder, this time more purposeful. “Spend the day with me.”

“That did not sound like a question,” you snorted.

“It wasn’t,” he nodded solemnly, “if it was, you would just say no. Spend the day with me.”

You knew it was foolish. That it would probably end with you getting hurt. But some traitorous part of you wanted that hurt, that potential pain hovering over you. Anything to break up the monotony of loneliness.

“Well,” you said, “if it is a command.”

Daeron smiled. Tentatively, you smiled back.

A day turned into two, then three. If your family knew that the one occupying your time was Daeron Targaryen, they did not say. Every morning you would rise, get ready, and head out to meet the prince.

It had been awkward at first. Too stiff and formal. But as the hours trickled by, you felt yourself becoming looser. Quicker to laugh, quicker to joke. Daeron remained shaky and sweaty but his eyes were focused.

You prepared yourself for hurt, even as you smiled and talked easily. How could you expect anything else? It would be worth it, you decided, for those few days of freedom. Maybe your mother had thought the same thing. Maybe she still felt the same way.

The day was disgustingly hot. You met Daeron by the treeline, like that first day. The shade of the trees did little to prevent the heat from settling on your skin and warming your bones.

Daeron was dressed casually, as were you. To onlookers he probably looked like any other nobleman. To you, though, he was still Targaryen. You could see it in his face, the Targaryen features, and the way his blue eyes sometimes looked purple. You could not forget what he was, but you could accept it.

“This heat is disgusting,” you admitted, lips curled. “I can’t stay here.”

Daeron scrambled to his feet. “It is cooler in the Ashford castle. You can come with me-“

You shook your head. You were as ease with Daeron but that comfort did not extend beyond him. Somehow, the two of you had crafted a little bubble, and you were determined to stay in it.

“No,” you waved your hand, “follow me.”

Daeron followed without complaint. The pair of you picked your way through trees and overgrown bushes. Leaves snagged in your hair and you did not bother to brush them away. You were content.

You emerged onto the bank of a stream. The water was relatively clear and you could see the stones beneath the surface, smoothed from years of water bubbling over them. It was sheltered by trees and already the air seemed slightly cooler.

It was easier to breathe here. Your bubble felt secure. It was your own nerves that made the air along your arms rise.

Long grass grew in tuffs around the bank. You picked at it and wound it over your fingers before glancing over your shoulder at Daeron. “Well?”

It was a test, really. As a child you had spent so much time playing in streams and rivers that you had not seen the luxury of a bathing tub till you were almost eight. Those days had been carefree and light. Grubby hands and grubbier dresses but smiling faces.

You blinked when Daeron kicked off his boots. He did not break eye contact until he bent at the waist to pull his trousers up around his knees, as far as they would go. Your eyes dropped to the bared flesh faster than you cared to admit.

You swallowed and toed off your own slippers, looking away. You made your way to the bank and sat on the grassy edge before lowering yourself to the water. It was not a far drop.

 The water reached to your mid calves and was surprisingly cool. You bit back a moan as the heat seemed to scatter from the surface of your skin. The hem of your dress was quickly soaked but you did not bother raising it. Something like shyness had you stubbornly ignoring the wet fabric.

You heard a splash behind you as Daeron dropped into the water and turned. “Oh!”

Daeron had not only raised his trousers. At some point, he had taken off his shirt. You could make out the bundle of white fabric back on the bank and you kept your eyes firmly fixed on it, over his shoulder.

His bare shoulder.

“I –“you stumbled over your words, “it is not that deep!”

Daeron shrugged as made his way over to you. “It is hot.”

Your eyes dropped to his chest before you could tell yourself not to. The skin there was pale and smooth, bar a few scars long healed. There was one that begun at his ribs at trailed beneath the belt line. You could not tear your eyes from it, even when you knew Daeron was watching you.

There was sparse hair littering his chest, practically white in colour. He was surprisingly muscular for someone who drank as much as he did, but there was an underlying softness in his stomach that made you feel unbearably warm.

You felt faint. It was not just the hem of your dress that was wet.

At the thought, you reached down and scooped up a palmful of water. You launched it at Daeron, hitting him square in the chest before turning away. Perhaps he was trying to ruin you. Maybe he already had.

Daeron swore at the sudden cold water trickling over him. You saw the scene clearly in your mind’s eye; the water dripping down, over his stomach, disappearing beneath his belt. You dared not turn around, for fear that you would be compelled to follow those drops with your hands, or worse, your tongue.

Fool. Fool, fool, fool.

You had not thought yourself naïve to the ways of man and woman. You had been asking questions ever since you first became aware of what a bastard was, and first heard the names servants called your mother beneath their breath.

Men could be animals, you knew. They wanted. They did not always think with their heads and they rarely faced repercussions for it.

And as you were discovering, you could want too. Fiercely.

You squealed as water drenched your back, prompting you to whirl back around. “That – ungentlemanly!” was all you could manage.

Daeron ran his hand through his hair, smoothing back the tangles from his face. He looked deliriously happy. You could not help but return the look, even as cold water dripped down your spine.

“You are beautiful, you know,” he said quietly.

Your smile faded. It was easier to want, you decided, than to be wanted. You dropped eye contact and went back to tiptoeing through the water, bending down occasionally to pick up interesting stones.

Daeron did not say anything. You could hear him splashing about behind you. You jumped when you felt him brush your arm and hold out his hand. In his palm was a stone, pale blue and almost glittering from in the light that poked through the canopy of trees.

“Do you like this one?” he asked.

You nodded. Daeron did not hand it to you. Instead, he reached down and slid it into the pocket at your hip. His touch was firm, fingers brushing your hip through the damp fabric as he dropped the stone in.

He was so close that you could feel his breath against your cheek. For a moment you debated stepping back, clearing your throat and pretending that it had never happened. But then you remembered the loneliness and the hurt that you were prepared to embrace if only to part with it for a moment.

You met his eyes. “Daeron.”

He froze, eyes darting over your face. Looking for – what? Desire? Acceptance? Greed? Whatever it was, you knew the moment he found it.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

And then he was stepping in, wet hands finding your shoulders, and pulling you into his chest. One hand slid up your neck, cupping your cheek and holding you steady as he brought his mouth to yours. You were thankful for that hand. Without it you would have fallen apart.

Daeron kissed you with surprising tenderness. His lips slid firmly over yours like he knew them already, tongue smoothing over the seam as he licked into the wet heat of your mouth and thoroughly tasted of you. He tasted faintly of the fruit you had eaten that afternoon as you found yourself softening further at the memory of the meal shared.

He cradled the back of your head; hand still damp from the water. The other hand slid down to rest on your waist and squeezed until you moaned into his mouth. He chased the sound with his tongue, coaxing more shameless sounds from you until you were shaking.

You jumped at the line of hardness that was suddenly pressing into your stomach. Breathless, you pulled back. Your hand raised to your lips, gently testing the skin there and the way it had swollen from Daeron’s attention.

Daeron’s eyes followed your fingers. His hand squeezed the nape of your neck before he drew back. You were shocked at how unsteady he looked himself, and a little satisfied that you were not the only one who felt knocked off guard.

You expected it to be awkward, then, but it wasn’t. You both went back to picking through the stream, sharing interesting rocks and pocketing the best one. You tried to ignore that Daeron always gave the best ones to you and the way his hands would linger in your pockets a moment longer than appropriate.

You were way past what was appropriate.

The pair of you eventually retreated to the bank and allowed your feet to dangle over the edge. Daeron redressed and sat firmly by your side, arms pressed to each other as though to part would be a tragedy.

You were not much of a romantic. Being a bastard had killed that part of you – or at least you thought it had. Romanticism led to nothing but tears and shame. You knew that. Yet you remained at his side, chatting idly about the weather and your families.

Alas, you could not stay there forever. It was evening by the time the two of you made your way out and back into the fray. The sky had darkened ever so slightly and things seemed busier as people began to prepare for supper.

The air was still warm but it had noticeably cooled. You were thankful for it as you and Daeron walked leisurely through the camps, winding round tents and past stalls. Your stomach reminded you that soon you would have to say goodbye for the evening and meet your respective families for meals.

Daeron always seemed particularly reluctant to part with you in the evenings. Sometimes you got the feeling that he came back, like that first night, and lingered outside your tent. You hadn’t tested your theory, nor had you asked him about that first time. The answer felt like something you were not ready for.

You kept a slow pace for him. The stones in your pocket tumbled together as you walked. In the privacy of your tent, you would add them to your jewellery box and your small collection of precious things. You wanted to remember today forever, wanted to remember it even when you felt regretful or stupid or wistful.

Things were lively in Ashford Meadow. There was a pleasant silence between the two of you as you approached your family’s camp. Daeron’s hand kept brushing yours, fingers threatening to tangle together, and each touch sent sparks up your arm.

“-Arryn’s bastard.”

The words were like a bucket of ice down your back. You did not know who said it. For a moment, all you could think about was the cool water from the stream and how it felt entirely different from this.

Reality dropped in around you. The sudden change may have choked someone else but you had lived like this your whole life. You did not even miss a step. You focused on the sound of the stones in your pocket and Daeron’s warmth at your side and continued on like you had heard nothing at all.

When that warmth disappeared, you noticed immediately. You stopped suddenly, glancing back for Daeron and panicking at the sight of his back headed toward the group of men the words had come from.

It happened so quickly you almost believed you had imagined it. Daeron raised a hand and struck out at the first man he came across. The violence was more than you had thought him capable of. The man dropped to his knees, cradling his nose and trying to stem the blood that began spurting from between his fingers.

Someone started yelling. It might have been you. Daeron had hands on another man before anyone could stop him but that didn’t change the fact that it was five versus one.

Your heart dropped when he disappeared between them. You shot forward but you were stopped by a firm hand on your shoulder. You turned to claw at it but the colours of the Kingsguard had you shouting and pointing in Daeron’s direction instead.

The whole thing lasted less than two minutes. The Kingsguard swarmed in and peeled the men from Daeron like nothing. He was remarkably unharmed; was the first thing you noticed. Then your eyes fixed on the stream of blood trickling from his temple and you felt sick to your stomach.

You walked to him on unsteady feet. The Kingsguard let you pass. If they looked at you in any type of way, you did not notice. Vaguely, in the background, you could hear them dealing with the men Daeron had attacked. They would not be coming out of this unscathed. You could not bring yourself to feel sorry for them.

“Daeron,” you were shaking your head, “you shouldn’t have done that. It is alright-“

“No!” he said, tone sharp. His hands fluttered around you as though you were the one who had been hurt. “It is – it is not alright. It’s never alright.”

A member of the Kingsguard appeared at Daeron’s shoulder. “My prince. Your father will want to see you.”

Good, you thought. He could get in no more trouble now. You stepped back. He would be safe with his father.

You dodged Daeron’s reaching hands and ignored the wounded look he gave you. All you could see was the blood trailing from his temple. If he touched you now you would dissolve into a flurry of worry and potentially even tears and you refused to do so.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he said firmly, still trying to meet your eyes.

You did not respond. You turned your back and fled, desperate for the safety and predictability of your family. The day was catching up to you, it seemed, and you felt ready to fall to your knees and scream.

You felt Daeron’s eyes on you right up until you disappeared from sight.

a/n- phew this was overdue. If you enjoy this series, please please leave likes, comments & reblogs!! It keeps me fueled

dividers by @pixopix

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He had forced himself to return the clothes to you only hours after he took them, before you could even notice. His fingers had itched, urging him to take more, and he’d flown off before he could tumble into temptation and snatch everything off the entire line.

There was something more than simple attraction at play. Clark had never acted so out of character in his life and yet he could not even muster up the strength to care. The only time his thoughts seemed to slow was when he was close to you, lingering around your home like a desperate schoolboy hoping for your attention but too nervous to attract it.

He wasn’t the only one.

Ultraman had been in the Justice Gang’s prison for a number of weeks now. The longer he was there for, the less Clark felt that he was looking at a mirror. Ultraman was a feral creature, snarling and vicious, but there was one thing that still tied them together – you.

Sometimes Clark came to see him, just to sit and observe. Today was one of those days.

The floor was cool to the touch as Clark sank to his knees, cape bunching on the floor. Clark pressed one hand to the glass, feeling the thickness of it beneath his fingers. The glass was not the only thing separating them. Bars, electronic systems, no expense had been spared when it came to containing his clone.

Ultraman had nearly battered himself silly against it all in those first two weeks. The reason for his determination was nothing to do with desiring freedom. Clark knew that now.

What would he do if he was the one in the cage, unable to reach the one thing that he wanted so desperately?

Clark gazed steadily at Ultraman. He was dirty looking, with mussed hair and bloody hands from his frequent attempts at escape. Clark’s eyes flickered to his own pale hand pressed against the glass and, for a moment, he felt guilty.

But whatever it was that had drawn Ultraman to you in the first place – that tugging, choking draw – was meant for him. For Clark Kent.

A sudden movement in the cage had Clark withdrawing his hand, startled. Ultraman was pressed up against the bars, hands clawing at the glass in a way that was truly animalistic. In the distance an alarm began to go off. Smoke began to seep beneath the door, pale green and insidious as it crept toward his clone.

“Ours,” Ultraman gritted out, pounding on the glass to emphasis his words. “Ours!”

Clark held his breath, glancing around for a moment before being satisfied that they were still alone. Clark leaned close, his reflection in the glass becoming one with Ultraman. His saw the way his own lip curled, the way it perfectly mimicked the expression on his clone’s face. He looked into Ultraman’s eyes and saw that disconnect, that greed and desperation and vaguely thought, ‘I can really see the resemblance’.

“No,” Clark hissed, “mine.”

Things had gotten weird in the last week. Specifically, since that night you had gone to visit your friend in the city. Initially you had wanted to blame it on the food. You had even thrown the rest out, positive that something was off.

Something was off; it just wasn’t the food.

You’d finally put it down to some early indication of your period. Days passed as you waited but, beyond a grouchiness you couldn’t shake and some slight cramping low in your abdomen, your period did not come.

You were sprawled out on your bed, truly and thoroughly fed up. Your mind felt all slow and syrupy and it was beginning to affect your performance at work. You’d taken a day off, unwilling to compromise the quality of your work over – whatever the fuck this was.

Your fingers found loose strings on your overalls and began to pick. You’d been wearing the same ones since you’d pulled them off the line. Part of you knew it was slightly gross but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. They still smelled good – really good, in fact. You bent your head a little and inhaled deeply, chasing that scent that had become familiar to you in the last week.

You’d spent a stupid amount of time trying to replicate that same scent on the rest of your clothing, altering the amount of detergent and scent beads in each wash, but you’d had no luck. Even the clothes that had been in the same wash smelled different and it was infuriating.

“Stupid clothes,” you grouched to yourself, smoothing down the string you’d been tugging at.

You were just off. It wasn’t that different to how you felt in the days before an illness suddenly came on but the days kept trickling by and nothing changed. Other than your sense of smell, apparently. You’d read that periods could affect your sense of smell and that was what you clung on to. You felt sure that you’d wake up in the next few days to familiar red in your underwear and that would be that.

It would also explain the insatiable horniness that you’d been battling for the last week.

Battling was perhaps the wrong word. It isn’t as though you fought it. Whenever you felt it, that sensitivity unspooling under your skin, you took care of it. As many times as your body demanded. Which was sometimes up to three times a day.

“I’m going insane,” you groaned, fingers wrapping around your phone on the bedside table. “Insane.”

You tapped in your passcode before you could meet your own judgmental eyes in the black screen. Google popped up and you typed in those familiar words.

'Superman close up'.

It felt dirty because you had met him. The man (kryptonian?) had walked you to your car and buckled you in. The number of times you had replayed than interaction whilst your fingers had rubbed firmly at your clit was a sin in itself.

You clicked on the first picture you found, zooming in on his face and settling into the desire that pooled in your belly. You thought back to that day when he had been here, in your garden. You’d been nervous, scared, even.

It was safer to appreciate his good looks when he wasn’t right in front of you. You could really take your time, scrolling through the countless photos and nearly groaning outload at the picture of him holding up an entire fucking building.

Clark Kent was a godsend. You wanted to meet the man and kiss him soundly on the lips just for the sheer amount of Superman photos he provided.

You eased your hand down the front of your overalls and thought about kissing Superman instead.

“Hi, sorry to bother you, I’m – “

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, “you’re Clark Kent.”

The man on your doorstep seems nervous but you overlook it considering that you are even more so. He has dark hair curling across his forehead, almost dipping into his eyes. They’re an indecipherable color, even when you dip your head a little and try to make them out beyond his glasses. He’s tall – so tall that he hunches his shoulders a little and still doesn’t seem like he’ll fit through your doorway.

“I’ve read some of your articles recently,” you continue, suddenly embarrassed. You looked like a stalker.

Clark Kent is…handsome. You think. There’s something about his face that seems forgettable, even when you’re staring right at him. You shifted a little, inhaling subtly. A shiver worked its way down your spine. He must use a similar detergent to you.

“Oh?” he blinks down at you, eagerly asking, “Which ones?”

Heat collects in your cheeks as you roll your lips together and laugh uneasily. “A little bit of everything?” it’s more of a question than an answer.

“I see,” he nods slowly. “Well, I – I’m here today about an appearance Superman made in the area recently.”

Your chest tightens and your fingers grip at the edge of the door as you process his words. “I – I don’t know anything about that.”

That was true enough. You’d seen Superman and that was it. Despite spending several hours trawling the internet afterwards, you had been unable to come up with any explanation that made sense.

Clark Kent shifts a little, drawing your attention back to his face. You see his throat working and suddenly you hear your grandmother, admonishing you for your lack of manners. You swipe your hand down your face, half expecting to find yourself pouring with sweat despite the mild temperature.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, “do you – can I get you some water, Mr. Kent?”

“Water,” he repeats, “water would be good. And call me Clark.”

Clark ducks his head as he enters your home, slipping his shoes off on the mat and hanging his messenger bag on your hook. You try not to look at his socked feet. Something about it felt weirdly intimate along with the way his bag made itself at home amongst your coats.

“You have a lovely home,” he comments as you take him to the kitchen.

You chance a glance at him as you grab a cup from the shelf. Clark is occupied with a picture of you and your friends from a few years ago, reaching out to pick it up and examine. You’re surprised at his brazenness and distract yourself from the awkwardness by filling his cup.  

Clark takes it from you and his fingers touch yours so firmly that you almost gasp. When you look up, he is already staring at you, almost daring you to say something. The moment is awkward but not uncomfortable. Instead, you feel the stirrings of what you’ve been feeling all week. That fuzziness that wraps around you and urges your fingers down, down, down.

You almost drop the glass in your haste to pull away. Clark laughs as water splashes over to his wrist, tilting the glass at you in thanks as he lifts it to his lips. He takes long pulls of water, eyes flickering down to you every second as though he expected you to disappear.

Your eyes felt heavy. You twisted your fingers together, focusing on breathing deep and slow. That didn’t last long; every time you inhaled, all you could smell was Clark and there was something delicious and deep about the cologne he was wearing and you couldn’t get enough.

Forcing your lips to part, you tried to be subtle about your sudden change to mouth breathing. Taking what you hoped was a subtle step back, you fled to the window and cracked it open, greedily breathing in the fresh air.

There was a ‘clink’ as Clark set the glass down in your sink, attention now all on you. “Are you alright?”

Vaguely you noticed that his hands were clenching and unclenching. Never had you considered yourself a hand girl before but you couldn’t help but admire those hands, how large they were, how they’d perfectly cover –

“Yeah,” you waved your hand dismissively, “just been a weird week. I think I’m coming down with something? I don’t know but I’d hate to get you sick.”

“I don’t get sick,” Clark furrowed his brows, striding across the kitchen as though he belonged there.

Before you could stop him, his hand was coming up toward you and lying firming on your forehead. You gasped loudly at the contact, the sound ringing through the room as your knees threatened to buckle. For a moment you leaned into the cool touch and then you stepped back, unsteady and shaken, pressing yourself against the wall.

“Shit, I –“ you bit out, eyes watering. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

“Sweetheart,” Clark spoke softly and slowly, and then there he was again, right in front of you, hands coming to cup your shoulders and crowd you into the wall.

Deliciously dizzy and near faint, you allowed Clark to coo gently and touch your face. Some dim part of you knew that this was insane, that you’d been fucking poisoned or something, but it was too easy to ignore that voice when your blood was singing in your goddamn veins.

With a cross between a whine and a groan, you squirmed your way from Clark’s arms. There was a moment where you weren’t sure he would let you go and you felt your arm come up, felt your hands pushing at his face as he tried to bury his face into your hair, and then you were free and scrambling to put the kitchen table between the two of you.

“Look,” you said, voice shaking, “you need to leave – “

In the struggle, Clark’s shirt had come untucked from his pants, his tie had been worked askew. And his glasses had been pushed up until they were resting haphazardly on the top of his head, almost hidden in his nest of curls.

Clark Kent.

Superman.

In your kitchen.

“Oh, Jesus,” you breathed, “oh, hell.”

You turned on your heel, making for the bathroom as slowly as you could. Something told you that if you ran, he would chase.

Clark was right on your heels, hand reaching out to graze your elbow before you were slamming the bathroom door in his face and locking it as though that would do anything.

There was a beat of silence as you attempted to gather your thoughts. This time sweat was pooling on your forehead – and that wasn’t all. When you shifted a little, you could feel your arousal begging to dampen your panties, the fabric clinging to your swollen folds.

You felt a thud on the other side of the door and yelped, jerking back for a moment as your mind raced.

“I won’t say anything,” you said finally, “but you need to go.”

“Can’t,” Clark groaned, “I’m so sorry. I – I can smell you.”

Mortification had you plastering your hands over your face, hiding from your reflection in the mirror over the sink. You sank down to your knees, crouching against the cool tile as your body eagerly betrayed you.

“Jus’ let me in,” Clark begged, “I can help you.”

The handle rattled to punctuate his statement and you eyed it, wondering why he was holding back but grateful that he was.

“I don’t need your help,” you shouted, “Why is this happening to me?”

Lies. You sat down fully, resting your head on the side of the tub. The porcelain cooled down your heated cheeks. Idly you wondered when it had become so hot as you tried to position your entire body against the tub, chasing the cooler temperature.

“Come with me, sweetheart, and we can find out,” Clark’s voice was slightly slurred now as he pleaded with you, his shadow just visible under the crack beneath the door. “Jus’ let me see you, make sure you’re okay.”

He called your name and that was enough to rouse you from the fuzzy stupor you were sinking in to. You squinted at the door, fingernails tapping against the tub as you attempted to make sense of the state you were in.

“How’d you know my name?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you waited for him to answer. There was a long pause and then the door knob began to rattle harder, Clark murmuring something you couldn’t make out as the door shook in place.

“Fuck,” you swore, “have you been following me? Did you do this to me?”

You tried to get to your feet but your knees had given out. You patted your pockets for your phone before remembering it in its place on the coffee table. Sweat was dripping from your forehead and pattering gently to the tiles as you shook, fear and arousal battling it out in your body.

“What is wrong with me?” you asked weakly.

At your question, your body decided to you the ante. Your skin was practically vibrating as you curled onto the floor, hand delving between your legs as you yanked up your skirt. You moaned at the feeling of your drenched panties, eyes fluttering shut as you were swallowed whole by arousal.

The door splintered as something battered against it. You barely had enough sense to feel a pinch of fear before darkness chased you down, leaving you shivering and passed out on your own bathroom floor.

When you wake up, you almost feel normal. Almost.

The air is considerably cooler and you no longer feel trapped within your own skin. With your eyes still closed, you reach up to feel your forehead and find it dry and smooth. You give your thighs an experimental squeeze and find that, although your panties are still damp, you’re no longer leaking like a faucet.

There is something soft beneath you that is definitely not the tiles in your bathroom. With that realization you open your eyes, blinking wildly at your surroundings as though that would help you make sense of them.

Blue. Icy blue everywhere. You can’t see anything for the ice though you appear to be in some sort of room with what feels like a bed but is otherwise devoid of personality or answers.

When you try to sit up, a large hand presses firmly against your sternum. You bite out a scream, squirming away from the possessive hold before finding that you can’t.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Clark says, allowing you to pull away a little but keeping a tight grip on your wrist. He’s shirtless and you try not to look to closely at the muscles that bunch in his core as he sits up, concerned eyes darting over your face.

You pull a little on the wrist he’s holding but he doesn’t let go. He swallows before saying, “I can’t let you go.”

“Can’t or won’t?” you ask boldly.

“Both,” he cringes a little at the panicked expression that begins to blossom on your face. “It’s better that we’re touching, I think, at least right now.”

You should be screaming, fighting, swearing. Instead, you feel your panic slip away, replaced instead by a warm, slow feeling that was like before only not quite as harsh. Shaking your head, you try to focus.

“Where am I?” you sniff, peering around.

“Somewhere safe,” Clark answers. “I couldn’t leave you at your house.”

As though proving his point, Clark lets his hand slip off your wrist. He’s maybe a foot away from you, and yet the aching, gnawing feeling rears its head with a vengeance. It’s so sudden and vicious that you actually yelp. Clark is quick to pull you back into his arms, hands smoothing over your back as he gets you seated in his lap and rocks you in a gentle motion.

“See,” he coos, “feels better, doesn’t it?”

It did. The confirmation should have horrified you but your mind was practically dripping from your ears as you relaxed in his hold. Superman had his arms around you and did not seem too eager to let you go. You choked on a laugh as he tucked your head into his shoulder, fingers tugging at your hair.

“I have to go home,” you slurred.

“Just breathe, just breathe for me,” he ignored your words and focused on gentle touches that were bringing you a strange measure of comfort.

“What is happening to me?” you cry out as his knuckles skim your breast, the skin insanely sensitive and keen for any touch he offered.

“We can figure it out together,” he breathes, “just let me make you feel good, baby.”

You let Clark lay you back on the bed, shivering when he places one hand on your stomach to pin you there. Your hands clench as you watch him watch you, the way his eyes drag over every inch of exposed skin.

You should’ve been cold since you were only in a t-shirt and skirt but you felt like you were on fucking fire. The only thing anchoring you was the warmth of Clark’s hand on your stomach, his thumb swiping across the bare skin that peeked out from beneath your shirt.

Again, you want to ask what was happening, but Clark swallows up any noise you make when his mouth presses to yours, tongue swiping across your lips as though you’ve kissed a thousand times. You let your mouth part, let him fuck your mouth with his tongue and don’t bother trying to feel bad about it.

His hand bunches in your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth works its way down your neck. He bites hard, no doubt leaving marks, and you squirm beneath him. He uses his size to press you into the bed, forcing you to take exactly what he’s giving. That casual reminder of his strength makes you melt, makes it even easier to just give in.

You can feel the warmth coming from his bare chest but it doesn’t feel overbearing, like when you were alone in your bathroom. It only feels good, right.

You nearly scream when Clark’s mouth latches over your breast, soaking the material of your shirt as he sucks hungrily at your tip. He grabs your hand and places it in his hair, encouraging you to tug a little as he nips and bites.

“What’ve you done to me,” he murmurs, finally pulling away, “turning me into him.”

You don’t get the chance to question who ‘he’ is before Clark is tearing your shirt in two and baring your breasts to his gaze. You wait for your typical shyness to hit but it is nowhere to be found. Instead, you meet his heated gaze and arch your back, reaching for him.

Clark’s mouth on your breasts is a revelation. Your hands find their way to his broad back, nails trying to sink into the firm flesh there as you register that he is trembling from the strength he’s exerting trying to hold back.

His tongue laves over your nipple as his other hand begins to ruck your skirt up around your hips, squeezing and massaging the flesh he uncovers as he goes.

Your throat manages a strangled noise as his fingers find your panties, palm pressing into the damp mess you’d made earlier. Clark tears at the fabric like they personally offended him until the panties are hanging from his fingers, half shredded.

“Oh, God,” you moan, pressing your hands to your cheeks at the sight. They were a far darker pink than they had been when you’d first put them on that morning – or however long ago it had been.

Clark presses the ruined material to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling greedily as his hand comes to press against his pants, rubbing at the bulge that had formed there. You watch the erotic display with half lidded eyes, hands clenching in the blanket you were on top of.

“I can’t get enough,” he exhales raggedly, eyes zoning in on your bare pussy. “Need more, ‘kay baby?”

More, more, more. It was a steady chant in your head as Clark sank further down the bed. You barely registered him flinging his belt off before he was laying on his stomach, face inches from your pussy and inhaling as though you were his favorite fucking food.

The first lick is from hole to clit and has you keening, thighs trying to clamp shut. Clark keeps your legs open with ease as his nose settles in the bundle of nerves that made up your clit, tongue rolling through your slick as though it was water.

With each languid lick his nose nudged your clit, driving you hard toward an orgasm you hadn’t expected so quickly. Clark spreads you open with his fingers, lapping at your cunt with broad strokes of his tongue. When he dips it inside you squeak, pussy attempting to clench around it before he pulls away with something that sounds like a laugh.

You feel the bed rocking beneath you as Clark’s hips buck into the mattress. The sounds he’s making are enough to send you wild, hips tilting up and drenching the entire lower half of his face, heavy lidded blue eyes coming up to watch the array of expressions flickering over your face.

You peer down at him between your legs. His cheeks are red, his curls stuck to his forehead as he eats you out with gusto. You shift a little, chasing his tongue and he growls, placing his hand on your stomach again to keep you pinned.

The possessive move has your chest heaving as your thighs clench tight around those dark curls. Your orgasm splinters through you, uncontrolled and hot as you cry out. The sound echoes around the room and is followed by sounds of your own begging as Clark refuses to part from you.

He sharply turns his head, teeth biting into the inner meat of your thigh, smearing your own orgasm over your skin. Already you miss the intensity of his mouth and you shiver as he rises, pressing a kiss to the soft hair down there before getting to his knees.

There’s a rustle of movement as Clark shucks his pants and boxers. Like before, fear attempts to break through the arousal, but it’s for an entirely different reason.

Clark Kent’s cock looks like something drawn by a horny teenager.

Thick and almost too long, bluish veins bulging at the sides all the way up to the tip. It was flushed a beautiful red, a near color match to his lips. Your eyes fixed on the mushroom head as a pearly bead of precum appeared, only to be quickly swiped away by Clark’s thumb as he fisted his shaft and stroked it hard.

Your eyes dipped lower, landing on his balls and the way they hung heavy and full beneath his cock. You whined a little and twisted in the sheets, almost shocked by your own thoughts. You were on birth control, fortunately, and all you could think about was how good it would feel for him to fill you up, how incredible it would feel to have him hot and leaking inside you.

“Tell me you want this,” Clark bit out, hand squeezing around his shaft as he stared hungrily at your pussy.

God help you but you did. The want was almost choking in its intensity. You gulped it down, feeling it work its way through your chest and settle in your stomach where you knew it would stay.

“Please,” you mewled, beckoning him closer between your legs.

“No,” he shook his head, pinning your wrists above you. “Tell me, baby. Tell me you want me to make love to you.”

Love was a far cry from whatever this was but you were in no position to argue. With the way Clark was looking at you, you could pretend.

You wriggle in his hold, desperate. “I want it, Clark. Please, please.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, leaning down to nip at your jawline, “but this is more than sex. You think this’ll be in and I’ll just let you go?”

You felt the head of his cock nudge your clit and you pleaded, hardly able to comprehend his words. As long as he was inside you, he could call this whatever the fuck he wanted.

Clark notched his thick head at your entrance, letting himself gather wetness from your arousal. You tilted your hips and tried to push him further but he was having none of it.

“Doesn’t matter what this is,” he husked, “it means you’re mine.”

Clark slid home in one full thrust, fully seating himself inside you. Stars burst at the edges of your vision as Clark swallowed your cries, thrusting shallowly to get you used to his size. He kept your hands pinned above you and whispered sweet things into your mouth, things that would’ve worried you if you were aware enough to hear them.

You were too far gone, too full of his cock to object to anything he wanted to do to you and he seemed to know it. Pressing your foreheads together, Clark began to rock into you in earnest. Every time your eyes fluttered shut or strayed from his face, he would squeeze your wrists gently to turn your attention back to him.

It wasn’t enough that he had you speared open on his cock. Clark Kent wanted everything, wanted every thought that crossed your mind, every feeling that you had. He wanted to crack you open to see how you worked and take his time putting you back together again.

With every snap of his hips, you felt the earth shudder beneath you. You weren’t sure if it was real or not. Your pussy gripped him tight, missing him every time he pulled out and welcoming him back in with warm, eager wetness that pooled beneath your ass on the bed.

“Such a perfect fit,” he praised, “knew you would be.”

Your brain was buzzing at every word from his lips and you preened under his attention, his cock nudging a place inside you the made you feel giddy. The intensity of that feeling doubled with every precise thrust, every slap of his balls against your ass, until you were near tears and begging.

“Please,” you gasped, “please, Clark.”

His only answer was, “mine.”

He punctuated his word with one particularly deep thrust and you tensed, mouth dropping open as you slid into your orgasm. That fuzzy feeling wrapped around you in a bubble until you were aware of every movement against you, every rock of Clark’s hips as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Can feel you sucking me in,” he bit out, “you want me as badly as I want you, huh?”

You were reduced to a babbling, wet mess as Clark swore, face pressing into the side of your neck as his hand slammed into the headboard behind you. There was a crunch as he made contact with the ice and then shuddered, pelvis rocking into yours.

He didn’t pull out like you expected him too. You felt him shake as he orgasmed, pulling you close when he had both his hands back on your body. Instead he slid his hands underneath your lax body and moved the both of you further up the bed until you were nestled against cool pillows, his cock still buried inside you.

“Clark –, “you began.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he peppered kisses along your hairline. “Don’t worry, ‘kay? Just stay as you are. It’s good for both of us.”

You didn’t question him. Instead, you allowed him to drag his hands over your body, fingers dipping down to between your legs and grazing the base of him as he collecting your combined fluids. He didn’t settle until he was content you smelled entirely of him and had begun to doze off.

You remained tucked into his chest, shaken but content. Clark soothed away all anxious thoughts of 'what if' and 'tomorrow' and you just let him. You had no other choice.

A/N - pleaseee comment/like/reblog if you enjoyed!! Interaction is honestly what motivates me the most so thank you to those who commented/reblogged previously and sent asks about this fic♥️

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dividers by @pixopix

It was rare you got to spend time with your family. Your elder brother Edwyn was the heir to your father’s title and, as such, the pair of them spent a great deal of time overseeing the land and renters. Leo, as a second son, was antsy and often busied himself on adventures that you could only dream of. Your sister Marian had been married some six months ago and you missed her dearly. When you had heard than she and her lord husband would also be in Ashford, you had been more than content to brave the long ride down just to see her.

And then there was the matter of your betrothal to Lord Frey’s son, Owen.

You hummed to yourself as you navigated the dark corridors, slippers padding along the stone floor. The only sign of life you could hear was from yourself. There was a good chance that you had gotten yourself turned around so you stopped and began to retrace your steps.

The pair of you had met at your sister’s wedding and both Lord Frey and your own father had been delighted at the way you seemed to draw together. Owen Frey was handsome enough, and not unkind, and he knew all the right things to say. When your father had told you of the potential for an arrangement, you had agreed without really thinking about it.

Owen Frey seemed a sensible enough man, and you certainly tried to be a sensible woman. Lord Frey was said to be an honorable and loyal man, and he and his wife genuinely seemed to care for one another. You hoped that with them as an example, Owen would also come to care for you as a husband should.

You paused, huffing a breath as you scanned your environment. It all looked the same. You were just about to turn on your heel again when you heard something ahead. Some kind of scuffling, and a laugh.

Pressing your lips together, you debated turning around. But by now you were likely already late for dinner and your father would not be pleased. Not when the Ashfords were such accommodating hosts – and not when the Targaryens were also staying.

With a nervous breath, you made your way forward and peeked around the corner. Immediately you sucked in a breath, clapping your hand over your mouth as you registered what was before you.

At first you saw only two lovers entwined. Hands beneath shifts and unbuttoned trousers and choked gasps. Then you recognised the clothes on the woman – a household servant of the Ashfords. You cringed at the way she scratched down the male’s back, moaning into his neck as his hands did something down the front of her dress.

You were not ignorant to the ways of man and woman. Well, not entirely, anyway. But you knew enough to know that it was incredibly bold of the pair to be so intimate so out in the open. You stifled a laugh and turned to dip away – and then you heard it.

“Oh, Owen, please!”

You stalled, mouth popping open with a silent ‘oh’. Shaking, you peered round the wall once more, just to confirm. Neither of the pair had spotted you. This time you saw what you had been previously blind to. The sword at the man’s hip, the Frey sigil on the pommel. The hair, an unassuming shade of brown, that only now you recognised. The man’s hand moved to grip the girl’s hip and you saw the rings adorning his fingers.

You stayed for only a moment longer, a headache forming between your brows. You did not confront them. Instead, you raced away, as quietly as you could, turning blindly down corridors until you bumped into a maid who was, by chance, looking for you.

You trailed after her until she reached the dining room, slipping by her as she held the door open for you. Your father stood to greet you and you heard yourself explaining that you had been lost. So silly of you! Your father laughed boisterously and made some joke about you being distracted due to your engagement.

“For a moment, daughter, we thought you had snuck away with Owen,” he chuckled, “Lord Frey told us the boy is ill.”

Baelor Targaryen offered you a polite smile as he responded to your father. Distracted once more, your father sat down and began conversing with the heir. Feeling that all attention was once again off of you, you made your way to the table and found yourself a seat.

You sat down at your brother’s side without looking up. It was only after your brother had pushed a steaming plate in front of you that you glanced about. You found yourself squeezing at your utensils, something hot and uncomfortable brewing in your stomach as you picked at your beef.

After a particularly vicious stab, you set your cutlery down. Tucking your hands beneath the table, you squeezed at your thighs until you were sure you drew blood. Your eyes stayed dry. You searched yourself for despair, for sadness, and instead found red hot fucking fury.

A shiver wracked through you and finally you looked up. Aerion Targaryen met your gaze. He did not blink as he stabbed a hunk of beef and brought it to his mouth. He chewed it nicely but his eyes were anything but.

You knew about Brightflame. About his propensity for anger and cruelty. You had made a game of avoiding him all week, despite the fact your family took meals with his almost daily. And now, with him sitting across from you, this was the closest you had ever been.

It must be exhausting, you thought, to be so angry all the time. You could feel your own righteous rage swirling in your chest, taking violent swipes at your heart every time you attempted to push what you had seen from your mind.

Aerion stopped chewing and stared openly. You blinked as you realised your lips had curled in something like a snarl. Your anger burned hotter than you knew what to do with. You slouched back in your chair, ignoring the way your brother coughed at your ill manners, and stared right back.

It was stupid. You knew that but you did not look away. Let him be cruel, you thought, let him spit and curse at you for your disrespect. You discovered that you anger enough to return the fire. It needed to go somewhere, did it not?

Your brother stilled, hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing in warning. And still, you did not move. To your surprise, it was Aerion that moved.

He cleared his throat and set his fork down. He leaned forward and you readied yourself for the fall out of your disrespect.

“Woman,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”

Your brother nudged you to answer. Distantly, you wondered if Owen remembered your name. If you thought about you at all as he fumbled with the maid girl in the corridor, where anyone could come across them. Did he feel guilt as he humiliated you? As he made you look like a foolish, sheltered girl?

“You do not recall my name,” you said slowly, “despite the fact that our families have dined together all week?”

Your brother choked on his wine. Aerion’s eyes widened, something chaotic and wild fluttering in his pupils. It looked like fire.

“I do not,” he answered just as slowly, chin dipping as he waited for your response.

You should tread carefully. You should apologise. You should lower your gaze and speak only when spoken to. You should pretend you never saw Owen and the girl and marry him anyway, settle for a life long of betrayal and disappointment.

“Then I do not wish to tell you,” you hissed, slamming your palms to the table as you shot up out of your chair. All eyes landed on you. “Father, I am unwell. I wish to retire.”

Aerion’s eyes made your skin burn. They drilled into the side of your face as you stoutly ignored him, dipping your head as your father stammered out an excuse and the host bid you well.

You walked quickly from the table, wrenching open the door before the guard could do it for you. Once alone in the corridor, the cool air brushing at your heated cheeks, a hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. To Aerion and Leon, it probably looked as though you were running. But it was not fear that had driven you from that hall.

Alone in your room, you waited for the tears to come. When the hours dripped on, and the tears still did not come, you resorted to pinching your thighs until bruises welled beneath your nails. Your eyes remained dry.

The anger would not leave. Seething, you threw yourself across the bed, tempted to tear at the sheets like some wild animal. You did not feel like the lady you had been raised to be. But where had that gotten you? Reeling and thoroughly humiliated, you felt lost.

What Owen had done was not out of the ordinary. You were sure that even your father had fathered a bastard or two in the village. But it was not what you wanted for yourself, and as a fourth daughter, you had more choice than most.

Owen had seemed like the safe choice. The sensible choice. You were vexed at your own naivety, annoyed at your own surprise and subsequent disgust. You had been willing to settle for the first man that seemed reasonable and now you were stuck. Did a right choice even exist?

There would be no wedding. You were sure that you could get your father to agree once you told him of what you had witnessed. Your father would not take kindly to his daughter being embarrassed in such a way. The Freys were going to benefit from the wedding more than your family so it would be no great loss.

You sighed. So much had changed in so little time. The tourney was over tomorrow and you would be making your way back home by mid-afternoon. Once on the road, away from the Freys, you could tell your father what you had seen. He would send word of the cancelled arrangement to the Freys, all without you having to set eyes on Owen ever again.

As the sky began to darken further, a maid came in to light your candles and the fire in the grate. Idly you wondered if she was the one you had seen with Owen earlier. Once she had left, you sat up and went to the window, peering out with boredom.

Anger still kindled in your stomach. You rested a hand over your lowed belly, half expecting to feel heat.

The castle was quiet. The gardens below were quiet, too. Your father would kill you for walking around in the dark without a guard but the room was beginning to feel stifling.

When you were young, you had been an unruly child. Eager to escape your finishing lessons and play with your brothers or roam the grounds alone. Your father had assumed you had grown out of it and maybe you had.

Now, though, all you wanted was to leave the suffocating grip of the castle. Owen was under the same roof as you, somewhere, sleeping soundly or perhaps not alone. If he was going to flout the rules so blatantly, then so would you.

Like earlier, you got turned around several times before you eventually found your way outside. The ground was slightly damp from the earlier rain. You would have to clean your slippers before dawn.

You wound your way around bushes and flower beds until you found your way to a hidden alcove. The moon was bright enough to guide your path and you kept carefully out of sight of the castle. The wall was slanted enough for you to rest against it, almost sitting.

The air was soothing against your harried flesh. You closed your eyes and imagined it cooling further, eager to shake the weight of emotion from your chest.

The garden was enclosed in high walls. Beyond them you could hear raucous laughter and singing. The final night of the tourney was just as loud as the first. What would it be like to be among the smallfolk? To laugh, to dance and to drink as they did? As men did?

What would it be like to fuck as they did?

The word was so crass that you open your eyes and looked around, half expecting your father to appear and scold you for the mere thought. Satisfied that you were indeed alone, you settled back and closed your eyes once more.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed when you heard it. Your name, cutting through the careful silence you had cultivated, drawing a shocked yelp from your lips.

Aerion Brightflame stood five feet in front of you, hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was not threatening – or maybe it was. It was difficult to tell when everything about him was threatening.

Aerion silver hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes appeared hastily thrown on, as though he had gotten ready for bed and then changed his mind. Perhaps the night air cooled his temper, too.

He repeated your name again, and you realised that someone else must have told him it. He looked smug and you wanted to smack him clean across the face for thinking he had won whatever stupid game it was that he thought you were playing.

“Do you make a habit of sneaking about alone?” he asked, stepping closer.

You squinted at him and did not reply. Was this the same man you had been avoiding all week? Whatever fear you had previously felt had been eaten away by fire and now fatigue as you slumped back against the wall.

Aerion’s lip curled at your silence; displeasure dotted in the creases of his face. You tilted your head a little. He was not unpleasant to look at, even when he scowled. He was handsome, you admitted, as all Targaryens tended to be.

“Answer me, woman,” he finally snarled, “or I’ll drag you before your father.”

Aerion had stepped closer. If you reached out a hand, you would be able to lay it on his chest.

What would it be like to fuck as they did?

It was a terrible idea. Downright stupid. When was the last time you had been stupid? Been anything other than the lady you were supposed to be?

You reached out and laid your hand on the dragon’s chest.

Aerion stilled. You met his eyes steadily, attempting to gauge interest. He did not stop you when you stepped closer, tilting your head until your eyes landed on his lips. They looked red and bitten already.

Aerion did not stop you when your hand slid up his chest and into the short hair at the base of the back of his neck. His lips parted and his breath puffed out when you tugged a little, curious. Owen had tugged that woman’s hair. It seemed like something that was done.

“Woman,” Aerion finally said, “are you stupid?”

“No,” you murmured, “but I think I’d like to be. Just for tonight.”

You were not sure who moved first; only that, one second you were thinking how similar a shade Aerion’s hair was to the moon, and the next you were pressed up tight in the alcove.

Aerion used his body to pin you there. At first, the kiss was clumsy and unpracticed. It was your first, after all. But you had always been a quick learner.

Aerion’s mouth was firm and unforgiving. Your lips parted under his like they had done so a thousand times, tongue reaching out to brush silkily along Aerion’s and earning a surprised groan. His hand came up to squeeze your face, holding you still as he had you how he liked.

It felt good. The kissing and the rebellion of it all. Throughout it all, your hands remained in his hair, tugging hard whenever he did something you particularly liked. He nipped at your lips, pulling sweet gasps and moans from them as he went. That push and pull of his tongue in your mouth, smoothing softly over yours – was that what fucking was like?

Aerion pulled away and you almost hissed. His hair looked messier than previously, the front of his clothes ruffled from where you had been pressed together. His lips were red and wet from the kiss and you watched as his tongue darted out and smoothed over them.

The anger had given away to something impossibly hotter. Something molten and desperate was welling in your core. It was nothing you had ever felt or even considered feeling when it came to Owen. You tilted your head back against the stone wall and waited for the prince to make a move.

“Foolish girl,” he finally said, dragging his eyes from where your breasts heaved against the ribbon of your dress. “Is that what you wanted? To act like a whore for the night? Are you satisfied, then?”

You laughed quietly, the sound ringing through the garden. “I think whores do a great deal more than kiss, my Prince.”

Before you could think too much, you reached down to rest your hand over the hard outline of Aerion’s manhood. He made a choked sound and jolted forward, no doubt surprised at your boldness. Instead of laughing at the shock on his face, you pressed your nose to his chest, seeking out the sliver of bared skin you had seen then.

And then you bit down. Hard.

Aerion groaned long and loud, hand coming up to grip the back of your head as he allowed you to sink your teeth into his flesh. It felt powerful. You did not relent until blood welled beneath your teeth, copper leaking onto your tongue as you laved it over his wounded flesh.

You kept your hand firmly on his cock, rubbing the heel of your palm over where you assumed the head was. Aerion’s grip grew tight before he let you go, chest heaving, staring down at you with blow pupils.

He said your name again, quietly this time, and with no mocking. His hands had fallen to grip your wrists but he let go of one, reaching up the place his palm over the spot you had bitten.

“And yet,” you sighed, “I still do not feel like a whore.”

You kept your mind switched off as your hands dropped and began tugging at the strings on his trousers. Your own core throbbed with every little move. It was different from the lazy self-exploration of yourself you had previously indulged in. Was this feeling normal or was it to do with the dragon before you?

“Fuck,” Aerion swore as you popped his cock from his trousers, the heated flesh pulsing in the cooler air.

It looked big – but that did not matter. You had no intention of taking it inside of yourself. Instead, you smoothed your palm over the head, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. You squeezed experimentally and smiled at the sound it produced from Aerion.

Aerion cursed again and then his hands were on you. You yelped as he held you firmly against the stone wall, damp rock pressing into your back, and began to ruck up your dress until it was fluffed around your waist. He kicked your legs apart and shoved his hand down the front of your garments until his fingers met the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.

This was not the plan. Not that there had been one in the first place – but this definitely was not it.

Aerion’s fingers met the soft, pillowy flesh on your cunt with little ceremony. His eyes were glued to your face, chest rising and falling swiftly as he parted you with his fingers and ran his index over the tight flesh of your hole.

“Even whores do not get this wet,” he growled, cupping your tender flesh. “Put your hand back on my cock. Now.”

You resented the bite in his voice but your mind was surprising gentle exploration of his fingers. Instead of sliding inside, they ventured up, up, until they met the soft ball of flesh that would surely make you lose your fucking mind.

Aerion buried his face in your neck, tongue licking over the exposed flesh as your hand found his cock and began to move. When he stopped, you stopped. You would not let him come away from having had more than you. You were determined to satisfy your earlier curiosity.

His fingers rubbed tight circles over your swollen flesh, faster and then slower. He rutted into your palm with hard thrusts, breath hissing in your ear as he approached his peak.

He was not the only one. You could feel your own fast approaching. For the first time, clarity began to clear your mind. You understood why Owen, why that girl, had gotten so caught up. Initially you had wanted to do this to experience what you felt you were missing out on, to be reckless as they had been. Now you felt the urge for control. The urge to prove that you were better than them.

Still you allowed Aerion’s fingers to rub you. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His hips bumped yours as he fucked your hand, orgasm tearing through him in a way that made you dizzy and thirsty for your own.

You yelped when Aerion’s head bent down, nuzzling into the pillowy tops of your breasts before he bit down. Hard enough that you were sure he immediately drew blood. You whimpered and yanked at his hair, teetering on the edge of your own orgasm.

If I go over the edge, you thought, I do not know if I can come back.

With surprising strength, you shoved Aerion away. Your dress came tumbling back down and the whisper of fabric over your skin was enough to almost have you orgasming anyway. Unprepared, Aerion staggered before righting his stance.

His still hard cock was still peeking out of his breeches and you tore your eyes away before you abandoned all common sense. You could feel his seed on your hand, warm and sticky. There was blood smeared all over his mouth and when he snarled at you, you could see it in his teeth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “You are not done here – we are not done here.”

You breathed heavily and swayed a little on your feet. You could see your own arousal on Aerion’s fingers, glittering in the moonlight. It looked rather pretty.

Aerion took a step forward and it shook you out of your reverie. Before he could say anything else (or use his fingers and command you to stay) you tore past him and ran inside. In some miracle, perhaps as reward for your restraint, you found your way back to your room in a matter of minutes. If Aerion called your name, you did not hear it.

The next morning was nothing memorable. You were beyond tired and still mildly irritated, but glad to be rid of the place. You had stayed up late cleaning your shoes and the conspicuous wet spot the prince had left on your dress. If the maids noticed anything as they packed your trunks, they did not say.

Your father was in a good mood. It was a good thing to spent time with the heir to the kingdom; it reflected well on the house. You smiled blandly as he and your brother Leon recounted their days, commenting on who had done well and the favourites.

The Targaryens had supposed to have been leaving early, but as you and your family made their way down, you discovered that they had not. You kept your gaze averted and curtsied when necessary, thanking Lord Ashford for his hospitality and Balor and his family for their company.

When you reached Aerion, you curtsied as before. Aerion surprised you by lifting your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your inner wrist. You felt his tongue on your skin and bit your lip, praying that your father would not notice.

Aerion pulled back and smiled. Your mouth dropped open. Your blood was still smeared across his lips and teeth.

Within days of arriving home, your father had contacted Lord Frey and told him the engagement was off. He was horrified by what you had reported. His poor darling girl, witness to such depravity!

As he had ranted and raved, you had subtly tugged at the high collar of your dress. You had taken to wearing such high collars and avoiding help from the maids since arriving home. The mark that Aerion had left on you was shocking. Blue and purple tinged with red. It was still sore and throbbed when touched firmly, which you did often.

You had managed to muster tears in your eyes and a tremble in your voice as you recounted the events of that evening. Perhaps you exaggerated a little. It did not matter; your father was thoroughly on your side.

Some days later, after some back and forth with Lord Frey, your father told you that Owen had left The Twins and was no doubted headed here, to your home. Your father had almost had an aneurysm at the sheer assumption of hospitality.

“Do not worry, father,” you had patted his hand, “perhaps he will come to apologise. I will hear him out, but I have no intentions of marrying him.”

“You are kind, daughter,” he nodded, “and wise. You deserve more than foolish young boys.”

Wise. You had nearly laughed. A week ago, you had been the stupidest person in the entire seven kingdoms. Stupider now, perhaps, since you did not regret it.

A week and a half after the tournament, you were sitting in the library when you heard the sound of a party arriving. You set your book down and straightened your spine before marching from the library and heading for the hall.

You paused outside, sharing a look with your ladies’ maid when you heard your father’s laughter from within. That was certainly not the reception you had envisioned for Owen Frey. Confused, you opened the door and stepped within, ready for an explanation.

Your father was stood there, arm in arm, with Maekar Targaryen. And to the left of him, tall and polished, was his son, Aerion.

You froze. For a moment you debated edging your way back out of the room but then your father caught sight of you.

“Ah!” he threw up his arms and came to grab your arm, pulling you further into the dragon’s nest. “My Princes, you remember my youngest daughter?”

“Certainly,” Aerion interjected before his father could speak. He dipped his head, mocking. “My Lady.”

You assumed you responded appropriately. You could not be sure. Maekar nodded stiffly, something like curiosity in his eyes as he looked you up and down. How much had Aerion told his father? Was he, in turn, going to tell your father?

“Why are you here?” you asked bluntly.

Your father said your name, surprised. “You did not know? I invited them here whilst we were all at the tourney.”

“Yes,” Aerion smiled, “I am here to hunt.”

The ground felt like it was dropping out from beneath you. Even the air felt thin. Whilst you swayed on your feet, vehemently regretting that night, your father chattered on to Maekar.

He had no fucking idea what he had agreed to. And, truthfully, neither did you.

Unwilling to leave your father and the princes alone, you found yourself getting ready for a hunt. You yanked on your riding dress and, once your front was covered, turned to allow your maid to lace up the back.

You did not know what Aerion had told Maekar, nor what his plans were with you father. You were worried that, at the first chance he had, Aerion would tell him of your indulgent and careless behaviour. Why else would he come all this way?

It seemed insane that he would do all this just to torment you. Or perhaps it would, if he were anyone else. Out of all the boys to fool around with. . .

You descend from your room and head for the stables. Yanking on your riding gloves, you find the stall of your horse, Silver. She was a precious thing and fickle with anyone other than you. You smoothed your hand over her mane and waited for the stable boy to arrive.

Aerion arrived first.

You scowled at the flash of silver hair you saw from the corner of your eye and did not bother greeting him. It was not him you feared; it was what he might tell you father. You should probably consider attempting to butter him up. Your lips thinned at the idea and you continued to ignore him.

Heat was radiating from his body as he stepped up bedside you, bumping your arm with his. Without asking, he reached out to pet Silver. You hoped she would bite him. Instead, she huffed and leaned down to nose at his palm. You frowned.

Distracted, you did not notice Aerion’s other hand creeping up toward the collar of your dress. You squeaked when you felt his fingers on the hem, yanking it down until the ugly spot he had left on your upper breast came into view.

The flesh was still unhealed. Whenever you looked closely in the mirror, you could still see the outline of Aerion’s teeth.

“Good,” he hummed, “yours has not healed either.”

He did not let go of your clothing, instead leaning closer as though he might bite again. Outraged, you slapped the prince across his face. Aerion let go at once, hand coming to rest on the quickly darkening flesh of his cheek.

Your chest was heaving, eyes wide and blinking furiously. You wanted to shout, to slap him again, to demand the real reason as to why he had come. You had finally been getting back to normalcy when he and his father had shown up.

You snarled still as Aerion reached out again, raising your hand as though you might strike him once more. This time he did not try to tear at your clothes. He tugged them back into the rightful position, brushing the wrinkles from your bosom as though his fingers were not leaving trails of fire behind as they went.

“I knew you had fire in you,” he finally said, brushing his fingers over your bared collarbones.

Before you could respond, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. You whirled around, horrified to see Maekar waiting by the stable doors. Aerion did not seem alarmed. He met his fathers gaze and inclined his head before going to his own horse.

Maekar did not say anything. His gaze bounced from his son and then back to you, as though he was putting something together. He did not speak and seemed surprised. Had he seen you slap his son? It was nothing he had not deserve.

Markar must have agreed because he offered you a soft nod and then turned his attention to Aerion. You went back to Silver and pretended that neither of them were there. The two of them were having some kind of hushed conversation and you could not make out what they were saying.

Eventually your father and the stable boy arrived, and the hunt began.

Your father and Maekar rode ahead, crossbows hanging by their sides. It was the most serious you had seen your father. Neither of the men spoke, which you preferred.

Aerion rode at your side, which you did not prefer. He had his own crossbow but seemed to have little interest in it. His gaze was firmly fixed on the side of your head. Occasionally he would come close and kick softly at your calves, or reach out to pull your hair when he knew neither of your fathers were looking.

One particularly hard pull had you swearing and slapping at his hands. Aerion laughed quietly so as not to draw the attention of your fathers. Yours was particularly oblivious. Maekar, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes sliding from Aerion to you. He seemed bewildered. Perhaps you were not the only one who did not know what Aerion was up to.

After several hours with no sign of game, you began to wish you had remained home. Let Aerion say what he would. It was not worth you distress.

Suddenly everyone seemed to still. You shivered at the sudden change. Even Aerion was silent. You peered out into the dense forest, trying to see whatever it was that had captured everyone’s attention. The only sign that anything was there was a slight rustling in the bush, and then a dull ‘thunk’ as Aerion fired from his crossbow quicker than you thought possible. Then a thud, as whatever it was hit the ground.

Aerion dismounted and disappeared into the brush, returning with an impressively large stag. Your brows raised at the clean shot. It was something even your brothers would have struggled with. Aerion held it up by the antlers and stared in your direction. You smoothed your expression and looked away as though you were bored. You did not want to encourage further ridiculousness.

You stayed on Silver as the men tied the poor creature between their horses and began to head home. Bloodlust satiated, Aerion mostly left you alone, and for that you were thankful.

At dinner, Aerion had the honor of the first serving. It had been divided into manageable chunks, cooked and seasoned in the preferred way of your guests. The scent of venison was thick on the air and you were hungry after the ride.

Your eldest brother Edwyn joined you at dinner. His lady wife was unwell and remained abed. If he was surprised by the royal visitors, he did not show it. He settled into pleasant conversation with your father and Maekar. To his credit, he attempted to include Aerion but the prince seemed determined to make him uncomfortable.

Rather than take the first cut for himself, Aerion slid it your way. All the men at the table went silent. Aware of the gaze of your father and brother, you smiled sweetly and acted surprised.

“For the lady,” Aerion said, smirking at your obvious discomfort.

The meat was rare and bloody. Not your favourite but you would manage. Aerion tucked in to his own with little fanfare, blatantly ignoring his fathers’ eyes. Greasy blood dripped over his lips and he chased the flavour with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with you.

 Conversation resumed and you ate your own food whilst wishing for the ground to open up beneath you. Did Aerion even have to say anything? One look at him and your father would surely learn of your behaviour that night. Aerion was hardly subtle.

For the first time since they had arrived, you wondered about Owen. He had been on his way here, had he not? You cringed inwardly at the thought of Owen and Aerion interacting. Not that Aerion would care about Owen, but during the Ashford tournament, Owen had been practically tripping over himself trying to impress the Targaryen guests. You dreaded to think of enduring that behaviour within your own home.

Aerion chose that moment to kick you under the table. Your knee bounced against the underside, drawing the attention of everyone once more. You laughed uneasily and apologised, waving away your father’s concerns.

You waited until all attention was back on the food, and then you kicked Aerion right back.

The next few days went by in a similar fashion. Maekar continued to hunt with your father, returning empty handed most days, and Aerion remained at the castle with you.

Everywhere you went, he was there. More often than not, the pair of you ended up alone. The servants were scared of him and you could not blame them. You overheard him barking at them on several occasions, and he had even thrown something at one of the maids who had come to wake him one morning.

Miraculously, none of these incidents seemed to make their way back to either of your fathers. If the staff trembled when they refilled Aerion’s cup, they did not notice. Neither did Aerion, for his attention was usually fixated on you.

You kept waiting for that temper to turn on you but it never did. So, you continued to bite back, though not literally, and convinced yourself you were doing it on behalf of all the servants.

After several days, you realised that the only thing that seemed to genuinely irritate him was you ignoring him. So, naturally, that was exactly what you did.

No longer did you glance up when he entered the room. At mealtimes, you arranged yourself carefully in your chair so that his legs could not reach you. You had your ladies’ maid, Silena, wind your hair into intricate braids so that there was nothing he could easily pull.

Aerion’s fury built. You pretended not to notice when he sniped at the servants and scowled at your father. Maekar, eager to soothe over any tensions caused by his wild son, was always quick to distract your father with conversation.

One day, Aerion went out hunting with Maekar and your father. Once again, he presented you with the first cut of meat that he had caught. You thanked him politely and nibbled at it as though dissatisfied. Aerion jerked about in his chair as though he might jump up and start shouting.

Would that be enough to get your father to send him away? Probably not. You were beginning to understand that Targaryen princes got away with everything.

Four days trickled past, and there was still no sign of Owen. Not that you thought of him often. A raven had arrived from Lord Frey, asking if his son had arrived. It was odd and you had felt sorry for the man, worried for his son. No doubt he would turn up soon, but not so soon that you had to bear with him and Aerion under the same roof.

On the fifth day, you were thoroughly exhausted. You had begun to avoid Aerion as much as possible – and it mostly wasn’t. The man seemed to have eyes on you at all time.

He had spent most of the day with you in the library. When he wasn’t thumbing through books, he was digging his dagger into the table that had been in your family for generations. His blatant disrespect was unsurprising and you had snuggled further in your chair and tried to pretend like you were actually reading the words on the pages.

After an hour or two of the stifling silence, Aerion had got to his feet and torn the book from your hands. He had torn into it, throwing pages over you like confetti. You had been furious and ready to deliver another swift smack to his cheek. A servant had entered that time, saving you from breaking your silence, and you had both gone down for lunch.

Your father was not the most observant man, but even he could see that you were beyond taxed by the end of the day.

Rather than indulging in evening drinking and games, he suggested that you retire early and have a bath drawn by the staff. You were more than happy to do just that.

You lounged on your bed with a book you did not read as the servants prepared your tub. The water was steaming hot and inviting. Once it was full, they scattered petals into the water and added drops of some scented oil that had you relaxing almost instantly.

Your ladies’ maid waited to help you undress but, as you had every day since returning, you waved her off.

“I’d like some time to myself, Silena,” you smiled softly, “I’ll call for you once I am finished.”

You waited until the door was shut, and then several minutes more for good measure, before undressing. You tried to avoid looking at the bruise on the swell of your breast. Your eyes were drawn there automatically.

Pressing a hand over it, you hissed at the memory of pain and ignored the sparks it sent between your legs. Piling your hair on your head, you arranged it until you were satisfied it would not get wet. Once you were completely bare, you stepped into the tub and settled down, letting your head fall back against the high edge.

The water was verging on boiling, as you liked it. It was milky from the oils and soap. You grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and began to run it over your shoulders and behind your ears.

You let your mind go blank as you cleansed yourself several times over until all you could smell was lavender and something almost smoky. Once more you sat back, content to relax until the water turned cold.

The sound of the door opening had you sighing and dipping lower into the water to hide your bruise. “Silena, I have no need of you yet –“

“But I have need of you.”

You shot up straight, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. Aerion let the door fall shut, reaching behind himself to click the lock into place. His eyes were dark as the fixed on you in the tub and you shivered, cold despite the hot water.

“I’ll scream,” you warned him.

“I’ll tell your father what we did together,” he countered.

He toed off his shoes as though these were his rooms and began to make his way towards you. You had no weapon, nothing with which you might fight him off with, and he seemed to know it.

You dared not take your eyes off of him. When he settled on his knees next to the tub, you became painfully aware of your naked state. It was strange; he had had his fingers on you, almost inside of you, and yet he had not seen you. Not really.

Aerion seemed to be thinking the same thing. He seemed displeased at the milky state of the water. It concealed you from him. You drew your knees up to your chest and waited for him to speak.

Aerion dipped his fingers into the water and hissed. “Hot.”

“I like it that way,” you defended. Then you shut your lips tightly, wishing you had not spoken at all.

Aerion smiled and touched your bare knee beneath the water. You tried to jerk away but he gripped you tight, nails biting into your softened flesh. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I am not here to entertain you, prince.”

“I thought that, too, at the tournament,” he said, “but then you were so wonderfully entertaining in the garden that night. I want more. Have wanted more, since then, and yet you deny what was once so freely given. Why?”

Your mouth felt dry. “I am a lady.”

“And yet,” he repeated, “you betrayed your betrothed that night, with me, didn’t you?”

You stilled, barely registering his words before they hit you full force. “He betrayed me first!” you snarled, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.

Aerion squeezed your knee tighter, ignoring the water creeping its way up his sleeve. It soaked into the golden embroidery that was pattered there, darkening the fabric until it looked like it had been flecked with blood.

“Betrayed you?” Aerion repeated. “Vengeful little thing.”

“He is no longer my betrothed,” you added weakly. “I told my father about what he did.”

“But he was coming here to see you regardless,” Aerion said, mostly to himself.

“How do you know about that?” you asked, finally tearing his hand from your knee. Blood welled from the indents he had left in your flesh with his nails. You shivered at the sting as the warm water washed over them.

Aerion’s eyes dropped low, searching for that mark he had left on your skin over two weeks ago. Then they dipped lower still, fixing on the tips of your breasts that were barely visible beneath the water.

He let out a muted groan, dragging his eyes upward until they were once again on your face. “I believe I said that we were not finished.”

It took you a moment to remember what he was talking about. “Aerion, no.”

“You think you know what you want,” he murmured, “and maybe you did, all those weeks ago. But your mind has become clouded. Allow me to clear it for you.”

You gasped when Aerion leaned over the tub, hands grasping your shoulders as he pulled you forward and arranged you to his liking. He had you with your back to him, against the tub, allowing him to peer over your shoulders and down your body.

You tried to move forward but he would not allow it. You stopped moving when you felt his teeth at your neck. If he left a mark there, it would be visible to everyone, including your father.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Let me finish what we started.”

Beneath the water, Aerion cupped your breasts with a firmness that had you whimpering. You could feel his warm breath puffing over the shell of your ear and you squirmed, searching yourself for your earlier reluctance. It was not there.

When Aerion rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, you nearly dissolved into the bath water. He kneaded them gentle, rolling the tips between his fingers in a way that had you gripping at his arms and shoving your face against his shoulder.

One hand abandoned your breast, instead snaking down and over the swell of your stomach, searching for the wetness between your legs. You let your thighs fall open without a second thought, eager for that feeling from those weeks ago.

Aerion sucked in a breath. “Sweet girl.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek at the same time as his fingers made contact with your aching clit. This was dangerous, you tried to remind yourself, for this you might do anything.

Like before, Aerion’s fingers began to propel you toward orgasm quicker than you typically could alone. Your clit seemed more than eager for whatever he wanted to give and each touch felt devastatingly soft, as though he was punishing you for not allowing him to give you this back in the garden.

Distantly, you wondered if he was trying to prove something. You could not find it in you to care, so long as he kept doing whatever it was that he was doing.

You almost didn’t notice when his fingers began to slide lower until one was nudging at your entrance. It was not something you typically did alone. You were always too worried of spilling your own blood. You opened your mouth to protest but, before you could, Aerion had you spread apart on his fingers as he gently fucked you with his hand.

You choked on your breath. “Aerion, please – you can’t –“

“Shhh,” he whispered, surprisingly tender as he took you apart. “Do not worry. Just feel.”

All it took was one swipe of his thumb over your clit. You had to plaster your hands over your mouth to mask the sound that was spilling from your lips. Aerion did not stop and instead continued to stroke you through your orgasm, to the point of painful sensitivity. He did not stop until you physically pulled his hands from you, and even then he seemed reluctant.

You sagged against the tub, entirely breathless and shaken. Aerion grabbed your face with one hand, turning you this way and that, as though he were admiring his own work. You waited for some snarky comment.

Aerion hummed to himself, letting his hand drop until it was hovering over the bite mark. His bite mark. He did not touch it, instead he pulled back and got to his feet, stepping somewhat unsteadily away from the tub.

“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. “Never ignore me again.”

With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out as though he was never there. The only sign that he had been was a churning in your stomach and an ache between your thighs.

Once you were sure he was gone, you dunked your head under the water and did not come up until your lungs were screaming for air.

Despite his words, you did not see Aerion the next day. Nor the one after that. You father, brother and Maekar also seemed to have disappeared. Uneasy, you assumed they had some official business that needed seeing to. Maybe the princes had even left.

No, you knew they hadn’t. It felt silly to say but you could feel Aerion, still lurking in your home, despite staying out of sight. Fire seemed to burn hotter with him in the building.

At night you found yourself sweaty and cross, abandoning your blankets and tossing and turning until you were able to pass out. You never slept for long.

On the second day, after hiding in the library and dining alone, you felt unusually anxious. All your clothes felt tight and ill fitting. Had Aerion told your father about the bath? It was all you could think about all day. You picked at your food and didn’t read a thing until it was time for bed, at which time you went up alone and dismissed Selina in favour of dressing yourself.

You tugged on a sleep gown, relishing the soft loose fabric in comparison to your day clothes. The fire in the grate was out and you felt too warm to fetch Silena so you left it alone, allowing the candles lit to guide the way to your bed. You shoved all the sheets down until they were not touching you. Then you positioned yourself like an X, trying to cool down and banish the day’s anxieties from your brain. You had to stay in control. It would not do to let your guard down when Aerion was around.

Sleep would not come. Even when you trained yourself to stay perfectly still, taking even and deep breathes, it seemed to taunt you from the darkest corners of your room. Eventually the candles went out, leaving you in almost complete darkness.

The moon still shone in through your window. It allowed you to see vague shapes and the outline of your own body. You squeezed your eyes shut and begged the seven for sleep.

Just when you were ready to jump up and begin lighting candles, there was a noise. For a moment you did not recognise it for what it was. Your heart shot into your throat as you realised it was the sound of your door opening and shutting, then the lock falling into place.

You remained still, tense and silent as you peered into the darkness, heart hammering in your chest. It was not until the moonlight glinted off of something silver that you relaxed.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed, sitting up as Aerion approached your bed. “You can’t be in here.”

“Scared?” he asked, settling himself on the edge of your bed.

“This is highly improper,” you warned, eyes bulging from your head as Aerion began to shed his clothes as though the room were his own.

He did not respond. He continued shucking his clothes until only his braies remained, the outline of his cock already half hard between his legs. You swallowed and commanded yourself not to stare. Eventually he shed those too.

“You can’t be in here,” you repeated weakly.

Aerion’s hand found your ankle in the darkness. You yelped as he yanked you, your back hitting the mattress as he dragged you further down the bed. You were near winded as he climbed on top of you, knees on either side of your hips as he rested his weight softly on your stomach.

It wasn’t until he began to snatch at your wrists that you remembered yourself and began to struggle. With a yell, you set your teeth to the first line of flesh you saw.

Your teeth sank into his bicep much like they had sank into his chest all those weeks ago. Blood trickled into your mouth and you bit harder.

Aerion’s hand came to cradle the back of your hand. “That’s it, just like that.”

Immediately you let go, hissing up at him with bloodied teeth. “There is nothing sweet about this. Now get off.”

Aerion leaned down and licked the blood from your mouth, moaning every time you nipped at him with already bloodied teeth. It was insanity, madness, and it was making you unbearably fucking wet.

“My turn,” Aerion said, and then his teeth were burying into your neck so deeply that you faintly wondered if you would scar.

Your hips bucked upward, driving his cock into your stomach as he sucked at your neck, teeth pinching and tongue soothing as he went. You were done. There was no way you could cover whatever mark he had left this time. Had this been his plan all along?

When Aerion pulled away, there was blood smeared across his face just like before. More of it, even. He ran his fingers over the mark you had left and hissed, fisting his cock with his other hand.

“Enough with waiting,” he muttered, “I have been a patient man.”

You did not protest as Aerion shoved your night dress up until it was bunched under your armpits. You nearly moaned when he parted your thighs, baring you to him fully for the first time.

He pressed his fingers to your entrance and groaned. “So fucking hot. Are you sure you are not blood of the dragon?”

He ran his fingers through your arousal and brought them to his lips, letting your slick mingle with the blood before licking his fingers clean. Your cunt throbbed with each pass of his tongue over his fingers and it took you a moment to realise you were whimpering aloud.

“No matter,” he said, “you’ll have a dragon inside you, one way or another.”

Placing one hand on your stomach, Aerion used his other to notch his cock at your entrance. The heat coming off him was intense. Sweat beaded on your hairline as you tried to focus on the consequence, on why you should not be doing this, but your mind refused to focus on anything but the thick feel of Aerion sliding into you.

There was a flash of pain as he nudged up against something inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, instead thrusting forward and taking your maidenhead with little compassion. You winced at the bite of pain.

Aerion kept your thighs pinned wide to accommodate him. His eyes darted from your face to the obscene sight between your legs. His hips began to shift as he thrust in earnest. All thoughts of pain fell away as you became accustomed to the thickness of him.

Aerion Brightflame was fucking you and you were letting him.

Everyt ime your eyes fell shut he would stop until you were focused back on him. The wet sound of your union had your ears burning as you mewled beneath him, greedily chasing every little feeling he was introducing you to.

You could feel yourself twitching around his length as his nails dug into the meat of your thighs. The scent of sweat and sex was a heady thing, heavy on your tongue as Aerion fucked you steadily with deep thrusts of his cock.

Your jaw dropped open when his hand dipped between your legs, collecting blood there and bringing it to his chest, smearing it there as he gazed darkly down at you.

You watched as he smeared the blood in a line over his lips, and then as he reached down and made the same motion over yours. You could taste the copper and sweat and felt almost dizzy with the arousal that hit you.

Aerion was not finished. His hand went down again, this time with his thumb finding your clit. He wasted no time. He began rubbing in the way he had learned that you liked, driving you toward orgasm faster than you could keep up with.

Your thighs clenched around his hips, trying to slow him down, but he was relentless. Between the quick passes of his thumb and the way he was fucking you, you were helpless. Your orgasm splintered through you like physical thing, wiping your mind blank until all that tied you to earth was the cock breaking you open and the hands gripping your face.

“Yes, yes,” Aerion chanted, hips driving into yours with vigor. “Come around me, wife.”

His words made no sense and yet – your orgasm washed over you, stronger than ever, until you were left writhing beneath him on the bed. You recognised your own voice, begging for a break as Aerion wrang every drop of relief from you.

It was only then that his hips began to lose rhythm. He leaned down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, tongue chasing the combination of blood, sweat and arousal that coated both your lips. You felt him moan into your mouth, felt his hips stutter as he emptied himself inside you.

You were still aware enough to know that it was a bad thing. Visions of yourself, unwed and with child, threatened to break the bliss. You tried to push Aerion off but he was having none of it.

“Be still,” he grumbled, arranging you in his arms until he had you pinned to his chest, cock still inside you. He pinched your ass when you would not stop moving.

“Aerion,” you cried, pushing at his chest. “You – you have ruined me! I could be with child –“

“Good,” he yawned, fingers pinching, “it will reflect well on me when you are with child in less than a year after the wedding.”

You paused, remembering his earlier words. “Wedding? I am not getting married, Aerion.” “Oh, but you are,” he grinned, all sharp and poision, fitting his teeth to the mark he had already made on your neck. “You are to be a dragon’s bride. My bride.” “My father would not allow it,” you said weakly, disbelieving.

“He already has,” Aerion bit down, “he will tell you of your good fortune tomorrow morning.”

“My father would not make me –“

“Make you?” Aerion repeated, pulling back slightly so that he could see your face. The movement reminded you that his cock was still very much inside you. “Who is he to refuse a dragon?”

“Besides,” he continued, “you are well suited to me, wife.”

“Wife,” you said numbly, shivering when Aerion tilted his hips and rubbed his cock against a particularly inviting place inside you.

“What do you think I came all this way for?” he smiled wolfishly. “Look how you blossom beneath me. My wife. Call me husband. I demand it.”

a/n - when the cookie is so good he stalks you across Westeros and his father is so tired of him that he goes along with it

I worked so hard on this 😭 please let me know if you enjoyed it! Every like, reblog and comment is deeply appreciated

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He's beautiful. He's outrageously beautiful, and he knows it, and that’s exactly why he’s never going to hear it from you. Still, you can’t help but drink the lines of him in, heat curling low in your belly, a laugh still caught in your throat.

The caption, when it comes, is one word.

well?

You roll your eyes, humming under your breath. Unbelievable. Annoying. You let the phone fall face down on the cushion, getting comfortable again.

You go back to Demons.

Aerion gets home an hour and twenty minutes later. 

You hear the elevator chime, the soft hiss of the door, and then the particular cadence of his bare feet on marble. Aerion never wears shoes in his own home, finds it gauche, a peasant's habit, sweetheart, only idiots wear shoes indoors. 

You don't look up as he enters, turning another page instead. A hum builds in your throat at one of his marginalia (Tikhon is the only honest man in this novel, and Dostoevsky knew it), and you feel, more than see, the moment Aerion registers what you're wearing.

The pause is small. A fraction of a beat. He covers it almost instantly, but you catch it.

"Oh, fuck off," he says pleasantly, dropping his gym bag beside the door. "Really. The shirt? And the book? You're being deliberate."

You make a vague, distracted sound, finger tracing another note he’s made.

"You've left no note unstruck. The little tableau of it, look at her, positively domestic—" He's coming closer, voice dripping with that mean, lilting drawl. "Tell me, did you set this up before or after I sent the photo?"

"Before."

"Liar."

You turn another page. "I was already wearing it. I'm always wearing it."

"Yes," he says, and his voice has gone darker, lower, the performance briefly slipping. "I know."

You finally look up.

He's leaned against the back of the couch behind you, both hands braced on the leather, peering down at you upside-down. You have to be careful, immediately, not to let him see what your face does at the sight of him.

Aerion hasn't showered.

The shirt he pulled on after the gym is loose and unbuttoned, hanging open down his chest, and you can see the gleam still catching at his collarbones, the faint sheen down his sternum. Clean sweat, cooled now, the smell of him filtered by the elevator ride into something concentrated and warm. Beneath the warmth of his skin lingers the faint cigarette he definitely smoked in the parking garage on the way up. 

There's still a vein up the side of his bicep where the pump from his last set hasn't fully dropped. The dragon's wing is half-visible where the shirt has fallen open, the ink across his skin stark and detailed, scales catching the light. The piercing glints. He's wearing his rings—the heavy platinum Targaryen signet, the cluster of thinner bands on his middle finger—and the hoops in his ear gleam. 

His hair has dried slightly damp at the temples, and he’s so unbelievably hot you could choke on it.

You arrange your face into perfect blankness instead.

"What are you reading?" he asks, though he already knows.

"Your annotations sound like the ramblings of a madman,” you inform him graciously. “I hope you know that."

"My annotations are analytical."

You snort. "You wrote self-pitying next to Stavrogin and then immediately walked it back."

"He is self-pitying."

You tip your head back, pitching your voice to match his. "And yet—"

"Shut up." His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't quote me at myself. It's beneath you."

"Is it?" you pose.

You tilt your head back further against the couch cushion to look at him properly. Upside-down, Aerion’s features look even sharper. The devastating cut of his jaw, the strong line of his nose, the pale lashes lowered. His eyes look almost lavender in this light, washed pale, gazing down at you with an expression that’s half-irritation, half something he would rather die than name.

"You didn't text me back," he remarks casually.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing at the disgruntlement you hear simmering beneath the faux casual statement. 

"You sent me a thirst trap," you say flatly. 

"I sent you a photograph."

"Of yourself. Shirtless. Flexing."

"I was checking my form," he says, with the magnificent affront of someone who absolutely was not, in fact, doing that.

"You wrote the caption well?" you remind him.

Aerion’s eyes flash, mouth twisting sourly. "That was… a separate enquiry," he insists, irked. 

"Into what, exactly?"

"Your aesthetic opinions, sweetheart,” he drawls dryly. “I have a body, and you, allegedly, have taste, and the two intersect at—"

You hum. "Aesthetic opinions. Right, right."

"Yes."

"On your form."

"Yes."

You smile slowly, all teeth. You watch Aerion’s pupils widen at it—the involuntary little dilation, gone before he can mask it—and feel, low and warm in your stomach, the answering pull of yes, there you are, hello, pretty dragon.

He registers the smile, registers what it means, and his mouth tightens.

Aerion drops his head and bites your jaw.

Just sinks his teeth in, no playfulness in it. His teeth find you just below the curve of bone, where the skin is thin, with enough pressure that you feel the warning in it. A small, vicious nip designed to make you make a sound. 

He's been annoyed for an hour and twenty minutes. He went to the gym, worked out, rode up in his own elevator, let himself in, and found you wearing his shirt, reading his book, still not giving him what he wants. The bite is the smallest, pettiest way to communicate as much. You can smell him properly from this angle. The salt of his sweat, the warm damp of his hair, the faint cologne underneath that's gone hours-old and tacky. 

You don't react.

You let him bite, let Aerion hold there, jaw locked, his breath hot and moist against your skin. You let the silence stretch between you.

Then you turn your head lazily and press a single, light peck to his cheek.

You feel him seethe.

It's a tiny, beautiful thing, really. The way Aerion’s whole body goes rigid against the back of the couch, his teeth releasing with an audible click. He makes a soft, furious sound in his throat that’s nearly a hiss.

"Are you fucking serious?" he demands.

You shrug against the cushion, stretching your toes out with a wiggle. Readjusting your weight, you turn another page of the book.

Aerion’s hand catches your jaw.

He comes around the couch in one motion, fast, his fingers closing around your face. Thumb under your chin, fingers spread along your cheek, gripping with the kind of pressure that says look at me right now as he tips your face up and kisses you.

Properly, this time.

Aerion’s mouth is hot and slick against yours. It always is. Kissing him is like kissing an open flame. His tongue slips into your mouth before you've finished registering the intrusion. 

He tastes like whatever gum he chewed earlier, and underneath, Aerion tastes like him, that particular warm-skin-and-cigarettes thing that lives on his tongue. He kisses you like he's making a point. He kisses you with his hand still gripping your jaw, holding you exactly where he wants you. You let him for two full seconds, let him have the satisfaction of taking it, and then you bite his bottom lip.

He hisses, but he doesn't pull back.

"There," he mutters against your mouth, lips dragging on yours when he speaks. "That's better. Stop patronising me."

You lick at his bottom lip, and he chases the sensation, leaning closer. "You bit me."

"You deserved it."

You snort despite yourself. "Are you five?"

"Don't peck me on the cheek like I'm your fucking grandmother, you absolute —"

You drag your mouth, slow, off his.

Down. Along the line of his jaw. Past his ear—you feel him tense, the curse caught on his tongue, his hand still locked on your face—to the side of his throat where the vein is. Where the sweat is. You set your tongue against his pulse point and lick, leisurely, a flat wet stripe up the side of his neck. You taste the salt of him. The clean musk under it. The metallic edge of the chain at his throat, where the links lie cold against hot skin.

Aerion sucks in a deep breath. 

"Christ, you—"

You pull back, meeting his eyes. They’re glazed, lavender almost gone now, and you lean closer at an angle and spit in his mouth.

You've still got the salt of his sweat on your tongue, and you push it past his parted lips with your own, the wet of it landing and making him go completely still.

A whole beat passes as you stare at each other. You see Aerion’s pupils blow even as a sneer twists his mouth.

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, you—"

You smile innocently. "Yes?"

"Did you just—"

"Did I what?" you question lightly. “Use your words, baby.”

"Did you just lick the sweat off my skin—"

"And spat in your mouth, yes." You smile at him, blinking innocently. “Do keep up, dear.”

"—and spat it back into me—"

"Yes, naturally."

His grip on your face has gone slack. He looks, for a beat, like he's been clubbed across the head—eyes wide, mouth slightly open, throat working—and you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves now, can see the colour rising up Aerion’s neck above the open collar of his shirt.

"You absolute minx," he says, his voice dropping two registers, and his hips press forward into the couch behind you, fully hard now, the line of him visible through the thin shorts. "You filthy—you think you can just—"

You smirk at his indignation. "You liked it."

"I hated it."

"That’s not very convincing," you note gently, poking his cheek. 

"Disgusting. Actually. Disgusting, I'm going to have to—"

He swallows.

You watch it happen. You watch Aerion’s throat move, deliberately, swallow the spit down, eyes still locked on yours, and his hand hasn’t left your jaw, his other hand coming up to brace on the couch beside your head. He swallows everything you gave him, and his lashes flutter. Flutter. Just briefly. The smallest tell.

"Hated it, huh?" you echo mildly.

"Shut up."

Your grin widens. "You swallowed."

"Shut. Up."

"You're going to let me come here—"

"Come where?"

You hook your finger into the open collar of his shirt and pull.

He comes.

Not easily because Aerion never comes easily, never gives you the satisfaction of obedience without a fight. But he lets himself be drawn forward over the back of the couch, his hands sliding down to brace on the cushion on either side of you, his face dipping toward yours. He stops, his mouth a breath from yours.

"You're being," he murmurs darkly, "insufferable."

You roll your eyes. "You're the one who sent—"

"I sent a picture—"

"Of your abs—"

"—of my form, you obscene little—"

You kiss him.

Aerion makes a sound against your mouth that’s half-laugh, half-snarl, and his hand fists in the back of your hair, tilting your head where he wants it. You bite his bottom lip again. Harder this time, and he bites you back, harder still, making you taste copper faintly. He's nicked the inside of your lip with his canine, and you feel him smile against your mouth when he tastes it too.

"Wolf," he murmurs, low and pleased. "I feared you’d gone all docile on me."

A snarl builds in your throat. "Shut your mouth."

"Make me."

You pull him over you. 

He goes. Laughing now, properly, that rare, ugly, delighted laugh that only comes out when you've genuinely surprised him. Aerion lands half on top of you, one knee braced on the cushion, one hand catching himself against the leather beside your head. The book falls. Neither of you cares. He's radiating heat through the thin shirt. Gym-warm, sweat-warm, the smell of him concentrated now where his open collar has fallen against your face. Underneath everything, he smells like himself, that particular skin-scent that you'd know with your eyes closed in a dark room.

He braces over you. His pale hair shines in the light, a single bead of sweat caught at his temple.

"On your back already," he observes smugly. "Predictable."

You kick him. "You're on me."

"You pulled me," he sniffs. 

"You came."

"I fell."

Snorting, you shove your hand up under his shirt. Your palm goes flat against his stomach, the muscle there tightening immediately at the coolness of your skin against his hot one. You drag it slowly upward. Over his ribs, the platinum bar at his nipple, up to splay flat across his chest. Aerion’s skin is faintly damp under your hand, heart hammering. He hates that you can feel it. You watch him decide whether to bite at you about it and see him, for once, choose not to.

You push the shirt off one shoulder. Slowly. The hem snags on his elbow where it's braced beside your head.

"Show me, then," you say. "Your form."

His eyes go dark.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped into that register you only get in this room, in this apartment, in the moments when his performance starts to crack. "Insatiable. You'd think I never gave you anything."

"You give me almost nothing," you remark dryly.

"I gave you my shirt."

The bastard even manages to sound magnanimous about it. You almost kick him again. 

"I stole your shirt," you say flatly.

"I gave you the key to my apartment. Ungrateful—"

He pushes himself back. Just enough to drag the open shirt off entirely, tossing it somewhere over the back of the couch, and then he's bare-chested above you, and the dragon's tail curves around his ribs, and you can see every line of him. The lean lines of him, the indent of his hipbones, a trail of pale silver hair below his navel disappearing into his shorts, the pink of his nipples and the platinum bar through the left one.

He sees you looking. Aerion’s grin tips into a slow, lazy thing, feline at the edges. 

"Now she looks."

You roll your eyes. 

"Aesthetic opinions, sweetheart?" he questions, tipping his head slightly to one side. 

You extend your hand. "Get back here."

"No." He huffs, bracing his arm on the couch. "Look properly. You wouldn't text me back. Suffer a little."

You drag your fingertip down the centre of his chest. Purposefully. Through the faint damp of his sweat, between his pectorals, down the ridge of his sternum, over each rib. Aerion goes still above you. His abs flutter when you drag your nail across them, just barely.

"You're disgusting," you conclude pleasantly. 

Aerion bares his teeth, but you hear the shallow pitch of his breathing. "You licked me."

"Tasted like gym equipment," you say ruefully. 

"You liked that.” He presses into your hand, his skin burning and damp beneath your palm. “You spat it into my—"

You arch into him. "Aerion."

He drops his head to your throat.

His mouth opens against the skin under your jaw, hot and wet, tongue dragging slowly across your pulse before his teeth close. Light at first, testing. Then harder, harder, until you suck in a breath and Aerion hums against your throat like a man who's eaten well. 

He sucks a mark there. The pressure of it is obscene, the wet drag of his tongue working the skin between his teeth, and you feel the bruise rising under his mouth and know it'll be on display tomorrow and know, distantly, that this is the entire point. He moves down. The hollow of your throat, the dip at the base where he likes to bite. Your collarbone. His tongue traces the bone, then his teeth, and you feel him laugh quietly against your skin when you arch into it.

"Mine," he murmurs against your throat, but petulantly, possessively, the way a child claims a toy. "Pretty. Stupidly pretty. You think I sent you that picture for fun?"

“For attention.” You huff. “Because you’re so damn vain.”

"For yours." His mouth moves to your other collarbone, teeth scraping, lapping at the skin greedily. "Hate that you make me work for it. Hate it. I should be bored of you by now. Should've moved on. It's been—" He bites down. "—months."

"Are you?" you breathe, arching into the sensation.

He bites the bone. Hard. You hiss, and his hips press down, and you feel him through his shorts, hot and hard against your inner thigh. His breath stutters against your skin like he wasn't expecting his own response.

"No," he hisses, like it's been wrung out of him. "Obviously not. Look at you. Look at the—"

His hand finds the hem of the shirt. Pushes it up. Stops dead in his tracks when he sees nothing beneath.

"Oh," he says, so quietly you barely hear it. "Oh, you absolute creature."

"I told you. I was already wearing it."

"You were not wearing anything under it."

Your lips twitch, and you fail to hold back your grin. "No."

"All afternoon?” Aerion hisses. “On my couch? Reading my Dostoevsky?"

"Obviously."

He drops his forehead against your sternum and laughs. Low, wrecked, almost helpless. You feel the laugh move through his whole body. When Aerion lifts his head, his eyes are bright in a way you don't get to see often, that brief crack in the cruelty where the obsession leaks through.

"You'll be the fucking death of me," he declares.

You hum. "Probably."

"Don't sound so pleased about it."

He pushes the shirt up slowly. Inch by inch. Drags the hem up over your stomach, ribs, the underswell of your breasts, like he's unwrapping a present. He doesn't take it off. He just bunches it up under your collarbones and looks. His mouth parts slightly. His hand splays wide across your stomach, thumb dragging slowly across the soft skin, and you watch Aerion’s eyes track over you with the unbearable, greedy attention of a man who is, despite everything, still surprised every time.

"Greedy," he mumbles, and he isn't talking about you this time.

He doesn't go for your breasts first. He drags two fingers slowly down the centre of your stomach, then back up the side of your ribs, mapping. His knuckles brush the underside of your breast. Pull away. Come back. He's making you wait.

"Aerion—"

"Patience."

"Aerion."

"You made me wait an hour and twenty minutes," he murmurs spitefully, watching his own hand move across your skin. "I checked. You opened the photograph right away. You read it for—" his thumb drags across your nipple, lightly, just once, and you arch, making him smile "—the seventeen seconds it takes to commit it to memory. Then you put your phone down. You went back to my book. You didn't text. You didn't even—"

"Fuck—"

"—send a single emoji. Insulting."

His slick mouth closes around your nipple.

You suck in a breath so hard your throat hurts. Aerion’s tongue is hot and unhurried, the curve of his teeth an excruciating tease, while his other hand comes up to cup your other breast. His thumb drags across the peak, rough and testing, while he sucks slow and dirty at the first. Aerion takes his time. He sucks until you feel the heat building, until you're squirming under him, and then he switches, mouth on the other one, and the cold of his saliva on the first against the air makes you shudder. He works the second nipple harder. Tongue flat. Teeth scraping. He pulls off with an obscene wet sound and looks down at the slick peak of you, glistening, and exhales hot air across it just to watch you twitch.

"Aerion."

"Look at you," he rasps, low and pleased. "Sensitive little—"

"Will you stop?"

"Stop what, wolf, you're—" he licks, greedily, just the one stripe. "—gorgeous, stop complaining—"

His hair brushes your skin. The piercing scrapes against your ribs as he works lower, then back up. You drag your fingers up into his hair—damp at the roots, soft at the ends—and tug. Aerion makes a small, wounded sound against your breast and bites you in retaliation. Your hand slides down the back of his neck, across the top of his shoulder, and you feel the raised edge of ink there where the dragon's wing crests over his shoulder blade. You trace it. Lightly, gently, ever so carefully. You feel Aerion shiver.

"Remember," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to speak, mouth still wet, eyes hooded, consuming, "the night of the gala. Last month. You came home in that black thing, the silk—"

You almost hit him because you know exactly what he’s doing. 

Your mouth parts, and you gasp, "I remember."

"You let me put my hand under it in the elevator."

"I did—"

"Your thigh." His teeth find your other nipple. His whole body presses into you, slick and burning above you, all encompassing. "Slick already. By the time we got upstairs, you were dripping for me. Down your leg. Onto my hand. Begging for it before I'd even—"

"I wasn't begging."

"You were. Don't lie to me. You said Aerion, please against my mouth. I have that shit memorised. I think about it in traffic. I had to—" he sucks, hard and mean, then drags his teeth slowly over the peak "—pull off the freeway last Tuesday because of it."

"That’s disgusting," you choke out, nails sunk into his back. 

"Wasn’t disgusting when I bent you over the kitchen counter. Remember that part? Pulled the silk up around your waist. You weren't wearing anything underneath that one either, you absolute—" Aerion bites the underside of your breath, and you jerk, gasping. "Came on my fingers before I even got my mouth on you. Twice. You soaked the marble, sweetheart. Wouldn't even let me touch myself, just sat me on the floor and rode my face until I—"

"Aerion—"

"—couldn't breathe—"

"Stop—"

"—made me come in my own hand without you even looking at me—" His voice cracks open completely now, strangled and frayed at the edges. "Made me wipe it on the kitchen floor like a fucking animal—"

"Aerion."

"—which makes me wonder," he goes on, lifting his head fully now, eyes wicked and dark, "if you'd be that wet for me right now or if I'm going to have to—"

You shove him.

He careens backwards, startled, laughing. Back into the couch cushions, and you climb him, hands flat to his chest, and slide down his body. His shirt, your shirt, has fallen back down around your hips and bunches obscenely at your waist. His shorts are loose. You can see, clearly, how hard he is through the thin fabric, a wet patch already darkening the front of them. Aerion’s face when you look up at him from between his thighs is gorgeous. Flushed high on the cheekbones, mouth bitten red, hair an absolute mess, sweat starting to gather at his temple again from the heat of you both.

"Don’t you dare," he snaps, but you know he doesn’t mean it.

“What’s wrong, dragon?” you wonder innocently, one finger tracing his thigh. “Afraid you can’t hold out the way I did?”

His head falls back against the cushion as you slide your hand up his thigh. "Fuck."

You don't pull his shorts down right away. Just like he didn’t put his mouth on you right away. You drag your palm over the front of them, noting the heat of him through the thin fabric, the wet patch where he's leaking through. He twitches. Aerion’s hand fists into the cushion at the slip. You drag your knuckles up the length of him leisurely, watching his abs flutter. Elegant line of Aerion’s throat work, and his hips press up into your hand without his permission.

You turn your head and bite the inside of his thigh.

He makes a sound.

You set your tongue against the spot. Suck. Just enough to bruise, to claim. You feel his thigh trembling under your mouth, the muscle still warm and tight from his workout, and you lift your head and look up at him. He's watching. He's gone half-undone with it. Head tipped back against the cushion, throat exposed, the chain at his neck catching the light, lashes lowered.

"Greedy," you echo softly. “Such a greedy dragon.”

He snarls under his breath.

"You're so wet, Aerion." You put your mouth to the bite, lick it, then kiss it gently, speaking into the skin. “So hard for me, baby.”

"Quiet."

"For what? Just a photo? Did you think about me touching myself to your little photo, baby, is that it? You're dripping through your—"

His hand tangles in your hair, "Shut up."

You laugh under your breath, hooking your fingers in the waistband to pull them down slowly. Aerion’s cock springs free, flushed pink and hard, the head wet and shining. You wrap your hand around the base of him and watch Aerion’s head fall back against the leather. His abs are tightening rhythmically with every breath as he fights for control. The dragon tattoo across his back bunches where his shoulders are pressed into the leather, his throat working. 

His hand leaves your ahir to fist into the cushions like he doesn't trust himself to put them on you yet.

You lower your mouth.

Not to take him in. You’re not that nice. You drag your tongue up the length of him from base to tip first. Once. Aerion shudders. You do it again—slower this time, flat tongue, the whole length of him from root to head—and he hisses something through his teeth. You circle the head playfully with your tongue, then again. You taste the salt of him, the faint bitterness of him, lick it clean and watch fresh wetness bead at the slit almost immediately. You lean down and lick that, too, kissing it. He twitches, throbbing insistently in your palm. The whole length of him jumps.

"Christ, you absolute—"

You hum, swiling your tongue around the wet, pulsing length of him.

"Take me. Properly. Stop—"

"You said patience," you remind him evenly.

"You fucking—"

You take just the head into your mouth. Suck softly. Swirl your tongue around the slit again, gathering the precum beading there. Pull off with a wet pop, and a string of saliva connects your bottom lip to him for a beat before it breaks. Aerion makes a noise like he's been gut-punched, and his hand finally flies up to your hair, gripping, not pulling, just holding on for stability.

"Please," he rasps, and immediately catches himself: "—fuck. Don't tell anyone I said that."

You smirk. 

You take him deeper this time. Slower. An inch at a time, and you watch Aerion’s face, you watch his eyes lose focus, you watch his mouth fall open. His hand tightens in your hair. You take him almost to the back of your throat and pull off, slow, dragging your tongue along the underside. A sound escapes him that he absolutely would kill someone for overhearing, high and keening. 

You set the rhythm. Slow first, mean, the kind of pace designed to make him beg. You hollow your cheeks, one hand sunk into the flesh of his thigh. 

You drag your tongue up the underside as you pull off, and watch his stomach flutter, his head falling back. Aerion’s throat works as he tries, visibly tries, not to make any of the sounds you can feel building in his chest. You know how loud he can be, how deliciously descriptive in a way that can make you squeeze your thighs together.

You let your spit run down him, let it pool at the base, slick and obscene. You take him deep again and pull off, letting spit and precum drip down the length of him, using your hand to spread it, sliding wet through your fist, working him slowly while your tongue circles the head. His thighs tremble on either side of your shoulders.

"Fuck, fuck, your mouth, your fucking mouth—"

You suck him down, going as far as you can, and stay there. Hold. Swallow around him, throat working tight around the head, and Aerion’s hips jerk up involuntarily, choking you for a breath. You let him. Your throat eases around the throbbing hardness, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. The wet of your spit runs down your chin, and Aerion makes a strangled sound.

"Sweetheart—"

You pull off unhurriedly. Drag your tongue up, take Aerion back into your mouth, sucking lightly, insistently.

"You're going to—" Aerion’s voice catches, cracks. "Slow down. Stop. I'm going to—"

You hum sympathetically, mockingly, as the taste of him burns on your tongue. 

"Fuck—don't you dare—"

But you do dare.

You take him all the way down one last time. You set a rhythm now, fast, dirty, your hand working what you can't fit, and you can feel it in him. The way Aerion’s thighs are starting to lock, the way his stomach is trembling, his hand gone vice-tight in your hair.

"Fuck, fuck, I'm—fuck, I'm going to—"

He comes with a sound that’s almost a laugh but mostly a curse. Entirely undone. His body goes taut beneath you, fingers tight in your hair. You hold him through it. You wait. Feel him pulse against your tongue, hot and thick, salt-bitter, filling your mouth in pulses. You wait for him to finish, wait patiently for the last twitch. His fingers loosen from your hair, and Aerion’s head falls back, his eyes closed. He’s gone. There’s a split second of complete peace on his face, his mind having gone somewhere far away.

Then, eyes locked on his when he finally cracks them open to look down at you, you lift your head, mouth still full, and let his cum drip off your tongue.

Down his length. 

A long, white string of it, sliding crudely over the head and down his shaft, and Aerion’s eyes go wide.

You smear it with your thumb. Spread it. Make a show of it. Work it slowly down the length of him, slick and pearly, watching Aerion’s expression crack through a hundred emotions. 

"What," he begins hoarsely, "are you doing?"

"Helping." 

There’s a pleasant rasp in your voice from him hitting the back of your throat, and you smile when Aerion’s breath hitches slightly. 

You see him puzzling out the word. "Helping."

You stroke him gently, your fingers slick and dripping, eyeing his hips twitch involuntarily. He's still half-hard, fluttering with aftershocks, and going to be hard again very fast at this rate. "In case you can't get me wet enough on your own, baby."

There’s a beat of utter silence.

Then Aerion lunges.

He hauls you up—roughly, hand around your wrist, the other in your hair—and flips you face-down into the couch cushions in one motion. You're laughing, practically cackling, half-muffled into the leather, as he yanks the shirt up over your hips and shoves your knees apart with his own. The leather is warm where he was sprawled across it; you can feel the body heat soaked into the cushion against your stomach.

"Get me wet enough," he spits, low and venomous, mouth at your ear from behind. "You insolent—"

You’re still laughing, muffled. "You came in thirty seconds—"

"I came in two minutes—"

"It was thirty—"

His hand closes around your throat.

A warning, a brand, the cold press of his rings against your pulse where they're still warm from his own skin. He drags you back up against his chest, your spine to his sternum, the dragon's wing somewhere behind you against your shoulder blades, and he holds you there. You can feel the sweat on him now properly—fresher, the heat of exertion not the gym anymore, the slick of his stomach against the small of your back.

"Behave, wolf," he murmurs against your ear.

"Make me," you mock.

His other hand slides between your legs.

Aerion hisses softly against your neck. You're already wet. You've been wet since the photograph. He drags two fingers through your folds, gathering evidence, and then he pushes them inside you, and your knees give a little against the cushion. His grip on your throat tightens by a fraction. Not cutting off your air, just holding. Claiming.

"Pretty liar," he whispers viciously. "I didn't have to do anything. You’re ready. Look at this—listen to it—" He works his fingers mercilessly, and the sound is lewd, wet and slick, and you can feel yourself dripping down his wrist. "Soaking my hand. Down to my elbow in a minute. Pretending you needed me to—"

You moan, the sound caught in your windpipe, your hips pressing forward for more friction.

"Greedy thing,” Aerion hisses into your nape. “Pretty greedy thing. Couldn't even let me catch my fucking breath—"

He pulls his fingers out. He drags them up, glossy and wet, across your stomach, your ribs. He brings them to your mouth and pushes them past your lips, and you suck, and he makes a sound against your neck that’s genuine hunger.

"There," he breathes out softly, mockingly. "Taste it. Taste how wet you are for—"

"Aerion."

"—a man you claim is insufferable—"

"You are."

You feel his smirk against your skin when he mocks lowly, "And yet."

He pushes inside you in one slow, mean stroke, hand braced on your hip.

You both make sounds as he sinks in. You feel the ridiculous, absurd intimacy of him—the heat, the stretch of him slick with the cum you spread on him with your mouth—and his hand flexes around your throat. He holds very still inside you and breathes, breathes, like a man trying to talk himself out of something foolish.

"Look at you," Aerion drawls, and you hear the naked pleasure in his voice, can feel his burning stare along your body. "Bent over my couch in my shirt. Reading my book. Took my come out of your mouth and put it back on me like you were doing me a favour—"

He starts to move.

He never goes slow when he wants you like this, when the dragon-thing in him has slipped its leash. He fucks you hard. Hand at your throat, other hand braced on your hip, fingers digging in with every thrust. You brace yourself against the back of the couch and let your spine arch, listening to the obscene wet sound of it and the bitten-off curses he's mumbling into your hair. His chest is slick against your back. The chain at his neck is hot now, dragging across your shoulder blade with each thrust.

"Mine," he's saying, mostly to himself. "Mine. Pretty mine. Pretty greedy mine. Look at—look at how you take me. You'd let anyone watch you like this, wouldn't you, wolf? You'd let me film you—"

You moan at the visual, clenching around him so hard Aerion snarls against your ear. "Aerion, harder—"

His thrusts turn bruising, and you melt into him, into the feeling, your walls gripping him close, clenching tighter, tighter.

"You're close," Aerion breathes into your ear knowingly. 

"Yes, yes—"

"Not yet," he breathes sharply. 

He pulls out.

You let out a snarl of genuine fury, and Aerion laughs—wrecked, breathless, the laugh of a man who's enjoying himself far too much—and flips you onto your back, pulling you up into his lap in one motion. Your knees settle on either side of his hips, his hands at your waist, his cock notching back inside you before you've finished registering the absence.

"There," he murmurs, mouth at your jaw, the same place he bit you earlier. You can feel him press his lips against the bruise. "Better. Wanted to see your face."

"Fuck you, I was about to—"

"I know, I felt it, I'm not charitable—"

What he said a moment ago registers fully in your pleasure-addled brain, and your eyes narrow. "Wait. Did you just say you wanted to see my face?"

He rolls his eyes. "Did I?" he poses dismissively. 

You catch his face in your hands.

Aerion goes still. Looks at you. His eyes are dark despite their paleness, hungry and lidded. There's colour high on his cheekbones, and his hair is a disaster. The proud curve of his mouth is swollen from being bitten, and there's still a faint wet shine on his throat where you licked him. He is, in this moment, the most undone you’ve ever seen him. You stare at him, and you say, quietly:

"You missed my pretty face?"

His hand cracks down on your ass.

You yelp, laughing, and he grins at you, full and mean and absolutely delighted, grabbing your jaw between his thumb and forefinger.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he says dismissively. "Wanna suck your pretty tits, actually."

But you're both laughing. Properly, stupidly. He's still inside you, and you're laughing into each other's mouths. Aerion’s hand slides up to cup your breast, and his mouth drops to the other one, and he's working you, slow now, the rhythm changing—deep, grinding, the angle suddenly exactly right to hit that one spot inside you—and you feel it building again, faster this time, helpless.

You feel his rings against your nape, quiet, panting breaths escaping you. A whine working up your throat as he ruts into you. "Aerion—"

He hums at the need he hears in your voice, pulling you flush to him, burning somewhere in the middle. 

"Aerion, please, I need—"

"I know," he murmurs around your nipple, and you can feel the smile against your skin, "yes, sweetheart, I know what you need, let go for me, wolf—"

The coil inside your belly snaps. You come clutching him.

Both arms around his neck. Face buried in his hair. Body locking, shaking. Aerion fucks you through it, slower, his hands splayed wide across your back, clutching you, and you feel him follow a moment later. Quiet this time, no theatrics, just a starved, broken sound into your shoulder, his whole body shuddering and stilling.

For a while, neither of you moves.

Aerion’s heart hammers against your sternum. His hair is damp with sweat at the nape. You can feel the platinum of his piercing pressed against your ribs and the heat of him everywhere else. His arms are wound around your waist in that tight, possessive way that says don't move, don't go anywhere, stay.

You lift your head, eventually. To look at him. 

He's already gazing at you. No smirk, not posing, gazing, with that rare, naked expression you only get for half-seconds before he remembers himself and smothers it. His full mouth is slightly open, eyes gone soft at the edges. 

"What?" you mumble.

Aerion blinks, his mouth twitching. He doesn't smother it this time—too tired, maybe, or too undone—and just keeps looking at you.

"Why were you reading my book?" he asks suddenly.

You shift in his lap. He's still inside you, going soft, and your body aches pleasantly. Your forehead is against his. His hand come up to cradle the back of your skull, fingers in your hair, and his thumb is moving along the curve of your jaw.

"You annotate everything," you say vaguely.

"I know I do."

"In three languages."

His brows twitch. "I know."

"In ink so cramped, half of it's barely legible."

"Get to the fucking point, sweetheart."

You breathe out, let yourself look at him, let yourself say it. "I wanted to know how you see the world."

He goes rigid underneath you.

"I read your margins because… that's where you actually are. The real you. The book you're arguing with. The lines you double-underline. What you cross out and rewrite. The places where you've gone back years later in different ink and answered yourself." You shrug, a tiny movement, against him. "It's the closest you let me get without making me work for it."

There's a long beat where Aerion doesn't say anything at all. His thumb has stopped moving on your jaw. He's just looking at you, lavender-pale in the late afternoon light, mouth slightly open.

His arms tighten around you, hauling you flush against his chest so suddenly a breath escapes you. He drops his face into the curve of your neck. He breathes there. You feel him breathing. A ragged thing, the kind of breath a person takes when they’re trying very hard not to let anything else show on their face.

You stroke his hair. 

When Aerion speaks again, his voice is hushed, mouth against your throat. You can feel the words form against your pulse before you hear them.

"You can't do that," he says.

"Do what?" you question quietly.

"That.” It’s practically a snarl. “Say things like that to me."

"Why?"

"Because." You feel his throat move against your collarbone. "I can't—you can't say things like that and then leave."

There’s a pinch deep inside your chest, and your fingers tighten in his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Ever." Aerion’s arms have gone so tight his hold is almost painful, and his voice muffles into your skin. "I mean ever. If you say things like that to me, I'm going to—fuck— I’m not built to—"

You soften because he can’t see your face, and it’s easier to be open like this. "Aerion."

"—let go. Of you. I'm not going to. You understand that. You understand it, don't you? Ever."

"I do."

"I'm telling you. I'm telling you now." He lifts his head, and there’s predator’s grace in the movement. "If you stay, then I’ll burn down anything you ask me to. I will buy us a country. I’ll set my name on fire. But I’m not going to—"

"I know," you tell him quietly.

"—let anyone near you, do you—"

You cup his face in your hands again. "I know, Aerion."

His eyes are burning, lit up from inside. "—and if you ever—if you ever decided to—"

"I'm not."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

He stares at you, searches your face the way he reads. Annotating. Underlining. Cross-referencing in three languages against everything he already knows about you and him, and you two together.

Then he kisses you.

No teeth, no performance, no game. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, and his mouth moves against yours like he's memorising it, and against your lips, half-mumbled, almost reverent now where before it had been petulant:

"Mine."

But it's different this time. It isn't the dragon claiming a coin. It isn't pretty mine or greedy mine or any of the small possessive cruelties he's been muttering all afternoon. It's quieter than that. Lower. It sounds like kept. It sounds like known. It sounds like a thing a man says when he has just understood that he will not, in any version of his life going forward, be the one to walk away.

You hum, the word closing around your heart like a fist.

"Yours," you agree softly against his mouth.

"Mine," Aerion says again, into your mouth, into your jaw, into the soft skin under your ear. "Mine. Mine. Mine."

His arms don't loosen.

He keeps his face buried in your throat and doesn’t let go once.

You stroke his hair, and Aerion doesn't tell you to stop.

He won't, you realise, ever again.

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

Now he was here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I thought..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is there?"

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

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

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

"No one would think that," you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I am..."

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

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

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

"I did not know you worried."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aerion..."

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

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

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

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

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

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

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

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

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

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

"I would expect nothing less."

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