welcome to the tornado zone🌪️

Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.

Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.

Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.

He blinks.

He studies them again.

The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.

“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.

The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”

“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks back at the photograph.

Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.

There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.

“Right,” Price says.

The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.

You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.

Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.

Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.

Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.

Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.

The next report arrives shortly before lunch.

“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.

Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.

“Forensics?”

“Lorazepam, sir.”

“What dosage?”

The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”

Price stares at him.

The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”

“I know what lorazepam is.”

“Yes, sir.”

Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.

It doesn’t.

“Zero point five.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”

“No, sir.”

“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”

“Yes, sir.”

They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.

The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.

Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.

In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.

Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.

“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.

You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.

You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.

After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.

Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.

Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”

Price says nothing.

“Do you want us to assemble a team?”

“No.”

There is a pause.

“No, sir?”

“No.”

“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”

“Has he?”

The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.

“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”

“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.

He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.

The operator watches him. “Sir?”

Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“Administrative work.”

“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”

Price checks the box beside personal leave.

“He’s been missing for two days.”

Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.

“Sir.”

Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.

The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.

“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”

“But- ”

People often say 'do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life', probably meaning the fulfillment of knowing one's work is making some kind of change.

That the tail of your comet would graze people's life and for one moment spanning the entirety of this connection their skies would light up.

It's true for some people, you think, sure, that does happen to doctors saving lives and firemen rescuing kittens and craftsmen building community around their work.

Connecting with people on a level you can never seem to be able to access.

Your life isn't bad. You don't think it is.

Not many people get to earn their living doing art like yours without tapping into 'what sells' against 'what's mine'.

It's a rare opportunity. Some probably envy you.

They don't know me enough to envy, you think immediately and sit in your cool kitchen helplessly feeling how the tight knot grows in your chest with the tea choked on.

I don't mind being alone, you think, sizing up wood for the new 'passion' project, one of those you do in between commissions to make sure your spark isn't turning into flickering electrical light that kills local moth population.

It's convenient not to have anyone dragging me down or eating my favourite snacks or, even, messing up my good sheets because they can't stop turning in their sleep, you reason later, checking on your latest lacquer order that should arrive any day now.

It's convenient, echoes in your head when you tuck yourself in the corner of your couch, cool plush of it seemingly endless.

All that space and it's yours, aren't you lucky?

So what if it's empty?

It's no longer the case when Kyle comes into your life.

Or, more specifically, when you make Kyle and now have him following you around the house on wooden legs with wide attentive eyes of a bloodhound.

'Kyle shouldn't be a person, but he is now.' Passes through your head while you watch him stretch out your dad's old sweater with the width of his shoulders, impossibly real when he combs his fingers through the white of your curtains. Thumbs the lace of it when he sees you aren't looking.

You've made him beautiful and tall and charming.

You've given Kyle long beautiful arms and thick heaviness to thighs.

You carefully chiseled out his eyes and painted that little mole on the back of his neck.

You made him so someone would keep you company and now he's not yours to keep because you've made him too well, isn't that the irony?

Even now there isn't a connection that you can force to stay and warm your couch, and eat dinners with you, and watch your shows, and kiss your cheeks because they are simply happy you are in the room.

You make a noose out of the red string just for it to come apart fraying — seep through your fingers like sand, returning to the flow of fate because maybe it has never been your destiny to keep someone.

Maybe, what is yours is only the work you never run out of.

Maybe, what you are meant for is never someone's adoration, never companionship, never the tenderness you see in the movies.

But that's sort of the point, right?

Like a child knowing not to touch the cookie jar, you stash yours as high up as possible, but keep staring at it from the shadows under your kitchen cabinets.

Still hungry.

"You could leave." You tell Kyle in the evening, your legs in his lap — his warm fingers tipping under the hem of your socks.

Couch with him feels wonderfully full.

Gaz tilts his head slower than you know he can, watches you through the lashes, probably thinking that you'll add anything else.

You don't.

"Tired of me already?" He muses quietly.

Kyle doesn't ask 'why', doesn't ask 'where would I go', doesn't ask 'what's wrong with me'.

"No." You stare at your hands clasped in your lap, trying not to think that his have not a blemish while your middle finger is slightly crooked from when you dropped a slab of marble on it. "I'm just saying—"

"I hear what you're sayin', baby." Kyle hums, cutting you off and leans closer — palms curled around your feet.

No way to run from this conversation when he's got you by the legs, eh?

"Are you plannin' on makin' someone else?" He asks, not blinking, because he doesn't really need to, because you forget to remind him that people do.

"What, like a new project?" You clarify, unsure. "I might, I'll need to fill up the space when you leave."

'When', you say, not 'if'.

"Oh?" Kyle's entirely too curious, the tilt of his head now unnatural.

Shouldn't have given him wooden joints.

"Who'd you make, babes? Maybe a bloke larger than me, perhaps with hair lighter?" He purrs, climbing on top of you. "Or maybe someone older? Would you like him with some nice 'stache, love?" Gaz's smile a little mean, when your face burns. "Could make someone bulkier too, I reckon, if you fancy one of them blokes that look a bit like a pittie."

"It's not that." The protest sounds weak and like a shark smelling blood Kyle follows the trail of it.

"Would you touch them too, baby? Give them lipstick kisses to stain the marble, lick down the cracks, panting and groping? Or maybe stroke their wax casts so they'd get nice and pliant under your fingers?" Kyle's needy like only favorites can be when the stream of attention starts thinning. "Would ya hump the bronze thighs you'd give them too? Would you get it all messed up? Would you clean it with your tongue? Would you whimper for them to come alive and touch you in return?" Each detail throws you in the water boiling, lightheaded and ashamed, because you did do this to him. You wanted him so much that someone heard it and made Kyle real. "You've made me, baby, I'm perfect for you. And now you don't want me? What did I do?"

The heat explodes in your stomach, spreads down and coats you with want swelling — bakes you from inside out, electricity buzzing down your fingers.

You have no right getting so fucking excited, but God help you.

"You didn't do anything." You say slower, swallowing with more effort than you ever needed for a task so simple. "I'm just offering you freedom. You could try new things. Maybe even meet someone else." The last one makes you wince and Gaz spots it immediately.

"I could." He agrees for the first time, sits on your hips — tall and immovable, heavy bulk of his pinning you down deliciously. "But I don't want to. What will we do with that?" Kyle asks, tone innocent when he starts slowly dragging his sweater off. "I don't want to leave and I don't want you to make anyone instead of me."

"That's a tall order." You comment, eyes trailing down his chest to the curls of happy trail.

"I wanna know if you like me." He continues, leaning down to brace on his forearms. "Want to stay here." Kyle murmurs, his face inches from yours and he smells like wood shavings and warm human skin, licks his lips when you glance up at him through the lashes.

To be or not to be, that's the real question, innit?

"Anything else?" You ask quieter and cup his cheek, marveling at the scratch of stubble you can feel with your palm.

God, he really isn't turning back into your statue now, is he?

"I really want to kiss you." Kyle shares, voice lower, voice cracking, voice coating your eardrums when he nuzzles in your palm, eyes still on you.

His lips find your palm, the beating pulse of your wrist, the tender spot down your forearm.

"Kyle," You hum, fingers sinking into the meat of his inner thigh — the one you made for him, "come here."

Is all the permission he really needs to finally catch your lips like he wanted to, teeth clicking against your because he is impatient, because he never kissed anyone before, because you laugh in his mouth and he wants to solder himself to your bones.

Wants to rearrange your ribcage, so he can squeeze his heart through and have it beat against yours, wants you to look up at him again like he is incredible.

Kyle wants a lot of things.

But you were right, that's a tall order even for someone who's been born few weeks prior.

He'll get his chance to be greedier.

Kyle's lips count down your sternum, tasting the beat of your heart as close as possible.

For now, he thinks, that's enough.

After all, what he really wanted can be summed in one very simple word.

simon lets you unleash it all as he circles in the streets, adding in his two cents here and there when you take a second to breathe.

“so a fuckin’ knob then, huh? too bad you got all pretty for’a bloke like that… y’sure he wasn’t the 74-year-old?”

that last one pulls a laugh from you that makes simon think about that pub on the other side of town.

half an hour later, there you are, in the pub. still in your gown and veil. simon’s arm wrapped tight around your side as the two of you squish against the wood of the bar.

surrounding you is a clamoring of happy drunks, who toast loudly to the assumed “marriage” between simon and yourself. for some reason, you don’t correct them. nor does simon, who instead holds you tight and shoves his tongue into your mouth after the tenth chant of kiss! from the rest of the pub.

you kiss him back, groaning at the touch that reaches to grip your chin. when you pull away, simon holds his breath at the tipsy grin on your face, a warm feeling running through his cock when you turn back to your glass and chug until the top of your lip is covered in foam from the second beer he bought you.

“alright?”

you bob a nod at simon’s question as he thumbs away the mess at your lip with dark eyes.

fourteen minutes later…

the pub bathroom is already small enough. feels even smaller with simon hanging over your shoulder and yanking you back by the hips. the fastening of your dress has been ripped well past your ass, buttons scattered under the sink you're holding onto for dear life. squeezing the sides of the porcelain every time simon pumps into you.

“f-fuck…” you whine, and simon digs himself deeper. “ah!-there-there…”

his cock is hitting deep. heavy. wet and stretching you out in a way the man you’d abandoned earlier. (what was his name again?) he even uses the veil still tucked in your hair to keep the view of your face nice and clear for him to stare at you in the mirror. the sight of you, groaning with running mascara, makes it easy for simon to imagine another world where you're his new, pretty wife.

mrs. riley. his missus.

“y’know… i’ll eat supper whenever y’want. kiss ya right. don’t quite like ignoring pretty things either,” he grunts in your ear, balls smacking loudly in between the slurred sentences. the wet peck he gives you under the side of your ear precedes a tragic pause of his thrusts. while you take the break to catch simon’s gaze in the glass before you, he pants with deep huffs.

god, you look a right mess. make up ruined. lips swollen. veil scrunched and the top of your dress tugged low enough for your nipples to show. simon looks over it all at the same time before peeling his front from your back so he can watching something else.

there’s a ring of cream at the base of his cock that’s still stuck halfway inside your pussy. your lips are spread wide, properly stuffed, and pulsate with a gentle rhythm.

“…you memorize your vows?”

you blink at the low question, trying not to squirm anymore than you already are. “uh. y-yeah? i think. why?–"

“go on, then,” simon directs, one of his arms wrapping around your front. with a tight tug, he stuffs himself the rest of the way, clenching his teeth at the way your voice cracks in the middle of a loud moan. scrunching his nose, he sniffs. then resumes fucking you.

slower.

harder.

like a proper husband should.

it takes you a while to sputter the first few words. simon is patient enough because the pay off is better than he imagined.

the recited promises are broken, but there. real-sounding enough just over the wet plaps that simon can flutter his eyes shut and pretend he’s the one you wrote them about. that you’ll always give yourself to him, to laugh everyday with him, to love him through it all.

the man proves himself easily, that much is obvious by how you end up squirting on his cock and down his dress; the way you sob his name and accidentally blubber out delirious i love you’s; how the three words you chant out like a prayer cause him to spill deep inside you as he makes sounds he’s never made for anyone else.

simon loves you back. feels like it, at least, when he comes with shaking legs and can’t think of anything worse than a future without you. he ends up sure of the fact when the first thing you utter, in a tired, hoarse voice, after finally finding your breath is–

“i meant to ask earlier… do you have a smoke?”

simon grins a bit, almost laughing. red stains on his teeth from how hard you made him bite his lip.

"It's soaked,” you protest without looking back at him.

"It lives outside, it’s used to it."

"It's a kitten, Si," you complain.

"Kittens live outside too."

You extend a careful hand under the car and the screaming stops, which you choose to interpret as encouragement. "Hi," you say sweetly to the curled-up-black-mass. "Hello. You are very loud, did you know?"

You stretch out your index finger to gently pet it’s cheek and the kitten bites you — not hard — just a test bite, checking if your finger is food, probably. Then just as quickly, it stalks out from under the car and you learn he’s orange, drenched and too skinny for your liking.

It walks directly past your outstretched hand to sit beneath Simon, right in the space between his bulky boots, its probably ten weeks or so. 

"No," Simon says to the cat.

The cat looks up at him and screams again.

“We can’t leave him in the rain. He’s so skinny, Si. Look at him, let’s at least feed him. We just bought plenty tuna.”

“Yeah, and it’s for me,” he grumbles. 

——

You do everything on your own that first night while Simon remains at a distance with his arms crossed, providing pessimistic commentary.

"Cats are unpredictable," he says while you dry between the kitten's ears.

"Uh-huh."

"Carry fleas. Tha’ one's got fleas, guarantee it."

"He's been rained on for days, the fleas have drowned," you turn the kitten over and start to dry his belly, finding confirmation there that he is, in fact, a boy.

"They scratch furniture," he continues later from the sofa while you crank open a can of tuna in the kitchen. "Piss in shoes, bring in dead things," he lists. "We’re not keepin’ this cat."

"Nobody said we were," you sing-song through the doorway, scratching at the kitten's chin, cooing at him where he’s sat on the countertop. 

"Puttin’ it on the record, s’all.”

The kitten eats some tuna from your hand and drinks some water out of the saucer you place on the floor. After, he ignores the box you lined with blankets completely, and opts to fall asleep in the middle of the living room floor, just in front of Simon’s socked feet. 

——

In the morning you make a list — litter, cat food, flea treatment to ease Simon’s mind — and leave the two of them alone together. 

——

The kitten follows him around immediately and everywhere, at a peppy rolling trot. The kitchen, down the hallway, he shuts the bathroom door just to find a paw under it seconds later, sweeping side to side.

When he comes out the kitten falls in at his heel again.

"You've got the whole flat," Simon tells him.

The kitten looks up at him, wide-eyed, and says nothing, which is somehow worse than the screaming, Simon thinks. 

He starts the kettle on the stove and the kitten jumps — scrabbles, mostly, all back legs — onto the counter and sits down next to him.

"No," Simon says. "Off."

The kitten stares at him.

"Y’not meant to be up here, mate. Counters are for food."

Simon picks him up one-handed and sets him on the floor.

The kitten is back on the counter before the kettle boils. Simon sets him down again.

By the third try, the kitten nearly sticks the landing, wobbles, and headbutts Simon's forearm, and Simon stands there and has a quiet think.

"Well,” he slides the kitten away with his hand. “Not near the hob, then," he decides. "Gotta draw the line somewhere, yeah?"

By the time your home, they're both in the front room — Simon on the sofa, the kitten on the armrest, both facing the telly. 

"Checked. Shelter’s open Monday," he says before you've even got your shoes off. 

You look at the bag of litter in your arms, then at the cat right at Simon's side.

"Right," you say, rolling your eyes. "Monday."

——

To your surprise, Monday comes and goes without a complaint. When you return from work and find the two of them on the couch again, you choose very deliberately not to ask. 

Tuesday there's a proper bowl on the floor in the kitchen, stainless steel and weighted, because ‘the saucer kept sliding’.

Wednesday you come home to a litter box with a hood on it, tucked behind the bathroom door.

Thursday it's a scratching post — sisal, with a platform bed on top — and a small mouse toy, already disemboweled in the hallway.

You… did not buy any of it. 

The kitten has started to become a resident. He has routines now: he sits in the counter's approved quadrant while Simon cooks, supervising. He does laps of the flat at three AM like a lunatic and sleeps until ten like the king of this place. 

Two weeks later, he is, visibly, day by day, less kitten and more cat.

You're both on the sofa, your feet in Simon's lap, nose in a book, some film on in the background that you’re not sure Simon is even half-watching because there is an awful lot of shifting going on behind your novel. Then a small rhythmic thump against your ankle. Then another. 

Thump. Thump-thump. ThumpThumpThump. 

You lower the book.

Simon has pulled the string of his hoodie out to dangle over the armrest, swinging it side-to-side, round-and-round, and the cat is up on his back legs boxing at it, every lunge sending an orange ball airborne, ricocheting off your shins.

“Really?” you ask fondly.

“‘e started it,” Simon says, eyes still on the cat.

He flicks the string and the cat leaps, misses, and slides halfway down the armrest with a scrabble; Simon catches him around the middle with one hand and sets him back up top.

The kitten catches the string at last — teeth and claws sunk in, back feet kicking, growling at it like prey. Simon lets him keep it, the corner of his mouth tugging sideways, satisfied; charmed, even.

You watch them over the top of your book — your enormous, cat-hating man, losing a tug-of-war to one.

“Should probably name him,” you try, hiding your grin, pushing your feet under his thighs.

“Been callin’ ‘im Nigel,” he says, not looking over. “Decided that’s what ‘e wants t’be called.”

You sit up so fast you lose your page. You furrow your brows. “Nigel?!” you complain. “We’re not calling him Nigel!”

“S’too late, love,” he grins down at Nigel. “Look at ‘im and tell me tha’ s’not a Nigel.” He nudges his foot under the cat and he climbs up his leg right away, as if the trick has been practiced.

The pair turn and look at you at the same time, heads tilted exactly the same.

You tilt yours back, the corner of your mouth twitching up. 

He tasted of wine and warmth and the quiet possessiveness that never quite left him, even in the soft hours after the children were meant to be asleep. “Hmm, shut that mouth and take it.”

You made a small, breathless sound when his lips trailed to the corner of your mouth, then lower, along the line of your jaw. His hand splayed possessively over your hip, thumb stroking idle circles that made your pulse skip.

“Fuck me,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough with want, “you’re still the most beautiful thing I have ever known.”

“Maekar!” You gasped in mock scandal, eyes flying open even as a helpless smile tugged at your lips. “Language. There are impressionable ears in this keep.”

He only huffed a quiet laugh and claimed your mouth again, kissing you until your thoughts scattered and the world narrowed to the solid weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours, the way his arms locked around you like he meant to keep the rest of the realm outside the bed curtains forever.

That was when the soft scrape of bare feet on stone reached you.

A small shadow hovered at the edge of the bed, clutching a wooden dragon, the one Maekar himself had carved years ago for him. Aerion’s hair was mussed from sleep, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Mommy,” came the little voice, thin with worry, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”

Maekar’s arms tightened around you at once, a low grumble of displeasure vibrating through his chest.

He lifted his head just enough to glare past the curtains, still half-draped over you like a dragon guarding its hoard.

You turned your face toward your boy, soft smile already forming, only for Maekar’s gruff imitation of a child’s plea to tumble out first.

“Mommy,” he mimicked in a deep, aggrieved rumble, arms locking tighter, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”

A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. You flicked the tip of his nose the moment the words left his mouth.

“Oh, hush, you impossible man.” Then, gentler, to the small figure at the bedside: “Oh, my sweet boy…”

You shifted, ready to throw off the linens, but Maekar’s hold only hardened.

“Woman,” he growled, low and final, “you are not leaving this bed.”

“You are insufferable, Maekar.”

“You are my woman. My wife.” His head settled heavily on your chest, eyes still fixed on Aerion with pure parental outrage. “See what your spoiling has caused. Go back to bed, boy.”

Aerion’s lower lip trembled, but his chin lifted with the same stubborn set his father wore. “Please, mommy.”

You reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, voice warm and firm all at once. “My sweet boy, you are grown now. You must start being independent. The dark is only dark, and your dragon will keep watch.”

Aerion’s eyes widened, pure betrayal shining in them as he pointed an accusing finger at the large man currently occupying the entirety of his mother’s arms. “No! Daddy is bigger than me. Why should he get to keep you? He’s bigger than me, he should be independent too!”

Maekar’s only answer was a deeper glare and an even tighter embrace, as though the very suggestion might somehow pry you from his side.

A bright, helpless laugh tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, soft and fond and utterly undone by the sight of your third son standing there in his little nightshirt, wooden dragon clutched to his chest like a shield, solemnly declaring that his father ought to be independent too.

Aerion’s whole face lit up at the sound. The worried crease between his brows vanished. He beamed so brightly the dim chamber seemed warmer for it, small shoulders straightening with pure, triumphant hope.

You reached up, carding gentle fingers through Maekar’s hair even as he continued to glare daggers over your chest. “It is only until I know he is safe and asleep,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing against his ear. “Just a little while, my love. Then I will come straight back to you.”

Maekar’s answer was a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated straight through your bones, half protest, half pure possessive displeasure. His arms tightened once more, as though he might simply refuse to let the world or his own son claim even a single heartbeat of you.

Yet when Aerion padded closer, bare feet whispering on the stone, Maekar did not stop you from shifting the covers. He only pressed one last, lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw, silent promise and soft warning both, before reluctantly loosening his hold enough for you to slip free.

Aerion’s small hand found yours at once, warm and trusting, and the wooden dragon bumped against your hip as he tugged you toward the door with quiet, victorious urgency. Behind you, Maekar’s growl followed like a shadow, low and continuous, the sound of a dragon who had temporarily lost his hoard and was already counting the minutes until it returned.

You guided Aerion down the quiet corridor, his small hand warm in yours, the wooden dragon bumping softly against your side with every eager step. The night torches burned low, casting long golden pools across the stone, and the keep felt hushed and safe around the two of you.

His chamber was small and familiar, tapestries of ships and stars, a single shuttered window, the bed piled high with soft furs. You helped him climb in first, then slid beneath the covers beside him, tucking the blankets snug around his narrow shoulders. Aerion immediately burrowed closer, the carved dragon clutched between you both like a shared secret.

For a moment he simply lay there, breathing in the quiet. Then his voice came, soft and hopeful in the dark.

“Mommy… will you tell me a story?”

You smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Of course, my brave boy. What sort of story shall it be?”

He thought hard, nose scrunching. “A scary one. But with a happy ending. And swords.”

“Very well.” You propped yourself on one elbow, voice dropping into the low, dramatic cadence reserved for the best tales. “Once there lived a fierce lady knight, strong and clever and never afraid of the dark. One night a terrible basilisk crept into her castle, its eyes glowing like green fire, its scales black as pitch. It meant to steal her youngest son away…”

Aerion’s eyes went round. You sat up a little higher, one arm sweeping wide as though drawing a blade from thin air.

“But the lady knight would not allow it!” You rose onto your knees in the bed, imaginary sword flashing in great, heroic arcs. “She charged down the corridor, slash! clang!, driving the beast back with every strike. ‘You shall not have my boy!’ she cried, steel ringing against scales. The basilisk hissed and lunged, but the lady knight was faster. She leapt, spun, and with one final mighty swing,” you brought the invisible blade down in a decisive arc that made the covers flutter, “she sent the creature tumbling into the shadows, never to return!”

Aerion giggled, pure delight bubbling up as he clutched his dragon tighter. “And then she hugged her son?”

“And then,” you said, settling back down beside him with a soft smile, “she gathered her son close, tucked him safely into bed, and promised that as long as she lived, no darkness, nor any beast within it, would ever touch him.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. Outside the chamber door the keep remained quiet, and somewhere down the hall a certain gruff dragon was almost certainly still counting the minutes until his wife returned.

Aerion’s small arms wound tightly around your neck the moment the last words of the story faded. He pressed his face into the curve of your shoulder, the wooden dragon caught awkwardly between your bodies, and held on as though the entire keep might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.

“Promise,” he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. “Promise you won’t leave me, Mommy. Not ever.”

You stroked slow circles over his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing begin to deepen. “I promise, my sweet boy,” you murmured against his hair. “I will always be here when you need me. Always.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, a soft, trusting hold that slowly relaxed as the last of his fear melted away. Within moments his body went heavy and warm against yours, the even rhythm of sleep claiming him at last. The wooden dragon slipped a little in his slackening grasp, but he did not stir.

You remained still for a long while, listening to the quiet of the chamber and the soft, steady sound of your third son’s breathing, the promise still warm on your tongue.

You waited until Aerion’s breathing had deepened into the slow, even rhythm of true sleep before you carefully eased his arms from around your neck. The wooden dragon remained tucked against his chest as you drew the furs higher, brushing one last soft kiss to his temple. He did not stir.

The corridor outside was cooler, the torches burning lower still. You moved quietly, bare feet silent on the stone, and turned toward the chamber that belonged to your firstborn.

Daeron’s door stood slightly ajar. Even before you reached it you could hear him, small, broken whimpers that caught in his throat, the restless shift of limbs against the sheets. Your heart clenched the moment the sound reached you.

You slipped inside.

He lay tangled in the covers, hair damp against his forehead, brow furrowed deep even in sleep. Another soft, wounded sound escaped him, and you knew at once what plagued him. The same dreams that had haunted him since he was barely more than a babe, shadows and fire and things too heavy for a child’s mind to carry alone.

It broke your heart.

You crossed the room without a word and sank carefully onto the edge of the bed. One hand found his, small and warm and tightly curled, and you stroked your thumb across the back of it in slow, steady circles. Your other hand brushed the hair from his brow, gentle as a whisper.

“Shh, my love,” you breathed, voice barely more than a breath. “I’m here. You’re safe. The dreams cannot keep you.”

Daeron’s whimpers quieted by degrees, though the tension in his small body remained. You stayed exactly where you were, heart aching, watching over your firstborn as the night pressed close around the both of you.

You leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Daeron’s forehead, letting your lips rest there a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm skin and the faint trace of the lavender the maids sometimes tucked into the bedding. Only when his breathing had evened into something closer to true rest did you rise and slip quietly from the chamber.

Aemon’s door was next.

You eased it open just enough to peer inside, and caught him in the act. The candle flame vanished with a sharp little puff of breath. In the sudden dark a small shape dove beneath the covers in a frantic rustle of linen, leaving only a tell-tale book abandoned on the edge of the mattress, its pages still open.

A soft, knowing smile curved your mouth.

You crouched low, voice dropping into a deep, rumbling growl that filled the quiet room.

“I am the great dragon of the night,” you intoned, claws of your fingers curling against the floorboards. “I hunt for children who refuse to sleep… children who read by candlelight long past the hour they should be dreaming. Those children must climb onto the bed… and then they vanish. Forever.”

A long, dramatic pause.

From beneath the covers a pair of wide eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket.

“Mommy?”

You lunged.

Aemon’s startled squeak turned into helpless, delighted laughter as you pounced, fingers finding every ticklish spot along his ribs and under his arms. He thrashed and giggled and tried to squirm away, but you were merciless, growling dragon-like nonsense between bursts of his bright, breathless laughter until the whole bed shook with it.

You finally relented, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a warm heap of soft laughter, both of you breathless. Aemon’s cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up in every direction, and the abandoned book had been kicked halfway to the floor in the scuffle.

You reached over and gently tugged the covers up around him again, smoothing them with a mother’s practiced hand. Your voice softened, though a thread of fond amusement still lingered in it.

“Now then, my little night-dragon…” You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. “Why are you still awake?”

Aemon’s laughter faded into something quieter. He tugged the covers up to his chin and looked at you with wide, earnest eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted in a small voice.

You tilted your head, fingers still gently smoothing his hair. “Why not, sweetling?”

He was silent for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, so softly you almost missed it:

“I just… wanted you.”

Your heart melted. Before you could answer, Aemon sat up a little straighter, expression suddenly solemn, as though he were about to make a formal declaration before the entire court.

“Mommy… can I marry you?”

The question hung in the quiet chamber, perfectly serious.

A deep, familiar voice answered from the doorway before you could.

“No.”

You both turned.

Maekar stood there, bare-chested, hair still mussed from the bed he had been forced to abandon. His violet eyes were serious, though a faint, reluctant warmth flickered in them as they moved from his second son to you.

“She is my wife,” he said, the words low and final, as though the matter had been settled long ago and required no further discussion.

You rolled your eyes at the pair of them, the fond exasperation of a mother and wife who had heard far too many claims upon her in one night.

But something darker flickered across Maekar’s violet gaze, something heated and intent that made your pulse skip. You knew that look. Knew exactly what it meant.

You turned back to Aemon, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, my little night-dragon,” you whispered. “I’ll be right down the hall.”

You stayed until his breathing evened and his small hand finally loosened its hold on the covers. Only then did you rise.

Maekar was already moving.

He crossed the chamber in three long strides, caught you around the waist, and in one smooth motion hauled you up and over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. A startled breath left you as the world tilted. One of his large hands settled firmly across the backs of your thighs to keep you steady.

“I want another,” he declared, voice low and rough with certainty as he carried you from the room, the door swinging shut behind you both.

Your bright, helpless laughter spilled out and echoed down the quiet halls of Summerhall as Maekar carried you with single-minded purpose, each long stride a clear declaration of intent. You knew exactly what that promise meant, knew the heat in his blood and the determination in the strong arm locked around your thighs.

Still laughing, you braced your hands against his bare back and asked, voice soft with hope and amusement both, “Do you think the gods might grant us a little girl this time?”

Maekar’s answer came without hesitation, low and absolute, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“Then I’ll keep trying until I give you one.”

You barely had time to draw breath before Maekar’s shoulder met the closed doors of your chambers. He set you down only long enough to press you back against the wood, one powerful thigh sliding between yours as his hands dragged the soft fabric of your nightshift higher and higher, bunching it at your waist.

His mouth found the side of your neck at once, open, hungry, almost reverent, trailing wet heat along the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. A low, broken sound escaped him, something closer to a growl than a word, and you felt the tremor that ran through his entire body as he pressed closer still.

He loved you so fiercely, so completely, that language had long since failed him. Every urgent kiss against your throat, every desperate grip of his hands on your bare hips, every ragged breath he spilled against your skin was the only way he knew how to say it.

Maekar’s mouth never left your neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke, the words rough and low and thick with hunger.

“I’m going to fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

The promise vibrated against your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you harder against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently through the thin barrier of his own clothing.

He rolled his hips once, deliberate and slow, letting you feel every inch of what he intended to give you, then again, deeper, more demanding, as if already imagining the way he would fill you.

Maekar dropped to his knees without warning.

He shoved your nightshift higher still, hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between your thighs like a man who had been starving for the taste of you.

There was nothing gentle about it, only raw, desperate hunger.

His tongue dragged through your folds in long, greedy strokes, then focused on the sensitive peak, sucking hard enough to draw a sharp cry from your throat. He growled against you when your hips jerked, the sound vibrating through your core as he licked and devoured, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from you before he took his own.

Only when your legs were trembling and your fingers were tangled desperately in his hair did he rise.

He manhandled you across the chamber with effortless strength, spinning you and bending you forward over the edge of the bed. The nightshift was shoved up around your waist, one large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other guided himself between your slick folds.

He thrust into you in one deep, claiming stroke, filling you completely, and a low, broken sound tore from his chest.

Then he fucked you from behind, hard, relentless, each powerful snap of his hips driving him deeper, the slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. His grip on your hip was bruising, possessive, as though he meant to imprint himself on every part of you.

Maekar’s hips snapped forward again and again, the wet, filthy slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. Each powerful thrust rocked you hard against the mattress, the ropes of the bed creaking in protest beneath the force of him.

Heat poured off his body in waves.

Sweat slicked the hard planes of his chest where it pressed to your back, and the scent of him, salt and skin and raw, masculine need, filled every breath you took.

His teeth were bared, a low, animal sound tearing from his throat as he drove into you without mercy. The thick length of him stretched you open on every stroke, the drag and burn of it so intense your fingers clawed at the sheets.

“Fuck, look at you,” he snarled, voice rough and broken, hot against the damp skin of your neck. “Taking me so deep. My wife. Mine.”

He leaned over your back, one hand fisting tightly in your hair until your scalp prickled, the other gripping your hip hard enough that you felt the imprint of every finger. He pounded into you harder still, the head of his cock dragging over that perfect, aching spot inside you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Gonna fill you until you can’t walk straight. Until every fucking soul in this keep knows who you belong to.” His breath scorched your ear, teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to sting. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine while I fuck another babe into you.”

He didn’t slow.

Every stroke was deep, punishing, claiming, his body moving over yours like a man possessed, teeth still bared, the wet sounds of your joining obscene and constant, the words spilling out of him in a relentless, heated stream as the whole world narrowed to the overwhelming heat and friction and the raw, consuming way he took you.

Your moans fractured into soft, broken mewls as the relentless drive of his hips stole every coherent thought.

The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the chamber, louder now, raw and desperate as heat bloomed low in your belly, sharp and overwhelming, and the words he demanded spilled from your lips without hesitation.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice high and trembling. “Yours, only yours. Maekar...”

A savage sound tore from his throat.

He fucked you even harder.

The pace turned punishing, almost frantic, deep, brutal strokes that forced the air from your lungs with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back so he could watch the way your body took him. Sweat slicked the places where his chest met your spine.

The bedframe groaned beneath the force of him as you felt every thick inch of him, the stretch and friction so intense it bordered on too much, and still he drove deeper, chasing the promise he had made, determined to leave you wrecked and full and marked as his.

Maekar’s voice was rough, almost broken, as he leaned over you again.

“Do you want another babe?” he demanded, the words punched out between deep, driving thrusts. “Tell me.”

“Yes...” The answer tore from you in a high, helpless cry. “Yes, Maekar, yes...”

Something in him shifted.

The punishing edge softened all at once, though his hips never stopped their steady, deep rhythm.

He released your hair and slid that hand around to cradle the side of your face instead, turning your head so he could press open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

Soft.

Reverent.

Almost aching.

He still snapped his hips against yours, full, claiming strokes that filled you completely, but the hunger had turned tender, every thrust now laced with the quiet intensity of a man who loved you beyond reason.

His lips trailed warm and lingering over your skin, murmuring your name between kisses, as though the only thing that mattered in the world was the way your body welcomed him and the promise you had just given.

Maekar’s mouth never left your neck as he continued to move inside you, deep, steady, relentless. The tenderness in his kisses only sharpened the way every stroke dragged over that perfect place within you, building the pressure higher and higher until it broke.

You came undone with a broken cry, walls clenching tightly around him. He groaned against your skin but did not stop. He simply held you through it, hips still rolling, drawing the pleasure out until you were trembling and oversensitive, then he kept going.

A second climax tore through you sooner than the first, sharper, your fingers twisting in the sheets as soft, helpless sounds spilled from your lips.

Maekar’s hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding the swollen peak of your pleasure and circling in time with his thrusts, coaxing a third wave that left you shaking and gasping his name.

Only when you were boneless and wrecked beneath him, body fluttering around his cock with every lingering aftershock, did his own control finally shatter.

His rhythm faltered.

A low, guttural sound tore from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you in long, pulsing surges, hot and deep and endless, filling you exactly as he had promised while his mouth pressed one last open, trembling kiss to the side of your throat.

Maekar stayed buried inside you for a long moment after the last pulse of his release, his breath warm and uneven against the damp skin of your neck.

Then, with exquisite care, he eased free and gathered you into his arms as though you were something infinitely precious.

He carried you the short distance to the head of the bed and laid you down among the tangled sheets. His hands were gentle now, so gentle, as he smoothed the nightshift back down over your body, then reached for the soft cloth kept near the washbasin. He cleaned you with slow, reverent strokes, murmuring low, wordless sounds whenever you shivered under his touch.

When he was satisfied, he discarded the cloth and climbed in beside you, drawing the covers over you both. One strong arm slid beneath your shoulders. The other curled around your waist, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest. His fingers combed lazily through your hair, untangling the strands his earlier grip had left mussed.

He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, each one quieter than the last. His violet eyes, no longer fierce, held only a deep and open tenderness as they traced your face in the low light.

“My wife,” he whispered at last, the words barely more than breath against your lips. “My heart.”