ajuda

The blonde was known for being rather composed. He was the ideal man, the ideal partner — but you seemed to be the cause of his unravelling.

How could he not be so utterly enraptured by his darling wife, who was currently spread out before him on their shared bed?

Nanami was nose deep in your pussy, the lower half of his face soaked in your juices as he ate you out with vigour. Hours had bled into each other, and you were writhing from overstimulation.

"F-forgive me, my love," Nanami crooned into your pussy, grinding the firm slope of his nose against your clit. "But I can't stop."

"I-it's been ho-o-o-u-u-r-s, Ken," you sobbed, words drawn out as your husband began shaking his head from side to side.

The grip you had on his hair tightened, eliciting a muffled grunt as a pleasurable spark of pain bloomed over his scalp. Nanami's slurping only grew more frantic — causing your back to bow into that beautiful arch your husband had spent hours worshipping.

"I know, I know. But don't you feel good? Tell me you feel good, please."

Words failed you, and you slapped a palm over your mouth when Nanami began pumping two long fingers in and out of you the same time he sucked your clit into his mouth. The lines of his cheeks deepened as he hollowed them out, his cock leaking profusely onto the sheets.

He was doing this on purpose, the fiend.

"No, don't do that," he muttered, breaking off momentarily to pin your wrists together with one of his hands. "Don't hide from me."

"I f-feel good. I feel sososo good, Ken— oh, I think I'm going to cum again—!"

"All over me now. That's it."

With a garbled cry, you came — a hot wave of pleasure settling deep inside you before spreading to the rest of your body. Nanami continued lapping up your wetness, eyes squinted as you squirted all over his face.

He was panting much like you were, the taste of his wife spreading over his aching tongue.

Something wet hit his tensed stomach, his own cum as he came in thick ropes at the sight of his wife cumming beneath him. But Nanami couldn't focus on that, shuddering when you tried to tug him off of you. "Please… I don't think I have another orgasm in me."

Lick!

"Not even one more for your dear husband?"

"Ngh… just one more…"

▶ Toji :: ꒰ noisy eater! ꒱

Slap. "I'm on the phone, keep it down." Slap. "Quit your whining."

"Y-you asshole!"

Toji chuckled, low and gruff as he put his phone on speaker. Shiu was somewhere across the city, sitting in the darkness of his car with the phone to his ear. His pants were tented at the crotch, and he could only pretend like he didn't know what was going on on the other end of the line.

Pwah!

Toji gathered a thick wad of saliva in his mouth and spat down onto your cunt, the moisture splattering onto your inner thighs. His aim was impeccable on any other day, so there was no doubt in your mind that the man between your legs was only putting a show for this handler.

"You've gone quiet," Toji grunted to Shiu, lowering his lips until his tongue reached your abused clit. Having prodded at the pert nub once, then twice — he soon grew bored and deciding to slurp down, a lecherous grin on his scarred mouth when you cried out.

Slap.

He slapped your thigh again, warning you to keep quiet as he ate you out. Shiu's voice was barely audible over the noises of Toji's tongue rolling over your pussy, his legs parting as a hand travelled down to adjust his slacks.

"Sounds like you're… busy, Fushiguro. Want me to call later?"

"Yes," you whisper-shouted, before your words were cut off with a low cry. Toji spat down again, lapping the mess back up into his greedy mouth and gulping audibly.

"No," Toji leered, bringing the phone even closer. "If you've got something to say, do it now."

A pitiful noise left you at that, and you tried closing your legs. Toji was having none of it — doubling down on his efforts as Shiu listened to him delve his tongue inside you with a wet squelch.

The handler listened as you chanted Toji's name, all pitched and breathy. He wanted nothing more than to watch him go down on you, maybe even join himself just so he could elicit some pretty noises out of you himself.

"Shit," Shiu muttered, looking out of the window before palming himself, noting that the coast was clear. Toji could only snort, knowing full well what his handler was doing. After all, who wouldn't get aroused at the sound of a pretty thing like you singing out for him?

The wet, obscene sounds of Toji's tongue digging into your clenching hole filled Shiu's speaker, mixing with your stuttering whimpers and gasps. "Fuck, Fushiguro," he rasped, voice strained as he rutted slowly into his palm. "Really going at it, huh?"

Your boyfriend pulled back enough to chuckle, lips slick with your arousal. With another broad lick to the expanse of your cunt, he answered.

"Yeah, she's dripping down my chin."

He didn't bother hiding anymore, phone to your pussy as he spread you open with two thick fingers. You hid your face in your palms out of embarrassment, a fierce heat spreading over your face all the way to the tips of your ears as he inspected your wetness, your clenching hole, your pert clit.

"Gets like this when 'm being mean to her," he breathed, warm air fanning over your pussy. Your hips bucked upwards, seeking stimulation despite the fact another man was listening in, probably jerking off at the imagery of you spread out and writhing.

A beep broke the immersion around you and your boyfriend, making him lift his head up for the nth time — sticky webs of your wetness joining your pussy to his sharp chin.

Shiu was requesting a video call, pumping at his freed cock with a wet hand.

Toji could only swipe his phone across the screen, bringing the image of his handler to life as he watched, and eventually came in time with you.

▶ Sukuna + Gojo :: ꒰ competitive eaters! ꒱

"Stop licking at my tongue, you freak," Sukuna scowled, tugging the back of Satoru's head and lifting him off of your pussy. The latter gasped for air, trying to shove the pink-haired man away with a coy grin.

Satoru shook his head. "The cutie down there seems to like it. Look at her," he marvelled, spreading your plump folds open with a thumb. Your hole winked back up at them, begging for their attention. You rolled your eyes, catching your breath after the overwhelming onslaught of pleasure they were both aiming directly onto your clit.

"Stop bickering for once and eat me out already," you chastised, glaring at Sukuna until he let go of the other man. "I want to cum."

Satoru was back on you like a magnet, hips rutting down onto the sheets as he dragged his tongue between your folds. His tongue even plunged in and out of you, coaxing out filthy moans from him as you clenched wildly around him.

Sukuna watched, seemingly angered by the way Satoru was hogging you all to himself.

"Mmh, that's it, 'toru. Your tongue feels sooo good," you cooed obnoxiously, knowing it'd feed into his praise kink — and Sukuna's competitive streak. Satoru whined happily into your pussy, lathering it in his saliva and kissing your clit affectionately.

Sukuna pushed him off.

His tongue was not as kind, bullying its way into your hole until you were crying out from the intrusion. Your legs trembled around his pierced ears as he ate you out frantically — as if he was trying to rid your cunt of any trace of Satoru, who was currently, trying to barge into Sukuna's bulky shoulder.

To no avail, of course. Sukuna was a biiig man, and he was dead set on making you cry out for him. No one else. You keened, kicking out your leg and looking at Satoru with teary eyes — desperately hoping for him to play the role as your knight in shining armour.

The pleasure was too much, with the man between your thighs sucking the entirety of your cunt into your mouth. He pulled off of you with a filthy pop before diving in with triple the enthusiasm.

Satoru wasn't there to save you that time. Instead, he flashed you a smirk before parting your thighs even wider. Your muscles screamed out in protest before his tongue joined Sukuna's, the ache in your joints quickly forgotten.

"Don't look at me. You're the nasty slut who called us both for a hookup."

"I-it was an accident. Didn't mean to double book."

Sukuna's brows knitted in the middle, tongue stilling. You were worse than him — at least he was able to keep track of his booty calls.

He didn't even care that his tongue was gliding against Satoru's, the two coming silently coming together to make you cum all over their mouths — which you eventually did. Satoru was back to humping the bed again, Sukuna having pushed his face into your pussy.

He felt at home there, as odd as it was to say. He didn't even care that you were a two-timer, groaning aloud when you squirted all over his face and Sukuna's. Sukuna didn't give up on his ministrations, punishing you with his mouth as it worked against you — bringing you further into the pits of overstimulation.

"N-no, guys— wait—"

"Wait for what? Another guy?" Satoru teased, fingers digging around in your pussy. You spasmed around him, Sukuna having directed his attention to your poor clit again. Shame hit you like a truck, your head shaking as you tried to crawl back from their mouths. With a deliberate yank to your ankle, Sukuna tugged you back down the bed.

"Don't know why you're running now. If you're going to be greedy, you sit there and take it."

"Precisely," Satoru chimed in, glancing down at Sukuna's pierced cock when he sat up and pumped himself — eager to bully himself inside of you.

The pink-haired man shook his head in clear disapproval, but the way the rosy hue on his cheeks deepened a fraction said everything. "Don't even think about it."

"Please?"

"…fine. But I'm not gay."

You scrunch your nose up in disgust at the thick stench of Aerion’s metallic blood and the rotten smell of mud and whatever else he was covered in, filling the room as he weakly hobbled closer to you. His first demand wasn’t for a healer, no, it was to see you. 

The sight of you looking away from him with such disgust and disappointment pulled a weak and desperate whimper from the back of his throat. He tried to move closer, but the look you gave him had him falling to his knees, the sound of his armor clanking, and his sounds of pain filled the silence. 

“Please,” he begged, voice cracking and hoarse as he tried to hold his head up. Please, look at me. Please, tell me I did well. Please, let me touch you. 

“And have you ruin my dress?” you scoffed with a roll of your eyes. It was beneath you to even be in the presence of such a weak-minded and bodied man. He couldn’t defeat a fucking hedge knight, and yet he dared to be on his knees before you, begging. 

“If I shall die tonight…” he trailed off into a pained mixture of a gasp and wheeze as he fully lifted his head to look up at you. His breathing was labored, but the pain he felt was nothing compared to the desire and yearning he felt for you. “I want to die with the taste of you on my lips.” 

“The same lips you used to yield?” you dramatically pouted with a tilt of your head, looking down at him with faux sympathy. And for a very brief moment aerion believed the gods answered his prayers and you’d give him what he’s always desired, even if that meant his death. 

But the gods were cruel, as were you. 

You slammed your goblet down on the table, the sound echoing loudly through the chamber. He couldn’t help but flinch, pain surging all through his body. Tears well in his eyes at the look of pure disgust you give him, your tone cruel and mocking, “you’re filth aerion, you don’t deserve to taste me.” 

“Maybe I should go to see Ser Duncan, tend to his wounds,” you taunted, a sickly sweet smile on your lips as you took a slow step closer to him. Your fingers played with your rings, a feeling of pride washing over you at the sight of tears in his eyes. 

Another sound of pain left the Prince's mouth as he shook his head weakly at your words. Hearing such things coming from you made him feel even more sick. That Hedge Knight didn’t deserve to have his eyes blessed at the sight of you, let alone be in the same presence as you, breathe the same air as you. 

He’d rather take another touch of a blade than have that cunt ever feel yours. 

“I deserve a man that doesn’t yield, don’t I?” You whispered with a click of your tongue. Your eyes were sparkling with amusement at the pained cries leaving Aerion’s bloody and busted lips. His body shook with helpless sobs. 

All of his pride thrown away as he bowed his head, his shoulders sagged, and his gloved hands brushed against the stone before he placed them flat, willing to crawl towards you. He cared very little for the blood loss or his reputation as he knelt there in front of you. 

“please princess,” he got out between his sobs, more blood pooling from his mouth and down his neck. He looked so pretty when he cried, so pathetic and small. He looked like how he liked to make people feel. 

You took a step closer, scrunching your nose in annoyance at the cries and pleading leaving his lips. You’d enjoy it much more if he weren’t making such a mess and smelled so badly. You licked your wine-stained lips as you looked down at him, stopping in front of him. Far enough that his blood wouldn’t touch your dress. 

You wouldn’t give him what he truly desired, not after that embarrassing performance he gave for all of Ashford to see. By nightfall, the truth of the weakness of the prince would spread across the realm, no doubt. And like you said, you weren’t going to let his filth ruin your pretty dress. 

He looked like he was dying, and he smelt of it too, you weren’t that cruel (you truly were) to not answer the ‘dying' prince's plea. 

“Two, and that is all.” Your tone gave him no room for discussion or disagreement. You outstretched your hand in front of his bloodied face; your fingers would have to do. 

Dark spots clouded his vision, and he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he quickly lifted his head. A desperate whimper left his lips as he eagerly opened his mouth, his bloody tongue slipping past his lips. 

Your fingers softly grazed his bottom lip, pressing hard into the cut on his lip, causing him to let out a strangled moan. The pad of your index and middle finger pressed against his tongue. 

The corner of your mouth twitched into a pleased smirk as the prince looked up at you with dazed eyes, waiting for your permission. When he does get the small nod of permission, he’s quick to close his mouth around them. 

A loud moan filled the room as he immediately started lapping at your soft fingers. His eyes never left yours as he sucked them deeper into his mouth, coating them in his spit and blood. 

He could taste the lavish oils you would get from Dorne and have your body covered in them with the help of your handmaidens. To many nights he spent imagining himself rubbing the oil into your body himself. 

You sigh boredly, clicking your tongue in disappointment, “can’t you do better than that?” 

Aerion whined around your fingers, more tears rolling down his face and mixing beautifully with his blood. The pain his body felt was nothing compared to the pain he felt when he disappointed you. 

You lean down a little, his eyes nearly rolling back as he gets a better whiff of your addictive scent. You pouted dramatically as you watched him drool around your fingers, such a bloody mess. “and to think you thought I’d let you taste my cunt” 

He shook his head weakly, nearly gagging on your fingers as he tried to do better. He wasn’t going to fail you too, not again, but you never gave second chances. 

You pulled your wet fingers from his mouth, a string of his mixed saliva and blood following. A desperate whine left him at the loss of your fingers. He’d chase after your fingers, but he wouldn’t be able to handle the sting of your slap, no matter how much he craved it in his current state. 

You looked down at your fingers that were covered in his blood and spit, and then back to him. He looked up at you with those pathetic eyes. If you really focused, you could hear his blood drip into the stone. You grip his face, spreading the blood and spit all over his mouth, scoffing at the pathetic noises he lets out. 

“You deserve nothing but to lick the bottom of my boots,” you hissed as you pressed into the cut on his cheek. Aerion moans and leans into your touch, pitiful cries filling the room. And that’s when you noticed the way his hips subtly jerked forward. 

A big and twisted grin spreads across your face at the realization that he was turned on. Your laugh was amused and airy. “You’re such a nasty whore.” 

You slipped your fingers back into his mouth, knuckles deep as he sucks and swirls his tongue around them. Your words were sharp and cruel as you belittled him, tearing him down word by word, but all he did was moan around your fingers, his hips jerking desperately. 

The fatigue from the blood loss, mixed with the pain and the pleasure he felt from you, was sickening. He felt like he was drunk. His body didn’t feel like his, your voice sounded distant, his heartbeat getting too loud to hear your beautifully twisted words. 

His jaw was going slack, too exhausted to do any more. But you didn’t care, thrusting your fingers into his mouth as he gagged and whined. Blood and drool making lewd wet noises.  

“Such filthy, pathetic lips, only good for one thing, aren’t they?” You cooed tauntingly, your eyes never leaving his. He nodded weakly around your fingers, the movement causing him to gag. You watched him closely, how his tears pooled out of his eyes. You wanted to watch him fall apart.

And fall apart he did… 

“Nngh!” He let out a choked and pained moan around your fingers, his eyes rolling back and his hips stuttering as he filled his breeches with his seed, mixing with the blood. 

You kept your fingers in his throat until he tried to pull away, desperate for air as he felt his body slowly and uncontrollably jerk. For a split second, you thought of what your life would be if he were dead…but there was a sick part of you that wanted to keep him around. To see him look at you with those pitiful eyes full of tears. You did enjoy how he sounded when he begged…

You pull away your fingers, a thick string of blood and saliva connecting the two of you. Aerion’s chest burned as he tried to catch his breath, barely able to keep his eyes fully open. A cough leaves his throat, blood splattering all over the front of your dress. 

You shrieked and took a step back, nearly tripping over the skirt of your dress. The sound of your shriek snaps him back from fully surrendering to the pain, his half-lidded eyes looking up at you. Your face was twisted in a look of pure anger. 

Panic surged through his beaten body; the tears were quick to come back as he realized what he had done; he failed you. “Princess, I’m sorry—“ 

“You truly are pathetic,” you were quick to cut off his pathetic attempt at an apology. Your tone was scarily calm as you turned your lip up in disgust. Your jaw clenched as you looked down at the kneeling prince, a disgrace, “And a waste of Valyrian blood.” 

A broken and agonized sob left his body from your words. Watching as you lifted the skirt of your dress with your clean hand as you turned away from him and moved towards the wooden doors. He tried to move his body, but all he could do was helplessly watch as you opened the chamber doors. 

He fell from his knees and forward onto his hands, begging between his cries, “Please don’t leave me.” 

You paused, looking over your shoulder at him. There was no emotion in your eyes, no anger, nothing for him. Your words were sharp and effective at breaking everything in him, “I bet that Hedge Knight would have listened.” 

You stepped out of the room and out of his sight. The last of his strength going with you. He felt his body sway before crumpling down onto the stone floor with a pained gasp. He lay there on the cold and blood-stained stone floor.

The last thing he tasted was your body oil mixed with the metallic taste of his blood, and the last thing he heard was you shouting at your handmaiden to bring you a new dress, before his eyes fluttered closed as he succumbed to the darkness. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Ი𐑼 I’m sorry if none of that made sense I wrote most of it in a delirious state at 4 am in the morning. I rlly don’t know what this is , but I hoped you enjoyed it !! pls tell me all of your thoughts ,, naughty and good !! 😁

taglist : @pixiebratz @doeeyedcrucifix @cuntibrina @tartybleedinghearts @jimhalpertldn @chunkpiboli @briefwinnerpersonaturtle @godblesslarsvontrier @joyfulyouthlover @ameliadonovan

۶ৎ taglist is open

The feast had at last ended. Torches guttered in the outer halls. Servants moved like ghosts beyond thick stone walls. Laughter had faded into distant murmurs and then into nothing at all. In their chambers, silence reigned.

Aerion’s wife sat before the vanity, the mirror reflecting her constrained expression in the dim candlelight. One by one, she took the hairpins from her braids. Each ornament felt like a lie.

She looked radiant tonight. Dutiful. Regal. Every inch a prince’s wife. Like a doll, to convince the realm that all was well within her marriage. Her fingers slowed. All that care. All that effort to show the court she was a good wife. That their marriage was sound. That she was content. Gone. Undone by a tantrum…a single gesture on the dance floor.

She combed her hair down slowly, methodically breathing deeply, then letting out in an effort to remain calm. Do not break, she told herself. 

Across the room, Aerion shrugged off his doublet and laid it over a chair. He moved with easy confidence, unhurried, as though the evening had passed without issue. As if he hadn’t completely ruined how hard his wife worked on their reputation in a single night over a single brief conversation with some lord. 

Aerion watched his wife through the mirror, his head tilted as if he was searching for a hint of distress, anything that would give him the satisfaction he so craved.

She had not spoken since they left the hall. It was peaceful for once, Aerion thought without his wife’s incessant nagging. He unfastened his collar. “You had an eventful evening,” he remarked at last, voice light. “Mm. Did you enjoy your conversation with that lord?” 

Her comb stilled, hands curling tightly around the brush. Their eyes met in the mirror. Aerion wore his infamous smirk; he sensed the effect he had on her tonight, and it was exhilarating and satisfying after constantly trying to get a rise out of her for so long. He hummed with a mocking chuckle. 

Nothing was exchanged for a moment. He continued undressing, smirking, basking in this “glory”. 

Suddenly, his wife slammed her fist down with the comb in her hand on the vanity, her trinkets and handmirror broke. The crack echoed in the chamber. 

“Shut up,” she hissed out in pure anger. Aerion’s brows rose slightly. He gave a low whistle. He had not seen her this furious since they were children and she’d bloodied his lip with a thrown book.

“Watch that tongue of yours, wife,” he said casually, utterly unbothered. That was enough to set her off; she could no longer contain her anger and frustration. 

“I wish my father never made that promise to yours!” she burst out. The words tore from her like something long caged. “I would much rather have married a stable boy, a bastard, a lowly servant—than be your wife!” Aerion’s expression sharpened; he was getting ready to begin speaking, possibly putting her in her place. But she did not stop.

“I hate you!” she cried. “Do you hear me? I hate you! I would rather die than continue being your stupid, miserable wife!” Her hand came down again upon the vanity repeatedly. Not stopping even as blood began coating her vanity.

Aerion moved before he fully thought. He crossed the room in three strides and seized her wrist.

“Enough.” His grip was iron. She tried to free herself, but he held fast. Blood slid down her fingers, spattering the vanity.

“You will not maim yourself to make a point,” he said sharply. 

“Let go of me!” she shouted, struggling. “You don’t get to touch me!” 

The fury in her eyes startled him more than the words. This was no petty anger. This was frustration and humiliation turned raw. Aerion dragged her forcefully to the small water basin in the corner of the bed chamber. He grabbed her bleeding palm, plunging it harshly into the basin, causing water to sloosh and spill. She hissed at the sting.

“Have you lost your wits?” he demanded. Aerion still held her wrist tightly as he pulled it out. He continued to drag her through the room as he grabbed a cloth, wrapping it. The floor had drops of blood and water throughout the floor. The mess resembled much of their marriage. 

“Have you?” she spat back. “You humiliated me before the whole court!”

His jaw tightened.“You chose to sit close enough to another man for him to think—” 

“It was a mere conversation! I chose to have it because I did not wish to sit alone like some discarded doll!” She snapped. He stilled. The words landed heavier than her earlier shouts.

Her breathing was ragged now, tears burning but unshed. 

“You left me there,” she said, voice breaking despite her effort. “You left me in the middle of the floor like I was nothing.” Aerion seemed at a loss for words. 

“I am a person, your wife, and you have humiliated me!” she continued, her uninjured hand poking his bare chest. Her shoulders trembled. “And I have done nothing but try. I have held my tongue when you were cruel. I smiled when you dismissed me. I have defended you when others whispered. I have loved you when you gave me no cause.” That word hung between them.

Aerion’s grip loosened slightly. She laughed once—hollow and bitter. “You think I would shame you? That I would betray you? I have restrained myself every day of this marriage for the sake of your father, for the sake of your house. I have been good.” 

Aerion looked into her eyes; he had an unreadable expression. She leaned closer, her eyes full of emotion as she whispered, “And you make me look like a fool.” Silence swallowed the room.

Aerion stared at her. Then to the floor, at the blood. At the tears she refused to let fall.

He had meant to assert control. To remind her of her place. He had not expected this.

“I do not need you to be good,” he said at last, “I did not ask you to be good”. 

She couldn’t contain the scoff that passed from her lips. She let out a disbelieving breath. “Then what is it that you need, Aerion? Hm? Obedience? For your wife to always be miserable?” He did not answer. Because he did not truly know. Possession and control had always been instinct. 

Her hand trembled in his again, though now from shock more than rage. The adrenaline had faded, and all that remained was throbbing pain. Aerion's eyes trailed down to her palm as if he sensed her pain. His thumb moved slowly, caressing her palm. The gesture was awkward.

Unpracticed. She stared at him…she wished she could understand him. 

“You cannot have your childish tantrums and resort to humiliating me in front of everyone.” His wife uttered defeatedly. Something in his chest tightened. He did not like that tone. It felt like distance. It shook him…he usually relished in having her defeated, yet he felt no satisfaction. 

“You would rather die?” he asked quietly. Her jaw clenched, she nodded her head, and pulled her hand out of his. The honesty struck like a blade. For the first time that night, the unbothered mask cracked. 

“You are my wife,” he said again. As if trying to once more gain control. But this time the words lacked triumph.

She pulled her hand back, cradling it to her chest. “And you are my husband,” she replied. “Gods help me.” 

She turned away from him then. Not storming. Not weeping. Just… turning. As if she could not bear the sight of his face. And somehow that felt worse. 

Aerion stood in the candlelit chamber, staring at the blood stain on his hands. He had won and had made her feel defeated as he desired. Yet the victory felt hollow. And for the first time in a long while, Aerion Targaryen did not feel entirely certain he was in control. 

The chamber felt smaller. Suddenly, his wife began to laugh. It was soft at first. Then sharper, more hysterically. Aerion’s head snapped up at her, his eyes wide. She pressed her uninjured hand to her mouth as though trying to hold back her laughter. “Gods,” she breathed between uneven chuckles, “I have been around too many Targaryens.”

Her eyes shone too brightly. “Perhaps the madness rubbed off on me. Perhaps I have caught some of your damned family madness.”

Aerion did not answer; he continued to watch her. “Hah,” she let out again, the sound bordering on frantic. “You do not know. You do not know how much work I put into this marriage.” She began pacing near the vanity. 

“For our reputation. For this house. For this damn, stupid family.” Her voice rose and fell unevenly.

“I smile when you dismiss me. I defend you when you are cruel. I temper my tongue so no one may say your wife is wild or ill-made. I sit through councils, through feasts, through endless chatter—shaping how they see us.”

She pointed at herself with a trembling finger, “Me”. She laughed again, though her eyes were wet now. Then she suddenly moved forward, reaching out to him. 

“Gods, I want nothing more than to take this blade and stick it through my throat so I need not endure another moment of being married to you,” She said as she reached out and grabbed the blade from Aerion’s hip quickly. She moved back near the vanity, away from Aerion, and swished the blade around a bit as if admiring it. 

Aerion moved instantly. He closed the distance in two strides and caught her wrist before harshly snatching the blade from her hands. 

“Enough,” he said sharply.

“I work so hard!” she cried. “And you grow angry because I spoke to a lord—one I would have never spoken to had you not abandoned me every single chance you get”. The accusation landed like a thrown dagger.

“You humiliate me in front of everyone. I look like a fool, Aerion! Do you understand that? A stupid, devoted fool!” Her chest rose and fell too quickly now.“The court sees it. They see I love you more than you love me.” She laughed again, and the sound cracked.

“The people do not see how fractured our marriage truly is; they do not see just how much you seem to harbor resentment toward your wife…but they do now…you have not only humiliated me. You have humiliated our house. For what? A childish tantrum?” Her breath trembled. Aerion was silent; he did not move, he listened.  

“I would rather you had waited until we were alone and struck me.” The words froze in the air.

“I would have rather you hit me!” she shouted, voice breaking. “At least that would not have made a spectacle of us!” The chamber went utterly still. 

Aerion moved. He grabbed her wrists, his grip tight and firm to still her pacing. “Do not speak of me striking you,” he said, voice low and dangerous—not in threat, but in offense. She hated how his touch made her heart beat quicken, how it somehow made her feel comforted. Aerion did not let go, even as she weakly tried to pull her wrists free.

“You annoy me so much,” she muttered, the fire draining into something rawer. “So much.” Aerion stared at her. He was processing it all, remembering the words she had spoken so carelessly about ending her own life. 

“You think I have no devotion to you?” he asked quietly. His expression looked offended and hurt. It made his wife's expression falter… why must he make that face… as if she had wounded him, and not the other way around. He exhaled sharply, letting go of her,  turned from her, running a hand through his hair. “You laugh with another man, and you expect me to feel nothing?”

“Yes!” she burst out. “Yes, I expect you to trust me; it was a mere conversation…I'm tired of always being so alone.” The word echoed louder than the others. 

“I do not trust easily,” he admitted, the confession dragged from him like a thorn. She studied him then—not angry, not manic—just worn.

“I have given you no reason not to…you are my husband,” she said tiredly…mentally exhausted from everything. Aerion stood there, uncertain in a way he despised. 

“You will not ever speak again of putting a blade to your throat,” he said quietly.

She lowered her hands. His eyes were steady now—not mocking. 

“I would burn this entire realm before I allowed harm to come to you,” he continued. 

“And yet you burn me yourself,” she replied softly. That hurt him. He did not deny it. She moved to sit at the edge of the bed, and slowly her face saddened at her own words. 

Aerion moved to her…he sank slowly to his knees, not breaking eye contact. He looked up at his wife, bringing her injured hand to his lips. Prince Aerion Targaryen was not a man who lowered himself before anyone…yet here he was on his knees for his wife. 

“Do not ever speak of putting a blade to your throat,” he said again, but this time the words were not merely stern—they were raw and desperate. He reached up suddenly and caught her chin between his fingers. Not gently. Firm. Demanding her.

“Do you hear me?” he pressed. “Do not even jest of it.” 

His wife did not move; she was still caught off guard. She scoffed, looking away. “Aerion—” His hand tightened, and he shook her head a bit. 

“Do not ever hurt yourself as you did just now.”

He lifted her wounded hand slightly, blood dried at the edge of her palm.

“Your hand is already ruined for the week.” His voice roughened.“If you feel anger—strike me. If you feel hurt, curse me. If you must draw blood, draw mine.” His thumb pressed under her chin, lifting her face higher. He leaned his forehead to hers…she could not break eye contact…his eyes were intense. “Kill me before you harm yourself.” 

“You are mine,” he said quietly. “And I do not share what is mine with death.”

Her lips parted slightly at that. He had never spoken like this. Never with urgency that trembled beneath the words.

“You would leave me?” he murmured, barely above a whisper now. “You would abandon me to whispers and ghosts?” She felt the shift in him. The boy beneath the prince. The boy who had grown up with her. The boy who was once a glad child and who liked fishing. 

“I will not hurt myself,” she said, voice steadier now. His grip did not loosen.

“Say it again,” Aerion said firmly. She almost rolled her eyes—but the seriousness in him held her still.

“I will not harm myself,” she repeated. Silence lingered. Aerion searched her eyes. Only then did his grip ease. Her anger vanished…she felt pathetic…for how much she loved him…how he undid all her anger. 

His hand slid down to take her injured palm carefully.“You will scar,” he observed. The blood had slid down her forearms. Maintaining eye contact, Aerion bent once more to his knees…lifting her arm up, his tongue darted out, licking up all the way up to her palm. Her breath hitched…heat rose up her neck. He looked…so pathetic…and oddly submissive. He grabbed her uninjured hand, leaning his cheek on it. 

“You would rather I struck you?” he asked quietly, eyes softening. His wife looked away; she felt as if she continued to stare at him…she would forgive him. 

“Yes, in that moment…I-I said it in anger,” She muttered…it was embarrassing because who would rather be hit by their husband. She just worked so hard to maintain their reputation…to show the public…all was well in their marriage. For since their betrothal…rumors and gossip have always spread…since they were married, had been arranged…since she…was not like other ladies. She felt…as though she owed it to her father…to Maekar do her best to reflect well on their decision and houses.  

“I would never raise my hand to you.” There was no hesitation in his words. None. 

She had loved him. Even when she should not have.

His gaze softened. “Do not leave me,” he said. It was honest and genuine. Her heart stuttered.“I am still here,” she replied. He leaned forward and pressed his lips briefly to her brow, then to her lips. Aerion kissed her fiercely, passionately, as if expressing everything he never shows. She broke the kiss first to breathe. He leaned forward, chasing her lips. His wife couldn’t help but study him. Then, almost cautiously, she lifted her hand and ran her fingers through his silver hair.

“You are behaving strangely,” she murmured, watching him carefully. It was as if he had changed or something clicked in him. He was acting soft. His mouth twitched.

He rolled his eyes faintly, though there was no true annoyance in it.“You are my wife,” he said. As though that explained everything.

“Only you would be my wife,” he continued, his voice lowering. “No other.” Her fingers paused in his hair. 

“My pretty, fucking mad wife,” he added, not unkindly. “You are my match.”

His eyes held hers—steady now, intense without anger. “My soulmate, my flame.” The words settled heavily between them. Soulmate. Flame.

She paused. It was enough to leave her breathless. A warmth crept up her neck, betraying her composure. “You speak strangely tonight…” Her hand moved up to touch his forehead to check if he was ill or fever-driven. 

He clicked his tongue, moving his head at her fussing. “I speak the truth.”

“You also spoke cruelly hours ago.” His wife stated plainly. He did not flinch from it.

“I was angry.”

“You are often angry.” His jaw tightened, but he did not deny it. She looked at him, really looked at him. The man who had left her in the center of a dance floor. Was it now the man who knelt between her knees who was speaking of soulmates?

“You are cruel…and then soft…kind even,” She muttered as if exhausted from juggling his mood swings.  

“I am…not cruel.”

“You humiliated me moments ago.”

“That is not the same.”

“It feels the same.”

A flicker of irritation crossed him—but beneath it lay something else. Frustrated with himself. “I do not know how to be gentle without feeling weak,” he admitted, voice lower now. 

Her brows softened. “Being gentle to one’s wife is not weakness…because we are… meant to be equals.”  Aerion paused. He looked away, his eyebrows furrowed as if trying to understand. She cupped his face gently, her expression soft. 

“You are dangerous when you are tender…what am I to do with you?” She sighed

“Dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Explain.”

She hesitated. “Because I want to believe you.”Aerion kissed her palms. 

“Then believe me.” 

“I do not know which version of you I am speaking to…one moment you are cruel, then kind…” She whispered. 

“I am both,” He exhaled slowly.

 “That is what unsettles me.”

She rubbed her thumb, caressing his cheek and lower lip. Silence followed, settling upon them. 

“I…I do love you…I am devoted to you,” Aerion suddenly declares.  

“And…I love you and am devoted to you…Yet I am human and cannot withstand such… cruelty without breaking at times,” His wife replied.

“I have never loved anyone else as I love you,” he said. He had never desired another for marriage. Never courted another. Never allowed another woman close in the way, he only allowed his wife. She was enough…he could never be bored with her, for she challenges him like no other and makes him feel alive.

“You are mine,” Aerion stated more…both in confession and possessiveness.  

“You’re impossible” 

“And I am yours…I do not say things lightly,” he said, voice steadying. “You are my match. No one else could endure me.”

“That is not romantic,” she said dryly.

“It is true.”

A small smile touched her lips despite herself. He leaned forward and brushed his mouth against hers…slowly.

“You doubt me,” he whispered against her lips.

“I protect myself.” 

He drew back slightly, studying her face.“I will not humiliate you again.” The promise came abruptly. She searched his eyes for any trickery and found none. 

His wife sighed deeply, “You'd better keep your promise.” Her palm throbbed; she had been ignoring it. He noticed her pained expression and began untying the cloth. He frowned at the sight of it. The cut was deeper than either had first believed. The broken mirror shards had sliced clean and cruelly across the heel of her hand. Blood had crusted in thin lines down her wrist. The bleeding had slowed, but the cut gaped unpleasantly. He stood. “You require a maester.”

His wife opened her mouth to deny it. If anyone sees her hand…all sorts of gossip and rumors will spread, damaging their reputation even more.

“You require a maester.” Aerion repeats firmly. 

“Fine.”

You blame your father for what you’re doing now. And on the morrow, after you’ve thoroughly debased yourself, you will be sure to let him know that you feel that way.

Pulling up the hood of your cloak, you duck your face against the harsh rains. Mud squishes beneath your boots as you run up the road toward the local tavern. The people there might likely recognize you. But they won’t be the type to care so much that they’ll fetch your father. 

You only need one night of debauchery. After that, all will be well. If the Gods are good. They haven’t favored you thus far, but perhaps your luck is bound to change. 

The inn’s windows are aglow with light, the crooning song of a bard coming from within. You rush toward the door, pushing it open as you shake rain from your cloak. 

Pushing your hood back, you smile to yourself as you take in the revelry of the night. You’ve heard from many a weary traveler that your village is far more joyous than most. You have Baron Merryweather to thank for that. And if he has his way, in a week's time, they will be thanking you as well. 

Shaking the horrid thoughts away, you step further into the tavern, scanning the crowd. You’re hoping to find an unfamiliar face. Or you’d settle for one you know, but who’s drunk enough to forget your duties. 

While you search, you fail to look ahead. With a pained huff, you find your path cut short as you ram into a solid wall of a man. “Oh,” you groan, clutching your nose as it throbs. Gods be good, how firm was this man that it hurt so much?

With a harsh glare, you cut your eyes toward him and find whatever venom you were going to spew gone. Your eyes trace over him top to tail, warmth stirring within you. He’s tall, taller than most men you’ve met. With thighs thick as a tree trunk and arms you wouldn’t mind sinking your teeth into. 

Not only is he thick as a castle wall, but he’s also staring at you with adorably sheepish eyes. He looks sweet, if not a little dumb, and absolutely someone who wouldn’t know your name. 

“Apologies Ser. I don’t know how I could have missed a man quite so… large,” you purr, hardly hiding the attraction in your voice. 

Your brows raise as he continues to stare at you. His lips part, cheeks flushing, but little comes out. Your eyes drop to the boy at his legs. He offers you an embarrassed smile before kicking the man in the shins. 

“Egg,” he hisses, finally broken from his stupor as he glares at the boy. Egg gestures toward you and the giant’s eyes find yours again. “Oh, pardon, m’lady.”

“No pardon necessary, the fault is mine. Perhaps I might make it up to you with an ale?” You were laying it on thick. Too thick for any other man. But he seemed easily distracted by a pretty smile. 

“Oh,” he stuttered over his words and shook his head. “That won’t be needed- Egg! You kick me again and I’ll clout your ear,” he scowled down at the boy and you bit back a laugh. 

“An ale would be nice, madam,” the boy directed toward you. 

“You can’t even finish a pint,” the man pointed out, still glaring at him. 

“It’s really my pleasure, Ser…” you trail off, smiling softly. 

“Dunk,” he tells you, narrowly dodging another kick. “Duncan,” he quickly corrects, grabbing the boy by his neck and redirecting him toward their table. “Off with you,” he growls, pushing him away. 

“Your brother?” You ask, stepping further into the tavern until Dunk has no choice but to follow you. 

“Squire,” he corrects with a grumble. 

“You’re a proper knight?” You ask, eying him and seeing no sword nor shield. 

“A, uh, hedge knight,” he corrects, almost seeming ashamed. 

“I meant no offense, Ser. A hedge knight is a knight, the same as all the others. I only meant to see if you fight under a Lord’s banners?” 

More specifically, how much does he know about Baron Merryweather?

“No lord, m'lady, just me and Egg.”

You hum, grabbing a mug for him and yourself. He takes it from you and your eyes widen at just how small it looks in his palm. For once, you were right; it seemed the Gods were looking favorably upon you tonight. 

“Interesting. Most men who pass through are sellswords or farmers. We rarely get the virtuous and honorable. Are you an honorable man, Ser?”

Dunk frowned into his cup before nodding. He lifted his eyes to yours, puffing his chest more confidently. “Aye, I believe so. I try to be, at least.”

“Hm,” you hum into your mug. “Even trying seems to be a rare quality these days.” Perhaps you’re being too obvious. But Dunk seems to have already indulged in his cups. He’s less likely to look into each vague query of yours. 

You move away from the bar and Dunk follows you to a table. Taking a seat on the bench, you let out a little laugh as Dunk plops down right beside you. He seems a mite tipsy and unaware of proper decorum. Something that would likely work in your favor. Once you’d gotten a few cups deep yourself and actually worked up the nerve to ask him to bed you, of course. 

“What brings you here?” You ask him, nails drumming along the table as you decide how to go about this. It is of the utmost importance that you are bedded by dawn. Perhaps even letting him spill inside if you feel so desperate. 

But you don’t feel right just outright asking the man to fuck you. That seems far too crass. And far too bold considering how incredibly sober you still are. 

Intent on rectifying that, you tip your head back, letting the ale pour down your throat. Dunk's eyes are wide as he watches you, an impressed gleam in them. 

“Do you mind, Ser?” You ask, passing him your empty cup. Dunk shakes his head and gets to his feet, heading toward the bar. A warmth has begun to settle in you when the door to the tavern bursts open. 

Two guards pass through, head swiveling about with too much intent to be coincidence. Cursing, you jump to your feet, racing toward the bar. “Do you have a room?” You ask Dunk, ignoring how he jumps at your sudden presence. 

“Aye, I’m sharing it with the boy,” he tells you, brows furrowed. 

You whip toward the innkeep and she shoots you a glare. “This is a horrid idea, girl.”

You slap a coin harshly on the counter. “A room, woman,” you grit out. She shakes her head and passes you a key. No sooner is it in your hand are you grabbing Dunk's sleeve and dragging him toward the stairs. 

“What’s going on?” He demands. You ignore him, using his body to block your face from the guards as you swipe a pitcher of ale from a passing table. 

“Nothing,” you turn to him with a frazzled smile. “But it’s so loud down here. Wouldn’t you like to speak somewhere a little quieter?”

Dunk doesn’t seem to catch on to your insinuation as he shakes his head. “Gods,” you groan, hauling his thick body up the stairs behind you. “Just come along, Ser. I have plans for you.”

“Plans? Pardon, m’lady, but I-“

“Hush,” you chide, tugging him into the room and firmly shutting the door behind him. Dunk stumbles, the mead in his hand sloshing over the edge. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been rather forward, Ser.” You undo your cloak and toss it on the chair beside the fireplace. “But I wondered how you might feel about bedding me?”

“B- bedding?” Dunk sputtered over your proposition. And you probably should have softened such a blunt approach. But panic is encroaching on your senses and you can only think of the guards below you both who might soon knock upon doors to oust you. 

Slowly, you make your way toward him. He doesn’t back away, but he still seems hesitant. You slip your hand around his, easing the ale from his grip and downing the rest before putting the jug aside. He watches you with wide eyes as you tug lightly at the laces of your dress. 

“Well?”

Dunk's eyes are trained on your breasts, pale cheeks flushed as he swallows, snapping his gaze back to yours. “What?”

You laugh a little at his nerves, taking his hands in your own and guiding them to your bodice. “Do you find me desirable, Ser?”

“Yes,” he whispers. You smile coyly at him and tug at his hold, urging him to finish what you started. 

His fingers tremble slightly as they tug at the laces of your dress, eyes trained on your breasts. The palm of his hand is large enough to cup them whole. You try to keep your mind from straying to what else of him might be so large, but it is truly the only thing in your head. 

You knew that losing your maidenhead would be a mite uncomfortable. But you imagine it might be worse with a man so large.  

“You’re sure about this, m’lady?”

“Hm?” Your eyes snap back up to Dunk and you frown. “Of course.”

“It’s just, you seem… nervous, I suppose.”

“Well, you must admit, you are quite large. Your size would be daunting to any woman.” Dunk frowns and you reach up to take his hands. The very ones he seems to have forgotten are resting on your breasts. 

“I am entirely sure about this, Ser, relax.” Odd, that you’re the one calming the knight, considering you’re the one about to be defiled. No matter, a shy man is all the better than a cruel one. 

You guide his hands back to your dress, reaching for his breeches. He gives a firm nod before undoing your laces and tugging the collar of your dress down. You swallow thickly, pulling at his pants and immediately freezing at what rests between them. 

“Gods,” you mutter. Dunk dips his head, claiming your lips as he tugs the sleeves from your arms. You’re grateful for the distraction, not interested in lingering long on the sheer girth of what’s supposed to fit within you. 

How do whores do this? You wonder.

His calloused hands smooth along the planes of your body, squeezing at your waist before your dress is pooling on the floor. You hold tight to his arms, stepping free from it as you lead him toward the bed. 

Dunk’s knees hit the edge and he sits obediently, hands smoothing around your hips as he stares up at you. He seems to be fine doing things on your terms, which makes it easier but even more overwhelming. 

“I must admit, I have not done this often.”

“No,” he grins a little, hands dropping to your thighs. You jolt at how he squeezes, warmth filling you. With such grace you hardly notice, Dunk urges you forward, leading you until you’re sitting on his lap. “You’re quite bold, then.”

“I try to be,” you offer. “So,” you’re not sure there’s any good way to ask how you’re meant to begin. Dunk seems to understand your hesitation well enough. 

And for a man with comments about your own boldness, he certainly doesn’t hesitate to dip his hand between your legs. “Oh,” your hips jolt forward at the rough feel of his fingers gliding through your slick. You bite your lip, afraid of what embarrassing sounds might escape you. 

“‘Nough of that,” Dunk scolds, hand coming up to tug your lip from between your teeth. His fingers delve a little deeper this time, a shallow dip into your opening that does have a strange sound escaping you. He seems to like it well enough, laughing slightly as he kisses you again. 

You're grateful for the distraction from what he's doing to you. Such quick enjoyment is surprising. The stories you’ve heard from others all seem to revolve around men being fast and the women with nothing but newfound soreness between their thighs. 

“Ser,” you pull back, slightly breathless as you smile. “Would you mind if I…” your hands prod at his shoulders and he nods, dropping back against the pillows. You plant your hands on his chest, shifting higher up his legs as you get yourself comfortable. 

Dunk waits until you’re still, head dropping to kiss him once more, to slowly insert one thick finger inside of you. It’s enough to still you completely, breath hitched as you get used to the foreign sensation. It’s almost like a pressure, one move away from simply combusting. Dunk doesn’t note your hesitation very well, alcohol still thick on his tongue as he kisses you. 

You wish you’d been able to get another ale before the guards had come in. Perhaps with a proper buzz about your brain, you’d be able to think a little less. 

Your hips move in tandem with his hand, slowly accustoming yourself to the rhythm as you begin to grow used to the feeling. But just as soon as it feels less intrusive, he brings his thumb up to your core, swiping clumsy circles over your bundle of nerves. 

“Gods,” you gasp against his lips, hips jolting roughly. 

“This alright?” He mutters, his free hand swiping your hair from your shoulder as he kisses a messy line down your neck. 

“Mm” you release a high pitched hum and simply nod. “Very good,” you squeak, legs beginning to tremble slightly at the effort it takes to hold yourself up. 

Something begins to build inside you. It ebbs and flows, building upon that pressure in your core. Your hips chase the feeling, teeth bite your lip bloody as you suck in a sharp breath. But just as it begins to crest, Dunk pulls his hand away and you're left cold. 

“Ser,” you gasp, surprising yourself with your own irritation. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, frowning slightly. “You just don’t look very comfortable.”

“Well,” you take in the strain on your hips and reluctantly nod. “Perhaps not.” 

“Here,” the ease with which Dunk flips you over is staggering. But you shouldn’t expect anything less from such a big man. He kneels between your legs, now, large hands keeping your thighs spread as he positions himself between them. 

This is it, then. The moment you finally become a true woman. 

Perhaps you’re less prepared than you thought. Your eyes clench shut as you suck in a deep breath, fists balling into the sheets. 

Dunk pauses, hands stilling along your legs. You wait for the inevitable, the sharp pain between your legs or the feeling of being split in two. But it doesn’t come. Peaking an eye open, you see Dunk staring down at you with a furrow in his brow. 

“Are you… Are you a maiden, m’lady?” Your lips part, no clever lie coming in time. Dunk jerks back like he’s been burned. He throws himself down on the end of the bed, hastily grabbing a pillow and attempting to cover his lap. And the sword that rests between those legs. 

“Ser-“

“You misled me, lady. I didn’t think you to be untouched.”

With a huff, you sit up, settling yourself beside him and trying to ignore just how naked the pair of you are. “I did not intend to trick you, Ser. It’s just- The men in the village and those that pass through it are not good men. I saw you and there was something about you that made me think you were the last good man I would see for a long time."

You turn to him, cupping his cheek and tilting his head so he might meet your eye. “I didn’t intend to lie, sweet knight. I just thought you might be the right sort of man to help me understand what it means to be a woman. You seem to have a kind enough touch. I did not think I would fear pain at your hands.”

He remains silent for a moment before finally lifting his blue eyes to meet your own. “Do you? Fear pain?”

“No,” you tell him softly. Slowly, you reach over and tug at the pillow in his lap. It slips from his grip easily, and you mount his legs, taking its place. “I do not fear you, sweet knight. Do you fear me?”

Dunk lets out a little scoff and shakes his head. You reach for his wrists and plant them low on your hips. “Then touch me again, Dunk. Show me what a proper lover is.”

His brows furrow and you nod your head encouragingly. His hands hover over you before you kiss him again, hoping to ease his worries. Slowly, they drop back to your hips, squeezing, before he’s tugging you closer. 

Your breath hitches are your core catches along the tip of his cock. His own hips jolt at the noise, thick fingers tightening around your curves until you think the imprints of him might haunt you for the next few nights. Chasing the pleasurable feeling of what you hadn’t been able to finish before, you grind your hips down harder, canting them at an angle so you can drag along more of him. 

He lets out a sweet-sounding groan, the husky noise like oil to the flames of your lust. “I want you to feel good,” he whispers. Some part of you warms at the care in his voice. The earnest truth he holds within his blue eyes. 

The Gods had blessed you tonight. With a true knight and a good man. “Alright,” you nod, pulling back and admiring the glossy sheen along his lip from how thoroughly he’s kissed you. “Show me.”

Dunk needs no further encouragement. His arms tighten under your thighs and you let out a short squeal as he stands, carrying you as if you were hardly burdensome at all. He kneels on the bed, lowering you carefully and keeping your legs hooked around his hips. You keep your eyes on his, not wanting to look down and see what would happen. 

Despite hardly knowing him, you do trust him. You trust that he’ll do his best to ease the discomfort. Besides, your pleasure has been taunted and ripped away from you enough that you’re painfully needy for him to just be inside you. 

Dunk’s eyes dart up to yours once more before he slowly begins to ease his way inside you. It does sting; it’s not entirely pleasant as he has to practically bully himself within untouched walls. “Are you alright?” He asks, pulling back like he might try to leave. 

“Please,” you tighten your legs around him, hands drifting up to his shoulders as you nod. “Don’t stop,” it’s an effort to keep the grimace off your face as he nods, slowly continuing. But you cannot take this agonizing wait much longer, the sting has begun to subside. The pain makes way for something more pleasurable. And your patience snaps. 

You buck your hips up, aiding him and he lets out a low noise that has shivers racing along your spine. “Don’t,” he mutters. His head dips between his shoulders and he lets out a shaky sigh. “Bloody hell, you’re tight.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, hands tracing their way from his well-rounded shoulders up to his jaw. “Please, Dunk,” you abandon the formalities of his knightly title, finally, and tilt your hips once more. There is a heavy pressure inside of you, building and mounting the longer he sits within you. You cannot take it. You need something to make this infuriating pressure release. 

Dunk nods and begins moving his hips. Slowly at first, before the tight pull of your walls is too enchanting for him to resist. You toss your head back, teeth gritted as a low moan escapes you while the sting completely disappears.

There is nothing left of your mind. Nothing left of you but this heavy feeling of him inside you. This even heavier feeling of his weight atop yours, pressing you further into the mattress as his rough hands tilt your pelvis up toward him. 

You can feel the pleasure growing, like a tingle along your tongue, trickling down your throat and blooming across every nerve as you begin to match his movements. Unpracticed hips, clumsy as they try to chase the mounting release he had denied you not so long ago. 

“Gods,” he grunts low in your ear, soft sounds that you hadn’t expected from such a large man. But they only serve to entice you further. Your nails dig into his skin as his hands greedily trace over your body. Enjoying every inch you allow him access to. 

When the pleasure begins to grow into something overwhelming, an alien feeling you had not encountered before, you search for something to sink your teeth into. Something to ease some of the pressure. His arm is particularly enticing as you lean forward, digging the blunt ends of your teeth into him as the pressure finally explodes. 

Pleasure, blinding and so unfamiliar, bursts through your body. It numbs the tips of your toes and lingers until you feel like every nerve is alive with only the feeling of him. At the tight pulse of your walls, his hips begin to lose their rhythm, his grunts and groans growing breathier, heavier in your ear as he reaches his own peak. And when you begin to feel him pull away, the entire purpose of your trip to the inn returns to you with shocking clarity. 

Your feet lock around his hips, your walls tighten until you can feel the warmth of him spill inside you, filling you completely before spilling between your legs and messing the sheets. Dunk's arms tighten around you as he falls onto his side. You let out a shuddering breath, temple damp with sweat as he rolls you with him. 

He remains inside you a while longer, a feeling you welcome as your core still aches with this new pleasure you doubt you will ever taste so strongly again.

“That…” you shake your head, trailing off as you bury your face in his chest. You have no words and no proper amount of thanks that will ever show him just how grateful you are to him. How grateful you are for what freedom he has provided you tonight. Even if he does not know. 

A clumsy hand brushes some hair from your cheek and you glance back up at him. He wears a sheepish smile, his other palm smoothing along the side of your waist. “Are you alright? Do you hurt much?”

A smile pulls at your lips, unbidden, and you shake your head. “You were perfect, my sweet knight,” you promise, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Just as I knew you would be.”

Dunk’s already flushed face seems to burn brighter as he pulls you closer. You should have known he would not be like another man. He would not simply kick you from his bed once the deed was done. But you are still filled with warmth as you wrap your arms around him in turn. 

Your head lay on his chest for a few hours more, until you could see the beginnings of morning light starting to seep through the clouds. He has long since slept, his breathing deep and even beneath you. But you could not, deciding to instead enjoy the last few hours of your life before you return home. 

Sadly, you can delay no further. You attempt to slip from Dunk’s hold, but the man is twice as thick as a castle wall. The weight of his arm across you proves a valiant foe as you writhe and turn, trying to escape without waking him up. By the time you manage, you can already hear the songbirds greeting one another with their morning tune. 

“Gods,” you hiss, rushing through the room and hastily recollecting your clothes. You draw your dress on, fingers rapidly doing up the laces, before tossing on your cloak. You run to the door and gingerly pull it open before pausing. You turn and give Dunk one last look, the sweet set of his face and his hair mussed from sleep. 

“Farewell, sweet knight,” you whisper, before slipping back into the shadows. 

“Ser! Ser!” 

Dunk jolts up, head pounding from too much ale the night before. And stress. 

That wild woman, dragging him up to her rooms like some barbarian. He can’t say he didn’t enjoy himself. But rarely does he meet a woman so bold. 

He runs a hand through his hair, glancing around the room and frowning. You’ve gone, your dress and cloak gone with you. The spot you had been lying is cold beside him. It’s not as if he had expected you to stay to break your fast. But he still can’t help the disappointment that sours his mood. 

Egg pounds on the door some more and Dunk groans, tugging on his pants, and throwing it open. “What?” he snaps. 

Egg stands before him, arms crossed and face unimpressed. “You told me to wake you at dawn. I have tried all morning, and you’ve just lain in bed like a lump. Let’s go, Ser!”

Egg races back down the stairs and Dunk scoffs. The boy seems to forget he’s meant to be Dunk’s squire, not the other way around. Dunk can’t even count how many times Ser Arlan left him waiting in the stables after a night with a woman. At least Egg had his own room to rest in last night. 

With a low grumble, Dunk dresses and heads outside. Egg is already waiting with the horses, holding the reins as he huffs and puffs at Dunk’s slow pace. His stomach is full of nothing but ale and whatever pitiful meal he ate last night. He doubts they’ll be making much progress getting through the Reach today. 

“Alright, boy,” he grumbles. “On with ya.” Egg sucks in a sharp breath and nods, proudly leading the horses forward. Dunk might try to take Thunder from him, but the damnable horse seems to like the squire better than he does his own master. 

Dunk and Egg are almost through the village when they hear it. The loud screech of a woman and then a man screaming, “You whore!”

Dunk pauses, hand on the hilt of his sword as he turns toward the noise. A fine enough stone house, just behind him, hosts a fat, old man on the porch. His face is burning red, eyes near bulging from his skull as he drags a woman by her hair from the house. She lets out a pained noise as he tosses her into the mud. 

Her head lifts, eyes vengeful and full of fury. Dunk startles, pulling back when he realizes he recognizes her. “Ser,” Egg starts. “Isn’t that the lady from last night?”

“It is,” Dunk mutters, already moving toward you. Egg lingers behind him, keeping the horses calm as the man continues to shout. 

“You have ruined everything! All that I’ve done for you-”

“For you, father,” you spat back at him. He lifts his hand, the back of his palm cracking against your cheek so harshly that you fall back to the mud. 

“That’s enough, sir,” Dunk calls, racing over toward you. Your head lifts, eyes wide in surprise. 

“Ser?” You mutter. 

“I will thank you to stay out of this,” your father hisses at Dunk. Eyeing him disdainfully. “This is a matter between me and my whore of a daughter.”

“Yes, your whore of a daughter,” you laugh, taking the hand that Dunk holds out to you and getting to your feet. You stumble, the hem of your dress weighed down by the thick layer of mud coating you. “Exactly what I would have been if I’d let you marry me to the baron!”

“He would have saved us!” Your father snaps, lifting his hand again. 

Dunk steps between the two of you and the old man falters. “I don’t know what’s going on here-”

“No, you don’t!” Your father snaps, leaning around Dunk to glare at you. 

“But,” Dunk continues, voice firm as he glares down at the old man. “You hit her again and I’ll take your hand,” he threatens. You let out a small gasp behind him as color drains from your father. 

“How about you take her?” Your father hisses. “Since you seem to enjoy her so badly.” He tosses a bag at your feet and storms back into his home, the door slamming behind him. Dunk turns toward you, immediately, hands hovering over you as he takes in the steadily growing welt on your face. 

“Are you alright?”

You grimace and spit blood into the mud, rubbing your jaw. “Fine enough. I believe you have saved me once again, Ser. I’m in your debt.”

Dunk shakes his head, bending to pick up the bag and hand it to you. You mutter a quiet thanks, eyes trained on the ground as you wad up the material in your hands. “What’s happened?” He asks. 

You suck in a sharp breath and offer him a cold smile. “Would you mind escorting me from town? I’ll tell you on the way.” He frowns, confused by the request, but nods, offering you his arm as you struggle in your mud-heavy skirt. 

“Here, lady,” he offers, taking the bag from you so you might be able to lift your skirts and walk easier. You send him an appreciative smile, not speaking until you’re back with the horses and Egg. 

“Where to start,” you mutter to yourself, ignoring the odd look Dunk and Egg exchange behind your back. “The baron that rules this land is generous in all ways except in kindness,” you tell him, glancing over your shoulder to ensure you hold his attention.

“He has gone through five young wives in the past two years, none of them lasting long enough to bear him his heir. My father sold my hand to him for a rather sizeable dowry. I did not intend to die at the hands of that man. I apologize, Ser, but when you and I…”

You trail off, shooting him a suggestive look. “Fucked?” Dunk offers. 

“Gods above,” your eyes shoot wide and you glance over at Egg. “I was trying to spare the child, man.”

“Pardon, ma’am, but I rarely ever get a room to myself. I’m no fool,” Egg tells you with a knowing look. 

Your brow furrows and you shake your head. “Fine, then. Yes, when we lay together, it was to sully my reputation and virtue. To spoil myself before the baron took me as his sixth wife.” You glance up through your lashes, lips falling into something apologetic. “I am sorry, Ser. I do not mean to make you feel used or lied to. Truly, it was the only way to escape this hellish village.”

Dunk glances down at his boots, letting out a low sigh. Being lied to is never a grand feeling, but he is not hurt nor offended. Merely upset with himself that he failed to see you were hiding something. Perhaps he could have helped you without you having to sully yourself with him. 

“Where will you go now?” Egg asks. 

You cast your eyes back to Dunk before shaking your head. “I have nowhere to go. I doubt my father even put enough coin in that bag to buy myself a meal at the next inn.”

Egg glances between you and Dunk before smiling. “You should travel with us, ma’am.”

“Egg,” Dunk hisses, glaring at the boy. 

You offer him a sorry smile. “I do not want to impose on either of your travels, lad. But thank you. No, I suppose I will just have to wander,” you briefly glance toward Dunk before letting out a weary sigh. “Trade what I can for food and shelter. Trade myself if I have to. One must do all they can to survive-”

“You should travel with us,” Dunk interrupts, the guilt of your musings lying heavy on his shoulders. He does not enjoy the idea of you having to sell yourself on the side of the road for a measly piece of bread. 

You clap your hands together, eagerly smiling up at him. “Truly, Ser?” With a low huff and a slight grimace, he nods, seeing no other choice in the matter. Not with the way you and his impish squire have backed him into such an uncomfortable corner. 

“I swear, I will not be a burden upon you. Except…” you laugh slightly and offer a small smile. “I do not know how to build a fire. Or fish or hunt. And most skills you need for this life, I lack. But, if you teach me, I swear that it will be like I am not even here!”

Dunk lets out a low groan, rubbing his brows as he shakes his head. You and Egg both watch him expectantly before he finally lifts his gaze to yours. You trip over the hem of your skirt, struggling through the mud in your slippers. 

“Why don’t you sit on Thunder? So your legs don’t tire?” He offers, holding his hand out to you. 

“Oh, thank you, you are too kind to me, truly.”

“Nonsense,” he mutters, taking your waist in his hands and helping you onto the horse. 

“Ser, my legs are growing quite tired-”

“Good,” Dunk glares down at Egg. “A squire should be strong. A bit of pain will toughen you up.” Egg lets out a belligerent huff, glaring over at Dunk before stubbornly marching ahead. A gentle hand lands on Dunk’s shoulder and he looks over at you. 

“Thank you, Ser,” you whisper, an earnest appreciation in your eyes. “I owe my life to you.”

“No,” Dunk pats your hand, unsure how he’s meant to treat you now. “You don’t, m’lady.”

An impish look passes across your face as you withdraw your hand. His shoulder feels cold without the touch.

“Hm,” you hum. “I will find a way to repay you. One you will much appreciate,” you swear, and that gleam in your eyes sends a hot rush of blood to his cheeks.

The laugh you let out has him worrying over what sort of a woman he’s just invited to his company. He supposes he’ll find out soon enough. 

a/n: I don’t know if you guys have noticed yet but talking + sex = not my forte lol

It’s been so long since I’ve written smut that I fear I’ve lost my touch, but I will brave that embarrassment for a bite of this beefy man (my uterus has sent me into my monthly bout of lust if ya couldn’t tell😭)

Belle’s currently feeling:

end. — I do not own the characters or the show A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

He watches Lucas hold Max like she’s something precious, something breakable and worth the effort. And Steve—Steve remembers what it felt like to hold you like that. To be held like that. Before the ground split open and swallowed you whole.

Eighteen months, he should’ve moved on by now. Or at least the ache should’ve dulled.

Eighteen months, and he still sees you in the corner of his vision when he’s not looking for you. Still hears your laugh in the static between radio channels. Still finds your hoodie buried in the backseat of his car and can’t bring himself to wash it, like the scent of you might still be clinging to the fabric.

He tells himself it’s just grief. Just guilt. Just the way things are when you lose someone you love in a town that eats people alive.

But then he dreams. He dreams of you standing in a big house in a dress you’d never willingly wear. Smile too porcelain too far from your actual smile. Too forced.

And your eyes—God, your eyes—are wrong. Not empty, not exactly. Just… distant. Like you’re looking through him, not at him. Like you’re somewhere else entirely, trapped behind glass he can’t break.

You move like you’re on strings, graceful and hollow, and when you speak, it’s not your voice. It’s softer. Sweeter. Like someone taught you how to sound nice.

He always wakes up before he can reach you.

Sometimes he calls your name in the dream. Sometimes he doesn’t dare. Because deep down, he’s not sure what’s worse: you not hearing him… or you turning around and not recognizing him at all.

And when he jolts awake, sweat-damp and shaking, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if it’s just a nightmare. Or if it’s a memory. Not his. But yours. It’s insane. He knows that. He’s never been in that house, never seen those rooms, never watched you move like a stranger in your own skin. But he knows it. Feels it in the pit of his stomach, in the marrow of his bones. Like a bruise he didn’t earn but still aches. Robin listens when he talks about the dreams. The ones where you’re there, but not really. Where your smile is too polished, your voice too sweet, your eyes too far away. Where you wear dresses you’d never choose, and pour tea for people who don’t exist.

He hates the look she gives him when he talks like that. Not disbelief—worse. Pity. Like she’s already decided he’s grieving too hard, seeing ghosts in the static.

But he hates the silence more.

Robin doesn’t do silence. Not really. She’s a constant hum of commentary, of nervous jokes and half-formed theories. But when he talks about you, she gets quiet. Not completely—she still fidgets, still mutters things under her breath—but the words don’t come as easily. Like she’s afraid that if she says the wrong thing, she’ll break him.

He doesn’t blame her. He wouldn’t know what to say either.

Because how do you comfort someone who’s convinced they’re dreaming someone else’s pain?

How do you tell your best friend he doesn’t sound crazy when you’re not sure you believe him?

Max doesn’t tell anyone at first.

Not because she doesn’t want to. God, she wants to. The words claw at her throat every time Steve looks at her with that hollow ache in his eyes. truth is, there’s nothing they can do.

That’s the part that keeps her up at night. That’s the part that makes her stomach twist and her hands shake when she thinks too hard about it. You’re not just gone. You’re not just lost. You’re trapped. Somewhere deep in the folds of Vecna’s mind, buried in the rotting architecture of his memories, you’re living a life that isn’t yours. A life he built for you. A lie he’s forced you to believe.

And the worst part—the part that makes Max want to scream—is that you don’t even know you’re a prisoner.

You smile like you mean it. You laugh like you’re in love. You wear those awful dresses and pour tea and call him “darling” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you don’t remember who you are. Like you don’t remember them. Like you don’t remember Steve.

She still saw you standing beside him if she closed her eyes for too long

Vecna, though he didn’t look like Vecna. Not in that place. Not in that dream. He looked like a man. Polished. Charming. A caricature of a husband from some 1950s sitcom. all pressed slacks and warm smiles and hands that never left your waist.

Max had been stuck there for eighteen months and every time he left she watched you silently, Silently. Helplessly. Like a ghost haunting a ghost. she didn’t know what else to do to scream at you. To grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you remembered. Until you saw the cracks in the wallpaper, the rot beneath the floorboards, the way the light never changed.

But you didn’t see it.

You didn’t want to.

Because he’d made you believe this was happiness. That this was safety. That this was love.

Max wasn’t going to say anything at all that was until the plan was created the one where they’d go up, to go back to save the children. That was when max decided that finally it was time to talk to Steve, she rehearsed it about a million times before asking Lucas to leave the room deciding it was best to tell Steve alone, Lucas hesitated, but he saw something in her eyes. Something brittle. Something final. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before slipping out the door, leaving her alone with the one person she wasn’t sure she could face.

Steve leaned against the wall, arms crossed, brow raised in that familiar way that said he was trying to play it cool but already bracing for impact.

“What’s this about, Red?” he asked, voice light but wary.

Max opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“I—uh…” she faltered, her voice catching in her throat. She looked down at her lap, at her hands—still, useless, folded like broken wings in her lap. “Just… give me a second.”

Steve didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited. Patient. Present. Like he always was.

And that made it worse.

Because what she was about to say would shatter him.

“y/n’s alive”

Steve froze. His expression didn’t shift at first—just a blink, a twitch of his jaw—but then his eyes darkened, something sharp and dangerous flickering behind them.

“Don’t fuck with me, Max,” he said, voice low and tight.

He stared at her, searching her face for any sign of a joke, a cruel twist, a hallucination. But Max just looked wrecked. Pale and trembling and deadly serious.

“She’s not dead, Steve,” she said, softer now. “She’s trapped. In his mind. In Vecna’s world. He’s got her living some kind of weird life and she thinks it’s real”

Steve’s breath hitched. “What kind of life?”

Max hesitated. “She thinks she’s married to him.”

Steve’s face crumpled, just for a second. Then he turned away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like he could scrub the image from his brain.

“She thinks she’s happy,” Max whispered. “But it’s not real. It’s not her. He’s rewritten everything.”

Steve let out a shaky breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because to get out… she has to want to. She has to choose it. And she just… doesn’t.”

Steve’s head snapped up. “Bullshit.”

“Steve—”

“No,” he said, louder now, voice fraying at the edges. “That’s bullshit. She’d want to come back. To her family. To her life. To me.”

Max flinched. “I thought the same thing. I wanted to believe that. But it’s not that simple.”

“She wouldn’t just stay,” Steve insisted, pacing now, hands raking through his hair. “She wouldn’t just forget everything and play house with that monster.”

“She didn’t choose this,” Max said, her voice cracking. “He took her. He broke her down, piece by piece. He didn’t just trap her—he rewrote her. He made her forget. All of it. Her parents. Her friends. You.”

Steve stopped pacing. “She doesn’t remember me?”

Max shakes her head “i’m sorry” she sighs “but he’s been sloppy okay? She knew I was in the woods and she send Holly out there to find me, which means she’s still in there. She hasn’t given up. She’s saveable”

Steve looked up at her, eyes glassy but burning with something fierce. “Then we can get her out.”

Max nodded. “We can. But you have to be the one to do it.”

“Why me?”

“Okay so you know how I was able to escape through a portal?”

Steve nods “yes because of the music”

“Yes, but no. Music works sure but more powerful is touch. When Lucas held my hand in the hospital I no longer needed music. You have to be there, Steve,” Max said, slower this time. “Not just physically. There. In front of her. Close enough to touch her. Close enough for her to feel it.”

Steve nods quickly “yes—yes of course”

Max hesitated. She watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders were drawn tight, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding something back. “Are you okay?”

Steve nodded again, lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Sure, Red. Don’t worry about me.”

“Steve…”

“I’m fine,” he said, too fast. Then he laughed, but it was hollow, brittle. “I mean, this is just—insane. All of it. I’ve been dreaming about her, y’know? For months. In this weird fifties clothing. Like she’s stepped out of some black-and-white sitcom. Hair curled, apron on, smiling like she’s hosting a dinner party.”

Max’s breath caught, but she didn’t interrupt.

“She always looks so… perfect,” Steve went on, his voice growing quieter. “Too perfect. Like someone painted her. Like she’s been polished down to this… this version of herself that doesn’t even have edges anymore. And I’d just stand there, in the doorway, watching her pour tea or fold laundry”

He dragged a hand over his face, his fingers trembling. “I thought it was just my brain screwing with me. Like I missed her so much I was inventing new ways to torture myself.”

“It wasn’t your brain,” Max said gently. “It was her. I don’t know exactly how that work but it must be her”

He stared at her, and she could see the war behind his eyes. The fear. The hope. The ache.

“You know,” she added softly, “it’s okay not to be okay. I just dumped a lot on you.”

Steve let out a breath, shaky and uneven. “Yeah. Yeah, you did.”

I’d hug you,” she said, trying for lightness, “but, y’know… I still can’t move. Well, anything. So if you want that hug, you’re gonna have to come over here and earn it.”

Steve let out a soft, surprised chuckle.

He crouched beside her wheelchair, arms wrapping around her carefully, gently, like she might break. Max leaned into it as much as she could, her cheek brushing his shoulder, her breath catching just a little.

“Thank you,” Steve murmured, voice rough against her hair

“Don’t thank me, let’s just get her out of there. I mean those dresses? If y/n could see herself wearing those she’d throw up”

Steve let out a soft, broken laugh against her shoulder, the sound catching somewhere between amusement and grief. He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes still glassy but now glinting with something warmer—something like gratitude.

“God, you’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “She’d lose her mind. Lace collars? Pastels? She almost broke up with me once because when we were in the store i suggested a plaited sundress”

Max laughed “no you didn’t”

Steve nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips as the memory surfaced. “She said—and I quote—‘Do I look like I’m auditioning for a toothpaste commercial?’ Then she told me if I ever tried to dress her like a picnic blanket again, she’d revoke my—” He paused, clearing his throat, suddenly sheepish. “—my hand-holding privileges for a month.”

Max raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching. “Oh, your hand-holding privileges? Wow. That’s what we’re calling it now?”

Steve shot her a look, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t start.”

Max leaned back in her chair, arms crossed—well, as much as she could manage. “Do I look like an idiot, Harrington?”

He smirked. “You look like a child.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” Steve said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, “if Sinclair ever even thinks about doing more than hand-holding with you, I expect a phone call. Immediately.”

“I’m glad that you’re still the same Steve” max smiles

“yea well, can’t improve perfection can you?”

Max rolls her eyes “dick” she mutters

———-

twelve kids, you enjoyed the company really. You felt less alone when Henry left the house to do whatever. He never did tell you what he was up to. But something tugged at your chest every time you watched the children. A quiet, persistent ache. Like a thread pulling tighter and tighter with each passing day. Something was wrong. You didn’t know how you knew it, but you did.

They shouldn’t be here.

“Henry?” You asked sweetly, He looked up from his book, smiling that soft, practiced smile.

“Yes, darling?”

You hesitated, then forced the words out. “Where are their parents?”

He blinked, just once. “What do you mean?”

“Their parents,” you repeated, slower this time. “Won’t they miss them?”

Henry’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind his eyes shifted—like a door quietly closing. “They’re safe here,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

You nodded, but your stomach twisted. Safe. It didn’t feel like safety. It felt like a story you’d been told too many times.

And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, a thought slipped through the cracks of your carefully constructed world.

Where are my parents?

You blinked. Tried to picture them. A face. A voice. A name.

Nothing.

Did you even have them?

You looked down at your hands, suddenly unsure of their shape. Of your own name. Of how long you’d been here. Of when you’d stopped asking questions. You weren’t born here, you couldn’t have been. But you were born so sure you must have a mother and a father.

“Mrs whatsit!” One of the kids called running over to you, you turned “yes dear?”

“Derek is hogging the swing again!”

“I’ll go check to see if i can do something about it alright?”

He nodded and scampered off, already victorious.

You stepped out into the garden, the air unnaturally still. The sky was a perfect, painted blue, the kind that never changed. The roses were in bloom—again. Always. Their petals never wilted.

And there, beneath the arbor, sat Derek. His glasses were slightly askew, and his striped sweater looked too warm for the weather. He sat on the swing, legs dangling, hands folded in his lap, staring down at something you couldn’t see.

“Hello, sweetheart,” you called softly as you approached.

He didn’t look up. “If you’re here to tell me to share, I’m invoking my right to remain silent.”

You nod calmly “alright”

Then Derek looked up “that’s it?”

“Well if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you i can’t help you”

He scoffed “nothing is ‘bothering’ me”

You raised an eyebrow. “Of course not. You just decided to monopolize the swing and sulk in silence because you’re having the best day of your life.”

He gave you a look. “You’re getting sarcastic. That’s new.”

You smiled, folding your hands in front of you. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

Derek huffed, but there was the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just… stupid.”

“Stupid things can still hurt,” you said, stepping closer. “Especially when you pretend they don’t.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at his lap, where his fingers were twisting the hem of his sweater. “I can’t exactly tell you”

“why not?”

“I just can’t alright?”

you sigh softly “okay, will you come inside anyway? I baked cookies, we can talk about other things. To cheer you up”

Derek looked at you for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if you were real. Then, without a word, he jumped off the swing, landing with a thud in the grass.

“Alright,” he said, brushing off his knees. “But only if they’re chocolate chip. None of that raisin betrayal.”

You smiled, standing up beside him. “Of course. I’m not a monster.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Debatable.”

You took Derek inside to the kitchen table were The cookie jar sat between you like a peace treaty, half-emptied, crumbs scattered across the polished wood. He talked about the comic he’d just finished—something about shapeshifters and secret identities, about a twist ending that had left him reeling. His hands moved as much as his mouth, painting scenes in the air, reenacting dramatic reveals and exaggerated gasps. You listened, smiling, nodding in all the right places, letting his voice fill the space that so often felt too quiet.

He mentioned his sister then, almost offhandedly, like a footnote to the story. Said she would’ve loved the twist. That she used to read comics with him, that she always guessed the endings before he did. There was a flicker in his expression when he said her name something between pride and longing—and it settled in your chest like a stone.

You watched him as he spoke, and something about the way he described her—her laugh, her drawings, the way she used to nudge him when he got too loud—stirred something in you. A memory, maybe. Or the ghost of one.

You thought of a girl. Not Derek’s sister, but someone else. Someone who might have shared your room once. Someone who might have stolen your sweaters and left notes in your books. You couldn’t see her face, not clearly, but there was a feeling. A warmth. A presence. A laugh that echoed in your bones.

Didn’t you have a sister too?

The thought came uninvited, but once it arrived, it refused to leave. It sat with you, just behind your ribs, pulsing with quiet insistence. You tried to follow it, to trace it back to something solid, but the memory was slippery, like trying to hold water in your hands. Still, the ache it left behind was real.

“I’m going to get us some milk,” you said, rising from the table and brushing the crumbs from your skirt.

Henry stood by the counter, sleeves rolled, hands folded neatly in front of him. He didn’t look up right away, but you felt his eyes on you the moment you entered.

“He likes you,” he said, voice smooth and low, like a secret being offered.

You smiled, reaching for the glasses in the cupboard. “Yes. I hope so.”

Henry stepped closer, his presence always just a little too still. “Derek is a tough cookie to crack.” he smiles “you’ll be a good mother one day”

you’ll be a good mother one day

The words echoed, soft but sharp, like a pebble dropped into still water. They landed somewhere deep in your chest, and something shifted.

You blinked.

And suddenly, you weren’t in the kitchen anymore.

You were somewhere else—warmer, louder, alive. The air smelled like popcorn and sunscreen, and the sun was setting behind a row of trees, casting long golden shadows across a parking lot. You were sitting on the hood of a car, legs swinging, laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear anymore.

And he was there.

You didn’t know his name. Couldn’t place it. But his face, god it haunted you. Messy brown hair that curled at the ends, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. A faint scar on his chin, just beneath the stubble. Eyes that crinkled when he smiled, warm and brown and impossibly kind. He wore a faded denim jacket over a red shirt, and he looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

He was leaning back on his elbows, grinning at you, and you could feel the echo of your own laughter in your chest.

“Six!?” you laughed, nearly choking on your drink. “Are you mad? That’s like—like an entire soccer team of children!”

He shrugged, unbothered, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “I don’t know. I grew up as an only child. It was always kind of… quiet. Lonely, sometimes.”

Your laughter softened. You looked at him, “Well,” you said, “you’ll never be lonely again. Because you’re never getting rid of me. I’m gonna be stuck to you like a fly to a glue trap.”

He snorted. “Mhm. Romantic comparison.”

You grinned. “I never said I was a poet.”

He leaned back on his elbows again, eyes on the sky, voice casual. “Six isn’t that many.”

“Six is like a mini van and a half! That’s no privacy or free time at all and a grocery bill that makes you cry”

“i like the idea off a full house, noise, mess, laughter”

“you like the idea of never getting laid again?”

He sat up, mock-offended. “Whoa! No one ever said that!”

you smirked “I’m just saying, six kids. That six times ‘mom i can’t sleep’ and ‘dad i threw up’ every night”

“why do i get the one that threw up?”

“Because you’re the one that wanted six kids”

He pointed at you. “Okay, fair. But I’ll have you know I’m very resourceful. We’ll find time to get laid”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’ll be asleep by 9:30 with a baby on your chest and applesauce in your hair.”

He grinned. “And you’ll still think I’m hot.” You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Debatable.”

He gasped, hand to his chest like you’d just stabbed him. “You pain me.”

“I pain you?” you shot back, eyebrows raised. “You want me to birth six kids!”

He laughed, head tilting back, the sound echoing into the open sky. “Okay, okay. Three.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Three? You can’t do three. One always gets left out.”

He shook his head, grinning. “Exactly. That’s why I said six.”

You scoffed. “Two, then.”

“Four,” he countered, eyes gleaming.

You looked at him, narrowed your eyes, and sighed. “Fine. Four.”

He beamed, triumphant. “See? We’re already compromising. We’re gonna be great parents.”

“Let’s just hope they have your hair and not your brain” you say grinning sarcastically

He froze, his triumphant grin faltering into a look of mock betrayal. “Excuse me?”

You sipped your drink, barely suppressing your smirk. “I’m just saying, if they inherit your brain, we’re gonna have four kids who think ‘laundry’ is a myth and that cereal counts as a food group.”

He blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s how it is.”

You nodded solemnly. “I’m just trying to protect the next generation.”

He stared at you for a beat, then slowly stood up, brushing off his jeans like he was preparing for battle. “You know what happens to people who slander my intelligence?”

You raised an eyebrow. “They get proven right?”

He lunged.

You shrieked as he tackled you back onto the hood of the car, his fingers already finding your sides. “Take it back!” he demanded, laughing as you thrashed beneath him.

“no! I’m sorry!” you gasped, kicking your legs as he tickled you mercilessly. “I didn’t mean it!”

“You said I have a dumb brain! A dumb brain!”

“You said you wanted six kids! That’s not exactly genius behavior!”

He tickled harder. “Say I’m a brilliant, sexy genius!”

“Never!”

“Say it!”

“Okay! Okay!” you squealed, breathless with laughter. “You’re a brilliant, sexy genius!”

“And?”

“And i love you! Please—stop!”

He grins freezing his movements “that’s more like it” he pecks your lips “i love you too”

“i take it back i despise you”

He shakes his head “no, no take backs. You love me”

You sigh “unfortunately”

And then—

The memory shattered.

The warmth of the sun vanished. The laughter faded. The car, the lake, the boy with the soft curls and the scar on his chin—all gone.

You were back in the kitchen. The milk in your hand had gone tepid. Henry stood across from you, watching, his smile still fixed in place.

But your heart was somewhere else.

With the boy whose name you couldn’t remember.

Only his face remained. His laugh. The way he looked at you like you were real.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe you were.