_RubMoon_

The alcohol was a reprieve from your grief, numbing the pain as it dragged you into a dark abyss—a place that felt more like home with each gulp. You confronted the truth that refused to stay buried down there: The fire that consumed your family was no accident. It wasn’t a tragic twist of fate but a message transmitted in flames and ash.

The explosion ravaged the quiet suburban street, shattering not only your childhood but also the illusion of safety you felt with your parents. The cherished memories and every moment of comfort got burnt instantly.

Your father had always been a man of quiet authority; his warnings about unseen enemies and lurking dangers… you often dismissed them as paranoid.

To the outside world, he was just another bureaucrat in rich robes, methodical and modest; his life revolved around courtrooms and legal briefs. A magistrate, they called him—responsible for providing justice, but never one to draw attention. Or so you thought.

Behind the veil of routine, he uncovered something dark, something of the very institutions he served. Corruption ran deep in the veins of powerful corporations, and your father dared to expose it. He collected evidence—mountains of it—proof of bribery, fraud, and worse, crimes that could dismantle entire empires. He was a whistleblower, a man who wielded truth like a weapon.

And for that, he became a target.

His pursuit of justice made him enemies in high places—the kind of people who operated in shadows, who didn’t hesitate to eliminate threats.

You remembered crawling through the debris with your ears ringing and the smoke filling your lungs. You could hear your mother’s screams and your father’s desperate shouts, but you couldn’t reach them. It was some guards who dragged you out, holding you back from running back into that inferno that used to be your home.

You learned later that the fire wasn’t just an act of violence—it was a spectacle. Whoever orchestrated it wanted to make sure your father’s death was public, a warning to anyone else who might think of speaking out.

In the weeks that followed, you were shuffled between foster homes, each more disinterested than the last. No one wanted the young lady whose family’s tragedy made the paper's news.

The worst part? The world kept turning. People said condolences and then moved on, but you couldn’t. Your parents' deaths weren’t just a tragic accident—they were a punishment, and you carried that weight alone to deal with it every day.

Now, you were sitting in a bar, drowning in cheap liquor, trying to silence the ghosts of your youth. Every time you closed your eyes, you were back at that nightmare, and you hated yourself for surviving when they hadn’t.

“May I suggest something a bit more refined than that dirty water you’re drinking?” A man abruptly spoke, taking you out of your spiral with a calm, smooth voice.

You glanced up from your drink and met his eyes, irises red as blood. He seemed absolutely improper in this grim, forgotten corner of the city when you took a better look at him. His elegance was jarring against the peeling wallpaper and sticky floors. With a confident smile on those lips, but with something in his look—an intensity that felt predatory.

“How about a glass of wine? My treat,” he continued, leaning casually on the bar. “Though, I’m more curious about what brings someone like you here.” His voice lowered. “Have I been fortunate enough to cross paths with you by chance?”

For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to think of some kind of response. Despite the suffocating weight of pain and guilt, you managed to offer him a shy smile, but it was faint—a small flicker of the person you used to be. “Wine sounds nice,” you said softly, with a hoarse voice from disuse and the drink. “Thank you. That’s… very kind of you.”

He arched a brow. “Kindness is a rare currency in places like this,” he mentioned, signalling the bartender with a casual wave. “And you seem like someone who deserves a bit of it.”

You felt your cheeks flush slightly. “I’m not sure about that,” you replied, looking down at the chipped surface of the bar. “But thank you anyway.”

The bartender sets a glass of wine in front of you and the stranger, and you wrap your fingers around it but don't drink immediately. Instead, you glanced back at him; he was watching you with an interest that should have felt weird but didn't.

“I don't usually drink much,” you admitted, feeling an odd need to explain yourself. “I just… had a rough day. Or, well, a rough few years, I guess.”

“That much is evident,” he said with that grinning face, his voice gentler now. “Yet here you are, still standing. That takes strength, even if you don’t see it.”

“I don't feel strong. Most days, I feel like I'm barely holding it together.” You doubted for a moment, then added, “But I try to be. For them.”

He tilted his head slightly; his interest was clearly piqued. “For them?”

“My parents." You clarified. “They… didn't make it. And I guess I feel like I owe it to them to keep going, even when it hurts.”

The man’s expression shifted, his smile softening. He swirled the wine in his glass but didn’t drink. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He said after a moment. “If you don’t mind me asking… how did they die?”

The question was gentle, but it hit like a punch to the stomach. You hesitated, tightening your grip around the glass as memories clawed their way to the surface. You hadn’t spoken about it in years, not in detail. Most people didn’t want to know or simply weren’t interested in knowing.

“They were killed,” you finally said. “Someone set our house on fire. And I know it wasn’t an accident.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing, letting you continue.

“My father was a magistrate,” you explained with your eyes fixed on the dark liquid in your glass. “But he wasn’t just some man pushing papers and delivering sentences. He uncovered something—a network of corruption. Bribes, cover-ups, even murders. He collected enough evidence to bring down some mighty people.” You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “And they made sure he paid for it.”

The stranger leaned in slightly, his elbows resting on the bar. “And your mother?”

“She was just… collateral damage.” Your voice cracked, and you blinked rapidly to will away some tears. “She died trying to save him. I am the only one who made it out.” You finally looked up at him, your eyes shining due to the unshed tears. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

He held your gaze. “Sometimes, sharing the weight of our pain can be freeing,” he said softly. “It doesn’t lessen the burden, but it reminds us we’re not entirely alone.”

You let out a shaky breath while nodding slightly. "Maybe". You took a sip of the wine. It was smooth and rich, a far cry from the harsh burn of the cheap liquor you’d been drowning in earlier. It warmed you differently, in a way that didn’t feel so destructive.

The man watched you for a moment longer, then raised his glass in a toast. “To survival,” he said. “And to justice, in whatever form it finds you.”

You clinked your glass against his. “To justice,” you echoed, though the word felt heavy on your tongue. You weren’t sure if justice was something you’d ever find, but at that moment, it felt like a remote possibility.

The wine slid down softly, and just then you allowed yourself to take a breath—the first that felt like it might not crack your ribs. The unknown—Astarion, as he introduced himself—slid onto the stool beside you with grace, radiating confidence. But there was something else beneath that appearance, something darker; if you hadn’t been so worn down, you might’ve been wary.

Nonetheless, you were simply grateful for the company.

“Tell me,” he began, “is it a habit of yours to drink alone in such charming establishments? Or am I witnessing a rare occurrence?” The sarcasm was obvious, taking a small smile from you.

You traced your fingers along the rim of your glass. “I guess it’s rare,” you admitted. “I’m not really the ‘bar’ type. But occasionally, you just need to get away from everything, you know?”

Astarion nodded as if he understood perfectly. “Ah, yes. Escaping the world’s cruel grasp, even if just for a while.” He leaned in slightly, feeling vaguely flirtatious. “But you, my dear, seem far too delicate for such a harsh setting. Like a rose blooming in the cracks of the pavement.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s… poetic. Are you always this charming, or am I just lucky tonight too?”

His lips curled again with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Only when the company warrants it,” he replied smoothly. “And I must say, you’re earning it.”

A blush got onto your cheeks once more; it had been so long since anyone had spoken to you like this. “Well, I’m glad I’m living up to your expectations.” You replied lightly, though there was a subtle warmth behind your words.

Astarion tilted his head, keeping his eyes on yours. “You’ve more than exceeded them, darling,” he said lowly. “There’s a light in you, even in the shadow of your grief. It’s captivating.”

He disarmed you, and for a moment, you forgot about the ache in your chest. “I don’t feel like much of a light,” you confessed quietly. “Most days, I feel like I’m just… getting by.”

“Even the most fleeting flicker can illuminate the darkest room. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

You looked away, suddenly absorbed by the intensity of his gaze. “You’re very kind,” you answered softly.

“I’m simply stating the truth,” he said, his voice soft enough for you to feel an absence of that… performative tone. “And if I might be so bold… I think you deserve more than this.” He gestured vaguely around the bar. “More than the loneliness and the shadows you’ve wrapped around yourself.”

His words struck a chord deep within you. You felt seen—not as a broken, grieving girl as everyone saw you like for years but as someone worth knowing.

“You’re different, then," you said quietly. “Most people don’t bother looking past the surface.”

Astarion’s smirk softened and became almost wistful. “Perhaps I’ve simply learnt the value of what lies beneath,” he replied, carrying an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place on his expressions.

You lifted your glass slightly, but before you could take another sip, you spoke once more. “Tell me", you started with curiosity. “You’ve spent this entire time trying to get me to open up. What about you? What are you hiding beneath that charming smile?”

Astarion blinked, his expression faltering for the briefest moment before his smirk returned. “Ah, so the rose has thorns,” he remarked, playful but with an undercurrent of tension. “Curious and bold. I like that.”

“I could say the same about you,” you said quietly. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met, Astarion. You seem… a mystery.”

He chuckled lowly. “A mystery, am I? How intriguing. Though I must confess, I do enjoy keeping people guessing.”

You leaned in slightly to him, emboldened by the warmth in your chest from the wine. “Then tell me something about yourself. A truth. Something you don’t tell everyone.”

There was a brief pause, just enough to make you wonder what gears were turning in that head, while he tapped a finger against his chin in mock contemplation. “A truth, you say? Hmm… I’ve lived a rather long life, filled with adventures and peril.”

“That’s vague,” you teased with a small smile. “Come on, give me something real.”

He smirked as he leaned in closer to you as well, his voice dropping slightly. “Alright, then. Here’s something real—I’ve developed a rather particular taste for the finer things in life. The pleasures, the passions, the experiences that make one feel truly alive.”

“And what about now?” you asked. “What are you craving tonight?”

His eyes darkened when his playful facade slipped just a fraction to reveal a hunger that made your pulse quick. “You,” he said simply, with a voice dangerous like a dagger but smooth like silk. “I crave you.”

For a moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist when you felt yourself leaning in a bit more until your lips were so close to his that you could feel the ghost of his breath.

But before you closed the distance, you tilted your head slightly. “Then it’s only fair I get to know more of you, isn’t it? You’ve had your turn.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your boldness. “Is that so?” he purred, moving his right hand to rest it lightly on your thigh and caress you with his thumb. “And what would you like to know, my daring inquisitor?”

“Tell me what you’re hiding,” you challenged gently. “You speak like someone who carries more than just a love for fine things.”

For a moment, his smile faltered, just a flicker, but then it was back—effortless. “Where’s the fun in revealing all my secrets so soon? Some things are best discovered in time; wouldn’t you agree?”

You were about to press further when his hand slid to your other thigh and grabbed your waist to pull you closer, leaning in to brush his lips against your ear as he whispered, “But if you’re willing to take the risk, I’ll make sure you don’t regret it.”

His voice sent a delicious thrill through you, and whatever doubts or questions lingered in your mind got drowned out by the sheer pull of him. You leaned back slightly to meet his eyes once more. “I’m willing.”

His face sparkled with something wicked, and before his lips could claim yours, he paused to flick his gaze around the bar with barely concealed disdain. “As much as I appreciate the unique ambience of this establishment,” he said quietly, “don’t you think we deserve something better than this?”

He gestured subtly to your surroundings, the clatter of tankards and the raucous laughter of drunken patrons underscoring his point. “Somewhere quieter. Somewhere far more… comfortable.” His crimson look settled back on you, and its intensity was almost hypnotic. “Wouldn’t you prefer a place where the only sound is our voice and the air is free of stale ale and prying eyes?”

The unspoken promise in his tone made you feel nervous, but he didn't even wait for your response, as he just leaned in enough to graze your cheek with his lips, purring as he whispered. “Say the word, and we’ll leave this wretched place behind.”

He caught you off guard with that suggestion. “Oh,” you breathed, tightening your fingers slightly around your glass. “I… hadn’t really thought about it.”

His lips curled into a knowing smile, tilting his head slightly as he leaned back. “No?” he asked. “A lovely creature like you, sitting here alone—surely, you’ve been approached before.”

A blush crept to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’m not used to this kind of attention,” you admitted. “People don’t usually notice me.”

He laughed softly. “Then they’re fools,” he said easily, trailing his gaze from your toes to your face and widening his smirk. “Blind to the treasure right before their eyes.”

You glanced back at him to meet his gaze. There was something intriguing about the way he was looking at you, as if you were the only person in the bar worthy of his time. But you didn’t feel hunted, just… uncertain.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” you said hesitantly with your cheeks still warm. “You’ve already been so kind, and—”

He held up a hand, shaking his head gently to silence your protest. “Nonsense,” he replied. “I assure you, the pleasure is entirely mine.” He continued, “Besides, I wouldn’t dream of letting you waste another moment in this dreary tavern.”

You doubted as the weight of his offer pressed down on you. There was a particular magnetic feeling about him that made you want to trust him, despite the voice in your head urging caution. “Well,” you said finally, curving your lips into a shy smile, “if you’re sure…”

His grin became wider with satisfaction. “I’m certain, darling,” he stood and offered you his hand with an elegant flourish. “Shall we?”

You thought about it once more before slipping your hand into his. His grip was firm but gentle as he helped you to get up from your seat with a graceful pull, and his fingers felt cool against yours when he intertwined them, sending a small shiver up your arm from the unexpected intimacy.

“Come,” he said softly, his tone now becoming sweeter. “Let’s get you out of this dreadful place.” He led you through the bar, and his confident attitude drew more than a few curious glances.

Outside, the chill of the winter greeted you, the streets blanketed in a thin layer of snow that crunched beneath your boots. The air was crisp and cruel, the cold air nipping at your cheeks and nose, but he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked even more at ease out here. The pale light of the moon reflecting off the snow and casting a faint glow over the city.

Astarion’s hand remained on yours, his long fingers laced loosely with your own, walking with a confidence that seemed effortless. His every step was purposeful yet unhurried, if he were in no rush to reach his destination. However, he flicked his eyes towards you often, with a tender amusement lingering in their deep red depths.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He said softly, as he didn’t wish to disturb the peaceful silence.

You nodded. “It is. I’ve never seen the city like this. It feels…”

“Like a dream,” he finished for you, glancing at you with a pretty smile. “A fleeting moment of quiet in a world so often filled with chaos.”

“You’re poetic,” you observed with some admiration.

He chuckled. “Only when inspired,” he replied. “And tonight, I find myself quite inspired.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you looked away, focusing on the sound of your steps against the snow. The streets were nearly empty at that time of night; the usual cacophony of voices and clattering carts was replaced by a serene and truly otherworldly stillness.

Before long, you arrived at a secluded inn. The warm glow of its windows was inviting, promising respite from the cold. Astarion pushed open the heavy wooden door, guiding you inside with a gentle hand at the small of your back.

The inn’s common room had a crackling fire in the hearth and the faint scent of mulled wine in the air. A few patrons sat at scattered tables, their murmured conversations blending with the occasional clink of mugs.

Astarion approached the innkeeper, a stout man with a kindly face. “A room, if you please,” he requested smoothly, placing a small bag of coins on the counter.

The innkeeper nodded, handing him a key with a smile. Astarion turned back to you, his expression softening as he gestured for you to follow him.

As you climbed the narrow staircase to the upper floors, he leaned in to you slightly. “I hope you don’t mind,” he commented. “I thought a more private setting might suit us better,” he continued with a sly smile on his lips.

You glanced at him with your cheeks blushing at the closeness. “No, I don’t mind,” you responded softly.

His smile was gentle, but his eyes held a flicker of something deeper—something that made your breath hitch as he led you down the quiet hallway to your room.

Astarion pushed the door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.

The room was modest but cosy. A large bed was draped in warm furs, and a small fireplace crackled softly in the corner. The glow of the firelight bathed the room in a soft amber hue, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

You walked in slowly, taking in the comforting atmosphere. The warmth was a welcome contrast to the biting cold outside, and you could already feel the tension of the night easing from your shoulders.

Astarion followed, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. “Much better, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked smoothly as he shrugged off his coat, draping it over a chair near the door.

You stared for a few more seconds at the grand, spacious bed before you, clasping your hands together nervously. Finally, you turned to face him, offering a small smile. “It’s lovely,” you said softly. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He noticed the way your fingers fidgeted and the slight tension in your posture, and his lips curled into a gentle smile that mirrored your own. Stepping closer to you until only inches remained. “There’s no need to thank me, darling,” he said gently. “It’s entirely my pleasure.”

The intimacy of the moment set your heart racing, with a soft flush spreading across your cheeks as your gaze locked with his. You couldn’t deny the pull you felt towards him—an undeniable attraction to the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid eyes on. Even triggering a deep yearning within you to want to close the small space between you.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you barely noticed his hand until the strange warmth of it cupped your cheek. “You know,” he started quietly, “you’re even more radiant in the firelight. It suits you perfectly.”

Your shy smile returned as a soft, nervous laugh escaped you. “You’re quite the flatterer, aren’t you?” You replied, trying—and failing—to ignore the way your cheeks flushed deeper under his piercing eyes.

He found your soft laughter endearing, and a quiet chuckle escaped him, as if he couldn’t help but mimic it. Smiling once more, he answered. “Only for someone who deserves it." His voice was low and intimate while his fingers brushed your cheek gently one last time before slipping away to take one of your hands.

Noticing the coolness of your touch and the subtle tension in your fingers, he brought them to his lips without hesitation. A tender kiss, an attempt to soothe and reassure while still looking at you with that intensity. “And you,” he continued, “are nothing less than utterly captivating tonight.”

His lips felt far too good for you to want to admit it, and you couldn’t help but furrow your brow slightly, still nervous. You blinked once more, your gaze dropping to the floor as you slid your hand free from his. Wrapping your arms around you, you took a step back toward the bed, putting a little space between you.

“You have a way with words,” you said with an airy tone despite the effort it took to steady your racing heart.

Astarion felt a faint sting in his chest at your quiet rejection, but he carefully maintained his composure and followed your lead once more. This time keeping a bit more distance to respect the boundaries you’d subtly set.

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” he admitted with a sly smile, though the softness in his crimson eyes made the playful hint in his tone more clear. His voice dipped as he added, “But tonight, I mean every word.”

You stared at the fire crackling in the hearth for a moment before letting out a soft sigh and sitting yourself on the edge of the bed. Instantly feeling the comforting fur of the blankets against your thighs and the palms of your hands, the sensation was cosy, and without thinking, your fingers slid over the luxuriously soft fabric. You never had the chance to touch a bed so plush.

But you quickly stopped indulging in your little moment of childish wonder when he stepped in front of you, commanding your attention with his presence as he extended a hand to gently cup your cheek once more tenderly.

You yielded, tilting your head upward, and felt your cheeks flush anew at your position—so close to his crotch, though not quite level with it. You tried to push the thought aside and placed your hands neatly on your thighs as his thumb brushed over your cheekbone, holding your gaze. “You're nervous,” he noticed. “There’s no need to be, darling…”

Though it was difficult to believe, you couldn’t help but enjoy the odd sensation from his palm, and you found yourself leaning into it. All his words, his invitations, and gestures made you feel good despite the ache of loss in your heart. You felt as if he were lifting a weight off your shoulders, even if you didn’t know him, even if he were just a stranger you’d met on a night drowned in cheap alcohol. The apparent tenderness or warmth he showed captivated you.

He realised how you decided for yourself to lower your walls, and he couldn't help but smile in satisfaction at the feeling of you melting in his touch.

He tilted his head slightly, locking his eyes onto yours with a pleased glint. “I confess…” he started, “I’ve been rather distracted wondering what your lips might taste like.” He spoke with ease, as if the words he'd just uttered hadn't made your brief sense of calm vanish entirely. “Humour me, darling. I find myself quite curious.”

You furrowed your brows once more, lifting your face and causing his hand to float alone because you turned your cheek from it. You blinked a few more times, trying to process what he’d just suggested. “A kiss?” you uttered, confused.

He simply nodded, with that same smile on his lips. “Just a kiss.”

Before you could even think of saying another word, he dropped to one knee in front of you, his hand that’d cupped your cheek now grasping gently your chin. He tilted your face just enough to ensure your eyes met his, softly tracing your lower lip with his thumb. “A fleeting touch, dear.”

He waited, giving you a moment to decide, to do what felt right, but it didn’t last when he closed the distance between your lips without your answer.

The kiss was very brief, just enough for you to feel the softness of his lips and nothing more. ‘A fleeting touch', as he said.

When he pulled his lips away from yours, barely a few inches apart, his thumb remained resting beneath your lower lip, soon returning to cradle your flushed cheek. Tilting his head to the side, he didn’t speak immediately and just smiled, looking at you, frozen and speechless, the whirlwind of emotions swirling and intertwining within you.

But his voice sounded again. “You want another?”

You couldn't deny that something was pulling you towards him—something irresistible that made your heart pound in your chest as your gaze shortly fell to his lips. You quickly returned to meet his dilated pupils, which stared at you as if waiting for you to accept his 'innocent' proposal. Your feelings slowly began to make sense; you were still at ease with his presence and touch, but you couldn't help but crave more of those full rose lips.

And for a moment, you weren't sure if it was the desire or the sweetness in his eyes that made you nod. “Yes,” you whispered against his lips, leaning closer as one hand pressed into the mattress and the other instinctively cradled his cheek too, hiding your nervousness.

Astarion’s smile stretched at your consent and the unexpected eagerness you seemed to have for his lips again. A flicker of satisfaction danced in his eyes before he closed the distance between you, tilting your head slightly to ensure you felt every inch of his mouth on yours. And this time, you could fully appreciate the softness and tenderness of his lips as they pressed gently, giving you time to adjust.

You didn’t even know how to kiss properly, and the thought that he could feel your uncertainty embarrassed you. But you tried to return the kiss as best as you could while it continued. Slow and calculated as he deepened it, like he was savouring the taste of wine and sweetness of your mouth, letting it linger on his lips.

The hand cradling your cheek moved just slightly, guiding your face closer to his. His touch was gentle as he allowed you the space to control the rhythm and let the intimacy build.

But the kiss felt instantly too short when he pulled away, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours again. That familiar, charming smile spread across his face, the same one that coaxed you into agreeing to his every invitation.

“See?” he said softly against your lips. “Nothing to fear.” His words were a teasing comfort; the intensity of his glance never wavered as he held you captive at the moment.

You felt the faint blush on your cheeks intensify as you still tasted his warmth and flavour, your hand slipping away from his cheek to rest back on one of your thighs. And it was then that you started to realise the intimacy that’d been building between you, making everything else feel insignificant compared to what was right in front of you.

You took a deep breath, leaning back just slightly and straightening up on the mattress, trying to calm the storm of emotions racing through you.

A deep yearning stirred inside you, compelling you to continue and see where the night would take you.

And as his lips remained close to yours, you didn’t hesitate for a second to lean in and capture them in another kiss. Both of your hands quickly cradled his face as you parted your lips just enough to invite him to deepen the kiss. You were eager as a thrilling anticipation rose within you, eager to discover what would come next.

His response was immediate as soon as he pressed his lips firmly against yours, moving his hands to your waist to grip it and pull you closer, trying to mould his chest against yours as you leaned into him. His tongue slid between your parted lips, meeting yours with an unexpectedly heated eagerness.

He groaned against your mouth, a raw and pleasurable sound that sent a pulse of desire between your thighs as you felt his need in the intensity of his movements. It only made you crave more when his hands gripped your hips, and you surrendered to the sensation. Your hands guided themselves along his face, tracing down his shoulders and neck, finally wrapping around it to pull him even closer.

You gasped softly as he pulled back, his lips leaving yours with a soft trail of saliva before he opened his eyes to meet yours, his pupils blazing with desire. Then Astarion slid his hands from your hips to the backs of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off the bed.

He rose at that moment to position himself between your parted thighs, pressing your body to his before his lips found yours once more for a brief, searing kiss. Just to trail hot, hungry kisses down your neck.

You tangled your hands in his hair, and with every kiss, you could feel his… sharp teeth graze and his tongue slip over your neck. You closed your thighs around his hips when he began to lean toward the centre of the bed, gently lowering you onto it before crawling over your body, positioning himself between your opened legs. He simply left his face hovering over yours to seek your lips again, and you didn’t hesitate to slide your hands down his chest and abdomen, teasingly brushing over his shirt.

His hands mirrored your movements, gripping your waist to pull your body against his once more before guiding his hands to your hips, pressing them immediately into his. A sharp gasp escaped your lips at the unexpected pressure.

But when he pulled his lips from yours to trail more kisses down your neck, you glanced up at the ceiling for a brief moment, lost in thought. You bit your lip nervously, the truth weighing on you as your hand found its way to his white hair once more to pull him closer.

And as soon as he began to drag one of his hands toward the waistband of your trousers and slip his fingers inside, you grabbed his wrist abruptly. “Wait,” you stammered. “I-I need to tell you something.”

He lifted his face to meet yours and furrowed his brows slightly as he wondered whether he pushed too fast or if you weren’t ready to continue. And despite the burning hunger still consuming him, he tried to mask it with a calm smile. Gently releasing your body, he slid his hands down to rest on either side of you on the bed. “If you’re going to stop me, darling…” he purred. “I do hope it’s not to tell me that you’ve changed your mind.”

You felt his hips press even harder against yours as soon as he finished speaking, making you instinctively squeeze your thighs around his sides. You slowly slid your hands down his forearms, trying to steady your breath and gather yourself. “No… I haven’t changed my mind.”

You swallowed hard as you felt his subtle impatience when his hips continued to grind against yours, but now with a slow, tantalising rhythm. The pace allowed you to feel just how hard he was under the clothing, and the sensation sent a sharp thrill through your pussy. Even for a fleeting moment, you considered keeping the confession to yourself, but the weight of it pushed you to speak. “I’m a virgin… I’ve never done this before, Astarion.”

He stopped immediately at your words, his eyes widening at your confession. His brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. For a moment, he simply looked at you, his sharp features softening with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“A virgin?” he repeated with a tone that carried a touch of interest rather than distaste. In fact, he seemed to savour the word, as if testing how it felt rolling off his tongue.

His hands glided smoothly over the sheets, one coming up to cradle your cheek with a tenderness that stood in contrast to the heat in his eyes. And he leaned in to brush his lips with yours agonisingly slowly. His words were low, almost a growl, while his thumb caressed your cheekbone. “You’ve been waiting for someone special, my love?”

His reaction sent a rush of conflicting emotions through you. You hadn’t expected him to relish the idea of being the first to claim your virginity, but here you were—pinned beneath his body, with his crotch pressing insistently against yours. He didn’t look away, not for a single moment; if anything, the revelation seemed to ignite an even deeper hunger within him. As if your admission turned him on.

Finally, you broke the silence with your trembling voice as you swallowed the knot in your throat. “No. I haven’t been waiting for anyone…”

His eyes didn't even bother to hide the distinct pleasure that flashed across his features as he heard you admit there was no one else waiting to fuck you. And you felt him subtly push his hips forward, pressing his crotch against yours, and the sensation of it brushing against your clit through your clothes made your pelvis tremble in response. His free hand quickly returned to grip the side of your hips to pull them even tighter to his. “Then it’s just me, isn’t it?” He asked rhetorically, with his eyes locked onto yours.

You slid your hands over his forearms before travelling to his abdomen and along his sides. With a touch that trembled with nerves, you gripped his waist beneath the barrier of his shirt. When your eyes flickered back to his face, his attention hadn’t left you. His sanguine eyes burnt into yours, watching every tremor that rippled through your hips and every uneasy breath.

He released your cheek to drift his hand downward, gliding over your abdomen. The fabric of your jumper offered little barrier to the warmth of his palm as it moved lower. “No one else has touched you here,” he murmured against your lips as his eyes dropped to the centre of your thighs. And his hand followed, slipping lower until it cupped the heat of your sex over your trousers.

A shiver raked down your body when his thumb found your clit through the fabric, and he rubbed your folds with his fingers, pressing lightly at first before circling it slowly.

His fingers felt divine against the subtle throbbing of your clit, coaxing your hips to roll gently against his hand as your lips parted with a soft sigh. “Astarion…” you whispered his name with a trembling voice due to your need, while your hands sought purchase on his shoulders for support.

“Say it again,” he said quietly, his lips capturing yours briefly before trailing to your cheek, planting kisses that set your senses ablaze. And then he traced with his tongue the shell of your ear before he nipped at your earlobe to tug it gently with his teeth. “Let me hear that sweet voice call for me.”

A delicious shiver coursed through your body at his words, and your eyes fluttered closed when his hand moved lower to trace the outline of your folds through the fabric of your trousers. Each stroke produced a slow-burning heat deep in your core, and soon enough, you felt the fabric of your panties growing damp.

“I need you, Astarion…” you confessed breathlessly, your lips parting again as his hand moved to slip beneath the waistband of your trousers. The very moment his fingers slid under your panties and made contact with your bare clit, a silent sigh escaped you.

“Oh, you’ll have me,” he spoke into your ear before he leaned back slightly to watch your face. “But only when I’ve had my fill of this.”

The intensity of his crimson gaze pinned you in place while his fingers worked their stimulation. Tracing slow circles over the bud of your clit with two of them, now gliding effortlessly as you soaked him with your slick.

“You feel that?” he purred with satisfaction as he felt the wetness soaking your folds. “So ready for me, my love…” He slid his fingers lower to dip them into your slit.

Then he moved his fingers up to drag your essence all over your swollen clit. “This cunt is begging to be fucked, isn’t it?” His fingers continued their circles easily against your sensitive bud, making your legs tremble slightly at his sides. “Tell me, does it feel good?”

Your breath quickened as his fingers continued to alternate between fast, delicious circles with firm pressure and slow, teasing ones with just the lightest touch. The way he switched between the two caused silent, aching moans to spill from your lips as you moved your hips against his, desperate for more.

“Yes…” you moaned, slipping a hand under his shirt, tracing with your fingertips the firm ridges of his abdomen before slowly moving upward toward one of his pecs. “It feels… so good.” You gently brushed over his nipple, earning a soft sigh from his lips.

He wasted no time pulling his hand from your undergarments, and his pupils burnt with raw lust as he brought his fingers to his mouth. Parting his lips slowly to slide past them, his tongue flicked over them as he sucked clean your essence. And a deep, satisfied hum rumbled in his throat.

Before you could process the intoxicating sight, he grasped your chin firmly with his free hand. “Open,” he instructed as he took his fingers out of his mouth. When you did so, parting your lips, he slipped his damp fingers into your mouth, tracing your tongue with the same intensity he’d shown for his own. The taste of yourself mingled with the heat of his saliva made you shiver, and his wicked smirk only deepened as he watched your reaction. “Just like that…” He spoke quietly, never leaving your gaze.

You closed your eyes as the last traces of nerves faded, giving in completely to the sensations he was provoking in you. Your lips wrapped around his fingers, sucking on them as if savouring the most decadent treat, swirling your tongue around their tips with teasing swipes. The act felt natural and instinctive as your hand slid up to grasp his wrist to take his fingers deeper into your mouth. And when you felt his other hand at your waistband, tugging at your pants, you lifted your hips without hesitation, inviting him to strip you naked.

A needy whimper escaped your lips when he withdrew his fingers, leaving your mouth empty, but the loss was short-lived as he replaced them with his lips. Capturing you in a kiss so hungry it made your head spin while he moved his hands deftly, sliding your trousers down your legs.

Your panties followed in a single motion, leaving you bare beneath his gaze, and his hands quickly found the hem of your jumper. “Arms up,” he commanded softly, and you obeyed without a thought, lifting your arms for him to pull the garment over your head and toss it aside to the floor without care.

The moment you were almost bare, his lips crashed back onto yours, roaming your waist and sides with his hands, gliding towards your back.

His fingers found the clasp of your bra, and he unhooked it in a second, slipping it off your shoulders and arms before he carelessly took your bra to toss it aside as well. You whimpered when his fingers returned to your clit to stroke tight circles around it, and your moans spilt freely now, soft and unrestrained. While he lowered his mouth to your neck with open-mouthed kisses as he descended.

He didn’t waste a moment before finding one of your breasts, drawing your nipple and as much of the squishy flesh as he could into his mouth. He sucked deeply, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak; a low hum vibrated against you before he released it with a soft, wet pop to immediately turn his attention to your other breast.

Once he adored your chest, his lips began to trail slow kisses down your abdomen. And you tangled your hand in his hair, closing your eyes as you revelled in the warmth of his mouth on your skin. Each kiss he pressed sent a shiver through you, and when his free hand found your thigh, lifting it gently, his lips followed the curve of your leg. He kissed the sensitive inner flesh of your thigh, drawing him closer to your aching core.

His ruby eyes flicked up to meet yours, gleaming with mischief and hunger. He paused just before reaching your folds, gripping your thighs with both hands and spreading them wider to make room for himself between them. “Stay just like this for me, love.” He murmured.

Your grip on his curls tightened the moment his mouth made contact with your clit, the sensation utterly foreign yet exquisite. His lips closed around the bud to kiss it slowly, and he sucked gently, just to let the tip of his tongue flick over the sensitive nub in lazy circles. It was electric, a thrilling intensity that made your hips buck off the bed in response.

A needy moan slipped your lips when his mouth repeated its work, sucking before trailing his tongue in a smooth stroke from your tight entrance back up to the bundle of nerves.

He buried his face deeper to latch his lips onto you again, his tongue gliding along every inch of your dripping core, swirling expertly around your clit. The guttural groan he let out as he feasted on your cunt reverberated through you, drawing a raspy moan from your lips and making your toes curl.

You couldn’t help but press his head closer while yours fell back against the pillows, bucking your hips slightly as the pleasure built to a fever pitch. His breath was hot against your core when he paused briefly. “It’s rather addictive… watching you fall apart for me,” he murmured before he descended his mouth again and his tongue plunged into your closed entrance briefly, dragging the tip to your clit once more.

But, as if mocking you, he decided to pull away from your pussy with a wicked smile. This left your thighs trembling on either side of his head, and you dropped your gaze to meet his. “Tell me,” he started. “How do you feel? Do you want me to stop?”

The ache between your thighs got worse, morphing into an intense need that only he could fulfil. “No,” you cried out, your voice trembling. “Don’t stop, please…” You ground your hips instinctively towards his mouth.

You pulled him closer to you with your fingers in his hair, urging him to continue. “I need you.” You whimpered.

The reddish hue of his eyes seemed to blaze even brighter at your precious, needy pleas. Tightening his grip on your thighs, he hoisted them over his shoulders without a word before diving in, dragging his tongue from your perineum to your clit and savouring every drop of the nectar you gave him.

A shiver of pure pleasure coursed through you as his lips latched around the swollen bundle of nerves, sucking it like a piece of candy. The room quickly filled with the sound of your desperate moans and the wet, messy sounds of his mouth swallowing your cunt once more.

He was ravenous, yet his control never wavered; every touch seemed calculated to pull you deeper into blissfulness. And eventually, you couldn’t stop yourself—your hips bucked against his mouth, grinding against his lips, chin, and nose.

He continued his feast while his eyes opened to lock onto yours, giving you a devastating sight: his furrowed brows, the sinful lust gleaming in those crimson irises, and the way his gaze never hesitated as he absorbed the tremors of your hips.

The low, guttural growls he made every time your fingers tugged at his hair sent violent impulses through you, pulling you closer and closer to a precipice you’d never dared approach before.

And there was no escaping the fall. It was a precise suction of his lips on your clit that sent your body whipping out of control, pleasure consuming you entirely; your legs trembled on either side of his head, your hips ground against his tongue, desperate for more friction, while a guttural moan tore from your throat.

Through the haze of ecstasy, you barely registered the delighted grunt he let out before releasing one of your thighs. His fingers deftly parted the top of your folds and tugged them up slightly, exposing your swollen, sensitive clit. And he didn’t hesitate—his lips wrapped around it, sucking with an intensity that made you cry out in pure bliss.

His other hand remained on your thigh, grounding you just enough to keep you from bucking away, relishing every single drop. You felt the faint press of his short nails digging into your skin, though it didn’t hurt—truthfully, you couldn’t feel anything except his mouth and tongue.

“Astarion!” you cried out with a hoarse voice from the cascade of sounds spilling from your lips. His mouth closed over your entire pussy, absorbing firmly. Then, suddenly, his pace slowed, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue, and the trembling in your body only worsened.

He drank in every quiver your body offered, sliding his hands over your thighs, steadying you as he continued to kiss and suck gently, careful not to overstimulate you further. You definitely didn’t want to admit how good it felt when he softened his oral, as it allowed you to catch your breath—but it didn’t last. He pulled away with a low hum of satisfaction, leaving your core aching and drenched.

In the flickering firelight, you saw his entire mouth glistening, slick with your juices as he licked his lips, savouring it. A sly smile curled his lips as he released one of your thighs, sliding his fingers tenderly over your swollen pussy. His touch was soft, tracing with the pads of his fingers your clit with a featherlight pressure that made you shudder all over again. Then, leaning in, he placed one final kiss on your bud before meeting your gaze. “How do you feel, darling?” he purred.

You released his hair, letting your hands fall limply to your sides. One of them rose to your forehead to wipe away a few drops of sweat that gathered there. Closing your eyes, you drew in quick breaths, swallowing hard against the dryness in your throat as your tongue darted out to wet your lips.

You were still reeling, not entirely aware of what he’d just done to you—how his mouth had satisfied you that much. Your head spun as the tension slowly drained from your limbs.

When you finally opened your eyes, there he was, positioned between your thighs, his legs spreading you further apart to give him access. With that same mischievous, devilish smile across his lips, a glimmer of satisfaction in his sanguine gaze as he drank in the sight of you—still flushed and dazed.

“I—I don’t know,” you finally admitted. “I didn’t expect it to happen so fast, but, gods, that was incredible.”

You tilted your head back slightly, letting the hand resting on your forehead trail down, gliding over your abdomen until it reached your clit. You touched it gingerly, the sensitivity making you shiver.

One of his hands slid up to caress the soft skin of your thigh, his head tilting slightly as he watched you touch yourself so delicately. His gaze flicked back to yours, his smirk widening. “I must say,” he purred, “you wear the aftermath of pleasure beautifully.”

His fingers tightened slightly on your thigh, sliding down to cup one of your ass cheeks before gripping your hip firmly and pulling you against his rigid bulge. He leaned closer, his lips hovering just above yours. “Shall we see just how many more times I can make you come for me tonight?”

Your eyes widened slightly at his words and his hardness pressing shamelessly against your bare pussy, dropping your gaze to his trousers before flicking back up to his eyes; a teasing smile curved your lips as your hands slid up his abdomen and higher to rest against his chest. “Do you think you’re up for it?” You teased softly to spark the fire in his irises.

You heard him chuckle softly at your question. He shook his head slightly, his crimson look locking onto yours with intensity while his hand released you, both now moving to the intricate clasps of his shirt. Slowly, he began to unfasten them, one by one, a tempting scene that made your cheeks blush even more.

Despite that, you were drawn to him, entranced, helpless to do anything but watch as he teased you with every subtle motion. By the time he slipped the last clasp free, your heart was pounding, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away while he shrugged the fabric off his shoulders. The shirt glided down his arms like water before he let it fall to the floor, forgotten.

The gentle glow of moonlight spilling through the window, mingling with the flickering firelight, cast an ethereal aura around him. You were unable to look away, your desire etched clearly across your face. His alabaster skin seemed almost unreal, as though he were a masterpiece carved from marble.

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into a knowing smirk as he caught your open admiration. His voice dropped low. “Enjoying the view, are we?” He drawled, roaming his eyes over your face.

Now bare from the waist up, his hands slid slowly down to the inner curve of your knees, his fingertips brushing lightly over your skin as he guided your legs upward, urging them apart at his sides. His grip tightened as he spread your thighs wide, pressing you further into the bed as he leaned over you.

Settling his hands on either side of your head and pressing his thighs firmly against yours to pin you in bed, the closeness making the tips of both your noses touch.

The moment his hips aligned with yours, his crotch dragged against you, teasing your folds and brushing against your clit, making you gasp at the lingering sensitivity. “But the question is…” His pupils gleamed, his smirk spreading. “Do you think you can handle me, pet?”

You couldn't help but move your hips slightly against his, matching his slow rocking, finding the sides of his waist with your hands and locking your eyes with his. Parting your lips as a breathy noise escaped you, followed by a quick swallow as you furrowed your brow slightly, drawing your face closer to his. “Yes…” you assured him, pressing your pussy harder against his bulge, sliding your hands from his waist up to his bare chest. “I can handle you, Astarion…”

His hands slid down the sides of your body, moving over the mattress before settling on your lower back, pulling your hips firmly against his; there was no space left between your bodies now. When your gaze dropped for a second, you noticed how you were soaking his trousers with your wetness, and your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. But he didn’t seem to care at all; his attention was entirely on you—your eyes, your lips—his arousal growing as you rubbed against him with the same desperate urge that was consuming him.

The way you moved your hips against his was an invitation, a silent plea for him to begin whatever came next. Slowly, you slid one hand down his abdomen, your fingers tracing the waistband of his trousers, moving lower to brush against the outline of his bulge, which was slightly to the side. “You don’t have to be gentle,” you sighed against his lips, your eyes half-lidded as you leaned in, almost kissing him.

You could hear the hum of delight that escaped him, and one of his hands released your hip to take yours, halting your movements. Then he guided your hand and his own beneath his trousers and undergarments, making your fingers brush against his hot, throbbing skin. You wrapped your hand around him without hesitation, feeling the heat radiate from it as he slowly lowered the rest of his clothes, revealing himself completely.

His hardness throbbed in your palm, veins running along its length like a winding path, leading to the swollen, flushed tip that gleamed with his precum. The firelight and moonlight caught the curves of it as it pulsed against your fingers, heavy with desire. His weight pressed against your mound, and you could see the subtle white curls at its base, just adding to his addictive allure.

As soon as you began sliding your hand along his length, moving from base to tip, a soft, pleasurable sound escaped his lips. He shifted slightly above you, adjusting his posture just enough to allow you more room to stroke him comfortably. Meanwhile, his hand wandered down to your pussy, his fingers gliding slowly over your folds before pressing his middle finger between them. He teased your clit with slow strokes, sliding up and down over the sensitive bundle of nerves. Then, his finger dipped lower, circling the edge of your entrance before slipping the tip inside—and gradually, more of his finger.

His face dipped to the crook of your neck, but there was nothing absent-minded in it—each kiss was placed with deliberate care, slow enough to make you feel it and to make you wait for the next. His lips brushed your skin, lingering just a fraction too long, as if he were savouring the warmth beneath them.

He slid his other hand down your side, unhurried, tracing the curve of your waist before settling over your breast. He didn’t grab—he tested first, thumb pressing lightly before his fingers closed with purpose, kneading slowly as if learning exactly how much pressure made you react.

A quiet, pleased sound left him as your hand continued to move on him, his hips beginning to roll against your touch—not needy, not rushed, but controlled, matching your rhythm with unsettling precision. “Patience,” he said, brushing his mouth just beneath your ear, “can be such a delicious kind of torment, don’t you think?”

“That's—” Your words were cut off by a soft moan as you felt him slide a second finger into your pussy. “That's cruel,” you managed to say, tightening your grip slightly around him as you slowed your movements, teasing him in return.

Astarion hummed, his lips still trailing along your neck. “Oh, I’d adore nothing more than to ruin you entirely,” he murmured with amusement. “Perhaps even break this poor bed in the process…” A quiet, breathy chuckle followed, his nose brushing your jaw. “But I believe your pretty cunt wouldn’t take it well just yet.” You could feel how the tip of his fingers curled upward to touch a sensitive spot within you. “I’ll make it ready for more.”

You moved your hand faster as he began to thrust deeper inside you, matching his rhythm as best you could. Every twist of his wrist was accompanied by circles on your clit with his thumb, and it made you feel so good that you wanted him to feel the same.

You answered in kind. Each time your hand slid back to the tip, your thumb brushed over the slit of his glans to tease just enough to make him twitch in your grasp.

His lips parted with a low, restrained sound, and his gaze sharpened with interest. “Well now…” he uttered, “Is that how you intend to play?” The way his lips parted to release soft sounds was intoxicating. Each groan was a reward, and with his mouth so close to yours, you took them in like the sweetest gift.

His thrusts grew rougher and less controlled as his fingers plunged into your pussy with fervent urgency. He rocked his hips against your hand, fucking your palm and fingers faster, driven by pure need. But even in his frenzy, his lips found your cheek to plant tender kisses over your skin. “Just like that…” he purred softly. “Such a quick learner…”

His praise melted into your ears as his fingers curled just right inside you once more, hitting that spot that made your clit pulse against his thumb and your thighs quiver. You couldn’t help but let out a weak whimper as you felt him pull you further into the abyss of pleasure, and you knew he was just as lost as you were.

He caught the way your body responded—the way your hips ground against his hand, desperate to fuck yourself on his fingers and match his thrusts—and he shifted his grip. The hand that’d been holding just beneath your breast slid to your hip, gripping firmly to lift you slightly off the bed. The angle made you feel every inch of his fingers plunging inside your pussy, even driving them deeper.

His fingers drove into you with a speed that made them feel like they were vibrating. You tilted back your head, eyes squeezing shut as you struggled to catch your breath while you became louder.

And then his voice came. “Don’t stop, darling,” Astarion growled against your lips, his hand stroking your cheek tenderly even as his hips jerked harder into your hand. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he murmured with a soft laugh. “The way I react… the way you’ve got me trembling in your hand.”

His words sent you a fresh sensation of arousal, and before you could respond, his lips crashed into yours, stealing what little breath you had left. His pointy teeth sank into your lower lip just enough to make you separate both, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth with the same hunger his hands showed your body.

Your tongues clashed, tangled, and devoured one another. He was unrestrained, his teeth grazing your lower lip before sucking it into his mouth with a sharp pull. Your needy cries spilt into him, muffled, while his groans reverberated against your lips.

The kiss was messy and obscene, leaving your mouths slick and glistening as his hand on your cheek slid into your hair, gripping tightly to tilt your head back and deepen the connection.

Your body shuddered, and your thighs began to shake on either side of his waist as he started to increase the speed of his fingers. Causing your clit to throb non-stop against his thumb, while your slick walls clenched tightly around his penetrating fingers, desperate to hold him deeper. That aching, molten tension coiled in your belly again, tighter this time, leaving you gasping for air as your kiss broke, your lips parting in wordless cries.

Astarion felt it too, of course… He felt how you tightened around him, how your pussy lubricated his fingers with your juices, and that only spurred him on. He increased the speed and caressed that sensitive spot at the top of your walls, going deeper into you. And it got to a point where only the obscene sounds you heard were your vagina’s every time he pulled them out and buried them back in, along with your sounds of pleasure.

He leaned in just enough to steal your breath with another kiss before his teeth grazed your cheek in a playful nip. From there, his lips wandered down the curve of your jaw and into the warmth of your neck, where he lingered. He groaned against you, dragging his lips across your sweaty skin to leave soft bites, swipes of his tongue, and messy pecks and hickeys to mark the delicate skin that hadn't been touched by another man.

Soft kisses melting into slower ones, punctuated by the occasional press of teeth and the soothing glide of his tongue. You shivered beneath him, your breath uneven, but still he didn’t let you fall.

Instead, his movements slowed. Faded. Until the absence itself made your body ache.

A quiet, almost amused hum brushed your lips as he pulled back just enough to look at you. “Mm, not yet,” he whispered, the faint smirk evident in his voice.

His hand slid down to guide himself, the tip of his cock brushing slowly between your soaked folds, dragging through your wetness. He exhaled quietly at the contact, his forehead dipping briefly toward yours. “Relax for me,” he said softly.

The first press alone stole the air from your lungs, your body tightening instinctively at the unfamiliar sensation. “Easy…” He didn’t push in immediately. He lingered there to let you feel him and let your body react first.

His gaze locked on where you were stretched tight around his girth, and a loud moan escaped from your lips when he resumed his way through you, but it was quickly muffled when he clamped a hand over your mouth. You instinctively dug your fingers into his forearm, clawing at him as your walls clenched around his shaft.

“So tight…” he growled, his eyes briefly meeting yours before raking over your tits and settling on the sinful view of your pussy. He was utterly captivated by the way your entrance gripped him so perfectly.

You felt everything—the way his hardness fit you as if it were made for your body. He pulled his hand from your mouth, sliding it down to your waist before wrapping his arm around you, dragging you closer against him. Your legs tightened around his hips, the new angle making him somehow sink even deeper inside you.

A low, broken groan fled his lips, and his mouth found your neck before he bit your skin. The sharp pressure turned to heat as his tongue traced over the mark he left, and his free hand gripped your thigh to press it against his hip and hold you in place.

The slowness of his thrusts left you gasping and trembling against his chest, being noisy against his shoulder. A new sensation began to build deep within you while his lips brushed your jawline before he bit you again. Soothing it once more with his tongue as his hips drove you higher and higher into an uncharted ecstasy.

Then, the hand gripping your waist quickly moved to your hair, tugging it down to angle your head and kiss you. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, tugging it subtly before reclaiming your mouth. Meanwhile, your hands wrapped around his waist, sliding along the curve of his back, relishing how his skin seemed to prickle under your touch.

Your brows furrowed slightly as your fingers brushed against a rougher texture on his skin—something marked and patterned in ways you couldn’t begin to picture. But curiosity didn’t stop your exploration; you let your hands drift lower along his lower back until they reached his firm, thick cheeks. You grabbed him hard, digging your fingers into his flesh as you tried to pull him even deeper inside you.

A low growl rumbled against your lips as your nails raked across his skin, and you knew you were leaving thin, red trails in their wake. He seemed to thrive on the sting, turning his thrusts even more intense.

Astarion’s hand slid from your thigh, moving to where your clit throbbed with need and began to stimulate it instantly, circling the bundle of nerves with quick circles. The motion synced perfectly with the constant drag and plunge of him inside your pussy, and the combination shattered you.

A strangled cry ripped from your throat as you tore your lips from his. Hot liquid gushed from your vagina in a sudden release, coating both your bodies and soaking the sheets beneath you. You clung to him desperately, digging your nails into his skin as tremors wracked your body, leaving you breathless and trembling.

He growled roughly, savouring the feeling of your climax drenching him, and slowed his thrusts to fully relish the way you spasmed and clenched tightly around him, milking him with every squeeze of your release.

He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you, his own pulsing with pleasure. A sly smile spread across his lips, and he spoke lowly, purring. “Look at you, my love. Such a beautiful, filthy mess you’ve just made for me.”

Instantly, your cheeks burnt with shame and arousal, but Astarion didn’t even give you a chance to handle it. His hips kept pounding into yours. He drew your orgasm out until your body quivered wildly from the overstimulation. “You didn’t know you had it in you, did you?” He hummed with pride, caressing your ear with his lips.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the sensations flooding you as his teeth grazed your neck while a low growl rumbled from him. He hammered against you while you felt him swelling inside you, straining between your walls.

Even though your body begged for rest, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. Your hands clutched his firm arse with desperation, biting his skin with your nails as you pulled him closer, feeling his muscles tense beneath your grip as he moaned in pleasure against your neck.

His hands slid down to the underside of your thighs to grip them tightly and lift you, angling your hips to meet his thrusts. He could swear he felt even better how you clenched around him, driving him closer to the edge, as if your body were craving him just as much as he craved you. His nails dug into your flesh, leaving faint crescents behind, but you didn’t care; you wanted those marks.

He grew even more eager to fuck you as his release drew closer, and with one particularly hard thrust, he simply let himself go, surrendering completely to the heat of the moment.

You could feel the hot spurts of his release shooting from his tip, each one hitting against the entrance to your womb. As it pooled inside you, the warmth of his seed filled you completely, even as he continued to move within you slowly to savour the sensation.

He throbbed within your walls, and his breaths fanned against your skin as his hips rolled forward in gentle strokes to grind the curls of his pelvis against your oversensitive clit. In this intimate moment, you couldn’t bear to part from him—not even for a second. Your hands slid up the expanse of his back, feeling the way he shivered against you as he finally collapsed onto your body. Both of you utterly spent, your breaths mingling in short, ragged gasps.

The weight of him pressed down on you, his pectorals crushing your tits and your hard, sensitive nipples. His length was still buried deep within you, pulsing and hot as your walls clenched softly around him, trying to hold onto every inch. Your fingers trailed over the broad expanse of his back and down his sides, and a soft sigh of pleasure escaped your lips. You could feel his come seeping out, spilling from within you from how he’d filled you, yet you didn’t care. The mess didn’t matter, even if this wasn’t your bed but a modest inn tucked away in some forgotten street.

Your sweaty bodies remained tangled together as Astarion let out a low, contented groan, trailing his lips over your neck in a lazy kiss. The quiet was filled with the soft sounds of your breathing, the faint creak of the bed, and the rustle of the sheets beneath you as he shifted slightly.

With a gentle touch, he traced with his hands the curve of your hips, gliding along your sides before coming to rest at your back. His fingers stroked you softly in the afterglow, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough from all his moans, yet still devastatingly sexy.

“How do you feel?” he asked quietly, lifting himself just enough to meet your gaze. His crimson eyes were softer now, glowing faintly in the dim light as he drifted one hand to cradle your nape. “Does it hurt?”

His body was still inside you, but it wasn’t as urgent any more. His release had already surged deep into you, and now he was content to simply stay there, feeling the remaining pulses of your pussy around him, both of you caught in the afterglow of such an intimate, consuming connection.

You felt tender, still drained, yet deeply connected to him in a way that left you breathless. There was no pain, just a gentle stretch and the sensation of his presence within you. “I’m fine,” you whispered, your voice still thick. “No pain. Just tired.”

His body seemed to relax at your words, a deep sigh escaping his chest as he pressed a kiss against your temple. “Good,” he murmured.

His hands, still gentle, slid upward to cup your face, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. “If you need a moment,” he added softly, “we can stay like this.”

You nodded slowly, your body still pulsing with the residual waves of pleasure, but the exhaustion from it all was starting to set in. Despite the tender, lingering ache in your muscles, it felt comforting—safe.

“I’m just tired,” you repeated, your hands moving up to stroke the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you. “But… I want to. With you.”

Astarion’s response was a soft, approving hum, his lips pressing against yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. “As you wish, darling,” he murmured before gently moving his hand to tenderly stroke your cheek.

You closed your eyes, your heart swelling with happiness as the two of you held each other close, the warmth and tenderness of the moment settling over both of you. For now, there was nothing but this, nothing but the sweetness of the connection you’d shared—the promise of something more, something lasting.

The warmth of Astarion’s embrace cocooned you as the two of you lay together, limbs entwined beneath the soft covers. His hands roamed lazily along your back, fingertips tracing idle patterns on your skin as your breathing slowed in the peaceful aftermath. You felt utterly content, safe in his arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek lulling you toward sleep.

The morning light crept through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. You stirred slowly, the comforting warmth of the sheets wrapped around you. But as your eyes fluttered open, strangeness settled over you. The bed was cold beside you, and the distinct absence of him was impossible to ignore.

You sat up, the blanket pooling around your waist as you scanned the room. His clothes were gone, and there was no sign of his presence—no note, no lingering trace of the man who had held you through the night. It was as though he had vanished without a trace.

You couldn’t shake the ache in your chest as you dressed for the day, your thoughts returning to the night before. Every glance, every touch, every kiss—it all felt so real, so genuine. And yet, now you were left wondering if it had meant as much to him as to you.

The day passed in a blur, your mind constantly drifting back to him. You replayed every moment in your head, trying to decipher if you had missed something or if there had been a sign that he wouldn’t stay. But no matter how much you overthought it, you came to the same conclusion: you needed to see him again.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in hues of amber and violet, you found yourself drawn back to the bar where it all began. The place was bustling with life; the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filled the air. You scanned the crowd, your heart leaping with every glimpse of white hair or a flash of crimson eyes, but none of them were him.

You slipped onto the bar stool, your fingers toying with the edge of your glass as you ordered the same wine he had so charmingly introduced you to. The rich, fruity aroma did little to lift your spirit, but you clung to the hope that he might walk through the door at any moment.

Hours passed, and the bar began to thin out as the night wore on. You tried to convince yourself that he’d simply been delayed, that maybe he was caught up with something important. But as the minutes stretched into hours, doubt began to creep in. What if he didn’t intend to return? What if last night had been nothing more than a fleeting encounter for him?

Your heart sank as the bartender gave you a sympathetic look, gently letting you know it was the last call. You nodded, finishing the last sip of your wine before gathering your things and stepping out into the cool night air. The streets were quiet now, the distant sound of laughter and music fading as you walked home alone, your hope dwindling with each step.

But even as doubt weighed heavily on your heart, a small spark of determination remained. You weren’t ready to give up on him just yet. Something about Astarion had captured you, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that your paths were meant to cross again. You resolved to return tomorrow and the night after if you had to.

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

"You're no good, you're no good, you could kill me and you should, I'm an idiot for thinking this was anything but blood,"

Your betrothal to Aerion had come only partly as a shock to you. Your father had spoken plainly of how Maekar Targaryen had approached him to discuss the possibility of an alliance between your houses, and how greatly it would benefit the realm to join families. There had been no mention of which of Maekar's sons would take your hand, but with Aemon tucked away at the citadel and Aegon's tender age of nine, the options were limited to Daeron or Aerion.

You had wished, perhaps selfishly, that it would be Daeron to whom you became engaged, having heard stories of both brothers and deciding that life with a drunken man would be more bearable than life with a man who believed himself a dragon in human form.

When it was told to you (in private, before an official announcement) that it was decided you would be wed to Aerion, the shock came at the realization that your life would be filled with fear, cruelty, blood that masqueraded as duty and honour. Panic would sleep privately into your bones, and your nights would become sleepless. Your father tried to reassure you that you were strong, able to withstand the demands of the prince, that his grace would not be able to shatter you. But his words did little to quell the ache of fear that resided somewhere between your chest and belly.

Upon formal introduction, Aerion found himself quite taken with you. His piercing violet eyes studied you, taking in every inch of the formal attire you'd sported for the occasion, the way your skin seemed to catch the rays that strayed through the window, the way your own eyes seemed to avoid his gaze. He was, in part, relieved that you were indeed not ugly; that for all the trouble it was to marry someone, at least you were not painful for him to look at.

Upon first meeting him, Aerion was far more charming than you had originally thought. He bowed properly, greeted you with a smile that hid sharp teeth, brushed a chaste kiss upon your knuckles and complimented your beauty. It was confusing not to be greeted with wrath, or even indifference, but it seemed to calm the storm within you.

The feast that followed continued suit, with him engaging warmly over supper, and asking you to dance after. He was every bit the graceful prince you'd allowed yourself to dream of as a child, and you soon found yourself smiling and laughing with him as he whisked you effortlessly across the floor. The evening hours blended into the night, wine flowed, and merriment filled the grand hall. Even Prince Maekar, the Anvil, usually stone cold and stoic, seemed to soften round the edges as he watched how you got on with his son.

When the night drew to a close, Aerion insisted he show his future wife to her chambers to turn in, and his gentlemanly behaviour over the evening made it hard for your father to refuse him. You both said your goodnights, bowing graciously and leaving the hall with your arm threaded through his.

It wasn't until you were alone, far away from onlookers and prying eyes, that your first glimpse of Aerion's true nature was revealed to you.

Aerion picked up the pace, and began to nearly drag you through the halls, boots clicking against echoing stone. His fingers dug into the tender flesh above your elbow and he yanked you toward a quiet corner until your back made quick contact with the stone behind you. Aerion's previous warm gaze turned ice cold as he stared down at you, and he grabbed your face, fingers digging into your cheek.

"You must know how lucky you are, to become a Targaryen," he spoke with a low growl that pierced your chest. "You will behave, do you understand? If you are to be my bride, you will behave like a proper lady, or you will be swiftly corrected."

You swallowed hard, nodding quickly into his hard. You swore you could almost see a flicker of amusement run through his angular features as your own expression turned fearful.

"On the wall, on the couch, on the corner of my mouth, you must like being the victim, you've done nothing to get out,"

The weeks of your engagement and the wedding that followed became a blur. All your things had been moved to Summerhall, your new home, though it felt more and more like a prison with each passing day. The brief excitement you had felt upon first meeting your husband was now a distant, dream-like memory that faded weakly into the background of everyday life.

Your days became filled with duties with which you tried to busy yourself as a distraction from what awaited you each night. Each morning, you broke fast with the family, enjoying time spent with Aegon and Daeron, before you made way to the small sept to pray. You found yourself there more often lately, though you'd never previously felt so strongly about faith. You wondered if perhaps this was a punishment from the Gods for your lack of piety as an unmarried woman.

Though Aerion's work and your own duties seemed to keep you mostly apart during the day, whenever Aerion found time to himself he would seek you out like a cat hunting a mouse. He would wait until he found you alone, moving through a hall or reclining with a book on the chaise in the library, before he would pounce.

A flash of silver hair would appear at the corner of your eye, but you'd have no time to react before Aerion would pin you down, strong arms restraining your body. You had screamed, the first times, only to be met immediately with a sharp slap across your cheek and a hand clamped over your mouth.

"You will be quiet, wife," he spit, fury in his eyes at having been defied. "The dragon takes what he wants."

Aerion would move his leg to pin your stomach by his knee, freeing his hand to roughly push up your skirts and tear at your smallclothes. Rough fingers would swipe at your slit, revealing to him the wetness between. His eyes would twinkle and his mouth would twist into a wicked, terrifying grin.

"It seems your body betrays you, girl," he cooed condescendingly, "it knows to prepare you for me."

His fingers would return, probing at your entrance before being shoved roughly up into you, curling inside and pressing against the rough patch of skin behind your pubic bone, making you moan unwillingly behind Aerion's vice grip.

"Is that so? Are you enjoying this?"

He would continue his ministrations until he grew tired of it, releasing his hand from your mouth only to replace it with his slick fingers, forcing you to suck your own flavour from his digits. He watched as your eyes fluttered closed, surrendering yourself to him, and satisfaction crept into his cheeks.

With slow, careful movements, the tension against your stomach eased, his leg dropping just enough to check if you would run when he moved. You didn't. You continued to suck, lost in the heat of his dominance and the taste of yourself.

Without warning, he ripped the fingers from your mouth to unlace his breeches. You whined at the emptiness, and he shushed you roughly. His pants pooled around his ankles and the angry head of his cock poked out from beneath the hem of his doublet, with a shining bead of pre-cum drooling from the tip.

No sooner than his cock appeared did he grab at your waist, roughly spinning you around so that your back faced him. Your face pressed firmly against whatever surface to which he had you pinned, and he pulled at your hips to bend you at the waist, exposing your ass to him.

With little care or tenderness, he slid his cock into your tight channel and began to thrust, allowing you no time to adjust to him. He simply did not care to wait for you, for to him you were a vessel to empty himself into. His hips bucked wildly against the globes of your ass, skin clapping against skin, with a squelching that came from his intrusion into your wet cunt.

When the initial pain subsided, your body began to respond to him, meeting his thrusts. Wanton moans escaped your throat that he made no effort to muffle, not caring who heard him take his wife. He reached up and wrapped a hand around your neck, not squeezing but using it to brace himself, grunting as he drove deeper into you.

The tip of his cock bullied your cervix almost painfully, pressing firmly against it with every slammed movement. The only kindness he showed in these moments was reaching a hand around to paw roughly at your clit, though his stimulation of you was entirely selfish as he knew your cunt would grip onto him like a vice if you reached your peak with him inside.

Still, you bucked against the clumsy fingers that rubbed around your delicate pearl, tension coiling tighter and tighter in your abdomen with each pass of his fingertips.

"Listen to you, mewling like a common whore," he groaned into your ear through gritted teeth. "Do you like it, wife? When the dragon takes you like this?"

You could only desperately nod, mind too hazy and clouded to respond with words. He took this as leave to rub harder, overstimulating the nerves at the apex of your thighs, feeling your clench harder and harder around him as you neared your climax.

"That's it, filthy girl, ruin yourself on my cock," he commanded.

It was all you needed, the white hot coil snapping within you and releasing immediately. You cried out, the sound echoing off the stone walls and filling the space with depraved noise. Your cunt tightened considerably, gripping onto Aerion's thick cock with force, causing him to match your lustful noises with his own.

With a squeeze around your throat, he drilled his final thrusts into you, deeper than they had ever been before, until his seed spilled from the tip of his cock and flooded your gummy walls. He slowed, pumping a few more times, catching his breath. Warm, white cum spilled out from you and coated the patch of silver curls above his cock until they soaked through.

"You take my cock so well," he purred, the praise sounding foreign coming from his mouth.

When he was finished, he would tear himself away from you, leaving you empty, cunt drooling the spilled seed. Allowing you no time to recover, he would spin you around to face him again, pushing you to your knees.

His slick, softening cock hung right before your face, near-purple head staring at you. He looked down, taking a handful of your hair in a clenched fist and smearing himself over your mouth.

"Clean it," he barked, voice coarse.

You obeyed immediately, parting your lips for him to slide into your wet, waiting mouth. The flavour of your juices combined met your tongue, and you swirled it around his cock, desperate to lick up all the evidence of the act.

He pulled at the back of your head with the hair in his fist, shoving more cock into your mouth and poking at the back of your throat. You tried your hardest not to gag, though you did eventually, tears welling up in your eyes. He watched you take him, a swell of pride in making you such a blubbering mess.

He yanked on your hair, pulling you back and allowing you a moment to breathe, before quickly replacing himself into your throat and thrusting softly, taking every bit of his pleasure from you. When he finally had enough, he loosened his grip, allowing you to finish cleaning his sensitive member with your tongue.

Aerion slid his cock out of your mouth and leaned down, pressing his lips roughly against your swollen ones. He kissed you hungrily, tongue snaking out to lick your teeth and explore your mouth, tasting the remnants of the dragon seed on your flesh, taking your lip between his teeth and biting until he tasted the familiar coppery taste of blood. He kissed you like a man starved, only breaking it when he needed breath.

He looked at you, face merely inches from yours, glassy-eyed and pupils blown. He smiled at you, the wicked, cold smile you'd come to know, and took your cheek in his hand. He admired your tear-streaked face, and the way you heaved for breath.

"Such a good little slut-wife," he murmured, pressing a soft and somewhat out of character kiss against your lips before rising again.

He hoisted his trousers up his legs, hastily tying the laces, before he turned on his heel and left without another word, leaving you there to absorb what just happened until your daze lifted just enough for you to rise and clean yourself up.

"Of this pattern of pain, washed away by the rain, you'll forgive me if I promise and do nothing but the same, this is life until death, could be my last dying breath, but this is love, love, shut up, this is love,"

When you finally felt somewhat settled into your new life at Summerhall, having become accustomed to Aerion's antics and even growing to enjoy his rough nature, there was little he did that truly got under your skin anymore. Perhaps he had softened, though you more likely grew harder and colder, no longer the innocent young lady you once were. Instead, you were a princess of the realm, seasoned and matured into something that could withstand the whims of the dragon.

That being said, you were still only human, a fragile thing beneath your firm shell, no magical Valyrian blood to put you closer to the Gods. You sometimes wondered if it were really true that Targaryens were more God than man, and if it were true, whether Valyrian blood would have saved you the pain inflicted upon you by Aerion's worst moods.

On the worst days, Summerhall became a battle ground, where everyone in the castle stood against the tumultuous wrath of Aerion. He ripped violently through the halls, dagger in hand, threatening anyone that got in his way. Unfortunately, this included his own wife, and you often found yourself cornered between unforgiving stone walls and an angry, lashing dragon.

It never mattered if you had truly done something wrong, and in fact you almost never had. You had learned quickly what not to do, how to appease him, and how to stay out of his way. But not everyone in the castle carried your wit, and you couldn't avoid him forever.

"You are a stupid, stupid girl, a conniving whore," Aerion spat venomously, charging into your chambers like a tornado come to life.

You weren't certain what the issue was this time, but you jumped to your feet all the same, bracing yourself for the impact.

Aerion grabbed the front of your dress, curling the dainty silken fabric into his fist, and raised his dagger to your throat. You swallowed hard and let out a shaky breath, fear immediately consuming your body. Aerion had never cut you deeper than a scratch before, but you certainly wouldn't put it past him to start now, especially as you felt the cool metal blade at the delicate skin at the base of your neck.

"My prince, please," you choked out, holding back the sobs that bubbled up from within you, trying not to show too much weakness. "If I have done something to upset you I am very sorry, though you must know I would never do such a thing on purpose."

Aerion let out a dark, low chuckle.

"Such pretty words from such an ugly girl," he hissed, droplets of spittle landing wet against your face.

You studied his face, watching the fire burn hot behind his crazed eyes. Any semblance of tenderness in your husband was gone, with only bitterness and scorching rage remaining.

"I p-promise, Aerion," you croaked, voice giving way to terror.

"Oh I am sure," he said, pressing the edge of the blade harder into your flesh.

The sting was immediate and terrifying, and you felt warm liquid drip down your collar until it ran between your breasts. Right away, you could tell he had pressed deeper than before, but his dagger didn't budge. He was too far gone, lost in his fury, and blind to the fact that he could kill you with just a little more pressure. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Tears began to stream down your face with wild abandon, and the realization that this might be it for you burned deep into your brain. The salty liquid dripped from your chin, landing on your chest and mixing with the blood that ran from your neck.

"You will pay for this-" Aerion started, only to be cut off by a booming voice at the door.

"Unhand your wife at once," the deep voice commanded. Heavy, thudding footsteps grew closer to you both until all of a sudden, Aerion was yanked away from you and no longer pressing the blade to your neck.

Your eyes flew open, red and stinging, only to see Maekar, who had grabbed Aerion by the back of the collar and pulled him away. Aerion thrashed in his father's arms, waving his weapon wildly. Maekar smacked the dagger out of Aerion's hand and it fell to the ground with a metallic clang.

"Call the maester at once," Maekar yelled into the hall, and the patter of panicked footsteps followed. Maekar threw Aerion to the ground, pinning him down with a heavy boot on his chest.

Your eyes found the violet gaze of your good-father, his normal stoicism replaced with something frightening, a mix of anger, fear, and disgust. Slowly, you raised a hand to your chest, and your fingers came back to view covered in crimson blood. The sight of it mixed with the coppery scent made you feel faint, and your vision blurred. Your legs wobbled, and you felt yourself begin to fall, but the world faded to blackness before you had time to feel an impact.

-

In increments, your surroundings began to come back to you.

At first, sounds started to come from somewhere distant. Footsteps against stone, glass clinking against metal, the crackle of the hearth, rain that came down in sheets against the window. Your face scrunched up with every sound, each noise sending a jolt of pain into your skull like an ice pick.

Next to come back to you was sensation. The ache in your head, the stinging at your throat, the weight of the blankets upon you, the dull squeeze of the bandage wrapped around your throat.

Your throat.

Where blood had escaped from, at the hands of your husband's dagger. Where a sob had been choked back until it could no longer be held, where the pleas had escaped from when you realized there was no calming him down.

Memories came to you slowly and in pieces until they pulled together the story of what had happened, and then they crashed into you all at once with a violent force that made you whimper and shake.

Your eyes began to open, sensitive to the brightness of the candles and fire, and the dark pulled away from your vision until you could make sense of everything.

You were in a bed, your own bed, in your chambers, surrounded by maesters and your handmaidens. In the corner sat Maekar, watching, waiting to see you wake. When he noticed you stir and try to sit up, he stood and quickly made his way to your side, sitting on the edge of your bed and extending a firm arm to prevent you from moving too much.

"Easy, easy," he mumbled in a tone that was softer than you had ever heard come from his lips.

"The maesters say you must rest, it's best not to move."

Your eyes found his once again, and you noticed the way the whites had turned red, and the way his dark circles nearly matched the purple of his irises. There was no anger in his face, only pure exhaustion and perhaps a lingering sadness.

You opened your mouth, but nothing could escape it. No sound came from you, only air and a quiet wheeze. Maekar was quick to soothe you, placing a gentle hand on your arm. It made you flinch, but you soon calmed and accepted his hand, seeing it meant no harm.

"Don't speak, you must rest your throat," he murmured. "Perhaps you should try to find rest, sleep may yet help the pain."

-

Maekar stayed in your chambers long after the maesters and maidens left, going between staring at you and staring out the window at the storm. He didn't want you to wake frightened and alone. It was another two hours before there was a knock at the door.

Maekar lifted his head and called to allow the visitor entry, though his expression grew into a scowl when Aerion's bruised face peered through the door.

"You've no business here," Maekar whisper-growled, bearing his teeth without waking you.

"I wanted to know if she is alright," Aerion spoke weakly.

The quiet conversation caused you to stir again, and you felt your body clench when you recognized the voice of your husband. You laid as still as possible, not wanting to alert him to the fact that you had woken.

"You don't deserve to know anything, you don't deserve her at all."

"I know."

Aerion sniffled, and his father examined his face from afar. All the rage and violence earlier had left him, and Aerion carried only guilt and shame. It was maybe the first time Maekar had ever seen his son show any kind of remorse for his actions. It was jarring, in a way, to see Aerion capable of something so human.

Maekar sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"You nearly killed her."

"I know."

Maekar looked up again, brows knotted together, and nodded in your direction, granting his son silent leave to get closer to you. He knew that Aerion was capable of changing moods in an instant, but he also knew that he was there to defend you, should things go south again.

Aerion moved slowly through the room towards the bed, eyes locked on your face. Each step was careful and deliberate, as though you'd burst into flames if he stepped even a millimetre out of place. He leaned over you when he reached the bed, taking in the sight of your puffy eyes and bandaged throat. A sound, not quite a sob but near enough, spilled from his mouth, and it was enough to get you to open your eyes.

The sight of Aerion was shocking; bruises covered his face, and his right eye was swollen shut. His nose was crusted with blood and almost crooked. His bottom lip, fat and with a cut at the side that was only just starting to scab over, trembled as he watched your eyes flutter open. His one open eye searched your face, though he wasn't entirely certain what he was looking for.

"My love..." he whispered, trailing off.

My love.

What an odd thing to say to the woman that you held a dagger to mere hours earlier. Had you not been in so much pain, you might have laughed at the notion. Instead, you stared at him, eyes wide, focused and unblinking.

"You look awful," you said with a gravelly voice when you finally spoke. Aerion nodded solemnly, though you noticed the sad smile tugging at the uncut corner of his mouth.

"I do," he agreed, "my father saw to that." His words came out sounding as though he thought his father was right to do it, that somewhere deep inside, he knew that he was a monster that needed to be beaten in order to see properly. You stayed silent for a moment.

"I... I am sorry, wife," he said, breaking the awkward silence. "I do not even remember what I was angry about, truthfully, but it was not your doing, I should have left you alone."

You blinked. An apology.

Aerion had never apologized to you before, despite having injured you multiple times. You supposed it was because this had been the worst of it. Never before had he taken you within inches of your life, and perhaps this was a wakeup call for him, though you doubted that to be the case.

"I will not harm you again. I swear it to you, by all the Gods."

"It's pathetic I know, a jealous fool who won't let go, if I was sorry for my actions would I ever stoop so low,"

The late afternoon sunlight peeled in through the windows of the grand hall, illuminating the rows of tables that had been set and decorated for the evening's feast in honour of your nameday. Since the incident with Aerion's dagger some moons ago, Maekar had seen to it that Aerion indulged you more than he otherwise would. Though you cannot say that life had become peaceful or Aerion's attitudes had truly improved, his wrath was no longer aimed directly at you, seeming only to catch the corners of you as collateral damage.

Guests filed into the hall with the opening of the huge gilded doors at the end of the room, bringing with them a lively chatter that echoed off the high ceilings and mixed with the sounds of music from the corner. Highborn nobles mingled, making no haste in finding their seats, simply enjoying the festivities, cups of wine in hand. Servants moved quietly and gracefully through the crowds carrying platters of fruits and cured meats, stopping to allow people to snack.

It wasn't for near half an hour after everyone had arrived that you made an entrance.

The music stopped as horns blared at the sides of the doors, where you stood with your arm linked through Aerion's, waiting to be announced to the crowd.

"The Prince Aerion Targaryen of Dragonstone and his Lady Wife, the Targaryen Princess."

All chatter paused, leaving silence to sweep over the room, so much so that one could nearly hear a pin drop. Suddenly, the room erupted once again, with cheers filling the silence. The music started again, and you flashed a dazzling smile, waving at your guests.

Aerion gently escorted you toward the grand table at the other end of the hall as the crowds parted to allow you both a wide path of access. Though you knew Aerion was unpredictable in his moods, he tended to behave himself better in the presence of so many judgemental eyes. Such nights were a relief, and the only time you felt near enough to a normal married noble couple.

Once you arrived at your table, Aerion pulled your seat out for you, and you looked up at him with a sweet smile, which he returned in kind. He took his place beside you, and glanced down at your hand that rested upon the table. Aerion thought for a moment, careful in his movements, before he placed his arm next to yours and covered your hand with his.

You looked over at him, somewhat shocked by such a display of affection. Such kind, sweet gestures were not typical of your husband, who preferred to show his affections with gifts and rough couplings. He smiled softly at you, turning your hand over under his and threading his fingers through yours.

"You look quite pretty tonight, wife," he mused, glancing at you, "your gown is very becoming of you."

You felt a soft heat rise to your cheeks, a feeling Aerion hadn't given you in earnest since your first introductions.

"Thank you, my prince," you replied, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

It felt wonderful to be seen by him, especially when you had spent so long preparing your appearance for this evening. You had selected a deep burgundy gown, made of delicate imported silk, adorned with white and gold embroidered flowers. The neckline was straight across, exposing your shoulders, though the sleeves billowed out around your arms until they gathered at the cuff at your wrist. Around your neck was a golden chain that carried a hefty garnet pendant, gifted to you by your husband just that morning.

You had taken great care to have your handmaiden leave enough of your hair down to cover the silvery-pink scar at the side of your throat, wanting no reminders of the violence that left it there.

You really did feel beautiful this night.

Quickly, a servant appeared to pour you and Aerion a cup of fine, spiced red wine. As soon as the servant bowed and left, Aerion pushed back his chair and stood. He picked up a knife and clinked it to the side of his glass, calling for the attention of everyone in the room. The music stopped, the room quieted, and everyone in the hall took their seats.

"My friends, lords and ladies of the realm, I thank you for attending tonight's feast in honour of the nameday of my lady wife, the princess. It is an honour to have you all here this evening to celebrate my beautiful bride," Aerion began, looking down at you, violet eyes filled with pride. "She is truly a wonder, and though no feast could ever be grand enough, I shall hope that this party shall please her. Please, everyone, let us eat!"

With that, the room broke into applause, and the music started once again, falling into the background of the crowds piling mountains of meats and breads onto their plates.

-

The night carried on smoothly, with a joy that hung in the air like a warm hug. Guests had long since finished eating, and had made their way to the middle of the room to dance.

Aerion had danced with you, swinging you wildly around as you dissolved into fits of giggles. It was bittersweet, with the voice in the back of your head reminding you that this is what your life should have been all along, and that this sweet mood of your husband's would not last. You made great efforts to push the thought out of your mind, forcing yourself to enjoy the moment while it lasted.

As the music lulled, changing from one song to the next, Aerion set you down on your feet with a smile. But as he took your hand again for the next dance, a voice came from behind him.

"Pardon me, my prince, but might I request a dance with your lovely wife on her nameday?"

Aerion turned around quickly, locking eyes with the young lord that was brazen enough to interrupt your time together. You felt his grip on your hand tighten, and it sent a pit into your stomach. You could feel his demeanour change, so you stepped up to Aerion's side before he could react harshly.

"Lord Penrose, how kind of you to request my hand," you spoke softly, with a royal grace that could put near anyone at ease, "however I do believe my husband intends to dance with me again. Perhaps later?"

Lord Penrose's face fell, his once lively grin replaced with something equally disappointed and angry at your refusal.

"I am afraid my lady wife is correct, Penrose," Aerion hissed, hints of malice breaking through his voice.

"Ah, I see... Very well then, perhaps I shall find you later again. My lady, my prince," Lord Penrose excused himself with a shallow bow. You turned to Aerion, whose gaze followed the lord with an intensity that could've caught fire if you held a match too close to it.

"What a pompous cunt," Aerion muttered, sucking his teeth.

You frowned, lifting a hand to cup your husband's freshly shaven face, guiding his eyes to yours. He looked upon you with an expression that suggested the fire of the dragon had begun to burn, but you simply flashed him a warm and gentle smile. It seemed to soften his edges, if just.

"You need not worry, my prince, you have all my attention."

-

The night had slowly turned to the wee hours of the morning, and you had gone to socialize with the guests that remained in the hall. Aerion had excused himself some half-hour prior, and you watched him from across the room as he spent a rare moment in the company of his brother Daeron, faces in their cups of wine.

"My my, well if it isn't the princess," came a voice to your right.

You turned your head and broke into a huge smile, seeing the face of your cousin Wyllam, who you had not seen since your wedding. You opened your arms and he scooped you into a sweet hug that smelled of wine and home.

"Wyllam, oh I am so pleased to see you, thank you for coming to celebrate!" You exclaimed as you pulled away. Wyllam smiled, taking your hand and giving it a small squeeze.

"I wouldn't miss an opportunity to visit my dear cousin," he replied warmly.

"It has been so long since I have seen you last," you said.

"Indeed it has, and not since you were but a lady! Now you are the princess!"

You let out a laugh as Wyllam bowed before you in jest, and you reached out and playfully swatted his arm.

"I may be a princess, but you are still my cousin," you said between giggles.

Wyllam nodded with a chuckle and raised his cup to you, clinking it against your own. A fiddle in the background began to play a song that you listened to in your youth, and Wyllam set his cup on the table before extending an arm to you.

"Will you dance with me, princess?" He asked with his familiar smile.

"I would be honoured," you replied, setting your own cup beside his and taking his padded arm in your hand.

Wyllam led you to the middle of the floor and you took your places, the steps to this song burned into both of your memories from learning to dance as children. He hummed along, leading the dance and twirling you at the appropriate moments. You both laughed, enjoying the time together, though you danced more gracefully now than when you were both clumsy children.

A moment later, when you had really found yourself lost in the rhythm of the music, the voice of your husband echoed across the hall.

"How dare you dance with my wife?!"

The question boomed across the room, causing everyone to pause. A familiar dread settled in the pit of your stomach as Aerion's footsteps clacked across the cold stone floor.

He reached you at once, grabbing your arm and ripping it away from Wyllam with a scowl.

"Aerion, this is my-"

"Save it, I do not care," Aerion spat, cutting you off. "I did not permit this fool leave to so much as look at the princess, never mind dance with her."

Before you could argue, Aerion had already let go of your arm and swung a fist at your cousin. The hit landed with a dull thwack against Wyllam's nose that immediately put him on the floor, and you let out a horrified wail, dropping to his side. Onlookers gasped in horror at the scene.

"Wyllam, your nose," you breathed, watching a stream of blood begin to flow from his left nostril. His nose was crooked, surely broken, and he held his nose bridge with a guttural groan.

Aerion came closer, movements jerky with unbridled rage, and pulled you roughly from your cousin's side. You landed on your backside with a yelp, but your cry went unheard between the crunching of Wyllam's hand under your husband's boot and the screams that followed.

"Please, stop this Aerion," you begged as a handmaiden rushed to help you to your feet.

"Somebody call for a maester at once," you bellowed, tears spilling relentlessly from your eyes. Aerion's assault continued, and he spoke without looking at you.

"Don't bother with it, he doesn't deserve-"

"You have broken the bones of my cousin, Aerion, he requires a maester."

Aerion froze, breath catching in his throat, and his face became pale. You turned to face your husband, who regained composure with a hard swallow.

"Fine, see to it that a maester sees him," Aerion said sharply, "but he should consider himself lucky that he still has bones at all for having touched my wife without permission."

A loud, sharp smack rang out over the hall, catching Aerion entirely off-guard. He lifted a hand to his cheek and gawked at you, violet eyes full of panic.

In all your time together, for everything Aerion had ever done to you, you had never raised a hand to him. But assaulting your cousin over a dance crossed a line that you didn't know you had.

You stared at your husband with fire in your eyes. Nothing else needed to be said. Maekar appeared beside him, guards in tow, and placed a warning hand on his shoulder.

"The prince is tired, we will take our leave," Maekar spoke firmly, pushing Aerion's out of the hall by the shoulder. You figured that Maekar would lay into his son, but then again, you simply didn't care, instead focusing on tending to Wyllam and seeing your guests off or to their chambers.

"Oh I was hit as a kid, I was good but then I quit, everyone that tried to fix me knows that I can't change a bit,"

A few weeks after your nameday feast, when the dust had somewhat settled over Summerhall, you found yourself sitting in Maekar's solar in the plush chair across from his desk. It had been a week since Maekar had announced that he was sending Aerion to Lys by ship within a fortnight, and the air inside the castle had changed. It seemed that everyone felt lighter, looking quietly forward to knowing that Aerion's reign of terror over the court would soon come to an end.

"I do apologize, my lady," Maekar said, leaning his elbows on his desk. You were looking at your hands, picking at your nails.

"Not so much for sending Aerion away, the seven know you'll be spared much anguish because of it," he continued, "but that you have been subjected to so much torment because of your marriage to my son. I knew he was bad, but I did not know he was so... cruel."

You shook your head, letting out a breath. It wasn't your good-father's fault, and you refused to give him blame for the madness of his son.

"Was he always this way?" The question came out with a soft squeak.

Maekar's brows knit together the way they always did, and he looked away, pondering the question.

"I... he was a glad child, once," Maekar said softly, "he liked fishing. I must confess that I spent much time away from my sons, when they were young. I did not come to know them well until their mother died. Perhaps he was always cruel, perhaps the death of his mother made it worse. I cannot say I know for sure. But as a babe... he would laugh. Coo. Slept well and never wailed."

You listened intently to Maekar, hearing the regret in his voice, though you weren't sure if he regretted not spending time with his children or perhaps if he just regretted Aerion. It made you wonder what Aerion might have been like in other circumstances, and it made you wonder if the coin flipped by the Gods on the day of his birth had simply landed on madness.

"I tried, Gods know I tried, the best way I knew how. I tried to reason with him, I struck him, I sent him away, but nothing I did ever got through to him. It is my own failure as a father," Maekar finished with a sigh.

"No your grace, I don't believe the fault is yours. Aerion's nature... it's not your fault," you said gently, and Maekar gave you a sad smile.

"I do love my sons, all of them, but I believe Aerion is a test that was sent to me by the seven, and I cannot say I have passed."

The air in the room hung thick and heavy. There was so much to say, yet no words seemed to find their way from your mouth. You knew that your good-father was right, that exile was the best outcome for everyone, and that despite your best efforts, nothing could truly be done.

"I must tell you something, but I wish to keep it from Aerion," you said, breaking the silence. Maekar looked at you quizzically, brow cocked, and you took it as leave to continue.

"I have... I have not bled, not in two moons," you said quietly.

You felt the weight of Maekar's violet eyes boring into you, his usual stoic nature replaced with shock, until he shook his head.

"Have the maesters confirmed it?" He asked plainly. You nodded.

"I see," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He paused, looking for the right answer, though it didn't come to him quickly. A knot of anxiety formed in your stomach as you waited, fearful that he would tell his son.

"I think under these circumstances, I agree that it is best kept from Aerion," Maekar said finally, and you felt the nerves pass. "Though we will celebrate, when he is gone. I will see to it that you are given the best care."

"I am fearful," you admitted in a small voice.

"I won't let him find out, my lady, you need not worry," Maekar replied. You shook your head, feeling tears bead at the corners of your eyes.

"No, no. I am... I fear that our child will be... like him," you said weakly as a fat teardrop finally rolled down your cheek.

Maekar stood, moving quietly from behind his desk until he stood before you, and he crouched down to meet your gaze, taking your shaking hands in his.

"He was not born a monster, and your child will not know his cruel ways," he whispered reassuringly, "even I was fearful that Aemon and Aegon would become like him. But they are good, they are kind, and your child will be too."

"I've got no shame, got no pride, only skeletons to hide, and if you try to talk to someone, well then someone has to die,"

You had left by carriage for King's Landing some days before Aerion was to be shipped off to Lys, after the storm had passed and the sun shone down again. The procession wasn't terribly long, with Maekar and the guard riding in the front, Aerion locked in a carriage in the middle, and your own carriage behind his, separated only by guards on horseback.

Your carriage had been stuffy due to the summer heat that beat down on the Kingsroad. It certainly didn't help that you had to wear a heavier gown than you would have preferred for the weather to conceal the small bump that grew your babe. Your breasts had become tender, swollen, and heavy, and the added weight on your chest only made it more difficult to breathe easily.

When you finally arrived in King's Landing, you were met by Prince Baelor and the King's Guard. Baelor had been pleased to see you, not having been able to attend your nameday celebrations, though it seemed for the best now.

"Princess," Baelor had said, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, "it is a pleasure to see you, though I am sorry it must be under such difficult circumstances."

You shook your head, assuring the heir that it was lovely to be in King's Landing regardless. He extended an arm to you, and you took it happily, allowing him to guide you into the Red Keep to the quarters you'd be occupying while you were in the city. You didn't look back into the yard, ignoring the calls from your husband after he had finally been dragged from his carriage.

-

In your chambers, handmaidens scurried about to fill a basin with hot water so that you might bathe after your journey. You were most grateful, looking forward to finding relief after having sweat in the same dress for days on end. You couldn't imagine that you smelled altogether pleasant, but the discomfort in your body took your mind away from such things.

As the handmaidens of the Red Keep worked to fill the tub, pouring in buckets of water that had been warmed over a fire and drizzling sweet scented oils into the basin, your own handmaidens helped you undress. Each layer that fell from your body made you breathe deeper, and provided a much needed respite from the oppressive heat and constriction of your gowns, until you stood completely bare. You closed your eyes, scratching at your scalp and sighing in pleasure as your hair fell from the braids it had stayed in for so long.

"My lady, I did not know you were with child!"

Your eyes flew open as you turned to face the handmaiden that spoke. She was of the Red Keep. Between the brain fog of pregnancy and the overwhelming need to rid yourself of sweaty clothing, you had not considered that you must hide the small swell of your belly from handmaidens. You took a fierce step toward the handmaiden, instinctively cradling your small bump.

"You will say nothing to anyone, am I understood?" You barked, pointing at the girl. She nodded quickly, flinching as though your wrathful words had grown spikes and pierced her skin.

"Y-yes my lady, I am s-sorry," she stuttered out, cheeks turning bright red. You turned to look at the rest of the girls, who had frozen in what they were doing and stared at you.

"Nobody is to breathe a word of it to anybody, or I will have your tongue."

The handmaidens stayed silent, shocked by such a display coming from a princess who was known to be well-tempered.

"Do you understand me?" You demanded.

A chorus of agreement filled your ears, and you nodded, shoulders finally relaxing, allowing each frightened girl in the room to feel a small bit of relief.

"Now then, if someone would please assist me into the bath," you said, your tone much calmer and sweeter than only moments before. A girl rushed to your side, taking you gently by the arm and keeping you steady as you swung your leg over the high side of the basin.

-

Supper that evening was held in a cozy, candlelit room with large windows that overlooked the Blackwater. Seated around the table was a small gathering of the family: Baelor and his son Valarr, Maekar, and yourself, with Aerion at the end of the table, stabbing his fork into a piece of meat over and over.

In the past, you might have felt the urge to tell him that the beast was already dead and there was no need to stab it again. Now, you simply felt empty, no urge to say anything at all. You stayed quiet, picking at the food in small bites, listening to Maekar and Baelor discuss matters of work that you had no interest in, until Baelor turned his attention to you.

"Princess, I am told that the maester wishes to see you after supper."

You nearly choked on your bread.

"I- ah... the maester? What for?" You asked, trying your best to sound nonchalant. You saw Maekar shoot his brother a warning glance, though Baelor did not see it as he was looking your way instead.

"I believe it was something about wanting to examine the babe," Baelor replied, in the same tone one might ask about the weather as he cut a piece of meat with fork and knife.

Maekar let out an immediate, frustrated snort, catching his brother off-guard. Baelor turned to look at him just as Aerion's knife speared into the table with a loud crack.

"The babe?" Aerion asked, venom dripping from the question. You froze in your seat, eyes locked onto your husband, and said nothing.

"What babe?!" He demanded again, louder this time. "Are you.. are you with child?"

Tears started to gather in the corners of your eyes, stinging you each time you blinked, and you nodded slowly, mind racing to find the best way to diffuse the situation, but nothing came to you. You could only sit and watch as Aerion's breathing grew ragged and his face turned from pink to red and then to near purple as the rage built inside of him.

"You carry my child, you carry the blood of the dragon, and yet I am not told of it?"

"That is enough, Aerion," Maekar's voice came from the other end of the table, in a tone that advised his son not to allow his emotions to get the better of him.

But it was too late.

Aerion ignored his father completely, standing with a forceful push back of his chair that sent it flying into the wall behind him. He jumped onto the table, kicking silver platters and glass goblets as he made his way toward you where you sat. Dishware flung wildly off the table as everyone rushed to shield themselves from the projectiles.

Before Maekar or Baelor could stand, Aerion was bent down, grabbing you by the neckline of your gown and thrusting you to your feet.

"You dumb, insolent whore," he spat, violet eyes of fury locked onto your face where the tears flowed, "how dare you keep this from me?!"

"I-I... I-I..." you blubbered out, unable to form any words. At other times, you might have been able to say something, anything, that might soothe him from a rage into something more manageable. But in this moment, nothing could be said, your mind instead filled only with fear for your child.

"Aerion, cease this foolishness at once!" Maekar commanded, reaching from where he now stood by the table, trying to pull his son back.

Before Maekar could get a good grip on him, Aerion's grip on your gown changed to a sharp push that sent you tumbling back into the ground, your head hitting the sharp corner of your seat on the way down. You let out a loud cry as the seat jabbed into your scalp, and Baelor rushed to your side, cradling your head and shielding you with his body as Maekar shouted for the guards to do something.

Guards burst through the door, filing into the room and reaching out to pull Aerion from the table and secure him. As one guard pulled him by the ribs, Aerion's hand clasped around a knife that had been strewn aside when he stood. As soon as the guard had him on the floor, Aerion whipped around and plunged the knife into the side of the guard's throat.

Wet, gurgling screams filled the room, and when Aerion retracted his knife, crimson liquid spurted onto the guard's armour. His knees buckled, and he landed with a thud against the stone floor, eyes and mouth open, unmoving. Another guard pushed Aerion to the ground with a sharp gesture and held his boot on Aerion's back.

"This ain't the love that your grandparents had, this kind of love will only make you mad honey, it hurts at first but it ain't that bad, you gotta wonder what it meant."

Life in Summerhall was peaceful after Aerion was sent to Lys. Joy filled the castle once again, the laughter of the children and delightful squeals of the babe echoed through the halls. Servants moved less cautiously through their work, no longer frightened by the monster that could be lurking around any corner.

You son Maegor had been born a bouncing, healthy boy. Naming him Maegor had been the only thing you had ever done for Aerion after his exile, remembering how he had spoken of naming his child after Maegor the Cruel. It felt gruesome, in a way, that you might be sealing the fate of your child by naming him after someone so vile, but you had reasoned with yourself; a name could not change his demeanour any more than the blood of his father could, and you would ensure that your child would never know his father's savage ways.

In the direct aftermath of the trip to King's Landing, Maekar had offered for you to return to your home, to birth your child somewhere comfortable and familiar, but you had graciously declined. You were no longer the frightened young girl that had been married off to a grotesque and bloodthirsty dragon, but a hardened woman, a princess that carried all the royal grace her husband never could.

In deciding to stay at Summerhall, you had become the mother figure to Maekar's youngest children, Aegon, Rhae, and Daella. The children flocked to you, and you had grown to love them tenderly as though they were your own. You felt it imperative to make sure they knew well of their mother Dyanna, and spent time with them visiting her in the crypt and reading them stories of their family history.

On your own front, you kept mostly to yourself, having vowed never to allow yourself to be taken again the way Aerion had taken you. While you knew well that nobody would have blamed you for taking a lover, you instead filled your alone time with reading and embroidery, having no interest in sex or love. Each time you found yourself fantasizing about what it would be like to be touched by someone, you ran fingertips along the scars at your throat and scalp, a reminder never to allow anyone to have that sort of power over you again.

Sukuna doesn’t knock. The entitled man just slides the door open, inviting himself into your space.

Sukuna quickly realizes maybe he shouldn’t be as reckless as he’s feeling—only met with the sight of two irises piercing daggers into him.

You’re half-naked, sliding yourself into your kimono and brushing your unruly hair from your face.

But, no. Sukuna’s not focused on your pinched up and twisted expression that’s making a show to scowl at him. His attention is fully honed in on your body. Not because he wants to tear that stupid kimono off of you and devour you like he has for the past couple of lonesome nights. Even the worst fights ended with you sprawled beneath him—tears staining your cheeks while you screamed his name in pure bliss.

His crimson slits are dragging over your swollen and perky breasts, rounded out more than normal. The slight pouch of your belly. The second heartbeat jumping behind it.

Huh.

“Where is Furi? Were my instructions to her of not allowing any visitors in unclear?” you practically shout, working to tie your obi sash in haste. Perhaps you do not wish to spend another moment in his presence.

Sukuna slips inside, sliding the door shut and crossing his arms over his chest. He feels his temper simmer to a manageable level. If anything, your spat from the other night is inconsequential. Truly, he doesn’t even remember what the two of you argued about. His long hours away from the shrine? A servant who stared at him too long? His tendency to be a brute with the people of his domain? It’s usually one of the three.

“I was unaware that I was a visitor in my own shrine,” he retorts, head tilting as he gives you a slow appraisal with all four eyes. “Have you done something new with your hair?” he smirks, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

“Go find a scythe to fuck yourself on,” you curse, a pout on your lips as you stare at yourself in the mirror, clearly unsatisfied with the reflection staring back.

“Maybe I should,'“ he practically purrs out, a curl on his lips as he motions to leave your room.

He stops in place when your gaze flies towards him, doe eyes tinged red and filled with tears. You must have been crying all night, your cheeks swollen and eyelids puffy.

“Woman,” Sukuna starts slow, still marveled at the fact that you have domesticated him into rationality. “Use your words. I may be the strongest creature in all the lands, but what I am not is a mind reader,” he growls, gaze thinning in tepid vexation.

The corner of your lips twitch downward, before a tear slips down your cheek. You suck in a shaky breath, before staring at your reflection once again with disgust. “Something’s wrong with me, Ryomen,” you whisper, voice wavering. “I keep crying. Nothing tastes good anymore. I want to hit and kick you one minute, and then feel your kisses on my throat while you press me into the futon.”

You bite your lip, Sukuna’s form swallowing the background as he hovers over you from behind. Like they belong there, his lower pair of hands settle on your waist, while the other pair shift to correct the poorly tied obi.

Sukuna’s words, vulgar and rash and mean, are an absolute to his actions. Gentle. Loving. Tender.

Leaning down, he presses a kiss against your pulse point, feeling it jump under his teeth. Then, he whispers. Tone husky, a low timbre. “We’ve been fucking like dogs, little bird. When did you last bleed?”

You tense up, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you sort out your thoughts. “Oh my… N-no, I bled when… when that servant tried to poison you,” you stutter out, picking at your fingernails.

Sukuna can feel your heartbeat picking up as you begin to panic. Two hands find yours, large and calloused thumbs brushing over your supple skin. “That was well over a month ago. How incompetent are your servants that they haven’t noticed?”

You turn to face him, feeling more tears well up, running across your waterline. “I prefer to tend to m-my own sheets.”

Sukuna, a beast of a human, has to hold back his laughter from his wife whose about three seconds away from a breakdown. It is comical just how asinine you can be. Nonetheless, Sukuna has a strong incentive to see joining him for breakfast again.

“Had I known you women were so complicated, I would have rethought this matrimony,” he grunts against your ear, a hand at your waist sliding up your belly.

“Well, you’re stuck with me,” you mutter stubbornly. You lean back against your husbands broad chest, inhaling deeply, breath shaking. “Us. You’re stuck with us.”

Sukuna’s gaze squints, ears twitching as he picks up on both the beat in your chest and the one in your belly. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice takes you aback. “Neither did I. Do you think we will be good at it?”

“You will,” he states with the utmost confidence, dragging your hair past your shoulder to inhale the scented oil dabbed on your nape. “You are a world’s more merciful than I am.”

You giggle, slapping his hand and allowing him to squeeze you in your intimate places, decorating your skin with short kisses. “That is true.”

The both of you stand there in silence. You and Sukuna never needed to fill the gaps with meaningless words, simply finding comfort in each other’s company. He’s nervous, you can see it in the tight expression he wears. And your pulse hasn’t slowed since you’d learned of what’s blossoming in your womb.

But you have each other. In a world full of curses and strife, Ryomen Sukuna and you managed to find worshiping devotion in one another that triumphs all.

THEY HAD WOKEN YOU BEFORE DAWN. You sit up as you hear that a servant had come all this way to the Vermillion Hall for something important. You were agitated, having been unable to sleep well last night. Still, what could you do, when this was the life you had to live as the great lady of the King of Curses?

Grabbing your silk robes in haste, to look presentable enough, you asked your head servant to lead them in. It wasn’t long till the servants bearing the request arrived quietly, prostrating to you in haste as they spoke in hushed tones.

“Speak. What do you need from me at such an early hour?”

One of the servants, forehead still pressed flat against the polished wood, his voice carefully stripped of any tremor that may betray their nervous feeling, began to speak. “My lady… the Earthly Might Hall requests your presence. Lady Fubuki has gone into labor with her babe.”

For a moment, you say nothing. You had been seated by the open screens, the evening air brushing faintly against your skin, your thoughts elsewhere. So far removed from the suffocating routines of the inner palace, far from the endless cycle of women vying for attention that is so rarely given. 

But such a duty is not something you are allowed to ignore, let alone to the other women in the household and your lord husband is not here, let alone does not wish to be disturbed by these trivial matters. He would not even send Uraume, you knew that too well. 

You rise without haste, the layered silk of your robes settling around you like something alive, something obedient. Almost like the ocean in the moonlight. You do not ask questions. You know that you do not need to. You already understand why they called for you. It wasn’t long before you were asking them to stand up from their position to dismiss them.

“But my lady, lady Fubuki—”

You furrowed your brows. “I did not say I will not be there. I will be. Let me dress.”

The tension that had gripped the room only moments ago dissolves all at once, as though an invisible thread has finally been cut. Relief does not come quietly. It spills out of them. They were all muttering audible, overwhelming responses, almost desperate in its release. 

Shoulders that had been held rigid for hours finally sag, breaths that had been shallow deepen, and one by one, the servants nearest to you drop to their knees. The motion spreads like a ripple, until the floor is filled with bowed heads and pressed palms.

“Thank you, my lady….thank you for your kindness…”

Their voices overlap, gratitude tumbling over itself in their haste to be heard, to be acknowledged. It is not simply thanks for the safe delivery, it is thanks for your presence, for your authority, for the unspoken assurance that things would not fall apart under your watch.

You do not bask in it. You have heard it too many times for it to mean anything more than noise. A quiet sigh escapes you, soft enough that it does not disrupt the atmosphere, but enough to betray a flicker of weariness. Without raising your voice, you gesture faintly toward the entrance, summoning one of your attendants.

“See them out.” you instruct, your tone even, already moving past the moment. “Ensure Lady Fubuki’s household returns without disturbance.”

The servant bows deeply and moves at once, relaying your command. There is no hesitation, no questioning. Within moments, the cluster of attendants belonging to Lady Fubuki begins to withdraw, their movements still reverent, still careful, as though afraid that any misstep might undo the fortune they have just been granted. They leave relieved by your word, and most of all, your willingness to act.

The quiet that follows is different from before. It is no longer strained nor was it brittle. Instead, it carries a softer weight, one shaped by exhaustion rather than fear. Your own attendants return shortly after, moving with practiced efficiency. 

They bring with them a wash basin filled with clean water, fresh clothes, and a change of garments more suitable for the state you now find yourself in. The faint scent of herbs rises from the basin, meant to cleanse away the lingering traces of blood and effort.

One of them approaches you with a comb, her hands steady but respectful as she offers it. You accept it with a small inclination of your head. “Thank you.”

The words are quiet, but they are not empty, it never has been. Turning slightly toward the polished surface of the looking glass, you begin to draw the comb through your hair. The strands, once perfectly arranged, now carry the subtle disarray of long hours spent in tension-filled stillness. 

You work through them patiently, each stroke deliberate, untangling what has been disturbed. A yawn slips past your lips before you can fully suppress it, your body finally acknowledging the fatigue you have been holding at bay. For a brief moment, you allow yourself to simply exist in the quiet rhythm of the motion.

“Do you think it would be a girl or a boy, my lady?”

The question comes hesitantly, but curiosity wins over restraint. You meet one of the servants, a young girl whose gaze looked far too innocent through the reflection of the mirror. She is young, you think to yourself. Perhaps younger than you had been when you entered the harem.

That youth still remained an obstacle to her, you think to yourself. Youth hinders learning how to bury such questions properly. But you know there is no malice in her tone, only a kind of earnest wonder that has not yet been worn down by the realities of the palace.

“Do you…do you think Lord Sukuna would be happy about it?” she adds, her voice softening further, as though even speaking of his reaction requires caution.

Your hand stills for just a fraction of a second before continuing its motion. You consider the question. Not because it is difficult, but because the answer is not something they truly want to hear. You knew too much of the man. 

He may be restrained most of the time.

But your lord husband is still such a man.

A man they will never know was too much of a god.

And gods do not have leniency for human things.

Let alone emotional interest in what makes it human.

“I think…” you begin slowly, your voice measured, your gaze steady in the reflection. “I think that a child is a gift, whether it is a girl or a boy.”

It is the kind of answer that offers comfort without promising anything. You pause briefly, letting the words settle before continuing, your tone shifting ever so slightly. You knew that you would end up becoming more honest, though no less controlled.

“As for whether my lord would be happy…” You draw the comb through another section of your hair, the soft sound filling the space between your words. “That is not something I can say with certainty.”

Your eyes lower, just for a moment, not in submission but in quiet acknowledgment of a truth you have long accepted. “My lord keeps his thoughts close. What he feels…he does not always show. And what he does not show is often more telling than what he does.”

The room grows a touch quieter at your words. Even those who already knew this seem to feel the weight of it anew when spoken aloud. At times it's easier to imagine things than to let yourself deal with the things you already know to be reality. In a place like this, it keeps one sane.

“Ah…I wish that my lady would have a child as well.”

The words slip out before they can be stopped, from one of the much younger, newer girls. The other girls seem to realize her mistake only after they have already taken shape in the air, but they say nothing, hoping you would not pay mind to such a comment. Her expression falters, her lips parting as if to retract what cannot be taken back.

“Such a little one would be—” She does not finish. An older attendant, standing just behind her, reaches forward sharply and pinches her arm, which was a silent reprimand that carries far more force than any spoken correction.

“Do not speak so carelessly, girl.” the older woman hisses under her breath. “You have overstepped the boundaries. Your comfort with my lady is astoundingly reckless! Apologize!”

The younger girl pales instantly, the weight of her misstep crashing down on her all at once. She drops to her knees without hesitation, bowing so quickly that her forehead nearly strikes the floor. “My lady, forgive me—I did not mean—I spoke without thinking—”

Her apology tumbles out in uneven fragments, far too clumsy and too desperate, as you would expect for young girls her age. You watch her for a moment through the mirror. Then you exhale softly, the sound neither harsh nor indulgent.

“Do not trouble yourself, little girl.” you say, your tone steady as you set the comb aside. “You are not the first to say such things to me. And you will not be the last.”

Your words ease the tension, but they do not erase the truth behind them. You turn slightly, finally facing her directly. “That is not my role in this home.” you continue, your voice calm but firm, carrying a quiet finality that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “And my lord has made it clear that it is not meant to be.”

You gesture lightly for her to rise. She hesitates only briefly before obeying, still keeping her gaze lowered. “My place is not to bear his children, at least that is what is.” you add, not with bitterness, but with clarity. “It is to support him, to ensure that what belongs to him is maintained, that his household remains in order, and that those under his care are raised as they should be.”

Your gaze shifts, if only for a moment, as Chiharu’s presence lingers at the edge of your thoughts. You smile at the thought of that. Taking care of her is the closest you could ever experience motherhood and perhaps you can only be thankful for her in making you something close to being a mother.

“To guide Lady Chiharu. To see that she grows as she must.” There is no resentment in your tone. No longing. Only acceptance. “I know my place.”

The room settles into silence once more, more aware than discomfort. You are not the gentlest among them, you knew that much. You do not offer soft reassurances or empty comforts and even when you did, you did not make it your habit. 

You are not the most maternal, nor the most openly kind, there are other women in the harem who have such kindness that makes them almost like goodness in the flesh on earth.  But you are the one he has chosen above the rest. And in a place where favor dictates survival, where attention is both a weapon and a shield…that makes you indispensable.

“Let us hurry in this.” You finally spoke again. “Lady Fubuki is in need of me.”

The Earthly Might Hall was a bit further than the Vermillion Hall. But it was far enough that it warrants some effort to get there. After thirty minutes, you find yourself at the precipice of its gates. The hall greets you with heat, with incense, and with the unmistakable tension of a room teetering on the edge of chaos. 

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere shifts. Servants who had been rushing suddenly slow, their movements growing careful, deliberate. Midwives who had been whispering urgently fall into a more controlled rhythm, their voices lowering as if your presence alone demands composure. Even the air itself feels heavier, thick with expectation.

Lady Fubuki’s cries cut through it all. This is her first child with lord Sukuna, and you expected nothing less than grievance at the situation. The young woman is sprawled across layered futons, her hair undone, clinging to her damp face, her body trembling under the strain of labor that has clearly gone on far too long. 

The sharpness of her voice speaks of exhaustion as much as pain. Each cry coming out of her mouth was weaker than the last, but no less desperate. You take it in at a glance, a careful and attentive one. You purse your lips in a flat line.  The blood. The tension in the midwives’ shoulders. The way no one quite meets your eyes, as if awaiting judgment.

“She’s been laboring for hours, my lady.” one of the midwives says, bowing low, her voice betraying just enough strain to reveal the truth they are all trying to contain. “We fear the child—”

You cut her off, not harshly, but with a certainty that leaves no room for speculation. “The child will come, and you must make it so.” you say, your tone even, controlled. “Do your duty. If you do not, it will not. Fear will not change the outcome.”

It is not cruelty that stills them. It is clarity and it’s one you are willing to provide, now that you are here. You move forward, unimpeded, kneeling beside Lady Fubuki. Up close, the fragility of her state becomes even more apparent. 

Her breathing is uneven, her hands clutching at the sheets as if they are the only thing anchoring her to the world. When her gaze finally finds yours, something flickers there. There is panic, yes, but also something softer. Relief, relief that you had come to support her.

You brush damp strands of hair from her face with a measured hand, neither overly gentle nor dismissive. Your touch was just enough to ground her. Just enough to remind her that she has not been abandoned to this.

“If you waste your strength screaming and not letting yourself hope to live, it will be for naught, girl.” you tell her quietly, your voice low enough that it does not carry beyond the two of you, “Go on, breathe. Focus. Survive this first, for yourself and for your child.”

She nods weakly, clinging to your words as if they are something solid in a moment where everything else feels like it is unraveling. It wasn't long till you held her in your arms, almost like a mother would.

“Go on, push!”

And that lady Fubuki does. Everyone seems to finally find the rhythm in this moment, trying to still themselves in focus, as Fubuki screams and screams, trying her best to get her babe out. You give her words of encouragement, you wipe her sweat. One after another, you bring her back to reality.

It wasn’t long before you sensed her presence before you heard her. Those same soft footsteps approach from behind, effortlessly light and unhurried, entirely unafraid. It reminded you of a cat who was stealthily making its way without being noticed. Still, it was her voice that got you to notice her.

“My lady.” The voice is calm, composed in a way that feels almost unnatural for someone so young. You turn your head slightly, and there she is. “I’ve come.”

Ryomen Chiharu does not bow. She never has and she never will. And you have taught her not to, whether it was you or anyone else, it is what your lord husband had told you. She only bows when it is her father, as is customary.. And that is how it must always be. She is above everyone else here. 

Where the other children of the harem’s walls have been shaped into careful obedience, into lowered gazes and softened voices, she stands as she is. Chiharu is straight-backed, observant, her eyes sharp, akin to her father’s, and has a kind of quiet awareness that is far too familiar, one that only soldiers have.

There is something in her that echoes everything that makes her lord father. Of course, not always in the obvious ways, not in cruelty or dominance, but in perception and presence. In the way she looks at the world as though she is already dissecting it. And garners the same response to the majesty only she and her father carry.

But that is what comes when you are the descendant of the Ryomen.

She comes to your side as if it is the most natural place for her to be, settling beside you without waiting for permission. You remained focused on calming Fubuki as she readied herself to push once again. The young girl’s gaze drifts to the laboring woman.

“Is she dying?” she asks, her tone devoid of panic, carrying only curiosity.

The midwives stiffen at the question. You do not. “Not yet, not now.” you answer simply. “I am here to prevent such a thing.”

Chiharu smiles. “You are not god, mother.”

“I am the wife of one.” You reply to her. “My will is as good as his.”

Chiharu tilts her head, considering this as though it is a problem to be studied rather than a life hanging in the balance. After a moment, she lowers herself to sit beside you, folding her legs neatly beneath her.

“I want to watch.” she says.

You look at her then. She is all but a child, nearly ten years of age. She’s far too young to see something like this. But you knew that your lord husband has shown her worse than a woman giving life into the world. 

Regardless of his affection, she is still his heir. He must teach her of the world she inherits, and it is one which is so full of violence and grievance and pain. You think that this is the least of her worries. But you cannot help but feel the deep pit of your stomach coil at this moment. 

It’s hard to think about this without feeling horror that such a child would be exposed to such a vision of life birthed in the struggle of a mother’s pain like this. A child has no place seeing such pain. You purse your lips in a flat line.

“Then watch, if you wish, little flower. I am sure that your father says the same thing.” you reply back to her.

She nods. “That he does, mother.”

“Then do not look away when it becomes unpleasant. There is nothing to learn from turning your eyes from truth.”

She nods once, accepting this without hesitation. “Very well.”

Time stretches in a way that feels almost deliberate, as if the moment itself refuses to resolve quickly. The labor progresses in uneven waves. Pain rises and falls, each crest leaving Lady Fubuki weaker than before. The room grows hotter, the scent of incense struggling to mask the metallic tang of blood that lingers in the air.

You guide the midwives with quiet authority, correcting their movements with minimal words, adjusting what needs to be adjusted without disrupting the fragile rhythm they are trying to maintain. You do not raise your voice. You do not rush. You simply ensure that things move as they must.

Beside you, Ryomen Chiharu watches everything with intrigue. Her gaze follows each motion intently. The tightening of muscles, the tremor in a hand, the moment when fear overtakes control. She observes it all with an intensity that would be unsettling if you did not already understand where it comes from.

After a long stretch of silence, she speaks again. “Why do they do this?” she asks, her voice thoughtful rather than critical. 

You glance at her briefly. “To bear children. ” you say. “Many women do such a thing—”

Her expression shifts, just slightly. “That is not what I meant.”

Of course it isn’t, you already know that. You turn your attention back to the task at hand, your hands steady even as the tension in the room builds, wiping away the sweat from Fubuki’s face. You give a small look to the young girl.

“They do it for the same reason I serve your lord father well.” you explain after a moment, your tone calm, measured. “They do it because they believe it will give them purpose. Because they hope it will secure their place. And because they think it might earn his attention.”

Chiharu absorbs this quietly. “And does it?” she asks.

You pause, not because you do not know the answer, but because the truth requires no embellishment. “Sometimes.” you say softly. 

“But father does not always do such a thing, does he?”

“Your father is a god.” You reply to her as Fubuki seems to lose consciousness. You tap her, trying to keep her awake. “Gods don’t always reply.”

Chiharu did not reply. It did not take long for the final moments to come suddenly, violently, as they often do, as they always have been. Lady Fubuki’s cries reach a breaking point, her voice tearing from her throat in a sound that no longer resembles anything human. 

The midwives move with renewed urgency, their earlier hesitation replaced with desperate precision. You remain where you are, steady as ever, watching as the moment unfolds, encouraging her as she gets herself there.

“One more push, Fubuki. Do it for yourself, do it for your child!”

Fubuki raises her head and screams louder than she ever has, pushing harder than she has ever done these many hours and soon enough, her hard work is rewarded. It didn’t take long for a sound to interrupt it all.

Suddenly there was something fragile, something tender and small born into this world. Then there was a small crash into a mighty cry. The room stills as if caught in a held breath. You finally found yourself feeling some relief.

“You did it, Fubuki.” You gave her a small smile, a tender look as she looked back at you and then the child being held in the midwife’s arms. “You’re a mother.”

One of the midwives lifts the child, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she announces, “A daughter, my lady. A healthy daughter!”

The words seem to settle over everything. Lady Fubuki then collapses back against the futon, her body finally giving in to exhaustion, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as tears slip freely down her temples. Whether they are born from relief or sheer survival hardly matters.

You let yourself stand, moving closer to where the newborn is being cleaned and wrapped. She is small, her skin still marked by the ordeal of her arrival, her cries weak but persistent. There is a fragility to her that is unmistakable, but she is alive. That is what matters. For now.

Chiharu rises beside you, peering at the child with open curiosity. “She’s loud, isn’t she?” she remarks. “Huh, she’s so small.”

“Yes, most babies are like that.” you agreed. “She will cry a lot, though. She worked hard like her mother to be born.”

“Was I ever like that?”

You looked at her. “I….I do not know. Your father brought you home when you were a bit bigger than this little girl.”

“I see.” There is a brief silence before she asks the question that lingers beneath all others. She moves to whisper it in your ear. “Will he care?”

You do not answer immediately. Instead, you reach out, adjusting the cloth around the infant with practiced precision, ensuring that she is properly secured, properly presented. Your touch is neither affectionate nor detached, it is simply correct. Only after a moment do you speak.

“If she proves worthy of his attention.” you say quietly. “Only she can do that for herself.”

Ryomen Chiharu nods, accepting this without question, because she already understands what it means. In this place, existence alone is never enough. Unless you were the daughter of Ryomen Hiromi, like Chiharu was, then you will have to work twice as hard to prove yourself. 

You were thankful your child would not have to go through this. For your child does not exist and perhaps never will be. You were content with this, you thought of yourself, you convinced yourself. This was more than enough.

You make arrangements for Fubuki and her child to be cared for. You give the midwives your thanks and the promise of some money for their good work and their services. You cleaned your hands and made your way out.

By the time you step out of the Earthly Might Hall, the night has already given way to morning. The shift is almost jarring Inside, time had stretched and coiled around pain, blood, and breathless anticipation, each moment heavy with consequence. But beyond the threshold, the world has moved forward without hesitation. 

The sky is pale with the early light of dawn, the air cooler, carrying none of the suffocating heat that had filled the birthing chamber. Somewhere in the distance, servants have already begun their routines for the day.

Their footsteps echoing softly along stone paths, the faint clatter of preparation rising from the kitchens, the quiet hum of a palace waking as if nothing of importance had occurred. It is a strange kind of indifference.

A life has just been brought into existence, fragile and uncertain, tied irrevocably to the lineage of a being feared as much as he is revered, and yet the world does not pause for it, let alone willing to celebrate it.

You walk forward regardless. Chiharu follows at your side, her presence as composed as ever, her small steps unhurried, perfectly in sync with yours. There is no lingering curiosity in her now, no questions about what she has just witnessed. She has already absorbed it, stored it away, turned it into something she will understand later in her own way.

A manservant stationed along the corridor notices your approach immediately. He lowers himself into a deep bow, head inclined, body still, waiting. You do not stop walking, but you do not ignore him either.

“Inform the harem that another descendant of the Ryomen has been born into this world.” you instruct, your voice calm, carrying easily without the need for emphasis. “Let it be known that the child survived the labor and has been named by her mother, Fuyuka. It is only my lord who will decide if she is given the Ryomen name.”

You continue, your thoughts already moving ahead to what must follow. “After that, go to the kitchens. Have them prepare proper meals for the household, something substantial at the very least for today’s breakfast. The others will be expecting it.”

A pause, brief but intentional, before you add as you remembered. “Oh, and ensure that when Lady Fubuki wakes, she is given food suited for recovery. Something nourishing. Nothing that will weaken her further.”

The manservant nods without lifting his gaze. “Yes, my lady.”

He begins to withdraw at once, stepping backward with careful precision, ensuring that he does not turn his back to you too soon. Only once he has put sufficient distance between himself and your presence does he straighten and move quickly to carry out your orders.

Everything settles into place as it should.

It always does.

For a short while, you and Chiharu walk in silence through the courtyard leading to the path of the Phoenix Gardens.  The palace corridors stretch before you, bathed in soft morning light, their polished surfaces reflecting a world that appears far more peaceful than it truly is. 

The quiet between you is not empty. Instead, it is simply unforced, a shared stillness that does not require constant words to fill it. Eventually, you glance down at her as she starts to sing a new tune.

“When is your father expected to return from his battle?” you ask, your tone casual, though the question itself is not without purpose.

Chiharu does not hesitate. “He wrote to me the other day that he intends to be home by tonight, mother.” she replies, her voice steady, as though she has already repeated this information to herself more than once.

You nod, acknowledging it with a quiet hum. “I see.”

There is no outward reaction beyond that, no visible anticipation or concern. You have long since learned not to dwell on his comings and goings in any way that might suggest attachment too openly. He returns when he chooses. And when he does, the entire palace reshapes itself around his presence.

Chiharu’s lips curve into a small smile as she looks up at you, a flicker of something softer passing through her otherwise perceptive gaze. She leans close. You sigh as you enveloped her in the same arms you held Fubuki.

“There is no doubt he will dine with you, mother.” she says, the certainty in her tone carrying a quiet familiarity with patterns that rarely change. “That is his routine, is it not?”

A soft sound escapes you, something between a snicker and a restrained laugh. “Then I must sleep before that happens, for I am exhausted.” you reply, a faint trace of amusement threading through your voice. “Your father has a habit of stretching conversations far longer than necessary.”

It is not a complaint, not truly. More of an observation, one made with the kind of ease that comes from repeated experience. Chiharu considers this, her smile lingering as she tilts her head ever so slightly.

“It is his way of making you feel appreciated, mother.” she says to you. “He only speaks with people that intrigue and entertain him.”

Her words are simple as they were earnest. And for just a moment, they linger in the space between you. You do not answer immediately. Instead, your gaze drifts forward, toward the path ahead, toward the chambers that await you, toward the quiet rest you intend to claim before the night returns with him in tow.

Appreciation.

It is a curious way to describe it.

Let alone summarize your relationship.

Your lips curve faintly. It was not quite a smile, but not entirely devoid of warmth either. “Is that so?” you murmur at last.

Whether you believe it or not…you do not say. But you do not dismiss it either. And as the two of you continue walking through the waking palace, the morning light stretching longer across your path, there is a quiet understanding that settles in its place. 

“I know so.” Chiharu says to you. “After all, he would not make you my mother if you were so distant from him.”

You purse your lips. You supposed that was the truth of it. He would not give you such a privilege, let alone such rank, such a duty if he does not trust you enough to handle it all for him. You released her from your hold.

“I suppose you are correct.”

“I will break my fast with you, mother.” Chiharu tells you, smiling softly. “It has been a while since I have done this.”

You smiled at her words. “You are more than welcome to join me.”

YOU HAD RISEN FROM YOUR SLEEP JUST IN TIME FOR HIS ARRIVAL. But you were a step ahead. Being informed of it all had allowed the Vermillion Hall to be prepared long before his return. You had seen to it yourself, as soon as you had broken your fast with Chiharu.

Even after leaving the Earthly Might Hall, after the long hours spent in the suffocating heat of labor and blood, you did not allow yourself the indulgence of complete rest. You had bathed, changed into fresh robes, and given quiet instructions as Chiharu returned to break her fast with you.

You had been giving orders as soon as you started to get your hair done by one of the servant girls. You were measured and precise with each and every order. You were not willing to leave any room for error. Your lord husband expects the best from you and you must continue such expectations with results. 

The floors had been cleaned again, though they were already spotless. The lanterns were trimmed so their light would not be too dim nor too harsh. The low table was arranged exactly as he preferred, each dish placed with intention rather than decoration.

And the food, most importantly, the food. Your lord husband does not get hungry as humans do. But he appreciates good food, and ones which suit his tastes. You had lived long enough around him to know what they were. 

You had paused in the kitchens longer than necessary, watching as the cooks worked under the weight of your silent scrutiny. The meat had been selected carefully, its cut precise, its seasoning adjusted just enough to suit his taste without overwhelming it. 

You had corrected a hand here, a measurement there, until you were satisfied. Not because you feared him. But because it was easier when he was pleased. You would not have to deal with the problems of his displeasure.

When he returned, the temple palace shifted its course. It was not something that could be seen directly, nor heard in any obvious way but it was felt to the bone. It was like a pressure settling over everything at once, like the air itself bending to accommodate his presence.

You did not greet him at the gates, not today. You were still ensuring your household was ready to receive him. Chiharu had gone to both of your steads. You had heard whispers he had grumbled about it, but had said nothing more. 

You snickered about such a thing. But you did not think much of that. Instead, you continued the preparations within the Vermillion Hall. And when that was done, you merely waited, enjoying the view of the Phoenix gardens, drinking a cup of tea seated and composed, as though you had always been there and always would be.

By the time he entered, everything was ready. Now, the candlelight flickers softly against the lacquered walls, casting long, wavering shadows that stretch and distort across the room. Those shifting patterns crawl over his form as he sits across from you, their movement doing little to soften the sharpness of his features.

Ryomen Sukuna does not rush when he eats. He never has. Each movement that came from your husband was deliberate with his efficient control, as though even something as mundane as a meal is beneath him and yet still worthy of his full attention. 

He picks at the meat with careful precision, bringing each bite to his mouth without haste, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. He took a moment to evaluate it. You watch without appearing to. Observing him is the only way to gauge his mood.

And when he does not stop, when he does not discard the food, does not sneer, does not call for the cooks with that dangerous edge curling beneath his voice, you allow yourself the smallest, most private sigh of relief.

He likes it.

Good.

That is good.

That means there will be no irritation tonight, no idle threats about feeding incompetent cooks to whatever curses linger beyond the palace walls, no drawn-out complaints that would force you to intervene in ways that are far more exhausting than they should be.

It is a small victory. But in this place, small victories are the only kind that matter. You sit opposite him, posture straight but not rigid, your hands folded neatly in your lap. You have had some food earlier with your tea. 

There is no need for you to share this meal with him, but you still take some food in small intricacies, just to avoid him noticing it and questioning you about it. You quietly take a small bite, before you pour yourself a small amount of sake.

You slowly lift the cup to your lips, taking a measured sip, letting the warmth settle faintly in your chest before setting it back down. You do not refill it immediately. Tonight, you are not in the mood to drink more than necessary. Not when your thoughts are still lingering elsewhere.

The rest of your servants are gone for the night. They were not dismissed by you, but by your lord husband. Before the meal had even properly begun, he had waved them off with little more than a passing remark, his disinterest in their presence clear. 

There had been no hesitation in their departure, no attempt to linger under the pretense of duty. They had bowed and retreated quickly, grateful for the permission to remove themselves from his proximity.

He had already decided he would remain here tonight in the Vermillion Hall, with you. That alone had been enough to send a subtle ripple through the palace. Even when he says it is a hassle to return to Heaven’s Hall, there was something else to it. But you were not willing to talk about it. Not tonight.

Now that there are only the two of you, there is quiet tranquility. The cool wind brushes against your cheek as you look at the massive well lit pond separating you and the Phoenix Gardens. The quiet is not uncomfortable tonight, but it is heavy.

The soft clatter of utensils against porcelain echoes more loudly than it should, filling the space between you in the absence of conversation. The scent of roasted meat lingers in the air, rich and grounding, though it does little to distract from the awareness of him sitting across from you.

You do not speak, at least not yet, not without his urging tonight. You were not in the mood to break the ice yourself.  Because you know better than to fill silence for the sake of it. That would not be something good. 

It is only after some time, after he has taken another slow bite, after the rhythm of the moment has settled into something almost languid, that his gaze finally shifts. Those scarlet eyes lift. And then land on you.

“You’ve been unusually quiet tonight, little one.” His tone is casual. Almost indifferent. “Intriguing.”

But his gaze is anything but. It is sharp. Intent. Peeling back layers with a kind of ease that would be unsettling if you had not grown accustomed to it. You lower your eyes, allowing your gaze to fall to the polished surface of the table. 

Your reflection stares back at you, almost so pale like the moon from the white make up, almost too composed in your position, betraying nothing that you do not allow. For a moment, you hesitate, not for fear but out of consideration.

You could remain silent. You could deflect. You could offer something trivial and allow the night to pass without complication. But he would not allow it. He never does. And if you refuse him now, he will simply take the answer from you in a way far less gentle. So you choose your words carefully.

“Another child has been born, my lord.” you say at last, your voice soft, controlled, each syllable placed with intention. “From one of your concubines. Lady Fubuki, of the third rank.”

The words settle between you. For a brief moment, there is no reaction. Then, there was something you did not expect.  A low, amused sound escapes him. He leans back slightly, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his lips as he shakes his head, almost as if entertained by something only he can fully appreciate.

“A third rank concubine? Then she is a madame.”

You nodded back at him. “Indeed, my lord.”

“Hm. A child, you say? That’s quite intriguing.” His gaze sharpens just a fraction. “I didn’t hear of this when I had arrived.”

“It was kept quiet, my lord.” you reply smoothly, lifting your gaze just enough to meet him without challenging him. “Until it was certain the child would survive the night. I had made it my duty to inform you of it.”

There is a pause. He looks at you, snickers and says, “I see. Well, I suppose it is your duty.”

“Yes, it is, my lord.” You nodded back at him. 

“What’s the child’s name?”

“Fuyuka, my lord.”

“You have not given her the name, as per protocol, little one?”

“Yes, my lord. I have not.”

He settles further into his seat, his posture relaxed in a way that only makes him seem more dangerous, not less. The flickering candlelight dances across his expression as his smile widens just slightly.

“Good. That child will not be acknowledged by the Ryomen name.” he says, his voice almost idle, as though discussing something of little consequence. “At least until she grows to prove it otherwise, in the pit.”

Your fingers tighten ever so slightly in your lap, though your expression does not change. “Only when they can stand in the pits, as the other children do–” he continues, his tone carrying a faint edge of amusement. “—and prove their worth in blood…will they earn the right to be seen.”

The words are spoken so easily, so casually. As though he is not deciding the course of an entire life with nothing more than a passing thought. You lower your gaze again. Not because you are told to, but because it is easier this way.

The warmth of the room, of the meal, of the candlelight, it does nothing to reach the quiet chill that settles deep within your chest. Another child. Another life. Another existence bound to a path already carved in violence, in struggle, in a constant need to prove something that should never have required proving.

You think of the newborn girl. She had been so small and so fragile as she cried into her existence in this world. You think of what she will become. What she will be forced to become. Your stomach twists faintly.

For a fleeting moment, even just for a moment, you allow yourself a thought that is as selfishly thought of as it is quiet resignation. Lucky me. Your fingers curl slightly against your palm. I do not have a child.

There is no one tied to you who must be thrown into that world of pits and blood. No one who will be shaped, broken, or hardened under expectations that allow no room for softness. No one will have to survive him.

The thought lingers onto you, a bit heavier as it leaves to be unspoken. And across from you, he continues his meal as though nothing at all has changed. You could only pour more sake onto your cup. Before long, it was burning down your throat.

“Do be careful, before you end up drunk, little one.” Your lord husband teases. “You are human, after all.”

“Then my lord will have to teach me his godly ways, in order to prevent it.”

Ryomen Sukuna snickers. “You never fail to entertain me, little one.”

You lower your head. “That is all I am to do, my lord.”

Sukuna’s amusement lingers for only a moment before it fades into something quieter, something more observant. His scarlet gaze does not leave you as you lower your head, your words settling between you with a weight you had not quite intended, but cannot take back.

That is all I am to do.

The faint clink of porcelain against wood fills the space as you set your cup down, though your fingers linger against it, as if the warmth might ground you in something steadier than your thoughts. The sake burns less now, dulled by repetition, but the heaviness in your chest remains, unmoved.

Across from you, Ryomen Sukuna tilts his head ever so slightly, studying you in that way he does when something has caught his attention, not outwardly disruptive, but impossible to ignore once it settles.

“And who decided that?” he asks, his tone no longer teasing, but not yet sharp either. It lingers somewhere in between, almost thoughtful.

You lift your gaze slowly, careful, composed. “My place was decided the moment I entered your halls, my lord.” you reply, your voice even despite the quiet tension threading through it. “To serve. To maintain order. To ensure your home runs as it should. If I entertain you along the way…then I am fulfilling that purpose well.”

He watches you for a beat longer than necessary. Then another. The silence stretches. It was not uncomfortable, but it was enough to make you feel something that makes you feel too many things inside of you. It was deliberate, as though he is weighing your answer against something unspoken.

“You speak as if you are easily replaced.” he says at last.

The words are not cruel. 

But they are not kind either.

That was how he was.

You offer the faintest smile, though it does not quite reach your eyes. “Everything is, my lord. It is only a matter of time and circumstance.”

A quiet exhale leaves him, something almost like a scoff, though it lacks its usual bite. “You think too much, don’t you think?” he mutters.

“And you think too little of things that remain, my lord.” you answer before you can stop yourself.

The moment the words leave your mouth, the air shifts, not dangerously. But noticeably. Your fingers tighten slightly against your lap as you lower your gaze again, correcting yourself in the only way you know how. 

“Forgive me, my lord. I spoke out of turn.”

For a moment, he says nothing in response. He raises a brow intrigued. A low chuckle slips from him, softer than before, edged with something faintly amused. “If I took offense to every word you spoke out of turn, you would not still be sitting there, don’t you think?”

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly from your shoulders. Still, you do not look back up immediately. “You are not wrong about it.” he continues after a moment, his tone shifting again, quieter now. “Most things are replaceable.”

Your gaze flickers upward then, cautious. “But not everything.” he adds.

The words settle between you more heavily than anything else he has said tonight. You do not respond right away. Because you are not sure if he meant for you to. Instead, you reach for the sake once more, though your hand pauses midway, reconsidering. When you finally do pour, it is less than before, your movements slower, more deliberate.

“You speak as though you believe that, my lord.” you say softly.

He hums, leaning back slightly, his attention still fixed on you in that unrelenting way. “I don’t believe in many things, little one.” he replies. “But I recognize what is worth keeping.”

Your breath catches faintly at that. It was not enough to be seen, but enough to be felt. You lower your gaze again, this time not out of submission, but to steady yourself. “And what determines that then, my lord?” you ask.

“I do.” He says to you, drinking your cup of sake, from right under your nose. “Isn’t that a god’s will?”

The answer is as absolute as everything else about him. And yet…it does not feel as distant as it once might have. The candlelight flickers between you, shadows shifting across his features, across your hands, across the quiet space you both occupy.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks again.

But this time, the silence feels different.

It was light on your soul for the first time in a long time.

YOU WERE NOT IN THE MOOD TO ACCOMMODATE YOUR LORD HUSBAND TODAY. The thought lingers, quiet and persistent, pressing at the edges of your mind even as your weary face remains composed, untouched by all that could show your truest of feelings.

You have long since learned how to carry such things without letting them be seen. It is a skill you perfected out of necessity, having been shaped by years of standing at his side, of understanding when to yield and when to remain still like an obedient doll.

Most days, it is effortless, something you do not even notice the weight of. But today feels different. Today, even the smallest disturbance feels like too much for you. You sit by the veranda, your gaze resting on the lotus pond just beyond the open screens. 

The blossoms have only just begun to bloom, their pale petals unfurling slowly, delicately, as though they exist in a world untouched by everything that fills this palace. They drift lazily across the water, carried by a current that asks nothing of them. You watch them with quiet focus.

“They seem lighter this year, don’t you think, little flower?” you murmur, almost to yourself, your voice soft enough that it barely disturbs the air. “As though they have nothing tying them down.”

Just a little bit to your side, Ryomen Chiharu pauses in her writing, her brush hovering just above the paper. “Do flowers change, or do we simply notice them more, mother?” she asks, her tone thoughtful in that way she has. 

You think she is too perceptive for her age, at times. You wish she takes more interest in being a child, for she is one. You glance at her, the faintest hint of something gentler touching your expression. It was always like that, always for her. 

“Perhaps both.” you reply to her. “Or perhaps we only look at them when we wish to forget something else.”

She hums at that, returning her attention to her calligraphy, though you can tell she is still thinking about your answer. The breeze shifts, cool against your skin, carrying with it the faint scent of water and greenery. For a moment longer, you allow yourself to sit there, suspended in that quiet, fragile peace.

“You will accompany me.” His voice cuts cleanly through it all of the sudden.

Chiharu turned her attention to her father. She stands up and lowers her head. “Father.”

The stillness does not shatter loudly at all. Instead, it simply disappears, as though it had never been there to begin with. You do not turn immediately, even knowing that your lord husband had arrived before you like this. Chiharu lowered her body and her attention back towards her writing.

Meanwhile, you do not stand up, nor greet your lord husband. You instead let your gaze linger on the pond, watching as a ripple disturbs the surface, breaking apart the reflection of the sky. Only after a breath do you rise, turning toward him with the same calm composure you always wear.

Ryomen Sukuna stands where he always seems to. He’s always within the space, yet separate from it, almost as if to him, such a thing was not worth his time. His presence alters the atmosphere without effort, pressing into everything until it feels as though the room itself belongs to him.

“Where to, my lord?” you finally reacted to a question, your voice even, respectful, untouched by the faint reluctance that had lived within you moments before.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, his gaze sharp, assessing, as though measuring whether there is anything beneath your calm worth drawing out. “Kyoto.” he answers at last.

The word settles heavily. The imperial capital of Kyoto is not a place one visits without reason. Let alone for someone who was a rogue like your lord husband, who has reestablished his dominance over Hida, the Ryomen heartland, without the authorization of the Imperial court. 

It carries too much, when one thinks about Kyoto. The history, the power, all the things that linger long after they should have faded. But you knew very well that your lord husband would have the backing of the Gojo and the Mikoto in such a visit, as he usually had. 

But the question is this: why must you go?

He has never asked you to join him before.

Not when this was his devotion to the woman he loved.

You tilt your head ever so slightly, considering. “Kyoto is not a place you go to idly, my lord.” you say carefully. “Shall I assume there is something there that requires your attention?”

There is no challenge in your tone, only quiet reasoning. His lips curve faintly, not quite a smile. “You assume correctly, little one.”

A pause follows, just long enough for the weight of that to settle. “And what is it that calls you there?” you ask, your voice softer now, more measured. “A matter of politics? Or something… more personal?”

Chiharu’s brush slows behind you. She did not stop fully, but rather slowed her strokes. She does not look up. She knew better than that. Instead, she remained listening. Ryomen Sukuna exhales faintly, as though the question itself is only mildly interesting.

“To pay homage.” he says to you, a hint of sentimentality over his gaze. “To someone’s corpse.”

The simplicity of it makes the meaning heavier, not lighter. Your fingers are still slightly in your lap. You do not ask which one. You already know. Ryomen Hiromi, the ghost you cannot escape, even after all this time. Even when you look to your side, you would see her face, in the daughter she left behind.

The name presses quietly against your thoughts, unspoken but unmistakable. You lower your gaze for a brief moment, then lift it again. “I see.” you say, your voice steady. “It has been some time since you last visited her, hasn’t it, my lord?”

There is no accusation in your words. But there is awareness. Ryomen Sukuna was not daft. He knew your feelings, a god would be foolish not to know. Yet he knew you were always so wise not to voice them out loud. His scarlet eyes narrow slightly, in something closer to interest.

“Time means little to the dead, little one.” he replies, finding himself seated closer to the ponds. “Whether I go now or later makes no difference to her.”

“Perhaps not, my lord.” you say, your tone is calm. “But it may make a difference to you.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. It was neither sharp nor defiant. Yet for the first time in a long time, such words did not come out entirely safe either. You had known your place, the other woman. Yet with such a life, you understood why it permeates through your lips like this. 

For a moment, the air stills. Chiharu’s brush stops completely this time. Yet she still does not look up. Instead, she felt her hands descend low to her lap and turn into fists. She was quite aware of who her mother was. Yet she did not know her mother. 

She only knew you, the woman who raised her. There was no other woman she could devote herself loyally to. And somehow, all at once, she felt your pain in the words that lingered in the air. She felt guilt, even when it was not her fault. She felt guilt that you suffer this way. 

Sukuna looks at you once more. There is something in his scarlet gaze now that lingers a fraction longer than before.  “You speak as though you understand my reasons, little one.” he says to you. You hold his gaze, unflinching.

“I do not claim to, my lord.” you answered him cordially. “But I have stood beside you long enough to know that you do not act without one.”

A quiet exhale leaves him, something that might almost be a laugh. “Careful, little one.” he murmurs. “You make it sound as though I am predictable. And you know what comes out of such a thing.”

You allow the faintest trace of a smile to touch your lips. “Not predictable, my lord. Only… consistent.”

That earns you a sharper look from him. But he did not seem displeased, at least not entirely. The silence stretches for a moment longer before he breaks it. He slowly shifts his sitting position, to lean against the gazebo’s strong wall. 

“You will prepare, little one.” he says, his tone returning to something firmer, more final. “We leave before dawn.”

You incline your head. “Of course, my lord…it shall be done.”

“The child will come as well.” The words land differently. He continues, almost as an afterthought, though you know better than to believe that. “She will pay homage to her mother,” he says, his voice flattening slightly. “And to her relatives. The Gojo. The Mikoto. Tiresome as they are.”

Behind you, the absence of sound is immediate. Chiharu lifts her gaze as she looks at her father. “Must I—”

“You must.” Sukuna immediately cuts her off, a sharp look following. “That is your lady mother. Your lord. You cannot think of her any other way else.”

Your chest tightens, just slightly as you see her reaction, conflict and anguish brewing in the storm of her scarlet eyes. It was as your lord husband had said. Even when you had raised Chiharu, Ryomen Hiromi will always be her mother. Not you. Never you.

For all that you have been to her,  for all the quiet moments, the guidance, the unspoken bond, even as the woman who had raised her, you are not the one who gave her life. That place belongs to someone else. You never will be.

You glance at Chiharu, just briefly. She lowers her gaze once more. In the moments that pass, she does not look up, but the stillness of her hand betrays her thoughts. Then you look back at him. Your expression is unchanged.

“As you wish, my lord.” you say, your voice steady despite the quiet weight settling in your chest. “I will see that everything is prepared in her household, also.”

He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering in a way that is difficult to name. It is not the sharp, dissecting look he often gives when he is prying something open, nor is it the fleeting glance of disinterest he offers to things beneath him. 

This is something quieter. Measured. As though he is weighing a thought he has not yet decided to speak.  You hold his gaze, steady as ever, though there is nothing left for you to say. For a brief second, it almost feels as though he might add something.

You wonder if he has more to say. If there was something else that could come out of his mouth. It didn’t have to be something important. It can be something unnecessary, something that would not change the outcome but might shift the space between you ever so slightly.

But he does not. Instead, he exhales softly through his nose, as if dismissing the thought entirely. Without another word, he rises from where he stands, his majestic movements unhurried, assured. 

The floor does not creak beneath him, the space does not resist him. Instead, everything simply yields, as it always does. Ryomen Sukuna turns, already done with the conversation, already beyond it. The decision has been made. It always is. And just like that, he leaves.

The absence he leaves behind is not silence. It is something heavier. You remain where you are, unmoving, your gaze drifting back toward the veranda as though your body has returned to where it had been before. But the moment itself has not, it won’t ever do so again.

The breeze still moves through the open screens, brushing faintly against your skin, carrying the same gentle scent of water and greenery. The lotus blossoms continue to drift across the pond, their pale petals undisturbed, untouched by anything that has just transpired.

Nothing in the world beyond this room has changed. And yet, the stillness you had so carefully held onto is gone. It was not shattered, and certainly not violently torn apart. Yet it slipped through your fingers, replaced by something quieter, more difficult to reclaim. You exhale softly, the breath leaving you slower than you intended, your gaze lowering as though to gather yourself once more.

“Finish your writing, my little flower,” you say gently, your voice softer now, stripped of the formality you had carried moments before. “You have heard your lord father. We will have much to prepare.”

You expect compliance. You always do. You had taught her enough of that to last her in the courtly life. But for a moment, there is nothing. Then, you hear the faint sound of fabric shifting.  You glance toward her. Chiharu has lifted her gaze.

You can tell that there is something in her expression that does not belong there. It was not confusing nor curious. Instead, there was something sharper in the rims of her scarlet eyes.  Something that unsettles you before she even speaks.

“She is not my mother.”

The words are quiet. But they land with a weight that feels far heavier than they should. Your eyes widened, mouth open agape as you gasped, before you could do anything else. You shake your head at the young woman.

“Chiharu, little flower, that is not something you should….” you begin, your voice instinctively lowering, caution threading through it. “You mustn’t say—”

“But it is true, isn’t it?”

She cuts you off. She had not said it loudly, at least not with defiance in the way a child might argue with an authority figure. Instead, she says it with a firmness that feels far too deliberate. Her hands tighten slightly around the brush she still holds, ink staining the tip as it presses too long against the paper.

“She did not raise me.” Chiharu continues, her voice trembling just slightly, echoing with endless frustrating and conflicting feelings. Something that has been sitting within her for longer than this moment alone. “She was never there.”

Your chest tightens. “Chiharu—”

“You did.”

The words come softer now, far more fragile than you could have ever thought. This was a moment you thought to yourself that she had allowed herself to be a child. And yet, you know those words carry more weight than anything she has said before. Her gaze does not waver from yours.

“You are the one who stayed with me.” she says, her voice quieter, but no less certain. “You are the one who taught me how to write, how to speak, how to sit properly, and how to understand him.” Her fingers curl slightly against the brush, as though grounding herself in the act of holding it. “You are the one who listens when I speak.”

There is no accusation in her tone. No anger either. Yet she speaks only the truth. And perhaps that makes it harder. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, your gaze softening despite the tension that lingers beneath it.

“That may be so.” you say carefully, each word chosen with precision. “But it does not change what is there, little flower.”

Chiharu’s brows knit together, just slightly. “It should, shouldn’t it?” she murmurs.

There is something painfully simple in the way she says it. Something that speaks not of rebellion, but of a child trying to reconcile the world as she knows it with the one she is being told to accept. 

You rise slowly, crossing the small distance between you. When you kneel beside her, your movements are gentle, deliberate, as though approaching something fragile. You give her a small smile.

“Listen to me, little flower.” you say softly, reaching out to adjust her grip on the brush, guiding it back into something steady. “There are things in this world that are not decided by feeling. Or by fairness.”

Her lips press together. “But—”

“Chiharu.” You do not raise your voice. But you do interrupt her firmly. She falls silent. “You are and always will be her daughter, as much as you are your father’s daughter.” you continue, your tone calm, unwavering. “That truth does not disappear simply because she is no longer here. And it does not lessen what I have been to you and what I feel for you.”

Your hand stills over hers for just a moment. “I do not need to share your blood in order to stand beside you, and proudly say that I had raised you like my own.” you add quietly. “And you do not need to deny her existence to acknowledge me.”

The words settle between you. They were heavy to say, just as much as difficult. But you try to make it as gently as possible. Ryomen Chiharu’s gaze lowers slowly, her earlier certainty softening into something more uncertain, more conflicted.

“I……” she begins, but the words falter before they can fully form.

You do not press her. Instead, you withdraw your hand, rising once more, allowing her the space to sit with what you have said. After a moment, you speak again, even softer now. “Finish your writing, little flower.” you repeat. “ Then you must get your things. We leave before dawn.”

She looks at you and gives you a small smile. “Yes….mother.”

The way she says it made your heart echo in tender feeling. As you turn your gaze back toward the lotus pond, watching the petals drift across the water as though nothing in the world could disturb them, you cannot help but feel it. That some things, once spoken aloud, do not settle as easily as they should.

TRAVEL MAKES YOU WEARY AND YOU DON’T LIKE IT. The journey stretches longer than most you have taken. It is not unpleasant, you knew that much. Your servants had made sure that there is no discomfort you would dare acknowledge, no hardship that has not already been accounted for in the comfort of your carriage as it passed through the flat lands of Kyoto’s roads.

But it is long in a way that forces awareness upon you. Each passing mile reminds you, quietly and persistently, that the world you inhabit within the palace is only one part of something far wider, far older, and far less contained. The further you travel, the more that truth settles in.

The air changes first. At times, it feels heavier, pressing faintly against your lungs as though carrying remnants of something unseen. In other places, it thins, lighter, almost hollow, as if something has been stripped away from it. 

The land shifts with it too. The dense groves give way to open paths, quiet villages dissolving into stretches of untouched terrain where even the wind seems to move more cautiously to the fine firm roads of the Kyoto flatlands.

You notice it. Even if you do not speak of it. At the edges of your perception, something else lingers. Those little curses. It was not close enough to be seen, not bold enough to approach but they were present. Watching, perhaps. Waiting. 

Their presence brushes faintly against your senses, like something just beyond reach. Each and every one looked different than the last, some flew, some slimed through the roads. Some had feet to walk with.  But they do not come nearer to your carriage. They do not dare. Not with Ryomen Sukuna traveling with you.

The King of Curses’s presence is not subtle. It does not need to be announced. It simply exists in this world and everything else bends around it, retreats from it, avoids it as instinctively as prey avoids a predator it cannot hope to survive.

You do not look at him often during the journey.

You do not need to.

You feel him there.

That was more than enough for you.

Ryomen Chiharu rides beside you, her posture as composed as it always is, her small frame steady despite the length of the travel. She does not complain. She does not shift restlessly like other children might. But she is not still. Not truly. But if she was, would she even be her lord father’s daughter?

Her gaze moves constantly, taking in everything around her with quiet intensity. She watches the changing landscape, the distant figures that pass along the road, the subtle differences between one region and the next. 

There is something almost analytical in the way she observes, as though she is trying to understand not just what she sees, but how it fits together. After some time, she turns her attention to you.

“You have been here before, mother?” she asks, her voice calm, but carrying that familiar thread of curiosity she rarely bothers to hide from you.

You glance at her briefly before returning your gaze to the road ahead. “No, not truly.” you answer.  It is a simple response, but it is honest. There is a brief silence as she processes that. “I had not gone out much from the temple ever since your lord father wed me.”

“I thought you might have. Father took you to places, did he not?” she says after a moment, tilting her head slightly.

“Only in near-by villages.” You retort back to her. “I have issues with travelling far too long, little flower.”

“Then why join now?”

You laugh softly. “Because your father wills it.”

She takes that answer and considers it. “That’s interesting. You always seem to know what to expect, though. You seem to know the places too well even before they come before you.”

You let out a faint breath, something softer than a sigh. “Knowing what to expect does not always come from experience, little flower.” you reply. “Sometimes it comes from listening, reading. From observing what others say, or what they choose not to say.”

Chiharu considers that, her brows knitting ever so slightly. “Then what do you expect from this place?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

You pause, not because you do not have an answer but because the answer is not a simple one to you. “Kyoto is an old soul.” you say carefully. “Older than most places we pass through. It carries history in ways that do not fade easily. People remember things there. They hold onto them.”

She watches you closely. “And that is important?” she asks.

“It can be, little flower.” you reply. “Especially when those memories involve people like your father.”

At that, her gaze shifts forward again, her expression thoughtful. “Do they fear him there?” she asks.

You allow yourself the faintest hint of a smile. “They fear him everywhere,” you say. “Kyoto is simply more…accustomed to fear than most. After all, your lord father claimed Hida by will, not by right.”

That earns a small hum from her, as though she finds the distinction interesting rather than unsettling. After a moment, she speaks again. “Then we are the same, mother.” she says.

You glance at her. “The same?” you repeat.

She nods slightly, her eyes still fixed on the road ahead. “You have not been there.” she explains, “And neither have I. Especially in the Gojo and Mikoto strongholds. We will both see it for the first time.”

There is something in her tone, subtle, but present. You can tell that it was not quiet excitement that measured within the young girl. But you think that it was something close to it. A quiet kind of anticipation. You study her for a moment longer before responding.

“Yes, I suppose that is….” you say gently. “I suppose that is true.”

She shifts slightly in her seat, the movement small but noticeable. “Will it be different?” she asks after a pause. “From home, I mean.”

You consider the question more seriously this time. “Yes, I would think so.” you answer. “Kyoto is not going to be our isolated Hida.”

“In what way?”

“In every way that matters, little flower.” you reply. “And in some ways that do not.”

She exhales softly, as though that answer both satisfies and frustrates her. “That is not very clear, isn’t it?” she mutters.

“It is not meant to be.” you say, a faint trace of warmth entering your voice. “Some things are better understood when you see them yourself.”

Chiharu glances at you, her expression sharpening just slightly. “You always say that, don’t you?” she points out as she pouts.

“And you always ask, and I indulge you, little flower.” you return.

For a brief moment, something lighter passes between you. She looks at you and starts laughing. You felt the contagious echoes and laughs too. Before long, though, her gaze drifts again, returning to the world unfolding around you.

“And…her?” she asks suddenly, her voice quieter now.  You know immediately who she means. You do not pretend otherwise. “She is there, my blood mother.” Chiharu continues, her tone more hesitant now, more uncertain. “In Kyoto.”

You nod once. “Yes, she is.”

There is a longer pause this time. “Do you think…” she begins, then falters, her fingers tightening slightly where they rest. “Do you think it will feel different? Being there? Seeing her?”

You look ahead, your expression unreadable. “Yes, I think it will be.” you say after a moment. “It would be your first time meeting your lady mother, won’t it be?”

She purses her lips. “I guess so….”

You take her hand into your own, giving her a small smile. “Do not worry. I am sure your lord father will be there with you, if it gets too overwhelming.”

“But….”

“Hm?”

Her scarlet eyes echo into your own orbs. “Will you be there too, when I get back?”

You squeeze her hand. “Of course, I will be.”

KYOTO DOES NOT GREET YOU WITH ITS GRANDEUR. There are no banners raised in your honor, no overwhelming display meant to impress or intimidate. Instead, the city receives you with quiet certainty, as though it has stood long before you arrived and will remain long after you leave. 

The streets are orderly, the structures aged but meticulously maintained, each one placed with intention rather than excess. It is a place that does not demand attention, rather it simply holds it. You feel it as you pass through, watching the merging of the Ryomen purple echo against the Mikoto azure and the Gojo sky blue.

The weight of history here is different here. It was not suffocating, not chaotic like the temple palace, but you can tell that their identities in this space are deeply rooted. It was as though it was eagerly measuring you, trying to gather what to think of you within this space. 

At the heart of it stands the grand Gojo estate. It does not tower, nor does it need to. Its authority lies in its restraint, in the quiet precision of its design, in the way everything about it suggests control rather than dominance. 

Your lord husband had told you much about their old home in Hida, upon one of your visits in a monastery, having passed the ruins of the old Gojo estate in the proud lands. They had left more than a hundred years ago, after the Imperial court had called your lord husband an enemy of the throne, and that all sorcerer clans in Hida must move to the capital, in order to show their loyalty to the throne.

The age old Gojo was one of them, as was the young Mikoto, who are both descendants of Ryomen Hiromi from her two marriages. And as such, many of them have made their lives here. Including the last of Ryomen Hiromi’s children, the one hundred or so year old lord Gojo.

Your thoughts return you to reality as you hear a knocking upon your carriage. Chiharu has gone down first, as befits her status. Even though Ryomen Sukuna is your lord husband, you are still his concubine and Chiharu is his daughter. Your status is different. 

Before long, you are expected to follow. Servants are already lined at the entrance, their posture immaculate, their movements synchronized as they bow in unison. There is no trembling in them, no visible fear but there is awareness. 

There was a careful, deliberate understanding of exactly who had stepped onto their grounds. You notice the difference immediately. They do not cower before your lord husband. Instead, they look strident. They look like they’re willing to endure, come what may.

Before you can be formally announced, a presence steps forward to meet you. The aged old Lord Gojo approaches at an unhurried pace, neither rushing nor keeping his distance. There is confidence in the way he carries himself, but not arrogance.

Instead, there was something far more controlled, far more intentional. His expression holds a quiet amusement, as though this meeting is not unexpected, but rather…long anticipated this moment to come to pass.

“Ah, I see why you had taken her to be a bride, my lord.” he begins, his voice warm in a way that feels deliberate rather than natural.

You could see your lord husband’s eyes narrow. “You ought to shelter your tongue, nephew.”

Your eyes widened slightly. Nephew? Is lord Gojo his nephew?

The old weary man laughed energetically. “My lady mother would be quite upset at the fact that you seem to be like this, my lord. Such a long awaited visit and yet, you make me wait.”

“The young are so eager to make sharp witted comments.”

“I cannot seem to help it. I’m not getting any younger, my lord.” The old man points to his old face. “I had begun to wonder if you would continue avoiding Kyoto out of sheer stubbornness. I was already putting your old family portrait to do ceremonies for your funeral rites, uncle."

His gaze lands on Ryomen Sukuna, without fear, but rather there was familiarity. Almost an ungodly playfulness that you had never seen with anyone. Sukuna exhales through his nose, unimpressed, his eyes narrowing slightly as though the greeting itself has already exhausted his patience.

“You assume too much, foolish boy.” he replies flatly. “I don’t avoid anything. I simply choose where I spend my time. Kyoto has never been worth the trouble.”

Gojo lets out a soft chuckle, entirely unbothered by the dismissal. “And yet, here you are, my lord. Which means either Kyoto has suddenly gained value…or you have.”

Sukuna’s gaze sharpens. “Don’t twist it into something it isn’t, boy.” he says, his tone dipping lower. “I came because I had business. That’s all you need to know.”

“Mm, I should suppose so.” Lord Gojo hums, clearly entertained. “You’ve always preferred to call things ‘business’ when they carry a bit more weight than that.”

There is history in the way they speak to each other, something worn in, familiar, edged but not volatile. Then the old, decrepit lord Gojo’s attention shifts once more, fully towards you. The change is subtle, but unmistakable.

He studies you with his shining blue orbs, though not with the invasive scrutiny your lord husband uses, but with something more contemplative, more…searching. His gaze lingers just a moment longer than politeness requires, as though he is trying to place something already known rather than uncover something new.

“Well, this is not what I expected.” he murmurs, stepping just slightly closer, his brows drawing together in faint thought. “Perhaps this is the reason my lord does not visit at all.”

“My concubine does not travel well.”

“Hm, yet she is here.”

“Only this time.”

You meet his gaze calmly, offering neither submission nor resistance, your posture steady beneath the weight of his observation. “My lady…..” he continues, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “Has anyone ever remarked that you resemble someone dear to me?”

You do not rush to answer. Instead, you tilt your head ever so slightly, regarding him with quiet patience. You purse your lips in a flat line. It was always so odd to you, to be seen as a living ghost for someone else. Yet you could not avoid it. Not when the resemblance is there. And most of all, not when Hiromi’s son sees her in you.

“I cannot say that they have, my lord.” you reply, your voice even. “Though I suspect you would not have asked if the resemblance were insignificant.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “My mother…..” he says simply. He then looks at Sukuna. “Hm, yes.” The words settle between you. You hold his gaze, considering. “My lady, I hope you did not find me rude.”

“Not at all. I will take it as neither an insult nor coincidence regarding this.” you answer. “Only… an observation you felt worth sharing, even when….”

Old Gojo’s smile deepens, just slightly as you trail off, unable to say more. “I suppose so.”

Behind you, the air shifts. You do not need to look to know why. Ryomen Sukuna has grown impatient.

“Are you finished?” he cuts in, his tone edged now, though not raised. “Or do you plan to stand there comparing faces until the sun sets?”

Gojo laughs softly, shaking his head. “You truly have not changed, truly.” he says. “Still as intolerant of anything that doesn’t revolve around you.” 

“And you’re still talking too much, foolish boy.” Sukuna returns. “If you have something to say, say it. If not, move aside.”

There is a flicker of something sharper in Gojo’s eyes, but it does not bloom into conflict. Instead, it settles into amusement. “Very well, my lord.” he says, though his gaze flickers between the two of you once more. “Then allow me to say this plainly.”

He tilts his head slightly, his tone shifting. It was far too deliberate to be mocking or serious. “I didn’t expect you to be the type.”

Sukuna’s expression tightens. “The type for what?” he asks, his voice quieter now, more dangerous for it.

“To keep someone like her close.” Gojo replies, gesturing lightly in your direction. “And to bring her here of all places.”

The implication lingers. Sukuna scoffs, though there is a slight delay. But it was just enough to be noticed. “You’re imagining things, fool.” he says dismissively. “She serves her purpose. That’s all.”

Gojo watches him carefully and then smiles. “If that’s what you prefer to call it, my lord.” he says, unconvinced but unwilling to press further, at least for now. Instead, his attention shifts downward to young Chiharu.

“Is this her?” he says, his tone softening.

Sukuna purses his lips. “Yes.”

“Hm, she looks exactly like you.”

“She is my child.”

“When you told me of her existence, I thought to myself that it could be a farce, but you did not like it. She looks quite a bit like my mother too.” Gojo narrows his eyes. “Isn’t she meant to be the elder child?”

“Not now, since I have changed the path of fate for her existence.” Sukuna retorts back. “Therefore, at this point in time, she is your youngest sibling.”

“Hm.” The old Gojo lord turned his attention fully to Chiharu.  “You carry yourself well. Not many your age manage such composure.”

Chiharu meets his gaze without hesitation, her posture straight, her voice calm. “I was taught properly to be so, my lord.” she answers.

“Is that so? By him?” Gojo asks, glancing briefly at Sukuna.

Chiharu shakes her head. “No, my lord.” she says. “By her.”

Her eyes flick toward you in the smallest motion. But not one that goes unnoticed. The old decrepit lord Gojo’s expression shifts. He was subtle, but far too aware. He snickers. “I see.” he says. “Then the credit lies where it is due.”

Ryomen Sukuna says nothing. But his presence sharpens just slightly. The moment settles into something balanced. It was not tense, but it was also not relaxed. Instead, it is held in a careful equilibrium where no one oversteps, yet nothing is entirely without meaning.

At last, Gojo steps aside, gesturing toward the estate behind him. “You’ve traveled far from home.” he says. “It would be poor hospitality to keep you standing at the gates like this.”

His gaze returns to you briefly, thoughtful, measured. “You are welcome here, my lady. We are grateful for your efforts to come here, despite your restrictions.” he adds.

There is intention behind the words.You can feel it. You shake your head. “No, the pleasure is all mine, my lord. Thank you for welcoming me to your abode in such conditions.”

The Gojo lord smiles softly. “My mother would have done the same.”

YOU DO NOT MEAN TO DRINK MUCH. But having settled in your quarters for this visit, you find yourself trying to make yourself comfortable. You did not attend the banquet, you were not feeling the best and that lord Gojo had understood. 

This meant that your lord husband must attend. But within the few hours that passed, Ryomen Sukuna had come to see you, having left Uraume and Chiharu to deal with the formalities on his behalf, having become weary from the conversations of the elites of Kyoto.

The night settles deeper around the two of you, the estate quieter now than it had been upon your arrival. Even the air feels different here. It felt warm and cool all at once, carrying the faint scent of aged wood and distant spray of sweetened incense. 

The servants have long since withdrawn, leaving only the two of you in the dim glow of candlelight. You are no longer entirely composed, at the very least not when you had asked for multiple bottles of sake for dinner. 

The sake has done its work, and of course, not enough to make you careless, never that. But enough to loosen the edges of your restraint, to soften the careful control you hold over yourself as you went ahead and sang songs under the glistening moon.

You sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, one knee slightly angled, your posture still elegant but no longer rigid. Your cup rests loosely between your fingers, tilting just slightly as you swirl what little remains inside.

Ryomen Sukuna watches you.

Sharp scarlet eyes dwelling.

He was not subtle with his intentions.

“You’ve had enough, little one.” he says, his voice low, steady, carrying that familiar weight of observation rather than concern.

You glance up at him, a faint smile pulling at your lips. It was slower than usual, softer, and touched by something warmer. The sleeve of your kimono falling to your side.  “And yet, you haven’t taken it away from me, haven’t you, my lord?” you reply, your voice smooth but lighter than it should be.

His eyes narrow slightly. “If I wanted to, I would have, little one. ‘tis my will you must follow, after all.” he says.

“Mm, I suppose so.” you hum, lifting the cup to your lips and finishing it anyway, letting your gaze linger on him over the rim. “But you haven’t. This means to me you enjoy seeing me in such a state, my lord.”

He does not speak, and he does not deny it. Instead, he continues to watch you. You laugh as you down the remainder of the sake on your cup. A beat passes. It was then you set the cup down, perhaps a little more carelessly than usual.

The quiet stretches. It was not an empty quiet, but thick with something unspoken. Something comfortable, far too comfortable for its own good. You lean back slightly, studying him now, your head tilting just a fraction.

“Why did you bring me here?” you ask.

There is no careful lead-in this time. No measured softness. The question slips out, carried by the warmth in your chest and the quiet boldness that comes with it. His multiple scarlet gaze sharpens towards you.

“You’ve already asked that, did you not?” he says.

“And you didn’t answer.” you return, just as easily. “It is only right to ask once again, my lord.”

A flicker of something passes through his expression. You do not know what it was. Amusement, perhaps, or irritation softened into something more tolerable. He sets aside the brush and the scroll, to a safe distance, to be left to dry. He focuses his attention on you then.

“I told you the reason, little one.” he says.

“To visit her, to give Chiharu a chance to meet her family, yes. I know that.” you murmur. “But I—what….what is my purpose here?”

Your fingers tap lightly against the table. “That’s not the whole truth, and I know it in my heart.” you add, your voice quieter now, but more certain.

He studies you for a long moment. “The alcohol has made you bold.”

“And so what if it has?”

“Hm, it’s entertaining.”.

You blink. “…You’re doing it again, my lord.” you say, a quiet laugh slipping into your voice. “Avoiding the question.”

“Sit still, won’t you? You are so hard to draw like this.” he replies. You stare at him. Then you felt yourself laugh, so soft, so incredulous. “I will never get your nose right.”

“You are insufferable, my lord.” you mutter, though there is no real bite in it. “You command me as if I’m one of your soldiers.”

“You’re worse,” he says without missing a beat. “They listen for the first time.”

That earns a sharper look from you. “Do they?” you ask, leaning forward slightly, your eyes narrowing in faint challenge. “Or do they simply fear you enough not to argue?”

His gaze drops to your movement, then rises again, slow and deliberate. “Is there a difference?” he asks.

You hold his gaze. “Yes, I should say so.” you say. “One is obedience. The other is silence.”

“Then which one are you?” he asks, leaning forward. “Which one of them are you, little one?”

The question lands differently. You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you shift, settling more comfortably where you sit, though your eyes never leave his. “…That depends on who asks.” you say softly.

He narrowed his gaze. “What does that mean?”

“On whether you’re asking as my lord….” you murmur, eyes tender against his. “Or as my own husband.”

The words linger. Something in the air tightens. It was not sharply, but with a kind of slow, deliberate pull. Ryomen Sukuna’s grip on the brush stills for just a fraction of a second. Then resumes at that moment.

“You talk too much tonight.” he says.

“And you don’t talk enough.” you return, echoing his earlier exchange with Gojo without even realizing it.

That earns you a quiet, low chuckle. “Careful, little one.” he murmurs. “I will allow you everything. But such eager boldness gets you nowhere.”

“Am I?” you ask, your voice softer now, almost curious. “Being too bold for you?”

His gaze lifts fully to yours. “Yes.”

The word is simple. But it settles deep. You feel it in the way your breath slows, in the way your pulse lingers just a little heavier beneath your skin. You could feel flesh turn so hot. You could only wonder if it was your own flustered desire, or the sake that you had drank over and over again.

“Then answer me now, my lord.” you press, though your voice has lost some of its earlier edge, turning quieter, more earnest. “Why bring me here…of all places?”

“You’re still asking that?” he says.

“Yes.”

“Even when you already know the answer?”

“If I knew it, my lord, it would be a different thing.” you reply, “I wouldn’t be asking.”

A pause stretches between you.

Then he leans back slightly, studying you with that same intensity. But this time, there is something else threaded through it. Something heavier. “I brought you here, little one, because I need you.” he says slowly. “Because this is where everything that came before you still exists.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. “And how does that relate to me?” 

“And I wanted to see something from you.” he continues, his voice lower now, more deliberate, “I wanted to see whether you would still stand the same way when faced with it.”

Your fingers curl faintly against your lap. “And have I?” you ask quietly.

He leans forward now, closing the distance. “Have you?” he repeats.

Your breath falters. But you don’t look away. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” 

That seems to satisfy him. At least, enough. His hand lifts, rough fingers brushing lightly against your chin before tilting your face up, not forceful, but unmistakably possessive. “You are, little one.” he murmurs. “And you shan’t ever leave me.”

“You already know that, my lord.” Your lips part slightly, your breath warm between you now, the space closing without either of you fully acknowledging it.

“Then there was no point still asking questions you already know the answer to.”

“Then say it anyway, my lord.” you whisper, eyes focused on him. 

“You belong with me, little one. I want the world to know that.” he says to you. “Nothing will dim your value to me in the eyes of the world. Whether you give me a child, whether you are a ghost, I need you to light the way, even when it hurts you, even when it burns you. I need you.”

The words are blunt, unsoftened. But there is no dismissal in them. Only certainty. It settles into you deeper than the sake ever could. Your gaze becomes clouded with desire. Your loose kimono becomes looser still as you try to become nearer to his figure. 

“You do not need to give me the world others do.” He whispers to you. “I do not need it.”

“Then what do you need?”

“You. You and only you.”

“Then don’t avoid me when I ask.” you murmur.

A faint smirk touches Sukuna’s lips. “You didn’t seem to mind enough to stop asking.”

“I never do, my lord.” you reply.

“I know.”

The words are quieter now, closer. And when his hand shifts, sliding from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you just slightly closer, you don’t resist. You don’t hesitate. The kiss is not rushed. It is not desperate. Instead, it was something slower. Heavier.

It was the kind of embrace that lingers, that builds, that carries all the unspoken tension between you and lets it settle into something tangible. Your hand finds his sleeve first and then his shoulder, fingers tightening just slightly as the warmth between you deepens, as the distance disappears entirely.

The world outside the room fades again.

Sukuna's grip on your neck tightened slightly as the kiss deepened, his masterful tongue sliding against yours in a slow, sensual dance. He tasted like power and darkness, a heady combination that made your head spin.

Your fingers dug into his shoulder, pulling him closer as you lost yourself in the sensation. He has held you close, caged in his much bigger figure, almost as though melting into him, like you were becoming one.

One of his hands all but slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your hip. Your lord husband broke the kiss suddenly, resting his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. 

Soon enough, his fingers drawls onto your clit and then your cunny in endless fervor. One after the other, his massive fingers felt too good as they pierce through, reaching your crevices, your pleasure points, over and over again.

“It feels so good, fuck—”

"Fuck, little one…." he whispered hoarsely. "You drive me crazy, little one." 

He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before pulling back completely. Sukuna's fingers continued their relentless assault, pushing you higher and higher until you were teetering on the precipice of ecstasy. His thumb circled your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body as his fingers curled inside you, hitting that sweet spot that made your toes curl.

"That's it, little one." he murmured to you. "Let go for me. Come undone on my hand."

He watched your face intently, his scarlet eyes dark with desire as he felt your walls start to flutter around his fingers. Sukuna leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered to you.  "I want to feel you come apart for me. Want to hear my name on your lips as you shatter." 

His long, muscular fingers pumped faster, harder, driving you towards the edge with expert precision. You screamed his name as the orgasm crashed through you, your body convulsing with pleasure as Sukuna gentled you through the aftershocks. 

As he removed his fingers, the lace of your pleasure pelts and dwells slowly coming onto the palm of his hand. He snickers as he moves and lamps upon it, eating it all out clean all the while looking at you, never once leaving your gaze.

“You liked that, did you not?”

You felt yourself flushed, still recovering from pleasure. “It was too much….”

“But I am not done with you.”

“I know.” You whispered to him, earning a snicker.

Sukuna's soon hands moved to your waist, lifting you effortlessly as he pressed you against the wall. You can feel the way flesh burns against the naked wood, as he pushes your body deeper and deeper into it, as he captures your mouth in a fierce kiss.

You could feel his masterful tongue delving deep as he claimed you completely. His strong, strident hips ground against yours, letting you feel the hard length of his arousal through the fabric of your clothes. 

"I need to be inside you, little one." he growled against your lips. "I need to bury myself in that tight crevice inside of you."

His hands worked quickly to remove your kimono and undershirt, tossing them aside carelessly. Sukuna’s darkened scarlet eyes roamed over your naked form hungrily before he shed his own layers of clothes in record time.

"Look at me, little one." he commanded you. "Watch how much I want you."

He positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cocks pressing insistently against your entrance. "Tell me you want this, little one." he demanded hoarsely. "Tell me you're mine."

“I want you….ha, I want you, my lord.” you couldn’t help but whimper against his tightened grips on your body. “Do you want me, my lord?”

He does not respond. He acts. You gasped as you felt not one, but two hard lengths pressing against your entrance. Your eyes widened in shock and arousal as you realized what Ryomen Sukuna was packing. The prong of his dual cocks twitched against your wet folds, leaking pre-cum that slicked up both of you.

"Fuck, fuck….oh my…fuck—" you breathed out, trying to still get used to him. "You're...you're huge. My lord…." 

Sukuna could only smirk with contentment at your reaction, wrapping a hand around each of his shafts to guide them to your entrance. "I'm going to fill every hole in this perfect body of yours, little one." he promised you darkly. "Starting with this tight little pussy of yours.”

He pushed forward slowly, letting the heads of both cocks slide inside you inch by inch. Your body stretched and burned with the sensation of being filled so completely "Ahh...my lord..." you moaned loudly, drool falling over your lips.

"It's too much...I can't..."

"Shh, you can take it. I know you can."

Sukuna's hands gripped your hips tightly as he continued to push forward, inching both of his massive cocks deeper inside you. You cry out as your body stretches and burns with the sensation of being filled so completely. 

"You're taking me so well, little one." he praised you as you mewled, holding onto his much bigger body. "So tight and perfect around my cocks."

He paused when he was fully seated, giving you a moment to adjust to the overwhelming fullness. "Breathe for me, little one." he commanded gently, pressing kisses against your smaller neck.

"In and out. You can do this." His thumbs rubbed soothing circles on your hips as he waited for your body to relax around him. Sukuna all but leaned down to press gentle kisses along your checks, your jaw.

"That's it, Good, you're too good…." he murmured approvingly. "You're doing so good, little one. Such a good little one for taking all of me."

Once you had adjusted to the feeling of being so thoroughly filled, Sukuna began to move. He started with slow, shallow thrusts, letting you feel every inch of his dual cocks as they slid in and out of your tight heat. His hips rolled against yours, grinding his pelvis against your clit with each thrust.

Sukuna’s massive hands roamed your body, caressing and squeezing every curve and dip. He pinched your nipples gently, rolling the sensitive buds between his muscular fingers before sliding a hand down to rub tight circles on your clit.

"You feel incredible, fuck." he groaned aloud. "So hot and wet around me. I could stay buried inside you….hah—" He threw his head back as his thrusts grew deeper and faster as he chased his pleasure, driving into you with increasing fervor. 

"Come for me, little one." he demanded hoarsely. "Squeeze my cocks with this perfect little pussy. Now."

Your body responded to Sukuna's commands, your walls clamping down around his dual cocks as a powerful orgasm crashed through you. You screamed his name, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Sukuna all but continued to thrust through your climax, prolonging your ecstasy as he sought his own release. "Fuck, yes…" he groaned against your glistening skin. "Milk my dicks with this greedy little cunt. Take every drop."

With a final, brutal thrust, Ryomen Sukuna buried himself deep and came with a roar. You felt his hot seed flooding your insides, coating your walls as he filled you completely. Sukuna’s massive body all but collapsed on top of you, panting heavily as he caught his breath.

You couldn’t breathe as he pressed gentle kisses to your face and neck, murmuring soft words of praise and affection against your skin. You had all but blacked out, shining against the moonlight haze.

He looked at you attentively, letting himself slowly raise his body, to give you relief. He could feel the abundance of his cum dripping out of you, even when both his cocks were still stuffed deeply inside of you. There is only pride in him.

"My perfect little concubine." he whispered to you. "All mine. All mine and only mine.”

IT WAS ANOTHER DAY ONCE AGAIN. Far too early and yet, the morning settles over Imperial capital of Kyoto in a muted haze, the kind that softens edges without truly changing what lies beneath all of them.

The path toward Ryomen Hiromi’s tomb winds through old trees and weathered stone, each step carrying the sense of something preserved rather than forgotten. This is not a place that welcomes intrusion or spectacle. It expects acknowledgement, and nothing less.

Ryomen Chiharu walks ahead of the group, not in defiance, but in instinctive separation. She keeps a distance just wide enough to hold her thoughts without needing to share them, yet close enough that she is still tethered to what surrounds her. 

Her posture remains perfect, as you taught her, all too composed and disciplined, but just like her father, truly an unwavering force. Yet there is something different in her today. A heaviness beneath the control. A quietness that feels less like training and more like understanding something she cannot yet name.

You walk behind her, shadowing her. You stood there as something between presence and responsibility, the only mother she knew in everything but blood, and something more complicated in everything that cannot be named easily. 

Your gaze occasionally drifts to her back, and each time, you find yourself noting the same thing. She is steady, but not untouched. Beside you, Ryomen Sukuna moves without hesitation. His presence fills the path even when he says nothing, as though the space itself adjusts around him. 

Yet there is a restraint to him today that is not weakness, not softness, but awareness. As if even he recognizes that this place demands something different from him and he has chosen, for now, not to resist it.

At Sukuna’s side, the olden Lord Gojo walks with the ease of someone accustomed to both power and age, though the liveliness in him has been tempered into something more reflective. His gaze drifts forward often, resting on Chiharu, then briefly on you, then back ahead again, as though measuring something that cannot be spoken directly.

For a time, none of you speak. The silence is not empty. It is deliberate, shaped by the weight of where you are going. Even the wind feels subdued here. It is the olden Gojo who finally speaks, letting out a soft exhale as the breeze catches against him, his voice low enough not to disturb the stillness ahead.

“You chose well, I think.” he says at first, not looking directly at Sukuna.

Sukuna does not slow. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.” he replies without turning his head. “I don’t have patience for riddles dressed as conversation.”

A faint, almost tired smile crosses Gojo’s face. “Very well. Then I’ll be direct. The woman you brought with you, this woman, your concubine, she is not what I expected you to keep so close.”

That earns him a brief glance from Sukuna, sharp and uninterested all at once. “You’ve already spoken about her. You’re repeating yourself.”

“I’m correcting my observation, my lord.” Gojo answers calmly. “She does not behave like someone kept for utility alone. There is no hesitation in her position, no grasping, no attempt to elevate herself beyond what she is. She stands exactly where she chooses to stand, as though that is enough.”

Sukuna’s gaze shifts forward again, but he does not interrupt. When he sees Sukuna is not reacting, The lord Gojo continues, his tone quieter now. “That kind of certainty is rare. In most places, it breaks people. Or it makes them greedy.”

“They’re weak.” Sukuna says flatly. “She is not. That is the only distinction that matters.”

Gojo shakes his head slightly. “No. They are human. And so is she. The difference is not what she is made of. It is what she refuses to become.”

A brief silence follows, the sound of footsteps muted against stone and earth. Ahead, Chiharu begins to slow. You call her, but she does not turn around. Through the thinning mist, the outline of the tomb becomes visible. 

You notice it too. It was the way Chiharu’s posture shifts, not breaking, but tightening as though she is gathering herself for something she does not yet have words for. You pursed your lips in a flat line, observing her, letting her take her time.

“She reminds me of my mother.” Gojo says after a moment, his voice lowering further, more deliberate now. “Not only in appearance. In the way she occupies space. She does not demand to be seen, but she is not overlooked either. She simply…exists, fully, without apology. A light in our dark, dull world.”

Sukuna’s expression tightens faintly at that, subtle enough that most would miss it. “I don’t care who she reminds you of, foolish boy.” he replies, though the words come slower than before.

“You should, though.” Gojo answers, turning his head slightly, his gaze settling on Sukuna with quiet clarity. “Because resemblance is dangerous. It invites comparison, and comparison is how people begin to treat what they have as something already defined by the past.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow. “Then speak clearly. What are you implying?”

Gojo does not look away. “Do not reduce her into something she is not.” he says simply. “She may resemble someone who came before, but she is not a continuation of that life. She is not a replacement. And she is not lesser for standing beside you instead of behind what you have lost.”

The words carry no heat, but they land heavily all the same. Sukuna exhales through his nose, irritation flickering briefly across his expression. “You speak as though I intend to discard her.”

“I am not speaking about intention.” Gojo replies, softer now, but firmer in meaning. “I am speaking about consequences. People like you do not always realize when something has become important until after it is gone.”

A pause stretches between them. Ryomen Sukuna does not respond immediately. For once, his silence is not dismissal. It is something heavier, less certain, as though the words have settled somewhere they should not have been allowed to reach.

Gojo watches him for a moment longer, then lets out a quiet sigh. “She stands beside you because she chooses to.” he says finally. “And I think you already understand what that means, even if you refuse to name it.”

Chiharu has stopped completely now. The tomb stands before her, weathered and unmoving, its presence swallowing the last of the mist around it. Sukuna comes to a halt behind her. You follow Chiharu, stopping slightly, your gaze resting on the stone marker ahead.

Lord Gojo does not speak again. Not because there is nothing left to say,  but because everything necessary has already been said. And for once, Sukuna does not answer at all. Before long, you seem to realize you need to give Chiharu some space, and so you return to your lord husband’s side.

He has not moved much since stopping. His gaze lingers on the tomb only briefly now, as if whatever purpose brought him here has already been acknowledged and filed away. The weight in the air has shifted. It was not gone, but softened at the edges. 

He looks at Hiromi’s statue for a moment, as if hoping for an answer to a question he has asked in the silence. You looked at him and where his eyes were at. It wasn’t long when you step closer to him, careful not to disturb the moment, though your voice breaks it anyway. 

“What was that about, my lord?” you ask quietly.

Sukuna does not look at you immediately. When he does, it is brief. Measured. “What was that about, I wonder.” he repeats, not a question, but a correction.

You hold his gaze, unfazed. “With the lord Gojo, you were talking.” you clarify. “I saw the silence. The way you didn’t answer him.”

A faint exhale leaves him through his nose, almost dismissive. “It was nothing, really.” he says.

You don’t accept it at once. Your eyes narrow slightly, not in challenge, but in familiarity. You have learned the shape of his evasions, and this one does not sit cleanly. “That is not true, and we both know it.” you say softly.

His gaze shifts away from you, toward the ground nearby, where small wildflowers grow between stone and root. He crouches slightly without explanation, his hand moving through them with casual precision, selecting one without hesitation. 

“You overthink things, don’t you, little one?” he mutters.

“You avoid things, don’t you, my lord?” you reply.

That earns the faintest shift in his expression. He stands again before you can press further. For a moment, you think he will dismiss it again. Instead, he lifts the flower. He was not offering it to you. For a while, he was just holding it between his fingers as he steps closer. You don’t move.

He studies you for a moment in silence, at least long enough that it almost feels like the question you asked has been set aside entirely. Then, without ceremony, he reaches up. His fingers brush through your hair, unhurried, as he places the flower carefully against it. Not rough. Not careless. Almost…precise.

Your breath stills slightly. “What are you doing, my lord?” you ask quietly, though you do not step away.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he adjusts the flower once, as if ensuring it sits exactly where he wants it. Then he looks at you properly. “It suits you, these sorts of flowers, little one.” he says. “We should have these flowers in the Phoenix Gardens.”

The words are simple. But they land differently in his voice. Your expression softens before you can stop it. “That’s not an answer either, my lord.” you murmur back, your cheeks turning warm red as you fiddle with your long hair.

A faint pause comes, and then, finally, something close to a smirk touches his mouth. “It is, little one.” he says. “Just not the one you were asking for.”

You search his face for a moment longer, but he does not elaborate. He never does when it matters most. Still, his massive hand lingers near your hair for a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall away.

Behind you, Ryomen Chiharu remains at the tomb, quiet and unmoving, as though she has decided this moment belongs to you and him alone. The wind shifts slightly through the clearing, brushing past the flower now pinned in your hair. 

And for once, you don’t press him again.

You accept what was there.

For this is the only light there is.

This is the only truth you were allowed.

The only way you could love him.

epilogue

The village you had once called home had no more sound. It was already silent by the time the wind began to move through it. What had once been homes, voices, and daily life now existed only as ruin and nothing more.

It was burned wood collapsing into itself, shattered stone half-buried in ash, lantern frames bent and blackened like broken ribs. The air still carried heat in places, but it was fading, giving way to something colder and heavier. Something that would forever be final.

You stood in the center of it without moving. Blood had dried unevenly along your hands and sleeves, some of it yours, much of it not. It had soaked into the fabric at your wrists and collar, stiffening there as if even your body could not decide what to do with the aftermath. 

Your breathing was uneven, not from exhaustion alone but from the realization settling in slowly, irreversibly. There was nothing left to fight, and nothing left to explain. Your precious son Chizuru was safe. Chiharu was safe. 

That fact should have anchored you. Instead, it made the emptiness sharper, because everything else had been stripped away to ensure it. You had chosen this. You had chosen to end it all. 

Or perhaps you had only survived what others forced you into until there was no gentler option left. You don't know what else to say or what to do. All you could do was stare at the consequences of your actions.

Harsh, brutish footsteps came from behind you, steady and unhurried through the debris. You did not need to turn to recognize them, as you still reeled from the silence you had forced into sound.

Ryomen Sukuna stopped a short distance away, his monstrous body towering over your much smaller figure.  He did not look at the village first, nor did he comment on the destruction. His attention went directly to you, as though the rest of it had already been accounted for and dismissed.

“You finished it.” he said. “I didn’t expect you to go through with it.”

“You helped.”

“This is not new to me.”

“But it was to me.”

He looked at you. “I know.”

Your gaze remained forward as you answered, your voice low and uneven. “There was no other outcome. They were going to kill us.”

A pause followed, the space between you filled only by settling ash. You purse your lips in a flat line. When you spoke again, it came quieter, heavier. “It still does not change what I’ve done. It does not change anything about the blood in my hands.”

He moved closer then, stepping into your space without hesitation. His hand lifted toward you, and you felt it before you fully processed it. The warmth of blood still on him, still fresh enough to smear as his palm touched your cheek.

It spread across your skin in a slow drag, not careless but deliberate, as though he was making sure you could not distance yourself from what had happened. You did not pull away. You did not have the strength to.

Your voice wavered as you finally spoke what had been circling inside you since the last strike fell. “I am nothing now. Just a murderer.”

His hand remained on your face, steady, anchoring you in place rather than restraining you. For a moment, he said nothing, only studied you with that same unreadable focus he gave everything that interested him. Then his grip shifted slightly, not tightening, but settling more firmly as if correcting your conclusion.

“You are still here, we are here. The children are safe.” he said to you in reply. “That does not make you nothing.”

Your breath hitched faintly, your eyes lowering for a moment before lifting back to him. “What I am is defined by what I’ve done.” you said. “There is nothing else left.”

That earned the faintest shift in his expression, not irritation, not softness, but certainty. He tilted your face slightly with his hand, forcing you to meet his gaze fully as blood on his fingers marked your skin in uneven streaks.

“What you did was necessary. Do not feel burdened by it.” he retorted to you. “And what you are is not reduced to it.”

The words should not have steadied you, not in a place like this. Yet they did not feel like comfort in the usual sense. They felt like refusal, his refusal to accept the version of you that had already begun to form in your own mind.

Your voice broke slightly when you answered. “Then what am I to you?”

He held your gaze for a long moment, the ruined village reflected faintly in his eyes, untouched by sentiment. When he finally spoke, it was not grand, not softened, not explained. “You are still what you were to me as you  are now.” 

The words did not erase what had happened. They did not excuse it. But they did something else, something quieter, more unsettling in its certainty. They placed you back into existence without asking permission from the ruin around you.

His hand remained on your face a moment longer before settling more naturally, as though he had already decided there was no need to let go. And standing there among the ashes of everything you had destroyed to survive, you realized he was not looking at the blood as proof of what you had become. He was looking at you as if you had not disappeared at all.

“You are still the light of this world.”

Tears fell from your eyes.

You collapsed in his arms.

Blood burned by blood.

All there was left was this light.

• Despite appearing imposing and being one of the strongest, Dabura is a gentle man. He’s at his most gentle with his little bundle of joy

• He holds his child gently in his large hands, his gaze always curious as they squirm about. They often stare at each other, both contemplative beings

• I imagine Simurian babies, especially ones from the Deskunte tribe, are small, but grow sort of like seals babies, drinking/eating a lot since they have a long way to grow.

• So Dabura’s got a chubby little baby, and he can’t help poking their little cheeks and gently squeezing chubby limbs. He’s not used to such fragility and softness

• He carries his baby with him as often as possible. Usually in a baby carrying wrap so baby stays close to his chest. If he has to put baby down, he’ll only hand them over to someone he really trusts, like his sister or significant other

• Dabura is a very gentle father, lets his baby gum at him, climb on him, you name it

• He never baby talks, always speaks in a calm, even tone. His baby is just as much of a fast learner as him, so he tells them about everything

• Encourages his baby a lot. “Yes, you’re a fine warrior. Your aim with your bottle gets better every day” is one of the many things he’ll say to his fussy baby

• I think Deskunte babies grow their horns in when they start teething, and Dabura patiently soothes his baby through all the crying and upset tummies

• When his baby gets their horns in a little more, he playfully butts horns with them

⋆ author's note : completely (like 1000% fully) ooc aerion - and i'm proud . for people who complained about him being soft - that is completely ok if you like to read canonically accurate aerion, there are tons of amazing fics that fits you. thank you. cr for dividers : red heart - @solitary-serendipity ; i lost the creator of mdni one, please contact me if you know

If someone had told you a few months ago that you’d be sitting in some overpriced restaurant with Tanselle and her boyfriend – the same people who’d tried to talk you out of dating Aerion Targaryen – you would’ve politely offered them a psychiatrist’s number. And maybe a good green tea.

But there you were, listening to your friend and her awkward boyfriend sitting across from you with faces like you’d just said you wear socks with sandals.

"You don't get how serious this is," Tanselle said for the hundredth time, after you’d spent the last twenty minutes reassuring her you were fine.

"I do get it," you said calmly.

"Then why did you choose him? You’re the best thing a guy could ask for, and there are so many better options out there. God, you could’ve picked anyone at this university!" Her voice was desperate, like she was trying to save something that was already doomed. "You don't realize he’s just using you and –"

"I do."

Actually, that was the only reason this whole thing had even started.

"And he’s trying to –" Tanselle suddenly froze, looking at you like you’d just punched her. "You what?"

You just shrugged, as if the conversation was on the same level as discussing Robert’s Rebellion with a history professor.

She frowned, then suddenly slammed her fist so hard that Duncan had to look around and quietly apologize for the noise. "If that asshole is threatening you..."

You just slowly shook your head. You truly appreciated their concern, but you weren’t going to sit there and listen to them insult the one person who treated you better than anyone.

"I appreciate your concern," you murmured, your gaze drifting softly from Tanselle to Duncan. Regardless of the mess you were in, it was nice to know there were people who actually cared, who didn't want to see you get burned. "But everything is under control, I promise."

Duncan, who’d spent the whole time just nodding and backing up his girlfriend’s words, let out a quiet sigh and looked at you. "I don’t know you well. But if you matter to her," he turned his head and gave Tanzelle a soft smile, "then you matter to me too. And you don’t deserve what’s definitely going to happen to you in the end, once whatever this is to you is over."

To you. Not to Aerion. He’d made that much clear.

You just tilted your head slightly and looked at him. This was the first time you’d seen the man your friend always talked about with such love in her voice.

When she first told you she had a boyfriend, you’d pictured some billionaire running an oil company or real estate. Maybe even an older guy. You were so surprised when you showed up today and saw just an average working guy with a kind face and an awkward smile. He wasn’t wearing a fancy suit like people usually do in places like this – just dark jeans and a plain t-shirt.

Your first thought had been that they made sense together. The way she looked at him with stars in her eyes, the way she constantly reached for him as if touching him was as natural as breathing. The second thing you caught was his tension. He loved her – it was written all over his face, in the way he looked at her like she was his entire world. But he was tightly wound; even as he tried to hide it, he kept scanning the room, his hands resting stiffly on his knees. He was a good man, and he sincerely didn't want to see you shattered

"You think you’re going to outplay Aerion Targaryen. You think you’ll make him lose at his own game and show him what it feels like," he said, taking Tanselle’s hand and softly stroking it, looking at you like an older brother trying to protect his little sister from trouble. "But that’s impossible. You can never win against a player who was placed there by the creator of the game himself. Trust me, plenty of people have tried."

You wanted to tell them there was no reason to worry – you didn't want to lie when they cared so much. But you weren't sure if that was part of Aerion's plan; you hadn't discussed what to tell the people close to you. So, until you cleared it with him, you couldn't say much. But you didn't want to lie either. You chose the truth, even if it wasn't the whole story.

"I know exactly what’s going on between us," you said softly, smiling as you took Tanselle’s other hand in yours and gave it a squeeze. "And people are capable of changing. Even if it’s not right now, at some point he’d have to think about being serious."

Duncan rubbed his chin with one hand, humming thoughtfully. "I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him having a girlfriend. Like, at all. He made it clear to everyone that he doesn't do that. Love. Every girl who tried to change that ended up in the exact same spot."

Tanselle sighed and leaned in closer. "I had a friend who thought she was 'the one.' I don’t remember Aerion giving her any special attention; I think she was just seeing what she wanted to see after a one-night stand at some party. She thought she’d change him, that she’d be the one he’d settle down with and say sweet things to." She swallowed and looked straight at you. "But as you’ve probably guessed, it didn't happen. She said the sex was totally emotionless – he didn't even look at her face, just did his business and walked away without looking back. And when she went up to him at the next party, he asked her what her name was."

Tanselle gently pulled her hand away from Duncan's and wrapped her fingers around yours, giving them a squeeze. "I just don’t want the same thing to happen to you."

Then, as if realizing she’d gotten a bit too emotional, she quickly pulled her hands back and looked at you with a sweet smile. "You have no idea what kind of collection Miu Miu just put out..."

The days went by one after another, and Aerion Targaryen became a permanent part of your daily routine. He’d pick you up for classes, sit next to you in the library while you studied, and listen as you tried to explain that the Dance of the Dragons was a major historical event. (He just said they were his ancestors, so he knew better).

You noticed he couldn’t stop kissing you. Your lips, cheeks, forehead, temple, sometimes even your jawline – it felt like he didn't even realize he was doing it. Whenever you pointed out that there was no audience to perform for, he’d simply murmur that eyes were everywhere.

You often had dinner with him, or rather, he practically forced you; almost every day, he’d sit with his laptop in the cafe where you worked, doing his own thing and waiting for your shift to end so he could drive you home. He shared updates, saying his father and uncle trusted him a lot more now, sometimes even asking for his advice on management. He hadn't fully earned his spot yet, but things were moving fast.

You just smiled, knowing your plan was working. He was always talking excitedly about his work while holding your hand like it was the most normal thing ever. One night, when it was already dark out and you were the only ones left in the library, you were explaining the basics of political history to him – after all, those exams weren't going to pass themselves. Surprisingly, he listened patiently, nodding when he got the main points and asking questions when he didn't. As you explained another topic, he easily interlaced your fingers and kissed the back of your hand. Neither of you reacted, just kept on discussing the subject.

One evening, as he was driving you both home from your late shift, his hand rested on your leg while your fingers played with his or traced his forearm. His gaze drifted over to you – soft and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. "I heard you were talking to Tanselle."

You didn't stop what you were doing, just tilted your head slightly. "I was."

His jaw set tight, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel harder than usual. "Whatever she said about me, I’m certain she blew it a hundred times out of proportion. She’s far too dramatic for her own good."

You simply smoothed your hand over his, a tender squeeze that forced his grip to slacken. You caught his eye with a soft smile. "You don't even know what she said."

He rolled his eyes, but there was no mockery or irritation in the gesture. "Right, because she definitely called you over to tell you that unicorns crap everywhere I go and my house is filled with pink princess glitter."

You just laughed but didn't rush to answer. For a moment, a comfortable silence filled the car while you turned to study his profile. "She didn't tell me anything I hadn't already heard from everyone else," you said after a while, your voice calm and blending into the atmosphere.

He let out a short laugh, then interlaced his fingers with yours like he was holding onto an anchor. "Yeah. Because to everyone, I’m just the asshole who makes grown women cry and run away from the university I only recently started showing up to." His eyes drifted shut in annoyance, his hand squeezing yours tightly while you rubbed his skin with your thumb, noticing how he relaxed under your touch. Aerion pulled over and stopped the car, then slowly turned to look at you. "Do you think that too?"

"Well, based on what the other students think..."

"I couldn't care less what other people believe," he cut in, his voice low. "I care if you believe it."

Your expression softened as you looked at his expectant face. The fact that he cared about your opinion – that he was worried you might see him that way – warmed your heart.

You had no intention of lying to him. You were well aware that he didn't break hearts by playing the part of a hypocritical romantic, but you were also sure there were times when he’d been blunt and harsh instead of giving a polite "no."

You reached out with your free hand and ran your fingers through his hair, and he leaned into your touch. "I haven't seen enough to believe all those rumors, but I’ve seen enough to understand why they started in the first place," you said softly.

He didn't take his eyes off yours, his gaze full of things he couldn't put into words. Then he took a deep breath and ran his hands through his already messy hair. "I never gave anyone false hope. Everyone knew exactly what I was after, and I was honest about it." He didn't blink, needing you to truly hear him. "I didn't feed them sweet lines. Hell, I didn't even kiss them or bother to remember their faces, because I had zero interest in all that intimate bullshit."

Then his grip on your hand tightened, his gaze softening into something more vulnerable than you had ever witnessed. "At least, I didn't back then."

You just tilted your head and gave him a soft smile, and he’d never admit how much a single smile like that could completely melt him.

"I warned them. I told them I wanted nothing more than a quick release, and they agreed to it." A flash of disdain crossed his features. "Then they started imagining they were some damn Cinderellas, acting like I’d promised them a honeymoon in Athens, a wedding, and ten kids."

His shoulders were tense, and he looked like he found the whole conversation pointless – like it was something that should’ve been obvious to everyone. "I’m not responsible for other people's feelings. I didn't play the part of some sappy Romeo. They created expectations in their own heads that I never gave them and am not obligated to meet. If anyone broke their hearts, they did it to themselves."

His hands gripped yours so tightly, as if he was afraid you’d open the door and walk away right then. "I just wanted you to know that."

"I believe you," your voice was gentle. You didn't try to pull your hand away – instead, you kept tracing invisible patterns on his skin.

You knew the feeling all too well – when people expected something from you that they’d made up themselves, and then got disappointed when you didn't live up to it.

The tension in his shoulders faded. He started the car, then brought your intertwined fingers to his lips and gave them a soft kiss. "Good."

He kept your hands pressed against his cheek for the rest of the drive.

It was a Sunday when Aerion decided it was time to start getting ready for the gala. He took you to some – as you were sure, insanely expensive – shopping center so you could look for dresses. You’d refused at first, but he’d just said he couldn't afford to bring a girl who looked like a math teacher.

"I really think we could’ve found a nice dress in simpler stores." You were surrounded by all these brands you didn’t even know existed.

He walked beside you, hands in his pockets, watching your reaction to everything. He didn't want you feeling out of place over something he could easily buy for you. "Then change your mind. Just pick anything you like the look of, don’t worry about the rest. If we don’t find anything here, we’ll go somewhere else."

And just like that, you walked into another boutique with a huge, glittering butterfly covered in rare stones out front. Inside, the dresses were displayed in special glass domes, hanging perfectly on mannequins.

You just took the dresses a nice assistant offered you, not even having time to fully look around the shop.

You opened the dressing room door and locked eyes with him. He was sitting in a leather chair right across from you, his right ankle resting on his left knee, studying you closely.

"Looks good."

"You said the same thing about the last ten dresses, Aerion. That doesn’t help at all," you said, rolling your eyes. You had no idea what kind of dresses women wore to those things, let alone the women who went there with a Targaryen.

He traced the line of his jaw thoughtfully before a smirk pulled at his lips. "Forgive me, sinner that I am, for not giving a damn about dresses designed by a man who shares a name with a red car from a Disney movie."

Technically, it wasn't a lie. He really had no interest in the fashion world. But he would have died before admitting that the reason he couldn't settle on a single dress was because you looked breathtaking in every single one of them.

Maybe it wasn't the dresses after all. He refused to let his mind go there.

With a fake sigh, he got up from the chair and looked around to distract himself from any thoughts of what you’d look like without those dresses on. His gaze stopped, and he froze when he saw a dress right in the center – it was highlighted by special lighting and stood higher than all the others.

He couldn't stop looking at it and thinking of you in it. It felt like it had been made specifically for you.

The way it would highlight your pink cheeks when you blushed, how those stones would make you shine and outshine everyone else in the room, how it would hug your hips...

He cleared his throat and walked over to get a closer look, and then he realized one thing.

He was going to buy you that dress, even if you didn't like it. Even if you didn't wear it to the gala, he didn't care. He just wanted you to have it.

Aerion signaled the assistant to take the gown to your fitting room, all while trying to fight off the mental images that were only making his situation worse.

He waited outside, blaming only himself. He could’ve just given you his card so you could try everything on alone, but he’d had this unexplainable urge to go with you.

But there was something about watching you choose clothes, hearing you ask for his opinion on one thing or another – it felt domestic. And he wanted to feel that.

When the fitting room door opened and you didn't come out, he frowned slightly and walked toward you. Opening the door, he felt as if all the air had been forced out of his lungs.

You stood before the mirror, oblivious to his stunned silence, as you traced the delicate edges of the gown. "What do you think?"

He didn't answer; he just walked inside, shoving both hands into his pockets. He stepped closer until you could feel his presence right behind you, and then he rested his chin on your right shoulder. The muscles in his arms tightened, as if he was struggling not to touch you – not to put his hands on your waist and pull you closer.

His eyes drifted to the hem of the dress, then slowly traveled higher and higher until they met yours in the mirror. "Perfect."

You looked back at him; he was too close, and his gaze was filled with a hunger that bordered on indecent.

"Do you like it?"

"It’s the best out of everything we’ve seen," you said softly, noticing the patterns that reached all the way to the floor. "I like them all, but..."

"Then we’ll take them all."

You shook your head; you didn't even have that many places to wear dresses like these. "There’s no need. This one is enough for me."

He nodded, then straightened up and walked out.

Aerion 🐹

I’ll pick you up at seven. Do you still have your dress, or did you sacrifice it to save some elves and ponies?

You rolled your eyes at the message. You were standing in front of the mirror, completely ready to go. The pale pink floor-length dress hugged you like a second skin, creating a sleek silhouette that flowed into a train. Lines of diamonds and sequins shimmered across the fabric like raindrops. The neckline was open enough to leave something to the imagination, but not enough to cause a scandal in high society.

A delicate veil, encrusted with crystalline threads, draped from your sleeves like a sheer waterfall that nearly touched the floor. Your hair was styled in soft, cascading waves, the front sections pinned back with a butterfly clip that sparkled with stones matching the dress.

You’d kept your makeup light, using soft pink and peach tones to match the dress.

You understood why people chased wealth. You didn't think you’d ever looked this magical. It wasn't that you didn’t like how you looked normally, but there was a certain charm in dressing up like this once in a while and waiting for your prince on a horse.

Well, not exactly a prince. And not exactly on a horse.

You

You know a suspicious amount about unicorns,

considering you said you hate happy stuff. I’m

starting to think My Little Pony was your favorite

cartoon as a kid.

Aerion 🐹

Cute. A little more detail would have been appreciated.

And I was a fan of Final Destination. I’m pretty sure the plotlines are practically identical.

You clicked your tongue and put your phone down, sitting on the edge of the sofa. You couldn't help thinking about how just a few months ago, your only worry was finishing a report for a research conference – and now, here you were, waiting for Aerion Targaryen to take you to a high-society event as his girlfriend.

A knock at the door cut your thoughts short, and you headed over to open it. When you did, a figure appeared in a black tuxedo and… a soft pink tie. You looked up and met his eyes.

Aerion looked at you, and his breath hitched. He’d seen this dress on you just recently; he shouldn't have been reacting this dramatically, but he couldn't help it.

You looked exactly the way he’d imagined.

A rush of unwanted thoughts flooded his mind. If he were a more romantic man, he would have confessed that you were the most breathtaking thing his eyes had ever seen. But he wasn't built that way, so he simply cleared his throat and extended his hand. "Cute."

You just laughed softly and took his hand.

Aerion had no idea that his eyes were giving him away more than any word he spoke.

The drive took over forty minutes, and when you arrived, you didn't see the "ordinary country house" Aerion had mentioned, but a whole damn mansion.

As he parked in his specially assigned spot – with his initials engraved right there – he looked at you. "My family can be a bit... overbearing. So if you need a break, just tell me, okay?"

You just nodded, and he got out of the car, opening your door and resting his hand on the roof above your seat as usual. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer to him. He turned your face toward his. "Relax. All they care about is how much money they can pocket today by kissing my family's ass."

That actually calmed you down. He made sure your tension had faded before leading you inside. You walked up the stairs, your dress flowing like a princess’s from a historical movie, his firm hand never leaving you as he guided you up. You saw a massive set of open doors as you walked down a long hallway. You were just about to enter when you noticed his tie had slipped slightly to the left. "Wait."

You stopped him, and as he looked at you with a raised eyebrow, you reached for his collar. You felt his gaze on your face while you adjusted the tie and smoothed out his shirt, which had crinkled slightly from your movements. "There."

When you finally met his eyes, his gaze was burning with such raw intensity that it made your breath hitch. He leaned down, pressing his lips to your temple in a kiss that lingered far past the point of casual.

Neither of you noticed Maekar standing in the shadows, taking in the entire intimate display and reaching his own silent conclusions.

You should’ve expected that nights like these were full of small talk, live classical music from an orchestra, and expensive wine and champagne.

Aerion never left your side once. Even when men demanded a private word, he kept a firm grip on your waist and told them there were no "extra" people here.

When three men – all looking completely different – approached and introduced themselves as his brothers (well, one called himself a cousin, saying he’d rather die than be called Aerion’s brother), you quickly realized they were all total opposites.

"Let me know if he threatened you or forced you here at gunpoint," one of them said playfully, reaching out for a handshake.

Aerion’s grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. "Fuck off, Daeron," he muttered, though he still reached out to give his brother a quick hug.

The young man, who you now knew was named Daeron, just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. Even while they were trading insults, you could tell they had a warm relationship. Then, you felt something poke you in the stomach.

"Your diamonds are way cooler than mine! I have a few stones, but father says I have to study math if I want a watch like his. Can you imagine? Math!" a little bald boy said, then smiled before looking at Aerion and frowning. "She’s so pretty, what is she doing with you?"

And just like that, you met Aegon and Valarr Targaryen too.

The only time Aerion left your side was when his father called him for a talk. He’d insisted you come along, but you didn't want to intrude on a moment between father and son. Nothing was going to happen to you alone in a massive mansion filled with security.

When Maekar had approached you both, he hadn't made any dramatic remarks; he was much more polite than you’d expected. You saw his long, analytical gaze linger on you before he gave a slight nod. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet the person changing my son," he’d said, half with approval and half with gratitude. Then his gaze shifted to Aerion, and you noticed a small, proud smile touch his face. "I’d like you two to come for a family dinner. Introduce us properly, son."

Aerion hadn't returned from his father’s office yet, so you were standing by the buffet table with your hands tucked behind your back. Suddenly, a shadow fell to your right, stopping beside you.

"I haven’t seen such a charming lady in this house before," a velvet voice said. You turned your head to see him.

A handsome young man about your age stood there, with dark curly hair reaching his shoulders. He was dressed in a black suit with a bright red bowtie at his neck.

You tilted your head. "Good evening."

He smiled, hands in his pockets, and you couldn't shake the feeling that he reminded you of someone.

"I assume this is your first year. Your partner hasn’t the slightest clue just how lucky he truly is."

You offered a polite smile. "Yes, it’s my first time here, thank you."

He let out a little chuckle, then reached out his hand to you.

"You’re charming. What’s your name?"

You told him your name and reached out to shake his hand. "Nice to meet you. How about your name?"

He just smirked, his grip on your hand tightening slightly.

"Jacaerys."

Aerion stepped out of his father’s office, for once not feeling disappointed or angry like he usually did.

No, he felt satisfied. And no, it wasn’t just because Maekar had said you were a good match for him.

His father had finally started to see his potential; he considered him worthy to keep by his side. And he knew his uncle felt the same way.

He walked down the stairs, his eyes automatically searching for you in the crowd like magnets constantly pulling him back to you. And he found you – standing near the chocolate fountain, talking to...

What the fuck?

He saw his damn relative standing way too close to you, smiling too wide and staring so intently that Aerion wanted to gouge his eyes out. He marched toward you, overhearing his attempts to make you laugh.

"I could steal you away from your partner," he said, tilting his head. "Since he’s stupid enough to leave such a beau—"

"You can't." Aerion appeared beside you so suddenly that you jumped slightly. His tone promised nothing but trouble.

He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you firmly against him – his touch was surprisingly gentle, which didn't match his mood at all.

Jacaerys looked up at him, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Hey, cousin. I’ve never seen you bring anyone along before."

"Now you have. Now get the hell out of here," Aerion said, his hands never letting go for a second, wrapping around your waist in a protective gesture.

The other man just raised his hands in surrender, smirking. "Relax, I just decided to talk to a lady. A lovely lady you dared to leave alone for far too long." The soft voice he had used with you was gone; now it was cold and calculated. He leaned closer toward you, but looked directly at the man behind you. "Among all these wolves."

Then he straightened up and smiled as if nothing had happened. "Come on, man, let’s go out for a smoke. I’m sure we have plenty to catch up on."

Aerion just scoffed. "I don’t smoke."

Jacaerys froze. He raised an eyebrow, glancing back and forth between you and Aerion, a smirk playing on his lips in either disbelief or surprise. "Oh."

They stared each other down, and something told you that even the watchful high-society crowd and the media wouldn't stop them from tearing each other’s throats out.

You were the first to snap out of the tension. Aerion had only just started earning his father’s trust; you couldn't let everything fall apart over a stupid clash of male egos.

You turned and looked at him, one hand moving to his chest to smooth out his shirt. "I think I’ve had enough for one day. My feet hurt from these shoes. Can we leave?"

He tore his gaze away from the curly-haired man and looked at you. His eyes softened. "Fine. I’ll have them bring the car around."

You nodded, then slowly turned to Jacaerys and gave him a polite smile. "It was nice meeting you."

He looked at you and licked his lips, then gave a quiet laugh and reached out his hand. "I can’t wait to see you again. I hope this isn't the last time we meet."

You didn't want to be rude, so you started to reach back, but before you could, Aerion’s firm hand left your waist and shook his hand instead.

"Good seeing you, brother. I don’t think you’d want to find out the consequences if you try to see her again," he said with a smile, but there wasn't a hint of humor in it.

Jacaerys just gave a bright grin.

When you reached the stairs, Aerion leaned down and reached for your legs.

"What are you doing?" you asked, stopping him halfway.

He blinked. "You said your feet hurt."

You looked at him, and something inside you warmed at the thought that he was actually going to carry you just because you’d complained about the pain.

You stood on your tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth. "You two looked like you were about to kill each other back there. I had to step in."

He frowned at first, but then the corner of his mouth lifted as he realized what you'd done. "I should’ve guessed."

You tilted your head slightly. "But I really am tired. How do you even stand this every time?"

"Let's just say it was more bearable this year." His eyes didn't leave yours as he reached out, nodding toward the exit. "Come on. I’m not done with you yet."

He took you to his place. You hadn't even known he lived alone until he pulled into the parking lot of a residential complex and you headed up to the top floor.

He let you go in first, and you stepped inside, looking around.

For some reason, his home perfectly mirrored his personality. Dark walls, pristine furniture, and rooms that felt unlived in – as if he only came here to sleep or take care of basic needs.

You walked into the kitchen, which had all the high-end appliances you could imagine, but no actual dishes – just a single paper coffee cup.

"Is it a requirement to live like a funeral just happened in your house?" you asked, used to homes that actually felt alive.

A low chuckle escaped him. "And what exactly makes you say that?"

You let out a soft hum of disapproval. "You don’t have a single photograph on the walls, the tables, or anywhere at all. The walls are far too dark, and the decor looks like it was delivered yesterday. Seriously, Aerion, are you a haunting?"

"All right, then. What would you change?" His voice was calm, but you could hear the amusement in it.

You turned around; he was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, wearing a smirk.

You looked back at the empty space and shrugged. "At the very least, I’d repaint these grim walls something lighter. Beige, perhaps, or a soft white. And I’d definitely fill the rooms with pictures of the people I care about."

You walked out of the kitchen and headed down the long hallway toward his bedroom, with him trailing slowly behind you. "I’d find a use for those shelves, too – I’d keep all my books there. And of course, I’d need a little friend so I wouldn't go crazy and..." You stopped abruptly in the middle of his bedroom, freezing at the sight.

Right in front of you was a panoramic window overlooking the night city. Thousands of lights burned in the dark, lighting up the skyline and casting a deep blue glow into the room.

You heard his quiet footsteps and felt his presence behind you – heavy and burning. His arms wrapped around your waist as he leaned in, grazing your neck with his nose, breathing in your scent. "Do you like the view?"

His palms gently brushed over your stomach through the dress, while his lips left damp trails along your jaw, moving down to your shoulder.

"Aerion, how much did you drink?" you asked softly with a sigh. The last thing you wanted was for him to do something he’d regret tomorrow.

A low vibration of laughter rumbled against your skin, sending a spark of electricity straight to your fingertips. "I had a single sip of wine – and a mediocre one, at that. The truth is," he whispered, gently sweeping your hair over one shoulder. "I couldn't take my eyes off you. I haven't been able to for a long time."

He unzipped the dress – slowly, agonizingly so, kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed. Even though he was barely holding back from tearing the fabric, Aerion knew how much you liked this dress and how much it meant to you.

When he reached the small of your back, he pressed his lips there and slowly trailed kisses up your spine. A quiet moan escaped you. Aerion gripped you tighter, holding you in place before his mouth found your ear. He lightly bit your earlobe, making your knees go weak.

"What is it you're doing to me?" he breathed, turning you to face him.

His eyes were dark, filled with hunger and reverence; you didn't think anyone had ever looked at you like that before.

You thought about how this was all supposed to be a farce – a temporary game to help him secure his place in high society and clear his reputation. But right now, as he looked at you like you were the only thing worth living for, the only thing worthy of his attention, you realized the lines had blurred so much that there was no turning back.

So instead of pulling away and asking him to take you home, you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him.

That tiny movement was all Aerion needed.

Before you could even brush against his lips, he crashed into your mouth with crushing force and a guttural groan. The kiss was deep and greedy, stealing the very air from your lungs. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck as he suddenly hooked his hands under your thighs and hoisted you up.

You let out a small gasp and locked your legs around him. He didn't break the kiss, even when your lungs started to burn. He carried you to the bed and lowered you gently onto the sheets, immediately pinning you down with his body. His lips moved to your cheek, your cheekbone, and back to that sensitive spot beneath your ear. He gave it a sharp bite, making you flinch, before immediately soothing the sting with his tongue.

His hands wandered over your body, the fabric of the dress getting in the way of him feeling your skin, and he let out a frustrated growl as he pulled back.

"Forget what I said about this damn dress. I’m going to fucking die if I don't touch you right now."

You laughed softly, helping him out. He tossed the dress somewhere into the darkness and froze, staring hungrily at your bare body. His hand landed on your stomach, fingers splaying wide as he stroked your skin possessively.

Aerion went still, his gaze darkening when he saw the final barrier – the delicate lace of your lingerie, which seemed like a taunt against his impatience. He didn't take his eyes off you; in the dim light, his pupils were so blown that his irises were just thin, bright rings.

"Fuck," he said in a raspy voice, his hand resting on your stomach, fingers splaying out as he stroked your skin. "Exactly as I pictured it."

"You’ve been picturing me?"

Aerion just shook his head in disbelief, hovering over you and taking up every inch of space. "You haven't the slightest clue how many times."

His gaze burned into you as his hand, which had been resting on your stomach, slowly slid higher. Too slowly. His fingers barely brushed your skin, pulling all of your attention to his touch, making every cell in your body tremble in anticipation.

Aerion leaned down further, his lips finding that sensitive spot on your neck. He didn't just kiss you – he hungrily breathed in your scent, as if trying to get his fill of you before sharply nipping at your skin. Not enough to draw blood, but hard enough to force a sharp, jagged breath from your chest and send an icy shiver down your spine. His hot tongue immediately licked the bite mark, and his hands, which had slid up to your collarbones, tightened possessively, pinning you to the silk sheets.

God, he's possessive, you realized, the thought swirling through your mind.

He slowly moved lower, and every kiss on your ribs felt like a promise. When he reached your stomach, his hot breath scorched your skin, making your muscles contract involuntarily. He took his time, clearly enjoying your reaction, feeling your rhythm break as you tangled your fingers in his hair – either trying to pull him closer or just trying to hold onto reality.

His palms gripped your thighs even tighter, fingers digging into your soft skin almost painfully, pinning you down and leaving you no chance to pull away. Aerion leaned lower, and now all you could feel was his hot, ragged breath against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

His hand, broad and warm, slowly slid down from your stomach. He hooked his fingers on the edge of the fabric but didn't rush to strip it off. Instead, he trailed his knuckles along your thigh, making you gasp. You felt the cold metal of his rings sting against the heat of his palm.

He leaned forward, pressing his face against you right through the thin fabric. You felt him take a deep, lung-shaking breath of your scent – mixed with the smell of expensive lace and your own arousal. That breath sounded almost like a groan of possession. His jaw was tight, and you felt him freeze for a second, soaking in your warmth with every inch of his face.

Aerion pulled back for just a moment, and in the dim light, you could see his chest heaving. His gaze, usually sharp and calculating, now seemed clouded by a dark, primal hunger. He slowly lowered his hand to your hip, and his fingers – hot and trembling slightly from the tension – caught the edge of the lace.

He pulled the lingerie off in a smooth, almost ritual-like motion. No rush, just an agonizing delay that made you freeze and look straight into his dark eyes. When the fabric finally vanished, tossed aside somewhere, Aerion went still.

He looked you over from head to toe — from your hair scattered across the pillow to the tips of your toes — and you felt exposed not just physically, but emotionally.

"Fuck..." he breathed out, and that raspy, broken sound did something unbearable to you. "Absolutely perfect."

He slowly moved lower, and his palms, broad and warm, gently slid over your knees, parting them just enough so he could settle between them.

Now that there was nothing left between him and your skin, Aerion froze just a millimeter away from you. You felt his ragged, scorching breath concentrate on your inner thighs, making your muscles twitch involuntarily. He didn't rush. Instead, he trailed the tip of his nose along your soft, sensitive skin, slowly moving up toward your lower abdomen, soaking in your scent without any barriers.

A quiet, tender sigh escaped your chest, and you instinctively rested your hand on the back of his head, softly running your fingers through his short hair. For a moment, he pressed his cheek against your inner thigh and closed his eyes.

Then, he stopped teasing — he practically dove into you, pressing his face so close that you felt the heat of his entire being. His first deep, lingering stroke of his tongue made you gasp out his name and press the back of your head into the pillow.

You cried out, your voice breaking into a soft, drawn-out moan that filled the silence of the bedroom. You didn't fight him; you melted under his pressure, letting his hunger consume you.

He froze for just a second to let out a low, guttural growl right against your skin. The vibration of his voice pierced through you, mixing with the searing wetness of his tongue.

He moved confidently and deeply, exploring every inch while you tossed on the pillow, unable to hold back quiet sounds of pleasure. Every breath, every choked moan pushed him further.

His palms dug into your thighs, pinning you to the silk sheets. You felt the cold of his rings and the unbearable heat of his lips.

"I fucking knew you’d be this sweet," he gasped, pulling back for a second to catch his breath, his voice sounding like he’d walked through fire. "I’ve been wondering if you’d let me taste you since that day in the library."

His palm, which had been resting on your thigh, slid higher. He teased you with one finger – slowly, carefully, as if testing your reaction, feeling how trustingly you opened up to his warmth.

A quiet, melodic moan escaped you as he began to move inside you in rhythm with his tongue.

He worked his finger smoothly, exploring you with the same reverence he usually had when he looked at you. Then, feeling your soft readiness, he added a second finger, stretching you a little more, filling you. Your eyes involuntarily rolled back, and you pressed the back of your head harder into the pillow, letting out a series of short, tender gasps. The contrast between the wet work of his tongue outside and the steady rhythm of his fingers inside stripped away whatever restraint you had left.

"So good…" you whispered, gripping his hair a bit tighter, guiding him. You didn't fight it; you just surrendered to the flow of pleasure, meeting his hunger with your own endless softness.

His tongue – wet and unbearably hot – found your sweet spot with frightening precision. He didn't just touch it; he enveloped it, teasing with soft, circular motions before pressing closer.

He felt you start to melt. He covered you with his lips, lightly tugging at the sensitive skin, while simultaneously his fingers inside gave a sharp, deep thrust, hitting the exact spot that made sparks fly behind your eyes.

A jagged cry escaped your chest, and you instinctively curled your fingers in his hair, pulling his face even closer to you.

You felt everything inside pull tight, like a white-hot wire. Every stroke of his tongue sent a powerful jolt to the pit of your stomach, making your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

"My girl wants to come? Do it for me," he rasped against your skin, feeling your muscles start to squeeze involuntarily around his fingers.

And when that wire finally snapped, washing over you in a soft, blinding wave, Aerion didn't pull away.

He kept persistently pleasuring you with his lips, catching your long, exhausted moan until you completely lost touch with reality, drowning in that searing bliss.

Aerion felt your last tremor fade into a blissful weakness, but he was in no hurry to move. He left a few soft, soothing kisses on the inside of your thighs, where the skin was still burning and twitching. His lips weren't greedy anymore – just tender.

Then he rose slowly, agonizingly smoothly, propping himself up on his elbows and hovering over you.

In the semi-darkness of the bedroom, his face looked frighteningly beautiful. His hair was slightly disheveled from your fingers, his cheekbones sharply defined, and his lips and chin were wet and glistening, red and swollen. But the main thing was his eyes. There was no cold calculation in them anymore; right now, a dark, satisfied triumph was swimming there. He looked at you with such a smug, devilish smile that a new wave of goosebumps ran down your spine.

He leaned down to your face, closing the distance to just millimeters. When his lips covered yours, you froze. The kiss was deep and lingering, and you could distinctly feel the taste of your own pleasure on your lips, mixed with his hot breath.

Aerion pulled back just an inch, so the tip of his nose brushed against yours. His voice sounded so low and raspy that the vibration echoed in your chest. "Next time, you’re sitting on my face."

Before you could say anything in response, Aerion leaned slightly forward. His lips, still wet and hot, covered yours again, but this time he didn't deepen the kiss. Instead, he gently, almost lazily, caught your lower lip and slowly, with lingering persistence, sucked it in, tasting it.

You felt him suckle the tender skin, making you pulse with a new surge of tenderness and heat. He did it slowly, savoring every moment, until you finally relaxed under his weight, feeling him literally drink in your breath.

Aerion only pulled away when your lip was swollen and wet. He looked at the result of his work with that same smug expression, and a promise was readable in his eyes that this night was far from over for both of you.

Your palm slid lower, toward his belt, wanting to return the same sharp caress, but Aerion sharply intercepted your wrist. His fingers tightened masterfully, pinning your hand to the pillow above your head.

He was breathing hard, and you saw that in the meantime, he’d already carelessly tossed his tuxedo jacket and shirt aside – they were lying somewhere on the floor next to your dress.

"No," he breathed right against your lips, his voice sounding dangerous and raspy. "Not tonight."

He hovered over you, panting, and you could see a vein pulsing wildly in his neck. There was such a fire of impatience in his eyes that it felt like he might just burn up on the spot.

A silent question. This wasn't just a one-time thing for you either, was it?

You studied him – disheveled, utterly consumed by you, that wicked smirk masking a raw, almost primal need to claim you. You tilted your head toward him, the tip of your nose ghosting over his cheek as you inhaled his scent.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice a tender, lulling caress.

You freed your other hand and gently ran your fingertips along his cheek, tracing his jawline before tenderly pressing your palm to his hot neck, feeling his pulse thumping frantically under his skin. That simple, trusting gesture made him freeze for a second and close his eyes, as if you’d just given him much more than just consent.

Aerion exhaled sharply, burying his forehead in your shoulder, and you felt his tension shift into a new, even more powerful wave of resolve. "You have no idea the effect you have on me."

Aerion kept his face hidden in the curve of your shoulder for a moment longer, soaking in your scent and the warmth of your agreement. His ragged breathing gradually leveled out, but the heat radiating from his body only became more intense. He slowly pulled back, lifting his head, and in his gaze — clouded with desire – everything he wasn't saying flickered by.

Without breaking eye contact, he pushed himself up slightly to finally get rid of his trousers. They slid to the floor along with the rest of his things, and in that same second, you noticed him pulling a packet out of his pocket.

You arched a playful brow at his foresight. Despite the crushing intimacy of the moment, a soft, knowing smile ghosted over your lips.

"I did specify that I was a gentleman. And we are always prepared," he quipped, meeting your gaze head-on.

"You couldn’t possibly have been certain that we’d end up in this bed tonight," you countered softly, a thread of gentle mockery in your tone.

"Oh, I knew," he stated with that unstoppable self-confidence. "I knew it would happen the exact second I saw you in that dress."

Suddenly, he pulled you even tighter, though you hadn't thought that was possible. His strong arms hooked under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifted you up like you weighed nothing at all.

You let out a small gasp of surprise, but Aerion didn't let you fall, confidently settling you onto him, straddling his lap. Now you were sitting on him, your legs wrapping around his torso, as he leaned back against the soft headboard of the bed.

This position left you wide open under his direct, appraising stare. You felt a flush flood your face, neck, and chest. Instinctively, you tried to press your knees together and lower your hands to cover up even a little bit, but Aerion wouldn't let you.

His palms settled on your thighs, gently but firmly keeping them open. He looked up at you from below, savoring every breath you took, every movement, and every sign of your shyness.

He slowly moved his hands higher, sliding his palms along your ribs until his fingers found the clasp of your bra. You froze, holding your breath, as you heard the quiet click and the fabric covering your chest slipped down.

His breath hitched for a second, and you saw his pupils blow wide, flooding his irises with dark, thick delight. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply.

Aerion leaned forward, and his lips captured your nipple. At first, it was a tender, fluttering touch, but a moment later he began to hungrily suckle the sensitive skin, making you gasp and grip his shoulders almost painfully. He didn't stop: his teeth carefully, on the verge of pain, nipped at the soft skin, sending a wave of sharp, electric current through you.

A jagged, high-pitched moan escaped your chest. Aerion moved to the other breast, teasing it with the same frantic passion — alternating between stroking it with his tongue and sucking the skin so hard you felt everything inside tighten into a knot.

He pulled away for just a second to look at your flushed face and clouded eyes. His lips were glistening, and his face wore such predatory, deep satisfaction that you had no doubt: he wouldn't stop until he’d drained you dry.

Aerion pulled back slightly from your chest, breathing hard, his gaze dark with desire meeting yours. He took the condom out of the packet and placed it right into your palm. His fingers lingered on yours for a second, hot and trembling slightly.

"Put it on me," he rasped.

You froze, feeling a fresh blush flood your face. You’d had experience before; you knew what to do, but you had never felt a man so sharply or so closely. Now, sitting on his lap, you felt his hardness against your thighs, and it made you shake.

You slowly lowered your hand. Aerion didn’t help you; he just leaned back against the headboard, forcing you to be the one to touch him. When your fingers first cautiously brushed against his hot, pulsing skin, Aerion sucked in a sharp, frantic breath through his teeth. A loud, raspy hiss escaped his chest, and he threw his head back for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, while his fingers gripped your thighs until his knuckles turned white.

Trying not to look him in the eye, you focused on slowly sliding the latex on, feeling your fingertips glide over him. The silence in the room felt deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing.

When you finally finished and shyly looked up, you saw a bright, open smile on his face. It was so sincere and full of triumph that your embarrassment faded for a moment, replaced by a surge of warmth. He looked almost happy.

Aerion leaned forward, catching your hands in his and pulling you flush against him so your heated body pressed into his bare chest. He made you wrap your arms around his neck, closing every bit of distance between you. His lips were right at your ear, and you felt his hot breath scorch your skin.

His voice was so low and raspy that the vibration echoed through your whole body. "Come here, baby."

Aerion gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin possessively but carefully, helping you lift yourself up. He guided your every move as you held your breath and began to lower yourself onto him, agonizingly slow and smooth.

The moment you froze, feeling his pressure, Aerion didn’t rush you. On the contrary, his palms on your thighs softened, holding you in that suspended, incredibly sharp state. He leaned forward so the tip of his nose brushed yours, and you saw his gaze — which had just been burning with predatory fire — turn serious and deep.

"Easy now, there’s no hurry," he whispered, his voice a velvet caress that urged you to find your ease. "You’re the one in control here, all right?"

He took a deep, heavy breath, clearly holding back his own frenzy for your comfort. His eyes never left yours, watching your every expression.

"Tell me if it becomes too much," he added, his lips a mere hair's breadth from yours. "I’ll stop the second you ask. Agreed?"

The way he looked into your eyes, searching for confirmation, showed a tenderness so uncharacteristic of him that your heart finally melted.

Finding your courage, you gripped his shoulders tighter and made the final, decisive push down, taking him in completely.

Aerion broke into a low, visceral groan and threw his head back, eyes squeezing shut from the unbearable fullness filling his entire being. His fingers dug into your thighs until his knuckles were white, pulling you against him so hard it was as if he was afraid the moment would just vanish.

A sound that was half-moan, half-gasp escaped your chest – a sound of such purity and relief that your head spun. You felt an incredible, stretching fullness that sent sparks flying through your body, from your fingertips to the base of your skull.

Aerion struggled to open his eyes, and the clouded delight in them took your breath away. He carefully framed your face with his palms, forcing you to look only at him. "You feel like goddamn heaven."

He began to rock his hips upward, slowly and agonizingly smooth. That first movement took your breath away, and you instinctively leaned back, arching your spine. Your fingers dug into his firm shoulders, your nails leaving deep red marks on his skin, but he only let out a low, satisfied growl at your reaction.

"Yes, just like that..." he whispered, catching your lips in a short, hungry kiss. "My girl. All mine."

He began to set a rhythm — heavy and deep. You felt his heat inside you become unbearable, everything tightening into a throbbing knot. Your moans grew louder, stripped of all shyness – now there was only pure, primal hunger. You buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin mixed with expensive cologne and sweat, leaving a jagged, hot trail of a kiss that turned into a bite on his shoulder.

Aerion tensed, his muscles turning to stone under your hands. He kept checking on you – searching your eyes for your "okay," kissing your eyelids, your temples, your earlobe.

"You were made for me, do you know that?" he whispered right into your ear, and his low voice sent an electric charge down your spine.

You felt his movements grow more confident as he saw you relax and start to catch his rhythm. Your body instinctively knew how to move to meet him, and this dance on the edge of tenderness and possession finally blurred the reality around you.

The tension inside you reached its limit, coiling into a single, unbearably sharp point. You felt the world start to fade, leaving only the heat of his body and this rhythm that burned away everything else. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, and you tilted your head back, barely whispering his name on the edge of a moan.

"Aerion... please..."

He froze for a fraction of a second, feeling your body start to tremble in his arms. His own self-control collapsed like a house of cards. He pulled your face to his, forcing you to look into his darkened, almost black eyes, where a real storm was raging.

"Tell me," he rasped, his voice breaking with raw desire. "What do you need? Tell me, baby. I’ll give you anything you ask for."

He started moving faster, deeper, each thrust forcing a new gasp out of you. He saw you balancing on the very edge, and his lips covered yours in a demanding, possessive kiss before he pulled back again to whisper words of praise against your mouth.

"Yes, just like that... come to me. You’re doing so well." His voice vibrated in your chest, pushing you toward the ledge.

His movements became jagged and powerful; he was barely breathing himself, lost in the sensation. Seeing your features twist with peak pleasure, he dropped to a low, guttural whisper, urging you on:

"Come on, love, come for me. Right now. I’ve got you."

And in that moment, the dam broke. You let go, your voice raspy and broken as you cried out his name, the first wave of orgasm crashing over you. You slumped weakly against his shoulder, shuddering in his arms. Your whole body went limp, turning into pure, pulsing tenderness.

Aerion reacted instantly. He slowed down immediately, almost coming to a standstill. His strong hands, which had just been possessively gripping your thighs, moved higher. His hot lips brushed your temple, your cheek, your jawline – short, weightless kisses full of tenderness.

Then, as if finally letting go of all restraint, he moved lightning-fast. In one powerful, fluid motion, he grabbed your waist and flipped you over, laying you on your back. Before you could even process the change in position, he lifted both your legs, bending them at the knees and pinning your thighs to your chest with his forearms. This position left you completely open, vulnerable, and ready to take all of him.

Aerion hovered over you, his eyes burning with a predatory, wild fire. He surged forward and, with one crushing, deep thrust, drove into you to the very limit. A loud, jagged moan escaped your chest, and your fingers dug frantically into the sheets.

He began to move in a frantic, primal rhythm. The world narrowed down to this heat, this movement, and his heavy, broken breathing in your ear.

At one point, as he pulled back slightly, his gaze fell on your neck. There, glinting in the semi-darkness, lay the thin chain with the dragon pendant – the very gift he had given you. The sight of it finally made him lose his mind.

Aerion leaned down abruptly, his hot lips covering the cold metal of the pendant. He kissed the skin over the dragon, breathing in your scent mixed with the smell of metal and passion. The touch made your heart ache with tenderness.

He straightened up again, his movements becoming jagged and powerful; he was barely breathing himself. He felt his own peak approaching fast, sweeping away the last remains of his sanity.

"Never seen anyone more beautiful than you," he rasped, his voice breaking from the sheer weight of his feelings.

His movements grew faster as he felt his own release approaching. He pressed you into the mattress, hovering over you, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. "One more, my baby, give me one more."

And in the moment he reached his peak and cried out your name, you felt a final wave of pleasure – even more powerful – crash over you right after him. You arched toward him, taking all of him, and in that second, it felt like your breath and heartbeats had become one.

You felt his weight on you – heavy and grounding. Your hands moved slowly from his shoulders to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him even closer to your neck. You could feel his racing heart thudding right against yours.

Aerion lay on top of you for a few more minutes, heavy and hot, his face buried in the curve of your neck. His breathing, jagged and scorching at first, gradually leveled out, becoming deep and steady. You felt his heart slow its frantic pace under your palms. In the silence, broken only by your breathing, there was something so intimate.

He propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze – clouded, dark, and unusually soft – searching your face. He leaned in slowly and left a long, weightless kiss on your temple.

He carefully pulled away, and you watched him as he got up to dispose of the condom and clean up. You lay on the rumpled sheets, feeling a pleasant languor in your whole body, just waiting for him to come back.

Aerion went to the wardrobe, pulled out a black T-shirt of his, and returned to the bed. You arched an eyebrow, looking at the fabric in his hands with a bit of confusion.

He helped you slide your arms into the sleeves. "It can get cold at night."

The T-shirt smelled like him – leather, expensive cologne, and that specific scent that would now always be associated with this evening. It was hopelessly big on you, covering almost your entire body, and wearing it made you feel strangely protected, as if you were wrapped in his armor.

Aerion lay down beside you and, with a possessive but gentle gesture, pulled you against his chest from behind. His hand rested authoritatively on your waist, pinning you close to his hot body, while his chin settled on the top of your head.

"Sleep," he breathed out, and you felt his fingers lazily, almost instinctively, stroking through your hair.

You closed your eyes, listening to his steady heartbeat, and under that rhythmic pace, you finally drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep.

You have always drawn eyes.

Beautiful, intelligent, the perfect lady. You were admired by commonfolk and nobles alike for your amicability and wit. Your lord father was a loyal ally to the great House Targaryen and a valiant support during the Blackfyre Rebellion, not to mention a loud and magnetic personality. His parties and tourneys drew thousands from across Westeros—even luring nobles and merchants alike from across the Narrow Sea.

Similar has happened today as you watch with bated breath, your ringed fingers interlinked upon your lap, as a pair of lordlings clash in a flurry of splintered wood from your position in your noble pavilion. Your father roars his approval, cheering loudly as one poor knight topples from his horse, a jagged shard of lance protruding from a joint near his shoulder in his plated armour. You can’t help but cup your hand to your mouth, watching as the poor felled knight is dragged from the tiltyard.

Your lord father takes a deep sip from his goblet, resplendent in the midday sun. He is draped in the colours of your House, as are you, with jewels strung around your neck and wrists, decorated like a shrine. He turns to you, wine still glossy on his lips as he eyes your uneasy expression which does little to match the glittering of your jewellery. You’re now fidgeting with a wreath of flowers, an intricately woven ring of heartseases, carnations and lilies, finished with ribbons of your House’s colours.

“What is troubling you, my dear?” Your father asks, reaching across to place a gentle hand atop your own, the metal of his rings cool against your knuckles.

You exhale and then give him a meek smile. “Nothing, father. I apologise—”

“You are my daughter. Do you believe I do not know when you are lying?” Your father interrupts, giving you a pointed look.

Embarrassment claws within your chest as you drown out the cheers from the large crowd beyond the pavilion, realising that there are likely to be dozens of eyes glued to you. You calm yourself, ensuring your face remains as passive as possible, but you can feel the slightest tremble in your lower lip.

“I—what if I do not wish to give my favour away?” You say, fingers brushing the beautiful wreath in your lap. “I see no point in—”

Your father interrupts you again with a smooth and rather diplomatic confidence you’re sure he uses with everyone he speaks to. It usually gets him what he wants, and paired with the irreverent glimmer in his eyes, you realise why he and Lyonel Baratheon get along so well.

“Do not view this as giving your favour away,” he says carefully, drumming his fingers against your hand as he speaks. “View it as lending your favour to a poor, desperate lad who wishes to impress you. You are helping the needy, which all ladies care to do, do they not?”

You can’t help but scoff, your father battering his eyelashes in an attempt to make you smile with his humoured tone.

“These men are not needy. They are knights,” you reply.

“Ah, but they are still men,” your father utters, withdrawing his hand to pick up his goblet and take another drink. He tips his goblet in your direction before he drinks. “And all men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.”

You mull over your father’s words for a while as he gets to his feet and shuffles towards the entrance to the pavilion. You hear him speaking to someone, you hear the thunderous cacophony of the crowd, the stamping of hooves, the blaring of bugles. And you’re not sure how much time passes before you hear a beckoning call of your name. You look to your side, placing your flowered wreath upon an adjacent pedestal, and see that your father is welcoming a pair of men into your pavilion dressed in black and red.

Your heart stammers in your chest as you hurry to your feet, Baelor and Maekar Targaryen appraising you as you drop into a perfected curtsy.

“Seven blessings,” you utter, tone light and airy, your flower-sweet perfume lingering around you as you dip.

Your father introduces you, a beaming smile split across his face, both by name and a proud declaration, “my little dove, my pride and joy.”

Humour sparkles in Baelor’s eyes as he turns back to your father, settling onto a chair on his other side. “You have sons, do you not?”

Your father lets out an annoyed puff at the mention of his sons, then shakes his head as he sinks back into his own seat, Maekar settling with a grunt on the other side of his brother. “My sons are… spirited. My daughter, however, is perfect.”

Something like relatability crosses across Maekar’s face, the subtle hint of a smile as warmth grows in your chest. He’s put you on a pedestal with his praise, and now you can feel even more eyes on you as you settle back into your seat.

—✿—

Across the tiltyard, Aerion Targaryen watches you from the flap of his tent as servants and smiths attend to his intricately plated armour. His violet eyes trace the lines of your face from afar, the curves of your body beneath your dress and skirts as you sit, mostly obscured by the low walls of the raised pavilion. He watches the way you join politely into conversation with your father, his uncle and his father, and he can imagine that you’re saying all the right things. That pretty little mouth of yours would say all the right things, wouldn’t it? Would it plead and beg sweetly too?

“My prince,” some kind of servant says hesitantly as he approaches, cloaked in the colours of your noble House. “Your mount is ready.”

Aerion acknowledges him for the briefest of moments with a bored look, before his eyes find you once more. Your father and Baelor are laughing at something you’ve said, and you dip your head like the polite lady you are to hide most of your smile. He sees, too, the cute little wreath you are now toying with, and he realises, with something sick and sharp building in his gut, that it would look perfect around his lance.

With purpose, the prince strides away from his tent, finding his steed at the edge of the tiltyard. Servants help him into the saddle, before he’s securing his feet into the stirrups and urging his warhorse forward through the sawdust-thickened mud of the tourney grounds. Another knight, already arranged against him at the ruling of your father—“It is my tourney, in honour of my nameday, so I can do as I please,” the lord had announced—canters towards the pavilion.

Aerion pulls his horse to a stop as he watches with narrowed eyes as the knight—a knight from somewhere in the Reach, he thinks he remembers—requests your favour. Or at least, Aerion assumes he does, for he cannot hear anything over the angry rush of blood in his ears as jealousy rips raw through his chest.

You bow your head and rise to the edge of the pavilion, and gods, you look a dream—the material of your skirts flowing around you as you dip, the curve of your breasts and neck on full display as you slip your wreath onto the knight’s lance. Aerion faintly hears the roar of the crowd as the Reach knight says something to you that makes you beam, your smile splitting widely across your face as your father claps.

Then, the knight takes your hand in his and fucking kisses it. Plants a gentle kiss to the back of it before he’s turning his horse away with a triumphant smirk.

Aerion is seething. Anger boils hot inside him, and with an angry, too-hard thrust of his hips, he urges his horse towards the knight, and the pair meet in the middle of the field for a brief moment. Aerion’s eyes drop to the wreath around the knight’s lance, his jaw flexing, violet eyes flashing with an unbridled fury that has him wishing he could drive his lance through the other man’s throat.

Maybe he will.

“It seems the lady has given me her favour,” the Reach knight says with a sickening smile that makes Aerion want to punch him in the face. “Best of luck, for I intend to honour her virtue greatly and de-horse a dragon today.”

Aerion scoffs. “You impudent little rat. If I do not kill you today, I will slit your throat on the morrow for use of such words.”

The Reach nobleman does not look put-off in the slightest, which, admittedly, takes Aerion by surprise. The knight simply smiles and then pulls down his visor, cantering back to the edge of the tiltyard, leaving Aerion alone in the middle, swamped suddenly by the sounds of a jeering crowd of commonfolk. Anger burns in his veins as he turns with a curse, trotting back to where his squire awaits him, his lance primed and ready.

He’s going to kill that fucking knight. And then he’s going to have you.

—✿—

You watch the knights ready themselves as the trumpeting of bugles pierce the clamour of the crowd. Your fingers are crossed against your lap as you watch the young knight you had bestowed your favour on roll his shoulders and clutch his lance and shield, ready. Your father offers you a side-long glance.

“Are you happy now, my dear?”

You don’t turn your head to speak with him, eyes on the tiltyard. You can’t help the way they fall from your favoured knight to the opposing side, where the imposing Prince Aerion is being handed his shield and lance. “Happy may be too strong of a word.”

Your father chuckles. “Well, these men are certainly needy for your favour.”

You huff. “Yes, as you have said.”

“Yes, but I failed to mention,” your father begins, clearing his throat. “That when a needy man does not earn a lady’s favour, well…”

Your stomach squeezes tightly as you watch the dangerously beautiful face of Prince Aerion vanish behind his helm as he shuts his visor with a rough hand.

Your father shakes his head, chuckling again. “They become quite dangerous.”

With a blare of a horn and a surge of noise from the crowd, both knights take off galloping towards one another. You grip the arms of your chair, watching with your heart in your throat as they get closer and closer, lances poised, before they clash—wood chips flying, metal grinding on metal.

You gasp when Aerion forces his lance through the Reach knight’s shield, shattering it completely. The end of the other knight’s lance makes impact with Aerion’s shield, but the now-jagged tip of Aerion’s lance drives through a gap in his plated armour. You hear the Reach knight let out a sharp shout of pain as the lance drives into the flesh beneath his armpit, and he tips sideways off of his horse.

“What a charge!” Your father remarks to Baelor and Maekar, the three men watching, transfixed, as the Reach knight’s horse gallops away and Aerion whirls his around, hounding for a second run.

The black steed takes off again, and Aerion dips his lance low, much to the detest of the crowd, who jeer and curse and throw stones, as Aerion’s lance lands a decisive blow to the staggering nobleman’s armoured back. He is thrown forward into the mud, winded, piece of wood protruding from his side.

You raise a hand to your mouth as you watch Aerion dismount his horse, dragging the tip of his lance through the mud. He’s not stopping, you realise, as he stomps through the muck to kick the fallen knight onto his back. Then, tossing his lance aside, he brings two hands to his shield and slams the heavy base of it down atop the knight’s helm, the visor denting with the impact. Aerion brings the shield down again, and you find yourself shooting a hand out to grip onto your father’s.

Sensing your concern, your father nods to a man near the edge of the pavilion. The man quickly blows into his bugle, and relief washes over you as Aerion, body heaving, pulls away from the unmoving knight. However, terror quickly seizes you when the prince stalks a few feet away to pick the fallen knight’s shattered lance from the ground. He snatches the favour—your favour—from the broken lance and then lifts his visor.

His eyes find yours as he clutches your favour, bringing it to his chest as he stares up at you. The crowd shouts at him, but he ignores them. You can see the way he ignores them, eyes transfixed on you, the dainty garland engulfed by his hand, crushed in a vice-like grip.

You continue to hold onto your father, who angles his head to whisper to you, “See, my dear? Dangerous.”

—✿—

That evening, you successfully manage to avoid Aerion by locking yourself away in your chambers, informing your father that you feel unwell and intend to retire early. Of course, he knew you were lying, but noticing the dullness in your eyes and the unease that seemed to seep from your pores, he let you go with a kiss to your forehead. Now, as the sun sinks beyond the horizon, and your father and the visitors dine across the castle, you light the candles around your chambers until the room is bathed in a soft, golden light, shadows flickering against the wall. You calmed yourself with a bath, and now sit before the fireplace in your soft linen chemise, a book in your lap.

The flames light the pages well and warm the bare skin of your arms and legs.

The quiet is punctuated, however, by a sharp knock on your door. It is much too forceful to be one of your servants, and for the briefest of moments, you wonder if one of your guards has something to ask of you. You pad towards the door, standing just behind it as you unbolt it and open it a crack.

“Open up, little dove,” Aerion utters, and you yelp in fright as his strong fingers curl around the edge of the door and shove inwards.

You jump back, heart in your throat, as he enters your chambers, violet eyes alight and reflecting the flickering flames of the fire and surrounding candles.

He looks you up and down, the point of his tongue running along his bottom lip. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You shake your head, hugging your arms around your body. The heat of his gaze burns through the thin material of your chemise, and despite the trepidation rooting deep in your gut, something warm gathers at the base of your womb, your nipples hardening.

“No,” you whisper. “No, my prince, I’ve just—”

“I won your favour,” he interrupts you quickly, stalking forward after slamming—and bolting—the door shut. “And you’ve been hiding from me.”

Some semblance of courage seizes you in that moment as you remember what your father had told you. You lift your chin a little as he crosses the room, predatory like a lion. Or perhaps a dragon.

“You did not win my favour,” you hiss at him, but you find yourself backing up in response to his movements. “You stole it. No proper knight would steal another’s favour.”

A dark smile splits across his serpentine features as he creeps closer to you. He wears his House colours, blacks and blood-reds, his tunic and doublet dark and fitting against his strong chest and lean torso. The pale skin of his hands and throat are a stark contrast.

“It was always supposed to be mine, little dove, whether you knew it then or not,” Aerion says, stopping only when your back hits one of the wooden posts of your canopy bed. “I simply saw an opportunity to take it back.”

You scoffed, but it came out more as a breathless sigh. “Knights do not—”

“No, they do not,” Aerion whispers, stepping forward once more to pin you to the post, his chest flush to yours. One of his hands seizes your chin, forcing you to look at him, and your hands fly out to rest against his forearm. You don’t push him away. He continues, “Knights earn, my sweet girl, but dragons take, don’t they?”

“I…” You can’t speak, your tongue heavy in your mouth as he maintains eye contact. Your body heats beneath your chemise, blood honey-thick in your veins as you attempt to form a sentence, but your words fail you.

“I am a prince of the realm, blood of the dragon,” he mutters, trailing a finger across your jaw, up along your cheek before cupping your face. The press of his rings are cold to your heated skin. Your lips part, a feather-light sigh escaping you. “And I will take whatever I want. Do you understand me?”

You find yourself nodding, the warmth of his body against yours pulling something tight in the base of your tummy. Your hands squeeze at his forearm, feeling the soft skin and the sparse blond hair there. No scales, no fire.

“So, from this moment forward, you will not grant your favour to anyone but me,” he tells you, hand back on your jaw. He grips you tightly, and a meek yelp leaves you, his hold bruising, the back of your head knocking lightly on the wooden post. “And if you do, I will sever the head of whomever is brash enough to seek your favour, and mount it to the post of your bed for you to look at whilst I fuck you. Do you understand, or shall I repeat myself?”

“I understand,” you say quickly, voice squeaky with both fear and the restriction of your jawbone. “I understand, my prince.”

Aerion approves, for his eyes flash brightly and a purr escapes his chest as he dips forward and presses his lips to the corner of your mouth. It is soft, tender, and he trails his mouth over the curve of your jaw and down onto the slope of your neck. His other hand rubs over your hip, and your breath hitches in your chest as his hand smooths down your front. It trails over the material covering your mound, before slinking beneath the short hem and brushing against the airy linen of your smallclothes.

The heat of his fingers and the gentleness of his touch has your hips bucking involuntarily, eyelids fluttering as he sucks at your pulse which thrums heavily in your jugular.

“I’ve heard whispers about the sweet little dove that nests within this castle’s walls,” Aerion breathes against you. The coarse pads of his fingers press against your clothed core and a quiet sigh is coaxed from your chest. “I never imagined she’d be such a good girl—such a good listener.”

He rubs two fingers back and forth over your clothed slit, the gusset of your smallclothes growing damp with your slick. The heat of your core against his fingers makes him groan into your neck, his sharp teeth skimming your sensitive skin as he sucks at the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

You hold on to his forearm as it rocks with the movements of his hand, but you should be wrenching him away, cursing and screaming and begging for your guards to seize him, to haul him away for attempting to corrupt your virtue. But you don’t. Your brain is fuzzy, your heartbeat heavy in your core, nipples catching on the linen of your chemise and brushing against his doublet. You can’t believe how your fear has turned into lust as the Targaryen prince works two of his fingers against you, his lips suckling at your neck while he grips your jaw tightly still.

The hands you have on his forearm trail up, caressing the bare skin, then dancing across the sleeve of his tunic. He groans against you at your touch as you wind your fingers over his shoulder, then flatten across his chest, caressing his pectorals beneath the padded doublet. His mouth withdraws as he pants against the curve of your shoulder, one of your hands threading along the back of his neck, nails scraping through the short hair that grows at his nape. You grab a fistful, stroking his scalp, before tightening your fingers and tugging gently.

Aerion pulls back and growls, then slams his mouth to yours. The kiss is harsh, more teeth and tongue than anything you’ve ever experienced, his lips burning hot against yours. The fingers he pushes against your clothed slit dip against the fabric, pressing against the puffy bud of your clit, pinching before rubbing a heavy circle. It makes you stutter out a moan against his mouth, which he uses to curl his tongue against you deeper, sliding across your teeth. He tastes of wine and ash, and something metallic, the richness of blood on his snake-like tongue. A sound of deep pleasure, a loutish grunt from the back of his throat, knocks against your teeth as he kisses you, the hand he has on your jaw forcing you to be completely pliant beneath him.

Aerion pulls back after a long moment, pressing a wet, saliva-slick kiss to the corner of your mouth once more before speaking lowly into your ear, “Are you going to be good for me, little dove? Are you going to give me what I want?”

“Yes,” you whisper, pleasure a firm knot in the base of your belly already as he continues to slide his fingers back and forth against you, the fabric of your smallclothes soaked through, tacky against your folds.

The prince tuts at you, his fingers vanishing from your core. You whimper at the rush of cool air that hits you, but he quickly closes the space when he taps four fingers roughly against you—a measured smack against your covered cunt, which rips an embarrassingly loud moan from your chest, head falling back against the post.

“You are a lady,” Aerion chastises you whilst he acts more unlike a prince than any nobleman you’ve ever met. His palm cups your core now, soothing the dull ache caused by the smack. “Answer nicely.”

You pant, eyes watering as you meet his, lips swollen from the force of his kiss. “I–I’ll be good, my prince. I’ll be good for you.”

He smiles. “Of course you will.”

Then, his palm shifts, two fingers looping through the band of your smallclothes and tugging. The material all but tears as he pulls it down your legs with such aggression it makes your hips buck. Your slick cunt is bared to the tepid air of your room, the fireplace dwindling now, and you squeeze your thighs together as you kick your undergarments away. His other hand leaves your face to join his other in pulling your chemise over your head, tearing it away from you and tossing it across the room. It disappears into the shadows and you’re left bare before him.

He groans at the sight, eyes dropping to where he kicks your legs apart with his foot, trailing his hand over your mound and dipping into the silken wet heat of your folds. Fingers slide over your puffy clit, and he groans again at the way your body jolts against him. His other hand squeezes one of your breasts tightly beneath strong fingers, nipple crushed beneath his palm, making you moan.

“Oh, my poor girl, you’re soaked,” Aerion whispers, almost in disbelief, as he runs two fingers through your slit, gathering slick between your folds. “Pretty little pussy’s drooling for her prince, isn’t she?”

His middle and ring finger find your hole, slick and warm and too empty. You huff out something that sounds like his name, but the syllables are lost as the pads of his fingers trace circles around you. You lean your head back, baring your throat to him, allowing him to swoop down and attach his mouth to a soft patch along the column of your trachea. As he does this, he—with surprising restraint—works the blunt tips of his fingers past the entrance of your cunt. He pushes, and pushes still, until your silken walls open around the intrusion, the bump of his knuckles rubbing against your posterior wall, sending electric shocks into your womb.

“She’s taking me so well,” Aerion lifts his head to utter against your cheek, and he nearly smiles when he feels how hot you are there.

He curls his fingers and presses further until the top of his palm rests against you. Quickly, he retracts his fingers before plunging them back into you, and the wet squelch that fills the space between you makes you suck in a breath, ears ringing. 

The prince hums darkly, kissing your cheek. “Oh, she’s mouthy too, is she? Pussy’s got something to say?”

He repeats the movements, the wet plap-plap-plap of his fingers rutting into you, and his palm hitting your wet folds, makes his cock twitch painfully in his breeches. You whine out, embarrassed, pleasure as heavy as an anvil in the base of your stomach, Valyrian steel threatening to sever the cord of tension that withheld your release.

“Please,” you find yourself begging as your hands grip his shoulders. The contrast of Aerion being completely clothed while you stand before him, naked with slick dribbling down your inner thighs, has a sort of drunkenness washing over you.

His other hand, kneading your breasts still, shoots up to slap a palm across your mouth as he works his fingers in and out, pace quick and unrelenting. He angles his head down to watch where his forearm flexes as he shoves his fingers into you—he pulls out, lines up to add a third, and then forces them in, and the stretch makes you yowl against his palm.

“Easy, little dove,” he utters, pulling his fingers away only to hike one of your legs around his hip, giving him a deeper angle to drive his fingers back into you. Three fingers stretch you open and curl deep inside you, pressing against the gummy spot inside that forces a tremor through you. You moan against his hand, breath coming in quick pants, eyelids fluttering as he fucks his fingers into your cunt. 

The pace is animalistic, rushed. Aerion grunts as his arm works, the other gripping the lower portion of your face so he can listen to the way your pussy takes him. He can feel dribbles of slick running down his wrist, smearing across your inner thighs. Your walls clench him tightly as he nails the best spot inside you, and he marvels in the way your leg trembles against his hip, your nails digging into the thick material at his shoulders as he urges you towards release.

You say something against his palm, but it is muffled. He wrenches his hand away and finally looks at your face as you manage to puff out, “M’gonna… come…”

Aerion pulls his fingers from you, your pussy clenching around nothing. You curse loudly, and then moan his name, eyes springing open when he drops your leg. He hides his smile as he sinks to his knees before you, hands grasping the doughy flesh of your inner thighs to spread your legs. His head slots between them, and he exhales a forceful blow onto your soaked cunt. The air makes you keen, hand shooting out to grasp his hair.

“Gods, just look at her,” he voices from below you, hands moving across your thighs. His thumbs find your folds and he spreads you open for him, slick webbing between them. The feeling makes you whine—and then the feeling of his tongue, pointed and firm, curling into your hole has you whining even louder.

The narrow slope of his nose rubs perfectly against your puffy clit as he works his tongue inside you, curling between your walls, slick and warm. His hand is wet against you as he holds you open for him, a series of soft, dragon-like huffs suffocated in the heat of your pussy as his tongue coils inside you.

The stretched cord of your release is pulling taut in your abdomen once more, and you find yourself rocking your hips against his face in chase of it. Pursuing a hare through the long grass, adrenaline mounting, hound’s teeth closing in.

“My prince,” you whine, hips twitching. “Gods, I’m going to—ah—”

He hums against you and the cord in your lower belly snaps and splinters inside you. Your orgasm racks through you, pleasure white-hot in your chest and womb, spreading through your veins as your pussy clenches around his tongue. You moan his title loudly, pelvis stuttering against the rigid lines of his face as he works you through your release. Your hole spasms around his tongue, clit thrumming with your heartbeat.

He hums again when some of your release dribbles down from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin, and when he pulls away, a string connects his lips to you. It snaps when he runs his tongue over his lips, sitting back on his haunches to admire the glossiness of your pussy and the way your hole clenches around nothing.

“Pretty girl…” Aerion muses, leaning forward to press one last kiss to your clit before getting to his feet.

His cock is painfully hard, pressing against his breeches and the seam of his trousers. Grinding his hips against your pelvis, Aerion drags his hands up your sides, caressing you softly, before placing them either side of your face. He kisses you, lips slick atop yours. A sinful thrill runs up your spine as you taste the faint musk of yourself on his tongue, an earthy-sweet ichor that Aerion will fist himself to the memory of for months to come.

“Your favour is mine,” the prince says against you, before the warmth of his mouth disappears and he’s spinning you around. Still fully-clothed, he pushes his body against your back, keeping you warm. “You are mine.”

You suck in a breath as one of his hands brands you between the shoulder-blades, rings biting against the skin as he forces you to bend. You curl over the end of your bed until your chest presses flat to the sheets, your arse bare against the tent in his trousers. You breathe out an “o-oh fuuuck” as he grinds his clothed cock—the imprint thick against the cleft of your arse—in firm, teasing thrusts.

After quickly ripping his doublet from his body, suddenly too hot, Aerion keeps one hand to your upper back, pinning you to the bed while his other works in unfastening the ties and clasps of his trousers. He nudges your legs wider apart with his feet as his trousers loosen finally, and he can dip his hand into his breeches, shucking them down enough to fish his cock out. He hisses quietly behind you as he fists himself, tip red and ruddy, beads of precum wetting the slit. He chokes on a groan when one slips down his frenulum and along a prominent vein on the underside.

“Gods, little dove, what are you doing to me?” Aerion groans, angling his hips forward to drag the head of his cock down the split of your arse before tapping it against your pussy. He spreads your folds with the blood-flushed tip as you mewl out, incapable of giving him a properly-worded answer.

He chuckles at that, and you are surprised when he bends to press a line of kisses down your sweat-dampened spine. You arch for him as he tongues the dip at the base of your spine, teeth nipping at the skin.

“So good for me,” he breathes against you, and groans as he pulls back to stand a bit straighter.

Still grasping the base of his cock, he runs the head up and down your folds once more, pressing firmly to your clit—“there we go, this sweet girl gets a little kiss,” he says under his breath—before he lines up at your entrance. He says louder, “I deserve this, little dove. This is my prize.”

And then he’s thrusting into you in one deft movement. Your eyes roll, fingers gripping the sheets as you cry out, an echoing moan causing the flames of nearby candles to flicker. An animalistic growl tears from Aerion’s chest as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, the silken walls of your cunt moulding like clay around him. The ridges of his cock slide against you just right, and the prince grips your hip and glues you to him.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so tight,” Aerion grits out, canines gnashing as he bites down the pleasure crawling up his diaphragm.

“Please,” you call out to him, cheek to the sheets, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. “Please, my prince, please move.”

Aerion grunts, but doesn’t chastise your begging. Instead, he does what you ask of him, withdrawing until the head of his cock is just nestled inside you, before rutting back in. You whimper out a pathetically meek string of gasps—“ah–ah–ah,”—as he sets a pace, his hips smacking against your arse, the fat rippling. He grunts and groans, the sounds have your pussy tightening along with his movements.

He keeps you anchored to the bed. The hand between your shoulder blades is strong and unmoving, and the hand on your hip clenches around the softness there with a vice-like grip, forcing your arse back onto him as he moves. The pace is quick and rough, packed full of desperation as he stuffs your wet cunt over and over. His cock stretches you open, splits you apart, curls up towards the plug of your womb. Desperation is translated through the way his deep grunts end with the lightest lilt, a slight whimper at the end.

All men are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.

“Hgnh—fuck, come on, sweet girl, that’s it. Y-yeah, that’s it, stay just like that,” Aerion mutters, rambling as his eyelids droop low, sweat beading high on his forehead and at the hair on his temples.

You can’t do much but bend and take it, cock filling you perfectly, the angle driving him deep against a spongey spot inside you that punches whimper after whimper from your throat. He groans when your back arches further for him. “That’s my good girl, that’s my girl—pretty little dove taking my cock like a dirty fucking whore.”

You moan in response, clit pulsing and body starting to shake. You tremble against the sheets of your bed, pleasure building like the rush of water beneath your skin. Rising and rising, suffocating you as the head of his cock drives you closer and closer to release.

Aerion knows you’re close.

“I know, sweet girl, oh, I know,” he coos down at you, caressing your back as he plows into you from behind. The bed creaks with the force, the sheets bunching beneath you. “Let me feel you. Give me your favour, little dove.”

The ball of tension in your belly grows tighter and tighter as your body grows hotter and hotter. Small moans of his name fall from your lips. Not his title, but his name. He doesn’t reprimand you for it, too obsessed with your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his cock, but he’ll be sure to scold you later. For now, he maintains his pace, watching the way your hips bounce against his pelvis, sweat still building in a light sheen along your spine.

“Aerion.” Then, with a realm-shattering moan, you come around him, legs locking up tightly, fists clenching the sheets.

Your eyes snap shut as stars burst behind them, your second orgasm crashing over you. Your lower belly pulls taut, pussy clenching around his cock as the pleasure crests, and Aerion takes it with a groan of your name, pace faltering slightly as he pushes deeper into you.

You’re boneless against the bed now as the prince uses you, his cock twitching, thrusts becoming shallower. He’s rutting into you, humping the curve of your arse, cock barely leaving the drooling sheath of your cunt as his high rears like a hissing serpent inside him.

Knights earn, dragons take.

Aerion groans your name, collapsing half-way on top of you, the hand on your back moving to the side of your head to hold himself up as he grinds his cock into you.

“I’m going to spill inside of you,” he mumbles, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yeah, m’going to fill you, little dove. Fill this pretty pussy with my seed. Every—uh, fuck—everyone’ll know who you belong to i-if you’re round with my babe.”

You whine, screwing your eyes shut, overstimulation leaking into your gut like molasses, but you know he’s not going to last. You can feel his cock jerking inside you with each sloppy thrust.

“Uh-uh, none of that, m’lady,” Aerion murmurs, words drawing together now: pussy-drunk. “You’re mine—your favour is mine. You belong to the dragon.”

Then, with one last growl of your name between clenched teeth, Aerion comes inside of you, release filling you in hot ropes as his cock twitches. He’s buried to the hilt, a wanton groan leaving his lips as the warm walls of your pussy milk him, take him. The heat that fills you, the sensation of growing full, makes you hum out a pleased moan.

Slowly, the prince pulls his softening cock out of you and wipes his shaft along your arse cheek. The stickiness makes you huff out at him, and he laughs as he tucks himself back into his breeches, drawing his trousers back up.

His seed leaks out of you as you attempt to pull yourself onto your bed, turning to lay on your back and watch as he retrieves his doublet from the floor and begins pulling it over his head. You didn’t expect aftercare, but the absence of his warm body against you makes your heart contract beneath your ribcage.

Aerion notices the brief expression of discontent that passes over your face. He rolls his eyes, smoothing his hands through his hair, clearing the strands that stick to his skin with sweat.

“I left your father’s feast for this,” he says, bending down and placing his arms either side of you. He cages you against the bed, nose brushing yours. “I will finish my meal and make your father happy, and then I will return and fuck you to sleep.”

The prince presses one last lingering kiss to your mouth, a surprisingly sweet gesture, before he retreats and heads for the door. He unbolts it and looks back over his shoulder, watching as you reach blindly for your chemise, limbs pleasure-lax, eyes tired. He sighs loudly, stalking back across the room and scooping your chemise from the floor. Pale fingers snap around your wrist and he pulls you into a sitting position.

“Arms up,” he orders, and you do as you’re told. He shoves the chemise roughly down your arms and then over your head. His fingers brush your softening nipples as he lays the fabric back over you. He shakes his head as you blink up at him like a doe. He grumbles, “Pathetic.”

But you’re sure he doesn’t really mean it, especially when he cups your cheek and caresses your cheekbone for a fleeting moment, before he’s heading back towards the door. He opens it and vanishes without a look back, closing it with a firm slam. But even with his abrupt exit, you can’t help but smile as you sink beneath your sheets, his seed and your slick leaking out between your thighs.

All men, no matter their strength or their status, are needy when chasing the favour of a lady.

———

You were always leaving them where you found them — unmoving, waiting for other animals to pick it up and feast on the crumpling meat. Why were they choosing your house to die by? Was it some kind of curse those women put on it after your father knocked up and left to fend for their own because he 'had you and didn't need more trouble'.As if you were trouble, as if you weren't sitting in your house — rotting yourself — or out with Julie and Shawn, drinking, smoking, having or at least trying to have so normalcy in this fucked up city until you were coming home wasted long after he already fallen asleep in front of his TV.

You eyed the said screen as he opened another can. It was noon — bright and alive outside and you were mixing the cornflakes in a bowl with a spoon — the only kind of lunch you could hope for until your mom's pension. You were waiting for this white envelope every month — sneaking out from your bed at dawn to take it out of the mail box, take how much you can to not make it suspicious and glue it back together, slipping back to the metal box.

"What's on tv?" you asked quietly before pushing the spoon into your mouth and grimacing at the taste at the warmth of it.

It was not this good of warmth when your mom warmed it up for you to drink on Christmas while you chew on a cookie. It was this nasty kind of warmth like the water in the pool behind your house that turned green from leaves and warm from the sun and your dad tells you to hop it cuz he won't waste water to warm it up again.

"Baseball." he only grunted out before taking a sip. "obviously." he added as you put the bowl in the fridge for later.

"That's... fun." you said before moving to sit on the couch, away from the piss stain your dog left on it before your father had to bury the body in the backyard as it died too.

"You don't even know how to play." he scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You were always miserable at sports." he added — he was always bitter that you weren't a boy, always complaining about it until your mother died and it was your turn to take care of the house. "you only knew how to run, that's all you did as a kid." he scoffed and took another sip.

"Isn't that all they do anyway?" you scoffed quietly as you watched the screen move. "Running after a ball?"

"You're really asking for it y'know." he gritted out and you could see how his fingers squeezed on the can. "But I can't blame you, you were always stupid." you said bitterly and looked back on the screen. "Just like your mother," he said and took another sip.

You inhaled quietly before reaching to take a sip of the leftover beer from the coffee table and down it — luckily not finding any cigarette buds in it. It was warm too — but you were too thirsty so it didn't matter anymore.

"My blood." he laughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

There was something almost like pride in his glimmering eyes and you stiffened at the sight — it was more common to see him with a vein popping out on his forehead and with palm connecting with your cheek than with some warmth in his eyes.

"We should do something, together." he said and your eyes flickered to his in invisible shock. "Order pizza, we'll eat it for dinner and we can rewatch the first season of True Detective, the best." he added and threw a crumpled twenty dollar bill on the table.

"I'm... I'm going out tonight." you said and inhaled before looking over at the watch.

You saw how his expression dropped before he rolled your eyes. It was clear how much he hated this answer.

"Of course." Another scoff left his mouth. "Of course you do, every time I try to do something nice, you run away, you ungrateful shit." he said and dropped the empty can on the floor by the chair. "And what will you do huh? With those little, pathetic friends of yours? How were they called Shawn? Julie? God, the worst you could possibly choose."

A car honked outside and you could feel your heart going up your throat. This was the worst possible moment they could have chosen.

“That’s him? That Heard’s boy, good-for-nothing junkie?” He scoffed and raised his voice when you were scrambling off the couch “He’s honking at you like you’re some kind of slut” he said and stood off from the armchair as you were gathering your stuff “Is that what you’re doing all that time with him!? Whoring like I didn’t raise you better!?”

A half-empty can hit the wall by your head as you were putting your shoes on by the door. A loud gasp left your mouth as the liquid splattered around hitting your face. He was already reaching for another one when you opened the doors and rushed down the porch. You tried not to trip while rushing down the small stairs on the loose laces of your shoes as you as another can flew by your head and landed on the grass in your front yard. The dark blue car paint glimmered in the sun and you could feel how hot it was when your hands landed on a moment before you yanked the doors open and slid on the passenger seat.

"Drive." you said quickly as Shawn sent you a confused look, cigarette hanging from his lips as one of his elbows stayed leaning against the window.

He opened his mouth slightly – to ask questions, you figured by the troubled expression visible on his face before both of you flinched as another can hit against the metal of the car. Shawn’s face hardened before in second he was driving off with a screech of tires. You gasped quietly as you nearly hit your mail box before he sped down the street.

You inhaled quietly, slumping against the seat as you tried to calm down. You could feel his gaze flickering off the road and to you – to check if you were all right? To ask what the fuck it was? You weren’t sure, maybe he won’t ask anything, pretending not to see anything and silently accepting the fact that it is how it is.

You turned around to backseats to like always expect to be greeted with the sight of Julie – scrolling through instagram, with a bubblegum or a joint in her mouth. Instead you frowned at the absence of your friend, back turning to Shawn again as now you had questions he might be not willing to answer. 

“Where’s Julie?” you asked, staring at his profile.

His eyes refused to meet yours as he lit up his cigarette without taking his eyes off the road. His elbow stayed leaning on the always open window as the air conditioner in this truck was doing a piss-poor job and you always only hoped that the wind getting into the car with each mile you passed would somehow cool you down. 

“Shawn–”

“Julie found herself a new company.” he scoffed and took a turn into the street leading out of the city. “Some sophisticated New Yorker that apparently is better company than her fucking friends.” he added and took a drag from the cigarette. “Fucking bitch.” he added under his breath before handing it to you.

You took it between your fingers before pressing the yellow end to your lips. With each drag you felt how your throat itched every time smoke filled your lungs and calmed your nerves. 

“A friend?” you asked, feeling the pit in your stomach at the thought. “What were you doing when I was gone, exactly?” you asked and turned to him again, giving it back.

His jaw clenched before he took a drag again trying to appear disinterested, nonchalant when he knew what you were asking. 

It was weird how jealous all of the sudden you felt. And you weren’t sure if it was about Julie leaving you for some out of nowhere, new girl or by his secrecy yet you knew you had no right. No right to feel jealous – they were just people. Julie was just a girl trying to feel like she was not wasting her life with each day she spent in this hellhole. And Shawn was just a guy, he could fuck whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted and you couldn’t stop him just because this someone was you most of the time. 

Everyone was trying to make themselves feel alive in a city like this – however they wanted. 

“We were hanging out in the old dock like always.” he said and scoffed. “He had some beer and smoked like always,” he added. “Then this chick comes out of the forest and Julie starts making a fucking puppy eyes to her the moment she hears ‘New York’ coming out of her mouth.” he said “fucking pathetic.” 

With a sharp turn Shawn drove into the street that led to the forest and of course the old docks. You saw the look on his face – jaw clenched and hands squeezing on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He threw the cigarette out of the window and looked at you for a second – as if he was making sure you were still there, as if he was making sure you have no way to run away from what he might say and ask.

“...What the fuck was that?” he asked and shook his head slightly. “With your father.” 

You stiffened before inhaling. You considered lying, telling him a half-true or just making something up quickie to feed the surprising car in his voice. “He just got angry” you said and shifted in your seat. “That’s all.” 

“Bullshit.” he almost cut you off. “Nobody throws beer cans at their kids’ heads when they’re angry.” he scoffed and his face twisted as if you were saying the stupidest thing he ever heard. 

“Well my father does!” you snapped and shook your head, turning to face him. “That’s none of your fucking business.” 

The car came to stop abruptly and you gasped, almost meeting the dashboard with your body. With wide eyes you looked out of the window and then back at him. “Don’t ever do that again.” you gritted out and stared at his own angry blue eyes. 

“Or fucking what?” he asked. “you’ll leave? Oh please, you like me driving your ass around too much to fucking leave.” he said and ran his hand through his hair. 

You sat back against the seat and stared ahead at the pier leading to the old dock. It was your place on earth here. Nobody was coming here, no kids as their parents never allowed them to step into the forest. No drunkards as they were too afraid from passing out and being possibly devoured by a gator. More often you were here, then much more convicted you were that you could never leave. As if you were chained to this hellhole by an invisible chain to your leg. Maybe you could just not leave some of them behind and never look back. 

“Does he do that often?” he asked and he sounded calmer – as if this moment of silence let him calm his anger again. 

“Sometimes,” you said and cleared your throat. “Usually he’s out.”

Shawn nodded trying to make it look like he doesn’t want to ask more. Like he’s trying to stay out of your business and not get too tangled with whatever bullshit you have going on. Like he doesn’t care. 

“Does he hit you?” he asked finally and you could feel your heart stop before starting to beat loudly in your chest.

You feel it against your ribs and hear it in your ears – this strong, steady beat that makes you feel so alive all of the sudden. Or like you’re suffocating because of the lack of fresh air around you. 

“Shawn–”

“Fucking hell.” he scoffed and shook his head before looking outside the front window at the dock, at the water that looked more like a lawn with how much green was on it. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because.” you mumbled and shrugged. “You don’t rat on your own family.”

His jaw clenched before another quiet curse left his lips and he reached to the glove box by your legs. You watched as he yanked it open and pulled something out of it before slamming it back close. The sound echoed through the car and almost made you flinch until you could feel this smell coming to your nostrils. This characteristic smell of the weed with a bit of a citrus – have to be some weird hemp he’s using now. 

Shawn always smelled like cigarette smoke and weed – his car was practically filled with it and the smell clinged to his sheets whenever you had your head pressed against them. Something so his on the fabric whenever you clinged to them at night with your body bare against them. The cigarette smoke, musk, sweat if you were particularly rough that night and that cologne he kept ordering from some shady website that you were sure one day will steal his money. 

“Take a puff.” he said and it didn't sound like a suggestion – more like a demand, an order as the joint kept burning between his fingers. 

There were bracelets on his wrist – the one that Julie made both of your wear and the one you made him from some piece of yarn calling it his lucky charm cuz it will ‘always remind him of you’. He looked at you expectantly as you made no move to reach for it. 

“Fucking take it.” he said again and shoved it closer.

“I don’t want to.” you said only and tilted your head back until it hit the leather seat. 

“I’m not asking.” Shawn gritted out sending you a look with a scowl on his face as his hair fell onto his eyes.

“I said no.” 

Silence fell in the truck as you were only staring at each other – Shawn’s piercing blue eyes staring at you with quickly appearing anger before he snapped. His fingers pressed tightly against the skin of your jaw as he moved to lean closer to you and pressed the end of the joint against your lips as you struggled away. 

“Shawn–!” you tried to push him away as he squeezed his hand on your wrist. 

Your fingers pushed against his face blindly as you tried to jerk your head away. The smell became unbearable in the matter of seconds as you kept trying to get it away from yourself. 

“Just fucking–” he gritted out and hissed as your hand slapped against his face and you felt to subtle stubble under your fingertips or the his jaw, his nose and his hair as they tangled with your fingers. 

You pushed his hand away finally – your heart pounding in your chest as you finally could take a breath of as fresh as there could be air and pull your head away from his grip as his fingers squeezed painfully on your skin. 

The look that followed this moment made his skin crawl – those wide scared, shocked eyes of yours that he has seen only on a few occasions. Mostly when shit was happening at home again and you needed to stay over until it quietened down. He saw this look when he was pulling you onto the couch, onto his lap to let you curl against his chest and listen to this unsteady heartbeat as his arms were wrapped around yours. 

The one you came for comfort turned into the reason for the said look. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” he said and took another puff leaning in his seat before throwing the rest out of the window and running his hand over his face. 

“What the fuck?” you only muttered as your eyes followed his movements. 

“I said don’t!” he snapped and you only only clenched your jaw like he did moments ago. 

The blows are unexpected – the weak attempt to warm him as your fists hit against his arm and shoulder “How fucking dare you–” you said as he tried to catch your wrists and hold you still. 

“Stop.”

“Making me do this, I said I don’t want to!” you rambled trying to do something, not to stay passive this time too.

“Stop, dammit.” 

You took a deep, sharp breath as if you were underwater this whole time and only now could feel your lungs with air. You felt his hands squeeze around your wrists as if he tried to steady you. They were warm — he was warm and he was staring at you with this bitter look on his face like he knew he failed you. Like he knew he deserved an outburst for an outburst and that nothing could possibly explain why he did that. 

Because you had your reasons for the blows that landed against his bicep — you were angry, you felt vulnerable and scared. It was a fight or flight reaction and you didn’t want to let another guy feel like he can do whatever to you. 

“Jesus–...” he breathed – his own chest rising and falling as he tried to calm down. The pale blue eyes were fixed at the slight flush that appeared on your cheeks. “Get your ass in the backseats.” he said and inhaled again, trying to still himself. 

“No.” you shook your head and tried to jerk your hands away from his grip. “Let go.”

“Just— fuck, please.’ he said and his adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow as if now his throat was itching. “Just, just het in the backseats, I’m sorry okay?”

“If you think–”

“I just need to feel you against me okay?” he barked out finally as if the truth that was coiling within him finally snapped. “Feel that you’re here and that you won’t leave me like they did!” he swallowed and your lips parted slightly in surprise.

His grip on your wrists loosened 

You felt the warm weather against your back as you laid there in the backseats, your heart was thrumming but not with fear but excitement? Curiosity as you watched with open the doors and kneeling on the seat between your bended knees 

You could see the tension on his body the moment he moved, hips sliding against yours as your thighs squeezed on them only so slightly to earn an inhale from him. His hands landed by your sides, fingers brushing against your waist before – only for a second – he turned around to slam the doors close behind him. A surprised inhale left your lips involuntarily as you felt his weight pressing you down to the leather – his head landed on your shoulder as there was no more space between your bodies as he rested on you, listening to the signs of you really being there – the beating of your heart, every inhale and exhale he heard in his ear, every twitch of your body under his.

… And how your hands lifted up to disappear in his hair – they were unruly again, mostly because of how many times he ran his fingers through them during the night. You could feel the slight greasiness under your fingertips but you really couldn’t blame him – the heat outside was working on everyone. 

His fingers dug into your hips and waist with desperation palpable as if he never wanted to let you go again. Like holding you against hims was a matter of life or death. You tugged at his hair gently — a way to tease him maybe or to simply feel some friction under your fingers. 

A groan left his lips when you did so as he seemed to cling even closer to you “don’t— don’t do that” he said and his face disappeared just for his nose to skim over the column of your neck. 

Yet you did — again and again and again. Playing with his hair, tugging on it and measuring it up even more. You felt the hot breath of his against your skin. You felt the slightly rocking on his hips against yours. Jeans against jeans as yours had holes in them and whatever car oil he uses for his truck.

The half-hair erection pressed against you as he kept his head hidden in your neck and the quiet grunts he was letting out each time he grinded harder against you — desperate for the touch and feeling. 

It was fucked, it was almost deranged how you were letting him do it — encouraging him — after what has just happened. You wanted to feel bad about it, wanted the feeling of shame and guilt to coil in you like a serpent, ready to snap and bite deep, deep into your skin, leaving a permanent mark on it — a scar that will never heal. 

The touch of his fingers were good and disgusting at the same time. They were pressing into your waist the same way they were pressing against your jaw, wanting to tilt your head and press the butt of the joint between your lips. Force its way and make you choke at the itchy smoke before it would feel your lungs. 

Your hand left his hair and it trailed down, knuckles going south, brushing against his clothed chest, stomach before sliding into his jeans and boxers. His breath hitched, forehead pressed against your collarbone as his hips twitched forward into your hand.

He was leaking already — onto the fabric of his boxers, onto his hand as it wrapped around his cock. His hips kept grinding as his eyes stayed squeezed shut as if he would explode if he saw how your bodies looked – pressed against each other. You gasped then he pulled away, hovering over you with a face full of tension.  your fingers massaged him into full hardness as his movements never stopped. You could feel every little twitch against your palm as you kept your hold on him z 

“Fuck—“ a rasp left his throat before one hand pulled away from your waist with clear struggle before they landed on the waistband of his pants. 

He undid the button quickly, eagerly and impatiently before tugging the fabric down until it rested mid his thighs. You hand stayed wrapped around him, your thumb rubbing him slightly, slowly as if you didn’t want him to get hard too fast— even if it already happened. 

“Fucking need you–” he said – his voice rough as his fingers tugged at the waistband of your jeans right now. 

Pupils wide as he worked the button and zipper open, encouraged by lack of protest. He pulled the fabric off of you – both your pants and your underwear coming undone until they were crumpled next to your feet. 

“Jesus—“ you mumbled before putting my hands against the sides of his neck to pull him against you – feel his breath hitting your face like it always did whenever he took you in his bed or here with your back against the leather. 

Your nails dug into the skin of his shoulder – with only the tank top shielding him it was not so hard. You felt how impatient he was – how his moves betrayed it when he pushed your hand away from his length and grabbed himself just to press his tip against your heat – coating it in your wetness that began to slip out of you. 

You moaned when he brushed against your clit – so raw and so sensitive and you throbbed as the feeling before your hands tightened against him. 

Shawn was long – you can feel the burning stretch almost every time you did it. This stretch that after a few thrusts was melting away and turning into the coiling feeling of pleasure that appeared in your lower belly. 

You rocked your hips against him and he could let out only a hiss – a desperate sign of how badly he needed that. 

“I’ll pull out, I promise.” he huffed out, hands already wandering to pull up your shirt and show off your bra to him. “I just don’t have anything on me right now–”

It was stupid but you nodded anyway, hearing your own heartbeat in your ears. A whine left your lips when he finally pushed in. This feeling – of him filling you again, of him so close against your, skin to skin like never before.

His hips twitched at the new sensation – once, twice before he bottomed out. Shawn’s lips crashed against yours and the kiss was messy, teeth hitting against each other and tongues dancing together until a string of saliva connected your mouths when he pulled back. His gaze landed on where you were connected – his pelvis pressed and rubbing against yours as he tilted his head back. 

The thrusts were rough – God they were always rough when he was on top. As if he was chasing after something – needed to have it like that to feel it for real, like it was the only way he could ever feel satisfaction. 

if not the weed it was definitely sex that was making him feel alive – it was now dulling. He did not feel dull like while working in this damned mechanic’s workshop or while sipping beer in the full sun. It caused his heart to pound, his muscles to sense and his brain to work – feeling so many things at the same time. 

He closed his eyes as he snapped against your hips – the heat of your cunt and how fucking wet you were for him made shivers run down his spine each time this small whine left yout lips as his tip hit that one right place. He heard it so many times – in his car, among his sheets or with water dripping down your bodies as he fucked you in his shower. never at your place – never where your asshole of a father could see or hear.

“Fuck” he hissed as your nails dug deeper into his skin. He will have marks, the crimson red stripes left by you that he will have to cover before going to work so none of his coworkers would tease him about ‘getting some pussy’

A shaky breath left your mouth as he leaned down to press kisses to the skin of your stomach. His pace faltered only for a bit – hands landing on his hips to pull you back onto him as his lips made their way up. He bit at the fabric of your bra before pulling it back just so his mouth could wrap around the hard peak that was hiding beneath the fabric. 

Another moan reached his ear before he pulled away abruptly just so he could speed up and his hand slid between your legs. 

“Shawn no–” a weak protest fell from your lips but he was already circling your clit, playing with the bud that made you clench on his desperately and your head to tilt back as the truck rocked in the pace of his thrusts. 

"You like it when I show who I belong to?" he hissed as he watched your face, the hand not between your legs sliding up to grip your jaw again as he forced your eyes back on his. “You want them all to see? That I fuck you so good you leave shit like this on me?”

“Fuck– fuck I’ll–” you gasped for air as your thighs squeezed his hips – trying to slow him down even a little bit. 

“Come on, cum for me.” he said, pressing harder against the pearl. “Show me that you can.”

He pressed his forehead to your and your cheek flushed as your hands moved to cup the back of his neck as this coiling pleasure finally snapped within you. You cried out into the silence of the truck before his rough curse followed right after it. 

With flush on his cheeks he pulled out – cumming right onto your stomach with a whimper and twitch of hips each time he released more and more until it slid down between your things and coated the leather of the seats as he tried to come back to his senses. 

He was still shaking a little as you cupped his face with a hand that was almost unsteady, stroking your thumb along your jaw and the stubble on it and he could hardly muster any words that were not ragged or didn’t make him sound like a complete fool. 

His thumb moved to wipe off the strings of your saliva, still evident on your chin and lips before pressing right back against them with his own until you felt his tongue back in your mouth.\

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it and please interact with this post - it means the world. My first Shawn fic and I made him more of a loser than bully but there's still more to come. Not proofread, it's way too late for me to read this all over again, will do it when my eyes don't close immediately after my head touch my pillow.

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