#the sharpening is so .. sharp.. insane....

It had begun as simple smiles blooming in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, back when you were but a child clutching your father’s hand. Even then, the Lords of the Court possessed no shame; they would boldly petition for your hand to grace their sons’ beds, or, more obscenely, their own.

As the years stretched your limbs, the courtesies grew deeper than necessity required. The compliments became overwrought, smelling of false summerwine. Their eyes would linger upon the curve of your smile or the silk of your bodice a heartbeat longer than was seemly. They looked at you through a glass of unreality, forcing their kindness and sharpening their flattery, all to carve a place in your favor. They hoped, perhaps, to ensnare your heart and bind you to them in the sight of the Seven.

By right of blood, you were the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen—his firstborn, a flawless alloy of his steel and your mother’s grace. You were a vision of royalty in its highest splendor: hair of spun silver and a smile that dazzled like sunlight on Blackwater Bay. You moved with the terrifying confidence of one who knew exactly who, and what, she was.

You were a Dragon Princess, as beautiful and volatile as the wildfire burning in your veins.

That was a sin the world would never forgive. Nor would they ever permit you to forget it.

The lesson was learned early and with bitterness: men did not see you. They cared little for the contents of your soul or the mettle of your character. They saw only your name, your blood, and the power of your heritage. You were not a woman to them; you were a ledger of utility.

For that, your life had been spent parrying unwanted advances and shivering through uncomfortable dalliances. Your father had grown weary of swatting away marriage pacts like persistent flies. He had even gone so far as to backhand your younger brother, Aerion, when the Prince had dared to claim you as his own by right of birth.

To the realm, you were a trophy to be hoisted. A prize to be corrupted, to be flowered and bedded, a vessel to carry their legacy under the prestige of your name.

To everyone, that is, except for Valarr.

Your sweet cousin had always been the perfect counterpoint to your own existence, for you understood one another with a clarity that defied words. You were two bright spirits the world sought to quench.

He did not look at you as a ladder to the Iron Throne, nor did he squint to measure the span of your waist or the fullness of your breast to judge your worth as a broodmare. He looked at you because, since you were children racing through the gardens, you were the only one who could read the silences hidden behind his shy, quiet smile. You were patient with him when the court was not; you were his confidante, his shield, and above all, his most faithful ally.

You had covered for one another’s mischief, mending the echoes of broken treasures and whispering secrets as you snuck into the Dragonpit. There, amidst the towering, hollow skulls of the ancient dragons, you would play at being Old Valyria reborn, pretending the stone husks still breathed fire at your command.

When the betrothal was finally cried out, the court hailed it as the ‘Perfect Union’ to secure the succession. With the King’s blessing and your fathers’ consent, the pact was sealed. They saw it as a masterful stroke of politics; for the two of you, it was the first true breath of relief you had ever taken.

For you loved him, and Valarr had loved you since his heart first learned to beat. To him, you had appeared like a Valyrian goddess—radiant, laughing, and full of life. As the years turned, he had found himself a devotee at your altar, a prince kneeling before his own religion. He had always been there to shield you from the grasping hands of men who took advantage of your girlhood innocence.

“I don’t like how they treat you, cousin,” he would grumble, squeezing your hand in his, hidden in the shadows behind a enormous dragon skull. Naturally, that was where you both felt safest, under the dark, fierce gaze of the hollow eye pits of the dragons in their lair. “As if you were some kind of property they could claim.”

Valarr was your guardian. And now that you were his wife, the silver prince had grown more territorial, his devotion sharpening into a protective jealousy that burned as fierce as any dragon’s breath.

That evening, at some royal feast in the Red Keep, the weary pantomime played out once more. You were draped in a gown of breathtaking scarlet and black—the colors of your House—mirroring the doublet Valarr wore.

ogether, you were a vision of dragonblood manifest, your silver tresses woven with threads of beaten gold that glimmered under the fire of the lamps. Your face remained serene, a mask of pale porcelain that the lords of the realm, in their infinite dullness, so often misread.

“Your sweetness is truly exquisite, Princess,” a Lord claims, his flattery oiling the air for the third time within the hour. He pressed closer than etiquette deemed holy, mistaking your silence for the soft bloom of shyness. But as Maekar’s daughter, shyness was a stranger to you. “Surely a woman of your... temperament would find respite from the rigors of the capital. My lands in the south are far warmer, and much more welcoming.”

You do not stir or grow desperate. You merely take another slow sip of your sweet red wine, dangerously calm. You sense Valarr’s presence before you hear his boots on the stone, and so you let him handle the intrusion. You let him mark his territory.

Your husband slides to your side with the natural elegance of one born to wear a crown. He has been occupied in conversation with his father—much to his chagrin, for he detests leaving you alone in halls so thick with that kind of men. 

And Valarr, much like his father Baelor, is a man of precise words and measured gestures.

“Lord Tyrell,” he says, his voice so soft it feels like a caress, though his beautiful two-colored eyes hold the dull glint of an ice floe. “My wife already has all the warmth she could ever need here. The Targaryen fire requires no southern sun to burn fiercely.”

Valarr places a hand to rest gently on the small of your back, drawing you flush against him. 

It is a subtle gesture to the prying eyes of the court, but to you, it is absolutely everything. The heat radiating from his palm and the delicate graze of his fingers against the silk of your gown at the curve of your waist are enough to make the insult—which has begun to climb your throat—dissolve into a lover’s sigh. 

Though, you wish you could have that Lord’s eyes served on a platter for the way he undresses you with his gaze.

“Of course, my Prince,” the portly Lord stammers, recoiling before Valarr’s intimidating stare. “I was only looking after... the Princess’s well-being.”

“There is no need. I am here to ensure my wife's well-being, my Lord,” Valarr concludes with a courtly smile that does not reach his eyes. His fingers tighten at your waist, dipping dangerously toward the curve of your backside as you lean against his chest, looking down upon the other man with disdain.

When the Lord takes his leave, babbling your titles in farewell, Valarr does not step away. He leans close to you, pretending to adjust one of your ruby necklaces at your chest, letting his breath brush against your face and his fingertips gently caress the contour of your bosom, pressed together by the tight neckline.

“They are being especially persistent tonight,” he whispers, frustration lashing his tongue. Finally, that perfect calm fractures a mere millimeter, revealing the possessive zeal that simmers beneath his skin. “I wonder if I should remind them every hour that you are wed to me.”

Your hands travel up his chest, tracing a soft path of soothing caresses until they find the broad expanse of his shoulders, seeking to anchor his rising temper. 

You offer him a tight, strained smile, still tasting the bitterness of the situation; you loathe the way any other man dares to look at you, for in your heart, only your husband holds the right to such intimacy.

Your fingers toy with the ornaments shaped like crimson dragon scales upon his shoulders, and you gaze up at him with big, adoring eyes.

“They all know it, my love. I am yours...”

But Valarr does not relax. He does not release that heavy, searing exhale—as hot as the breath of a dragon—that usually signals his surrender to your charms or the sound of your seductive voice confessing your devotion. That you are his.

Instead, his hand moves from your chest, sliding slowly up the column of your throat until it reaches your chin. He tilts it upward, holding you firm, forcing you to look only at him.

“Then you should stop encouraging them, wife,” he accuses in a husky rasp. He leans down, tilting his head to claim your mouth in a sharp, brief kiss that leaves the faint sound of parting lips as he pulls away, never breaking eye contact.

The phrase falls between you like a lump of stone, cooling the air that a moment ago was burning with the heat of his closeness.

Your hands stiffen on his shoulders as you search for any hint of jest in his gaze, that he is just teasing you, but you see only eyes darkened by wounded pride—a temperament he rarely unveils.

“Encouraging them?” you repeat, your voice a mere thread of incredulity. You cling to the hope that this is some cruel play on words. “Valarr, I have scarcely opened my lips. I have remained as motionless as a statue of Baelor the Blessed.”

“And that is precisely the invitation,” he retorts, taking a long step back, causing your hands to fall from his shoulders as the distance grows between you. “You stand there with a serenity that looks like submission, permitting them to circle you like vultures over a jewel. You should rebuff them at once, reject them with the strength of your lineage before they dare to breathe your very air.”

You feel the sting of injustice prick your chest. Valarr, better than anyone, knows the crushing weight of crowns.

“You know I can not do that, much as I wish to cut out their tongues and pluck out their eyes,” you hiss like an angered viper, lowering your tone so no prying ear might catch the fissure in the perfect marriage—your first true quarrel in months. “I am the firstborn of Prince Maekar. If I humiliate Lord Tyrell or any other bannerman before the entire court for a mere ill-intentioned compliment, I invite a political war that neither your father nor mine desires.” You tilt your head slightly beneath his gaze, which now sparks with anger. “Do you wish for me to be the cause of a dispute between the Reach and the Crown?”

“I prefer a thousand political disputes to the sight of other men stripping you with their eyes while you smile at them with courtesy,” he snaps back at you, the bitterness in his voice palpable, his words measured to wound. 

You shake your head in disbelief, the movement causing your silver tresses to shimmer like cold moonlight against your shoulders. A dry, hollow laugh escapes your throat, though there is no mirat in it—only a sharp, stinging disappointment.

This time, you take a deliberate step back, increasing the distance between you until the warmth of his body no longer reaches your own. You look at him as if he were a stranger wearing the face of the man you love.

“Valarr, this is madness,” you breathe, your voice trembling not with fear, but with the sheer weight of your incredulity.

His hands retreat behind his back, hidden away as if he’s afraid of what they might do—not out of malice, but out of a desperate, clawing urge to reach for you and end this distance. He locks them together, his fingers digging into his own skin, clenching into fists so tight that the knuckles turn a ghostly, bloodless white.

It is a physical struggle, a silent war he wages against his own nature—his lifelong instinct to be close to you, the instinctive urge to reach out and touch you.

By hiding his hands away from you, he denies himself the comfort of your touch, choosing instead to let his wounded pride dictate the space between you.

“At times I wonder...” he adds, his voice dropping to a tone of refined cruelty born of an agonizing insecurity. You can tell he's hesitating for a moment before deciding to succumb to his rage and hurl out more poison. “I wonder if you secretly crave the attention. If the daughter of Prince Maekar requires the adoration of the world to feel like a queen for a fleeting moment, even at the cost of her husband's patience.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, a physical weight that seems to drown out the screech of the fiddles, the roar of drunken laughter, and the rhythmic swirl of the dancers. 

It cuts deeper than any insult from some nameless Lord; Valarr is accusing you of common vanity when your entire life has been a battle to survive the scrutiny of a world that views you as nothing more than a prize to be won.

You hold his gaze, your breath hitching as genuine offense turns to a cold, hard coal in your chest, but you don't let the tears fall.

The ancient, inherited fire of your blood finally flickers to life behind your violet eyes.

“You have known me since I was a child of three, Valarr,” you say, with a coldness that rivals his own. “If you truly believe I enjoy being a piece of meat on display... then you do not know me at all.”

And then, you wait for just a moment. You wait for his expression to soften, for guilt to cloud his beautiful eyes, and for his hand to seek yours with that touch of regret that always follows this rare moments of tension. 

You wait for him to ask your pardon, to pull you against his chest and whisper that love drives him mad, that his insecurities, his own fears, are to blame for his sharpened tongue.

But Valarr does not move.

He maintains his impeccable, princely posture, his chin high and his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on a point just above your head. His lips, which have so often whispere promises of eternal devotion, are pressed into a thin, bitter line. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.  There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.

He simply steps aside.

Without a single word, Valarr moves to the right, clearing the path and leaving you the space to depart. It is the most galling gesture of all: a calculated indifference, a silent invitation for you to retire if you are not prepared to accept his terms. Never before has he let you go while you were angry. Always, without fail, he found a way to hold you until the storm passed.

You feel the knot of indignation tighten in your throat. 

“Very well. This is how it will be, t–then,” you mumble reluctantly, swallowing a lump in your throat. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Valarr echoes, dropping his gaze to the floor, still visibly simmering.

You gather the heavy skirts of your scarlet gown with fingers trembling from rage and you walk past him, keeping your back as straight as a dragon-bone spear, and begin to walk toward the exit of the Great Hall.

You feel the weight of the gold threads in your braids, and above all, you feel the weight of everyone's eyes upon you.

Even from a distance, your father can sense that you are visually agitated and very upset, considering that pout you're holding on your lips. His frown deepens when he glances at your husband standing behind you, his jaw clenched, looking down at the floor, clearly forcing himself not to gaze at you, for his act of indignation would likely crumble into a thousand pieces.

Then, Maekar shares a knowing glance with Baelor, who is sitting next to him, as he too realizes that something has happened between their firstborns.

Now, without Valarr by your side as a shield, the gazes feel even more invasive, more ravenous. You can sense Lord Tyrell watching you from afar with a crooked smirk, noting the sudden distance set between your husband and you. So, you hurry to get out of the place, not even bothering to give excuses to your family.

Valarr had hurt you in the deepest way, doubting your loyalty and integrity just because the rest of the world didn't know how to be decent. Every time you thought about it, about the way he had accused you and looked at you, as if he didn't know you, as if you had been a stranger, you grew increasingly furious.

The seconds turned into minutes, which felt like hours. You abruptly took off your jewelry, letting the rubies fall onto the dressing table with a loud clatter. You let your hair down, letting your silvery locks cascade over your bare shoulders like a fountain.

Finally, as you are settling down for a good night's sleep, relaxing in your spacious bed and solitude, the sound of the door creaking open interrupts your peace.

There is no rush in his movements, Valarr walks in with his characteristic serenity, which now irritates you so much that you are unable to even so much as glance at him.

“Maekar was looking for you,” he informs you, his voice unusually monotone, as he begins to take off his cloak. “I told him you were not feeling yourself.”

You lay motionless beneath the satin sheets, your gaze locked on the shadows cast by the burning embers across the ceiling, imagining that they are dragons.

His words hover in the space of the room, unacknowledged. You offer no expression of gratitude, no hum of acceptance, neither even the faintest gesture of your head in his direction.

For you, Valarr is not there that night. In his place, there is only a stranger who wears his face, one who has had the audacity to question the core of your very soul.

You can hear the sound of leather sliding on wood as he begins to take off his doublet. The following is a heavy silence, charged with the weight of all that has not been said.

Valarr takes his time, moving with that regal slowness that you would usually find charming, and that, on any other day, would have you already crawling up his bare back with kisses and caresses, but now seems like a desperate tactic to get your attention.

It's really pathetic, you think.

He steps to the edge of the bed and you sense the mattress dip slightly under his weight as he sits down to untie his boots.

“You could have waited for me at least,” he is bold enough to keep talking, even when he can clearly see that you are still fuming, bursting the ice again and uttering your name in that gentle tone of his. At least that much has not changed on this catastrophic day.

Indeed, his tone has lost the harshness he displayed in the Great Hall, turning into something closer to a resigned lament. Pathetic.

“I had to make up excuses for my father and yours. It's not like us to put on such a display of disharmony in front of them and the King.”

Once again, you don't respond. Instead, you close your eyes, concentrating on the cadence of your own breathing and then, roll overyourself to turn your back on him.

If he doesn't approve of your polite silence, then you will give him an entire ocean of it.

Valarr sighs, a long, weary sound that betrays his own frustration. He finishes undressing and, after blowing out the last two candles, slips under the bedcovers beside you. 

Typically, the instant your bodies lie side by side in the darkness and comfort of your quarters, he would reach for you, wrap an arm around your waist, bury his face in your neck, and whisper how much he loves you, emphasizing his words with sweet kisses upon your skin that would often lead to passionate lovemaking.

But this time, despite sharing the same bed, the distance between you seems to be unbridgeable.

Valarr lies on his back, very close but not touching you. You can feel the warmth emanating from his body, that warmth that has always makes you feel at home. Your skin tingles, betraying you, yearning for his touch, but your sense of pride—the same pride you inherited from your father, so fierce and intense—keeps you cold and distant.

“You're not even going to look at m–me?” Valarr asks into the suffocating darkness of the bedchamber, his voice cracks with the weight of despair. 

There is a trace of bewilderment in his gentle voice. The situation is terrifyingly foreign to him as well; you have always been the one to reach out and smooth things over with patience. He has grown accustomed to your mercy, leaning on it like a crutch he never realized he needed.

But not now. 

“There is a tournament tomorrow. We are expected to be in the royal pavilion, together. We cannot afford this... this whim.”

A whim?, you think, and rage boils in your gut like the fire-breath of a dragon.

You don't give him the luxury of a reaction to his provocation. You simply adjust your pillow with a sharp movement before lying perfectly still again.

At that you feel him grow tense beside you.

Your husband is not a man of violent outbursts, but indifference is the only force that can shatter his composure. 

For the first time, he is facing the abyss of your indifference, and the overwhelming loneliness of that void is beginning to drown him.

“V–very well,” he finally declares, and this time his voice rings with wounded emotion, despite his efforts to conceal it with a veil of coldness. “Good night.”

The echo of the crowd's cheers reaches your terrace, celebrating every lance broken, every fallen rider. Normally, you would be the star of the royal pavilion, seated at Valarr's side, but today you have chosen the cozy comfort of your own bedchamber.

Earlier that morning, you had sent a message to the king and your father, as concise as it was unconvincing: you were not feeling well, a vague discomfort kept you bedridden. It was a lie, and everyone knew it. But since your whole family already knows that something has been going on between you and your husband, they decided to let it slide.

You can just imagine Valarr, looking perfect and stoic on the outside, but burning with humiliation and solitude on the inside, forced to answer all the questions about the absence of his wife, his other half, who isn't there to hand him the favor of her silk when it's his turn to ride.

The sunset bathes the big bedchamber into a bloody shade of orange as the door is flung open. This time, there is no trace of finesse or restraint.

Valarr comes in like a force of nature then. He has already stripped away the cold plates of his armor, but he still wears the dark, sweat-stained gambeson—the thick, quilted tunic of black leather and wool that served as his last line of defense. It clings to the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, damp from the grueling effort of the tourney, mapping out the frantic rhythm of his breathing.

His dark hair is all messed up and sticking to his forehead from the sweat and effort he put into the tourney, and that one platinum streak of his, the one that makes you go feral just by the sight of it, is all ruffled up. His two-colored eyes, normally as calm as a peaceful lake, burn with a fury you've hardly ever seen before. 

He looks handsome like that, you must admit, all fired up and sassy.

He tosses his gauntlets onto a nearby table with a loud bang that makes you sit up in the bed, your fingers instantly clamping shut the book you were so absorbed in reading.

“Not a single word,” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous as he storms across the room towards you. “Not a single glance all day. You left me alone in front of the court, in front of my father, like a fool who can’t even run his own household.”

You remain where you are, sitting with a graceful languor and purposeful poise on the vastness of the bed, surrounded by the soft disorder of the silk sheets. You haven't moved to acknowledge him, nor have you displayed any reaction to the agitation he exudes. Instead, you remain leaning against the cushions, your back straight and your scarlet silk nightgown sliding dangerously down the curve of your shoulder, revealing the smoothness of your skin as a kind of silent provocation.

You look devastatingly beautiful, a vision of heaven that contrasts cruelly with the miserable state in which he has returned to you. Your silvery hair flows down over your chest, simultaneously covering and revealing the delicate curves of your figure, as you hold your book with an elegance that is almost hurtful.

That nightgown is his favorite, you both know it. You are keenly aware of the effect you have on him. You know that while he has been away playing the perfect prince, you have been here preparing to be his downfall.

You gradually raise your gaze, and lock your violet eyes onto his with unnerving calmness. At least you grant him that today: the privilege of looking you in the eyes.

“I gave you exactly what you asked for, Valarr,” you reply reluctantly, stretching out your other hand to put your wine cup down on one of the nightstands and crawling out the bed to stand up. “Didn’t you want me to stop attracting attention? Didn’t you want me to hide myself away? Well, here you have it. I’ve hidden myself away from the world. And from you.”

You stand up with a measured nonchalance that only serves to fuel the fire of his rage. You move with the fluid grace of a predatory creature, walking calmly and intentionally avoiding his menacing figure, passing so close that he can smell the scent of your skin, but without allowing him even the slightest touch.

You head toward the balcony, and that's where you pull off your masterstroke. As you walk away from him, the orange, bloody light of sunset filters through the open doors, turning the thin scarlet silk of your nightgown into an nearly transparent veil.

Valarr stands rooted to the spot, his breath catching in his throat, as the sinful clarity of your body's shape is displayed before his eyes: the curve of your back, the sway of your hips, and the curve of your arse, all outlined by the glow of the dying sun as it pierces the thin fabric.

You lean on the stone railing, watching the horizon where the sun sinks like a glowing ruby into the Black Waters. The night wind begins to dance with the hem of your dress, clinging to your thighs and leaving precious little to the imagination.

And you know he's right behind you, following in your own footsteps with the patient determination of a predator. You feel the heat of his body against yours, smell the scent of sweat exuding from his skin, a fragrance that is purely masculine and dominant, making your insides knot with desire.

His warm hands catch you by the waist and pull you forcefully against his chest. You let out a breathless gasp as his face digs into the crook of your neck, and his hot, hungry lips kiss the sensitive skin just below your ear.

You try to call out his name, to scold him, to remind him that you are still upset about his awful behavior from yesterday. “Valarr...”

“You think this is a fucking game?” he grunts, his voice rumbling down your spine. “You think you can just disappear and leave my mind to rot, imagining every man in this kingdom coveting my woman?”

“You pushed me away,” your voice weakens as one of his hands rises impatiently, cupping your breast over the thin fabric of your nightgown, holding your body close to his. “You doubted me, Valarr. My loyalty. My dignity. In front of all those people. In front of my own father. Do you know how humiliating it feels?”

He sighs heavily into your neck, placing one last kiss on your skin before spinning you around in his arms so abruptly that it knocks the wind out of you. 

Instinctively, your hands reach for his shoulders to hold on to him, and he supports you with his own hands, fitting the curve of your waist, incapable of letting you go now that he has captured you.

Seeing the way you're looking at him, he sighs once more, ducking down to push his forehead onto your chest, closing his eyes as his face nuzzles between your breasts. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him and ensuring that you can't even consider moving away.

“Forgive me,” he pleads then, his voice cracking just slightly, his lips spelling out the words into your skin. “Forgive me—my love, please. I am just a stupid, jealous fool. I was out there all day, feeling like I was suffocating because you weren’t there. I am—I am so tired of your silence. I can't do it—”

He physically swoons when he feels your hand running through his hair, your fingers tangling in that lock of silver hair you love so much, smoothing it back into place.

The prince lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead still pressed against youe body, leaning into the touch of your fingers as if he’s a man dying of thirst and you are the only well in the desert. 

“I can't do it,” he repeats, his voice a muffled, raw rasp against your chest. “I can not live without your gaze upon me. Without your touch, your voice. Don't go back into that silence, p–please. Come back to me...”

You look down at him, your own anger beginning to fray at the edges, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating pull of the devotion he’s offering.

“I am right here, Valarr,” you whisper, your voice finally breaking the seal of that icy silence. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to force him to look up at you. “I forgive you”

“Thank you,” he breathes out, his voice choked with emotion before claiming your lips with his, and kissing you as if it were the first time he’d been able to kiss you in years away from you. He kisses you again and again and again. “Thank you...”

“I believe you are exaggerating now, darling,” you tell him, struggling to contain a giggle at the way he is clinging to your body, his hands sliding down to palm your arse and squish you closer to him, kissing your flushed cheeks.

But Valarr doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. Instead, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression so hauntingly solemn it makes the breath catch in your throat.

“I am not exaggerating, my heartfire,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly earnest register. He looks like a man who has just survived a war. “It has been twenty-six hours and fourteen minutes since you last looked at me with anything other than loathing. Twenty-six hours since I last heard you speak my name.”

He leans his forehead against yours affectionately, letting out a sigh of relief now that he has you in his arms again, feeling the pressure of your breasts on his chest.

“Twenty-six hours, Valarr?” you tease, your heart softening completely as you realize the depth of his devotion.

“And fifteen minutes now,” he corrects immediately, his voice devoid of any humor, lowering sheepishly.

A bright, genuine and sweet burst of laughter escapes you, the sound ringing out like silver bells across the terrace and shattering the last of the tension. You lean back against his loving arms, your body shaking with amusement as you realize just how deeply you’ve unraveled your husband.

You feel the heat radiating from his skin as a deep, crimson flush creeps up his neck and floods his cheeks.

You curtsied, low and perfect, as if he were already your king.

“My prince,” you said softly. “I am honored to meet you.”

His mouth twisted. “Honored,” he repeated. “Do you know what I am?”

“A Targaryen,” you said, lifting your gaze just enough. “Of the blood of the dragon.”

That pleased him, you saw it instantly. The smallest shift in his eyes, the straightening of his shoulders.

“And you?” he pressed. “A pretty little Reach flower. Soft. Common.”

You smiled anyway. “Roses have thorns, my prince.”

He barked out a short, humorless laugh. “You will learn your place quickly. I will give you children. That is your purpose. I suppose you're pretty enough, I can imagine enjoying bedding you. But they will not be plain-featured little gardeners. I will not have it.”

You did not flinch.

“I would never wish to disappoint you,” you said. “Valyrian blood is…otherworldly. To think that my body might carry even a spark of it is more than I ever dreamed.”

That was a gamble.

It paid off.

His eyes sharpened with interest. “You’ve heard the stories.”

“Of dragons,” you said. “Of Old Valyria. Of fire made flesh.”

He turned then, abruptly, stalking down the gallery. “Come,” he ordered. “If you are to bear dragon blood, you should know what it comes from.”

He dragged you from skull to skull, gesturing with restless energy. Balerion’s massive jaws. Vhagar’s curved horns. He spoke of conquest and fear and how men had once trembled at the sound of wings.

“They forget now,” Aerion snarled. “They look at us and see only men. They should see gods.”

“They should,” you agreed quietly. “It must be…infuriating. To be born to such legacy, only to watch it fade.”

He stopped and turned to you, studying you anew. “You understand.”

You tilted your head. “I try.”

From that moment, he talked more. Too much. About dragons. About bloodlines. About how his father did not see him, how the realm did not respect him. You listened. You nodded. You validated every grievance, every simmering fury, as if they were reasonable and righteous.

When he spoke of how he had wanted a sister-wife, you did not recoil. You said, gently, “It is a tragedy, to be denied purity by fate. But perhaps the gods mean to test you. To see if your fire can burn even through lesser blood.”

He liked that.

When he spat about small lords growing bold, you said, “They forget who conquered them. It is your right to remind them.”

He liked that too.

He informed you, bluntly, that he would not be gentle on your wedding night.

You lowered your lashes and said, “Dragons are not gentle creatures.”

The courtship, if it could be called that, was a strange dance. Aerion did not bring you flowers. He did not write poetry. He prowled around you. But you made it into something else.

You let him drag you through the gardens, your skirts gathered in your hands as you laughed and ran, letting him chase you like a predator playing with prey. When he caught you, he would grip your arms, breath hot, eyes bright, and you would laugh into his shoulder and murmur, “The dragon has captured me.”

He liked that more than he should have.

He liked when you watched him train. You sat in the shade with your ladies, clapping softly when he struck true, praising his strength, his form, his speed. Other knights noticed. So did he.

He liked that smallfolk began to recognize you. You made certain of that.

You had bread and coins handed out. You stopped to listen to old women’s stories. You let children touch the embroidery on your sleeves. Soon, whispers followed you through Flea Bottom and the markets.

The Golden Rose. The Dragon’s Lady.

When people spotted you, they bowed and blessed you, and Aerion noticed.

“They love you,” he said one evening, watching a group of women murmur prayers as you passed.

“They love House Targaryen,” you corrected lightly. “Through me.”

That pleased him immensely.

You prayed in the Sept, if only briefly. You never tried to bring him. You knew better. Instead, you let word spread that you were devout enough to soothe the Faith, but not so devout as to shame a dragon prince.

You made friends with your ladies, learning what they heard, what they whispered. You learned which courtiers feared Aerion, which resented him, which flattered him. You stored it all away like weapons hidden in silk.

In private, he began to call you his little rose. At first it was mocking. Then it was possessive. Then it was almost fond.

“You will give me sons,” he told you one night, pacing as you sat at a small table with embroidery you did not truly need. “Strong ones. Silver-haired. Violet-eyed. The gods favor giving your line sons, don't they?.”

“So they say of Tyrell women,” you replied smoothly. “We give the realm sons. They grow strong and healthy.”

He stopped pacing. “Good.”

He stood too close then, invading your space, eyes scanning your face, your mouth, your throat, your waist, your hips.

“At least you are well-proportioned,” he added bluntly. “Your body has merits.”

You smiled sweetly, as if it were a compliment. “I am glad to be of use to you, my prince.”

He did not touch you then but his eyes lingered.

At night, alone in your chambers, fear crept in. You had heard enough. You knew enough. Aerion was cruel. He was unpredictable. You suspected he would not be gentle. You suspected he would not be kind.

So you prepared in the only way you could. You made yourself indispensable.

You became the one person who did not flinch from his talk of dragons and fire. The one who agreed that the world had wronged him. The one who looked at him not with fear, but with admiration carefully measured. You laughed at his jokes, even when they were sharp. You praised his lineage, even when it edged into madness. You let him feel powerful in your presence.

And slowly, he began to seek it.

He would send for you. He would ask where you were. He would grow irritated if you were with your ladies too long.

“My rose,” he said one afternoon, fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. “Come walk with me.”

You rose at once. “Of course.”

As you walked, he spoke of the wedding. Of the feast. Of the bedding.

“They will cheer,” he said. “They will watch. They will see that the dragon has taken his bride.”

Your heart leapt to your throat, but you kept your smile soft. “It will be a night to remember.”

He glanced at you sideways, eyes dark. “For you.”

You did not look away. “I hope to make you proud, my prince.”

Something in his expression shifted. Not softened but sharpened with intent. Ownership. You saw it. You felt it. You also knew you had no choice now but to keep playing.

Three moons later...

It is the hour of the owl. The fire has burned low. His chambers smell of burnt wood, iron and wine.

Cold is beginning to creep in. Or perhaps it is merely your nerves.

Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the low light. He's downing another goblet of wine. You had forgotten to keep count. Foolish of you, usually you were aware when to coax it out of his hand.

“Ten days,” he says, not looking at you.

You still.

“Ten days late,” Aerion continues, voice controlled in that way that means it isn’t. “You let me think.” His hand tightens slowly into a fist at his side. “You let me hope.”

You swallow. “My prince...”

“Don’t.” He turns then, violet eyes bright with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it. “For ten days, I counted. I imagined. I told myself it had finally taken.” His mouth twists. “I thought you were carrying my child.”

The words land heavy between you.

“And now,” he goes on, stepping closer, each stride eating away at your space, “your moon blood comes. As if to mock me.”

You keep your face soft. Careful. “These things...”

“Spare me septa nonsense,” Aerion snaps. “We have been wed for months. You promised me an heir, precious rose.” The endearment is sharp now, almost cruel. “You swore Tyrell women give sons easily.”

His gaze drags over you, taking in your face, your body beneath thin silk. Ownership. Disappointment. Hunger, all tangled together.

“I wanted to bury my head in your lap tonight,” he admits bitterly. “Let you stroke my hair and tell me it will come, like you always do.” His jaw tightens. “But I am tired of being soothed, wife.”

Wife.

The word is not gentle.

“I am tired of waiting.”

His hand comes up, catching your jaw, tilting your face up. His grip is warm, firm, inescapable.

“You will make it right,” he says quietly. “You will remind my body, and yours, what it is for.”

You don’t pull away.

You never do.

“My precious rose,” he murmurs, and then his voice hardens. “My wife. My only whore.”

The words hit different when he’s like this. When frustration twists them into something darker.

“You were late,” he says again, quieter now. “You let me believe. I was patient as a priest. I was faithful as a knight. I didn't let another get my cock wet, not wanting to waste a single drop of my seed.”

“I didn’t mean to...”

He cuts you off by unlacing your robe, fingers rough, impatient. Silk slides from your shoulders and pools at your feet.

“On the bed,” he orders. “On your back.”

You obey.

He strips quickly, efficiently. When he’s naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed, anger and need driving it.

He kneels between your legs, grips your thighs, spreads you wide. His gaze is unflinching.

“This is how you make it right,” Aerion says. “You take me. You take all of me. Until your body remembers its purpose.”

His fingers stroke through you without ceremony. One finger, then two, stretching you open. You gasp despite yourself, hips shifting, seeking friction.

He watches your face closely, smirking faintly when you can’t stop the sound that escapes you.

He withdraws his fingers, brings them to his mouth, tasting you while holding your gaze.

Then he positions himself, hooking your legs up, folding you open.

He pushes inside you in one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out, the stretch sharp, the depth overwhelming. He doesn’t pause. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm.

His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. The wet, obscene sounds fill the chamber as he uses you, thrust after thrust, deep and hard.

“You’ll take it,” he grits. “You’ll take my seed until it takes root. I will not be denied.”

Your body betrays you, growing slick, opening for him. The pressure builds low in your belly, tight and relentless.

His hand slides between you, thumb finding your most sensitive place, circling rough and insistent.

“Come,” he commands. “If you’re going to fail me, you’ll at least come properly.”

Your body obeys. The release tears through you, clenching around him, and he hisses, thrusts turning harder, erratic.

He buries himself deep and stills, spilling inside you with a choked sound.

He doesn’t pull out.

He keeps you there, shifting you onto your side, holding you tight.

“Don’t move,” he orders. “Every drop stays where it belongs.”

His hand splays over your lower belly.

“We will try again,” he says. “And again. Until it works.”

He hardens again sooner than you expect.

“Stay laying on your back, you spoiled, soft petal. You can't even lean on your arms and knees long enough for me,” he murmurs darkly.

He drags your hips up and enters you again, deeper, rougher. Your cry is muffled by his fingers in your mouth as he grips your hip with the other. You bite down. He never minds.

“You will carry my child,” he pants. “I don’t care what your blood did tonight. Your body will learn.”

Then he is filling you again, fingers shoving his spend back inside you when it spills.

“Can’t waste it,” he growls. “Not when you’ve already disappointed me once.”

He props your hips up afterward, keeps you still, keeps you full, watching you like you’re something fragile and infuriating all at once.

“Stay,” he orders. “Let it settle.”

Aerion lies on his side behind you, his chest pressed to your back. His arm is draped over your waist, hand warm and heavy against your belly. His breathing is slower now, deeper, the edge taken off by exhaustion.

His palm moves in slow, absent circles over your stomach, almost tender. Almost thoughtful. As if he’s trying to imagine something there by force of will alone.

“There,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “That’s where they’ll be. That’s where my heirs will grow. Inside my precious rose.” His thumb presses gently. “You feel warm there. Like fire under skin.”

You say nothing.

His nose brushes your hair. He exhales against your temple, eyes already heavy.

“They’ll have my hair,” he goes on quietly. “My eyes. They’ll be unmistakable. No one will ever doubt them.” His fingers spread. “And you’ll be their mother. You. Not some courtly fool, not some empty pretty thing. You’re the only one worthy to raise my children.”

It almost sounds like love. Almost.

“I won’t abandon you,” Aerion says, sudden intensity sharpening his voice even through the sleepiness. “Even if your body fails me. Even if you never give me what you promised.” His hand tightens briefly on your waist. “I won’t take another wife. I won’t replace you. You’re mine.”

His lips brush your knuckles when you shift your hand near his.

“I would keep you,” he continues, words drifting, unguarded in a way they never are in daylight. “I would keep you with me, always. You’d raise my children. You’d teach them. They’d call you mother.”

Then, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, he adds:

“If you can’t give them to me yourself…I’ll take a whore with Valyrian blood. Some bastard girl from Flea Bottom. Silver hair, violet eyes. They’re there, if you know where to look.”

Your stomach turns, but you keep your face still in the dark.

“I’d take her somewhere quiet,” Aerion murmurs, almost thoughtfully. “Somewhere no one watches. I’d breed her. Just long enough to get what I need. I'd have to send you away somewhere as well, around that time.”

His thumb resumes its slow, idle stroke over your belly.

“And when she gives me a child,” he says, voice soft, almost fond, “I’ll kill her.”

The words settle into the room like ash.

“Then you and I will raise the child as our own,” he finishes. “No one will ever question it. No one will ever know.”

Your face twists in a way you’re grateful he can’t see in the darkness.

Aerion brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, gentle as a lover, tender as a husband.

“So,” he murmurs against your skin, “give me an heir, petal. Save us both the trouble.”

His grip loosens slightly, fatigue finally winning.

“Sleep now,” he says. “You’ll need your strength. I’ll start again in the morning.”

Full series: Growing Strong, Married Life, Growing Familiar , Deep in the Meadow and Dragon Dreams, Perzys ānogār. Can be read as a oneshots.

credits to the gif owner

The humid air of Awa'atlu clung to your skin like a second layer, thick with the scent of salt and blooming reefs as you waddled through the village paths, one hand cradling the heavy swell of your belly that protruded boldly under the loose weave of your maternity wraps.

At eight months along, your body had transformed into a testament of impending life, your abdomen rounded and taut, skin stretched smooth over the child kicking insistently within, while your breasts, once pert and high, now swelled fuller, heavier, straining against the soft kelp fibers with a sensitivity that made every brush of fabric send tingles racing down your spine. Your feet throbbed with each step, arches aching from the added weight, toes curling against the woven sandals that offered little relief.

Yet, despite the discomfort, a fierce glow lit your silver eyes, your white braids, now longer and thicker from the pregnancy hormones, swaying gently with your deliberate gait, framing a face softened by maternal curves but sharpened by your unyielding spirit.

Miles trailed close behind, his deeper blue form a constant shadow, yellow eyes watchful as he balanced a woven basket brimming with your latest cravings. Ripe hexapede fruit sliced and drizzled with sweet nectar, tangy sea urchin roe scooped into shells, and a bundle of smoked fish from the outer reefs.

He'd become your devoted provider, rising before dawn to hunt or trade, his broad shoulders flexing under the simple loincloth as he presented each offering with a patient grin, knowing one wrong flavor could unleash your tempestuous moods.

"Here, darlin'." He murmurs, voice a low rumble that vibrated through you as he fed you bites by hand, his callused fingers lingering on your full lips, tracing the way they parted for him.

You leaned into him often, demanding his arm for support, your tail coiling around his leg possessively, pulling him nearer when the aches grew too insistent.

"Rub my feet tonight." You'd command, voice husky with need, and he'd comply without protest, kneeling to knead the swollen soles, his touch firm yet tender, easing the pain while stoking the fire that always simmered between you.

Visiting Spider had become a ritual, the human boy now taller and more assured in his world, but your trips to Awa'atlu stirred a peculiar contradiction within you. In your duration of pregnancy, you'd crave Neytiri's company, her steady presence, the shared warrior's wisdom that bridged your worlds despite the barbs you'd traded in battle even though you wanted to throttle her blue neck.

"I want to see that blue woman." You tell Miles one evening, nestled against his broad chest as his hand splayed over your belly, feeling the baby's flutters.

But the moment you arrived in the village, weaving through clusters of teal-skinned Metkayina who nodded respectfully as your role in Jake's victory earning you wary acceptance and even admiration, the sight of Neytiri ignited a spark of irrational fury. There she was, lithe and graceful as ever, her blue skin shimmering under the sun, yellow eyes sharp and knowing as she approached with a woven mat for you to rest on.

"Get away." You hissed immediately, ears flattening as you lowered yourself onto the mat with a grunt, one hand pressing into your lower back where the weight pulled relentlessly. Your swollen breasts shifted uncomfortably, nipples peaking against the fabric from the sea breeze, and you shot her a glare that could curdle milk.

Neytiri paused, tail flicking in mild exasperation, but she didn't retreat, instead, she knelt nearby, offering a gourd of cool water infused with healing herbs.

"You need this ash witch." She said firmly, voice edged with that unshakeable resolve, her full lips pressing into a line as she extended it toward you.

"I can pour my own damn water." You snapped back, snatching the gourd with a swipe that sloshed some over the edge, your silver eyes narrowing as a fresh wave of irritation bubbled up.

But when she rose to adjust the shade canopy overhead, you felt a pang of abandonment, your voice sharpening. "Where are you going? Sit down!"

It was absurd, this push-pull of wanting her close yet resenting her every move as your pregnancy had amplified your tempers into a whirlwind. Neytiri sighed, settling back beside you with deliberate slowness, her sleek thighs folding under her as she reached to help steady your legs when you shifted.

"Stubborn woman." She muttered, a hint of amusement lacing her tone despite the hiss you shot her way.

You both dissolved into mutual hissing then, fangs bared in a ritual of defiance, you swatting at her hand when she tried to massage your aching calves, her ears pinning back as she persisted, fingers digging into the tense muscles with expert pressure as she snarls at you.

"I said I can do it!" You growled, but the relief was undeniable, your body betraying you with a involuntary sigh as knots unraveled under her touch.

She hissed right back. "And fall because of your ridiculous pride? Let me help or Eywa witness, I'll tie you down and forget you are with a child."

It was a dance of wills, born from respect forged in blood, and though you terrorized the village in your pregnant state, demanding space one moment then clinging to Miles the next, your moods swinging like a storm, you found an odd comfort in her begrudging vigilance.

The Metkayina whispered of the "Ash terror" returned, your demanding nature amplified. Snapping at weavers for softer fabrics, insisting on the ripest fruits, and wrapping yourself around Miles at every opportunity, your swollen form pressing into his side as you whispered possessive endearments, tail entwining with his in public displays that left no doubt of your claim.

Later that afternoon, Neytiri has successfully departed from your side without a hissing fit from you as she needed to hunt. She left you with a snarl and a roll of her eyes as she told you to stay still as Miles arrived and sat by you.

Spider scampered over then, his human frame lanky and sun-kissed, eyes lighting up as he plopped down cross-legged before you, chattering about his latest dive with the blue bastard’s kid, Lo'ak.

You fussed over him immediately, reaching out to ruffle his hair, your voice a mix of firmness and maternal instinct. "Eat more, strange kid. You're all bones. Miles, hand me that fish for him."

But as Spider laughed, devouring the offered morsel, a sudden thought pierced your haze of contentment, twisting into jealousy like a thorn.

Your silver eyes flicked to Miles, who lounged nearby, one arm draped casually over his knee, his scarred chest rising steadily as he watched you with that fond, indulgent gaze. The question burst out before you could temper it, voice pitching higher with accusation.

"Miles... do you still love this strange kid's mother?"

He blinked, yellow eyes widening in surprise before a deep chuckle rumbled from his throat, shaking his broader frame as he leaned forward, hand gently squeezing your knee. "She's dead, baby. Long gone."

His tone was light, teasing, but your face furrowed, the swell of your belly rising with a sharp inhale as you leaned in, unyielding.

"I don't give a fuck if she's rotting and one with the ground." You retorted, voice a fierce whisper that drew Spider's curious glance before he wisely scampered off to find Sully's kid. "I asked if you still love her."

Your tail lashed once, silver eyes boring into his, the vulnerability caused by your pregnancy beneath your demand raw and exposed, your swollen breasts heaving with the intensity of it all.

Miles' chuckle faded into a soft, reassuring smile, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the high curve of your bone structure with reverence. "No, I don't. And I never did, not like this, not like you."

His yellow eyes held yours steadily, voice dropping to that intimate timbre that always melted your edges, scarred fingers tracing down to rest over your belly where the baby stirred in response.

The tension evaporated like mist, your pout dissolving into a sweet, giggly laugh that bubbled up unexpectedly, light and airy, as you nuzzled into his palm, tail curling happily around his wrist. "Good answer, yawne."

Miles shook his head in disbelief, a wry grin tugging at his lips as he pulled you closer, mindful of your aches, his body a warm anchor against your demanding clinginess.

How the hell do I have the patience for this? He thought, watching you preen under his affirmation, your silver eyes sparkling with sudden joy.

But he knew, deep in the bond that thrummed between you, it was love, pure and obsessive, for his woman who was gloriously and unapologetically crazy.

~

The acceptance from the Metkayina had deepened since your pivotal role in Jake's triumph. No longer outcasts when you visited the territory for Spider, you and Miles moved through Awa'atlu with nods of greeting, children waving shyly, elders murmuring blessings over your pregnancy. Even the females, once distant, now cast lingering glances at Miles, his handsome features, the confident set of his deeper blue shoulders, the way his tail swayed with predatory ease drawing admiring coos.

It grated on you, this newfound attention, but today it simmered to a boil in Ronal's healing hut, where the air hung heavy with the tang of medicinal pastes and charred herbs.

Miles reclined on a woven pallet inside the dim, kelp-curtained space, his wound a jagged gash from a skirmish with lingering RDA scouts being tended along his ribcage, blood crusted around the edges where it sliced through blue skin.

Ronal, the tsahik's form bent in focus, her black braids swaying as she applied a poultice of glowing algae, her expression one of professional detachment amid the chaos of war's aftermath. Many na'vi overflowed the village healers for their simple sickness or wounds, and with Tsireya, her daughter and tsakarem, bedridden with a fever that left her coughing through the nights, Ronal had enlisted another female Na'vi to assist.

The helper, a curvaceous young Metkayina warrior with vibrant bioluminescent stripes accentuating her ample hips and generous cleavage, hovered closer than necessary to Miles, her green eyes wide with blatant heart-eyes admiration as she dabbed at the wound with a cloth, her fingers lingering to caress the firm planes of his chest, tracing the old scars with feigned innocence.

You sat nearby on a low stool, feet propped on a woven cushion to ease the relentless ache, your swollen belly resting heavily against your thighs, breasts tender and full as you nursed a cup of herbal tea. The audacity of it all drew a light, mocking laugh from your lips, the sound sweet but laced with venom, silver eyes narrowing as you watched her hand wander.

"Tsahik." You called out casually, voice dripping with false concern as the tsahik glanced up, her brow furrowing in confusion, hands pausing mid-application. "You might need another helping hand."

Before Ronal could respond, your hand darted to your hip, drawing the volcanic dagger with a fluid flick, the blade whistling through the air in a precise whirl that embedded its tip quivering into the female's hand, pinning it to Miles' side just shy of the wound.

She yelped, a sob wrenching from her throat as she yanked back, blood welling from the wound, her eyes flooding with shock and pain.

You could only smile sweetly, tilting your head with an air of serene satisfaction, white hair cascading over one shoulder as you admired your handiwork, the curve of your lips innocent yet deadly. Leaning back with a satisfied hum, you met Ronal's gaze evenly, your voice a silky drawl.

"Do you get it now, tsahik? You need another helping hand since hers seems to be... incapable at the moment."

The words hung in the air, laced with triumphant bite, your silver eyes gleaming as you cooed over her crying sounds.

Ronal straightened abruptly, her teal eyes flashing with exasperation, one hand pressing to her temple as she muttered under her breath. "Eywa, give me strength to deal with this madness."

Her tail lashed once, the tsahik's composure cracking under the weight of your theatrics, but she schooled her features, gesturing for the sobbing female to retreat to a corner for bandaging.

Miles, still reclined, let out a low, appreciative growl, his yellow eyes darkening with arousal as he shifted, the loincloth tenting noticeably despite the pain. His cock stirred at the display, your fierce protectiveness, the way you'd claimed him without hesitation, turning him on in ways that defied the hut's tension.

He reached for your hand, pulling you closer, voice a husky whisper just for you. "Damn, woman... you're gonna be the death of me yet."

The white strands of your hair, unbound in loose waves for once, tumbled in soft cascades down your back, framing the sharp angles of your jaw and the full bow of your lips, which curved into a predatory smile as you locked eyes with Miles.

"I will be if you keep letting these poor excuses of Eywa's creation touch what's mine." You snarled, the words rolling off your tongue like velvet laced with venom, your voice a husky timbre that vibrated with possessive heat.

Leaning forward despite the pull in your lower back, you pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips, your breath warm against his scarred cheek, the faint taste of salt from his skin mingling with the herbal residue on your own.

Miles' yellow eyes sparkled with amusement, a deep, resonant laugh escaping his chest that made his abdominal muscles flex beneath the fresh bandages, his broader frame shifting slightly on the pallet.

"Easy there, firecracker." He murmured, voice gravelly with suppressed desire, his large hand coming to rest on your thigh, patting it with a firm, reassuring squeeze that sent a shiver racing up your leg, his calluses rough against the smoother texture of your skin.

Ronal, her features pinched in weary frustration, let out a long, exasperated sigh, her slender fingers wiping residue from her palms onto a cloth as she straightened her posture, the beads in her braids clinking softly.

"Out." She commanded, her tone brooking no argument, teal eyes flicking between you both with a mix of resignation and faint disapproval. "Both of you. I've enough chaos without adding your... theatrics to the pile. Heal elsewhere."

She gestured toward the entrance flap with a sharp wave, her tail flicking irritably as the injured female Na'vi in the corner whimpered, cradling her bandaged hand.

You gave the female na'vi a smirk as you wave at her goodbye, your silver eyes flashing in cold amusement and mock pity.

Rising with Miles' steadying grip on your elbow, his touch careful around the tender spots where your body protested the extra weight, you allowed him to guide you out into the balmy evening, the village paths alive with the distant calls of ilu and the murmur of Metkayina voices winding down for the night. Your steps were deliberate, hips swaying with an instinctive grace even as your bare feet dragged slightly against the packed sand, the arches pulsing with a dull throb that you masked with a soft grunt.

Miles' arm encircled your waist, supporting and lifting the side where your belly pulled heaviest, his warmth seeping through your wraps like a comforting blaze, while his free hand occasionally brushed stray locks from your face, tucking them behind your ear with unexpected gentleness.

The beach stretched out before you like a silken ribbon under the emerging stars, waves lapping rhythmically at the shore, their foam glowing faintly with phosphorescence.

Miles selected a secluded spot amid low dunes, sinking onto the cool sand first before extending his arms, pulling you down onto his lap with effortless strength.

You settled against him, your back to his chest, the solid wall of his torso molding to your curves as his legs bracketed yours, one hand immediately finding the swell of your belly, palm spreading wide to trace lazy circles over the taut skin, feeling the baby respond with a gentle nudge. His other hand roamed to your shoulders, lips brushing feather-light kisses along the ridge of your collarbone, then up to the sensitive hollow of your neck, where your pulse fluttered visibly beneath the grey expanse.

You both gazed out at the horizon, where the sea met the darkening sky in a seamless blend of indigo, the air carrying the briny tang of ocean and the faint, sweet rot of distant kelp beds.

Your fingers idly twirled a section of your white hair, coiling the silken strand around one digit as a rare question crept into your thoughts, your voice emerging thoughtful yet curious. "Do you think Eywa will forgive me for all my sins?"

Miles paused his caresses, his breath warm against your ear as he considered, yellow eyes reflecting the first glimmers of moonlight before he shrugs.

"Spider say she's forgiving, so maybe." He replied thoughtfully, his tone steady and unjudging, before pulling you closer, his chin resting atop your shoulder. A grin splitting his handsome features, the sharp jawline and the faint scars that mapped his battles. "Even if she doesn't forgive you, then I'm not being forgiven either. We'll be damned together, baby."

A sweet giggle bubbled from your throat, light and unburdened, as you turned your head to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, inhaling the musky scent of him mingled with the sea's freshness, your nose brushing the coarse texture of his hair.

"You burn for me that much, sky demon?" You teased, voice playful now, your tail curling up to drape over his knee in affectionate possession.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours, deep and rumbling like distant thunder, before his hand rose to gently grasp your kuru, the neural tendrils quivering slightly at his touch. He brought it to his lips, kissing the tip softly and reverently, his yellow gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

"Is it not that obvious that I do when I turned my back on everything I've ever known for a crazy woman?" His chuckles morphed into a sly smirk, free hand resuming its path over your pregnant belly, rubbing in slow, firm strokes that coaxed another flutter from within. "Our child is proof enough."

Emboldened by his words, you twisted in his lap as much as your form allowed, capturing his mouth in a passionate kiss, lips parting hungrily, tongues tangling with a fervor that spoke of shared fire, your hands framing his face, thumbs tracing the strong lines of his cheekbones as you poured your devotion into the press.

He responded with equal heat, one arm banding around your waist to hold you steady, the kiss deepening until you broke away breathless, cheeks flushed with tint against your grey skin.

But the moment's peace shattered as a new demand rose in you, your silver eyes flashing with that familiar spark of caprice.

"Now, take me to the blue bitch." You commanded, voice firm despite the lingering haze of desire, referring to Neytiri with your usual barbed affection.

Miles barked a laugh, the sound rich and indulgent, shaking his frame as he shifted to scoop you up bridal-style, mindful of your belly's weight against his arm.

"As you wish, baby." He rumbled, carrying you effortlessly through the village paths, your arms looped around his neck, head resting on his shoulder as curious glances from passing Metkayina followed your procession.

The Sully family's marui loomed ahead, its entrance flap partially drawn, spilling warm light and the aroma of roasting fish onto the platform. Inside, Neytiri knelt by a low fire, her lithe blue body coiled with quiet energy as she tended to woven baskets, while Jake lounged nearby, his broader form relaxed but alert, yellow eyes lifting as you entered.

You snarled low in your throat the moment your gazes met, a reflexive flash of fangs as Miles lowered you gently onto a cushioned mat, his hands lingering on your hips to ensure your balance, the touch grounding amid your surge of irritation.

Neytiri's ears twitched, her full lips curling in a hiss of her own, but she rose fluidly, her tail swaying with restrained annoyance as she approached to sit cross-legged before you.

"Where have you been, you irritating blue woman?" You demanded, voice edged with accusation, though your posture eased slightly into the mat, one hand absently rubbing the side of your belly where the skin itched from the day's salt.

Neytiri rolled her eyes dramatically, a soft hiss escaping as she settled closer, her sleek arms folding over her knees, the curve of her shoulders tense yet yielding.

"You would have known if you weren't too busy throwing daggers at people's hands, crazy ash woman." She retorted, her tone dry with exasperation, but her yellow eyes held a glint of reluctant fondness as she leaned in to adjust your wrap.

You could only smirk, the expression sharp and satisfied, your white hair shifting like moonlight as you tilted your head.

"It's her fault for touching my mate." You shot back, voice dripping with unapologetic triumph, your silver eyes daring her to argue as you stretched your legs out, toes flexing against the relief of the softer surface.

Jake chuckled from his spot, rising to clap a hand on Miles' shoulder, the gesture brotherly despite the undercurrent of old rivalries, his laugh booming warmly.

"I hope Eywa pities you if your child takes after their mother." He said, eyes crinkling at the corners, his free hand gesturing vaguely toward your form with mock sympathy.

Miles smirked in response, his gaze sliding to you.

His beautiful woman, fierce and unyielding, the swell of your breasts rising with each breath, the elegant line of your neck arched in pride.

"Piece of cake." He drawled confidently, yellow eyes gleaming. "Just admit you can't handle someone like her."

Jake raised his hands in playful surrender, palms out, a grin splitting his face as he backed away. "Alright, alright, point taken. She's all yours, Colonel."

The two dissolved into light laughter then, the tension easing into a rare camaraderie, with Neytiri eventually relenting to share stories of the village's recent hunts, her voice softening as she described a particularly elusive skimwing, while you interjected with sarcastic quips, your hand occasionally reaching to squeeze Miles' thigh possessively.

As the night deepened, conversation waned, and you bid a terse farewell, Miles once more lifting you for the journey back.

The sky now streaked in pinks and golds as morning approaches, you and Miles saddled atop Cupcake, the ikran's leathery wings unfurling with a powerful snap, her scales iridescent under the rising sun. The beast's bond thrummed through Miles' kuru, steadying her as she launched from the cliffs, the wind whipping through your hair in wild torrents, your body pressed securely against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, belly nestling into the curve of his spine for support.

Spider waved from the beach below, his lanky human form jumping excitedly, mask glinting as he shouted farewells.

You leaned over Miles' shoulder, voice carrying on the breeze with your signature bite. "Goodbye, strange kid. See you in a bit."

The words were laced with your biting humor, but a faint warmth undercut them, the boy merely grinning in response before you soared away, Awa'atlu shrinking to a glittering jewel on the horizon.

The flight home was exhilarating, Cupcake banking through thermal updrafts, the volcanic landscape unfolding below, jagged peaks wreathed in mist, merging into dense jungle fringes where bioluminescent vines clung to obsidian rocks. Upon landing near your secluded retreat, a cavernous shelter carved into the volcanic stone and softened with woven mats and furs,

Miles dismounted first, turning to lift you down with hands that spanned your waist, easing you to the ground where your feet sank into the cool moss, the ache in them momentarily forgotten in the thrill.

He fussed over you immediately, guiding you inside with a hand at the small of your back, his touch insistent yet tender as he arranged pillows behind you for support, ensuring the furs draped just so over your legs to ward off any chill.

"Comfortable, baby?" He asked, voice low and concerned, yellow eyes scanning your form, the way your chest rose and fell, the subtle sheen of exertion on your brow, the elegant swell of your hips as you reclined.

You nodded, pulling him down beside you with a demanding tug on his arm, your lips meeting his in a hot, devouring kiss that ignited like dry tinder, mouths fusing with urgent need, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours, tasting of the sea air and unspoken promises, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, nails leaving faint crescents on his blue skin.

He groaned into it, body leaning over yours protectively, one hand cradling the nape of your neck while the other splayed across your belly.

Breaking the kiss with a gasp, he trailed his lips downward, pressing reverent kisses to the rounded expanse of your abdomen, soft and lingering presses that made your skin tingle, his breath fanning warm patterns as the baby kicked in response, as if acknowledging the affection.

"Rest now." He whispered against you, voice husky with emotion, settling beside you to draw you into his embrace, the world outside fading to irrelevance in the quiet sanctuary you'd carved together.

~

The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the jagged volcanic rocks in hues of molten orange and deep crimson, while the dense jungle fringe whispered with the evening chorus of insects and distant ikran calls. Your sanctuary, a sturdy marui woven from resilient vines and reinforced with obsidian shards, stood resilient against the humid breeze, its interior warmed by the crackling fire pit where Miles knelt, his broad shoulders rolling with each precise motion as he stirred a pot of simmering stew, chunks of hexapede meat and wild tubers bubbling in a rich, aromatic broth.

His blue skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat, the muscles in his arms flexing taut as he added a handful of pungent herbs, his yellow eyes focused yet distant, lost in the simple rhythm of provision.

You sat nearby on a low bench of woven reeds, your body a testament to the culmination of creation, your frame fuller now in the ninth month, hips broadened into a fertile curve that spoke of impending life, your thighs substantial and grounded as they pressed against the soft furs beneath you.

In your lap rested a half-finished cradle sling, your long fingers, nimble despite the swelling in your joints, working a bone needle through tough fiber, weaving patterns of protective symbols meant to shield your unborn from harm.

A sudden, vicious churn twisted deep in your gut, like molten rock surging through your core, ripping a sharp hiss from your lips as you dropped the needle, both hands flying to cradle the underside of your abdomen. Pain bloomed hot and unrelenting, a contraction that locked your muscles and stole your breath, your silver eyes widening in shock.

"Miles, the fucking baby." You gasped, voice strained and edged with urgency, teeth bared in a grimace as another wave clenched tighter, forcing your spine to arch against the bench.

Miles spun around in an instant, the wooden spoon clattering from his grip into the fire, sparks flaring up as he scrambled to your side on his knees, his face paling beneath the blue hue, yellow eyes wide with raw panic. His hands hovered uncertainly before settling on your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tense knots there, his breath coming in short bursts.

"I told you we should have gone to Awa'atlu. Your due date is near, darlin'." He said, voice thick with worry, laced with that soldier's edge of "I-knew-it" frustration, his gaze darting to your belly as if assessing a battlefield wound.

You snarled through the pain, a feral sound that vibrated in your chest, one hand clamping down on his wrist with bruising force while the other dug into the firm dome of your stomach, nails scraping lightly over the skin as you rode the contraction.

"Shut up." You bit out, silver eyes flashing with defiant fire, sweat beading along your hairline and trickling down the graceful line of your temple. "You're gonna deliver our baby. Now."

He swallowed hard, the Adam's apple in his throat bobbing visibly, before nodding with a mix of resolve and fear, his free hand already gathering clean cloths and a basin of warmed water from the nearby shelf.

"Fuck okay." He muttered, voice rough but steadying, positioning himself between your legs as you shifted to recline against piled furs, your legs parting instinctively, the muscles in your calves tightening with each labored breath.

The labor intensified swiftly, waves crashing over you in immense pain, each push a guttural cry from your throat, your body slick with effort, breasts heaving with the strain, the areolas darkened and prominent against the fuller swell of your chest.

"Breathe baby, push on the next one." Miles' instructions came in clipped, encouraging bursts, his hands steady despite the tremor in them, guiding the emergence with a gentleness born of necessity.

The air filled with the primal symphony of your grunts and his reassurances, the fire's glow casting dramatic shadows over your straining form, the way your abs contracted visibly beneath the gray skin, your tail thrashing against the floor in agitation.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of fire and flood, a piercing cry shattered the tension, a tiny, lusty wail that echoed off the stone walls. Your son entered the world, slick and squirming, his light gray skin mirroring yours in its ashen elegance, but his eyes, those striking yellow orbs wide and alert, were unmistakably Miles.

Miles' breath hitched, tears welling unbidden in those yellow depths as he cradled the infant with reverent care, severing the cord with a sharpened dagger and wrapping him in a soft cloth, his massive hands dwarfing the fragile form.

"He's... he's perfect." He whispered, voice cracking with overwhelming emotion, a single tear tracing down his scarred cheek as he looked from the baby to you, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

He brought your son closer, nestling him into the crook of your arm, and you gathered him close, your exhaustion melting into awe as you traced the delicate contours of his face. The tiny button nose, the soft fuzz of black hair already sprouting at his crown. The baby yawned sleepily, a minuscule stretch that revealed pink gums, his small fists clenching as he rooted instinctively against your skin.

"Look at you, little warrior." You murmured, voice husky from the ordeal, a tender smile softening the sharp edges of your lips.

Miles leaned in, his forehead pressing to yours, one arm encircling your shoulders as he watched you both.

"What'll his name be?" He asked softly, yellow eyes shimmering with unshed tears, his thumb brushing a damp strand from your forehead.

For Miles, there was a different feeling when he is present in the birth of his own child unlike what happened with Spider.

You grinned, a fierce, joyful curve that lit your silver gaze, cooing down at the bundle as he latched briefly before dozing off.

"Akxa." You declared, the name rolling off your tongue like a sacred vow, evoking the unyielding ash of your clan's legacy.

Miles' response was a deep, contented hum, his lips pressing a fervent kiss to your forehead, lingering there as he drew you both into his embrace, the three of you a tangled knot of warmth amid the cooling embers of the fire.

Weeks blurred into a haze of new rhythms, the volcanic mists rolling thicker in the mornings as your body reclaimed its strength, curves softening into a post-birth grace, your waist nipping back in while your breasts grew lush and weighted, veins tracing faint blue paths beneath the gray skin, nipples sensitive and darkened from Akxa's frequent feeds.

One such afternoon, sunlight filtering through vine-woven screens in golden shafts, you reclined on a sun-warmed platform of layered furs, Akxa latched securely to one breast, his tiny mouth working with rhythmic pulls as he feeds. Your hair spilled unbound in silvery waves across the cushions, catching the light like threads of moonlight, while your legs stretched languidly, toes curling into the plush texture, the subtle ache of recovery a distant memory.

Miles sat across from you, his posture relaxed yet attentive, yellow eyes fixed on the scene with unabashed adoration.

The way your skin glowed with that inner radiance of motherhood, a subtle luminescence that made you seem ethereal, almost divine. His gaze dipped inevitably to the full, heavy swell of your breasts, one partially exposed as Akxa nursed, the curve generous and inviting, milk beading at the tip.

He bit his lower lip, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, slow and heated, his body responding with a visible tension in his thighs, the fabric of his loincloth shifting slightly.

You felt the weight of his stare like a physical caress, lifting your head to meet it, silver eyes narrowing playfully even as Akxa suckled contentedly, his small hand splayed across your ribcage.

"What?" You asked, voice a low, teasing lilt, one eyebrow arching as you adjusted your hold on your son, drawing him nearer to your warmth.

Miles grinned wider, gaze unwavering and smoldering, leaning forward on his elbows, the muscles in his forearms cording as he propped himself up.

"What? Can't I look at my beautiful mate?" He replied, tone rich with desire and pride, yellow eyes tracing the elegant arch of your collarbone down to where your free hand rested protectively on Akxa's back.

A seductive smile curved your lips, slow and knowing, as you hugged your son closer, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your chest.

"You look like you're thinking of making another Akxa." You purred, voice husky with invitation, your tail flicking lazily to brush against his knee.

His grin turned wolfish, a chuckle rumbling from his chest as he rose fluidly, closing the distance in two strides to kneel beside you, his arms enveloping you both in a gentle cage of strength, one hand cupping the nape of your neck while the other splayed across your thigh.

"I want a big family, darlin'." He murmured against your ear, breath hot and promising, lips grazing the sensitive shell.

You cooed softly, a pleased sound that vibrated in your throat, turning your head to press open-mouthed kisses along the sharp line of his jaw, preening under his touch, your body arching subtly into him despite the nursing babe.

In the days that followed, Miles proved himself a father forged in the fires of devotion, rising before dawn to cradle Akxa against his chest, rocking him through fussy spells with hummed lullabies, rough-edged tunes from his human past twisted into Na'vi cadence while you snatched precious hours of sleep, your body curling into the furs without the constant tug of vigilance. He'd swaddle the infant in fresh linens scented with calming herbs, his large hands surprisingly deft as he changed him, yellow eyes softening to liquid gold whenever Akxa's gaze met his.

For you, he pampered with quiet intensity, drawing baths in the nearby hot spring, the steam rising like volcanic breath as he massaged the lingering knots from your shoulders, fingers kneading deep into the plush give of your back. Preparing nutrient-rich meals of soft fruits and roasted nuts, feeding you bites with a teasing fork of wood, his thumb wiping juice from your lower lip. Even braiding your white hair with fresh beads, his touch lingering at the base of your skull, sending shivers down your spine as he recounts the braiding instructions you gave him.

You watched them often from your vantage on the platform, a lazy smirk playing on your lips as Akxa gurgled in Miles' arms, the boy's light gray skin contrasting beautifully against his father's blue, tiny fingers grasping at the necklace you'd woven for Miles months ago, the beads glinting like stars.

Miles bounced him gently, making silly faces you wouldn’t catch him doing on a normal day that drew peals of laughter, his own features alight with a joy that erased the shadows of his past wars.

"That's my boy." He'd murmur proudly, pressing a kiss to Akxa's forehead, the scene stirring a warmth in your chest that bloomed into something fierce and protective.

One evening, as the fire crackled anew and Akxa dozed in a sling across Miles' chest, he leaned down to capture your lips in a deep, lingering kiss, tasting of shared meals and unspoken futures, his free hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head just so, drawing a soft sigh from you as you melted into it.

Pulling back slightly, his breath mingling with yours, he grinned.

"Spider's gonna lose his mind when he meets his new baby brother, that kid's been hounding me for updates." He said, voice warm with anticipation, yellow eyes sparkling as he adjusted the sling, Akxa's soft snores punctuating the moment.

You chuckled, tracing a finger along the intricate scars on his arm, your touch light and affectionate. "That strange kid better be thrilled, another little warrior running around."

Miles smirked then, his gaze turning mischievous as it locked onto yours, one eyebrow quirking.

"Neytiri will finally get a break from you, woman." He teased, the words laced with playful triumph, knowing full well the barbs you'd traded during your visits.

A gleeful giggle escaped you, light and unrepentant, as visions of the blue bitch's exasperated hisses during your pregnancy cravings flooded your mind, the way she'd grudgingly fetched rare fruits or endured your demands with rolled eyes and sharp retorts.

You really did make her suffer for months and that's enough for you to smile in content. You liked making her miserable.

"Ehh, she'll live." You replied airily, silver eyes dancing with wicked delight, leaning up to nip at his earlobe as Akxa stirred contentedly between you.

~

The bioluminescent glow of Awa'atlu's underwater tendrils cast an ethereal blue shimmer across the lagoon as your ikran, sleek wings slicing through the humid air, descended toward the floating village. The Metkayina's maruis bobbed gently on the waves, woven from iridescent shells and kelp fibers that caught the fading light like scattered jewels.

Your body, still adapting to the demands of motherhood, moved with a renewed fluidity, your frame leaner now but carrying the soft, voluptuous remnants of birth, hips swaying with an innate sensuality as you dismounted from Cupcake, feet padding softly onto the woven platform as Miles steadies you.

Akxa, cradled securely in the sling against your chest, stirred faintly, his tiny chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm, those inherited yellow eyes fluttering shut in contentment. You appreciated his silence, loud children grated on your nerves like ill-tuned ikran cries, but your son was a serene presence, his light gray skin warm against yours, a perfect blend of your ash-kissed heritage and Miles' unyielding gaze.

Spider's hut came into view first, the young human's lanky form emerging from the entrance with eager steps, his mask fogging slightly from excitement as he spotted you.

"(Y/N)! You’re back!" He called, voice pitching high with boyish thrill, hands waving as he jogged closer, eyes locking onto the bundle at your breast. His freckled face split into a wide grin, curiosity and affection mingling in his wide eyes.

You inclined your head, a small smile tugging at your full lips, painted a subtle crimson from the berries you'd crushed earlier while your white hair, twisted into loose coils adorned with pretty stones, cascaded over one shoulder, brushing the curve of your collarbone.

"Of course, strange kid." You replied, tone laced with affectionate mockery, silver eyes scanning him appraisingly. "Akxa wanted to see his brother."

You shifted the sling slightly, revealing the baby's peaceful face, his minuscule ears twitching at the sound of voices.

Spider's excitement bubbled over as he reached out tentatively, fingers hovering. "Can I... hold him? Please?"

His voice trembled with hopeful plea, body leaning forward.

You eyed him for a moment, assessing, then nodded, carefully unfastening the sling with deft fingers that spoke of warrior precision now turned tender.

"Kneel." You instructed firmly, voice brooking no argument, watching as he dropped to his knees on the damp platform, palms upturned. You placed Akxa into his arms with deliberate slowness, guiding his hold, one hand under the head, the other supporting the back, your own lithe fingers lingering to adjust. "Support his neck like this. He's not a hexapede pup to be tossed around."

Your words carried a sharp edge, but your gaze softened as Akxa nestled against Spider's chest without fuss, the baby's small hand curling around a fold of fabric.

Spider beamed, cradling him close, rocking gently as he cooed. "Hey, little guy. I'm your big bro."

The sight stirred something warm in your chest, a rare flicker of ease amid the constant vigilance of your world.

Miles follows beside you then as he had to tend to Cupcake, who’s ever loyal, folding her wings with a contented trill. He approached with that confident stride, blue skin glistening from the flight's humidity, his braided queue swaying against the defined ridges of his back. His yellow eyes, sharp and knowing, flicked from Spider to you, a playful glint igniting as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. The heat of his body seeped through your scant coverings, a familiar anchor.

"Look at that, family reunion." He murmured, voice low and teasing, lips brushing your ear.

You leaned into him subtly, inhaling the earthy scent of his skin mingled with wind and salt, but your focus remained on Akxa.

"He's fine." You said, though your tail flicked with lingering caution.

Miles' hand slid lower, thumb tracing idle circles on your hip bone, the touch igniting a subtle spark.

"Why don't we let the kid babysit for a bit? Give us some time." He suggested, tone husky with suggestion, yellow eyes darkening as they roamed your form, the way your breasts strained against the dampening fabric of your top, heavy with milk, the subtle curve of your abdomen still soft from nurturing life.

A hiss escaped your lips, sharp and instinctive, silver eyes narrowing as you shot him a glare, body tensing under his hold.

"Absolutely not. He's too fragile for your reckless ideas." Your voice snapped like a vine under tension, but beneath it, a traitorous ache bloomed, you'd missed this, the stolen moments where the world faded.

He grinned unrepentantly, undeterred, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, lips lingering on the smooth expanse of gray skin, warm and insistent.

"C'mon, baby, I missed you." He whispered, breath fanning hot against your neck, the words laced with raw longing that mirrored your own suppressed desire.

Your glare faltered, heat rising in your cheeks as you felt the same pull, the weeks of interrupted nights weighing heavy. With a reluctant sigh, you turned back to Spider, who was still murmuring to Akxa, oblivious. Forcing a sweet smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, you stepped closer.

"Take care of Akxa, strange kid. If I see even a scratch on him…" Your voice dropped to a silken threat, silver eyes boring into his, promising volcanic fury.

Spider gulped audibly, Adam's apple bobbing, but nodded vigorously, clutching Akxa a fraction tighter.

"I-I promise! I'll be careful. I’ll protect him with my whole life." His voice quavered with nervous determination, eyes wide.

You patted his head approvingly, fingers ruffling his wild curls. "Good."

Satisfaction curled in your gut at his compliance.

Miles clapped Spider on the shoulder, his grip firm but paternal. "Find us right away if there's any problem, yeah? No heroics."

His tone shifted to serious command, yellow eyes locking with his son's until Spider nodded again, then turned, bouncing lightly on his heels as he headed off, Akxa in tow, chattering about introducing him to Sully’s kids.

You watched them go, a knot of unease loosening only slightly, before Miles' hand found yours, tugging you toward the denser fringes of the mangroves.

"Trust me, darlin'. He's got this." His voice was a soothing rumble, pulling you along winding paths where the foliage thickened, roots twisting like ancient serpents into the water.

The secluded spot he led you to was a hidden cove, shielded by overhanging fronds and lapped by gentle waves, the air thick with the perfume of night-blooming flowers.

Sunlight dappled through the leaves, highlighting the elegant lines of your face and the plush curve of your mouth as Miles turned to you, gaze awestruck, tracing the cascade of your white hair that framed your features like a halo of frost. His eyes dipped lower, lingering on the heavy swell of your breasts, the thin top clinging transparently where milk had begun to leak, dark spots blooming against the fabric, outlining the pert peaks of your nipples.

A visible shudder ran through him, his loincloth tenting as arousal surged, cock hardening at the primal sight of your motherhood's bounty.

He closed the distance in a heartbeat, capturing your lips in a deep, devouring kiss, tongue delving past your parted teeth to swirl against yours, tasting the faint sweetness of fruit on your breath. You moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating between you, body yielding as his hands, rough and calloused from hunts, manhandled your lithe curvaceous form onto his lap. He gripped your hips with possessive force, fingers digging into the plush flesh, positioning you to straddle him on the soft mossy bank.

A mean, teasing giggle bubbled from your throat as you ground down, your soaked pussy pressing against the rigid bulge straining his loincloth, the friction igniting sparks along your sensitive folds, slickness seeping through the barrier. Your thighs clenched around his waist, muscles flexing with controlled power, silver eyes gleaming with wicked intent.

Miles growled huskily, the sound primal and edged with need, his large hands sliding up to palm and squeeze your full, aching tits, thumbs circling the damp fabric over your nipples.

"Eager, ma'muntxa?" He rasped, voice thick with lust, before his hot mouth latched onto the tender skin of your neck, sucking bruises that bloomed like volcanic blooms, teeth grazing the pulse point. He confessed breathlessly against your skin, words tumbling out in a heated rush. "I’ve been thinking about this lately. Your tits leaking milk. I’m almost jealous of our son."

His yellow eyes burned with unfiltered desire, breath ragged as he inhaled your scent, musk and milk and wild ash.

With careful reverence, he peeled off your top, the fabric whispering away to reveal your swollen, pretty breasts, milk beading from the darkened nipples, creamy droplets tracing lazy paths down the gentle slopes of azure-tinged gray skin. His arousal spiked visibly, cock twitching beneath you, as he bent down, tongue lapping at the leaking essence, groaning at the sweet, warm taste that coated his palate like nectar.

"My woman has such the prettiest tits." He murmured, voice muffled against your flesh, lips sealing around one nipple to suckle gently, drawing forth more of the liquid while his hand kneaded the other, coaxing beads to spill over his fingers.

You moaned softly, head tipping back, white coils of hair spilling across your shoulders like spilled moonlight, as pleasure tingled from your chest straight to your core. His free hand guided your wide hips to rock back and forth over his throbbing erection, the squelching sounds of your drenched pussy rubbing against the clothed length filling the humid air, arousal soaking through to darken the material.

Desperation clawed at you, a whimper escaping as you clutched his shoulders, nails biting into the firm muscle.

"Miles… more." You pleaded, voice husky and demanding, silver eyes hooded with need.

He chuckled darkly, the vibration rumbling through his chest, nipping your lower lip sharply before forcing you to maintain the grind, hips bucking up to meet your movements.

"Missed being stuffed full of my cock, baby?" He taunted, yellow eyes locked on yours, challenging.

You mewled in response admitting filthily, your voice a sultry rasp true to your unapologetically dirty nature, the words hung heavy between you like a vow. "I miss you filling me up."

His hands kneaded your soft, heavy boobs roughly, eliciting gasps as milk squirted lightly from the pressure, while his mouth claimed yours in breathless, devouring kisses, tongues tangling in a messy dance that left you gasping, air shared in frantic pants. You humped against him desperately, clit throbbing against the friction, chasing the building heat.

Pulling back with a wet pop, he licked a slow, wet stripe from your left nipple, tracing the underside's curve, up along your collarbone's elegant ridge, to the sharp angle of your jawline, savoring the salt of your skin mingled with the faint ash of your heritage. The path left a glistening trail, cooling in the breeze.

Gently, he laid you down on the soft moss, the verdant cushion yielding under your back, spreading your toned legs wide with firm hands on your knees. Your inner thighs glistened with arousal, muscles quivering in anticipation as he exposed you, his gaze predatory, yellow eyes devouring the sight of your heaving chest and parted limbs.

He leaned in, tongue rasping along your inner thigh, the rough texture teasing the sensitive flesh, building tension until he bit down, teeth sinking just enough to mark, the sharp pain blooming into molten heat that made you arch, a snarl of pleasure ripping from your throat. The musky scent of your arousal enveloped him, intoxicating, as you moaned and snarled playfully at his tease, tail thrashing against the moss.

Grinning wickedly from between your thighs, his breath ghosting over your core, he licked over your loincloth, the fabric a frustrating barrier that had you bucking up impatiently.

You hissed sharply, silver eyes flashing with irritation. "Do it properly or I’ll gut you where you sit."

The threat was half-serious, voice edged with feral demand.

He chuckled low, a throaty sound that vibrated the air, winking up at you before untying the knot with deft fingers, the cloth falling away to reveal your sopping, pretty pussy. Swollen lips parted invitingly, slick coating the delicate folds and dripping down to your entrance, pooling on the moss.

"All this for me, darlin’? Such a pretty pussy." He groaned appreciatively, voice rough before diving in, tongue licking teasingly around the outer lips, skirting away your throbbing clit as you glared down, frustration mounting.

Just as a snarl built in your chest, his lips enclosed your clit, sucking with firm pressure while his tongue flicked rapid circles, sending jolts of ecstasy racing up your spine. Your back arched off the moss, a loud moan spilling free, hands flying to fist his braided hair, pulling him closer.

He lapped at your pussy like a starving man, devouring your juices with hungry, slurping sounds, the vibrations of his groans humming directly against your core, amplifying the pleasure. Sliding two thick fingers into your tight, clenching hole, he pumped them steadily, curling to hit that sensitive spot inside while his mouth worked your clit relentlessly, savoring the tangy sweetness that flooded his senses.

You moaned wildly, hips humping his face in abandon, pleasure coiling tight as waves built, he hummed in satisfaction, the sound rumbling through you like an earthquake. He continued the assault of licking, sucking, finger-fucking until your orgasm crashed over you, walls fluttering and gushing around his digits. He licked every drop clean with reverent, broad swipes, not wasting a bit.

"Ready for my cock, baby?" Panting, he rose slightly, yellow eyes blazing as he asks while freeing his massive, thick cock from his loincloth, veins pulsing along the girthy length, the broad head flushed and leaking precum that beaded at the slit.

He teased you mercilessly, sliding the hot length back and forth over your wet clit, the slick friction making you moan and writhe, hips chasing the pressure.

Impatience surged, and you demanded, voice a desperate growl. "Put it inside or so help me, Miles."

He grinned, triumphant, and pushed in inch by inch, the stretch burning deliciously as your tight walls accommodated his girth, gripping like a vice.

"Fuck, you feel so good. You’re choking my cock." He groaned, voice strained, watching your face contort in pleasure as he bottomed out, the bulge of him visible in your lower abdomen.

Once fully sheathed, filling you to the hilt, he leaned down for a rough, claiming kiss, tongue mimicking the thrust to come, then snapped his hips hard, making you yelp into his mouth, the force jolting through your core.

He pulled back, eyes fixed on where his cock disappeared into your slick heat with each withdrawal and plunge, the obscene sight of your pussy lips clinging to him, arousal coating his shaft drawing hisses of pleasure from both of you. You clenched at the visual of your stomach bulging with every deep thrust, the pressure hitting nerves that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

His hand shot to your cheeks, mushing your full lips open with firm pressure, and he spat into your mouth, the degrading act hot and filthy, commanding roughly. "Swallow."

You did, the taste of him mingling with your own, fueling the fire as arousal spiked higher.

The wet squelches and skin-slapping echoes intensified, the cove filled with your shared symphony of moans and grunts. Suddenly, he gripped your neural queue, the sensitive tendrils quivering, and connected it to his in a deep tsaheylu bond, the surge of shared sensations hitting like lightning, every thrust amplified through the link, pleasure doubling, tripling, as you felt his ecstasy echo yours. It overwhelmed you, vision going white from the neural overload, bodies slick with sweat as he pistoned mercilessly, hips snapping with brutal precision.

Sweat dripped from his chiseled abs, tracing rivulets down his scarred, muscular torso, pooling in the valleys of his hips as he drove his thick cock into your warm, welcoming heat, grinning ferally at how he'd reduced his fierce mate to whining, desperate submission.

Your sharp nails raked red trails down his bulging biceps, marking him as yours, the pain spurring him on as he leaned in to suck fresh hickeys along your elegant neck, teeth grazing the tendon there. You kissed messily, moaning into each other's mouths, tongues sloppy and urgent, climax building like a tidal wave.

Yours crashed first, a keening cry tearing from your throat as walls convulsed around him, milking his length and he followed with a guttural roar, spilling hot seed deep inside, the warmth flooding you in pulses that the tsaheylu made you feel twice over.

In the afterglow, he gently brushed stray, damp tendrils from your flushed face, fingers tender now, kissing you softly, lips lingering with sated affection.

"I’m one lucky man, aren’t I?" He murmured, voice rough but warm, yellow eyes soft as they traced your features.

You smirked slyly, energy already stirring anew, nipping his strong jaw playfully before trailing your hand down to stroke his still-hard cock, fingers wrapping around the slick length with teasing firmness, signaling your hunger for another round.