#xmalereader

​What had he done to deserve this?

​Before the academy, before the nightmare of Raccoon City—hell, even after the world fell apart a dozen times over—what had he done to earn a grace like you? In a world choked by the rot of Umbrella and the shadows of corrupt men, Leon Kennedy had somehow stumbled into your life. He didn't think he deserved you. In his own mind, he was still just a rookie cop who’d had to grow up in a single, blood-soaked night. And you? You were a legend, a pillar of S.T.A.R.S. who had survived the Arklay Mountains only to spend your fifties tethered to Chris Redfield’s relentless, exhausting crusade to fix a broken world.

​Leon never expected a forever. It was never supposed to be more than a lingering, sideways glance in a dimly lit bar while Chris talked shop. It wasn't supposed to end in a quiet ceremony, or the secret thrill he felt every time someone called you Mr. Kennedy just to see the smirk play on your aging, handsome face.

​And yet, as the infection tore through his nervous system, his mind didn't go to the mission. It went to you. Your voice was the only thing cutting through the white noise of the virus; your smile was the only image that wouldn't dissolve into the blur. You were his anchor. Even as his muscles seized and his mind screamed for the mercy of unconsciousness, the thought of coming home to you kept his heart beating.

​But the reality was a cold, hard floor. His body was a cage of fire and ice, twitching violently as the antidote warred with the parasite.

​“Can't believe you're heading out again,” you murmured in the golden light of the memory. The bedsheets were tangled around your legs, and the scent of cedar and old coffee hung in the air. “I finally get a week off, and they decide they can't breathe without you.”

​Leon huffed a dry laugh, his lips pressing firmly against your weathered knuckles as he lay draped across you. “Gonna miss me, old man?” he whispered against your skin. He knew the answer, but he needed the vibration of your voice to steady him.

​You leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his messy brown hair. Leon let out a long, shaky breath, melting into the heat of your chest. “Of course,” you said softly, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “I always do. Just….come back in one piece this time. I'm too old to be a widower, Leon.”

​Leon closed his eyes, tilting his head up until his lips met yours in a promise he intended to keep.

​Then, the world shattered.

​His back arched off the freezing ground, a choked gasp tearing from his throat as he shouted your name into the empty air. His eyes snapped open, stinging and bloodshot. There was no warm bed. No hand in his hair. The taste of you was replaced by the copper tang of blood and a sterile chemical stench.

​His left hand flew to his chest, searching for the silver band he’d worn for years. His finger felt unnervingly light. The ring was gone—likely stripped away during the chaos or lost in the dirt. The silence of the room was deafening, a requiem for a man who had everything to lose and was currently losing it all.

Leon’s lungs burned, each breath a jagged shard of glass as the last of the infection was purged from his veins. The silence that followed the chaos was deafening—the monster was dead, Victor Gideon was a memory, and Grace was finally safe.

​None of that mattered.

​His vision was a blurred mess of gray and red, but his hand was already moving, clawing at the dirt and the debris. His fingers felt wrong. They felt lighter, colder, stripped of the one thing that grounded him to his humanity.

​"No….no, no, no," he rasped, his voice a broken shell of its former self. He dragged his body across the floor, his knees scraping against the jagged concrete. "Not this. Not now."

​His mind was a whirlwind of panic. He had survived Raccoon City, the Plagas, and the fall of governments, but the thought of losing that simple silver band felt like the final, killing blow. It was the only piece of you he had brought into this hellhole. It was the promise of a quiet house, the scent of cedar, and your hand in his hair when the nightmares got too loud.

​"I’m coming back," he hissed through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into a pile of ash and spent shell casings. "I promised. I told you….I told you I'd come back."

​He was rambling now, a feverish mumble that only he could hear. To any observer, he looked like a broken man searching for a scrap of refuse, but to Leon, he was searching for his soul. He didn't care that his gear was shredded or that his ribs felt like they were held together by the thinnest of threads.

​"Can't lose it. Please, just….not this."

​He pushed aside a heavy piece of fallen rebar, his breath hitching. There, half-buried in the soot and the dark, damp earth of the crater, was a glint of silver. It was dull, coated in a layer of grime, but it caught the flickering emergency light of the facility.

​Leon’s hand shook so violently he almost knocked it further into the debris. He lunged for it, his fingers closing around the cold metal with a desperation that bordered on holy. He didn't just pick it up; he cradled it against his palm, bringing it to his lips as a sob he’d been holding back since the mission started finally threatened to break through.

​He wiped the dirt off with a trembling thumb, the familiar weight of it centers him. He didn't think about the global implications of all of this. He didn't think about the debriefing or the scars this night would leave. He only thought about the way you looked in the morning light, and how he wasn't going to let that be a memory.

​With a grunt of agony, he forced himself to his feet. His legs felt like lead, but he slid the ring back onto his finger. It was a perfect fit—a constant, solid reminder of the man waiting for him. He adjusted it, twisting it once, twice, until it sat exactly where it belonged.

​"See you soon," he whispered, his eyes hardening as he looked toward the exit. "I'm coming home.”

The silence of the house was its own kind of weight. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a cold night; it was the hollow, ringing silence of an empty nest that was never meant to be this still.

You sat at your mahogany desk, the green shaded lamp casting a warm, localized glow over a sea of chaos. Your home office had become a secondary branch of the BSAA in all but name. Scattered across the blotter were thick manila folders and grainy satellite captures—reports Chris had unofficially slid your way. He valued your eyes, the eyes of a S.T.A.R.S. veteran who had seen the world break before the rest of the public even knew it was cracked. But tonight, the analysis of bio-organic weapon dispersal patterns in Eastern Europe felt like trying to read a dead language.

Your mind was miles away, buried in the dark soil of whatever godforsaken corner of the globe Leon was currently haunting.

You knew better than most what he was capable of. You’d seen him survive things that would have leveled a small army, but that didn't stop the creeping dread. You knew how Raccoon City had carved him out, leaving a hollow space that he’d spent years trying to fill with duty. Your greatest fear wasn't that Leon wouldn't be able to handle the job—it was that one day, the job would simply decide it was finished with him, and you’d be the last to know. You’d be sitting right here, analyzing a report for Chris, while your world ended in a silent, classified file on someone else's desk.

Letting out a heavy, jagged sigh, you scrubbed a hand down your face. Your palms felt rough, the skin dry from years of handling firearms and paperwork. Your fingers brushed against the grit of stubble on your jaw—a silvered, unruly growth you hadn't bothered to trim since Leon left.

"Get it together," you muttered to the empty room. Your voice sounded gravelly, older than you felt like admitting.

With a grunt of effort, you pushed back from the desk, the wheels of the chair groaning against the hardwood. You began the ritual of tidying up, stacking the BSAA reports into a neat, categorized pile. It was a habit from the old days—leave your station ready for the next shift. You clicked the desk lamp off, plunging the room into a shadowy twilight, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds.

As you moved through the hallway, the muscle memory of your life together took over. For a fleeting, heart-stuttering second, you expected to see a shadow move in the kitchen, or to feel a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind. You could almost smell him—gunpowder, expensive cologne, and the faint, metallic scent of rain. But when you turned the corner, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.

He wasn't there.

You shook your head, a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. You were too old for ghost stories, especially the ones you told yourself.

Stripping off your flannel shirt and undershirt as you walked, you let them fall onto the armchair in the bedroom, followed by your belt and trousers. You stepped into the en suite bathroom, the tile cold beneath your feet. The fluorescent light hummed to life, bright and unforgiving.

You leaned against the marble counter, staring at the man in the mirror.

You looked at the silver ring on your left hand first. It was scratched, the metal dulled by decades of life, but it was the most solid thing in the room. Then, you looked up. The light caught the deep salt-and-pepper of your hair, more salt than pepper these days. The wrinkles at the corners of your eyes were deep—laugh lines earned from rare, genuine smiles, and worry lines earned from every time Leon walked out the front door. Your face was a map of a long, hard-fought life. You weren't the young S.T.A.R.S. operative anymore; you were a man in his fifties who just wanted his husband home.

You shook your head again, dismissing the melancholy before it could take root. Turning away from your reflection, you reached into the walk-in shower and twisted the handle. The pipes groaned, a familiar shudder running through the wall, before the spray began to hiss against the stone floor. Steam started to rise, blurring the edges of the room, and for a moment, you just stood there, watching the water swirl down the drain.

The quiet click of the front door’s latch was a sound Leon had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times over the last forty-eight hours. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The house breathed with a familiar, lived-in warmth that made the sterile, metallic tang of the lab feel like a bad dream he’d finally woken up from.

He moved like a ghost through the foyer, his movements heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could touch. His tactical boots, caked in the dried mud and grime of a nightmare, were set by the door with a dull thud. He didn't bother unlacing them properly; he just kicked them off, his socks padding softly against the hardwood. His jacket followed, hitting the floor with the muffled thud.

He knew exactly where you were. The low, rhythmic hum of the pipes vibrating through the floorboards told him everything. It was your ritual—the late-night shower to wash away the phantom weight of BSAA casualty reports and the stress of waiting for a phone call that might never come.

Leon moved into the bedroom, his silhouette a jagged shadow against the moonlight. He stripped with a mechanical efficiency, his hands trembling slightly as he unbuckled his holster. His pants and boxers pooled on the faded rug in front of the bed—the one you’d bought together because it reminded you of a proper home—and he left them there.

He stepped into the bathroom, the air thick and heavy with steam that smelled of your sandalwood soap. The humidity clung to his skin, pulling the chill of the outside world from his pores.

Before he reached for the shower door, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

The fog had started to claim the glass, but he saw enough. He looked at the man staring back—a man who had survived, but looked like he’d been dragged through the gears of it. There was a jagged cut along his cheekbone, held together by dried, copper-colored blood. Bruises the color of spoiled plums were blooming across his ribs and shoulders. But it was his face that held his gaze. He saw the gray stubble dusting his jaw, thicker now, and the stark, silver strands peeking through the weary brown of his hair. He was aging. They were both aging, the years stolen by a world that never stopped needing them to bleed for it.

Then, his eyes dropped to his hand. The silver ring sat firmly on his finger, gleaming even through the grime. He twisted it once, a grounding habit, before his gaze drifted past his own reflection.

Through the frosted, foggy glass of the sliding shower door, he saw you.

You were a blurred, familiar silhouette in the spray, your head bowed under the rush of the water. Even through the steam, he could see the strength in your shoulders—the build of a man who had carried a familiar weight and survived. You were standing there, unaware that the ghost you’d been mourning had finally come home.

Leon didn't say a word. He didn't want to break the silence yet. He just stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving with a sudden, sharp intake of air, fixated on the sight of you. To him, you weren't just a man in a shower; you were the end of the road. You were the reason he’d clawed his way out of the dirt.

Slowly, his hand reached out, his fingers pressing against the warm, wet glass, leaving a clear streak in the fog as he prepared to let you know he was back.

The sliding door creaked on its track, a low, metallic groan that cut through the steady drumming of the water. You didn't even have time to turn your head before the sudden draft of cool bathroom air hit your wet skin, quickly replaced by the heat of a body stepping into the stall behind you.

The steam swirled, momentarily clearing as Leon stepped into the spray.

The first thing you felt wasn't his touch, but his weight—the sheer, solid presence of him suddenly occupying the small space. Then came his hands. They were cold at first, a stark contrast to the scalding water, as he pressed his palms flat against your shoulder blades. You felt a shudder ripple through him the moment his skin made contact with yours. It was the touch of a man who had spent days wondering if he’d ever feel another human being again.

He didn't say a word. He just leaned forward, his forehead dropping heavily against the space between your shoulder blades. His breath hitched, a jagged, wet sound that was swallowed by the splash of the shower.

"Leon?" you breathed, your voice cracking. You started to turn, but his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your shoulders, not out of aggression, but out of a desperate need to keep you right there.

"Just….a second," he rasped. His voice was a wreck—gritty, raw, and exhausted. "Just let me stay like this for a second."

You stood still, the water cascading over both of you. You could feel the grime of the world washing off him and onto you. The water at your feet turned a murky, tea-colored brown as the dust, soot, and dried blood from the facility began to melt away. He smelled like ozone, wet earth, and the metallic tang of an oncoming storm, but beneath all of that was the scent you knew by heart—the faint, lingering musk of his skin.

Slowly, he began to move. His hands slid down your arms, his fingers interlaced with yours, and that was when you felt it—the cold, hard press of his silver ring against the back of your hand. You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the day he left.

Leon finally pulled back just enough to let you turn around. When you faced him, the sight nearly broke your heart. The water was slicking his hair back, revealing every new line of exhaustion on his face. The cut on his cheek was weeping a faint pink under the spray, and his eyes were bloodshot, framed by dark circles that looked like bruises.

He looked at you with an intensity that was almost painful. His gaze traced the graying hair at your temples and the laugh lines around your mouth, his eyes softening with a reverence that bordered on worship. To him, you weren't an aging veteran; you were the only beautiful thing left in a world of monsters.

"You're late," you whispered, your hands coming up to cup his face. Your thumbs brushed over the gray stubble on his jaw, feeling the prickle of life beneath your touch.

Leon let out a broken, huffed laugh, his eyes closing as he leaned into your palms. "It.was….complicated."

"I thought...." You stopped, the words catching in your throat. You didn't need to finish.

"I know," he murmured. He stepped closer, closing the final inch of space between you until your chests were pressed together, the water trapped between you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in so tight it was hard to breathe, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I promised I'd see you soon. I wasn't going to break that. Not for anyone."

He was shaking now—the post-adrenaline crash finally hitting him in the safety of your arms. You held him, your fingers threading through his wet hair, shielding him from the rest of the world.

Leon didn't move. He stayed anchored against you, his weight heavy and honest, his damp forehead resting against your collarbone. You could feel the tremors running through his muscles—the slow, rhythmic aftershocks of a body that had been pushed past its breaking point and was only now realizing it was safe to collapse.

​Gently, you reached for the bottle of soap, the familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood rising with the steam. You didn't ask him where it hurt; you already knew. You could see the map of his pain written in the dark blooms of purple along his ribs and the jagged, angry red of the laceration on his cheek.

​You poured the soap into your palms, lashing it into a thick, white foam before you began.

​The silence between you wasn't empty; it was thick with everything that didn't need to be said. You started with his shoulders, your large, calloused hands moving in slow, grounding circles. You felt the knots of tension under his skin—hard as stone—and as you worked, you felt them slowly begin to give way. The water at your feet was still tinted a murky gray, the filth of the facility swirling down the drain, leaving Leon’s pale, scarred skin behind.

​As you moved your hands down his back, Leon let out a long, shuddering breath. It wasn't a sigh; it was a surrender. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closed tight, his hands coming up to grip your forearms as if to make sure you were still solid, still there.

​You were meticulous. You cleaned the soot from the nape of his neck and the dried blood from the shell of his ear. When you reached the deep bruise over his ribs, your touch lightened, becoming a ghost of a caress. You saw him flinch, his breath catching in a hiss of pain, and you paused, leaning down to press a lingering, salt-tinged kiss to the top of his wet head.

​I’ve got you, the gesture said. You’re home.

​Leon finally pulled back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes were glassy, reflecting the overhead light, rimmed with a weariness that went bone-deep. He looked small in that moment—not the government’s top agent, not the survivor of a dozen bio-hazards, but simply a man who was tired of fighting.

​He reached out, his trembling fingers taking the soap from you. He didn't wash himself; instead, he began to wash you. His movements were slow, almost reverent, as he ran his hands over your chest and arms. It was his way of checking you, of confirming that while he was gone, the world hadn't touched you. His thumb traced the silver band on your finger, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, his ring clinking softly against yours—a small, metallic heartbeat in the spray.

​The water was starting to run clear now. The grime was gone, but the exhaustion remained, etched into every line of his face.

​You took the showerhead from the wall, turning the spray down and rinsing the last of the suds from his skin. The water smoothed his hair back, revealing the silver at his temples that seemed more pronounced tonight than it had a month ago.

​Leon leaned his head back, letting the water hit his face, his throat working as he swallowed back the emotions he wasn't ready to voice. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at you—truly looked at you—with a raw, unfiltered devotion. He reached out, his wet palm cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your graying stubble.

​Still, neither of you spoke. The hurt was there, hovering in the bruises and the haunted look in his eyes, but the comfort was stronger. It was in the heat of the water, the familiar weight of his wedding band, and the fact that, for the first time in days, his heart rate was finally beginning to match yours.

​You reached over and turned the handle, the sudden silence of the bathroom feeling heavy and holy. The only sound left was the drip-drip-drip of water hitting the tile and the ragged, synchronized breathing of two men who had cheated death one more time.

You stepped out first, grabbing the largest, plushiest towel from the rack and holding it open. Leon stepped into it without a word, his body shivering as the cool air hit his wet skin. You wrapped him up, pulling the fabric tight around his shoulders and rubbing his arms to bring the heat back. He leaned his head against your shoulder, his eyes half-closed, letting you guide him like he was a man walking in his sleep.

The walk to the bedroom was slow. The only light came from the moon spilling across the hardwood, illuminating the trail of discarded gear Leon had left in his wake—a reminder of the man he had to be out there, contrasted against the man he was allowed to be here.

You sat him down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He looked small, wrapped in that white towel, his damp hair sticking up in golden-gray tufts. You stood between his knees, taking a smaller towel to his head, gently drying the strands with a tenderness that made his breath hitch.

"Stay," he whispered, his voice finally finding its vibration. His hands, still clean and smelling of your soap, reached out to circle your waist, pulling you closer until his face was pressed against your stomach.

"I'm not going anywhere, Leon," you murmured, your fingers raking through his hair. "I’m right here."

After a few minutes of quiet, you helped him into a pair of soft cotton lounge pants—the ones he always complained were too loose but wore every time he came home. You climbed into the other side of the bed, the linens cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the grime he’d been caked in.

The moment Leon slid under the covers, he didn't just lie down; he sought you out like a compass needle finding north. He draped himself over you, his heavy head landing on your chest, his arm hooking firmly over your waist as if to anchor you to the mattress. You felt the cold metal of his wedding band press against your skin, a solid promise.

You pulled the heavy duvet up over both of you, tucking it around his shoulders. The house was silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic, slowing thrum of Leon’s heart against your ribs.

"It's quiet," Leon mumbled into your skin, his voice thick with the onset of sleep. "I forgot it could be this quiet."

"That’s because you’re home," you replied softly. You reached down, taking his hand in yours and interlacing your fingers. The two silver rings clicked together, a tiny, domestic sound that felt more significant than any explosion he’d survived.

Leon let out a long, contented sigh, his entire body finally going slack. The tension that had lived in his shoulders since he’d left Raccoon City decades ago seemed to melt into the mattress. He nuzzled closer, his nose brushing against the gray hair on your chest, his breathing deepening into the slow, steady pull of a man who finally felt safe enough to dream.

You lay there in the dark, watching the shadows of the trees dance on the ceiling. You felt the weight of your years—the laugh lines, the gray hair, the old injuries that ached in the rain—but as you looked down at your husband, finally at peace in your arms, you realized you wouldn't trade a single wrinkle. They were the marks of a life lived together, a map of how far you’d both come to reach this bedroom, this bed, this moment.

"I love you, Leon," you whispered, so low you weren't sure he heard it.

The blank, boring white walls of the quickly repurposed room shone brighter as the A-list actor was draped across the old, sandy-brown couch, legs propped on one end. His head was supported on the couch's other arm, careful not to mess up his warm, rich chestnut hair that his hairstylists completed five minutes earlier, though Glen was preoccupied with the device in his hands. His phone covers the beaming light directly above him, brightness tweaked up two levels in compensation, the gallery app open.

Scrolling through an album titled Sweeter than Honey, pictures of you and him - well, mostly you - in tiny squares over the years were both endless and still not enough for the man. There are many side profiles that he snuck of you, you cuddling with Brisket, and some videos you took of yourself reacting to Glen's interviews or him on the Red Carpet in numerous hotel rooms when you two were still not out. But the picture that captured his breath was of you two under the white arch, layered with Asiatic lilies at its climax, blue sapphire orchids descending, the warm orange half-set sun painting the ocean's waiting waters. Tapping on it and enlarging to fill out the not-large-enough screen, he focused on you in your sharp white tuxedo staring back at him in his black tuxedo, just like he did back then, the moment he saw you. His mother had personally taken the photo. It's still his favorite.

"Thirty seconds, Mr. Powell," Annie calls out, entering the actor's room, her heels clanking as she looks down, seemingly distracted by the message she's mid-way through sending. She doesn't wait, the personal assistant turns around, repositioning her purse on her shoulder and pocketing her phone after making sure that the individual she had been texting didn't respond back.

"I'm up. I'm up," Glen says, still fully busy staring at you. He feels sweat beads at his hairline's margin from the spreading warm affection ignited from the thought of having you as his husband. How you've been with him as close friends before his breakout role, during the few years when you were secretly dating, your engagement four years ago, wedding nearly three years ago, and even more recently, two years ago, when he abruptly dropped during a press tour interview for Twisters that he was happily married.

Of course, it was intentionally planned after a long talk about how even through the immense scrutiny that you will be propelled into, and will also now follow your husband for being open about your relationship and his sexuality. Still, the realization that the impact of having more representation on-screen, especially with such an A-list actor like your husband, made it more than worth it. As soon as he had a break, he posted the pre-drafted Instagram post that hard launched your relationship - a collage of photos, including the same wedding photo he's still staring at, with the caption "My Better Half" and your handle. You both have really been through a lot, Glen thinks as he caresses your digital face with his thumb.

Annie sighs, picks up the white hand towel from the side table near the doorway, and walks over to the brunette, sticking it between his face and his phone. Glen blinks - caught off guard by not having you in his field of vision anymore. "You'll see him soon enough," Annie reassures, holding back a chuckle.

Glen thinks she's referring to your planned Valentine's date later, so he clears his throat and says, "Right." He clicks off his phone, still frozen on the picture, pockets it, and takes the hand towel to wipe his forehead. "Did you double-check that the reservation didn't get cancelled?"

"Everything is clear and good to go. I even called your chauffeur to be prepared twenty minutes before your originally stated time."

"Perfect," Glen smiles, fiddling with the towel before Annie places out her hand. He hands it to her, finally getting up from the couch and stepping out of the room while feeling the restless weight of his phone pressed against the dark slacks covering his thick thigh. Fading glowing heat cooled as he steeled his expression, ceasing his itching fingers that want nothing more than to re-open his phone and stare at that picture of you until his phone runs out of battery. It's the closest he'll get to you: his other half that he knew has been true, years before your marriage; his love that fuels him every day; his biggest support that rivals his mother; and his Valentine's date. He shouldn't be putting so much thought - so much worry - into what, your tenth shared Valentine's Day. But he couldn't help feeling the swelling guilt in his stomach's basement for having to work and leave you today, on the one day where partners are meant to be inseparably lovey-dovey. Two more hours, honey, and I'll be back with you.

Out in the hallway, no longer hidden in the safe confines of a closed room, Glen turns on his public personality to eleven as he walks past a shut door with another shiny star like his. Must be the interviewer, Glen thinks. For whatever reason, the video's director wanted the two not to meet beforehand. No explanations, rundowns, introductions, or even brief formalities. As an actor, he knew how to put on a performance - how to fake a raw reaction like he was just meeting the individual for the first time. He's done it plenty of times over the years. Strange.

Glen stops right behind the red curtain - the final barrier that separates the backstage from the spotlight. He takes one last breath, shoving the curtain to the side, and lifts an arm at the in-studio audience. As the brunette takes a seat at his designated chair to the right, Annie hears the crowd's rambunctious applause die down as she shuts Glen's door and raps her knuckles against the other star's door before entering. The smile that she was holding in for the past few minutes finally lifted. In front of her, you were standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror as you put the final touches to your appearance - positioning the black bow tie perfectly horizontal under your chin.

"How do I look?" you ask Annie, turning to face her and opening your arms so she can look at all of you.

"You look nice. The stylists did a number on you," she answers, leaning against the doorway. She stands as a barrier between you and the bustling backstage crew and nosy reporters, knowing that this is the first time you have done anything like this before. She wanted for both your recent developing friendship that has only sprouted further after Glen broke the news, and your husband's sake, for you to stay safe.

"Thanks," you chuckle, dropping your arms. "I actually dismissed them early, told them that I wanted to look just presentable - more natural than glammed up."

"Does he know?" you ask her, referring to Glen. For a brief moment, the ever-expanding prickling needles traveling through your bloodstream dulls and your heart grows not out of jitteriness but undying love for your husband.

"Not a single ounce of suspicion. Told him that the director wanted the interviewer and him not to meet before the shoot so they could capture his raw reaction. He nodded instantly, not questioning it. Then he was occupied by lovingly staring at pictures of you," she explains as you take one final glance at your reflection.

"Good to note. I can ask him about that in the interview," you respond, devoid of the front of enthusiasm that you wished to perform. Be funny; Play your part until the exaggeration is unnotably indifferent; You don't have the right personality, were some of your inner monologue's rambling that thrashed inside your head.

Annie catches you nervously brushing your shoulders. At nothing. "How do you feel, though?"

Your nerves flare, and your body freezes, stopping your ministrations. She read you like a children's book - clear and simple to follow. You step closer to her as you say, "I know sooner or later other producers are going to invite me to guest star with him, whether I want to or not. And I know Glen has been saying that his PR team has also been telling him that my inclusion is the best way to drive more support for him. It'll be a new trend to have an actor's and an actress's partners to interview them..."

You grimace as you trail off, remembering your husband muttering under his breath, "To humanize us," sandwiched between quiet curses as he restocked the pantry full of an assortment of protein bars for himself and Goldfish and Cheez-Its that he wasn't meant to touch, or at least he never brought up the truth to his personal trainer. "But, I also want to rip off the Band-Aid. I do. I know he won't let me flounder out there all by myself," you finish as tiny sparks burst from simmering determination.

"Good, 'cause I didn't want to fill in your shoes and have to explain your disappearance to the director," Annie jokes. She juts out her elbow, and you link arms as you share a laugh. Together, you take the thankfully brief walk to the same red curtain that your husband walked through no more than three minutes ago. Annie leads you to breathe with her - holding in the air for four seconds and exhaling for six - until you nod at her that you are now okay. She pats your shoulder and turns around to join the rest of Glen's team as they watch the live footage behind the scenes. It is only when you no longer hear the clacking of her heels that you push aside the hanging fabric and step on stage. Wow, it's bright.

Glen hears the crowd erupt around him, a wave of collective applause and short side comments at the figure entering. The camera swiftly turns as you step out, squinting, but you quickly recover into a bright smile. Your heart is racing, though you feel a slight sense of comfort at the warm reception, and you are a bit surprised by the cheers of people who recognized you. As you walk out of the coating bright light, the camera switches to focus on Glen's small smile, capturing his reddening face and the change in expression as he finally recognizes you walking closer to him. He briefly turns to face the camera, his smile falling, as he hopes it played into the joke of his shock at being set up.

The camera refocuses, zooming out to perfectly fit you standing next to your chair. You stare at your shocked husband, waiting for him to recuperate as you turn to the still cheering crowd with a mischievous grin. Brain malfunctioning, the brunette grounds himself by glancing you up and down. You were almost like an adorable penguin with your white button-down untucked over your black khakis. God, he couldn't wait to rip that dark bowtie off you. You lock eyes after a few moments, and it revitalizes Glen.

As you go to pull out your chair, he coolly springs up, chair scraping in disagreement, and walks around you to pull it out for you. He easily tucks you closer to the table, and you express your gratitude with a quiet, "Thank you," though you know that your mic still picked up.

Glen presses an insufficient kiss against your cheek, sea-blue eyes lidded. "Anything for you, sweetheart," he responds, breath fanning against the sensitive skin of your ear. Out of all of your thoughts, you ignore the many that want you to turn your head and press back into him as he leans over you, and you chew on the one that's focused on whether the camera is picking up the rising blush on your neck.

You hear a crew member in the back shout an unwithheld frustration, "You're ruining the shot," as your husband purposely blocks the camera's lens - his strappingly large frame covering you. He presses a minuscule button under his red lapel - where his tiny mic was secretly clipped to - and motions for you to do the same. The second your mic also shuts off; his shoulder's visible relax.

The brunette ignores the hundred or so fans in the audience that are either ogling each of your movements or dissecting the disposition of space and your changing facial expressions to break their completely credited revelations on Twitter. He can feel the restrained confusion blocked by his manager's patience; the years of working together have built a sturdy foundation of trust to look past this mistake, at least momentarily. And yet, your husband is proud to be your shield - to be the catalyst for a possible controversy because it would mean that fewer people online will focus on you. He'll take any and all online harassment if it means it would keep you safe.

His smile shifts when he says, "I'm here if you need me." It isn't the usual overly bright, pearly smile; rather, it is the softer, more genuine expression reserved for the late nights spent together cuddling. "Just be yourself, honey. They'll love you. I know I do."

When he follows you into a brief peck, he knows that it's going to get him an earful from his manager for keeping the intimate action between you, himself, and the audience in the stands, which are, again, freaking out and desirous that they still had their phones on them and weren't currently locked away in the lobby. As you pull away, you each flicker back on the other's mic. For the camera, Glen angles his frame and lifts up your hand to kiss the back of your left hand. He lingers for a moment, allowing the affection to heighten as your husband winks at you with a sly spark in his look. In less than two minutes total, Glen scrapes forward his chair as at last the video footage reflects both of you sitting together.

The table is draped in a wrinkle-free red sheet, adorned with three fake, flickering wax candles at its center. In front of where each of you is sitting, there's the shiniest silverware placed next to a white ceramic plate semi-covered in a folded pink napkin. Neither of you will be eating, at least it wasn't mentioned by Annie when she broke down the theme of this interview: Valentine's Day. She said overall it would be questions that prod at the details of your relationship. Nothing about movies. Solely focusing on Glen, you, and your love.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Powell," you say professionally, though you can't help the widening grin. The room's surrounding lights dim, practically shrouding the audience in darkness, so that you can only make out the whites of their eyes from your periphery.

Your husband shakes his head, chuckling. "You can call me Glen, sugar," his deep-seated country drawl in full force, "you really blindsided me. I thought I wouldn't see you until later. And here you are, handsome-as-ever."

"Alright, Glen, it is then. But please refer to me as Mr. Powell. I would like to keep it professional," you answer, the tension in your body easing. You still feel rigid, but as you focus on the brunette across from you and the way he's staring back at you like he still couldn't believe you were his interviewer, your heart settles incrementally into the standard semi-skipped beat around your husband.

He clears his throat before responding, deciding to play into the flirty dynamic. So, a usual afternoon. "No promises, sweetheart," he tones back his Southern accent, and winks again at you.

You hear approaching footsteps and turn as an intern brings you a stack of laminated cards. You thank him before grabbing the stack of interview questions, and he departs the stage. Glen follows his retreating figure, eyes snapping back onto you when you lay the hold the cards perpendicular to the table. You briskly shuffle through the questions to get a better idea of where this interview could end up, and you stop at one that forces you to hold back a laugh. Oh, let's see how this goes, you think. "Alright, Glen-" But the brunette man cuts you off.

"That's it, hon? You ain't gonna introduce yourself?"

"Oh, I don't need to introduce myself. I'm sure the audience will learn plenty about me from how much you choose to spill." However, you still raise your hand to show off the rings that your husband proposed and married you with. Your engagement band is a simple tungsten ring with a thick gold stripe around its center, while your marriage band is a matching fully dark obsidian-colored tungsten ring with the words "My Better Half" engraved inside. Glen also holds up his hand, an identical tungsten ring displayed next to his tilted head, and is poorly maintaining his smirk as it turns into a small, but powerfully affectionate, smile. "After all, this is an interview disguised as a date."

"We've already gone through these 21 questions on our first date," he lies. He reaches across the table and gently interlocks your hand - that isn't holding the interview cards - with his larger palm. "Think we've been together long enough to skip to the fun part."

You must power through, maintaining eye contact as you bite your tongue and feel the heat pool against your face from his innuendo. "Please, Mr. Powell, the questions." You pause briefly and give in. "Maybe later, though, you'll get lucky with your husband," you tease. It causes his eyes to widen, constructing a lustful challenge involving the endless possibilities he could have with you behind closed doors to celebrate Valentine's.

"So, if you will, Glen," he lifts his arms up in innocence and nods at you to continue. Your eyes drift to the bulging muscles stacked on his large arms from the movement, so you lift the cards higher to hopefully hide the blooming blush. "Let's start simple. How long have we been together?"

Glen tactfully responds with, "Married for 2 years, 7 months, and 18 days; 3 years, 5 months, and 14 days since our engagement; and our first date was on December 24th, 2016, so 9 years, 1 month, and 21 days since then. Which one were you lookin' for, sweetheart?" He feels you squeeze his palm, and he knows he read through the trick question.

"Next question, what's a meal you'd love for me to cook for you?"

"Skip."

"Skip? Glen, you can't skip a question."

"Hon, I can't answer that without havin' my trainer use the video evidence against me," he explains, turning to the camera with an incredulous look. "And it would mean even less time spent together."

"Alright, fine, but you used your only pass. You don't get any more." You can hear the slight creaking as the camera swaps angles as you flip through a few more questions. You ignore the brunette's puppy eyes and pout. "What's your favorite way we spend a lazy day together?"

You brace yourself, thinking he's going to answer something inappropriate, but he tricks you. He says in a wistfully deep gruff, "However you wish to spend it, sugar." The brushes against your knuckles are faster and a bit rougher - he's trying to ground himself rather than soothe you. It takes him a moment, and you watch him to analyze whether it'd be better if you move past the subject. He continues, "I know I'm always busy... It's only getting worse with every year that passes. If I'm not filming, then I'm training, preparing for another audition, or grabbing a flight. I can only bring you with me so often on set if you aren't busy with your job as well.

"Hell, even today on Valentine's I got roped into working," Glen's voice waivers off, a rare frown deeply embedded. He looks up at you when you squeeze his hand, his eyes are glassy with thin red lines snaking to eat his handsome blues. Without speaking, you ask him if he needs to step away with a tilt of your head. He can't help but chuckle - face lifting - since he's the one who should be asking you that. You are completely out of your element, and yet you eased into the interviewer role easily. You smile at him, and it's enough for him to find the missing words and flip his guilt. The brunette pulls back his hand with a final squeeze and clasps them under the table. He sniffles, setting up the shot, before he reverently looks up at you with intense affection and says, "I was thrilled when I saw you walk in. It meant today wasn't a total loss."

"It never is, Glen. Not with you."

You don't pull away from his gaze, not yet; you allow the moment to linger. You didn't do it for a strong emphasis to conclude the scene, no, you couldn't care less about the video produced from this. You needed to reassure your husband that there wasn't an ounce of doubt in your words, that with your whole heart you meant every word.

The rest of the hour passes with more teasing and boyish grins. You purposely start slowly, choosing simple questions that focus on yourself and your past with Glen. He describes the first time you ran into each other, literally, how endless apologies slipped out of your mouth, and you asked if you could make up to him by buying him a new coffee. He even tells how he didn't know it then, but followed the unconscious feeling that he wanted himself to be your friend, so he agreed and wrote down his number on your receipt.

You both laugh after the brunette jumped to retell your disastrous first date. Glen - wanting to impress you - had the bright idea of picking you up from your apartment with his newly purchased luxurious car. Well, for more than three hours you had been circling the crowded New York streets for even the tightest parking spot and came up just short time and time again. When you had turned to the brunette to call it quits, your reservation having long passed more than an hour ago, the plastic and wrapping paper cradling the bouquet of roses crinkled in your lap, and you placed your hand on his knee to tell him so. You ended that retelling by highlighting how the date wasn't a total waste, as you had grabbed some takeout Chinese food and put on a movie. The full memory resurfacing, he adds that that was the start of some of the best sleep of his life.

"Glen, we were hunched over each other all night, and when we woke, we both complained of feeling sore in joints we didn't know we had," you point out.

"Yeah," he says breathlessly, and it wasn't from the laughter. "Well worth it to have you so close."

You asked him about the small moments, about other silly instances that will get him to break out of a slump on his off days, the cute small gestures that mean more than anything, his favorite inside joke of yours, and what he thinks the most dashing compliment he has ever given you has been. When he lifts an eyebrow at you, and before the words could smoothly glide in the space between you, you stop him. You hide behind the question cards, even though you know the camera can still capture you, as you verbalize that no matter what he was going to say would've made you blush.

"It wouldn't count."

"Think I shoulda just said I don't need words. Right, hon?" You don't agree, at least not verbally. You can feel your heart drumming against the cartilage prison of your ribs, starstruck from the gallantly dashing smirk and the spotlights casting a warm tan glow with emerging sweat descending his sharp cheeks and coating the scruff of his beard.

The final question for the interview has you ask Glen about the future. You could've asked him about what a time-jump twenty years in the future would look like, what upcoming trip he has planned, or if there were any adventures with you from the past that he would like to resurface. No, you know the answers to all of those already. Instead, you ask, "What is a change you wish to implement this year?"

"I want to spend more time with you," he winks with that same radiant smile. This isn't an exaggeration nor a play into his persona; he was being genuine. "And with Brisket, of course."

After the audience files out in wavering droves, the surrounding lights re-emerge, and you two are left alone with a handful of crew members. You both pose for a few promotional pictures, Glen's favorite of the three, which you are definitely going to get Annie to send you later, is of him kneeling with his hands raised as he practically worships your figure. He's going to make that his phone's next wallpaper. And when the camera crew looked away, they missed the perfect accompanying shot of Glen kissing your ring. Luckily, Annie didn't.

You head back to Glen's room as he filmed a few extra scenes for promotional clips of your video. He almost asked for you to also be in them, but you pulled away from him and gave him a look that both said, "It's fine" and "I'm tired anyway," which assured him enough to drop it. Five minutes turn to ten minutes, you pass the agonizing period by awkwardly switching between uncomfortable positions against and on the lumpy couch before you compose yourself unknowingly in the exact same position that Glen was in a few hours ago. Down to the similarly replicated blockage of the room's harsh, bright light with your held phone. It's only when you no longer hear the grounding vibrations from your husband's brisk steps that you pull away from your screen. What a sight you were met with.

Before you stood Glen, grinning, his massive figure imposing. The maroon fabric of his shirt was forced forward as his heaves jutted in tandem with his buff chest. His wide, sturdy shoulders made the shirt look a size too small, which it might honestly be. Directly next to your head was the barely overhanging hem, a black leather belt accentuating his toned waist, and in between was the brush of brown of his happy trail that paved up to his ripped abs. You're ogling at this point, but you wouldn't - couldn't rip your eyes away.

"Later, sugar," he said, voice reaching a deeper octave now that you're both out of the public's eye, dragging out the last syllable in the pet name. He outstretches his arm, and you finally look away; however, you must rapidly blink away to not trail and linger over his bulging bicep, even when not flexing. He lifts you to your feet easily, and with an arm on your waist molding you into his side, you walk out the back entrance of the filming studio. Fortunately, it seemed like all the crew members were busy, or more than likely, had already gone home to their partners after being dismissed early. You both were able to briefly catch Annie, thanking her for the support, before the three of you parted ways.

Entering the shiny black limousine felt like a striking whiplash. Never-ending differences between New York's dirty, crowded, and yet still familiarly memorable streets, when compared to the soft fuzz of the velvet seats with the faint lingering odor of the overly abundant arrangements of orchids, lavenders, and roses. One rested in your lap - just like that same first date almost a decade ago in Glen's car - and the rest created a wall on the seats across from you two. Even through it all, some things never seemed to change.

The limousine constantly stopped, the supposed thirty-minute commute taking more than an hour. But you and Glen didn't mind. Hidden behind the deeply tinted opaque windows, the mobile confine was filled with your shared soft - nearly inaudible - voices, half-full champagne glasses, and the messy streaks of gooey chocolate on your fingertips as you plucked pieces from the ginormous heart-shaped container and fed each other.

When the limousine finally reached your destination, you could clearly hear past the quiet hum of the engine a cacophony of waiting fans and demanding paparazzi. You tilted your head on your husband's shoulder to catch his reaction when he too heard the first snap of a camera. A tidal wave of roaring flashes that sounded like professional tap dancing followed. Glen's eyebrows furrowed, slight creases etching out the corners of his eyes, and he tightened his hold around your waist. Even after all these years, he still doesn't understand how reporters and paparazzi were able to find him when he never left a visible trace to predict. He hadn't even taken you out to this restaurant before.

"I'll step out first," he says more to himself, psyching himself up to put back on his cheery mask for the public. He stops midway through pulling the door's handle, he looks back at you, and gives your right arm one final squeeze with his free hand. You nod, a genuinely appreciative smile displayed for you and only you. It's enough for him to play into the public's devoted attention, standing on the curve and raising his arm for the surrounding cameras. He turns back to the limousine, bending over to tug you out of the vehicle. Selfishly, his voice booms as he excuses the two of you and instantly starts pulling you behind him and into the restaurant.

He looks back at you constantly, his large frame assertively forcing its way through the enclosing crowd. He has a death grip on your wrist that tightens incrementally with each shoulder that knocks into his. The shutting doors behind you eases his tension, but even as he releases a held breath, he still refuses to unlatch his hand. The hostess leads you behind a red satin curtain reserved for the private room held solely for celebrities and walks away after telling you two that your waiter will be with you shortly.

Glen hadn't unlatched himself from your figure ever since the elevator doors closed, finally blocking the public eye and granting you two the needed privacy after too many hours. The date had run smoothly, filled with delicious, decadent cuisine and teasing banter, first about the interview until your husband shut the gates on talking about work to ask you about yourself. The space felt light, familiar, and all too adoring as he devotedly listened to you talk about anything but.

The elevator dinged as it rose past another floor, the increasing number's red light illuminating the brunette's actions against your neck. Sensual kisses that had peaking nibbles against your pulse point, his arms seized around your waist, tense from the strain as you could feel his thick pecs pressed against your back. You knew he had been holding himself back all day. You knew he wanted to make this day perfect for you to pour all his love into you. Honestly, you're surprised he had waited so long, as you noticed his body buzzing in the limousine ride back, endless and dutiful restraint. Perhaps he would've snapped and lost himself in lust sooner if the paparazzi had found you two on your way out of the restaurant. You will definitely need to go back to that restaurant again and personally thank that waiter for mentioning the secret entrance in the back early in your meal.

You felt the rough glide of Glen's jean-covered pelvis grind against the dip of your lower back, his tree-trunk-like thighs knocking against you as he tried to find the best position to let you feel all of him. There is an insurmountable amount of desire that is fueling him, like a starved man finally allowed to give in. He drags you back into his muscular form as you try to pull forward, since the doors creak open to the hallway of your penthouse suite. You try again, stop when you feel the deep vibrations from his chest echoing into you as he doesn't let go.

"Glen, this is our stop," you explain, voice quiet as you didn't want to burst the intimate bubble.

His head cranes further, beard scratching pleasantly, and warm huffs of air fanning over your neck as he tries to dig deeper into you. His forearms graze up your body as he shifts and locks them in a compact, tense hug around your chest. You feel him kiss the underside of your jaw, approving you to move forward. Together, you awkwardly shuffle together with the large man practically dwarfing you as he leans most of his weight on your back, each step a challenging reminder of the inevitable. Your heart's racing, you were both so lucky to not have any surrounding neighbors. In the distance, you can hear the elevator shut and descend as another tenant called for it, probably on their way out to drink their grief away at a local bar.

You nearly fall forward as you twist and push open your door, the slight change in angle causing Glen to somehow pull you even closer, finally feeling his hardening length. He grunts, a wave of chills sliding down his limbs from the brief touch. Letting go of you only momentarily, and only partially, the brunette swipes at the door, grabs the keys from your palm, clicks the lock back into place, reaches up to sheath the golden chain lock, and turns on the suite's security system. He turns back into you, arm rewrapping around your shoulder to tilt your head and begin an assault of kisses and licks in a trail from your jaw down to your chin and finally up to your lips. He doesn't reach the final destination as he pauses, hearing the pitter-patter and a couple of yips from Brisket as he walks in from the couch, you presume.

"Hi, Brisket," you can feel the widening grin against your cheek. The terrier-poodle looked up at his two dads, tilting his golden head as if he was trying to decipher why his Padre - as Glen refers to himself - was glued to your back.

As soon as you feel Glen's grip start to loosen, you crouch to give plenty of pets to Brisket. He licks the air near your face out of blissful enjoyment. "What have you been up to? Huh?" you teasingly ask your dog as you cascade your palm through the long, luscious fur. Your husband's lust subsides temporarily, too enamored with the view of seeing his two important and favorite men together. It produced a familiar warmth that nudged into the crevices of his bones, especially pooling at his pelvis. The brief interaction ended as Brisket got bored and decided to trot over to sunbathe in the corner of the living room before the sun kissed the sky good night, splitting the intense passion with mind-numbing love.

After the past few minutes, you finally face each other again, and at the moment you stand straight, he lunges forward and kisses you. His large hands scramble to grab at any piece of you as he deepens the kiss, never settling as he goes back and forth between your shoulders and hips. You feel him licking your bottom lip, asking for permission, and immediately entering the cavern of your mouth when your lips part. When his hands settle against your clothed waist, patiently waiting for the soft skin there, he leads you past the kitchen and through the small hallway into your bedroom.

Your tongues dance, an equal part of concentrated vigorousness, as Glen doesn't take charge. At least not for tonight. He lets you push and pull his head whichever direction your heart desires as your hands hold fistfuls of brown locks. The wet smacks are louder when the brunette kicks the door closed. Your eyes close as you fully trust your husband as he leads you back into the California king-sized bed, not that his eyes were open either. It's a gentle fall as he carries most of your weight, lips still attached to yours, and he follows you.

Leaning on his forearms over you, to not crush you with his weight, at least not yet, the position gives him the perfect position to grind against you. Warm puffs of air, tongues twisting and pushing in perfect symmetry, and the grinding draws out your hearts to pump faster and faster. But it could only feel so good, with the clothes preserving the raw feel of your skin like armor. His hardening, trapped cock pulsed harshly, needing to be freed and feel you against him. It wasn't a desire; it was vital.

"Mr. Powell, I need you," Glen huskily whispers against your right ear, a momentary tease that will soon be forgotten as he circles back to the professional title you asked him to use earlier.

"What are you waiting for, Mr. Powell?" you tease back, hands raising to cup his face. As much as he wishes to cuddle against your palms and continue to gaze at you like you were the moon itself, Glen rips away from you.

The two of you shuck off your clothes, socks first, as both your shoes were left somewhere forgotten in the hallway when you kicked them off. When he tugs over his maroon shirt, he crawls back over to you to help you unbutton your white shirt. He chuckles when he finds your bowtie already on the ground. "I wanted to take that off you," he grumbles as he unbuckles and cleanly unfastens his belt. You mirror each other as you both kick off your pants and pull down your underwear. His darkening eyes just about vibrate as he ogles your naked figure. You take him in, too, mountains of muscles on every inch of his tanned skin from the simmering heat of his desires.

His length swells, thickening when his eyes lock on your half-hard member. You sprawled out under him like you were a feast to be served to feed a king pulls him back into you. This time, your lips only meet once, a sweet reminder that has him form a small smile, before he trails kisses down your form: chin, jaw, shoulder, chest, your heart multiple times until he feels it skip a beat from his affection, ribs, and stomach. He gives a quick, all too brief, playful kiss against the head of your cock, your body jolting from the tease. His large fingers brush against your inner thighs before he shuffles back and lifts them up to rest your calves against his sturdy shoulders. You wish you weren't in the middle of taking a deep breath as the air catches in your throat when your husband begins to repeatedly lick against your taint.

He groans when he feels your hand back in his hair, tugging him down lower. He obliges, his lips barely opening as his tongue swirls around your hole, diving deeper when he hears you whimper a few times, your fingers scrunching and scraping against his skull. Head a buzz from hearing your cute reactions, he lets go of one of your thighs and grabs his rock-hard rod that's been jumping impatiently against the smooth quilt's fabric. Instantly warm shocks shoot up beyond his core as he tugs himself, his hand nothing comparable to one of your own, but enough for tonight, as he roughly pulls at his cock in preparation of being inside you, every so often twisting and flicking his thumb over the precum leaking from the head's slit to coat himself. As his tongue digs deeper into your folds, his arm moves faster, unrelenting. The constant hours working out in the gym have caused his stamina to increase tenfold over the years, but if he wasn't careful, he would blow too soon. He could never do that to you, especially not tonight.

All at once, he pulls back, lips puffy and chin covered in some of his slobber, your hole clenching against the cool empty air. He can't help the growing grin on his face, even as he lets go of his large cock, the rigid veins pumping blood, forcing him to shake from the lack of movement and pressure, the mushroom head a deep, angry red. Kneeling with your heels digging into his shoulders, his abs flex and deflate in prevention before the irresistible view. Even though he's still left with abundant energy, his light panting expands his massive figure as he towers over you.

"Glen," you murmur. His dark Caribbean-blue eyes lock onto yours, his cock twitching in a mix of glee from you seeking his attention and abstemiousness. Before you can lift your head, Glen is already there - his handsome face centimeters from yours, that brushes momentarily when he tucks a pillow under your head. You whisper, "I need you."

His face scrunches, biting back a groan as he feels your cocks touch from his twitching. It's difficult to collect himself, heart exuberantly racing, still partly panting, and his skin readily overcharged as his body hesitantly hovers over yours. He forces a deep breath before saying, "I know, sweetheart. But I still need to prep you first."

He tucks his face against your cheek, warmth tickling your right ear as he raises his left hand and sticks two fingers into his mouth. It's intentional; he wants you to hear the rough noises he's making for you as he laps at his three thick fingers. You know he isn't playing it up, forcing it, putting on an act or a show for you - this is your husband passionately wanting you to understand even an ounce of the catastrophe of emotions that you stir inside him. With a quiet pop, his fingers break away, a tiny line of drool webbing between his wet lips and a digit. You shiver and groan when you feel him lick at his drool that dripped onto your cheek.

Like he did with his tongue, he circles around your hole teasingly, then plunges a single large digit in. He peppers kisses on different parts of your face, trying to distract you as he works his finger deeper until it reaches his knuckle. He knows there isn't a point at the moment, but he wiggles the finger, seeking your prostate to no avail. Though he does think your shaking is cute. To prepare for a second finger, he kisses you on the lips, knowing that the electricity shared between you is enough for the other finger to join the first. As soon as he starts to scissor your clenching folds, your lips part in a whimper that forces him to deepen the kiss, to try and swallow how he's making you feel.

His cock jumps, slapping against the margin against his flexing abs as he gets to feel first-hand how much pleasure he's giving you. By the time he's ready to plunge his third necessary digit, your body is covered in a thin veil of sweat, fire-y hot, and uncontrollably trembling. This time, he does get to swallow your whimper and the many following as he continues to stretch you. You tap against the side of his neck, a sign that he knows means you were prepared enough and want to feel him - the hot, heavy, hard, and thick length of his cock.

He steadily pulls away, mouth leaving yours first, so he could hear the breathless moan when his fingers leave you empty. His body shudders when he pulls away from your close proximity, kneeling as he strokes himself a few more times to reapply his precum thoroughly across his glistening, large rod, eyes never leaving yours. With his free hand, he plucks another pillow from behind you, easily lifts your lower body, and inserts it under your lower back, slightly angling you while supporting your hips. He wanted to love you, not hurt you.

You lather your fingers in some of the precum that pooled onto and surrounding your cock, it jumped at the small touch of attention, and you reach further down to grab his length. His groan is loud, bounding from deep within the chasms deep in his chest and filling the room when he finally feels your hand wrap around his cock. He can't help the poorly held back thrusts that has your grip sliding back and forth across him, an insistent pulse flooding each of the protruding veins from feeling you. Glen re-grabs your calves, lifting them off his shoulder and bending your legs forward until your knees are inches away from your shoulders.

He groans your name, "Come on. Guide me into you."

His chest rumbles, and you stop breathing when you feel his bulbous head poke repeatedly against your awaiting hole. After all that time and preparation, it's still humongous, bigger than your stretched hole. He eases his hips forward, the further stretch shooting tendrils of pain that currently conceal your pleasure. Glen moves his hands lower, now holding onto the junction between your knees and thighs as he works himself farther and farther into you. His large frame covers yours, beads of sweat dripping onto you from his expanding large chest covered in stubble of dark hair. He stops for a minute when he's halfway through, his cock twitches angrily in disagreement. Your husband waits until your body's grip turns from a push to a pull, signifying that the pain has finally subsided.

He apologizes against your skin and pushes the rest of the way in, causing you to scream from the intrusion's pleasure. The full feeling doesn't last too long as Glen already begins to glide back and forth, his cock's lust shouting louder than the logical thoughts that try to break through his overworked heart. For no more than a second, you feel his pelvis grind into you - a delicious scratch against your ass from the shaven hairs surrounding his pubic bone - before his cock pulls back again to restart the cycle. You don't know what's causing you more pleasure, it all blurs together as the thrusts steadily pick up in their pace.

Glen pulls out for too long; he shifts his body as his hand curls into a fist that holds himself in this new angle. He circles his hips, smearing more precum against your entrance before plunging back all the way, hitting your prostate directly. You gasp, neck snapping forward from the surge of pleasure to rest your forehead against your husband's wide, tense right shoulder. Bingo, Glen praises himself. He presses a long kiss against the dip between your eyebrows, pressing your head back against the plush pillow beneath you. Grinning down at you until a groan escapes his lips, he continues to shove deeper, quicker into you, all thrusts directed toward that little spot inside you.

Your rushed breathing is in sync, both your hearts trying to break through your chests, and your shared gaze never faltering from the other's contact. Glen begins to jackhammer into you, his cock barely maneuvering out of you as he shifts into rapid, deep thrusts against your prostate. As your body clenches tighter against his cock, your folds morph into a perfect vice grip that pulls against the large length's steel ridges. The sound of Glen's thick thighs slapping against your ass causes your hazy mind to remind you how lucky it was that you two didn't have any neighbors.

You revert back to whimpers and gasps when Glen shifts lower again to hold your legs down with his shoulders, head directly above yours, and his free hand pulls at your length. It's like your body was waiting for your husband's contact, as you suddenly feel that familiar, ready-to-burst coil in the pit of your stomach. When you break eye contact from the brunette, gaze trailing further and further up as the sensations feel too much - your husband's passionate jackhammering, the hand around your cock, and the close, dedicated, secure proximity. But he couldn't help it, no, not tonight. Glen cranes his neck up, following you until you're looking back into his dark eyes as he pours every ounce of love that he has for you into you. More than he needed to feel you against him, he needed the constant reinforcement that you were blissfully loving every second, every touch, every bit of him against you.

He groans out your name for a second time, "I need you to let go, please. Can you do that for me, sugar?"

And with the loud slaps, the overwhelming fullness, the jolting waves of pleasure, you do. You throb against his large palm, shooting your cum over your stomach as you scream. The first actually landed against Glen's abs, your warm liquid immediately trying to seep its way past his skin to join his being. He continues to jerk you through your high until your body convulses and your limbs feel like heavy pudding from the lack of strength. You shake when he pulls his hand away, looking down at the remnants of your pleasure streaking his fingers. The sight is enough to break him.

Glen's breathing picks up, his heart pounding in his ears as he uses your body for his pleasure. Your hole is slick from the insurmountable amount of leaking precum that has been coating into you through his thrusting. His low-hanging, hairless, robust balls slap against your ass cheeks as he pushes and pushes into you furiously as he chases his own pleasure. Your shared memories, the special occasions, and the spur from the hopeful future he has in mind with you blur the feeling of his heart and soul as he drives in again and again. The shiny glint from the ring on your finger is what causes him to snap.

Your husband spills into you with a deep groan against your neck, the pleasure all too much and yet still not enough. He doesn't stop pounding into you as your body clenches tight against him again when you feel his load continuously shoot and spread into you. For what feels like a euphoric eternity for Glen, he continues to cum and jackhammer into you for another minute as he makes sure that he has absolutely nothing left to give to you. In his last thrust, his bulbous head presses against your prostate in a loving reminder and a kiss. He chuckles at hearing your heart rate spike, his muscular figure finally giving in and lying over you. You feel all of him, his exuding heat, the muscles, and his familiar weight.

Together you both lay there for a handful of minutes, both not wanting to come down from the thrilling, enchanting, hazy daze and not wanting to pull apart just yet. You feel your chests pressed against each other, your hearts cheerfully applauding at how close the two of you finally are. Glen is the one to break the intimacy; he reluctantly pulls his softening length out of you. When you hiss from the emptiness and the breach of chilling air, the brunette wraps his arms around your shoulders - just beneath the pillow - and his hands span across your back in soothing, hopefully distracting, random drawings.

You pull his frame back against you when you feel the damp warmth of his skin fleetingly retract. "Stay," you whisper against the silent night.

He smiles against your cheek, heart leaping at your singular spoken word. "Hon, I'll be right back. I've gotta clean you up," he replies, voice low and still that octave deeper when it's just you two in private without an accompanying audience. "I'm going to step over to our bathroom and grab a towel for you. Is that okay?"

You almost wanted to make out with him and get him reinvigorated enough to get him back in you from that final question. Almost. He always put you first, like his heart was beating inside your chest instead of his. Instead, you say, "Yeah. That sounds perfect," with a nod.

His face is tight, eyebrows scrunched, and eyes narrowed in that concentrated look when he fully lowers your body down and steps off the body. He wants to give in and fall back into your arms, but chooses to feed that thought by looking past you and into the attached bathroom. He walks no more than fifteen feet to your left, but for both of you, it feels like you're continents apart. You hear him shut off the faucet's water and twist the towel to squeeze out a majority of the water; you also hear the rushing water of your bathtub filling. That sounds nice right about now.

Glen walks back in with one of your extra grey hand towels, looking disheveled, and you know you must look something similar. His chestnut waves are a tired mess, his lips swollen with drying saliva in surrounding spots, the tan skin of his shoulders, arms, and chest is highlighted in a thinning red from the simmering heat, and his pelvis, cock, balls, and thighs have smears and streaks of his drying cum. He stands beside the bed as he wipes himself off first, smiling brighter than the bathroom's white light. He's extra gentle when he glides the towel over your stomach, cock, and around and over your puffy entrance.

When he's done, he rhetorically asks you, "Do you think you could stand?" He knows you can't, but still his following vibrant laugh causes your eyes to well with tears rather than roll them, like you had done too often at the start of your relationship. "I've got you," he says, wrapping an arm under your thighs and another supporting your back as he carries you into the bathroom.

Glen tests the water with his big toe, deeming the temperature soothingly warm for you as he carefully maneuvers you into the tub. You lean forward, Glen steps in behind you, and he pulls you back into his thick chest once he settles in with his muscular legs, entrapping you between him. The next twenty minutes are difficult to recall, your brain rapidly shutting down for the night as you focus on your husband's steady heartbeat against your back. He was behind you, and that's all that mattered. Glen didn't mind taking care of you as he tenderly washed your body as you rested between the state of consciousness and unconsciousness.

His voice sounded distant when you hear him whisper your name against the shell of your ear. "Can you stand? Think I'll drop ya' if I try to get us both out of here at once."

Still half in a daze, you listen to your husband's voice. You peel off him, stand, and your feet plant against the soft fabric of the bathroom's rectangular rug. You didn't notice, but Glen's hands followed your body's movements - ready to catch and save you if need be. The brunette stands, pulls the bathtub's plug, and steps out to join you on the carpet. He pats your shoulder twice, both to ground himself and make sure that you stay awake for the moment, before walking around you to grab a towel. The plush fabric drags through your hair, then falls up and down the rest of your body until Glen deems you dry enough for you to finally rest in peace.

He's very quick to work through his own hair and muscular form, tossing the wet towel into the hamper beside the doorway. You ignore the feeling of the room spinning, pressing further into the meat of Glen's pec while he carries you back to the bed. Your husband pushes aside the two leftover pillows, rips off a corner of the quilt, and tucks you in. He followed right behind you, pulling the quilt back up over you two, latching against your side as you share the same pillow.

"I love you," you mumble.

"Love you more." Your husband's lips press against the back of your head, eyes closing in quiet contentment. "Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart."

Author's Note 2: I DON'T KNOW WHERE THAT BIT OF SLIGHT ANGST CAME FROM. I APOLOGIZE. (I love how these have just turned into my reactions of my work, like I wasn't there writing it💀).

Remember to like, comment, and reblog :D! Any and all support is much appreciated!

© 2026 magicae-writes-stars

You’ve always liked your Ancient Mythologies Studies class. It was an easy A, one that came packaged with an interesting topic to boot. Who doesn’t want to hear of the religions and myths of civilizations from thousands and thousands of years ago?

The answer is most people. It was one of the smallest classes–even with a size cap of twenty, it had barely filled out ten slots. It seemed most people simply didn’t take interest in the subject. That meant that most people were poor, unfortunate people, because they didn’t have the pleasure of knowing Professor Cavill. 

Professor Cavill had worked at the university teaching their Ancient Mythologies Studies class for the past several years. He was a graduate of this school and, after having established himself as a prominent archaeologist, he opted to take time and teach a course for two sessions weekly. In his words he, “Wanted to help inspire any young people with a passion for learning about those that came before us.” 

You had found those words so, so interesting. But it was more so about the man saying them. 

Professor Cavill–Henry–was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties. He was kind and considerate to each member of his class, treating them with a warmth and manner you’d read about in an overly unrealistic romance novel. And yet, he was very much real. You had class with him every Monday morning and Friday night. 

Classes which you would sit in, bouncing your leg and hiding a raging boner as you watched the man fiddle with and adjust his tie. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Y/N, are you sure you’d rather not attend the festivities?” 

Ah, just your luck, wasn’t it? Your college had been holding a concert for a handful of its alumni to celebrate their band’s first national tour. The university had decided that, due to the band falling under the alternative genre, they would allow classes to continue should any students or staff be disinterested. 

It just so happened that, as much as you weren’t opposed to them, you also weren’t heavily inclined to actually attend their show. You had figured that at least one of your ten classmates would feel the same. 

Apparently not.

Hence, you now sat alone in a small lecture room, the chairs beside you empty as you stared at your beloved professor, Professor Cavill. 

“Ah, no, professor. Were you looking to attend?” 

“Myself? My personal taste doesn’t align with their music. As much as I love Clive-” 

Clive was the lead singer and, as you recall, one of Professor Cavill’s former students. 

“-we’ll be meeting for a congratulations dinner tomorrow evening. We’ve already discussed.”

He smiled, dimples forming, as he flipped open his files for the night’s lecture. 

Then he had to reach for his stupid tie. 

“Would you mind if I loosened my tie? I’ve been feeling warm as of earlier this evening.” 

His large, somewhat hairy hand was already holding the knot one either side. He did it often; you had come to suspect it was an unconscious habit at times. He would tug at his tie, calling attention to his strong chest or those bulging biceps…

Damn his stupid tie. Today, it was his blue tie, one you knew to be one of his favourites. He wore it at least thrice a month, most often during Friday sessions.

Every time he would touch it, toy with it, it sent shivers down your spine and blood straight to your cock. You almost weren’t sure if you hated or loved that he was almost never without one.

“Ah, not at all, Sir. Go ahead.” 

“Thank you, Y/N.”

God, your name sounded so good out of his mouth. He drew the syllables out, gave it this weight that you hadn’t heard your name spoken with before. You could get addicted to the way he had said it just now. You were tempted to find an excuse to have him say it again. 

That opportunity came as, for the first time, he pushed past absentminded tugs at his tie and now pulled the knot away from his chest. For the first time, you saw his neck without the tie drawing attention. It almost sounded manic to say but… the sight began to draw you in. 

And then he overshot it. The tie came off, knot still done, but it was completely removed now. He stared down at the cloth before using his free hand to undo it, leaving it nice and straight in his hand. 

“Do you mind if I forgo it?”

Eye contact. He made eye contact with those god damn near hypnotising eyes. They really were unique; the man had something called segmental heterochromia. He had mentioned it once before. It meant that his left iris, though mostly blue like his right, had a patch of brown in its upper half. 

It felt mystifying, like a siren whose song you couldn’t ignore. He continued to look at you, and without him breaking eye contact, you were hopelessly unable to do so yourself. Instead, you simply muttered a weak response. 

“Go ahead, Sir.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Class seemed to fly by. Your hand wrote on its own as your legs bounced, mind and senses completely and utterly hinged on the man’s every word and movement. Though he entranced you each time you sat in on his lectures, tonight was different. You had always blamed his tie. It’s the tie. The playing with the tie, his stature with it, that’s what you blamed for your constant erections. 

But it was difficult to deny it when, as the man orated with his tie discarded, you found your cock throbbing more eagerly than you can remember it having ever done before.

Sweat rolled down your forehead from the heat you were feeling. You cursed yourself, begging that the man would somehow not notice the warmth that afflicted you. But, as you let yourself look at him again, really look at him, you were both relieved and mortified to find that he was under the same circumstances. 

“Is the air conditioning broken?”

His words were breathless as he fanned himself with his papers. He was tugging at his collar now, further exposing his neck, now slick with sweat. It seemed to be bothering him more than it was you, somehow. 

“I-I think so.”

You could barely manage to let the words out. Your breathing had gotten unsteady, mind and body unable to focus as the man groaned from the discomfort. Seemingly without realising, his hand undid the two topmost buttons of his shirt. It exposed his chest–a strong chest covered in wild, dark black hair that you had been completely oblivious to the glorious existence of.

“Y/N? Are you alright? Is something-”

Of course now he notices your stares. It couldn’t have been when it was something that was easily explained away, like you were staring at him due to intent listening. No, it had to be when your gaze, which he followed, led down to his exposed chest. His exposed chest which had, mortifyingly, caused a wet spot to form in your pants. 

“Ah, my apologies. Let me redo my button-” 

“No! I mean-”

Your words came out too eager. Your brain was screaming at your mouth not to speak, to not make an utter fool of yourself. But your mouth chose to go rogue, instead opting to speak like a horned-up teen begging his boyfriend to keep making out with him. 

“Y-you don’t have to. I don’t mind.” 

An eyebrow was cocked in your direction. 

“Is that so, Y/N?” 

Your silence was used to scream, rather than actually think of anything remotely close to damage control. 

“Y-yes Sir. I don’t mind if you keep your buttons undone.”

“If that’s the case, then…” 

Was this… reality? Surely it could be. It was impossible. 

You were sitting there, cock leaking with precum like you were a virgin watching your first porno, as your handsome professor began to undo buttons, one after another. He was exposing himself further and further with each passing second, each button exposing a new section of chiselled, hairy, sweat-covered skin.

His breaths were deep and heavy, sighs and groans of relief sending more and more sensations to your cock. Every vibration of his vocal chords seemed to be felt in full force by your erection, not helping your situation in any way whatsoever. 

Then the man had the gall to take his shirt off, folding it neatly and placing it aside. 

His body truly was magnificent. Plush, thick muscles were a constant, whether you looked at his chest, his abs, his shoulders, or any of his muscles. They radiated strength, covered in that same black hair as on his chest and equally slick with sweat. His body glistened under the dim light of the lights hanging above, almost like a gladiator fresh from battle. 

How the hell were you supposed to react? What the hell were you supposed to do? 

“Y/N, it’s hot, isn’t it? Would you mind if I further… undressed?”

How the hell were you supposed to say no to that? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was almost pathetic how easily the man got you to fish your cock out of your strained pants. Little more than an offhanded request, actually. 

Now you sat, pants and underwear around your ankles, your own shirt unbuttoned, as you feverishly pumped your erect dick. Your hand glided up and down due to the slickness of your overflowing precum, breathing unstable and desperate. But you were helpless, the possibility of you stopping a distant memory.

Professor Cavill was now nearly nude. He had discarded his elegant brown leather shoes and well-tailored pants, also in a neat pile on his desk. It left him, his statuesque form, completely exposed to you and your horny, unabashedly feral mind. It was a wonder you hadn’t cum yet. 

“Keep pumping for me, Y/N. Be a good boy and keep going.” 

Fuck, you couldn’t stop. Not when he said your name in a gruff, demanding voice. Not when he called you the sweetest pet names. Not when he stared at you, panting and eager, with a hunger that a predator has for its prey. 

Most especially when his cock strained against dark, black fabric, as he rubbed along his clothed shaft as he took in the sight of your desperate form. 

“Prof-” 

“Henry. Call me Henry, Y/N.” 

Shit, you could feel your cum about to well up and burst. 

“Henry!” 

He gave you a curt nod of approval. Your stomach pulsed with excitement. 

“P-please, fuck me-!” 

You looked at him, eyes wide and begging, and desperately awaited a reply. With mercy, he gave you one. 

“Alright, Y/N. I’ll fuck you.” 

You let out a pathetic, strangled mewl as your cum sprayed up and onto your sweaty torso. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Henry–gah, you got to call him Henry–had a cock that you couldn’t fully process was actually human. It was too perfect. It was thick, nearly as thick as your wrist though thankfully just short. It was lengthy, having had to be nine or ten inches at full mast. His balls were heavy, full of cum that he was eager to let out, and the base of his shaft was buried in a wild, thick, furry bush. 

It was so close to you. It throbbed in front of you as you sat in your chair, the proximity allowing you to see the thick, pulsing vein that ran from base to near the tip. It let you watch as that fat, mushroom tip leaked a viscous, sticky precum. It lets you inhale that delicious, heady musk, intoxicating your mind and sending it reeling. 

It was almost too much to process. Almost.

You were far, far too eager to begin sucking on the fat shaft. Who could blame you? People would pay good money to get a taste of a cock this perfect. 

Fuck, the taste! A salty, somehow indescribably masculine taste, that flooded and overwhelmed your mind. It felt like you were at risk of addiction. Nothing had ever or would ever taste this damn divine. The copious amounts of thick, even saltier, precum being pumped into your throat was an excellent, equally addictive addition.

Even though it hurt and strained your jaw to stretch that wide and accommodate its length, the activity felt simply euphoric. If Henry would let you, you’d opt to do nothing more and nothing less than worship his cock, day and night. 

“That’s a good, good boy, Y/N. Lube up my cock.”

You always were one to follow Henry’s instructions. Always one to listen, to be a good, obedient puppy. Maybe that’s why you were his favourite. 

And, as he uttered praise and guided your head with a large hand’s firm grip, you certainly weren’t going to start disobeying now. With a hum of acknowledgement, you dutifully continued your task.

Once satisfied, Henry grunted and lightly tapped the back of your head. 

“That’s good, baby. That’s enough. Come, get off my cock now.” 

Part of you wanted to resist. How were you supposed to tear yourself away from his dick? It sounded impossible. But, you were eager for his praise, to hear him call you a good boy again. So, with one last deep dive down, your nose pressed into his hairy bush and your lips to the base of his shaft, you reluctantly pulled your face away and off of his delicious dick. 

“Good fucking boy. You’re a very, very good boy, Y/N.” 

Your cock throbbed with lust-filled need as you nodded with pure excitement. 

“You deserve a reward. Lay on my desk, Y/N, and let me take care of your now.” 

This was somehow the easiest instruction of the night to follow. You found yourself, now nude with your clothes having been folded just like Henry’s, laying on your back on his wooden desk. The surface felt cold and hard, but the feeling of a sturdy base comforted you. You knew that you’d need it. 

As you took deep, steady breaths. The first of the night, actually. Your mind was trained on one thing, one concern rather. 

How would you take his monstrous cock? 

The answer would come soon. Without warning, your legs were lifted by two strong hands. You looked down, seeing as Henry in all his glory set your ankles on his broad shoulders. He began pressing light kisses to your skin, beard tickling your skin, as he maintained unwavering eye contact. It caused you to let out a soft laugh, which he opted to respond to. 

“Your voice is beautiful, Y/N. Save it for me, okay?” 

You felt it then. His fat, throbbing, steaming hot cock was set beside yours, pressed between your dick and your thigh. He was slowly and subtly moving his hips back and forth, groaning at the sensational friction.

“You’ll let me hear you sing tonight, yeah? Let me hear your wonderful voice, Y/N.” 

His words were sweet like honey. It was almost enough to distract you from the prodding of his thick fingers against your tight hole. But, as you felt them push past your tight ring of muscle, your voice came out like the gates had been torn down, a moan resounding through the room. 

“There you go. Good boy… moan for me. Let me hear each and every one, okay?” 

You stared at him, eyes half-lidded, and nodded with an eager need to please.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Deep breaths, Y/N. Deep breaths for me now…”

How could someone so sweet cause so much pain? Henry was hunched over, his large, comforting hands on either side of your head as he hovered his face no more than four inches from yours. His heavy breaths fanned against your cheeks as he kept a steady, solid eye contact between you two. It was wondrous how much fire brewed within you from such a mundane act. 

“Are you ready? I’m going to insert the tip, alright?” 

He looked at you with such care and concern that it almost shocked you. He was a big, hulking man with a terrifyingly huge cock, but as it has come to be shown, a larger heart. It was so damn cheesy, wasn’t it? 

But that didn’t matter as you nodded once again, body unable to take the anticipation, the waiting, for him to shove his fat cock inside. 

…Except maybe it had to. His cockhead slipped inside with ease, but that wasn’t to say it wasn’t fucking painful. You let out a strangled half-moan half-scream, and within seconds, those large hands were patting the side of your head.

“Y/N? Is it too much? I’ll stop, okay? Should I pull out?”

Henry was kissing your forehead, your cheeks, the sides of your lips. He muttered small praises and comforts, every other kiss targeting a tear that had fallen from the pain. He kept true to his word; his hips remained still, his cock not pushing a millimetre further inside. It was from that moment of calm that, as you adjusted to the burning stretch, you were able to speak. 

“D-don’t. Just- give me a second to-“ 

You huffed out, desperate for air. 

“-adjust!” 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips. He tasted, somehow, better than his cock. It wasn’t quite something you could place, to be frank. It was a savoury taste, one with hints of candies you couldn’t identify and a tea whose flavour you couldn’t imagine. But it was entirely and wholly the delicious thing you’ve ever or will ever have. 

That was worth getting addicted to. And if Henry would let you, you’d chase that taste every single moment you can. Something told you that yeah, he would. 

“You’re doing so, so good for me, Y/N. So good, you feel so good…” 

Henry’s voice was low and comforting, just as much, if not more than his calming touches. He spoke in whispers between each kiss, and it led you to slowly, but surely, adjust to the pain. Before you had even realised, all you felt was the desire for him to push even further. 

“H-Henry, you can move now… please…” 

“Are you sure, Y/N?” 

Hearing your name roll off his tongue, so casual by this point, only cemented your enthusiasm. You nodded slowly and weakly, smiling the best you could. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful… Hold on to me, and tell me if I need to stop, okay?” 

Your cock nearly bounced at the praise. You eked out another nod as your hands came up to rest on his shoulders, leading him to return your smile with one of his own. And fuck, it was gorgeous. 

He kept his movement slow. It was torturous, but you could appreciate the time and the caution he took. His face watched yours, now scanning for any sign of pain or discomfort. At every wince or scrunch, he would stop, waiting for a nod or smile as your sign of readiness. 

“You feel excellent, Y/N. Being with you… I could get obsessed with this feeling, you know?” 

He leaned down to kiss you yet again. He kissed you, giving you yet another helping of that impossibly lovely taste: his taste. 

And then… then he brushed against your prostate, his cock like a mallet smashing into a button. Even slow, it sent a shock up your spine and a resulting heat through your nerves. Your loud, vulgar moans were taken with great joy and adoration from Henry, his smile only growing fonder. 

“You sound so good, Y/N. Let it out for me…” 

Perhaps you took it a tad too far as your cock, with the pressure to your prostate, burst with another spray of hot, sticky cum that painted both tour and Henry’s stomachs. Such a reaction was met with a warm laughter. 

“Not what I meant, but I’m not complaining. It’s good to know you feel good, baby.” 

He leaned in for yet another kiss and, in the hypnotising exchange, you just barely processed a large, encapsulating hand taking hold of your cock. Henry began to spread your cum across your own shaft, using it to pump your still-sensitive cock towards unbearable pleasure. 

“I’m gonna keep making you feel good, okay?” 

Sweat had beaded all over your skin now, streams running down your body as Henry’s own dripped down and onto your frame. He was pushing just a bit faster now—you almost couldn’t take the wait any longer. That once painful stretch had evolved into pleasure. It had evolved from a burning heat contained to your ass and spread into this resounding, unending warmth washing through you. In the process, it had devolved you into a writhing, moaning mess.

His cock was large, that was certainly clear. It was the kind of large that made your stomach bulge, the kind that you knew you wouldn’t ever be able to take with ease no matter how many times it had fucked you. And shit, you hoped that it would fuck you so, so many more times. 

But your composure only broke down further when his cock seemed to reach so impossibly deep inside, spreading your insides apart like it was trying to break you. Moan after moan fell out as your back arched involuntarily, only accentuating the bulge in your stomach. 

“Baby? Y/N?” 

You hadn’t even realised it, but Henry had stopped pushing himself deeper. Now, as he buried into what felt like the core of you and sent waves of electrifying heat with even the slightest twitch of his dick, his hips were flush against yours. He had bottomed out. 

“Henry…” 

Words other than the man’s name didn’t seem to be able to form. He, however, had so much to say. 

“Fuck, you’re amazing, Y/N. You’re taking me so damn well…” 

The hand not on your cock let go of your face and glided down your body, tracing lines down your shaking body, and stopped just over the bulging portion of your stomach. He brushed it gently, causing yet another crackle of electricity to wrack through you.

“Can… can I start to move?” 

Oh, you could’ve broken your neck with how fast you agreed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Shit, shit! You feel so damn good, Y/N.” 

Henry’s calm demeanour had taken a backseat. It was still there, in careful touches to your face and sweet caresses of your body. You could still hear it in every little praise he threw out, and every loving glance he gave your half-lidded eyes. 

His hips, though, had practically lost any form of restraint. 

He withdrew and pushed back in with speed and force, hips slamming with a harsh and sharp slap. Your ass felt sore by this point, but it was a warm, comfortable soreness when paired with the sheer, blinding pleasure of Henry’s cock. 

By the gods, the pleasure was insane. It was driving you mad, your vision going white. His cock, no matter how many times it was thrust into you, remained impossibly large and impossibly deep-reaching. It felt as though it only went deeper and deeper with each push, a result of your fractured state. 

But how could one stay sane when their body was being overwhelmed with such unimaginable pleasure. 

As drool began to spill and your eyes rolled back, Henry was quick to grab you by the chin and lock you into yet another kiss. Unlike the times before, though it carried the same sweetness, it was now heavy with a hunger, a need. He hungered for you, and he needed to fucking ruin you. 

And Henry’s a man who accomplishes his goals, isn’t he? He began thrusting into your harder, harsher than he had before. He thrust over and over and over again, his movements without a single missed beat or second of hesitation. 

His kisses remained constant too. His thick, strong tongue had shoved its way past your pretty lips and began to gnash against your tongue. It was a strange but nonetheless mind numbingly good feeling to have him invade your body even further. 

By now, his grip had transferred to and firmed on your hips. He kept you nice and planted in place on that damn sturdy desk of his, even as each thrust threatened its integrity. His pace was relentless, the wood starting to creak with his forcefulness. 

He drew back, saliva still stringing your mouth and his. 

“Y-you feel good, Y/N?” 

Who knew this man could stutter? But fuck, he made it sound hot. He sounded so lost in the pleasure, and even then, so firm in his every word. 

“Y-yes!” 

He gave a crooked smile at your words. 

“Good! Do you like the way I taste, Y/N? The way my spit tastes?” 

How vulgar was that? And how vulgar was it that, the second you tried to respond with a very clear yes, he decided to drop a fat glob of hot spit onto your cheek? He brought his thumb up to rub it into your skin and, hell, you were about to thank him for it. 

You couldn’t as he cut you off with yet another breathtaking kiss. You were left panting and unable to speak at all when he pulled away.

“You’re a whore, you know? A beautiful, obedient, whore.” 

His words carried no malice, only a heavy lust that he was just barely stopping from pushing him towards ruining your body completely. 

“But you’re my whore, alright? Don’t you ever fucking forget.” 

He slapped your cheek. It wasn’t one of anger, moreso just trying to snap you into focus. He wanted an answer and, as his best and favourite student, he knew he would get a reply out of you. 

“I-I’m your whore, sir!” 

It was a miracle you could speak, really. It was especially miraculous because the second he heard that, with one resounding slam of his hips into yours, you felt it. 

“Fuck, Y/N!”

In the moment, as you arched your back and let your mouth flow with moans at the highest possible volume, Henry’s cock pumped gush after gush of burning hot, viscous, cum. 

It felt like molten steel, an impossible extreme of everything that semen was meant to be. And as such, it brought the pleasure you felt from having your stomach pumped full of it to a high that you could never reach with any drug imaginable. 

And through it, his hips hadn’t chosen to stop. Every thrust was now being punctuated with a new load of cum filling your already full belly, each one followed then with another slap to your ass or lust-driven proclamation of love. 

“God, I love your tight fucking ass-”

You were screaming as you came at the height of the moment’s intensity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You weren’t sure when the night ended, exactly. It seemed that the man had fucked you for hours on end, until he had emptied his fat balls’ storage of cum and filled your belly with it. He had fucked you till your cock hurt, and each climax produced a dry orgasm due to empty tanks. 

He had fucked you till you were left unable to think of anything but his cock and the taste of his sweet, delicious lips.  

And now, he was buried deep inside you still, pressing kiss after kiss to your neck as you desperately gasped for air. 

“Did I go too hard? Are you hurt, Y/N?” 

Your body was, in fact, aching. It was this numb, almost muffled pain that was eclipsed—or perhaps even part of—this euphoric pleasure that continued to grasp you. Things no longer felt real, at this point, but a dream you’d rather not wake from. 

But things were very much reality, and that included a high-off-sex and full-of-affection Henry. 

“I apologise for the slaps, they were rather forceful…” 

You managed out a shake of the head to signal a no. The laugh that he gave, boisterous yet quiet, made your heart pound again. 

“I see. I suppose we’ll need ample time to explore what we both enjoy, hm?” 

The idea of more time with Henry, more time doing this, was certainly exciting. He didn’t need more than your dumb little smile, one you couldn’t wipe off your face even if you wanted or tried to, to tell you thought. 

“I can see you like the prospect, hm?” 

Another chuckle and another kiss. What bliss this was. 

“I’m going to pull out now, so that we can both get cleaned up, okay? Just breathe for me, Y/N, just like earlier.” 

You tried to follow, you really did. But as your hole was quickly left empty, gaping and clenching around nothing, you couldn’t help but whine unintelligible mutterings. Henry responded with even more pecks to your lips and caresses to your soft, delicate skin. 

Henry was certainly a gentleman. He had taken some tissues from the box he reserved for students with colds and used then to to clean the outer portion of your sloppy hole. His hands, as large as they were, moved soft and delicate, careful not to press against any overly sensitive parts. 

He had taken to cleaning himself—drying his cock, much to your dismay, with more paper towels. He had noticed your sadness and, with an admittedly smug smirk, said he’d allow you to suck his cock clean next time. It was still strange, even after the night you had had with him, to hear such lewd language uttered from the refined man’s mouth.

By the time he had dressed himself, your breathing had steadied. Your backside was still sore and leaking, but he had promised to help with that back at his apartment. 

Wait.

His apartment? 

“Ah, would you rather not? I can clean you up in the facilities here and-” 

“No, no! I’d-”

You coughed. All the sweat, mixed with what was now cool night air, had left your body just a tad sick. Well, that and the exhaustion from having taken on such an impossible task and cock. 

“-love to. I’d love to go home with you, Henry.” 

He smiled like he hadn’t heard anything quite as lovely before. You smiled back in return. 

He was the eager to tug on your boxers and wrap you in his suit jacket as a means of decency. He lifted you up bridal-style and pressed a kiss to your forehead. The man was strong and, with the ease that was carrying you, he even held your folded clothing in the hand supporting your butt. 

You even found the strength to be humorous in the moment, letting out a joking, “Ooh, strong guy, huh?” 

He graced you yet again with one of those pure, unadulterated laughs.

“I’m glad to have had this one on one session with you, Y/N. Certainly was productive, wasn’t it?”

THANK YOU to my lovely beta readers! There's a shit ton GAHAH

@inhumanshadows @worstwolverinesbf @darlingminjin @alatrysev @starboye @spermeboy @starrykie @sleep-0-deprived @slytherslvt @kurominis

You toe off your shoes by the door, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical. It’s bone-deep. A tiredness that follows you into the house, into your skin.

Nanami’s already in the kitchen. You hear the low simmer of something on the stove and the soft hum of his voice not singing, just… existing out loud, the way he does when he thinks no one’s home yet.

He turns at the sound of the door.

“Welcome back.”Warm, even, calm. His voice is the first thing today that hasn’t felt like pressure.

You try to smile, but it’s half-hearted.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not late,” he says, as if the concept itself is ridiculous. “You’re home.”

That makes your throat catch, just a little. You drop your coat onto the back of a chair and step into the kitchen. Nanami’s already moving, ladling soup into bowls, slicing the last bit of green onion to garnish. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to the elbows, and his tie is loosened just enough to remind you he’s been off the clock a while.

“Rough day?” he asks, still not pressing.

You nod. You don’t want to get into it.

You sit in silence at the table while he sets everything down. He doesn’t force you to talk, he just eats beside you, calm and steady. When your hand shakes a little lifting the spoon, he pretends not to see. You know he does. That’s the thing about Nanami. He sees everything and chooses grace, every time.

Halfway through dinner, your voice slips out quieter than you mean. “I just didn’t feel good in my skin today.”

You don’t look up when you say it. You can’t. It feels silly, even though you know he’ll never treat it that way.

Nanami doesn’t respond right away. You hear the soft clink of his spoon against the bowl as he sets it down. Then the chair beside you slides back, and you feel the warmth of his hand on your thigh under the table.

“Thank you for telling me.”

That alone undoes you a little more than you expect. You blink fast. “You don’t have to say anything—”

“I know.” He squeezes your leg gently. “But I want you to hear me.”

You finally look up. His face is calm, but his eyes … god, his eyes. That soft, focused intensity you’ve only ever seen aimed at you. Like nothing else in the room matters.

“You’re mine,” he says, low and steady. “And I don’t love you despite anything. I love you entirely.”He waits. Watches you breathe through it. Then adds, softer, “Let me help.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t need to.

The rest of dinner is forgotten. The lights stay dim. His hand finds yours as you lead him to the bedroom, slowly, quietly, like neither of you want to startle the fragile comfort you’ve built in these last few minutes.

You sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, his fingers gentle as they undo the buttons of your shirt, not rushing, just letting you breathe into it. Letting you decide how far you want to go, how close you’ll let him.

You meet his eyes again. “I want you to touch me like I’m yours.”

His breath catches. His gaze darkens, not with lust, but with reverence.

“You are.”

His hands slide beneath your shirt, slow, practiced, asking without words. You nod, and he helps ease the fabric up and over your head, careful not to let it snag. You shiver at the shift in temperature, not from cold but from being seen.

Nanami doesn’t stare. He studies. His hands rest lightly on your sides, and then he leans in, pressing a warm, grounding kiss to your sternum.

And then lower to the edge of one scar.

You flinch. Not because it hurts. Just… it’s overwhelming. You feel everything. His lips pause, just barely brushing the tissue. He lifts his eyes to meet yours. “Still okay?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “Y-Yeah. Just… sensitive.”

His smile is small but sincere. “That’s okay.”

He kisses one scar again, softer. Reverent. Not skipping past it, not avoiding it. He lingers there like it’s holy. Then the other. Then just above, right beneath your collarbone, where his hands settle like he’s anchoring you to yourself.

And just like that, the dysphoria quiets. Not gone. But dulled by the weight of his love.

When he pulls back, your eyes are glassy, but your voice is steady. “Kento…”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let me love you. Just like this.”

And you let him.

His mouth meets yours, gentle as a familiar rhythm is settle between your lips. Then, his mouth pulls back and kisses your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. Down to the jugular nutch, your collarbones, and so on.

A soft whimper escapes your throat as Nanami kisses your scars again, then moves down your stomach. His fingers gently pulls your sweatpants down, leaving you in your boxers at his disposal.

“You okay?” He asks as you nods, running your hands through his blonde locks softly.

His mouth moves further down, kissing your thighs as one hand sneaks up to open your legs. You aid, spreading them as Nanami massages your thighs.

Kissing the inner thigh, Nanami begins to move closer and closer to your heat. Trembling, he meets yours eyes as you give a subtle nod, which he takes eagerly and begins kissing above your clothed groin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the movement making you shiver a little. Your boxers damping, you push Nanami off so you can shuck the uncomfortably wet fabric off.

“So beautiful,” he repeats, using his fingers to spread your lips slowly, running them up and down your wetting lips.

Christ, no matter how many times he’s done this, you never get tired of his fingers.

“Can you look at me?” You whisper, the sounds of your breathing and the wetness gathering on Nanami’s fingers being the only sound in the bedroom.

Nanami doesn’t speak, just looks up to meet your eyes as his mouth locks onto your crotch.

You inhale, meeting his eyes as Nanami looks at you so lovingly as his mouth begins to kiss and lick you. Fingers now massaging your thighs once more, you whimper at the sensation.

Getting eaten out used to make you so nervous, so dysphoric. But with Nanami? It feels heavenly.

Another gasp is pulled out of you as a finger slips inside you. Long, it reaches that little spot inside you that Nanami knows all too well.

Gripping the sheets at your side, you choke out another moan as Nanami’s mouth moves up to lick your clit.

“Kento…” is murmured through your lips, looking back down at Nanami between your legs.

His finger is pumping inside you, hitting that spot right on as his eyes are closed, like your pussy is the only thing in the world. Like he’s drowning with it.

His tongue is flicking against your clit at an unpredictable rhythm that keeps you on your toes. The combination of the two, and the groan Nanami lets out, makes your thighs begin to tremble.

“Gosh…” you finally begin to find your breath as his pace picks up, eyes opening to meet yours. Hungry, he looks.

One hand lets go of your thighs, sneaking up your chest to push your back against the bed. Legs being hiked over his shoulders, he begins to move with a new found purpose.

“Ah! God— Kento!” You shout, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere.

He’s a man on a mission now, tasked with making your abdomen clench and back arch as you find your hands in his hair. Both trying to bring his face closer and push him away as you get overwhelmed, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head.

“Kento— I’m close—“ the words are torn from your throat as you feel his tongue move off your sensitive bud to slip inside you. One hand releasing your wrists as his thumb rubs your clit. Vigorously.

“Kento— Wait—“ you can help the moan that breaks your sentences. Coherent thoughts long gone as you feel your orgasm approaching rapidly.

“Come on baby, you’re right there,” Kento murmurs into your pussy, the vibrations finally sending you over edge as you cum hard with a shout of his name. Hands moving to hold Nanami’s hair tightly, your body convulses as he licks you through your orgasm.

“Such a beautiful boy,” he says. Chin drenched as he licks his lips, he unzips his pants and pulls himself out.

Stroking himself for a few seconds, you try to catch your breath as you look up at him. His eyes are hooded with a desire that makes you shiver. Resting on your back, you close your eyes as you feel him slide up and down your slit, soaking his cock in your juices.

Some rummaging can be heard, so you sit up and tap at Nanami. Shaking your head, “I just want to feel you.”

The search of the condom is abandoned as Nanami kissing your forehead as he slips the head in.

“Christ…” he mumbles as he begins to push in, painfully slow to drag out the stretch. Hands going to your side as he uses the bed for leverage.

“You’re still so tight…” he says quietly into your ear. Finally bottoming out, your arms move to hold his shoulders as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. But that doesn’t fly. Nanami moves to push you back down on the bed, seeing you laying down and spread out for him.

“You’re stunning,” he says as he begins pulling in and out, angling his hips just so he can continue reaching that collection of nerves inside you.

“Mmm, so warm. So wet. So tight. Such a handsome man,” he purrs as he brings one of your arms up and begins kissing your palm, wrists, and fingers. He begins to worship your body, like it’s the most priceless piece of art in the world. Rocking his hips into a rhythm you know all too well, he draws out more whimpers from your lips.

“Kento—“ he cuts you off by dropping your hand and moving his thumb to trace slow painful circles are your clit.

As if you’re still not sensitive from your first orgasm just mere minutes ago.

“Wait— Kento baby— I’m still—“ you try to protest, but get cut off by another moan as he pushes the little bundle down.

“I know baby. But see how much I love your body? So perfect for me,” Kento rasped, before bringing your legs up to fold you into a mating press.

Now, his pubes are the ones brushing up your clit, the new feeling adding another layer of pleasure as the angle allows him to push further into you.

His balls slap against your ass, the sound of the flesh so vulgar, mixing in with the sweat and the gasps you let out.

“Ah— Ah— Ah—“ is the only sound you can make out. Nanami moves his hands right by your head, your own arms moving to hold onto his back. Nails dig into his skin, scratching down as you desperately try cling on to him.

He’s always been so good at this, it’s downright criminal.

“Feel good, baby?” He asks, voice rough as he picks up the pace, fucking into you like it’s his last mission.

You nod, whimpering as you cling on to him quicker. “Yes— God!— Yes, Kento. So good…”

He moves harder. Faster. His horribly skilled hand coming back between the two of you to rub that little bud again.

Your stomach begins to cramp, your eyes squeeze shut, your hands digger deeper into his back.

“Kento, I’m close—“ You can’t finish as he begins to kiss your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Coming up to mouth, he whispers right into your lips, “Come for me.” And by mighty you do.

Shaking as your jaw goes slack, his hand quickening against your clit, he feels you clench and tighten up as you orgasm violently.

“Kento!”

“Fuck—“ he moans right back, his orgasm rapidly approaching. Fucking you through your own finish as he approaches his, his hands come off your puffy pussy as he begins pounding you like it’s life or death. Snapping his hips violently, you’re a whimpering mess as he grunts above you.

“Inside, please,” is all you need to say as the groan is violently ripped from his throat as he freezes. You feel the warmth flood you, and Nanami’s hands give out as he lowers your legs.

You finally seem to catch enough air. Legs cramping up a little, but able to relax now that Nanami moved off to your side to hold you.

And he does. For a while.

The sunlight over New York that day was generous, birds chirping cheerfully from every branch they crossed. Clouds looked like drops of paint spilled across the bright blue sky, as if the celestial painter had accidentally tipped some warm milk onto the atmospheric canvas. You had taken advantage of the clear weather to breathe in the mixed scents of a neighborhood you barely knew. Restaurants, gyms, cafés—and you had also spotted a bank.

And then you saw him at the corner of a street. He walked with the kind of confidence only certain men possessed, the kind that could make a shiver run down your spine. His hands were shoved firmly into the high pockets of a jacket perfectly tailored to his waist. Head held high, he was whistling—the sound having first drawn your attention to him.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen a handsome stranger in the street, and maybe the sunlight, suddenly too bright, had filled you with a burst of courage you didn’t think you had. So you followed him, trying to catch up to his long strides in hopes of starting a conversation.

He was heading into a diner, a uselessly lit neon sign displaying the name “Bel Aire Diner.” You didn’t know the place, and from here it honestly didn’t look very appealing, but you stepped inside anyway because he did.

“Thanks,” you said, closing the door he had held open after hearing your footsteps behind him.

Your voice didn’t seem to reach his ears. His gaze looked relaxed yet condensed into a narrow tube—like he was listing a pattern step by step inside his head. He walked up to the counter and lazily pulled out one of the unappealing stools.

Come on, it’s just a man, you encouraged yourself inwardly while taking a breath of fresh air. You didn’t notice the lobsters trying to escape their glass prison, nor the little dog sitting on its owner’s lap. Your attention was fixed entirely on the relaxed silhouette of the man with dusty-gold hair.

“Hi,” the stool creaked faintly against the floor as you pulled it out to sit beside him.

Dex restrained the instinctive twitch in his jaw. He spent a few moments deciphering the color of a cup far too red sitting in front of him, then finally let you see his face—a friendly expression he mastered perfectly. “Hi.”

To him, you were a parasite. A buzzing fly hovering around his freshly polished plan. Under different circumstances, you could’ve been seen as a beetle to crush, or a butterfly with pretty colors. But right now, in this exact moment, you were a fly.

“I’ll take a banana milkshake please,” your voice rang far too loudly beside his already boiling ears.

The ambient scent of caffeine filled your lungs, coating them with another layer of courage—or recklessness. The man beside you stared for two long seconds at the waitress pulling a large clean glass from one of the cupboards. Then his gaze dropped back to you, with a new gleam embedded deep in his pupils that you didn’t understand at the time.

It wasn’t interest. At least, not the kind you imagined. No, it was the same look a cat gave at a mouse’s sweet silhouette. That visceral curiosity of wanting to catch the poor little thing out of sheer boredom—just to entertain itself for a while.

Dex was looking at you, and now you had his attention, because with every word you spoke you became even more of a problem to solve. The kind of problem he solved with one single equation—assuming you pushed him far enough to reach that result.

“If I give you my number, you’ll leave this place?” his voice asked, far too calm, vibrating despite itself with an electrically dangerous smile.

The question caught you off guard, his unreadable expression only deepening your confusion. He looked controlled, but excessively so—unstable. The slight smile lingering on his lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his narrowed eyes—everything seemed restrained, contained. But the way you swallowed wasn’t frightened at all. Quite the opposite. It was innovative, new. The human mind fears the unknown, yet in that moment you decided to mute every warning light just long enough to savor the thrill sliding down your spine.

“Yeah I will.”

“Perfect,” a smile carved itself differently onto his features—a smile that had appeared before his thoughts could catch up and restrain it.

And that was how you ended up with the stranger’s number saved in your contacts under the name Tony.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He should’ve understood. He should’ve understood why Dex did all of this. Why didn’t he understand? 

His still-booted feet struck the shattered remains of a picture frame broken across the floor. The room was drowned in silent, frozen chaos. Impact marks on the walls, overturned furniture, blood staining the wallpaper. Dex stared at the scene, unable to process the events—unable to handle them.

Daredevil had found him, they had fought, and then Dex had run away. But he had wanted to come back, just to see, just to witness it.

His heart was beating too fast for the situation. The adrenaline from the fight had faded long ago, and yet the pounding of his heartbeat slammed violently against his ribcage. It vibrated through his body, rippling against every rib until it settled deep inside his stomach. The taste of blood still flooded his mouth, something he had learned to enjoy—something he may have always enjoyed.

The Task Force brigade would arrive soon, he knew it. The neighbors must have called those idiots, thinking they were being useful.

Dex was useful, yes he was. He needed to be.

So why didn’t Murdock see it? Why hadn’t he noticed? He did things right, he did everything right. Why did Matthew look at him like a dog failing a trick? Dex had learned all the tricks, and he showed them to him, so why wasn’t he proud?

A spiral had begun the moment Daredevil stepped into Dex’s intimacy. A whirlwind growing taller and wider behind him. He could feel its icy current. He could already feel his muscles slipping into hypothermia, his teeth shaking. He wanted to curl inward, hide inside a shell and only emerge once all of this was over—once the storm died down. But he remained frozen in the wind that had numbed his entire body. It always took over. Always.

Anger, disappointment, disgust, then distress. A cycle structuring his thoughts into an obsessive choreography. Obsession, need, craving. Air no longer reached his lungs properly.

Solution—he needed a solution.

The repeated blinking of his eyelids created a cinematic effect around the trembling phone held in his left hand. Blood was rushing to the wrong place, the worst place.

Need to please him, need to please him. Why can’t he accept my sacrifice?

Several streets away, resting on your bedside table, your phone vibrated. A quick, sharp vibration signaling a new message.

Tony 💌—can we meet up?

The overly bright screen made you squint slightly. A stray droplet of water slid down the back of your neck, running along your still-bare spine from your shower. You had to dig through your short-term memory to find a trace of this “Tony.” Then finally, it came back.

—hello? —so you ditch me and now you change ur mind?

💌—sry 💌—wasn’t in the mood 💌—can we meet? pls

You rolled your eyes, tossing your phone onto the sheets while you went to grab clean clothes. You weren’t difficult in bed, but there still had to be some minimum effort involved. This Tony guy would need to show a little more interest.

💌—I’m sorry for how I treated you 💌—was not good 💌—pls I need to see someone

Your eyes skimmed the notifications while pulling on a t-shirt. Apologizing was already a good start. Most people stopped before that point. But you still wanted to see him struggle a little more, just to know whether he’d really hold out.

—so now I’m just “someone” —you makes things worse yk

💌—ok ok I’m sorry yes I want to fuck 💌—and you’re the only option 💌—sorry

An amused smile spread across your face. At least it was honest. And actually, for a hookup that was all that really mattered, so why keep denying it?

—’k because I love honesty —and you’re hot

Your fingers mechanically typed your address, not wanting to make the effort of going out just to fuck in some shabby hotel.

Dex was already on his way. He had left his apartment the second the little reply bubbles appeared in your conversation. He didn’t have time to find someone else, to pay someone. And he needed someone. He needed a substitute. Someone strong, confident, assured. Someone who could place their hands where bloodstains were drying—where an imprint had sunk deep into flesh. You matched, at least a little, and that was enough for him.

He was freezing. His skin felt tight—shivering every time fabric brushed against him. It hurt. God, it hurt.

For a fleeting instant, his mind wandered to the medication he had stopped taking months ago, since the mental institution. The medication would’ve stopped all of this. He knew it.

His pale knuckles tapped weakly against the smooth wood of what he hoped was your door. On the other side, your hand settled against the cold handle, fingers brushing the wood.

The hallway light gently spilled into your apartment when you opened the door. And there stood a man—Tony. Completely ravaged by an ache you didn’t know and yet could smell.

He vibrated with a deafening intensity.

“Hi come—” His lips crashed against yours, and suddenly the ache had a taste.

Salty. Chemical. A bitterness like household cleaner forced down your throat. You swallowed, your back colliding with the nearest solid surface. Somehow, amidst the storm, your hand still managed to shut the front door. The man was suffocating you—not physically. In fact, he hadn’t touched you at all, barely even looked at you. But his lips acted like a conduit siphoning something out of you. Maybe your common sense. Your dignity.

You were starting to run out of air. He wasn’t even moving his lips. His tongue wasn’t searching for yours.

Your fleeting hand pressed against his chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt beneath your palm. “Wait—wait, let me breathe.”

Your eyes tried to adjust to the sight before you. He was sweating, but more importantly covered in blood. Now that his mouth no longer monopolized your attention, you could smell the iron clinging to him. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing far too much of the earthy color of his irises. He was panting, each exhale striking your face.

He looked like a dog that had lost its owner. A wolf hit by a car—or rather, a deer.

He was waiting for something from you, like you were about to order him back into his basket or reveal treats hidden in your pockets. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something—anything, because holy shit this situation was surreal, abnormal. But the words never found their way to your vocal cords. They all shoved each other deeper into your throat instead.

He looked pathetic like this, and the problem was that you found it incredibly attractive. Just like the blood now staining the corner of your lips. Just like the coldness of his skin.

Actually, the storm—the ache acting like a rope around your neck—was captivating. Being held down this way by an invisible force, restrained by abstract hands, it was thrilling. Nothing new about that. Humans had always craved being held, no matter the method. Still, it remained disorienting and exciting.

“You still want to fuck?” were the first words you forced out of your throat.

Dex nodded vigorously, his eyes never leaving yours for even a fraction of a second. He pierced through you in the filthiest way possible, the most sickening, disgusting way.

“Right then let’s head up to my room.”

He followed you, his footsteps unconsciously mirroring yours, slipping into the prints only his eyes could see. The concept of a bar suddenly felt instinctive to you, an atmospheric pressure capable of crushing the human body through self-destruction alone. Our own weight multiplied until it resulted in death. Our very impact causing an explosion.

Your bedroom door was already open. You stepped in first, with the strange feeling the man behind you wouldn’t have wanted to pass ahead.

A creak, a lock clicking shut, and your back once again struck a surface far too hard for your poor muscles. His lips were on yours again, but this time you took the reins, imposed your own rhythm. A storm couldn’t be controlled, but you could at least try to follow the circular motion of its gusts. You forced your way into his mouth, your tongue slipping in like a serpent entering Eden. He whimpered faintly, the sound swallowed immediately within the chaotic dance your tongues began. Your hand searched for stability, as though despite the excitement you feared your body might be swept away and shredded apart in the air. His sticky hair tangled between your fingers, accidentally knotting together blood and sweat—a lock keeping him trapped in your grasp. His weight crushed harder and harder against yours, pinning you between himself and the wall until breathing became difficult.

You yanked your hand sharply, forcing his head back. Your lips separated noisily, teeth knocking together for an instant. He groaned, his head still firmly held in your grip. The taste of blood coated your entire mouth, making your brain wonder whether you yourself were bleeding.

It was intoxicating.

Dex trembled, his knees struggling to hold his weight upright. It hurt, it hurt so badly. Your touch reminded him of his. He could almost feel fists slamming into his ribs again, horns grazing his shoulder.

Your glassy eyes observed the image the man before you offered. He looked insane like this, completely ruined.

You straightened slightly, releasing your hold on his skull. And to your surprise, he collapsed immediately to the floor, dropping to his knees in front of you.

“You—you good? Tony, you want to stop?”

His glossy eyes met yours, pupils charcoal-black. It took him time to process your voice, as though he first needed to make space inside his head before acknowledging your words. But his head answered before his vocal cords did. He slowly shook it side to side, his gaze jumping between your eyes, searching for a color he wanted to recognize.

His hands settled on your thighs before you even noticed. He gripped tightly, nearly pinching the muscle. His face pressed against your hipbone, and you physically felt a heartbeat miss its route, forgetting to follow its vascular path. He looked like a puppy like this—a puppy with blood coating its jaws, a dead rat laid proudly at your feet.

“Call me Dex, please my name’s Dex,” he whispered breathlessly, fingers sliding beneath your shirt to reach your bare stomach. His lips pressed to your skin, and for the first time in your life you felt like a kiss could also be a bite—a snakebite. “Please call me Dex, please I need you to call me Dex,” his saliva staining your skin in a way that felt permanent.

“Such a freak, you know that?” This time a wide, stupid grin spread across his lips, making you smile despite yourself. “Ok I need you to listen, can you do that for me?”

He nodded, the involuntarily sexy gesture making you swallow hard. Your eyes searched for an easy word to remember. “Red. Red is our safeword, ok?” Your partner’s eyes closed for a moment and you thought you heard a strangled moan. How could you have known that word was the nickname of the man putting Dex in this state? How could you have known his cock was throbbing just from hearing it?

Your fingers tightened around Dex’s chin, forcing his head back up toward you. “I asked you a question. Use your words. Red is our safeword, understood?”

“Understood,” his voice dripped out.

You shifted away from him, constantly burning beneath the intensity of the gaze that refused to release you. “C’mon. On the bed.”

For a moment, you thought about your trans identity, about how you hadn’t really had time to bring it up to him. Then you saw him, ghostlike, crawling toward your bed, desperate and pathetic for an unnamed service. You saw the curve of his back, deciphering the waves of his spine beneath the fabric. And then you saw yourself—not physically but sensorially—shaking in a way similar to him, ache scratching at the inside of your carcass. And suddenly, what was inside your pants became ridiculous compared to the strange molecules filling your four lungs.

Your hand found its way to the nearest part of the man lying on your bed.

His back—his spine.

Your index finger followed by your middle met the damp texture of the shirt he wore. Your eyes slowly traveled across his entire silhouette, admiring the face he tried to hide in the sheets, then the dip of his lower back. An invisible force pushed you to fully touch his spine, your palm settling entirely between his shoulder blades. And as though your touch had burned him, he arched his back. As though your hand carried an energy too heavy, he moaned open-mouthed, a poor scrap of sheet trying to absorb the sweet sound. Your eyes widened more and more at each reaction his body had to yours. It was new, unusual—a concept to explore, to turn over from every angle.

On a second impulse, you moved closer, one knee sinking into the mattress so your still-standing body could lean over his. Dex whimpered like an injured animal, lips shaping muffled words.

Your hand pressed harder against the area that seemed so sensitive to him. A second moan tore from his throat, louder this time.

Your eyes devoured the sight, and you realized you needed more. You needed to touch him, to see his skin, to hear every other sound he could make.

So your second knee joined the first, sinking the mattress deeper beneath the pressure. Your hands sprang into action as though a switch had been flipped—electric current restored to your muscles. Dex helped you pull off his shirt, and you removed yours as well. As though he had always been meant to do this, Dex rolled back onto his stomach, propped up slightly on his elbows. No sweat coated your back; instead, it was replaced by waves of irrational shivers that refused to stop. Seeing your partner’s position, you leaned over him—trying to ignore the visible jolt of anticipation that crossed him—and grabbed one of your pillows. His gaze, still glassy and dependent, never left you. He waited for the slightest request from you, the smallest demand. You motioned for him to place the pillow beneath his torso so his body wouldn’t tire unnecessarily—and of course, he obeyed.

Straightening up, you settled your seated weight on the tops of Dex’s thighs, your legs straddling his. And then you saw it, splitting his back in two.

A scar.

Large. Long.

At first it had gone unnoticed, hidden by the dim lighting. But now it leapt at you, making your lips part and your eyes widen. You understood now why your fingers had felt like fire when they brushed his back, why your hand carried so much energy whenever it neared that area.

Driven by an irrepressible urge, you leaned down. Your hands naturally rested on either side of Dex’s head, surrounding him in the best possible way. And your lips met the scar. The imperfect, discolored, horrific skin of it. You kissed that damaged flesh, not because you wanted to fix it, but simply because you wanted to—because it was terribly mesmerizing and your lips needed to touch it.

“Oh god don’t—” Dex began melting beneath your touch, more and more with every kiss pressed along his spine. “Don’t touch—” Every sentence suffocated before it could fully form. And your hand sliding along his back did nothing to help his diction.

You continued your kisses, accompanied by your wandering hand in the dip of his back. You grabbed his hip, his pelvis instinctively lifting at the contact. A small chuckle left your lips, sending a puff of air across the dampness left behind by your kisses.

The atmosphere around you—smothering your cells—deepened. The pressure weighing down your human body became scorching, clawing the air from your lungs with bare hands. And you knew its source. He was lying beneath you, trembling harder than you had ever seen someone tremble. He produced this macabre mechanism. And he suffered from it, perhaps even more than you did.

Suddenly, those gentle caresses began to ring false. Those kisses were creating acidic marks on his skin despite yourself, acid eating away at something inside him. Your lips had touched it, drawn like an insect to the venom coating the back of a multicolored frog. You wanted more too. More than these futile little caresses.

Your hand left the delicious dip of his back, instead grabbing his shoulder to force him onto his back. His face turned toward you, such a disconcerting picture that it froze you for a second.

That expression of need, of pleading, had never left his eyes.

He wanted more from you.

Always more.

You shifted your weight with the support of one hand against the mattress, your hips once again settling over his thighs. Even through the layers of fabric separating you from his body, you could feel the thickness of his muscles—contracting more with every movement you made.

Your eyes locked onto his, refusing to leave now that they had found them. Your hand blindly found the opening of his pants, undoing it like a seasoned burglar. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolling through your peripheral vision. Your second hand joined the first, yanking the garment from his body in one sharp motion. He barely moved, obediently lifting his legs when you silently asked him to.

And then, when your hand tried to return to his hips, a strange texture made you glance down.

He had already come in his pants.

A breath escaped your lungs at the sight. Your eyes snapped back to his face, a face flushed with a mixture of shame and excitement intensified infinitely by the expression painted across your own features.

Your palm never left the bulge desperately trying to gain friction against it. You pressed down—not softly, not gently. He moaned loudly, head falling back despite himself. He trembled beneath you, beneath your grip. His cock was throbbing, creating an even worse mess in his underwear.

You needed to touch him.

Saliva gathered in your mouth, blood rushed between your legs, making you throb too.

So you finally pulled off his boxers, unable to stop yourself from smiling at the true state of them. Then your eyes fell back onto the subject of your thoughts, twitching ridiculously beneath the burn of your stare alone. You wanted to take him in your hand, your mouth, inside you—anywhere. You wanted to taste him, breathe in his scent until it gave you a headache, until you could no longer erase his traces from your memory.

But instead, the pads of your fingers brushed along the flushed skin of his cock.

Your gaze lifted back to Dex’s face now hidden behind one arm. You let him do it, let him think he could hide from you. Small loud sighs echoed through your bedroom, all coming from one single person. You still didn’t let your palm fully touch his cock, only your fingers stroking up and down his length.

His back arched beneath your gaze, his spine cracking occasionally in the sexiest way possible.

Then it was your turn to break. He was too loud, too visual, too intoxicating for you to hold out any longer.

Your hand finally wrapped fully around his dick, making him sob gorgeously and costing you yet another breath. Your heartbeat was just as fast as his, even though no hands touched you the way yours touched him. But he transferred everything onto you, dripping all over you—metaphorically and literally.

You leaned over his body once again, your free hand reclaiming its place beside his head. He barely noticed your movement, his mind too crowded by the motions of your hand lower down. Yet his eyes still found a way back to yours.

He cried.

He was crying.

Clear tears streamed down his cheeks and temples, creating dark stains on the sheets around his head. You wanted to speak to him, but words failed you and you had the feeling he was trapped in the same situation. Muted by tape far too sticky to remove.

So the silence remained exactly as it had settled between you, and strangely enough it was louder than any sentence either of you could have spoken.

However, the symphony playing in the background only grew louder. Wetness, whimpers.

Your gaze tore itself away from his and you heard a faint cry from that single act. Pre-cum leaked from his cock, mixing with the remnants of his earlier orgasm. He was close, he had looked close since the moment he entered your apartment. Your movements sped up, wanting to pull more sounds, more reactions out of him.

“You close?” you asked even though you already knew the answer.

“I am,” his broken voice answered, wavering between high and low tones.

Your own hips made faint unconscious movements against the nearest source of friction they could find, desperately seeking some relief from this infernal suffering. You straightened once again, your body drowning in that intoxicating discomfort.

A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed your arm, making you almost jump from how burning the contact felt. Dex tried pulling you toward him, his orgasm striking him in small blows—punches forcing more blood to spray with every hit.

He looked pathetic like this—trying to obtain a touch that seemed to consume him.

And yet you gave in, because you weren’t any better than him, and because you too wanted to become ashes just to feel the flames calcine your body for a second. You pulled him against you, his own weight collapsing onto you without restraint. Your bodies toppled farther into the bed, ankles and shins tangled in the sticky sheets.

He threw himself at your lips. He devoured them. Not from want, nor from genuine desire—but because he needed it. He needed to feel something, even if it was disgust toward himself or sensory overstimulation. He needed to burn, to be scorched to the bone, because whatever gnawed at him never hesitated to reach such deep parts of his being.

Maybe if he burned alive, this ache would burn too—no matter if it killed him, no matter if it dragged you down with him.

His saliva stained yours like gasoline. His teeth clicked against yours like a lighter. You were drowning in a bath of combustible liquid that, if it didn’t burn you, would dissolve your insides with acid.

His bare skin rubbed against yours, his cock leaking over your body, repeatedly slapping against the sensitive skin of your stomach. He was breathless, and so were you. Your frantic breaths mingled over and over inside formless kisses.

Your hand found its way to his neck, then his hair. The blood had dried in his blond strands, cracking when your fingers tangled through them, your second hand joining the first. You held him in your hands, his skull resting in your sweaty palms—while he held you in his fangs. His hands planted on either side of your head painfully gripped the sheets, his knuckles white as snow.

Again, you were suffocating, and he was suffocating with you. The air he exhaled into your mouth stole the oxygen from your lungs. He bit your lips hard enough to make them bleed. And in loud, broken moans, he tried to collect the scarlet liquid like an elixir—like a solution.

Then all at once he exploded over you. His head collapsed against your chest while he cried through his orgasm. Muffled cries, sobs you couldn’t characterize. White streaks coated your stomach, mixing with sweat and older traces of blood.

His arms began trembling, his tears endlessly falling into the reddish puddle sliding along your collarbones. He stained you in every possible way. With his sorrow, his problems, his pain and his pleasure. He poured himself all over you, without you being able to stop him—without you even wanting to.

Later that night, when Morpheus finally released you from his sedative embrace, the bed felt strangely empty, the sheets cold. Your eyelids opened and somehow you weren’t surprised to discover you were now alone in the bed.

Dex was gone, and his number had mysteriously vanished from your contacts.

He left you with ruined sheets, and gasoline flowing through your veins.

marvel masterlist

images : Pinterest

The sole and only, goal minded, purpose of the upcoming arrange marriage between the royal houses of Velaryon and Rosevale of the northern sea, was to bound two strong family into one—fulfil this need of thriving to create a even much greater, higher bloodline than Targaryens were and overshadowing them.

To ensure that neither chosen candidates of each side would break off the marriage through the first whiff of pheromones—before their hands could even be sealed in blessing—Queen Rhaenyra has come to an agreement with High-Queen Coralion, that Rhaenyra and her family would live for half a year with the Rosevales.

Now, Jacaerys does not feel the slightest delight about his new situation, when he had been chosen—though as the firstborn, he should've guessed it—by his mother to marry the youngest son of the Rosevales and neither does Jacaerys wants to even get to know all his new in-laws nor even consider them remotely close and akin to something like family even—but, like said before, he's the firstborn prince and with such comes duties and responsibilities.

So here Jacaerys was, after landing on the neat, ice covered tiles—sandstone, a bit unusual to have in contrast to the standard stones, then again it's probably something normal in the north—with Vermax, his mother on Syrax following right afterwards in landing next to him, almost slipping on the ice when getting down from his dragon—and Jacaerys, while spotting the bright, polished, polite smiles of his soon to be in-laws, already wished to go back home.

»Be polite, Jace. This marriage is of political importance for us.« reminds his mother, when she herself had gotten down from Syrax and standing besides him now, a slight reprimanding in her voice—Jacaerys only nodded in reply, taking a breath through his nose and stretching his lips, till his cheeks ached, into a bright smile as well.

»Stref'voja! We, of Rosevale of the northern sea, greets you with breezing welcome!« Queen Coralione's voice was as shrill and audible—from probably three sea miles—loud as a twittering bird in the early rising hours of morning and greets them with high enthusiasm and thick accent.

»I do hope so lovely, that the tedious journey to our frosty residence wasn't too exhausting for the two of you! Stomach of yours do have an appetite for a grand meal tonight?« the High-Queen asks, stretching out her arm and showing, like a offering, her open palm.

Jacaerys was impressed that his mother—laying her own palm onto the High-Queens and only moving her head into a small bow—knew what to do, then again she, in contrast to him—because Jacaerys had deemed other things much more of importance—did some research and etiquette training about the do's and don'ts about Northern sea and its kingdoms.

And Jacaerys, mentally—as he do a slight bow towards Queen Coralione—applauds his mother, that she could still keep her own facading smile of politeness, when the High-Queen smile was so obviously false.

»Thank you for the upcoming hospitality, your highly highness.« Queen Rhaenyra begun, hands patting down onto her dress to gain a bit of warmth into them, »Prince Jacaerys and I do greatly appreciate a grand meal, such a great gesture. Thank you, but if I could ask first that someone of guarding trust tend to our dragons first and bring them to a preferred warmer location?«

»Of course! Of course! One of our Shepherds will tend to them, Miss Toyja, get either Mr.Hildsom or Mr.Rumsom and let our guests dragon be brought into the fire caves.« with her thick accent, Coralione's orders to one of her servants sounded much harsher than it was probably was, then she clapped her hands together, »My, my, these dragons are truly magnificent! They're a true beauty just as our sea serpents.«

Both, Jacaerys and Rhaenyra, thought that Queen Coralione would wanted to go a bit nearer to their dragons—perhaps even given them a pat—but she didn't moved one foot forward from her spot, instead she clapped again in her hands and ushered them inside.

Sea serpents and polar bears had been the only thing which Jacaerys had remembered from his—one and only, because afterwards he had skipped every other one—lesson about the Northern sea kingdom and the notable fact, that the house of Rosevale are the only ones who were to tame these mighty beasts of the sea.

That's like the only similarity which Rosevale shares with Velaryon and Targaryens—more with the latter than the former one—to be able to tame and befriend, which Jacaerys believes all three families prides themselves with great swelling proudness, make them like part of the family, such mighty—in the eyes of others—beasts.

While Jacaerys follows behind his mother and Queen Coralione, through the corridors of the castle, he barley listens to whatever the tow women are currently talking about—it's probably just some courtesy smalltalk anyway, but occasionally, when something of interest being mentioned, he does listen in.

Like now, when Coralione mention her youngest son—his soon to be spouse—and how they gonna meet him before dinner time, although the sun just has begun to set down into a pallet of various colours, before night starts to sweep in—but perhaps early dinner time is something of a mentality here, honestly Jacaerys doesn't know, questioning as a prince was out of order—it would shamefully expose him, that he indeed has not cared to learn about northern sea traditions and culture, mother would surely behead him with a headlock if she knew—he just scrape it up as a guess, but if early dinner comes just a few hours after lunch and afternoon tea, Jacaerys or his stomach to such matter would certainly not survive it.

»Now,« Queen Coralione voice brought Jacaerys attention back, making him stumbling into his mothers back—he wasn't aware that they have stopped in front of a door—and the two Queens turns to him, giving him a look, indirectly asking if he was okay and still intact with his mind—Jacaerys shrugged his shoulders and the women returned back.

»Now, as I was about to say, I do beg for forgiveness from you, your highness, that my youngest child could not be an omega in the offering of blessed marriage with your son, nor that our house could offer any omega at all. Like told in my last regarding letters to you, house Rosevale is simply not meant or able to birth omegas.«

Queen Coralione laughs a bit as if the mere thought of having an omega in her bloodline was something silly to think of—and Jacaerys frowns, finding it odd how her voice—the slight difference in tone was barely noticeable, but for him, as an alpha, it was—changed, when she said the last sentence.

»While it is indeed a bit disappointing not to wed my alpha son with a suitable omega, I do forgive your highly highness. I'm sure your son will be a perfect match to fit anyway.« Queen Rhaenyra was ever the diplomat, because if Daemon would be here and speak on behalf for the Queen, Jacaerys was sure, his stepfather would bash Queen Coralione into a heavy heated discussion as of why there are no Omegas in a royal bloodline like theirs.

Of course Alphas being with another alpha or beta does not meant they wouldn't be able to produce a child, but with an Omega—they're much more fertility—such chances are higher and makes securing a bloodline lot easier.

When they stepped into a small hall, a guest hall for greetings—that's what Coralione had said and Jacaerys wonders how damn big this castle actually is and how much walking is done per hour in a day—confusing settles in, when they spot a girl, instead of the supposed son, was sitting on a bench in waiting for them.

For a moment both Rhaenyra and Jacaerys believed that Queen Coralione might have confused her own children, but when she introduced her child—the confusion didn't cleared up, only deepens further.

But would either of them questioning and ask for clearance? Perhaps not, not when there is a slim chance that they could accidentally offending the High-Queen and risk a political break up to the upcoming wedding.

»This, my dearest Queen Rhaenyra, is my youngest child and only son, [Name] Lujonesskosch of Rosevale.« Queen Coralione claps her hands in calling and the boy, dressed in a dress meant for princesses and definitely a size or two to big for him, stands up—doing a courtesy bow as greeting, before stepping nearer to them.

»A pleasure it is to have in meeting you today, your Highness Queen Rhaenyra and her noble son, prince Jacaerys. I do welcome you as well into our noble house and wish a lovely stay.« you spoke eloquently, parroting the lines and words how they taught you to do, doing another bow of courtesy.

Jacaerys, when he inhales a small whiff of your scent—which smelled sweetly, just faintly but noticeable strong enough for any alpha to pick up—looks at his mother and Rhaenyra too gives her son a knowing glance—something doesn't seem to be right here.

»Now! Let's all have some enjoyment with tonights meal and declare a future celebration of upcoming friendship!«

~~~•~~~

Its a few weeks later, when Jacaerys finally seemed to have been found by some time alone with you—and it's not because he doesn't try to spend some time with you, but because he mostly couldn't.

Let us rephrase this into a bit deeper explanation; whenever Jacaerys has tried to approach you, with just the simple intention of only talking and getting you to know a bit better—and while you and him are to be wed soon in a few months anyways, courting you without manners is not in his mind—your siblings are guarding you like a dragon would do with its hatch of eggs.

Not only that, but your siblings—and you do have a quite a damn lot, all of them females by the way—were quite the raging, protective alphas and Jacaerys got more than once threatened—with sailor like cussing, an provoking raise of fits or simply bared fangs and heavy reeking, dominating alpha pheromone—Jacaerys was sure, he once heard you whimper in submission that one time, when one of your much older sisters showed off her protective alpha—by them, not to come any closer to you.

Female or not, they're Alphas and if it weren't a risk of potential causing a rift between the upcoming friendship and political alliance between the houses Velaryon—and, in his mothers name, Targaryens—and Rosevale, Jacaerys would have challenged most of your siblings to a fight by now.

You and Jacaerys are outside, some good foot march into the forest—still on royal grounds, but not somewhere near around the castle—sitting on a bench near a frozen lake, a silence between you two as neither could find the right words to say for a proper start into conversations.

»It's.....it's cold in your country, isn't it?« there, Jacaerys has made an effort to start and break the, literally, ice.

Huddled up in the thickets winter clothes your household could offer and yet, Jacaerys still felt the cold sweep into him—his face felt already frozen, face pinched red from the frosty air, lips probably already shivering blue—with every intake of the dry icy air, which feels stabbing inside his lungs, his breath was an visibly fog for a moment, before it slightly crystallise into—pricking needles like—snowflakes.

Glancing at you, Jacaerys wonders how you're not cold at all—after all, you're way much less dressed in warm clothing than he was—and he surely, if he might gonna ask you about it, does not want to hear from you, that it's something which comes naturally to folks of the northern lands.

»Indeed it is, but since we're in the beginning of the colder months, it does will get much frosty icier later on than what current temperatures we have now.« you say, scratching one of your polar bears—which are here to keep protective watch over you, instead of an actual (human) guard—behind its ears.

»That sounds, actually, more unpleasant than I thought it would be. I mean, i know your country has a rather cold climate to begin with, but if it's the beginning, I fear for the actual winter.«

»We're not immune to our own icy climate as well, we just, over the aeons, has adapted to it. Don't worry, I'll try to help you through it.«

Jacaerys was thankful when you said, your folk wasn't immune to the cold—because if you had, Jacaerys wasn't sure......he wasn't sure what he would thought of such outcome, maybe—perhaps—that if you're immune to cold, you probably aren't actually human like? Or something along those lines.

»Thanks. That would sound good, i don't wish to become some decorative ice statue for your family's castle.« Jacaerys jokes and you breathe out a small chuckle—to which Jacaerys alpha yips in delight.

»Oh! I think, you, my dear prince Jacarandas, would make a fantastic statue, such a good looking one like you, all the other statues will melt in shame,« you add your own jest to Jacaerys joke, chuckling even more now.

Jacaerys thought, with how thick your accent is, he might have misheard his own name, »Say my name again.« he ask.

»Jacarandas«

Yep, definitely not misheard, »Who told you, that's my name?« apparently, with the way how Jacaerys asked, your polar bear—who's named puddles—thought he was trying to intimidate you and bears its fangs, snapping towards his hand in an warning.

»It's your name, is it not?«

»No,« Jacaerys laughs, »it isn't. It's Jacaerys. Ja-ca-erys.«

»That's quite the mouthful of a name you have.« you told him, taking puddles by the cuff of his neck—holding him away from Jacaerys, before he actually do get a bite mark into his hand—cooing at your polar bear, praising him and telling him that Jacaerys means no threat to bare fangs at.

«Oh?« Jacaerys raises an eyebrow, a tease of sarcasm in his voice, »and your first and middle name, [Name] Lujonesskosch isn't a mouthful as well?«

Shaking your head, »No, it isn't« you snicker in denial.

»Fine. Call me Jace or find another nickname for me.« Jacaerys let puddles sniff his hand, after the polar bear seemed to be a bit calmer now, pleased when the bear licked his hand in acceptance, »Anyway. And what your sea serpents? How are they able to live in such climate? Don't they freeze into death or something? I mean, if my Vermax has to live in such conditions of environment, he surely wouldn't live long.«

»Aah, during the icy months our serpents will mostly hibernate in the deepest depths of the sea. We do have some hot springs and the fire caves, where our serpents like to occasionally, even throughout the whole icy seasons, lounge around.«

Fire caves, which Jacaerys has learned—when he had asked one of the servants, where they have brought Vermax—are caves where an enormous hot spring is inside and boils it up with such scorching hot warmth, that it feels like a dreading summer.

»Say, could I perhaps,« you start, fiddling with the furred garment of your jacket, feeling a rush of nervousness to even dare to ask your soon to he husband such intimate question, »if you would give permission to let me see Vermax once?« your voice, hesitation clear, got smaller at the end.

Your scent has gotten sweeter again, it definitely wasn't your nervousness which turned it so sweet—it was more as such, this faint sweetness was part of your pheromones from begin on—and Jacaerys couldn't get behind why, because as a fellowing alpha, your scent wasn't supposed to have any kind of sweeting note in it.

But besides that, Jacaerys feels happy that you wanted to see his beloved dragon Vermax—that's like asking, if you and him wanted to hatch a batch of eggs together.

»Of course!« Jacaerys shuts up as quickly as he had shouted this, feeling embarrassment—wouldn't even be noticed on his already reddened cheeks—and shy himself now, about his sudden outburst of excitement.

Coughing, to gain a bit of his composure back—glancing at you, but there's no scornful reaction from you—Jacaerys continues, »I mean, if you wish to see Vermax, I suppose we shall find some time to give him a little visit.« Jacaerys nods to himself for the answer he gave.

»How about, my dear Jay,« you blinked, batting your eyelashes—something you definitely has picked up from your sisters or got taught by them—, »now?«

Jacaerys alpha was close to let out an rumble, hearing his new nickname from your lips, brought his heart into a flatter—sending a flush of warmth into his stomach—but he withheld it, would make him appear as an easy swayed, weak minded, alpha, which he isn't, »Sure, but only if i can see your sea serpent, if possible of course and if they not hibernating in the ocean depths, as well.«

You chirped, even when it was for a moment of second, Jacaerys was sure you did—but again, that's not something an alpha is supposed to do and as far as Jacaerys had been told, many times, you're an alpha as well.

»That won't be a problem, Jukoschka resides in the same fire cave as Vermax and Syrax are in.«

~~~•~~~

Dimitri's birthday—which is how the folk of the far north, in their mother tongue, calls the last month of winter—is cramped with so many holy dates and celebrations, that cake is a constant part on the meal plan.

Jacaerys swears, taking another fork full and dragging bite of his wedding cake, if he has to eat or see in the next few remaining weeks—before the annual new year greeting—another damned cake, one more time, he won't stop himself from vomiting his guts outs.

»You doing so good Jay, my strong alpha.« you coo, praising Jacaerys—making his inner alpha, especially when you chirped in response, rumble in content—»just one more.« you whisper in encouragement against his ear, feeding him another piece of your own cake.

Jacaerys swallows down the last bits of the sugary dessert, tightening his arms around you—giving an possessive glare over your shoulder to everyone who might dare to look your way, while you nuzzle into his neck—after the honeymoon night, which is to be participated one whole lasting month before the actual wedding—such strange (and harmful) traditions—you have gotten much more affectionate with Jacaerys.

From the first month to the current one now, Jacaerys and you had gotten close—so significantly close that the mere thought of not being near your or smelling your scent somewhere, would send Jacaerys into a feral state of cardiac arrest—and it's obvious, like the stars in the night, that you're and him are meant to he fated mates.

»Still hungry, my love?« Jacaerys ask, position you a little better on his lap, watching—only with a slight disdain towards the sweet lacing baked goods—how you devoured another after another slice of cake till the plate was empty and then you moved on to next, not cake but filled dumplings and fried bread—you're eating as if you had been starved of food for months.

»It's just...« you chewed first, swallowing second, »just so good tasting! Especially (least f/food).«

Now that's surprising, normally (least f/food) was something you barley liked to eat—always, when it's been served, not every time but often enough, pushing the plate away with an distasteful frown and sometimes, when it's been the only dish during lunch or dinner, you wouldn't eat at all—but now? Now it seems (least f/food) was your new favourite meal.

Jacaerys let his eyes wander through the grand ballroom, the guest—high nobles from your country and distant relatives of the Stark household—were having their fun—either eating, chatting with each other, drinking, playing games of cards or dancing around—while his own family interacts with your own.

His mother, when she had looked at Jacaerys for a moment as well, smiles at him warmly, proudly even—his dear mother-in-law on the other side, gives Jacaerys an harsh glare, which makes her look wrinkly like worn out parchment, probably because with how openly you currently display affection.

Jacaerys at some point, while you still stuffed yourself contently full with the goodies of food, conversed with one of your older sisters—which took Jacaerys a bit by surprise, he never thought he would share more words than just the occasional courtesy ones—like a mere greeting for example—with your siblings, because your sisters always carries an icy, unapproachable and arrogant aura of supposed personality with them.

»[Name]?« Jacaerys, after your sister chuckles and points at you, calls out your name in questioning whisper—but there's no response from you as you had fallen asleep admits your eating.

Jacaerys lets out a sigh, glad that you didn't fall asleep with food still in your mouth—he didn't want you to choke on bread while you sleeping—but really, have you eaten so much that you had gone into a food coma? You aren't, when it comes to eating, like this but since the start of this month you do behave out of your ordinary self.

»I suppose, it's time to bid farewell and retire back for the night. Tani, it was pleasure to have talked to you and I wish you a good night. Could you please, if so kind, excuse us towards our families if they ask about our whereabouts?« Jacaerys stands up, adjusting you so that he could carry you with ease in his arms.

»Of course I can do such. Don't worry. I wish you a pleasant night as well, my brother-in-law.« Tani smiles, giving a slight wave and starts a new conversation with his brother.

God, Jacaerys thought—walking through the corridors towards your and his bedroom chamber—he can't wait to undress you from your damn traditional robes, it adds much more weight to your actual one—making you appear heavier than you are.

Opening the door was a bit of a hassle, but Jacaerys had managed it, closing the door shut afterwards with his foot—walking towards the bed and laying you down, before getting you out of your robes.

When you were clad in nothing but one of the wooly warm tunic, which Jacaerys had dressed you in, Jacaerys—after changing into night robes and making you the first in your chimney will burn strong through the remaining night—climbs into the bed next to you as well.

Sneaking his arms around you and pulling you close towards him, Jacaerys holds you close—placing gentle kisses along your neckline, giving a few extra more onto your scent glands—and again this, heavenly, almost hypnotic drunk like dripping, sweet scent of yours, which resembles close to honey and boiled orange tea with a bit of cinnamon and anise stars—and the bite mark.

Jacaerys has to admit, when his hands had wandered under you tunic and caressing over your stomach—he just has this, almost desperate, need to always have skin contact with you, which he just couldn't explain why but if he doesn't—at least once per day—his inner alpha would howl—you has gained, at least around stomach and hip area, much more weight.

You gaining weight wasn't even something bad, Jacaerys just notice it—especially since it happened rather shortly after the first few weeks during the honeymoon month and now, almost near the end of the current month, you seemed to have gained the double amount, making you appear swell like good filled dumpling.

~~~•~~~

It's after your third pregnancy, or more during the birth, when Jacaerys realised—albeit much to late now, it would have prevented more than one complication and distressed situation for you and him, if discovered sooner—you're aren't, how many times it had been assured with big emphasis by your mother before, an Alpha like him, but a Omega.

After all, Omegas in contrast to Alphas had much more, successfully, higher fertility rate—which always ensures instant pregnancies during every knot and the more an Alpha knots their Omega during sex—especially when it's either during a rut or heart cycle—more than one pup are being guaranteed to be birthed.

Which had been the case in your first pregnancy—six years ago—when you, to Jacaerys sole shocking surprise had given birth to twins and Jacaerys, when the maesters—in the mother tongue of the far north, they're called Jowaschkas—had announced your pregnancy, was absolutely thrilled with jubilant delight about it, but when one of the midwives had told him you had given birth to twins—Jacaerys thought he would faint any moment, because that had been (positively) unexpected.

And the only reason they even found out that you're a omega, was during the birth of your third child—when you have let out such an distressed, high-pitched mewl, which sounded so distributing and disorienting broken—a banshee like scream, ripping through your chords—that it had not only alerted Jacaerys, who already was about to burst through the door and probably ripping the maesters apart—your scent wasn't sour, it was spicy and such indicates pain and dangers, Jacaerys was ferocious growling by now—but also his family and he never had seen his own mother, the strongest alpha he had ever known, seen so distressed herself like on that day.

Because the sound, this gut ripping mewl, you have emitted was not alpha like, nor will it ever supposed to be one, but of a omega in so much death threatening pain and overwhelming, suffering distress, that they're calling out to their alpha and pack in desperate need of comfort and familiar sense of secure safety.

Afterwards, when the maesters had come out the healing chamber with you—the main midwife right behind with your newborn son—Jacaerys had guided you back to the bedroom, helping you lay down onto the bed, you had been advised to strict bedrest—a necessity, so your current condition of fragile health wouldn't have a dip towards either a bedridden fever or an potential coma drop—and scenting you in reassuring comfort as well as the baby, who got blessed with the name of Sylvain.

Much later during the same day, night had already come by, Rhaenyra and the others had a small family council meeting, after all they had been lied to—though when they all thought about it, there had been signs—always there, visible right under everyones nose and yet none of the Velaryon-Targaryen household had noticed, despite knowing something was odd, as they had been blinded with a false truth—small but significant, which indicate your actual second gender is omega.

But they wouldn't get any answer till Cregane Stark, far distant cousin of yours—who is counted as close family though—had come by a week later for a short stay of visit, which the young Lord Stark always do whenever a new nephew was on their way to have their first breath of life.

»My Aunt, High-Queen Coralione, is an alpha woman in the Rosevale bloodline.« said Cregane with no further added informations behind it, as if this would explain it all—but it doesn't, only raises more questions.

»Young Lord Stark, I ask kindly once, explain exactly how that's relevant to the fact, that we've obviously had been lied to about the importance of one's second gender. I will throw you into the dragon pit if you dare and try to sell us even more lies.« there's a threatening hiss from Daemon, giving a warning glare towards Cregane.

Surprisingly enough, in the eyes of Rhaenyra and Jacaerys, Daemon has taken quite a liking towards you and perhaps it's of his own Omega—which might have already sensed your omega nature during from the first meeting—that he feels drawn to you, like a dame to their pups and flaring up his protective instinct.

»As you wish, your highness. I'll try to explain as best as i possibly can.« and Cregane did explain, but none of them had thought, that behind the lie lays such a state of extent inhumanity.

It begins with your fourth great-grandmother Milalione, who had been born as the very first alpha woman—after aeons in a bloodline of only omegas—and had developed, in the early years of her childhood, a strong hatred towards Omegas.

Milalione despise Omegas, she sees them as nothing but weak minded lowlife—a pest which should be eliminated from society and making royal bloodlines clean again—with no right to live and if they, humbly, had been graced by the High-Queen to have a chance of life, it would only be for the sole purpose of being a breeding machine to birth many more alphas and the occasional betas.

Milalione, when she was crowned High-Queen during her time of reign, had created new laws which strips Omegas of all their rights and privileges—ensuring they're now property of the royal court, so they could be enslaved as servants with no freedom.

Now, because of these Laws and regulations—regarding how Omegas are to be treated in the far northern kingdom—and the way how, fear inflicting and iron gripping strict, Milalione had raised her own children and grandchildren—it's no wonder why High-Queen Coralione had lied.

»Although this is certainly a terrible and immoral, inhumane way to treat fate blessed Omegas, it's still not a valid excuse to lie so shamelessly about something so of importance during a securing of merging two royal bloodlines.«

Don't get Rhaenyra wrong, as a Queen she's an active speaker against Omega mistreatment—after all her beloved, second, husband is one and so is her son Lucerys as well—and if she had known beforehand how, inhumanly, Omegas are being treated in the far northern kingdom, she would never approved of the request to give Jacaerys hand into marriage.

»It doesn't. Indeed it doesn't, but it's explain the fact of why.« Cregane neither agrees nor disagrees, keeping his own answer as neutral as possible.

»No. It still doesn't.« argues Daemon.

»It does. Former High-Queen Milalione had, to make her stance crucially clear, killed a few of her own children, when they have presented as an omega, in front the eyes the others.«

»Why?«

»Because,« drawls Cregane, »She was a vile woman and my aunt, High-Queen Coralione, is just as vile. When [Name] had been born, thankfully the law, within the royal household, to kill of any royal born omegas had been repealed before, Auntie was so enraged that she let [Name] be raised as an alpha and having his omega nature be suppressed.«

Jacaerys swallows thickly, the mere thought of you—his fated mate, the person he love unconditionally the most—being killed, send shivers down his spine and makes him visible flinch.

Rhaenyra gives Jacaerys a comforting rub on the back, sensing her sons discomfort—the little drop in his pheromones, which oozes with jittery fear and worry for his mate, could be sniffed out—as a mother and wife she sympathy with her son—if someone would tell her, Daemon or Lucerys could be killed due their second gender, she too would feel an ounce of fear, panic even.

»So,« Jacaerys begun, licking over his bottom lips—they're feeling so dry all of sudden, but his hands were clammy—a audible stutter in his voice, »basically the only reason why High-Queen Coralione had lied is so [Name] wouldn't taint the the Rosevale bloodline?« asking with disbelief.

Cregane nods, »To sum it all up, yeah that sounds about right.«

Rhaenyra emits a sigh, under any other circumstance and if it weren't for the fact that Jacaerys and you are fated mates, she would have annulled the marriage right away, even sending a letter of upcoming threats, perhaps having their dragons spew a bit of fire cause some destruction as well—just to make it clear, that lying towards a Targaryen means a death wish—but that's no option anymore.

It's weeks later, when Jacaerys—after having a few private lessons about Omegas and getting some helpful advice from his younger brother Luke, who volunteered to repeat some of his lessons again, just so you wouldn't be alone during your own—was trying helping you building a nest.

It would be your first nest, since throughout your entire life till now—with the way how you had been raised and the sole, added fact that your inner omega had been constantly suppressed, dulling your natural and basic instinct—you never had the chance to even experienced this urge, bliss like feeling which comes along with it when nesting for the first time.

»See! It isn't so complicated, is it? Now you place this blanket–« Jacaerys gets interrupted by Tahaerys, one of his sons, who proudly presents him a pillow, »Yes, bravo and thank you Tahaerys. Why don't you give your papa one of your pillows as well?« praising the young, mere six year old child, Jacaerys ruffles through the black tuff of curls.

Tahaerys and Feyeaerys, fraternal twins and your firstborns, are a splitting image of Jacaerys—sharing the same luscious, raven black curls and deer like brown eyes as him.

»It's......it's not easy.« you huffed out, halfheartedly arranging the blanket in this messy pile you're supposedly have to call a nest.

A nest you have to build, what a joke—for what reason even? You don't need a nest, you hadn't need one before and you won't need it in the future, you're fine without one and why a nest when there's a big bed?—you're only doing this for Jacaerys sake, he had asked so sweetly if he could help you with building a nest, you couldn't deny his request—especially not when your children had joined as well, wanting to help.

»Here papa! I've scented one of my pillows for you, so you always have our scents around you!« exclaims Tahaerys proudly, almost stumbling over another loose laid blanket.

Taking the small pillow from your son, you smiled softly at him, »Thank you, Tae, my sweet little boy.« you tell him, placing a kiss upon his head.

This action of Tahaerys receiving a kiss from you, caused an uproar of upsetting protest from your other children; Feyeaerys pouted, crossing his arms, not liking how his twin—doesn't matter that Tae was only three candles older—was getting all of your attention, »Not fair! Not fair! I wanna have a kiss from papa too!«

»Hey, and what about me? Is a kiss from daddy not good enough?« Jacaerys ask, lips twitching up into a smile, holding in a chuckle, finding his children jealously against each other amusing.

Feyeaerys shook his head, standing up and moving from his position next to his dad, going towards you, »No! Only papa's kiss!« he said, frown—more a cute looking pout—crossing his face and if he could, he would have tackled you into a hug, but he couldn't—not when his younger siblings occupied the spot in your lap—and decided to sit, like Tae, next to you.

»Ouch, Feya, this really does hurt daddys heart,« placing a hand over his heart, feigning in a extravagant manner pain, Jacaerys pouts—a pout, which you often have said looked quite handsome on him.

All of your children had managed to perfectly impersonated Jacaerys pout as well, knowing pretty good—they figured it out on their own—how easily it would make you sway and give in to their wishes.

Heinrich and Sylvain, your youngest—barley a year and few months old—children as of current, huffing as well, pulling at your arm and clothes, needy for wanting your sole attention, cuddles and scenting only for themselves, »Now, now, I have enough kisses for all of you. There's no need to be getting jealous,« you laugh, giving each of your boys a kiss and good round of scenting, till they're satisfied enough.

Jacaerys believes himself to be pretty territorial, when it comes to you, but his children—they're papa boys since the very beginning of their birth—outdo him in that category; there had been plenty moments where he got growled at by his own children, because he was too close to you for their liking.

Tahaerys and Feyeaerys were by far the worst, when it comes to you—there had been a few times, where the twins had decided to sleep in the grand bedroom with you and when Jacaerys—after returning from a long council meeting—wanted to simply join you for sleep, just holding you close, his boys had actually managed to kick him off the bed—snarling their tiny fangs at him, growling and, visibly by the small chimney fire, glaring at him—their own sire—rather nasty, a glare which they have gotten from him.

Whilst Jacaerys find it admirable how protective the twins are of you, he doesn't—when his sons are going to continue with their current behaviour—want to asserting dominance over them and having to do some roughhousing just to make it clear that he's the patriarchal Alpha of the family.

»Can we do something else now?« you ask, not out of particular boredom—despite you probably appearing as if you're bored—but because this nest, which is supposed to be your personal nest, looks so meekly, measly and ugly compared to what you have been told by your tutors and Luke.

Compared to Luke's nest, which he had allowed you to see—and that was also the first time, you even had saw a nest at all—yours looks clumsy cluttered.

Jacaerys shook his head, »No, [Name]. We have to finish this first.« there's a slight sternness in his voice.

»Why?«

»Because, it's an important necessity for you.«

Jacaerys mother and stepfather had told him with enormous emphasis, how important it is for an omega to build their (first) nest—after all, nests are there to be a safe haven for them, a place to ground them and make them feel secure.

»It isn't. I don't want it. I don't need it.« there's annoyance in your voice, face scrunching up into a frown, »I don't need it! I don't need it!« you repeated in frustration, throwing a pillow far away, tears welling up in your eyes—chest heaving heavily with the few deep breaths you had done.

»Hey, hey,« Jacaerys calls softly, crawling towards you and behind you, arms around your waist—pulling you flush against his chest—dipping his head down and nuzzling his nose against your scent gland, before giving you a row of scenting kisses.

Jacaerys could tell you're getting upset and before you're about to throw a tantrum out of frustration, Jacaerys decided ease you into a state of calm before coaxing what's bothering out of you.

»My love, tell me what's wrong. What makes you so upset?«

Feyeaerys gaps, »Papa upset?!« climbing over his dads long legs, pushing them aside to have some space, to stand near you—patting his tiny hands against your face, »Papa! No crying!« he barks it like an order, coping his dad and trying to scent you in comfort as well.

Tahaerys, just like his twin brother, does the same, with the slight difference that his expression was stoic—showing no profusely emotions, he's the more mature twin after all—except for the tiny narrow of his eyes towards his dad, believing his dad was the one who had upset his papa.

»It's just....« you breathed out, huddling Heinrich and Sylvain closer towards you, but your voice cracks already—lips quivering, inhaling sharply as you felt a thick lump in your throat, feeling close to break down any mere second.

»Mhm?« Jacaerys hummed, indicating he listened to whatever you would be telling him.

»Just....how can I be your omega when my nest looks so, so ugly! I don't want to build a nest, when it's always gonna turn out so messy and building them is so exhausting and I don't want to be an omega anymore!« you spilled all your frustration like an open barrel of wine and Jacaerys listens patiently till your finished.

Dear god of the fates above! You thought—it strikes you like lightning into your heart, or resembles how mother would slap you as punishment for misbehaving or doing un-alpha like things—you're an embarrassment, aren't you? How can you be an omega when you couldn't even build a proper nest for your alpha—your mate—to impress him?

Your nest, giving it another glance around, doesn't look messy anymore in your eyes but dirty and unattractive—just like you—and there bubbles shame in you, ready to burn you.

»What are you even saying, my love. Do you hear yourself?« ask Jacaerys, ghosting his lips over your cheek and near the corner of your lips—grazing his fangs softly down your neck and along your claim mark afterwards.

»No! No! You don't understand!« your scent spiked up unpleasantly into a sour note.

Your children flinched, Heinrich and Sylvain sniffing, about to let out a loud whine if it weren't for Jacaerys softly hushing them—pumping out some of pheromones to overpower your own, sour ones and to cease some up building tension—and Tahaerys and Feyeaerys were startled, because never had they heard your yelling like this before.

»[Name].« a tiny growl rumbles escapes through Jacaerys throat, making you instantly whine in submission—turning your head to nuzzle against his face, a tiny lick over his cheek in a gesture of apology—normally, under no circumstances, Jacaerys likes to use such dominance over you, but he had no other choice.

»Now, [Name], I want you to listen to me.« said Jacaerys, »Do you understand?« he ask more forcefully, when you haven't given any kind of response before—and when you nodded, Jacaerys guide your head with his hand so that you're looking into his eyes.

»It's your first nest. It's supposed to look so messy at the beginning and even if all your next nests will be looking like this, messy and clumsy put together, I will always and I repeat, always find your nest the most prettiest perfect one.« Jacaerys pulls you into a kiss, ignoring the grumbling huffs from his children—because he's stealing your attention from them again.

Parting away, to regain breath again, Jacaerys leans his forehead against yours, »And do you know why?« he ask in a whisper.

»No. Why?« you ask back, in the same whisper—nuzzling into Jacaerys hand, which he placed onto your cheek.

»Because you've made it. And I'm so proud of you for trying it, the best you can.«

~~~•~~~

It's been a few years and while the maesters had told Jacaerys, his mother and brother occasionally reminding him, that it would take a bit of time for you to fully recover your inner omega and mental headspace about it, you still weren't adjusting well.

Being an omega stresses you more out than it should and more than often throughout the day, Jacaerys finds himself laying in your nest—still messily and clumsy, but now put together with love instead of just repeating a motion of whats being taught to you, although you still cry out of embarrassment and shame whenever you rebuild or build a new nest in your nest chamber—with you in his arms, your children joining the cuddle sessions most of the time as well, because you don't feeling well enough.

Scenting your children was easy to do—it's something you do without thinking twice about, a primal instinct—but scenting Jacaerys? That was like a battlefield, more than often you had knocked your head against his nose, causing a nosebleed a few times—and whenever you couldn't scent Jacaerys properly, like he does with you, you felt disappointed with yourself.

Jacaerys knew that some nobles of the court were gossiping behind their hands of false smiles about you—scrutinising and judging you about how unfit of a mate you are for him and how you aren't a proper omega—and Jacaerys also knew that you have heard some of these nasty gossips about yourself as well and how it stirs up waves of insecurity in you, bringing you to retire back into your former shell of shyness and hesitation.

Now, Jacaerys does hope, with you being pregnant again—child number five it is, just a few months away till they're born—it will bring a bit of balance to you once more, after all Jacaerys has read that omegas or parental alphas—which are not in sync with their second gender—will get more balanced out, when having more children.

Although, considering how painful it was for you the last time when you had given birth to Sylvain, Jacaerys fears for your health—especially considering, what Cregane is currently telling him.

»I don't understand. Why does [Name] have to stand when giving birth? It sounds very painful.« neither Jacaerys nor the rest of his family had heard of such procedure.

The topic—which Cregane, after having arrived for another visit, had brought up a reminder—of which Jacaerys never had been informed about—to make sure, you won't lay down when giving birth—didn't rose out of total nowhere, but it sounded random if someone would enter amidst such conversation.

»[Name] had been pregnant after the twins and before Heinrich, but because he laid down to give birth, he had lost the child.« explained Cregane, spilling a information which they never got a share of.

»What do you mean, [Name] had been pregnant?! I would have known if this was such truth!«

»How do you know?« ask Rhaenyra, holding Jacaerys back by the cuff of his neck—her son, who snarls in anger and flashing his fangs in a threatening manner—ready to rip Cregane apart—was about to attack his cousin-in-law, only because Cregane knew about such, personally, information first instead of Jacaerys—but she could understand her son, she too would be angry if Daemon was in pain and only someone else instead of her would knew about it.

»The head midwife told me. The maesters told [Name] it was a false pregnancy and I do believe it would be best to keep it this way. Otherwise I fear, my cousin will spiral into a despairing drop.«

»I understand. Could elaborate how laying down is dangerous for a child? That's something I haven't heard of before.«

»In the bloodline of the Rosevales it is. Everyone in the family has to stand during birth and indeed, it is painful, extremely suffering exhausting. Though if otherwise it's an instant and inevitable child loss.«

Mere fifteen year old teens like Tahaerys and Feyeaerys weren't supposed to walk their papa—having your arms around their shoulders, aiding you with walking, while carrying their younger brothers as well—all the way from the garden and into the birthing chamber.

Inside the twins brews a storm of panic, because at first they've thought—when you complained about sharp pains—the baby might have kicked too hard or you've exhaust yourself too much when playing with Heinrich and Sylvain, but when you sat down in the nest—moaning a howl of pain out—and Tahaerys and Feyeaerys saw the puddle of blood, the smell so prominent strong—the younger children letting out whines of discomfort—your sitting it, they knew what it meant.

Tahaerys doesn't even knew what to do, feeling just as panicked and helpless as his brother—who was shushing their younger brothers.

»Feya, take Heinrich and Sylvain and bring them to uncle Luke. Then go and get father.« Tahaerys orders, crawling into the nest next to you.

You howled in pain when another wave of contractions came, whimpering and trying to curl up—heaving out another deep breath—god, are you exhausted, so damn exhausted and all you wanted at this current moment was to just lay down, but Tahaerys keeps nagging not to do so.

»I don't.....i don't wanna stand. Just.....let me lay down, just for minute. I'm tired.«

Laying in bed is so much comfortable than having to stand and you never understood why you always, during every childbirth. had to stand hours longs, whilst everyone else was allowed to lay down.

»No, no, Papa. Please, you gotta have to stand up! Please, c'mon papa, please stand up!« pleads Tahaerys, managing to pull you at least into a seating position once more.

Tahaerys doesn't know the reason behind, why you aren't supposed to lay down—the maesters and midwives never attempted, when he had asked, to explain properly as why you shouldn't—but he knew enough that's not something good for you.

»Jacaerys......« you whimper out, hugging your stomach, bending forward in hopes of lessening the pressure.

It hurts so much, why does it hurt so much again? The last time you had such pain, was when you had given birth to Heinrich and during your two false pregnancies.

Where's Jacaerys? Where's your mate? He's never here, when you need him! Throughout all the childbirths you had given before, Jacaerys was never even once present during these time when you needed him the most and today wouldn't be any different, but you still longed for Jacaerys to be here with you anyway—to hold your hand and giving support, whispering sweetheartly words of reassurance into you hear.

»Dad will be here soon, papa. I promise, just hang in a there a bit more.« Tahaerys didn't knew what to do at all, expect for staying by your side—offering his hand in support and hoping the bit of small pheromones waves he keeps producing, wafting through the room, providing enough familiarity for you not to drop—whilst waiting until Feyeaerys comes back with their Sire.

The door, with a burst of force, swings opens »Tae!« shouts Feyeaerys out of breath,

»Where's.....« Tahaerys waited a second, trying to see a glimpse of his father, but there wasn't any—»where's dad?!« he ask, flinching when you gripped his hand—almost crushing it with how tight you grip is—and letting out another ear piercing mewl.

»Alpha!« you plead out in a moan, all you wanted was Jacaerys.

Feyeaerys was reluctantly to answer—shoulders hunching up, trying to appear a bit smaller than he was—his twin could be quite brooding when something was about to upset him and Tae was also the one, who would snap and snarl first when provoked or angry—»Dad, he doesn't.....he doesn't want to come in...«

»What? Why?!«

»He can't.....something about privacy and uhm....uhm.....« Feyeaerys hum and haw around, kneading his hands into the hem of his shirt—shuffling around, couldn't stand still for a moment, not with how nervous he felt—shyly looking anywhere but at his brother and papa—especially his dear papa, Feyeaerys couldn't stomach the miserable expression and tear filled eyes, his papa probably has by now.

Tahaerys growls, »Feya. Spit it out. Why doesn't want our father want to come in. Tell me. Now!« and Feyeaerys lets out a low whine, craning his neck a bit—showing submission.

»Dad says, it's not.....it's not his place as an alpha to give an omega company during childbirth!« Feyeaerys almost shouts, trembling and on the verge of tears himself—it's too much! His papa being in so much distress and pain, Tae about to rip and snarl something apart—Feyeaerys was about to have his own breakdown by now.

Glancing up at his twin brother, Feyeaerys emits an high pitched sound from his throat—Tae's expression, that deepen scowl and the cold glare—never at Feya himself of course—was just too scary.

Tahaerys roars, »Oh, for fucks sake of the holy!«

Fine. Fine! If his Sire doesn't want to come at his own free will, then Tahaerys will make his father to do so! Because, how dare his father even to let papa bear such pain alone?!

»Feya! You stay here with Papa! I'll go and get our damned Sire!«

»The fuck is your problem?!« Tahaerys, at this moment, doesn't care—he really doesn't—that he might have interrupted in the middle of some conversation or meeting between his father and the rest of the family.

His grandfather clicks his tongue, »Watch your mouth, my grandson.« Daemon reprimanded, displeased with the way of foul language his grandson—next heir to the throne—was speaking.

»I don't fucking care! I want to know why father isn't with papa and what his fucking problem is!«

»Tahaerys. You do not speak like this to any of us.« Jacaerys warns, he too reprimanded his son—giving a stern look.

»Fuck you!« and Tahaerys lungs towards his father, barring his fangs and snarling in threat—when he got held back by his uncle Cregane.

»Tahaerys!« that's his Grandma who shouts his name in absolute disbelief at the behaviour and action he just had committed against his father.

»Woah, hey.« Cregane, still holding his nephew aback from Jacaerys, tries to appease the upcoming situation, »Calm a bit down and tell us what's gotten you so angry, Tae.«

»It's Father. Father got me angry!«

»Why?«

»The fucker knows why!«

»Tahaerys! That's certainly enough!« Rhaenyra grabs her grandson by the nape of his neck, holding him in place—adding a bit of pressure, when Tahaerys snarls again.

The council room reeked of alpha and it's not a smokey scent like chimney fire or strong whiskey, but the kind which resembles iron or burnt flesh and bones—showing just how strong the anger, the taste of aggression is.

»Tae, my boy. We can't be of help, if you don't tell us what's wrong. Calm down first, take a breath if needed and then speak.« says Rhaenyra, only loosing a pinch of her hold on her grandson, »Speaking in civil manner and no more fangs and snarls towards your Sire.« she adds, letting go completely—but still near enough, just as Cregane is, to step in again if needed.

»Why aren't you with papa?« the anger had long blown out of Tahaerys and his question sounded more defeating as if he had given up to argue.

»Your papa isn't due till in a few weeks.« says Jacaerys in a matter of fact, crossing his arms.

»Who told such?«

His grandma answers, »The Maesters.« and his father adds, »Maesters are never wrong.«

»Well,« starts Tahaerys, irritation starting to rise up in him, »than this once, they've informed you all wrong. Papa's due date is now and the puddle of blood he's sitting in, proves that.«

Cregane drew in a sharp breath, looking at his nephew with wide eyes as if he hadn't heard it right, »What? Repeat that. Blood?«

»Yeah, blood. Large puddle and I know papa isn't supposed to lay down and I've tried my best to get him to stand up, but he's so exhausted, I barley had managed to make him sit up at least.« Tahaerys shoulders sacks a bit, feeling drained himself—sure, his father needed to know but at what cost? He had left your side, Feyeaerys with you of course, but Tahaerys had promised to stay with you as well.

Blood (and the fact you're sitting) meant you're about to lose your child, another child, if they don't get one of the maesters and midwives soon—real soon, because the longer they wait, dragging the time out, the more you're suffering in pain.

Cregane swallows, looking at Jacaerys and then, as if the roles are reversed, Cregane starts to snarl, »Why the fuck aren't you at [Name]'s side?! Huh?!« he snaps, face morphing into a sneer—anger radiating off him like grand flame.

»Alphas aren't supposed to accompany their Omegas during childbirth. It's a matter of privacy.« Jacaerys repeats, what he has already told Feyeaerys.

Cregane clench his hands, raising a fist—couldn't believe what bullshit he hears from his brother-in-law, what kind of rule is that even? Who had decided it's a wise idea to leave their, any, omega alone during such a suffering time?

»I'm close to just punch you straight in the face.« Cregane was seething by now, understanding why Tahaerys was so angry moments ago.

»[Name]'s about to lose the baby and you're an asshole for not being there for him, when he needs you the most!«

Jacaerys looks confused for a moment and Cregane swears, he would break Jacaerys nose if he dares to utter one stupid question now.

»Are you that insensitive towards your own mate or just not capable of listening? I highlight two words, sitting and blood.«

Before Jacaerys could answer, Queen Rhaenyra's voice cut thru like a sword into human flesh, »Go.« she orders and when Jacaerys wasn't moving, she repeated it one more time, harsher;

»I said, go! Go to [Name]!« Rhaenyra was disappointed in her son, hugging her grandson close—it's better for Tahaerys to stay here and asking her husband to get Feyeaerys, Heinrich and Sylvain as well.

How could Jacaerys, who she had raised with the mindset to always be there for his Omega, just leave you all alone during such crucial moments?

And why does Jacaerys even believe such old fashioned nonsense about how Alphas aren't supposed to give their support when their Omegas goes through childbirth.

Rhaenyra fears, if Jacaerys has done such through all of your four pregnancies than he would face now a bitter realisation of consequences for his actions.

~~~•~~~

Daemon had gone in first, carrying Feyaerys out—the younger twin and much smaller teen was bawling his eyes out, sobbing into his grandpa shoulder, because he believes his papa was about to die any minute soon—and given Jacaerys a nasty glare.

Jacaerys enters afterwards, almost recoiling backwards from the intense smell of blood and distressed, sharp scented chili and lemon sour, almost foul, pheromones you're given out.

»[Name]?« Jacaerys calls out, uncertainty in his voice as he stepped near towards the nest.

Crouching down, Jacaerys takes in your current state—besides the obvious puddle of blood between your legs, you're drenched wet in sweat and you're shivering tremendously, breathing ragged.

»[Name]?« he asks again, reaching a hand out to touch you and when he barley grazed your skin, he couldn't believe how you flinched back from him as if he's a stranger you doesn't know—or worse, an Alpha you're feeling threatened by.

»....Alpha? Where.....my alpha?« you moan out, pupils dilated—gaze unfocused, out of it

For a moment, Jacaerys thought, you're looking at him, but that wasn't the case—your pupils are dilated, gaze unfocused.

»Please....« you beg, »I want my alpha......Jace....where are you?« you ask—so out of it, that you don't even notice Jacaerys being here, a sob racking through you—a moan of pain leaving your lips—and you let yourself fall onto the side, curling up—closing your eyes.

Jacaerys pales, drew in a sharp inhale of breath—his inner alpha howls in agony and his heart breaks—as he quickly crawls into the nest, moving behind you—his arms going under yours, around your chest—pulling you upwards and close against his chest.

»[Name]?! Hey! Hey, [Name]! Open your eyes, please, c'mon love!« he repeatedly pats your cheek till you let out a whine and bleary opening your eyes again.

What has he done? Oh, by the holy above, just what has he done? He had left you alone, always during such crucial times and now you don't recognise him—as a human and neither his alpha—anymore in your haze of pain,

»Your highness, we had been informed–« one of the Maesters begun, but Jacaerys interrupted him, »Out!« he snaps.

»Pardon, your highness?«

»I said, get out!« a snarl, but the Maesters did not leave, raising an eyebrow—stepping one step forward and Jacaerys snarls again, a warning.

»With all due respect, your highness, but as a Maesters I'm required to–«

»No you aren't! Get out. I want the midwives and only the midwives!« it's an order and the maester, with an grumbling, nods his head—walking out and ordering a guard to get the Midwives.

Jacaerys gently licks over your scent gland, nuzzling you, engulfing you with his pheromones as he holds you close, holding your hand in his—hoping to bring you out of your haze and make you recognise him again.

»I'm here, [Name]. I'm here.« he whispers over and over again, rocking you back and forth—grewing anxiously himself the longer he has to wait for the midwives.

»Jace.....?« you mewl—god, you're mewling and Jacaerys is the sole reason for it.

»Yes, I'm here. [Name], I'm here.« he says and when you let out another pained moan—a small cry, more like a scratching scream, toppling from your lips—as more blood gushes out from below, Jacaerys heart almost lurched itself into a stop, Jacaerys starts to ramble.

Jacaerys felt himself tear up, clenching his eyes shut for a moment—letting his own tears escape and dripping down his cheeks—body trembling and heart aching in emotional pain.

»I'm sorry! I'm so sorry for the pain I've caused you. I'm sorry.«

It's hours laters, the sun has set down into a sunset by now, when the wails of a newborn—mixed with jubilee shouts of joy from the other side of the door—chorused through the castle.

You can't remember much of what happen, besides the gut brutal pain you've felt, but when you heard Jacaerys voice—which you thought to have imagined in your hazed mind—close to you, praising you for doing so well and blessing him another son, you felt happiness flooding through you—letting out a minimal chirp of greeting.«

»Jace, you're here?« you had to ask, couldn't believe it that Jacaerys was really here with you and not just after birth hours afterwards, when you're back in the bedroom to recover.

»I am, my love.« Jacaerys leans down, pressing his lips against your forehead, »And I promise, here and now, with all my heart, I will never leave you alone again during such times.«

You smile, cradling your newborn son close to you, nuzzling your nose gently against his tiny head—he's so precious, of course all your children a precious to you, but he's the most precious one.

Jacaerys too has leaned down to his newborn son, doing the same as you, »How do you wanna name our son?« he ask, looking at you.

»I think....« you pondered for a moment, »Aelexaenrys,«

Jacaerys laughs, »That's a mouthful isn't it?« remembering how you have mispronounced—and butchering up—his own name back than.

»Then his nickname will be, Alexei,« you simply said, smiling even bigger now.

»I like it, it's a wonderful nickname for such a great blessing like our son.«

Ignoring the moment when his four other children had bursted through the door like a hoard of little dragons and being just as loud as them, when they demanded attention from their mother—Jacaerys leans towards your lips, placing a long lasting kiss on them.

»Ijah luvoima [Name].« Jacaerys has practiced hard with Cregane to pronounce these two words in perfections, after all your native language wasn't so easy to learn, but these words Jacaerys wanted to know.