The Red Lass

It begins in the early hours, when the Red Keep sits quiet beneath a pale, unwilling dawn, the corridors hushed, the last of the night’s torches guttering low. Maekar lies stretched across his bed, bare and unguarded in a way very few would ever witness, one arm flung aside, the other resting near where you sit. Even in sleep there is tension in him, something unyielding in the line of his brow, as though rest is a thing he endures rather than welcomes.

You sit beside him, already dressed, skirts settled neatly about you, your posture composed, deliberate. Your fingers move through his hair, slow, thoughtful, just soft enough not to awaken him - The strands catch lightly between your fingers, silver-gold in the weak light, and you watch him with quiet admiration that you would not dare show him whilst he was awake.

There is no sign left of the night before for the sheets have been stripped from underneath him - he did not awaken at it at all -  the linen that bore the mark of your maidenhead already burned to ash in the hearth, reduced to nothing that could be whispered over by lessers. It was all clean. Proper.

When he decides to wake, it is sudden. His eyes open sharp, immediate, as though he had never truly slept. He finds you above him, composed, watching, a faint curve to your mouth that appears like a smile- before disappearing into a taunting smirk. For a moment, he says nothing, only looks, his gaze moving over you in a way that is neither careless nor restrained. He remembers, that much is clear.

“Up before me,” he mutters at last, voice rough with sleep - His gaze flicks briefly to your gown, then back to your face. “Dressed, too. You waste no time.”

You tilt your head slightly, fingers still idly combing through his hair. “Nor do you, it seems.”

That earns the faintest shift in his expression, something that might almost be amusement if it were not so quickly buried. He pushes himself upright, the movement controlled even in its abruptness, and the space between you alters at once. Whatever softness sleep had given him is gone. You mourn it instantly.

“This cannot stand as it is,” he says, blunt, as though he has been thinking it through even before waking. “Your honour is not a thing to be handled carelessly. Nor mine.” His jaw tightens, gaze fixed somewhere just past you, already turning toward what must be done. “A raven will be sent to your father, today, there will be a marriage, and it will be done quickly.”

He glances at you then, properly this time, and there is expectation in it, though he does not name it. “Until then, you will remain here, yes? It is safer.” A pause, brief as he looks at you -violet pooling into your own eyes. “And I will see that you are… provided for.”

You let that hang a moment, the implication in it as clear as anything spoken outright. Then you lean forward.

Your hand settles against his shoulder, fingers brushing over skin still warm from sleep, your touch light but deliberate. You close the distance just enough that your breath touches his mouth, your lips hovering, not quite meeting his.

“Such care, Your Grace,” you murmur, voice low, threaded with something softer than mockery but no less pointed.

His gaze drops, just for a moment, to your mouth. That is all the opening you need.

Your lips ghost against his, barely there, a suggestion of a kiss rather than the thing itself. It lingers for half a breath, just enough to be felt, not enough to satisfy. When you speak again, it is against his mouth.

“Until the vows are spoken,” you say quietly, “there will be nothing more.” He stills beneath you; You draw back slowly, lashes lowering, watching him as the meaning settles. “Not even a kiss.”

There is no teasing in your tone now. No softness that might make it a game. You straighten slightly, hand slipping from his shoulder as you continue, voice steady, measured.

“If anyone suspects,” you add, “if there is even a whisper of what passed between us before it is made proper, it does not only stain me.” Your gaze holds his, unwavering. “It weakens you. I will not have that. Not for you - not for me.” 

For a moment, he says nothing. His expression hardens, not in anger exactly, but in that familiar, unyielding way of his when something is set before him that he cannot easily dismiss.

“You speak as though I would allow such talk,” he says, low, a faint edge beneath the words.

“I know what men gossip about behind their leering glances, what ladies titter about over tea..” you answer, just as quietly. “And I would not give them cause.” His jaw shifts, a muscle tightening there. He looks at you for a long moment, measuring, weighing.

“You make a difficult argument..” he says at last; you tilt your head slightly. “I make a careful one, my darling prince.”

That is what traps him. You can see it in the way he exhales through his nose, sharp, contained, the argument dying before it can be formed. 

“Very well,” he mutters, though it sounds more like a concession forced than one given freely. “It will be done properly.” You rise not long after, smoothing your skirts, leaving him there with the weight of it, with the memory of what he has had and what he will not have again - not yet.

The day stretches slowly from there.

You redress with care, choosing silks that fall within the narrow bounds of propriety, modest in cut, high enough at the throat to hide the marks he left behind, sleeves drawn to conceal what lingers at your wrists. 

Men look.. they always do..

You speak when spoken to, linger only as courtesy demands, your voice even, your manner composed. A knight’s gaze dips too low; a lord leans a fraction too close. You allow neither, yet you do not retreat in haste. There is nothing in your conduct that can be faulted - that is what makes it worse.

He sees it, each time he sees it; You feel his attention long before you look for it, sharp and constant, following you through hall and passage alike. When your eyes do meet, his are darker than they had been that morning, something tightened beneath the surface.

You do not dare approach him; not once. You pass him in a corridor, close enough that your fingers might brush his hand if you reach out. You do not, much to his regret - and your own. You incline your head, “My prince,” you say, as though he did not fuck you utterly dumb the night prior.

“My lady,” he answers, just as evenly - trying to forget about fucking you utterly dumb right there in that fucking corridor.

By the time he corners you, the day has worn thin with it. He steps into your path with intention, not abruptly so, but enough that you cannot pass without acknowledging him.

“Is this meant to provoke?” he asks, voice low, controlled, though there is strain beneath it now. His gaze fixes on you, searching, not unkind but unyielding. “You keep your distance as though I were some mere stranger.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “You are no stranger,” you say. “You are the man I am to wed.”

“And that requires you to avoid me entirely?” There is a sharper edge to that now. “The raven has been sent - this will be settled, I assure you.”

“I know,” you reply softly. “Then what game is this?” There it is. Not shouted, nor crude, but close enough. You tilt your head slightly, considering him. “No game,” you say. “Only conduct befitting a lady promised to a prince.”

His mouth tightens. “No lady moans as whorish as you do–”

Your heart beats faster at his words, “And yet,” you return, calm as ever, “I have done nothing today, nothing that would arouse such a… reaction, my prince..” You circle him, like a predator sizing up its prey. He hates that he feels like that. “You are no stranger, my prince..” You repeat, whispering awfully close to his ear as you brush near him - he shudders. “I do not let mere strangers fuck me like you did..”

Silence stretches between you. “You are testing me,” he says, quieter now. You do not deny it but you do not confirm it either – you pause in front of him, holding his gaze.

At length, he exhales, something rough in it, contained with effort. A low sound follows, more a grunt than a word, frustration edged with something deeper, something far less easily named. His hand flexes once at his side, as though it might reach for you, then stills.

He does not touch you; you smile.. The first crack appearing.

The next day, the Red Keep grows awfully silent once you cease to be something merely seen; the news is out – you are to be married to a prince.

It is a subtle shift - Doors open more readily, servants no longer pause when you pass, and there is a slow, creeping sense that you are not being permitted to remain, but expected to.

You decide you must at least attempt to know the household you are expected to run. You do not start with the staff or with its court… you start with its children.

It is a deliberate choice, though you would not name it as such. The girls are easier ground, sweet and kindred in ways the rest of this place is not. You find them in a smaller chamber off the gardens, half-attended, half-forgotten, left to their own devices beneath the dull watch of a nursemaid who has long since learned to keep her distance - for fear of being dressed up horrendously by little Rhae or questioned within an inch of her life by the ever curious Daella.

You decide you can not arrive empty-handed.

The chest is set down before them, its contents hidden only a moment before you open it, and the fabrics within catch the light in soft, muted hues - pale blues, gentle pinks, violets that shift with a golden sheen when touched. Fine work, that you decided should be admired by nobody other than the children who gather at the sight. 

Rhae leans forward at once, small fingers hovering before they dare to touch. “Are these ours?” she asks, voice hushed as though the answer might vanish if spoken too loudly.

“If you wish them to be,” you reply, watching her rather than the cloth.

Daella is slower, more cautious, though no less drawn in. She lifts a length of silk, rubbing it between her fingers with a faint frown. “Father would not allow this,” she says, not accusing, only stating what she believes to be fact. “He says such things are wasteful.”

You glance at her, just briefly – smiling softly. “Your father is a practical man.”

“He would say no,” she insists. “And yet,” you answer calmly, “he is not here to say it.”

That is enough for them. They settle beside you without further protest, the distance between you closing not by invitation, but by ease. You do not instruct them. You do not correct. You let them choose, let them speak, let them fill the quiet with their own wonder.

“They’re so soft,” Rhae murmurs again, pressing the fabric to her cheek.

“You will spoil them!” Daella says, though she has not let go of her own piece.

“Perhaps,” you return. “But only a little.” She glances at you then, measuring something she does not yet have words for. “Will you stay?”

It is a simple question, however she doesn’t display it simply. “Yes, of course,” you say, and fold your skirts to sit beside them; That was enough for them.

From that day, they come to you frequently; not always, and sometimes not always together, but steadily. Daella seeks conversation, thoughtful and often too aware for her years, her words turning over things she has long kept to herself – you answer with as much grace as possible, though some questions are far too.. heavy..  for such a young girl to think upon; but you do not dare stop her from asking. Rhae seeks presence, content to sit beside you, to place ribbons in your hair with small, careful hands, to press dolls into your lap as though you have always belonged among them.

It becomes a habit to sit with them beneath the weirwood in the gardens, its pale trunk looming, its carved face watching without expression. Rhae plays at your side, humming to herself, while Daella speaks of things she does not say elsewhere - she started to express her interest in history, funnily enough, not only Valyrian History.

And you listen, enjoying learning new things – It is there that he sees you.

You do not look for him, but you feel him. The air changes when he is near, it pulls, as though something has drawn taut. When your gaze lifts, he stands at a distance, watching.

There is no interruption, no command – Only observation. You incline your head, nothing more, and return your attention to the girls. You do not call him closer, you do not invite him into it; that, more than anything, holds him there.

It is not your body that draws his eye now; It is this painful stinging thing, the way you settle into a place that was never offered, yet now seems shaped for you all the same. It sits ill with him - not because he dislikes it, but because he cannot easily name what it is becoming.

His sons are less simple.

Aegon comes to you first, as expected, bright and restless, eager to be heard. He speaks quickly, words tumbling over one another, stories of dragons and knights spilling from him with careless enthusiasm.

“And if you had a dragon,” he asks, leaning forward, “would you fly over the city or the sea?”

“Neither,” you answer, considering him. “I would first try to learn whether it wished to carry me at all.” He huffs at your answer, “That is not how it works,” he insists at once.

“No?”

“No. You tell it what to do.” He laughs, looking up at you - as if you were being intentionally silly. You look at him for a moment, then shake your head slightly. “That sounds like a good way to be thrown from the sky.”

He pauses, then breaks out into a fit of laughs, conceding the point without quite admitting it.

Of Aemon, you hear only through the youngest children; Always in praise, always in the cutest admiration. You listen intently nodding on as Aegon talks about how smart his older brother is, and something wraps around your heart and pulls at how awfully adorable the thought of it is.

Daeron is different – you notice him long before he notices you. The drink in his hand more often than not, the way he drifts even when surrounded, present in body, absent in every other regard; there is something dulled in him, worn thin at the edges.

You do not confront him, It would be  utterly useless – Instead, you wait.

At the feast, when Maekar gathers his kin and speaks, plain and without flourish, of his intent to take you as his wife, you sit as you ought, composed, neither shrinking nor overreaching. Baelor listens with measured calm, Valarr and Matarys with interest more than concern.

Daeron drinks.

When you pass near him, you set a cup within his reach, no ceremony to it, no attention drawn. The wine is touched, lightly, with dreamwine; not enough to be remarked upon or even remotely noticed, just a simple amount that is enough to quiet whatever troubles him for a night – he takes it without question; or perhaps without noticing. Though you doubt it, the boy has a sharp wit and an even sharper ability to recognize.

The next day, he finds you, alone in the gardens - a rare sight. “You gave me something,” he says, voice clearer than before, though still uncertain. He looks far better than he has for the last moon and a half, eyes bright with life - the dark half moons under his eyes are utterly swept away; he is not showing his usual slouch he does that shows he is exhausted. And he is well dressed, as though he actually paid some mind to it this morning.

“I did,” you answer, digging into the pocket of your silks; revealing a vial of dreamwine.

He studies you for a moment, then the bottle. “You helped me.. sleep..”

“I thought you needed some sort of help.” You smile, slapping the vial into his chest. He takes it, gawping at the thought of someone being so kind as to help him. Then quieter, “Thank you.”

You incline your head, a faint curve to your mouth. “Do not thank me too readily. It is relatively easy to make.. But It is not a complete cure,”

“No,” he says, though there is something steadier in him now. “But it is something, and that will do,” he finalizes. You walk away - happy that you could at least help unburden Maekar slightly.

Aerion does not change – and it is hard to make him, he is not as malleable as his siblings – He watches you with open disdain, sharper than the rest, less willing to dress it in courtesy. When he speaks, it is with intent to wound.

“So this is what he chooses,” he says one afternoon, voice cool, cutting. Lounging on a couch near the gardens - where you were hopeful to find the girls. They probably ran away at the sight of their monstrous brother. “A woman who knows plays at virtue.”

You meet his gaze directly. “If you have an accusation, you can very well make it.”He smiles, faint and unpleasant. “I have no need. Others think it well enough.”

“Lesser and braver men have vocalized their opinions, what would that make you, my prince?” you return, unbothered. No anger, nor defence and It unsettles him more than if you had struck back.

All the while, Maekar grows worse.

It is not obvious to those who do not know him; His manner does not change – His voice remains as it was, his temper no shorter than before, but there is something tightening beneath it, something drawn thin by restraint.

He watches you with his children; sees the way they come to you without hesitation, sees how easily you are received. It alters the entirety of his want - it is no longer simply carnal.

He seeks you out more often; with purpose instead of by accident, or in passing. It happens late – You part from him as you have begun to do, with proper distance, a measured inclination of your head and you turn to leave.

His hand moves; not fully, not yet… but enough that you feel it before it touches you, the intention of it clear as any act.

You stop and ;ook at him.

“Not yet,” you say, quietly. His jaw tightens, though he does not withdraw. “You set the terms,” he mutters, reminding himself begrudgingly. “And you agreed to them,” you grin at him.

You step closer, just enough that your voice does not carry beyond him. “You would not rush it now,” you add, softer still, the faintest edge of something warmer beneath the words. “Not when you have waited… so… long.”

His gaze drops, briefly, to your mouth. “The night will come,” you murmur. “And it will not be wasted.”

That is all– You step back as his hand falls to his side. “Fuck..” He curses, before leaving.

Your father arrives before the bells are rung, and with him comes the last of what may be called restraint.

Until now, this thing between you and Maekar has existed in a narrow space, bound by understanding, by want, by what has already passed and what has been promised to follow. It has been contained, managed as yours, and his.

Your father’s presence in the capital however, alters that at once.

He does not speak kindly to you, nor does he need to. There is something within in him that settles a room, a kind of authority that does not announce itself because it has never needed to; his status usually does – though you are not from a house with looming amounts of power, you have plenty of renown – producing bloodthirsty knights and beautiful, fertile women – Maekar knew you were both bloodthirsty and beautiful. When he looks upon Maekar, it is not with indifference, nor with hostility, but with a measured nod that shows not only his respect, but his judgement.

You stand between them only briefly before the ceremony, your hands folded, your posture composed, every inch the daughter he expects you to be – and Maekar can’t quite believe how unassuming and silent you are.

“You have been well looked after?” he asks you, his voice low enough not to carry. “I have, papa..” you answer, just as quietly. His gaze lingers a moment longer, searching for what is not said. Then he gives a single, short nod. “See that it remains so.” His face rarely shows emotions - you have plenty of siblings, many of them being sisters - for him to pass you to Maekar must be like another stone taken off his back.

The arguably grumpy prince says very little in his presence – that in itself is telling. His manner remains firm, unbending as ever, yet there is a tighter control to it now, something held in check beneath the surface.

The ceremony itself is beautiful and proper; nothing more, nothing less.

You walk beside your father through the sept, the air thick with incense, the quiet murmur of gathered voices falling away as you pass. His hand holds yours, and you note, distantly, how steady it is. How soft, in contrast to the man who waits ahead. When he places your hand into Maekar’s, there is no weeping father - only a feeling of trade.

Maekar’s grip closes around yours at once, firm and grounding – almost too firm.

The cloaks are exchanged, your own drawn from your shoulders, the weight of it leaving you for the briefest of moments before the black and red settles in its place. He fastens it himself, his hands deliberate, careful despite their strength - you feel the brush of his knuckles against your back, restrained where they would not have been days before. You almost forget entirely that he has already done this once before.

The words are spoken as they must be - each promise binding and neverending.

When it is done, there is no question left; you are his and he is yours. His touch does not leave you, not the hand that is wrapped carefully around your waist as you leave the sept, nor the hand that eases you into the carriage, or the hand that eases you out as you make for the dining hall.

The feast that follows is another matter entirely – noise returns in full, louder than before, looser, wine poured without restraint, voices rising as cups empty and fill again. Lords grow bold in their cups, their words less careful, their laughter edged with something coarser.

They come to you in turn. “May your marriage be peaceful,” one says, though his grin suggests he means anything but. “And fruitful,” another adds, raising his cup.

The ladies are no different, though their words are softer - the intention is all the same. Blessings for children, for strength, for endurance. You accept them all with a smile that does not falter. “I pray to the Mother for many of his children,” you say at one point, voice warm and silky.

Beside you, Maekar stills, only slightly, but you feel it.

His hand, which has not left you since the vows, tightens where it rests against yours beneath the table.

You turn your thumb over his knuckles, slow, soothing, as though the gesture were nothing more than idle affection. “You have given the realm strong sons already,” you murmur, low enough that only he hears. “I would not deny you more.”

His jaw shifts, something unreadable passing through his expression. Him saying nothing says everything; Baelor comes before the night has worn too far.

He approaches gently, his manner composed, his gaze steady as it moves between you and Maekar. Valarr and Matarys linger not far behind him, watchful, curious in their own quieter ways – Matarys waves at you with a big smile, lemon cake syrup covering his face and fingers, you wiggle your fingers back; grinning.

“You have my good wishes,” Baelor says, his tone measured, sincere without being indulgent. “For the night, and for what follows.”

You incline your head to him. “You honour us by coming, Prince Baelor.”

He studies you for a moment.  “You will find this house… demanding,” he says. “But not without its merits.”

“I have begun to see as much,” you reply, smiling. A faint, almost imperceptible nod follows. “Then you are better prepared than most.” He turns then, not lingering beyond what is proper. “Rest well,” he adds, more to Maekar than to you, before gathering his sons and departing.

Maekar watches him go, expression unchanged, though something in his posture tightens once more.

As the night presses on; his hand remains on you throughout, shifting only in place; fingers laced, your thumb moving slowly over his skin. On your thigh beneath the table, firm, possessive, tightening whenever you lean too far, whenever another man draws too close in conversation.

When the call for the bedding comes, it cuts through the noise clean enough to draw everyone's attention. You rise without hesitation, you are not nervous; not in the way they expect.

The men gather quickly, too quickly; There is laughter, crude at the edges, voices carrying remarks that are meant to amuse, to provoke. Hands reach, grasping at fabric, at sleeves, at laces, with that careless entitlement of men who believe themselves part of something they have no right to touch.

Your gown pulls as the threads strain.

You do not flinch, there is annoyance, perhaps, at the waste of such good cloth, but little else. A body is a body; it in itself is not inherently sexual.

That is where he breaks, the cracks formed over the past few weeks finally caving – Maekar steps forward, and when he speaks, his voice cuts through the drunken rambling of men and the whispering prayers of women.

“There will be no tearing of clothes,” he says, sharp, controlled, though the anger beneath it is unmistakable. His gaze moves over them, cold, unyielding. “Nor will there be witnesses beyond this hall.”

A lord laughs, uncertain. “It is tradition–”

“Fuck tradition!” Maekar yells, stepping closer, towering, his presence enough to make the man falter; there is no argument that follows.

The gruelling hands withdraw as the laughter dies.

He takes you from the hall himself, one arm beneath your knees, the other at your back, lifting you as though the matter allows no other course. The movement draws a brief sound from you, a noise of shock, quickly swallowed as you press closer, your face turned into his neck – You feel the heat of him there, the tension coiled tight beneath his skin.

The corridors beyond are quieter, the noises fade with each step, the air cooling, the press of bodies replaced by something far more contained - his hold on you does not loosen.

“You have tested me enough,” he mutters against your ear, voice low, roughened by restraint worn thin. You shift slightly in his arms, just enough to answer, your breath brushing his throat. “And you have endured it well, my prince..” A pause, then, quieter still, “I am going to ruin you when we reach my chambers.” He growled, a hot slick developed between your legs at his tone.

Your hand tightens slightly against him instead; By the time he reaches the door, there is nothing left of the distance you had so carefully kept.

When the door closes, there is nothing left to deny.

The heavy wood thuds shut behind him, sealing the world outside, and Maekar's arms finally release you, setting you down on the edge of the bed with a care that belies the storm raging in his violet eyes. His hair, usually slicked back so precisely, has loosened in strands that fall to mid-ear, framing the sharp lines of his face as he stares at you, breath coming in heavy pulls. 

Your fingers find the laces at your back, pulling them free with deliberate slowness, however the silk was so soft it tore softly as you unlaced your wedding gown. 

It falls away in ragged pieces, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him. You rise, stepping over the remnants, and climb onto the bed, positioning yourself on all fours, back arched deeply toward him, wiggling your hips in a teasing sway that you know will unravel him further. 

The air between you thickens, charged with the weeks of denial.

A low growl rumbles from his throat, a curse spilling out as he watches, his hands clenching at his sides. "Fucking minx," he murmurs under his breath, the words laced with a desperate hunger that makes your core clench. 

You smirk over your shoulder, the expression playful and triumphant, but it cuts off into a gasping moan when his palm connects with your ass in a sharp swat, the sting blooming warm and sending a rush of heat straight to your folds.

He sheds his own clothes with hurried motions, tunic and breeches hitting the floor, his cock springing free, hard and throbbing with need. You feel the bed dip as he kneels behind you, the heat of his body pressing close.

His hand wraps around his length, guiding the tip down through your slickened folds, rubbing slowly, teasing the swollen clit with each pass. You grind back against him instinctively, chasing the friction, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the space as your hips roll to meet every deliberate stroke.

"Please... Maekar... just fuck me, ple–" The plea escapes in a whine, cut off abruptly as he thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, deep motion that silences you all at once. "Gods, girl, you're as tight as ever..." He groans, the sound raw and reverent, his hands planting on each side of your hips for leverage. But he doesn't hold you still – instead, he pulls back almost fully before driving forward again, thrusting deeply into you without restraint, his hips rolling in a rhythm that's both controlled and frantic, as if he's savoring every inch after so long without.

The stretch of him fills you completely, the glorious thickness of his fat cock dragging against your walls, making your eyes roll back as waves of pleasure crash through you. You're utterly cock drunk already, panting for air, each breath a ragged gasp as his hips snap forward, the angle hitting spots that make stars flicker behind your lids. He fucks you beautifully, each thrust measured yet powerful, drawing out the tension you've both held for weeks, his rough nature softening into something almost tender in the way he angles himself to hit deeper, to make you feel every bit of his longing.

"Oh gods, Maekar... you're fucking me so good, so deep–don't stop, please," you scream the praise, the words tumbling out unbidden as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your belly. His response is immediate – a hand grabbing the back of your hair, bundling the strands in his fist to tilt your head back gently, exposing your neck. His teeth sink into the flesh there, a bite that's firm but not cruel, marking you with a heat that sends shivers racing down your spine.

"That's a good girl... you want my cum?" He groans against your skin, the vibration of his voice rumbling through you, his canines pressing just enough to tease without breaking skin. A shiver runs down your spine at the raspy need in his tone, the degradation wrapped in praise making your walls flutter around him. "You said you would not deny me more sons, hm? Do not dare deny me now..."

The words nearly tip you over the edge, your body trembling as his hand trails down your stomach, fingers finding your swollen bud and rolling it between two pinched digits, the pressure perfect and insistent. 

Your back arches against his earnest thrusts, the dual sensations overwhelming – his cock plunging deep, so profound it feels like it touches the roof of your mouth from the inside, stretching and claiming every part of you. You fall apart with a cry, the orgasm ripping through you like lightning, making you see white for so long you fear you've reached the seven heavens, your legs shaking uncontrollably as waves of ecstasy pulse through your core, milking him with rhythmic squeezes.

He follows moments later, groaning low and deep as he cums inside you, spilling hot and thick, his hips jerking erratically to bury himself as far as possible, flooding you with his seed in pulsing waves that leave you both gasping. He stays seated within you for a long moment, chest heaving against your back, his grip on your hair loosening to stroke down your spine in soothing passes, a rare gentleness in the afterglow.

When he finally pulls out, a trickle of his release leaks from you, warm and sticky between your thighs. You turn, collapsing onto the bed beside him, but your gaze lifts to your now-husband, and you can't quite fathom how attractive beautiful he is in this moment – eyes darkened with satisfaction, hair tousled, the lines of his face softened by the flush of exertion. The sight stirs fresh want in you, and before he can catch his breath fully, you push him onto his back and straddle his thighs, settling atop him with purpose.

"What are you doing, wife?" he asks, voice husky and surprised, a hint of that grumpy edge returning even as his eyes roam over you hungrily. His cock, still slick from your combined release, twitches under your touch as you wrap your hand around it, stroking firmly to coax it back to hardness. It doesn't take long – the weeks of pent-up desire ensure he's ready again, thickening in your palm until he's fully erect, veins pulsing against your fingers.

You guide him to your entrance, slipping him inside with a slow sink, the stretch reigniting the ache deliciously as you take him inch by inch. A moan escapes you at the fullness, and you begin riding him, back arched gracefully as your hips grind up and down, circling in teasing rolls that make him hiss through his teeth. The motion pulls him deeper with each descent, your walls clenching around his length, savoring the way he fills you anew.

Your hands seek his, fingers intertwining briefly before you pull them toward your bouncing breasts, guiding his palms to cup and knead the soft flesh. He groans, a deep "Fucking hells..." rumbling from his chest as his thumbs brush over your nipples, tweaking them with just the right pressure – pulling, squeezing, rolling them until they're pebbled and sensitive, sending jolts of pleasure straight to where you're joined.

His touch grows more insistent, fingers pinching harder as you ride him deeper and faster. The slap of your hips against his echoing softly. But then his hands leave your breasts, trailing down your sides to your back as he presses down, shoving you forward until you're chest to chest with him, your breasts pressing against his skin. He captures one nipple in his mouth, teasing it with his tongue – circling, flicking – before suckling deeply, the pull drawing a whimper from you as he swaps to the other, lavishing it with the same attention. His hands settle on your hips, gripping to guide your movements while he thrusts up to meet you, hard and deep, each drive winding the breath from your lungs, leaving you dizzy with the intensity.

The rhythm builds, his hips snapping against yours in perfect counterpoint, his mouth never leaving your skin, alternating between your nipples with wet, sucking kisses that make your core tighten further. Sweat slicks where your bodies meet, the air heavy with the scent of sex and the faint trace of incense from earlier. You grind down harder, chasing the building pressure, your nails digging into his shoulders as he drives into you relentlessly, the thickness of him hitting that spot inside that makes your vision blur.

"Take me, my sweet girl–" he whispers into your ear, the words a desperate plea wrapped in command, his voice breaking slightly on the endearment as his hips thrust hard against yours, the longing in his tone unraveling you completely. It's romantic in its rawness, the rough and usually angry prince baring a vulnerability he's hidden for so long, his violet eyes locking onto yours when you pull back just enough to see him, filled with a need that's more than physical – it's the weeks of waiting, the forced restraint, all pouring into this moment.

You clench around him at the whisper, the praise and the subtle degradation of his earlier words echoing in your mind, pushing you toward the edge once more. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging in as he angles his thrusts to grind against your most sensitive spots, his mouth returning to your neck, nipping lightly before soothing with his tongue. "So perfect like this, wife... taking me so well, s’ like you were made for it," he murmurs against your skin, the words a mix of adoration and that rough edge, degrading in their possessiveness yet laced with genuine awe at how you fit him.

The coil snaps again, your orgasm crashing over you in a hulking and consuming tidal wave, walls spasming around his cock as you cry out his name, body shuddering atop him. He doesn't stop, thrusting through it, prolonging the bliss until your legs tremble and you collapse forward, forehead to his shoulder. Only then does he let go, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills inside you once more, hot pulses filling you to the brim, his arms wrapping around your back to hold you close as he rides out the waves.

You both lie there, tangled and spent, his chest rising and falling beneath you in sync with yours. You lay so close together that your cheek lay against his, his beard tickling you each time he speaks; His hand strokes lazy patterns along your spine, “I hope its a girl…” He murmurs against your skin, not daring to move.