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moonlinos · 8 months ago

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Don’t let me love you (Siren part II)

♡ Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin × fem!reader

♡ Genre: Camboy!Hyunjin, friends with benefits to lovers

♡ CW: Explicit sexual content (minors dni!), sex work, mentions of smoking, drinking, oral sex (female receiving), orgasm delay/denial, sex toys, marking, nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie, choking (only a little tho)

♡ Word count: 15.7k

♡ Synopsis: Hyunjin has been a camboy since he turned eighteen and a host since the age of twenty. His life and line of work had him building up a fortress of walls to keep himself safe, but he’s powerless as he watches you unknowingly break them down. Although he knows you deserve better than him, he battles with a selfish desire that wants nothing more than to allow himself to love you.

♡ A/N: Part two of what was supposed to be a one-shot, but people made my brain think things and I wrote 15.7K WORDS. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that so many people actually wanted a part two of something I wrote, so I wanna say thank you 🩷

← part I

Your situation with Hyunjin has been going on for almost eight months now.

Some things have changed; he’s undoubtedly more clingy with you, and you started hanging out with no intentions of having sex. What remains unchanged, however, is the fact that he’s still the same old egotistical idiot.

The thing is, you somehow grew to like that about him. It’s amusing to you just how much he loves himself, gloating about his conquests at the club or bragging about maintaining his number-one spot on the camming website. Although this only makes you even more certain you would never entertain the idea of being with someone like him, having the man who makes you come so hard also make you laugh just as much is a nice bonus.

Hyunjin began coming over to your apartment around two months ago, gradually wearing down your resistance with a lot of pestering until you finally let him in. Your home was almost sacred to you. Hooking up in his apartment was one thing, doing that in the familiarity of your home made it feel almost too intimate. You’ve fucked on the couch, on the kitchen counter, in the shower, but you never allow him into your bedroom. You’re not entirely sure why, but it would feel as if you were tainting your favorite place if he were to fuck you in your bed.

You’re getting ready for a date in your bathroom with Hyunjin sitting on the floor behind you, claiming the view of your ass from that angle was optimal. He lets out a loud chuckle as he watches you dab yet another layer of concealer on the hickey he left on your collarbone earlier tonight.

“Fuck off,” you snap at him. “You think this is funny?”

“Well, yeah, ‘cause it is,” he simply says, and you see him shrugging in the mirror, a grin tugging at one corner of his lip.

Hyunjin has the maddening habit of marking you. Although you told him numerous times how much you hate it, he conveniently ignores that when you have sex, and you’re always too clouded by lust to say anything about it.

“What are you doing on your livestream tonight?” You ask after finally making the small, red blotch on your skin imperceptible.

Watching Hyunjin cam has become your go-to de-stressing method after work. Sitting in a corner far away from the camera, you watch him do his job with ease, like it’s second nature to him. It’s almost intoxicating how he seems to always know what to say to get his viewers going, knowing exactly when to be mean and when to play the role of a caring boyfriend. It makes you clench around nothing, hungrily watching as he makes himself come all over his stomach so deliciously it has you eager to be fucked as soon as he’s done.

He hums. “Well, they really seemed to like the toys I tried last weekend, so I guess that’s what I’m doing for the next few weeks.”

“Ooh, so you’re sticking to the toys now,” you tease him with a grin.

Last Saturday, you watched as Hyunjin opened fan gifts he had received in his PO box during his livestream. Some were extremely questionable (if you had a nickel for every time he pulled out used panties from a box, you’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice), while some were exactly what you would expect to be sent to a camboy. A variety of BDSM gear, kinky costumes fans wanted him to wear, and of course, a lot of sex toys.

Hyunjin shrugs again, leaning on his left hand and staring up at you through the mirror. “I kinda have to do whatever my viewers want to keep my number one ranking.”

“And are you going to the club tonight?”

“Nah,” he yawns and rests his head against the wall. “Took the day off. My spot there is secured,” his lips upturn into a grin. “No other guy at that club can compete with me.”

That’s another thing you learned about Hyunjin these past months; his club and website rankings are extremely important to him. You also learned he has an Only Fans account on the side where he shares videos and pictures of himself, and he pesters you about making any type of content with him every couple of weeks. You were tempted after seeing the enticing amount of money that was in it for you, but your decision was unswayed.

Your confidence wasn’t like his. You’re sure having your performance and appearance scrutinized by strangers would make you go insane.

Nonetheless, you struggle to conceal your jealousy toward Hyunjin’s jobs, as they seem so damn perfect in your eyes. How great would it be if you could essentially work only when you felt like it? Not to mention the fact that both his jobs are basically having orgasms and looking pretty, which certainly seems heavenly when compared to your headache-inducing corporate job.

He even delayed the starting time of his livestream tonight for the sole purpose of tormenting you while you get ready.

Jihoon is your first proper date in almost a year, as you only allowed yourself the luxury of dating after getting the promotion you were working for. He’s in your company’s finance department, and you two have been casually flirting for three months. You tried your best to ignore him for a couple of weeks, but not only was he ridiculously good-looking, he was also the breathing definition of boyfriend material. He was kind, holding doors open and helping other workers carry heavy boxes with a smile on his face. He was caring, always arriving at the office with coffee for his coworkers, having memorized everyone’s order.

Not to mention the whispered rumors that echoed through the hallways of the ninth floor. Your friend, who had recently moved into the finance department, shared them with you after a drunken night out. Jihoon was apparently amazing in bed, all while being a perfect gentleman. The perfect blend of rough and sweet, and never one to kiss and tell — all these rumors apparently coming from women in his department who had dated him and couldn’t keep themselves from gushing about their unforgettable experience with him.

But it would be a lie to say you were excited about this date because of him.

It was the prospect of how much this could vex Hyunjin that really got you eager.

A couple of nights ago, you joked with Hyunjin about how Jihoon was the complete antithesis of him, hence why he was the ideal candidate for a boyfriend. Hyunjin’s reaction was exactly what you anticipated, with him becoming visibly annoyed and grumbling about how Jihoon probably talks a big game but does the bare minimum in bed.

You simply laughed because the mere thought that another man could be just as good, if not better, than him in bed was what ticked Hyunjin off. Never mind that you said Jihoon was perfect because he was everything he was not.

“You know,” Hyunjin suddenly says, “We should make a bet.”

And you hesitate for a beat and a half because you know Hyunjin.

Still, you sigh and answer, “Sure. What kind of bet?”

“If this guy is really that good in bed, then I’ll pay for your next date myself,” he vows, his smirk only growing as you turn to look at him through the mirror. “If he’s average, you go on a date with me.”

You silently look at him for a few seconds before laughter bursts out of you.

“Hyunjin, do you fucking hate me?” You ask, turning your body toward him. “I get shitty sex then have to endure a date with you?”

He shrugs, rising to stand in front of you. “This just proved to me how much faith you have in your date,” he calmly says. He then leans into you, caging you against the countertop, hands beside your body. Hyunjin bends his face to yours, his breath tickling your skin as he speaks, “Just admit you know no guy will ever be a better fuck than me.”

You scoff at his arrogance, pushing him until his back hits the wall.

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Hyunjin follows you when you leave the bathroom to grab your purse in the living room, loudly clicking his tongue behind you.

“Why’d you dress up for him?” He huffs, and you turn to look at him with a raised brow. “This fucking short dress and shit.” He rakes his eyes over your body from head to toe, tugging at his bottom lip. “I should make you dress up for me, too. You look hot.”

By now, you’ve learned that the best course of action to follow when dealing with Hyunjin’s monumental ego is to ignore it altogether. It’s also quite entertaining to purposefully give him answers you know will vex him, so you sweetly smile at him.

“Thank you,” you beam, your fingers toying with the hem of your short dress, pulling up the fabric. “Hopefully Jihoon thinks the same.”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his body. He harshly presses his lips to yours, undoubtedly smudging your lipstick. His tongue pushes past your lips, brushing against your own. It’s almost like an act of possessiveness — leaving his taste on your tongue before you go off to your date with another man.

He tightens his grip on your waist, pulling you even closer. But just as you’re getting lost in the feeling of his lips against yours, the sound of your doorbell echoes through the room, and your eyes widen. Pulling away, you promptly push Hyunjin back and wipe the corners of your mouth. You stifle a chuckle when your eyes land on his face; red lipstick smudged all over his lips.

“Stay in the bathroom until I leave,” you tell him while grabbing your purse from the couch. He rolls his eyes again, this time with a scowl contorting his features.

You smile at Jihoon when you open your door. Barely giving him the chance to say hello, you hurry him toward the elevator, reminding him of your reservation. You know Hyunjin, and you wouldn’t put it past him to show up behind you simply to stir up some drama.

But that’s the thing; you know Hyunjin, yet you still choose to stay in this strange arrangement with him. Because it’s the fact that you know him, for some reason you’re unsure of yourself, that makes you actually like him a little bit.

Hyunjin ends his livestream as usual, saying goodnight with a promise of seeing his viewers again tomorrow night. He never acknowledges tips and addresses no one by their name or username. Some cammers wear masks to conceal their identities — this cavalier persona, uncaring and nonchalant, is Hyunjin’s mask.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he goes on to do the arduous task of cleaning up the fleshlight he used tonight. It was a gift from a viewer, who begged him — with quite a lot of tips — to use it for her. What was initially meant to be a one-time thing has now become his new routine, as his viewers couldn’t get enough of it.

Hyunjin hates this part of his camming job: the incessant need to please the people who watch him, lest they abandon him and move on to a new cammer. He doesn’t mind the sex toys — although cleaning them makes him want to throw his entire collection out the window — but he’s had to do a lot of shit he really didn’t want to, all in the name of maintaining his number one spot.

He was eighteen when he first started. In desperate need of money after moving out of home for college, one of his friends suggested he sell his nudes to people around campus. When Hyunjin scowled and asked why the fuck that was his first and only suggestion, the boy laughed. He remembers his words to this day:

“Hyunjin, you know you don’t really have anything else other than your looks. Your grades are shit, and you’re lazy as fuck. This is pretty much the only way you can ever make money.”

And by that age, that was nothing new to Hyunjin, as he had heard different variations of that same speech his entire life. When he was a child, his parents urged him to become an idol or a model, going so far as to motivate him to ignore his schoolwork to attend auditions (even when he whined about how much he hated them).

His mother always said his face had the power to make people love him while studying would only lead to success.

“It’s much better to be loved, Hyunjin,” she told him when he was ten. “Anyone can reach success if they try hard enough, but being loved is a privilege only special people can have.”

By his late teens, when his reputation began to precede him after countless hookups during high school, his friends assured him he could make a lot of money off of sex.

Either way, the consensus was always that the only thing Hyunjin had to offer were his looks and body.

At first, he hated it. He wanted nothing more than to be appreciated for anything other than what his face looked like, or how good he was in bed. He got his grades up, excelled in hobbies he actually liked, and even set goals for himself after college. But Hyunjin never heard a word of praise from his parents, and his friends were always more interested in who he was hooking up with than how he got to the top of his class. After a while, he realized he was simply fighting a losing battle.

So he accepted that truth, because it couldn’t hurt him if he were the one to incentivize it.

That was why he decided to follow his friend’s asinine suggestion.

His first endeavor was with simple videos of himself jerking off in front of his mirror, the shitty camera of his phone certainly hindering his attempt at making the whole thing pleasing to the eyes. He would promote them through text messages to acquaintances he’d met at parties at first, later creating a Twitter account dedicated solely to selling these videos. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was certainly more than his friends made while working monotonous shifts at coffee shops.

Only four months later, he coincidentally entered the world of camming through a girl he had been hooking up with.

They were in her bedroom, just about to have sex, when she giggled against his lips and told him she could make a lot of money if he fucked her during one of her livestreams. He said he could make a lot of money if she let him record them fucking.

They ultimately reached an agreement, and Hyunjin appeared on his first-ever livestream that same night — a mask covering both their faces and the money made split evenly between them.

He recalls how his eyes were glued to her computer screen the entire time. He was used to praises and compliments, but there was something different about having a stranger openly say they’d do anything to be in that girl’s place, that they would pay to have him fuck them, or even something as simple as telling Hyunjin how good he was. It had a rush of euphoria cursing through his veins.

It was as if, for the first time in his life, he had found something he was truly good at, something that he was entirely in control of. He was a natural, and he enjoyed every moment of it, easily slipping into the persona he wears to this day.

He got drunk on that validation and was desperate to have it again.

After that night, he created his own account, with many of his hookup’s viewers following him immediately. He dropped out of college soon after he started, as the money he made from camming along with selling his content on Only Fans already exceeded the estimated salary in his field of study.

Hyunjin was good, and he loved being good. Most importantly, he loved knowing he was good.

That’s why he simply ignores the few times he’s had to do things he wasn’t all that keen on doing. Because at the end of the day, that’s the only thing he’s good at — pleasing people, no matter the cost.

After a long shower, Hyunjin walks back into his room and sinks into his bed. He’s glad he took the day off from his job at the club since a viewer tipped him $300 to edge himself for as long as he could tonight. After an hour of that, the only thing he wants is to curl up in bed and sleep for hours.

He buries himself under his blankets, but just as his eyes flutter closed, the sound of laughter echoes through his room. Your laughter.

He sits up in bed almost immediately, a grin etched onto his lips. He still remembers the day he found out his walls were paper thin; the day you touched yourself while he was streaming. He knew you were so sure you had been quiet — only letting out small whimpers and sighs — but he heard you regardless, and your pretty noises made it even easier for him to come that night. He initially assumed you were simply masturbating, but when you came knocking at his door the very next day to complain about how noisy he was, he knew you were touching yourself to the sound of his voice.

Hyunjin has fucked many women in his life, but for that silly fact alone, none piqued his interest quite like you did.

He rests his back against the headboard, ready to listen to you complain on the phone to some friend, grumbling about how fucking awful your date had been. But a masculine voice suddenly permeates through the wall, filling his room with the sound of your date’s obnoxious laughter.

“I had a really nice time tonight,” he slurs, clearly a bit tipsy.

“Me too,” you giggle, and Hyunjin’s face twists into a scowl. Since when do you giggle like that?

He hastily yanks the covers off his body, rushing to settle into his computer chair in a shameless effort to hear your conversation more clearly.

“Sorry I laughed when you spilled your drink on your dress,” the guy — whose name Hyunjin frankly didn’t care enough to memorize — apologizes before adding, “Do I make you that nervous?”

And it’s like Hyunjin can hear the smirk in the man’s voice. Why the fuck must this annoy him so much? Couldn’t you go back to his place to fuck? Maybe you’re pissed at him over the bet, and this is a desperate attempt to prove you’re right. He scoffs, running a hand through his hair before reclining on the chair.

Just means you’ll be having mediocre sex while he listens.

“Of course I was nervous,” you reply. “Look at you, this shirt’s been driving me crazy since you picked me up.”

The man snickers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you state matter-of-factly, “Kept looking at your arms the entire night. Couldn’t think straight,” your voice drops to a whisper, and Hyunjin could recognize the alluring lilt that envelops your voice from a mile away.

You use it with him almost every night.

Your date hums. “Oh, you like my arms?”

And Hyunjin can just picture the man flexing his muscles. What a fucking idiot.

His room is filled with the creaking sound of your bed, and he physically cringes. He can’t believe you’re really gonna make him listen to you fuck another guy. He especially can’t believe you so easily let this fucker into your bedroom. Hyunjin has known you for eight months, and you still adamantly insist that your bedroom is off-limits.

Maybe this is his long-overdue punishment for making you lose sleep for a month.

Your room suddenly falls into an odd stillness. All Hyunjin can do is sit in the dark, consumed by the incessant ticking of his clock, unable to tear his gaze away from the wall in front of him. His mind becomes his own worst enemy, flooding his imagination with vivid images of you laid out underneath this man, his arms you seemingly love so much caging you between the mattress and his body while his lips explore every inch of your skin. Or maybe you’re on top, rolling your hips in that slow, tantalizing rhythm that drives Hyunjin mad while looking at him with lust-clouded eyes.

The sound of you softly whimpering shakes him out of his thoughts, and Hyunjin subconsciously clenches his fists. Despite hearing the guy talk to you again, all he makes out is a jumble of garbled, muffled sounds.

He isn’t sure how long he stays there, eyes boring holes into the wall until his vision goes blurry and gnawing on his lips until he tears at the delicate skin. His ears sting with the sound of your bed frame hitting your shared wall, and your sighs and moans he loves so much only seem to mock him.

When the sardonic symphony eventually fades into silence, Hyunjin remains where he is. He feels powerless; he can’t stop how his heart weighs heavy in his chest or do anything but feel the scorching flame of anger searing his veins.

He’s memorized your date’s name by now — Jihoon, as your voice repeatedly called out.

For the first time in so long, Hyunjin was no longer in control.

Hyunjin struggles to conceal his annoyance when you show up at his door the next day as if nothing had happened. The hickey he gave you no longer being concealed by makeup and your ever-present grin only added to his aggravation, as if you were relishing in his agony. He wants nothing more than to fuck that smug grin off your pretty lips, but he can’t bring himself to touch you. Not when his ego is bruised by how easily another man could please you.

After all, that was all Hyunjin had to offer. Why were you even here in the first place? If you had already found someone else to fuck you, he had nothing more to give you.

Sitting on his couch, Hyunjin’s frustration gets the best of him, and he’s the first to break the silence.

“I don’t even gotta ask if you had a good time last night,” he sneers, and you stifle a chuckle, trying but ultimately failing to keep a straight face.

“Yeah, the restaurant was nice.”

Hyunjin can’t contain the scoff that escapes his lips, his mouth curling in disdain. “You know damn well I’m not talking about the restaurant.”

You cock your head to the side, brows knitting together as you put on your best act of naivety.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean?” You ask, voice dripping in sarcasm.

Hyunjin is pushing your body onto the couch before he realizes what he’s doing, the rage he felt last night no longer laying dormant in his bloodstream. He cages you against the cushions, his hands resting beside your body. You instinctively spread your thighs to accommodate him.

“You think you’re so fucking funny, don’t you?” He asks, bending his face to yours. You shrug with a contented sigh, lifting your arms to wrap around his back.

Hyunjin scoffs, and you let out a yelp as he abruptly hoists your legs over his shoulders, fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs. He leans down to kiss you, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth but pulls away before you can register to kiss him back, leaving you to chase after his touch.

“Is this how he fucked you?” He asks with a hum, his lips hovering mere inches above yours. His hold on your thighs becomes bruisingly tight as he waits for your answer. “Hm? Did he fuck you good?”

“We were both tipsy,” you murmur, breath hitching as he pushes his hardening member against your clothed core. “It was okay.”

A grin tugs at the corner of his lips, and Hyunjin mockingly pouts. “So he wasn’t the sex god you were promised, baby?”

You roll your eyes. “I just said it was okay.”

Hyunjin shakes his head, his gaze transfixed by the way your eyes look up at him while you subtly roll your hips up into him. He’s not stupid, he knows the reason why you have such an infuriating effect on him. He’s never going to be good enough for you outside of being a good fuck, yet he feels a blooming yearning inside of his chest that makes him selfishly want to keep you to himself. Even if he has nothing else to offer you.

So he chooses to swallow his pride, just this once, to prove to you why you should choose to stay and stop searching for pleasure in other men — because Hyunjin knows you will find much more than that in them. Much more than what he has.

“‘Okay’ isn’t what you deserve,” He tuts, his mind slowly fogging over with desire as you roll your hips harder against his length. “Isn’t what you’re used to after all these months, is it? Hm?” He urges, raising a hand to lightly brush against your jaw before gripping it. “Answer me.”

Hyunjin knows you’re struggling not to give in; that’s one of his favorite things about having sex with you. The push and pull, how you try so hard to act tough and unbothered but ultimately melt under his touch every time. Even so, he was only able to truly break you for the first time a couple of months ago. You’re obstinate, he’ll give you that.

You shrug again, and he knows it’s the only answer he’ll get from you for now.

“Are you gonna see him again?” He asks instead.

You let out a quiet sigh as Hyunjin lazily grazes your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

“Don’t think so.”

“Yeah?” He asks, arching a brow almost knowingly. “I can’t help but think you only brought him home to make me listen to you.”

And you giggle at that. The same overly sweet, coy giggle Hyunjin heard through his wall last night.

“I guess you’ll never know,” you simply answer, running a hand through his hair and lightly gripping a fistful while your eyes flicker down to his lips.

Hyunjin wastes no more time talking to you — he knows your conversations usually lead nowhere. He crashes his lips into yours, fingers gripping your jaw once more and forcing your lips open, his tongue slipping inside your mouth. You whimper into the kiss, a sound he knows slipped past your lips unwittingly. Your tongue swirls against his, and he savors your taste with a low hum.

You tilt your hips up, chasing after him again and whining when Hyunjin moves out of reach. He smiles.

“You want me to give you what you’re used to?” He asks against your lips, and you’re quick to nod. “So fucking greedy, made me listen to you get fucked last night only to come running back to me.” He slides his hands under your ass and picks you up effortlessly, carrying you toward his bedroom with an exasperated sigh. “Would’ve been easier if you just admitted no guy will ever be as good as me, wouldn’t it?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snarl, but your words are cut short as Hyunjin throws you onto his bed and promptly walks to his wardrobe. “At least Jihoon got to it quick. I’m not one of your viewers, I don’t care much for your chatter.”

Hyunjin lets out a hearty laugh, retrieving a small blue box from among his clothes and sitting at the edge of the bed. “He got to it quick? Is that your way of telling me your date was a one-minute man?”

You open your mouth as if you’re ready to refute him but ultimately close it and cross your arms over your chest, willing him to do something. Hyunjin stifles another laugh.

“Good thing you have me, then,” He mutters, the goading lilt to his voice impossible to disguise. Placing the box on his nightstand, he hovers over your body once again. “I got all these toys, and we never got around to playing with them together.”

You visibly shudder, nodding slowly as Hyunjin looms over you. He slots your lips together once more, this time much more softly. Your tongue lightly brushes against his bottom lip, licking into his mouth as your thighs wrap around his hips, hooking your ankles behind him and drawing his body flush against yours.

With each languid and deliberate stroke of his tongue, Hyunjin revels in the way he can feel you grow more impatient, tugging at the fabric of his shirt and rutting your hips against his. His hands slip under the hem of your shirt to grip your waist, easing your movements. The way his cock strains against his sweatpants becomes impossible to ignore as his hard length presses against your warm core harder and harder with each roll of your hips.

Hyunjin’s hand glides from your waist to your stomach, caressing your skin before finding its way to your cunt, fingers harshly pressing against your clothed wetness. You whimper into the kiss as he lazily circles your clit over the fabric of your shorts.

“Let’s make a deal,” Hyunjin whispers as he pulls away. “You admit I’m the best fuck you’re ever gonna have, and I might let you come.”

He punctuates his words with a firm press of his fingers to your clit, and he can visibly see your resolve crumbling before him, but you still force out an indignant huff.

“In your dreams,” you shakily breathe out.

Hyunjin shrugs, his fingers leaving your core and traveling over the expanse of your stomach. He promptly rids you of your shirt, and you hiss as his hands brush against your sensitive nipples, Hyunjin watching as they immediately stiffen in response.

Your habit of not wearing a bra nearly drives Hyunjin insane — even on the first day you came knocking at his door, he remembers having to fight the urge to glance down at the way your nipples peaked beneath the fabric of your white shirt.

You’ve been driving him crazy since you walked into his line of sight.

Hyunjin lightly massages your breasts before grazing your hardened nipples with his thumbs, swiftly sucking one into his mouth, causing sighs to spill from your lips as your hand tangled in his hair. He flicks the stiff bud with his tongue before grazing his teeth over it, and you roughly tug at his roots. He smiles against your skin, nudging the peak of your nipples with his lips and sighing.

“Say it,” he calmly tells you, but your only response is tugging harder at his hair. “You’re so stubborn,” He chides, tugging his shirt over his head. “I told you, you’re only coming if you fucking admit it.”

He slowly moves onto the foot of the bed, his hands roaming along your legs with featherlight touches. He places wet kisses from your stomach to your inner thighs, sucking lightly at the skin until his lips hovered tantalizingly close to your still-clothed, aching cunt. And then he stops, instead pressing a kiss to your hips.

“Hyunjin,” his name falls from your lips as a breathy whine. He looks up to find your gaze already on him, eyes silently pleading. He grins, thumbs drawing circles on your inner thighs as you push your hips into his face, but he promptly pulls away. “Please,” you finally whisper, although barely audibly.

Hyunjin hums, satisfied, pressing a wet kiss to your core through the fabric of your shorts before sliding them down your legs along with your panties. He hisses through his teeth at the sight of your wetness, thumbs gliding up and down your folds before spreading you before him. His tongue immediately pokes out to travel up your slit before wrapping his lips around your swollen clit, sucking harshly, and your hand soon flies to rest on his head.

He lifts his eyes once more, humming against your folds as he finds your head rolled back onto his pillows, lips falling open as you softly mewl. He could listen to your sweet sounds all night, reveling in the way every flick of his tongue made you become louder and louder until you were all but screaming his name.

But he has to teach you a lesson tonight.

His tongue delves deep into you, gliding against your slick inner walls, causing even more arousal to flood his lips. His eyes flutter closed with a pleased hum, lapping up every drop of your wetness.

“Fuck,” you rasp, and Hyunjin knows you’re close.

With a wicked grin, he slips two fingers into your warm cunt, curling them just the way you love while his tongue expertly circles your clit. When you roll your hips against his lips, yanking his head toward your body, Hyunjin pulls away.

He watches as your eyes shoot open and you frown at him, but he simply grins, thumb wiping at his glistening mouth before slipping the digit into your agape lips.

“Say it,” he repeats, unrelenting, and stifles a laugh when you groan loudly.

You hook a leg around his waist, bringing his body close to yours again, the heat of his thick cock pressing against your soaked cunt. Hyunjin sucks in a breath, focusing on reining in his emotions, determined not to let you win. His mind is already completely clouded with lust, desperate to fuck you into the mattress, but he refuses to give you the satisfaction of watching him give in to you.

He bends his face to yours, gasping out a curse as he watches the way you swirl your tongue around his finger with a hum, lazily sucking it while maintaining your eyes locked onto his. He presses the pad of his thumb down onto your tongue, and your lips obediently fall open before upturning into a taunting smile.

You still think you’re in control.

Hyunjin shakes his head, his resolve coming back to him.

His fingers fall from your tongue, and he presses his lips against yours. You melt into the kiss, hands traveling down the expanse of Hyunjin’s abdomen, then back up to wrap around his broad shoulders. He lets you do as you please, rummaging through his box until his fingers brush against what he’s looking for. He sucks your tongue into his mouth, ultimately distracting you, and you let out a small whimper, which grows into a loud groan as he presses the blunt tip of the massaging wand to your clit and switches it to the medium setting.

“What the fuck,” You all but growl into his lips, and Hyunjin hums.

“Does it feel good, baby?”

You let out a shuddering sigh. “T-Too much,” you whimper, hands scrambling for Hyunjin’s arms in an attempt to ground yourself, but ultimately clawing at his bedsheets.

He glides the wand along your drenched folds, moving up and down, eyes transfixed on the way your arousal drips out of you and coats the toy. Your entire body jolts when he harshly presses the vibrating tip directly onto your clit. He could come just by watching you squirm underneath him, loud groans falling from your lips. How he wished Jihoon could be in your room, listening to how beautiful you sound when you’re actually being taken care of properly.

Hyunjin feels his cock twitch every time your body shudders, trying to escape the relentless vibrations, sticky precum gathering in his sweatpants and increasing his discomfort. He desperately wants to fuck you.

With a low grunt, he leans in closer to you, pinning your arm to your side and flicking his wrist as he presses down harder on your swollen clit.

“Got no idea how pretty you sound, do you?” He hisses, “If only you weren’t such a fucking brat and just — fuck.”

His words dissipate when your free hand wiggles between your bodies and pulls down his sweatpants, freeing his cock. Your fingers immediately wrap around his length, squeezing him tightly before frantically stroking him. The sounds that echoed through the room were lewd, unmistakable evidences of both your arousals.

Hyunjin pulls the wand from your clit, turning down the vibrations and letting it rest against one of your peaked nipples while he grips his cock in his fist, the swollen tip prodding at your entrance, just barely pushing in. You whimper loudly, clutching his arm, fingernails digging crescent moons into his pale skin.

“Come on,” he growls, cock now gliding up and down your slit. “I know you wanna come, just fucking say it.”

But you’re unrelenting, staring into his eyes and weakly shaking your head.

Hyunjin stops his movements altogether, his shaft nestled against your soaking cunt, the head of his cock resting heavily on your clit. He presses the wand down onto his length, increasing the intensity to the highest setting. A loud, broken moan falls from your throat as your shaky hands grip his wrist, your back arching off the bed. You try to push the toy away, but Hyunjin’s free hand wraps around your neck, effortlessly pinning your pliant body down onto the mattress.

He presses his forehead to yours, his sweat dripping down onto your breasts as he fights off his orgasm.

“Fucking say it,” he hisses, tears gathering in your lashes. The unyielding vibrations from the wand traveling through his cock and going straight onto your clit, coupled with the way his hand tightens around your throat, finally have every bit of your resolve crumbling.

“You,” you choke out, “Best fuck I’ll ever fucking have, Hyunjin, god — I wanna come, please.”

Hyunjin feels satisfaction enveloping his entire being, and the pleasure intensifies tenfold, his cock twitching and a low groan reverberating from the depths of his chest.

“Come for me, baby,” he breathes out, giving your neck one last squeeze, and your climax erupts from you with a loud cry. As your entire body convulses and your head tilts back, Hyunjin can feel your release coating his cock before dripping onto the sheets below.

As you struggle to catch your breath, your grip on his wrist tightens and your body squirms away from the vibrations, but Hyunjin only presses down harder, seeking his own release. He soon comes with a sigh, eyebrows scrunching together, his cum landing all over your cunt.

He turns off the vibrator, labored breaths mixing with yours as you two come down from your highs.

“You’re fucking insane,” you chuckle after a beat.

And Hyunjin’s lips stretch into a lazy smile. “And you owe me a date.”

You were reluctant at first, having assumed it was simply Hyunjin’s ego talking that night, only teasing you because you were going on a date with someone else when he proposed that odd bet. However, you eventually found out he wasn’t at all joking and actually wanted his ‘prize’ — as he called it — for winning the bet.

Figuring out a date was an aggravating task, given that Hyunjin worked on weekends and you worked on weekdays. You told him numerous times to just let it go; you could simply hang out in his apartment like you usually did and call it a date. It wasn’t anything serious, just another one of his whims.

But Hyunjin’s persistence was unwavering, and he settled for taking yet another day off and canceling his livestream altogether so he could take you out on a Saturday.

Although you weren’t looking forward to it at first, you unknowingly smiled whenever you saw the day marked on your calendar alongside your endless work assignments. It was ridiculous, and you wouldn’t admit it to him, but deep down, you were actually excited about this date. You wanted to know what it’s like to have a conversation that doesn’t end in you two bickering, wanted to know what it feels like to hang out with him without the thought of fucking looming over your heads.

You were strangely excited to get to know Hyunjin outside the four walls of your apartments.

But the Sunday before your date, disappointment washed over you like a cold bucket of water when Hyunjin told you he had to cancel.

What did you expect? You knew Hyunjin. This should’ve been the obvious outcome from the start, but you were stupid and allowed yourself to be swept away by a hope that proved too good to be true.

He waited until he finished his livestream to tell you — as if canceling less than a week before wasn’t already bad enough. Your irritation reached its peak as you sat in his bed and listened to him insist it wasn’t his fault.

“One of the other hosts had a family emergency so he’ll be gone for two weekends,” he explained, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his words. Family emergency. Of course.

“Hyunjin, you say that like you don’t take countless days off with no issues,” you refuted, and his frown deepened while he shook his head.

Just say you don’t wanna go on this stupid date.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s not like that. We have rules to follow,” he insisted. “Only one host can be absent at a time. I don’t have a valid reason for bailing on Saturday, so I’m forced to go.”

“Or you’ll lose your precious number one spot?”

“Or I’ll lose my fucking job.”

And you simply shrugged as you ultimately realized that was yet another pointless conversation between you. You then went on to have sex, as you always did when confronted with the threat of a serious conversation, and the topic was forgotten.

At least by Hyunjin.

You spend the next days avoiding him to the best of your abilities. Deep down, you know you’re behaving like a child, but the way you allowed yourself to get excited over something as stupid as a date with him still makes you feel pathetic. It’s impossible not to feel like he raised your hopes only for the pleasure of shutting you down. All because you went out with someone else, and you know that was a blow to his ego.

You two have never been anything more than friends who hook up — and even using that term feels almost comical, seeing as you two can’t have a conversation without it turning into a petty argument or an ego battle — but his insistence on this date, and your own eagerness seemed to hint at something more.

Clearly, you were mistaken.

You brought Jihoon back to your apartment hoping to have mind-blowing sex after a nice date. Plus, you knew Hyunjin would hear you, and you terribly wanted to deflate his ego. A win-win situation in your book. Instead, you had mediocre sex at best. Jihoon skipped foreplay entirely, simply pounded into you, and finished far too quickly while leaving you hanging.

Maybe he was too tipsy to perform well, or maybe the women in your office are living in a depressing reality where a guy’s ability to find the clitoris means he’s a god among men. Either way, even after putting on your best performance, Hyunjin still saw right through you.

And the worst part is, even you can’t explain why you did that. Your mind argues it was all for the pleasure of vexing him; he’s been annoying you since he first moved in next door, after all. But your heart is quick to jump in with a list of facts and reasons why that can’t be the case — all while presenting some valid arguments that lead you to believe you might like Hyunjin more than originally planned.

But he was still Hyunjin at the end of the day. Your egotistical idiot neighbor whose fragile ego you hurt, so he’s retaliating.

After three days of successfully ignoring Hyunjin, one of your friends at work makes all your work crumble with a single phrase.

“I can’t believe we still haven’t gone back to The Siren,” she grumbled during lunch, and you stabbed an innocent piece of broccoli with your fork.

That was all it took to ignite your curiosity.

You sit at your desk later in the day and look up that damn club, telling yourself you simply want to find out why your friends are so desperate to go there. This has nothing to do with Hyunjin.

Upon entering their website, you realize The Siren wasn’t a nightclub as you had imagined; it’s an elegant lounge with a lavish-looking bar you’re sure charged $5 for a bottle of water. As you read the club’s About Us page, the entrance fee almost has you choking on your coffee, despite it being expected for such a place. Among several rules, one catches your eye:

The club allows a maximum of twenty attendees per night, offering a choice of twenty-five hosts.

You gnaw on your bottom lip at the realization that perhaps Hyunjin wasn’t lying, and that was the reason only one host could be absent at a time.

Eventually, you find your way to the Hosts section of the website. You’re a bit taken aback by how these men are presented as amenities, like products displayed at an online shop, with nothing but their names and a picture along with their price.

They’re divided into tiers: gold, emerald, and platinum. Hosts in the gold tier are younger, most likely having just started on the job, and their prices are the most affordable. The emerald tier is more expensive, with some hosts who look old enough to be your father. The disturbing realization dawns on you that these men’s values diminish as they age.

On the platinum tier, only five hosts are displayed, and you blanch at each of their unique prices. Hyunjin is the most expensive, at $500, excluding extra fees. You click on his black and white picture, and a myriad of photos of Hyunjin flood your screen. You’re struck by how different he looks in these shots; his styled hair and impeccably tailored suits look nothing like the man you see at your apartments every day, lounging around in sweatpants and loose t-shirts.

A description sits at the top of the page, short but still enough to make you grimace.

Hyunjin has held our club’s esteemed number-one position for two consecutive years now, and rightfully so. Complementing his striking good looks is an alluring personality that will make you feel cherished throughout the evening. His undivided attention will undoubtedly meet your satisfaction, and his additional services will leave you breathless.

You aren’t sure what you were expecting — you were already aware of the nature of Hyunjin’s job as a host — but the club’s portrayal of these people as mere products leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Your curiosity has morphed into frustration as you return to the homepage, but a message catches your eye just as you’re about to exit the website. Three spots are now available for Saturday night due to the absence of one of their hosts. And before you can even process your actions, you’ve already booked these spots for you and two friends.

Thank you for choosing to unwind at The Siren! We will contact you individually regarding further details, including host orders.

Host orders? That is enough to make you close the website.

You can’t believe you’re going to do this. You know for a fact Hyunjin will be upset, but you can’t bring yourself to care. If he wants to toy with your emotions, you have every right to show up at this club.

You wait for Hyunjin to leave for work to get ready on Saturday. You weren’t able to avoid him this afternoon and spent the day lazying around in your apartment, binge-watching some new reality TV show he’s obsessed with.

You expected Hana and Naeun to eat you alive for buying tickets to this overpriced club without consulting them first, but their excitement overshadowed any anger they had. You also played up your excitement, although, by the time your shift had ended, you mostly felt regret for spending all that money purely out of spite.

The email you received explains The Siren has a strict dress code, not allowing any client in unless they’re dressed to their standards.

The patrons are required to match our club’s overall atmosphere.

You rolled your eyes. At least their arrogance fit their ostentatious price.

As you skim through their several other rules, you find out that booking a host isn’t mandatory, and often, hosts will seek out patrons themselves if they’re free for the night.

Be prepared to be approached by one of our available hosts at any given moment. Should you be fortunate enough to capture their attention, that is.

Among the rules, you’re also explicitly told that tipping the hosts anything beyond their set prices is strictly forbidden. The more you learned about this club, the more you struggled to understand why Hyunjin held it in such high esteem.

You bring out your best dress from the back of your closet, hoping you ‘matched the club’s overall atmosphere.’ You let out a heavy sigh as you make it past the What Not to Wear crew guarding the entrance alongside the bouncer, and you are officially in.

“This is your first time here, right?” Hana asks you, linking your arms together. You nod, and she grins before adding, “You’re in for a treat.”

The Siren is exactly what you saw in the pictures, only the dim glow of purple neon lights illuminating the extravagant chandeliers, corner sofas, and opulent decorations you know cost more than your month’s rent.

The owner herself personally escorts every single patron to their seats — a tradition spanning over a decade since the club was first inaugurated. Briefly introducing herself as Taeyeon, the beautiful woman leads you through a long corridor adorned with the hosts’ pictures on the walls. Finally, you arrive at a sofa, where a champagne bottle nestled in an ice bucket already waits for you. She informs Naeun that the host she ordered for the night will be a bit late due to personal reasons, before bidding you goodbye with a smile.

You awkwardly shift in your seat as Hana leaves to fetch you drinks from the bar, and your eyes scan the lounge as it slowly fills up with people. You notice a few of the men you saw on the website parading around the club, a grin etched onto their lips as they lock eyes with a few of the patrons. Other hosts are already tending to their ‘dates,’ sitting beside them on the sofas and attentively listening with warm smiles.

Hyunjin wasn’t lying when he said his job was making lonely women feel wanted.

The club itself is rather boring without the satisfaction of a host pampering you. The slow jazz music playing softly in the background makes you feel almost drowsy, and the dim lighting does little to help. For an hour, you watch as hosts come and go. Some lead their clients toward the bar area, partaking in drinking games with other clients and hosts. Others guide women up the black, shimmering staircase at the back of the club, leaving you to wonder where they could possibly be off to. Thankfully, you’ll have Hana to keep you company when Naeun undoubtedly disappears off to somewhere with the host she ‘ordered.’

Your gaze falls on the sofa in front of you, where a host’s dimpled smile lights up his face as he playfully strokes a woman’s cheek, eliciting a shy giggle from her lips before she continues her story. His intense gaze remains fixed on her face, his hand soothingly trailing down her back while he nods, seemingly enthralled by their conversation. It would be a lie to say coming here after a tiring week at work wouldn’t seem like stepping into a dream. Even if it’s all a well-constructed lie, having a handsome guy cater to your every need and listen to you complain without uttering a word is almost fucking idyllic.

Your eyes then wander toward the back of the club, where a small group of hosts is huddled around a circular table, quietly laughing among themselves. Sitting at the center, Taeyeon’s intent gaze oversees her club’s activities while engaged in a heated phone conversation, her scowl deepening with each word she mutters.

You assume these hosts weren’t booked for the night or are still waiting for their clients to arrive. Just as you’re about to advert your gaze, Hyunjin emerges from a door on the left. His hair is meticulously styled, slicked back to reveal his gorgeous face, and his tall figure is dressed in a white button-up shirt tucked neatly under an expensive-looking black blazer.

Hyunjin has always been beautiful in your eyes, but seeing him exude so much confidence stirs up something inside of you.

His mere presence captivates you so strongly you find it impossible to look away, even as his gaze meets yours. A look of utter bewilderment washes over his face as he stills his movements, looking almost startled. You two fall into an impromptu staring contest as if you’re attempting to communicate with your eyes alone until Naeun taps your shoulder, snapping you out of your haze.

“He’s so fucking hot, isn’t he?”

Your brows knit together. “What?”

“The host you’re ogling at,” Naeun giggles, “I saw him on their website the first time we came here, but I was too late so I couldn’t get him to myself. I’m so glad you asked us to come tonight ‘cause I got to order him before he was booked,” she explains, and you feel as if all the air has frozen in your lungs. Hyunjin is the host your friend ordered. “I’m fucking broke now, but I know it’ll be worth it.”

You inwardly grimace at how she talks about Hyunjin, almost like he’s only a shiny toy she couldn’t buy in the past. That, coupled with how booking a host is so casually referred to as ordering, makes you feel a bit nauseous.

Hyunjin eventually walks over to your table, as you knew he would. He’s Naeun’s host for the night, after all. As he slowly strides toward your sofa, his focus remains solely on you. For a split second, his eyes flicker with something akin to sadness before he quickly resumes his usual persona.

He immediately takes Naeun’s hand, kissing her knuckles with half-lidded eyes and a sultry grin. The way he looks at her has the knot in your stomach tightening, aching with the realization that it’s the same way he always looks at you. You were never anything special or significant to each other — you’re well aware of that — but the sting you feel is unbearable for some reason.

Hyunjin sits beside Naeun, and his focus shifts entirely to her. His wandering hands leave a trail of goosebumps from her arms to her bare legs, while his whispered words make her cheeks flush a rosy pink. And it feels as if he’s completely ignoring your presence, which is such a foolish thought you almost feel ashamed. This is his job, but reminding yourself of that every couple of minutes somehow only makes you feel worse.

Because this isn’t a one-time thing, this happens every single time he works.

At some point, while you were too busy engrossed in Hyunjin and Naeun, Hana got a host of her own. With his bleached blonde hair, a constellation of freckles on his cheeks, and a deep, gentle voice, it seems he’s done his job at captivating her. Each host seems to embody a specific persona. From his less-touchy demeanor to the softness in his eyes when he looks at Hana, it’s clear that this guy is going for the caring boyfriend type.

As you remember how available hosts sometimes approach clients themselves, you fight back the urge to roll your eyes. If they’re available, no one has booked them for the night, meaning they won’t earn a single dollar. Their focus will undoubtedly be on finding the wealthiest available patron. Hana came from old money, only working at your company after falling out with her family, but her head-to-toe Chanel attire radiates wealth. It’s no wonder this host so graciously chose to sit beside her.

Eventually, Hana is led to the large bar by her host, and the atmosphere in your little space becomes increasingly uncomfortable for you. Your neglected drink is now lukewarm, leaving a damp spot on the hem of your dress as condensation seeps through from where you rested the glass on your thighs.

Hyunjin leaves a few minutes later, taking Naeun by the hand. He briefly turns to look at you, his gaze now nearly unreadable. Only disappointment — or was it hurt? — flashes in his brown eyes before he walks away to lead her up that stairwell.

You sit alone for what feels like an eternity, the once bustling lounge slowly falling into a deafening silence around you. Jealousy and hurt intertwine inside your brain, spinning around in an endless cycle and making your head throb.

You’re only waiting until you’ve finished your way too expensive Cosmopolitan — far too warm to be enjoyable now — when a figure suddenly sits beside you. To your surprise, it’s a host. His styled dark brown hair is messy as if he’s been running his hands through it, and his black button-up shirt has the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins running along his forearms. He’s hot, there’s no denying, but your sour mood won’t be solved by some eye candy.

“Seems we’re both alone tonight,” he starts, a smile slowly spreading across his lips.

You simply hum, taking a final sip of your drink before placing the glass on the table. You’re not really in the mood to entertain this conversation, so you uncross your legs, ready to leave.

But your movements halt when his hand gently rests on your knee.

“You seem so lonely here all by yourself. Why don’t you come with me?” He offers, and your eyes narrow. He lets out a hearty laugh. “No need to act so suspicious, I’m just making an offer. We’re both alone. What’s the harm?”

To say you were skeptical would be an understatement. You clearly remember his face from the website as he was right beside Hyunjin, at the number two spot of the platinum tier, his price only slightly less offensively expensive.

“I’m Minho,” he offers his hand, which you reluctantly take after telling him your name. After your awkward handshake, you try to pull back, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he places your clasped hands on your lap, his thumb drawing circular shapes on your skin as he continues, “I waited all night for my client to show up. I could really use a distraction.”

Of course.

You take a deep breath, and your gaze shifts towards his face.

“I don’t have money to order you, sorry.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Minho’s lips, his hand leaving yours and finding the skin of your thighs. “How about I make this my treat, then? My client has this habit of ordering me and then ghosting me,” he sighs, “Isn’t that cruel? Taeyeon said she won’t let it fly anymore and is refusing to give her a refund for tonight.”

As Minho’s soft touch glides along your skin, his fingers inching closer to the hem of your dress, your mind replays the scene of Hyunjin’s hand on Naeun’s legs. The way he touched her mirrored how he had touched you so many times, and it replayed in your mind like a flickering film. It ignites the flame of ugly jealousy inside of you once more.

“Your treat?” You whisper, and Minho’s face inches closer to yours, your noses brushing together.

“I’d hate for a pretty girl like you to go home unsatisfied,” he whispers.

You’re walking up the gleaming steps of that staircase before you can make sense of what you’re doing. Minho’s hand doesn’t leave your skin for a second, fingers now gliding across your arms as he leads you down a wide corridor. You eye the place curiously, taking in the row of closed, dark wooden doors lining both sides of the hallway.

Minho leads you toward the only door that has been left ajar, and it finally dawns on you what happens on the second floor of The Siren.

The room is not large; a round bed occupies most of the space between the small bar and the dark velvet couch. Following your initial conversation with Hyunjin about this job, he consistently evaded any further questions you asked until you eventually gave up. You always assumed he found the subject boring, much like you did when forced to talk about your own job.

You knew his job as a host meant pampering women, making them feel wanted and tending to their every need throughout the night. It seems your brain conveniently failed to remember that it also implied having sex with them.

“I only fuck them if they’re willing to pay, and I’m expensive.”

You feel a shudder run through your body as those words ring inside your mind. That’s what extra fees meant.

Hyunjin led Naeun up those stairs. It doesn’t take much imagination to know what they were doing at that exact moment.

Minho locks the door behind you, and his strong arms circle your waist, drawing you closer to his body. His gaze drops to your lips, and a smile spreads across his face.

“Is this okay?” His voice is gentle, with no pressure lingering in his words. You know you could say no, go back home, and wallow in your self-pity for the rest of the night.

But you don’t want to do that.

Because you know Hyunjin is currently fucking your friend. And, despite the rational side of your brain screaming that this is his job, it does little to extinguish the searing fire of jealousy that burns under your skin.

So, you allow yourself to fall into bed with Minho.

His touches are almost feather-light, his kisses gentle, and his movements deliberate as he fucks into you.

It feels good, but it’s not what you’re used to.

It’s not Hyunjin.

Hyunjin returned home as soon as he possibly could after his shift.

Any anger was dampened by the sadness and shame he felt because you had to see him at the club. It’s his job, but it’s a job he never truly loved. He feels vulnerable and powerless as a host, a stark contrast to what he feels when camming.

Taeyeon personally scouted him from his livestream. He was twenty and already making enough money to provide for himself. He didn’t need a new job, but the allure of the validation he knew it would provide him was enticing. Compliments and adoration fueled Hyunjin throughout his entire life. He knew it was a bit pathetic, but that was how he was taught to be.

During his training period, Taeyeon and the older hosts instructed him. They taught him how to erase his true self to fit into what would most appeal to clients. That was easy for Hyunjin. He’d already been doing that for most of his life.

He wasn’t tricked into anything. He was given a meticulous explanation of every minute detail of the job and was allowed to set hard limits for anything he wasn’t comfortable doing. Taeyeon treated the hosts like her family, like older and younger brothers she cared for. She provided apartments for those who came into the job with nothing, paid off student debts, and was always willing to listen to their problems.

She would be the perfect boss if not for her love of money.

Every host receives only 5% of any money they make for the club. Hyunjin, as the highest-paid host at The Siren, only makes around $100 per weekend — if he’s lucky enough to have clients booking him for extra services every night.

He knows he’s being exploited but can’t bring himself to quit.

When he first discovered the ranking system at the club, he turned to smoking because of pressure. Naturally, he started at the lowest tier but needed to climb as fast as possible. He was determined to do whatever it took to reach that number one spot. He bleached his hair, splashed out on clothes he didn’t like, and even took up groups of clients per night. Hyunjin had always found comfort in sex. He had complete control of the situation and the satisfaction of knowing he was the reason someone felt good was just another form of validation, like he was loved for as long as the sex lasted.

Sex at the club was never like that. It was a chore, something he did because he had to. It wasn’t anything like camming, and it wasn’t like having sex with someone he actually cared about.

It wasn’t anything like having sex with you.

Seeing you that night only made it harder for him to drag himself up those stairs and do what was expected of him.

Hyunjin got home that night and fell asleep on the couch. He couldn’t be bothered to do anything, especially shower, as the thought of facing his reflection in the mirror was unbearable. Different emotions swirled inside him like a tornado until they ultimately consumed him before he finally dozed off.

He thought he could trust you, thought you knew him well enough to understand why he wanted to keep this part of himself hidden from you. The night he first told you about this job, he put on a mask — like he always did — and put on his best act, playing up his arrogance despite how scared he felt. When you told him that same night he wasn’t anything worth falling for, and that you could be together only until you found something better, he felt as if his heart had shattered for the first time in his life.

That was the night he realized a mask couldn’t protect him from everything. Especially his own heart.

It wasn’t intentional — liking you this much hasn’t been exactly enjoyable. It simply happened. Because you were the only one who ever chipped away at his impenetrable wall and saw the closest thing to the real Hyunjin, yet still chose to stay.

You hadn’t stayed because of his looks; you two never cared about impressing each other.

You hadn’t stayed solely for the sex; you two often got together simply to enjoy each other’s company.

Hyunjin couldn’t be blamed for assuming you had stayed because you knew him. Not the mask he wore or the persona he showed to the world — the real him.

But tonight, even among all the designer clothes and expensive drinks, he felt as if you had just witnessed him at his lowest. And he could only hope you still chose to stay after that.

You’ve barely been awake for an hour when a knock echoes through your apartment. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, because there’s only one person who could be at the other side of the door.

After your jealousy-clouded brain made the asinine decision to sleep with Minho, you’ve locked away any and every thought into a pretty little box inside your mind. You didn’t want to think about what you had done because you knew the remorse would slowly erode your mind. You certainly didn’t want to think about Hyunjin, as even the faint memory of his eyes from the previous night would dig at your heart until it shattered.

But there was nowhere you could hide outside of your mind.

Hyunjin is quiet as you open the door, and he remains quiet as you two sit together on your couch. Your tea sits forgotten on your coffee table, and you focus on the swirls of steam rising from your mug as you endure his silence.

You force yourself to speak when your tea finally goes cold.

“I’m sorry,” you simply say.

Hyunjin’s hands tug at the sleeves of his sweater, and he sucks in a shuddering breath. “Why did you come to the club without telling me?”

��I was angry at you,” You bite your lip, knowing your reasoning is ridiculous. “Because of the date…” you trail off, and Hyunjin turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since he walked into your apartment.

“So you thought coming to my work would be a good idea?”

You shrug, instinctively looking away as you feel the intensity of his eyes on you. It was just like when you first met him, only it made you ashamed instead of flustered. You missed that initial lightness, but you knew that was long gone now. Sorting out your issues with Hyunjin was necessary if you ever hoped to have a healthy relationship. If every conversation turned into an argument that would only be avoided through sex, there was no point in dragging this on.

“I wasn’t thinking,” is all you can say.

Hyunjin scoffs. “That was kinda obvious.”

The biting tone in his voice makes you rise to your feet, shaking your head. You put as much distance between you and him as possible.

“What? You wanted me to be rational when I thought you were just playing with me?” You throw your hands up as you blurted out, exasperation consuming any remaining trace of pride within you. “When I thought you were having fun acting jealous and proposing dates only to come up with shitty excuses to shut it all down?”

“Playing with you?” Hyunjin mirrors your words, eyes narrowing as he closes the distance you had created. “I thought you knew me enough to know I mean it when I say something. I wanted to go on that date with you, and I was fucking jealous. That night you forced me to listen to you fuck another guy made me wanna punch my fucking wall.”

You open your lips, but no words come out.

You’re embarrassed. Going to The Siren wasn’t the first childish thing you had done out of spite because of Hyunjin. But your anger was never directed at him. It was always you; for allowing yourself to become so attached to him and like him so much that it drove you mad.

Going on that date simply to rile Hyunjin up, showing up at his job because you felt entitled to when your mind insisted you had been wronged — that was all you and your stupid mind being incapable of accepting the fact that you have fallen for the guy you swore would never be of any significance to you.

The guy you so proudly declared unworthy of falling for.

“Are you really not gonna say anything?” Hyunjin lets out a weak laugh, and when your eyes meet again, his expression leaves no room for doubt this time. Sadness swims freely in his eyes while they well up with tears that he vigorously fights to hold back. “I thought you knew me,” he reiterates. “Thought you stayed because you knew…” He trails off, shaking his head.

As he turns to leave, you instinctively reach out for him. After nine months of knowing each other, you hold his hand for the first time.

“I do know you, Hyunjin,” you blurt out, squeezing his hand when he refuses to look at you. “I stayed because I know you. Beyond your rankings, beyond that club, beyond this damn wall you built around yourself. At least a little bit, I know you.”

He takes a deep breath before his eyes lock on yours again. “I feel like you’ve been tearing down brick by brick of my wall.” He’s the one to squeeze your hand this time. “I kinda fucking hate that.”

You attempt to stifle a chuckle, but it escapes your lips nonetheless. Hyunjin smiles.

“I’d love to know you even more, beyond this mask you wear all the time,” you confess. And you’re tired of hiding behind your own mask, so you tell him, “It’s tiring feeling like I only know half of who you truly are when I already like you so fucking much as it is.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widen, surprise eclipsing any trace of his initial sadness.

“What? You like me?” He sputters, and you bite your lips as a smile spreads on your lips.

You cannot believe this is the same Hyunjin whose ego made you want to punch his face.

“Well, no shit,” you chuckle. “Why do you think I put up with you for so long? Don’t you think if I was looking for something better, I would’ve found it already?”

Hyunjin’s lips crash into yours before you can say anything else, his fingertips barely brushing against your skin as he cupped your face.

Your lips part for him, and a low hum resonates from his chest. You wrap your free arm around his shoulder, your hands still tightly intertwined, and pull him closer to you. It’s an awkward position, but neither of you is willing to unclasp your hands.

Hyunjin’s tongue glides languidly into your open lips, making you clutch at his arm as your mind goes dizzy. You had never kissed like this — always too impatient and lust-drunk to savor the feeling of each other’s lips properly.

It sends your entire body ablaze.

He’s pulling away far too soon, tugging at your bottom lip with a small smile.

“I’m not something better, but I’m gonna be,” he mutters against your lips. “For you.”

But you shake your head. “Just let me in. You’re already more than enough.”

In order for your efforts to work, you and Hyunjin established three crucial rules: absolute honesty, open communication, and no fucking until significant progress is made.

You start slowly, with that unfulfilled date that had been the catalyst for you two finally confronting your feelings.

Hyunjin was nervous. The few times he’s gone on dates, his mind was set on wrapping it up as soon as possible to take the person home. It didn’t matter where they went or what they did; every date inevitably led to his bed.

This time was different.

You certainly weren’t expecting to have a picnic on a Saturday afternoon. Your surprise was evident as your eyes widened at the sight before you: Hyunjin, standing at your door with a picnic basket and a digital camera slung around his neck. When you jokingly commented on how that was the most un-Hyunjin thing you had ever seen him do, he nonchalantly shrugged.

As you two sat together under a tree, however, he told you he’s always loved picnics. Growing up near a park, picnics became a family tradition that started when he was just a kid and still happens whenever he visits his parents. The silly smile that was etched onto your lips lingered throughout the entire day. Hyunjin’s closed-off nature made that small piece of information feel like a precious gem you had just collected. It was far greater than any of the pointless conversations you two had in the last nine months.

It felt like watching another brick from his once towering wall shatter to the ground.

Hyunjin quit his job at the club a month after your first date.

He didn’t elaborate on it at first, simply telling you it felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. You had now learned it was best to give him space, as his tendency to shut himself off only worsened if he felt pressured. Deep inside, Hyunjin yearned to share every little detail about himself with you and hear your own stories in return. However, years of keeping everyone at a comfortable distance hindered his ability to open up without feeling vulnerable.

So you only pulled him into a hug, running your hands through his hair as he let out a heavy sigh. You two then set off for your date at a bakery close to your apartments, with the subject seemingly forgotten.

Until Hyunjin suddenly told you the entire truth under a lamppost in front of your building. He whispered that he didn’t want to go home yet, and you found yourselves sitting on the sidewalk as you listened to his story. You weren’t exactly shocked at the information dumped on you, but it still made your heart sore. He was taken advantage of because he longed to feel accepted, to feel loved.

During the elevator ride, you could tell Hyunjin was struggling to hold back tears with every ounce of his strength. You know he was eager to be alone when he pressed a weak kiss to your forehead before heading towards his door. So you reached out for his hand once more and pulled him toward your apartment despite his protests.

That night, Hyunjin struggled to suppress his tears until they ultimately overflowed out of his eyes and down his cheeks as you held him on the couch. Before you knew it, tears unwittingly streamed down your face as well. It was as if your emotions were a mirror image of his.

Another brick down.

You discover Hyunjin’s love for photography by accident.

Everywhere you went together, his camera was draped around his neck. At first, you paid little attention to that detail. His job consisted of being in front of a camera; it wouldn’t be outrageous to surmise he simply enjoyed documenting his daily life. You teased him about it one day as he stopped in front of a flower shop to snap yet another picture. He shrugged, casually telling you he’d been taking pictures since his teenage years, later majoring in photography before dropping out of university.

Unable to tame your nagging curiosity, you urged him to show you his pictures. Nestled deep inside his wardrobe were several boxes filled with photographs he had taken over the years. Most captured the simple beauty of ordinary places and simple things, like the pretty flowers he saw at the shop you walked past, but some showed people candidly laughing while immersed in the happiness of their daily lives in parks or museums.

He wore an unabashed grin on his lips when he opened another box, this one containing around ten developed pictures of you. Among the small pile of photos, one catches your eye: your smiling side profile beaming at a group of kids, a hand shielding your eyes from the sun. You turn the picture around, and the words “First date. I was so nervous, and she was so pretty” are scribbled in black sharpie. Hyunjin groaned beside you, telling you he just jotted down something stupid without much thought. It made you smile like a kid.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a weak chuckle, “I never show them to anybody. None of them are really good, anyway.”

You furrowed your brows at his words, studying his face for any hint of sarcasm. His pictures were beautiful, perfectly depicting how happiness and mundanity often blended into one unbeknownst to people. But Hyunjin noticed, with his camera always ready at the right time for the perfect shot, even with things as small as a snapshot of your first date.

“They’re amazing, Hyunjin,” you told him matter-of-factly. “This is the kind of thing you’d find in art galleries. I can’t believe you keep this talent hidden.”

He shrugs your words off at first, taking a photo in his hand and studying it for a few seconds. His lips curve into a small smile, shyly at first, until his face is beaming as he looks down at his work. You can’t help but smile along, noticing how his cheeks blushed for the first time since you met him.

Another brick down.

In two months, you and Hyunjin went from meeting only at your apartments to going on weekly dates and from pointless bickering to actually understanding each other. The more he opened up, the more you found yourself being vulnerable around him as well.

You learned Hyunjin’s confidence was truthfully a part of him; he simply played it up to a maddening degree to protect himself. He is a confident man, but he’s certainly not the egotistical idiot you once believed him to be.

Your suspicions about him secretly being a softie were also confirmed as you witnessed him cry nearly every time you watched the romance movies he sheepishly confessed to loving. At first, he would sniffle, rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat, before excusing himself to the bathroom. A few movies later, he allowed himself to openly cry in front of you for the second time. He’s proven to be a certified crier since then, often laying his head on your chest and silently shedding tears while you played with his hair.

At the end of the day, Hyunjin was a flawed, complex person like any other. He wasn’t always soft and sensitive, but he wasn’t only a cocky and smug little shit, either.

You found you loved both sides of him equally.

Your rules proved to be exactly what you needed, as you only felt closer to Hyunjin each passing day.

But a particular rule became your number one enemy after a month.

Your pent-up sexual frustration seemed to escalate with each passing day, fueling an increasing desire to just say fuck it and climb on top of Hyunjin. It certainly didn’t help that he was even clingier now, long limbs always tangling with yours when you lay on the couch, or his warm body pressing against you while you were cooking. Not to mention that you listened to him livestream every weekend. You opted to wait in his living room — because watching him would just be masochistic — but it felt like you had been transported back in time. Sitting alone for hours and listening to him moan was still as torturous as the first time it had happened. Even if you touched yourself to the sound of his voice, it was never enough.

You knew what you needed, but you have been essentially blueballing yourself for a month now.

As you two lie on your bed, watching another sappy romance movie, you can feel the heat rising inside your body, like a thermometer reaching its peak. You were fully expecting Hyunjin to cry, but this movie turned out to be far more erotic than romantic. His persistent need to have his lips on you — be it with a kiss or with lazy nibbles on your neck — also certainly doesn’t help your suffering.

You power through as you watch the love interests making out while Hyunjin lightly presses his lips to your neck, his body all but caging you against your bed. But the moment the couple heads to the bedroom, hastily undressing each other with heavy pants and sighs, you absentmindedly part your legs. Hyunjin is hovering above you before you can make sense of what’s happening, your laptop carelessly thrown to the side. His body pressed against yours, fitting perfectly between your thighs, as his darkening eyes bore into you.

“Hyunjin,” you have half a mind to say, “Our rule.”

He simply nods, and goosebumps ripple across your body when you feel his hardening member brush against you.

“We made progress,” he states with a grin. “You even let me into your room now.”

“It’s not enough to justify fucking again.”

As much as you were desperate for it.

He swallows slowly, nodding and bending his face to yours. “But our rule says no fucking,” he reasons. “If I make love to you, then it won’t even count.”

“Love?” You whisper, and the thermometer shatters as he presses a long kiss to your open lips.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin smiles between kisses, brushing his lips against yours. “Love.”

It’s not a clear confession, not a beautiful I love you whispered between kisses — but you know Hyunjin, and the sincerity in his voice says everything.

Your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt as you pull him even closer to you, and he promptly presses his mouth against yours, his tongue teasingly gliding across your bottom lip. Each roll of your hips ignites the heat within you like scorching lava, your desire swallowing you entirely after so long of craving this.

His tongue presses against yours, effortlessly taking control of the kiss, capturing your bottom lip with his teeth before releasing it and traveling toward your jaw. He sucks the sensitive skin into his mouth with a hum, drawing out a whimper from your lips while he moves down the column of your neck. Smiling against your collarbone, Hyunjin alternates between harsh nibbles and soft kisses, leaving blooming rosy spots on every inch of your skin. He travels toward your chest, his hands slipping under your shirt and brushing your skin before tugging off the fabric.

Hyunjin’s hands cup your breasts, your nipples tightening under his attention, and his lips move down your body, placing kisses from your chest to your stomach. His hand eagerly kneads the soft skin of your chest while the other pinches your nipple, rolling the sensitive nub between his fingertips.

“I missed this,” he whispers, voice muffled against your skin, and you let out a shaky breath as a response when his fingers toy with the waistband of your sweatpants. “That was a stupid rule.”

“Shut up.” You let out a breathy laugh. “It was a great rule, it helped us make progress.”

“Fuck progress,” Hyunjin groans, tugging your sweatpants off.

He wastes no time hoisting your legs over his shoulders, causing you to shudder and goosebumps to ripple through your body when his lips close around your clit without warning. His tongue licks long stripes up the length of your slit, his fingers spreading you open so he can lap at your arousal with a low hum. Hyunjin’s thumb rubs circles around your clit as his lips find your inner thighs, sucking and biting at the skin, leaving another blushing trail of his yearning for you.

His tongue delves into your wetness, savoring you with tantalizing, pleasure-filled groans that travel through your cunt. The insistent throb between your thighs intensifies, your hand tugging at his hair and your hips rolling into his touch as you arch your back. Hyunjin’s fingers dig into the skin of your thighs while you reach your peak, his teeth pulling your clit gently as you come with a broken cry.

Your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are heavy with lust when he looks at you, his firm grip keeping your legs over his shoulders.

“You still think that rule was great?” Hyunjin gives you a lopsided grin that almost has you rolling your eyes, only he presses one last kiss to your sensitive clit, rending you unable to do anything but mewl and tug at his hair. He chuckles, pressing his lips to your inner thighs once more, his eyes still locked onto yours.

You needed him closer, his strong arms surrounding you and his scent enveloping your senses until you felt dizzy. The mere thought of his cock has you clenching, arousal trickling down your slit, and you tug at his hair harshly with a whine.

Hyunjin climbs over you again, tugging his shirt over his head in one fluid movement and crashing his lips into yours, the taste of your release swirling in your mouth as your tongues meet.

“You’re so fucking needy,” he chides. You simply hum, his thick length brushing against your core as he leans down to kiss you again.

“You’re one to talk,” you smirk, breaking the kiss and rolling your hips up into his erection. Hyunjin scoffs, his hands capturing your wrists and pinning them over your head, his eyes darkening as he looms over you.

There’s no more push and pull between you two during your daily lives, but it’s something you hope never fades away during sex. You’re sure Hyunjin’s need to have control, coupled with your taste for riling him up, will make sure that never happens.

But Hyunjin has no intentions of making you beg tonight — not after so many weeks of making himself cum to the thought of your pretty cunt, knowing that damn rule kept him from actually having you.

He tugs his sweatpants out of his way, one hand still pinning your wrists to the mattress. You bite your lip at the sight of his cock hanging heavily, tantalizingly close to your sopping cunt. Hyunjin strokes himself hastily, clearly having grown impatient, precum dribbling from the ruddy head of his cock and easing the glide of his fist.

The swollen tip slides against your wetness, and he lets out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to yours. The delicious stretch as he presses inside has your hands instinctively reaching out to him. But his grip on your wrists only tightens, keeping them in place as he leans into you, stretching you further with a hiss.

“Fuck, I missed being buried in your cunt,” Hyunjin mumbles, and you moan as his teeth nip at your earlobe. “Always so tight, like you were made for me.”

He sheaths himself inside of you completely, and you arch your back with a groan as his cock twitches inside your sensitive spot.

“Made just for you,” you choke out as Hyunjin slowly thrusts into you, agonizingly slow and deliberate movements making you dig your nails into your palms. “Hyunjin,” his name dissipates into a whine as he pushes his cock in and out of you languidly.

He chuckles against the shell of your ear, and you wrap your legs around his torso, rolling your hips faster against him. The drawn-out moan that escapes his lips has your cunt clenching and leaking more arousal around his length.

“D’you still like the sound of my voice that much?” He hums, and you nod with a sigh. His slender fingers wrap around your throat, squeezing lightly. “Yeah? Like it when I moan in your ear?”

He finally picks up the pace, pulling back before snapping his hips forward. His lips swallow your moans as he kisses you once, his hand finally releasing your wrists and digging into your hips as he pumps his cock into you. He leaves a trail of wet kisses along your sweaty skin, tracing his tongue along the marks he left earlier.

“You’re mine,” he groans against your skin. “Been dying to say this for so fucking long.”

You gasp at his words, your body jerking when he slips his hand down to circle around your swollen clit. “‘M yours,” you whine, “Fuck me like I’m yours. Please—”

Hyunjin groans, your words igniting a fire within him, and his hips fall into a ruthless pace, pistoning his cock into you while his fingertips expertly stroke your clit. The hot coil of desire in your stomach tightens, finally breaking as your climax surges through every fiber of your being, a million stars bursting behind your eyelids.

“Fuck, you always feel so good,” Hyunjin rasps out, his movements shifting into a messy tempo. “Gonna fill you up, okay?”

You nod with a whimper, your overstimulated cunt clenching around his cock as his thrusts remain unrelenting. With a low grunt that ripples through his chest, Hyunjin’s hips slam into yours, his cock twitching and his grip on your throat tightening. He paints your insides with a final testament that you were his.

He stills on top of you, pressing featherlight kisses to your cheeks and lips, his cock softening inside of you as you stay that way for a while. When he pulls out, his fingers promptly smear his cum over your cunt as it leaks out, two digits thrusting his release back into you with a contented hum.

“Can we still fuck now that I found something better?” You ask him with a grin, and he laughs, burying his head in your neck.

Your mind is wholly clouded with bliss — both from your orgasm and the feeling of love that courses through your veins. You inwardly laugh. Hyunjin fucking you in your bedroom had definitely not tainted it. He had basically transformed your bed into a sanctuary.

Hyunjin helps you shower, gentle hands wash and caress your body before coaxing your third orgasm out of you under the soothing cascading water. He makes you a cup of your favorite tea the way you love it — which he made sure to memorize — and insists you two finish watching the forgotten movie before going to bed. It feels awfully domestic, and it would be a lie to say you hated it.

That night, you fall asleep beside Hyunjin in your bed for the first time; inside a little sacred space you are slowly building with him.

It was never your intention to be his. You were certain Hyunjin was the type of man who would never allow himself to be vulnerable, to truly fall in love with someone without his ego getting in the way. By keeping him at arm’s length, you believed you were guarding yourself from inevitable heartache.

Behind his cocky smirks and self-assured words, an amazing man hid himself out of deep-seated fears of rejection, unworthiness, and not being loved for his true self. Each day, he allowed glimpses of himself to shine through the cracks in his fortress. He became an enigma you were dying to unravel because you knew he was worth it.

Because you knew him.

And unbeknownst to you, Hyunjin has been yours all along. From the moment you walked into his apartment with a scowl and frustration-filled words, it was as if his heart became wired to crave you. He was simply hoping and waiting for you to become his as well.

♡ taglist: @bloom-ings, @linocz, @farahia, @mirbokk, @jisunglyricist, @jazziwritesthings, @seungseung-minmin, @yourcvndx, @hynjinnnnnnnie, @vlctorriaa, @yongbokkiesworld, @kiensecent, @redstayrosie, @wormieieie, @soonie1010, @dessianna1, @minimin1993, @idontlikecoffeeortea, @ashleighland, @oddracha, @sushiinmidnight, @lailac13, @badmaeda, @hynjinniesworld, @iheartjazz444, @cypher-girlx, @isagerada, @leviathanlee26, @sailor--sun, @binniesbabygirl

#stray kids #hyunjin smut #skz smut #stray kids x reader #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin #hyunjin x you #stray kids smut #skz

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youcouldmakealife · 7 months ago

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KS Fill: Tonya/Vladimir Petrov, Thomas/Anton; castle in the clouds

Another of the Kickstarter fills, for the prompt: always happy for a Vinny/Tony update, especially if Tonya is involved

Even as a child, at her most idealistic, Tonya certainly never expected to live in a mansion like this. A castle, maybe. She liked castles, though she’s not sure where she expected to find one in Brooklyn. Though, it’s not like mansions were any more realistic, growing up in New York City.

And they wouldn’t live in one if they lived in New York, but in Hartford, it was barely even a splurge. And Vladimir had dreamed of castles too as a boy, wanted Antosha to live in one, or the nearest thing they could get for him. It’s massive, and impractical, and Tonya loves it.

They don’t take advantage of the benefits of it very often, however. Once, they let a production crew film the exterior while they were on vacation in Italy anyway — unfortunately, the film was terrible, so Tonya can’t rewatch it for the thrill of seeing it on screen. Or, she could, but she has to get through the melodrama and the bad acting first, and that’s a chore.

It’s the perfect place to host a party, specifically a party with gravitas — a gala, a ball. But with the exception of Vladimir’s induction in the Hall of Fame, they haven’t had any parties worth talking about, because Vladimir is…territorial, Tonya thinks the best word is. His house is his house — she’s still amazed he allowed the film crew, and is sure he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been out of the country — and he’d prefer they didn’t have guests at all, with the exception of close friends, family. Even then, it’s only Anton who doesn’t get his hackles up after a few hours, and that might just be because he still considers it Antosha’s house too, even after all these years. Which, of course, it is.

But they’ve been married for thirty years now, and Tonya thinks that’s worth celebrating, and Vladimir agrees. He didn’t agree it merited a party on the scale of the one they’re throwing today, but he caved once Tonya assured him all he had to do was show up, and that the only guests staying overnight would be blood-related to them.

Well, and Thomas, but Vladimir’s fine with that. It seems like the exception for Anton applies to him as well. She doesn’t know if that’s because Vladimir considers him an extension of Anton, welcome wherever he is, or if he’s become family in his own right. She likes to think it’s a bit of both.

With an hour to go the place reminds her the castles she dreamt of, lit up and glittering, even if they're nothing alike. The catering staff have assured her they have everything they need, and after two minor wardrobe emergencies she’s finally finished getting ready. Or, she hasn’t, but the final touches must be done right before the guests arrive.

Vladimir’s ready, he’s assured her repeatedly, which she’s sure isn’t true, but he’s his own man. She hasn’t seen Anton since breakfast, which she finds ominous, though she doesn’t think he’d go far without Thomas, and he arrives in front of her almost as soon as she thinks of him. Such a good boy that she merely needs to think of him for him to arrive, offering help.

“Can I help with anything?” he asks, hands twisting fretfully, like it’s hurting him not to assist, and Tonya takes a moment to wonder if she's developed psychic abilities. Perhaps, but it's more likely that Thomas is just unfailingly helpful.

Tonya takes his hands between hers, stills them. They’re cold, and she wants to chafe them, warm him up. What was that saying, cold hands, warm heart? If anyone fits that it’s Thomas. “I’ve hired professionals to do everything,” she says. “We’ll just get in their way.”

She knows this because she has, at every other event with catering staff, gotten in the way. She’s finally learned her lesson — no meddling this time. So far she's stayed strong, but she's not sure she'll last the night.

“Right,” Thomas says, nodding, hands still between hers. “That makes sense. Our equipment managers say the same thing.”

She bets they do. Vladimir in particular was a menace about his equipment — she’s sure they popped a bottle of champagne the day he retired.

“I know what you can do for me,” she says, and Thomas brightens right up. He really is too good a boy for his own good. She imagines people take advantage of it all the time. Look at her, doing it right now.

“Can you find Anton for me?” she says. “I worry he’s hiding.”

She doesn’t worry he’s hiding, exactly — she knows he’s hiding — she only worries he’ll continue hiding after all the guests have arrived, leaving poor Thomas to muddle his way through a room of people he doesn’t know. Not that Antosha knows everyone, and many of the people he does know haven’t seen him since he was a little boy, so it’s really more them knowing him — she’s sure he’ll be delighted to hear ‘you were just this high when last I saw you’ over and over again.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised he’s hiding. And she isn’t. But Thomas is a guest, though a particularly helpful, considerate one, and Anton may not be hosting the party, but he is hosting Thomas. And Tonya did not raise a bad host. Or, unfortunately she did, she thinks, but he certainly didn’t learn it from her. Thankfully Thomas is very easily pleased, and loyal enough that he’d likely tell her Anton was being an excellent host if she asked.

Thomas nods again, like a little bobblehead. She’s slightly disappointed the Canadiens haven’t done one for him, at least to her knowledge — she thinks Vladimir would be delighted to put it by the ones of him and Antosha in his show-off room. He loves them. Never tires of bobbing their heads. “Can I have my—“

“Your hands, of course,” Tonya says, letting them go. “Do you know the saying? About cold hands?”

“I do,” Thomas says, with a broad smile. She bets he does. Bets people quote it all the time. “Don’t worry, I’ll drag Anton out of wherever he’s hiding.”

“By the hair if you need to,” Tonya says, and smiles at the laugh that trails Thomas up the stairwell.

He doesn’t deserve that boy, Tonya thinks, then goes to bother Vladimir one last time. She hopes that, this time, he’ll actually get ready instead of just saying he already is. Perhaps that’s optimistic. But she thinks everyone needs a little optimism to make it to three decades.

“Tony,” she hears Thomas crooning as she walks down the hall, sounding a little like he’s trying to lure a feral cat, and she smiles wider. Perhaps he’s exactly what Antosha deserves after all.

#fic snippet #thomas vincent #anton petrov #tonya petrov

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604to647 · 6 months ago

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Hat Trick - Part 2 (The Playoffs)

3.4K / Safest with You AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: Din eats you out while you watch a playoffs game. That’s it.

Warnings: 18+ content (MDNI please) F!oral, fingering, nearing overstimulation, dirty talk, pet names as usual (pretty bird, baby, sweetheart, etc.), m!masterbation, established relationship. Inadvertent hockey double entendres, possibly.

A/N: Vancouver won last night so I thought I should post this while they’re up 😂 Inspired by @beskarandblasters’s I Want It, I got It and @swiftispunk’s ask(s) from @arainbowsiren - thank y’all and your respective mens for their service 🫡🫡🤗. You can if you want, of course 😊 but no need to read Part 1, as it’s not a direct continuation. Anyways, go Canucks go! 🏒🏒

If dread is defined as “painful agitation in the presence or anticipation of danger,” then for the entirety of your relationship, Din has never dreaded seeing you. Not when either of you has had one of those bad day at work where you just need to vent for hours afterwards, or when Jimmy had accidentally used a sweater you left in Din’s office to towel off after a sparring session, or even that time Din took Al to the dog park by himself and didn’t realize the other dog moms were flirting with him until one of them shoved her number into his hand. Nope, it didn’t matter what nonsense was going on while you were apart, the moment he looks upon his pretty bird’s face, Din’s day automatically takes a turn for the better.

But these past few weeks, Din feels like it’s possible he’s being tested in this regard. Still not dread… maybe some mild foreboding? That sounds bad, he thinks. He’s worried is what he is.

Your hockey team is in the playoffs, and at first you were thrilled. But your excitement has quickly given way to a much more volatile emotional cocktail of anticipation, nervousness and agitation. If anything, you’re the one who’s been in a state of dread.

The first round was okay. Your team won the series 4-1; it was a little nerve-wracking after Game 2, but the team rallied and after some nail-biting overtime games, they prevailed. At your encouragement, he had hosted the series at his place since neither of you were able to get any tickets for the home games. You had readily cooked up a storm in the kitchen to work out your pregame nerves, and your friends and the Mandos came over to reaped the culinary benefits of your stress.

Your friends already knew this about you, of course, but Din is learning that playoffs you is very different from regular season you. Regular season you loves hockey. Playoffs you loves winning.

You’re the personification of nail-biting anxiety during every game; eyes glued to the screen, barely eating or drinking except during commercials or intermissions. Every missed shot on goal results in shouting and arms raised in frustration. Ever unanswered check on your players, vexation and name calling. Power plays or offensive drives that can't be capitalized on have you covering your face in defeat.

His pretty bird stresses.

It’s not all bitterness and disappointment, thankfully. Your face when your team scores lights up entire the room. Every save your goalie makes has you cheering in elation, high fiving everyone in sight with enthusiasm. When your team wins, your cute butt won’t stop wiggling with victory dance moves.

But the good cannot come without the bad. Penalties called against your team trigger a spitting of expletives Din didn’t think were possible from your sweet mouth. Holes in your defense that the other team exploits have you calling for someone’s head (the coach? The team captain? Din’s??!)

Every game is a rollercoaster of emotions.

Oh. And if your team loses… it’s like a dark cloud materializes over your head. Your mood is already gloomy when the final buzzer sounds, improving only to pouty and restless by the time you start nearing the next game.

Din doesn’t like to see you so stressed (over a game, he might add, if he didn’t seriously fear the repercussions of saying that out loud to you).

Round 2 has been… interesting. No, that's too forgiving. It’s been… a nightmare. You team is down 1-3 in the series and tonight is Game 5. The make-or-break game that will either eliminate your team from the playoffs, or let them live to fight another game where they can attempt to claw their way to a decider seventh game. After winning the series opener, the team’s three consecutive losses have left you nearly despondent - your mood getting progressively worse with every loss. It’s not that you were mean or snappish – you were still kind and helpful, and all sweetness with Din and his friends. But you smile a lot less and your playfulness is missing; you tell less jokes and your laughter, if any, is shorter and less vibrant than it is normally. This past week, there’s been an ever present tension in your body that doesn’t seem to melt away no matter how much affection Din shows you, and you’re constantly furrowing your brow at things you read on your phone.

When you start to make the grocery list for what you need to prepare the spread for Game 5, you call out to Din, “Baby, is Mayfeld going to come over for the game? If he is, I’ll have to get parsley for the garlic knots.”

“Oh… pretty bird, I think most of the guys are going to go to a sports bar for Game 5,” Din says with a bit a trepidation. He doesn’t say that he was the one who had made the suggestion that they do so, thinking it was unnecessary pressure for you to host a viewing party. When Woves and Mayfeld had complained, Din reminded them about how they had both spilled beer all over the carpet during a goal celebration during the last game. He had found you at 2 a.m. taking out your frustration over the loss with a brush, scrubbing the carpet vigorously on your hands and knees until he had managed to coax you back to bed for what was ultimately a night of restless tossing and turning.

“Did you want to go too?” you ask, wide-eyed.

“Nah, let’s just relax and watch here, baby,” Din’s smile is easy going, “I’ll order in, okay? No need to make food. It can just be a relaxing time.” He hopes he isn’t emphasizing the word relax too much.

You look at him for a beat and nod, before going back to the grocery list. Din exhales a little breath of relief.

Game 5 is not going well.

Your team is leading in shots on goal, but just can’t seem convert shots to goals. Din thinks it’s almost worse watching your body tense up in excitement, just to deflate in disappointment, over and over. The opposing team doesn’t seem to have the same problem – scoring two goals in quick succession during the first ten minutes of the game that have you flopping back onto the coach, heels of your palms pressed to your eyes as you groan in pain.

At the first intermission, your team is trailing 0-3 and Din hides (?) in the kitchen while you call Rory and Katie, and the three of you bemoan and rant about the last period over speakerphone. You pace the same route throughout the apartment so many times, Din wouldn’t be surprised if you actually wore a path.

He reemerges from the kitchen just as the second period is about to start and sees that you’re already perched on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, hands holding your own face as you stare at the television intently.

The puck drops just as Din places a plate of food on the coffee table in front of you, and you look at him with a calm expression and soft, sweet smile that he doesn’t think he’s seen for weeks, “Thank you, bab- WHAT THE HELL!?!?!?”

And like that, it’s gone – replaced by an expression of disbelief as you point agitatedly at the screen. Din turns to see your team captain skating towards the penalty box, and looks back to see you shaking with fury and muttering, “Hooking my ass... Barely tapped him…”

“That’s it,” says Din firmly.

“Hmm?” you’re not even looking at him, too busy throwing dagger eyes at the ref on screen who’s announcing the penalty details, getting ready to boo when he’s done.

“Stand up please, pretty bird,” commands Din, not really asking as he slips his paw like hands under your arms and hauls you up gently before you even process his request. Your eyes narrow as you register something happening, but your attention is still on the game.

It’s not until Din yanks down your leggings and kneels to start pulling your feet through the legs that you snap your head down, “Din!! What are you doing?”

Left in just your pink lace trimmed panties and your “I just hope both teams have fun” sweatshirt, you look at Din with a confused expression. He rises and towers over you purposefully, crowding you back against the couch so that you’re forced to sit down with a bounce when it hits the back of your legs.

“I don’t like seeing you so stressed, sweetheart. So, I’m going to help you relax, and you’re going to remember that this game is supposed to be fun.”

You screw up your face, unimpressed, “I know it’s supposed to be fun! I’m having tons of fun. Look at me, I’m- OH!!”

Din’s had enough. It wasn’t supposed to be a negotiation anyways. With one hand, he presses against your chest, forcing you to lean back into the couch, and with the other he spreads open your legs and lowers himself to press a firm kiss right on your clit.

“Din!!”

“Relax, baby,” he mouths against the fabric of your underwear, dipping his head and nuzzling your bud with his strong nose. He spread your legs wider and holds them open as he starts his slow torture.

The other team’s powerplay starts and you try to keep your eyes on the game. Normally you would be yelling at the screen for your team to clear it, but right now all you can think about is how Din’s slowly tracing over your folds with the tips of his nose and tongue.

As the powerplay clock starts to wind down, your favourite right winger intercepts a pass and tears down the ice on a breakaway. Chased by his own teammates and the opposing team, he sets up, shoots and scores!! Usually a short-handed goal would have you jumping up and down, cheering, but Din’s holding you down and at the exact same moment he gives your mound an open mouth kiss, tonguing your clit with a deliberate flick that has you grabbing onto his hair instead, “Yesssssssss!”

Din pays the goal no mind nor anything else that’s happening in the game, he just continues mapping and teasing your cunt through your underwear with his mouth, tongue and nose until the fabric is soaked through.

You go back to watching the game, half listening to the commentators and half following the players on the ice, all the while whimpering and softly moaning as Din works you up until you’re leaking down your ass, about to make a mess of the couch beneath. Slowly, slowly, as Din continues to massage and prod at your dripping hole, you start to melt, stress and tension lifting from your body, replaced with a warm, buzzing pleasure emanating from your core.

The period’s half over, and you haven’t yelled at the screen once.

“Feels so good, daddy,” you whine, when Din’s tongue presses your panties into your seam, forcing the fabric pulled tight and wet to stay tucked between your folds, finally revealing part of your pretty cunt to his gleaming eye.

“Fuck. Pussy’s so pretty, baby. So wet for me,” Din growls, and the vibration of his tenor works it way in, riding that same buzzing wave that’s coursing through your body, straight to your throat where it escapes as a tight wail.

“Oh Daddy!”

“Keep watching the game, pretty bird. And remember… relax,” Din’s last word muffled as he dives face first into your pussy, open mouth kissing your slit - licking every crest and wave he has access to with a low, burning sensuality that’s driving you insane.

“More, please – Din, I need more. Ngggh!”

About to pull the damp gusset of your panties to the side and really starting devouring you, Din pauses with a wicked idea. He pinches the fabric between his fingers and gives it a little tug so that the hem of your panties glides over your clit – the unexpected friction has you yelping in surprise, “Oh, fuck!”

Chuckling, Din tugs the fabric over your swollen bud a few more times and drinks in your heady moans before finally pulling it all the way aside to display your glistening cunt.

“Eyes on the game, baby.” You look down to see Din’s face buried between your legs, but his eyes are locked onto yours, dark and blown – you nod and flick you eyes back to the screen. Three more minutes left in the second period.

“Good girl,” Din rumbles against your slick coated seam; he licks a hot stripe from your tight hole all the way up to your throbbing clit, then back down, pushing and swirling his tongue through your arousal. He hums as he repeats this pattern over and over as you start to pant above him.

“Close baby?” You look away from the face-off on screen to nod at Din, he’s been eating you out for nearly the entire period of play, building you up from nothing and now you can feel yourself approaching the edge of euphoria, ready to teeter over.

“Daddy will take care of you, pretty girl. Just relax and watch the game, kay?”

When he sees your hazy eyes flick back up to the tv, he presses in deep, opening his mouth to consume as much of your pussy as he can, tongue dancing through your folds before it burrows into your clenching hole. His nose nudges your slippery clit as he tongue fucks you with vigor.

Above him, you’re faintly cheering on your team.

“Oh yes! Press them! Press them hard!”

“Nice pass! Fuck, such a good pass!”

“Shoot it, shoot it, shoot it – yessssss!”

You come just as the team’s star rookie scores a top shelf goal, crying out So good, so good, so good as your orgasm washes over you in never-ending waves. Apparently, you had a lot of pent up stress you needed to release.

Closing your eyes, you rest your head against the back of the couch and listen to the announcements celebrating the goal, coming down from your high as Din continues to press butterfly kisses to your pussy. Only when you hear the buzzer signalling the end of the period do you open your eyes and smile down at Din, “Thank you, daddy.”

Making a movement to get up so you can dispense a little love of your own to Din, you’re bewildered when Din holds you down with a forearm across your stomach and shakes his head, mouth still latched to your heat.

“Din.”

Shake, shake.

The movement of Din’s head restarts a warmth in your belly. Your laugh is featherlight, “Din, I have to get up! At least let me get up to buy the 50-50 tickets.”

Without releasing you, Din feels behind him blindly with his free hand until he finds your phone on the coffee table and places it in your waiting hands; he then reaches into his back pocket and takes out his wallet which he also hands over before mumbling against your slit, “Buy your tickets, baby.”

“Din, you don’t have to! I have my ow- ah!”

Having given your clit a playful snip, Din soothes it with a soft kiss, “It’s for charity, sweetheart.”

Dreamily, you sigh in agreement, “For charity.”

Din licks you lazily through the second intermission, cleaning up your spend and using his tongue to spread the fresh slick trickling from your cunt up to and around your swollen clit. He rests his head against your thigh and chuckles as he watches you take over ten minutes to purchase your charity raffle tickets; you used to only be able to buy 50-50 tickets if you were in attendance at the game, but the team’s charitable foundation had recently started selling them online during the game as well – and it’s taking all your concentration to navigate the site without being distracted by Din’s slow teasing.

You have to enter Din’s credit card number five times before you get it right and you think you accidentally buy twice the number of tickets you mean to.

By the time the third period starts, you’ve lost your underwear; eyes glossing over while you resume watching the game, you’re spread bare for Din as he adds his fingers to his efforts, all in the name of ‘relaxation’. When your team can’t capitalize on their first power play of the period, he inserts one curling finger, and you concede that the missed goal opportunity isn’t the end of the world. When your goalie has to make four heart-stopping saves in a row as the other team piles on, Din adds a second, and you passively sing encouraging praise at the TV while dissolving into the couch. When your coach deploys his special teams, your heart rate speeds up, but not because your offensive line is absolutely dominating in the attacking zone, but because Din squeezes in a third finger, stretching your fitted walls to their limit.

“So fucking tight for me,” Din hisses, looking absolutely hypnotized as he watches his thick fingers disappear into your cunt. The vulgar wet slaps and squelches your pussy is making nearly drowning out the commentary from the game; you moan and writhe against Din’s hand, begging him for more, “Daddy, so fucking good! Love your fingers, please… need your mouth, dadddyyyyyyy….”

The onslaught on the ice and against your pussy continue without reprieve; Din nibbles your puffy clit between his teeth before pulling it in between his lips and sucking. He builds and builds as the team presses and presses, no relief for your poor aching pussy or the opposing team’s goalie. You think you might float away if Din wasn’t still holding you down, your body tingling right through to the finger tips that you have buried in Din’s hair – you pull him closer, grinding against his mouth seeking, more, more, more.

“Soak me, pretty girl,” you feel rather than hear, Din’s command echoing deep to that spot inside you only he can reach and the vibration sets you off. You come, a fresh wave of arousal hits Din’s chin as you chant out his name until you’re hoarse. Trailing off with a whimper, somewhere through your thick fog of pleasure, you hear the buzzer of the second goal your favourite right winger scores tonight.

The game’s all tied up and you’re spent.

Glassy eyed and fully blissed out, you beckon Din to come kiss you with a weak smile and curl of the fingers on the hand you’ve released from his hair.

Din’s taking out his cock from his sweatpants and lubing it up with your cum, but he doesn’t rise, “Give me one more, pretty bird. Let’s make it a hat trick.”

You whine in protest, “Can’t, Din. It’s too much.”

He fists his hard length and presses the barest of chaste kisses to your still pulsing clit, “Be a good girl for me. One more, baby.”

There’s nothing, not even winning this game, that you want more than to please him so you give him a brave little nod – even though his feathery touch made you jump.

His thumb brushes gently over your slippery bundle - light pets at first, mindful that you’re nearing overstimulation. In contrast, his other hand pumps his cock with increasing pressure and speed – already throbbing and painfully hard just from eating you out for the last 40 minutes. Seeing how turned-on Din is just from pleasuring you has another wave of want coursing through your veins; pushing up your sweatshirt above your braless breasts, you start to play with your tits - pinching and rolling your nipples between your fingers as you throw you head back and moan, low and throaty.

The raunchy sight sends Din into overdrive. He starts to draw gentle but consistent figure eights over your clit then bends down again to inhale the smell of your honey before pressing a series of sweet tender kisses to your still leaking hole. All the while, choking his dick and keeping his eyes on you as you touch your perfect tits. He stays the course with his mouth and thumb, letting you decide how much you can take when you start to buck your hips lightly.

Your third orgasm approaches faster than you anticipate, body already halfway there after that last brain numbing high. Din reads the tensing of your stomach and your quickening breaths, “Give it to me, baby girl. Give it to me and I’ll come all over this pretty pussy.” With Din’s dirty promise ringing in your ear, you come with a shuddering arch of your back and a soundless scream. Just as you’re completing your hat trick, in an arena across town your right winger is completing his.

But your eyes aren’t for him, they’re for the man who’s now milking his impressive cock, splattering rope after rope of white, glossy cum over the lips of your overwrought cunt. You giggle as Din runs the tip of his cock through your folds, pushing in as much of his spend as he can before he heaves a heavy, satiated sigh.

Looking at you with a smirk, he chuckles, “How you feeling, pretty bird? Relaxed?”

You laugh a genuine, musical laugh before pulling his face to yours, kissing yourself on his lips – so euphoric and peaceful from Din’s magical touch. After a quick cleanup, you rest cozily in Din’s arms, kissing sweetly as the two of you watch your team successfully defend their lead for the final minutes of the game. Final winning score for your team, 4-3.

Resting your sleepy head on Din’s shoulder, you confess, “I didn’t realize I was being such a stress ball about the playoffs, Din. I’m sorry.”

Kissing your temple, Din gives you a reassuring squeeze, “No need to apologize, pretty bird. It’s okay if you get stressed. Just know I’m always here to help, okay? I love you.”

You lift your head to nod and mouth the same words back to him, nearly getting lost in the dreamy eyes of the man you can’t quite believe loves you the way he does. In a little voice you cheer, “We won, yay!”

“Yay!” chuckles Din.

Suddenly, a look of epiphany washes over your face as you pan to the screen where the winning score is displayed in bold font beneath the post game show hosts. You turn to look at Din, then slowly again to the TV and back. Sitting up straight, all business-like, you grin, “Seriously, Din - I’m going to need you to do this again. Every game until we win the cup.”

“Done.”

#din djarin #modern!din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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conarcoin · 4 months ago

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i was talking abt this a little the other day but explotative tech companies love the perception of generative ai as this cloud-hosted autonomous machine because it allows them to sell it as a service only they have the means to provide

because it doesn't exactly benefit them if people know you can run stable diffusion off the average gaming laptop without an internet connection or having to give money to any shitty silicon valley startup

#ai

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digitalmarketingtricksblog · 2 months ago

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zeciex · 7 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 73

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 73: A Woman's War

AO3 - Masterlist

After hours of patrolling the sky, Daemon landed, the quiet of the night enveloping him. Above, the sky was a pristine tapestry, scattered with countless stars, untouched by any wisp of clouds. The moon hung full and radiant, casting a gentle silver light over the world, its glow faintly illuminating the surroundings through the thick shroud of darkness. Baela and Jace, astride Moondancer and Vermax respectively, cut majestic figures against the celestial backdrop, their dragon’s forms silhouetted against the vast, star-filled heavens.

Seeking a moment of peace, Daemon found comfort alongside Caraxes, his fingers tracing the dragon’s mighty jawline. He found solace in the close proximity to the beast, pressing his forehead against its warm scales as he released a breath. It was in the vast embrace of the skies that Daemon felt a profound sense of freedom, and it was in the fire and steel of the battlefield that he found a thrill–a profound sense of control over life and death, where his inner dragon could finally be unleashed, free and unrestrained.

Time had taught Daemon the worth of patience, a lesson he had accepted with reluctance–and one he still struggled with. He felt the urge to unleash the fury of dragonfire upon their enemies, to let them taste the bitter sting of his blade, and reclaim what was rightfully theirs by blood. It left a deep-seated restlessness stirring within him, igniting a relentless itch beneath his skin, a yearning that gnawed at his fingertips. Daemon felt the overwhelming urge to channel this turmoil into action, and yet, he was forced to stay his hand.

As the crunch of approaching footsteps broke the stillness of the night, Daemon sensed the presence of another. Pulling away from Caraxes, he grounded himself. Turning, he made his way towards the keep, where he was met at the base of the stairs by the captain of the guard.

“Lord Bartimos Celtigar has been accommodated in the east wing,” Ser Brandon Piper reported, keeping pace with Daemon as they ascended the stairs. “His ship is currently anchored in the bay, accompanied by a retinue of some thirty men.”

“Thirty men is hardly sufficient to meet our defense requirements,” Daemon remarked, acutely aware of the glaring gaps in their fortifications. Seventy men were far from adequate to secure the island against an invading force. Despite the formidable benefits of the nearly impregnable walls, challenging rocky terrain, and limited access points, Daemon knew that these defenses, though significant, were not infallible. He much preferred a more substantial force at his disposal. A sizable enemy host could potentially besiege Dragonstone and cut them off from the outside world–however, their dragons were by far their most formidable strength, one they would levy against any hosts that might dare move against them.

Ser Brandon offered an explanation with a tone of measured defense, “Lord Celtigar brought what forces he could gather on such short notice. His son is rallying additional troops as we speak.”

“Ensure those we have are strategically placed along the defenses,” Daemon commanded, his hand pushing the heavy door open with an air of determined authority.

“As you command, my prince,” came the dutiful reply.

The corridors of Dragonstone absorbed their presence into its haunting silence, with only the echo of their footsteps to contest the quietude. The castle’s interior, shrouded in darkness, seemed to become one with the night, the few flickering torches doing little to fend off the encroaching shadows.

“Has there been any word from King’s Landing?” Daemon inquired, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence.

“Ser Harron Allister, the Commander of the City Watch, alongside his second, Ser Toric Broom, have been imprisoned. They face execution for their refusal to pledge allegiance to Aegon,” Ser Brandon responded solemnly. “The handful of lords and ladies who refused to bend the knee have also found themselves imprisoned.”

Each word weighed heavily in the air, a grim reminder of the treacherous currents shifting within the realm, and the brutal consequences of defiance.

“Men of honor,” Daemon said under his breath, his voice tinged with a mix of respect and rising fury. He remembered Ser Harron Allister and Ser Toric Broom well, having served alongside them during his time as the Commander of the City Watch. Both exemplified the loyalty and justice that Daemon had sought to instill in the Watch. Upon stepping down from his role, Ser Harron Allister had succeeded him.

Daemon’s thoughts darkened as he reflected on the unfortunate turn of events. He had shaped the City Watch into a formidable force, a pack of loyal hounds meant to protect the city from itself.

“As for the City Watch, Ser Luthor Largent now commands it, with Ser Gwayne Hightower as his second in command,” Ser Brandon added, keeping pace with Daemon as they climbed the serpentine stairs.

Daemon responded with a scornful huff, his hand instinctively tightening on the pommel of Dark Sister, secured at his side. It was a move characteristic of Otto Hightower, to appoint his son to a key position to ensure the City Watch’s allegiance through fear of dismissal, or worse, for the same fate that befell their predecessors to befall them as well. Daemon had known Ser Luthor Largent as well, acknowledging him as a competent commander and a loyal man. Yet, in these treacherous times, even the virtuous faced the grim prospect of execution for steadfast loyalty. Constrained by his circumstances, Ser Luthor’s submission to the Hightowers was, perhaps, a strategic retreat. A man of his intellect would navigate this new order with caution, serving his new masters while awaiting an opportune moment to act.

Daemon couldn’t fault him for submission, though he could not help but be wary of it. He couldn’t rely on the commander's loyalty, and so, he could not place his trust in him.

“What news do we have of Daenera?” Daemon inquired, his tone heavy.

Ser Brandon hesitated briefly, caution in his voice, “There’s little news, I’m afraid. She was seen at the coronation, adorned in the Hightower colors, and bending the knee to the new King.”

A sharp tension clenched in Daemon’s jaw at the news. “And her men?”

“It’s believed they’ve either been slain or captured, my prince.”

Daemon’s frustration was palpable; he pressed a thumb against the corner of his eye, fighting back the surge of anger at the thought of Daenera betraying them for the usurpers. The thought burrowed in Daemon, festering like a vile, infected wound–putrid and toxic, slowly seeping its poison throughout his being.

Continuing down the hall, Daemon issued his commands with a clear sense of urgency, “Keep watch over the sea. Lords Gormon Massey and Bar Emmon are expected to arrive by ship. Ensure their forces are positioned on the walls alongside our current men. Inform those already here that I will convene a council at dawn.”

“As you command, my prince,” Ser Brandon affirmed, offering a curt nod. He then stepped back, pivoted sharply, and departed to carry out the orders.

The weight of the situation bore down on Daemon, becoming all the more palpable as he paused at the entrance of his and Rhaenyra’s private chambers. Elinda Massey, daughter of Lord Gormon Massey, approached him, her expression etched with concern. The anxious line of her brows conveyed the urgency of Rhaenyra’s labor without a word being spoken.

“It is common for contractions to sometimes stall, offering a brief respite before escalating in severity,” Elinda began, her voice trembling slightly as her hands twisted together nervously.

“And the child?” Daemon inquired, his voice tight with concern.

“Maester Geradys believes that, despite the babe arriving a moon’s turn early, it is fully developed, and the prospects of its survival are promising…” Elinda detailed, her words trailing off. “But the princesses body hasn’t fully dilated for the child to make its entrance. We hope that once this lull passes, she will have the strength to deliver the child. Should this delay persist…”

Daemon moved past her, signaling the midwives to step out for a moment, wishing to be alone with his wife. He carefully unbuckled the sword belt around his waist, quietly removing it from his side. He positioned the blade at the foot of the bed, allowing it to lean securely against the footboard. Then, he moved around the bed, dragging a chair closer to the bedside, his body marked by the weariness of constant tension–the muscles of his back fraught and aching from carrying her to bed. His knees, too, protested the long hours spent in the saddle, a dull ache pulsating through the joints from remaining in the same position as he navigated the skies.

He settled himself in the chair, looking at his wife. Her face was flushed from exertion, her skin glistening with perspiration that made the strands of her hair cling to her neck and temples.

An oppressive sense of worry and fear filled the room, its presence as tangible as the deepening shadows. Daemon was no stranger to this type of fear; it was akin to the apprehension felt between battles, where soldiers whispered prayers of gratitude and pleas for continued survival as the threat of another looming at the horizon. It mirrored the dread that permeated the air along with the stench of blood and despair, resonating from those barely clinging to life, holding their own innards.

He supposed that the same apprehension of battle also pervaded the spaces where women labored to bring forth life. Childbirth, in its essence, was a battle of its own.

Rhaenyra was no stranger to the trials of childbirth, yet this particular ordeal appeared more fraught with danger than those before. Despite his familiarity with the perils of combat, of war and death, the current battle his wife faced ignited a deep-seated fear within him–a fear not wholly unfounded. The struggle to birth a child was what had taken Laena from him. He did not wish the same for Rhaenyra.

Dampening a cloth and squeezing out the excess water, Daemon placed it on his wife’s forehead, pressing it softly against her skin. Rhaenyra’s eyes fluttered open, her eyelids heavy with fatigue as she looked up at him, her face marked by the toll of her exertion. A weak smile briefly touched her lips as she adjusted her head to see him more clearly.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she whispered, her voice rough and strained from labor.

“I’ve been making preparations.”

“Is that why you smell of dragon?” She asked with a slight note of amusement.

“I’ve been patrolling the skies.” Daemon lifted the cloth from her forehead and soaked it anew. After wringing out the excess moisture, he gently reapplied it to her skin, hoping to offer a small measure of relief. “Jace and Baela are currently patrolling. They insisted upon it.”

Rhaenyra offered a worn smile, which quickly gave way to a grimace of discomfort as she shifted on the bed. Her gaze met with Daemon’s, just as he moved his hand back to his lap, leaving the cooling cloth on her forehead.

“Have you any news?”

“Nothing beyond what Rhaenys brought us,” Daemon replied, his posture slumped, elbows on his knees, a manifestation of his own exhaustion. The weight of his exhaustion pressed heavily upon him, as if his very bones were cast from lead. A persistent tightness had settled behind his eyes, throbbing with each beat of his heart.

“Have any of the lords made their arrival?” She pressed on, causing Daemon to close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How many ravens have you dispatched? House Massey and Darklyn will answer our call, and Bartimos Celtigar has been a good friend for years. We should–”

Daemon cut in gently, yet firmly, “You shouldn’t burden yourself with these matters.”

He reached out, his hand resting on the curve of her belly, feeling the warmth of her skin through the silk nightgown and bed covers. When their eyes met again, a hint of frustration was evident on her face, her hand covering his, the touch insistent.

“I should like to be kept informed,” she asserted.

“Rhaenyra…” Daemon started, his voice laden with fatigue. He withdrew his hand, dragging it across his face in a gesture of weariness and frustration. A tide of vexation rose within him, reflecting the strain of the moment.

“I am to be–I am the Queen, am I not?” She insisted, adjusting herself to sit more upright against the pillows and headboard, her hand instinctively cradling the swell of her pregnant stomach as she winched slightly from the pain. She removed the cloth from her forehead, placing it on the side table.

Daemon clenched his jaw tightly, an undercurrent of irritation swirling within him. His reluctance to share the burdens of leadership was not born from a desire to keep her uninformed; rather, it stemmed from a protective instinct. He wished to spare her the added stress, to shield her from the tumultuous affairs that lay beyond her current reach, focusing instead on the immediate challenge of bringing their child into the world.

“I don’t wish to burden you with the matters of war,” Daemon stated, the resolve in his voice underscored by the straightening of his posture, despite the protesting ache in his back. “Having endured the loss of one wife to childbirth, the thought of losing another…”

His mind drifted to Laena. He had loved her–not in the way she deserved, but he had loved her. She had been vibrant and fierce, a true dragonrider with the blood of Old Valyria coursing through her veins. Laena had possessed a boldness that was charming. She had been kind and sweet, and she had loved him more than he deserved. His love for Laena was genuine, yet it paled in comparison to the depth of his feelings for Rhaenyra.

“I cannot do it again,” Daemon confessed, his tone a hushed murmur laden with vulnerability.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, her head tilting in a gentle gesture of understanding as she regarded him. “Daemon…”

“The losses today have been too great,” Daemon pressed on, his words infused with a bitter resentment that intertwined with his fear and the pervasive anger that had taken root in his heart–a relentless torment that coiled within him, fueling a constant, seething rage.

“You are not the only one who mourns him,” Rhaenyra murmured softly, letting the words linger in the air. A heavy silence fell between them, filled only by Rhaenyra’s intense gaze, her eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and sadness, her lips pressed tightly together.

Outside, the wind raged against the shutters, its howls a grim accompaniment to the turmoil within.

“They killed him, Rhaenyra,” Daemon uttered, restlessly tapping his nails against the wooden arm of the chair. “I know it. They poisoned him, and they took him from us.”

Rhaenyra’s expression turned sympathetic yet skeptical, her brow furrowing deeper as her head tilted the other way. “He had an ailment–”

“One, I’m sure, they exacerbated for their own gain,” Daemon quickly countered, his tone edged with scorn. “The Hightowers have always had close ties with the Maesters of the Citadel, and Otto Hightower would have been sure to exploit that in favor of keeping power in his hands. They kept him dependent on milk-of-the-poppy, ensuring that he was unable to sit in governance.”

“What you are suggesting is kingslaying,” Rhaenyra said in caution. “While I won’t dispute the Hightower’s machinations against us and their exploration of his weakened state, the accusation of kingslaying is grave…”

“The Hightowers intended to rule in favor of Vaemond Velaryon,” Daemon stated. “They intended to remove your son from the line of succession of Driftmark, thereby undermining your status as the rightful heir by challenging the legitimacy of your children.”

“I know well what their intentions were,” Rhaenyra voiced her frustration, shifting restlessly on the bed once more, seemingly unable to find a comfortable position. “You needn't remind me.”

“Doesn’t it strike you as suspicious that his death occurred so shortly after these matters were resolved? Right after our departure?”

“What evidence do we possess?” Rhaenyra inquired, her expression contouring with discomfort as she applied pressure to her abdomen, seeking a fleeting respite from her pain. “Daenera uncovered no evidence to suggest poisoning.”

“Daenera’s attention was elsewhere,” Daemon countered sharply.

Rhaenyra’s gaze turned stern, a silent reproach in her eyes.

“Her knowledge has its limits. She wasn’t involved in his ongoing care and wasn’t present for every treatment he received,” Daemon continued, picking at the wood of the chair. “The possibility of poisoning cannot be dismissed outright.”

“We cannot levy accusations as grave as kingslaying without evidence,” Rhaenyra countered, her fatigue evident in the raspiness of her voice. “I’m not convinced he was poisoned. While the Hightowers certainly exploited his condition, I have my doubts that they would engage in such a vile act as kingslaying.”

“Can you honestly say you believe they wouldn’t commit such deed, or is it that you can’t accept that your childhood companion could orchestrate such cruelty?” Daemon pressed, his challenge clear in his tone.

Rhaenyra’s response was a sharp glare. “I cannot fathom Alicent being behind such heinous act, it's true. If–if– it was an act of kingslaying, it would not have been by her order.”

A palpable tension hung in the air as the ensuing silence stretched. Daemon gritted his teeth, a tumult of restlessness and anger stirring beneath his skin. He harbored a deep conviction that the Hightowers were behind the poisoning of his brother. Regardless of whether their final act was one of deliberate kingslaying, they had undeniably exploited his brother’s condition to their own ends. Reflecting on the past, he lamented that his brother’s gravest error lay not just in reinstating Otto Hightower as his Hand but in a decision made much earlier–when he had chosen to send Daemon away. This, he believed, had only been the start of Hightowers corruption of his brother. Yet, he chose to let the discussion rest.

His gaze settled on her, observing as she adjusted herself on the bed once more. Rhaenyra’s expression was marred by discomfort, her hand moving to her stomach seemingly in an attempt to comfort the unborn child.

“And what of Daenera? Any news?”

“No,” Daemon replied, his voice tinged with fatigue as he pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a headache. His eyes felt dry and scratchy from exhaustion, and closing them did little to soothe the irritation. “Only that she attended the coronation adorned in Hightower colors and pledged her allegiance to the usurpers.”

He was acutely aware of her penetrating gaze upon him as he exhaled slowly, lifting his eyes to meet hers with a mixture of resolve and weariness.

“You think she betrayed us…” Rhaenyra said in a measured tone, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I think,” he responded tersely, “that it is a possibility.”

Rhaenyra’s frown deepened, her hands continuing their gentle motion over her belly. “I don’t believe that she would betray us. No, if she stood with the Greens it is only because she was forced to do so.”

Daemon’s voice was tinged with exhaustion and frustration as he disclosed, “She’s in love with him, Rhaenyra. She’s in love with that one-eyed cunt, and now she’s set to marry him. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that she might have chosen their side over ours–”

“It is, it is beyond the realm of possibility,” Rhaenyra countered, her voice trembling with emotion, her gaze falling to the curve of her stomach. “Why do you so readily assume the worst of her? Because she disappointed you?”

“Yes, she disappointed me!” Daemon’s voice rose, his feelings spilling forth like a tempest. “I sent her to King’s landing because I trusted her. I believed her capable of ascertaining who our friends and foes were. Her role was clear; to act as your representative in your absence.”

Leaning forward, Daemon’s frustration was palpable. “Rather than do her duty, she compromised herself by sleeping with the enemy. So, yes, she has disappointed me.”

Daemon never knew how to handle disappointment, especially when he held someone in high regard. He had trusted her to understand her position, and she had broken that trust by compromising herself and honor. The revelation of the loss of her maidenhead could have been disastrous, rendering her vulnerable to a scandal and providing the Hightowers with another tool for their machinations. She and any prospect of a future she had would have been ruined.

The marriage he had arranged for her with Boris Baratheon was not just a political maneuver; it was also an effort to protect her honor and reputation. Daemon had thought they had come to an understanding then.

Losing her maidenhead might have been a forgivable error, one Daemon could have overlooked, provided she had taken it as a lesson. However, she chose to have her lover murder her husband in an attempt to hide their affair and the resulting disgrace. While Daemon could understand her desire to be free of her husband’s temper, it did not excuse her from perpetuating her initial error.

His disappointment stemmed not solely from unmet expectations but from a profound sense of betrayal. Trust was a commodity Daemon valued, and once broken, it left a lasting scar.

Rhaenyra’s response was measured, yet her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, “She intended to return to us. She fulfilled her duty in King’s Landing, secured alliances, even married Boris Baratheon–as you wanted. If she indeed holds feelings for him, it only emphasizes her commitment to her duties over personal desires.”

“But she didn’t come back with us,” Daemon said, each word laden with a heaviness.

“If you mean to suggest that she had prior knowledge of the usurpation and willingly stayed behind to support the Greens, I cannot agree to that belief,” Rhaenyra declared firmly. “If she appeared at the coronation in support of Aegon, then it is only because the Hightowers wanted it so. My daughter is not a traitor, she is a hostage.”

“And what of her impending marriage? Is she being coerced into that as well?” Daemon felt a surge of agitation, compelling him to stand. The restlessness prickled too persistently, too agitated to ignore. “No, I don’t believe she had any prior knowledge of the Green’s plan beyond our suspicions. But her affections for that one-eyed cunt should raise concern. Her actions have already demonstrated her willingness to deceive us.”

Approaching the end of the bed, he clasped the footboard tightly, his grip betraying the escalating tension in the room, crackling between them like thunder. His gaze, full of reproach, met his wife’s, dismayed by her inability or unwillingness to grasp the gravity of the situation. “She conspired with her lover to see her husband killed. It would be foolish of us not to question where her loyalties lie.”

“I know where her loyalties lie,” Rhaenyra retorted, her expression a mixture of scorn and incredulity, the subtle downturn of her mouth signaling her disapproval–and the gleam of tears in her eyes betraying her inner turmoil, the pain of being faced with the possibility of her daughters betrayal. “You are all too ready to assume the worst of her. I won’t do the same. She is my daughter! My flesh and blood!”

“You might not wish to see her as a betrayer,” Daemon retorted with a hint of acrimony, struggling to keep his burgeoning rage subdued. “I have no desire to cast her in that light either, but reality forces me to consider all possibilities. And it is a possibility, Rhaenyra. History is rife with lovers willing to commit terrible acts in its name. She wouldn’t be the first to betray her kin for it.”

With that, Daemon collected his sword and belt, clutching the leather with a firm resolve as he made for his exit.

“Wait!” Rhaenyra’s voice chased after him, tinged with desperation. “Don’t leave–where are you going?”

“To make ready for the morning,” he replied curtly, stepping out of the chamber.

“Daemon, don’t leave–come back!” Her plea echoed behind him, but he continued on, driven by a duty to anticipate the unforeseen.

“Daemon, don’t leave–come back!” Rhaenyra’s voice echoed, her plea for him to stay desperate. Yet, he vanished beyond the door, leaving her alone with the heavy silence of the room. Her gaze lingered on the void left by his departure, as if his absence had materialized into something tangible, a profound sense of loneliness echoing through her. This palpable loneliness brought with it a sense of desolation, her heart sinking. Her eyes drifted towards the slivers of moonlight peeking through the shutters, the only barrier between the balcony and her solitude.

Tears threatened to spill as she caressed her belly, seeking comfort both for her and the child. She couldn’t understand why Daemon insisted on making her daughter out to be a traitor.

Despite the errors made, Rhaenyra’s faith in her daughter remained unshaken. She had never questioned her daughter’s loyalty or her love–nor her commitment to prioritizing duty above her personal desires. Daenera had always been aware of the position she was in, she had always known who she was and what it meant to be that.

The thought of Daenera, ensnared in King’s Landing and at the Greens’ mercy, filled Rhaenyra with an unbearable sense of worry and despair. A lump formed in her throat, hard and relentless as she fought back her tears. What fate awaited her daughter in their hands? The anguish of not having Daenera by her side, when she needed her the most, was overwhelming–Daenera should be here, offering her comfort and support, just as she had always been at the birth of her younger siblings. She was supposed–

“Rhaenyra?” Came a gentle, cautious voice.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze towards the doorway, where Rhaena stood, a candle’s flicker casting a soft light on her face, etching her concern into the shadows. Her hair cascaded in loose locks over her shoulders, reaching down her back, creating an image of vulnerability. Her dark eyes were filled with concern, soft and big.

Blinking her tears away and swallowing thickly in an effort to present a composed front, Rhaenyra offered a shaky smile. “What is it, Rhaena? It’s quite late, you ought to be asleep.”

“May I enter?” She inquired softly.

With a more assured smile, Rhaenyra welcomed her, “Of course, come in.”

As Rhaena moved into the room, she acknowledged the midwives and servants with a nod. The attendants had quietly filled the space after Daemon’s departure, their presence barely registered by Rhaenyra amidst her own tumult of emotions. They seemed to hover uncertainly, mirroring the tension of the impending birth. Lady Elinda Massey had settled on the settee, seeming to struggle with threading a needle by the furrow of her brow and the tongue poking out through her lips.

Taking the seat her father had vacated, Rhaena placed the candle on the side table, allowing the light to flicker and dance across the walls. She settled, a book in her lap, a silent offering of solace in her company.

“I found myself unable to sleep,” she confessed, her voice soft but filled with an intent to comfort. “I thought perhaps you’d appreciate some company.”

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra responded, her voice laced with gratitude for the company of her stepdaughter. As she repositioned herself on the bed, a low hum escaped her throat, betraying the discomfort of her movements. Her hand glided down her abdomen, gently pressing into the swell in an attempt to soothe the taut muscles that pained her.

“Baela and Jace are keeping watch over the skies,” Rhaena shared, her fingers absently playing with the corner of the book. “Father insisted they not do it by themselves at night, so he made them accompany each other.”

“It is wiser to have two riders in the sky than one,” Rhaenyra acknowledged, her gaze lingering thoroughly on Rhaena. Whenever the conversation veered towards dragons and their riders, a subtle melancholy would weave itself into the girl's features, a silent testament to her yearning. It was clear to Rhaenyra that, just like Daenera, she harbored a longing to soar through the skies atop a dragon of her own–a desire as vast as the heavens yet grounded by circumstance.

“Have any of the lords made their arrival?”

“Lord Bartimos Celtigar has arrived, I believe. We expect more to come by morning,” Rhaena informed her, providing the latest developments on the situation outside the childbed.

The room enveloped in a quietude, punctured only by Rhaenyra’s soft movements as she massaged her belly, seeking a sliver of comfort in the relentless discomfort. The tautness and stiffness in her lower back escalade to a dull, throbbing ache, radiating down her legs. A profound sense of pressure weighed on her lower abdomen and pelvis, signaling the baby’s gradual descent, while her inner muscles twitched and contracted with mild, foreboding cramps. This child seemed more reluctant to greet the world than its siblings had been.

Rhaena broke the silence with an unexpected admonition, drawing Rhaenyra’s gaze with the seriousness in her tone.

“You must forgive him,” she urged, her voice filled with both compassion and understanding–if not a bit of fear. “It’s not easy for him, I think. It is not easy to see you in such distress, facing the hardships of childbirth…”

As Rhaena nervously fidgeted with the book, her focus remained fixed on her own hands, avoiding Rhaenyra’s prodding eyes. There was a pull at the corners of the girl's lips, a sadness etched into her from the loss of her mother.

“Watching someone you deeply care for in pain, enduring such an ordeal… it’s an unbearable sight,” she paused, her voice softening, and finally, her gaze met Rhaenyra’s. “My mother fought valiantly to bring my sibling into this world. I know it tormented him to witness her suffering, especially when confronted with such… such an impossible choice…”

Her words hung in the air, revealing not just an understanding of her fathers turmoil but also a glimpse into the profound impact of witnessing a loved one’s struggle–echoes of past pains mingling with the present.

“Rhaena…” Rhaenyra began, her voice a soft echo in the quiet of the room.

“My mother was strong,” Rhaena declared, her voice carrying a tremble that betrayed her emotions. Her dark eyes shone with a combination of sorrow, compassion, and an underlying resilience. “She faced her fate with the knowledge that both her and the unborn child were doomed. She refused to let father make the choice for her–she wanted to die a dragon rider's death… I believe he fears you might share her fate, haunted by the prospect of having that harrowing decision once more…”

Rhaenyra’s heart constricted with empathy for Rhaena. She too understood the pain of losing a mother to the rigors of childbirth–the anguish of those left behind to grapple with the choices no one should have to make. Yet, along with empathy, a sharp sting of fear pierced her heart. The dread of succumbing to the same fate as her mother had always loomed large in Rhaenyra’s mind–the terrifying prospect of being subjected to a brutal delivery in the childbed, restrained and incised, her child forcibly extricated, leaving her empty and bleeding out.

This profound fear had led her to mistrust the maesters at the Red Keep for her care in childbirth, relying instead on the familiar and trusted presence of her handmaidens and midwives that were with her now. Maester Geradys was the sole exception, having successfully overseen the birth of her youngest children.

This fear of dying in childbirth was inherent, a thing passed from mother to daughter, from woman to woman–it was a thing shared throughout the ages and one that was carried with the head held high, its terror forgotten the moment the child was pressed into its mother’s arms.

Fighting back against this inherited fear, Rhaenyra leaned in as much as her pregnant belly would permit, placing her hand over Rhaena’s. “This child is simply proving to be as obstinate as its father. I won’t meet my end this way, I promise you.”

Rhaena returned the gesture with a smile, laying her hand atop Rhaenyra’s in a moment of shared understanding. “Good, because I don’t know what will become of us if you did not survive–what would become of him…”

Rhaenyra exhaled softly, her hand rising to gently caress Rhaena’s cheek in a tender, motherly touch. “He would have you and the children.”

“I’m not sure that is enough,” Rhaena responded, a note of fear in her voice that carried until it settled on Rhaenyra’s heart. The girl worried for a future that was not set–but worried she remained.

“It must be,” Rhaenyra affirmed warmly. “Your father cherishes you. He loves you immensely, despite his struggles with expressing it. You and your sister are his first children, and what remains to him of Laena.”

“It’s been only six years,” she murmured, her voice tinged with sorrow, “yet, her voice seems to have faded from my memory. Her image, however, remains vivid in my mind.”

Losing a mother was a profound grief that left a void that never fully heals. Rhaenyra knew this all too well, the absence of her own mother acutely felt in moments such as these. Determined, she had vowed to spare her children from enduring the agony of such a loss–if she were to die, it would not be in childbed.

“Her memory remains with us, in our hearts,” Rhaenyra spoke gently, offering Rhaena’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “The sound of her voice may fade, and the image may grow dim with the passage of time, but her spirit persists within you. She flows in your veins, and her likeness is mirrored in your own. When you seek her, simply gaze upon your reflection.”

Rhaena mentioned, somewhat wistfully, “They often say Baela most resembles our mother…”

“Baela embodies both her mother’s and father’s ferocity and determination,” Rhaenyra acknowledged with a smile on her lips, “displaying her strengths unabashedly. She is much like Daemon in many ways… Yet, your strength lies in its quiet resilience. You inherit your mother’s compassion and generousness. You have her eyes, sweet, kind, and clever. Baela resembles her father, but you, you are your mother’s daughter.”

Rhaena’s face brightened with a smile, a flush of warmth coloring her cheeks as she seemed to hold Rhaenyra’s words close to her heart.

Rhaenyra held Laena in dear memory, considering her not just a sister-in-law but a true sister of the heart. Their bond had deepened during the year Laena spent in King’s Landing following Rhaenyra’s marriage to Laenor.

“Will you tell me about her?” Rhaena implored, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“Of course,” Rhaenyra answered, adjusting her position on the bed as she contented with the growing discomfort and the restlessness brought on by the constant ache.

Rhaena rose to her feet, moving gracefully towards the flagon of water, pausing to ask, “Water?”

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra answered, rubbing her stomach. “You’ve been told of how she became the rider of Vhagar, haven’t you?”

“I have. Many times,” Rhaena confirmed, pouring water into a cup with careful attention.

“Did you know she flew while carrying you?” Rhaenyra revealed, pausing as a sharp pang of pain momentarily overwhelmed her. She clenched her jaw tightly and drew in a deep, steadying breath as she worked through the wave of pain. Once it ebbed, she noticed the midwives casting concerned glances her way, their brows knitted in worry. With a brief, reassuring shake of the head, she signaled to them that she was managing, then shifted her attention back to Rhaena. “The maesters were beside themselves, worrying about the risks of flying in her condition. Your mother was bold and adventurous, she would not be constrained to stay on the ground.”

With a gentle smile, Rhaena placed the flagon back on the table and brought the cup to Rhaenyra, then resumed her seat. The story of her mother’s indomitable spirit, her passion for flying that defied all cautions, seemed to fill Rhaena with a sense of pride and wonder, a connection to the mother she missed.

“Once she became the rider of Vhagar, your mother was inseparable from the skies,” Rhaenyra reminisced, the water offering a brief respite as its coolness cascaded down her throat. “Corlys was half-convinced she might forsake the earth altogether, especially since she showed scant interest in the company of suitors.”

Rhaena took the cup from Rhaenyra, setting it aside, then refreshed the cloth previously used by Daemon, dabbing gently at Rhaenyra’s sweat-dampen skin to offer some relief.

“Your mother was betrothed to the son of a Braavosi Sealord before she married your father,” Rhaenyra said, sparking immediate curiosity in Rhaena. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she quickly shook her head in response. Setting this, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile in amusement. “The thought of him barely interested your mother. She hadn’t even met him and chose to distance herself during his visit to Driftmark. Lord Corlys was not pleased when she chose to fly away to King’s Landing to ‘visit her brother and sister-in-law,’ she said.’”

Rhaena set the cloth on the rim of the basin after using it, then discreetly dried her hands on the fabric of her robe. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra, unfettered by the brief pause, resumed her story, “Your mother was never one to mince words, boldly voicing her opinions. And yet, she had a subtlety about it. I remember her making quite the impression on Jason Lannister by speaking her mind when he put forth his brother’s hand in marriage, despite being twice her age. It was rather amusing, actually.”

Rhaena, absorbed in the story, drew her foot up to the chair, wrapping her arms around her knee and resting her chin on it.

“Laena was charming, intelligent, and spirited, and she had a way about her that was subtle and alluring,” Rhaenyra continued. “And, of course, she was beautiful, but I think it was her charm that captured Daemon’s attention.”

Rhaenyra found a slightly more comfortable position, her hands gently caressing the curve of her belly, lost in thought for a moment. It all seemed like another lifetime ago, and she remembered the initial pang of jealousy that had clouded her heart. It hadn’t been easy being married to a man who would never desire her, who could offer nothing more than a friendship–they had tried for a long time to have a child of their own, to make things work for the both of them, but they never were able to do it. Both of their hearts belonged to another.

Laena had been nothing but understanding and compassionate–a true friend and sister in spirit. It had been Laena who approached her, seeking her blessing to pursue a relationship with Daemon. And despite the heartache it brought, Rhaenyra had consented, wishing them the joy and companionship her own marriage lacked.

“And when he visited Driftmark to see her it certainly didn’t sit well with the Sealord’s son.”

“I can’t imagine that it ended well for him,” Rhaena interjected, an amused smile playing on her lips.

“Indeed, it didn’t,” Rhaenyra concurred with a nod. “The Sealord’s son challenged Daemon to a duel, betting Laena’s hand on the outcome. And Daemon, ever the warrior, didn’t just accept; he turned it into a spectacle. The Sealord’s son was utterly outmatched. And with Dark Sister in hand, Daemon was decisive. The duel was short-lived.”

Rhaena, chuckling, said, “It almost sounds like a tale you’d tell children at bedtime.”

“Am I not telling it to you, now, at bedtime?” Rhaenyra responded with a soft laugh. “After the death of the Sealord’s son, they married and flew to Braavos. Laena made sure to keep me informed on your adventures there. I believe I’ve kept all of her letters, if you’d be interested in reading them?”

Rhaena’s smile widened in anticipation, “Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you.”

As the conversation drew to a close, one of the attending midwives stood, her movements gentle yet deliberate. She placed a hand on Rhaena’s shoulder, her voice low and soothing, “It might be best for the princess to rest now, and for you to do the same.”

Rhaenyra turned her gaze towards Rhaenyra, hesitantly getting up. In responde, Rhaenyra extended her hand, clasping Rhaena’s with a reassuring grip, her eyes soft yet imbued with strength, acknowledging the unspoken concern flitting across the girl's expression. With a grateful smile and a nod of understanding, Rhaena made her way to the door, clutching the book she had brought and never had the chance to read.

“Try to rest, Princess,” the midwife advised warmly, watching over Rhaenyra with a protective eye.

“I can’t,” Rhaenyra protested, her hand instinctively moving to soothe the mounting discomfort in her stomach. With each surge of pain, her breath hitched, the sensation of mounting pressure within becoming almost unbearable. “I–I need to stand.”

Sheran pulled back the blankets, assisting Rhaenyra as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and bent down to assess her condition. “The dilation isn’t complete yet. You mustn't push.”

“Help me up, I need to move,” Rhaenyra reiterated, unable to remain still any longer. The pain, emanating from her spine and radiating down her legs, left her muscles screaming with each new wave of contractions. With Sheran and Lady Elinda’s assistance, she found herself on her feet, her movements laborious and weighted, as if walking through deep water. Lady Elinda steadied Rhaenyra, the cool stone floor a slight relief against her bare feet. A comforting hand traced circles on her back, pausing with each contraction to allow her a moment to focus on her breathing before they continued their pacing.

As the hours slipped by, the darkness outside gave way to the first hints of dawn, painting the sky a deep shade of indigo. The frequency and intensity of contractions grew, bringing waves of nausea and an intense heat that seemed to emulate from within her very skin.

Sometime before sunrise, the panels to the balcony were removed, allowing the first light of day to fill the room alongside a refreshing breeze carrying the scent of the sea.

As the sun rose above the horizon, Rhaenyra’s gaze locked onto the merging light even as waves of unbearable pain engulfed her. Her voice had grown raw from screaming, each breath a battle against the agony that seemed unending. With each passing hour, a heavy cloak of dread and despair settled around her as the child refused to come, her heart racing in a futile attempt to escape its clutches. The sensation was akin to bearing an unyielding stone, its jagged edges mercilessly cutting within her as her body strained to expel it. Sweat coated her skin, mingling indistinguishably with her tears.

She watched, almost detached, as the sky turned a deep red, mirroring her own ordeal, as if the heavens themselves bled in empathy with her suffering–or, forebodingly warned her of what was to come.

Amidst the excruciating pain, a gnawing fear took hold–a fear that something was profoundly wrong.

The world was not as she knew it. It felt strange and wrong, it was not the world she had inhabited just a day before. It was a world where her father no longer lived, where her rightful crown had been usurped, and where her daughter had been made a hostage by someone she had once considered a friend–someone who had promised of a new start.

Now, she stood alone in this unfamiliar and desolate world, enveloped by sorrow and engulfed by fear.

“Please, please, please,” Rhaenyra whispered, beseeching the child, her hand caressing her swollen stomach. “Please come out.”

“Keep your head about you, Princess. Come now,” Sheran encouraged softly, extending her hand to guide Rhaenyra back to the bed. A hand lightly touched the small of Rhaenyra’s back, but even this gentle gesture was unbearable. Instinctively, she recoiled, distancing herself from the source of the discomfort. Every gesture of support, from wiping her brow drenched in sweat to the quiet words meant to soothe, to the gentle kneading of her tense muscles, invaded her space, each one more suffocating than the last. Their well-meaning actions converged into an overwhelming tumult, exacerbating her feeling of being trapped in the pain of her own body.

“We’ve done this six times before,” Lady Elinda tried to reassure her, placing a supportive hand on Rhaenyra’s back in an attempt to anchor her. “Keep your spirit, and the seventh shall be no different.”

Yet, the comfort Elinda sought to offer couldn’t cut through the thick haze of torment enveloping Rhaenyra. This pain was strange, a harbinger that something was wrong, far removed from any childbirth experience she’d had before, and each crippling contraction, her environment blurred into obscurity, panic sinking its claw deeper.

“Get off, get off, get off, get off!” She cried out, a desperate plea for relief from the touches that now felt like restraints.

In a state of desperation, Rhaenrya broke free from the attempts to steady her, stumbling toward the stone column near the balcony for support. With each overwhelming wave of pain, her grasp tightened on the cold stone, her nails scraping and straining against the hard surface. It seemed to her as if the child within was staging a revolt, refusing to make its way into the world.

When another spasm of excruciating pain overtook her, she bent forward, pressing her fevered forehead to the cool surface of the stone, “Ow, ow, ow…”

The slow passing of time became a torment in itself. More than a day had elapsed in this state of agony, and still, there was no end in sight. Her fear grew, turning into a suffocating force with the progression of the sun as it emerged fully from the horizon. As tears clouded her vision, Rhaenyra’s hand tenderly swept up and down the side of her stomach, feeling each contraction tighten around her heart as fiercely as it did her body.

“Please,” she uttered through clenched teeth, her voice a fractured plea. “Please, little one… get out…”

The brief lapse between contractions offered scant relief. Grasping for some control amidst the turmoil, Rhaenyra addressed those attending her, desperation coloring her tone. “Where is Daemon?”

Lady Elinda paused, her fingers nervously entrining as she replied, “He’s holding council, Princess.”

Rhaenyra shook her head in dismay, the added sting of isolation exacerbating her ordeal. She yearned for Daemon’s presence, for the reassurance of his hand in hers, for his support. She needed him here, by her side, not holding council without her. She needed him.

As another contraction tore through her with the ferocity of storm-driven waves battering the cliffs beneath the balcony, Rhaenyra couldn’t hold back her cry of agony. “Daemon!”

Struggling to find a semblance of control amid the chaos of pain, Rhaenyra brushed her damp hair away from her sweaty foreheads, the silver strands clinging to her skin. The burdens of her new world pressed heavily upon her, each fear intensifying the physical torment she endured.

Restlessly, pacing the cool stone floor, unable to find a moment's peace, her body and spirit were both nearing their limits. The thoughts of her father, the usurpation, and the captivity of her daughter weighed her down, a burden almost too great to carry as she paced the floor.

Between labored breaths, she issued a plea,” Fetch me my sons,” just as another contraction mercilessly constricted around her. The child within seemed to writhe, its movements sharp and demanding, as if in defiance of the calm she so desperately sought. The room spun as she made her way to the chamberpot, succumbing to the urge to vomit, though now only bile escaped her, leaving a sour residue that clung to her taste.

The absence of Daenera weighed heavily on Rhaenyra, her soul aching for the solace that her daughter’s presence had always provided. Throughout the births of her children, from Lucerys to Viserys, Daenera had been a constant, comforting shadow at her side. Even when she was but a babe, nestled securely in Joyce’s arms during Lucerys’ birth, Daenera exhibited an innate curiosity. As a mere infant, she reacted to her brother’s arrival not with confusion or distress, but with excited clapping, her eyes alight with wonder. Her mere presence had been a comfort.

And now, in the midst of this pain and fear, Rhaenyra believed that her daughter’s presence would have dulled the keen edge of her suffering, rendering the relentless agony a touch more tolerable.

“Daemon!” Rhaenyra cried out, her voice laden with pain and desperation. Yet, despite her plea, he did not appear.

Deep down, she understood his absence. The fear that lingered in his eyes when she had crumpled to the floor, her hands wrapped around her stomach and groans of pain escaping her lips, vividly conveyed his deep-seated dread. It was a fear of witnessing her death, the paralyzing thought of once again being placed in a position to make the harrowing choice no one should ever have to face… and yet, she cursed him for his absence.

A scream tore from Rhaenyra’s throat, a sound so raw and powerful it seemed to fill the chamber, a testament to the excruciating agony that tore through her. The pain was visceral, as though the child within was clawing at her womb trying to tear its way out.

“Mother?” Jace’s voice, laden with worry, cut through the thick fog of pain that wrapped around Rhaenyra.

As another unbearable contraction seized her, she couldn’t suppress a curse, her teeth clenched against the agony. Struggling for air, she endeavored to regain some semblance of control, her breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Slowly, she turned her attention towards her sons.

The fear in Luke’s eyes struck her immediately–wide, shimmering with a tumult of feelings that tugged sharply at her heart. He fidgeted, his unease evident, until Maester Geradys took him under his arm, offering some semblance of solace to the young boy. Jace, on the other hand, stood as a pillar of strength, yet the battle against his own apprehension was clear. His jaw clenched firmly as he made a brave effort to stay composed in the face of his mother’s suffering.

Summoning her dwindling reserves of strength, Rhaenyra fought to regain her composure. Her hands, though quivering, traced soothing patterns up and down her stomach, a meager attempt to comfort the unborn child within. She forced her voice into a semblance of calm. “Your grandfather, Viserys, is no longer with us, and as you’ve likely heard, the Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne.”

As Rhaenyra attempted to move towards her sons, a surge of pain halted her in her tracks, her hand finding quick support on the back of a nearby settee. Jace instinctively stepped forward, ready to offer his support, but she stopped him with a gesture, choosing to face the pain in solitude.

Feeling isolated and uninformed, Rhaenyra admitted with difficulty, “I’m left in the dark. I’m oblivious to the actions being taken beyond these walls.”

“Daemon has dispatched several ravens seeking aid from our closest allies,” Jace informed her, attempting to bridge the gap in her knowledge. “Lord Bartimos Celtigar has already arrived with his retinue. Lords Staunton and Emmon are expected to arrive by noon, and by evening, we anticipate Lords Massey and Darklyn.”

Catching her son’s gaze, Rhaenyra said, “I’ve been informed Daemon is holding council.”

“He is.”

Rhaenyra then voiced her deeper concern, the pain momentarily spiking as she did so. “Daemon is plotting his war, I’m sure… The grief of losing his brother coupled with the theft of the throne might have… mmm… driven him to the brink of madness. I am left here to wonder, and I fear what decisions are being made in my absence.”

Jace’s features set into an expression of unwavering resolve, his entire demeanor radiating determination. “Leave Daemon with me.”

With a swift pivot, Jace quickened his stride, tackling the staircase towards the door in brisk, determined leaps, taking the steps two at a time.

“Jace.” Rhaenyra raised her voice, calling out for her son. When he did not stop, she called again, her tone imbued with a greater urgency and authority. “Jacaerys!”

He stopped, turning to lock eyes with her, the urgency and concern in her gaze seeming enough to draw him back towards her. Approaching, he allowed her to draw close once more, her hand rising to caress his face, her fingertips lightly tracing his cheek.

“Whatever claim now remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command,” Rhaenyra said, assuring that he understood.

Jace acknowledged her words with a solemn nod, sealing his vow with a gentle kiss to her forehead. Then, as swiftly as he had come to her side, he departed, leaving behind a silence that seemed even more laden with tension and unease.

“Mother,” Luke began, his voice wavering with a mix of hesitance and uncertainty. He fidgeted uneasily, clutching something soft within his hands. “I thought maybe this could offer you some solace.”

He closed the distance between them, gently offering the blanket to her. His thumb brushed over the fabric, drawing attention to the elaborate embroidery that adorned it, each threat a testament to the love woven into its creation.

Rhaenyra bit back a cry of pain as she accepted the blanket, her fingertips grazing over the delicate, slightly irregular stitches of the pincushion flower pattern. Every thread seemed to whisper of the presence she so longed for, stirring a complex whirl of comfort and grief within her. Tears clouded her vision as she drew her son close, her hand trembling as she touched his face, the blanket clutched against her chest.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Rhaenyra managed to utter, her voice thick with stirred emotions. “Thank you.”

“This way, she’s with you now,” Luke said softly, allowing Rhaenyra to press her forehead against his.

After planting a tender kiss on his cheek, Rhaenyra bid her son leave, holding her breath to stifle the groans of pain until he had departed, the onslaught of labor tearing at her resolve.

The sun arched across the sky, marking the passage of time with its ascent and subsequent decline, turning hours into seemingly endless years. Rhaenyra began to question if the agony would ever cease.

As exhaustion took its toll, despair started to weave its way into Rhaenyra’s heart. Her perception of the world shrank to the encompassing pain that seized her and the labored breathing that accompanied her efforts to deliver the child, and slowly, she began to grow resentful of the child – resentful for the way it was making its way into the world and the agony it was causing her.

“Get out!” Rhaenyra’s plea erupted from deep within, a primal and guttural demand torn from her amidst the waves of unbearable pain, her voice raw as she gritted her teeth against the torment.

And in her anguish, she came to view the child not as a blessing but as a tormentor, more beastly in its resistance to enter the world than human. It felt as though it was actively fighting its birth, its unseen claws tearing at her from within, adding an almost personal malice to her pain. What kind of child would cause such agony?

Weariness enveloped her in the short span between contractions, her limbs shaky and uncertain, barely supporting her weight as she made her way back to the bed. Lady Elinda was quick to offer support, wrapping Rhaenyra’s arm around her shoulders, guiding her towards the bed.

“No, no, no,” Rhaenyra protested, resisting Elinda’s attempt to guide her onto the bed. “Just get off, get off, get off! O-ow… Get off!”

An intense fear seized Rhaenyra, propelling her away from the bed – a belief that if she were to give birth while lying in the bed, she would not survive the ordeal. This conviction drove her to distance herself from it, as though the very act of avoiding the bed could somehow spare her life. Clutching the bedpost for support, Rhaenyra pushed Elinda away from her, standing on her own, despite the overwhelming pain that gripped her. She curled over, groaning deeply, as she fought to maintain her balance and withstand the unbearable pain wracking her body.

The chamber, heavy with the scent of herbs and oils, carried an undercurrent of something sharper, the metallic taste of fear. The midwives murmured among themselves, casting worried glances towards Rhaenyra, their hands gentle and tentative, offering a damp cloth to her forehead in an attempt to provide some relief.

Rhaenyra staggered towards the settee, her legs betraying her, folding under the weight of her pain, and she collapsed to the floor. Grasping the edge of the settee, her fingers turned white with the force of her grip as her nails dug into the fabric of her dress, into the wood of the settee, into her own flesh, whatever she could get a hold of. Her cries, raw and desperate, reverberated through the room. Her silver hair clung to her forehead, damp with sweat, as her vision blurred.

“Princess!” Elinda’s voice attempted to cut through the dense fog of agony enveloping Rhaenyra. She reached out, seemingly hoping to provide a steady comfort, but Rhaenyra recoiled.

With every ounce of strength she could muster, Rhaenyra bore down, her groan resonating through the chamber, a primal sound of effort and desperation. Get out, get out, get out, get out, reverberated incessantly in her mind, a silent plea to the child that seemed to resist every effort to be born. The internal pressure mounted to an unbreakable intensity, compelling her to exert herself further, pushing beyond the limits of her endurance. All she wanted was for this to be over.

Each attempt to expel the child tore at her very being, a physical and emotional ordeal that left her raw. Tears mingled with the sweat on her face, her body shaking with effort. Then, with a gasping breath that punctuated her exertion, a sudden drip of fluid fell on the stone, a prelude to the rush of fluid that had yet to come.

“GET OUT!” Her scream tore through her, her voice wavering as she drew in a breath.

“Princess, please!” Sheran’s plea was laden with a desperate urgency, her hands suspended in mid-air, betraying her desire to comfort her. “You should not do this alone.”

“Please, Princess,” Elinda joined in, her voice thick with emotions, tears welling up in her eyes as she witnessed the relentless struggle of the woman before her. “Let us help you!”

Another scream tore through the air, a primal sound born of pain and despair as she summed what strength she could to expel the child from her womb. The agony was indescribable, a sensation akin to being torn in half. Suddenly, there was a sensation of something giving way inside of her, and an onslaught of fluid erupted, spilling to the floor to form a pool around her knees.

In a moment of instinctual desperation, she reached down, her fingers grazing the emerging crown of the child’s head, slick and startingly real against her touch.

Her surroundings seemed to blur into an indistinct haze as she endured the torturous labor, reality distorting under the weight of her suffering. It felt as though her own body was resisting, or perhaps it was the child within that was still resisting its passage into the world. Every effort to push, to bring the ordeal to an end, seemed to only amplify her agony, as if each contraction frayed and tore at her insides, leaving her with a sense of irrevocable damage.

In the silence that enveloped her strained efforts, her mind whispered fervent prayers, casting her hopes and fears into the void in search of divine intervention, a plea for strength, for safety, for the cry of new life to break the suffocating grip of pain.

Please, she begged internally, let me survive this. Let me be there for my boys. Let me hold my daughter once more, feel her warmth, hear her laughter. Please, don’t let this be my end.

Rhaenyra persisted in her efforts, the intensity of her screams an echo of the agony she was suffering. As she concentrated on the overwhelming sensation of pressure, she clenched her eyes tightly shut, releasing a deep, guttural groan from somewhere within. Summoning every reserve of strength she had left, she pushed with a final, desperate force, and in that moment, she felt the child slip out of her, leaving behind an abrupt emptiness, a void where sharp pangs of pain had once dominated.

The torment gave way to an aching weariness as the pressure that had built up within her finally lifted. She welcomed this relief, her eyelids drooping in exhaustion as she reveled in the respite from the relentless pain.

The silence that seemed to stretch was deafening, forcing Rhaenyra’s eyes to flutter open, her gaze instinctively seeking out the source of her torment and hope. And as her eyes settled on the child, a profound sadness washed over her, her heart twisting painfully in her chest.

The newborn was motionless, cradled in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, its stillness punctuated by the profound silence that hung tenuously in the air. The infant’s appearance was marred by harrowing deformities–limbs twisted in impossible angles, its skin a patchwork of translucence and reptilian scales. From the crown of its head sprouted what seemed chillingly akin to horns, lending a grotesque dragon-like quality to its otherwise human features. The spine, strikingly prominent along its back, tapered into what appeared to be a tail that seemed oddly delicate in the way it curled in on itself.

Amidst the eerie silence, Rhaenyra’s breath shook, her heart thundering in her chest as she lowered herself to the cold, blood-streaked floor. The stains of birth did not deter her as she reached for the child, her movements cautious as she gently unwrapped the umbilical cord from around its neck. With a tenderness born of a mother’s love, she wrapped the baby in the blanket crafted by Daenera for Luke, as if to protect the child from the cruel judgment of the world. Her fingers, trembling with a mix of anguish and love, tenderly explored the child’s deformed cranium, tracing each unnatural ridge and curve with a heartbreaking gentleness.

A wave of weariness washed over her, every breath drawn feeling like an anchor dragging her further into the depths of despair. Holding the silent infant tightly against her chest, she instinctively began to rock back and forth, a low, sorrowful hum emerging from her throat.

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