k. 𓃴

valarr wife. 24. she/her. 𐐪𐑂 ❪ save a dragon, ride targaryen. ❫

[konalis]

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ COMMS OPEN ⋆

18+ THIS BLOG IS NOT FOR MINORS ⟢ some fanfics may include smut content !!

i'm konan ; 24 storms ; latin american ; she/her ⋆˙⟡ in storm's end | ours is the fury... valarr wifeyy !

actual obssession: a knight of the seven kingdoms latest update: VENUS AS A BOY | finn bennett as aerion

⋆ INBOX OPEN, REQS CLOSED.

© 2026 KONALIS / cr: divider @brekkersource

[konalis]

Hii sweets! Do you remember me?

I've only been away for a month and it already feels like it’s been a year; I don’t even know what to write about anymore and all that… (even though I’m low-key obsessed with the Off Campus series because I genuinely think the books are terribly bad).

Catch me up on what you lot are still reading and everything; I want to come back, but I feel completely lost. I’m open to requests too 🫶🏼

[konalis]

absolutely LOVED your latest fic!! could you pls write more finn x (actress!) reader? 💗🫂

Hii anon! 💕

Thank you so much! I was really excited to write something with Finn, and I’m glad you enjoyed the dynamic as well.

I’ll be bringing more one-shots of this kind here, because I ended up enjoying it too haha, so they’ll be posted soon.

[konalis]

ooooh a fic inspired by ethel cain’s crush is soo aerion x reader coded….. hear me out….. 🫣

Hiii anon! 🫶🏼

I heard your wish lol 😝 and the idea already made me want to write something very melting.

I still have a few things to write first, but this one is already noted down. 📝

[konalis]

Thoughts on Baelor x Maekar targest ???

Hii anon! 💜

Well, I really love both Targaryen brothers, and I just can’t see them as a ship or in any kind of romantic relationship with each other.

As much as I try to step away from canon and from the way I’ve always pictured them as loving brothers, I don’t feel comfortable reading or writing anything that involves a relationship between the two of them.

I’d only find it better if it were a throuple, but without the two of them being romantically involved with each other; only each of them with the third person ✨

I hope that makes sense, it came out a bit confusing hehe 🥲

[konalis]

HEY TALENTED MOTHER! WANTED TO ASK IF YOU。WRITE。ABOUT MALE READER OR IF I CAN COMMISSION ABOUT MALE READER X SOMEONE

Hii, bby ! 💕

Yes, you’re absolutely welcome to request a reading with a male reader ☺️ I write with them too, I just haven’t posted any here yet, but there’s no problem at all.

Feel free to request whatever you’d like! 🫶🏼

[konalis]

Hey just wanna ask have you watch 1899 from Netflix?

Hii, anon! 🤎

Yeah, of course! I’m absolutely obsessed with Dark, and when 1899 premiered, I watched it straight away. I completely fell in love with the characters, especially Daniel Solace, who I’m still suffering over to this day lol 🤣 I wish he were my husband.

I was absolutely gutted when they cancelled it. They said they were going to release a book so fans could find out the ending, but I don’t think that’s happening anymore :( It was such a good series.

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY : aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k

notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms.

[wildmustxngs]

I’m in SHOCK this was so good, ATE EVERY WORD UP!!

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY : aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k

notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms.

[eruisdelusional]

Im speechless this is such an amazing fic

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY : aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k

notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms.

[hightowerrose]

READING THIS WHILST LISTENING TO THIS>>>>>>

[konalis]

OMG, YES!!!!!

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY : aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k

notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms.

[asoiaf-things]

so fucking obsessed with this I will be rereading later

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY : aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k

notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms.

[chamomileteah]

I love how his sweet finn side is slipping out 😭💖💖

[konalis]

STOP because the way he can’t help it around her 😭 like no matter how hard he tries to be all intense, that soft sweet finn just has to make an appearance 💗💗

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY : aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k

notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms.

[makiihalyaa]

AAAAAAA OMFGG I LOVEE ITT

[konalis]

Aaaaaaa OMFGG THANK YOU SO MUCH 😭💖 I'M SO GLAD YOU LOVED ITTT!

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ✟ VENUS AS A BOY : aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. — based on this ask.

warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ oral sex (cunnilingus) ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ consensual ⋆ anal play ⋆ intense orgasm ⋆ fluff and smut ⋆ masturb. ⋆ you're not just acting. ⟢ words count: ~11,1k

notes ⟢ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !

⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆

The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.

You’re on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett — no, the weight of Aerion Targaryen — presses your back down against the foam mattress that’s meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isn’t purely the character’s, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.

"I don’t need a dragon, you hear me? I don’t need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finn’s voice blends with Aerion’s in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."

You obey because it’s what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but there’s something underneath that’s entirely human, entirely him, and it’s burning.

The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.

But what you feel — what you can’t ignore — is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.

We’re both covered, you repeat in your head. This is choreographed. This is professional.

He’s wearing an unlaced linen tunic that’s been open since the scene started, and you’re in a silk robe torn at the shoulder — a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerion’s violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, you’ve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you don’t have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.

The first take was a disaster.

The showrunner, Ira, yelled “action” and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him — neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.

On the first take, you laughed.

Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask “are you alright?” with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.

“Sorry,” you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. “We’ll go again.”

The showrunner didn’t complain. Ira’s known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as “calibration.” But you knew — and she knew — that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasn’t just your nerves.

On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.

You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.

And you kissed him back.

With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.

That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.

The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.

You’re on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him — silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but you’re used to it now), sharp features that could’ve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.

"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. That’s not acting. "Please, my prince."

He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isn’t penetration — it can’t be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it — but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve what’s building inside you.

You’re wet.

You’ve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothel’s fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script won’t allow.

He’s hard.

You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and there’s a dampness there — he’s wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.

He’s aroused.

That’s not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "you’re so beautiful" in a way that wasn’t in the script — you knew.

And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. You’re trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because that’s how the script describes it — you’re not acting.

"I’ll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerion’s, but the accent is Finn’s, terrifyingly intimate. "I’ll fill you with my seed, and you’ll thank me for every drop."

Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."

But what you’re really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is: yes, Finn, please, yes.

The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.

Aerion grabs the whore’s head — your head — and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didn’t need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finn’s body against yours.

"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.

You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.

"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, more…"

He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.

And then Finn moans.

It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.

And you're going to spend with him.

You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.

Cut!

Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.

Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.

"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."

You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.

Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.

He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.

"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."

Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.

Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic — the costume he took off at the start of the scene — and drapes it over your shoulders.

The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.

"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."

You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."

That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you — a part you didn't know existed before this scene — wants him to do it again.

A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.

Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.

You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago. Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.

He opens his eyes and finds you looking.

The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.

"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You laugh, a short, nervous sound.

"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."

Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.

"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you were… you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wanted…" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."

"Easy?"

"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."

The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.

So why are you still wet?

The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something — you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs — but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.

"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups — the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions — but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."

"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.

"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."

The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors — past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford — until you reach the trailer block.

You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back — at least not right away — and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.

The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.

"See you in a bit," he says.

"See you in a bit," you reply.

His lips part like he's going to say something — a question, maybe, or a confession — but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.

When you reach the fork in the corridor — individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right — Finn finally looks back again.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it.

You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.

He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.

Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.

The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".

You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.

You're a mess, you think. A complete mess.

Before you can do anything — before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity — someone knocks on the door.

"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"

"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."

The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.

"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."

All the marks.

"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"

You look down and see what they're seeing.

Marks. Bites.

On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts — both of them — there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.

And on your arse...

You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.

"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"

The other one laughs.

"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"

Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.

"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."

"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."

Present. It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.

"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."

You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.

"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."

"That?"

"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of — you change the subject.

"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"

They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.

"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too — it's all out of place after the scene."

She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times — once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.

"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."

You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.

The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.

"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."

You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there — you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin — but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.

But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.

"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."

You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"Thanks."

The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.

"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"

You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling — the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin — and a shiver runs down your spine.

"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."

They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.

"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."

Tense. It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now — the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.

"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.

The silence in the dressing room is deafening.

You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.

But then your eyes land on the script on the table.

You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its — blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.

She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.

He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.

He fingers her. She screams.

The script doesn't say she feels his body shake. It doesn't say she almost comes. It doesn't say she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.

You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.

What are you doing, you ask yourself. What are you feeling.

But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever — the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.

You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.

You look at the mirror and see yourself — the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.

Your hand goes down.

You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.

You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name: Finn, Finn, Finn.

Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.

Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.

You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.

The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.

Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.

He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips. He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...

You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.

The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.

"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.

In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."

What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?

You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.

Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock — you want his cock inside you — thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...

This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch. This is so wrong.

You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.

You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues. You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.

But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.

He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.

And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.

This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop. If he knew...

You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.

The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...

The door opens.

Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.

Finn is standing in the doorway.

He's still in costume — the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...

Your eyes meet his in the mirror.

You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.

You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...

"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."

Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.

"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."

"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice — something low, something rough — that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.

He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.

"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."

The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds like wet. It sounds like ready. It sounds like me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.

"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."

You hold your breath. "What?"

"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."

"Finn…"

"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."

You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.

"Finn, we can't…"

"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."

His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.

"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."

"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.

"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."

The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.

"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.

"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.

"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."

The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes — God, his eyes — are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.

"Finn," you whisper.

"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"

Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn… or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.

You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.

"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit — already sensitive, already throbbing.

"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh — a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.

You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.

"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.

"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit — a light touch, just the tip — and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.

"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, please…"

He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.

"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.

There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure — not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his — one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"

"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing… everything."

He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.

"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."

You grab his wig — the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans — a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.

"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."

You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate — the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.

"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going to…"

"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."

The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat — too loud, too obscene — and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.

He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.

"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."

You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe — his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe — hot, hard, so close.

"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."

You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.

"Then how?" you ask.

"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."

You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.

The robe falls open, and you see.

His cock is beautiful — there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.

"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."

Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans — a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.

"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."

You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.

The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.

"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."

You smile against him — a small, wicked smile — and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.

"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."

But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you — total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.

"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."

You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.

"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need to… please, let me…"

You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.

He thrusts his hips.

It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.

"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like that…"

You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.

"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan — a low sound that vibrates through him.

That's enough.

His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.

You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.

Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between — a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.

You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.

The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth — the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm — and your lower belly clenches in response.

"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.

He understands.

"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."

"But the crew…"

"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only been…" He glances at the clock on the wall — a thing that doesn't even work properly — and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."

You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just… exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.

"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."

His eyes darken.

"What way?"

You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back — nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.

"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."

Finn stays still for a second, just watching.

"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.

He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes — God, his eyes — lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.

Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.

Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.

He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet — he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long — pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."

It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.

"Yes, my prince."

"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze — not yet — but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"

You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.

"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."

"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."

He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement — it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.

"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."

You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.

You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."

But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites — but with teeth, with intent — leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.

"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.

"Wrong," he growls against your skin.

"Aerion," you correct.

"Better."

His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle — he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain — and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, please…"

He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.

"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.

"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."

You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater — a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.

"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."

You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.

"Look at me," he orders.

You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.

"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."

You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building — slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.

"Stop," he orders.

What?

"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.

You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.

"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."

You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.

"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I need…"

"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."

He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.

"On all fours," he orders.

You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you — you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.

"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."

You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.

"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."

Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.

"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"

You do, but there wasn't time for that — you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed — but all you want is for him to fuck you.

He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.

Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.

The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.

"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like that…"

One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.

"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.

"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let me…"

"No."

He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.

"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"

You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.

"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And because…" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."

He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.

"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."

"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking — he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."

He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.

"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, now…"

Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat — his name, Finn or Aerion or both — and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.

He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.

"Where do you want it?"

"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."

He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.

For a long moment, no one moves.

His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.

"Finn," you whisper.

"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."

He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately — an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.

The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.

"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."

You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.

You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.

You nod, unable to form words.

He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there — two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.

"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."

You laugh, almost hysterical.

"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"

He pulls back just enough to look at your face.

"We don't explain," he answers. "We just… go back to set. Finish the takes. And then…" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."

"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."

His smile widens, and he kisses you — almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.

"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."

You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.

When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show — bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.

"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.

He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.

Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.

"Ready?" Finn asks.

"Ready," you lie.

He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.

⋆ tagged : @nqarxne | @marianntorres2611 | @sinarainbows | @ackermour | @ughdontbeboring | @cjafjatkstke | @umadirectioner | @starkleila | @danaaa21 | @quincessimus | @comzetogether | @annetheperfect | @mkatyy | @riin9min | @vigilante24ish | @leclercsainzz | @st4rctic | @zai-targaryen | @iislal | @mariahuwuana

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms.

[comzetogether]

the way i gasped when i saw this on my notifications 😩⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ as always !! well written !! ugh love u moot

[konalis]

GIRL STOP I'M BLUSHING 😩💕 LOVE U MORE MOOT, THIS ONE WAS FOR U!!!

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤDEVIL LIKE ME 2

last chapter.

pairing: aerion 'brightflame' targaryen x stepmom! reader (and x maekar)

content: +18 | smut | obsessive behaviour | cheating | p in v | unhappy marriage | possessiveness | sadistic undertones | power imbalance | unhealty attachment | dubcon | dom aerion | the father and the son want to master you.

summary: having been involved with your husband's son because he never desired you never left your thoughts, but now that Maekar has found out, he wishes to punish her, and as a result, Aerion also makes his decision upon learning that you consummated your marriage.

a/n: I took an immense amount of time to write part two because I was busy with a thousand other ideas, but here it is at last.

Ი𐑼 . . . - main masterlist ❜❜ ٫٫ words count: 9,0K

Days had passed since that night.

Days when you'd wake with Aerion's name on your lips and your body still burning where the wax had marked you. Days when you'd sit at the breakfast table next to Maekar and feel your stepson's eyes on you, always on you, as if he could see right through your dress, through your skin, through all the layers of silk and shame you'd woven between you.

Maekar hadn't noticed a thing… 'course he hadn't.

The prince remained as distant as ever, as cold, as busy with his duties and his books and his legitimate children; the ones he'd had with his dead wife, never with you. He didn't see the marks hidden beneath your skirts, didn't see the way you avoided Aerion's gaze during meals, didn't see the tension settling into your shoulders whenever his son entered a room.

He didn't see 'cause he'd never looked.

And Aerion knew it, and he used that knowledge like a dagger, twirling it slowly between his fingers, admiring the blade's gleam before he struck.

Aegon's name day celebration would happen within a few hours, and all of Summerhall was getting ready for the feast, but first came the lunch, just the family, a prelude to the festivities that'd follow after nightfall.

You'd sat down next to Maekar, as always, and tried to focus on the salmon swimming in saffron sauce on your plate. The fish was cold, or maybe hot, you couldn't tell anymore, not with Aerion sat right across from you, five places down, carving a pomegranate with the same dagger he'd used at the dinner where they'd served boar.

Pomegranate.

The fruit seemed to haunt you.

Aerion bit into the seeds slowly, red juice dripping down his long fingers, staining his lips, and he watched you as he chewed, as he swallowed, as his tongue licked the ruby remnants from his mouth.

Next to you, Maekar argued with Daeron about taxes, maybe, or lands, or some other dull matter that didn't require your input. You thanked the gods silently for that — for not having to pretend interest, for being able to concentrate on not trembling under that gaze.

Aerion.

He tilted his head, slightly, like a dog scenting fear. Those violet eyes travelled across your face, down to your neck, to the pearl choker covering the teeth marks he'd left there, then back up again.

His lips moved, forming one word.

Mine.

You looked away.

Your hands, resting on the table, clenched into fists hidden beneath the embroidered cloth. You breathed deep, counted to ten, tried to remember what life had been like before Aerion, before his hands, before his mouth, before his taste on your tongue.

You couldn't… you couldn't remember anymore.

"The lady looks pale."

Aerion's voice cut through the table's murmur and you looked up. He wasn't eating the pomegranate anymore; now his fingers were wiping the juice on the tablecloth, leaving ruby stains that looked like blood.

"Does the salmon not please you?" he went on, tilting his head with that false concern only he could fake so well. "Shall I call a servant? Have something else made? A lamb, perhaps? Something sweeter... a fruit, maybe?"

Pomegranate.

"I'm fine," you answered, and your voice sounded braver than you felt. "Just not hungry."

"Ah." Aerion rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers under his chin, and his eyes gleamed with a malice no one else at the table seemed to notice. "But a woman must eat, stepmother. Especially a woman hoping to... fill out, shall we say."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Daella dropped her fork, Rhae went crimson to the ears, Valarr coughed, clearly uncomfortable, and Maekar finally looked up from his wine cup.

"What do you mean by that, Aerion?"

"Nothing, Father." The word was said with such perfect, natural disdain that it sounded like an insult. "I only remarked that my stepmother seems... different, of late. Lovelier. More... full."

Full.

The word echoed in everyone's mind around that table, loaded with double meanings Aerion made no effort to hide.

"A son's eyes see what a father's cannot," he added, and his eyes met yours again. "Or will not."

Maekar shoved his chair back.

"Aerion."

"Father." The reply came in the same tone. "I'm merely complimenting my stepmother. Is it forbidden now to praise a woman? Or is the problem that the praise comes from me?"

The whole table went tense, even the servants had stopped moving, wine jugs suspended mid-air. You looked at Maekar, who seemed to be starting to rage, and the hands that'd never touched you were clenched into fists on the table, his knuckles white with strain.

"Your place is five seats down from mine," Maekar said, and each word seemed to splinter from his teeth. "Remember that."

"I remember." Aerion tilted his head, and the movement was so graceful, so serpentine, it reminded you of a dragon preparing to strike. "I remember my place, Father. I remember every slight, every harsh word, every time you called me mad or an abomination for wanting what's owed to me."

He stood up and stepped behind his chair. You felt the heat of his body before you saw him, felt his closeness like a flame nearing your skin without yet touching it.

"And what's owed to you, brother?" asked Daeron, who'd watched in silence till then. His voice was calm, but there was a warning in it that only fools would ignore.

Aerion smiled.

"Everything."

His hands landed on the back of your chair. You felt his fingers brush your shoulders, and you shuddered.

"But for now," he went on, leaning down till his lips nearly grazed your ear, "I'm content with little. Just my stepmother's attention, since she seems so... interested in me as I am in her."

"Enough!"

Maekar stood up with such force that his chair toppled backwards, echoing on the stone like thunder. His face, usually impassive, was overtaken by a fury you'd never seen — a fury not directed at you, but at the provocation, at the humiliation, at the truth Aerion hinted at without ever speaking aloud.

"Come with me," he ordered, and his hand gripped your wrist hard enough to leave marks.

You didn't resist. You couldn't. Not when Aerion laughed softly behind you, that low, metallic laugh that'd haunt you till the end of your days.

"Enjoy yourselves," he said, as Maekar dragged you from the hall. "I'll wait for you at the feast. Don't be late... it'd be a shame for Aegon to miss his parents on his special day."

The doors closed behind you, but the laugh kept echoing in your mind, in your blood, in every inch of your skin that Aerion had marked as his.

Maekar didn't say a word as he dragged you through the corridors. Didn't say anything as you climbed the stairs, as you crossed the anterooms, as you finally reached the chambers you shared... if you could call that sharing.

Only when the door closed behind you, when the bolt slid into place with a click, did he let you go. And then, finally, he looked at you.

"What's between you and my son?"

The question was direct, without the slightest courtesy. Maekar didn't circle around it, didn't measure his words, didn't give you the comfort of an easy lie.

"Nothing," you answered, and your heart was beating so fast you swore he could hear it.

"Don't lie to me." He stepped forward, and you stepped back — one, two steps — till your back hit the cold wood of the door. "I saw how he looked at you. I saw how you tremble when he gets near. I saw the marks on your neck."

Your hands flew instinctively to your pearl choker, but it was too late. Maekar had already seen. Maybe he'd always seen, and had only chosen to ignore it till Aerion's provocation grew too big to ignore.

"They're nothing," you lied again, and you hated yourself for how your voice shook.

Maekar stepped closer. Now you were so close you could feel the heat of his body, could see the small wrinkles around his eyes, could count every silver strand in his hair.

"Take off the choker."

"Maekar…"

"Take off the choker or I'll take it off myself."

Your hands shook as you reached for the back of your neck, as you undid the clasp, as the pearls spilled through your fingers like white tears. The choker fell to the floor with a soft sound, and the silence that followed was deafening. Maekar looked at the marks on your neck. Bites. Bruises. The undeniable proof that another man had been there, that another man had touched you, that another man had claimed you as his.

"How many nights?" The question came out low, controlled, but there was something you'd never seen in Maekar; something that wasn't coldness, wasn't indifference, wasn't the resignation of a man who no longer cared.

It was jealousy. It was wounded pride.

"Maekar, I can explain…"

"Explain what?" He laughed, and the sound was so bitter it hurt to hear. "That while I slept alone in my chambers, my own son…"

"You didn't sleep alone." The truth escaped before you could stop it. "You slept away from me by choice, 'cause you don't want me, 'cause you never wanted me, 'cause you told me plain as day I'd never be your dead wife!"

Maekar stepped back half a pace, and for the first time since entering the room, he looked uncertain.

"She's dead," you went on, and now the anger you'd held in for months, for years, finally spilled out. "She's dead, Maekar, and I'm alive. I'm here! in your bed, in your castle, under your name. And you... you'd rather have a woman rotting in the ground than touch the wife the gods gave you."

"How dare you…"

"Dare what?" You moved away from the door, and now it was you stepping forward, pressing him, finally saying everything you'd kept silent. "Speak the truth? Tell you that your son touched me where you never did? Reveal that he made me feel more wanted in one night than you made me feel in our whole marriage?"

Maekar's hand rose, and for a moment, you thought he'd hit you, but no. His hand closed around your arm, pulled you against his body, and his lips found yours in a kiss that wasn't love, wasn't desire, wasn't anything you'd dreamed of in the lonely nights when he slept with his back to you.

It was possession.

It was the fury of a man who, even without wanting you, couldn't stand the thought that another man had had you.

The kiss was hard, almost cruel — lips pressing against yours hard enough to hurt. His beard scraped your skin, and when he finally pulled back, his eyes were as dark as Aerion's had been on the night it all began.

"Undress."

"What?"

"Undress," he repeated, and there was no love in his voice. Just order, command, the demand of a husband who'd finally decided to exercise his rights. "You're going to consummate this marriage. Now. Here."

"Why?" you asked, anger rising. "'Cause your son touched me first? 'Cause the thought that he had me wounds your pride?"

Maekar didn't answer, his hands were already working at the laces of your dress, pulling, tearing, destroying the seamstresses' hours of work.

"'Cause you're mine," he said at last, when the dress fell at your feet and you stood before him in your slip and nothing more. "By right. By contract. By the gods and by men. You're my wife, and I'm going to make sure everyone knows it."

"Everyone, no," you answered, and then it was your turn to laugh a bitter, tired laugh. "Just you. 'Cause I was never yours, Maekar. Never. You never wanted me, never touched me, never looked at me like a man looks at his wife."

He stopped.

"The marks on your neck," he said slowly. "The bites. The bruises. It was him, wasn't it?"

You didn't answer.

"How many nights?" he pressed. "How many times did my own son…"

"Enough to know," you went on, 'cause you were at rock bottom and there was no reason to stop now, "what it's like to be touched by a man who truly wants me. Enough to know that there are men, even madmen, who look at me like I'm a feast, not a burden."

Maekar stepped forward, his hands grabbed your shoulders, shoved you against the door, and his body pressed against yours with a force that stole your breath.

"You want to be desired?" he snarled, his hot breath burning on your face. "That what you want? To be touched like a piece of meat?"

"I want," the word escaped before you could think, "to be desired by my husband. I want the man who took me as his wife to truly want me. I want…"

"You'll get what you want," Maekar cut in, and then his hands went down, tore your slip, bared your naked body before him. "But you won't like it. 'Cause I'm not my son. I'm not soft, I'm not sweet, I won't fool you with pretty words while I tear your dress off."

He pulled you by the hair — just like Aerion had done — and you hated how your body responded, how your cunt grew wet, how your nipples hardened under Maekar's gaze.

"I'm going to fuck you," he said, and the word sounded strange in his mouth, almost out of place, like he wasn't used to saying it. "I'm going to fuck you till you forget my son's name. Till you remember nothing but my weight on top of you. Till your body knows, without a doubt, who you belong to."

He threw you on the bed.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't like Aerion, who'd guided you with firm but careful hands, who'd put you on your knees with something close to reverence. Maekar just shoved you, and you fell onto the sheets, your breath caught, your naked body exposed to the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

He didn't undress in a hurry.

There was no seduction in his movements, just efficiency. When he came to the bed, you saw the desire in his eyes, but it was a strange, twisted desire, born not of attraction but of the need to prove something. To himself. To you. To Aerion.

"Turn over," he ordered.

"What?"

"Turn over. I want you on all fours. Like a bitch."

The shame burned on your face, on your chest, on every inch of your skin. But you obeyed. 'Cause part of you — the part Aerion had woken, the part that craved being desired, even if in the worst possible way — wanted to see how far Maekar would go.

Wanted to know if he was capable of cruelty.

Wanted to know if he was capable of being, even for a moment, the husband you'd always wanted.

The bed creaked under his weight. You felt his knees between yours, spreading your legs, exposing your wet cunt to the room's cold air. And then you felt his fingers — rough, calloused from the sword — tracing your back, down the curve of your spine, finding the path between your arse cheeks.

"You're already wet," he observed. "Was it for him? Did you get wet thinking about my son?"

"No," you lied.

But his fingers found the entrance to your cunt.

"Liar," he spat, and then his fingers moved away, and you heard his breathing change, felt his weight shift over you.

The first thrust went wrong, his cock grazing your thigh instead of finding its mark. The second was surer, the head pressing at your cunt, and you held your breath.

"You're going to feel this," Maekar promised, and then he pushed.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't like Aerion. Maekar just pushed deep, all at once, like a man driving a sword into an enemy. The cry that escaped your lips was surprise, pain, a pleasure so sudden it hurt. He was different from Aerion — thicker, maybe, or maybe it was just the angle, the position, the lack of preparation — but your husband didn't wait for you to adjust.

He started moving straight away, hard thrusts, rhythmic, that made the bed bang against the wall. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, and he pulled you against him with each stroke, like he wanted to bury himself even deeper, like he wanted to merge with you.

"Yes," he groaned. "Yes. Now you know. Now you know what it's like."

Your hands fisted in the sheets, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short gasps. Maekar fucked you like a man possessed, like a man who'd woken from a long sleep and found his wife in another's bed. There was no tenderness in him, no care, just a raw, hungry need that bordered on violence.

And God help you... you wanted it.

You'd wanted it for so long. Wanted your husband to look at you like this, to touch you like this, to take you like this. Not the cold courtesy he'd shown you since your wedding night, not the distant respect he gave a stranger sharing his roof, but this... this brutal, honest, desperate claiming.

"Maekar," you gasped.

"Say my name again," he growled, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. "Say it. I want to hear it from those lips he kissed. I want to know you know who's fucking you."

"Maekar!"

Your body tightened around him, not from your peak, not yet, but from the shock of it, from the strangeness of having him inside you after so long of having nothing. He felt it, and his hand snaked around your hip, found your clit, and started rubbing in rough circles that made you see stars.

"That's it," he grunted. "That's it. You're going to come for me. You're going to come on my cock like a good wife. And then you're going to forget he ever touched you."

His fingers pressed harder, moved faster, matching the rhythm of his hips. Your body was no longer your own, it was a storm of sensation, of heat, of pleasure building like a wave about to break. You heard yourself moaning, felt your cunt clenching around him, felt the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

"Come," Maekar ordered, and his voice was raw, desperate. "Come now."

And you did.

Your body arched, your mouth opened in a silent scream, and the wave crashed over you; pleasure so intense it was almost pain, pleasure that blotted out everything but the feeling of your husband's cock buried inside you, of his fingers on your clit, of his body pressing you down into the sheets.

Maekar kept moving through your peak, his thrusts growing more erratic, more desperate. You felt him thicken inside you, felt his movements grow shorter, more frantic, and knew he was close.

"I'm going to come inside you," he warned, his voice almost a growl. "I'm going to fill you with my seed. You're going to get pregnant. You're going to give me a son. You're going to…"

"Maekar."

The voice wasn't yours; it came from the other side of the door, muffled but clearly male. Daeron.

"Father, everyone's waiting for you. Aegon's asked for you three times now. The celebration's about to start."

Prince Daeron, the heir, the king's favourite and who was now just outside the door, just a few yards away, while his father… Maekar stopped. His body was tense over yours, his cock still buried inside you, his breath ragged against your neck.

"Not now," he answered, his voice hoarse, strained.

"Grandfather insists." Daeron sounded uncomfortable (and who wouldn't be?) "He says he won't start without you. That it's your son's name day, and you ought to be there."

You felt Maekar hesitate, felt his body fight against reason, against duty, against everything he was as a prince and a father. And then, slowly, he pulled back. His cock slipped out of you with an obscene sound, and the room's cold air hit your wet, exposed, throbbing cunt. You felt his seed dripping down your thighs, 'cause he hadn't finished, not completely, and you wouldn't have his child tonight.

"Go," Maekar said at last. "Tell your brother we'll be along."

You heard footsteps retreating, then silence once more.

You stayed on your knees on the bed, your body still trembling from the remnants of your peak, your mind spinning with thoughts you couldn't organise. Maekar moved away, sat on the edge of the bed, his back to you.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "And don't say a word about what happened here."

"Maekar…"

"Not a word."

He stood up, started dressing in sharp, jerky movements; like he could erase what had happened just by covering his own body.

"And your son?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. "What'll you do about Aerion?"

Maekar stopped, one hand on the clasp of his trousers.

"He'll be sent away," he said, and now his voice was terribly, irrevocably calm. "As soon as the celebration's over. Tonight, before dawn. He'll go to Lys, or maybe Myr, or to the edge of the world if the gods are kind. It doesn't matter. What matters is he won't stay here."

"Why?"

"'Cause you're my wife." He finally turned to look at you. "And I won't have him near you. Not anymore. Not after this."

"And then?" you asked. "After he's sent away? What'll become of us?"

Maekar stepped closer, and for a moment you thought he'd touch you — but no. His hands stayed at his sides, clenched into fists.

"Then we'll try," he said. "We'll try to have a child. We'll try to be husband and wife. We'll try to... build something."

"And if we can't?"

"Then," Maekar answered, and his gaze slid away, "you'll have no choice but to accept what I give you. 'Cause he won't return. And even if he did... he won't be the same."

He turned away, grabbed his cloak, and headed for the door.

"Get dressed," he repeated. "Aegon's waiting."

The door opened and closed, and you were left alone in the room that smelled of sex and tears, your body still marked by the hands of two men.

Aegon's name day feast took place in the gardens of Summerhall, beneath a sky that was starting to darken, speckled with the first stars. You arrived late — Maekar was already there, greeting guests as if nothing had happened, as if his seed wasn't still trickling down your thighs — and you were met by a whirlwind of smiling faces and cups of sweet wine.

But there was one face not among the crowd. You looked for him through the guests, through the tables covered with delicacies, through the musicians tuning their instruments, and you couldn't find him anywhere.

Until you felt that gaze burning on the back of your neck like the wax on the night it all began. You turned slowly, and there he was — leaning against a distant column, away from the lights and the music, a cup of wine in his hand and that crooked smile on his lips.

Aerion wasn't dressed for the feast.

He wore a dark tunic, almost black, which made his silver hair shine like a beacon in the twilight. Those pale eyes were fixed on you — only on you — and when your gazes met, he raised his cup in a toast.

Cheers, his lips formed.

You looked away.

You found Maekar in the middle of the crowd, talking with Daeron, his face as serious as ever. For a moment, you thought about going to him, about grabbing his arm, about pretending everything was fine — but your feet wouldn't move. And when you looked back at the column, Aerion had vanished as if he'd never been there.

Night fell completely, and the torches were lit, turning the gardens into a sea of dancing lights. The children ran between the tables, laughing, while the adults drank and danced to the musicians' songs. You danced with Aegon, who barely reached your shoulders and already showed the grace of a true Targaryen, then with Valarr, then with Daeron, who was polite and distant as always.

Maekar didn't dance with you.

Until, in the middle of a waltz, you felt a hand on your waist that didn't belong to your dance partner.

"Excuse me," Aerion said to the knight you were dancing with — some stupid young man from a minor house — and he dismissed him with such a cold look that the lad practically fled.

Then he pulled you to him.

"Where were you?" he asked, as he led you in a dance that wasn't the one the musicians were playing.

"With your father," you answered, and saw his eyes narrow.

Aerion's hand tightened on your waist hard enough to hurt, even through the velvet and silk of your feast-day dress — a dress you'd chosen carefully for that night, low-cut enough to attract but not enough to scandalise, black and lilac like the eyes the dragon didn't have.

"I know you were with him. I know what he did."

It wasn't a question, but you answered anyway.

"Yes."

The musicians played a cheerful song, one of those melodies that invited laughter and carefree spinning, but Aerion led you with precise steps, and each time he made you turn, his eyes travelled across your body as if he could see right through your dress.

"And did you like it?" he asked. His voice was low, just for you, but there was something in it that made you shiver. "Did you like having my father inside you?"

"It was..."

"It was what?" He pulled you closer, so close your bodies nearly touched, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him like a dragon. "Was it better than with me? Did he make you scream his name like you screamed mine?"

You looked away.

"Look at me."

You didn't obey.

His hand left your waist, found your chin, forced your face up with a gentleness that was more threatening than any violence. Those violet eyes — almost black in the torchlight — burned with an intensity that stole your breath.

"I told you to look at me."

So you looked.

"He didn't finish," you said, and saw surprise cross Aerion's face before he mastered it. "He... heard your brother outside. Daeron. And he stopped."

"Stopped?" The word came out as a whisper, and then Aerion laughed. "My father stopped in the middle of the act? My father, the great Prince Maekar, the man of duty and honour, couldn't finish what he started?"

"He's going to send you away," you went on. "Tonight. Before dawn. He said he'd send you to Lys, or to Myr, or to the edge of the world."

The dance carried you to a more secluded part of the garden, where the shadows of the trees stretched like skeletal fingers over the grass. Aerion stopped dancing, but he didn't let you go. His hands stayed on your waist, and his eyes examined you as if reading every thought on your face.

"And you?" he asked at last. "Do you want me to go?"

"My place is here."

"Your place," he repeated, and then his hands went up, found your face, and his thumbs traced the outline of your lips with tenderness. "is beside me. It always was. From the moment I first saw you, from the moment you walked into this castle in that awful dress your mother picked and that frightened look you thought you hid so well."

"I was just a girl."

"You were." He tilted his head, making him look younger, more vulnerable, more human than you'd ever seen him. "You were a frightened girl who got sold to a man who didn't want her. And now you're a woman who's going to be had by two men in the same day, and neither of them asked you what you wanted."

"People don't ask women what they want."

"People don't," he agreed. "But I do."

His hands were still on your face, his thumbs still tracing slow circles on your lips, and you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.

"What do you want?" Aerion whispered. "Not what you should want, not what they expect of you, not what's proper or right or acceptable. What you want, truly, at the bottom of your soul where no one else sees?"

The word formed in your mind, on your tongue, in every cell of your body — but you didn't say it. You couldn't. Saying it would make real what was still just a dream — a nightmare, maybe, but one you didn't want to wake from.

"I want to go with you."

"What?"

"Take me with you."

"Where?"

"To Pentos. To the Free Cities. Anywhere but here." The words spilled out now, a flood you couldn't stop. "I can't stay, Aerion. Not after today. Not after him. If I stay, I'll spend the rest of my life in that bed, letting him use me whenever his pride gets bruised, and I'll grow old and bitter and I'll hate him and I'll hate you and I'll hate myself most of all."

"And what would we do in Pentos?" he asked, and his voice was strange — cautious, like a man afraid to hope.

"Whatever we want." You reached up, touched his face, felt the slight roughness of his jaw beneath your fingers. "You said you have friends there. Men who don't care about names or titles or who a woman should or shouldn't fuck. Men who owe you favours, and who'll pay those favours with gold and safety and a ship that'll take us anywhere we want to go."

"You're mad."

"I'm mad," he smiled, and the smile was as beautiful and as terrible as you could imagine. "And you're desperate, and together we're the most dangerous combination Westeros has ever seen."

His hands left your face, went down your arms, found your hands.

"My father consummated the marriage," he said. "That means, in the eyes of gods and men, you're his. Forever."

The blow struck true, and you felt the weight of his words like a knot in your stomach.

"But no one saw," Aerion added. "No one knows. It happened behind closed doors, with no witnesses, no septon, no blood on the sheet that fools demand to prove what did or didn't happen."

"Maekar knows."

"Maekar won't tell. What would he say? That he finally decided to fuck his own wife after years of neglect, and that he did it 'cause he was jealous of his son? That's not consummation, that's... weakness. Shame. Things my father will never admit."

You knew he was right, and you hated it. Hated how Aerion could see through people, how he could find the crack in every suit of armour, the weak spot in every heart.

"The marriage can be annulled," he went on, and each word was a hammer blow, forging something new from the wreckage of your life. "It wasn't witnessed. There was no blood. No proof. Maekar can shout from the rooftops that he had you, but without proof, it's just his word against yours."

"And why would anyone believe me over a prince's word?"

"'Cause I'll be at your side." Aerion lifted one of your hands, brought it to his lips, and kissed your knuckles with a reverence that made you shudder. "'Cause I'm a prince too, no matter how much my father likes to forget. 'Cause I have friends in places that matter, and enemies in places my father can't even imagine. 'Cause..."

He hesitated, and for the first time since you'd known him, you saw uncertainty in his eyes.

"'Cause I can give you a child," he said quietly. "Not tonight, not tomorrow, but when the time comes, when we're safe, when no one can part us. I can give you a child, an heir — someone who'll be yours truly, not by marriage or by duty, but 'cause I'll put them inside you with my own hands, with my own mouth, with every part of me that burns when I touch you."

"You're asking me to leave everything behind."

"I'm asking you to choose something," he corrected. "For the first time in your life, I'm asking you to choose. Not what you've been told to choose. Not what's expected or safe or sensible. What you want."

The feast went on around them, and you could hear Aegon's laugh, Maekar's deep voice giving some toast, the clinking of cups and the sound of stolen kisses in the dark corners of the garden.

"If I go," you said at last, "I can never come back."

"If you stay," Aerion answered, "you'll never be free."

He let you go, stepped back, and you felt the lack of his warmth immediately — like someone had pulled a blanket off you on a winter's night.

"I have a carriage waiting at the rear gate," he said. "My father thinks he's sending me into exile tonight, but it's me who's leaving of my own will. I'll take what's mine."

"And what's yours?"

His eyes met yours.

"You."

The silence stretched between you, full of everything unsaid, of all the nights you'd dreamed of something you dared not name, of all the touches given and received in the shadows.

"I have to..." you began, but you didn't know how to finish that sentence.

"Think," said Aerion. "But don't think too long. The carriage waits till midnight. After that... after that, I'll be alone on the road to Pentos, and you'll be alone in my father's bed, letting him fuck you whenever his pride aches."

He turned and started walking, his steps silent on the grass.

"Aerion."

He stopped, but didn't turn.

"Where do I find you?"

The question escaped before you could think, and you saw his shoulders tense beneath the dark tunic.

"East corridor," he answered. "The one leading to the abandoned tower. Midnight."

"What if I don't come?"

"Then," he said, and finally turned around, "I'll know you've made your choice. And I'll respect it. In my own way."

He was gone before you could reply, disappearing into the shadows of the trees as if he'd never been there at all.

The next few hours were a blur.

You danced more, drank more, smiled more than you'd ever smiled in your whole life. You talked with Aegon about his toy dragons, with Daella about her plans to marry a knight in shining armour, with Rhae about the books she read in secret. You pretended nothing was wrong, that nothing had changed, that your body wasn't a battlefield where two men had waged war.

Maekar watched you from afar, but he didn't come near. Maybe he felt ashamed of what he'd done, or maybe he just didn't know what to say. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

At eleven, you said your goodbyes.

You said you were tired, that your head hurt, that you needed to lie down before the wine took too strong an effect. Maekar just nodded, distant as ever, and went back to talking with Daeron about matters that didn't need you there.

You climbed the stairs towards your chambers, and inside the room, you closed the door, slid the bolt across, and then... then you just stood there in the middle of the chamber, looking around as if seeing that furniture for the first time. The bed where Maekar had fucked you hours before, the sheets still rumpled, the damp patch where your body had been. The vanity where you sat every morning so the maids could do your hair. The wardrobe with dresses you'd never asked for, jewels you'd never worn, shoes that pinched your feet.

Nothing there had ever been yours.

The button on your dress was fake pearl, and you tore it off with your teeth, spitting it on the floor like a pomegranate seed. The dress fell at your feet, and you stepped on it as you walked to the wardrobe.

You took nothing.

Just your underthings — a tight corset, wool stockings, and leather boots that'd seen better days. No jewels, no gold, nothing that could be traced or remembered — just yourself. And the dagger you'd found in Maekar's drawer, one night when you'd been looking for something to cut the laces of a dress. A hunting dagger — short, curved blade, a handle of bone blackened by time. You hid it in your boot and felt the cold metal against your shin like a promise.

Midnight.

The castle was silent — the guests had left, the children were asleep, the servants had gone to their beds. You opened the chamber door, peered down the corridor, and saw no one.

You took the back stairs, the ones the servants used, the ones no one remembered were there. The east corridor was the darkest in the castle, the one leading to the abandoned tower where they said a Targaryen had gone mad centuries ago. The torches were out, and you went forward blindly — one hand on the wall to guide you, the other on the dagger hidden in your boot.

"I knew you'd come."

The voice came from the darkness, and then hands grabbed you, pulled you against a warm body, and lips found yours in a kiss of possession — one of hunger, of a man who'd waited too long and couldn't bear the wait any longer.

Aerion.

He kissed you like he wanted to devour you, like he wanted to suck your soul out through your lips, like the world would end that night and he needed every moment. His hands roamed your body with an urgency that stole your breath, finding the curves the dress had hidden, the places he already knew so well.

"You said you consummated the marriage," he murmured against your mouth, and then shoved you against the stone wall, his body pressing into yours, his erection evident even through his clothes. "You said my father was inside you."

"Yes."

"Then you'll pay for it," he snarled. "You'll pay for every inch of you he touched. Every moan he pulled from you. Every drop of pleasure you felt in his arms."

"That's not fair. You…"

"Fair?" He laughed, and the laugh echoed in the dark corridor. "There's no justice here, my sweet stepmother. Just me and you and what I want to do with you."

His hands grabbed your slip, tearing it from neck to hem, baring your naked body under the faint moonlight coming through a distant window. You heard his breathing change, heard the low groan that escaped his lips as his eyes travelled over your marks — Aerion's bites still red on your neck, Maekar's fingers bruising your hips.

"Look at you," he whispered. "All marked. All used. All mine."

"You weren't there."

"I was." He kissed you again, and then his hands went down, found your cunt, and his fingers slid through it with a familiarity that made you moan. "I was there in thought, in spirit. And now I'm here — in flesh and bone — and I'll do more than my father could ever dream of."

He turned you around, forcing you against the wall, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding your ear.

"I'm going to fuck your arse," he said, and the word sounded obscene, forbidden, delicious. "To punish you. For being disobedient. For letting another man touch you. For forgetting — even for a moment — that you belong to me."

"Please," you heard yourself moan, the plea escaping before you could stop it.

"Please, what?"

"Please punish me."

Aerion groaned — a guttural, animal sound that vibrated through his body against yours. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, and you felt his fingers dig into your skin, pulling you back against him.

"That what you want?" he asked. "Want me to fuck you hard? To fill you till you can't remember your own name? To make you forget there was ever another man besides me?"

"Yes. Yes, please, Aerion — yes."

He let you go for a moment — just long enough to hear the sound of his trousers being undone — and then his hands were back, pulling at your hips, positioning you exactly where he wanted.

"Just so we're clear," he said, and now his voice was terribly calm, "this isn't about pleasure. This is about punishment. It'll hurt. You'll cry. You'll beg me to stop, and I won't stop. I'll keep going till you're so full of me you can't think of anything else."

"I just want you to fill me."

The words came out before you could think, and you heard Aerion's low laugh behind you.

"And you will be," he promised. "But first…"

The first thing you felt was his finger — cold, slick with spit — pressing at the entrance of your arse. You held your breath, your body tense, your hands pressing against the stone wall in front of you.

"Relax," Aerion ordered. "Or it'll hurt more."

"How can I relax when…"

The finger pushed in, and the sentence died on your lips. It wasn't like when he'd done it that first night — back then it'd been slow, careful, almost reverent. Now it was different. Now there was haste, there was hunger, there was a deliberate cruelty in every movement.

"You're so tight," he murmured. "So tight, so hot, so... untouched. No one's touched you here, have they? Not your husband, not anyone else. Just me."

"Just you," you agreed, and your voice came out shaky, broken.

"Good girl." The praise was a whisper, and then a second finger joined the first, and you moaned. "You'll like this. In the end, you'll like it. You'll beg for more. You'll cry when I stop."

"I won't…"

"You will."

He moved his fingers, stretching you, preparing you, and every movement was a delicious torture. You felt every inch, every knuckle, every nail scraping your inner walls, and you hated how your body responded — how your cunt grew wet, how your nipples hardened against the cold stone.

"You're ready now," Aerion said finally, pulling his fingers out. "Do you want it? Want me to fuck you now?"

"Yes."

"Yes, who?"

"Yes, Aerion. Please, Aerion. Fuck me."

He didn't wait any longer. The head of his cock pressed at the entrance of your arse — bigger than his fingers, much bigger — and you held your breath, your whole body tense, waiting for the pain that'd surely come.

And it came.

Aerion pushed in slowly, with a patience that contrasted with everything he'd said. His mouth was on your shoulder — kissing, biting, distracting. His hands were on your hips — firm but not brutal. And then he was inside you, buried to the hilt, and you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.

"There," he whispered. "Now you're mine. Truly. Not just in name, not just by right. Mine."

"Yours," you repeated, and the word came out on a moan.

He started to move.

At first it was slow — meant to give the most pleasure with the least pain — but you didn't want slow. Didn't want what he was giving you.

"Harder," you begged. "Please, harder."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

The first hard thrust made you scream — a sharp sound that echoed in the dark corridor. The second was harder, the third harder still, and then Aerion stopped holding back.

He fucked you with a ferocity that stole your breath — each stroke shoving you against the stone wall, each movement sending shockwaves through your body. His hands were on your hips, pulling you back against him, and you could hear the obscene sounds of his flesh meeting yours, could feel the sweat dripping down your skin, could taste the blood on your lips where you'd bitten them to keep from screaming.

"Scream," Aerion ordered. "I want everyone to hear. I want my father to hear, wherever he is. I want him to know you're being fucked by me — that you're moaning for me, that you're coming for me."

"I'm not…"

His hand found your clit, and the sentence died on your lips.

"You'll come," he said, and his fingers moved in quick, relentless circles. "You'll come right now, with me inside you, and you'll scream my name when you do."

"I can't…"

"You can."

The orgasm hit you sudden, violent, overwhelming. Your body arched, your mouth opened in a scream that was his name, and for a moment there was nothing but pure, liquid, incandescent pleasure.

Aerion kept moving inside you — his thrusts growing more frantic, more desperate. You felt him thicken, felt his movements grow shorter, and knew he was close.

"Where?" he asked, his voice a growl.

"Inside," you answered. "Please, inside."

"You'll carry my child?"

"Yes."

"You'll be the mother of my heir?"

"Yes."

"Then take it."

He came with a muffled groan into your shoulder — his body trembling against yours, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You felt him spill inside you — hot, abundant, his seed dripping down your thighs — and you closed your eyes, savouring the feeling of being so completely, so irredeemably filled.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Aerion pulled back, and the cold air hit your throbbing, empty arse, and you moaned at the loss.

"Come," he said, and his voice was strangely soft. "The carriage is waiting."

The carriage was black, no crests, no markings to identify it. Two black horses chewed their bits impatiently, and a hooded coachman held the reins without looking at you.

"Get in," Aerion ordered, and you obeyed without thinking.

The carriage's interior was bigger than it looked from outside — benches padded with dark velvet, silk curtains blocking the view outside, a small oil lamp casting dancing shadows on the walls. There was a wicker basket on the floor, covered with a cloth, and you could smell bread and cheese and something sweeter.

Aerion climbed in after you and closed the door with a click. The coachman clicked his reins, and the carriage started moving; jolting over the cobblestones of the rear courtyard.

"Where are we going?"

"To a ship," Aerion answered, sitting on the opposite bench. "Anchored in a cove two hours from here. It'll take us to Pentos, with a stop at Tyrosh if the wind isn't favourable."

"And after Pentos?"

"After…" He tilted his head. "After, we'll see. Maybe we'll stay. Maybe we'll keep going."

The carriage picked up speed, and you felt every stone in the road, every jolt, every turn. Aerion kept watching you — his eyes gleaming in the lamplight's gloom.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered.

"What?"

"Take off your clothes," he repeated, and there was nothing soft in his voice. "I want you naked."

"Aerion, we just…"

"We just started." He leaned forward, and his fingers found the lace of your torn slip. "My father fucked you. I fucked you. But we're not done yet. I haven't shown you what it truly means to be mine."

The slip fell away, and you were naked before him — sitting on the velvet bench, the teeth and finger marks covering your body like a map of conquered territories.

"Come here," he called, patting his thigh. "Come sit on my lap."

You obeyed — sliding off the bench, kneeling across his legs. He was still dressed — dark tunic, leather trousers, tall boots — and the contrast between your nakedness and his clothing made you feel exposed, vulnerable, aroused.

"You'll learn," Aerion said, and his hands roamed your body with a slowness that made you shiver. "You'll learn that I'm your god now. Your religion. Your only reason for living. You'll wake every day thinking of me, and you'll sleep every night with my taste on your tongue."

"I already think of you."

"You'll think more." He pulled you closer, and you felt his erection against your thigh. "You'll think of me so much you'll forget your own name. You'll dream of me. You'll moan for me in your sleep. You'll…"

"I already dream of you."

"You dream of me?" he asked, and for the first time since getting into the carriage, his voice sounded uncertain.

"Every night," you confessed. "Since that first time. Since the boar. Since the pomegranate. I dream of your hands, of your mouth, of your… of your smell. I wake up wet, Aerion. I wake with your name on my lips and my fingers between my legs."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me." He leaned back on the bench, and his eyes gleamed with a fire that promised to consume you. "Show me how you touch yourself when you think of me."

Your hands shook as they went down, as they found the way between your legs, as your fingers parted, revealing your swollen, wet, throbbing cunt.

"Like this," you whispered, and started touching yourself slowly — one finger sliding through your folds, finding your clit, tracing slow circles. "Like this I think of you. Like this… like this I imagine you. Inside me. Filling me. Fucking me till I can't anymore…"

"Keep going."

"I imagine your hands on my neck," you went on, and your fingers moved faster, your breathing growing more ragged. "I imagine your mouth on my breasts. I imagine… I imagine you're behind me, pulling my hair, calling me bitch and whore and whatever else you want, as long as you don't stop."

"You're a bitch," Aerion said, and the word was said with such tenderness it sounded like a compliment. "You're my bitch. My favourite bitch. And you'll come for me right now. You'll come looking into my eyes."

"I can't…"

"You can."

Your eyes met his, and the orgasm hit you — softer than the ones before, but deeper, more intimate — as if he were inside your mind as much as inside your body.

"Good girl," Aerion whispered, and then pulled you into a kiss.

It was different from the others — softer, slower, as if he were learning the taste of your mouth for the first time. Your tongues danced, your teeth met, and when he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen and your eyes were wet.

"I want you on all fours," he said, and the tenderness had vanished — replaced by the cruelty you'd learned to love. "I want you on all fours on this carriage floor — face in the velvet, arse in the air. I want to fuck you till you forget everything. Till you only know my name. Till every cell in your body sings that you belong to me."

You slid off his lap, knelt on the carriage floor, and the velvet was soft beneath your knees, beneath your hands, beneath your face as you leaned forward.

Aerion didn't move.

"Wait," he ordered. "I want to look at you. I want to savour the sight of my bitch on all fours — all open, all exposed, all ready for me."

"Please," you moaned. "Aerion, please."

"Please, what?"

"Please fuck me."

"Where?"

"Wherever you want. However you want. Whenever you want. Just… just fuck me."

You heard the sound of his trousers being undone, heard his breathing change, felt the heat of his body drawing closer. And then his hands were on your hips, pulling you back, and his erection pressed at your cunt — not your arse, this time, but your cunt — and he pushed in.

"Ah," you moaned. "Ah, Aerion."

"You're so wet," he murmured. "So wet, so hot, so... mine. Never anyone else's. Never again."

He started moving — there was hunger in it, the need to claim something. But it wasn't cruel like Maekar had been, wasn't violent or punishing. This was different. This was Aerion, and even in his madness, even in his obsession, there was a reverence in the way he touched you, a devotion that bordered on worship.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you against him with each stroke, and you could feel every inch of his cock sliding inside you, could feel the head brushing your womb's entrance, could feel the pleasure growing like a tide that threatened to drag you out to sea.

"You're going to come again," Aerion said, and it wasn't a question. "You're going to come with me inside you, and then you'll come again, and again, till you can't anymore."

"Yes."

"Yes, who?"

"Yes, my prince."

He pulled you by the hair — not hard, but enough to arch your back, to bring your face close to his — and his mouth found your ear.

"You're mine," he whispered. "Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Say it again."

"I'm yours. Yours. Yours."

"Good girl."

He let you go, and his hands returned to your hips, and his thrusts grew faster, more frantic. You felt the orgasm building, felt your body preparing for the explosion, and opened your mouth to scream.

"No," Aerion ordered, and his hand covered your mouth. "Don't scream. I want you to feel it, not hear it. I want every part of you to know that this moment is just ours — that no sound can escape, that it's only you and me and this pleasure consuming you."

The orgasm hit you in silence — a muffled cry against his hand, a tremor that ran through your whole body, a free-falling sensation that seemed never to end. Aerion kept moving inside you, and each stroke prolonged the pleasure, stretching it like melted caramel.

"One more," he ordered, and his hand left your mouth, found your clit. "One more, and then I'll come inside you, and you'll take every drop, and you'll thank me."

His fingers moved in quick, relentless circles, and you felt the second orgasm approaching before the first had even finished — one wave overlapping another, a pleasure that built in layers, that grew almost unbearable.

"Aerion," you moaned. "Aerion, please…"

"Please, what?"

"Please let me come."

"Come."

You came with a moan that was nearly a sob — your body arching, your fingers digging into the velvet, your mind emptying of everything except the feeling of Aerion inside you, over you, around you.

He came right after, with a muffled groan — his body curving over yours, his mouth finding your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin. You felt him spill inside you — hot, abundant, his seed mixing with your wetness — and you closed your eyes, savouring the feeling of being so completely filled.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Aerion pulled back, and you felt his seed dripping down your thighs, seeping into the velvet of the carriage floor, and you didn't care.

"Come here," he said, and pulled you into his lap, wrapping you in his arms, covering you with his cloak. "Rest now. The road's long."

The carriage continued on its way through the night, carrying them away from Summerhall, away from Maekar, away from everything they'd ever known. And you closed your eyes, feeling Aerion's heart beating against your ear, feeling the warmth of his body heating yours, feeling his seed still dripping down your legs.

tag my babies:: @noone1233nobody @mundaytuesday @dragonslayerlanasversion @bbblackmamba @albebackinabit @lauramooij05 @pancitoconjam @kimedicii

© 2026 KONALIS | all rights reserved. don’t copy my work or translations, and don’t upload them to other platforms. / cr: gif cerasella in pinterest

[bbblackmamba]

Well... we can go in peace to the other side now that we tasted the son and the father. May as well call us the holy spirit with that miracle we pulled—

What a shame that old man didn't follow through on his promises. Maekar was so deep in his fucking feelings that he fumbled the bag AGAIN. I feel like he'll have the biggest crashout known to the Red Keep when he finds both of them gone, but Aerion will be busy making him a grandchild by the time he notices.

ALSO... Is no one gonna talk about how needy Aerion is? He was begging for assurance and affection as soon as she slipped from Maekar. They are such a loving pair🥹

[konalis]

the best reblog, 4ever!

[konalis]

ㅤㅤㅤ 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 ━━━ aerion 'brightflame' targaryen

pairing: aerion targaryen x stepmom! reader

warning: +18 | obsessive behaviour | cheating | smut | p in v | unhappy marriage | possessiveness | sadistic undertones | power imbalance | unhealty attachment | dubcon | dom aerion | he'd rather ruin you than lose you.

summary: aerion never wanted anyone the way he wanted you, his own father’s wife; the woman who taunted him, who was kin to him, who he desired for himself and would have.

author's note: this is my debut writing for tumblr and I should get no sleep were I not to write of that comely-faced wretch.

cr: gif and divider ᦸ @creloises / @honeyluvsw ٫٫ my cat also accept tiny treats. ٫٫ words count: ~9,5k

The boar upon your plate was cooking.

You had learned, in the first months of your marriage, that the tables of a feast were no place for eating. They were always places of battle, like any court, only armed with silver and Myrish glass. Your seat lay to Maekar’s left — not to his right, that was the place of honour, reserved for men and for the king — and it allowed you to see the full length of the hall without turning your neck.

It also allowed you to see Aerion.

He sat to the right of no one. Aerion claimed his place by birth, five seats below the king and one beneath his father, leaning upon the table as though the centre of all things were himself. Long fingers, stained with pomegranate juice, twirled an empty goblet. When he was not drinking, the ruby seeds cracked between his molars, the only sound breaking the silence of all.

You tried to look at your plate, but he waited. Waited until your eyes rose out of duty.

Then he smiled.

"Is it not so?" he asked, pointing the dagger in your direction.

You blinked.

"How so?"

A low laugh came from Aegon, your small stepson, exchanging a glance with Valarr. Beside you, Maekar did not even lift his head from his wine cup.

"Boys!" Daeron II chastised without raising his voice. The king turned to you, his eyes calm, the kindness almost weary. "Aerion says that my brother and you intend to have a child soon."

Then he spoke again.

"And I said…" Aerion tilted his head, the smile still clinging to the corner of his mouth. "that you seemed eager for it."

His gaze never wavered from yours, but his fingers crushed another pomegranate.

"Was it not always what you desired?"

Fear found you faster than you wished, for Aerion knew. He knew it was not Maekar’s desire to have another child; he knew that the desire he spoke of bore not the face of your husband.

Maekar’s fingertips clenched the goblet.

"Aerion!" he exclaimed. His hand upon the table curled into a fist.

In an effort to calm your husband, your fingers found his knuckles, seeking to keep him close, so that no further quarrel might arise with Aerion.

Maekar withdrew his hand, not abruptly, for he wished not to betray to his brother — who had invited you to the dinner in good grace — any sign of anger. You drew your hand to your lap and felt the embroidery of your skirt beneath your nails.

Aerion ignored him with the same ease with which he disregarded all that came from his father.

"He is right, my love," you spoke at last. Then you turned to Aerion. The smile you offered was yours, wholly yours, as sweet as gall. "A child such as Aerion would make me the happiest woman in this world."

The table fell utterly silent. Even the serving men froze midair, the wine jugs suspended above the goblets.

You lifted your chin and met Aerion’s eyes. Too bright. He tilted his head, curious, chewing more forcefully as his gaze descended from your lips to your bosom.

Then he ceased chewing.

His fingers, so occupied with splitting the pomegranate, stilled upon the embroidered cloth. The fruit dripped between his joints, and he did not wipe it away.

"As I…" he repeated, savouring the words. "Is what you say."

Maekar rose, and the chair groaned. Rhae and Daella, the girls, lowered their gaze to their plates. Valarr cleared his throat. Aemon suddenly took a great interest in the goblet of water.

Aerion remained unmoved. He stayed seated, posture languid, as if he feared neither father, king, nor god — or perhaps he feared only the wrong god.

"It is no sin to desire what is good," he said, still regarding you as though you were a feast and he had been famished for years. "It is no sin to desire the right Targaryen."

You felt the embroidery of your skirt beneath your nails, the coarse thread, the wrong side of the cloth. Maekar remained standing at your side, yet he did not defend you; he merely breathed, and even his breath seemed a favour he granted with reluctance.

Aerion inclined his head.

"I have made you blush, my father’s wife," he observed, and he did not restrain the cruel laugh that followed, his tongue wetting lips stained by the fruit. "You must agree with me as well, must you not?"

He rose slowly, with every eye fixed upon him, savouring that attention, that absence of scrutiny that belonged only to him. The chair did not creak. The pomegranates were left upon the silver plate, crushed and ruined, as he wished you to feel.

Maekar finally moved, half a step forward.

"Sit."

Aerion smiled.

"I was not rising for you, father… Y/N?"

He addressed you not by title, not “my lady,” not “princess,” not “my father’s wife.” Your name. A name he dragged across his tongue as though it were sweetmeats, as though it pleased him merely to hear it, as though it had lingered upon his tongue longer than that of any other man in the hall.

Maekar did not raise his hand against his son.

He should have. Any honourable man would have broken his son’s face for less. But Maekar was a prince, and princes do not strike blood in their brother’s hall, before the king, before small children who had already seen too much. So he merely clenched his fists and sat.

And you were left alone in that provocation.

Alone with Aerion’s gaze, now leaning over the table, over the untouched dishes, over the hands you had drawn to your lap and which he seemed able to see through the fabric itself.

The tip of his finger found a forgotten shard of pomegranate upon the cloth. He rubbed it against his thumb until the skin was stained red.

"The madness that runs in the veins of every true dragon." He lifted his gaze. "Do you want that in your womb?"

Aemon coughed at his brother’s words, and Daella dropped her bread.

But Aerion had eyes only for you.

"No," he answered for you at last. “You do not want a son such as me. You want the son you would have given him.”

The red-stained thumb pointed towards Maekar without so much as a glance in his direction.

"And it is not the same thing. It never is."

He turned away before you could answer — not that you knew what to say, not that you had a voice, not that the words were not all lodged in your throat like the seeds of that pomegranate he still ground between his teeth.

He returned to his seat. He raised the empty goblet to a servant. And for the remainder of the feast, he did not look at you even once.

As though he had already taken what he wanted.

The boar was cold when the servants carried the tray away. The fat had congealed upon the meat, forming a pale, unappetising crust. You did not even notice. Throughout the walk from the great hall to the chambers you shared with Maekar, Aerion’s words still throbbed beneath your skin.

Maekar walked ahead of you, three paces in front, as though there were a distance between you that neither of you dared cross. The torches along the corridors of the Red Keep cast dancing shadows upon his armour, and you found yourself watching the rigidity of his back, the hand clenched around the pommel of his sword, the broad shoulders that had never once inclined towards you.

This was not how you had imagined marriage.

As a child, you had dreamed of a husband who would look at you as Aerion had looked at you during the supper. With hunger, with desire, with the certainty that you were the only woman in the room. But the dream had never borne Aerion’s lilac eyes. It had borne Maekar’s. The grey, severe eyes of your husband, which now refused to meet yours.

The chambers were silent when you entered. The fire crackled in the hearth, and a maid had already prepared the bath behind the screen, the water still steaming, herbs floating upon the surface.

"I shall take my bath," you announced, more to hear your own voice than from any hope of reply.

Maekar merely inclined his head, his fingers already working at the buckles of his armour. He did not look at you as he undressed, did not look as you moved towards the screen, did not look when the water began to sing against your weary body.

The bath should have been a relief. The hot water loosened your muscles, the scent of lavender and mint soothed the senses. Yet you remained tense, your eyes fixed upon your husband’s silhouette beyond the screen, upon the way he moved through the chamber with the efficiency of one fulfilling a duty, not with the intimacy of one who shared a life with another.

When you left the bath and dried yourself, you dressed in the finest nightgown you owned, of Volantene silk, near-transparent, a gift from your sister before the wedding. For the night of consummation, she had said with a smile. To drive him mad.

The wedding night had come and gone without Maekar ever touching you. The nightgown had remained at the bottom of the chest, untouched as you were.

But tonight, something had to change, and you put it on. The fabric slid over your still-damp skin, clinging here and there, tracing the curves Aerion had devoured with his eyes during the supper. You ran your fingers through your loose hair, freeing the curls the bath had coaxed forth, and drew a deep breath before stepping around the screen.

Maekar was already in bed.

With his back to you, of course. The coverlet rose to his waist, leaving his broad back bare, pale in the firelight. He did not so much as stir when you approached the bed, when the mattress yielded beneath your weight, when you lay beside him and remained there, staring at those shoulders that would never turn towards you.

"Maekar," you called, and your voice came out more fragile than you wished.

Nothing.

His breathing remained steady, controlled. Awake, you knew. Awake and pretending to sleep, pretending that you did not exist a hand’s breadth away, clad in silk and desire and a humiliation that had already begun to burn. You sat up in the bed. The coverlet slipped, revealing the nightgown, your breasts nearly bared, your skin still warm from the bath. You reached out and touched his shoulder.

He flinched as though your skin burned him.

"Do not touch me."

You drew your hand back as though wounded.

"Why not?" you asked, and the question rose from deep within, from every night you had slept beside that man without ever having him, from every morning you had woken to find him already risen, from every time you had reached for him only to be pushed away. "We are married. I am your wife. And you… you have never touched me. Not on the night of consummation, nor after."

Maekar moved slowly. He turned onto his back, his eyes fixed on the shadows above the bed, not on you. His profile was hard, jaw set, thin lips pressed into a line that promised nothing good.

"We did not consummate the marriage," he said. "And we shall not."

"Why?"

"Because I do not wish to."

"You do not want me?" The question came out as a whisper, and you hated the tremor in your voice, hated the tears already burning behind your eyes. "Am I not good enough? Not fair enough? I saw how Aerion looked at me during the supper, I saw it… Why can even your son desire me, and you, my husband, cannot so much as touch me?"

For the first time, Maekar turned his head to look at you. His grey eyes were ice, were steel, were all that Winterfell might be if it stood in the south.

"Aerion desires all that he cannot have," he replied. "He desires you because you are mine. Because I am your husband. Because looking at you is a way of stabbing me without raising his hand. But do not deceive yourself, woman. His desire is not for you. It is for the dishonour of taking from me what is mine."

"And yet you do not take me," you shot back. "If it is not you who possesses me, if there is no child, if there is no bed, what am I in this marriage?"

Maekar sat up. The coverlet fell, revealing his bare torso, the scars of battles you had never touched, never kissed, never been permitted to explore. He ran a hand over his face, and for the first time he looked weary.

"You will never be her," he said.

"Her?"

"My wife." The word sounded strange, as though he himself did not believe it. "The woman I married before you. The mother of my childrens."

He laughed, but there was no humour in the sound, only bitterness.

"I will not give you what was hers. I will not give you children. I will not give you the bed that was hers. I will give you nothing beyond this name and this roof. That is what you received. That is what you shall have."

"Then why did you marry me?" The question broke into a sob."If you did not want me, if you desire nothing of me, why did you bring me to this place?"

Maekar rose from the bed and began to dress in the garments he had left upon the chest, methodical, precise, as though he were preparing for battle.

"Because if it had not been me, it would have been Baelor."

"Baelor?"

"He needed a wife, and our father took a liking to you despite your lack of noble birth. Had I not taken you, he would have been forced to do so. And Baelor…" He paused, fingers working at the buttons of his tunic. "Baelor is too good for that. So I chose to bear the burden myself."

You opened your mouth to reply, but he did not give you the time.

"You have always been in love with me," he continued, and the way he said it, as though it were of no importance at all, tore something apart within you. "I know it. The whole court knows it. The woman who blushed when I passed, who invented excuses to be where I was, who dreamed of the prince with grey eyes and a warrior’s bearing."

He finished dressing and finally looked at you.

"Now you have what you dreamed of. You have the prince. You have the name. You have the roof. But you shall have nothing more. For there is nothing left in me to give. What there was, she took with her to the grave.”

He turned towards the door.

"Do not seek me tonight. Nor tomorrow. Nor ever, for that matter. Fulfil your role at court, be the princess they expect you to be, and do not ask of me what I cannot give."

The door opened and closed. You were left alone in the bed too large, clad in silk too fine, with tears too hot streaming down your face and an emptiness that seemed to swallow everything.

Time passed, and you could not have said how much. Minutes, hours, an eternity. The fire in the hearth had dwindled, the flames now licking lazily at the last embers, leaving the chamber cold. You lay upon the bed with your back to the door, eyes open, staring at the moon through the open window, your body exhausted while your mind refused all rest.

Maekar’s words echoed, echoed, echoed.

You had married him dreaming of love. Dreaming of nights of pleasure and days of companionship. Dreaming of children who would bear his grey eyes and his hard chin. And now you knew you would never have any of it, that you were no more than an occupied place, an important name, a duty fulfilled.

You closed your eyes, and the tears had already dried, leaving the skin of your face tight and salted. You drew a deep breath. Perhaps by morning things would seem different. Perhaps by morning you would find the strength to be the princess they expected you to be, hollow within yet perfect without.

The sound of the door opening made you shudder. Soft. Almost unheard. Had you been asleep, you might have thought it no more than the wind, or a guard brushing against the door while dozing, but the sound was far too careful for that.

Someone had entered the chamber, and your heart raced. Maekar. He had returned. Perhaps he had reconsidered.

You turned in the bed, a tentative smile forming upon your lips, his name already poised upon your tongue. And then you stopped. It was not Maekar.

Aerion stood by the door, his silver hair loose, his tunic open at the chest as though he had torn his clothes away along the way. Moonlight from the window bathed his face, and his violet eyes shone with a gleam that was not human, not sane, but everything the storytellers warned of when they spoke of dragon blood.

He smiled, and there was nothing sweet in it.

"It is not what you expected, is it, little princess?"

The manner in which he named you made you flinch; his insolence knew no bounds. Aerion stepped away from the door, and his long, pale hands reached back to close it gently, the lock sliding into place with care.

"What are you doing here, Aerion?" The question left you breathless, and you retreated upon the bed, pulling the coverlet up to shield your silk-clad body. "If they catch you—"

"They will not catch me." He continued to advance, his eyes never leaving you. Never. They lingered upon your nightgown, upon the breasts the silk barely concealed, upon the skin raised in gooseflesh by the cold, upon the loose fall of your hair across your shoulders. "And even if they did, what then? What could they do? Chain a dragon?"

He stopped beside the bed. His fingers found the edge of the feather mattress, stroking it as though it were your own skin. You tried to retreat further, but your back had already met the headboard.

"I heard everything," he said, and his voice was honey mixed with something sharp. "I heard the old man break his wife’s heart. I heard the way he told you there was nothing left to give. Poor little princess, wed to a man who prefers a dead woman."

His smile widened.

"But I, my dear… I do not prefer the dead."

"Aerion, please."

"Please what?" He tilted his head, the gesture so like the one at supper that a shiver ran down your spine. "Please, stop? Please, go away? Please, do not touch me? Is that what you asked of him?" His smile sharpened. "And he denied you."

His fingers slid up the coverlet. Slow. Deliberate. Torturous.

"I will deny you nothing."

You opened your mouth to scream.

"Scream," he dared, setting his jaw. "Scream as loudly as you wish. Call for him. Call for your husband who does not want you, for the king who sleeps on the other side of the keep, for the guards who saw me enter and pretended not to, because they know I am worse than they are when crossed."

His hand found your ankle beneath the coverlet. His fingers closed around bare skin, stroking it.

"Scream," he repeated, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the bone. "I want to hear you scream. I want the whole keep to know that I am here, in my father’s bed, touching the woman he will not touch.

His breathing quickened. His eyes darkened with something deeper, darker, more dangerous. Something you recognised from the books you had read about the Targaryens of old, about the Cruel, about Maegor, about blood that burned too hot and consumed all it touched.

"Do you know what I thought of all through the feast?" He wet his lips, admiring your breasts. "While you sat beside him, while you pretended not to see me, while you tasted that wine with your perfect mouth?"

His fingers slid up from ankle to calf, to knee, and the coverlet was pushed aside, exposing the silk that barely concealed your body.

"I thought of how it would be to taste you. Of how it would be to feel you writhe beneath me. Of how it would be to see those eyes he scorns burn for me."

His hand stopped at the curve of your thigh, the pressure increasing, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to hurt.

"He does not want you," Aerion spat, and within him there was ravenous hunger, volatile desire, and an uncontrollable fury, "but I do. I always have. From the first day I saw you, from the first time your legs tensed when I passed you by, from the first time you pretended not to see me and I saw everything in you."

He leaned over the bed, his body closing in upon yours, and now you could smell the wine and pomegranate upon him, clinging like sulphur.

"Do you know what it is to desire someone so?" His voice was near a growl now. "Do you know what it is to wake every night with a name upon your lips, your body aflame, knowing you will go mad if you do not have her?"

His free hand rose to your face, fingers tracing your jaw, your lower lip, the curve of your neck.

"I will have you," he promised. "Not tonight, if you do not wish it. Not tomorrow, if you continue to resist. But I will have you. You will come to me of your own will. You will open your legs for me of your own will. You will beg for me of your own will."

His lips brushed your ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Because he does not want you, but I do. And I am worse than he is, little princess. Far worse. I do not yield. I have no honour to restrain me. I have no duty to bind me. I am Aerion, son of Maekar, Brightflame, and when I desire something, it becomes mine. By good means or ill."

He withdrew at once, and the absence of his body was almost as violent as its presence had been. He stood beside the bed, looking at you, at the rumpled nightgown, at the marks his fingers had left upon your thigh, at the trembling you could not still.

"Sleep well," he said, and the smile that curved his lips was the cruelest thing you had ever seen. "Dream of me. Dream of what might be, for tomorrow, when you wake, you will remember this. You will remember my hand upon your skin, my voice in your ear, the promise I made you."

He turned toward the door.

"And when he denies you once more what you deserve, you will ask yourself: what if it were Aerion? What if it were he in the bed with me? What if it were the son instead of the father?"

The door opened, and you slowly raised your hand to your neck, where his fingers had been. Your skin still burned.

"The answer," he said, lifting one of his father’s goblets from the table beside the door and taking a draught, "is that it would be better. Much better. And you know it."

You lay still upon the bed, your heart galloping, the places he had touched burning as much as the hearth fires could ever burn you. Your mind screamed to let him go, to thank the gods that he had gone, to forget that any of it had happened.

But your body... it burned.

Your nipples brushed against the silk of your shift and each contact was a small death, a reminder of what his fingers had done, of what his voice had promised. Your legs pressed together involuntarily, seeking relief from an ache you could not name, had never felt, that Maekar had never awakened.

And then, before reason could prevent it, your mouth opened.

"Aerion."

The voice emerged hoarse, strange, nearly unrecognisable, but he heard it. The door, which had already begun to close, stopped.

"Aerion," you repeated, and this time it was a plea. "Stay."

The door moved slowly, reopening.

"No?" The word was a smile unseen. "And what do you want, little princess?"

You swallowed hard. Reason screamed. Honour screamed. Everything you had been taught about being a lady, about being a wife, about being a princess screamed in unison, but your desire screamed far louder.

"I want you to stay."

He did not move, however; he remained in the doorway, watching, waiting. The predator who had seen his prey offer herself willingly and savoured the moment before the slaughter.

"It is not enough," he said finally. "Say how you want me. Say what you want."

Your legs pressed together once more. The heat between them was nearly unbearable, a rhythmic throbbing that kept time with your beating heart. Your nipples ached from being so erect, marking the silk like two small buttons of sin.

"I want you," you whispered.

He moved then. Only one step, back into the chamber, and the door closed behind him with the same careful thud as before.

"That is not what you said at supper," he observed, and advanced another step. "At supper, you said you wanted a son like me, but you did not say you wanted me."

Aerion was closer now, close enough for the light of the dying hearth to illuminate his face.

"Lie to me again and I shall leave," he promised. "And I shall not return. I shall never return, and you shall spend the rest of your life wondering how it might have been, dreaming of this night, desiring what you never had. Because he shall never give it to you, and I... I give only to those who ask me properly."

Your body trembled. Not from cold. From desire, from a hunger you had never known existed until he awakened it.

"Properly?" The question emerged softly.

The smile he offered you was slow, cruel, perfectly sadistic. His eyes travelled down your body, lingering upon your breasts that the silk scarcely covered, upon your legs that pressed together, upon your bare feet that curled into the linens.

"On your knees."

Your breath caught.

"What?"

"On your knees." He did not repeat, did not explain, did not justify. He merely waited, his eyes fixed upon yours. "You want me? Then prove it. Kneel before me and beg."

Honour said no.

Reason said no.

The lady, the princess, the wife of Maekar Targaryen said no, no, no.

Your feet found the cold floor and your legs trembled as they took your weight. And then, slowly, you knelt before him.

Aerion's breathing changed. A hoarse, animal sound escaped his throat. His eyes darkened, lost their clear brightness and gained something far more dangerous. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, as though he needed to control himself lest he devour you right there.

"Say it," he commanded. "Say what you want. Say how you want it. Say everything."

Tears sprang forth, but they were tears of surrender, of yielding, of finally accepting what your body had screamed since the first moment you looked upon him.

"I want you," you repeated, your voice breaking. "I want you, Aerion. I want to feel you. I want you to touch me as you touched me at supper, as you touched me moments ago. I want..."

His hand found your hair and his fingers buried themselves in the strands, pulled back, forcing your face upward, exposing your throat.

"You want what?" he insisted. The pressure increased, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who held control. "Say it all. Every word. I want to hear you beg."

The heat between your legs was incendiary. Your thighs pressed together in a vain effort to ease the pressure that grew, that burned, that demanded. Your nipples brushed against the silk and you moaned, a small, shameful sound that he devoured with his eyes.

"I want you to ride me," the words escaped in a sob. "I want to feel you inside me. I want you to make me yours. I want..."

He pulled your hair harder, and the pain was delicious.

"More," he demanded. "Beg as though your life depended upon it. Because it does, little princess. If you do not beg properly, I shall leave and you shall burn the rest of the night, the rest of your life."

"Please," the word tore itself from your throat. "Please, Aerion. I cannot... I cannot bear it any longer. He never wanted me, never touched me, never looked at me as you look. But you... you look at me as though I were a feast, as though you would devour me, and I want it, I want it so much, please..."

The tears flowed freely now, hot and salty, and sobs shook your kneeling form.

"Please, do not leave me thus. Please, touch me. Please, stay. Please, Aerion, please, please, please..."

He smiled, and the smile was the most terrible and most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

His free hand descended, found your chin, lifted your face. His pale eyes traversed the tracks of your tears, your parted lips, the trembling that would not cease.

"Little princess," he murmured, and the word was both a caress and an insult. "My little princess. So beautiful on your knees. So perfect when begging."

The fingers at your chin tightened, forcing you to hold his gaze.

"I shall give you what you ask," he promised. "But I want you to know one thing."

He leaned in, his lips so close to yours that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

"From this night onward, you shall be mine. Not his. Never again his. Even if I never touch you again, even if you spend the rest of your life in his bed, you shall be mine. Because you shall wake every night dreaming of this. You shall close your eyes and see my face. You shall part your legs and wish it were my hands."

He lifted you by the chin, pulling you upward, forcing you to rise upon your trembling knees.

"And when he does not give you what you deserve, you shall remember this night. You shall remember how you begged. You shall remember how you knelt, and you shall hate him for not being me."

His hand released your chin and descended, slowly, so slowly, tracing the line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, the contour of your breast through the silk. When his thumb brushed against your erect nipple, you moaned loudly, an obscene sound that echoed through the chamber.

"Yes," he hissed, his eyes fixed upon your body's reaction. "Thus. I want to hear you thus. I want the entire red keep to know that it was Aerion who made you moan."

His hand squeezed your breast roughly.

"Now rise."

Your legs obeyed before your mind could command them. He kept one hand upon your body, guiding you, possessing you, while the other remained free. He led you to the bed, to the linens still rumpled where minutes before you had lain alone, where hours before Maekar had rejected you.

Then he pushed you, and you fell back upon the feathers, your shift riding up, revealing your thighs, your belly, the wet heat that the silk could no longer conceal. He stood above you, silhouetted against the hearth light, and he resembled a god. A cruel god. An ancient god. A god of fire and blood.

"I shall riding you," he announced, unfastening his belt. "I shall riding you as a dragon ride his female. As our ancestors ride when they still ruled this world."

His knees found the bed on either side of your body. He leaned over you, his arms on either side of your head, trapping you, possessing you without yet touching you.

"And when I am done," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. "I want you to beg me for more, and I promise I shall return come morning, or perhaps the next day, or perhaps I shall steal you away for myself."

His mouth found yours as though it had been starving for years.

It was a devouring. The lips, the tongue, the teeth — every part of him claimed possession, demanded surrender, took what he had watched from afar for so long. The taste of pomegranate still lingered on your tongue, sweet and tart, and it mingled with the flavour of the madness that ran in his veins.

His hands did not cease their roaming; they travelled over you as though they meant to discover every inch of skin, every curve, every secret your body kept. The strap of your shift gave way, then the other, and the fabric slid down your torso like water, leaving you fully bared to the dying light of the hearth.

Aerion drew back just enough to look, and what you saw in his eyes stole the breath from your lungs.

It was not merely desire. It was worship. It was hunger. It was the certainty of one who finally touches what he has always known would be his. His violet eyes traced every inch of your naked form — your breasts, your belly, the dark triangle between your thighs that pressed together in a mix of shame and excitement — and they darkened, darkened until they were nearly black.

"The gods know I have waited long for this," he murmured between heavy breaths. "A curse on them if I complain. It was worth the wait."

His fingers found your breast, traced the curve slowly, and when his thumb brushed against your already hardened nipple, a moan escaped your lips before you could contain it. He smiled. That cruel smile, that smile that knew precisely what it did to you, that revelled in every reaction he drew from your body.

"You like it, do you not?" The question was a rhetorical one, but he wished to hear it. He wanted all the words, all the sounds, all the surrender. "You like being touched by me. You like being looked at by me. You like being naked beneath me while the old man... where is the old man, my father's wife?"

"I do not know," you whispered.

"Of course, you do not." His hand descended, slow, torturously slow, tracing the line of your belly, circling your navel, drawing nearer to the heat that had already dampened the skin between your thighs. "He could be two chambers away, he could be in another woman's arms, he could be dead and you would not know it. You would not know, because he does not tell you, does not touch you, does not want you."

His fingers finally found your heat, parted your folds, delved into the wetness that had gathered there all through the night. The moan you released was too loud, too obscene, and he devoured it with his mouth in a second kiss, equally possessive.

"But I," he murmured against your lips, his fingers moving inside you in a rhythm slow, deliberate, meant to drive you mad. "I wish to know everything. I wish to know where you are, what you feel, what you think, what you desire. I wish to hear every moan, every sigh, every time my name escapes those lips."

His thumb found that place no one had ever touched, and your body arched against him as though struck by lightning.

"Aerion," the name escaped in a sob.

"Yes," he hissed, his eyes fixed upon your expression, upon the pleasure you finally offered him. "Thus. Say my name. Say it as though it were a prayer. Say it as though I were the only dragon in the world."

His free hand rose to your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, your lower lip, the curve of your neck. Then it descended, found your breast, squeezed hard enough to hurt, to mark, to remind you that you were his.

"Do you know what I thought every night since you came to this court?" The question came in a hoarse whisper, his fingers moving faster inside you, drawing you nearer to madness. "I thought of how it would be to have you thus. I thought of how it would be to hear you moan. I thought of how it would be to feel you tighten around me, trembling, begging."

His thumb pressed that tender spot once more, and the world narrowed until it was only this, only him, only the pleasure he built with such patience and such cruelty.

"I thought of how it would be to watch you fall apart for me," he continued, his voice growing rougher, drawing closer to losing control. "And now I shall see it. Now I shall watch you spend for me, little princess. Now I shall feel you tighten about me, calling for me, forgetting any other man exists in this world."

His fingers moved faster, deeper, drawing you closer. His thumb did not cease and you were so close, so close, the pleasure building like a wave about to break, your body trembling, your mouth open in a continuous moan that he drank in with his eyes.

"I wish to hear it," he commanded. "I wish to hear my name when you spend. I wish everyone to know. I wish him to know, even if he never discovers it."

The wave broke with the violence of one who had waited too long.

His name escaped your lips in a cry — not a moan, not a whisper, a true cry, loud, obscene, echoing off the stone walls of the chamber and surely passing through the doors.

"AERION!"

His fingers did not cease; they continued to move inside you, drawing out the pleasure, extracting every spasm, every tremor, every drop of surrender your body could offer. And he laughed. He laughed softly, a hoarse and triumphant sound, while he watched you fall apart beneath him.

"Thus," he murmured, his eyes fixed upon your expression of ecstasy. "Thus, little princess. Shout my name. Shout it so that he might hear. Shout it so that all may know whose you are this night."

When the spasms finally ceased, when your body fell back upon the bed like a rag, he withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately slowly, and brought them to his lips. He licked them one by one, his eyes fixed upon you, savouring you as though you were the finest of wines.

"Sweet," he remarked, and the smile that curved his lips was pure malice. "So sweet. And so quick. Was it good thus, little princess? Was it better than you imagined?"

You could not answer. Your breath was still too short, your heart still galloping, your body still trembling in the residual waves of pleasure, but he expected no answer. He never expected. He merely took.

His hand found your ankle, closed about the bone, and pulled.

He dragged you across the bed as though you were an object, without ceremony, without care, without anything save the certainty that you were his to do with as he wished. Your shift, already half fallen, tangled in the linens and was left behind as your feet touched the cold floor.

"Rise," he commanded.

You obeyed. Your legs trembled so much they could scarcely support you, but you obeyed. You stood before him, naked, trembling, your breasts still rising and falling with your gasping breath, your body marked by his fingers, your heat still trickling down your thighs.

He observed you for a long while, his eyes traversing every inch of skin, lingering upon the marks that were already beginning to form — the fingerprints upon your thigh, the involuntary scratches you had left upon your own back, your nipples still tender and erect.

"Look at you," he murmured, striking your face. "All wet, all trembling, all mine."

His hand rose, struck your face again. Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough to provoke.

"Do you think he would make you shout thus?" he asked. "Do you think he would make you tighten about his fingers as though you might die if he ceased?"

He struck you again. Harder. Hard enough to turn your face.

"Answer."

"No," you whispered, and your face burned, and your body burned, and everything in you burned for more.

"No, what?"

"No, he would not make me shout thus."

His hand seized your chin, forced you to look into his eyes. His were utterly dark now, the pale iris nearly vanished in the dilation of his pupils. He breathed heavily, his bare chest rising and falling, his erection evident beneath his breeches.

"Do you know what I shall do now?"

You shook your head, your eyes trapped by his.

"I shall mark you. I shall engrave upon your skin that you are mine. I shall ensure that every time you bathe, every time you don silk, every time he lays his eyes upon you, you shall remember this night. You shall remember how you knelt. You shall remember how you begged. You shall remember how you shouted my name."

His hand released your chin and seized your arm, pulling you behind him as he moved about the chamber. He stopped beside the side table, beside the candles.

Three of them, tall, burning since the start of the night, wax dripping slowly down their sides, forming pale stalactites. He took one, tested its weight, tested its heat, and when he turned to you with the flame illuminating his face from below, he resembled a demon. He resembled the very strange god the Targaryens had worshipped before coming to Westeros.

"On your knees," he commanded.

You bent your knees without hesitation. The floor was cold against your skin, but the heat that radiated from him and from the candles warmed you from within. You remained there, naked, trembling, your eyes fixed upon the dripping wax, upon the dancing flame, upon the man who looked at you as though you were the most precious and the most contemptible thing in the world.

"Do you know what men do to women in Lys?" he asked, playing with the flame. "They mark them, so that they never forget to whom they belong."

The candle tilted and the first drop of hot wax fell upon your thigh.

The heat, the sudden pain, the contrast between the cold of the floor and the fire of the wax — all merged into a stifled cry that you bit your lips to contain, but he saw. He saw your eyes widen, saw your body tremble, saw your nipples harden further.

"You like it," he observed, and it was no question. It was confirmation. It was discovery. It was the key to a new level of perversion. "You like pain. You like to feel. You like being marked."

Another drop, and closer to the inside of your thigh. This time the moan escaped, and he smiled.

"Do not contain it," he commanded. "I wish to hear. I wish to hear every sound I draw from you."

Another drop. Another. Another. The wax flowed hot, scalding, leaving small red marks upon the white skin of your thighs. And he observed everything with the attention of an artist, of a cruel lover who had finally found the perfect way to express what he felt.

"Open your legs," he commanded.

You obeyed. Your thighs parted, revealing your wet heat, your lips still swollen from the earlier orgasm, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh completely exposed.

He tilted the candle and the wax flowed in a continuous stream, tracing a red line from your knee to the inside of your thigh, close enough to the entrance of your womanhood. The cry you released was loud, was free, was everything he wished to hear.

"Thus," he hissed, his eyes fixed upon the red line the wax had left, upon the small blisters that formed, upon your body trembling, writhing, begging for more without words. "Shout. I want your husband to hear. I want the servants to hear. I want the gods to hear."

Another line, even closer. The wax nearly brushed your most sensitive lips, and the moan you released was of pleasure and pain merged as one.

"Do you want more?" he asked. "Do you want everyone to see the marks I have made upon you?"

"Yes," the word escaped in a sob. "Yes, please, yes, I want more, I want everything, I want all that you will give me."

He laughed. That low, cruel laugh that was so his own, so Aerion, so perfectly mad.

"So obedient," he murmured, and the candle tilted once more. "So mine."

The wax flowed, and flowed, and flowed. Red lines crossed your thighs, rose up your belly, circled your breasts without ever touching your nipples no matter how he provoked. He marked you as one signs a work of art, as one claims possession of a territory, as one who finally holds in his hands what he has always desired.

The candle hovered in the air for a moment, the flame flickering, the wax dripping slowly to the floor without touching you.

He stopped.

His violet eyes traversed the work he had made — the red lines that crossed your thighs, that rose up your belly, that circled your breasts without ever touching them. The expression upon his face was one of pure adoration, of sick pride, of hunger that had not yet begun to be sated.

"Perfect," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Utterly perfect."

The candle was set aside, the flame casting dancing shadows upon the wall. And then he straightened, standing over you, and his hands found the fastenings of his breeches.

"Look," he commanded. "I want you to look."

His eyes fixed upon you as his long fingers worked at the fastenings, as the leather gave way, as the skin beneath was slowly revealed. His breath was altered, gasping, but his movements remained controlled.

His breeches fell and he stood before you, naked, bathed in the dying light of the hearth and the trembling glow of the candles, and he was everything the blood of the dragon promised to be.

His body was sculpted. His chest was broad, his shoulders powerful, his arms marked by veins and muscles that tensed with each movement. Scars — small, old, witnesses to battles he had won — dotted his pale skin.

And between his legs...

Your eyes descended without your being able to control them. The desire you felt was so physical, so urgent, that it pained you. He was erect, hard, ready — and large. Larger than you had imagined, larger than the whispered tales of the ladies had led you to believe. The sight of him thus, naked and exposed, the humiliation of the position in which you knelt, the sting of the marks upon your skin — all merged into a moan that escaped before you could contain it.

He smiled that slow, cruel smile, perfectly aware of the effect he had upon you.

"Do you like what you see, little princess?" he provoked. "Do you like seeing what you begged to have?"

His hand descended, wrapped about his cock, stroked it slowly while he observed you, and he brushed it against your face. His eyes never left your face, drinking in every expression, every poorly disguised desire.

"Answer."

"I like it."

"You like it, what?"

"I like what I see."

"Say what you wish to do with it."

His hand tightened about his member, his fingers sliding along the taut skin, and the moan he released was low, the first truly uncontrolled sound you had heard from him.

"I wish..." your voice faltered. You swallowed hard, your eyes fixed upon him, upon his naked body. "I wish to feel you inside me. I wish to know how it feels. I wish for you to fill me. I wish..."

"You wish what?" he insisted, his hand moving faster, his breath quickening. "Say it all. Every word."

"I wish for you to ride me," the words escaped in a single breath. "I wish to feel you enter me. I wish for you to use me. I wish for you to make me yours, in every way, in every manner, until no one remains in doubt that I belong to you."

His eyes darkened further, his hand stilled its movement, and for a moment he remained motionless, merely looking at you, drinking in every word, every surrender, every proof that you were his.

His free hand found your hair, buried itself in the strands, pulled back hard enough to hurt, to expose your throat, to force your gaze upward.

"I shall ride you," he promised, his voice hoarse, nearly unrecognisable. "I shall ride you as no one has ever riding you. I shall make you forget the names of all the men who existed before me. I shall engrave myself inside you."

His mouth descended, his teeth found the curve of your neck, bit down hard enough to leave a mark. And while he bit, while he marked you there as well, his other hand guided his manhood to your face.

"Open your mouth."

Your lips parted, your tongue extended, and when the tip of his cock brushed against your palate, the moan you released was muffled by his skin, by his taste, by the reality of what you were doing.

He did not wait. He gave you no time to think. The hand in your hair guided you, forced you, used you while the other held the base, and you accepted everything — everything — with the same surrender with which you had accepted the wax, with which you had accepted his fingers, with which you had accepted kneeling.

"Thus," he hissed, his breathing quickening, his body tensing. "That... yes..."

His hips moved, slowly at first, then faster, deeper, drawing closer. And you let him, accepted him, worshipped him. Each movement, each time he buried himself deeper in your throat was a reaffirmation that you were his, that you would always be his, that there would never be another.

When he finally stopped, when he drew back gasping, his body covered in sweat, his eyes utterly mad with desire, he pulled you up by the roots of your hair.

"On your hands and knees," he commanded.

You crawled onto the bed, rose upon your knees, offered yourself completely to him. The marks from the wax ached at the contact with the linens, but the pain was sweet, was his, was everything you wanted.

He positioned himself behind you. His hand descended, parted your folds, felt your heat, your wetness, your readiness. His cock brushed against your womanhood, once, twice, teasing, torturing, delaying the moment you both desired.

"Aerion," you begged again.

"Quiet."

You moaned but accepted your fate, biting your lower lip hard as Aerion aligned himself with your entrance. You held your breath as he pushed inside, without gentleness, exactly as you had expected.

Immediately, he began to bury himself within you to the hilt, your walls pulsing around him as you struggled to accommodate his thickness. You had turned your head to the side to avoid his gaze, but Aerion had other plans for you, seizing your chin to force you to meet his blazing eyes.

"Do you feel that? Do you feel the ache in your little cunt? It is a fucking reminder of what happens when you claim a true dragon."

He sank in completely and then thrust back, his eyes narrowing and his breath catching in his throat.

"You are mine now, little princess. You are mine to command, to make do as I wish. You exist to serve me. You shall spend when I wish, wear what I wish, and leave this chamber when I wish. Now tell me, whose are you?"

You moaned, your hands gripping the sheets as he began to fuck you in a steady rhythm.

"I am yours," you managed to say, your cunt still refusing to accept the intrusion. But Aerion was clearly in a mood that night to go further, striking your cheek once more.

"To whom does this body belong? To me, or to my father?"

"To you. Only to you, and I know I am nothing without you," you whimpered in pleasure, scarcely able to distinguish his face through your tears.

When you felt his finger upon your neglected clit, it was the finest sensation you had felt again. Your lips parted, your eyes fixed upon where his hand worked between your legs, and you should have known in that moment that he was playing with you. Aerion meant to punish you, for not having chosen him, for having taken so long to beg for him.

And because shortly thereafter, when you felt yourself drawing near another orgasm, he stopped, of course, removing his hand from your clit and instead delivering a sharp slap to your cunt that made you jump.

"N-No, Aerion, please..." you moaned and lifted your hips.

"Little princess, you must kneel and beg."

He slapped your cunt again, a little harder this time, and the burning pain brought tears to your eyes. By now you knew exactly what he was doing. He was teasing you, likely wanting to see you beg and then break for him, and it seemed his plan was working perfectly. You could not control yourself, pleasure clouding your senses, the need to climax soon being the only desire in your head. You were no longer afraid of your husband seeing you or of desiring even more come morning, too eager to finally reach your peak, but Aerion shifted quickly, pushing two of his fingers into your mouth, reminding you of your sore throat.

He continued thus, denying your climax repeatedly while bringing you to the edge with his two thick fingers in your mouth, and soon you were a trembling mess beneath him who could no longer even vocalise your need to finish. You moaned and whimpered, wept and begged with your eyes, but Aerion was immune to all of it.

He seemed to want to push himself further as well, slowing inside you from time to time, as though to tease himself a little, until eventually he spent himself for the first time that night. Aerion collapsed upon you, wrapping his hand about your throat not only to keep you still, but to silence any complaint about your ruined orgasm, and then he took his time savouring the divine release.

He breathed heavily against your jaw, his nose nestling into your skin that burned with heat, and he gasped when he withdrew his cock from you. You, on the other hand, writhed, feeling exquisitely sensitive to every touch, and prayed that he might do something to give you some relief as well.

Your entire body was aflame, your limbs aching and your cunt strangely overstimulated and swollen, pulsing greedily with lust all the while. But Aerion made no attempt to do you any favour, donning his breeches without even looking at you. You were definitely too exhausted and messy to do anything, lying upon the bed awaiting your stepson's next move, but when he was fully dressed once more, he merely raised an eyebrow arrogantly, observing your naked form.

"I shall return when you beg me for it. I have not finished with you yet. Until then, I trust you shall begin to regret having wed my father, and if I discover you doing anything you ought not, such as touching yourself or begging to have me sent away, I shall not go easy on you, little princess. When I next give you what you beg for, you had best behave yourself properly, for if you are fortunate, I shall fuck your throat, and if I am not feeling merciful, it shall be your arse."

Ი𐑼 . . . - continue on to my…. main masterlist ❜❜

۶ৎ sweethearts this is my first bit of smut here, and I’m still a little unsure about how it turned out hihihi but I already have so many other ideas in my head featuring Valarr, Aerion (again), and Daeron ... part two?

© konalis 2026 | all rights reserved.

[willowswiththorns]

I’m not usually into these tropes but omgggg this was such a good read I need a part 2

[konalis]

THE PART 2 IS AVAILABLE!!!!! READ HERE! <333

[konalis]

I’m back!! ✨🫶🏼

I’ve been rather absent from Tumblr as of late, as I’ve also been writing over on AO3, as well as seeing to a few personal matters that required my attention. 🥲

In any case, thank you ever so much for all the comments on “Venus as a Boy”, I shall be replying to those, as well as to comments on other fics, very soon. I’d also like to mention that the AKOTSK TAGLIST is open.

Over the next few days, I shall be posting a few oneshots featuring Aerion, Daeron, and Valarr (I’ll be sharing a little spoiler tomorrow haha, so do keep an eye out). For the Resident Evil fans, I’ll also be bringing more oneshots with Leon as soon as possible.

Thank you all ever so much for the support you’ve given me over these past two months here on Tumblr, you’ve made me feel truly at ease sharing more and more of my ideas, and yours as well 💚 Many thanks once again, and if you’d like to pop into my inbox to say anything, it’s open — just not for requests at the moment.

Xoxo, Konalis ✨🫰🏼

[konalis]

Just two spoilers of what's to come (mainly 'cause they're nearly done), but I'm absolutely loving how this is shaping up... already can't wait to post it.

These three oneshots will probably be up by the start of next week, hehe.

And just a reminder, the AKOTSK taglist is still open, so if anyone wants to join, just click on the taglist and comment which character/general list you wanna be part of.