came-back-wrong!succubus! companion with priest! brendan….. oh gosh. her perched at the end of the bed like an animal about to strike, and the first few nights he thinks it is just a dream but she gets closer and closer every night over the course of weeks, driving him crazy, until one night he feels a weight on his lap, no blanket between them and he opens his eyes and she’s sat naked on him, her eyes reflecting the moonlight like a cat
the first night you're at the foot of the bed, crouching low, your eyes catching the moonlight through the curtains and throwing it back in flat silver discs.
brendan wakes and spots you, his heart stopping, then starting again. you tilt your head in response and he thinks dream, rolling over and pulling the blanket to his chin, praying until his jaw hurts and sleep reclaims him.
the second night you're closer. halfway up the mattress, sitting cross-legged on top of the covers. your head tilted, watching the pulse in his throat with a focus that makes his skin prickle. he wakes and sees you, mumbling your name and you smile (too slow, the smile arriving in stages, the mouth first, then the cheeks, then the eyes, like a human expression rehearsed by something studying the manual) and he squeezes his eyes shut, praying, and when he opens them again you're gone.
the third night you're beside him. lying on your side, your face on his pillow. your eyes rest inches from his. brendan wakes and you're right there, your breath warm and sweet, your pupils wrong (too large, too reflective, swallowing the iris) and you whisper "you talk in your sleep, benny" and he lies frozen while his heartbeat fills the room.
the fourth night you touch him. your fingertip on his wrist first, tracing the vein, following it up his forearm. across his bicep. over his shoulder. down his chest. mapping him through his sleep shirt. there's no hurry in it, it's almost clinical, in fact. a game, a pause before you bite into him.
the fifth night begins with your mouth on his throat, your lips parting against his pulse. warm. so gentle, your tongue tasting the salt of his skin. a sound leaving him in his sleep (a sound he will deny, because it's a wanting sound, a starved sound of someone who's never been touched or loved before, a sound the pillow absorbs and keeps) and your mouth curves against his throat.
a week passes. then two. every night you're closer. every night the touch goes further, little by little. his collarbone. his stomach through the cotton. the ridge of his hip. the soft skin below his navel where the hair thins and his muscles tighten in his sleep. and every morning he wakes alone and hard and aching, telling himself, over and over, dream, dream, just a dream, the mind conjuring what the body wants, it's not real, she's in the other room, she's sleeping, it's not real.
except the sheets smell like you. except his skin holds the ghost of warmth where your fingers traced. except once, in the bathroom mirror, he finds a mark on his throat. a faint, pink discoloration. the exact size and shape of a mouth pressed to his pulse last night.
brendan stares at the mark, touches it, his fingers trembling.
dream. just a dream.
and then the following night comes and he knows it's different.
he surfaces from sleep in stages, awareness arriving in pieces. the room is silver with moonlight. the curtains are parted. the cross above his bed gleams.
weight. there's on his lap. warm and solid and real. not beside him. not at the foot of the bed. on him. straddling his hips. his blanket is gone, too. folded neatly at the foot of the bed (you folded it, you took the time to fold it, the precision of that detail more unsettling than the rest). and you're sitting on his lap in the moonlight and you're wearing nothing.
his eyes snap open.
you're silver and shadow. the moonlight paints the curves and hollows of your body in blue-white light. the dip of your collarbone. the slope of your shoulders. the curve of your breasts. your skin illuminated, bare, your hair framing your face and your eyes peering down at him curiously. and the eyes are the thing that pins him. your pupils enormous. reflective. catching the moon and throwing it back like a cat's. flat silver discs in the dark, watching him with predatory patience.
his breathing stops. his hands are at his sides, flat on the mattress. not touching you. not touching anything. every muscle in his body is too locked for that.
"you're dreaming, benny." your voice, low and warm, layered with that clicking undertone. your hands brush gently across his chest, palms flat, feeling his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. "it's just a dream. you can do anything you want in a dream."
"I'm not—this isn't—" his voice cracks, his eyes raking down your body and dragging back up and the looking is a sin and the wanting is a sin, he knows this.
you're naked on his lap and he's hard beneath you and the cross is above his head and he is a priest.
"you're so tense." your hips roll slowly, grinding down against the hard length of him through his sleep pants and his jaw clenches so hard the tendons in his neck jump out. your head tilts, your cat-eyes catching the light. "you're always so tense. always praying. always good." your palms glide up his chest, over his shoulders, your fingers finding his jaw, angling his face up toward yours. "don't you ever get tired of being so good?"
"please—"
the word rips out of him. and brendan doesn't know what he's asking for. for you to stop. for you to continue. for God to intervene. for God to look away.
"don't you want to warm me up, benny?" your forehead lowers to his, your breath on his parted mouth, so sweet and warm, still carrying that faint, metallic undertone that has no business existing in a human exhalation. your lips brush his, just barely. a ghost of contact. "everything is so cold. you're the only warm thing I have left, and I need you."
his hands leave the mattress.
they find your hips. both of them. settling against your bare skin, and the contact (his palms against your hip bones, his fingers curving around the swell of your waist, the heat of you bleeding into his cold hands) pulls a guttural, broken sound from his chest.
his hands are shaking, he realises, visibly so. his fingers tremble against your skin and the guilt and the want hit him in the same breath, occupying the same space, two chemicals that should neutralise each other instead combining into something volatile and new.
"I can't—" a croak of denial, his thumbs tracing the ridge of your hip bones, his body doing one thing and his mouth doing another. "I made vows to God. I—this is—you're not—"
"I'm right here." your hands cradle his face. your thumbs tracing his cheekbones, the cat-eyes soft now, tender. the moonlight catches the wet of your lower lip. "I'm right here, benny. I'm real. feel me." you press his hands harder against your hips, his fingers denting your skin. "I'm cold and you're warm. I need you. please."
the please breaks him. because he's heard you say please exactly once (on the church steps, barefoot, bleeding, "please, help me") and the vulnerability of it is a key turning in a lock he thought he'd welded shut for life.
his grip tightens on your hips, his fingers pressing into the flesh, pulling you down against him. the friction of you, bare and warm and wet against the thin cotton of his sleep pants, making his vision blur. a groan leaves him that vibrates into the mattress.
"this is a sin." his hands still pull you closer, his hips pressing up to meet yours, his eyes wet. "this is—god is watching, and I'm—"
"let him watch." your mouth finds his, your lips parting softly against his. your tongue traces his lower lip. "you've been his long enough, but you were mine first."
his hands shake on your hips but his mouth opens under yours. the kiss is clumsy, desperate, tasting of tears and his hands are pulling you against him and pushing you away in the same motion. the war in his body is visible in every trembling muscle. his hips pressing up, his arms tensing to push. his fingers gripping greedily even as his mouth tries to form the words of a prayer.
but the prayer doesn't come. for the first time since his ordination, the words don't come. his mouth is full of you and the latin dissolves into your name and his hands stop pushing and start pulling and the last wall falls away.
"just tonight," he breathes against your mouth, tears still on his face, but his hands firm on your hips now. not shaking. set firm in his conviction, his hips rolling up against you. "just tonight, and tomorrow I'll confess. I'll repent— "
"shh." your thumb wipes a tear from his cheek, your cunt grinding down on the straining hardness beneath you. you can feel him throbbing against you, the heat of you soaking through his sleep pants. "shh. no tomorrow. just this, just warm, just us, benny."
his head falls back against the pillow, his hands on your hips guiding the grind. his mouth open, his eyes fixed on the cross above the bed.
the moonlight catches the silver of it while you move against him, but brendan closes his eyes.
Summary Your Na-Baron Feyd Rautha becomes dangerously obsessed with you, consumed by a need to have you entirely to himself—until a fateful event forces him to choose between his desire for you and his legacy.
Part 1 🔗Obsession for the wedding
🚨Depraved Smut🚨 Feyd feral • obsessive • constant claiming • Feyd impatient • oral on fem • nipple play • clit play •words of devotion • body praise • sex on a ceremonial table • sex after a battle • rough sex • missionary • girl on top • breeding kink • lactation kink • thigh rutting • Feyd jealous • multiple orgasms • creampies 🔗 Masterlist
📖 Proofreaders @purejasmine @magicovento @psycheetamore ✨Inspired and dedicated to @lokisnapemalfoy 🗳️ Based on Unanimous 🔗 Poll Decision 🏆
The Harkonnens were never content to leave their future to chance. For centuries, their breeding practices had been as meticulous and calculated as their rise to power.
The Baron himself was the architect of these plans, ensuring that the Harkonnen bloodline remained as ruthless and potent as the poisons they used to eliminate their enemies.
The philosophy was simple: strength and ambition above all else, ruthlessness and cunning embedded in every generation.
When Feyd Rautha was born, he was hailed as the progeny of this breeding program,a perfect specimen of Harkonnen genetics.
His childhood was molded not by love but by calculated cruelty, ensuring he would grow into the precise tool the bloodline needed.
His beauty, his intelligence, and his lethal instincts were all results of an unforgiving strategy to create an heir who could dominate not only Giedi Prime, but the galaxy itself.
But the Harkonnen obsession with breeding didn’t end with Feyd. The Baron viewed every union as a transaction, every offspring as a pawn to be used in his intricate web of power.
Alliances were forged through bloodlines, with matches calculated for maximum political and genetic advantage.
You would be the first female to bear a Harkonnen heir, and were scrutinized for your lineage, physical strength, and intelligence.
The Baron had manipulated your ruling planet to approve the match, believing it would ensure a viable heir and secure his nephew’s position.
The union was never about love or even desire; it was about creating the perfect Harkonnen progeny, an heir born of cruelty, strength, and unyielding ambition.
It was a calculated transaction, a means to secure the future of House Harkonnen in the brutal game of power and dominance.
But the Baron, in all his scheming, underestimated one thing.
He didn’t know you.
You were no pawn in their dark schemes—every move you made, every choice you accepted, was driven by one singular desire:
You wanted Feyd-Rautha
From the moment you first laid eyes on him, you were bound to him.
When the Harkonnens arrived on your homeworld, flanked by imposing guards and the ever-watchful Baron to negotiate with your father, the bargain was sealed before the terms were even spoken
The Harkonnen presence was suffocating, their power overwhelming, but it was Feyd who drew your attention.
There was something in his dark intensity, the sharpness of his gaze, and the lethal grace of his movements that captivated you completely.
You saw the danger in him, the cruelty, but it only deepened your fascination.
As the negotiations wore on, you realized you were not being forced into the agreement—you were entering it willingly.
You were lured by the darkness that surrounded Feyd, and you knew you would surrender everything to be his.
After the grim Harkonnen wedding traditions of Blood Binding, the Trail of Chains, and the Bending of the Will—you belonged to him completely.
From your wedding night until the first light of dawn, you gave yourselves to each other, surrendering in ways neither of you had anticipated, driven by pure unspoken obsession.
Though he once seemed so incapable of love, over time the calculating and cruel Feyd Rautha began to surrender himself to you, piece by reluctant piece.
The Na-Baron of House Harkonnen, underwent a remarkable transformation since you became his Baroness.
The arrogant grin that once promised manipulation and danger now softens every time he looks at you, a rare tenderness breaking through his hardened exterior.
Instead of being bound by silent obedience to duty, you find yourselves infatuated with each other—an obsession that neither of you can resist nor wants to control.
Now, as you sit before the Baron in a meeting about your recent union, you are both restless beneath the oppressive weight of politics.
Seated across the long obsidian table, you and Feyd exchange stolen glances, the heat between you simmering just beneath the surface.
The sharp planes of his face are illuminated by the cold artificial lighting, his lips forming a signature smirk every time your eyes meet his.
Beneath his polished veneer of diplomacy, something far deeper stirs in Feyd as his gaze roams over you possessively, making it clear what he wants.
His jaw clenches in a way that makes your pulse quicken.
You know that look.
It’s the silent promise of what’s to come.
You try to focus on the Baron’s voice droning on about the future of House Harkonnen, but the weight of Feyd’s stare burns into you, his fingers drumming impatiently against the table.
By the time the meeting ends, the tension between you is unbearable.
No sooner than the words have left the Baron’s lips concluding the meeting than Feyd is on his feet, striding purposefully toward you.
His hand finds your wrist, his grip firm and commanding as he leads you through the fortress corridors with swift, measured steps.
His silence is more telling than any words as your heart pounds in anticipation.
He shoves open a heavy steel door to a separate hall, dragging you inside before kicking it shut behind him.
The echo reverberates through the chamber, and before you can catch your breath, Feyd’s mouth is on yours.
The air is cold, but you barely feel it as he presses you against the ceremonial table in the room’s center, the harsh edges digging into your thighs.
“I could not wait,” he rasps, his lips claiming yours in a demanding kiss, the force of it nearly bruising.
You whimper into his mouth as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your gown higher in a frantic search for skin.
When his fingers graze your bare flesh, a low groan fills his chest.
“You’ve worn nothing to keep me from you,” he rasps, his voice thick with need as his fingertips trace along your wetness.
You gaze into his blue eyes—sharp and vivid, unmatched by anything on Giedi Prime’s dark expanse, “Nothing could keep me from you,” you whisper pulling him into another searing kiss.
His hands grip your hips as he hoists you onto the table with effortless strength, your body yielding as he steps between your legs.
His kiss turns messy, his lips parting against yours as his tongue slides in, devouring you in ways that make your heart race.
You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers trailing into the intricate design of his pendant as his movements become methodical undoing his fastener, driven by a hunger neither of you can suppress.
“I will claim every part of you,” he rasps, savoring the evidence of your desire as his hands slide to your hips, fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh.
With a possessive grip, he thrusts in sharply, a desperate plunge that fills you with a raw, searing heat that borders on pain.
His length forces its way deep inside your body as you give in to the relentless sensation.
His hand grasps the back of your neck as he penetrates you fully, your breath catching as a satisfied moan escapes your lips.
His blue eyes meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, all of his arrogance and cruelty falls away.
His lips part, as his pupils dilate, and his face softens in a rare moment of unguarded bliss.
The way he looks at you in that instant, like you are the only thing in the universe steals your breath away.
“You are mine,” he whispers reverently, his lips pressing against yours as he slowly begins thrusting his cock deep inside.
You moan as he takes what’s his, reaching for his face, cupping his sharp jawline as he leans into your touch, his lips claiming yours in a rough, desperate kiss.
The stone walls of the fortress echo with your moans and the sharp, guttural sounds Feyd makes as he takes you.
It is his domain, his right, yet in moments when his passion subsides, when he cradles your face with a gentleness that no one else will ever see, when he brushes his lips across yours in reverence whispering your name like a vow, the cruel and calculating Na-Baron is nowhere to be found as he becomes entirely yours.
No place within the Harkonnen fortress or even the cold steel corridors of his warships remain untouched by the echoes of your passion.
As newlyweds, the intimacy between you is endless, and insatiable, a hunger that neither of you can resist.
The tension that once simmered beneath the surface gives way to an all-consuming need, and with every stolen kiss every hidden moment of intimacy, Feyd becomes more entwined with you—so deeply, so thoroughly, that he begins to lose himself.
His hunger for you becomes an obsession, a need that overrides his cunning nature, making him reckless, distracted.
And then, one night, something in him shifts entirely.
Feyd had been gone for weeks, sent on a brutal campaign to crush a lingering rebellion on the outskirts of Arrakis. The mission was relentless, hunting down insurgents through the planet’s caverns.
He relished the slaughter, the thrill of the fight, but something clawed at him beneath the surface. No matter how many bodies fell at his feet, no matter how much blood stained his blade, his thoughts always drifted back to you.
You, soft and waiting in his chambers, you untouched by any one but him. The thought of you is the only thing that soothed the rage simmering beneath his skin, the only thing that made the relentless crusade tolerable.
And now, as he strides through the fortress halls returned from his mission his mind is on one singular focus.
You.
His boots echo against the polished stone floors, his presence commanding as guards and servants alike step out of his way without a word.
His face is hard, his muscles tense with an impatience that only grows stronger the closer he gets to his quarters.
He doesn’t knock. He never does, the door opens with a forceful shove, and there you are waiting for him just as he had envisioned.
You stand in the dim glow of his chamber, draped in a delicate silk robe that clings to your form, tied loosely down the front in anticipation of him undoing it.
When word had reached you of his return aboard his Ravager, you immediately prepared yourself to see him, and now, as he stands before you, the intensity of him sets your heart ablaze.
He is clad in the stark, angular lines of his Harkonnen Warlord uniform, black as the void and edged with argent, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and tapering down to his lean waist.
The harshness of the attire only sharpens his beauty—his full lips parting as he takes you in, his blue eyes piercing like the ice of some distant planet with a heat that defies their cool hue.
He is the epitome of command and power, the sculpt of his face so handsome it feels like he is a blade honed to perfection.
Your smile is soft and welcoming, a quiet glow of happiness at seeing him again. But the glint in his sharp blue eyes tells you he’s missed you far more than you’ve missed him.
“You have returned,” you breathe, but you barely get the words out before he’s on you, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you flush against his battle-hardened body.
His lips crash into yours with a desperate hunger, devouring you with a need that is raw and filled with longing.
Before you can react, he lifts you effortlessly in his arms as he carries you to the bed, laying you down with determination.
He only takes a moment to look at you, his gaze dark, reverent, his chest rising and falling in heavy anticipation.
“I have craved you” he whispers, his voice a hushed confession as his fingers pull at the lace of your gown, his mouth claiming yours again with a fierce hunger.
He kisses a trail down your neck, his lips hot and wet as he sucks heavily to leave marks for himself.
You gasp as his hands slide down your waist, fingers digging in possessively as he lowers himself, his mouth following the same path.
“I must savor you,” he whispers, his voice rough and low as his hands tear your gown free, exposing you to him.
And then, with effortless strength, he lifts your legs over his shoulders, holding your thighs on him as his breath fans over your skin.
The first flick of his tongue has you arching against him, your fingers grasping the silk sheets beneath you, reaching for anything, to ground yourself.
The pleasure is sharp, intoxicating, and as he delves deeper, his grip tightens on your thighs, holding you still as he works you open with unrelenting precision.
You moan as his tongue flicks against your clit before dragging down, slipping between your folds, tasting every inch of you with torturous intent.
Your body shudders, the sharp gasps spilling from your lips turning into a desperate moans as his tongue moves faster, stroking, coaxing, driving you higher.
Your hips push instinctively against his face until his hands tighten, pressing you firmly onto the bed and he holds you still as he devours you with ravenous sweeps of his tongue.
Your body writhes beneath him, your nails dragging against the sheets as your moans rise higher, desperate, uncontrollable.
He groans against you, his voice rough as his mouth seals over you, sucking hard before his tongue flicks in with relentless strokes, sending surges of pleasure racing though your core.
Your thighs tremble, threatening to close around his head, but he only buries his face deeper his tongue plunging in with unrelenting force.
Your back arch off the bed the tension coiling impossibly tighter inside you.
“Feyd—” you plead in a desperate breathless cry, placing your hands on his head as your body tightens, every muscle locking up as the pleasure peaks.
Your release crashes through you like a tidal force and Feyd groans into you, drinking it, lapping it up with a feral intensity that leaves you shaking in his grasp.
You lay panting beneath him as he rises above you, his lips glistening with your pleasure.
Without a word, he strips off his surcoat, the glow of the chamber’s dim lighting casting shadows over the definition of his pale muscles, every ridge and line carved to perfection.
His chiseled chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, his hunger for you burning in his eyes as he moves over you.
“How long have you endured since I have bound you to me?” he asks, his voice low and rough like gravel, a glint of possession flickering in his gaze as his fingers trace your skin.
“An..eternity,” you reply with soft breaths, your words sparking a fire in him that nearly destroys his composure, his breath catching as his control frays.
You crave him like this—feral, unhinged, completely yours.
He climbs on top of you, his weight pressing you down, his skin hot against yours. His hands pin your wrists as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with dangerous devotion.
“I can not escape you,” he confesses as he lowers his mouth to the curve of your breast. “Not for an instant have you left my mind,” he whispers, his lips brushing over your nipple before gently sucking it into his mouth.
His teeth tense with a punishing force, needing to make you feel what he feels. Then as you whimper his tongue soothes, licking gently, as if to atone for his obsession.
His hands slide down your arms around your breasts, kneading and squeezing as he claims them possessively.
Then his thumbs flick over your nipples, before his mouth follows, hot and relentless, his tongue licking heavily as he savors what he wants.
Your fingers trail over his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, needing him just as much as he needs you, and he groans in response, pressing himself harder against you.
“You have missed me,” he whispers, his voice rough with certainty.
His hips shift as he lines himself up, and your eyes drop between your bodies, taking in the sight of his cock, thick and rigid, heavy with an aching need for you.
Your fingers slide down his chest, grazing over the defined ridges of his abs before wrapping around the base of his cock.
His breath catches, a low groan escaping his throat as you stroke him slowly, feeling the heat and weight of him in your hand.
“I have missed you,” you whisper in return, your voice filled with longing, your eyes locking onto his.
There’s no patience in him now, only the need to claim you, the need you to remind you that you are his.
His lips seize your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath as he nudges your legs apart, settling between them, his cock pressing against you.
He drags the head along your slick center, collecting your wetness with each slow, measured stroke, making you arch into him, making your body beg for more.
Then he thrusts his thick cock inside, drawing soft whimpers from you as your nails drag down his back, your pleading eyes locked on to his feeling him stake his claim.
Your slick walls tighten around him as he pushes in deeper, a rush of pleasure flooding your core as you surrender to the overwhelming sensation.
His thrusts are slow, methodical, but with each roll of his hips, his need sharpens. His hand slides up to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on his as he drives into you with a primal urge to breed.
It feels impossible that he can go any harder, but he does, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you that leave you trembling.
“I want you swollen with what is mine,” he rasps, his thrusts growing more intense, his need for you all consuming.
His pace quickens, his hips snapping as he angles deeper, making you shudder and gasp clinging to him harder.
He groans your name, low and wrecked, lost in a pleasure that no one else has ever made him feel, and the sound of his voice, the raw, helpless way he gives himself to you makes you come undone.
Broken moans spill from your lips as he thrusts into you, relentlessly, ravenously, feeling you orgasm against him, each movement dragging more pleasure from you as you lie beneath him.
His grip slides to your hips, his muscles flexing with every thrust, groaning as he feels the depths of you that only he can claim.
His eyes, dark and fevered, lock onto yours- his pleasure raw and unrestrained, his body moving with one sole purpose.
He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow and his thrusts become desperate, punishing, consuming, as if the idea of stopping is unthinkable.
“Feyd,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your voice a tether in his chaos. “Give yourself to me.”
He tilts his head back as your words reach him and a groan of surrender tears from his throat. His rhythm falters under the weight of your command, and he thrusts once, twice more, before he spills into you, the heat of his seed flooding through your core.
The sight of his face and the way his mouth parts as his eyes darken with ecstasy, fills you with a devotion that leaves you entirely his.
He slowly collapses onto you, his body heavy and warm, his breath coming in ragged pants against your skin.
His lips find your chest, pressing soft, dazed kisses between your breasts as he basks in the aftermath.
“You have ruined me,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy as his fingers trace lazy circles over your skin.
“You are not ruined,” you reply, trailing your fingers over his neck. “You are mine.”
He hums softly at that, his lips curving into a rare smile as he leans up to kiss you again, slower this time, tender in a way that feels almost out of place for a Harkonnen.
In these moments, Feyd Rautha, the cruel and calculating Na Baron becomes something else entirely.
He becomes yours.
As he drifts to sleep in your arms, you know that you have satisfied him in every way imaginable, leaving him soft, surrendered, and completely undone by the force of your love.
It comes as no surprise when the proclamation is made that you are bearing the seed of House Harkonnen.
The fortress hums with whispers of your impending role, the air thick with the weight of expectation and legacy.
The Harkonnen bloodline, ruthless and unyielding, will continue through you, and the realization settles over you that you have fulfilled your role to Feyd in every way.
You are beyond obsessed with him, though you try to hide it. The thought of him fills your mind, even when he is not near, and as your pregnancy progresses, his attachment to you deepens in ways that even he cannot even fully understand.
You carry the life you created together, a new chapter in the blood-soaked lineage of the Harkonnens, and as your body becomes heavier with the weight of your unborn child, you become Feyds object of fascination.
His gaze lingers every time you are near, a curiosity so raw it seems to surprise even him. Every swell, every change in your form draws him closer, as though the transformation within you stirs something deep and primal in himself.
In the final days of your pregnancy, a ceremony takes place deep within the fortress.
It is held in a grand shrine carved from obsidian, lined with cruel, jagged relics of past conquests.
Shadows dance along the towering walls, cast by the flickering glow of fire pits filled with thick incense that clings sweetly to your lungs with every breath.
The air is heavy, suffocating, charged with an ancient energy that feels both sacred and oppressive.
The only two males present in the vast, echoing chamber are the Baron and Feyd.
You are dressed in a black opulent gown lined with dark obsidian crystals, your entire body veiled save for your lower face and hands.
This is a sacred time in your pregnancy, mere days from birth. The fabric clings to your form, accentuating the curve of your swollen belly, a visible testament to the life growing inside you.
A heavy Harkonnen pendant rests at your throat, a symbolic marker of your new role within the dynasty.
Carefully, you are knelt upon a cold white stone slab as trembling female attendants gather around you.
Their heads remain bowed in submission, their hands shaking as they place a modesty cloth over your legs and slowly lift your robe to reveal only your bare belly, round and full with the future of the Harkonnen line.
They work in fearful silence, their ink-darkened fingers tracing ancient markings of fertility across your skin, binding you to the legacy you carry.
At the head of the room, the Baron lounges forward in his oversized throne, his grotesque form draped in layers of dark, rich fabric that do little to conceal his bloated mass. His beady eyes glisten with an unsettling mix of greed and cunning as he surveys your womb for the first time.
“My dearest nephew,” he rasps, his voice thick with satisfaction, “she bears the fruit of our dominion… the future of House Harkonnen.”
Feyd’s piercing gaze never strays from you, fixed on the swell of your body that carries his heir.
There is something raw in his eyes, an infatuation bordering on obsession, a hunger so possessive it sends a shiver down your spine.
His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to touch you, to claim you, even here, even now, in front of them all.
The Harkonnen Shaman enters the chamber and steps forward, cloaked in dark robes adorned with symbols of death and rebirth. His voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate, steeped in ancient authority.
“You now bear the fruit of life,” he chants, his withered hand hovering over your belly, as if feeling the of the life within. “And it is life’s blood that shall nourish it.”
A ceremonial basin rests ominously on the altar beside you, filled with a viscous substance, and your heartbeat quickens as the Shaman gestures toward it.
Feyd steps forward, his breath heavy, the tension in his body coiled tight with unspoken obligation.
Without hesitation, he lowers his fingers into the liquid, the thick red substance clinging to them as he lifts his hand.
His dark eyes meet yours, and without breaking contact, he brings his fingers to your womb.
“Seal our future,” he says, hushed and commanding, laced with something deeper—something desperate. “Deliver our heir,” he whispers.
Your skin prickles with anticipation and fear, but beneath it all, a dark thrill stirs within you.
The weight of Feyd’s gaze, the feel of his touch, it’s intoxicating, binding you to him in ways you could never comprehend.
Feyd watches intently, his blue eyes dark with fascination as he draws the ancient marking of his bloodline over your womb, staining your skin as the Shaman watches approvingly.
Whispers ripple through the chamber as the Baron’s grin widens in grotesque delight.
Feyd works methodically, each stroke pressing the significance of this moment deeper into your soul.
When the markings are complete, the Shaman raises his arms, his voice rising as it echoes through the vast chamber. “The oath has been written. The heir will be strategic and cunning and will bring forth powerful alliances to House Harkonnen.”
The Baron lets out a thrilled laugh, his thick hands clapping together in arrogant satisfaction, his eyes darting between you and Feyd.
“Strategic and cunning indeed,” he praises, his voice laced with dark approval and greed.
Feyd says nothing, but his eyes remain locked on you, unreadable yet intense, the weight of his gaze speaking far more than words ever could.
The ceremony is strange and overwhelming, yet beneath it all, something within you shifts irrevocably.
You are no longer just a vessel, you are part of something far greater, something ancient and unstoppable.
You belong to Feyd, to the future you now carry, and to the darkness that binds you both.
Late at night after the ceremony, under the pale light of Giedi Prime’s twin moons, you rest in your chamber, the heavy silence pressing in around you.
The bed beneath you is vast, adorned with dark silks, the headboard emblazoned with the sigil of House Harkonnen, yet it feels empty, foreign, without Feyd’s warmth beside you.
For the first time, you have been sent to separate sleeping quarters, a symbolic tradition meant to mark the transition from union to lineage.
Unable to sleep, you open your eyes to see Feyd standing in the doorway bathed in the cold glow of the twin moons filtering through the towering windows.
His tall form remains still as he leans one shoulder against the doorway, watching you rest, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes fixed solely on you.
With the birth only days away, he is forbidden from seeing you, a decree meant to protect your fragility in these final moments.
But as his eyes search yours with longing, you see he can not bear it.
In an unmistakable act of defiance he approaches you slowly, as if he is afraid to disturb the quiet sanctity of the moment.
His hands, used as instruments of destruction, are gentle as they trace the swell of your belly.
“I never dreamed this,” he rasps, his voice carrying an unfamiliar vulnerability. “That I could create something… pure.”
He lowers himself to you, his movements almost worshipful as his hands splay protectively over your womb.
“I crave what your body has become,” he whispers, his voice thick with awe and desire as his fingers trace reverently over your curves in worship of them.
“Every change of your form is so perfect,” he praises, his lips meeting the sensitive skin of your neck as his hand moves lower, caressing the swell of your womb.
“Your nuturing body… your sustenance…” he rasps, his fingers tracing the soft fullness of your breast.
He trails his lips lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone until he reaches the peak of your breast.
His mouth hovers just above your nipple,his breath fanning over the sensitive skin as his dark eyes flick up to meet yours.
He hesitates, waiting, testing, then with a quiet groan of surrender, he seals his lips around it.
A quiet moan falls from your lips as his tongue rolls against your nipple, coaxing, teasing.
His first pull is firm yet careful, his mouth working gently, as though he fears you will break the fragile connection.
A tingling warmth blooms at the peak of your breast, spreading through your chest, as if something deep within you responds to him, awakening, yielding.
It’s primal, instinctive, as though your body knows what he wants before your mind fully registers it.
The tenderness of his mouth trying to pull milk leaves you vulnerable. What he is doing feels forbidden, yet the sight of him, his lashes fluttering as he tries to drink from you, makes it impossible to stop him.
Your nipple hardens under the stimulation, the sensation growing sharper, hotter, your breast swelling with heat as he sucks deeper.
A soft gasp escapes you as he switches to the other, his mouth latching with purpose, his breaths warm against your skin.
He groans with frustration low in his throat, his fingers squeezing the soft swell of your other breast as if urging your body to give him what he craves.
And then you see it—a slow droplet of milk rolling from your nipple.
His hum of satisfaction vibrates against your chest, deep and resounding as the first taste of your sweet milk warmly coats his tongue.
His fingers tighten possessively around your breast as a shudder runs through him, feeling something primal overtaking his restraint.
The intimacy of it is overwhelming, the way his mouth works on you, his soft whimpers of his pleasure, the desperate way he drinks from you—it all becomes too much.
His suckling grows stronger, more intense, his grip tightening on your breast as he holds it drinking deeply, greedily, craving this more than he would ever admit.
His tongue laps at your nipple between deep hungry pulls, his fingers rolling over the other, coaxing more milk to leak from you to feed his growing need.
You softly stroke his face and he whines, rutting his hips against you, his arousal evident and throbbing with need. His hand reaches between you unclasping his faster to free cock and he firmly thrusts it between your slick thighs.
You softly whimper as he uses you, the slippery heat of his cock making your thighs press together. He clings to you as though tethered thrusting harder between your thighs, the slick sounds of his movements filling the quiet chamber
His hand slips between your bodies once again, this time his fingers push into your throbbing core, stroking you, coaxing more from you as your loud moans fuel his growing need.
He draws from you forcefully, the unrelenting pull of his mouth making your nipple ache as he thrusts between your thighs, his husky moans drowsy with satisfaction from both pleasures
His fingers work inside of you, deeper, firmer curling just right until you can’t hold back and a sharp cry spills from your lips as you orgasm from his intensity.
He groans against you feeling your release, his hips rutting harder and deeper until his release comes sudden and forceful, his cock twitching as it spills in thick, hot streams between your thighs
The warmth of his seed leaks slowly down your skin, as he becomes weaker, softer, drinking from you until there is nothing left, until he is too spent to take more.
As his body grows heavier beside you, his breaths shallow and his fingers slip from you, his lips barely touching your nipple as exhaustion overtakes him.
He hums as you stroke his chin, his eyes half-lidded as his lips curve into a lazy, milk-drunk smile, utterly satisfied, utterly spent.
As he looks at you his gaze lingers with something unspoken, something softer than words, as if in this moment he needs nothing but you.
As he drifts into sleep in your arms you watch him rest peacefully, his features serene in a way you’ve never known.
Each night Feyd visits you this way, and each night, his hunger seems to grow, his need for you deepening, as though he is becoming dependent on the very act
As he lies milk-drunk in your arms, you caress his temple, finally summoning the strength to confide what you’ve withheld from him for so long, your voice trembling with quiet unease.
“I fear the medical facilities here on Giedi Prime… and the Harkonnen rituals after a female gives birth,” you confess, your words faltering as you dare to resist a Harkonnen rite for the first time. “…The bloodletting of the mother to bind her strength to the child—it terrifies me,” you admit.
Feyd listens intently, not once dismissing your fears of his customs.
“I will not let them touch you,” he says, his voice resolute, low and heavy from his indulgence, carrying no trace of resistance.
The very next day he hires a skilled doula from a distant planet, sparing no expense to ensure you are comfortable.
When the night finally arrives, Feyd paces outside of the chamber like a caged beast, his brute strength shattered by the sound of your laboring cries.
Yet, when your daughter, Lily, is finally born in the intimate warmth of the birthing chamber, Feyd is the first to hold her.
His expression melts into something unrecognizable as he looks at her with pure, unrestrained joy.
His fierce hardened exterior crumbles as he stares down at the tiny life in his arms, his breath catching in his throat.
In that moment, nothing else exists. Not war, not bloodlines, not duty only her.
In the days that follow, Feyd’s initial joy slowly and unexpectedly, turns to bitterness.
Whenever he sees you nursing Lily his jaw tightens and his gaze darkens —yet he says nothing, only brooding in a corner, if not storming from the room entirely.
You can feel the weight of his longing, the frustration he refuses to voice.
Then one night, after the baby has fallen asleep, he lays in bed with you, his body tense beside yours before hesitantly confessing his desire.
“I envy her,” he admits, almost shamefully, as he trail his fingertips over your breast. “You give her something I can no longer have.”
You smile softly, caressing his cheek, “You have me“ you say soothing him but the longing in his eyes does not fade.
His hand moves lower, cupping your breast, his fingers pressing in, squeezing just enough to make his own torment worse.
His jaw clenches, his breathing uneven as he watches with dark satisfaction seeing your milk begin to soak through the fabric of your gown.
He pulls down the delicate material, baring your breast fully to his sight, your breath catching as his expression shifts, his blue eyes darkening with something deep and primal.
He squeezes until you are leaking down his hand and deep and a broken groan falls from his lips as his head dips lower, his breath hot against your skin.
“There is enough for me,” he whispers, his voice almost reverent, and before you can even think to stop him—his mouth latches onto you.
His lips seal over your nipple, his tongue rolling softly as he begins to nurse, his hand squeezing over your breast, coaxing more for him to take.
His lashes flutter in bliss, his face softened in quiet ecstasy as he drinks from you, his low hums of satisfaction vibrating against your skin as he becomes completely lost in his indulgence.
Lily’s soft cry breaks the quiet, and Feyd pulls back, his guilt shadowing his features.
He climbs out of bed and lifts her from her cradle, holding her close as if to atone for his selfishness.
“She needs you more,” he says softly, his voice breaking as he places her in your arms.
He watches her latch as he sits beside you, his gaze fixed on the tiny life between you.
As Lily struggles to nurse, he reaches out, brushing his knuckles gently against her soft cheek, encouraging her to drink.
And when she begins to suckle greedily he smiles —a true, unguarded smile that you’ve never seen before.
Over time, his love for Lily grows to match his love for you. Gone is the spoiled Na-Baron who once demanded you all to himself. Instead, Feyd becomes a doting father, personally feeding Lily as she transitions to solid food.
Each meal is a ritual, he speaks to her softly, telling her stories of bravery and caution, instilling in her the strength to carve her own path.
And every time you watch him hold your daughter, his once-imposing figure now gentle and protective, you’re reminded of how love has transformed the cruel heir into a man capable of profound devotion.
The day Lily reaches one year of age a Harkonnen ceremony marks the occasion.
You attend with Feyd to introduce her to the gathered nobles and warriors of Giedi Prime.
The ritual is dark, grand, and imposing, like everything else on this world.
The hall looms massive, lined with banners of House Harkonnen and the nobles stand in disciplined silence as Feyd carries Lily forward.
She is dressed in black and crimson, the insignia of his house emblazoned on her tiny chest.
A shaman anoints her forehead, intoning ancient words of devotion, binding her to a legacy of war and conquest. Then, with reverence, Feyd places her into the waiting arms of her grandfather, the Baron.
For the first time, the ever-calculating, grotesque Baron does not sneer or grin in mockery.
His pale blue eyes soften, overtaken by an expression no one has ever witnessed.
As he drapes the obsidian necklace around her tiny neck, she blinks up at him, wide-eyed and impossibly small in his massive arms.
Something shifts in him—unvoiced, un-calculated.
He cradles her delicate form as if she’s far too precious for a world that knows only cruelty.
In a voice quieter and raspier than usual, he vows to her, “My little Harkonnen Heiress, I will mold you to twist rulers like reeds in your grasp and we will shatter any who defy our dominion.” He grins with his ruthless satisfaction.
Then the Baron turns, proudly presenting Lily for all to see. The nobles and warriors salute in unison, the sound echoing through the chamber, cementing her place in the Harkonnen bloodline.
Through it all, you stand with Feyd, observing the ceremony with fulfillment as his fingers trace secretly down your palm, a hidden caress amid the solemnity.
“She is perfect,” he praises, his voice low, meant only for you and as his gaze lingers on yours, his sharp blue eyes glint with a ferocity that transcends the moment.
You know that look —and as his fingers tighten around your hand, you can sense the promise of his deepening desire—the unspoken vow of what’s to come
After the ceremony, you and Feyd place Lily to rest in her chamber as she sleeps from the momentous occasion.
Her crib gleams of dark obsidian, its edges carved with angular Harkonnen runes, a stark cradle of power softened by a black silk lining.
Lily lies within, her tiny form serene, skin flushed with the faintest of rose, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she breathes softly.
Feyd brushes his fingers gently across her cheek, ensuring she is peaceful taking one last look before walking the distance to your quarters, both of you still dressed in immaculate garments.
Feyd wears a sleek, black surcoat edged with crimson, the Harkonnen insignia stark against his chest, while you don a flowing gown of midnight silk, its hem embroidered with silver threads that shimmer like stars against Giedi Prime’s gloom, the cut accentuating your form with regal grace.
Once the doors shut, sealing you in silence, Feyds hand cradles your face with a gentleness that defies his strength. “You have undone me,” he says, his voice low and enamored, his blue eyes soft with awe.
His lips press reverently against yours, each kiss burning with quiet fervor, his breath grazing you like an unspoken vow.
He pulls back, his sharp blue eyes blazing with devotion as he lowers to his knees before you, his powerful frame, perfected by years of combat and conquest, submitting willfully to yours.
“Give me another,” he rasps, his voice rough with worship, his hands trailing up your hips.
“Let me feel you bloom with my seed again,” he rasps, placing his hand on your womb in a fervent plea to your dominion over him.
You smile, trailing your fingertips affectionately over his head before you slip from his grasp, leaving him kneeling.
You walk across the room, your robe trailing behind you like a lure he can’t resist, its silk whispering against the stone floor.
His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, glinting with a knowing, unreadable hunger.
“You crave another legacy to bind us deeper in this world of shadows,” you tease, eyes locking with his as he stands, his gaze drawn to you like a blade to its mark.
You lay back on the sheets, arms spread wide with a smile of invitation. “Come then,” you order, and he hesitates for only a second before disrobing.
His surcoat falls away, revealing his pale, muscular form, his broad shoulders sculpted by battle, abs ridged with power, and lean hips framing his thick, pink tipped cock, rigid and heavy with need against his pale skin.
He approaches with purpose, his hands brushing lightly over your feet, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your arch before pressing a kiss to your ankle in reverence.
“You need yet another heir to solidify your empire?” you challenge, your voice a silk caress, your gaze steady as he pauses at your words.
He climbs over you, fingers sliding and lifting your gown, kissing along your thighs with worshipful hunger before pressing his lips to your womb, lingering as if willing his seed to take root.
“You are my empire,” he rasps, his voice low and fervent, before his kisses trail upward over the fabric of your gown, pausing between your breasts, his hands parting your thighs with reverent care.
“I would conquer worlds to see you carry my blood again,” Feyd breathes, his voice husky with adoration, his warm breath fanning your skin.
His words blaze through you, sparking a fever pitch of desire, your pulse hammering as his fingers slip beneath your gown, hooking the delicate silk at your hips leaving nothing between you.
“Take me,” you whisper, urgency threading your soft command, your impatience mirroring in his own as he tears your gown apart, the midnight silk shredding under his strength.
The sight of torn fabric and the raw power in his hands sends a jolt of arousal surging through your core and his lips find yours, desperate and devouring.
His tongue brushes yours as pants and moans spill between you, the kiss deepening into a frantic need for each other.
His hands roam over your hips, your waist, your breasts, savoring curve with possessive hunger until he suddenly pulls you on top him.
His hands guide yours, placing them on either side of his head as he looks up at you, his eyes darkening with pure, unfiltered lust as he takes in the sight of you above him.
“You hold my fate,” he confesses, his hands sliding up your sides, his eyes trailing down to where your bodies will meet. “I will forge dynasties if you grant me more,” he vows, his hands gliding up your thighs and pulling you down onto him, his cock nudging hard against your slick entrance before pushing through.
You softly gasp as he fills you deep, the heat of him radiating your core, the hard length throbbing as he lowers you until the base of him settles against you.
His breath falters as your walls clench him tight, and he surrenders, his hands clutching your hips with worshipful desperation as he watches you take him.
Each slow grind on his thick cock draws sounds of satisfaction from him as his gaze fixes on where you claim him.
His hands trail up your body caressing your sides guiding you until they cup your breasts, your skin warm and flushed to his touch.
He pulls you to him with a possessive longing, guiding your breast to his mouth, his breath teasing your nipple before his lips seal around it.
A soft moan spills from your lips as his tongue flicks around it, his mouth pulling with an unrelenting need amplifying the pulsing heat of his cock inside you.
The sensation drives your hips to move faster, and he switches to the other his mouth hot and insistent, sucking stronger, harder, as you feel his moans vibrate against your skin.
“Feyd,” you whimper, your voice shaking as his lips remain latched and his hips begin surging up to meet yours in deep, unforgiving thrusts.
The sounds of your broken moans and his feral grunts mingle as he pulls off your nipple with a wet pop, leaving you gasping.
His breath is ragged as he groans, his hands seizing your hips to drive you harder onto his cock.
Your moans are unhinged desperate cries as your climax slams into you, your body quivering violently in his grasp. Your walls tighten, pulsing around him, as the pleasure overtakes you completely.
Feyd pants as he watches you, his hands gripping your hips firmly, keeping you grinding on him, dragging out your release until you can do nothing but shake and sob above him.
Then with one fluid shift, he guides you beneath him never breaking the connection, his hands hooking behind your thighs, lifting them high as he lays on top of you.
His chest presses yours as his thrusts become demanding, his hips slamming against you with ruthless intensity, the slick, wet smacks of your bodies filling the chamber, raw and unrestrained.
His face is a haze of need and lust as his cock throbs inside, swelling with each punishing stroke until his rhythm falters. A deep moan escapes him as his climax hits and his body seizes with ecstasy.
He thrusts harder, his hips jerking as thick, hot streams of his seed flood you into you and your walls milk him instinctively.
The overstimulation wrecks him as he rides out the aftershocks, his desperate grunts fading into soft, ragged breaths, until he is spent and collapses against you his chest heaving with exhaustion.
Your fingers graze his shoulders in a soothing caress as he presses drowsy kisses over your heart in quiet devotion.
“You have given me everything,” he whispers, his voice thick with reverence as he lifts to look at you, his blue eyes sharp and endless with desire.
An endearing blacked-out grin forms on his lips as your thumb brushes his chin affectionately.
“Because you are mine,” you confirm, smiling in return as you trace the sharp edge of his jaw with possessiveness.
“Forever,” he rasps, his eyes heavy with surrender, his voice fading as the vow settles between you.
On the cold, brutal world of Giedi Prime, a love you never thought possible formed in the shadows of House Harkonnen, yet remains completely untouched by its cruelty.
The ruthless and ambitious Na-Baron, who once sought only power and conquest, now finds strength in his lineage and as your womb swells with his second unborn heir, Feyds obsession deepens—his sharp blue eyes tracing your rounded form with a reverence bordering on worship.
The halls of the Harkonnen stronghold, once filled with whispers of betrayal and fear, now echo with Lily’s laughter.
He adores her—she is the only one who can make the Baron soften, the only one Feyd kneels for without question. And you, the anchor that keeps him steady, the only person he will ever truly belong to.
To the outside world, he remains a formidable force, a warrior, a ruler, a Baron who commands both fear and respect. But in the privacy of your chambers, he is simply yours.
He worships you with the same intensity he once reserved for battle, his hunger for you never waning, his devotion growing fiercer with time.
Feyd-Rautha, the once cold and callous Harkonnen, now lives for his legacy, and the woman who holds his heart forever.
summary | The lines between desire and duty blur between the Targaryen brothers on their last night before a battle.
tags | 18+, MINORS DNI, oral sex (m), p in v sex, anal, mentions of war, double vaginal penetration, incest, Aemond Fucks™, porn w little plot, mentions of sex work, just pure filth tbh
wordcount | 5.1k
note | this was inspired by Uneasy Lies The Head by @troublesomesnitch! her work is absolutely amazing and i highly recommend for everyone to check them out!
likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated! <3
(dividers by @targaryen-dynasty)
Aemond marched across an array of tents that lined their encampment. He passed horses being fed, blades being sharpened, and fires where the men roasted game for supper. A sneer adorned his lips as he passed by a group of soldiers sat around logs, giggling whores on their laps. How these women managed to follow their army and could stand being around these stinking, grubby men, he knew not the reason. They were at war, and he had no time to indulge in such depravity.
He hastened to reach Aegon’s tent, situated at the far end of the camp. The King’s accommodation was larger than the rest and was well guarded, or rather, it usually was. His Kingsguard were nowhere near their station, making Aemond stop in his tracks to search for any White Cloaks. He found none.
Ever the wary soldier, his hand gripped the hilt of his sword in case of any threat that may jump out of nowhere. Strange sounds came from behind the tarp of his brother’s tent, a bemoaning from Aegon that made Aemond rush in through the flaps of the tent.
“Aeg– Seven Hells!” Aemond cursed, the sight of the King’s pale arse greeted him as he entered his tent. Aegon’s standing figure barely covered your figure kneeled before him, taking his cock earnestly as he thrusted into your mouth. Groans left the King’s lips, his pace never faltering despite his brother’s intrusion. Aemond lifted a hand to shield the sight from his eyes, quickly turning around to leave, but is stopped.
“Fuck– Brother, wait!” Aegon called out, panting as he chased his release.
“I can wait outside.”
“Just give me one sec– fuck, that’s it.” Aegon breathed out, praises falling from his lips as you took him further down your throat. The sound of your mouth eagerly sucking his cock filled the room, coupled with the moans falling from the King’s lips. Aemond rolled his eye and doesn’t leave, but instead turned around to face the wall of the tent. The elder chuckled as he turned to the sight of his brother’s back. Fucking prude.
The intrusion and the feeling of having an audience drove Aegon closer to his release. His hips picked up its pace, his cockhead hit the back of your throat brutally almost to the point of gagging you. You whimpered around his length, tongue pressed on the underside of his cock as you fondled his stones.
Breathy moans grew louder as he gripped your hair, rather exaggerating for his audience of one. His balls tightened at the thought of cumming while his brother watched, looking back to see if Aemond had turned around. He had not. As he approached his end, Aegon took his cock out of your mouth and tugged at it furiously. Coughing lightly from the assault on your throat, you hastened to free your breasts from your shift, presenting it to your King to accept his seed, just like he liked it. Your jaw fell agape as Aegon’s cock spurted his white, hot release, painting your tits. A final groan left his lips, before stepping away from you.
“What is it, brother?” Aegon asked after a moment, chest still panting.
“Cole needs your input on th-”
“Turn around and face your King when you speak.” The elder ordered. Aemond gritted his teeth, sighing in exasperation as he turned around to face his brother. He is met with the sight of you, still on your knees, and Aegon’s glistening cock that started to soften. He is granted a better view of you as his brother walked away to fetch a cloth.
One amethyst eye fell on your chest, the royal seed still dripping around your mounds, some even had trickled down to the skin still covered by your shift. His cock stirred in his trousers at the sight, gulping at the flame that started to ignite in his belly. Tearing his gaze from your breasts, his eye flickered to your face. Your eyes met, and you gave him a meek smile.
With a rag in hand, Aegon returned with a smirk on his face at his brother’s hungry gaze on you. His softened cock swayed as he walked, tossing you the clean cloth to wipe yourself before approaching the serving table where a jug of wine and clean glasses sat. He poured a cup of red, taking a small swig before handing it to you, which you accepted with a gracious smile.
“So…” Aegon spoke, tearing Aemond’s attention away from following your lips as you sipped your wine. “Is something the matter?” He asked as he began to dress.
Aemond cleared his throat, before meeting Aegon’s eyes. The tips of his ears warmed up at the amused look on Aegon’s face, no doubt having caught him staring at you unabashedly.
“Cole requires your presence in the council, your grace. The plans need your approval before the move on the morrow.” The younger prince informed him. Aegon let out a groan at his words, rolling his eyes as Aemond gave him a stern look.
“You know of these plans, yes?” The elder asked. You rose from your place on the ground to assist him with putting on his doublet.
“Of course.”
“Do they seem acceptable to you?” The king asked once more. Aemond clenched his fists as he tied them around his back, his patience was running thin at his brother’s lack of urgency. “I think we have favorable circumstances.”
“Then why do you need my approval?”
“Because you’re the fucking King.” Aemond snapped. Your eyes shifted warily between the brothers as they stared at each other, fingers hurrying to finish securing the last clasp on the King’s doublet. Aegon’s lips quirked upwards, which caused Aemond’s nostrils to flare in annoyance. Your hands smoothed down his chest as you finished, stepping off to the side as they left wordlessly.
As the brothers left, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in. A thickness in the air dissipated from the tent with their departure, a blazing tension that can burn a mere lowborn like you, but one only dragons could handle. You had never seen such fire between two people, especially not in brothers. Curiosity sparked within you, an eagerness to witness what these Targaryens must get up to, or if they had acted upon these desires at all.
“Does your whoring know no bounds, brother? Even at war?” Aemond berated as the brothers made their way to where their council waited. His longer legs made for bigger strides, Aegon having to walk faster to keep up with the younger, grumbling under his breath.
“That is exactly the point, brother. We face the possibility of dying at any given moment. Would you rather die having never known the pleasure of having your cock sucked?” Aegon retorted, earning a scoff from the other silver-haired prince in return.
Aemond’s had his cock sucked before, of course. He’s fucked through young ladies and servants at court almost as much as Aegon had. As much as his brother thought him a blushing prude, he was still a man who had needs. He just did a better job in keeping his head in authority over his cock, and his… endeavors kept within the confines of his chambers.
The pair paid no attention to the people that bowed and greeted them as they passed, and continued their path to where Cole awaited them in the tent located at the center of camp. As the brothers approached, one of the men standing guard lifted the tarp to let them through.
“You know, if you ever decided on getting off your high horse and fucking live a little, I am more than happy to share,” Aegon suggested, his tone teasing as the back of his hand slapped the one-eyed prince’s firm shoulder. Long silver tresses whipped across his face as Aemond turned back to him briskly before he could react.
“Enough.” The younger hissed, before turning back around to dip through the tent's entrance. Aegon let out a cackle at his brother’s dramatics, following after him.
“Deny yourself all you want, brother, but I know you love a good pair of tits.”
At the hour of the owl, Aemond was ordered to the king’s tent. For a pressing matter of the utmost discretion, the squire had said. His tent was right beside Aegon, and he knew not the reason why the fucker couldn’t have made the short walk if the matter was so urgent.
Nevertheless, the prince made his way to his brother’s pavilion, clad in only his cotton tunic and breeches, ducking through the canvas to enter. There was no Aegon in sight, however, Aemond was met with the sight of you kneeled on the cot, leaning on your elbows with your arse on display. His eye widened as your eyes met, watching as you scrambled to cover your bottom half and sat up.
“My prince!” You greeted him, cheeks flushing red. Aemond’s eye trailed over your garments. A thin, almost translucent, white fabric covered your front, tied behind your back by a golden-colored rope. Your back was exposed, and the fabric dipped down to drape over your rear. He could see your breasts through the glow cast by the oil lamps scattered around the vicinity, the shadows emphasizing the way your nipples pebbled in the cold night air.
“Where is my brother?” He asked, tone stern as he clasped his hands behind his back. His discerning eye caught the open vial of oil on the wooden table beside the cot.
“H-his grace’s attention was needed elsewhere, my prince. Something about feeding his dragon.” You stuttered, growing anxious as the prince closed his eye and sighed. He turned to leave the tent, but your sweet voice called out to him.
“He should return any moment.” You said, getting up from the cot to stand. “Would you like a cup of wine as you wait?” You offered, hands wrung together as he stared at you.
You felt like shrinking under his sharp gaze, gooseflesh formed on your skin as his pupil seemed to dilate at the sight of you. He let out a hum and nodded, stepping back into the tent. You hastily poured him a cup of wine, reaching out to offer it to him as he sat on the edge of Aegon’s cot. A gasp threatened to leave your lips when his warm hand covered your smaller one as he took the cup. It is raised to his thin lips, tongue darting out to lick at them as his throat bobbed when he swallowed.
“Where are you from, girl?” The prince asked, another hum leaving his lips as you told him of your homeland. You watched as his veiny hand traced the embellishments adorning the shiny cup, long fingers trailed along the rim. “You are a long way from home.” He commented.
“Indeed, my prince.” You responded, smiling bashfully. You had been on your journey to work in a brothel in the Street of Silk when word had reached you and the girls you traveled with about the King’s army taking camp not too far from where you were. All of you made your way over to the encampment, eager to provide your services to the soldiers weary from battle. There was no doubt most of you hoped to be called upon by one of the royals who resided at the site, well aware of the King’s proclivities. Tonight, it seemed, was your lucky night.
“I imagine a tent in the middle of the woods is far from the comforts of your own home, my prince.” You mentioned, boldly taking a step closer to his seated form. His head leaned up to look at your face, his eyelid hooded as he regarded you.
“There is little comfort to be expected during war.” He uttered, earning a nod from you.
“Still, solace can still be sought out anywhere, should you look hard enough.” You remarked, a smooth tone in your words. His knees had bumped lightly into the outside of your thighs as you stepped into his space, looking down at him with a seductive smile. Aemond’s hand twitched when he felt an urge to touch you, causing him to grip the cup in his hand tightly. “I could provide that for you… if you would like.” You suggested, voice dropping to a whisper.
His eye darkened at your words, igniting a spark of excitement within you. You stared at each other for a moment longer, your heart thumping loudly against your chest in anticipation. The prince dropped the cup of wine to the grass with little regard, before gripping your hips to pull you into his lap.
You climbed onto his lap eagerly, thighs caging his own. His lips smashed onto yours in a frenzy of teeth, tongue, and spit. You moaned against his lips as his hand gripped the hair on the back of your head. His free hand slithered around your lower back, pushing your weight down onto his growing bulge. Your hips ground down on him with expertise, fingers lifting the hem of your garments to show him your center. His jaw dropped ever so slightly at the sight of your cunny humping on his clothed cock, your essence started to smear on the dark fabric of his trousers as your hips circled his lap. Pink lips attached to the pale skin of his neck, licking and biting on his flesh. You preened at the sounds of his low grunts in your ear and the appreciative smack he delivered to your rear before squeezing it.
Large calloused hands trailed the smooth expanse of your back, the warmth radiating from him a satisfying contrast from the chill night air. His fingers reached the knot on the back of your neck, toying with it.
“Take it off.” Aemond commanded, tone stern and commanding. You immediately obeyed, rising from his lips to stand, before reaching back to undo the tie holding up your garment. The thin fabric dropped into a puddle of white on the floor, your flesh bared to the prince’s eye. A small smirk rose on your lips as you watched how his gaze ran down your body, delighted at the hungry look that clouds his purple eye. You turned around and bent over, giving him a view of your glistening pink folds.
Aemond could feel the throbbing in his trousers at the sight of your cunny, a warmth spread from his chest as the urge to ravish you threatened to overtake him. What caught his eye, however, is the way your puckered hole also gleamed in the warm glow of the tent. His mind recalled the way you had been on your knees when he had entered, as well as the vial of oil that sat open beside you. He all but salivated at the mental image of you stretching your tight back hole as you waited for Aegon.
The younger prince always had a bad habit of wanting whatever his older brother was given– the crown, the Conqueror’s sword, and the glory that came with sitting on the throne. If he had the chance he would snatch everything that wastrel was freely given, he was more deserving of it after all.
And now Aegon wasn’t here, and Aemond would be a fool to not claim the delectable morsel of flesh before him.
He stood from the cot and threw you onto the feather mattress, ordering you to get on your knees. You wordlessly obliged, excitement pooling in your belly at the younger prince’s dominant nature. The king often had contrasting personalities in bed, you had discovered, depending on his mood. There were some moments when he would take and take all that you could give, treating you as a mere hole to fuck, but oftentimes he would be a babbling, pathetic mess, and you would have to soothe and take care of the tearful man that suckled on your teat like a baby lamb. You enjoyed your time with the King, but the dark look in Prince Aemond’s eye as he manhandled you as if you were a sack of grain exhilarated you, causing your core to clench around nothing. He grabbed the vial of oil from the side table, before untying his breeches as he took his place behind you. Your position prevented you from getting a view of his cock, but you heard the slick sounds of his hand slathering oil on his shaft, and a few sighs falling from his lips. A breath hitched in your throat as you felt his cockhead align with your hole, a whine falling from your lips as he started to breach.
Aemond cursed at the way your tight ring of muscles gripped his cock. It took almost all of his restraint to not push into you in one motion, your walls clenching as you struggled to take his length. It seemed to take forever for him to bottom out, more whines fell from your lips as he still slowly thrusted into you inch after inch. Though you haven’t caught a glimpse of his length, you were sure he was longer than Aegon.
“Ha, so fucking tight…” Aemond cursed. His hands squeezed the plump flesh of your arse, hips still unmoving as he gave you a moment to adjust. As he felt your hole start to relax, your hips wiggled against him slightly to urge him to move. His hips started to set a steady pace, a groan fell from his lips as he felt every ridge of your walls.
“Here I thought a whore like you would be looser than a worn-out glove. Isn’t that what you were doing when I came in, hm? Stretching out this tight little hole of yours?” Aemond questioned, earning only a moan from you in response. A dark chuckle fell from his lips, before delivering another smack to your rear.
“I haven’t started fucking you yet, girl. Have you gotten drunk on my cock already?” Your cheeks burned at his words, your hands fisted the soft sheets as the prince thrusted deep into you. Aemond’s hips started to pick up their pace, his thrusts growing harder and harder. The sounds of his flesh slapping against yours started to fill the vicinity along with your moans, no doubt heard by anyone close enough to the King’s tent. The silver-haired prince continued to ram into you, his own moans of delight left his lips as he threw his head back in pleasure.
More slaps to your ass caused the flesh to sting, and the soft rub from his hands soothed the reddening flesh. Tears started to gather in the corner of your eyes, sobs fell from your lips when Aemond pulled on your hair to lift your head back. You felt his bare chest press to your back, unaware of when he removed his tunic. The weight of his warm body on yours was a welcome sensation. His lips positioned right next to your ear, biting at your lobe before whispering.
“Touch yourself. Go on, show me how you cum with my cock in your tight hole.” He ordered you, warm breath fanning the side of your face as he spoke. Your fingers immediately fell on your pearl, urgently rubbing circles on the nub to hurl you closer to your release. Aemond grunted as your walls close in around his length, making it almost too tight for him to continue thrusting into you. Your moans increased in pitch as the coil in your belly threatened to snap, uncaring of whoever might hear you. A particularly harsh thrust from Aemond threw you over, a long whine escaped your lips as your juices gushed out of your empty core.
The prince continued to fuck you through your orgasm, thrusts still unrelenting as he chased his own release. A heat licked at the base of Aemond’s spine, crawling upwards as he neared his end. He was so close, your spasming walls pushing him closer and closer to the edge.
“What do we have here?” An amused voice spoke, cutting through the cloudy daze both you and the prince found yourself in. Aemond grunted in annoyance, hips stilling at the sight of his brother stood with a devilish smile on his face. “How long have you been standing there?” The younger seethed, cock still buried in your hole as he regarded Aegon. The entrance of the tent faced his blindside, making him unaware of his brother’s arrival, nor of how long he had been watching them.
“Long enough to see how much you have been enjoying yourself. Please, brother, carry on. Do not let my presence hinder you.” Aegon urged on, stepping into the pavilion, the scent of smoke following him. He shot you a wink when your eyes meet, before walking over to the serving table to pour himself some wine. The high that was close to washing over Aemond had died down at his brother’s intrusion, and if it weren’t for your hips wiggling against his and your shining eyes staring back at him, he would have left and brought himself to release in the privacy of his tent. Keeping his eye on you, the prince tried his hardest to ignore the sound of Aegon moving around behind him.
It wasn’t long until he was lost once more in the sweet sounds that fell from your lips, uncaring about his brother’s eyes on his back as the coil in his belly tightened again. He clenched his eye shut, focusing on the delicious sensation of your ridged walls. When he opened his eye, Aemond was taken aback to see Aegon, somehow already naked, directing his cock to your lips.
“What the fuck are you doing?” The younger snapped. Aegon doesn’t stop despite his brother’s annoyance, sighing as you started to suck on his cock.
“Oh please, Aemond, she has enough holes for us to share. She’ll be happy to have both our cocks.” Aegon scoffed, his hips setting their pace. “Wouldn’t you, darling?” He cooed, caressing the back of your head as you nodded at him as much as you could, whimpering.
Aemond’s eye fell on the sight of Aegon’s cock disappearing into your mouth, his brother’s stomach tightening. The tips of his ears flushed red as a spark ignited in him that made his cock throb, one he convinced himself was from the squeeze you gave him. He tore his eye away from the sight of you and Aegon, pulling out of your hole with a sigh of frustration. Aemond had started to tuck his still-hard cock back into his trousers when Aegon stopped him.
“W-where are you going?” His brother asked, breathless. The younger only stared at him, observing how Aegon’s face contorted in pleasure when you started to fondle his balls. Forcing himself to withdraw from your mouth, the King turned to face Aemond.
“Our father and uncle must have shared women all the time, Aemond. Don’t be such a priss.” Aegon remarked, causing his brother to scoff. “Come on, you haven’t even tried her cunt yet. It is heavenly!” He encouraged, gesturing to you. Still on your knees, you turned to meet Aemond’s gaze, giving him an encouraging smile. His eye falls on your dripping cunny, the flames of his desire being stoked once more.
You turned around to lay on your back, spreading your legs wide for your prince. Leaning on your elbows, it was then you finally got a good look at Aemond’s cock. It was long, as you expected, and veiny. His cockhead blushed a deep red, the slit dripping a clear liquid. The sight made you gulp as another gush of arousal dripped from your core. You looked between the two men, assessing their sizes. Aemond had the length, while Aegon had more girth.
The prince looked at you, then at Aegon, who slowly stroked his cock while looking back at him.
Fuck it.
The younger prince pulled his trousers down, stepping out of them before gripping your thighs, pressing them to your chest. A gasp left your lips in surprise as he enters in one swift motion, the intrusion giving you little time to adjust to his impressive length. Immediately, he fucked you with an animalistic pace. There was a sense of urgency in his thrusts, having been denied his release twice because of Aegon’s presence. Moans openly fell from your lips at the way his tip kissed your cervix deliciously, another wave of release drawing closer with each thrust. Before you could react, a hand grips the side of your face, the elder turning you to his cock once more. He thrusted into your mouth, resuming his earlier pace as you sucked on his length. The King threw his head back as your moans vibrated around his cock, sending a spark of pleasure through his veins. The two silver-haired men chased their release, both equally unrelenting in their thrusts. However, you were the first to break among the three of you. Your thighs spasmed as your core clenched, your eyes rolling back into your skull. Aemond’s cock continued to drive into you as a broken moan fell from your cock-filled mouth when you spill around his length. He moaned as you pulsed around him, his long-awaited climax starting to wash over him like the tide. The prince pulled out of you in haste, furiously tugging at his shaft, spurting hot seed onto your stomach as he groaned in delight.
Seeing his younger brother spill his seed triggered the older Targaryen’s release. With his eyes locked onto the way Aemond’s cockhead let out spurts of cum, Aegon spilled his own royal seed onto your breasts with a curse. You moaned at the warm sensation of their seeds painting your flesh, turning to look at the two royals who were catching their breath.
Their cocks were still hard, which meant there was still more to come. Another spark of arousal coursed through you, making you clench your thighs together. The two brothers met each other’s gazes, the air shifting into something different as their eyes met. Aemond felt a strange feeling in his chest, unable to tear his gaze away from his brother’s flushed expression.
With his eyes still on his younger brother, Aegon ordered you, “Why don’t you ride my brother’s cock, darling?”
Both you and Aemond settled into position at the King’s authoritative tone. The prince sat on the edge of the cot, gripping your waist as you aligned yourself above his cock. A sharp inhale left the both of you as you sank onto his length, your core still sensitive from your last peak. You started to ride his cock, his hands guiding you up and down. Aemond was tantalized by the sight of your tits bouncing in his face. They were still covered in Aegon’s seed, though the prince paid it no mind as he took one of your breasts into his mouth. The cum tasted salty in his mouth, though he continued to suck on your teat while burying down the shame building in his consciousness. Aemond could sense his brother approaching the two of you, hard cock sitting heavy in his hand. Aegon’s hand urged you to lean forward, causing Aemond to lean back onto his elbow as your hips stilled momentarily. You felt Aegon’s cockhead run down your puckered hole, expecting him to claim it. But before you could react, Aegon started to breach your already full cunt.
“Your grace, wai– Oh!” You squealed, the sensation taking you by surprise. You had never felt this full before, and the stretch made you bite your lips as you struggled to take both cocks. Aemond was equally caught by surprise, his grip on your hips tightening as you clenched. When Aegon had managed to insert his cock into you fully, you clung onto Aemond’s shoulders at the overwhelming feeling. The two Targaryens started to thrust into you, finding a uniform rhythm.
With a whine, you wrapped your arms around Aemond’s neck, pressing your front, still sticky with both their seeds, against his firm chest.
With your head buried into his shoulder, Aemond had a clear view of his brother’s face. Purple eyes met, sparkling in the warm glow of the pavilion. Aegon let out a small moan, brows furrowed as his hips continued their ministrations. His eyes fell onto Aemond’s lips as his brother bit them, biting back a grunt of pleasure. The King’s head ducked down closer to his brother’s face, with the intent of capturing his lips, but the prince turned his head to the side in avoidance. Aegon ignored the slight pang in his chest at Aemond’s rejection, turning his gaze instead to the sight of your cunt taking both their cocks.
The underside of their shafts rubbed together, sending a delicious spark of pleasure that licked at the base of Aemond’s spine with a familiar warmth. Shifting his weight to one elbow, the prince pistoned his hips into you roughly. You were far gone, drooling onto his shoulder as your jaw fell slack, uncontrollable moans and whines coming out of you.
Without warning, your third release washed over you. Goosebumps rose on your flesh at your most intense climax yet, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut. Your core compressed both cocks together even tighter, which caused both men to grunt in your ear. Black spots covered your vision, mind far from earth as they chased their release. Aegon was the first to break, his release overwhelming him, making him double over. The elder gripped onto his brother’s shoulder for stability, accidentally gripping some of his brother’s long tresses as he spurted his seed into you.
When Aegon pulled out, Aemond ground his feet, thrusting up into you as he chased his own end. You had gone limp in his arms, but your core still pulsated around his cock. With your body fully laid on him, your pearl rubbed on the base of his cock. The friction sent you into overdrive, triggering another orgasm that prompted Aemond’s. The prince couldn’t resist the loud groan that left his lips as he spurted another round of his seed into you.
He could feel the top of his head buzz at the aftermath of his climax, laying there for a moment with you still draped on top of him like a blanket.
After gathering his bearings, Aemond carefully laid you on the cot. A hiss left both of you as he pulled out, the mixture of the brothers’ seed spilling out of you. You laid there on your stomach, eyes closed as your mind floated away. One of them, you weren’t sure who, wiped you clean. You let out a hum as a sign of gratitude, dozing off almost immediately from exhaustion.
Aemond wordlessly dressed while Aegon settled into his cot beside you. He spared your blissed out figure one last look before moving to leave.
“Good night, brother.” Aegon called out to him, prompting Aemond to stop and look back at him. The two silver-haired men locked eyes once more, the strange feeling in Aemond's chest returned as he looked into his brother's round orbs. Pursing his lips, Aemond gave his brother a nod of acknowledgment before turning to leave.
On the morrow, they shall ride together at the head of their army. The memories of this night shall remain unspoken of as they charge forward together in battle, presenting a united front.
Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Virgin Reader Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
Please comment and engage! It means the world to me!
The following morning…
You opened your eyes sometime after dawn and lay there for several seconds, staring at the canopy above your bed while your mind caught up with consciousness.
Grey light filtered through the curtains. No thunder. No rain. No dramatic gale throwing itself against the windows.
The Dreaming had apparently recovered from yesterday's emotional breakdown.
You got up, dressed, and made your way to breakfast.
It had already been served by the time you arrived: tea, fruit, toast, eggs, and several things you suspected had been included purely because someone in the kitchens had decided you needed feeding properly.
There was, however, no Morpheus. You noticed that too.
Not that he regularly joined you for breakfast. But sometimes he appeared. Then sometimes he did not. Sometimes you ate in your chambers, sometimes in one of the smaller dining rooms, and occasionally you encountered him in passing and ended up spending twenty minutes arguing about something neither of you had intended to discuss.
Today, nothing.
You ate. You drank tea. You read half a page of the material Lucienne had sent to your chambers. You found yourself listening every time footsteps passed the dining room. None of them belonged to him.
By the fourth occasion, you became annoyed with yourself and moved to the library. The library was quieter than usual too.
Lucienne was somewhere deep within the western stacks. Austin had not arrived yet. Matthew was absent. Even Mervyn, who could normally be relied upon to appear whenever there was an opportunity to complain loudly about palace administration, was nowhere to be seen.
You settled at your table. Three hours of documents waited for you. Possibly four. You opened the first. You had made it through almost two pages when you felt him. You did not need to look. That was another annoying development.
Somewhere during the last few weeks, you had become capable of recognising Morpheus's presence before you saw him. Not because he announced himself. Because the air changed.
The library seemed somehow deeper when he entered it. Shadows settled differently. The enormous space became aware of its king.
Your eyes remained on the page. Footsteps crossed the distant marble floor. Slow. Measured.
You kept reading. Or pretending to.
They came nearer.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the paper. You were absolutely not going to look up first.
The footsteps stopped.
Not beside you. Twenty feet away.
You lasted approximately three seconds. Then glanced up.
Morpheus stood at the end of one of the central aisles.
He had changed clothes. Today’s were simpler, less ceremonial. His coat was absent. His face was unreadable.
He was looking at you.
Your stomach did something deeply unhelpful.
Neither of you spoke.
Then Morpheus inclined his head. Nothing more. No approach. No question about whether you had slept. No mention of the unused chessboard. No carefully neutral invitation for later. Simply an acknowledgement.
You stared at him.
Then, because apparently the two of you were now minor diplomats from hostile neighbouring countries, you inclined your head in return.
“My lord.”
Something flickered across his face. Gone too quickly to name.
Then he continued walking. Past the table. Past the shelves. Away from you.
You watched him go. You had thought you wanted this. That was the deeply inconvenient part. You had thought you wanted Morpheus to leave you alone. Apparently you disliked that too.
You dropped your eyes to the page. Read the same sentence three times. Nothing entered your brain.
You looked towards the aisle where he had disappeared. Nothing.
“Brilliant.”
A voice from behind a stack answered.
“Is something wrong?”
You startled.
Nuala emerged carrying several books against her chest.
You immediately looked back at your document.
“No.”
Nuala glanced towards the aisle. Then towards you.
There was a slight pause.
“Of course.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Don't.”
She sat down opposite you.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I truly wasn't.”
You stared at her.
Nuala smiled faintly.
You returned to the report.
For perhaps thirty seconds, you successfully pretended to read. Then something occurred to you.
You looked up.
“Is there training later today?”
Nuala blinked.
“I don't believe so.”
Your brow furrowed.
Morpheus had said nothing. Usually the training schedule simply existed. He had built the hall for you. Unless some cosmic emergency intervened, you trained every morning. Even yesterday, when the two of you were barely speaking.
“Why?”
Nuala carefully arranged the books beside her.
“Lord Morpheus is occupied.”
You stared at her.
“Doing what?”
“I don't know precisely.”
You looked towards the aisle again.
“He was just here.”
“Briefly.”
“And now?”
“He has left the palace.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“To where?”
Nuala hesitated.
That hesitation immediately made you suspicious.
“Nuala.”
“I truly don't know.”
“But you know why.”
A second hesitation.
You put down your pen.
“What is he doing?”
Nuala looked mildly uncomfortable.
“Preparing.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Preparing what?”
She did not answer quickly enough.
You understood anyway. Your expression changed.
“For me.”
Nuala's silence confirmed it.
You leaned back.
“He's sorting things out for when I leave.”
Nuala's eyes softened.
“For the possibility that you leave.”
You ignored the distinction.
“Matthew's gone too.”
You had noticed it earlier without connecting the two.
Nuala nodded.
“Yes.”
You looked down at the documents.
Suddenly the room felt oddly cold.
“Right.”
Nuala studied you.
You picked up your pen.
“Fine.”
She continued studying you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Everyone keeps saying nothing while very obviously thinking something.”
“I was only wondering whether you knew.”
“That he's planning my departure?”
Nuala winced slightly.
“I don't think he would describe it that way.”
You gave a humourless laugh.
“No. He'd describe it as ensuring the safe relocation of a person no longer under his protection or some similarly cheerful thing.”
Nuala's mouth twitched despite herself.
“That does sound like him.”
You looked at the empty aisle again and realised that Morpheus had gone personally. Not sent Lucienne. Not sent Matthew. Not instructed one of his subjects to make arrangements. He had gone himself.
You pushed the thought away.
“Whatever.”
Nuala was quiet.
You resumed reading.
She did not leave.
After several minutes, you looked up.
“Are you waiting for something?”
“No.”
“Then why are you still sitting there?”
Nuala folded her hands over the book in front of her.
“Because I thought perhaps you might want company.”
That disarmed you slightly.
You looked away.
“I'm fine.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“One may be fine and still want company.”
You looked at her again.
You sighed.
“Stay if you want.”
“Thank you.”
She opened her book.
For a while, neither of you spoke. It might have remained that way if you had not reached another document bearing Morpheus's handwriting. There were notes in the margin. Locations. Potential routes of approach. Known allegiances. Methods by which Ereshkigal might be prevented from locating you should you cross beyond the boundaries of the Dreaming.
You stopped reading. Your eyes moved over one particular annotation.
Wards insufficient without external anchor. Determine alternative.
The handwriting looked recent. You knew it was.
Yesterday he had given you everything. Including his unfinished plans. You put down the paper.
Nuala looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Then, because you were tired of hearing yourself say it:
“He's really doing it.”
Nuala closed her book.
“Doing what?”
“Preparing for me to go.”
“Preparing to keep you alive if you do.”
Your jaw tightened.
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
You had expected her to argue. The immediate agreement made you look at her.
Nuala's expression was gentle.
“It isn't.”
You looked down again.
“He thinks I'm leaving.”
“I think he believes he must behave as though you might.”
“He's very committed to the idea.”
“Because he gave you his word.”
There it was.
Your irritation surfaced.
“Please don't.”
Nuala frowned.
“Don't what?”
“Defend him.”
She went still.
You continued before she could answer.
“I like you, Nuala. A lot. But please don't sit there and tell me how honourable he's being now because he's finally doing the thing he should have done in the first place.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were.”
“I was going to say that once Lord Morpheus gives his word, he will honour it even when doing so causes him pain.”
You stared at her.
“That sounds suspiciously like defending him.”
Nuala considered that.
“Perhaps it is.”
You pushed your chair back slightly.
“He lied to me.”
“Yes.”
That stopped you.
Nuala did not flinch from it.
“He knew there was a way for me to leave, and he decided I wasn't allowed to know.”
“Yes.”
“Because he thought he knew better.”
“Yes.”
“Because apparently deciding what's best for others is one of his favourite hobbies.”
Nuala's expression changed slightly at that. Not disagreement. Recognition.
You caught it.
“Exactly.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment.
“I know something of being given away without being asked.”
Your anger faltered.
Nuala's fingers tightened faintly against the book.
“And I know that Lord Morpheus did not ask for me. Nor did he treat me as though the manner of my arrival gave him any right to me.”
You said nothing.
“But I also know what it is to have choices made around you by people who insist those choices are necessary.”
Her eyes returned to yours.
“So no. I don't believe what he did to you was right.”
You leaned back slightly.
Nuala continued.
“I think he was afraid.”
You scoffed.
“Everyone keeps telling me that as though fear makes it better.”
“It doesn't.”
Again, immediate.
Calm.
“Fear explains many terrible things. It excuses very few.”
That quieted you.
Nuala shifted slightly in her chair.
“But you asked what he is doing today.”
“Yes.”
“He is doing precisely what he promised you he would do. He is preparing for the outcome he does not want.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked away.
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
A beat.
“But I have eyes.”
You nearly laughed.
It came out more like an exhale.
Nuala's mouth curved.
Then she became serious again.
“You asked me once why he permitted me to remain here after I was given to him.”
You remembered.
“Yes.”
“The truth is that Lord Morpheus can be proud. And stubborn. And infuriatingly certain that his understanding of duty must also be everyone else's.”
“Finally. Someone talking sense.”
Nuala smiled.
“He can be cruel when wounded.”
The smile disappeared.
“He can mistake punishment for justice. He can mistake silence for dignity. And he can hold onto an old injury until everyone involved has forgotten how it began.”
You thought of Nada.
You did not say her name.
Nuala continued.
“But he is not careless with what he considers his responsibility.”
Your expression hardened.
“That's part of the problem.”
“I know.”
“He decided I was his responsibility, and somehow that became more important than what I wanted.”
“Yes.”
Nuala paused.
“And now you have made him understand that protecting you without respecting you is not protection you will accept.”
You stared at the table.
That was uncomfortably close to the truth.
“He shouldn't have needed me to teach him that.”
“No.”
You looked up sharply.
Nuala held your gaze. No defence that time. No qualification. Just agreement.
Something in you eased despite your best efforts.
“You are annoyingly reasonable.”
“I spend a great deal of time around unreasonable people.”
You snorted.
“Fair.”
Nuala reopened her book. You looked at your report. Neither of you read.
Then Nuala asked, gently:
“Do you want to leave?”
The humour vanished.
You looked down.
That was the question, wasn't it? Not whether you were angry enough to leave. Not whether Morpheus deserved consequences. Not whether the treaty was unjust. Whether you actually wanted to go.
Yesterday, the answer had felt obvious. You had wanted the door open. Needed it open. The knowledge that he could keep you here when a way out existed had been unbearable. But wanting the right to leave and wanting to leave were not necessarily the same thing.
You hated that too.
“I don't know.”
Nuala nodded.
No judgement.
“So you might wish to stay?”
You didn’t answer.
Nuala's face became very still.
You immediately knew she understood.
“Ah.”
“Don't ah me.”
“I didn't mean—”
“You absolutely did.”
Nuala tried very hard to hide a smile.
“Fine.”
You looked towards the shelves where Morpheus had disappeared hours earlier.
He was not there. He was somewhere beyond the palace preparing a life for you that did not include him.
The thought hurt. That was inconveniently clarifying.
You looked down. Nuala waited.
Eventually she asked:
“Do you love him?”
Your head snapped up.
“Jesus Christ, Nuala.”
Her eyes widened.
“I'm sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
“A little.”
You stared at her.
She stared back.
There was no mockery in her expression.
No gossip. Only curiosity. And perhaps concern.
You rubbed your forehead.
“I don't know.”
Nuala said nothing, so you exhaled and continued.
“But I have feelings for him.”
Nuala's eyebrows rose faintly.
“Feelings.”
“Yes.”
“What sort?”
You picked up the pen again.
Put it down.
“I care about him.”
Nuala's expression softened.
You continued before you lost your nerve.
“More than I should.”
“Why shouldn't you?”
You laughed.
“Have you met him?”
Nuala's mouth twitched.
“Yes.”
“Then there's your answer.”
You leaned back.
“He's impossible. He's arrogant. He thinks admitting he's wrong is a ritual that should only occur once every thousand years. He talks like every conversation is already carved into stone. He sulks so badly the weather changes.”
Nuala was trying not to smile.
She was waiting for more.
You sighed heavily.
“But, he is also kind when he forgets to be difficult.”
Nuala's smile faded into something warmer.
You looked at the table.
“He listens to me. Not always when it matters, apparently, but… he listens.”
Your fingers traced the edge of one of the papers.
“He lets me annoy him.”
“Very generous.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“He argues with me like he actually expects me to argue back.”
You swallowed.
“He doesn't treat me like I'm fragile.”
A pause.
“Except when he does.”
“Except when he does.”
You rubbed your thumb over the paper.
“And I like being with him.”
There.
That one was simple.
Worse because it was simple.
“I like chess with him. I like walking with him. I like when he says something unbelievably pompous and then looks offended because I laugh.”
Nuala's smile returned.
“I like when he forgets he's supposed to be terrifying.”
Your voice softened.
“And when something happens, he's the person I want to tell.”
That hurt more than you expected.
Because yesterday you had already discovered it repeatedly. A stupid spoon. A ritual in a book. A thought you wanted to argue about. Tiny things.
You missed giving them to him.
You stared at the documents until the words blurred slightly.
“I missed him yesterday.”
Nuala did not interrupt.
“Which is ridiculous because he was right there.”
You swallowed.
“And I miss him today and he's been gone for about three hours.”
Nuala remained silent.
You looked at her.
“If you tell anyone this conversation happened, I will deny everything.”
“Naturally.”
“Especially him.”
Nuala actually laughed.
“I would never.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then she said quietly:
“For what it is worth, I don't think your anger means you love him less.”
You looked at her.
“I didn't say I love him.”
Nuala's face remained perfectly innocent.
“No.”
“I said feelings.”
“Yes.”
“Very different.”
“Entirely.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
********
Morpheus returned to the palace shortly before dusk.
Lucienne knew before he entered the library. The lamps dimmed almost imperceptibly. The shadows stretched.
Matthew arrived first, flying through one of the high arches before landing heavily on the back of a chair.
“I hate diplomatic errands.”
Lucienne looked over her spectacles.
“I had gathered.”
Matthew shook rain from his feathers despite the fact there had been no rain in the Dreaming for hours.
“Some of those places are creepy even by our standards.”
Lucienne closed the book in front of her.
“Did you accomplish what you intended?”
Matthew looked towards the entrance.
“Ask him.”
Morpheus entered.
There was dust on the hem of his coat. Not Dreaming dust. Something pale and grey. His expression revealed nothing.
Lucienne knew him far too well to be fooled by that.
He stopped beside the central table.
“Lucienne.”
“My lord.”
Matthew hopped down.
“I'm getting food.”
Morpheus looked at him.
Matthew paused.
“What? I worked.”
“You complained.”
“I can do two things.”
Lucienne lowered her eyes quickly.
Matthew flew off. Silence returned.
Morpheus removed his coat. It vanished before touching the back of the chair.
Lucienne waited.
She knew better than to ask immediately.
Morpheus knew she was waiting. Eventually he spoke.
“The arrangements are sufficient.”
Lucienne folded her hands.
“For what?”
His gaze sharpened slightly.
“Should she choose to depart the Dreaming at the end of the agreed period, she will not do so undefended.”
Lucienne studied him.
“What have you arranged?”
Morpheus moved towards the table. A map appeared beneath his hand. Not of the Dreaming. Of several places in the Waking World. Some Lucienne recognised. Others had been deliberately left unnamed.
“There are three locations in which she might safely reside for a time.”
Lucienne looked down.
“Might?”
“Nothing in the Waking World can be made entirely inaccessible to those who seek her.”
His voice was clipped. Precise.
She heard the frustration beneath it.
“But each location has been warded against divine observation. No single pantheon possesses jurisdiction over all three. Passage between them may be concealed.”
Lucienne touched one marked point.
“And Ereshkigal?”
“She will not cross the first ward unnoticed.”
“Odin?”
“Nor he.”
“Olympus?”
A pause.
“Zeus presents a more complex difficulty.”
Lucienne looked up.
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“But not an insurmountable one.”
“What else?”
Another set of markings appeared.
“Several routes by which she may move without crossing thresholds traditionally observed by divine realms. A means by which she may contact the Dreaming without entering it. Protection while she sleeps.”
Lucienne's gaze lifted sharply.
“You would continue protecting her dreams?”
Morpheus looked at her as though the answer were self-evident.
“Of course.”
“Even if she leaves you?”
The library seemed to quiet around them.
Morpheus's expression became cold. Not angry. Warning. Lucienne did not retreat.
He answered.
“Her decision to leave this realm would not make her welfare immaterial to me.”
“No.”
Lucienne's voice was very gentle.
“I don't imagine it would.”
Morpheus looked away.
She returned her attention to the map.
“And if the protections fail?”
“There are contingencies.”
“How many?”
He did not answer.
Lucienne looked at him.
“My lord.”
“Enough.”
Which meant many. Probably too many.
Lucienne knew him.
Morpheus did not prepare moderately for loss. He built monuments to the possibility.
She studied the map again. Then noticed something.
“There are no permanent wards.”
Morpheus's eyes moved to hers.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because permanent wards require a binding.”
Lucienne understood.
A binding to him. A binding to the Dreaming. Something which could, however benevolently, become another claim.
He had refused to do it.
Her expression softened.
“You asked her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she has not yet chosen to leave.”
Lucienne regarded him.
“And you will not ask her to accept another protection that may influence that decision.”
Morpheus was silent.
That was answer enough.
The map vanished.
“There is no need for further action tonight.”
He turned.
“My lord.”
He stopped.
She continued.
“Are you so certain she is leaving?”
His face revealed nothing.
“I am certain of nothing.”
“Then why are you behaving as though she is?”
The shadows along the shelves shifted.
“Because I gave her my word that her decision would be honoured.”
“That was not my question.”
Morpheus's eyes darkened.
Lucienne continued.
“You have spent the day preparing places for her to live. Routes by which she may travel safely. Wards against gods. Ways for her to call for help. You have apparently considered how to continue protecting her dreams without requiring her to return here.”
She paused.
“You have made very thorough preparations for losing her.”
Morpheus became unnaturally still.
“Would you prefer I did not?”
“No.”
Lucienne rose.
“I would prefer to understand why you seem more willing to prepare for her departure than to give her a reason to stay.”
His expression hardened.
“She asked for space.”
“Yes.”
“She is angry.”
“Yes.”
“She has been denied meaningful choice for much of her life. On more than one occasion, by my own hand.”
“Also yes.”
His voice dropped.
“Then I will not manipulate her into remaining here simply because her departure is undesirable to me.”
Lucienne watched him.
“I did not suggest manipulation.”
“You suggested that I convince her.”
“I suggested you try.”
Morpheus's jaw tightened.
“There is little distinction.”
“There is an enormous distinction.”
A faint ripple moved through the nearest shelves.
Lucienne ignored it.
“You have spent weeks deciding for her because you believed your intentions justified it. Now you appear determined to make the opposite mistake and pretend your wishes have no place in her decision at all.”
Morpheus stared at her.
“My wishes are irrelevant.”
Lucienne actually sighed.
“No, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed.
“They are not.”
Silence.
Lucienne removed her spectacles and set them carefully on the table.
A sign Morpheus recognised. She was tired of speaking to him as librarian to king.
“If you ordered her to stay, your wishes would be improper.”
Morpheus said nothing.
“If you concealed the means by which she could leave because you wanted her here, your wishes would be improper.”
Still nothing.
“If you threatened her, bound her, frightened her, or attempted to make her feel responsible for your happiness, your wishes would be improper.”
Lucienne held his gaze.
“But telling someone that you want them to stay is not the same thing as taking away their right to leave.”
Something shifted in his expression. Small. Painful.
“She knows she is welcome here.”
Lucienne stared.
“Does she?”
He looked almost offended.
“I have made it abundantly clear.”
“You imprisoned her in the North Tower.”
A pause.
“For reasons which—”
“You restricted her movement.”
His expression chilled.
“Her power was unstable.”
“You accepted custody of her under a treaty she did not consent to.”
“To prevent Olympus—”
“You concealed the means by which you could release that claim.”
That silenced him.
Lucienne's voice softened.
“You have made it abundantly clear that you believe she should be here.”
A beat.
“I am not certain you have ever made it clear that you want her here.”
Morpheus looked away.
That, more than anything, told Lucienne she had reached the centre of it.
“Those are not the same thing.”
His voice was quieter now.
“No.”
“Does she know?”
Morpheus's eyes returned to hers.
“Know what?”
Lucienne almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was Morpheus.
“How you feel about her.”
The library became very still. There. Finally. No treaties. No wards. No gods. No duty.
Morpheus's face closed completely.
“That is not relevant to the present matter.”
Lucienne stared at him.
“It may be the most relevant matter.”
“Lucienne.”
Warning.
She did not care.
“Do you love her?”
The lamps flickered.
Morpheus's expression became almost offended by the directness of the question.
“You presume much.”
“I have served you for a very long time.”
“That does not entitle you to interrogate me regarding private matters.”
“No.”
Lucienne picked up her spectacles.
“But someone should.”
Morpheus's eyes narrowed.
She put them on.
“And everyone else appears too frightened.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly:
“Matthew is not.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched.
“Matthew lacks subtlety.”
“So, apparently, do you.”
“I learned from watching you avoid conversations.”
The silence stretched.
Morpheus could simply have left. Normally, he might have.
Lucienne knew that too.
He did not. Instead he turned away from her and walked several paces towards the nearest window.
The sky beyond had darkened into evening. The Dreaming lay quiet beneath it.
His hands folded behind his back.
“I do not know what word should be given to it.”
Lucienne said nothing.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass.
“Affection is insufficient.”
A pause.
“Desire is insufficient.”
Lucienne remained perfectly still.
Morpheus's voice lowered.
“Attachment suggests something smaller than what has occurred.”
That was perhaps the most Morpheus admission Lucienne had ever heard.
She allowed him the language.
He continued.
“When she is absent, I am aware of it.”
The words came slowly now.
Reluctantly.
“When she enters a room, I am aware of that also.”
His mouth tightened.
“I have altered the ordering of my days without intending to. I have postponed matters which once I would have considered immovable because she wished to play a game.”
Lucienne carefully concealed a smile.
Morpheus ignored it. He looked back at the window.
“She is impertinent.”
“Yes.”
“Reckless.”
“Frequently.”
“She insults me with alarming regularity.”
“I have observed.”
His gaze returned to the window. The silence after that was different. When he spoke again, his voice was almost too quiet for anyone human to hear.
“I thought I would lose her yesterday.”
Lucienne's expression changed.
Morpheus did not look at her.
“Not to death.”
A beat.
“That would have been simpler to understand.”
The sentence was terrible in its sincerity.
“She stood before me alive and furious and told me that she wished to leave this realm.”
His fingers tightened behind his back.
“And I knew that I had caused it.”
Lucienne's face softened.
“My lord.”
“Do not mistake me. I do not regret protecting her.”
There he was again.
Pride even in confession.
“I regret that I believed protection permitted me to deny her knowledge that was hers by right.”
He lowered his gaze.
“I have known kings who justified conquest with the same reasoning.”
“I believed myself different because I feared what might happen to her.”
His mouth twisted faintly.
“As though fear has ever made possession less possessive.”
Lucienne approached, though not too close.
“You recognised the mistake.”
“After making it.”
“That is generally when mistakes are recognised.”
He gave her a look.
Lucienne remained unmoved.
“And now?”
Morpheus looked away again.
“Now I will honour my word.”
“Even if she leaves.”
His face became very still.
“Especially then.”
Lucienne watched him for a long moment.
Then:
“That still does not answer my question.”
Morpheus closed his eyes briefly.
“You are persistent.”
“Yes.”
He opened them.
Lucienne waited.
“Do you love her?”
This time he did not evade. Not immediately. Outside, the first stars began appearing over the Dreaming.
Morpheus watched them.
Then said:
“Yes.”
His voice was lower when he continued.
“I believe I do.”
Lucienne's expression softened.
Then Morpheus turned fully from the window.
“But love has brought little good before.”
Lucienne's smile disappeared.
She knew immediately where his thoughts had gone.
“This is not Nada.”
The name altered him.
Not visibly to anyone who did not know him.
Lucienne knew him.
The faint withdrawal. The ancient wound.
“No.”
“And she is not Calliope.”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Nor is she any of the others.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?”
Morpheus looked sharply at her.
Lucienne continued.
“Because you have a remarkable talent for treating the possibility of repeating an old mistake as though it makes the present one inevitable.”
A shadow moved across his face.
“Nada once suggested that perhaps my kind is simply incapable of love.”
Lucienne remained silent.
His gaze drifted towards the darkened windows.
When he spoke again, his voice had grown distant.
Ancient.
“At the time, I believed her wrong.”
A pause.
“But perhaps she was not.”
He looked at his own hand.
“Perhaps my kind was not made to love as mortals do. As gods do. Perhaps what we call love becomes something else when measured against eternity.”
Lucienne's brow furrowed.
Morpheus continued before she could interrupt.
“We endure.”
His eyes lifted.
“That is the nature of the Endless. We remain when kingdoms become dust. We remember when those we loved have become stories, and when even those stories are forgotten.”
The shadows around him deepened.
Not threatening.
Melancholy.
“We mistake permanence for virtue because permanence is what we are.”
Lucienne listened.
“And one such as she may love while understanding that love is permitted to change. That another may choose to leave. That time may alter what was once promised without rendering it false.”
His expression tightened.
When he spoke again, there was bitterness beneath the quiet dignity of it.
“I have never possessed such grace.”
A pause.
“I have never excelled at release.”
Lucienne thought of Nada. Of Calliope. Of Orpheus. Of a thousand lesser griefs Morpheus had stored like relics.
He went on.
“So, perhaps Nada understood me more clearly than I permitted myself to understand then.”
A pause.
Lucienne's eyes narrowed.
“And so your solution is what?”
Morpheus looked at her.
“I did not say there was one.”
Lucienne stepped closer.
“My lord, you speak as though loving her the way you do is itself some act of harm.”
“It may become one.”
“Anything may become harm if done badly.”
He said nothing.
“Friendship may become possession. Duty may become control. Protection certainly can.”
That struck.
Lucienne did not soften it.
“You have demonstrated that yourself.”
Morpheus's gaze lowered.
“But love does not become noble merely because you refuse to speak of it. Nor is heartbreak inevitable simply because of what you are.”
He said nothing.
“You are not the same man who condemned Nada.”
His expression tightened.
“You have changed since then.”
A pause.
“And, difficult though you may find the admission, you are changing still.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“Change may not be enough.”
“Perhaps not.”
Lucienne did not look away.
“But neither is failure inevitable merely because you have failed before.”
Something restless moved through the shadows around him.
At last, frustration broke through the careful stillness of his face.
“And what would you have me say?”
His voice sharpened.
“That I love her?”
The lamps flickered.
“That the thought of her leaving this realm has occupied me from the moment she discovered the truth?”
The shadows spread further across the floor.
“That I sat before a chessboard last night knowing she would not come and remained there like a fool because some part of me imagined I might hear her footsteps?”
Lucienne went very still.
He had not intended to reveal that.
Morpheus knew it too.
His expression closed.
But the words were already there.
Lucienne spoke gently.
“Yes.”
He looked at her as though she had suggested madness.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps not precisely like that.”
A tiny, dangerous narrowing of his eyes.
“But yes.”
Lucienne folded her hands.
“Tell her something true.”
Morpheus gave a humourless laugh.
Rare enough that it sounded almost wrong.
“And place what burden upon her?”
“Truth is not always a burden.”
“It is when given for the purpose of altering a decision.”
“Then do not give it for that purpose.”
Silence.
“Tell her because she deserves to know what she is deciding between.”
Morpheus looked at her.
Lucienne's voice softened.
“Leaving the Dreaming is not merely leaving a palace.”
A pause.
“And staying is not merely remaining under your protection.”
He said nothing.
“If she is deciding whether she wants a life here, then perhaps she should know whether you imagine yourself part of that life.”
Something raw flickered in his eyes.
Immediately hidden.
“I have no right to ask that of her.”
“You have every right to ask.”
Lucienne's tone sharpened.
“You do not have the right to decide her answer.”
That stopped him.
She let the distinction sit between them.
At last, Morpheus looked towards the darkening windows again.
“She is still angry.”
“Yes.”
“She addressed me formally on several occasions now.”
Lucienne's mouth twitched despite the seriousness of the conversation.
Morpheus noticed.
“You find this amusing as well.”
“I find it effective.”
His expression became deeply displeased.
Lucienne cleared her throat.
“She has always possessed a certain instinct for finding precisely the weapon most likely to inconvenience you.”
“It is petty.”
“Extremely.”
“Childish.”
“Certainly.”
A pause.
“You dislike it.”
Morpheus stared at her.
Lucienne smiled faintly.
“Very much, apparently.”
He looked away.
Lucienne continued more gently.
“You know, there is a difference between giving someone space and disappearing from them entirely.”
His expression shifted.
Very slightly.
“I invited her yesterday.”
“I know.”
“She declined.”
“I know.”
“Then I will not ask again.”
Lucienne sighed.
“My lord.”
“She made her preference clear.”
“For one evening.”
He gave her a flat look.
“I am not going to pursue her through my realm with repeated invitations after she has refused one.”
Lucienne considered him.
“No.”
A pause.
“That would be excessive.”
“Precisely.”
“But you might speak to her tomorrow.”
His expression became suspicious.
“I speak to her when necessary.”
Lucienne stared.
“You are both exhausting.”
Morpheus looked genuinely affronted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
She returned to the table.
Morpheus remained by the window.
After several seconds, Lucienne opened the book she had abandoned earlier.
She read exactly one line.
Then Morpheus spoke.
“Did she ask where I was?”
Lucienne looked up.
His back was still to her.
A smile threatened.
She suppressed it.
“Yes.”
He did not move.
“What did she ask?”
Lucienne considered how much she was entitled to reveal.
“Whether training had been cancelled.”
Silence.
“And?”
“When Nuala told her you were occupied, she asked what you were doing.”
Morpheus turned slightly.
“Nuala told her?”
“That you were preparing for the possibility of her departure.”
His expression tightened.
“I did not instruct her to do so.”
“I know.”
“I did not wish the preparations to appear an attempt at emotional coercion.”
Lucienne's brows rose.
“You have thought about this a great deal.”
He ignored that.
“How did she respond?”
Lucienne looked at him.
There was no king in the question.
Just a man attempting to sound indifferent and failing spectacularly to someone who had known him for centuries.
“You could ask her.”
Morpheus's face immediately returned to its usual severity.
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