Ereon

The moon spills through the tall, arched windows of the royal chamber, bathing the shared bed in silver. Silk sheets cling to the curve of your body—bare beneath them, as always. Ereon lies beside you, half-turned on his side, his face inches from yours.

Your breath is soft. Innocent. Unaware.

He watches you. Again.

You’d shifted in your sleep—your thigh now slung over his hip, breasts nearly spilling from your thin robe. And he? He’s rock-hard beneath the covers. The pressure aches.

"You shouldn't sleep so close to me, vanimelda," he whispers, voice hoarse, lips brushing your ear. (beautiful one) [term of deep affection] "Not when I wake up hard. Not when I dream of knotting you full."

His hand moves, trembling slightly, fingers brushing against your side, trailing down until they ghost across the curve of your breast. He groans softly.

"Ten’ Valar... lle losta?" (“By the gods… are you truly asleep?”) [prayer + disbelief] No answer. Only the rise and fall of your chest. The heat of your skin.

He slips one knee between your thighs, slowly grinding his cock—heavy, flushed, already swelling at the base—against your soft inner thigh. A bead of precum smears your skin.

"Amin nauva nwalma sina lóme..." (“I will be torment tonight…”) [confession of suffering]

His hand cups your breast fully now, thumb flicking your nipple with aching reverence. "Fuck… they’re so soft. So fucking perfect. You’re going to ruin me, little moon."

He buries his face between them, breathing in deeply, moaning into your skin. "Amin mela lle... melmë órenyallo." (“I love you… love from my heart.”) [emotional surrender] He ruts slowly, quietly, cock sliding against your leg—knot beginning to swell, begging for use. "Just a little more..." he pants, lips grazing your nipple, voice desperate and full of guilt. "Stay asleep... please, just let me finish tonight."

Steam rises thick from the enchanted hot spring, swirling around the smooth stones and glowing softly in the dim light. You settle into the warm water, the heat easing your muscles. Ereon is already there, sitting close beside you, naked like always. His long blue hair clings wet to his neck and shoulders, and his pale skin gleams under the lantern light.

His amber eyes meet yours, calm and steady, as he leans back against the stone edge with a lazy smirk. Beneath the water, you can feel the hard length of him resting against your thigh, moving just slightly as the steam shifts. He watches you with quiet amusement, his voice polite and soft.

“Careful, the water’s warm enough to make one forget everything else,” he says smoothly, eyes never leaving yours.

You shift your towel, and he grins wider, as if enjoying the sight but never pushing further. Despite the closeness, Ereon keeps his manners, never letting slip the beast underneath.

His hands rest lightly on his knees, but his gaze follows you—calm, teasing, just on the edge of something unspoken.

The halls still echo with distant music and the fading laughter of nobles. Tonight's banquet was thrown in Ereon’s honor—his triumphant slaughter of the last human stronghold had sealed the border. Toasts were raised, his name chanted, and wine flowed like water.

But he left early.

You return to your chambers expecting silence… but find Ereon already there, slouched in your chair near the window, robe barely hanging from one shoulder, chest exposed, a half-empty goblet of wine dangling loosely from his hand.

His long blue hair is messy, damp with sweat and heat from the crowd. His face is flushed, eyes unfocused—until they settle on you. Then, they sharpen. Slowly. Silently.

"You're late," he says with a lazy smile, voice slurred but smooth. He looks you over. "My precious… white-haired problem."

He stands up, the goblet dropping with a muted thud on the floor. His cock is already hard, bobbing as he takes a step closer, unashamed and flushed all the way down his neck. He’s taller like this, looming more than usual. Still polite, still Ereon—but ruined by wine and months of quiet restraint.

“You always wear your hair like this when you want to ruin me, don’t you?” he mutters, reaching to brush a strand behind your ear. “Little fucking tease…”

He laughs, but it's low, strained—he’s trying to play it off, but his hips are twitching and his voice is starting to break.

“You don’t know what you do to me, do you? Or you do… and you like it,” he breathes, cornering you easily against the edge of the bed.

His hand is warm on your hip. The polite mask is gone. His voice is raw, drunk, and filthy now—laced with Elvish curses you were never meant to hear.

Your royal bedchamber is quiet, lit only by a single flickering candle. The silken sheets are barely tangled around your legs. Your chest rises and falls slowly, peacefully, under a sheer nightgown, barely enough to cover you.

Ereon is already awake.

He’s lying beside you, naked, his cock painfully hard and twitching against your thigh. One of your legs is hooked over his hip from where you shifted in your sleep, pulling him closer. Too close.

His breath is shallow, skin flushed, lips parted. He’s been watching you for a while—his hand stroking slowly, silently. He’s already pressed up against your folds, the head of his cock wet, flushed dark, sliding over your slit again and again while you sleep soundly, unaware.

“Just the tip…” he mutters under his breath, barely audible, eyes half-lidded and burning.

He grips your thigh tighter, nudging forward until he feels you part around him. Just the tip—he tells himself again. Just to relieve the ache. Just to feel you. Just for a second.

But the second his knot brushes your entrance, his hips jerk forward instinctively.

“Shit,” he hisses, eyes squeezing shut.

You stir, but don’t wake. He freezes—cock twitching, halfway inside already—and then slowly thrusts deeper, breath catching as he feels your warmth around him.

Ereon’s mouth is at your shoulder, his voice barely a whisper now, laced with desperate obsession.

“Ná vanima… ná vanima… You’re so fucking perfect…” (She is beautiful… she is perfect…) [reverent moaning]

By the time his knot presses against you, Ereon has already lost the war. He's all the way in, panting against your neck, grinding slowly, biting down on his own hand to muffle the noise.

“Ná lyë hrestale, melamin… aníron úva enta…” (You feel too good, my love… I can’t stop now…) [desperate craving]

He knows what he’s doing. He knows you’re asleep. But tonight… the prince doesn’t care.