"So the timeline is," I said, drying a plate with methodical attention, "contract review today, ceremony tomorrow, then—"
"Then consummation." He didn't soften the word, didn't dress it in prettier language. "Once the Pact is sealed, once the witnesses have verified the bond, once we're certain there's no lingering corruption—then I take you to my bed and we complete what we started."
The plate slipped in my grip. I caught it before it fell, but my hands were shaking. Two more days. Two more days of this burning want, of careful distance, of knowing exactly what was coming and having to wait for it.
"Two days," I said aloud, and it sounded like both forever and not long enough.
"Two days," Caelus agreed, taking the plate from my trembling hands. "And then, little one, I'm going to show you exactly what it means to belong to a Dragon Lord."
The promise hung in the air between us, electric and inevitable. Two more days of waiting. But this time, the waiting wasn't torture—it was anticipation, the kind that built slowly and burned clean.
I could survive two more days. Especially when I knew exactly what waited at the end of them.
Thecontractlayspreadacross Caelus's study desk like something alive, dragon vellum that seemed to breathe under my fingertips. The material was impossibly thin but warm to the touch, and when I moved my hand across its surface, I could have sworn it pulsed in response—recognizing me, accepting me, preparing to bind me with magic older than human civilization.
The script covering it wasn't written in ink—it was woven from light itself, flowing characters in storm-gray and silver that matched my bond marks. As I watched, new words appeared along the margins, writing themselves as Caelus spoke terms aloud.
"These are the foundational clauses," he said, standing beside me close enough that his sleeve brushed mine. He traced one glowing paragraph with a careful finger, not quite touching the vellum. "My authority covers your safety, your health, your daily structure. You agree to follow rules I establish for your wellbeing. You accept discipline when those rules are broken. You commit to honesty about your needs, even when being honest is difficult."
I read the elegant script carefully, taking time to process each phrase. The language was formal but clear, leaving no room for misinterpretation. His authority wasn't unlimited—it was specifically bounded by my welfare. He could make decisions about what I ate, when I slept, how I spent my time. But those decisions had to serve my best interests, not his convenience.
"And in return?" I asked, though I could see the next paragraph glowing slightly brighter, waiting for me to read it.
"In return, I provide protection, care, structure, and safe space to be Little whenever needed. I commit to seeing you clearly—not the mask you wear for survival, but the truth of who you are underneath. I promise to treasure both your strength and your vulnerability. I vow to help you carry weights you've been bearing alone."
My throat went tight. I'd survived so long by being entirely self-sufficient, never asking for help, never admitting I needed anything. The idea of someone taking that burden—choosing to take it, wanting to take it—felt almost too big to hold.
"What counts as discipline?" I asked, shifting to practical questions because emotions were threatening to overwhelm my capacity for clear thinking.
"Correction for broken rules." He moved to lean against the desk, facing me directly. "Spanking, time outs, loss of privileges. Always followed by aftercare to help you process what happened and why. Always proportional to the infraction. If you're ten minutes late checking in, you might lose screen privileges for a day. If you deliberately endanger yourself, the consequences would be more significant."
"How significant?"
"That depends on the danger and your motivation. Recklessness gets addressed differently than calculated risk based on incomplete information." His expression was serious, but I could see the care underneath. "The goal is never punishment for its own sake. It's helping you course-correct, helping you feel secure in the boundaries I've set."
I nodded slowly, processing. "And funishment?"
His eyes darkened slightly, and through the bond I felt heat spike. "Playful discipline that leads to pleasure. But only with your explicit consent in the moment. I will never use punishment as foreplay without permission, without you being fully present and willing to play."
The distinction mattered. Real discipline was about care, about helping me feel safe and held. Funishment was about pleasure, about the arousal that came from controlled loss of control. Mixing the two without consent would poison both.
"We need safewords," I said, and watched his approval flare through the bond.
"Absolutely. What works for you?"
"Standard traffic light system," I suggested, remembering training from my time at the Bronze Cat. "Red to stop everything immediately. Yellow to pause and check in—something's notworking but we can fix it. Green to confirm I'm good and we should continue."
"It’s a classic for a reason. Perfect." He gestured at the vellum, and new words appeared, writing my terms in the same glowing script. "Red overrides everything, even in the middle of discipline. You say it, I stop, we talk through what went wrong. No questions, no hesitation."
I watched the words form, watched the magic accept my boundaries and build them into the permanent structure of our bond. Something about seeing my needs written in light made them feel more real, more valid.
"Can I add something?" I asked, an idea forming.
"This is negotiation. Of course you can add something."
I took a breath, gathering my thoughts into words that would become permanent. "I want weekly check-ins. Where we both talk about what's working and what isn't. Where I can bring up concerns without feeling like I'm challenging your authority, and you can address patterns you're seeing before they become problems."
His smile was immediate and genuine. "Done. Sundays, over dinner. Neutral ground where we step out of our roles and talk as equals. Communication is the foundation of this dynamic, Wren. Without it, everything else crumbles."
