angie 🎀

he froze in the hallway, his cock instantly straining against his jeans. he could hear the wet, slick sounds of your fingers working your cunt, and he had to bite his fist to keep from groaning out loud.

the next day, you "borrowed" one of his hoodies. you wore it, and only it, around the house when your parents were out. the hem barely covered your ass, and you made sure to bend over a lot in front of him, "looking for something." he could see the swell of your ass, the hint of your pussy lips. when you finally turned around, your nipples were hard little points against the soft fabric of his hoodie…

aerion targaryen had not wanted a martell bride, that was the simple truth of it.

when the match had first been proposed, he had regarded it as what it was, another arrangement crafted by older, wiser people who believed they knew what was best for the realm.

best for him.

he remembered standing beside a window overlooking blackwater bay when the news had been delivered. "a princess of dorne?" he had said flatly.

his father had given him a look. "a beautiful princess of dorne."

"i do not particularly care." and at the time, he had meant it, or at least he had thought he did.

then he met you and, unfortunately for aerion, everything became much more difficult, because you were beautiful, not merely beautiful in the way courtiers described ladies to secure favor, you were genuinely, devastatingly beautiful.

you were kind.

gods, he hated how much he liked that. your confidence, your sweetness, your fire…

the trouble began when they were forced to spend time together, before marriage there had been dinners, walks, appearances and conversations neither of you could reasonably escape.

at first aerion had expected them to be tedious, instead he discovered that you were clever. you challenged him, argued with him and even laughed at him. the first time you laughed directly at one of his dramatic declarations, he had stared at you in complete disbelief. "how dare you laugh."

"because you sound absurd!!”

aerion's jaw tightened at your insolence, but something in him stirred at the sight of your unapologetic smile. no one- no one- dared speak to a targaryen so, let alone laugh at their pronouncements.

"you find me absurd?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"i find your declaration that 'all lesser houses should bow before the might of dragons' rather theatrical for a supper conversation," you replied, taking a sip of wine. "especially when the only dragon present is the one carved into your knife handle."

he stared at you, speechless for a moment. the courtiers nearby had gone silent, their eyes darting between you both like spectators at a tourney.

"you walk a dangerous line, princess," aerion finally managed, though he couldn't keep the faint hint of amusement from his voice.

“and i must admit, your family's reputation precedes you." you said with a shrug.

a flicker of his old arrogance returned. "as it should."

"as it should," you agreed, much to his surprise. "but reputations are often exaggerated. i prefer to judge people by their actions rather than their bloodlines."

"and what have my actions told you so far?"

"that you enjoy being admired," you said thoughtfully. "that you're accustomed to getting what you want. and that beneath all that targaryen pride, there's a man who doesn't particularly enjoy being laughed at."

he leaned forward, "and what else have you discovered?"

"that you're lonely," you said simply.

his immediate instinct was to deny it, to push back with some cutting remark about dornish impertinence, but the truth of your statement left him momentarily defenseless. "i have a family," he said finally. "a dynasty."

"a family is not the same as companionship," you replied, your voice softer now. "a dynasty is a burden. a companion is a choice."

the evening ended with an unspoken understanding between you. as you parted ways, aerion found himself watching you retreat, the sway of your dark hair against your vibrant silks, the confidence in your stride. he had come to this marriage expecting to endure it, to fulfill his duty and nothing more.

now, for the first time, he wondered if duty might not be such a burden after all.

then came marriage and forced proximity finished what attraction had started because now you were everywhere.

at breakfast.

at supper.

reading by the window.

laughing with your ladies.

sleeping beside him….

the chambers that had once belonged solely to aerion suddenly felt empty whenever you left them. you had somehow become part of every routine, and months later, the transformation was complete. aerion adored you. there was no point denying it anymore, the servants knew, everyone with eyes knew, he followed you around the red keep whenever possible.

if you entered a room, somehow aerion appeared shortly afterward, if you mentioned liking something once, it mysteriously arrived days later.

flowers. spices. books. rare dornish wines.

anything.

everything.

the greatest shock, however, was how gentle he became with you…true, aerion targaryen would never be soft, but he was gentle. his hand always found the small of your back, he noticed when you were tired, when you were cold, when court became too much. it was as though he had developed an awareness of you that bordered on obsession.

yours and his first major argument had been simmering for days. you wanted to visit your family in dorne for the harvest festival- a reasonable request, in your estimation. aerion, however, saw it differently.

"you are my wife," he'd stated, his voice dangerously quiet. "your place is here. with me."

"and i am your wife, not your prisoner," you'd retorted, "i have not seen my siblings in nearly a year. my mother sent a raven specifically requesting my presence."

that night in your chambers, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. you stood by the hearth, arms crossed, while he paced before you like a caged dragon.

"it is not safe," he insisted. "the roads are perilous this time of year. and i do not trust dornish hospitality toward a targaryen princess."

"my family would never harm me," you said, exasperated. "this is not about safety. this is about control."

he stopped pacing and faced you, his eyes blazing. "i have given you everything- books, wines, silks from across the narrow sea. is that not enough? must you always test the limits of my generosity?"

"generosity?" you laughed without humor. "you give me trinkets while denying me the one thing i truly want- a connection to my home, my family. these gifts are chains, aerion. beautiful, expensive chains."

“you will not go and that is final.”

the finality in his tone was absolute, a royal command that brooked no argument. he stood before you, not as the gentle man who brought you rare wines, but as the targaryen prince who expected obedience.

for a long moment, you said nothing. you simply looked at him.

"very well, husband," you said, your voice dangerously soft. you turned away from him and walked to the window, gazing out at the darkened gardens of the red keep. "as you have commanded me."

a flicker of triumph crossed his face, quickly replaced by confusion. this was too easy. he had expected tears, pleading, another sharp retort. he had not expected this quiet, hollow acceptance.

"good," he said, his voice gruff. "it is for your own protection."

you didn't turn around. "of course. everything is for my own good. i am a fragile thing, after all. a targaryen princess who must be kept in a gilded cage, lest i break."

the sarcasm in your tone was a subtle poison. he took a step toward you. "that is not what i meant."

"isn't it?" you finally turned, your face a mask of serene indifference that was more cutting than any glare could have been. "you do not trust me. you do not trust my family. you do not trust my judgment. you only trust your own will."

you walked past him toward the adjoining dressing chamber.

"where are you going?" he demanded, his voice tight.

"to bed," you replied without looking back. "alone. i find i am not in the mood for company tonight."

you disappeared behind the screen, leaving him standing alone in the grand chamber. the silence that fell was heavier than any shouted words.

he stood there for a long time, the silence in the chambers growing heavier with each passing moment. the victory felt sour, hollow. he had won the argument, but in doing so, he had lost something far more valuable. the rooms, once filled with your vibrant presence, now felt cavernous and cold. the fire crackled, but it offered no warmth.

an hour passed.

the moon climbed higher in the sky, casting silver shadows across the rugs. he could not sleep. he could not think. all he could do was feel the vast, empty space you had left beside him. he was a dragon prince, heir to a dynasty, and he was being tormented by the absence of his wife.

finally, with a low growl of frustration, he pushed himself away from the chair and strode toward the dressing chamber. he didn't bother to knock. he threw the door open with enough force to make it slam against the stone wall.

you were curled up on your side in the smaller, simpler bed, facing away from the door. the room was dark, save for a single candle burning low on a table. you didn't startle at the intrusion. you didn't even move. you had been expecting him.

"get up," his voice was a low command, rough with exhaustion and anger.

you remained still, your breathing even. "i am comfortable here."

"i did not ask for your comfort. i gave you an order," he said, taking a menacing step into the room. "you will not sleep in here like a scorned servant. you are my wife. you will sleep in my bed."

slowly, you rolled over to face him. your face was illuminated by the flickering candlelight, serene and utterly devoid of the passion he so often provoked in you. "i am obeying your command, husband. you commanded i not go to dorne. you commanded i stay here. i am staying here. is this not what you wanted?"

his jaw tightened. "you know what i meant. do not play these games with me."

"i am not playing a game," you said, your voice quiet but clear. "you made it clear that my will, my desires, my home- they mean nothing. you have decided what is best for me. so i have decided what is best for me tonight. and that is to sleep alone."

the calmness of your response was infuriating he had not expected this quiet, unassailable wall of indifference. it was a rejection far more profound than any shouted insult could ever be.

he crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not bruising. "i will not be made a fool in my own home. you will come with me now."

you allowed him to pull you to a sitting position, your body pliant, but your eyes remained locked on his, filled with a chilling resolve. "drag me if you must, husband," you said softly. "force me back to the bed you wish to share. but know this. you can command my body to be there, but you cannot command my heart to follow."

his grip on your arm loosened. he looked down at you, at the woman he adored, who was now looking at him with the weary resignation of a prisoner.

he stood there, torn between the urge to throw you over his shoulder and carry you back to bed or leave you be.

"it was not my intent to make you angry with me." he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.

it was a pathetic attempt at an apology. he wasn't truly sorry about the slight, just sorry that you were upset, and you knew it.

"i am not in the mood for your excuses, aerion," you replied.

the thought of sleeping apart- of a night without your warmth, your scent, your skin pressed against his- was unbearable.

"please," he breathed, reaching out to gently take your hand. he pressed his lips to your knuckles, kissing them with a reverence that made his usual arrogance seem distant.

the targaryen pride that usually demanded submission from others suddenly bent its spine for you. he released your hand and dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor of the chambers, the silence of the castle amplifying the sound.

he reached for the hem of your sleeping gown, his hands shaking slightly as he worked the silk upward, exposing your legs to the golden glow of the firelight. aerion didn't waste a moment, he pressed his lips to the inside of your knee, his mouth hot and eager against your skin.

he worked his way down slowly, kissing his way along your calf, his tongue darting out to trace the path, his breathing growing heavier. he reached your ankle and gently kissed your bare foot.

"lay back, my darling," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing the boyish panic for a more settled, desperate need.

you obeyed, sinking into the softness of the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. "you are not to make love to me tonight," you reminded him, your voice breathless as he settled between your spread thighs.

he froze, his mouth hovering just above your skin, his breath warm against your inner thigh. the command was a stone wall thrown up in the middle of his desperate supplication. for a moment, the arrogant prince warred with the pleading man. he had come here to conquer this silence, to erase the distance with the one language he knew you both spoke fluently. to be denied it now, when he was on his knees, was a humiliation he hadn't anticipated.

he lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours in the dim light. they were dark with a mixture of frustration and a raw, aching need. "you would punish me so?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "you would have me worship you and then be denied?"

"i would have you understand," you replied, your voice steady despite the tremor in your limbs. "you cannot buy my forgiveness with pleasure. you cannot command my affection with your hands or your mouth. you denied me my will. tonight, you will be denied yours."

he stared at you, and you saw the moment he understood. this was not just about sleeping arrangements. this was about power, about respect, about the very foundation of the strange, fierce love you had built. he had tried to wield his authority like a sword, and you had just turned it back on him, showing him its edge.

slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head again.

for a long moment, he remained perfectly still, his forehead pressed against your thigh, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. then, slowly, as if testing the boundaries of his new submission, he turned his head. his lips, soft and reverent, brushed against your inner thigh, a question asked without words.

when you did not pull away, he grew bolder. his kisses became open-mouthed, his tongue tracing lazy circles against your skin, tasting the salt of you. he was worshiping, just as he had promised, but with a new, desperate humility. his hands, which had been clenched at his sides, came up to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there, a silent plea for permission.

"let me," he breathed against your skin, his voice thick with a need that went far beyond the physical. "let me show you."

you remained silent, your body still, but you did not stop him. that was all the encouragement he needed. he shifted, settling more comfortably between your thighs, his shoulders pushing them wider. the firelight gilded the white-silver of his hair as he lowered his head, and then his mouth was on you.

there was nothing hesitant about it.

it was a hungry and desperate.

aerion targaryen, the proud prince, was a man starved, and you were his feast. his tongue flattened against your folds, a broad, firm stroke that made your back arch off the bed. a soft gasp escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't contain. he heard it, and a low groan rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive flesh.

"gods, you taste like honeyed syrup," he slurred, his words muffled against your cunt. he was messy, unrefined, his usual aristocratic grace completely abandoned. he ate you like a man dying of thirst, his tongue delving inside you, fucking you with it before moving up to circle your clit with a devastating precision.

he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked, hard. your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the strands, holding him to you. he took it as encouragement, his enthusiasm redoubling. he alternated between sucking and flicking his tongue rapidly against you, one of his hands moving from your hip to slide two fingers inside you.

"is this for me?" he growled, pumping his fingers in and out of your slick heat, his mouth never ceasing its assault. "this sweet, perfect cunt? all for me, my love?"

you could only whimper in response, your hips rocking against his face, chasing the pleasure he was so expertly giving.

he was a mess, his face slick with your arousal, his chin dripping. he looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust and adoration, and the sight of him- your proud husband on his knees, his face buried in your cunt, worshiping you with his entire being- sent a bolt of pure ecstasy through you.

"that's it, my darling," he coaxed, his voice a husky whisper. "let me taste you. give me your forgiveness, pretty girl."

he curled his fingers inside you, finding that spot that made your vision white out, and sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking with a relentless, rhythmic pressure.

“please? please?…” he continued to beg, his voice sounding whinier and whinier. "sleep with me in bed, come back to me..."

the tension that had been coiling in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. you cried out his name, your body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head as you came.

he stayed with you through it all, his tongue lapping gently, his fingers stilling inside you as you shuddered through the aftershocks. when you finally went limp against the sheets, he gently withdrew his fingers and placed one last, lingering kiss on your swollen, sensitive flesh.

he crawled up your body, not to lie beside you, but to hover over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. he didn't try to kiss your lips. instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling slightly. he was still hard, a testament to his own desire, but he made no move to seek his own release.

"i am asking for forgiveness" he whispered, his voice raw and hoarse, “i am regretful, my love.” it was different from his earlier attempt. this was not an excuse. it was a true apology of a sort, stripped of all pride, offered in the aftermath of his complete surrender. "not for making you angry. for taking your will."

he lifted his head, his face still glistening with your essence, his dark eyes searching yours. "i will spend the rest of my nights proving my respect to you, if you will let me."

aerion looked at you as though you had hung the stars over king's landing with your own hands and perhaps, in his mind, you had.

as the mid-day began to settle in, just teetering on the edge of sunset, you found yourself tucked away in one of the much quieter rooms of the palace, a leather-backed book placed absentmindedly in your lap. you were not fully registering nor reading the words on the page, per se, just letting the words and vivid imagery cloud your head as the afternoon warmth began to shine in through the stained glass window just beside you. 

a content, almost sleepy sigh came from you, and just as you were beginning to drift off to that of a catnap, a soft yet urgent knock on the library doors awoke you back into reality. 

“my lady? may i come in?” 

the words of your handmaiden were never rushed, as nothing at the castle ever was. time was so valuable, and it seemed a person was granted so little of it. 

“you may.” you did not look up immediately, gentle hands closing the reading and mentally noting to return to those pages later–the sound of a small creak as the door opened. although, there was something different about her mannerisms today. almost as if there had been some sort of shift in the air. 

her hands were folded neatly in front of her, lingering just longer than usual in her spot a few feet away from you, as if she was trying to find the correct words to speak. 

that alone made you look up, paying her the respect of your gaze, noticing the rather serious expression on your face. 

“have you been searching for me?” you asked lightly, eyebrows gently furrowed as you tried to place the mood of the conversation. your handmaidens were usually always cheery and you hoped they had not grown afraid to speak with you about serious matters.

just as the silence hung in the air for a beat longer, she began to speak; “your father requests your presence, my lady.” 

your fingers gently curled around the edge of that now seemingly uninteresting book laid in your lap, attention sharpening at the nature of her words. what on earth was so urgent? “..does he?” 

another pause followed your speech, looking over to the side with a small sigh, thoughts beginning to race within your head. 

“he says it is rather important, your highness.” 

that was new, because “important” things did not reach you here. at least, not in the way the reached the rest of the world; you’ve grown accustomed to rather dull days. 

then, you stood up slowly, smoothing out the silken fabric to your gown, which was more of a habitual gesture than something attempting to fix your appearance. 

“i suppose i shall not keep the king waiting,” you said, a small smile on your face, trying to almost ease whatever sort of tension that was in the air. beginning to tress outside of the room, you passed her, flashing her a quick smile, hoping to falsely convey that you were not nervous by any means. 

she watched you for half a second longer than normal, as if she already was aware of what was to come. and, if it had caused the castle to shift even the slightest bit; perhaps that meant good news. something was about to change. 

as you began to tress throughout what seemed like endless hallways, you noticed things that had simply never been there before. and, those things were not hard to miss in the slightest, given these walls are the only thing you had grown to remember without fault. 

looking to your right, you paused in your tracks to take a quick glance outside of a large window in the foyer, and to your surprise.. there seemed to be what looked like dozens of castle servants handling banners, trimming rosebushes, tending to things that had been long overgrown. 

you silently reminded yourself what you had even been meaning to do in the first place, picking up the fabric to your gown, footsteps much quicker now–almost like a small run, which was uncharacteristic for you. especially in these halls. 

finally drawing upon the large door to your fathers chambers, your hands were softly placed palm-flat against the carved wood, pushing it open with an almost child-like curiosity. before you spoke, you stepped one foot into his quarters, beginning to speak as you closed the door behind you. 

“father? you wished to see me,” you softly began, gaze down at the ground for a moment as you smoothed out your dress, before your head tilted up to see your father across the room. his hands were clasped behind his back, curtains drawn fully open to let the sunlight in, which was so strange. any other time he would have had those curtains drawn closed tightly, collecting dust and waiting for the next time to be used. 

it seemed he was watching the same thing you had been so perplexed about on your way here, paying close attention to the servants who were currently at work, which was quite earnestly the first time they had tended to any vines that tressed up the cobblestone walls or paid any attention to the flora and fauna in years. 

he seemed rather calm, but almost too collected. as if he were trying to contain his nerves. a heavy sigh came from his lungs, head dipping to look at the ground for a split second, before he halfway-turned his body to look at you, even though he had avoided making any eye contact at first.

you made soft yet cautious footsteps towards him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, as if touch alone could somehow change the lamentable mood he was currently in. “what troubles you, father?” you said softly, head slightly tilted as you looked up at him with an almost worried expression. 

“my daughter,” he started, his voice taking upon a tone of what seemed like he was reminiscing on something. “you deserve much more than the isolation of these walls.” he continued, emphasis on those last few words that left his mouth. you gave him a small nod, communicating understanding of his words. 

“we cannot remain something of a legend forever,” he started, only the slightest bit of shakiness in his voice. a tone that only you would even begin to understand. “it is time the gates opened again.” 

for a moment, you were dumbfounded. the gates? open? ..for all of westeros? such a thing was almost unheard of. your eyes narrowed for a moment, looking over at the busy servants just outside, and then returning your gaze to your dear father. 

“now is not the time to jest, father..” something in you began to play it off as some strange joke, but not because you did not believe him. it was simply because it was the only rational way to react after spending years alone, taking the same pathways, reading the same novels repeatedly. 

“jest?” a warm, deep laugh came from his chest, almost husky due to his age. “dear child, the invitations have already begun to be drafted.” his words caught you off guard–there really was to be a gathering. a grand one. “this is a need for visibility. our alliances have weakened, and we must regain our house reputation.”

the thought of it was simply unfathomable. you began to imagine platters upon platters filled with exotic foods, chandeliers coming out of the dungeon, and the old ballroom you loved so dearly to become restored. 

you began to become overjoyed, an unmistakable smile crossing your face, an almost excited laugh coming from you. “oh, it shall be simply grand!” you exclaimed, suddenly lunging slightly forward to watch antique glassware and blossomed flowers being transported throughout the castle. your father began to speak, opening his mouth, yet your curious mind had already started racing. 

“will there be music? oh, and dancing?” it sounds almost captivating, but alas, he knew you needed to realize you were not exactly familiar with what you were rushing to step into. “and what of the guests; who shall be attending? how many people?” 

he gently paused your excitement with a soft tone, reminding you that this was only the preparation. “my dearest, you must be patient. i shall not bore you with any details.” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “the seamstresses and dressmakers will be arriving shortly. there will be no further questioning.”

a small, defeated sigh came from you, but the smile on your face could fool your father any day of your true emotions. “yes, father.. i understand.” you said gently, recollecting your thoughts and dimming your excitement. yet, that was only for a moment. 

you began to realize he was not forcing change upon you. he was allowing you to accept it, and by the nature of your response, he knew he had made the right decision. 

it was only a moment longer before you quickly gave your father a tight embrace, incredibly grateful for the opportunity he has granted you with, even if it was for reasons other than simply allowing you to experience what life has withheld from you. “thank you, father. i shall be on my best behaviour, i’m sure of it.” you let go after a moment, flashing him a quick smile, before being on your way out of his chambers. 

as you made your way towards the foyer, you were careful to pick your dress up, pacing down a flight of marble stairs–caucious not to slip. on your path down the stairs, you passed multiple servants and handmaidens, all busied with some sort of task that entailed decorating the palace to its entirety. 

after making a turn towards the entrance of your private quarters, a group of at least five women were already sorting through fabrics and threads, a quarter of the expanse of your rather large room occupied by seamstresses. “ah, there she is. your majesty, come forth, will you?” 

one of the older women motioned with a hand for you to come closer, taking a step back to allow you to stand in front of a large, multi-framed mirror that covered almost the entirety of the wall. you flashed her a quick smile, allowing her to take whatever measurements she needed from you. “did you have any ideas in mind, my lady?” she said to you, granting you creative liberty to some extent.

you took a moment to think, unsure of what you would be expected or even want to wear to such an event where royals were expected to attend. 

“perhaps.. white. a beautiful, pure white gown.” you said softly, looking at yourself in the mirror in front of you in attempts to take into account your features. although, the answer was subtly shocking to the older woman. “white, your majesty? won’t you want to reserve that for your day of wed?” 

you shook your head slightly, a smile crossing your face. “well, i do not assume i shall be married soon, or ever, for that matter. especially not in these.. circumstances.” your thought process was simple; it would most certainly not be easy for any man of high status to marry a princess who has never made any court appearances or even been seen by outsiders. 

your remark had gained the interest of two younger seamstresses who were currently pinning fabric together, beginning to form the underskirt to your gown near the back of the room, “i beg to differ, i heard lords from the capital are attending,” one of them started, her tone rather matter-of-fact, assuming you’d be potentially courted by many suitors. 

a small laugh came from the other. “i heard this is to be the largest gathering since the tourney at ashford meadow,” she said with a grin, seemingly feeding on quick court-gossip. this earned a shock from the other seamstress, beginning to sew ornate stones onto a section of fabric. “one of the dragon princes are attending.. the house targaryen rarely travels west.”

that remark in particular had caught you off guard. you simply had to know more.

“the dragon prince?” you questioned, looking over at them over your shoulder. you had only heard brief mention of any house relating to dragons from your father, when you would eavesdrop on meeting as a little girl. the same dressmaker who had been adding little crystals to the gown came closer, holding up fabrics next to you, seeing what would look best.

“you’ll know him when you see him. snow-white hair.. like that of an old valyrian painting.” she whispered, making this prince sound more like a rumour than a royal. you hadn’t thought that the realm was nearly this complicated. she began to speak once more; “he is–”

the older seamstress gave them a scorning look, reminding them that it was not by any means in good taste to gossip about seemingly one of the most influential house names. “girls. i shall remind you we did not come here to speak in poor taste.” after that warning, the room went quiet aside from the sound of pins occasionally dropping, or the sound of heavy fabric.

softly, you turn back to the mirror, not a sound leaving your mouth, silently thinking to yourself. what was such a matter with this family name, and why on earth were they so important? it seemed you would have to wait for the day to come. 

attempting to break the silence, you speak softly, an innocent question leaving your mouth.

“..what silhouettes are they wearing this season?”

and so, over the course of weeks, the castle changed in ways you could not even begin to fathom prior to the engagement. the change was not all at once, or loud, or gaudy.. it began to change in pieces. 

you had been awake for hours, currently sat at your vanity, simply awaiting the unveiling of the dress you waited weeks for. the conversation you had with those two nosy seamstresses still never failed to cloud your mind, with all the talk of high-ranking lords and ladies, making you much more nervous than excited for a court appearance after many years in solitude. 

the hour was growing late, and the sun had set hours ago, the castle now illuminated with golden candelabras and blown glass lanterns. it was something you only could have imagined in a painted memory. below you, you could hear the faint clanking of metal trays and silverware, paced footsteps moving with an unfamiliar purpose. 

you had been awake since dawn, simply listening to the sounds coming from outside your door. 

a soft knock came upon your door, waking you out of a sort of subconscious daydream. “your evening gown is finished, my lady.”

excitement began to take over the feelings of nervousness, turning slightly towards your door. years of wearing the same light, simply tailored gowns had made you look forward to the arrival of such a grand dress.

you stood slowly as the door opened to many familiar faces–then another, and another. not just your usual handmaidens that always greeted you in the morning time, but others too. the women carried what seemed like never-ending fabrics, boxes tied with ribbon, and a small tray of what looked like pale feathers. 

the dress was not unveiled all at once; first came the fabric. “oh, it is divine.. they’ve outdone themselves.” you said, as your fingers brushed along the satin fabric. “careful,” one of the handmaidens said, earning a soft laugh from you. was it improper to touch the dress you were soon to be wearing?

“is it fragile?” you said, with a slight smile. 

“no, your majesty. just important.”

and with that, they helped you dress slowly, as they always did, but today there was a difference in their movements. there was more attention and much more precision. as if every aspect mattered in a way it hadn’t before, like you were not simply getting dressed, but prepared. 

the fabric settled over you, the gown having an undeniable weight to it. the laces of the corset-style waist were tightened and tied with care, little white plumes intricately placed upon the bodice. 

just as you were beginning to take a longing look at yourself in the mirror, a servant rushed in, pausing at the doorframe. 

“my lady, you must make haste. guests are beginning to arrive.”

you could already hear the strum of violins and the chatter of royal guests downstairs. before leaving the quiet familiarity of your room, you take one last look, allowing yourself to smooth out the silk fabric of your dress and adjust the boned bodice holding the structure together. 

and with that, pushing aside any nervousness or uncertainty, you begin to make hurried footsteps to the ballroom. along your path, you passed many servants carrying refreshments and trays, the heightened smell of rosebuds wafting throughout the halls, and the sound of music getting increasingly easier to hear as you get closer and closer.

before entering what seemed like something out of a storybook, you turned your quick footsteps into slower, more purposeful ones. there was booming laughter and glasses clinking, just behind massive wooden doors; to which were already propped open. 

stepping inside the warmly-lit gathering, your presence does not go unnoticed. 

the volume of some nearby conversations begin to falter, some heads turning to feast upon what exactly the reach had been keeping locked away for so long. out of the corner of your eye, you see another nudge the lord beside him, though you decide to ignore it. many women smiled at you, though, some filled with envy. 

you gravitated towards the end of the room, taking hold of a stem of wine, swishing it within the glass before taking a quick sip. for someone who had such a lavish party in their honour, you didn’t quite see any familiar faces. 

your footsteps were slow, simply listening to conversations happening near you.. talk of alliances, how horrible the last tourney was, an arranged marriage. all things very common for court. while your eyes drifted over the grand floral arrangements, something caught your eye. silver hair. and not the old, aging kind of silver. pure white. 

suddenly a thought from weeks before rang into your ears, almost as if you began to remember something crucial, when that seamstress had mentioned “snow-white hair.” your memories began to fall into place, taking a long and good look at the figure across the room. if your eyes were not deceiving you, he looked around to be twenty years old. perhaps the dragon prince was not all myth. 

and perhaps you had been looking a bit too long, which granted you a cock of his eyebrow, narrowing his eyes as if looking you over. setting his wine down on the table next to him, within a blink of the eye he was beginning to move. 

you turned around, in attempts to walk around the crowd rather than through it–your father right behind you. “she looks just like her mother.” he was standing with a few other lords; all in jewel tones of red, yellow, and green. one of them began to whisper to the other next to him, another speaking; “ah, here she is. she’s been hiding from us all night.”

his remark gained boastful laughter from the men with him, all smiles, to which you cannot place were genuine or if they had ulterior motives. you silently cursed him within your head, given you had completely lost track of a certain white-haired prince. 

“why, yes… yes. i do suppose i’ve been in hiding.” you said with a forced smile, eyes darting around as you endlessly searched a crowd full of individuals for one. and yet, it was as if he had vanished within thin air. how hard was it to misplace someone so striking? 

your father began to speak again. about what, you had no idea. your mind was certainly elsewhere. without taking a second thought to think of what he was speaking of, you agreed by nodding your head. 

after a moment, you excused yourself–there were much bigger things at hand here. “excuse me.” you said, beginning to pace your way through the crowd, pardoning yourself for being in someone's way more times than you could count. 

soon enough, you found yourself on the other side of the room. standing just quite in front of the “elusive” figure you’d been trying to track down all night. 

your first mistake was thinking he would make attempts to introduce himself first. he simply.. leaned against the wall, eyebrows furrowed as he studied you, deciding if you were worthwhile.

he seemed beautiful and charismatic, yet there was most certainly something off, shown within the way he exuded a harsh sort of stillness while the gala around him was soft and warm.

breaking the silence, you began to speak–before he got to it first.

“you’re not what i expected,” he said, his tone rather matter-of-fact, taking a small sip of wine whilst his eyes never let up from your complexion. 

your hands remained folded together in front of you, resting on the fabric of your gown. whatever did he mean by that?

“and what is it that you were supposed to expect?” you added, your head slightly lifting to actually make attempts to make eye contact, your question coming off as charming. 

“someone timid.” he said, before allowing a beat of silence, looking down into his glass filled with crimson liquid. “though you interest me in conversation.”

your eyes narrowed for a moment, beginning to experience a feeling you couldn’t quite place. perhaps a bit of excitement was misplaced as nervousness. 

“..would you rather me hadn’t, your grace?” you replied, a bit of playfulness in your tone, clearly, you weren’t intimidated. 

there was a long pause, before he spoke once more.

“no.” the prince quipped back, rather quickly, like he knew what he wanted to say before you were finished with your sentence. like he didn’t have to think about it. 

alas, you wanted to know more, the result of the conversation was not quite satisfactory. 

you began to speak, though it was hard to ignore you were being almost studied with every movement of your mouth. “may i ask you something?” 

“you already have,” he said, gaining a very subtle roll of your eyes at him. were all princes so persistently irksome? 

he noticed your little face of irritation, almost smiling to himself. “another question, then. go on.” it seemed he strictly carried the conversation, not the other way around. 

you tilted your head to the side, your gaze looking off in a different direction as you spoke. “have you always enjoyed making strangers uncomfortable, my lord?” after those last few words, you returned your focus of sight onto his face. 

undoubtedly, there was an unmistakable smirk painted upon his pale complexion. the tiniest smirk, like he somehow found it humorous.

he didn’t look away when he spoke, not even for a moment, like the act of watching you was part of the conversation itself.

“you speak as though discomfort is always an insult,” he said at last, voice low enough that it barely had to compete with the noise behind him. “it is not.”

your fingers had begun to adjust the fabric of your gown, finding something else to occupy your racing mind with. you allowed the moment of silence to stretch just long enough so it felt more intentional.. and less like you were at a loss for words.

“then.. what is it?” you asked him. his eyes briefly flickered down your hands, watching the movement of gentle fingers, as if he was mentally noting something that other people would ignore. 

“testimony,” he started, his tone stating his words rather simply. “of truth. or, lack of it.” 

his words made you pause. whatever was he hinting at? your expression shifted, quite obviously, before you could begin to control it. a hint of a laugh came from you, followed by an exhale. because, honestly, how else were you supposed to react?

“so.. you go around looking for truths to collect?” you said, your tone was rather light in the way that was careful, “how very devoted of you.” 

at your remark, something changed within his expression. it wasn’t anything of warmth or amusement, at least in any familiar sense.. it was more like recognition. like what you said had very closely met the mark than you intended it to. 

“only the ones worth listening to.” he began, that same unchanging tone of his in those words. your gaze had stayed on him much longer than etiquette would have most likely advised you, as well as the fact that you did not exactly know where boundaries sat in a conversation like this. 

“and what makes mine listening to, my lord?” you asked, a small smile on your face as the corners of your mouth curled up. and, for the first time, he looked away from you. 

it wasn’t a retreat for the conversation by far, much more like a deliberate pause. he looked down into his goblet of wine, as if the answers he was searching for would be found within the reflection of the red liquid. it was almost as if the conversation had ended in being strictly theoretical. 

then, without lifting his head, he spoke. “you assume the question was meant to flatter you.” with a movement of his jaw, his tongue flicked within the inside of his mouth, as if tasting the remnants of the blood-red wine left upon his gums. strangely enough, the mannerism akin to a reptile. 

it was so faint, that if you were not watching closely enough, it would have gone unnoticed. unfortunately, you were. and it did not feel like an entirely human gesture. your mind traced back to prior conversations, remembering how the dressmaker had referred to him as the “dragon prince.” it was true that his peculiar movements did strike you as dragon-like. 

“i found the remark to be quite flattering,” you said, your words coming easily. it was curious in a way that betrayed any thought wondering if curiosity was permitted. 

for a moment, he did not respond. it was as if the question had not offended him or caught him off guard in any way, it was simply as if what you had said was able to redirect his thoughts on the conversation–and, undoubtedly, you as well. 

his gaze lifted once more, studying you with a different sort of interest. he was not simply registering your emotions, or picking apart what you were replying, there was a quiet interest in the way he was taking in every feature about you.

now, that should have made you uncomfortable. but, it made you far less sensible, making you much more curious in return. 

your smile shifted slightly, no longer just polite, but with an air of self-assurance, given the fact you had potentially caught his eye. “you are looking at me as though i’ve said something interesting,” you said.

though, it was not quite a question. he did not look away from you once, yet, his eyes had become focused on each individual feature, like he was trying to piece something together. 

“you have.” he replied, his words simple yet immediate. there was no hesitation laced within his words, which only heightened your curiosity. 

you exhaled through your nose, a faint laugh forming without any bit of resistance. “that is not something i hear often,” you admitted, tilting your head slightly as your gaze now stayed firmly on him. “usually i am told the opposite.”

there was a very small pause from him at your words. “the opposite,” he repeated, unsure of what may be his motives at this rate. 

you lightly nodded, once, as though your admission was something unremarkable. “that i am.. expected to be quieter,” you said, trying to briefly find the correct phrasing, though now tone suggested you were not particularly concerned with perfecting your speech. “less noticeable, perhaps.”

you watched him carefully as you spoke; but not out of fear of his reply or the nature of what he may be thinking. (thought, the potential of his thoughts did interest you.) it was merely because he had begun to react in ways that other noble suitors would not. if he could even be considered a “suitor.”

he absorbed your notion as if it mattered. “and do you try to be?” he questioned, yet the words had landed differently than any previous statement, it was directly giving you a choice as to how you planned to answer. 

‘well, no,” you said, rather honestly. “i think i simply have not had much reason to be otherwise.” your words fell more freely after you spoke, shoulders shrugging for a moment, a breath leaving your lungs that you were not exactly aware you were holding in. 

that gained you silence from him. though, short-lived silence.

not exactly the bad kind, but his attention had shifted much closer to you, even though neither of you had moved any closer–or any further, for that matter. “you’d be mistaken.” he said, gaining a quick quip of your brow. 

“would i?” you questioned, words coming out more inquisitive than you intended. 

he held your gaze, eyes narrowed by a hair, as if he was studying your features once more. beginning to take a quick sip of his wine, those eyes of his hadn’t left you for a moment. 

“you are noticeable regardless,” he said. it should have sounded flat, but it was anything but. his words sounded definitive, like he already had made a decision about you long before you were aware of what it entailed. 

for a moment, you did not respond. but out of hesitation or anything trivial, but because his admission made you suddenly aware of yourself in a way you had not been before. because there was a simple fact; he was looking at you like you were distinct. 

your gaze matched his own more steadily, head tilted slightly to the side, beginning to feel your curiosity shift into something much more deliberate. “that could mean many things, my lord.” you replied.

“it does.” he agreed, his attention not shifting within the slightest. 

you kept your posture rather composed, yet something within you had shifted, beginning to realize that this was becoming something much more than casual banter. your fingers had started to adjust faintly against your gown. 

“you were not meant to be seen often,” he said, as if continuing a thought he had already deemed true. “or you would not react like this.”

you blinked a few times, almost as if batting your eyes–minus the flirtatiousness. you were not used to a man, or a prince for that matter, reading you so well. 

his eyes lowered; but not to your fidgeting hands. he began to focus on the change of your expression, almost silently triumphant in his head that he had managed to have any sort of upper hand over the conversation.

very subtly, he took a step forward. it was not yet invading any personal space, but it was rather close to being deemed intimate. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter;

“who keeps you hidden?” 

your lips parted, almost at a loss for words. “my father," you said at last, though the words felt strange to say out loud. "he believed it.. safer."

the prince regarded your response for a moment, at first, saying nothing. his features conveyed something of no surprise. “i thought as much.” 

he paused for a moment, granting a beat of silence, which could have been for emphasis on his statement. his eyes narrowed for a split second, thoughtfully tracing the inner ridge of his teeth with his tongue. 

“it is a shame.” he stated, the nature of his words catching you off-guard. you were not sure how to react. 

your brows gently knitted together, deciding to dig a hint deeper, your inquisitiveness rather apparent. “..what is?” 

for what felt like the first time during the conversation since you’ve begun to speak.. he did not have an immediate answer. uncharacteristically, he began to search for the correct words, though it seemed several possibilities had crossed his mind before one seemed worthy of being spoken.

“that something so..” he began, head tilting just slightly to the side, almost as if he was studying you intently. “remarkable..” 

there was another short pause before he spoke again.

“..has been hidden behind stone walls for so long.” 

it is painfully easy to recall the last memory you had before time stopped, a moment that has since been etched into your house name for what now feels like ages ago.

you were nothing but a daisy-fresh child, the world resting lightly at your fingertips as you explored the castle halls to your heart’s content. though you did have an adventurous streak, and that streak often got you into trouble… but nothing like this. it was the last time you had ever seen your father’s face lit up brighter than the stars in the midnight sky.

though he had never been particularly graceful, he would let you call yourself the fastest knight in the reach, always pretending to lose those little games you shared, falling dramatically to the floor with a hand pressed to his chest and a groan so exaggerated it always sent you into fits of laughter.

“you’ll never catch me!” you had cried, tiny hands bunched into fists as you gathered the silken skirts of your gown, running through a corridor that smelled of fresh roses and gardenias. echoing laughter filled the hall behind you, a sound you had not heard in what feels like an eternity.

“is that right?” your father called after you, giving chase, always just a few steps behind, far enough for you to feel like you were winning.

the memory grows more blurred at the edges as time goes on, almost like a puzzle missing a crucial, final piece. 

your vision tilted unsteadily. one wrong hurried turn, one missed step. the polished stone of your lavish home had betrayed you.

there was a sharp, violent impact as your head struck the wall, and then everything unraveled at once. it was almost as if your consciousness slipped away like sand through an open fist.

from that moment on, everything you had built your world around changed.

your father caught you before you fully collapsed; “look at me, dear child,” he said desperately, panic threading through every syllable. his arms tightened around your small, limp form as though sheer will alone could undo what had happened. “please… look at me.”

but you did not stir, and the realization began setting in. 

nearby handmaidens who tended the corridors had already witnessed the tragedy unfold. a silver tray slipped from one woman’s hands, clattering loudly against the stone. another stood frozen, her palm clasped tightly over her mouth.

footsteps erupted from every direction, chaos rushing in where laughter had been only moments before.

“my princess…” one lady whispered, her voice breaking.

“fetch the maester!” another cried. “now!”

yet your father did not once move from your side. his eyes never left your face, searching it desperately as though he could will you awake through nothing but his fear of losing you. 

by the time the maester arrived, it was as though the man who once ruled triumphantly had become something entirely different. he was not gone, but reshaped and scarred by the sight of you in his arms, as well as by the terrifying stillness of your small body.

“my princess?”

a gentle voice came from beyond your chamber doors, pulling you gently from sleep rather than forcing you awake.

“it is nearly noon.”

you stirred slowly, blinking against the soft light filtering through your curtains. time itself seemed to move differently within these walls, like nothing was ever rushed or done carelessly.

you sat up, stretching your arms as if you were to grace the day properly, allowing yourself to truly settle into it. somewhere along the years, you had learned to find beauty even in the smallest, most ordinary things. perhaps that was what made a true princess in a place like this.

your soft royal life had learned to flourish even within a garden that had been closed to the world for as long as you could remember.

sunlight pooled across your chambers in familiar gold, slipping over painted walls and tracing the edges of embroidered curtains your ladies insisted on changing with every season. the air smelled faintly of peony and lavender, your favorites, always made sure by your father to keep the things you loved close to you. 

although, that may have arisen from his fear of how threatening the world outside could potentially be.  

three of your handmaidens entered quietly; one placed a crystal decanter of water beside your bed, followed by a small plate of bread still warm from the kitchens. another drew back your curtains a little further, letting the garden light spill in fully. the third began tidying ribbons and pins left from the day before.

there was ease and practiced care in their movements now, which was nothing like the fear and urgency of years past.

a smile found its way onto your face before you even realized it.

“may i visit the greenhouse today?” you asked softly, your love for the blooming things of spring always impossible to hide.

“after breakfast, my lady,” your handmaiden replied automatically, as though the answer had been written into every morning you had ever lived here.

you only lightly hummed in response.

assisting you in dressing had long since become less of a duty and more of a quiet ritual. these same women had known you since infancy, and their hands moved with familiar care as they fastened laces and smoothed fabric into place. your gowns were always soft now. trimmed with floral patterns, pale jewels set delicately along the bodice, chosen not for gaudiness but for comfort. beauty, here at the castle, was something gentle rather than something of performativity. 

“your father sent word this evening,” one of them said as she worked the laces at your back.

the mention of him no longer brought the same sharp tension it once had. time had softened the edges of everything, even grief.

“he inquired if you would like breakfast in the west garden this morning, my lady.”

without hesitation, you took the silken ties gently from her hands, a bright smile breaking across your face.

a small laugh escaped you, light and unguarded.

“well then, we mustn’t keep him waiting.”

you moved toward your mirror, quickly pinning a few strands of hair into place, though you paused for a moment. not nearly out of vanity, but out of something quieter. almost something of a breath or a realization.

you were not, by any means, a little girl anymore. but neither were you the fragile tale westeros had chosen to invent.

perhaps one day your father would understand that too.

and with that, you went to join your father for breakfast in the west garden, where the roses were in full bloom and the morning sun spilled across stone, making everything feel, for a little while at least, like the world had always been this way.

His words trailed off into a low groan as he focused entirely on the wet sound of his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt. He needed you. He always had. But time was running out, and desperation had turned him feral.

You pushed your ass back against the hard line of his cock, and the movement dragged him back to reality with a deep, hungry growl.

“…But if I make you mine tonight,” he rasped, “they won’t be able to tear you away from me.”

His fingers thrust deeper, curling deliciously, and suddenly you stopped caring that your breasts were crushed against the freezing glass. All you could focus on was him.

“What’s the point?” you gasped. “No one will ever know—”

His teeth sank into the side of your neck, a sharp warning that made you whimper. Still, you continued, breathless: “No one will know this ever happened.”

Aerion pulled his fingers out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing. You turned your head, only to meet his intense violet eyes burning into yours — dark and gleaming with a new, wicked idea.

“Oh, but they will know,” he murmured, voice velvet and venom. “I’ll make sure of it.”

His hands gripped your waist, positioning you exactly how he wanted. The thick head of his cock nudged against your soaked entrance for only a heartbeat before he drove into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

A broken cry tore from your throat at the sudden stretch. You were grateful the window was closed — otherwise the entire garden would have heard you — but Aerion didn’t seem to care at all. He fucked you with purpose, deep and relentless, each stroke claiming you more thoroughly than the last.

“I’m going to put a baby in you tonight,” he growled against your ear, punctuating the vow with a particularly hard thrust that stole the breath from both of you. His sharp canines grazed the back of your neck as he smiled. “I’ll stay inside you all night if I have to. Do you hear me? Then you’ll be mine. Truly mine. And no one will dare take you from me.”

MAEKAR.

You weren’t sure how you’d ended up in this position, but after the heated argument about your impending departure and the arranged marriage, you now found yourself straddling Maekar’s lap in his favorite cushioned armchair.

He was still grumbling under his breath, but it was impossible to focus on his words when his thick cock was buried to the hilt inside you and his rough hands gripped your hips with bruising strength, refusing to let you move even an inch.

“And you did not think to tell me you are leaving at morrow,” he growled, the sound pulling you out of your lust-drunk haze. His dark eyes locked onto yours. “What was the lord’s name again?”

You shifted your hips slightly, desperate for friction, but he held you firmly in place. He was clearly determined to punish you. You were his. Had you still not realized it? Did he really need to take you like this — impaled on his cock, helpless in his lap — for it to finally sink into that pretty head of yours?

His fingers dug harder into your flesh, denying every desperate roll of your hips.

“You know what? It does not matter,” he rasped. “His name means nothing. His house means even less. He will not have you.” When your walls clenched tightly around his cock at his words, his voice dropped lower, rougher. “He will not have this.”

Encouraged by your reaction, you squeezed around his length again, trying to memorize the shape of him. Maekar finally gave in — just barely. He lifted his hips in a slow, controlled thrust, guiding you with those powerful hands in one long, torturous stroke.

“Maekar… it was already decided,” you tried to protest, breathy and weak. “The Septon—”

The old prince cut you off with a fierce kiss, his mouth claiming yours until you melted against him. Maybe it was affection. More likely, it was just another way to silence any argument or denial trying to leave your lips.

“Fuck the Septon and whatever vows he wants to spout,” Maekar growled against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. “I will deal with him at morrow. I would sooner have you bear my name than see you wed to some lord in a forgotten keep.”

DAERON.

Your nightly tea lay forgotten on the bedside table, long gone cold beside the grand bed where you lay beneath Daeron.

He was trembling, skin slick with sweat, as he hovered over you. What had begun with him slipping into your chambers under weak excuses — that he only wanted to talk, to see you one last time before tomorrow — had quickly turned into desperate touches and broken pleas. He couldn’t bear to watch you leave. He couldn’t stand the thought of you belonging to another man.

“You’re mine,” he whispered shakily, bracing his arms on either side of your head so his weight wouldn’t crush you. “You’ve always been mine. Why didn’t you refuse?”

His cock was buried deep inside you, but despite how badly he wanted to make you feel good, his thrusts remained slow and shallow. Exhaustion and sorrow weighed heavily on him, yet his glassy violet eyes never left your face — intense, almost desperate.

“Refuse?” you answered softly, your gentler hands sliding along his ribs in a soothing caress. “Do you think I had any say in the matter? No one even knew you wanted to ask for my hand. Not even me.”

Daeron let out a pained groan at the truth of your words and dropped his forehead to the crook of your neck. His breathing was ragged — the only sign he hadn’t simply fallen asleep on top of you. After a long moment, he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.

“But I knew,” he murmured. “And I did nothing. I never courted you. I never fought for you. Nothing.”

He pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to your collarbone. After several agonizing seconds, his hips began to move again. It was almost pathetic how the only thing bringing him any satisfaction was the fact that he hadn’t come in the first four seconds, as heartbroken as he was. Embarrassing.

“I'm still here,” you whispered, rolling your hips up to meet his. He inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. “It’s not too late, Daeron.”

He might finish embarrassingly fast. And he wasn’t going to pull out — whether you wanted it or not. He didn’t have that kind of control right now.

“Do you really think I still have a chance…?” he asked quietly, voice thick with emotion. “To make you stay with me.”

You nodded.

Daeron hated that the only thing of true value he possessed was his name. But if he had to use it — if he had to wield it like a weapon in this desperate moment — he would. For you. For both of you.

His body shuddered, balls tightening as his climax approached.

“Fuck… Alright then.” His voice cracked with raw need. “I’ll take care of it. As soon as I’ve finished with you.”

BAELOR.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across your chambers, but neither of you cared. You were pressed against the edge of the large table, bent forward with Baelor behind you, his broad chest flush against your back. One of his strong hands covered yours on the wooden surface, fingers intertwined, while the other gripped your hip, holding you steady as he thrust into you with slow, deep strokes.

It had started with a quiet conversation that quickly turned desperate. You were to leave in one day. To marry. To be taken away from him. Baelor, ever the dutiful prince, had tried to accept it — until the thought of another man touching you became unbearable.

“You were meant for me,” he murmured against your ear, voice low and rough with restraint. His hips rolled forward, pushing his cock deeper into your soaked heat. “Not some lordling who knows nothing of your heart. Not some political pawn.”

A soft whimper escaped your lips as he hit that perfect spot inside you. Your walls fluttered around him, and Baelor groaned, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck.

“I tried to be honorable,” he continued, breath hot against your skin. “I told myself I would let you go if that was your duty. But I cannot.” His grip on your hip tightened, almost bruising. “I will not.”

He pulled back almost completely before sliding back in with one powerful thrust, drawing a broken moan from you. The table creaked beneath your bodies.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice thick with both love and command. “Tell me you are mine. Tell me you do not want to leave.”

You could barely form words, overwhelmed by the way he filled you, the way his body surrounded yours so completely. “Baelor… I—”

He kissed the side of your neck, then gently bit down, possessive in a way that contrasted with his usual chivalry. “I will speak with the king. With whoever I must.” Another deep thrust made your knees weak. “You will not be given to another. Not while I still draw breath.”

His pace quickened, no longer slow and measured but driven by weeks of suppressed longing. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, along with his low, ragged breaths.

“I will put my child in you tonight if that is what it takes,” he said, voice dropping into something darker, more desperate. “So the realm knows exactly who you belong to. So no one can ever take you from me again.”

He pulled your back flush against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist as he drove into you harder. His lips brushed your temple, almost reverent even as his cock claimed you completely.

“You were always going to be my lady,” Baelor breathed, mismatched eyes burning with fierce determination. “And I will make it so.”

VALARR.

“You must stay with me,” Valarr murmured, his body covering yours as one of his hands gently parted your thighs again. “I’m yours, can’t you see that?”

The head of his cock, slick and glistening with the mess of your previous rounds, slid in and out of you with ease. You were both exhausted, covered in sweat and trembling with fatigue, yet a strange, desperate force kept driving him to fuck you again and again — as if he could rewrite fate with every deep thrust.

“It’s too much, Valarr—” you whimpered, your overstimulated pussy fluttering around his cock each time he pushed back inside.

He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, though he didn’t pull out. You could feel the warm, thick evidence of his earlier releases slowly leaking out of you, kept in place only by the thickness of his cock.

“You must not go with him,” he insisted softly, panting against your lips while holding your dazed gaze. “You’re mine. This is proof.” His heterochromatic eyes searched yours. “Because that lord has not touched you, has he?”

You nodded, and a small, relieved smile brightened his face for a brief moment.

“Then it’s decided,” he whispered with quiet reverence. “You’ll stay with me. You will be my wife, and I will be your husband… because that’s what we were always meant to be.”

His mismatched eyes traced every inch of your face with pure adoration. “Gods, you’re so beautiful. I should have told you that moons ago.”

You smiled up at him, your fingers threading gently through the pale strands of his brown hair over his ears. “How improper of you,” you teased softly, “stealing me away from my future husband.”

Valarr hid a small smile against the curve of your neck, pressing tender kisses to your flushed skin — almost apologetic for how roughly his desperation had taken you. You had to be sore and exhausted by now.

“Husband?” He kissed your neck again, slow and sweet. “I am your husband.” Another kiss. “Or I will be, if you’ll have me. Because the ship waiting in the harbor won’t be sailing with you on board. I swear it.”

With others, he was the picture of a calm, pleasant boy — listening intently to your elder brother Daeron’s stories, fishing at his side with easy laughter. He could be good.

Except with you.

The confusion of why he had chosen you, of what you had done to deserve his hatred, cut almost as deeply as his cruelty itself. Hair-pulling, pinching bruises hidden beneath your sleeves, the sudden isolation as the other ladies slowly turned their backs on you after speaking with him. You never learned what lies he whispered, only that they were effective.

Yet among all the humiliations, one memory had burned itself into your mind like a brand:

“One day, when we are older, I will make you my wife,” he had promised, his intense violet eyes fixed on your face, hungry for the first sign of tears. “I will plant the strongest dragon in your womb, even if it has to claw its way out with teeth and talons, tearing you apart from the inside. You were made for it, sweet sister.”

He was cruel, and terrifyingly clever in his torments. No one in the castle was blind, yet somehow no one seemed to notice the depth of your fear. And you dared not tell your father, Maekar, because Aerion had made sure you understood the consequences.

“If you tell anyone, little bird,” he had whispered once, his voice sickeningly sweet, “I’ll know. And you know how unhappy that would make me… don’t you?”

In a final act of desperation, you had broken. You confessed everything to your father between heaving, inconsolable sobs. He believed you — of course he did. No girl wept the way you wept without reason, so he helped you in secret.

You were sent to the Citadel of Oldtown under the guise of visiting your brother Aemon. A convenient excuse.

Aerion had not been fooled. Rage had poisoned his blood as he watched you slip from his grasp. But he waited. He was not a patient man, yet for you — his sweet, tearful little bird — he would learn.

What he didn’t know was that in those long years away, you had grown stronger. The septas in Oldtown had taught you what your own never could: temperance, silence as armor, and the quiet power of a steady mind. His words were no longer daggers — merely the ravings of a sick boy.

You had never felt more ready to face him.

Now a woman grown, you were returning home. And this time, you would not break. Or so you thought.

────୨ৎ────

You returned at dawn, accompanied only by the steady rhythm of hooves, the song of early birds, and the crunch of carriage wheels over the stony path. The castle was still quiet; few had come to greet you. Your arrival had been kept deliberately discreet.

Maekar received you at the gates with a rare, soft smile. He had missed his sweet girl — even if you were now a woman grown. He did not regret sending you away from the grasp of his twisted son. Aerion, no doubt, was still out in the training yard, swinging steel in the cool morning air. He had not been told of your return.

Would he even recognize you?

Your body had blossomed with soft, feminine curves. Your posture was straighter, more regal, and your once fearful eyes now held the sharp violet intelligence the septas had carefully cultivated. You looked every inch the princess you were meant to be.

That day you wandered the castle gardens, then the long halls. Servants stared openly at your elegant figure, stunned by the transformation. You had never carried yourself with such quiet grace.

Yet as your fingers brushed the ornate handle of your chamber doors, a strange chill crawled down your spine. A warning. You ignored it, turned the knob, and stepped inside.

Everything was exactly as you remembered — until your gaze landed on the bed.

Aerion rose swiftly from where he had been sitting on your mattress. He turned to face you, visibly startled by the intrusion into what had clearly become his private sanctuary in your absence.

Silence blanketed the room as he stared at you like a vision, like something holy.

“Sister,” he breathed, the word almost reverent.

His violet eyes traced over you slowly, hungrily, drinking in every changed detail. You were still his little bird, but the fledgling had grown magnificent wings.

You held his gaze without flinching. “Brother.”

His jaw tightened. Even your voice had changed — steady, no longer trembling. For a moment his stare burned across your skin, intense enough to feel like a physical touch. You braced yourself for the first cruel remark...

But his voice came soft.

“I missed you.”

Your hands, folded gracefully over your belly, clenched hard. You had expected mockery, venom, anything but this. Your lips parted and closed again. One sentence, and already your hard-earned armor felt paper-thin.

What's the proper reaction to a caress that should've been a blow?

“You’ve grown beautiful,” he continued, stepping around the bed with slow, deliberate care. “Breathtaking.”

Your heart twisted painfully. His tone was so gentle it hurt.

“What?” you whispered shakily, betraying yourself.

He took another step closer and you retreated one.

“I’ve come here from time to time,” he murmured, “when your absence became… unbearable.”

He took another step and your back hit the door. Your hands curled into fists, wrinkling the fine fabric of your dress. Your vision blurred, and your delicate fingers felt wet when you brushed your cheek. You didn't even know you started crying until now.

You turned your face away, desperate to hide the tears already spilling down your cheeks. Damn the Seven. Damn your own weakness.

A firm yet gentle hand caught your wrist, stopping your escape. When you looked back at him, his pupils had swallowed nearly all the violet, dark with something dangerous.

“Little sister,” he soothed, voice dripping with false comfort that didn’t match the hunger in his eyes. “Why are you crying so easily? Did you miss me that much?”

A broken sob slipped from your lips. Heat flooded your cheeks as more tears fell. Aerion leaned in, pressing his mouth to your wet skin, licking the tears from your skin with a soft, pleased sigh.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your flesh. “Let them fall for me.”

His hands settled possessively on your hips as he kissed away every tear, tracing down a path over your wet skin until he reached your lips. The kiss tasted of salt and growing desperation. His tongue claimed your mouth with increasing hunger, devouring every shaky breath and whimper.

Even after all these years apart, you were still his favorite crybaby.

“You confuse me,” you protested weakly against his lips, voice trembling. “You’re playing with my mind again.”

“You confuse yourself, little bird. You always have.” He smiled against your mouth, arrogant and satisfied, though you couldn't see it. “You always think the worst of me.”

“Stop. I’m... I'm tired from the journey. I need to rest,” you said sharply, finally pushing him away with the little dignity you had left. His closeness was doing something to your body and mind. Something you'd rather not think of. “Please.”

Aerion let you go, but not before offering a crooked smile that showed the sharp edge of his teeth.

“Rest well then, sweet sister.” His voice was velvet, and his steps, casual. Like he wasn't drinking your tears and devouring your salty tongue seconds ago. “Pleasant dreams.”

You finally exhaled. But rest wouldn't come easy. You kept thinking about his hands on your hips and his lips on yours, and guilt crawled up your neck, leaving you breathless. Your damned body wanted to feel him again, even if it meant spilling your tears one more time.

────୨ৎ────

Several days passed with torturous slowness.

The old feeling of being unsafe in your own home had returned, gnawing at you just as it had when you were a little girl. Only now there was no violence, no insults — and somehow, that made it worse.

Aerion had become attentive. Almost chivalrous.

During feasts, his hand no longer pinched your thigh under the table to make you stammer and flinch in front of potential suitors. Instead, it rested there with firm, possessive weight — a silent reminder of his presence. A claim.

When you walked through the halls, he no longer shoved you or made you stumble. He offered his arm with unexpected gentleness and escorted you to your chambers like a true knight. The change was so jarring that even Maekar, in his confusion, had begun to wonder if you had exaggerated everything.

You weren’t crazy.

Why was this happening?

Aerion had always been twisted, but this new version of him terrified you more than his cruelty ever had. Did he even remember the insults? The threats? The promise he had made with that hungry look in his eyes — that one day he would make you his wife and force a dragon into your womb?

If his behavior could change so drastically, perhaps all those memories had faded for him. Perhaps they had never mattered as much as you thought.

Or perhaps… it had all been in your head. Perhaps he had only been a little rough, and your childish mind had turned it into something monstrous. Maybe. Maybe...

That night, the flames in the hearth cast a comforting warmth through your chambers. You had changed into your nightgown and were kneeling on the bed, softly reciting passages from The Seven-Pointed Star, just as the septas had taught you to do when your mind felt overwhelmed.

You didn’t hear Aerion slip into your room like a shadow. He closed the door behind him with barely a sound.

His hand settled on your shoulder, pulling you from your prayers. His low voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“What are you whispering, sweet sister? Prayers?” he murmured, his warm breath brushing the nape of your neck. He was right behind you on the bed.

Your body went rigid, frozen like a fawn before the hunter.

“Just… passages from a book,” you answered quietly. You both knew he didn’t care about the answer.

His hand slid slowly down your arm as his lips replaced it, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss against your warm skin. His fingers traced lower, over your waist, his thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

“Recite them for me,” he whispered, his voice dark with amusement. “Tell me everything they taught you out there. I bet it was all nonsense. Nothing has changed, has it?”

You found yourself nodding before you could stop, as if your body obeyed him on instinct.

“I knew it,” he growled softly against your skin.

His mouth moved hungrily along your shoulder and neck, kissing and licking, drawing a startled gasp from your lips that quickly melted into soft, helpless sighs. Your back arched as you pressed against his chest, and you could feel something hard poking your lower back with every small movement.

His hand slipped between your thighs, pushing the silk of your nightgown aside. His fingers brushed over your slick folds and found your swollen little bud before teasing your entrance.

“Why are you doing this to me?” you asked shakily, your voice breaking as two long fingers pushed inside you.

“Doing what?” he teased against your ear, voice mocking and low. “Making you feel good?”

Your cheeks burned. Your eyes grew glassy as his fingers curled inside you, stroking that sweet spot with devastating precision. A broken moan escaped your lips, your hips moving instinctively to meet his hand.

“Are you going to cry for me again?” he asked, voice thick with arousal. “If I fuck you with my fingers, little bird?”

He thrust his fingers deeper into your cunt, pumping them in and out with a wet, obscene rhythm. Your moans grew louder, more desperate. Your hips rocked shamelessly against his hand as pleasure overwhelmed you.

“That’s it… just like that,” he groaned. “Gods, I’d love to see the septas’ faces if they saw you riding my fingers like a common whore.”

A shaky sob tore from your throat as the first tear slid down your cheek — not from fear, but from your own shameful pleasure and weakness.

“Don’t… don’t say that,” you whimpered pathetically, your pussy clenched around his fingers. “They did what they could.”

“And it was nothing,” he replied, biting back a darker urge. He wanted to flip you over, smear his cock with your tears, and fuck you until the only name you could remember was his. But not yet.

He doubled his efforts, fucking you harder with his fingers until your hips lifted off the bed with every thrust. You had to brace yourself against the sheets to keep from collapsing.

“Sister,” he whispered against your ear, voice rough with barely contained hunger, “my promise still stands. I’m going to make you my wife. I haven't forgotten.”

And in that moment, you finally understood the truth. You had never been crazy.

The door creaks open, the soft hall light drooling in through the space, and you roll over, gazing at it. 

He’s walking in, tired eyes gazing at your slumped form, blankets and sheets wrapped around your body. The window is shut, your sheer curtains placed in front, and his feet are heavy against the wooden panels. It’s a dream-like state, and you lazily smile.

It was a bad idea; your dad’s best friend slipping into your room at five o’clock in the morning, your mother and father sleeping just a few rooms down. It’s the only space the two of you have, and it was a silent agreement that he’d sneak in just before dawn and leave before breakfast.

“Sleepyhead,” he drawls quietly, and you’re sitting up, rubbing your eyes.

“Five past five,” you mumble after glancing at the clock on your nightstand. “Five minutes late,” you tease, sleepily tilting your head to the side.

“Your old man was doing somethin’ in the bathroom,” he explains, glancing over his shoulder at your closed door, creeping towards your bed. “Gotta be real quiet,” he whispers, smiling.

You’re not sure when it started, but it did. 

Returning home after graduating college and realizing that he was the only man who had ever treated you right definitely fuelled the idea; him being your boyfriend, taking care of you, sleeping with you. It slipped in your head over dinner, when he offered to get you a drink, and you realized that your ex-boyfriend had never done anything similar. 

Those curious glances in the garage when he’d watch sports games with your dad, and he’d beckon you over, offering you a beer, and your dad would roll his eyes at the idea of his daughter joining. But you did, and you liked it.

He was always so sweet and caring, and the lack of a ring on his finger made you even more confused. He was easy with his hands, and sweet with his words, and he knew how to treat you right–hell, your mom even adored him; everybody did.

The wooden frame of your bed groans when he slowly crawls into it, right on top of you, and you giggle softly, biting your lip, barely hesitating to lift your hands to cradle his face. It’s rough and barely shaved, his eyes crinkling in the dim light.

“You miss me?” he asks quietly, his own hand finding your cheek. “Your daddy keeps wonderin’ why I want to sleep on the couch so often,” he chuckles under his breath, and you smile, teeth and all.

“He can keep wondering,” you counter, biting your lip, feeling his body settling right on top of yours.

“Ah,” he nods, his calloused thumb beneath your eye. “That attitude…” he rolls out, tilting his head.

“Shut up,” you giggle, sliding a hand down to hold his shoulder instead.

He grins at the soft sound from you, his hand drifting from your cheek to your forehead, and he moves hair out of your face. The look in his eyes can only be described as adoration, and you shift your hips.

“Prettiest thing I’ve seen,” he mutters, keeping his voice a whisper in your bedroom.

You smile again, though it’s much more shy; no teeth and your eyes glance at your ceiling instead, and he smirks at the flustered look sinking into your features.

His lips find yours when you look away, and you’re kissing back without thinking of it, like it’s just routine, and it practically is. You’ve been home since April, and he’s been sneaking in since the end of May. It’s July now.

Something is different about it, and he’s hungrier than usual, all teeth and sloppy, his head tilting to deepen it. He’s groaning into your mouth, his tongue already sliding in, and you’re moaning now, noticing his hips effortlessly grinding against yours already.

“Can’t get over you,” he mumbles when he pulls back, a brief look into your eyes, and he’s sliding down your jawline and to your neck, lips finding the old hickey that you had to blame on a straightener. His smirk at breakfast the next day made it worth it.

“Don’t want you to,” you whisper and shake your head, letting it tip back against your pillow.

“Never will, kid,” he promises, mouthing at your neck, purposely leaving saliva behind, a trail behind his warm lips. 

You moan, your hand finding the nape of his neck, holding him there, and his hand slides up your shirt, gently golding your ribs. His thumb brushes against the warm skin, brushing along, feeling the way you prickle with goosebumps. 

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, shaking his head when you moan. “Can’t be too loud.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, feeling his other hand sliding down to the waistband of your underwear, shamelessly dipping inside.

You gasp when he cups you, just feeling, no deliberate touches.

“Yeah, you did miss me,” he mumbles, nuzzling his nose into your jawline. “How long you been this wet, darlin’?”

“Since… since dinner,” you admit, breathing heavier as he squeezes your core, just that large palm holding you there. “When… when you… you tugged my ponytail, and… and told me I looked… pretty,” you ramble on, and he’s smiling into the crook.

“Did look real pretty,” he admits, letting his thumb press against your clit finally. “Jus’ wanted to see you, didn’t care about dinner, or anythin’,” he shakes his head, his other fingers gathering the slick.

You whine, biting your lip, eyes squeezed shut. He’s still kissing at your neck, a gentle hand rubbing your ribs, the other one coaxing the softest noises from your lips. It feels so good, and your bed creaks when you shift your hips.

“Missed you so much,” you plead quietly, knowing you saw him just at dinner, but your body never had enough. 

“I’m here, sweet girl,” he tells you quietly, two fingers prodding at your entrance. “Right here, baby, deep breath,” he reminds you, and you inhale, feeling the thick digits slide in.

Before you can snap your head back and moan, that hand on your ribs is clasped over your mouth, his thick palm pressing right against it. You make a noise against it, and it’s muffled, shielding the sound from your sleeping parents.

“Atta girl, stay quiet,” he coos, no longer kissing your neck, but keeping his face nuzzled into the corner of it, his nose nudging your ear. 

You whimper into his palm, feeling his fingers twist and curl, knowing every crook inside of you: the soft spot, the one where your legs fall open so he can slide between them, and your head is tipping back, and you’re whining, and your body is asking for more. He has your body memorized.

“That feel nice?” he asks, breathing heavier into your ear. “Jus’ want my girl to feel nice,” he says, his fingers hooking, and it makes a sound slide out of your mouth and into his palm, a muffled noise in the quiet bedroom.

He can feel himself hardening his jeans–he’s still wearing clothes from the day before, passing out on the couch in the living room, your dad dismissing his best friend sleeping there. He’d have no reason to be against it.

“So hard for you already, baby,” he groans through a smile, impressed with how easily you turn him into a desperate man, reverting to whatever innate urge he has.

You whimper into his hand, and he slides back a little bit, his wet fingers sliding out of you. He leans back onto his haunches, though he’s leaned forever slightly, still covering your mouth, and he raises his eyebrows, and you nod. It was a silent agreement that you’d be quiet. 

“The things you do to me,” he mumbles in disbelief, looking down at his glistening fingertips, and he licks them clean, glancing up at the flustered version of yourself; flush cheeks and your hands are by your face, shielding yourself.

“This is why I call you ‘my sweet girl’,” he teases, a chuckle coming from deep in his chest. 

“C’mon, help me, kid,” he then gestures down to his brown leather belt around his jeans, and he always makes you do it, unbuttoning his jeans and unclasping the buckle. 

You nervously grin and sit up a little, watching the way he holds your knees open, and you begin to undo the belt, letting it jingle in the early morning. He slides his hand forward, running it through your hair, brushing it away from your face, all while you work on unbuckling him.

Your hands now pull down his jeans, sliding them down his hips slightly, and he looks down, knowing this is when he takes over. You find the whole ‘putting your hand into his boxers’ intimidating, and he doesn’t mind helping you, not at all.

“Mmm… look here,” he whispers when his hand slides into his boxers, taking himself out; long, hard, throbbing in his hand, and you stare, blinking slowly. You hate how you’ve missed this. 

He’s stroking himself, and you’re leaning onto your back, and he grins, following suit, moving down against you even more, pushing his body further between your open thighs. He blinks slowly, breathing heavier. 

“I got your underwear, baby,” he reminds you quietly, his voice thick in the morning. “Just… relax, and take me,” he mumbles, lips brushing yours briefly, planting a chaste kiss.

His hand slides the cotton fabric aside, wanting the cleanup to be easier; he knew he had to be out sooner than he’d like, before your parents woke up and called you for breakfast. He was being safe, and you almost hated how you had to tiptoe around so much. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pulling back, watching your expression warp as he slowly rolls his hips forward, and your back arches, curving into him. He bites back a groan of his own.

“Daddy,” you whine to him, and the word is even bitter on your tongue, and he has to bite back a grunt at how obscene it is; his best friend’s daughter, calling him ‘daddy’, like he took the place of him. 

It’s a layer of shame he’ll unpack on the drive home.

He slides two fingers into your mouth when he has the chance, your mouth hanging open in awe. He shuts you up, and you start sucking, using it to keep yourself quiet. Any time you feel a sound bubbling in the back of your throat, threatening to slip out, you let it bleed into his thick fingers instead. 

He’s thrusting now, moving back and forth, grunting with each pronounced movement of his hips. He’s gazing down at you, watching your hair fan out behind your head, against your pillowcase, eyes closed and in your own world.

“Takin’ me so well, every time, baby,” he praises, his other hand gripping your hip, keeping you stable and in place. “Every time… every time, sweetheart,” he groans.

You whimper into his palm, the summer heat suffocating the two of you currently. You’re already drenched in sweat, and it doesn’t help that you were melting into your bed before he walked in, your sheets damp prior. It’s only worse, and he’s panting, eyes glancing up at the ceiling.

“Come on, baby, feelin’ so good,” he rambles on, his fingers pressing onto the flat of your tongue. “Missed bein’ inside you, so much,” he’s moving faster, and the headboard snaps into the wall.

Your eyes shoot open at the loud noise, and he braces for impact, like the bedroom door is about to swing open and your dad is going to see his best friend fucking his daughter, fingers shoved down her throat at five o’clock in the morning.

“It’s okay… we’re okay, baby,” he reassures you, groaning as his hips stall, and he pauses, burying into you for just a second, letting silence linger.

After a brief moment, he starts up again, sharp eyes paying attention to the part of your bed that decided to slam into the wall, the one connected to your parents’ bedroom. He watches it, thrusting, and your eyes close again, slipping back into that state of bliss.

“Wanna do this to you… all day,” he admits, and you squeeze your eyes shut harder because you know he would if he could–he had eaten you out for a good hour when your parents left for an evening. He has no issue with devouring you, and he knows that you know.

You clench around him, feeling that familiar burning in your lower abdomen; it’s ripping through you, settling right where his hand is now pressing against you. He applies pressure with his large palm, still gagging you with his other hand, but this one is splayed against your stomach.

“M’know you can feel me here, baby,” he mutters to you, the sun now coming up, a honey-like light drifting in through your sheer curtains. “All… in here, so deep,” he taunts, nodding. 

Your head tips back further, practically choking on his fingers as he presses and presses, his large hand keeping a steady weight on your lower stomach. It oddly makes it feel even better.

He feels you clenching, the shifting of your hips, the way a hand of yours slides up, and you grasp at his shoulder helplessly. He knows you're close; he has seen that familiar face more times than he can count this summer: furrowed eyebrows, scrunched nose, a knit in your forehead where all the tension settles. He’s the only man that can relieve it, your dad’s best friend. 

“Mmm, baby, cum for daddy, come on,” he mumbles, and you know it’s just lust he’s running off, the term ‘daddy’ deafening in the bedroom. “Let daddy fill you, too,” he nods.

The feeling tears you apart from the inside, the harsh bite of pleasure sinking its teeth into you. Your head tips back even more, your neck stretched back, the arch tight and curled, lifting right off the mattress, and he cums too–the clash is enough to have him biting back a plethora of grunts and groans. The look on his face says it all.

He doesn’t pull out; no, he keeps himself buried in there, keeping you stuffed, and he rubs your stomach, letting his damp fingers slip by your lips. He moves his palm in slow circles, flat against your abdomen, soothing that dull ache, the feeling of fullness making you feverish. 

“Gonna feel me for hours,” he drawls out, staring down at your flushed face and gaping mouth. “Gonna feel me… sitting there at breakfast, aren't you?” 

You whimper but nod, knowing you’ve felt it before. 

Still feeling him on your tongue after sucking him off behind a fucking carnival ride, the two of you casually heading back to join your family like the top of your shirt wasn’t damp. It was a dirty, filthy secret you two cherished. 

He stays there for minutes, but he glares at the clock. It’s bordering the time your parents wake up, and he knows he has to leave. He has to slip out of your bedroom and out of the back door, discarding any evidence of him being in your room.

“You know I gotta go, baby,” he whispers, shaking his head, and you’re practically in tears, grasping at his shoulders, but he’s leaning back.

“No… no, a bit longer, please,” you beg, feeling him pull out, and it’s like you’ve lost a part of yourself the minute you don’t feel that reminder of him buried in you.

“I’ll be back… lunch,” he reminds you, knowing just hours later he’d show up at your door, joining your family at the dining table for a Saturday lunch. Only you knowing what happened. 

“Promise?” you whimper, sniffling, and he cups your cheeks.

It happened again: his shift ran late, and he found himself creeping into the house past ten, tired as ever, and popping open a whisky bottle while lingering in the kitchen.

He chugged the small glass back, rubbing his hands over his face, glancing at the front foyer. His eyebrows furrowed when he saw your white sneakers kicked off by the door again–you were with his son, somewhere in the house, doing something.

Now he lies wide awake in his empty bed, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the noise that makes him want to blow his head off: your soft moans, little whines and whimpers, and the occasional grunt from his son that has him grimacing.

“I’d rather you do it in the house, safe… than elsewhere,” he had told his son, urging him to have sex in the safety of his bedroom, as opposed to elsewhere the two of you might tangle yourself up in.

He quickly realized that this was a poor decision–he couldn’t blame the two of you, assuming his dad was off working, the house to yourselves, but now he has to lie there in a painful silence, listening to your moans.

“What…” you mumble softly as your boyfriend rolls off you, and your eyebrows furrow when your head turns to look at him; he’s on his side now, reaching for his phone.

“What?” he mumbles, looking over his shoulder at his girlfriend, still on her back, completely unfinished. 

“I’m… I didn’t… I didn’t… you know,” you tell him, a warmth creeping up on your cheeks as you look over at him, and he scoffs, like it isn’t that important. You’re humiliated.

“I did, though,” he shrugs and rolls on his back too, tucking his body beneath the covers, his phone propped in his lap. “Couldn’t last any longer, sorry, baby,” he mumbles, looking at the glowing screen.

“This is like… the fourth time,” you complain, your eyebrows stitching in frustration. “You finish in less than a minute, and then tell me that you can’t make me cum because you’re too tired,” you explain, glaring at him. 

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t feel so good,” he smiles, looking over at you, expecting you to take it as a compliment. You have a blank face.

“Doesn’t feel good for me,” you mumble, finally pulling up the blankets too, covering up your bare chest shyly. 

“Come on, babe,” he groans, putting his phone face down onto the bed. “I’ve been stressed lately… you know, and… it helps.”

You’ve never rolled your eyes harder at a statement, and you scoff, rolling onto your side and away from him. He’s never checked in on you–if you’re fucking stressed and need to finish or whatever the hell excuse that is. “Okay,” you mumble softly and look at the clock, groaning to yourself, eyes shutting.

And now his dad stands in the kitchen at nine o’clock in the morning, yawning, grabbing some coffee, watching the way you descend from the stairs, a sleepy smile on your face.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, pouring a glass of coffee for himself, and you give him a shy nod.

“Good morning,” you smile, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands, and he leans against the counter, holding the mug.

“You two sleep well?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, bringing the bitter drink to his lips.

“Uhm… mhm,” you nod shyly, pausing in front of the island in the centre of the kitchen, leaning against it. It’s almost as if he knows–he does.

“He gonna be awake soon?” he asks you, his mouth still around the mug.

“I don’t think so… he was out when I got out of bed,” you explain with a shrug, and he nods in understanding, turning around.

He doesn’t look like your boyfriend, and you tell yourself it’s unfortunate, while also beating yourself up for even thinking something like that. He’s tall and broad, his muscles straining against his white shirt, his sweatpants low on his hips, his forearms thick. You sigh quietly to yourself, wondering if your boyfriend inherited the can’t make a woman cum trait. Your cheeks burn red when the stupid thought slips in. 

“Can make you breakfast, darlin’,” he offers, still turned around, strong hands fixing up something.

“What–no, no, thank you, it’s okay,” you quickly shake your head, your eyes gazing at the back of his head, and he glances over at you, smiling.

“You sure? Not even toast with some butter, honey?” he offers again, reaching for the bread. “Wouldn’t be a trouble, making myself some, too,” he reassures, and you bite your lip, sliding into the stool against the island.

“Okay… yes, please,” you give in and nod, and he carefully pulls out four pieces of bread, popping them into the toaster, two pieces at a time. 

“You two doing anything today?” he asks, turning back away, patiently waiting for the toast to be done. “Beautiful day out,” he nods, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Uhm… no, I don’t think so,” you shake your head, resting your elbows against the island. “There’s some… video game, or something coming out, and he wants to buy it–all of his friends are playing it today,” you laugh, knowing you’ll be sitting on his bed, just watching.

“And you like that?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, and you’re not sure if it’s a test to see how much you like this man’s son.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug, looking away and out of the window; blue skies and a warm sun, a breeze slipping in through the window. You’re going to spend your whole day upstairs. 

“Don’t mind, or don’t like it?” he asks again, turning around when the two pieces pop out, and he’s reaching for the butter and honey. “Just cause he’s my son doesn’t mean everything he does is good in my eyes,” he adds on, using a knife to swipe on the butter.

“I know,” you nod, sitting up a bit more when he slides the pieces of toast in front of you. “But… there isn’t really anything to do anyway,” you lift a piece of toast, taking a bite.

“Nothing to do? Mid-July?” he scoffs, the other two pieces going in, and he leans on his forearms against the island. “Swimming down at the lake? Farmer’s market? A movie, even,” he explains further, his eyes looking into yours.

“I mean, I guess,” you laugh a little, putting the piece of toast down. “We don’t do… date stuff, like I don’t really need dates, and dinner, and stuff,” you shrug, and he’s amused at how this kid he raised turned out to be such a piece of shit. 

“Is he your boyfriend or your friend?” he suddenly presses, and you’re licking the honey residue on your lips, and he’s watching the swipe of your tongue.

He can’t help it; you’re sitting there, sleepy eyes looking at him, wearing nothing but a sweet nightgown, soft skin, and soft hands, and his son doesn’t know how to deal with any of that. It’s infuriating. 

“Boyfriend,” you say quietly, staring at the crumbs on your plate. “We do dating stuff at home,” you explain, and you watch him roll his eyes.

“Yeah? Like what?” he asks as the toast pops up, and he’s turning back around to pull it out. “I’m listening,” he taunts, and you’re biting your lip, watching his biceps when he puts butter on his toast. It’s so simple, but you’re staring.

“Like… you know,” you laugh again, and he’s smiling too, turning around with his own plate.

He stares at you now, watching you take another bite–yeah, he knows what you mean: lazy, boring sex, where you lie there, and your boyfriend basically uses you as a hole, and you take it because he’s the first boyfriend you’ve ever had and you don’t know any better. He could show you what it’s supposed to feel like; that’s all that’s going through his head. 

“Mmm,” he nods in acknowledgement, watching his jaw when he chews the bread, and you tilt your head to the side. He briefly wipes his mouth, glancing at the window; warm and sunny.

“Why don’t you get your bathing suit on?” he abruptly asks, and you quickly remember, yeah, there’s a swimming pool in the backyard, and your boyfriend never lets you use it for some reason.

“Uhm…” you mumble and shake your head a little, not knowing how your boyfriend would feel if he walked down and saw his dad with his girlfriend outside, and she’s wearing a bikini. 

“He won’t be up until noon,” he says, and you know he’s right; most of the time he sleeps in way past noon, leaving you bored and alone. You smile, carefully moving out of the stool.

“Okay,” you give in, and quickly disappear from the kitchen and back upstairs into your boyfriend’s bedroom. He’s still asleep, groaning when you crack open the door.

Digging through your overnight bag, you find your bathing suit and scowl at the look of it. You were going to wear this with your boyfriend, alone, hidden away in the lake he promised you he’d take you to; it was a little skimpy, and it was supposed to be–it was for your boyfriend; you didn’t want to wear something dorky. It’s all you have. 

The white, loose straps slide over your bare body, and you’re trying your best not to wake your sleeping boyfriend. You look down and swallow hard, noticing how little coverage there really is, then grab your towel from your bag and head back downstairs.

He’s already out by the pool, lounging in a chair; legs propped up on the small table before him, a mug in one hand, and his book in the other. His eyes lift when the screendoor opens, and you step outside, towel modestly wrapped around you, even though in seconds it’ll be draped over a chair. He smiles. 

You slip off the towel and instantly feel the summer heat on your arms and legs, a consistent warmth brushing along your skin. You can’t believe your boyfriend wanted to spend the day in his bedroom, rotting in front of a desk, playing video games. 

“Sweetheart,” his dad interrupts your thoughts, and you turn your head, your bare feet standing halfway on the steps. “Too sunny for you not to be wearing sunscreen,” he scolds lightly, shifting to the edge of the chair, closing his book and placing it on the table with the mug.

“I… I didn’t bring any,” you shake your head and stare at him, and he clicks his tongue.

“That’s fine,” he nods as he stands to his feet, reaching forward–right there, a bottle sitting on the table- and he waves you over to him. “Don’t want you to burn.”

When you approach him, he just gestures for you to turn around, and you swallow hard, no longer facing him. It’s cold when the cream hits your skin, and he’s applying it to your back for you, strong hands moving over your back and shoulders, one hand tucking your hair to keep it out of the sticky mess. 

“It’s cold, yeah?” he jokes, and gently pats your hip, and you turn around. “I know it’s hard to get your back,” he explains, and hands you the bottle so you can do the rest; your legs and stomach–he knows that would be a little too invasive, but you wouldn’t protest.

You hesitantly sit down beside him, using your hands to rub the cream onto your legs and thighs, trying to ignore the fact he’s watching you; hands roaming across the skin, your bikini strap slipping down your shoulder, and he bites back a groan, settling back into the chair again. 

“The water’s warm,” he comments when you stand to your feet, and his eyes immediately roam over you, focusing on the bottoms hugging you, framing you.

You look over your shoulder, and he’s crossing a leg over the other, his heels resting on the table again, and he’s holding his mug. He smiles at you, and you smile back, finally dipping into the water.

It’s beyond refreshing, and you sigh in relief when you’re waist deep. The summer heat immediately disappears as you sink lower and lower, just until your head is visible, and he’s watching, eyes peeking from his book. You’re smiling, gliding through the water and into the deep end, quickly dipping your head under.

When you come up, he’s already looking at you, nodding. Your hair is soaking wet, draping over your body, and he breathes in heavier, adjusting his hips. He’s mad just looking at you–you’re his son’s; that’s who you belong to, and it pains him. 

You swim to the edge after a bit, resting your chin on your forearms that cross over the concrete, the majority of your body still submerged, and he notices, putting the book down in his lap. He quirks his eyebrow, tilting his head, and you give him a grin.

“What?” he calls over to you, and you can only smile at him, and he’s tempted to walk over.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, and he’s setting the book down, standing up. You gulp, watching him saunter over, slow strides to the edge of the pool.

He stands there, hovering right over you, and you stare up at him, head completely tipped back. Your head slides up, shielding the sun, and he’s looking over his shoulder, gesturing for you to get out.

“He’ll be up soon, sweetheart,” he tells you, resting his hands on his hips now, and you sigh, swimming backwards. He smiles at the childish reaction and walks over towards the pool stairs, not getting in.

You slowly swim towards him, and he’s reaching out, offering his hand, and you take it, slowly coming out of the water. He glances down, watching the droplets drip down your body, and you shiver, covering your arms from the summer breeze. 

“Atta girl,” he mumbles when you get out, reaching over to grab your towel and carefully placing it over your shoulders for you. He pats your back gently, eyes focused on your damp lashes and flushed cheeks.

He carefully guides you back inside, his hand on your upper back against the towel, and you freeze the minute you step into the kitchen; your boyfriend sits there, hunched over the dining table, shoving a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. He looks up and over at you, grinning–that stupid fucking grin.

“You guys didn’t even wait for me.” he shakes his head, and you feel his dad quickly pull away like he was caught doing something. “I would’ve joined you, or some shit,” he says through a mouthful, and his dad is rolling his eyes.

“Kid, we don’t have all day,” his dad chimes in, lightly pressing his thumb in your lower back. “You’re dripping everywhere,” he mumbles into your ear, and you’re staring at your boyfriend who is focused on the bowl of milk.

Right. Your hair is wet from the pool, and the pool water is on the tile.

“Sorry–sorry,” you shake your head, and he smiles, patting your back now, ushering you to get changed upstairs.

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” he drawls out, and you begin to walk towards the staircase, being careful not to slip.

He looks between his son and you; this beautiful girl, all wet, sun-kissed skin, and he sits there, mouth full of cereal, ignoring his half-naked girlfriend running upstairs. Maybe he’s that much of a fucking pervert for staring at you–he shakes the thought off as a moral dilemma, sighing and heading to the kitchen. 

You return after just a few minutes; hair still damp, but a white dress is thrown on, and your boyfriend’s dad notices before he does. He grinds his teeth, watching his son not even bothering to look up from his cellphone.

“Kid,” his dad calls out, and he quickly lifts his head, finally noticing you.

“You look hot,” your boyfriend nods, setting his phone onto the table, and you bite your lip shyly, looking over your shoulder for a second; those darker eyes are looking at you from the kitchen, and he’d use more than ‘hot’ to describe how you look right now.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and he lifts his hand, taking yours and pulling you a little closer. He’s still at the table, and you’re awkwardly standing by the chair. 

“My buddies are gonna be on in like thirty minutes,” he tells you, looking up at you from the chair. “Wanna…” he mumbles so his dad won’t hear, but he does, and pretends like he’s focused on refilling his coffee.

“I… just got dressed,” you whisper, shaking your head a little, already knowing how the sex would be.

“Yeah? And you look hot,” he grins, taking his hand from you, and shamelessly smacking the side of your hip, and you shift a little, shaking your head again.

“Not right now,” you mumble, and he sighs, leaning back into the chair.

His dad is listening to this entire kitchen despite the fact he’s in front of the sink, currently focused on scrubbing down a plate, though his ears are on both of you: your light banter, his son begging his girlfriend for sex, and she’s expecting the absolute worst. He wants to go in there and take you away, wants to show you how it’s supposed to be. He can only grit his teeth. 

“Fine,” he says, standing up, lifting his hands like he's guilty. “You can watch me game for six hours… without any sex later,” he whispers the last part, and you step aside, eyebrows furrowed.

“Come on,” you grumble when he turns his back on you, already leaving to log onto some stupid video game. “I’m dressed!” you want to stomp your foot like a petulant child, but he’s already heading up the stairs, his bedroom shutting. 

“You okay, kid?” his dad suddenly chimes in, and you look up and over into the kitchen. “Can take you somewhere if that’s what you’re worried about,” he offers, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Just… I don’t know, I thought he’d take me somewhere if I looked pretty,” you tell him, laughing at how stupid it sounds, and his gut twists at that stupid sentence.

“You do look pretty,” he says casually, tipping his head back to finish off the last drops of the coffee. “Where’d you wanna go?” he asks, putting his hands into his sweatpants pockets and slowly walking over to you.

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, looking away, not even knowing where you’d go–you weren’t used to being taken anywhere, especially with any man.

“Mmm…” he hums, trying to think of where he’d take a young thing like you. “Can take you down to the diner, for lunch,” he offers, and you immediately beam at the idea.

“Really? I mean–we don’t have to; he’ll probably take me later, or something,” you quickly intervene, not wanting to cause any trouble, but he’s nodding towards the front door. 

“Get your shoes on, I’ll be ready,” he tells you, quickly turning away, giving you little time even to protest. 

Sitting on the bench in the front hall is when it hits; you’re going out for lunch with your boyfriend’s dad; meanwhile, your boyfriend is in his bedroom, gaming, oblivious to what’s happening. You smile to yourself at the thought, leaning over, tying the laces of your white tennis shoes.

“You ready, kid?” that deep voice says, and you quickly look up; he threw on some casual clothes–just jeans and a basic T-shirt, not bothering to shave off his five o’clock shadow before heading back down, and you nod.

He opens the front door and lets you out first, fumbling with the keys to his car, letting you climb into the passenger seat. He quickly joins you, and reversing out of the driveway, heads downtown where the little diner is located. You awkwardly shift against the leather seats, not really knowing what to talk about, what to say, or how to act. He’s intimidating.

You glance over, and he’s lighting a cigarette, having it propped in his mouth, his free hand holding the Zippo lighter to it, and you watch him. He looks over at you, raising his brows. 

“I didn’t know you…” You laugh a little, and he laughs out a breath of smoke.

“I shouldn’t,” he denies, holding the wheel with the same hand that holds his cigarette. “Plenty of things we shouldn’t do but still do,” he shrugs, and you can tell it has a double meaning. You look out of the window. 

The diner is busy, and it makes sense; a Saturday afternoon, and you hop out of the car when he parks, and he does it effortlessly–not the parking, the way he takes hold of your hand, squeezing it, keeping you close to his side. It’s a protective gesture, maybe not even romantic. 

You look up at him, and he’s focused on heading to the front doors, quickly opening it for you.

“You want a booth, sweetheart?” he asks you while you wait for a hostess, and you nod. That’s the first thing he asks when the middle-aged woman approaches the two of you, holding two menus, grinning, red lipstick on her teeth. 

“Father-daughter date?” she asks, a twang in her voice, and you look down at the table when you slide into the booth.

“Daughter, almost, yeah,” he nods, settling in the booth in front of you, taking a menu. 

She takes out her notepad. “Sweet. What can I get y’all to drink?”

“Just… water, please, that’s fine,” you speak up first, and she’s immediately jotting down the order.

“Just a coffee, black,” he grins at the waitress, and she’s off, heading into the back to grab the drinks.

This is what you were nervous about–how awkward it suddenly is. He sits there, rubbing his scruff in thought, staring at his son’s daughter, and your head is bowed slightly, gazing at the table. 

“You doing anything tonight at least?” he speaks up, resting his forearms on the table, his hands collapsed together. “Movie? Dinner?”

You shake your head. “No… he’s gonna be doing something silly,” you shrug, looking up at him.

He sighs and leans back into the booth, adjusting his hips, licking his lips. You watch in awe, blinking slowly, and you hate the light you’re seeing him in; beyond your boyfriend’s dad.

“I’ll make a movie night happen,” he reassures, looking back to you. “Just at home, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he promises, his eyes glancing at the waitress as she places down the drinks.

You can’t even protest against the idea again; he’s already ordering for himself- just a burger and fries–and you order waffles, feeling relieved that they were still serving breakfast, and he smirks at your choice. Somehow he knew.

“Going back to college in September?” he asks, holding the fresh coffee to his lips.

You take a sip of your water. “Yeah.” 

“He tells me you’re a smart girl,” he quips, putting down the mug, and you blush.

“Yeah… right,” you say sarcastically, biting your lip.

“No… no, I believe him,” he reassures, running his tongue against his teeth. “I can just tell, you know? Smart thing you are,” he says, and you hate the way your thighs squeeze together.

He breathes through his nose, a heavy huff, like he knows you’re almost squirming in the booth. And then comes the second thought: your moans and whines, how sickeningly sweet they were, and how he wishes he could be the one to coax them out of you. To make you finish.

“Waffles for the girl,” a woman’s voice suddenly breaks the silence, sliding the plate towards you. “And a burger for dad… enjoy,” she nods, quickly leaving the two of you alone. 

“Dad,” you repeat quietly, laughing under your breath, your eyes gazing at the mess of waffles.

“Father-in-law, if things keep going well,” he says, almost taunting, hanging the horrid idea over your head, and your heart drops at the idea of marriage, marrying that boy who doesn’t know shit about you, shit about anything that matters.

“Yeah, my father-in-law,” you mumble sarcastically, and he picks up on it, nudging your ankle with his boot. He does it so smoothly that anyone would call you crazy if you pointed it out, but it was intentional, and you know it. 

Lunch is quiet, and you don’t mind it, not at all. You occasionally glance up at him, and he’s usually already looking at you, watching your lips covered in syrup, your teeth, the way you bite, the way you chew, the way each part of your body moves. He grinds his teeth.

“You all full yet?” he asks, putting down his burger, and the words make you laugh, even with your mouthful of syrup and chocolate chip pancakes.

“Yeah… I’m full,” you mumble, placing down your fork. “Stuffed, even,” you continue with a laugh, and you see the muscles in his jaws clench. You’re not sure if there’s a play on words going on, but you feel a warmth in your stomach.

“Yeah, you finished?” he responds, and you can tell he’s not talking about breakfast food and sweet waffles. He’s talking about last night, and you blink, shifting against the booth, and he pokes his cheek with his tongue.

“I usually never finish,” you shake your head, looking back up at him, slightly gesturing to the plate with a little bit of food left. 

He knows what you mean. You both do. 

“Maybe you can finish this time,” he says back to you, looking at the scraps. “Finish for me?”

The tension is cut when the waitress is sliding the bill onto the table,e and you snap your head to look at her, like she might have a clue as to what that subtle conversation was about. She’s waiting as he takes the bill, fishing into his pocket for his wallet, and throwing a few bills onto the table.

“You ready to go?” he checks when the waitress wanders off, and you’re still stuck on the whole conversation about finishing and not finishing, but you nod, shifting out of the booth. 

He puts his hand on your back as you’re leaving, guiding you out of the place, his hand fingers lightly curling into the cotton of your dress. He gazes down, only being able to admire how you look right now: hair the slightest bit damp from the pool, legs shiny and warm, your eyes hitting the sun just right–all he can think about is his son, and how selfish he is. 

The drive back home is quiet, and you’re always finding yourself looking at him; hands on the wheel, no wedding ring on his finger–you’ve heard your boyfriend complain about it, the divorce, how messy it was, and how his dad never managed to remarry, nor find a woman to date.

You shift in the leather seat, letting your legs part slightly. Your lips go into a thin line, hoping he’d notice. He does. 

He looks away from the road and over at your legs, the gap between where your thighs part, the hem of your dress bunching up. It doesn’t help that the windows are down and the summer breeze catches it, letting it drift up a bit further. You look at him, and he’s looking at you too. It’s silent, just quiet blinking and the distant sound of the radio.

A large hand reaches over, swiftly, and it’s quick; just a gentle pat on your bare thigh, barely a big deal if you told your friends about it, but it’s him, and it’s his look, and he flashes that grin.

“Glad you had fun today,” he mumbles, taking his hand away and resting it back on the steering wheel, and you just stare, cheeks warm. You’re not even sure if your boyfriend touches your thighs like that.

When you walk into the house with him, it’s quiet, just the occasional shouts from upstairs–your boyfriend playing a video game, oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend and father just went out together and secretly talked about his inability to have good sex. He didn’t even check, didn’t even care. 

“I think… I’m gonna go see him,” you mumble to his dad as he shuts the front door, and he looks at you, nodding in understanding. You can’t just do this all day.

His hand catches your cheek, a gentle touch, and you wish you could call it parental, but it’s not. His thumb rubs your cheek, and he’s staring at you, and you’re frozen. Nothing is platonic about it, not a single part of it, and you swallow hard.

“I’ll be down here if you need anything,” he reassures, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Anything, okay?” he confirms, his head leaning down a bit, getting to your height, and you nod.

He watches you disappear up the stairs, and he wants to slap himself across the face when he catches himself trying to see if your dress accidentally slips up when you hit a step. He wants to bunch it up, put you on the counter, and show you that his son is nothing but a product of the man he isn’t. 

It’s painfully boring sitting on your boyfriend’s bed, staring at him, his head turned to you as his hand moves across his mouse, clicking at his keyboard. You sigh and tip your head back against the headboard, waiting for when he’ll give you any ounce of attention. You’re wondering how he can be so neglectful when you’re sitting there in a small dress, your thighs parted in a way so he can see your underwear–you just want attention, anything. 

The next time he looks back is when there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and his dad peeks his head in, looking at the scene: his son at his computer desk, you on the bed, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. 

“There’s a movie playing downstairs,” he cuts in, and he watches his son scoff, looking back at his game. “You two can go down and watch if you’d like,” he offers, and he looks over at you.

“Not right now,” your boyfriend mumbles, quickly shaking his head. “I have like four other matches after this one,” he adds, looking back at you. “Babe, you can watch if you want.”

His dad looks at you, and you give him a little nod. He gives you a discreet gesture; just two fingers beckoning you to leave his son’s room, and you look at your boyfriend, slowly crawling out of his bed filled with messy sheets and laundry that needs to be hung up. You smile to yourself when you enter the hallway, alone with his dad. 

“Saved you, didn’t I?” he asks, his voice quiet, and you laugh a little.

“Mhm, been doing that for hours,” you mumble, looking down at the hardwood, but his hooked index finger catches your chin, forcing you to look up.

“You don’t deserve that, you know?” he tells you, his eyes darkening with his words. “You're young, and pretty… and smart and nice, and you have a lot going for you, sweetheart,” he says, keeping his voice low. 

You stare up at him with parted lips, covered in gloss from when you were trying to impress your boyfriend. He notices, and doesn’t hesitate to wipe the corner of your mouth where the gloss gathers, letting the glitter stick to his thumb.

“Okay,” you mumble quietly, and he slides his hand down to your shoulder.

The two of you slowly walk down the staircase and into the living room. The television is flicked on, and a movie quietly hums, and you’re sure it’s just there for decoration, but you don’t mind at all. You take a seat on the couch, and it groans when he sits beside you, leaving little room between the two of you. 

“You want something to eat?” he offers, and looks at you, swiftly putting his arm around your shoulder, and you lean into him just a bit.

“Still full from the waffles,” you nod, laughing, and he swipes his thumb over the sleeve of your dress.

“Still?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

You nod again. “Mhm, really full.”

A silence stretches again, and he’s just looking at the side of your face: your nose, your cheeks, your lips, the way your hair is tucked behind your ear, and he wants to lean in and kiss that jawline until you’re whining and withering beneath him. He looks back at the television.

“Brutal kid,” he comments when there’s a scream from upstairs, and you’re assuming your boyfriend just lost a round of whatever video game he’s playing.

“He’s… just passionate,” you defend, still feeling like it’s your job to make your boyfriend seem better than he is.

“Not at much,” he ticks his head, lifting his whisky glass that rested on the side table to his lips. “Right?” he asks for your input, and you hesitantly nod.

“Yeah…” you mumble, and you shift your hips against the couch, and he notices.

“Doesn’t treat you right,” he adds on, shaking his head in distaste.

“He doesn’t,” you admit, and he sighs, sliding his hand from your shoulder and down to your waist, squeezing lightly. You’re trying to act like this is normal.

“Poor girl,” he says quietly as he turns his head again, and you do it at the same time; you’re both just looking at each other in the dimly lit room.

You make a silent agreement; your lips part and his do too, and suddenly, you’re kissing. 

His lips are warm and soft, whisky and cigarettes lingering, and your mouth immediately parts, inviting his tongue in, and he doesn’t hesitate to slip in past yours. You whine into it, and he realizes just how deprived you really are.

It’s a clash of your cotton candy lip gloss and his rough lips, and he’s taking advantage of his hand position. It’s sliding up your dress, and it’s reaching, gripping your bare thighs, pulling you further into the suide of him, and he’s groaning, and your eyes flutter beneath your closed lids. His hands are experienced, careful, his hand finding its way right between your thighs.

“Hey… hey,” you mumble, pulling back, and his hand halts at the front of your underwear. “M’nervous… really scared,” you whisper, feeling his saliva on your lips.

“Don’t be, baby,” he whispers, bypassing your lips and putting his own on the corner of your jaw, where he’d been eyeing earlier. “Gonna make you feel good… promise, kid,” he tells you, and you nod.

His hand lightly cups your core through your underwear, and you realize you’ve never had somebody focus on just a single part of you; you’re always the one giving a hand job, or on your knees, and right now this man’s thumb is working just against you, getting nothing out of it except your reaction. That’s all he wants.

You gasp, and your head tips back, feeling the friction of the cotton against your sensitive skin. You whimper, and he lightly squeezes it, and it’s something you’ve never experienced. It’s warm and rough, his palm. 

“See? Making you feel good,” he whispers into your ear, his nose nudging against it, and you nod, letting your hips almost grind into it, a needy gesture he smiles at.

“Mhm…” you agree, and he pulls away, gripping your hips and guiding you to sit against his thigh. You’re easy to move, especially when he’s strong, and you can feel the muscles through his shirt when you rest your hand on his bicep.

You’re back to kissing; all sloppy and hungry, clearly a result of your boyfriend avoiding any real intimacy. This is what it feels like actually to kiss a man, and the thought makes you guilty, but you know it’s right. 

“Grind your hips for me,” he whispers into the kiss, and you start rocking them, right against his thigh. His hands find your hips, helping you and guiding your movements. “Good girl.” 

You moan into his mouth at the feeling, the pressure and the friction, the constant stimulation right where you need it. It feels better than any sex you’ve had, and this is just with his damn thigh. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling back, and he looks up at you; head tipped back, neck extended. 

You keep grinding and grinding, moving against his thick thigh, and he’s watching your eyes flutter, and your features contort, all from the pleasure. It’s amusing, knowing his son can’t do this–it’s a sick thought, sour when he almost says it.

“Thank you… thank you,” you whine, and his eyes light up at the way you’re thanking him. You were that desperate, and he’s reliving it, just by letting you ride his thigh. 

“Oh, baby,” he coos quietly, lifting a hand to push your hair back. “Don’t thank me, nothing to be thankful for,” he whispers, brushing your hair back again.

“But… I am… I am,” you whine again, panting, and he can see your hips moving quickly, chasing a high you never seem to reach.

“Need dad to help?” he whispers, and you whimper at the way he’s speaking; low and slow, slick with them, calling himself dad–he’s supposed to be your father-in-law, if things keep going well, right?

“Please… help me,” you ask, and he almost feels bad at how neglected you are, and just how easy you’re melting and begging. He nods. 

“I got you, baby,” he mumbles softly, and he maneuvers you again.

His hands grab at your thighs, and he guides you onto the couch, your back pressing against the leather cushions. He’s between your thighs, working up your dress, looking between your legs now, gazing at the underwear he wanted a peek at; the white fabric is translucent.

“You’re making a mess, sweetheart,” he whispers, and you lift your hips in protest, your head tipping back. He feels his heart breaking–you are so desperate. 

“I know–I know,” you nod quickly, groaning, and he’s just watching in awe. He’s never seen anything like it before, such sexual frustration.

“Dad’s got you,” he reminds, reaching down to tug down your underwear, letting it fall down your thighs and past your knees. He doesn’t toss it aside, though. 

“Need you to be quiet, yeah? Okay, darlin’?” he says, and he does it; he makes you put your underwear in your mouth, gagging it, forcing you to whine into them instead of getting caught. 

You muffle something into the damp fabric, and it’s an unbelievable sight; your hair fanning behind your head, eyes glossy and wide, and your mouth filled with your underwear. It’s out of every sick fantasy he’s ever had of you.

He’s working on his belt now, unbuckling it, letting his jeans and boxers sag–he has to be somewhat discreet, can’t just throw them on the floor. He leans forward, a hand on your thigh, and the other one stroking himself; your eyes widen at the sight, just how long and hard he is.

He notices the look on your face, and his ego boosts. He’s big, bigger than anyone else.

“Yeah, I know,” he almost chuckles, stroking himself, letting his tip run through your folds and your head immediately tips back. “I’ll make it fit, baby,” he promises, nudging in just the head.

Somehow, that’s the best feeling you’ve had in a while; that sting, that stretch you’re not used to, and he’s already groaning himself, not expecting you to be so tight. You are, and he knows this is going to be harder than he thought. 

“Feelin’ so good already,” he praises, pushing in just a bit deeper, and then finally sliding in further. You’re so wet, it doesn’t take any effort for him to glide right in; it’s almost embarrassing.

“There we go… there we go, sweetheart,” he groans out, his head tipping back when you clench around him. It feels so good; he doesn’t know how to articulate words right now–you can’t; your mouth is stuffed. 

He starts slow, long thrusts, pulling out and diving right back in. It’s deep and slow, and he can hear the little whines from behind the cotton underwear, the way your eyes almost roll back each time he goes in fully, and you’re convinced he’s hitting your cervix.

“Never felt this, huh,” he jokes, and you shake your head, gripping the side of the couch cushion. “Never been fucked properly,” he adds, shaking his head with you.

He’s almost running off anger now; the thought of his son being so fucked stupid, so god damn careless, that his dad has to take over and show his girlfriend what it’s supposed to be like. He hates the thought, but it’s pushing him to thrust harder, to grip your thighs tighter, to go deeper and deeper. He can tell you’re enjoying, the blissed-out look bleeding into your features.

It’s the most foreign feeling ever; the sudden tightness in your stomach, the knot, the heat building and building and you’ve never felt this from pure sex. There’s always a hand at play, a thumb working against your clit, some fucking object doing the work, but it’s just him, just his cock making you feel this way. You’re drunk on the thought. 

“Gonna make you cum, baby, all over me,” he promises, grunting louder when he feels you clench, your walls tightening. “First time… yeah? First time being fucked and cumming from it?” 

You whine, head lulling back, but you’re nodding, almost crying at how good it feels to finally feel this way. To feel good. He’s swelling with pride.

“Feeling me all deep in your tummy, aren’t you?” he asks, and you groan, knowing he’s in your guts right now. “Mhm… gonna feel me tomorrow, eatin’ breakfast beside him,” he taunts, his words sharp and almost a threat.

You don’t care that he doesn’t have a condom on, that there’s zero protection–you just want him to fill you, to stuff you, to treat you like you’re supposed to be treated.

“He’s fucking clueless,” he eggs on, and you’re squirming now, trying not to cum. “Clueless m’fucking your brains out, right below him,” he grunts, and he feels you clench and clench, a pulse, and you’re cumming. For the first time.

His own jaw goes slack when he feels the rush, the warmth, the way your back arches and twists in defiance, like you’re fighting against your body. Your cheeks are flushed, and you’re sweating, forehead glistening, and he can only watch it happen between you. 

It doesn’t take long for him to catch up, and he’s cumming too, filling you up, just like you wanted him to; deep and warm, a strong feeling right in the centre of your abdomen, this constant pressure, reminding you how hard he just fucked you, and how hard he came. It’s the risk, how bad this is, how desperate both of you are, and he’s shameless.

“You’re so full… stuffed to the brim, m’promise,” he mumbles, his eyes closed as he pants, not pulling out, refusing to. “Filled with me… just, so full,” he adds on, like he’s drunk on the feeling too.

You’re still lying there, underwear in your mouth, swearing to God you can feel tears brimming at your eyes from just how overwhelmed you are. It feels good, just resting there, feeling more full than your boyfriend has ever made you.

he inhales sharply as his hands fly to your hips and waist, gripping the soft flesh in a bruising, punishing hold. he has enough trouble dealing with his children — now he has a bratty wife too? but as soon as you start moving up and down on his dick, his brain turns off. he tries to keep control, but the way your pussy swallows his cock with every roll of your hips makes him want to surrender completely.

his jaw clenches and a low growl rumbles from deep in his throat. his eyes never leave your body as he assesses this new position. maybe it wasn’t so bad… he has a perfect view of your tits bouncing every time you stuff your pussy full of his aching cock.

he breathes heavily through his nose after a rough curse leaves his lips, hands still gripping your sides like iron. he’s fighting the urge to flip you over and remind you exactly who’s in charge, but he holds back. at least for now.

as you keep riding him, his composure slowly shatters — deep breaths, low curses, and broken moans he tries and barely manages to swallow. he squeezes your waist in a silent command, eyes burning into you as if to say ‘if you’re going to do this, at least don’t torture me.’

you obey. and maekar finally snaps. one hand slides up to squeeze your breast while the other guides your hips, his own hips thrusting up to meet you with powerful strokes.

“i hope you fucking realize that this will not happen again.”

oh, but it will. especially on those nights when he’s exhausted but still needs to bury his cock inside you.

AERION. you managed to catch him off guard. just this once. he looks surprised when you push him down and climb on top, but that shock quickly morphs into something far more dangerous. aerion smirks, his violet eyes piercing into yours with a challenging gleam. he flashes a hint of his canines. “now you wish to ride the dragon? are you certain you can handle me?” he asks, every word dripping with mockery.

his gaze drops to your pussy as it slowly envelops his cock inch by inch. his nails bite into your skin as he lets out a deep, guttural growl. his half-lidded eyes never leave the sight of his cock disappearing into your cunt every time you sink down, like it’s the most magnificent view in the world.

his hands slide down your body to grab your ass, squeezing hard and pulling you flush against him, forcing you to take him to the hilt. you don’t stay in control for long. soon he’s fighting to take over, gripping your hips and slamming up into you with restless, powerful thrusts.

“look at you… so fucking perfect.” he grunts against your skin, breath hot. his lips latch onto the swell of your tits, kissing, licking, and biting without any gentleness. he leaves open-mouthed marks all over your chest, sucking dark bruises and bites into your skin like a dragon marking his claim. “always thinking you can tame me, my sweet naive wife.” this time he isn’t smirking — he sneers. because you almost, almost do tame him, and that bruises his draconic ego more than he’ll ever admit.

your teasing only makes it worse. you slow your pace deliberately while he keeps trying to force you down harder. he’s not having it. in one swift motion his arms snake around your waist, nails digging into your back hard enough to leave scratches. you squirm and moan from the sharp mix of pain and pleasure.

“enough.” he hisses against your mouth, done with your games. his lips crash into yours, tongue forcing its way inside as he starts pounding up into you harder and faster, whispering filthy curses and possessive words against your swollen lips.

“next time you want to play dragonrider, make sure you’re prepared for a real dragon, wife.”

DAERON. his brain short-circuits the moment you take control and climb on his lap. he doesn’t even try to fight back — he’s too stunned to react properly at first. daeron blinks a few times, suddenly finding himself on his back, and the second you sink down on his cock he loses the ability to form a single coherent sentence.

“oh, gods… fuck, mmh…” his eyes roll back as you start riding him. his hands are everywhere — groping your tits, squeezing your waist, gripping your hips and thighs. he squeezes and kneads your flesh like he can’t decide where to touch first, completely overwhelmed. the room fills with the wet sound of your hips meeting his and his shameless, breathy moans and whimpers.

you deliberately slow your pace just to watch him, and he whines almost instantly. “please, my love… i’ve been good. don’t do this to me…” his voice cracks, sounding dangerously close to tears as his hips buck up desperately, trying to fuck himself into you faster.

the sight is too pathetic to resist. you pick up the pace again and his thighs start trembling. every time your cunt squeezes around him, his cock twitches hard inside you. daeron is moaning loudly with every wet slap of skin, tears gathering in his eyes as he struggles to keep them on your face instead of your bouncing tits. “just like that… keep going… ’m so close… so close…”

he completely loses control right before the edge. his hands grip your waist tightly as he thrusts up into you with frantic force, hitting that perfect spot until you both shatter. he cums with a long, broken whimper, burying himself deep as your walls spasm around him.

“fuck… you did it so good,” he pants, still twitching inside you. “if i knew you had it in you i would’ve put you on my lap myself much sooner.”

VALARR. his eyes widen when you suddenly change positions. the usually composed prince freezes as you straddle his lap, a small, surprised sound escaping his throat. he doesn’t trust himself to speak — he knows his voice would tremble. but then a small, charming smile curves his lips, letting you know he’s more than happy to let you take control this time. he leans back slightly, placing his hands gently on your thighs as he watches you sink down on his cock with hooded eyes.

“you’re so beautiful,” valarr murmurs. his hands stroke slowly up your thighs, taking their time as they move to your hips and waist, and finally to your breasts. his thumbs brush over your hardened nipples, focused on your pleasure before his own.

as you keep riding him, his composure begins to crack. his jaw clenches, trying to hold back low groans, and his breathing grows ragged. those gentle eyes burn into you now with a hunger and intensity you’ve rarely seen from him.

your movements falter for a second at the sight, but he gives you another sweet smile, even as his lips tremble slightly. “don’t be cruel, sweetheart. keep going.” he encourages in a breathy whisper, rolling his hips up to meet yours, silently begging you to ride him harder. when you obey, his eyes flutter shut for a moment as he inhales deeply. his voice grows more desperate. “yes— that’s my girl. my wife. gods…”

your pussy swallows his cock with every roll of your hips. he pulls you down against his chest, and you melt into him as your climaxes draw closer. his parted lips brush against your neck, hot and humid, while he moans softly and whispers sweet praises. his thrusts become deeper and more controlled, focused entirely on making you cum first.

when you finally shatter around him, he lets himself go, cumming deep inside you with a quiet, trembling groan.

he stays buried inside you for a long moment, softening but not pulling out as you both catch your breath. his hand strokes your back with quiet devotion, fingers eventually burying into the hair at the nape of your neck.

“you do not cease to surprise me, my dear,” he murmurs. “you’ve just opened my eyes… i may be made to be beneath you.”

aerion throwing the first insult, valarr trying to act like he is above it, and aerion hating that even more. valarr says something calm and condescending, probably trying to end it without making a scene, and that is what really sets aerion off. because from aerion’s point of view, valarr does not even have to raise his voice to be unbearable. he just stands there looking composed and smug and like he already knows he is going to win.

so aerion shoves him first.

that is usually how it starts. a hard shove to the chest, a shoulder check, valarr stumbles, looks shocked for half a second, and then says something stupidly polite like “you ought to calm down,” which is basically gasoline on aerion’s temper.

after that it turns into fists. a few good hits and the boys faces are bloody.

the adults pull them apart before it gets truly bad, but by then aerion’s knuckles are split and his face is red and he is still trying to get back at valarr through everybody holding him back.

the second fight is worse because it is older aerion. more muscle, more rage, more resentment built up over years. by then it is not just about one conversation overheard in the hallway. it is about all of it. the promise to valarr, the pressure from your parents, the fact that you and aerion have gone back to each other again and again like neither of you can fully let go. and when valarr starts acting like he has the right to stand between you and aerion, that is it. aerion loses whatever restraint he has left.

valarr says something about “being realistic,” and aerion goes still for a second before stepping in too close. valarr thinks he can handle it, like he expects aerion to yell and storm off the way other people do.

he is wrong.

aerion cracks him with one hard punch and valarr goes down. this time he knows exactly what he is doing. he grabs him, drives him back, gets in his face, says whatever he has been holding in for years about how valarr has no right to you. valarr gets a few good hits in too, because he is not helpless.

and then of course valarr presses charges against aerion.

and that gets him arrested.

he is only truly remorseful once he realizes he made you have to come drag him out of jail, not because he feels like he was wrong for beating valarr up in the first place.

the second he sees you on the other side of that yellow stained little station window, pissed and disappointed, his whole face drops. he goes soft in that stupid puppy-eyed way he gets when he knows he has fucked up with you.

he is immediately apologizing, over and over, pressing his fingers to the glass like that will somehow fix it. “i’m sorry, baby, i’m sorry, i know, i know.” and you are mad at him, because now you have to sign papers and bail him out and deal with the embarrassment of the whole thing, but he is looking at you like a kicked dog.