ᏆᏟᎬᏔᎾᎷᎪN

When your previous rooms on the other side of the castle had been deemed unsafe due to its proximity to a crumbling brick tower, you had been moved to the ones you currently resided in about nine moons ago. The view was rather magnificent, overlooking Blackwater Bay and its fleet of ships, and the wardrobe was larger than the one in your old rooms. The only complaint that you had was with the occupant of the rooms adjacent.

You had never had any issues with your cousin Jacaerys, aside from a few spats during your childhood. He was always cordial to you at feasts, made you laugh occasionally during dinner, and would dance with you every so often at balls. But ever since you moved in next to him, you have grown to hate Jacaerys.

Tonight was a particularly bad one; sleep was rather impossible due to the sheer amount of noise coming from Jacaerys’ chambers. You tossed and turned in your sheets, trying to position a pillow over your head in an attempt to block out the sound of repeated moaning. Lady Stokeworth had entered his rooms nearly two hours ago, and you had hoped that their dalliance would have been completed by now. She was one of the louder ones; rather than just the sound of the bed banging against the wall or skin slapping against skin, you also had to endure a rather vivid image of what was taking place.

Once upon a time, it had made you flush, hearing Jace’s affairs in bed and imagining what such a thing was like. Although you would never admit it, you had even slipped your hand between your legs on occasion and pretended it was you sharing your handsome cousin’s bed. But now that this pattern of disturbance had increased in frequency to every single night, your sleep was being affected and you had grown rather angry. 

After a few minutes of particularly loud moaning, swearing, and even screams, the noise finally subdued. You waited until you heard Jacaerys’ door open with a creak, then waited several more moments before you could be certain that his companion had departed. You pulled on your dressing gown, stormed out of your room, and banged your fists against his door.

“Did you forget something?” Jacaerys mumbles as he opens the door, mistaking you for Lady Stokeworth. Once he realizes his mistake, his head cocks to the side and he raises a brow. “Oh. Cousin. How may I be of service to you at this late hour?” He has had the decency to re-dress, although sweat still beads along his forehead and his cheeks are reddened from the physical exertions he was just engaging in. 

“Yes Jace, it is rather late. How many more sleepless nights will I be forced to endure due to you entertaining guests?”  He should be embarrassed, ashamed even to be called out on his behavior in this fashion. But the prince shrugs his shoulders coyly as he glances over you to examine the empty corridor.

“As I told you the last time you pounded against my door, and the time before that, you are more than welcome to find new rooms if you are so inconvenienced by my recreational activities,” Jace tells you smoothly, as if you are simply discussing something benign such as tax records. His eyes are cold against your skin, noticing that your dressing gown was haphazardly thrown on in a way that leaves your left shoulder bare. Feeling his gaze, you quickly yank it over your exposed skin and cross your arms across your chest.

“I do not want to request new chambers, Jacaerys! The only other ones available are either crumbling or currently flooded! Why don’t you move into one of those?” You snap at him. 

“I was here first,” he tells you plainly, to which you reply with a loud groan and a stamp of your foot.

“Why can’t you just go visit a brothel? Why must you subject me to your promiscuity, night after night? It is improper to expose a princess such as myself to acts of depravity and lust!” You hiss at him. Peeking out from his collar is a bright red mark, blooming into what will certainly be a purple bruise come morning time. 

“Gods, do not act the part of an innocent maiden now! Have you forgotten it was I who discovered upon your dalliance with Lord Darklyn three moons ago?” His smug smile has faded away, revealing a frown as he recalls the memory. He had in fact seen you with Lord Darklyn that time in the library, but it had been the first and only incident of such occasion. “Oh please My Lord! Take me now, fuck me with your big cock and make me scream your name! Hurry, before someone notices we are missing!” His imitation of your voice is rather poor, but it irks you all the same. 

“Fuck you, Jace! You’re such a prick!” You raise your voice slightly, but are careful not to shout loud enough to alert any guards that might be patrolling nearby. “That was one time, not a nightly performance! I have not slept properly in weeks because of you and the excess of noise being produced in your chambers!” This is all true, but it seems to make no difference to your stupid, smug cousin. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between the two of you and making you all too aware of the way he currently smells, strong and musky and dizzying.

“Is it truly the noise that brings you to my door?” He questions, his eyes meeting yours with a new intensity.

“What other reason could I possibly have for disrupting my evening? I have gotten so little sleep this week that I can barely make it through the morning meals without collapsing from exhaustion!” 

“Mmm,” he hums, unconvinced. “I do not think that is the reason.” Jace holds your gaze, luring you into speaking once again.

“Enlighten me, then, since I am apparently too stupid to know my own motives.”

“I think—” He pauses, shifting his hand slightly so that his fingertips lightly brush against your arm. “—my dear cousin, that you wish it was you in my bed receiving my attentions.”

Quickly, almost too quickly, you scowl and step away from him. Yet, you are unable to conceal the flush that is creeping across your face.

“You think much too highly of yourself, Jacaerys,” You tell him with as much restraint as you can muster.

“Perhaps I do. But that does not change the fact that you are here, speaking to me during the hour of the owl, wearing your sheer little nightdress.” He glances down at said nightgown, which you had not realized had been revealed by your dressing gown having slipped to the floor when you pulled away from him. “You know, if you are curious about what causes all of these noises you hear, all you need do is ask me nicely.”

One of his dark curls has fallen out of place, draping over his forehead and sticking to his skin. He is right; it is the hour of the owl, and therefore it is much too late for you to have a reasonable conversation without being overcome with strange emotions. You bend down to retrieve your dressing gown, balling it up in between your fists before rising.

“Fine. You wish to taunt me, cousin? You underestimate my determination in getting what I want,” you tell him. 

“And remind me what exactly it is that you want?” His brow is raised and the corners of his lips have turned upwards into a testing smirk.

“Sleep.” You tell him as you turn on your heel and stomp back into your room, slamming the door loudly behind you. 

Although you cannot see his face, you know exactly what it looks like as you hear him laugh, before the sound of his own door closing follows. 

As you try to sleep, your mind races with the examination of past moments that you previously thought had gone unnoticed by Jace. The way your eyes lingered on him a beat longer than was proper, how you instructed your maids to lace your gown tighter for events that you knew he would be in attendance, and how you had once bribed a visiting lady to switch seats with you during a feast. Surely Jacaerys would have said something earlier, right? 

Moments before you finally drifted into sleep, a sudden idea struck you. What if the increase of visitors to his chambers was because he had noticed? What if he was trying to make you jealous? Clearly, he believed you to be. Jace was a Prince of the Realm who always seemed to get his way, but you were a Princess of the very same Realm, and you would not allow him to think that his tricks had worked.

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The next morning, you awoke determined. Although you did not have a restful night, it had certainly been a revealing one. Your eyes were heavy and your limbs stiff, but you instructed your maids to dress you in one of your more extravagant red gowns and braid a portion of your hair into a thick circlet. You chose a short necklace to accentuate the low neckline of your dress, and applied rouge to your cheeks and lips.

“Has a new suitor come to court, Princess?” One of the maids asked as she placed pins into your hair. Lucy was her name, she had beautiful auburn hair and was rather sharp of wit. You laughed at her remark, but shared a knowing smile.

“No, I simply mean to catch the attention of one I may have overlooked in the past,” you admitted to her. 

“Did the Prince’s visitors keep you up again last night, Princess?” She lowered her voice so as to not be overheard, but you were certain most of the staff also knew about Jacaerys’ activities. 

“Oh, this has nothing to do with him,” you tell her quickly, a partial lie. “I have simply decided that I need to reconsider some of the lords at court.” 

Lucy nods but says nothing else, straightening out your necklace before finishing with your hair. You hope that her inclination about Jacaerys is not due to a disheveled appearance on your part. But nonetheless, you are sure that you will be able to achieve your means even if you do appear to be slightly under-rested.

The morning is a rather dull one, seeing as everyone is busy preparing for the feast tonight. A host from Highgarden and the Eyrie have both arrived, a marriage between the heir of the latter to a daughter of the former that hopes to receive the Queen’s blessing before the wedding in a fortnight. You have always found the young Lady Tyrell to be dull and uninteresting, but you have heard some interesting tales about her older brother, who you had met a handful of times throughout your life. Knighted at five and ten, winner of countless tourneys, and the heir to Highgarden, Laurence Tyrell was your target for the evening. 

You could only hope that he was not so honourable that he would refuse a visit to your private chambers. If Jacaerys would not listen to reason, then he would be forced to endure a fraction of what he had put you through as of late. If he could have loud guests in his room at strange hours of the night, then what was preventing you from doing the same?

When the sun finally dimmed and members of court gathered in the Great Hall, you remained behind in hopes of making a grand entrance once the cups were heavy and the dancing had begun. You paced around your chambers for nearly two hours before you finally decided that enough time had surely passed. But to your great disappointment, the feast was so lively that no one noticed your arrival. Over a hundred casks of wine were scattered among the hall, likely a gift from the Tyrells. The music was loud and the sound of roaring laughter flooded your head. 

The first person who caught your attention was Jacaerys. He was dressed in black and red, wearing a sword on his hip and a charming smile on his face. Standing next to him was a Vale girl with thick blonde hair and plump lips, laughing as your cousin leaned down to whisper something in her ear. You scowled, and to your great disappointment Jacaerys’ line of sight was in the perfect position to notice this. He smiled boldly at you, his eyes staring into yours as he said something to the girl that made her shriek and playfully swat at his arm.

You forced yourself to turn away, remembering the plan that you wished to set in motion. You moved through the hall quickly, finding a glass of rich Arbor wine that you drained as you scanned each table and the Lords surrounding them. When you finally noticed a young man with chestnut colored hair and green eyes wearing a golden rose at the fastening of his cloak, you smiled and continued in the direction of where he stood, speaking to a group of knights. 

Right as you stepped in front of him, you purposefully kicked your foot against the leg of a chair, faking a stumble to the ground and allowing the empty wine glass to loudly drop. As any chivalrous young lord would, Lord Tyrell immediately rushes to your aid, stooping down to offer you assistance.

“My lady, are you alright?” You take his arm and rise slowly, trying your very best not to grin. Once he sees the dragon insignia on your dress and recognizes your face, he awkwardly clears his throat. “Apologies, Princess. Have you been hurt?” 

“No need for that, my lord,” you tell him as you straighten out your dress, pretending to examine it for any rips or tears. “I believe I am quite fine, but I thank you nonetheless. It is a pleasure to see you again. Please tell your mother that I congratulate her on making such a fine match for your sister, for I do hope to be invited to the wedding.” You smile at him sweetly and bat your eyelashes. 

“Well, it is to be a lavish affair. I am sure my sister would be honored to have a Princess in attendance on such a special day.” You are unsure if he is aware of how much said sister dislikes you, but nod your head nonetheless. “Your gown is quite beautiful, but I am sorry to say that this is the first time all evening I have noticed it.” 

He continues to flatter you with compliments and you receive each one gracefully. Laurence is quite handsome, with his emerald color eyes, broad shoulders, and deep laughter. But what is most attractive to you is the fact that he seems to be enamored with you, unaware that the ridiculous fall was a ploy to catch his attention.

You spend the next few hours on his arm, accepting every dance and cup of wine and joke that is offered by Laurence. He tells you stories of Highgarden and tourneys as you glide along the dance floor, charming him further with every bite of your lip or bat of your lashes. Although you try your very best to keep all distractions to a minimum, you are unable to stop yourself from noticing that your cousin seems to also be succeeding in his pursuit of the opposite sex.

Every time you glance across the hall, you spot Jacaerys with his fingers brushing against a Lady’s arm, standing closer than he should, tucking hair behind her ear, or running his fingers through his own as he tosses his head back in laughter. He does not stay with any one girl for long, he seems to have made it a mission to speak to every young woman in attendance.

But worst of all, is the fact that he always catches you staring. Even when it is only for a moment, his dark eyes capture yours and force you to look away. It is maddening, but you cannot stop yourself from repeatedly searching for his head of dark curls amongst the crowd. You grow furious at his noticing, becoming even more determined to ensure that Laurence Tyrell leaves with you.

When the night has grown late and guests begin to depart, he is still at your side. He is telling you something about his sister’s intended’s prowess with lance, your hands pressed into his as you giggle. 

“Oh! It almost slipped my mind, but you must see my new map of the Reach. I had it commissioned by the finest painter in all of the Seven Kingdoms,” you tell him as you squeeze his hands. No such map exists, but you need some excuse to lure him back to your rooms. 

“I will most certainly call upon you tomorrow, Princess. I would be delighted to see it,” he assures you. Your smile falters for a moment as you pout your lips. Hours of plotting will not be ruined by a falsehood of chivalry. 

“Come tomorrow, I may have lost all interest in maps. Allow me to show you now,” you insist, squeezing his hands and pushing your bosom forward. “My chambers are in a well-secluded branch of the Keep. No prying eyes would disturb us.” 

Laurence immediately catches your line of reasoning, his eyes widening as he gulps rather awkwardly. He nods, and allows you to lead him out of the ballroom and into the darkened corridor. Your heart is beating as you race through the Keep, breath catching in your throat as you ascend the two staircases leading to your chambers. 

When you enter, you see that Lucy is scrubbing down your windows. She turns to look at you, noticing Laurence in the doorframe. Grinning at you with excitement, she quickly excuses herself and exits the room. You lock the door behind her. 

“Your chambers are lovely, Princess,” Laurence tells you as you approach him. He is unfastening his cloak as your hands reach around his neck. 

“Yes, and the walls are completely soundproof,” you lie before bringing your lips to his in a hasty kiss. He tastes like perfume and his tongue presses against yours too firmly, but you moan loudly as his fingers tangle in your hair. 

You are rather impressed by how little time he wastes, quickly reaching around your midsection to begin unlacing your dress. Your own fingers tug at the hem of his shirt and start to lift it upwards.

But both of your movements come to a sudden halt when a fist begins to bang against the door.

“Cousin! I need to speak with you!” Jacaerys’ voice is immediately recognizable. Laurence attempts to pull away from you, but you grip his shoulders tightly. 

“Go away Jace! I am pre-occupied,” you shout back at him. The man in front of you has turned a shade of deep red, and you can feel your own pulse racing. You had not expected Jace to confront you until after your time with Laurence was finished. 

“Open this door at once!” The handle of the door rattles wildly, giving you almost no time to decide your next move. Within seconds, Jace has pried open the door and you have pushed Laurence away from you. 

“There is a matter of importance that we need to discuss,” he tells you rather gleefully, completely unbothered by the fact that there is a man in your chambers in a state of undress. “How dare you barge into my rooms like this? Have you no decency?” You snarl at him. “Decency?” He chimes snidely, eyes narrowing on the part of your gown that has been unlaced. Jace reaches for Laurence’s discarded cloak, folding it up neatly as he meets your gaze.“Save me the performance, cousin. Surely you are not so naive to think that no one would notice your sudden departure? An unmarried Targaryen Princess leading a young Lord into her chambers is certainly quite the scandal.” You wish more than anything that you had some sort of smart remark to snap back at him, but silence lingers its place. Jace knows that he has you beaten, an air of smugness surrounding him. You notice the reddish mark peeking out from his collarbone, a reminder that these sort of rules do not apply to him.

“Lord Laurence, I suggest that you leave now. I require a private word with my cousin,” he tells him as he hands him back the cloak. Laurence glances at you pitifully, to which you sigh in frustration. 

“Apologies, my prince. Princess,” he excuses himself with a quick nod, and practically sprints out of your room. The door creaks as he exits, and the sound of his racing footsteps can be heard for a mere moment afterwards. Furious, you turn to face Jacaerys. 

“Where do you get the nerve to act as if you do?” You approach him angrily, making no effort to conceal how distraught he has made you.

“Dear cousin, what were you expecting? That your pursuits would go unnoticed?” Jace has taken off his cloak, draping it across the back of your chair as if it was his own. 

“I expected that you would be too preoccupied with luring that Vale girl into your rooms to be concerned with whom I chose to invite into mine,” you snap back at him. There is a slight chill in the air, seeing as you forgot to close your window earlier in your haste to arrive at the feast. 

“It seems as if you spend far too much time worrying about who I keep company with. Are you jealous, Princess?” He is staring you down now, his deep brown eyes piercing into yours, his smug grin setting you aflame. 

“Is it unfair for me to wish for peace and quiet during the deepest hours of the night? I have not had a full sleep in months because of you!” You shout at him, throwing your hands up in frustration. Jace laughs, brushing a stray curl off of his forehead as he straightens his shoulders.

“I have needs, cousin, ones that I will not begrudge me of because you have put up a facade of being a prude,” he tells you rather dismissively as his fingers trace over the back of your chair. The shift of his posture has once again revealed the red mark on his neck, a reminder of the start of your quarrel. 

“Have you never considered the idea that I also have needs?” You take a step closer to him, and you immediately notice the heat that is radiating from him. “Wants and desires that I have been forced to push aside due to the nature of your nighttime activities! Do you imagine how difficult it is for me to entertain suitors, when they must be subject to the sounds of a Prince having his way with half the women in the castle on a nightly basis?”

 Jace’s gaze becomes steadfast as his demeanor shifts entirely. Rather than smirking at you, he stares with curiosity. 

“You should have come to me. If it was truly desire motivating your actions, why not cross the hall and ask for my assistance?” 

You are speechless for a moment— he has brought to surface a feeling that has long been nestled deep inside of you. Jace is the handsome Prince of Dragonstone, of course you had desired him, just like all the other ladies of court did. You had always believed him to be taunting you with his thinly-veiled offers and crude jokes. But what if he truly wanted you as you wanted him?

“Such a thing would scandalize all of King’s Landing, Jacaerys. You are the heir, and I your cousin. We will both be betrothed to others sooner rather than later,” you tell him, an attempt to re-direct. 

“But dragging Lord Tyrell into your bed is not a scandal? Do not lie to me, cousin.” He steps closer to you, pressing his palms into the table as he lowers his face to meet yours. “Will you finally admit that you desire me? Or will you allow petty grievances and little embarrassments to get in the way of taking what you want?” 

He has posed a challenge, one that he knows you are unable to back down from. Jace’s jaw clenches as he gazes upon you, his face sculpted by the gods of Valyria themselves. You glance downwards as his hands, thick and hardened by hours in the training yard. Imagining the way that his fingers would feel against your waist, around your neck, and in between your thighs makes your mouth water. Why does it feel so wrong to want him so badly?

Before you can stop yourself, you close the gap between the two of you and press your lips to his. Immediately, he kisses you back with the maddening hunger of a starving man. You latch your fingers onto his dark strands of hair, closing your eyes as he claims you with his mouth. 

The kiss is sloppy and desperate, his spit mixing with yours as his hands find your waist and pull your torso flush against his. As expected, he is quite skilled with his mouth. A few minutes of kissing leaves you practically dripping, your fingers stumbling for the buttons of his doublet. 

Rather than allowing you to undress him, Jacaerys breaks from the kiss and swivels you around, positioning your back to face him. He begins tugging at your laces, removing your gown with ease and allowing it to puddle at your feet. His intentions are clear in the way that his hands now trace against your skin and lips nip against your ear.

“Tell me, how many unassuming lords have you let have you? Was Darklyn the only one?” His breath is hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You should lie— tell him that there have been dozens, if only to provoke him. But he has seen through your earlier fib, and you are certain that he would know if you were to do so again.

“He has been the only one,” you tell him truthfully. Jacaerys brushes your hair over your left shoulder, giving him full access to the bare skin of your neck. A soft caress of his fingers against the divot of your neck causes your breath to catch.

“How many times?” His other hand remains steady against your waist, the ruby ring on his index finger pressed against the fabric of your petticoat. 

“Once. If you do not count the time in the library.” Jace hums in response, blowing hot air against your neck. You feel incredibly vulnerable in this moment as he holds you, your usual sharp wit seeming to have vanquished completely. 

“Was he good?” His voice seems to drop a full octave as he raises this question, and you pray that he stays positioned behind you, not wishing for him to see how deeply your face has flushed. 

“I suppose so,” you tell him quickly, thinking back to the night that you had given your maidenhead to the young lord. In truth, it had been rather painful, the affair only lasting a few minutes and leaving you rather disappointed. 

“You suppose so?” Jace’s grip on your waist tightens, his fingers firmly pressing your midsection backwards so as to rest against his chest. His other hand leaves your shoulder and begins to trail down the front of your undergarments. You nod your head slightly, biting your lip as he begins to bunch up the fabric of your skirts, exposing your legs to the breeze that sweeps through the room.

“Well, that means you have much to learn.” His lips finally press against the skin of your neck as his hand slips between your thighs. When he feels you stiffen, he gives you a softer peck. “Do not fret, cousin. I promise I will take good care of you.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but all that leaves your lips is a gasp. Jace drags the pad of his finger across your entrance, tracing your outline before firmly pressing against your bundle of nerves. You feel his teeth scape against your ear, nibbling it in a way that practically makes your spine twist. 

“Jacaerys— “ You start, but are silenced by the sudden sensation of his finger drawing circles against you. Your body instinctively presses deeper against his chest, and you can feel his growing erection prodding at your lower back. The air has become thick with the smell of Jace, a mix of smoke and pine that lingers whenever he is near.

His mouth begins to trace your neck as two of his thick fingers enter you swiftly. The whimper that leaves you is pathetic, and you practically mewl once he begins thrusting them in and out of you. Wanting to preserve a bit of your dignity, you bite down on your lip in an attempt to stifle the sounds leaving you.

“Poor little Princess, all alone in her room at night. How many times have you wished for me to slip into your bed during the hour of the wolf?” His voice is deep and raspy, yet it feels like honey against your ear. Jace’s fingers continue to stroke your insides, making you twitch and mewl against him.

You suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to kiss him again, turning your head over your shoulder so quickly that it pains your neck. His eyes have darkened greatly since you last looked upon his face, and one of his brows raises as your hips pull away from him. 

“You don’t like what I’m doing?” He asks, a curiosity taking control of his sharp features. His fingers now drum against the inside of your thigh, and you have begun to clench at the loss of sensation.

“No, I just wish to kiss you as well,” you admit. Without missing a beat, Jacaerys  brings his lips to yours and kisses you hungrily. Both of his hands abandon their posts to grab the edges of your hips, and he guides you several paces backwards so that you are pressed to the wall, kissing you all the while. 

Jace uses his body to re-direct yours, pushing against your inner thigh with his knee to raise your left leg. His fingers are inside of you in an instant, causing you to cry out as he begins to pump them once again. Your noises are swallowed by his wet mouth and strong tongue. Instinctively, your hands steady themselves onto his shoulders as he begins to nibble at your bottom lip.

The pleasure is unlike anything you have ever felt before. The Daklynn boy certainly had not made you feel this way, nor had your own fingers. Jacaerys seemed determined to make you explode beneath his touch. When his thumb starts rubbing circles in tandem with his other fingers stroking the inside of your walls, you cry out his name.

“Gods, I have wanted to fuck you for so long,” Jace mutters in between kisses. “Saw you watching me all night, Princess.” He bites down on your lip and you whimper at the sensation. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off me, could you?”

Unable to form a coherent sentence, you whimper in response and desperately try to kiss him once again. Your mouth lands just below his ear, and you quickly begin kissing and sucking the spot fervently. Jace seems to like this, a low growl forming in his throat that causes every hair on your arm to stand up straight.

 The pleasure has begun to build rapidly, a burning in your stomach that makes your thighs shake. You are so close to rolling over the edge when Jacaerys suddenly ceases his movements, drawing his fingers away from you slowly.

You pout at him, tears threatening to spill from your eyes at the sudden loss of content. Jace presses a kiss to the side of your jaw as one of his hands gropes at your backside.

“It’ll feel even better if you have to wait a bit,” he assures you. “Go lie on the bed,” he instructs as he begins to unlace his trousers. You quickly obey, wanting to have his fingers inside of you again as soon as possible. Jace peels off his shirt and tosses it to the floor as he approaches you. Expecting him to lay down next to you, it comes as a shock when he instead kneels at the foot of the bed. 

You sit up, giving him a rather puzzled look. Does he wish to take you on the floor? You go to plant your feet on the ground, but Jace quickly presses a hand to your lower belly. 

“Stay on the bed. But take this off,” he tells you as he tugs at what little clothing remains on your body. You quickly pull the layer up and over your head, exposing yourself completely to him. His hands trace your bare skin, fingers running against the curve of your breasts and your hips. Although it is a chilly night, you are overwhelmed by the heat of his touch.

“Please, Jace. I need to feel you inside of me,” you plead with him, lips pouting as you do so. The corners of his lips turn upwards, his hands find your thighs once again.

“Patience, Princess. It would be rather unfair if I do not taste you first.” His eyes burn into yours as he suddenly lowers his mouth to your center, planting a kiss against your bundle of nerves. 

The sensation causes you to jolt, and Jacaerys chuckles. Fingers squeezing your thighs, he pries them further apart and brings them to rest on his shoulders. He drags his tongue against your folds, the wet muscle eliciting an entirely new type of pleasure. Your left hand grips the sheets tightly, your right one gripping Jace’s curls in the same fashion. His tongue continues to flick against your most sensitive area, making you cry out his name as your legs tremble. Jace’s eyes remain fixed on yours for a moment longer, before he slips a finger inside of your cunt. 

It is sinful, the way that your cousin is bringing you a type of pleasure that you had only ever imagined. When you glance down at him, you see that Jace’s thick hair has become quite disheveled, dark ringlets cascading down his forehead and over his ears. A second finger joins the first, causing your back to arch as you begin to moan his name. 

You are desperately kicking at his shoulders, the sensation becoming too much to bear. Expertly, Jacaerys remains steady as his free hand presses down on your lower stomach, pinning you to the feather mattress. His tongue continues to circle your core as his fingers fuck you steadily, the low grumbles he is making sending shivers through your entire body. The pleasure coiling in your stomach threatens to bust as tears begin to leak from your eyes.

You finally are struck with an intense wave of pleasure that causes your toes to curl and your cunt to clench around Jace’s fingers. The moans you make are certainly loud enough to be heard across the hall, if not the entire Keep. Dutifully, Jacaerys continues to lick at you until you roughly yank his head away, the aftershocks of your peak becoming maddening. He nibbles at your thigh for a moment before finally raising his head to address you.

“I gather that Darklyn did not manage to please you in such a way?” He is smiling again, like a child on their name-day who has just received a grand present. His lips are wet with a mixture of your slick and his spit, puffy and pink. The sight of him is rather addictive, and you cannot bear to imagine that this will be the only time you get to see him in this way.

“I grow tired of speaking of him,” you whine as you tug at his arms, attempting to direct him off the floor and into the bed with you. Jace obliges, stripping off his final article of clothing before climbing on top of you. He immediately nudges your thighs open with his knee, eyes trailing up and down your body as he does so.

“How do you want it?” He asks you sweetly, fingers tracing the divot of your hips. Now that he is fully naked, you take note of two additional marks that have been placed on his collarbone and chest. Just last night, another woman had her lips against his skin and her hands all over his body. The idea of such a thing would fill you with rage, if not for your distraction at the sight of his large and leaking cock.

“How do you usually fuck the girls that you bring to your bed?’ You dare to ask him, ensuring not to look away from his ember-rimmed irises. 

“Mmm, that is a question meant to trick me,” he tells you with a chuckle. “I have yet to fuck you, Princess— or any, for that matter.” Wisely, Jace re-directs by lowering his mouth to yours, kissing you deep and slow. You can taste on his lips and tongue, and he hums in delight as you press your fingers into his shoulders. One of his hands reaches between your bodies, grasping his cock and guiding it towards your entrance. But just as his tip begins to press against your folds, you break away from the kiss.

“No. I wish to be on top.” 

Jace raises a brow, but releases his manhood and shifts his hips away from yours. He lays on his back and releases the tension in his legs, allowing you to notice the V-shaped outline that runs between his pelvis and stomach. 

You position yourself on top of his lower half, straddling his pelvic bone and steadying yourself by gripping his hips. Jacaerys lets out a noise that reminds you of a dragon’s growl as you finally lower yourself onto his cock. The intrusion is sharp, causing you to wince as you attempt to take him. You remain still for a moment, then begin rocking your hips in order to slide down his length.

Jace watches without movement, although a smirk tugs at his face when he realizes how you are struggling. Leaning forward and placing your hands on his hardened chest, you are able to feel him fully inside of you. 

You set a slow pace, bouncing up and down on his cock and grinding your hips against his. The stretch is a considerable one, but any discomfort is quickly forgotten by the sound of your skin slapping against his. Carefully, Jace places his hands against your hips.

“Fuck, you are irresistable,” he mutters as you ride him. His face is tinged pink and the veins in his neck are pulsing. 

The tip of his cock enters you at an angle, stroking at a particularly sensitive spot inside of you that causes your entire lower half to quiver. You desperately try to seek out that same sensation, but struggle to do so. Jace immediately picks up on this, and begins to thrust into you. His pace is much faster than yours, and you find yourself quickly unable to keep up. Rather than allowing you to fall behind, Jace pushes himself forward and flips your positioning in one fluid movement. 

Your breath is caught in your throat for a moment as your head dangles from the bed. Jacaerys yanks your hips down lower, doing so without allowing his cock to slip from you. 

“Please, Jace!” You moan, and he responds by taking hold of your legs once more and lifting them into the air, pounding into you with a newfound fervor.

“Yeah? You love taking my cock, don’t you?” He teases, his voice gravely and thick. The only response you are able to give him is yet another whimper. He begins to suck viciously at your neck, surely leaving a mark that will begin to bloom and bruise come morning time.

Quickly, you reach your second peak of the night. Even more intense than the first had been, you scream Jace’s name and claw at his biceps as your core pulses and clenches. The smell of him has become even stronger, his sweat dripping onto your skin as he ravishes you.

Soon, his thrusts become sloppy and his breath comes in pants. Jace grips your thighs so hard that finger-tip shaped bruises begin to appear. He closes his eyes before cursing once and allowing his hips to stutter against yours.

Immediately, you feel the warmth of his seed inside of you. This takes you aback, as you had assumed that he would spill onto your stomach or sheets. You wait a moment, taking in the view of him enjoying his bliss before raising a rather important question.

“How is it that you have not sired a hundred bastards, if you do that?” You ask, as he withdraws his cock from you and his spend begins to trickle down your thighs. 

Jacaerys smiles at you, running a finger down your thigh and through the mess that he has created. Then, he takes your hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

“None of the others have ever taken my seed. You are family though, so why shouldn’t you?” 

“I will need to drink Moon Tea on the morrow,” you tell him, and he shrugs.

“If you wish, cousin.” He pauses for a moment, as if the thing he wishes to say next rests somewhere on the tip of his tongue. 

“In the meantime, want me to lick it out of you?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The forest had always felt like an extension of yourself: alive, secretive, forgiving in its quiet way. You knew every twist of the deer paths, every hollow where mushrooms clustered after rain, every spot where sunlight pierced the canopy in golden spears. It was late afternoon when you ventured deeper than usual, basket swinging at your side, foraging for late-season chanterelles and whatever wild greens hadn't yet turned bitter. The air carried the metallic tang of coming rain and the light had taken on that bruised, pre-storm quality that made everything look slightly unreal.

You almost missed him.

At first you thought the dark shape slumped against the massive oak was just another fallen trunk, moss-covered and broken. But then it shifted, slowly, painfully and a low, guttural sound rolled out, not quite a growl, more like distant thunder trapped in a chest. Your heart slammed against your ribs. You froze, breath caught, eyes adjusting to the dimness beneath the branches.

He was enormous. Even curled in on himself, wings half-folded and one hanging at an awkward angle, he dwarfed the tree he leaned against. Scales the color of coal and polished obsidian caught what little light filtered through, shimmering dully where they weren't crusted with drying gore. Horns curved back from his brow like blackened thorns; his tail: thick, muscular, tipped with a spade-like ridge, lay limp across the leaf litter. One massive clawed hand pressed to his side, fingers slick with red. The other wing, torn nearly to the membrane's edge, trembled with each labored breath.

A dragon.

Not the kind from children's tales, all fire and treasure and distant majesty. This one looked like he'd been dragged through hell and left to bleed out in your woods.

You should have run. Instead, you took one careful step forward. His head snapped up so fast the motion blurred. Golden eyes, slitted pupils blown wide with pain and suspicion, locked onto you. Fangs flashed in a snarl that showed far too many sharp edges.

"Leave."

The word wasn't spoken so much as torn from his throat, rough and resonant, vibrating through the ground into your boots. It wasn't a request.

You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry as old paper. "You're hurt."

A harsh, humorless huff escaped him, almost a laugh, if laughter could bleed. "Observant, little human. Now go."

"I can't just-" You gestured helplessly at the ruin of his side. "Those gashes are deep. If they fester-"

"Then they fester." He shifted, trying to push himself more upright and immediately regretted it. A wet, pained sound slipped from between his teeth; fresh blood welled between his fingers. "I've survived worse."

"You're bleeding all over my forest floor" you said, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounded. "And if you die here the scavengers will come and then the smell will bring every hunter within kilometers. Do you want that?"

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "You think to threaten me?"

"No. I'm telling you the truth." You lifted your basket slightly, as proof of harmlessness. "I have bandages. Clean cloth. Salve. I can at least stop the worst of it."

He stared at you for a long moment, long enough that you began to wonder if he'd simply pass out from blood loss before deciding whether to eat you or let you help. Then, slowly, deliberately, he bared his teeth again.

"Touch me and I'll rip your arm off."

"Noted." You didn't move closer yet. "But if I leave, you'll probably bleed out by morning. Your choice."

Silence stretched between you, broken only by the patter of the first raindrops hitting the leaves overhead. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a wet rasp. Finally, grudgingly, he let his head drop back against the bark.

"Do what you want" he muttered. "Just know I'll kill you if it hurts."

You exhaled slowly through your nose. Small victories.

It took three trips back to the edge of the woods to bring everything you needed: your full foraging basket abandoned in favor of linen strips torn from an old sheet, a jar of honey-and-herb salve your grandmother had sworn by, a waterskin, a small knife for cutting cloth. Each time you returned he watched you with the same flat, predatory stare, but he didn't snarl again. Progress, maybe.

The rain had started in earnest by the time you knelt beside him, careful to stay out of immediate claw range. Up close he smelled of copper and smoke and something sharper, like lightning-struck stone. Heat rolled off him in waves despite the chill in the air; dragons ran hotter than humans, you'd heard. His side was a mess: three long slashes from what must have been a barbed spear or harpoon, tearing through scale and muscle alike. The wing was worse: a ragged tear almost to the main joint, membrane shredded like wet silk.

You started with the easiest part, cleaning the smaller cuts along his ribs. He hissed when the water touched raw flesh but didn't pull away. His tail twitched once, dangerously close to your knee, then stilled.

"Foolish" he growled under his breath as you dabbed at the wounds. "Stupid. Weak little thing playing healer to a monster."

"I've been called worse." You kept your tone even, focused on the task. "Hold still."

He made a low, rumbling sound that might have been a scoff. "You give orders now?"

"Only when someone's bleeding on my shoes."

That earned you another huff, this one almost amused, though he'd probably bite his own tongue before admitting it. You worked in silence after that, rinsing, patting dry, spreading salve with careful fingers. His scales were surprisingly warm to the touch, smooth in places, faintly ridged in others. When you reached the deepest gash he tensed so hard the muscle jumped under your palm.

"Breathe" you murmured without thinking.

His golden gaze flicked to your face, sharp, searching. For a second something flickered there, too fast to name. Then he looked away, jaw tight.

You bound the worst of it with strips of linen, tying them as snugly as you dared. He didn't complain again, though every knot made his claws flex into the earth, leaving deep furrows.

The wing was trickier. You couldn't stitch membrane, not with your supplies, not without more skill, but you could clean it, coat it in salve, and brace it loosely with cloth and slender branches so it wouldn't tear further if he tried to move.

By the time you finished, full dark had fallen. Rain drummed steadily on the leaves above your makeshift shelter of fallen branches and your own cloak stretched overhead. You were soaked, shivering, hands stained with his blood and salve. He looked marginally less like death, though still pale beneath the crimson scales along his cheekbones.

"You should go" he said quietly. No growl this time, just exhaustion.

"I will. Soon." You sat back on your heels, wiping your hands on already-ruined skirts. "But first-" You pulled your cloak from the makeshift roof and draped it over his shoulders. It barely covered half his chest, ridiculous on his massive frame, but it was dry on the inside and better than nothing.

He stared down at the fabric like it had personally offended him. "What is this?"

"It's called not freezing to death." You stood, knees protesting. "I'll come back at first light with proper food. Broth, maybe. Something warm."

His lip curled. "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity." You met his eyes steadily. "It's decency."

For a heartbeat he said nothing. Then, so low you almost missed it: "I'll be gone by dawn."

You nodded once. "If that's what you want."

You left him there, curled beneath the oak, your too-small cloak draped across his back like a child's blanket on a giant, wings folded tight against the rain. His golden eyes followed you until the trees swallowed the path.

You didn't sleep much that night. The cottage felt too small, too quiet. Every creak of the timbers made you sit up, listening for wingbeats or claws on the roof. You told yourself it was caution. You told yourself you weren't worried.

At the first gray light you were already up, broth simmering on the hearth: chicken bones, carrots, thyme, a knob of ginger for strength. You packed bread, a wedge of hard cheese, a flask of herbal tea that eased pain without dulling the mind. Then you walked back into the forest, heart in your throat.

The oak loomed ahead. He was still there. Curled on his uninjured side now, breathing slow and even, your cloak tucked under one massive arm like a trophy he refused to admit he wanted. The bandages you'd tied were still in place, no fresh blood seeping through. His torn wing lay awkwardly propped on a branch you'd wedged beneath it.

He didn't stir when you approached, but you knew he was awake. The tip of his tail flicked once, lazy, deliberate.

"Told you I'd be gone" he muttered without opening his eyes.

"You did." You set the basket down carefully. "And yet."

A long pause. Then one golden eye cracked open, regarding you with something dangerously close to resignation. "You're persistent."

"I've been told that." You knelt again, checking the bandages. Clean. No fever smell. "Eat. It'll help."

He didn't move for the food right away. Instead he studied you, really studied you, head tilted slightly, horns catching the weak morning light.

"Why?" he asked at last. Simple. Raw.

You sat back, considering. "Because I could. Because you needed it. Because…" You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't like leaving things to suffer when I can help."

His gaze lingered on your face a moment longer. Then, slowly, he reached for the bowl of broth you'd set near his hand. Claws careful not to crush the clay. He drank in silence.

You stayed until he finished, watching the forest wake around you both, mist curling through the undergrowth, birds calling tentatively overhead. He didn't thank you. He didn't need to.

When you finally stood to leave, promising to return that evening with more salve, he spoke again. "Mingi."

You paused.

"My name" he clarified, voice rough from disuse and pain. "If you're going to keep doing this foolish thing… you should know it."

You smiled, small, careful."I'm-"

"I know what you are" he interrupted, but there was no bite in it. "Little human."

You laughed under your breath. "Fair enough."

As you walked away, basket lighter now, you felt the weight of his gaze on your back until the trees closed behind you.

He didn't try to leave that day. Or the next.

The days blurred into a strange, quiet rhythm after that first morning. You brought food twice a day, sometimes broth thickened with barley and root vegetables, sometimes roasted game you’d traded for at the village edge, always paired with fresh bread you baked before dawn. You changed bandages at dusk when the light was soft and forgiving, checking for infection with the same steady hands you used to tend your herb garden. Mingi grumbled through every visit. The complaints started sharp "This slop tastes like wet dirt" "Your stitches are crooked, human" "Stop hovering like a mother hen" but they grew softer at the edges, almost performative, like a ritual he refused to abandon.

He never left the oak clearing. Not once.

At first you thought it was the wing, still braced, still tender, membrane knitting slowly under layers of salve and clean linen. Dragons healed faster than humans, everyone knew that, yet he stayed. When you asked, carefully, one evening while rewrapping the deepest slash along his ribs, he only snorted.

"Where else would I go?" His tail flicked irritably, spade tip brushing your ankle before he pulled it back. "Hunters still prowl these woods. I’d rather bleed here than give them the satisfaction."

You didn’t push. You just nodded and kept working.

By the end of the first week the gashes had scabbed over, angry red lines turning silver at the edges. The wing membrane had begun to regrow in thin, translucent sheets, fragile as new leaves. You stopped bracing it so tightly; instead you fashioned a loose sling from an old shawl so he could fold it against his back without strain. He tested it gingerly one afternoon while you watched from a safe distance: wings stretching halfway, then folding again with a low hiss of pain.

"Better" he muttered, almost to himself.

You smiled without looking up from grinding more salve in your mortar. "Good. Means you’re almost ready to fly off and terrorize some other forest."

He shot you a look, half glare, half something unreadable. "Careful what you wish for, little human."

But he didn’t fly away. Instead he started moving closer to the cottage.

It happened gradually. First he limped the short distance from oak to the stream that ran behind your garden, claiming he needed to rinse the stink of salve from his scales. You found him there one morning, crouched in the shallows like some great ebony statue, water streaming over obsidian-black plates along his shoulders. His tail curled lazily in the current; droplets caught fire in the early sun where they clung to his horns.

He didn’t acknowledge you at first. Just kept scooping water over the healing wing, letting it run pink then clear.

You left a clean towel, well, an old tablecloth, draped over a low branch and retreated without a word.

The next day he was closer still: sprawled in the tall grass at the very edge of your vegetable patch, sunning himself like a cat too proud to admit it enjoyed the warmth. One wing draped over his side like a tattered cape; the other stretched out to dry. You stepped around him carefully to harvest carrots, pretending not to notice how his golden eyes tracked your every movement.

"Those are tiny" he remarked when you brushed dirt from a particularly small root.

"They’re perfect for stew." You dropped it into your basket. "Not everything has to be massive to be useful."

A low rumble rolled from his chest, almost a laugh. "Spoken like someone who’s never seen a proper hoard."

You glanced over your shoulder. "Is that an invitation to see yours someday?"

His pupils narrowed to thin slits. For a second you thought you’d pushed too far. Then he huffed, smoke curling from his nostrils in faint wisps.

"Maybe. If you stop asking stupid questions."

You hid your smile behind a handful of greens.

He began lingering inside the cottage walls by the second week. Not inside-inside, not yet. But under the wide eaves when rain came, wings tucked tight so he could fit beneath the overhang. You started leaving the back door ajar on dry evenings so the scent of cooking drifted out: stew bubbling with wild thyme, bread cooling on the sill, apples sliced and dusted with cinnamon because you’d noticed the way his nostrils flared whenever you baked with them.

One night you found him sitting on the threshold, literally, massive frame filling the doorway, tail coiled neatly around his feet like he was trying to take up less space. His head was tilted toward the hearth fire, eyes half-lidded in the warm glow.

You paused in the middle of stirring the pot, wooden spoon dripping.

"Comfortable?" you asked.

He didn’t look at you. "Your fire doesn’t stink of wet wood like the ones in the high caves."

"High praise." You ladled stew into two bowls, one normal-sized, one you’d borrowed from the cooper because nothing else was big enough. You set his on the floor beside him. "Eat before it gets cold."

He eyed the bowl, then you. "You feed strays now?"

"Only the ones who don’t bite the hand that feeds them."

Another huff, definitely amusement this time. He took the bowl carefully between his claws, heat from the stew rising in fragrant steam. He drank half in one long swallow, then paused, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop.

"…Acceptable" he decided.

You sat across from him on the hearth rug, legs tucked beneath you, eating more slowly. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. It was comfortable. Familiar.

He started talking. Not much at first, just fragments. How the hunters had ambushed him near the northern ridge, how their barbed nets had torn more than flesh, how he’d fought until the sky turned black with his own blood. He spoke of older battles too: rival drakes, ancient grudges, skies that once belonged to wings like his. His voice stayed low, rough, but the growling edge dulled when he spoke to you.

You listened. Asked careful questions when there was space for them. Never pushed when he fell silent. In return he watched you. Not like prey anymore. Like something he was trying to understand. He noticed things: how you hummed while kneading dough, how your fingers always smelled faintly of crushed lavender, how you talked to the plants in your garden as though they could answer. One afternoon you caught him staring while you read by the open window, old herbal lore, pages worn soft from years of use.

"What?" you asked, not looking up.

"Your voice changes when you read aloud."

You blinked. "Does it?"

"Quieter. Smoother." He shifted, scales rasping faintly against the doorframe. "Like water over stone."

Heat crept up your neck. You cleared your throat. "It’s just habit. Helps me remember."

He made a thoughtful sound deep in his throat.

After that he started bringing things. Small offerings left wordlessly where you’d find them. A perfect river-smoothed agate the exact color of your eyes, placed on the windowsill at dawn. A cluster of rare flowers that only bloomed under starlight, tied with a thin strip of what looked suspiciously like one of his own shed scales.

Once, a single crimson feather, probably from a rare bird, longer than your forearm, edges still shimmering with latent heat. You found it tucked beneath your pillow like a secret.

You never mentioned them directly. But you kept every single one. Arranged on the mantel above the hearth, they caught the firelight and threw tiny sparks of red and gold across the walls. Mingi never commented, but you caught the way his tail tip twitched with quiet satisfaction whenever he glanced at the growing collection.

The shift happened slowly, almost imperceptibly. He stopped snarling when you touched him to check wounds. He leaned, barely, into the brush of your fingers when you smoothed salve along the base of his horns one evening, the sensitive ridges there making his eyes flutter half-closed.

He began curling his tail near you when you sat together on the porch steps watching dusk settle over the trees. Not touching, just close enough that the spade tip rested inches from your hip. A silent claim he’d deny to his dying breath.

One night the temperature dropped hard. Frost glittered on the grass by moonrise; your breath fogged in the cottage air even with the hearth roaring. You woke shivering beneath your quilts, teeth chattering.

A soft scrape sounded at the back door. You padded over in socked feet, opening it a crack. Mingi sat on the threshold again, wings half-spread to block the wind, his body radiating heat like a living furnace.

He didn’t speak. Just tilted his head toward the interior. You stepped back. He ducked inside, careful, wings folding tight, tail dragging a slow arc across the floorboards. The cottage suddenly felt smaller, warmer, filled with the scent of smoke and iron and something deeper, wilder.

He settled near the hearth, curling on his side like an enormous cat, one wing draped loosely toward you.

You hesitated only a moment. Then you dragged your thickest quilt over, wrapped it around your shoulders and sat against his uninjured side. His scales were fever-hot through the linen of your nightshift; you could feel the slow, steady thunder of his heart beneath them.

He exhaled, a long, rumbling sigh. A moment later his wing shifted, settling over you like the world’s heaviest, warmest blanket. The membrane was still thin in places, but strong enough now to block the draft from the cracks in the walls.

You tucked your knees up, resting your cheek against the smooth curve where his shoulder met neck. His scent enveloped you: smoke, stone, distant thunderstorms.

Neither of you spoke.

After a while a low vibration started in his chest, not quite a growl. Deeper. Softer.

A purr.

It rolled through you like distant waves, easing the last of the chill from your bones. Your eyelids grew heavy.

Just before sleep claimed you, you felt the lightest brush against your hair: the very tip of his tail, tracing a slow, careful circle at the nape of your neck.

He stayed until morning. When you woke the fire had burned low, sunlight slanting gold across the floorboards. Mingi was still there, eyes closed, breathing deep and even, but his wing remained draped over you protectively, tail curled loosely around your ankle.

You didn’t move right away. You simply watched the rise and fall of his ribs, counted the faint scars that mapped his history across dark scales, felt the warmth that had kept the frost at bay all night.

Something tight and bright bloomed behind your sternum. He was no longer just a wounded dragon you’d refused to leave behind. He was Mingi.

And somehow, somewhere between broth and bandages and quiet nights, he’d decided you were worth staying for.

When his eyes finally opened, golden and sleepy, he didn’t pull away. Instead he rumbled softly, the sound vibrating straight through you.

"Morning, little human."

You smiled against his scales. "Morning, stubborn dragon."

His tail tightened, just a fraction around your ankle. Neither of you moved for a very long time.

The heat came without warning. It started as a low-grade fever Mingi couldn’t shake, scales darkening from ash grey to near-black at the edges, pupils dilating until the gold was only a thin ring around endless black. He grew restless first: pacing the clearing behind the cottage in long, agitated strides, tail lashing hard enough to snap saplings, wings flaring and folding in sharp, frustrated bursts. The air around him shimmered with heat; grass beneath his feet crisped and curled brown.

You noticed the change immediately.

He stopped coming inside after dusk. When you brought supper to the threshold he barely glanced at the bowl before growling "Not hungry" voice gravel-rough and deeper than usual. Smoke curled constantly from his nostrils now, thin wisps that smelled of molten iron and something sweeter, almost spiced, like cinnamon burned over charcoal.

The next morning he was gone. Not far, you found fresh claw marks gouged into the oaks at the forest’s edge, deep enough to bleed sap and scorch patterns where his tail had dragged through undergrowth. But no sign of him near the cottage. No lazy curl of tail in the garden, no sun-warmed wing draped across the porch steps like a living rug.

Worry knotted tight beneath your ribs. You waited until noon, then packed a small satchel: water, salve (useless now but habit), a thick wool blanket, strips of dried meat and followed the trail of destruction deeper into the woods. Broken branches, singed ferns, the faint metallic tang of his blood-scent mixed with that new, heady spice that made your head swim and your thighs clench without reason.

You found him in a hidden glade you’d never seen before: a shallow bowl of stone ringed by ancient yews, moss soft underfoot, a thin waterfall misting the far wall in silver threads. Sunlight slanted through the canopy in pale gold shafts, catching motes of dust and turning them to sparks. Mingi crouched in the center, back to you, wings half-spread and trembling. Every line of him was taut, muscles coiled beneath scales, tail thrashing slow figure-eights in the dirt, horns lowered like a bull ready to charge. Heat rolled off him in visible waves; the moss around his claws had turned brown and brittle.

He didn’t turn when your footsteps crunched on fallen leaves.

"Go back" he rasped. The words came out shredded, barely human. "Now."

You stopped ten paces away, heart hammering. "You’re burning up."

A harsh laugh scraped his throat, more pain than humor. "You have no idea."

The air between you felt charged, thick. His scent rolled over you in heavy waves: smoke, metal, that dark sweet spice that made your pulse stutter and liquid heat pool low in your belly without permission. Your nipples tightened beneath your blouse; you pressed your thighs together instinctively.

"Mingi-"

"Don’t." He finally looked over his shoulder. His eyes were almost entirely black, gold reduced to the thinnest crescent. Fangs longer than usual, pressing into his lower lip hard enough to draw pinpricks of blood that glistened like rubies. "Heat. Full rut. Ancient. Ugly. If you stay I won’t-" His claws dug deeper into stone; rock cracked audibly beneath them. "I’ll hurt you. Claim you. Knot you. Breed you until you can’t walk, can’t think, can’t breathe without me inside you. Is that what you want, little human?"

Your mouth went dry. Your core clenched on nothing.

He scented it, the faint shift in your own smell, slick and needy and a guttural sound tore from his chest, half growl, half plea.

"Run" he snarled. Wings flared wider, blocking more of the light. "Last chance."

You didn’t run. Instead you stepped closer. His wings snapped forward, blocking the sun completely now, casting you in sudden shadow. The membrane was healed now, strong and veined with faint silver scars, edges trembling with the effort of restraint.

"I said run."

"No." Your voice shook only a little. "You’ve been here weeks. Months, almost. You stayed. You let me in. You purred for me. Curled your stupid tail around my ankle like I was yours already." Another step. "If this is part of you, then I want all of it."

He laughed again, broken, desperate. "You don’t understand what you’re asking."

"Then show me."

Something snapped. He moved faster than you’d ever seen him, even whole and healthy. One clawed hand closed around your waist, not bruising, but unyielding, lifting you clean off the ground as though you weighed nothing. Your back met the smooth trunk of a yew; bark cool against your spine through thin fabric. His other hand braced beside your head, caging you. Wings curled forward until the tips brushed your shoulders, cocooning you both in living shadow and furnace heat.

His face was inches from yours. Breath hot against your lips, carrying that intoxicating spice. Pupils so blown you could see your own wide-eyed reflection in the black.

"Last. Chance." Each word was bitten off between fangs. "Say no and I let you go. I’ll fly until the heat breaks or I drop dead from it. But if you stay-" His tail lashed once, hard, then coiled around your thigh, spade tip pressing insistently against the seam of your skirts, right over your aching center. "I won’t stop until you’re marked. Inside and out. My scent. My knot. My teeth if you let me."

Your heart hammered so loud you were sure he could hear it.

You lifted one hand, slowly, until your palm rested against the heated scales of his cheek. His eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat at the touch, a shudder rippling down his spine.

"Then don’t stop" you whispered.

A full-body shudder ripped through him. The next instant his mouth crashed against yours. It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and tongue and raw, starving hunger, fangs grazing your lower lip until you tasted copper, then soothed by the rough, hot slide of his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth. He tasted like smoke and iron and that dark spice that went straight to your head, making you dizzy. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading into the thick mane of black hair between his horns, tugging hard enough to make him growl into your mouth, a sound that vibrated straight down your spine.

His tail tightened around your thigh, dragging your leg up and out until you were spread open against the solid wall of his body. The thick base of it nudged between your legs, pressing firm against your core through fabric. You gasped into the kiss; he swallowed the sound, rumbling approval deep in his chest.

Claws shredded your skirts in one impatient swipe, fabric tearing like paper, then hooked into your underthings and ripped them away too. Cool air hit overheated, slick skin. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just pure, primal need.

He broke the kiss long enough to look down between your bodies. Your thighs glistened already, arousal shining in the slanted light. His nostrils flared, pupils dilating impossibly wider, a low, hungry snarl escaping him.

"Wet for me" he rasped, voice wrecked. "Even knowing what I am. Even smelling the rut on me."

You nodded, breathless. "Especially because of what you are."

A snarl of pure satisfaction. His tail moved, prehensile, clever, sliding between your folds in one long, deliberate stroke. The smooth scaled length dragged over your clit, ridges catching just right. You cried out, hips jerking forward. The spade tip curled, teasing your entrance, then pushed inside, slow at first, stretching you around its surprising thickness, internal ridges catching every sensitive spot on the way in.

"Fuck-" The word tore from your throat, raw.

He purred, deep, vibrating straight through the tail buried inside you, making your walls flutter. "That’s it. Take it. Open for me. Let me feel how much you want this."

The tail fucked into you in shallow, relentless thrusts while his mouth returned to yours, devouring. His free hand slid up your ribs, claws careful now not to tear, thumb brushing the underside of your breast before cupping it fully. He rolled your nipple between two scaled fingers, firm, hot, pinching just enough to make you arch into him with a broken moan.

When you were trembling, dripping down his tail, inner walls clenching desperately, he withdrew it slowly, making you whine at the emptiness, then replaced it with something much thicker. His cock.

You hadn’t seen it fully before, only shadowed glimpses when he shifted uncomfortably, when a blanket slipped, but gods. Thick. Ridged along the underside in firm, scaled bands that promised to drag deliciously with every thrust. The head flushed darker than the rest, leaking steadily, pearling at the slit. And at the base, a swelling already forming, the knot he’d warned you about, thick and unyielding.

He notched himself at your entrance. Paused. Looked into your eyes, searching even through the haze of rut.

"Tell me to stop" he growled, voice breaking on the last word. "Last time. I can still fly away."

You wrapped your legs around his hips, awkward with wings and tail in the way, but determined, heels digging into the base of his tail. "Don’t you dare."

He thrust. One long, relentless slide that stretched you to your limit. The ridges caught, perfect, maddening friction, filling you until you felt him in your throat, pressing against places you didn’t know existed. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving red crescents on crimson scales. He stilled when hilted to the base, trembling, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

"Too much?" Voice wrecked, barely controlled.

You shook your head frantically, tears of pleasure pricking your eyes. "More. Please, more. So good."

He let out a guttural sound, half laugh, half snarl. Then he moved. Slow at first, long drags out until only the head remained, brutal snaps back in, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him claiming you from the inside. His tail curled around your other thigh, spreading you wider, holding you open so he could watch himself disappear inside your body again and again.

"Mine" he growled against your neck, fangs grazing skin, not breaking yet, but promising. "My little human. My mate. Gonna fill you so full you’ll feel me for days."

The word, mate, sent heat spiraling through you, tightening everything.

He fucked harder, deeper, tail slipping between your bodies to circle your clit in tight, relentless strokes, the spade tip flicking over the swollen bud in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Pressure built fast, too fast. You clenched around him; he groaned like he’d been struck, hips stuttering.

"Knot-" he warned, voice fracturing. "It’s swelling. Gonna lock us. Fill you. Breed you until you take every drop-"

"Yes, I trust you." You dragged his mouth back to yours, kissing him sloppy and desperate, tasting smoke and blood and need. "Give it to me. All of it. Knot me. Claim me."

He roared, sound echoing off stone walls, shaking leaves from branches and slammed home one final time.

The knot caught, thick, unyielding, stretching you to the razor edge of pain and blinding pleasure. One more brutal thrust and it popped inside, locking tight behind your pubic bone. Heat flooded you, pulse after heavy pulse, as he came with a broken snarl, fangs sinking into the curve of your shoulder, not deep enough to scar permanently like a true mating bite, but enough to mark, enough to bruise, enough to claim in the way dragons understood.

You shattered around him, clenching hard on the swollen knot, milking every drop, vision whiting out as pleasure crashed through you in endless, shattering waves. His tail pressed firm on your clit, dragging the orgasm longer until you sobbed against his neck, body shaking uncontrollably.

He held you through it, wings curled tight around you both, tail still teasing aftershocks from your oversensitive clit, knot pulsing inside you with every heartbeat, keeping you locked together.

When the storm finally ebbed you were both trembling, sweat-slick and wrecked.

He eased you down slowly, still locked together, until you rested against his chest, his wings a protective cocoon, heartbeat thundering beneath your ear. His purr returned, deep, satisfied, rumbling straight into your bones like a second heartbeat.

"Mine" he murmured again, softer now. Lips brushing the fresh bite mark, tongue lapping gently at the pinpricks of blood. "No running now. You’re carrying my scent. My seed. My mark."

You laughed, breathless, dazed, blissed-out. "Wasn’t planning to."

His tail loosened its grip on your thigh, instead curling loosely around your waist, possessive, gentle, keeping you anchored.

"Stuck with a dragon" he rumbled, almost shy beneath the growl.

You pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, tasting salt and smoke. "Lucky me. Got myself a handsome and strong man."

He purred louder, full, rolling contentment that vibrated the stone beneath you.

The knot held for a long time, minutes stretching into what felt like hours. Each time it pulsed another small wave of heat spilled into you; each time you clenched and shuddered around him, drawing soft groans from his throat. He rocked gently when the fullness became too much, tiny movements that kept the pressure perfect, kept you full, kept you close.

Eventually, slowly, the swelling eased enough for him to slip free. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, thighs trembling; he hushed you with a deep kiss, sliding his hand to your core, keep his release where it belonged while he gathered you closer.

"Stay" he murmured against your temple. "Just like this. Let me keep you warm. Keep you mine."

You nodded, boneless against him, cheek pressed to the smooth scales over his heart.

He gathered you fully into his lap now, wings folding around you like the world’s most luxurious blanket, one clawed hand stroking slow, soothing circles on your back while the other cradled your head against his chest.

The sun moved across the glade, turning gold to amber to rose. Birds sang overhead. Waterfall misted in silver threads. And Mingi, proud, scarred, ancient dragon who once snarled at your touch, held you like you were the rarest jewel in his hoard.

"I love you" he said eventually, quiet, almost hesitant, as though the words were new and fragile in his mouth. "Foolish little human who refused to leave a dying beast in the woods. Who fed me. Healed me. Let me stay. I love you."

Your heart squeezed so hard it hurt, in the best way.

You tilted your head up, kissed the corner of his mouth where fang met lip.

"I love you too, stubborn dragon" you whispered. "Who decided I was worth staying for. Who brought me feathers and stones and curled around me when I was cold. Who just fucked me senseless in a forest glade and still purrs like I hung the moon."

His purr turned into a full, rolling rumble, contentment so deep it vibrated through your entire body. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Rest now. Heat’s not done with me yet. Night will bring it back stronger."

You smiled against his scales, already feeling the low simmer building again in him and answering in you.

"I'm not leaving" you murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns over his chest.