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his hands are EVERYWHERE, in your hair, gripping your hips, literally ripping at your clothes because he can't wait another second.

"bobby-" you try to say, but he cuts you off with a desperate kiss that's all teeth and tongue and just raw emotion.

"shut up," he growls, yanking your little skirt down. "just let me- fuck, i thought i'd never see you again." his fingers find you and you're already SO wet and he groans against your neck.

he unzips his jeans and pulls out his pink flushed, already rock hard cock.

you gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he sheethes into you without any warning. the concrete is scraping your back but you literally don't even care because the feeling of him filling you completely is just everything.

"m’sorry," he's panting against your ear, thrusting hard. "sorry for being such an asshole. i was so scared, babe. so fucking scared." each thrust is punctuated with these ragged apologies and it's just so intense. "never letting you out of my fuckin’ sight again. “never."

his hips snap harder, and he's practically ramming into you against this rough wall.

"should've never listened to clark, bobby" you whined against his lips,

he pants, his voice breaking. "fucking stupid ass idea to explore that place. fuck, i thought i was gonna die."

the tears are streaming down your face now as he drives deeper with each confession. "when i couldn't find you," he continues, his voice cracking, "i literally lost my mind. every time i heard those goddamn buzzing lights..”

he adjusts his angle, hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your whole body tremble. "promise me," he demands, his fingers digging into your thighs. "promise you'll never go anywhere without me again. i can't- i can't- hey! promise me!" he demands louder, his cold hand lightly slapping your cheek.

your orgasm is building so fast it's almost painful, and you're clawing at his back, leaving red marks under his torn shirt. "i promise," you manage to gasp out. "bobby, i promise."

He would often pass you coming into the apartment building, and as you would leave just as he was coming in, and each time, you would manage to start conversation about something or other. It was rather impressive how you could turn small talk about the weather into a history lesson about your favourite Game of Thrones House.

And of course, Dex didn't care. He didn't care about Game of Thrones, about the downfall of the Targaryen dynasty, about how the show abandoned the rich source material. He truly couldn't care less, but he did care about you. It was a weirdly formed protectiveness of you; of his sweet, nerdy neighbour whose only wrongdoing was how loud your tv was at such a late hour.

Yes, he felt protective of you. Even with this niche interest of yours, he would wear such a subtle smirk as you rambled on, bones chattering from being stood outside for too long. But you didn't notice the goosebumps forming on your arms, or the way your teeth chattered as you let Dex ask a question in response.

"Why don't we go inside and talk?" He urged, a hand placed on the small of your back to usher you inside. "Gettin' awful cold out here."

"Dex, you need to watch it!" You exclaimed. "Or read the books, if you're not into watching too much tv. Oh, I can lend you them!"

Dex chuckled. "I don't think my old mind can handle all that."

You would lean into his touch, heated cheeks and awkward smiles as he ushered you upstairs. "Old mind? Maybe I can show it to you, explain as we go along."

Dex stumbled at your sudden confidence. It had been months of sheepish giggling, singing his name in passing, twirling your hair and batting your eyelashes. And now, you chose to make a move. Set a date. Albeit a strangely casual date. And he would toy with you, have you all red in the face for him, he would tease you for it. For crushing on him, and so plainly for him to see.

"It's a date. This weekend." He joked, winking at you as he fumbled with his keys. He wouldn't know how you collapsed against your door as you shut it, or how you clutched your heart as it pumped furiously within you, or how you skipped around your apartment that evening.

You had set your trap for that weekend, the pilot episode ready to go on your tv, snacks adorning the coffee table, a bottle of wine with two pristinely clean glasses beside it. You made it your mission to get that sexy old man next door to fuck you, and you had waited. Patiently.

And when he had finally walked into your apartment, it had been almost an exact mirror of his own, except more lived-in. He had stolen the air from the room as he advanced toward you, a ghostly kiss to your cheek.

"Ready for our date?" His voice was so gruff, forcing you to swallow your insatiable arousal as you smiled up at him.

You nodded, sitting with your legs to your chest on the couch beside him. And even as the beginning scene had started, you couldn't bear to watch it. You were much too focused on the way Dex was manspreading, hips nestled forward in his seat, legs spread just the perfect amount, hands laced together over his groin. Your mouth dried at the sight of him.

"Who are these people?" He whispered, as three scruffy looking men rode through the snow.

"Shh." You put your finger to his lips. "Just watch."

"What are wildlings?"

"Who killed those people in the snow?"

"What the fuck was that thing?"

"Why do they have such blue eyes?"

Dex was incessant with his questions. Even with your finger to his lips, he persisted.

"You'll find out if you keep watching." You sung, dragging your finger down his lip as you retracted your hand.

Dex tried. He really did, he feigned interest even as the opening title moved across the screen, as you hummed the music beside him, as you told him about the title sequence changing as the show develops. He had even drained the last of the wine bottle you shared. But he couldn't care. Not at all.

Not when you were sat in such tight, short, shorts. Not when your fingers were dancing along the bare skin of your thigh as you watched so intently. Like you didn't know every word as they spoke it. How could he possibly care when his hands were trembling with restraint?

"Dex."

He hummed. Dragging his eyes up to meet yours, catching your amused yet stern smile.

"You're not even watching." You folded your arms.

"Can you blame me?" The wine was talking for him, but he really did enjoy making you squirm. "Pretty girl next to me and you'd rather me watch a beheading?"

"It's important! He broke his vow." You reasoned, trying to ignore his compliment. Though your thighs clenched at the venom on his tongue, swallowing thickly to hide your arousal.

"Fine. I'll try." He raised his hands in defence. "But I want you here."

He tapped his thigh, beckoning you over with a wicked grin. And as much as he enjoyed torturing you with the knowledge of your crush, he was inflicting the same torture unto himself. Watching you crawl across your couch, on your hands and knees, at dangerously slow pace. It had sentenced him to death.

You nestled onto his lap, ass pressed firmly into him after torturous shuffling. And Dex had tried again, tried to focus on learning names and marriages and who was related to who. Tried to focus on the stupid helmets, ridiculously dressed characters, and unpleasant ways of talking. But one look down and your tits were in his face, your back facing the edge of the touch.

He would only reciprocate the same anguish he felt, by dragging his hand up your back, by nestling it on the flesh of your ass, by grunting as he adjusted his position. He would notice your breath shallowing, the way you would fiddle with the rings on your fingers, just to ignore the way he made you feel.

His other hand rested on your thigh, creeping closer towards the hem of your shorts. And he felt you open your legs, only slightly, creating space for his fingers to travel. He looked up at you, his gaze burning holes into your cheeks, but you refused to look down at him. You couldn't, you'd melt in his arms otherwise.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, "look at me."

You refused. Suddenly frowning with deepened interest in the dull conversation on screen. But he persisted, his hand leaving your thigh to grab your jaw. Gently, yet firm enough to command your gaze into his.

"I can feel it, you know."

"Feel what?" You gulped.

He smirked up at you, releasing your jaw to swipe your hair from your eyes. "You. Shuffling, squeezing your legs together, pulling them apart. What do you want?"

"I—uh, nothing."

"Come on, sweetheart. Tell me what you want." He urged, returning his hand to the top of your thigh, the tip of his finger delving beneath the tight fabric of your shorts. Only enough for his nail to disappear, teasing himself into uncharted territory.

You thought the wine had already soured within you. Had your happy, horny buzz worn off? Or had you been out of your depth crushing on a man like him?

He shook his head, a condescending pout on his lip. "Not gonna talk to me, hm?"

You shook your head, a semblance of a smile tilted at your lips. But it had been buried swiftly, as the hand planted on your ass squeezed gently.

"Take these off for me." He ordered, pulling his finger out of the hem of your shorts with a snap. And he had been impressed at the speed in which you stood, sheepishly hiking your shorts onto the floor. And returning to your seat on his lap.

"Pay attention, Dex." You garnered enough courage to whisper back to him, resuming the show with only fifteen minutes left.

And now you couldn't focus. You couldn't pay any mind to the conversation happening between your favourite characters, not when Dex's fingers were tracing over your folds through your panties. And you couldn't help yourself jerking your hips forward, into his touch, willing him to move your underwear. Hell, you'd let the man cut them off you.

"What do you want?" He repeated, the arrogance in his voice evident as he halted his fingers.

"Nothing." You gritted, slamming your thumb against the volume up button to drown out the sound of his snark. Now he was toying with you, playing with you like you were his prey. And he was enjoying it.

Once the credits had begun, Dex had turned you in his lap. Your chest facing his, your arms folded with a pout as you stared down at him. And he smiled with such depravity, getting off on how flustered you'd become. For him.

"What do you want with an old man like me, hm?" He teased, his hands taking firm grip of your hips to still you.

You had little to say. You knew what you wanted, but you weren't going to beg for it. He hadn't paid an ounce of attention to the show, only the exposed skin of your thighs, only the way you shuffled against his achingly hard cock.

"You upset, sweetheart? Upset cause I didn't watch your show?" He teased you, spoke his such condescension, and yet had you soaked at that very fact.

You nodded. Steadfast in your pout.

"Tell me what happened, remind me." He reasoned, eyes dragging over your body positioned atop him. He bowed his head for you to begin talking, and just as you spoke about the White Walkers, his finger hooked around the fabric of your panties.

"Go on," he whispered, though his focus had been on you pulsing against his fingers.

"The King, Robert, he—" Your words faltered as you whimpered, feeling his finger drag between your folds.

"He what, baby?"

"He arrived at Winterfell." You finished, though you fought to find the words. "To make Ned Hand of the—"

"The..." Dex dragged the word out, fingers halting at your entrance. Waiting for you to continue.

"King. Hand of the King."

He nodded, an arrogant smirk plastered to his face as you fought with your words. His finger had slid into you, your wetness coating his knuckle as he buried it within you.

"And Robert was in... love with Ned's sister, Lyanna." You continued, driving your hips further into him. As if he could bury his fingers any deeper within you. Your eyes closed, overcome with pleasure from only one finger. Months of wishing your own hands had been his, and now it had truly happened.

Dex took hold of your jaw, commanding your attention. "Eyes on me, baby. Keep talkin'."

Dex could tell you were restless, so had opted to insert a second finger. To watch you squirm as you adjusted to it.

"Daenerys is being forced to marry," you sighed, hips quivering at the tightened sensation of his second finger. "To Khal Drogo."

"That's it, sweetheart. Keep talkin'." He grunted. "This is what you wanted, huh?"

You nodded. Eyebrows furrowed to navigate the pleasure he pulled from you, the way his fingers curled against your sweet spot inside you, as if he'd been made for you. His purpose was to learn your pleasure, to pull it from you until you knew nothing but his name.

"Words."

"Yes, Dex."

Dex ignored how hard he was, how it ached against his jeans, against you. His pleasure could wait, he wanted to see yours through. He wanted to know what you looked like as you came for him, as he was certain this wasn't the first time.

You had long since forgotten explaining the episode to him, the only sounds to fill his ears were now your weakened moans and the wetness of his fingers inside you. Even with his hand on your hip to steady you, your hips rocked into him. To find the high he had been gathering from within you.

"Dex, I'm—"

"Come on, sweetheart." He chuckled, sadistically, enjoying the torment your mind faced as he observed your most vulnerable moments of desire. "Come on my fingers."

He maintained his pace, using his grip on your hip as leverage to grind up into you. Torturing himself just as much, wishing to replace his fingers and stuff you full of his cock. He could tell you were on the edge, your walls tightening around him, keeping him nestled within you.

"That's it." He sighed, condescension and softness remained as you quivered around him. "Did so well for me."

You felt weightless, wired, and embarrassed. You hadn't expected to be watched and made to come for him, with no chasing of his own pleasure. Like an animal at a zoo, he watched you. For entertainment. He watched you fall apart on his fingers, letting him undo you. You couldn't help as tears brimmed your eyes, but Dex had been swift in catching them.

"Oh, don't cry, sweetheart." He cooed, moving his hand from your hip to your cheek. His thumb catching the tears as they rolled down your cheeks, before squeezing your jaw. "Don't cry, it's okay."

And suddenly, he ripped himself from inside you. Left you hollow, and whimpering at the loss of contact. His mouth opened slightly, to urge you to mirror him. And you did as instructed.

dad!dex who... loves helping you get ready for date night. just like everything else, date night is always on the same day of the week – often at the same place, same time – so you two will always be able to fit it into your schedules. a part of the routine is dex watching you apply makeup at your vanity. every delicate brush stroke and careful application of lipstick or mascara makes his little girl look so pretty. once your face is all dolled up, he'll help you into your date night outfit. his favorite part is kneeling before you and slipping your shoes onto your feet, tying laces or buckling the straps on your heels. he presses a reverant kiss to one knee, then the other, before standing to kiss your forehead, murmuring, "my perfect girl."

dad!dex who... works his way up to performing weekly pussy inspections, typically on the days that you two aren't "scheduled" to make love. he'll lay you down on the bed and tug your shorts & panties off with such care. he pushes your legs apart nice and wide, followed by spreading your delicate lips apart with his thumbs. "there she is," he says while stroking his fingers through your folds. he purposely avoids rubbing your clit until you start to squirm. then he rubs his thumb up and down your sensitive bud, so gently that it's mind-numbing. sometimes, he'll slip two fingers inside you and finger you oh-so-slowly, pressing against every inch of your inner walls until it's almost uncomfortable. and just when you become slick with need, on the very brink of cumming, he pulls his hand away. even when you whine, he just tugs your panties back up your legs and presses a kiss to your clit through the fabric, grinning. "jus' need to make sure she still works properly, baby."

dad!dex who... loves eating you out. he does it for your pleasure, for his own stress relief, or just because. regardless of the reason, he worships your cunt like it's his only salvation. and the entire time, his dark, hungry eyes are looking up at you, watching your every reaction. the moment your hands tangle in his hair and push his face deeper into your cunt, he starts making little noises of acknowledgement. "mm-hm," he hums just before capturing your clit between his lips and suckling the delicate bud, delighted when your back arches off the bed. "uh-huh," he slurs as he slips his tongue inside you just to make your hips buck against his face. and once you cum – because you always cum on his mouth, no matter what – he's still making out with your cunt, sucking and licking and practically drooling. you have to tug his head up by his hair to get him to stop! mouth and cheeks slick with your release, he just smiles. "sorry. dad got a little carried away, huh?"

dad!dex who... punishes you for talking back. maybe you want to go out with your friends one night and casually tell dex that you'll be coming home late. he says no, of course, because that would break the routine he constructed so carefully for you. so you snap, "you're not my dad!" that's how you end up naked on his lap, back to his chest, wrists tied behind your back. dex uses two fingers to spread your folds apart while his other hand holds a bullet vibrator to your clit. the first orgasm unfurls warm and sweet in your lower belly. but by the third, fourth, fifth orgasm, you're begging for him to stop because it's so overwhelming that it hurts. he ignores you, so you try to clamp your legs closed. that only makes him turn the vibrations up to the highest setting so your weak, trembling legs have no choice but to fall open again. you're sobbing now, incoherent from the overstimulation. this only makes dex coo against your ear. "oh, sweetie. you know that dad knows what's best for you. and i think you can give me one more. c'mon, make dad proud."

dad!dex who... prefers for you to use his cock instead of a dildo. not because he's against the usage of sex toys. far from it. in fact, he thinks of toys as tools, not competition. but if you're feeling needy, even if he's exhausted or not particularly in the mood for an intense scene, he still wants to satisfy you. he lets you stroke his cock to full attention, then groans as he watches you sink down on him with little to no preparation. then you start to bounce on his cock, fucking yourself on him as you would on a toy. he lets you set the pace, doing nothing more than placing a hand on your hip, but even then he doesn't attempt to control your movements. all he does is watch you, eyes glassy with adoration, and praise you: "that's my girl. mmm. yeah, use that cock, baby." as you bounce faster, chasing your orgasm, his voice breaks into a whimper and his hips buck up against yours. "hnngh- fuck- 'm close. c'mon, make dad cum, kid."

dad!dex who... becomes so perverted in the heat of the moment. he'll be balls-deep inside you, tip of his cock kissing your cervix, forcing your legs as wide as he can without hurting you. you can't remember how many times you've cum, or how many times he's cum inside you. you're brainless, limp, unable to anything except mewl and moan. meanwhile, dex is set on coaxing yet another orgasm out of your sloppy cunt. pounding his cock into you, he grins, "want dad to fill you up? shh, baby, don't worry about it. all dads do this to their kids. it'll feel so good, i promise. jus' let dad cum inside you, yeah?"

dad!dex who... grows to understand how your dynamic can make you emotional. in the midst of aftercare, your bottom lip will wobble uncertainly. you'll wonder if it's too much, too demanding, too disgusting. dex notices immediately and takes your face in his hands, pressing kisses to your forehead, nose, cheeks, and lips. " 's okay. it's not too much." he murmurs and guides you to lay against his side. his hand slides up and down your back, soothing any big feelings away. "dad's here, kid. no matter what."

You never wanted Maegor. It sickened you to think something of Aerion’s really had taken root inside of you. You wanted it out and Aerion knew. He knew all, he was everywhere. Inside your head and out of it. He had someone watching you at all times. Even as you slept he had some old hag posted outside your chambers so you couldn’t leave and throw yourself down the stairs. So you could not drown yourself in moon tea to rid yourself of the parasite.

Now the second child—whatever it was—is sliding out of you in strings and clots. The maester prays under his breath to the Mother, but the Mother has never been in this room. You drift in and out of poppy dreams, the sound of Maegor’s squalling echoes in your head. The pain is so pure, your body is revolting against its tyrant king. You have forced his sword from your scabbard and swung it at his neck. You have slain the dragon.

The door creaks open, the pitter patter of small bare feet. Maegor’s nurse calls for him distantly, but he comes to your side anyway because all monsters are children once. It is only his foul father you truly hate, Maegor has done no wrong yet. You look at him through blurry eyes. His snotty, tear-streaked face, his deep purple eyes like swirling pools of poison.

(He disgusts you. Wet and drooling. You hate him. You hate Aerion for forcing him into you. You hate Maegor for forcing his way out of you. You wish to throw this wretched child down a well. You want to leave him out in the woods for birds to peck. You hate him.)

“Do not look, child,” you tell him hoarsely, taking him in your arms. You try to push his head against your chest to shield him from the gory sight, but he looks upon all the blood and lumps with fascination.

A part of you will burn with delight when Aerion returns. You will get to tell him his hatchling is no more. That your body has taken his child and murdered it, that your womb has no more space for the likes of him, your walls will close in and crush his dragonkin to death, until the viscous yolk is spilling out of you.

You have no doubt he will take you to the sept and mount you in front of the Mother herself. All while the Maid watches the beast with two backs silently. He will chain you to the bed and only let you leave after he has raped his child into you. His seed will be so hot it burns your insides and you will be left writhing.

You know he will, and yet you cannot help but smile as the last of it falls from between your legs and hits the linen with a wet plop.

Aerion hates no one more than you.

Not even a scum-eating, grimy peasant could scrape the bottom of the hatred he holds for you. After all, it is you who took mother away from him, away from all of them. The source of father’s misery and his newfound rigid hand. You who mocks him with your ugly, broken, little body. You who has stolen mother's beauty and defaced it.

You who killed his mother.

That is the beginning of the story and also the end of it, as far as Aerion is concerned.

Mother’s labour had been long and more treacherous than any voyage. He and Daeron had listened through the door to her scream till her throat was sore. Until she could no longer do much else but whimper and cling to Father’s arm.

Finally Rhae came — pink and furious princess screaming her tiny lungs out. Ten little fingers, ten little toes, lilac eyes like dual cabochons, a tuft of pale hair matted to her skull. Father laughed in relief as he took her in his trembling arms, but mother only writhed with discomfort.

Then you reared your ugly head.

“Another…” The maester said apprehensively.

Another, and mother was already bleeding as if the entire ocean was pouring out of her. Father had ordered for them to save mother no matter the circumstances, if the babe had to die then so be it.

How could the other babe survive without her mother?

My boys need their mother. They need her. Daella is only three years. You must do all you can. Whatever you have to do, you will do it. Just fucking do it.

Alas, you had torn your way into the world. Leaving mother gaped like the open maw of a bloodied beast. A great wound. Awful little thing. Shrivelled and wretched. You bleated, so small all your bones rattled with the force of your cry, no hair nor any discernible features. A repulsive mass of flesh slicked by his mother’s blood.

You were disgusting, and Aerion had hated you since he laid eyes on you. You were as worthless as any other earthbound creature, a worm crushed by a boot, a baby bird mangled by its fall from a nest.

How had a creature so grotesque come from his mother?

Twins were meant to be two halves of a single miracle, any parent would have been happy to cherish two babes. But father had demanded you be taken out of his sight as he collapsed over mother’s pale body. Nobody had asked for you. Not father, not mother, nor his grandsire or lord uncle and Aerion least of all.

You grew like a bothersome weed. Wandering the halls with that miserable, borrowed face. You were nothing like Mother. You could never be anything like her. She was so bright, so lovely, flame to a moth, balm to a wound. The most lovesome woman there ever would be in his life, the only woman Aerion had ever regarded with any sort of respect as only Mother was enough for him.

And you, well, a stain on House Targaryen.

He had never been able to believe something so unsightly could be of his flesh and blood. Not just kin, but his youngest sister.

You with your head hung so low the hunch of your back appears higher. With your dull hair and brittle bones and eyes that are so much like mother’s yet nothing like hers. They do not twinkle like hers. There is no joy within them. There is nothing.

Gods, you are impossibly dull.

You never showed so much as a single reaction when he teased you. Not even when he came into your room, the blade of his dagger tracing over your breasts as he told you he would cut them off if you refused him. Leave you worse than you started out if you would not give him your maidenhead.

With Mother’s eyes you pleaded. Never said a word, but you pleaded. You did. He remembers it so clearly, how your body did not shy away from his touch. Shivering as a thrill of pleasure shot up your spine from such rough play.

“I was but jesting with you.” Aerion’s lip curled in disgust. “No man could ever want such a thing.”

He does not know how Rhae keeps you near at all times, although, your fairer twin has never been concerned with much other than herself. His sister is beautiful and vain, she carries around a looking glass the size of her hand. Perhaps she likes to talk and talk and talk and talk to someone who cannot.

“Aerion.” Father has only just entered the room, but he seems exhausted already. His jaw tight with tension, his old face seems even older — hardened, leathery skin covered by his white beard. The lines on his forehead are so deep you could drip water into them and make rivers out of the creases.

“Father,” Aerion greets lightly, the smile falling from his face when you shuffle in behind him with your head bowed. Your head is always bowed. One day it will slip from your neck and dangle between your knees.

“Sit, boy,” Father sighs, waving his hand tiredly. He turns to you, placing a gentler hand on your shoulder as he ushers you closer to Aerion who shifts away. “Come, child, sit by your brother.”

You sit by him, head still down, hands clasped in your lap as if you are praying. Aerion’s nostrils flare in disgust. You smell faintly of the flowery oils the handmaids use in the baths. Lavender, rosewater, and eastern perfumes. But there is a tinge of that sickly smell that has followed you since birth. Soured blood and milk. Sickness that can be found in an untreated wound.

Father is not one to waste time, as soon as he sits, he says, “You are both old enough to be married, it is overdue in fact.”

“That’s hardly news, father.” He swirls the wine in his cup, watching his reflection distort.

Indeed it is not. Aerion is one-and-thirty — he knows very well that he should have sired heirs long ago, but no lady is up to his liking. He would have taken Daella, but she was wed when he returned from Lys. Rhae had her eye on Aegon during girlhood, and in the end found a suitable Lord not much older than she.

You are a different case.

Father should have sent you away to become a Silent Sister. Of all the places in the realm where you might belong, that would seem almost charitable in comparison to the sack Aerion thinks you should be sewn into. The smell of bloated corpses would overpower your own, and there would be no need for vows as you have never said a fucking word. A silent girl among silent women. A creature so pathetic it does not even have the decency to speak for itself.

“I have considered the matter carefully,” Father continues, rubbing his worn face with his worn hands, “and as no suitable houses have accepted the proposals sent for either of you, you will marry each other.”

Aerion straightens, he searches his father’s face for any sign of mirth. “A remarkable joke, father,” he snorts.

Maekar stares at him blankly.

“Father…” Aerion’s smile fades. “You want me…to marry that?”

You must be mad! How could you, father? Truly, you have outdone yourself this time, father, this is a greater punishment than them all. You want me to marry this, this thing that murdered my mother?

Aerion’s outburst is met with nothing much. Father is sprawled in his chair, blinking at the ceiling like he has better things to attend to than his own son. You have folded inwards like a cat trying to fit into the smallest of gaps.

“She did not kill your mother.” Father does not even look at him, he speaks through gritted teeth. “You take that back, boy.”

“She did not? Then perhaps my gracious father would like to tell me what exactly crawled out of her corpse?” Aerion smacks his fist on the table hard enough to shake the goblets.

“Aerion.” Father’s fist hits the table harder, he looks older than he ever has, his rings crack against the wood so hard you jump beside Aerion. “You are to be wed, my word is final.”

Aerion’s petulant mouth quivers with anger. “What is she anyway? She is not a woman, no woman is so ghastly.”

“You speak of your sister that way, boy?”

“What?” Aerion wipes the sweat from his brow, feigning innocence. “I am only telling the truth, father, and you know it. Look at her.”

Father does not look at you, and Aerion knows he will not. He never does. “Learn some manners, boy, she is to be your wife.”

“No one will take her so you force her on me, father. You are so cruel to me.”

Death would be a kinder fate than this. Oh, and children, how will you have his children? Will they be as feeble-witted and repulsive as you? How will he touch you? The very thought brings a rush of bile to the back of his throat, frothing and burning.

He will never touch you.

“I will marry anyone, father. Anyone, but her. I will take any girl, any will do.” Aerion would take a maid or even a mare would do—even a young boy is not much different to a woman.

“Ah, that’s right.” Maekar snaps his fingers. “A proposal has come — Lady Whoever from House Wherever-That-Is.” He huffs out a laugh for a moment, but his face falls by the next. “There is nobody for you, boy.”

A flash of white hot anger takes hold of Aerion’s body, it runs along his spine with its jagged teeth and strikes his chest. Father is laughing at him. Mocking him. After all these years of beatings and whippings. After all Aerion has done to please him. All those years he spent in Lys, wasting away on sandy shores with not a single dragon bride to bring home.

“Fine, then I will take Cousin Daenora’s hand,” Aerion says, trembling with barely contained fury. If it were any man but his father, he would surely have his head. Father believes no woman would want a Prince as handsome as he. How stupid.

“Daenora is not even ten years of age,” Maekar scoffs, his eyes almost rolling back into his skull with annoyance. “By the time she is ready you won’t be fit to breed.”

“I will wait.” He crosses his arms, turning his face and body away from both of you.

“You will not fucking wait, you will marry your sister. That is that.” Father stands, grumbling and cursing as he leaves. Cannot stand another second around that insolent boy. Fucking this and fucking that. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Fucking. Ugh. Fucking. How could he ever fuck this thing Father calls his blood? Such a dashing Prince married to this mangled, spinster sister of his.

The Gods would not think it right.

You’re packing leftovers into Tupperware when daddy pulls into the drive. Thinking about how much you hate making dinner. How much you hate how long he takes to get home so all the meat is congealed in this fat, colourless jelly and you have to touch it to put it away. How much you hate picking up after everyone. Daella has left the dolls out of the dollhouse again. Your dollhouse that daddy made all by himself for you and nobody else. It’s not like you use it anymore, even though you would like to, but she can’t even tidy up after herself. Rhae is asleep in your bed upstairs, bottle empty, diaper changed. Aerion is out. Out. He’s just out. That’s all he said. Aemon and Aegon are at Uncle Baelor’s place. Daeron has passed out with his head in the toilet, and that’s better than a puddle of his own vomit so you don’t bother to move him. Daddy can piss on his head if he needs to go. Fuck. You don’t care anymore. You really don’t.

Daddy enters the house fifteen minutes after he parked. Sat in the truck for five. Smoked for five. Sat on the porch for five before he stumbled into the house. Shotgun slung over his shoulder, white hair on his head and face dirtied by god knows what, mouth and brows both drawn tight, he’s got on his regular flannel. He looks upset, but he’s looked upset since mom kicked the bucket, so what’s a girl supposed to do?

His knees creak when he sits on the equally as creaky couch with a long, dragged out sigh. “Come here, woman.”

You look at him, the beard covering his pockmarked face. You look around the room wondering if he is talking to a ghost because you are no woman. Not yet. You don’t want to be. You’re still daddy’s little girl.

Daddy looks up at you, patting his knee. “Dyanna,” he says, eyes alight with an intensity you have never seen before.

Your fingers twitch by your sides, longing capturing your heart in its hands. You love him. You’ve only ever wanted to make him happy.

What's a girl supposed to do?

So you make your way over and sit on his knee. Daddy almost smiles at you, the stench of beer on his breath, seeping out of his pores. His hand is so big and warm as it grasps your neck gently. The other hand pries open your jaw, pushing his fingers into your mouth. You suck on them, tasting the sweat and dirt, all the grime underneath his fingernails. You love him so much. Nothing like your shitty brother.

“I missed you,” you mumble when he pulls his fingers away, a bead of spit dribbling down your chin.

”ye think ye can fuckin’ escape?” jimmy chuckles, holding you down. you just tried to make a run for it. you’re in some bedroom of an abandoned house, jimmy’s gang all downstairs.

jimmy sniffs your hair and lets out a groan. ”shit, fuck, i need tae have ye”, he says.

he throws you on the bed and starts taking off his jacket.

you immediately try to stand, but he pushes you back on the bed. he tsk’s. ”ye can resist all ye want, i’ll still be rapin’ ye”, he says with a nasty grin, his rotted teeth on full display.

he climbs on top of your face and starts pulling his pants down. you shut your mouth as hard as you can.

his cock slaps your cheek. it’s long and thick, the tip flushed and leaking with precum.

”open yer fuckin’ mouth, slut”, jimmy hisses.

when you don’t obey he pinches your nipple so hard that you let out a small scream. that’s when he forces his cock inside your mouth.

it tastes salty, warm.

”bite me an’ ye’ll regret it”, jimmy says.

he starts mouthfucking you, making his cock reach your throat each time he slams inside.

your eyes are watering, you’re gagging. but he doesn’t care for your well-being.

”jesus christ, what a whore, makin’ me feel so good”, jimmy moans. he takes a fistful of your hair and starts pulling on it, moving you by your hair. you whimper in pain.

you try to push on his thighs to make him stop but he just laughs.

”fuckin’ pathetic”, he says.

you feel his cock twitch inside your mouth, and you taste his salty precum on your tongue. he’s close.

jimmy slaps your face then, hard. ”take it, slut”, he hisses. another slap, harder this time. you whimper.

”fuck- fuck fuck fuck fuck, gonna cum-”, he moans.

and he does. you taste his warm cum pouring inside your mouth in thick ropes.

”swallow it”, jimmy says.

you obey, gulping down his semen. you gag again.

he doesn’t pull out, buy keeps his cock inside your mouth. then you feel it. something warm and bitter pouring inside your mouth.

he’s fucking peeing.

you gag and try to push him off you, but he won’t budge.

”drink”, jimmy demands.

you obey, starting to swallow his piss. it tastes disgusting.

once jimmy is satisfied he withdraws his cock and starts peeing directly onto your face.

you close your eyes, feeling the warm liquid pouring on your skin.

he finally stops, looking at you.

you feel something warm land on your chin. he’s drooling on you. you feel sick.

jimmy wipes his mouth and turns you around with a violent twist, so that you’re on all fours.

he harshly slaps your ass and without a warning, shoves a thick finger inside you.

you let out a whimper.

he starts pumping his finger in and out of you, your cunt starting to lubricate itself. it’s a defense mechanism, that’s what you tell yourself.

jimmy puts his thumb on your clit and starts rubbing roughly, like he’s trying to force you to come.

the combination of his finger inside you and his thumb on your clit is too much for you. so you squirt on his fingers.

”what a slag”, jimmy chuckles.

he adds in another finger with ease, you’re soaked.

”look at that, ye’re fuckin’ drippin’ fer me”, jimmy says.

you’re close, you can feel it. you try to resist as much as you can, but the pleasure is taking over.

you let out a moan as you come on jimmy’s fingers.

jimmy lets out a satisfied hum and pops his wet fingers inside his mouth, moaning around them.

then he yanks your head towards him and shoves his fingers inside your mouth. you taste yourself.

he pushes his fingers deep inside your throat, until you’re gagging and crying.

he lets you go, only to grab you by your hair and kiss you, roughly. ”ye like it, like it when i kiss ye, slut?” jimmy cooes, almost gentle.

he lets you go and starts rubbing the tip of his cock on your entrance.

”please don’t”, you whine.

”shut up”, jimmy hisses.

then he buries himself inside you, bottoming out immediately. you cry out.

jimmy starts pounding you. not gentle at all. rough, harsh, like he’s trying to break you from the inside out.

he grabs your hair again, pulling on it roughly. you’re crying, your cheek smushed against the bed, tears wetting the mattress.

”so fuckin’ tight, ye are”, jimmy pants.

his cock is filling you up completely, it’s hitting your g-spot every time he slams inside.

you try not to moan, but you can’t help it. you feel each thrust in your very bones.

jimmy slaps your ass again, hard enough to bruise. his rings make it even more painful.

you cry out again.

”wha wha”, jimmy mocks you.

he starts going rougher, faster. you feel his cock twitch inside you.

then he slams inside you for one last time, balls glued to your ass. you feel his load pour inside you.

he pulls out, his cum leaking on the bed.

”on yer knees”, jimmy orders you.

you obey, getting on your knees in front of him.

jimmy gives his cock a few pumps.

then he starts peeing on you again. on your tits this time.

you let out a whimper as you feel the hot liquid splashing on your skin.

he aims for your face next and you close your mouth.

”open”, jimmy demands.

you hesitantly obey, opening your mouth, tasting his bitter piss on your tongue.

when he’s done he gets up to dress himself.

then he gets out rope. he starts tying you up to the piss-filled bed.

once you’re restrained he walks to the door. ”i’ll be back”, he says. then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

you’re left alone, teary-eyed and stinking of piss.

"i said no. i'm not gonna! you're sick! he's-"

"oh," jimmy interrupts. "this does not please old nick. shall i call on him? see what he thinks about your disobedience?" jimmy muses.

you're done with all this shit. you hate jimmy and his stupid rules and his awful charity. you think about telling him off more, or running away, but the jimmies are in the other room and there's no way they'd let you get past.

"hm," he rumbles. "he says, you ought to make up for it. with pleasure."

"what?" you croak, wondering if you misinterpreted his words.

"yes..." jimmy says, seeming pleased with himself. he steps closer to you, his bejeweled fingers grazing your shoulder. on instinct, you push him away, and he grabs your hair roughly. "on your knees, lass." he demands of you.

"no!" you try resisting but he shoves you down. you can feel the bruises blossoming on your knees. jimmy forces your face against his bulge, and you hit his thigh as hard as you can.

"fuck! stupid bitch!" he exclaims.

you get up and scan the room for a weapon while distancing yourself from him, but jimmy seizes you by the back of the neck, pulling you to face him, hand traveling around your throat and squeezing down. you cry out, and try fruitlessly to get away, but the rapid loss of oxygen is making it impossible.

"do not disobey me, lass. i told you to get on yer fuckin' knees." he chides.

you desperately scratch at his wrist, though it's weak, it does get him to release his hand. you gasp for air while tears stream down your cheeks. he enjoys that, seeing you suffer. you're shoved against a wall and pushed down. jimmy stands in front of you, pulling his velour tracksuit pants down and freeing his cock.

"if you bite me, i will carve out yer wee heart. understand, bonnie girl?"

you nod fearfully.

"good!" he responds. "tongue out."

you hesitantly stick out your tongue. you feel degraded, or like a panting dog. he taps the tip of his flushed cock to your tongue. he tastes unclean. he rubs his tip against your tongue for a few seconds, before pulling away just slightly.

"kiss it" he commands, and you obey. "now suck me off proper. go on, bitch." you slowly lick the underside of his shaft before taking half his length into your mouth. he grabs your head and forces the entire length of his cock down your throat. your nose pressing against the musky patch of hair that surrounds.

he starts to fuck into your mouth, causing your eyes to water. you push on his thighs but it's pointless. his loud moans fill the room. you can hardly breathe, and each time he hits the back of your throat, you gag.

the force of it knocks your head against the wall, making you whine and causing your vision to blur momentarily. he doesn't care, still fucking your throat relentlessly.

"a-ah" he whimpers. "m'gonna- fuck- m'close."

you can hardly breathe, or see, or think. tears, snot, and spit run down your face while he rapes your mouth.

"y-yes, yes, yes... take it. shit. ah-" he goes still and you can feel his cock twitching against your tongue. he whimpers as warm bursts of salty cum fill your mouth, making you choke.

"swallow it!" he demands while he slowly pulls out. you try to the best of your ability. you fall over to your hands and knees, coughing as you crawl away. he grabs you by your hair and drags you back to him, walking you like a fucking dog.

"no, no, no, lassie. we're not done." he says while pulling you up. you begin to cry and beg for him to let you go.

"aww, poor baby." he cooes apathetically at your pleadings as he drags you over to the chair-bound man...