Fae

this sparkle icon. At first i wanted to give this company the benefit of the doubt, maybe they used the sparkle because the companies name is glimmer, like shiny so a sparkle would make sense but many many companies are also using the same type of sparkle for ai generated content, for example googles gemini ai

at first i thought this was a pure coincidence due to the fact that when you click on it it brings you to a page where you can purchase in app currency

so i thought “Okay great! maybe this isn’t ai and i’m just paranoid…that was until i started reading the fic it stated to show the text line by line instead of all at once like a normal ebook “maybe this is a stylistic choice!” i say naively, then i scrolled down to the first questions that would start the “choose your own adventure” part of the story when i saw this

This is only possible in a few ways an example of this would be a computer program that had built in responses to many different questions that weren’t originally asked(think video games that have you type in your name they might have the pronunciation of a few names but not all), another is ai both conversational (like siri) and generative (like gemini and chatgpt) so i paused and went to check their About me and yup it was EXACTLY what i suspected

Glimmerfics uses Generative ai to “write” your fanfics for you THIS IS A TRAP THEY ARE USING YOU TO SCRAPE YOUR WRITINGS FOR THEIR AI MODLES! In their about me they talk about how they are aware of the “concerns people have about ai” and they “don’t think machines can replace real artist but they want to use ai to help authors tell a story” they even talk about the environmental concerns so as a “partial measure”they are purchasing carbon offsets

(ie reforestation and renewable energy and the likes) from July 2025 through October 2025 to try and cover “their best estimate of their carbon footprint”

This in my opinion is about the same as putting a numbing gel on a cavity it may help to ease the pain but problem is still there, reforestation only works if you give the forests time to heal trees take YEARS to grow to a fertilizing state where they can pollinate and regrow and young trees are especially vulnerable to disease and fungus which have wiped out entire forests before, and what happens to land with no plants? it becomes extremely unstable with no growth to keep the dirt rooted down erosion can become rapid leading to devastating consequences not only for animals and plants but to any humans that maybe living nearby. Buying carbon offsets isn’t going to do shit and much like a cavity the only thing you can do to combat the affects of generative ai is to stop the problem at its source unfortunately for ai it is the problem, it is one of the many many reasons as to why climate change has seen such a rapid uptick. Please please i beg of you to block any and all blogs you see that are using or promoting glimmerfics THEY WILL STEAL YOUR WRITINGS THEY WILL STEAL YOUR WORK COMPANIES LIKE THIS LIE ALL THE TIME TO SCRAPE AI FOR THEIR MODLES

Even here, in a town that saw more Dornish traders than Stormland lords, word of the princes at Summerhall had spread. They were the sons of prince Maekar, grandsons of the old king, and their reputation preceded them. Prince Daeron the drunkard, prince Aerion Brightflame, prince Aemon the scholar, and the youngest, who went by Egg. The town was close enough to Summerhall that everyone knew the stories. Everyone knew to tread carefully.

The prince’s gaze swept the room as his companions started to wander around the room, lingering here and there on a bare shoulder, a painted mouth, a curve of breast. The whores preened and posed, sensing coin, sensing the kind of patron who might toss a gold dragon as carelessly as another man might toss a copper. But Aerion did not seem impressed. He looked bored, that particular brand of noble boredom that was more dangerous than outright anger, because it demanded to be alleviated.

One of the Kingsguard, a broad-shouldered man with a handsome, weathered face and short hair, crossed the room and lifted you bodily from your bench. You let out a startled gasp as he settled you on his lap, his armored thighs hard beneath you, his gauntleted hands closing around your waist.

“This one’s pretty,” he said. “Quiet, too. I like them quiet.”

You knew his face from the occasional processions through town. Ser Ronald Crakehall, a knight of some renown. He was handsome enough, not old, perhaps forty, with laugh lines around his eyes that suggested he was not entirely humorless. His fingers found the curve of your hip and squeezed, not painfully, but with a proprietary confidence that made your stomach tighten.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, his breath warm against your ear. “And what’s your rate, sweetling?”

You swallowed hard, acutely aware of the prince’s gaze on you. Aerion had turned from his survey of the room and was watching the two of you with an expression you could not quite read. Appraisal, certainly. 

“It’s my first night,” you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected. “My first time here.”

Ser Ronald’s eyebrows rose. He looked at you more closely, taking in the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your hands had instinctively clasped together rather than reaching for him. He was not an unobservant man, it seemed.

“Truly?” he said. “A virgin to the trade. How novel.”

But before he could say more, prince Aerion was there, standing over the two of you with his arms crossed, his violet eyes bright with sudden interest. Up close, he was even more beautiful than the stories suggested, with the sharp, delicate features of old Valyria, high cheekbones and a mouth that looked made for cruelty. There was something feverish in his gaze, something hungry and not entirely sane.

“I’m bored, Ronald,” he announced, as if the knight’s name were an inconvenience. “These painted slatterns have nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times. But a new one…” His gaze dropped to you, lingering on the exposed curve of your breast above the silk gown. “I have always preferred to break things in myself. It’s the only part that’s any fun.”

Ser Ronald’s hands loosened on your waist immediately. He did not argue, did not even protest. You saw something flicker in his eyes, resignation, perhaps, or a long-practiced survival instinct, and then he was lifting you off his lap as easily as he had placed you there.

“She’s yours, my prince.”

Aerion’s hand closed around your wrist, his grip much tighter than Ser Ronald’s had been, and he hauled you to your feet. His fingers were long and elegant, but the strength in them was surprising. He did not speak to you as he dragged you through the common room, past the curious stares of the other whores and the careful blankness of the Kingsguard. He simply walked, and you stumbled after him, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

The room he chose was one of the larger ones, with a bed draped in amber silk and a brazier burning low in the corner. The air smelled of roses. He released your wrist only when the door was bolted behind you, and then he turned to face you, his head tilted slightly to one side like a hawk examining a mouse.

“How many men have you really had?” he asked. His voice was soft, almost conversational, but there was an edge to it that made the hair on your arms stand up.

“One,” you said. “My husband.”

Something shifted in his expression. Amusement, maybe, or disbelief. “Your husband lets you whore?”

“He lets me earn coin however I see fit.” You lifted your chin slightly, meeting his gaze. “We’re not starving, but we’re not rich. And you’d be surprised what a new oven costs.”

For a long moment, he simply stared at you. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound like a blade being drawn. “You’re not lying. How refreshing. Every woman in this place has been trying to convince me she’s the most experienced courtesan from here to Lys, and you stand there and tell me about your oven.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath and the faint, clean scent of some expensive soap. “What’s your name?”

You told him. Your real name, not the false one Margot had suggested. You did not know why. Perhaps because he seemed like the kind of man who would know if you lied.

“I am prince Aerion Targaryen,” he said, as if you might not have known. “And since you’ve been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. I am not about to be gentle with you.” His hand came up, and one finger traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, a startling contrast to his words. “But I pay well, and I don’t leave marks where they can be seen. Will that do for you, little seamstress?”

You should have been afraid. Part of you was afraid. But another part, a part you had not known existed until that moment, was curious, thrilled. 

“Yes,” you said. “That will do.”

He did not waste time after that. There was no more conversation, no more teasing. He took what he wanted, and he wanted everything. The silk gown was torn, he would later toss three gold dragons at Margot to pay for it, more than the dress was worth by a factor of ten, and you were bent over the bed, pressed against the wall, pulled onto his lap on the single velvet-covered chair. He was rougher than Merrett had ever been, rougher than you had imagined a man could be, but there was a precision to it, a control. He wanted to see you gasp, wanted to see your fingers clench in the sheets, wanted to hear the sounds you made when pleasure and pain blurred together until you could not tell one from the other.

It was a siege. He fucked with a detached, methodical cruelty, his every touch was a calculated experiment. He’d pinch the soft skin of your inner thigh until you gasped, then soothe the sting with a lazy, swirling tongue. He’d take you right to the trembling edge of a pleasure you’d never known existed and then stop, holding perfectly still inside you, his smile a slash of white in the gloom, while he watched the frustration bloom in your face. He wanted your reactions, your raw, unpracticed honesty, and he took them, one by one, until you were a shuddering, overwrought mess of nerve endings and confused ecstasy. When he was finally spent, he didn’t collapse. He simply withdrew, stood, and adjusted his clothing as if he were alone in his private chambers. Then dropped a small leather purse on the table by the door.

“That’s for the hour,” he said. “I’ll be back. Teach yourself something new before then.”

The purse contained five gold dragons. More than your husband earned in a season.

You did not tell Merrett the details. You told him only that a wealthy patron had taken a liking to you, and that you would be returning when the opportunity arose. He looked at the gold dragons, looked at you, and asked only if you were all right. When you said yes, and meant it, he kissed your forehead and said he would speak to the baker about the oven.

Aerion returned four nights later, and then again the week after that. Each time, he paid more, stayed longer. And each time, you learned a little more about what he liked.

He liked resistance, so you gave it to him, arching away from his hands so he would have to pull you back. He liked begging, so you learned to plead, not for mercy but for more, words tumbling from your lips in a desperate litany that made his violet eyes blaze. He liked to talk, sometimes, in the aftermath, lying in the tangled sheets while the candles burned low. He talked about dragons, mostly. The ones that were gone, the ones that might return. He talked about fire and blood and the way the world had been before the Dance, when his ancestors were gods among men. He never talked about himself, not really, but you learned to read between the lines. You that his older brother Daeron was a disappointment, that his younger brother Aemon was weak, that the youngest, Egg, was a nuisance. You learned that his father prince Maekar was a hard man to please, and that Aerion had stopped trying long ago.

You learned that he was cruel, but you also learned that cruelty was a kind of armor. He expected the world to hurt him, so he hurt it first. It did not excuse anything he did, but it explained it, and understanding was its own kind of power.

The third time he came, he brought a small velvet box. Inside was a pendant, a silver dragon with ruby eyes, delicate and beautiful and worth more than everything you owned.

“Don’t read into it,” he said, his voice clipped. “I simply don’t like my whores to look cheap.”

You wore it anyway, and when he saw it against your throat, something in his expression softened for just a moment before the mask slid back into place.

Aerion kept returning. Each time, he taught you something new, how to use your mouth in ways you had never imagined, how to position your body to drive him to the edge and keep him there, how to read his moods and respond to his unspoken demands. He was a demanding lover, capricious and intense, but there was a strange intimacy in it, a knowledge of each other that went beyond the physical.

“You are the only woman who does not lie to me,” he said once, in a rare moment of something almost like tenderness, his head resting on your shoulder, a finger tracing down your spine. “Do you know how exhausting it is to be surrounded by liars? Everyone wants something from me. Everyone simpers and flatters and tells me what they think I want to hear. But you, you just tell me the truth. An oddity. An honest whore with an honest cunt.”

You did not tell him that you were lying, too, in your way. That you were playing a role just as much as any courtesan. That the truth was simply another strategy, one that happened to work on him. Some truths were too dangerous to speak aloud.

It was perhaps two moons into this arrangement when prince Daeron found you.

When he stumbled in one evening with a retinue of laughing friends and a decidedly unsteady gait, you recognized him immediately. Daeron was softer, his features blurred by drink, his eyes holding a sorrow that even the wine could not entirely drown.

He did not choose you at first. He chose two other girls, giggling things who fawned over him and called him “my prince” in breathy voices. But you watched him throughout the evening, and you saw how he flinched at their simpering, how he drank to drown out their empty flattery rather than to enhance his pleasure. He was a man who was running from something, though you did not know what.

The third time he came, Aerion had been gone for a fortnight, off to some tourney or other, and the brothel was quiet. Daeron arrived alone, which was unusual, and he sat in the corner with a flagon of Dornish red and a face like a man attending his own funeral. The other whores gave him a wide berth. A drunk prince was unpredictable, and unpredictable patrons were bad for business.

You approached him anyway.

“My prince,” you said, sitting down beside him on the bench. “You look like a man who could use a kind word more than a warm body.”

He looked at you, and for a moment, something flickered in his bloodshot eyes. Surprise, maybe. Suspicion.

“And what would a whore know of kind words?” he asked, but there was no venom in it. Only weariness.

“I’m not a whore,” you said. “I’m a seamstress. I mend things.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then he laughed, a bitter, choking sound. “A seamstress. Of course. Why not? The world is absurd enough already.” He took a long drink from his flagon. “Do you know what it’s like to have dreams that don’t stop? Dreams that feel more real than waking?”

“No,” you said honestly.

“Lucky you.” He set the flagon down with a thump. “I dream of dragons. Every night. They’re calling to me, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. It’s like a word on the tip of my tongue, but I can never quite reach it.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were wet. “My father thinks I’m a disgrace. My brother Aerion thinks I’m a joke. And the dragons won’t stop screaming.”

You did not know what to say to that. So you did not say anything. You simply reached out and took his hand, holding it in both of yours, and you sat with him in silence while the candles guttered and the other patrons came and went.

Eventually, he led you to a room. It was not like it was with Aerion. Daeron was gentle to the point of apology, his touches hesitant, his movements slow. He kept asking if you were all right, if he was hurting you, if you wanted him to stop. He was not a bad lover, exactly, but he was a sad one, and when it was over he wept silently into your shoulder while you stroked his hair.

He came back the next week, and the week after that. He never talked about dragons again, but sometimes, when he was lying beside you in the dark, you could feel him trembling. 

He liked to be held. He liked it when you ran your fingers through his hair. He liked to fall asleep with his head on your chest, and he always left a pile of coins on the nightstand when he woke, far more than the hour was worth, and never counted.

“You’re kind to me,” he said once, his voice slurred and sleepy. “Do you know how rare that is? People are always bowing and scraping and wanting things. But you’re just..kind.”

You did not tell him that kindness was part of the service. You did not tell him that you pitied him, this sad, drowning prince who was trying so hard to destroy himself. You just held him a little tighter and let him sleep.

The gifts from Daeron were different from Aerion’s payments. Aerion’s gold was  a transaction. Daeron’s was careless, extravagant, almost an afterthought. He would empty his purse onto your dresser without counting, wave off your attempts to give him change, press jewels into your palm with a vague, “Here, this matches your eyes,” even when it didn’t.

You never told Aerion that his brother visited you. And Daeron never asked if others from Summerhall came to the Moonblooms. It was an unspoken agreement, a delicate balance that you maintained with the same care you used when stitching fine silk.

Then prince Maekar came.

That was a shock. The prince of Summerhall, the King’s own son, a man who could have summoned any woman in the Seven Kingdoms to his bed with a snap of his fingers, walked into the brothel on a rainy evening with his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight and a fury simmering behind his eyes that made the air itself feel charged. He was not as beautiful as his sons: his jaw was heavier, his brow more prominent, his hair a lighter shade of silver, but he had a presence that filled the room, a weight of authority that made even Margot’s practiced composure falter.

He did not want the simpering girls. He did not want the ones who draped themselves over him and whispered empty compliments. He wanted silence, and he wanted release, and when his gaze landed on you sitting quietly in the corner with your sewing, you had taken to bringing small mending projects to work on during slow nights, his eyes narrowed.

“You,” he said, pointing. “Come here.”

You set aside the tunic you had been hemming and rose, approaching him with the same calm you had learned to project with Aerion, with Daeron, with all the men who passed through looking for something they could not name.

“My prince,” you said, curtsying.

“Do not simper,” he snapped. “I’ve had enough simpering to last a lifetime. What is your name?”

You told him. Your real name. It felt important, somehow, to be honest with these silver-haired men who could have you killed with a word.

“I am prince Maekar,” he said, though you already knew. “I have spent the day listening to my sons disappoint me in increasingly creative ways, and I have a headache that could fell an ox, and I do not want to talk. Can you manage that? Can you just be silent and let me fuck you without pretending you’re enjoying it?”

“Yes,” you said. “I can.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting such a straightforward answer. Then he nodded and led you to the room.

It was different with him. Not rough like Aerion, not sad like Daeron. It was desperate, almost frantic, as if he were trying to outrun something inside his own head. He did not speak, and he did not want you to speak, but when it was over he did not leave immediately. He lay beside you, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. Then he reached for the pitcher.

He drank the wine in one long swallow and set the cup aside. Then he looked at you again, his gaze more assessing than it had been before. “How long have you been doing this?”

“A few moons. I was a seamstress before. I still am, during the day.”

“A seamstress.” He seemed to find this amusing. “And what does your husband think of your…second profession?”

“He doesn’t mind. He trusts me.”

Maekar’s eyebrows rose, the same expression of surprise his son had worn. “A remarkable man.”

“He is,” you agreed.

Something in him seemed to crack. He lay beside you, his breathing harsh, and you saw his hands were trembling. Without thinking, you reached out and covered one of them with your own.

He flinched, but he did not pull away.

“Are you all right, my prince?” you asked softly.

“No,” he said, and his voice was raw. “I am not all right. I have not been all right for a very long time.”

He turned his head to look at you, and for a moment, he was not a prince. He was just a man, tired and weighed down by responsibilities and disappointments he could not escape.

“My sons are a trial,” he said quietly. “Daeron drinks because he dreams of things he cannot understand. Aerion burns because he feels things too deeply and has no outlet for them. Aemon hides because the world is too sharp for him. And Egg…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Egg is too young to be a disappointment yet. But he’ll get there. They all do.”

You did not know what to say, so you said nothing. You kept your hand there. He did not pull away.

Maekar came back. Not as often as Aerion, not as regularly as Daeron, but every few weeks, when the pressures of Summerhall became too much, he would appear with a face like a thundercloud and seek you out. He never wanted conversation, but sometimes, afterward, he would talk. About his father the king, about the weight of a crown that would never be his, about the sons he loved and did not understand. He brought you gifts: a bolt of Myrish lace so fine it looked like seafoam, a pair of silver hairpins set with sapphires, a small enameled box filled with Dornish spices that must have cost more than your house.

“For your husband,” he said gruffly when he gave you the spices, as if that explained anything.

You never told him about Aerion. You never told him about Daeron. And they never told him about you. It was a dance, a delicate, dangerous dance, and you were the only one who knew all the steps.

The Moonblooms prospered. Word had spread, somehow, that the establishment was favored by the princes of Summerhall, and custom increased tenfold. Margot hired more girls, expanded into the building next door, started serving food in the common room. She never asked you about your patrons because you had warned her that the princes would stop coming if she advertised you as their favorite, but she gave you the best room, the one with the feather mattress, and she never took more than her agreed-upon cut.

Your husband got his oven, his medicine, a new roof, a set of copper pots that gleamed like sunset. He never asked questions, and you never offered answers, and somehow, improbably, your marriage remained intact. Merrett still looked at you with wonder across the supper table, still reached for you in the night with a gentleness that none of your patrons possessed, still made you laugh with his dry observations about the townsfolk and their creative approach to accounting.

“You seem happy,” he said one evening, as you sat together in your small garden, watching the stars come out.

“I am,” you said, and you were surprised to realize it was true. “Are you?”

He considered the question with the same careful attention he gave his ledgers. “I am. We have good food, a sound roof, and each other. What more could a man want?”

A dragon, perhaps, you thought but did not say. A crown. A kingdom.

You had learned that princes were not happier than commoners. They were richer, certainly, more powerful, more dangerous. But happiness was a currency which did not care about bloodlines.

The summer stretched on, golden and hot, and the princes of Summerhall continued to visit.

You kept their secrets. You took their coin. And in your own way, you cared for them, each in their turn, each in the way they needed.

Part 2: pending...

there’s a dull ache seated in your womb from the force of his thrusts, and a tension in your thighs as you part your legs for him. skin slaps against skin, the sound echoing throughout the room, a nearby candle flickering with your joint movements. you rock against the desk, sweat building beneath your bodice, clinging to the curve of your spine and beneath the swell of your breasts where they’re pinned to the wood.

baelor grunts loudly above you with each rut of his cock. your pussy opens for him, silken walls split wet and hot around the thick of his cock. he grunts like a fighting man—like a man battling with his own pleasure, heavy balls landing firmly against your clit, a honey-thick tension pooling at the base of his spine.

he holds you tightly, heart leaping against his sternum as he listens to the whines and whimpers that drop from your lips. the clutch of your cunt sucks him in, warm and deep and his, and he can’t stop the groan of your name that follows a particularly deep, rolling thrust towards the plug of your womb.

“such a sweet girl,” baelor manages, vowels hoarse around another grunt. he feels your pussy flutter around him, and he coos, “my perfect girl, bending and taking me so well, aren’t you?”

you nod with your cheek pressed to the desk, but it doesn’t work too well. instead, you dip further into an arch, sucking him in even deeper as he ruts up towards the base of your cervix, the angle pulling him in close. you moan loudly when the head of his cock nudges up against that perfect spot inside you, and you can’t help the way your legs begin to tremble when he drives into that spot over and over again.

“my best girl,” baelor continues his praise, rolling his hips in a way that has you writhing beneath him. but he holds you firmly, unyielding in his strength as he fucks you. “you always do so well for me.”

“baelor,” you gasp out, suddenly feeling breathless. your orgasm looms like a phantom, hovering just out of reach but drawing nearer the more you chant—sporadic moans of baelor’s name and title as your body grows hot. you whimper, a stiff knot of pleasure in the very base of your tummy. “oh gods, baelor.”

baelor groans in response, hips stuttering for a moment before he collects himself with a whisper of your name. “my girl. all mine—you’re all mine, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

you can’t respond. his cock pushes so deep inside you that it knocks the air from your lungs, and you’re too busy trying not to drown in your own pleasure to string together a proper sentence. but your husband won’t settle for that: he rucks his hips hard into you, shunting you against the desk and forcing a yowl from the back of your throat.

“aren’t you?” baelor repeats, panting as he moves. sweat beads high on his forehead, a sticky heat trapped beneath the thick material of his tunic and doublet. he continues, “you’re all mine?”

“yes,” you blurt out around a moan as you shake against his desk, the glass bottle of a nearby inkwell trembling with you. your pussy clenches tight around the thick of his cock, stretched out and drooling where you bend for him. the heat of your orgasm rapidly begins to cook you alive, and you’re panting before you can stop yourself. “yes, baelor, oh my gods.”

“ah, such a good listener,” baelor says, lilting and almost mocking as you hurtle towards release. he brings you back against him, admiring the ripple of your flesh as he moves you against his pelvis. he takes a hand and palms the fat of your arse cheek. “i love it when you do what you’re told.”

the way he says that undoes the knot of pleasure inside you, and you come with one final moan of his name. he fucks you through it, thrusting deep and hard towards the plug of your womb, grunting as you come apart beneath him. you shake, limbs trembling as you huff and moan and mewl, sounds bouncing off the stone walls. your pussy clenches around his cock, fluttering with the hammering of your heart, and the tension in your body releases.

“oh there she is, that’s it,” baelor murmurs, patting your arse before taking hold of your hips again. he pulls you to him, desk groaning in protest as he ruts into you again and again. the pressure inside him builds, and builds still, until he feels the muscles in his jaw working as he grits out, “and now she’s going to take my—ha, uh—my cum, yeah? s’that what you want?”

because you’re such a good listener, you nod. you nod deliriously, mewling for him to spill inside you, stuff you full. his response is a deep, resonating groan that echoes more dragon then man, followed by a hushed whimper of your name. then, he’s shoving himself to the hilt inside you, a sheathing of valyrian steel, hands bunched tightly on your hips, and spilling.

his head falls back, the lump in his throat working as he moans and comes deep inside you. his balls jerk, drawing up from where they rested against your slick folds as his hips falter to a stop. baelor groans again, emptying himself until he’s satiated. he folds himself then, when his heart no longer clatters against his ribs, across your back, pressing you even harder into the desk.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been like this, held between him and the doorway, but it’s long enough. Long enough to feel him up against you, heartbeat thrumming wildly under skin, the light dying from the outside, leaving you both in total darkness.

And it only opens up into more darkness. The faint shadow of streetlamp glints in his pupils, and they don’t retract, not the way they should, they don’t pull from you at all. They’re completely blown, midnight black to the very outer corners of his eyes, all traces of blue faded to pure hunger.

They do that from time to time. You’ve noticed. They’ve done it ever since he’s come home, ever since you walked into that dingy hallway of the police station and found him slumped in a chair. They brightened when they found yours, instant and tender, worn from every word he couldn’t manage to say.

Just two people, arms slung around each other so tightly just so that you wouldn’t shatter.

This wasn’t that. Not this time. The embrace was just as warm, just as needy, all the ways that Bobby is. But there’s something missing, or more, you can’t quite tell. It’s something dark around the edges, the heavy exhale of breath that brushes your are and teen grazing your skin.

He’s not just holding you, he’s keeping you. Pressed between his body and the wall like a lifeline, like every tremble of his hands and pounding of his heart is going to send him over the edge.

You can’t manage much, so you do what you can.

What the truth is.

“I’m not going anywhere..”

And you’re not. You don’t want to. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. He’s been through so much, you’ve waited too long to have him home, to have him like this. But something is pulling you in, dragging you under with him into feelings all too surreal.

It’s intoxicating.

“You promise..?”

His nose nudges your own, finding your eyes.

“I promise.”

He only nods then, fluttering his eyes closed as he takes a heavy breath. Inhale. Exhale.

“I don’t want to be alone..” .. “I don’t think I can be. These feelings baby.. they’re too much, and I don’t—“ His voice cracks. And it’s desperate and exhausted.

Your hands run up his back, and he’s shaking. That’s when it cracks. A low, broken moan escapes his lips and it makes you tense. He doesn’t say a word, he can’t bring himself too, his eyes, from what isn’t entirely dark, are red, bloodshot and rimmed with tears.

The tension in his back falters from your touch, muscles twitching under your touch. Recalibrating. Like his whole body is on the verge of stuttering, collapsing into your hold. You eye him closely, squinting in the low light, and you do it carefully, sliding the one hand up to his cheek.

Your hand is warm, soothing against what you feel. The damp, clammy cool skin that meets your fingertips. Bobby only stares back, rubbing his hand needily into to touch.

“Let me help you..”

He studies you then. So closely, so intently you feel the blush creep onto your cheeks. Because it’s sharpening every moment he doesn’t tear away.

Checking. And he does, over and over again just to make sure you actually mean it. You don’t move away, lips curving into something hopeful. Something he can rely on. The very thing that makes him tick, and it collapses inside him like defeat, all control loosening to not holding back.

You’re warm. So, so warm. And so is he. Burning hotter by the second it seems like.

The room spins around you, taken in his arms, walking the steps as he backs you across the space and into the closest thing he can find. The kitchen table. And it’s calculated. He’s thought about it already, he’s been deciding the whole time. The bedroom is too far, the wall is closest but it won’t let him close enough to you.

This way he can have you.

Bobby’s hands hook at the backs of your thighs, scooping you into the table, colliding with lip and teeth gnashing into yours. They’re damp and hot. his tongue pressing along it and slipping into your mouth. You moan into the kiss, clutching at his shirt as your legs curl around his waist. He bites down then, hard, rolling the flesh in between his fangs. Crimson touches your lip but before you tug backward he’s sucking it back into his mouth, fingers comb through the back of your hair, along your scalp and down to its ends before he wraps.

A trail of glistening red drapes at your neck where he finds it exposed, spreading it around with a flick of his tongue.

“B-bobby..” He pauses. Settling his mouth over the hollow of your throat, his breath ghosting the skin as you hold back a moan. Pain thrums at your lip, so hard you can feel the heartbeat, and the pleasure swirls in your belly.

He’s always been messy, leaving marks from his fingers and mouth. So much, that your body remembers him for days afterwards. This is different. This is claiming. When he looks up, features stirring in the shadows of the room, that’s where you see it.

Primal.

It stiffens his face, pulling at his brow and the sheen that covers in his face. His striking features are so much more proportioned, so surreal.

“Need you real bad..”

The tent of his sweatpants are wet, a shameless patch right over where he’s stood half rutting against your thigh. A groan, closer to a whine pitches in his throat startling him forward, hands grabbing two fistfuls of your hips.

Your tongue darts to your lip, tasting the bead of tacky blood and the burn of something else. And you assess, you give a once over, and another, just to check what, if anything at all, is up with him. But you find nothing. Only want. That’s all there is, in his gaze, in his touch. And it’s been too long, too much waiting and too much wondering, so you fall into it.

“Okay.. it’s okay, you’ve got me.” You breathe, steadying yourself onto the rickety wood.

He drops to his knees, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. From this angle you notice the line of his cock straining taut against the stiff material, the patch of his happy trail dark against muscle. The scratch of fabric slides over your knees as his finger peels your jeans away. His nose follows his fingers, inhaling your scent with it.

He does his best not to lose his mind there and then. Lips ghost over your shins, teeth grazing as fingers running up and down your calves.

“Gorgeous..”

He rolls his tongue in his mouth, fingers smoothing over your legs. And it’s only then when you notice, he’s staring. Salivating.

He pushes himself forward, planting his mouth against your clothed core, inhaling as his lips part, his tongue shoving into heat of your pussy as one of your hands finds his hair.

“And all mine..”

His tongue drags heavy and long, slipping over the damp material. Just purely for the taste. The wetness that gathers there he sucks onto it, and hums. You whine, hips bucking involuntarily into the sensation, and his hands grip tighter around your legs, biceps tightening to the flesh of your ass. Your eyes flutter, his breath is hot, teasing and tracing his tongue along the seam of your panties.

And his eyes roll back, groaning into your heat, “All mine..”

It’s for him really. The pleasure in even saying it, reminding himself that you are, that the fingers threading through his hair tugging him closer, are every part, his. The band of the fabric snaps in one swift tug, falling away from your legs and ripped away to the floor. A gasp spills from your lips, the sting bringing you closer to his face.

The smile Bobby gives is sharp, a smirk so achingly wide it makes you shiver. And it’s all he gives, soothing small circles onto the lower of your back before he dives deeper. His lips run through your folds with a feral hum, wetness gathers all over him, across his nose he rubs teasingly at your clit, juices dripping down his chin.

And it doesn’t stop, it keeps coming, your sweetness coating his tongue while he keeps on giving, beckoning your body to provide, to let him drink you down until there’s nothing left.

You’re whining and grasping your fingers so tightly, not sure whether to push or pull, but he doesn’t budge, just groans louder and takes it. He drags you impossibly further to his face, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs to slip them over his shoulders, letting your hips buck into him.

“Taste so good baby.. my sweet girl.”

His lips wrap around the swollen bud, your mouth falling open as moans spill free, careless and hazy. Bobby keeps you like that, wet muscle merciless at your seeping hole, the aching in your legs now boneless, falling over the muscle of his back. His tongue moves quickly once he releases your clit from his mouth with an audible pop. The sound makes you whine into the deaf quiet of the apartment, your head falling back as your gaze lands onto the ceiling.

You writhe then, and he’s splitting you open, tongue shifting deep as his nose ruts against your clit. The hammering continues in your chest, fluttering with every shock that pushes you closer to the edge. Hard fingertips grasp so harshly into your thighs, you swear you can feel nail digging in, branding you. You manage to tilt your head back down, his moans only growing louder as he watches, the sound vibrating against the bud of your swollen clit.

He can’t speak. He’s got his mouth full and he’s not going to move away. Bobby is greedy like that, he’d kneel there all night if he could, just making you take it over again until you’re sobbing, shoving your head way from him with a blissed whine. But you’re already close, the very height of your climax approaching with that pit in your belly. The tears are already welling in your eyes, the pleasure, the pain of bite marks and the lost time, and the relentless flick of his tongue. You’re done for.

He doesn’t say it, but his eyes tell all. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you, dark blues blinking up at you in a wild haze. Calling out to you, and you can hear it, his voice rings through your head, swirling in your senses.

Let go, come for me..

And you do, writhing and bucking your hips onto his tongue with a high pitched moan, his mouth capturing every last drop as he wraps his lips around you with one final suck. His tongue runs through your folds, slipping into your puckering hole just to taste you again.

“So fuckin’ good.” He murmurs against you, biting a kiss to your inner thigh, sinking down.

“Baby..” Your need is just as strong now, aching so much that you can’t take it. Red flushes your face, hair sticking to your forehead as you grab at him.

“Fuck.. fuck, baby.. I know, I know.”

He rises just as quickly as he knelt, holding your knees to the table where they fall, standing in between them. His shirt rises over his head in a shrug, the streetlamp orange casting ripples over his skin. You blink your eyes open, counting the bruises and cuts littering his body, dark purple and greens that accentuate the muscle. He’s not ashamed of them, he wears them now, they don’t hurt, they’re simply there.

But all of them are a reminder, and you find yourself staring down, hands reaching to his waist to pull him in with carefully. Two fingers find your chin, rising your face to meet his, and not the rest. And you see him. The part that has come back to you.

His smile is dark, tongue dragging slowly over his lip as he gathers up the rest he can of you. Golden strands of sandy hair are damp and mussed, his mouth is parted and breathing heavy. And he is so devastatingly handsome. So undone in a way you haven’t known before.

And it takes you under. The same fever encases you. The air in the room sucked to nothing, leaving all thoughts only of him, your world narrowed. You don’t even realise the weight of him rocking into you, his leaking tip pressing into your bare pussy. He undoes your shirt, buttons coming away with a quick drag, fingers still on your chin, stroking. And it’s like hypnosis, you can’t turn away, only shivering with the cool air pebbling your nipples.

“Doing so good f’me..” Bobby whispers soft. Even though the edges of it are cold, coaxing you, edging on desire and the knowing. That he is bathing you in the same ruin he’s been rotted with.

And he’s not apologising for it. Not when you’re like this, begging and open for him.

His sweatpants are shrugging to his knees, hard length slapping in his hand, rubbing it through your folds as you whine. The other hand cups your cheek, resting against your temple. He’s throbbing, slipping all of the way inside of you in one steady thrust, golden hairs at his base rubbing into your mound.

Your mouth falls open in a broken moan, the burn searing through your walls as he works you open. His fingers curl through your hair, nudging his nose to yours. It’s encouragement, it’s delicate and it’s wicked.

The pleasure pain built you, but he’s doing more than that. He’s breaking you open.

“So good.” He soothes you with his kiss. “Shh, shh.”

He follows the line of your jaw, capturing your mouth in intricate, sloppy pecks. The moan that leaves you when the tip of his cock punches right against a spongey spot inside you that has your mind going blank, is animalistic. And he pulls from you, enough to make you feel the loss, just to drive forward again. His pace is desperate and needy, but the rhythm he sets is far from it. The rhythm you feel, his hips sliding against yours, his cock rutting in and out, it’s calculated.

Every atom in your body seems to retract and rebuilding itself at once. The heat that fills you is more than his own, more than yours. It’s something more complicated, more ancient, like its invading your very being, and binding. The pressure burns electric with the force of him breaking you open more and more and more until..

“Just feel me..”

He knows it too. He can feel it. Because he isn’t just talking to you, he’s responding. To your body, to himself. It courses through him in ways he doesn’t understand. But he knows. His hand coasts down your stomach over the aching in your sternum and the sensitive buds of your breasts, “Right..” His fingers goes lower, resting over the skin that he has arched in his grip, the backs of your thighs slapping with every force of his thrusts into your seeping pussy.

“Here.” His palm splays out where he fucks you deep, his cock fucking into with relentless pace, reaching so far it kisses the plug of your cervix with every movement he forces. And he pushes down, collapsing his hand where you’re full of him, squeezing onto the pressure that has you clenching.

It doesn’t sound like him. Lust washes over him with a distorted affection he’s fighting to give and what’s left of it, only for you. It’s even in his voice, gruff and broken, worn from the force of his groans and his teeth bared together. Bobby’s not all there, and you know it, staring into your soul it’s as if he’s about ready to take it.

Fingers slip into your mouth, hooking, pushing at your teeth collecting the drool that sits at the curve of your chin. The other firms at your ass, catching the ripple of flesh with each rocking of the table and punch of him against your walls. He’s keeping you full, unbearably so. So much that you can’t help the electricity that wracks your body, sending shocks right to your core. You tighten around him and his head falls back.

“Fuck like that.. gonna make an even bigger mess of you.”

Your body trembles, eyes rolling back as your breaths mingle, heat searing through your bodies. The sound of skin slapping and wetness fills the space, reaching your ears so lewd and loud it makes you moan. Because it’s filthy, it’s unhinged.

“All mine..” He rasps against your lips, hips stuttering to thrust deeper.

The sensation swarms you, covering your body like a blanket caught on fire, taking your skin with it and setting it alight. It’s uncontrollable, rising over you like a fever so high sweat drips from your skin, and the shiver only adds to the friction between you. Chanting, begging over again for more. Your back arches further off of the table and into him, and he takes the opportunity. He’s panting, brushing past your ear, tracing the open skin with his tongue.

His thrusts speed up, and he sees your face flickering, moans growing wanton and babbled. Your whole body is drawing tight around his hips, heels digging into the muscle of his ass, urging him closer, nails scratching marks down his back that chokes him. A deep whimper escapes him, taking your hips to drag you back down onto his cock, and something snaps.

Your body stiffens, tightening from your toes to the strain in your neck as you come undone, a piercing moan shuddering through you as you clench around him. He brings you through it, fucking you through your high as your legs tremble and fall around him.

His palms flattern at the curve of your back, locking one arm around you to bring you flush to his chest, your breasts bunching into the sticky muscle. And he follows, driving up faster and faster, mumbling into the air with words you can’t make out.

Fuck you full, keep you full..

Make you mine.

He comes and comes again, settling inside of you as he spills. And there’s so much of it, thick white spurts of his seed that warms you from the inside, leaking from your already dripping pussy. The arm holding you tightens impossibly, making you yelp as he releases, the rise and fall of your bodies sticky and pressed together in a sheen of arousal.

His arms loosen around your middle, but you’re still holding onto one another, his hands soothing up and down your back. Your vision blurs as you rest into his heaving chest, overcome with.. everything, and your head spins where his falls into your neck, tongue flicking and pursing into a kiss right over the dip of your collarbone.

All that’s left is his voice rumbling into your skin, reverberating deep into your bones in a distorted mumble as bliss takes over you.

“Not letting you go..”

⤷ baelor's talons are not the sharpest, but not the dullest either. as said prior, he likes knowing he has ways of besting his opponents if need be or defend himself if by any chance he gets attacked. we have to remember he is next in line to the throne, which means he needs to stay alive and well long enough to have the crown placed upon his brow. he cannot and will not take any chances of being caught defenseless. he might have the kingsguard around, but even then, the odds of being hurt are never zero. dragon hybrid!baelor sharpens his talons just enough to prick at skin if dug into with intent, but never enough to injure if he just scratches lightly at skin, which he does often when you're near. he never draws blood with you, hates to see any of his dragonic features ever being used to hurt you in any way, shape, or form. if it wasn't for you, his talons would be sharp enough to draw blood forthwith, but alas, he takes measures for that never to happen unless willed by him towards people who wish him harm.

⤷ his scales are scarlet in color. they look akin to rubies in the sun, shifting and glittering with the rays of warmth. baelor does not particularly care to show them off, but makes sure they are visible, especially in court meetings or when he is called upon in some corner of the realm on princely duties. he wants people to know he is blood of the dragon, which runs so deep in his veins that even his features took after the ancient beasts people so feared. that is what he wants, for people to make the connection between what once was and what is now, that he is the closest thing to the dangerous, ruthless beasts of time long gone and fit to rule; strong enough to do it. the scaly plates encompass the whole width of his shoulders, swirling up the length of his nape and disappearing into the fine hairs there. they dip along his spine, a cluster of them, like freshly spilled blood, ending in that sturdy, glorious tail. you love the ones along his navel that travel slowly towards the base of his cock; it always makes your pupils dilate with want just at the sight. but you're not so crass as to not appreciate the reddish scales that dust his temples and ears, even a few stray ones here and there down his chest.

⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor has horns, but not in the way you might think. they're almost entirely of solid bone, with a cluster of scales at the bottom from where they sprout on either side of his head. the horns are extremely sturdy and rather sharp at the end. in the beginning of your courtship, baelor was worried at times that he might accidentally nip or hurt you with them, but with time, he learned to maneuver around you in such a way that the threat of them towards you is very minimal. it's quite bothersome for him to wear helmets, which is why he asked for one that allows for his horns to sit comfortably inside the steel without hurting him, or simply, to have two gaps at the top for the horns to pop out outside the helmet. baelor ended up wanting both. he wears the latter at tournaments and jousts to intimidate his opponents a little. it's the one time where he can prance around and preen, not weighted down by duty and crown.

⤷ his wings are kept against his back, but not all the way. they're ruddy and wide, the membrane thick and vibrant, expanding way past his body when unfurled fully. baelor commands a room quietly, without raising his voice, without making a fuss. the dominance is in the way he holds himself: the way he walks, looks, and comports himself. he uses the wings to his advantage, letting them unfurl just enough to shroud his broad back and the width of his shoulders, but not more than that. it's calculated, and it works wonders at letting him take up space and be imposing when he walks into a room, without even needing to speak. sure, he is the heir to the iron throne, and the title demands obedience, but how long would a mere legacy hold courtiers in check if he didn't have proof that he could fill the role waiting for him? having people stepping aside to make room for him fills baelor with pride; of his house, his name, and the man-beast he is.

⤷ baelor's eyes are slitted, like any dragon's. he tries his best not to make it known when he has been slighted, especially in court, but his pupils always give him away. they thin so, so much when something gets on his nerves, even if otherwise his body gives no sign of his irritation. but, in the same measure, when he looks at something he likes, something he loves, something that pleases him, his eyes turn to almost black with the way his pupils expand and widen, overwhelmed by the warmth he feels in his chest.

⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tongue is slitted, but just a bit at the end. does not like to showcase such a detail, unless it's with you, and only for your viewing. but there are times when a lord or sycophant says something too daring or out of place in court, and baelor would lick at his lips, letting the tip of his split tongue slither out just a bit, enough to be seen, with the barest hiss, before addressing the offender. it works like a charm in making himself heard and obeyed.

✧ BEHAVIOUR ⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor is all about control and appearance. to the outside world, at least. he needs to appear like he is in control of himself and his dragonic side, especially when members of the court are around. proving oneself does not leave room for mistakes, and no matter how kind and benevolent he is, one slip could crumble it all away. baelor has the favor of the small folk and lordlings alike, and wants to keep it that way until he can feel the cold touch of the crown upon his brow and have the realm at his fingertips. until then, restraint and impeccable etiquette must be exercised every moment of the day in the presence of others. not that it does not come naturally to baelor, but some days are harder than others, and reigning in his more baser, primal instincts proves to be a challenge.

⤷ as the heir to the iron throne, baelor is very busy and well known to be a bit, or more of a workaholic. he dislikes it because it keeps him away from you, his mate, for too long at times. perhaps from an outside perspective, he might seem like a serious, kind husband who will tend to his wife as duty demands, but not much more. that could not be further from the truth, for he craves you even when you are right next to him. you are a balm to his senses, softening the hard edges that come with the incessant demands of duty he is subjected to every single day. there is no better cure for his self-destructive ways of working himself to the bone than a stern look from you or a plea for respite. it shatters every shackle that binds him to his solar, his desk, his stack of letters and reports, and guides him right back to you, where he belongs.

⤷ unfortunately, there are days when he cannot simply disregard duty and has to lock himself in his solar for hours on end, at times the whole day, just to be able to make a dent in all the stacks of papers he has lying around on his desk. it unnerves him, because he is aware that it makes you lonely. a wife should never go too long without the presence of her husband, and he would be remiss in letting you wallow in too much solitude. so, he comes up with a solution that will allow you to be close to him and grant him the possibility of working on his princely duties. he builds nests for you in his solar.

⤷ as a dragon, the urge to provide his mate with a nest is as old as time, and baelor knows how much you love the one he had built for you in your shared chambers, so why not... give you more? he makes sure the necessary materials are the softest gold can buy, from silks to wool to rich cotton, all just for your comfort. the way your face lights up when he offers the idea makes his chest rattle with a pleased rumble, knowing he has made his mate happy. the nests are placed in his solar a fortnight after: one close by the windowsill so you can soak up the sun while you read and knit, one in a more secluded corner, where the temperature drops just a bit, ideal for taking naps and resting, and baelor's favorite, one right under his desk, tucked beneath it, as close to him as possible.

⤷ despite what the realm might think, baelor craves you like no other; needs to be close to you as much as duty allows, and will do anything to make it happen. he loves it when you just curl up onto the nest under his desk, fingers gripping onto the hem of one pant leg or holding onto his tail. it's a heady feeling, having his mate seek him, wanting a point of contact even like this. the beast prowling in his chest almost purrs with delight when he feels you tug as much of his tail as you can towards yourself to cuddle it, cheek pressing against scales as you use it as a pillow while you slumber. baelor always takes a couple of minutes just to watch you, the tip of his tail slowly caressing your sleep-flushed cheek so, so tenderly, unable to help himself from touching, his heart skipping a beat when you unconsciously lean into the contact.

⤷ but, that is not the only way he uses his tail, especially when he has you so close to him, so sweet and warm. spending time next to him, just watching him pore over documents and work himself to the bone, bores you at times, as much as you want to wave it off and continue being a supportive wife. many a time have you enticed him to give in to less... princely endeavours, using all the weapons at your disposal to make his resolve crack bit by bit. a flutter of your lashes here, a whine there, a tug on his tail or breeches, all in favour of his attention, if even just for a few moments. and baelor, your dear dragon, your ever dutiful husband, was powerless to resist for too long, especially when you leaned back fully into the nest, parting your thighs while you slowly inched your skirts up to your waist, showing off your smallclothes, or at times, lack thereof. always wet, folds glistening with your arousal, calling to him like a siren song, he was too enamored of a man to resist.

⤷ do not think that baelor would push his chair back and crawl under his desk after you. no, not at all. work could not wait, now could it? so, he used his tail to give his pretty, needy wife what you so sought after, hands still busy writing letters and grain reports, delighting himself in the sounds of your moans and pleasured sights from under his desk. it was so easy to brush the tip of his tail upwards along the soft skin of your thigh, slow and steady, letting you feel him, building the anticipation before giving you what you wanted, swiping through sodden folds and drenching his scales in your slick. baelor always loved that sharp, breathy intake you took whenever the tip of his tail finally flicked against your clit, circling the sensitive nub in relentless motions, before tapping against it enough to make you gasp but never enough to sting, unless you asked for it nicely. it always reminded you of how your husband loved doing the same thing with the head of his cock whenever you fucked. mimicking the action with the tip of his tail always made you heady and bashful with lust.

⤷ flicking and playing with your clit, dipping his tail just a bit into your wet hole to tease, ever careful not to hurt you, swiping through your folds again and again. baelor does anything to get you to cum as much as you want, multitasking between continuing his work and drawing out the most delicious sounds from your plush lips, letting you soak his tail to your heart's delight, happy that he's able to offer you release. at times, you get so overwhelmed, fingers grasping at his tail, needing something to ground yourself to, ending up pressing the scaly muscle against your soaked cunt and grinding against it, humping it eagerly to get yourself off, whining high in your throat at the feel of the bumps and ridges against your clit. your dragon always finds it so endearing, making sure to curl his tail just right, helping you chase that delicious heat, wanting his wife to never want for nothing.

⤷ he loves to croon at you, even if he cannot see you. "feels good, my sweet?" baelor would hum as he continued writing, a small, pleased smile curling onto his lips as your moans got a little higher at the sound of that rumbled tone of his. "that's it, that's it. good girl." his praise washes over you in waves, bringing warmth to your skin and more slick between your thighs, only getting you to hump his tail faster. "you're dirtying me, my love," your dragon would continue, but not as a reprimand, the candor of his voice too gratified to sound like a reproach. "are you marking me, hm? getting that sweet honey all over my scales? is that how you scent your dragon, sweetling?"

⤷ it gives both of you a sort of thrill. you're under his desk, in a nest he crafted for you, and he cannot see you, the wood obscuring everything you are doing. but he can hear all the sounds, all the whines, everything. the wet noises your cunt makes when the tip of his tail prods at your sopping hole. the rustle of your skirts as you grind your hips. the way your feet and elbows sometimes hit against the side of the desk, making the wood rattle just a bit, his handwriting skittering against paper, making him huff. never angry, always pleased. baelor cannot see you, but he can feel you around his tail, onto it, and hear every single sound your body makes; you make. it's maddening.

⤷ and you have a perfect view of how hard his cock gets. how he spreads his thighs just a bit to relieve some of the pressure, the length tenting his breeches obscenely, making you even wetter. you try not to fall prisoner to the pull in your gut that tells you to move closer, to assist your husband the way he does you. but how could you ever, when you see his cock twitch every time your moans pitch higher because of the way the tip of his tail taps wetly against your clit? how could you not sit up and crawl between his legs, dipping your head to mouth and mewl along his clothed thigh, rubbing your cheek against the hard print of his cock insistently, offering him the friction he so craves?

⤷ he's weak for you, forgoing his papers in favour of petting at your hair, humming as he watches you paw at his crotch, mouth open, tongue licking at him through his breeches. you're so eager, and he's never felt more powerful than in that moment, with his pretty wife between his thighs, willing to offer him pleasure in return. your fingers make quick work of his breeches, whining impatiently until you can get your mouth onto his cock, lips stretched around the girth of him, muffling your noises. "good?" baelor rumbles, letting his talons scrape and pet at your hair, tender and soothing, lulling you along as you suckle and lick at his cock. the expression on your face is serene, almost peaceful, and your husband knows what you need. "rest on my thigh," he coaxes. "hm, yes, like that, my love. good, good. stay like that for me." and you do, mouthing at his cock, swirling your tongue around the length, cockwarming it while it rests inside your mouth. baelor knows this is relaxing for you, even if it takes a lot out of him not to thrust inside that perfect, wet warmth enveloping him, but he holds back, petting your hair, brushing your cheek and crooning soft praise as your eyes lower, half-lidded and drowsy, mouthing at his cock lazily, suckling occasionally. he makes sure to rub your back with his tail, wanting you as pliant and melting as possible.

⤷ of course, your mouth is not the only one being used for pleasure, for there are days when he hauls you from under the desk, placing you flush atop of hardwood, not caring about the papers and ink spilled for once, needing one thing and one thing only: to service you with his mouth. baelor is uncaring if he rips your skirts a little or not as he hikes them up your thighs, revealing your pussy to him, wasting no time in smushing his face right into the slick heat of you, inhaling the musk into his lungs and letting it fester, growling deeply into sodden folds. long tongue, the forked end of it lapping at you with fervor as he holds you against his mouth, tail wrapping around your waist to press you as close as possible, feasting to his heart's content. your juices coat his beard, nose, and chin, the pepper-salt hairs glistening with your slick in the candlelight. he preens at the way you arch off the desk, your fingers threading through his hair to press him further into you, grinding against his tongue until you cum. your husband is more than delighted to pull as many orgasms out of you as possible until you're spent and boneless.

⤷ he doesn't wash off the scent of you from his beard. baelor leaves it there until the morrow, way past when the council has finished, loving the thought of having your scent clinging to him, just as his is all over you, for he had nuzzled you incessantly before leaving your bed that morning. your husband never lets you leave his side until you reek of him, wanting every single courtier that comes into contact with you to smell him in you first, and then your sweet scent warping around his own. a dragon needs to protect his treasure, to hoard it close and deter any grubby paws from touching it. baelor always leans close and sniffs at you at the end of the day, when you both retire to your chambers, nose pressing to skin and clothes and hair, making sure there are no other scents cling to you. only his. only ever his.

⤷ scenting you so thoroughly ties into the need for him to breed you every time he fucks you. rutting into you deep and slow, too frustrated from working so late into the night, sometimes knotting the air, too eager and wound up, his body not having the patience to be all the way inside. but then again, having the pleasure to stuff you full, nudging his fat knot inside of your wet hole, groaning "shh, i know, sweet girl, i know." as the girth stretches you wide, one broad palm smoothing down your back soothingly to coax you to relax. "s' too big, hm? but you can take it, my love. just a bit more." when he's finally all the way to the hilt, your walls squeezing around his knot so deliciously, he can't help but blanket you with his body as he fills you again and again with every snap of his hips. "so good. gods, you're so warm, my heart. just right for my clutch to grow."

⤷ and a clutch will eventually grow, for baelor is sure to keep his cock inside you as deep as it'll go, his knot keeping all his seed where it needs to be: in your womb.

⤷ as much as he loves the heated moments, your dragon also wouldn't trade the tender ones for the world. the way you ask the maesters to prepare oils and creams for his scales and horns, your gentle fingers rubbing them in so carefully, making sure to get the salves in all the ridges and crevices. baelor's scales are so shiny afterwards, making him preen with delight when you fawn over them, admiring the way your dragon looks, all pampered and taken care of. you love helping him like this, making sure he looks impeccable for court, for the realm, feeling warmth in your chest when you see how regal and powerful your husband is, scales glistening in the light like rubies.

⤷ even as busy as he is, baelor would always put you first, the realm is his duty, but you are his heart. he cannot imagine not having you close as his wife, his mate. having you close is no longer a need, but a constant in his life. wrapping himself around you as you sleep, tail curled around your waist or thighs, pressing you flush to him as he scents and sniffs at your throat and hair, whispering how much he loves you, how blessed he is to have one such as you next to him. his duty to the realm is, by extension, his duty to you, as well. baelor wants to make the seven kingdoms a better place so you can live and exist in a better place, safer, happier, less concerned by misfortunes. he truly wishes no harm to befall you and will do everything in his power to make sure that one day his wife breathes with less weight on her shoulders because he willed it so.

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Golden afternoon sunshine glitters across the river’s surface, mottled between the gently swaying leaves of the willow above. The branches skim the water, a brush against canvas, as you lather honey wax soap between two wet hands. You hum quietly as you place the soap bar amongst the shingles before running your fingers over Dunk’s hair, threading bubbles through the lightly knotted strands.

The knight’s eyes are closed as he sits in the river’s shallows, water lapping around his bare hips. You kneel on the bank, his thick woolen cloak softening the press of stones beneath your legs as you extend your arms and scrub your fingers against his scalp.

“Hair like a horse’s,” you remark, taking a good fistful of his tawny brown hair and pulling it out, admiring the length of the soapy strands. “S’gotten long, hasn’t it?”

Dunk leans back into your touch, your other hand working at the nape of his neck. He keeps his eyes closed as he speaks. “You can cut it if you want.”

You laugh softly, twirling the thick lock around your finger. You give it a little tug, a small grunt leaving the back of his throat.

“No, I like it,” you mutter, before wiping the remaining suds across his freckled shoulders. You pat him firmly on the back, the slap of wet skin loud through the woodland around you. “Rinse, boy.”

Dunk does what he’s told and bends his large body forward. He dunks his head beneath the water, hands finding his hair to wash the soap away. Your eyes trace the curve of his spine, the muscles across his back and shoulders, but you make good work of ignoring the dip in his lower back and the curve of his arse. Instead, you watch a misty cloud of white float away downstream, before Dunk is pulling himself out of the water.

And you realise you didn’t get out of the way.

“Shit!” You exclaim, attempting to fall to the side, but to no avail. Dunk whips his head back, cold river water dashing across your face and chest as he shakes his head like a dog. You groan, slapping his shoulder as you get to your feet, other hand wiping down your face. “Every fucking time, Dunk.”

“Then you should expect it by now,” Dunk says, smiling up at you as you wring excess water from your sleeves. You shoot him a pointed look and he laughs. He wades out further into the river, turning and floating, watching you carefully. “Are you bathing too?”

You nod, already untying your dress. You shed your layers until you’re bare atop his cloak, bending to fold your clothes neatly atop the spun wool. It’s a juxtaposition to his own belongings, which are strewn haphazardly across the bank. Carefully, you toe the water and despite the pleasant spring air glowing warm around you, the water bites cold.

“It’s not bad,” Dunk tells you. He’s looking in your direction, but those sky-blue eyes of his are squarely on your face. Countless times you’ve been bare before him in manners like this, and countless times his eyes have never strayed from the lines of your face. He brings a hand out of the water, cupping some in his palm. “See?”

“Says the walking furnace himself,” you mumble as you take a deep breath, realising slowly wading in wasn’t going to do you any favours. So, you take a few large steps until you’re knee deep in the river, before diving straight in. Cold water rushes around you, and when you break the surface a few feet from Dunk, you gasp. “Ah! Dunk, you prick, it’s freezing!”

You splash him then, and he takes it with a wide grin split across his face. You splash him again, and he chuckles, reaching one strong arm out and taking hold of your wrist. Your other hand splashes too, water flying around you, and he grabs that wrist with his other hand. He holds you firmly, and before you know it, he’s dunking you under the water.

You’re under for barely a second, and he hoists you out, laughter echoing loudly through the clearing, glancing off the river’s surface like a skipping stone.

“I hate you,” you spit, but you don’t mean it. 

You regain control of your arms—he lets you go, not that you have to fight him—and you grab the nape of his neck. He laughs while you shove him beneath the water, holding him there like you mean to drown him. The knight lets you, of course, considering he gives you a victorious four seconds before he easily rights himself and comes up for air. You let out a playful yelp, swimming away as he takes a swipe at you. You kick yourself off the stony bottom, paddling away, but he gets a hand on your ankle and yanks you back so firmly that a wake pushes out around you, sending the water lapping higher up the shingled bank.

“Dunk!” You shout as you thrash about the water. You look around the forest, dappled sunlight passing across your eyes in short, golden bursts. You smile as you shout, “My closest friend is drowning me! A knight is drowning me! Help!”

Dunk smiles, rolling his eyes. “Oh, hush. You deserve it.”

That night, beneath the ever-reaching cloak of darkness, you huddle by the fire, gnawing on a slightly stale roll of beef-stuffed bread. You had been reading your book—the only book you had, and which you had read eight times over yet—which now sits at your feet. There’s a slight chill in the air that licks at the flames in such a way they look to be dancing atop the gathered branches. Dunk approaches from tending to the horses, pulling his thick cloak from his shoulders. You look up, mouth full and cheeks protruding, as Dunk bends and wraps his cloak around your body.

“Y’do’ h’v t’do dat,” you say around your dinner, and he looks at you strangely as you chew.

“D’you just cast a spell on me?” He asks, shaking his head as he settles down beside you.

You slap his thigh, chewing and finally swallowing. You shrug your shoulders, gesturing to the heavy cloak now shrouding you. “You don’t have to do that,” you repeat, clearer now.

“Right, then I’ll take it back.” Dunk reaches a hand out, but you lean away.

“No, no, whatever, thank you,” you say quickly, enjoying the added layer and the heat as the nightly chill rustles the dead leaves on the ground around you. Dunk just huffs, amused, reclining back against the trunk of the willow. You look down at your half-eaten roll then, sighing through your nose before offering it to him. “You can have the rest.”

He shakes his head firmly. “No, you need to eat.”

“This is my second roll.”

“Exactly,” Dunk says, eyes flitting down your covered frame for just a second, flames reflecting in his eyes. He looks back at you. “You need to eat. I’d make you a third if we had any rolls left.”

You shake the bread roll in front of his face, a strip of salt beef hanging out the bitten end. “I’ve eaten. Have the rest.”

“No, you need to eat.”

“Dunk, I’ve eaten. I’m full.”

“No, you’re not.”

You roll your eyes. “Take the fucking bread.”

Dunk eyes the food sceptically for a moment, then looks back to you. “Are you sure?”

“Take the bread or I’ll throw it at your big head.”

Dunk takes it without another word, his sword-calloused fingers brushing yours. He takes a large bite, chewing contently as you lean back against the tree as well. Your shoulders knock together, and you feel the heat radiating off of him despite his thin tunic and fraying summer cloak he insists he mends himself—despite your sewing skills being considerably better than his (which, in itself, is not difficult considering his are… poor).

You take the corner of the cloak, your thumb immediately poking through a hole there. He watches you, eyes wide and glistening. There are crumbs around his lips.

“You need to let me mend this,” you tell him, wiggling your thumb for emphasis.

“I can do it.”

“I’ve mended every cloak you’ve had since we were children,” you say pointedly, tugging on the hole. It rips a little bigger, and he makes a face. You hide your smile. “My needlework is much better than yours.”

He huffs. “I mended my trousers just this morning.”

In the semi-darkness, your eyes find a patch of poorly stitched fabric beneath his right knee.

You laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Dunk takes a rough bite of the bread roll, shaking his head as he chews. “Some friend you are.”

—✿—

Four days later, you and Dunk ride your horses along a well-trodden path. It rings around a dense thicket of woodland, and you listen to the way in which the trees jostle their leaves and branches together as the breeze blows through them. Birdsong filters out between the canopy too. You close your eyes, seated comfortably in your saddle as you ride Chestnut.

Ahead of you however, several hooded figures jump out onto the dirt road, brandishing jagged daggers. Dunk reacts before you, one strong arm shooting out to seize hold of Chestnut’s reins and pull you to an abrupt stop. Chestnut huffs in protest as Dunk manoeuvres himself and Thunder in front of you, the sturdy warhorse barely blinking as the three men advance.

“Pretty horse y’ve got,” one of the men says, gesturing to Thunder with the point of his dagger. The man’s eyes lift over to you a moment later, and he smiles a mouth full of silver as he gestures at you next. “Pretty wee lady y’ve got, too.”

Dunk’s face is set in stone, a steely flash in his eyes as he dismounts. All three men snap their eyes away from you to peer up at the hulking mass of a man standing before them. Dunk stands taller than Thunder’s withers, and he isn’t a small horse by any means.

One of the men falters on his sentence, concern flashing across his face, but the man who had first spoken takes a brave—or, you think, rather foolish—step forward, dagger outstretched. Dunk’s hand is balled tight on the pommel of his sword, which rests faithfully at his hip.

“Coin,” the man instructs simply. His eyes shoot up to you again, and you feel a worried chill creep up your spine. A sickly sort of nausea spindles through your diaphragm too. The man looks back at Dunk, dagger brandishing. “Or we can take the lady—”

Dunk rips his sword from its rope sheath and points it at the man. The other two take a few large steps back. Dunk grips the sword, the blade unwavering as he angles it directly at the man’s face.

“Speak one more word and you lose a hand,” Dunk grits out, the muscles in his jaw working. You watch, slightly helpless, from your saddle. Dunk nods towards the other two men, who still clutch their daggers in dirt-stained fingers. “Well? Anything to say?”

The first man scowls. “You—”

Dunk spins his wrist and shifts forward, blade of his sword coming down hard on the man’s hand. Blood splatters outwards in stripes of red silk, painting the earth like a bug squashed beneath a thumb. The man lets out a harrowing scream, his dagger hitting the reddened earth with a dull thud as he backs away, cradling his hand now. A large, deep gash splits across the side of his hand, cutting beneath the thumb knuckle in a bloody display of muscle and bone.

“Fucking hell!” One of the other men shouts, before proceeding to sprint back into the shadows of the forest alongside his friend, scarpering like a pair of rats. The injured man stumbles back, sending Dunk a look of pure fright, before vanishing into the woods, leaving a dotted trail of blood in his wake.

Dunk kicks the dagger away, watching it skitter off into the woodlands underbrush, before turning to you. He approaches slowly, placing a gentle hand on your calf.

“Are you alright?” He asks, wiping the tip of his sword through the dirt.

“Fine,” you tell him. Your eyes find his, which are brimming with worry, before you allow yours to rise to the forest line. You sigh. “You should’ve cut his hand off.”

Dunk sheaths his sword, frowning. “I was… I was trying to be intimidating. I didn’t—I mean, if he tried to get to you, I would’ve… I would’ve maybe, you know—”

You reach down and pet your friend gently on the top of his head. “Too noble for your own good, aren’t you?”

He shrugs, and he’s still holding your calf. “Thieves like that are mostly harmless. I didn’t…” He looks up at you then. “Should I have…?”

You shake your head. “You did great, Dunk. Very brave, and very strong.”

Dunk bows his head, bashful. He gives your calf one last firm pat before pulling himself up and into his own saddle. He offers you one last glance over his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m fine, Dunk.”

He nods too, turning. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, still smiling as your eyes find his shoulders and back. You see the mass of muscle beneath the material that covers him, and you can’t help the weight of your smile and the warmth in your chest that quickly replaces your feeling of nausea.

—✿—

Two days after that, the springtime sun shines warmly against your back as you and Dunk traipse the sun-soaked cobbled streets of Oldtown. The towering knight loiters close behind you as you browse the market stalls, air swimming with flowery incense and freshly baked breads. Dunk lugs a few linen sacks of supplies in his arms, carrying them easily, as you give him yet another parchment-wrapped parcel of who knows what.

He lets you slip it into one of the sacks. “What is that?”

“Cake,” you say simply.

The frown that graces his face is light as he fights a smile. “You can’t keep buying cake. Our coin is scarce, and should be spent on things we need.”

You shoot him a pointed look over your shoulder, replying light-heartedly, “Well, it’s my coin and I need cake. Shut up.”

Dunk doesn’t argue, and instead follows you through the crowd. You linger ahead though as Dunk lags behind, hyper-aware of his large size taking up a considerable amount of the thoroughfare. He apologises under his breath as he accidentally bumps someone, and he tries to keep his arms tucked in as he holds onto all the produce you had insisted on purchasing.

When he finally catches up to you, after being cursed at by an elderly woman, you’re standing before a market stall with a wide grin split across your pretty face. Dunk watches you laugh softly at something the vendor says—the vendor, who happens to be a very attractive man around your age—before offering a response. And whatever you say makes the vendor smile even wider, a mouth full of flashing ivory.

Something solid churns deep in Dunk’s chest. It settles deep in the chambers of his heart.

He sidles up to you as casually as possible, body casting a long shadow across the stall. The vendor looks up, and Dunk almost feels guilty in the delight that greets him when the vendor’s smile vanishes.

You lift your head, smiling at your companion. “Dunk, what do you think?”

His eyes pull away from the vendor to where you’re showing him… another cake.

He huffs. “M’lady.”

It’s small, probably an easy fit in the palm of your hand, decorated with segments of blackberries and dusted with glittering sugar. His eyes flit from the little cake to your face, where you look at him with glossy eyes he swears he can see his reflection in—all pleading and begging and looking just the way you did when he met you all those years ago. Except now, you’re no longer surrounded by the grime of Flea Bottom. You’re here, together, in a tightly-packed market in Oldtown, clean and well-fed and smelling of honey and horse.

“One more,” you whisper. “This one looks good.”

“I’m certain you said that earlier,” Dunk mutters, but doesn’t argue. 

He nods at the vendor, who hurries to offer you a square of parchment to wrap the little cake in. You beam, and Dunk feels something glowing from his chest, warm against the bone of his sternum. He hands the vendor the right coin before the two of you move off, heading back through the market, footsteps audible against the cobbled ground.

“Thank you,” you say suddenly, shifting to the side to lean your cheek against his arm. The muscle of his bicep is pillowy and warm against your face, and you peer up at him as you take a gentle hold of his wrist as he hefts the loot of the trip. “Thank you, Dunk.”

He smiles down at you, a few strands of hair framing his face. “Y’welcome.”

—✿—

Evening falls in a curtain of pale oranges and yellows as you lounge across the mattress. The inn room around you is lit up in those colours, sunlight streaming in through the small window that overlooks one of Oldtown’s many winding alleys. You lie comfortably in your chemise, candles burning near the iron-framed bed, deflated pillows piled behind you. Paper rustling is all that fills the room as you read, the book resting in your lap.

The room’s door opens and Dunk ducks in. You greet him.

He stands over the bed and holds something out to you. “Here.”

You place your book aside, taking in his slightly flushed appearance. “What…?”

The knight holds a book out towards you, leather-bound and clean of wear and tear. Your mouth parts into a small gasp as you gently take the book, admiring it and hefting its weight in your hands.

“Dunk,” you mutter, looking up at him. “Where did you get this?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says quietly. He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You’ve read your book a hundred times over by now, so I thought a new one’d suit you well.”

You brush your fingers down the neatly bound spine. “Dunk…”

Tossing it aside, you all but throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and squeezing him to you. He laughs at your enthusiasm, arms wrapping around your middle, cheeks heating as you murmur thanks into his shoulder. You pull back after a moment, but his hands rest on your hips and your fingers remain interlinked behind the column of his neck.

“You’re too good to me, y’know that?” You mutter, cocking your head and appraising the pink tint across his lightly freckled cheeks.

It flushes to his ears. “You deserve it. That and more, t’be fair.”

You chuckle at that, your fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. You thread them slowly, scratching against his scalp, and the sound that leaves his throat is nothing less than a purr as his eyes close and he leans his head back into the contact. The grip he has on your hips tightens. You’re so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.

“Like what?” You query, your other hand resting high on his shoulder, toying with the seam of his tunic.

Dunk opens his eyes. “Huh?”

“You said I deserve that and more,” you tell him. “Like what? What else do I deserve?”

He groans quietly, warring with himself as his eyes, lids half-lowered and sluggish in their movements, trace the features of your face.

“So much more,” he whispers. The hold on your hips draws firmer and you feel a giddy sort of heat take over you, settling in your stomach and between your thighs. Dunk continues, corner of his mouth curling up into a shadow of a grimace. “More than I can give you.”

You pout at his words, fingers in his hair taking the strands firmly between knuckles and tugging. He sucks in a breath, and you hold him as you speak.

“Don’t act the fool,” you say. “You give me everything I want, Dunk.”

He frowns.

“You do,” you challenge, hand not in his hair coming to cup his cheek now. His skin is warm and slightly dewy to the touch, testament of a man having spent the last hour searching the warm, narrow streets of Oldtown for a book. A book for you. You swipe your thumb along his cheekbone. “Now tell me: what else do I deserve?”

Dunk opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes sweep down your face again, lingering on the shape of your lips, then the lines of your nose. They reach your eyes and he releases a pained sound—a sound punched from his gut, dragged across a whimper so intimate that it settles your heartbeat between your thighs.

“You deserve everything,” he whispers finally, tongue finding the corner of his mouth. Touching, a nervous movement, before his lips close and he’s trapping a grunt between his teeth as you scratch at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, speaking like your touch might put him to sleep. “Everything I can give you.”

The hand you have on his face shifts to his jaw and you work the muscle and bone beneath the pads of your fingers. “And what can you give me?”

Dunk groans, head lolling to the side, resting against your forearm while you continue to rub at the nape of his neck, hair between your fingers. You let go of his jaw and swipe your hand across his forehead, pushing loose strands away so you can get a good look at his face. He’s redder now, his blush coloured darker in the shadows of the room. His freckles blur together beneath the flickering candlelight too, and you allow yourself to feather the tips of your fingers across the ones high on his cheekbones. You map them like the stars as he rubs his head against your forearm like a cat.

“Anything you want,” Dunk whispers finally, and it’s broken around a whine. Heat prickles at the back of your neck, blood pumping hot in your core as your body reacts to his audible need. Beneath the thin material of your chemise, you’re on fire. Dunk finally opens his eyes, observing you when the silence stretches for just a moment too long. He says your name, soft, tender, before he speaks. “Please.”

You smile, tucking a few thin locks of his hair behind his ear. You lean in, lips ghosting across the warm skin of his cheek. “I want you.”

A rumbling groan is ripped from his throat as he shifts his head to the side, chasing your words before they can disappear into the candlelit air. His mouth slots to yours so easily as you turn your head too, and another deep sound leaves his mouth as your lips work together. You grip his hair tightly, angling his head back so you can draw him in even closer.

Your name falls from his mouth, followed by a whisper of “my sweet girl,” before your tongues draw together. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, clutching firmly, fingers flexing as if you would draw away from him. You whimper in response, tugging at his hair.

“C’mon,” he mutters against your mouth as his hands find your hips again. He shifts you backwards, hefting you like a sack of grain until your head hits the stack of pillows. You smile into the kiss, pulling his hair into a closed fist at the back of his head. He groans, teeth catching on your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give it to you.”

You sit up slightly, forcing him to back up. Tugging your chemise off, the amber-lit warmth of the room greets your bare tits, and you toss the garment aside as Dunk gapes at you, eyes firmly on your chest.

“Dunk,” you chuckle, taking in his shocked—pleased—expression. “You’ve seen me bare before.”

“Not like this,” he utters, voice dark. He leans in then, and you suck in a gasp as he presses his face between the valley of your breasts. His hands find the small of your back, hugging you to him, and the skin of his face is burning red-hot against your chest. His mouth opens and he groans loudly, holding you tightly. “Oh gods.”

You seize his head and pull him back to you. You kiss him hard this time—it’s not gentle, and it’s not tender. It’s teeth and tongue and spit and fuelled by everything pent up inside you. A glass bottle uncorked, liquid need overflowing as you lick the salt from his tongue. His clothing comes next: blindly, you work his tunic over his arms and shoulders, pulling away from him so he could throw it across the room. He’s on you like a leaping hound, pinning you back against the pillows while your hands find the ties of his trousers.

There’s a molasses-thick desire seeping into your belly as you untie his trousers. It consumes you, hot and sticky, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth as your fingers brush across the tent in the material of his trousers. He groans in return, the sound breathless and almost embarrassed, as you shuck his trousers down and start tugging at his breeches.

He pulls back. “Sweet girl, hold on—”

You pause, panting, fingers on the knot at the band of his breeches. “Are you okay?”

“M’so good,” Dunk whispers, kissing you one last time on the lips. It’s chaste, almost polite, something akin to an apology before he leans back. A pout is halfway formed across your lips, nipples hardening at the loss of warmth against your front, before you feel his hands run down your back to the bunched fabric of your smallclothes. His eyes find yours as he slowly, slowly begins guiding them down. “Is this okay?”

You nod, admiring the shadowed lines of his face in the candlelight. A small dip in his brow draws his face into a mask of disbelief as he gently draws your smallclothes down your hips, over the curve of your arse, and then down your thighs. You lift yourself to aid him, eyes on the way his tongue finds the corner of his mouth again, his pupils blown wide. Soon, your thin linen undergarments are discarded and you lie completely bare before him.

“Here she is…” Dunk whispers, and it’s so quiet you’re certain it wasn’t meant for you.

His large hands find the plush of your thighs, kneading the flesh there as he parts them. His movements are unhurried as he brings them wider, and wider still, until the slick heat of your core glistens wet in the flickering candlelight. The sound that leaves him is pained, stretched thin across a moan as his fingers ghost down the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He traces circles as he looks.

Your heart clatters against your ribcage like a marble in a jar and you swear you’re losing your breath. A hand you barely register as yours reaches out, feeling along the line of hair above his breeches. The muscle is cloaked in a layer of fat that you dig your fingers into, and you taste that molasses-thick desire between your teeth as his name rolls over your tongue.

“Put your mouth on me,” you say when you draw his attention away from your core. Your fingers dip, tracing the line of hair, brushing over the tent in his breeches. There’s a jerk of mass beneath the fabric. It sends your heartbeat straight between your legs.

The small dent in his brow deepens as he shudders out a breath, eyes on yours. “I’ve never…”

“S’alright,” you tell him, other hand finding his face. You pat his cheek tenderly. “We’ll learn—we’ll learn together, okay?”

His lips part, but he nods. A few strands of hair fall across his eyes as he settles further onto the bed, mattress and bedframe groaning. You can feel the callouses on the top of his palms against you, and his hands twist from your inner thighs to the backs of them. You yelp when he suddenly pushes your thighs up, thumb and fingers on either side of your knee’s undersides. He bends them up until they rest against the softness of your belly. 

The angle is exposing, and there is a fleeting moment of fear that passes through your mind. It is squashed immediately when a boarish grunt leaves Dunk’s throat as he bends forward, squeezing your legs to anchor himself, before his breath is ghosting across you.

You writhe, gasping out, “Dunk, Dunk, please—”

His eyes appear black in the dim light as he peers up at you, hair damp on his forehead already. He watches you carefully as he blows out a breath—the sensation against your slick folds slicing your sentence mid-air. You moan softly and Dunk repeats the action, tepid air a finger-like stroke against the blazing warmth of your cunt. You manage to wriggle an arm between the fold of your legs, your fingers threading through his hair again.

He takes the encouragement: still looking up at you, Dunk gently presses his mouth to your core. It’s a kiss, a press of lips against velvet warmth, before they part. His tongue follows, a tentative split between your folds as his head shifts. His nose bumps your clit, and when a short “ha-ah” slips over the point of your tongue, he chases—tongue finding, searching, until you call a stretched-out whine of his name when he finally gets it.

“Dunk, yes, fuck,” you ramble, fisting his hair when he flattens his tongue. Something electric fizzles down your spine, shoulders to hips, as he works with a pressure just slightly too little, but somehow it works. It works because it’s him, and it works because you cant your hips and gently urge his head forward. And because he’s a good knight, your good knight, he listens, his lips drawing around your clit in a wet suction that punches a moan from you. “Du–uh–nk, oh gods.”

A thick grumble vibrates against you, his eyelids fluttering. His mouth shifts, tongue splitting back down your folds as you pant. He continues to watch you, eyes glassy. You nod, imploring, when the point of his tongue finds your hole, and you tighten your grip on his hair when he presses in. Like everything else about him, his tongue is thick—a thick press inside you that pulls you apart. It draws a pressure into the base of your belly as he licks into you, the line of his nose pressing deep against your puffy clit.

You wriggle beneath him, trapped under the fold of your own thighs as he pins you to the mattress and takes what he wants—gives you what you need. And he gives it to you, ever the quick-learner, with his tongue pulling and pushing in broad strokes. In, out, curling inwards as his head shifts. He chases the gasps that fall from your mouth, the little whimpers you try and quell as his tongue flicks in. He hums, pleased at the way your body heats up beneath him, and he feels his cock jerk in his breeches when the vibrations of his hum travel straight through you. You keen, holding his head tighter against your core. He breathes deeply, smelling and tasting you, face slick and flushed.

Is this good? he wants to ask. Am I making you feel good? teeters painfully on his tongue, but he keeps them locked in. He doesn’t want to interrupt this. Not now, not ever. The sounds you make spur him on, ignite a spark deep in his chest. His closest friend. His. His sweet girl writhing and moaning for him.

Sickly sweet now, the molasses-thick need crystalises in your womb, and you feel something tugging. A deep-seated pressure that rocks your heartbeat through your core, blood pumping hot in your veins. There’s a tension in your thighs too, and they tremble in his hold as his tongue splits you apart. The sounds are wet, and Dunk is grunting, and you’re trying not to fall too deeply into it—but you can’t help it. All you can think of, all you can hear, all you can taste is Dunk, Dunk, Dunk, and that pressure inside you builds to its breaking point. Your fingers grip his hair tightly as you attempt to grind yourself against his face.

“Dunk,” you whine, calling for him as your body shakes. “Dunk, s’good—m’gonna—”

You burst apart when his tongue dips deep inside you and he groans into your heat. The pressure inside you fissures and your cunt clenches tightly around him, heartbeat spiking as you call for him over and over, strung across breathy whimpers that seem to rise into the ceiling. He licks you through it, face unyielding as you tremble under the weight of his palms.

After a long moment, pleasure spiking sharp in the pit of your stomach, you pull him away from you by his hair. The knight groans, eyes finally closing, his face slick with you, lips kiss-bruised and wet as he whispers your name. He squeezes your thighs too, before gently placing your legs back against the sheets.

“Did I… was that okay?” Dunk can finally ask, eyes roaming down your naked form. They fall from your face, to your chest and stomach, to where you drool out between your thighs. The sight makes him moan, one hand resting over his lap.

“So good,” you assure him, picking yourself off the pillows now. Dunk swallows, watching you as you close the gap and kiss him. He’s shocked, frozen for a split-second as you lick yourself from his lips. The loud moan you offer him quickly pulls him back to solid earth, and he opens his mouth to kiss you back. You mutter against his lips, “You did so well, Dunk.”

He preens beneath the praise, ears burning hot as your tongues meet. He huffs into the kiss, his own pleasure thick in his trousers, the taste and smell and heat of you swimming in his head. But you seem to know exactly how he’s feeling, and your hand finds the ties of his breeches once more. You pull them loose as your mouths move together.

You dip a hand in and wrap your fingers around his cock. Dunk breaks the kiss with a low groan, forehead resting against yours as you pull him from the linen of his breeches. He’s warm and solid in your hand, velvet skin across steel as he pumps hot in your hand. Both of you look down.

“Gods…” You whisper, giving him a little stroke. It’s not like you’ve never seen it before. But here, in the privacy of this little inn room, bathed in ichored candlelight, it’s so much different. Your fingers work lightly, feeling the subtle give of skin. There are soft, shallow ridges and a vein you can feel working up the back of his shaft, and he’s so warm and so real against you. You whisper again, “So pretty, Dunk.”

He offers you a whiny breath as your fingers press beneath the dip of his cockhead. It’s blushing a deep pink and pearling wet at the slit and he looks embarrassed. His cheeks are pink and he’s frowning like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Your hand is so much smaller than his—the sight of it wrapped around his cock making it jerk.

“So big…” You think aloud as your fingers move gently.

Dunk breathes deeply, chest heaving. His hands are on your hips, gripping you firmly, smoothing stuttering circles with his thumbs.

You pull away from him. He looks at you, eyes nearly black.

“Want you,” you tell him simply, fingers wrapping around the base of him now. You give him a tight squeeze. “Need you.”

“Gods above,” Dunk gasps out, but he’s already nodding. A thick, viscous heat clings to his ribs, pulls at the strings of his heart as he lets you work your fingers around the thick of his cock. He dips and kisses your forehead—he can’t help it. “Okay, sweet girl, I’ll give it to you.”

You smile then, retracting your hand. He hisses at the lack of contact, watching you shuffle back until you’re lying amongst your throne of pillows. The prettiest thing he’s ever seen. His sweet girl, spreading her legs with a smile on her pretty face. All for him.

The thoughts make him dizzy as he quickly shucks his clothing down his legs, kicking it away. He kneels on the bed, bedframe creaking beneath the weight of his body, but he ignores it. He draws in close to you, large hands finding the backs of your thighs and folding you again. The sound it pushes from your chest—“ha–uh–fu–uck, Dunk,”—is breathy and sweet in the amber-lit air between you. It has his cock jerking where it sits heavy and leaking against the mass of his thigh as he settles before you.

It’s easy to fold you like this. He leans over you, abdomen contracting as he holds himself up enough not to crush you. Up enough, too, to take one hand and clutch the base of his cock, guiding it to your cunt. You whimper his name and the sound goes directly to his brain, fills his lungs like a puff of smoke. It’s heady and dizzying and he can’t help but moan as he drags the head of his cock up and down your slit.

“Dunk,” you whine, the pressure between your folds sparking something in your lower belly again. Your cunt flutters around nothing when he taps the head against your swollen clit, then slowly drags it back down to notch at your hole. You suck in a breath. “Please.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he’s listening. He clutches himself in a lightly trembling hand and carefully, almost too slowly, pushes in. Your pussy opens up for him, slick and warm, sucking in the head with a wet clutch that has him losing his breath. It’s tight and unlike nothing he’s ever experienced before.

You whimper, hands gripping the sheets beside you. “Dunk, please, keep going.”

He hadn’t realised he’d stopped.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, then shifts his hips. Such a good listener. 

He leans in, cock splitting you apart. He’s thick and heavy, dragging against your walls in one solid movement. It’s intoxicating, and you whine, the sound rattling your teeth as it’s wrenched from the back of your throat. You’re so full, and he’s still moving.

Dunk mutters your name like a prayer as he feeds his cock into you, marvelling at the way you open for him. Deeper and deeper. He holds you firm, folding you into the mattress, pinned beneath his strong chest. The heat that envelops him, he’s certain, burns hotter than any flame in Westeros.

He stills after a moment. The head of his cock is wedged right up beneath the plug of your cervix, and there’s a slowly soothing ache somewhere in your pelvis. You can feel it, feel it festering like a bruise. Dunk’s cock gives a feeble jerk inside you, and you wince just slightly, so full, reaching so deep.

His face drops. Worried. “Are you—?”

“M’okay,” you whisper. The pain is slowly dissipating as your cunt flutters around him. You see him bite back a groan, pleasure fighting against concern. You smile at him softly. “So good, Dunk. You feel so good inside me.”

Dunk’s still frowning, but you can tell your words have hit him square across the face. He releases a shuddering breath, and his cock twitches inside you again.

“Please move,” you tell him, purposefully tightening the muscles of your core, sucking him in even tighter. His eyes flutter, and you finally get to hear that groan he had been wrangling with. It’s hoarse, flung through gravel. You huff loudly. “Please, Dunk.”

“Okay, okay,” Dunk utters, soothing.

Holding your thighs, he pulls out until just the head rests inside. He takes a deep breath, then pushes back in, and his composure shatters completely when you attempt to arch, moaning. He’s making you feel like this. He is. He hounds after that feeling, pulling his cock out again and repeating the movement until he settles into a pace he didn’t know he could keep.

“That’s it, just like that,” you ramble, tits bouncing against your chest as Dunk’s thrusts lean heavy. Your knees near your head, the pressure on your belly making him feel even deeper. The ache inside you has completely vanished, replaced now by that viscous heat you’ve come to love. “Dunk, fuck, so—so good.”

The bed creaks in protest as he drives you deeper and deeper into the mattress, his strokes becoming more confident. He’s a quick learner, you already know, and you can feel the pride leeching from him as he breaks you apart from the inside out. He’s basking in the little sounds that fall from you as the head of his cock nudges deep. Thick, stretching, rolling.

You’re so tight around him. Warm and slick and everything he’d dared to imagine late at night, bent against a tree with his cock in hand. And you take him so well, sucking him in as his hips roll, skin-slapping-skin. The iron headboard knocks against the wooden wall, but he pays it no mind, thoughts only of you, you, you. His girl. His perfect girl.

“Harder,” you moan, fisting the sheets.

Dunk listens.

He wrestles your legs onto his shoulders, angling himself even deeper now and thrusting deep. You yelp, then moan, at the angle and the fact he nails that perfect spot inside you on the third thrust. He hears it, hears the shift in your moans, feels the clench of your pussy, all hot and vice-like around him. And he follows it, tracing it like a line to treasure. Rolling hips, creaking bed, bear-like grunts.

“Like that?” He utters, but he knows. He’s folding you in half and he knows.

You can barely answer, pressure tight in your womb. His cock drags you closer to another release, bubbling hot as he pins you beneath the thick, muscled mass of his body. He’s a walking furnace, and you feel it closer now. Fire seeps from his skin. Sweat traps along your front, along your back, building beneath the joints of your knees as he fucks you.

“Y–yeah,” you manage to reply, but that’s all you have energy for. Your pleasure is stacking deep inside you and you’re losing your ability to form proper words.

Dunk grunts in response.

Hair hangs over his forehead, some tacked to his skin with sweat. The muscles in his arms work as he holds himself over you. He’s so thick, so strong. You manage to lift an arm to squeeze at his bicep, fingers indenting flesh. You want to bite it, but he has you trapped so firmly against the mattress that you’re sure you couldn’t move an inch if you tried.

Your pussy squeezes around him again as pressure builds. It’s familiar now, and you know where it comes from, and where it’s going to lead you, as it crawls down your spine and spans out across your womb.

You clutch Dunk’s arm with one hand, the other useless at your side, limbless and pleasure-lax. “Dunk.”

“Yeah?” He looks down at you, a light furrow in his brow. “You’ve got something for me?”

You nod. “M’so close.”

Dunk huffs, pace remaining. Firm and even, cock slamming into that perfect spot inside you. His hips roll, the mattress shifts, the bedframe groans and knocks heavy against the wall. Candles flicker around you, white wax dripping, rolling in pearls. His eyes are on you, blue smothered beneath black. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

That makes you moan. A feather-soft “Dunk,” followed by a louder, more desperate, “Oh, gods, Dunk—!” You shatter for a second time then, body giving in. Your cunt clutches tight around his cock, slick gushing as he fucks you through it, dribbling out and down the curve of your arse as he rocks in, in, in. His movements falter, just slightly, as you cry out for him, release pressing heavy on your belly as he folds you.

“M’here, m’here,” Dunk coos, bending to kiss you. Your legs press even deeper, and you whine into the kiss. Trembling, legs shaking, heart seeping deep into the marrow of your bones. Dunk pulls back, thrusts slowing by a fraction as his cock jerks. He moans like a wounded man, “Oh, sweet girl, I’m—I’m—”

It’s a sudden, solid heat in his pelvis. His cock jumps where it’s seated against the base of your cervix, and his balls draw tight where they rest against the curve of your arse. His hips stutter, thighs tensing, then he’s spilling. Inside you.

It feels thicker, hotter. It knocks through his diaphragm and he groans through it, jaw working as he shoves himself to the hilt inside you. He feels the way your pussy wraps to take him, sucks him in even deeper as he empties himself in white-hot stripes. The force in which it leaves him is dizzying, and his eyes drop closed, mouth parting.

And he can’t help himself.

“I love you,” he breathes out as he comes, spilling hot. It leaves him in shudders as he holds himself over you, trapping you, keeping you. He huffs, fending off a groan as he rolls his hips to a stop. “Gods above.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment after that. The mattress settles as you still. You pant, and so does Dunk, as pleasure fizzles like the bubbles of ale.

Dunk flushes even deeper when he shakes himself from his haze. He opens his eyes properly, peering down at you as if he’d caused you injury.

“M’sorry,” he says quickly, scanning your face. “My sweet girl, I’m—”

You shake your head, heartbeat calming. “S’okay—oh, Dunk, it’s okay.”

You lift a hand to cup his cheek. He leans into it, eyes closing.

“I love you,” you tell him through a whisper. There’s a quiet in the room that feels warm against your skin. You can hear music somewhere below you: the muffled plucking of strings, the clamour of singing voices. You stroke his cheekbone with your thumb. “More than anything.”

His reply is to bend and kiss you again. It’s soft and tender, but there’s a strength behind it that tastes of the knight you know.

“You’re too good to me,” Dunk mumbles against your lips, echoing your words from earlier. “My sweet girl. Too good for me.”

You smile and kiss him harder.

———

big man fold me please i’m begging

tags 🌿

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had never felt more ready to face him.

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

────୨ৎ────

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

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

Would he even recognize you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You held his gaze without flinching. “Brother.”

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

But his voice came soft.

“I missed you.”

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

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

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

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

“What?” you whispered shakily, betraying yourself.

He took another step closer and you retreated one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────୨ৎ────

Several days passed with torturous slowness.

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

Aerion had become attentive. Almost chivalrous.

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

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

You weren’t crazy.

Why was this happening?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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