Rotten girl

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

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

best for him.

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

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

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

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

you were kind.

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

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

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

"because you sound absurd!!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

at breakfast.

at supper.

reading by the window.

laughing with your ladies.

sleeping beside him….

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

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

flowers. spices. books. rare dornish wines.

anything.

everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you will not go and that is final.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you walked past him toward the adjoining dressing chamber.

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

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

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

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

an hour passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head again.

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

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

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

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

there was nothing hesitant about it.

it was a hungry and desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you honestly just going to sit there and sulk?” you demand, finally stomping to a stop right in front of him. It does Dunk absolutely no good to have such a sight before him: your hands on your hips, glowering down at him and periodically blotting away sweat with your skirt. The long flashes of your legs nearly break him, but he won’t. He can’t. 

“Beg pardon, m’lady. But you should leave me be.” 

“And why’s that?” Another wipe of your forehead, skirt hiked up high enough to see the weathered top of your stockings. Dunk pushes himself as far back into his seat as he can get. You give him absolutely no respite, taking a slight step forward that puts your unbound chest right in his face. He swallows, hard. 

“M’lady…” 

“Suddenly, you seem in much higher spirits, Ser.” You lower yourself into his lap, rubbing your hand languidly over his crotch as he twitches into what just might be the most raging boner he’s ever had in his life. 

He takes a stuttering, deep breath and circles his hand around your wrist. Whether he means to push you away, hold you still, or shove your hand into his breeches, even he has no idea. “Please, my love. Don’t.” 

“But why?” Your strength should be no match for his, but when your hands finally do reach for the tie on his breeches, Dunk simply cannot fight it. Jaw ajar in a silent moan and eyebrows downturned, he continues holding onto your wrist. You stroke him at a torturously slow pace, fixing him with a stern glare. “Duncan.” 

His grip tightens and his mouth shuts. In fact, so do his eyes. Even a glance might undo him, may certainly snap the dangerously taut bounds around his desire. Because of course, of course he wants you. He always wants you. 

“I’m not…” His thumb strokes your wrist and he reluctantly pulls it away, to give it a sloppy kiss, still with his eyes shut. “Today hasn’t been my day, my lady.”

“Then let me help,” you urge, shuffling impossibly closer and nodding downwards. “Did it not feel good?” 

“No, it–it always feels good. You’re always–I love you so much. All of you, everything you have to give me. It’s just…I can’t.”

Your body doesn’t move an inch, but your head tilts ever so slightly. 

“If I…If we…” He sighs. “I don’t mean to be untoward.”

“Do it, I dare you.” 

He chuckles and brings your foreheads together, thumb brushing against your cheek. “This is how I like to treat you. How I should treat you.”

You pout. “I am not a china doll, Dunk.”

“Of course, but–” He cuts himself off with a rasping groan. His hips hitch upwards and his grip on your waist tightens and for a fraction of a second, he allows himself to think of it. Grabbing you, manhandling you, making good on his title of husband and fucking you senseless. To feel his blood pumping for something more meaningful than honour, to make him good for something that matters, that isn’t jousting or royals or riches. To use this brutish, hulking body for love. For you. 

“Please, my lord. You’re upset. Let me make it better.” 

Again, he bites his lip through another groan. He shakes his head and tries to pull back, but there’s nowhere for him to go. You know what it does to him, to give him titles he doesn’t deserve. Titles that sound weighty and legitimate coming from your mouth, a blasphemy that has him imagining himself as a king. 

Slow and teasing, your hand is back in his breeches, his hips raising to meet your touch without a second thought. By the time you’re grinding on his thigh and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, Dunk’s bad mood is nearly forgotten and all that tension is concentrated into one thought: serving you. 

He lifts you both off the chair to pull down his breeches and wastes no time pulling you ever closer. “So wet,” he whispers into your open mouth. 

Your arms wrap around his neck as he buries himself inside you, your mouth pressing wet, hot kisses over every spot of his face you can reach. “Show me.” 

“Hm?” Dunk can’t seem to stop groaning, half-certain he’s close already. It’s pathetic; he’s barely moved at all and your clothes are still on. 

“How you were afraid you might treat me. Show me what these big, strong hands are capable of. I want to see–Mm” Throwing your head back, you bite your lip and grip his hair with a fierceness Dunk has never felt from you before. “Show me the knight I have in my charge, hm? The man entrusted with my love, my pleasure. My life.” 

This undoes him entirely. He’s been breathing through brewing moans, whining into your neck, tensing his thighs to keep himself still. You’re a good woman, a kind woman, a person who has shown him some of the only tenderness he’s ever known. He shouldn’t, he keeps thinking. He shouldn’t. But you–you wretch–know exactly how to work him, play him like a fiddle. You pull down the top of your blouse so that your chest spills out. Soft, pliant flesh, right there for the taking. Grabbing, sucking, kissing. As you wrap your arms closer around him, you coil strands of his hair around your fingers and give him one long, slow grind of your hips. 

“Show me, Dunk.” 

And who is he–this mere hedge knight–to deny you?

“Gods, m’lady.” His hands clench around your waist. His heels dig into the ground. Before, he was letting you set the pace and simply holding you through it. Your grip in his hair tightens even further as he slams you, over and over, onto his lap. For a moment, his eyes slide shut. Though he struggles, he insists on keeping them open, keeping his half-lidded gaze trained on you. “M’sorry–Gods–Feels so good. Tell me if it hurts.”

You can’t even respond, lip bitten and a droning whine escaping your throat as he at once pulls you onto his dick and thrusts into you at an unforgiving pace. 

“Tell me,” he grunts. His hands go from your hips to your chest. He squeezes, then ducks his head down to suck and nip at the skin around your nipple, while his thumb works on the other. He rubs relentless circles and groans, his free arm holding you tight against his body. “Will you–ah, my love, so fucking good.” 

He can’t stop asking and apologising, begging as overwhelmed tears spring into his eyes. 

“Does it feel good, m’lady? Am I–” Yet another pained groan. 

“You are, Ser.” You moan into his neck. “You’re so good to me. So good, Dunk.” 

The pace only gets more aggressive. Dunk’s moans flow freely and loudly, deep from the centre of his chest, his palm pressed flat against your back, practically pushing your hearts together. Your thighs slap as he snaps up into you, his voice fills your ear and now he’s gripping your biceps, pulling you downwards and filling you without giving you a second to breathe. You squeeze around him and he’s so close, all he needs is to hear it one more time. Of course, you know this. 

“So, so good, Ser.” You’re soaking wet and clenching around him, showering him with breathless praise as your orgasm ricochets through just about every cell of your body. “Such a good boy. My big, strong knight.” 

When he cums, he tries kissing you. Even as you lean down to help him, all he can manage his licking into your mouth as wild, keening moans leave him. His hips keep stuttering and he leaks out of you, back down himself as gradually smaller spurts of warmth fill you up. Tears roll down his cheeks and his chest heaves with breaths. It’s all he can do to stay conscious when you lean in to lick a stripe up his face and press a tender kiss right where his tears just were. 

“M’lady, I–” He twitches inside you. “We don’t have time to go again.” 

But he swears that the second you do, he won’t do anything stupid again like wasting that time sulking.

because the discussions happening in the comments aren't "team BB vs team bobby" the way fandom discourse usually goes. people are genuinely sitting with the discomfort. people are saying "i love BB and also what he did was wrong" in the same sentence without treating those as contradictions.

people are defending bobby's growth while acknowledging his many failures. people are holding space for the companion's agency while recognising the ways it's been compromised. that's NUANCE. that's actual literary engagement. i've seen comment threads that read like seminar discussions and it makes me so happy every time.

because that's exactly what I wanted. the thing that makes horror work (real horror, not jumpscare horror, not gore horror) is that it examines what it means to be human by putting humanity under pressure and watching what deforms.

and what deforms here isn't the monster. the monster is consistent. the monster loves you and keeps you and builds you nests and hums you melodies it stole from your loneliest moments.

the monster is the most reliable element in the entire story.

what deforms is the human stuff. bobby's avoidance deforming under the pressure of trauma. the companion's self-worth deforming under the pressure of neglect. BB's love deforming under the pressure of its own intensity until it produces behaviours that map onto the very human ugliness of control and isolation.

everyone here started with something genuine (love, devotion, loyalty) and pressure turned it into something complicated and sometimes something harmful and THAT'S the horror. not the fluorescent lights or the entities.

the fact that love, unchecked, unexamined, left to run on fear instead of trust, becomes its own kind of monster.

every single character has fucked up. bobby checked out. BB manipulated. the companion ran from one cage into another and called it freedom. nobody is clean. everybody is trying.

placing humanity at the centre of a horror romance was always the move. because the backrooms alone aren't scary. what's scary is what people do to each other when they're lonely and frightened and in love and don't know how to hold all three at the same time.