ay, cómo muero por ti

maybe you’re the daughter of a noble lord visiting the king, or maybe you’re a servant who has worked the landing for many years now. maybe you’re a healer, or a childhood friend reunited after years apart.

either way, it’s you who sweeps him up in a flurry of thoughts that are certainly not dragon-like. it’s your face that he comes to dream about, and your smile, and your voice, and the curves and lines of your body. it’s you, you, you, and you slot so perfectly into his dreams and visions that aerion wonders why it’s taken so long to dream of you in the first place.

and you’ve heard the rumours, or perhaps you think you know the prince—his whoring, his violence, his need for control. but then one day you’re in his chambers, and you’re kissing him, touching him, and he’s a red-flushed mess beneath the trailing of your fingers, and he lets you lay him down across his mattress like he’s never done this before.

he’s never done this before.

it’s a muffled confession when you slip his breeches from his hips and spit directly onto the drooling head of his cock. it’s an embarrassed whisper as you pump him with a tight fist and watch the slit over the tip pearl wet. it’s something that sounds like it doesn’t belong to him when you swipe your thumb and smear the bead of precum across the head and feel the heat of him against your fingers.

you think maybe he’s lying. maybe he’s playing some sort of game, luring you into a trap he’s set with ivory teeth and claws that match.

but when you fist his cock, kissing up his pale chest, the column of his neck, his jaw, across his mouth, then all the way back to the trail of hair beneath his navel, he lets out a broken sound. a desperate sound as his stomach contracts and his thighs twitch. his cock jerks in your hand, balls pulling, and he hisses out something that makes you freeze.

“i feel—i need to—” but the prince can’t seem to finish his thought, and your hand has gone deadly still around his cock which is pumping hot with blood and still drooling.

you peer up at him then. there’s a deep dip in his brow, a slight pout to his lips, and he looks nothing like the prince you think you know. sweat on his forehead and chest, a pink blush on his cheekbones.

and you realise then that, oh my gods, he’s telling the truth.

so you give him what he wants.

you clamber onto his lap, pussy slick and wanting as you draw the head of his cock through your folds. aerion watches you with hooded eyes and a part in his lips that suggests he won’t be able to hold back any sounds. his hands fist the silken sheets, but as you slowly sink down, taking him inch by inch, they move to your hips.

he moans loudly, a fissured roar of a sound from deep in his chest. his fingers tighten on the flesh of your hips as you sink, pussy splitting open around the thick of his cock, dragging tight and wet and slow. a velvet string of gods, gods, gods, flows freely from his mouth as you settle, arse flat to his pelvis, cunt clenching around him.

and then you ride him.

lifting and lowering, a calculated drawing of your hips as he watches you, near salivating. you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen—although, admitting that would add even more to this embarrassment—and you’re taking him so well. the clutch of your pussy is tight and wet and like nothing he’s ever felt before, and he feels, deep in the marrow of his bones, that you were made for him and him alone.

“my prince,” you find yourself whispering, hands sliding over his abdomen as you roll yourself against him, the head of his cock dragging along that perfect spot inside you.

he moans in response, throat bobbing, the muscles in his abdomen tightening as he offers you a slight buck of his hips.

“gods, you’re good,” he says softly, thick with lust, the words lazy over his tongue. “fuck, fuck, you’re—that feels—”

perfect, he should say, but he can’t. there’s a heat in his belly and a pressure low in his pelvis that he knows of, but it’s building faster where he’s buried inside you. different in the warm, wet clutch of your cunt then the harsh wrap of his own fingers. and you can feel the tightening of his body beneath you, the feeble twitching of his cock where he knocks deep inside you as you grind yourself onto his lap.

he moans your name next when your pussy flutters around him. he wants to make a snide comment—yeah, that’s it, ride your dragon. ride your dragon, pretty girl—but he doesn’t. a broken sound escapes his throat, a whimper of sorts as you take him to the hilt and drag your warm hands over his abdomen. then, he moans your name again and comes with his head tipping back against his feather pillows.

and aerion spills and spills. deep inside you, thick spurts right against the plug of your womb as you roll your hips and take him. the moan he offers the silence of his bedchambers is wanton and loud, and you can’t help the grin that pulls across your face as your own body grows impossibly hot.

he fills you until he’s dribbling out, sliding down the curve of his balls and making a mess of the sheets. but you keep riding, your release so close you can taste it.

and you whisper all the while: gods, you feel so good aerion—making me feel so good. fuck, m’so close. m’so close—s-shit, you’re so good—

the prince holds your hips weakly as you come around his slowly softening cock, squeezing tight enough to make him hiss out a thread of curses as your pussy flutters and your entire body pulls taut. he watches you, pride roping thick in his blood, as your orgasm takes you, and it takes you hot and heavy and smoke-filled, before you collapse on top of him. his cock slips from you, and you whine into his neck at the emptiness and the feeling of his cum dribbling out between your thighs.