He only shows it when the candles burn low in your shared chambers, long after the servants have gone. When the fire has softened to embers and the dragonglass flask of strongwine sits half-empty between you. That’s when his hand, the one that’s always clenched, always reaching for a sword or a goblet or a threat, loosens. And he lets you hold it.

In private, Aerion speaks quietly. As if the loudness he wears like armor might crack something fragile in him if he lets it out here. He won’t say “I love you” in public, he would whisper it to you in High Valyrian. “Avy jorrāelan.”

He’ll rest his forehead against yours and murmur, “You are the only thing I have not burned.”

He has nightmares, like all of his brothers do. Unlike theirs, about fallen dragons and fire, his is silence. Of waking up and finding you gone, or cold, or looking at him the way everyone else does: with fear. On those nights, he doesn’t demand comfort. He simply curls around you, one arm draped over your ribs like a dragon guarding a single egg, and breathes until the shaking stops.

And the softest thing? He lets you touch his hair. That silver-gold mane he keeps immaculate for the court, the one he threatens to have a maid beaten for simply breathing on—he’ll lay his head in your lap and close his eyes while you run your fingers through it.

When you scratch lightly behind his ear, a gesture you once joked made him look like a cat, he didn’t sneer. He almost chuckled.

He also remembers things. Not grand romantic gestures, those are for winning loyalty. But small things: the way you take your tea (honeyed, not spiced), the song you hum when you think no one is listening, the name of your childhood horse. He’ll drop these into conversation like secrets, offhand, just to watch your face soften.

And once, just once, after a nightmare so violent he threw a goblet at the wall and shattered it, he let you see him cry. Hot streaks down his cheeks while he gripped your sleeves and mumbled about the damn nightmares. Wildfire…his skin burning…your look of horror.

Later, he built the fire back up, wiped his face, and became Aerion again. But before he left the room, he paused at the door. “If you ever leave… take the knife from my bedside. You’ll need it.”

And you knew: that was his way of saying “Don’t let me hurt you. Kill me first”

That’s the Aerion no one else will ever meet.

dunk paws at the fat of your thighs as he gently pushes your legs apart, settling his broad shoulders in between them. he massages the flesh with inexperienced fingers, but the pads are rough enough and the pressure is firm enough that you don’t care his pace is too fast, or too slow. you don’t care that he can’t seem to settle into a rhythm as nerves drive him.

what you do care about, though, is the feeling of him kissing his way up your inner thigh. where your skin is soft and sensitive, he presses a line of kisses from knee to groin, repeating his actions on the other side. it’s torturously slow, and his hands gently move from your thighs to your hips as he shifts his head.

he looks up at you with sparkling eyes, eyebrows slightly dipped, lips glossy from the kisses he had given your thighs. you peer down at him in return, reaching a hand out to card your fingers through his soft hair.

“do you like it like that?” he asks quietly. his large hands envelop your hips, holding you there firmly.

“yeah, dunk,” you reply gently, fingernails scratching at his scalp. his eyelids flutter slightly and you can’t help but smile. “you’re doing so well.”

dunk let’s out a low whine before he dips his gaze to your core, bare to him and him alone. he blows out a breath, tepid air brushing over you, and the sensation makes you keen, hips twitching beneath his hold. you let go of his hair to fist your skirts, which pool around your waist in a messy bundle.

dunk’s pupils expand as a low moan escapes you, pussy slick as he blows another breath straight onto your folds. he watches you carefully, feels the way you squirm beneath his hold, the way your hole clenches around nothing.

slowly, he presses himself forward, eyes on you the entire time, shoulders keeping you spread enough for him to place a warm kiss to your clit. you whine and wriggle as he kisses you there again, and again still, before his head moves down and finds the opening of your cunt—slick and warm and everything he had imagined.

he lets a low, desperate groan leave him as he pushes his face unceremoniously into you, his mouth laving over you before his tongue—so eager, so big—licks over the heat of your cunt. you cry out, and dunk responds with a whine of his own, the sound reverberating through you.

he pulls back, but you can feel him panting against you. it makes you writhe hopelessly beneath his massive grip.

“is this good?” he asks, lips brushing gently across your core, making you suck in a breath. “am i doing good?”

you nod quickly, hand finding his hair once more. “yeah, dunk, doing so good for me, so good. jus’ keep going—”

with a stuttering exhale, dunk surges back against you, mouth hot against your drooling cunt, his tongue curling inside you for a moment before retreating. the suddenness of it makes you cry out, shocks of pleasure shooting up your spine. you moan his name loudly when his tongue finds you again, this time shifting deeper, curling firmer.

one of the hands on your hips moves, and dunk drags it beneath the fabric of your dress. up, up, up, until he can force his large hand beneath the bodice of your dress and completely cover one of your breasts. he squeezes experimentally as his head bobs, nose nudging against your clit. he kneads your flesh and you arch into his touch, dual stimulation setting every nerve on fire.

“oh, gods, dunk, you’re doing so good,” you tell him again, words breathy and strung-out. you tug at his hair while grinding against his face, and you hear—and feel—him moan into you. he gropes your breast, pushing the fat beneath his fingers, rolling the soft bud of your nipple beneath his thumb. clumsy, restricted, but yet it sets your body alight.

you try to wrap your legs around him, but he’s just so big that the angle is too awkward. you huff, leaving them spread around the mass of his body.

dunk pulls back to lick a flat stripe up the seam of your cunt. his lips find your puffy clit as you moan his name again. loudly, desperately, an angelic plea that had his cock hardening in his breeches. his eyes bore into you as he draws your clit gently into his mouth, enjoying the way he’s making you feel.

“fu-uh-ck—dunk, dunk, oh my gods—”

a low whine escapes the hedge knight at the sounds of your moans. he moves his hand, still kneading at one of your tits, to the other, giving the warm flesh there a rough squeeze. his other hand pins your hips down, large palm and fingers splayed across your lower belly. he can feel the way you tense there each time he sucks on your clit.

after a long moment, and when your legs begin to tremble and the whines leaving your throat begin to lilt higher, he drops his head back, the tip of his tongue trailing through your silken folds before finding your hole, drooling.

“ah, you’re so—” dunk ruts his mouth against you, nose pushing hard into your swollen clit as he exhales a breathy moan against your folds. a loud moan punches from your chest, and the grip you have on his hair tightens. he whines into you, then continues meekly, “gods, you’re so wet. s’just so wet—feels so good.”

“all for you, ser,” you tell him, rocking your hips and forcing his nose back against you. you grind yourself against the ridge of it, a heavy pleasure building tightly in your abdomen. “only for you.”

“yeah?” it’s breathless and whiny and makes you want to rut against his face even harder. he pulls his head back each time he speaks, so you try desperately to pull him back with a light but restless grunt.

“yeah,” you moan, and he curls his thick tongue back into you.

he grinds his own hips against the ground as he pumps his tongue in and out of you, his hand moving away from your chest now to join his other, caressing your soft skin as it moves to your thigh. with it there, he hoists your thigh properly onto his shoulder, and the new angle allows him to press deeper into you, your prayers answered when his nose is once again flushed to your clit.

you sob, pleasure building tightly in the base of your stomach and spine. your toes curl, heart manic beneath your sternum as you shift yourself against the movement of his tongue. it’s sloppy and messy and wet, and you can hear the sounds loudly in your ears. it has your body heating up, sweat building at the small of your back.

dunk is letting out soft grunts into your pussy as well. little groans and whines as his eyelids droop, tongue working into your hole over and over again. your slick dribbles down his chin, smears across his nose. he could do this for hours if you let him. the smell of you, the taste of you, the warmth of you is heavenly.

and you sound heavenly, too. mewling little “ah—ah—ah”’s as the slope of his nose rubs against your puffy clit, and a stuttering “o-oh fuck, dunk,” as his tongue curls and writhes inside of you.

“dunk,” you say, pleading. “dunk, keep going, just like that, ‘m so close.”

he’s scared to break your pleasure as you wriggle against him, hips bucking to meet each of his ministrations. he locks his eyes onto you and watches as your body slowly comes undone. he sees it coming—sees the way your body builds tightly with ecstasy, thrumming hotly in your veins, before your grinding becomes more desperate and your breathing falls quicker.

“yes, dunk—gods, you’re so good,” you moan, arching against the ground. the angle forces your pussy harder onto his face, and he moans at the weight against him. he heaves your other thigh onto his other shoulder effortlessly, holding you tightly as your moans scatter the birds from the trees above. “ah—dunk—!”

you cut yourself off with another loud moan as your release rips through you. your thighs tighten around his head, the hand in his hair gripping tightly. you pin him to you, trap him against you, as you come and the pressure releases from your lower belly. the sound of him moaning your name into your pussy as he coaxes your release from you makes your heart flutter, his tone whiny and desperate and so, so good.

dunk whines into the slick heat of your cunt, his hips grinding his now painfully hard cock into the firm ground beneath him. he pants against you as you tremble through your receding orgasm, his hips moving quicker, and quicker still, until a stutter of your name is lost in your folds. his balls draw up tightly, cock twitching where it’s pinned within his breeches, and then he’s releasing into the recently-washed linen.

he groans, desperate and strained as he spills in hot spurts, the sting of embarrassment needling the edges of his pleasure. his head swims, the taste of you thick like treacle on his tongue, as he ruts his nose against you lazily a few more times. after a moment, your hips begin to lower, twitching while your legs loosen. with the movement, his tongue slowly draws out of you, his breath coming in laboured huffs as he gives your thighs one last squeeze with his large hands and then pushes them to the side.

you massage his scalp and he puts his head on your thigh, his entire lower face slick and shining, his pupils blown so wide his eyes appear dark, lids low in a drunken stare.

you peer at him curiously, noticing the glassiness of his eyes and the flush in his cheeks. you pout at him, cooing, “aw, my poor boy, did you…?”

dunk whines out, brows knitting together as the flush on his cheeks deepens. you can’t help but laugh, petting him gently.

“s’just so good,” he whispers, eyes closing. “couldn’t help it.”

———

Even at his gentlest, his most careful, his touch is all consuming, brutal. He tries to reconcile it with gentle, feathery touches to your cheeks, your hairline. A sharp contrast to the mess he’s making of your womanhood.

And then, well, you can’t just gush all over the hilt of his palm like that and expect him not to manhandle you onto your back on the bed, shoving his face into your cunt. If he’s trying to lap up all the juice you leak (he is!) it’s a losing battle. Still, Dunk lays long stripes from the base of your folds, up your slit and over your clit.

“Dunk, fuck!” You’d cry, involuntarily but instinctively twisting your fingers into his short hair. Trying to squirm away was always useless; a burly arm laid across your belly, effectively clamping you down and giving himself leverage to lick and slurp you up. It’s when his lips close around your clit that you have to push at his forehead, only to look down at his dazed cerulean eyes and shiny lips, and pull him back into the fray. He gladly lets you tug him around.

It’s when he’s inside you, though, that restrained touches by his standards remain intense. Dunk’s got you on your tummy, his thighs holding yours open for him, your entire front smushed into the bed. He moves slow. Careful, measured and deep strokes into your velvet, squelching around his impaling length. But you squeak with every press inward as if it’s too much. God forbid he tilt your chin up, give you that sweet, concerned look to check in, or you’ll huff and puff at him to continue.

But even carefully, his dick is a sure bully. The pressure is intense, heavy and thick in your lower tummy. You’re completely at his mercy, you know that— even if you tried to squirm away, your mighty knight would overpower you. It’s a good thing you’d rather die than end this.

His hands, calloused, firm and sure, press against your low back. Just above the curve of your ass. It’s meant as leverage, as a soothing pressure to your aches, but it’s only a reminder of his strength over you. His palms dig into your plush skin, dwarfing your own clutching at the bedsheets. He presses your hips into the mattress, uncompromisingly. You whine and mumble utter nonsense that gets your man to just press sweet kisses underneath your ear, telling you between heavy breaths and grunts, “Shh, sh. Y’can take it. Always do.”

He’s not wrong. You always do.

You’re loud as you come, filthily so. It’s a moment Dunk seizes, pounding into you with a reinvigorated force until his own spend is spilling out of you, over your thighs and onto the bedsheets. The weight of him is overwhelming, dominating while he partly collapses onto you, held up only by a burly arm by your ear. He’s warm, firm and soft and fucking everywhere around you. After a moment, with a low groan of exertion, he rolls onto his side facing you.

You can’t help but smile at your knight. Giant, dominating in size alone and strong even when he refrained. And yet, gentle and sweet. Staring at you with lidded, blue eyes, and mumbling as he stroked your bare, sweat-sheened arm, “You’d think she’d be a bit less resistant t’me by now.”

You know what ‘she’ he’s referring to. With a harmless swat to his heaving, thick chest, you laugh, “Not unless you magically lose 100 pounds and a foot of height.”

“You think I ought to?” A toothy, lopsided grin spreads over your husbands rosied cheeks as he watches your expression crack open in a gasp.

and the worst of it all? his blood has a mind of its own, going south between his legs so fast it leaves him dizzy and breathless, nostrils flaring, akin to a bull being taunted with flashes of crimson. if the gods would’ve given him a smaller cock, the issue would’ve been easier to solve, to keep at bay. but their blessing seems more like a curse now when dunk has to excuse himself every time you mend his clothes, cook him and egg a hearty meal, or wash his clothes by the stream for him. his cock grows hard and thick, the print of it obvious through his breeches, tenting them obscenely, his large palms pressing onto his lap in an attempt to conceal it, to shield his shameful desire from view.

dunk can barely manage not to tumble to the ground from how fast he shoots up from his seat, mumbling excuses, his voice rough and gruff—nothing like the soft, gentle tone he usually uses with you—barely making it through the trees, ignoring the confused shouts from you and egg. dunk’s back scrapes against the trunk of a tree as he is finally out of sight and earshot, strong legs feeling weaker than ever as he slides down, large palms still concealing his dishonor. because that’s what this is. that’s what this feels like. dishonor. dishonor to you, the companion who has been nothing but kind, nothing but patient, and so, so beautiful— the thought makes dunk moan. just remembering how radiant you are is enough to turn his thoughts to mush, scrambling them around until all he can think about is you. he’s sure no one could ever compare to you, for you are akin to a dream made flesh, so soft and warm it makes all the knightly teachings from ser arlan turn asunder, leaving behind just the ache in his chest and the tightness in his loins. he does not dare move his palms for relief yet, even though his cock throbs and leaks against the rough material of his breeches, staining it with his shame, with his guilt. for he should not think of a woman in this way, not one who has been nothing but precious to him.

but, gods, you are just too sweet—so sweet that not even honey could taste as saccharine as you—every gesture and every look of yours burning him from the inside, making the hunger in his chest claw to be let out.

taste.

his cock gives a pathetic twitch as the word flits through his mind, his head tipping back against the trunk. images of how you would taste, of how he could taste you burn behind his eyelids so fast he swears he is close to tipping towards the afterlife.

dunk remembers vividly how, a few days ago, he had you on his tongue, if only for a few moments—just a brush of it against your skin—but it was enough for the need for more to sprout, growing more ardent day by day.

he had always been a messy eater, the habit having given him earfuls from ser arlan and scowls from egg, but you didn’t mind, giving him a patient smile or a lilting giggle and pointing out the greasy mess on his lips in hushed tones.

except this time, you moved.

dunk wasn’t aware of the closed proximity yet, too busy digging into his hearty stew to see how one of your hands lifted towards his face, sleeve pushed down enough to clasp under your fingers.

“you ought to be more careful, ser,” you chided, albeit gently, as your sleeve wiped at the corner of his mouth, where broth was glistening as it trailed down to his chin and jaw.

the spoon between his fingers clattered back into the bowl as he froze, as still as marble, azure eyes wide as saucers, breath stalled in his broad chest.

you were cleaning him. you, dirtying your soft, modest dress for him as you brushed away the remnants of his sloppy eating with slow swipes to his mouth. so careful with him, as if he were but a babe who needed coddling.

by the mother, you were a vision of loveliness up close. he wished he could’ve focused on your pretty face or pursued plush lips, but your bosom was level to his face as you leaned to follow the trail of liquid down his jaw and neck, dabbing at it with the sleeve of your dress, and he was just a man.

a dumb man. a dishonorable man. a lecher of a man now, as he dared to let his gaze dip to your breasts, the flesh looking too soft and plush against the cloth of your dress. it was not a debauched sight by any means, for gods forbid he ever thought of you as anything but the very picture of saintly beauty.

the sight left him with a hunger that no stew could ever stave, tongue sticking out to lick at his lips unconsciously, but instead catching the tips of your fingers as you were brushing crumbs from his cupid’s bow.

that’s when he tasted your skin for the first time; the memory is replaying in his mind on a loop now, as if the flavor still resides on his taste buds.

even now, alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees way taller than him, he swears the memory haunts him so that he feels as if he were still there now. instead of backed up against a trunk, his hands pressed against the tent in his pants.

dunk is breathing hard, lungfuls of air that do nothing to stave the burning in his veins, the throbbing in his pants, or the ache in his chest. it would be so easy to take his hard cock in hand and bring himself to climax as he thought of you. but he cannot dirty you with his debauchery, even in thought. countless of times he had found himself away from camp, away from you, hard and wanting, fingers itching to grip himself and rub as hard and fast as he could, just to get rid of his shame once and for all. and each time, the remnants of his honor stopped him. as they try to do now, but it is all in vain. dunk’s thick fingers fumble with the ties of his breeches as he impatiently tugs them down, revealing his cock to the crisp air, hissing at the sensation. the flush on his neck blooms in haphazard splotches all the way down his chest as he looks down at himself, at the way the length bobs against the rough material of his tunic, smearing precum against the material.

gods, it’s so much, pearling obscenely at the tip of his cock and trailing down the thick shaft, all the way down to his heavy balls, which are already drawn tight. he should not. he really, really shouldn’t. shouldn’t wrap his hand around his cock and squeeze at the base, tugging upwards slowly towards the head, making more precum leak out, trickling down his knuckles now, lewd and dirty. yet it feels so good—the sensation brings him so much relief he feels like the mother herself had blessed him with such solace. his cock gives another twitch at the thought. the mother. dunk often thought you embodied her and had put you so high up on his pedestal that you resembled a saintly woman, so gentle and caring and good that it made him want to sink to his knees in front of you, kiss your feet, and pray for your favor like a worshiper. just as he would for the mother herself. gods, how depraved can he be, to think of such things and feel his cock harden and ooze around his fist as he tugs and tugs, squeezing at the hot, slick flesh with more fervor now. the sounds of his wanton act are sloppy and loud, muffled only by the swaying of the trees around him. “m’lady, m’lady, —”

the words tumble from his mouth unbidden, wrapped around a pitiful whine, his mind too fuzzy with thoughts of you to be able to say anything else but this, not even daring to say your name in fear of dirtying it with his sins. dunk’s face is flushed, sweat beading at his temple and trailing down his flushed cheeks, the pleasure melting him against the tree trunk, except his strong hips—which hump into the grip of his hand in earnest, snapping forward as if burying himself into a cunt and not his own fist. fuck, but he wishes it was a cunt. your cunt.

wrapped around his cock, squeezing him for what he’s worth, sucking him inside your pussy like you never want him to pull out. he imagines it’s warm and soft and so very pretty, just like you. what he wouldn’t give to have you on his cock, watching as your folds part to let him in, so big and thick compared to you. dunk closes his eyes just as he feels the ache in his loins spark, tingling down his spine and pooling low in his gut, so close to reaching his climax and yet so far away from what he truly wants. you. all he has wanted for the past moons has been you. he used to want your eyes on him, your lips curling into smiles because of him, and your soft giggles ringing through camp at his jokes or even your reprimanding tone when he was too big of an oaf to act right. so when had his thoughts turned so depraved? when had his eyes strayed from your eyes to your lips, from the curve of your shoulders to the one of your breasts, from the arch of your spine to the slope of your rear? when had his hands itched to grab at the fat of your hips instead of the delicate pads of your fingers? when had he dreamed of keeping his tongue pressed inside of your pussy instead of behind his teeth? you’ve ensnared him so completely, bringing forth his ruin, making him nothing but a depraved man meant to take his pleasure alone, fucking into his fist with abandon. teeth snagging at his lips to stifle the pathetic whimpers and groans rumbling from his chest as his length throbbed insistently. and may the gods damn him all the way to hell; he would trade all his honor just for a taste of you, just for the feel of your cunt, just for the sound of your moans as he makes you feel so, so good around his cock, rutting into you again and again and— and he’s coming. thick ropes of cum painting his knuckles and tunic, his back bowing against the tree trunk, mouth falling open in a long, drawn-out groan. dunk swears he died, went to heaven, and now he’s back in his body, shaking and twitching as he continues to fist his cock, desperate for the pleasure not to end. for the images of you in all the lewd ways he always refuses to allow himself to dream of, never to cease. there are tears in the corner of his eyes, the pleasure so good he feels like sobbing. the sheer relief of finally getting to cum after moons of pent-up frustration over you—over your gentle nature and caring gestures and, gods, your tits—it unravels him completely. slowly, his hand slows, his cock softening. the mess left behind makes shame bubble into his chest, almost choking him as he tries to catch his breath. what would you think of him if you saw him this way? spent and lecherous and so, so in love with you. even now, even like this, even this sinful, the love he has for you is the sole denominator of his actions. because dunk loves you. loves you so much that he cannot bear to let his wanton feelings corrupt you, too, no matter how much he wishes he could.

Pale stubble covers Aerion's jaw, his chin, the hollow under his full lower lip. It catches the light like frost on a blade.

You've never seen it before. He shaves religiously, almost compulsively, chin always smooth and clean. You always assumed it was pride thing. Now, looking at him with two days of growth softening the mean line of his jaw, you realise it might also be armour. Something he puts on before he lets you see him. Something he maintains because it keeps him looking like the version of himself he's decided you deserve.

This version, the unshaved version, the filthy and sweating and caught-off-guard version, is something you were never supposed to see.

You want to eat him alive.

You get out of the car. The site is mostly empty, just Aerion and one other guy finishing up for the day. He hears the door slam and turns toward the sound, and the look on his face when he spots you, the split second of pure, unguarded shock before he catches it, is worth the five and a half hours of congested highway.

"Stark."

"Targaryen."

He recovers fast. Leans against the porch railing, arms folded, the posture of a man who is not remotely surprised even though you can see his pulse hammering at the base of his throat.

"You're early."

"I'm early."

His eyes track down your body and back up. You're still in what you wore to campus. Nothing special. Jeans, a thin sweater, hair unstyled. But the way he looks at you makes it feel like you're wearing nothing at all, and the way you're looking at him is making his jaw pulse.

"Well," he drawls, and his voice has that lazy, mean edge, the one he uses when he's off balance and covering it. "You gonna stand there gaping or you gonna come say hello?"

You cross the dirt between your car and the porch. He doesn't move. Just watches you come to him, filthy and sweating, sawdust in his hair and concrete on his hands and that pale stubble catching the light.

"Careful, princess." The smirk is back. Defence mechanism, fully deployed. "Gonna get your nice clothes all dirty."

You don't answer. You reach up and grab his jaw.

Aerion's mouth snaps shut. Your fingers press into the stubble, rough against your fingertips, scraping against your skin in a way that sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

You turn his face, tilting it into the light. Run your thumb along the grain of it, from his ear to his chin, feeling the coarse drag under the pad of your finger.

He's gone still under your hand, his eyes fixed on your face with flaying intensity.

"You gonna tell me to shave?" he mocks, and his voice is different now. Low, rough, stripped of the lazy performance. "Get all nice and presentable before i'm allowed to touch you?"

You gaze at his mouth. At the pale stubble framing it. The smear of dirt on his cheekbone and the sweat drying on his throat, and his filthy hands hanging at his sides because he hasn't dared touch you yet, not like this, not covered in a day's worth of labour and grime.

You kiss him.

You yank his face down to yours by the jaw and lick into his mouth and the stubble scrapes against your chin, your cheeks, and the friction of it, the raw rough drag of him unpolished and unshaved and tasting like dust and salt, makes you groan against his teeth.

Aerion grabs you. Both hands on your hips, dragging you flush against him, and you can feel the grit and the sweat and the heat of him soaking through your sweater and you don't care, you don't care about any of it, you grab the back of his neck and bite his bottom lip and pull.

"I want to feel that," you say against his mouth. Your voice is low and your blood is too loud and your fingers are still in the stubble, scratching through it, gripping. "Between my thighs, Aerion."

His whole body tenses. Every muscle, all at once, like someone's run a current through him. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, and his breathing goes ragged.

He palms your ass with both hands and pulls you into him, grinding you against him, and you boost yourself up onto the porch railing with his hands steadying your hips, settling between your thighs the second you're seated for better access.

"Missed me that much, huh?" He's grinning against your mouth, all teeth, sucking on your bottom lip, his dirty hands leaving prints on your jeans. Playing it cool, or trying to. Mostly failing. Because his voice is hungry, and his hands are shaking, and he's hard against your thigh already.

"Yeah." Quiet, hungry. Honest in a way you rarely let yourself be with him. You bite down on his lip, taste the salt of his sweat, pull him closer by the back of the neck until there's no space between you. "Yeah, I did."

There's a flicker across his face.

The smirk falls away and what's underneath is naked, starving, and so desperately... happy.

He kisses you like he's trying to climb inside you, one hand rough in your hair and the other gripping the back of your thigh, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in and the stubble drags against your jaw, your neck, the soft skin under your ear. You shiver, full-body, and he feels it and makes a sound against your throat that isn't a word, isn't a name, is just need, raw and thick, bubbling.

"Inside," you manage. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, pulling, and his mouth is on your pulse, the stubble burning against your throat. "Now."

"Truck's closer."

"I don't care."

He pulls you off the railing, your legs unwinding from his waist, and grabs your hand.

His grip is filthy and calloused, too tight, and he's half-dragging you across the site to his truck. You're keeping pace, stumbling over dirt and gravel, laughing against his shoulder because this is insane, this is broad daylight, and he gets the back door open and you climb in first, pulling him after you by his belt. He follows, pulling the door shut behind him, and the cab smells like sawdust, his cigarettes, and sweat.

You pull your sweater off. Aerion doesn't wait for you to finish, just pushes the fabric up and gets his mouth on your stomach, your ribs, dragging that stubble across every inch of skin he uncovers.

The scrape of it is electric. Burning and rough, so different from his usual smooth jaw that your back arches off the seat, and your hands fist in his hair with a throaty groan.

"Fuck," he mutters against your skin. He sounds breathless. His mouth drags lower, stubble rasping against the soft plane below your navel, and his fingers work your jeans open with the practised speed. You've done this a dozen times in this truck and will do it a dozen more. "You drove five hours for this."

"Five and a half," you correct, breathless.

"Crazy bitch," he says with a huffing laugh and with his mouth pressed to your hip, the stubble burning, and it sounds like i love you.

Aerion's fingers hook into your jeans and your underwear, pulling them down your legs in one motion and then he's there, settling between your thighs immediately. He glances up at you from between your knees with those pale eyes and that filthy face, that stubble catching the fading light through the truck windows.

"This what you want?"

Not a taunt for once.

"Yes."

He lowers his mouth to you and the stubble drags against the inside of your thigh, your whole body jerking at the sensation.

His hands pin your hips, thumbs pressing into the creases of your thighs, and he licks a long, flat, greedy stripe through you. The sound you make bounces off the roof of the cab. The stubble is everywhere. Scraping the tender skin of your inner thighs, rough against the crease where your leg meets your hip, dragging against you every time he moves his jaw.

It's almost too much. Yet it's perfect. It's the friction of him unpolished, unperformed, the raw physical fact of a man who worked all day and hasn't cleaned up, and is eating you out in the back of his truck like it's the last meal he'll ever have.

Your thighs close around Aerion's head. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face because you can't help it, because the stubble and his tongue and the filthy wet sounds he's making are short-circuiting every nerve in your body. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your navel, and his grip on your hips tightens.

He sucks on you, tongue twisting against you clit, and your vision whites out at the edges.

"Aerion." Breathless. Broken. Your heels dig into his back. "Don't stop, don't, please..."

He doesn't stop. He doesn't stop until your thighs are shaking and your voice has gone rough. You come so hard your spine lifts off the seat and your fingers nearly rip his hair out. He works you through it with his tongue, lapping at your swollen folds, and his stubble-rough jaw pressed flush against you, panting into you, his own hips grinding against the seat beneath him because he's so turned on he can barely stand it.

After the haze finally fades, Aerion crawls up your body. His face is wet, his eyes glazed and his chin slick with you, the stubble glistening. He looks ruined.

He looks like every dirty, gorgeous, impossible thing you've ever wanted.

You grab his jaw again. Feel the stubble, damp now with your release. Pull him down and kiss your own taste off his mouth and his whole body shudders against yours.

"Don't shave," you murmur against his lips.

His laugh is breathless, almost boyish. "Yeah? You like like me a little rough, princess?"

You answer by pulling his belt open with one hand, pushing his jeans down his hips.

He chuckles, settling between your thighs and you can feel the heat of him against you, the blunt thick press of him between your swollen folds, and your breath catches because it's been three weeks and your body remembers him before your brain catches up.

He pushes inside you and your eyes lock.

His are so blue.

Bright, pale, burning blue, close enough that you can see the darker ring around the iris, can see yourself reflected back in them, and the sound you both make is hungry and relieved.

Because that's what it is. Relief. Like a joint clicking back into socket, like a limb waking up after going numb. He's hot and rough and thick yet so familiar your body opens for him like it was built for this. Just this. Just him filling you up, and the stretch of it after weeks apart makes your nails bite into the back of his damp neck.

"Fuck, Stark." He rolls his hips, grinding deep into you, and his voice has that mean, lazy edge he puts on when he's trying to stay in control. "Three weeks and you're this tight? What, none of those pretty college boys keeping you warmed up for me?"

He's performing. You can hear it. Because the alternative is admitting he's been counting the days till you're back.

"Bet you thought about this every night." Another thrust. Harder. His hand slams flat against the roof of the cab, bracing, the sound of his palm hitting metal ringing through the truck. "In your little dorm bed. Touching yourself. Pretending your fingers felt anything like this."

You bare your teeth. "Shut up and fuck me."

"I am fucking you." His mouth finds yours, kissing you mean, all teeth and pressure. The stubble scrapes raw against your chin. "I'm fucking you in my truck in broad daylight because you couldn't even make it to the trailer, you desperate little..."

He trails off. His hips stutter. Because your nails have dug deeper, crescent moons in his skin, and you've clenched around him, and Aerion's composure is cracking down the middle. The words die on his tongue and what replaces it is just his breathing, rough and uneven against your mouth.

You suck his bottom lip between your teeth and bite down. Mean. You feel the skin split, taste the copper bloom of blood on your tongue, and Aerion's whole body jerks in response. His fist hits the car ceiling again, harder this time, knuckles white.

"Fuck." Hissed through his teeth, his lip bleeding into the kiss, and he licks the blood off your mouth and you lick it off his, and the taste of it, hot and metallic and shared, snaps something loose in both of you.

He drops his forehead to yours and it's there again, that thing between you, the undertow, the gravity, two halves of the same organism slotting back together after too long apart.

Your bodies remember each other. The rhythm finds itself without effort, without thought, his hips and yours moving together like breathing, rutting and rolling into each other. The performance is gone. The mean-mouthed, cool, unbothered version of him has burned away and what's left is just this. Your aerion, raw, pressing his bleeding mouth to yours, his hand cupping the back of your skull as he fucks into you.

"Need you." Growled against your lips. Low, furious, like the admission is being torn out of him by force. He's already inside you. He already has you, but it doesn't seem to matter. "Need you, wolf."

His arms brace on either side of your head and the stubble scrapes your cheek with every thrust. You hold his face in both hands and breathe him in, sawdust and sweat and salt and blood and the fading heat of a workday, and think: this. this. this is what I drove five and a half hours for.

Your nails rake down the back of his neck, his shoulders, leaving welts through the sweat and grime, and Aerion shudders, his hips snapping harder. Your back arches and your mouth finds his and you're kissing and fucking and clinging to each other with the desperate, consuming intensity.

Two people who've been starving for three weeks and are finally, finally being fed.

He comes inside you.

You feel the coil snap in him. The hot, pulsing flood of him, the way Aerion's whole body locks up and then breaks, his hips grinding deep and staying there, buried. The groan that tears out of him is guttural and animal and all yours.

Your legs tighten around his waist and you moan, actually moan, long and drawn out, holding onto him with your nails still buried in his shoulders and your face pressed against his jaw, the stubble rough against your cheek.

"Yeah, fuck," he breathes against your ear. His voice is choked, rough-spoken, barely words now. "Yeah, I got you, wolf. There you go." His hips pulse again, grinding into you, giving you everything as his cum floods you deep. "Feel all of me."

You do. You feel all of him. Hot and shaking and pressed so deep inside you there's no space between where he ends and you begin. Your arms wrap around his neck and you hold on and he holds on and neither of you moves for a long time.

He collapses on top of you. Still inside you, still trembling, face buried in your neck. You can feel the stubble against your collarbone, rough and prickly. His breathing has gone ragged and warm against your skin.

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw. The grain of the stubble, root to tip, rough one way and soft the other. He turns his face into your palm and you feel his mouth move against your hand but you can't make out the words and you don't ask.

The truck ticks in the cooling air. The light through the windows has gone amber and low.

"Five and a half hours," he mumbles into your neck.

"Shut up."

"Crazy." His arms tighten around you. His voice is muffled and something else that makes him sound unlike himself. "Absolutely fucking crazy."

You close your eyes. Hold him tighter.

“Do not pretend to know my mind,” he had sneered in front of his guards as he turned on his heel and strode away.

Neither of you slept a wink.

Now, the afternoon light pours through the lancet windows, bringing warmth over your mahogany desk. You sit alone in the stillness, the silence broken only by the soft scrape of an iron quill across fresh parchment.

The ink glints wet under the sun, tracing thoughts you had carried in your chest for months—words written not to be sent, but to bleed off the ache in your own heart.

I know I ought to harden my heart against his bitter edges,

You write, the delicate script sloping across the page.

Yet I cannot force the warmth from my blood. He wears his wrath like heavy plate, driving the world away before it can glimpse the fragile truths he guards. He glares at the court as though every living soul owes him a debt, yet I have known the strangely soft nature of his spirit when the noise of the realm fades. I find myself thinking of his touch—how his hands, usually so swift to rest upon a pommel, are astonishingly gentle when he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. He speaks endlessly of blood and fire, yet when the keep grows unbearable, he turns to me as if I am his only harbour. I catch him watching me across a crowded hall, and beneath all that terrible fury, there is a steady light I wish I could keep forever.

You pause, setting the quill down upon the bronze dish. You do not write his name at the top. To see Aerion penned beside such soft, vulnerable truths feels foolish, almost dangerous, should any eyes but your own ever find it.

Before the page can dry, a soft knock echoes at the chamber door. A handmaiden peeks inside, curtsying low. “My Lady, your father’s steward is below in the courtyard with the baggage. He asks for a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” you reply, smoothing the wrinkles of your skirts as you stand. You leave the parchment resting open on the corner of the wood to dry, stepping out into the cool corridor and leaving the door unlatched, expecting to return before the hour turns.

Not three minutes pass before the doors creak open.

Aerion steps into the room, and held tight in his right hand, is a small box of carved ivory inlaid with mother of pearl—a ridiculous, needlessly expensive apology.

He has come to make amends in his own terrible, indirect fashion. His ego remains thoroughly bruised from yesterday’s spat, and he has spent the better part of the morning pacing his quarters, rehearsing what to say without sounding like a fool.

“You're not here,” Aerion mutters to the empty silence, a scowl tightening his face as his gaze sweeps the sunlit room. He strides toward the desk to leave the box, but as he passes, a flash of wet black ink catches his eye.

Normally, Aerion would pay no mind to a lady’s private notes or household tallies. But the very first line at the top of the parchment seizes the breath out of his lungs.

…I know I ought to harden my heart against his bitter edges, yet I cannot force the warmth from my blood…

Aerion freezes. His broad shoulders set uncomfortably.

His eyes dart across the opening words.

Because of yesterday’s trouble, his mind instantly leaps to the absolute worst conclusion. A sickening weight drops into his stomach. Another man. His fingers grip the edge of the desk so tightly the wood groans beneath his palm.

He reads the very next sentence, pulse thumping violently in his ears.

…I find myself thinking of his touch… I wish I could keep him forever…

Aerion cannot bring himself to read another word. The sheer agony of it burns through his veins like fire. He snatches the page off the desk, his breath coming in shallow rasps, his eyes darkening with a mixture of profound hurt and panic.

In his haste and fury, his thumb presses firmly over the center lines, crushing the parchment in his fist. He knows only that while he spent the entire night agonizing over how to fix what he broke, you were pouring declarations of love onto paper for someone else.

As if on cue, the doors move open behind him.

You step across the threshold, closing the door behind you with a click. The light atmosphere in your chest withers the moment your gaze lands upon the imposing silhouette by your desk. Aerion stands motionless, backlit by the golden sun. His shoulders are rigid, his knuckles white around the crumpled parchment in his fist. The delicate ivory box sits forgotten on the mahogany wood.

He turns slowly. “Is this why you were so quick to walk away yesterday?” Aerion asks. His voice is dangerously quiet, stripped entirely of his usual prideful veneer. It sounds raw. Bleeding.

He lifts the wrinkled paper, a muscle leaping in his clenched jaw as he fights to keep his composure from shattering. “You sit in your room… writing declarations of love?”

You blink as your heart takes a heavy leap. “Aerion, put that down. You shouldn't be reading–”

“Who is he?” Aerion demands, taking a deliberate step toward you. The suffocating presence of him swallows the space. “Tell me his name. Which lord in this miserable keep has earned such… such absurd devotion from you?”

You stare up at him, taken aback. You look up at the wounded shape of his eyes, at the tight line of his mouth, and then down at the crumpled paper in his hand.

Ah.

“Aerion,” you say softly, taking a step toward him.

“Do not,” he rasps, backing up half a pace, though his eyes never leave yours. He looks so fiercely protective of his wounded pride, trying so hard to play the part of a dragon when his chest is heaving with panicked breaths. “Answer me.”

“You didn't finish reading it.” You stop just inches away from his frame.

Aerion lets out a bitter scoff. “I read enough. I read that you think of his touch. That you wish to keep him–”

“Read the rest.” you interrupt.

Aerion tries to pull the paper away, but you are faster. Your fingers gently catch his wrist, anchoring him in place. The warmth of your skin against his sleeve makes him stiffen.

“Right there,” you whisper, guiding his hand down so his eyes are forced back onto the crumpled parchment.

Aerion’s jaw sets, his teeth grinding together as he tries to resist. But as his eyes flick down to the page out of compulsion, the delicate script catches him once more.

…He speaks endlessly of blood and fire, yet his hands are astonishingly gentle when he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. He glares at the court as though every living soul owes him a debt, yet when the keep grows unbearable, he turns to me as if I am his only harbour…

The silence in the room stretches, and you take notice of the veins in his necks that start presenting themselves.

You watch as the realization slowly washes over him, sweeping away the jealousy that consumed him moments before. His thumb, still resting against the wrinkled paper, remains in place.

A faint, unmistakable flush begins to creep up the collar of his doublet, painting the tips of his pale ears in a shade of crimson.

“You..” Aerion’s voice loses every drop of its harshness. He looks up from the page, pupils blown wide, caught somewhere between utter disbelief and flustered embarrassment. “This is about–”

“About an insufferable prince,” you continue, the shadow of a smile breaking across your face.

Aerion swallows hard while he looks down at the wrinkled page, his fingers moving with care as he smoothes out the creases he made in his panic. He folds the parchment with precision, slipping it deep into the inner pocket of his tunic—safekeeping the confession directly against his heart.

“You ought to have named me,” he almost mumbles, voice dropping into a low register.

“And deprive myself of watching you storm in here like a wounded dragon?” you tease callously.

Aerion lets out a heavy breath, the tension leaving his shoulders all at once. He reaches back toward the mahogany desk, picking up the small ivory box he had abandoned. He does not hand it to you with his usual flourish. He simply cradles it in his palm, offering it up like a silent penance.

Inside, nestled against velvet cushions, sits a delicate hair comb crafted especially to look like seashells catching the light.

“I brought it before I saw the page,” he says, his eyes fixed on your face, yet avoiding your eyes like a disconcerted child. “I thought... I believed I had pushed you past your endurance yesterday.”

“You are difficult.” you add as you reach out, fingers resting against his cheek, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw. “You are proud… and sharp… and exhausting.”

Aerion’s eyes flutter shut at the touch of your skin. A small sigh escapes his lips, his hand rising instinctively to cover yours, pressing your palm tighter against his face.

“Yet you stay," he murmurs into the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I wish to be on top.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was angry at everything and everyone. Himself, you (for some odd reason), and even the people who cared for his wounds. You could tell he was upset, hence why you were here in his room in the first place.

Aerion was visibly pouting and you fought back a laugh at his current situation. He caught a glimpse of your small smile and to your surprise, didn’t cuss you out. Only mumbling something under his breath and turning his head the other way. Once again, visibly pouting. You sat at the edge of the bed and set your hand on his thigh, your thumb starting to rub small circles to try and soothe him. “You did what you could.” You reassured. Your tone was calm and relaxed, almost as if speaking to a wounded animal. Not that there was much of a difference.

Aerion swallowed and turned his head back toward you. You winced at the sight of his eye and looked down to collect yourself for a moment before looking back up. “Touch me.” That took a turn.

“Hm?” You hummed, obviously in a bit of shock.

“You heard me,” he huffed and once again turned his head back the other way, closing his eye and relaxing into the pillows. You decided to give him what he wanted, making the decision that he deserved it since he had a poor loss almost an hour ago.

Spoiled, you thought while shaking your head and removing the blanket from his lower half. He was already half-hard which wasn’t surprising. You spit in your hand before wrapping it around his cock and when you slowly started in a pumping motion, you could hear a small gasp come from Aerion. “Faster.”

“You are in no place to give orders, Aerion.”

He didn’t like your reply but couldn’t help but let out a small moan. The feel of your hand against him felt so good he couldn’t help himself. You loved the sound you heard a few seconds ago—loved making him more vocal with every passing minute. So you moved more quick, changing up your pace and applying more pressure till he let out another pretty sound. In which he delivered perfectly, another desperate noise fell past his lips before he could stop it. Aerion cursed under his breath and started to squirm a little.

His hands gripped the sheets under him as he tried to thrust into your hand. Unfortunately he was more sore and in even more pain than he thought he was. So his attempt to push his dick into your hands any further only resulted in him wincing and slowly lowering his hips back down onto the bed. You noticed, shaking your head slightly. “Relax.” You leaned in closer toward him before completely switching your position to in between his legs. Seeing Aerion like this, completely vulnerable and not being the asshole prince that he is, turns you on a lot more than you thought it would. Not that you were complaining.

On your left, there was a long, nasty cut along his inner thigh. You almost got distracted by a long whine that Aerion let out, which you come to realize was because you seemingly slowed down your hand. Quickly, you went back at his preferred pace so that you could turn your attention back to his wound. You pressed small, gentle kisses a good distance away from it. Though you realized that someone must’ve forgot to bandage his injury, seeing how all of his other ones have bandages over them. Aerion was getting impatient and he made it known. Practically growling at you and starting to squirm again. You rolled your eyes, attention now fully on his cock. An idea popped in your head so you followed through with it. You wrapped your left arm around the outside of his thigh, so that your hand could grip him properly.

Now, your fingers were uncomfortably close to the large gash. You got his mind off of it by removing your aching hand from his cock, and replacing it with your mouth. The next thing you know, a loud moan bounced off of the walls and hopefully wasn’t heard by anyone near. You then began to slowly bob your head up and down; being careful to not gag. Back to the hand wrapped around his thigh, you slightly pressed around the area near the wound. The small amount of pain mixed with the pleasure you were giving him got him much closer to cumming.

The room was then filled with the wet sounds of you on his cock, and the desperate, needy noises that Aerion let out. A hand came up and was placed on your shoulder, weakly squeezing. You weren’t sure what that was for. Grounding himself maybe? Your confusion didn’t last long because then you felt the quick shoot of his cum to the back of your throat. Swallowing what you could, you pulled off coughing.

When you got yourself together you sat up fully and watched as he grinned. You rolled your eyes then stood up to find some bandages for him, and find and yell at whoever forgot to wrap his wound.