Ohlookitsjasmine

the offense was performative, a thin crust over the actual reaction happening underneath, which is that aerion targaryen has just walked into his bedroom and found you (his wolf, his nightmare, the only person alive who makes him feel like he's coming apart at the seams) touching yourself in his bed, and he didn't get to see it from the beginning.

he should have been here for this. he should have gotten to watch your face when you started, should have seen the exact moment you slid your hand down, the first catch of your breath. the way your hips shifted against his sheets. and he missed it, and that feels, somehow, like a personal slight.

"how long have you been—" he starts, and his voice has gone quieter now, lower, the performance dropping. he's still standing in the doorway but his weight has shifted forward. his eyes have gone dark, pale lashes lowered, fixed on your hand. "how long?"

you don't answer immediately. just hold his gaze, your hand still resting between your thighs, not moving. waiting.

"were you thinking about me?" he demands, and it comes out rougher than he meant it to. needier.

you hum. noncommittal.

his jaw tightens. "were you saying my name?"

"...maybe."

"maybe." he laughs, but it's not a joyful laugh. it's the laugh that means he's about to make you regret being coy with him. "show me, then. i want to see what i missed. i want to hear you say it."

and here's where whole thing tilts from offense into something else entirely. because aerion could fuck you right now (he wants to fuck you right now, you can see it in the way he's looking at you, the tension in his shoulders, the way his rings catch the light as his hand flexes against the doorframe) but he doesn't move. he stays where he is. watching.

"go on," he says quietly. "finish what you started."

third: mutual masturbation. or he just fucks you. he's no saint.

aerion tries.

he genuinely, earnestly tries to be patient, to let this play out, to talk you through it the way he's been fantasising about doing since the second he walked in and saw your hand between your legs.

he leans against the doorframe. he watches you touch yourself. he tells you (voice low, mean and shaking slightly at the edges) exactly what he wants you to do. "slower. no, slower, don't finish yet, i didn't say you could finish."

and it works. for maybe ninety seconds it works. you follow his instructions, your hand moving the way he tells you to move it, and he watches with this focused, predatory intensity, and his own hand drops to the front of his jeans (just resting there at first, palm pressing against the obvious line of him) and you can see him fighting it, see him trying to be good, to make this last.

but then you say his name.

just a soft, breathless "aerion" as your hips lift off the bed, and that's it. that's the end of his self-control. his hand is already working his jeans open as he crosses the room, and by the time he reaches the bed he's shoving them down his hips along with his briefs, and he's crawling over you with and his mouth already finding yours.

"you're impossible," he mutters against your lips, one hand batting yours away so he can replace it with his own, fingers sliding into you without preamble. "actually impossible. i was going to—i had a whole—fuck, you're so wet—"

"you were going to what?" you manage, gasping as he curls his fingers.

"i was going to watch," he bites out, sounding genuinely aggrieved about it even as he's sinking two fingers deeper, his thumb finding your clit. "i was going to be good, i was going to let you finish like this and then fuck you after, but you—you said my name—"

"sorry," you lie, not sorry at all.

"no you're not." he pulls his fingers out, and before you can complain he's lining himself up, the head of him pressing against you. "you're never fucking sorry, you do this on purpose, you—"

he sinks in.

all at once. just one smooth brutal slide until he's buried completely, the stretch of him a punishment, and you're making a sound into his mouth that he swallows like he's starving for it.

"there," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes gone lavender-dark and slightly wild. "there, fuck, this is what you needed, wasn't it? not your hand. me."

and he's right, obviously, he's always right about this even when he's insufferable about it, but you're not going to give him the satisfaction of saying so. you just wrap your legs around his hips and pull him deeper, and aerion makes this low, broken sound and starts moving.

he fucks you mean. he fucks you like he's annoyed about it, like you've personally inconvenienced him by being so fucking hot that he couldn't keep his hands to himself for two full minutes. his rhythm is rough and uneven, chasing his own pleasure more than yours because he's petty and you ignored him in favour of your own hand, and he's going to make sure you know exactly what you were missing.

except—

except he can't help himself. halfway through he slows down, his forehead dropping to yours, and his hand slides between your bodies to find your clit again because aerion targaryen is incapable of fucking you without making you come. it's a point of pride. and he'd rather die than let you finish yourself off when he's right here.

"say it again," he demands, voice rough.

"say what?"

"my name. say it the way you were saying it when i walked in. i want to hear it."

you smile against his mouth. and then, because you're generous, because he's fucking you so perfectly you can barely think, you give it to him.

"aerion."

he shudders. full-body. his hips stutter, rhythm faltering for half a second before he catches himself and drives back in harder.

"again."

"aerion—"

"fuck, yes, like that—"

and when you come, it's with his name in your mouth and his hand between your legs and his cock buried so deep inside you that you can't tell where you end and he begins. and aerion follows maybe ten seconds later, finishing inside you with a low, guttural sound and his teeth in your shoulder and his rings digging into your hip hard enough to bruise.

afterward, when you're both catching your breath and he's collapsed half on top of you, still inside you because he's clingy even when he pretends he's not, you run your fingers through his sweaty pale hair and murmur, "you know, i was thinking about you."

he lifts his head. eyes narrowed. "obviously you were thinking about me."

"the whole time."

"i know."

"you didn't know. you asked."

"i was—" he stops. recalibrates. "i was confirming."

you grin. "you were jealous of my hand."

"i was not—"

"you absolutely were."

aerion glares at you. then, because he's a bastard, he shifts his hips just enough to make you gasp, still sensitive, and smirks when your nails dig into his shoulders.

"next time," he says, voice low and smug, "you wait for me."

"or what?"

"or i'll make you wait." he kisses you, slow and wet, sucking on your bottom lip. "and i'll make you watch while i finish myself off. see how you like it."

you both know he's lying. you both know he could never have that level of discipline when it comes to you or his pleasure. but you let him have it anyway, because he's pretty when he's pretending to be in control, and because he's going to fuck you again just to prove a point.

he's no saint.

“you would call treason upon your own son?” you huff, finding the situation more humorous than it should be as you cradled the chubby babe to your breast. he was too preoccupied latching onto you and puckering for milk, oblivious to the mock disdain his father was currently displaying towards him. ridiculous, truly, but you never were one to call out aerion’s dramatics outward, instead sitting back and watching keenly as your husband fussed and snapped his teeth in search of your attention, hoping to garner it.

away from his own son. even now, having the heir he most ardently wanted, healthy and nursing from your breast in contempt, aerion still was not entirely pleased. still wanting to possess and monopolize every bit of it.

“i would,” he responded, lip curled lightly, even as he made his way towards the plush bed, where you and the babe were lounging, surrounded by pelts, pillows, and blankets. it was aerion’s order, for his wife and son would not want for nothing and receive every bit of comfort there is, at any hour of the day. “it is the greatest offense to steal one’s wife,” aerion continued, a frown now marring his handsome features as he slid under the blanket, molding himself to your back from shoulders to ankles, hooking his around yours. “more so a prince’s of the realm. a dragon’s.”

you had half a mind to contain the laughter that was bubbling in your throat at your husband’s words. he would rather take a spear to the heart than openly admit to missing you, to inquire you offer your consideration and affection to him, too. so, instead, he would find every which way to demand it, one more nonsensical than the other. it was confusing in the early stages of your betrothal, with all the fussing and squabbling, but over time, it slowly bloomed into unadulterated fondness, making your heart flutter.

your husband had always been a greedy man, wanting nothing else than to hoard everything he deemed worthy of him, like a dragon with its shiny treasures. most endearing, truly, but you would never relay that little thought to him, for you know aerion would show his teeth at any diminishing praise from you.

“he is not stealing anything,” came your soft protest, your lips twitching with amusement as you felt aerion’s arm curl around your waist, holding you tightly pressed against his chest, fingers spreading to encompass as much of your belly as possible, just to feel and paw at the clothed skin. “you know babes need all the care and vigilance from their mothers,” you lilted, before adding pointedly, leaning back against him. “and fathers.”

he scoffed, the puff of air brushing against your nape, where your husband was currently nuzzling, face tucked against your skin as he mumbled. “he needs too much,” aerion protested, the fingers on your belly pressing in, kneading at the pudgy skin, similar to a cat kneading. “he takes too much from you,” your husband continued, words slightly muffled by his incessant nosing against your neck, breathing you in, the smell of warm milk and motherhood drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

you didn’t respond, only huffing, your attention drawn to the peaceful babe in your arms, as one of his little hands patted at your breast, fingers curling onto the skin as he nursed. your expression melted, heart soaring with so much love and affection for the bundle nestled at your chest. you and aerion’s bundle. the most important thing in the world to both of you.

“even now, his greed knows no bounds, wife,” aerion complained again, chin hooking onto your shoulder, cheek pressing against yours as he watched the way his son suckled at your breast, content and unburdened, the corners of his little mouth smeared with milk as he cooed softly the more he nursed. “he’s been feeding for what feels like forever,” he pressed on, brows furrowing, making you stifle a soft snort of laughter, which only made your husband scowl. “and you seem to find my predicament highly amusing.”

of course you did. having your husband close to pouting over not receiving enough attention from you was prime entertainment when one was so swamped by the intricacies of motherhood.

“maybe just a little bit, my love,” you spoke, turning your face until your nose bumped against his cheek, wanting his gaze on you, urging him to meet your eyes. “but he needs it,” the words only make his frown deepen as he peers at you, lip curling in distaste. “how is he to grow into a strong dragon if he doesn’t feed, hm?” you wonder, but it’s all placating, wanting to coax out your husband’s agreement by using his own pride against him.

since before the babe was even born, all you heard was your husband proclaiming that his son was to be the strongest dragon. an exemplary targaryen. the one who would mount the world and bring renown to the family name anew.

and now he dared to complain when you were aiding his dreams to come true? feeding and nurturing his son to your breast as many times as the babe fussed, even in the dead of night, bone—tired with exhaustion.

he only sneered lightly, leaning in to brush your noses together, eyes half lidded with intent as he watched you. the frown between his brows eased just a bit when he saw your gaze being trained on him steadily, no longer on the babe. “he’s being a greedy little dragon, then,” your husband mumbled, not ceasing his nosing, pressing closer so his lips brushed against your cheek. “seizing all your attention and love for himself, while i am left bereft without my sweet wife's tending.”

your breath hitched from his words, and even more so when his tongue flicked out to taste the corner of your mouth, needy and insistent, pupils blown wide, eclipsing the purple of his eyes. he only looked at you like that when he wanted to have you, which was more often than a proper lady would want to admit. but you never minded. you loved being wanted by aerion. it felt exhilarating to be caught under the sheer intensity of his gaze; a predator prowling his next prey, a dragon circling his mate before giving into ancient instincts.

“you are being dramatic to a fault,” you accuse, breath thinning into soft puffs as your husband’s lips trail towards your jaw, peppering the curve with wet, lingering kisses, willing to make you falter. “we sleep in the same bed every night, and have supper—”

“and it is not enough,” he interrupts, pressing one last kiss to your soft chin before nudging your noses together anew, lips brushing as he spoke, tone low. “i haven’t bathed with you in moons, wife,” your husband reminds you, eyes sharpening in reprimand, as if you have committed a grave sin and must now repent. “haven’t had you cheer me on when i joust at tourneys, bestowing your favor upon me so i can come back victorious.”

he spoke truth, and you knew how much aerion cherished those moments, even if never said out loud. his eyes always sought out yours when he jousted, preening under your watchful gaze, pea-cocking only for you, especially when he won. the baths you missed as well. having the whole bath-chambers to yourselves while you washed each other, letting your hands linger and steam warm up your skin when ultimately your husband became too impatient not to have you against the tub, slick bodies moving languidly until you both came, tongues tangled and nails biting into each other’s skin.

aerion missed you.

the thought made you smile against his mouth, a secretive, fond thing, humming as you leaned to peck his lips, pleased to see him chasing your mouth when you drew back. “you know it was hard for me to move much, my love,” you whispered, lips touching as you spoke. “our little dragon demanded my rest more often than not,” a little smile in the corner of your mouth as you continued, offering another kiss, which aerion soaked up like a man starved, inhaling sharply through his nose as he meant to prolong it, but was denied. “and now look at him. chubby and cute as a button,” you paused for a moment for your husband’s gaze to clear from the brief haze of want, before murmuring. “healthy.”

aerion’s expression seemed to ease, chest heaving just so as he watched you, stagnant for now, as if acclimating to your words, to their meaning.

he sighed, moving closer, eyelashes fluttering as a long sigh parted his lips, brushing against yours as he murmured. “healthy,” aerion repeated, tone dipping into reverence. “you have given me a healthy, strong babe,” he continued, tipping his chin to slot his lips with yours, making you gasp softly. “a miracle.”

the words were poured into your mouth, aerion’s lips firm but slow against yours, coaxing you to reciprocate, to let him reward you for the blessing you brought into this world, for the pride that swelled into his chest every time he looked at his son, for all the days and nights you ached and wept from the pain of pregnancy. for his son and heir.

you couldn’t help but melt into his kiss, forgetting for a moment about the content babe suckling at your breast. oh, how you have missed your husband, even if he had kissed you plenty today. aerion couldn’t tolerate the absence of your touch for too long. it was like an itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch, quieting only when your bodies touched, when he tasted your lips, when he felt your warmth seep into him and make a home in the marrow of his bones anew, simmering his blood.

“my good wife,” aerion crooned against your lips, his tongue swiping to lick greedily into you mouth, tasting you fully, swallowing the quiet moan emitting from your throat as he brushed the roof of your mouth and traced the ridges of your teeth. “giving me so much,” he murmured, tone shifting to a pleased rumble from deep within his chest the more he talked. “making me so proud.”

“aerion—,” his name slipped unbidden from your mouth, but it sounded muffled as your tongues tangled wetly, your husband relentless in his conquest of your mouth, coaxing your lips wider for more leverage, groaning when they gave away, lax and pliant for him to do as he wished with.

he was kissing you like he hadn’t in years, his lips wrapping around your tongue and sucking lewdly, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch you, to let his gaze feast on how debauched you looked as you allowed him such indulgences. as you let him slowly move back and forth, taking more of your tongue between his lips before drawing back until only the tip remained, just to repeat the salacious motion, making you whine from how wanton it felt.

“aerion—,” you tried again, half—moan, half—plea, eyes hazy and soft with pleasure, the word coming out garbled from the way he was still leisurely suckling on your tongue, growling in annoyance when you meant to draw back. his gaze was sharp as he gave one last, long suckle, leaning back, just enough to let you speak, your lips still brushing.

“do you not wish to—”

“w—we can’t, my love,” you hoped your tone was apologetic enough for him to let you continue and not dive back in to claim your mouth. “the babe—”

he scoffed, gaze drifting towards the bundle tucked against your breast, still nursing, but slowly drifting towards sleep. the little glutton was still going strong, puckering for more, milk—drunk even though his eyes were half—lidded with slumber and satiation.

you could see a myriad of conflicting emotions flit onto your husband’s features, only to relent moments after, a frustrated sigh leaving his swollen, spit-slick lips from how eager he had kissed you prior.

aerion turned, leaning in to press one last firm, lingering kiss to your mouth, letting his tongue swipe at the seam of your bottom lip before tipping back. “later,” he muttered, thick with unspoken intent. a promise.

you huffed, wanting to protest, but were rendered silent by the way he settled against you, still molded to your back, arm tight around your waist, holding you cuddled into his chest, his chin tucked onto your shoulder.

it made you relax, a small smile quirking your lips as you held the babe closer against your chest, lifting his body just a bit so your husband could easily see him without having to dip his gaze down too much.

“later,” you parroted, and felt your heart flutter when a pair of lips brushed your temple moments later, as if sealing that promise in place.

Valarr dismounts his palfrey and is greeted immediately by his squire, who takes his shattered lance with mud-stained hands. The prince then pulls his helm from his head. His hair clings to his forehead, dark with sweat, his cheekbones pink as he spares a look over his shoulder. The sounds of the tourney meet his ears: people shouting their approval, roaring praise as he leaves the tiltyard, peering at his opponent, who picks himself out of the mud with a loud groan.

“An incredible joust, your grace,” a young worker in Targaryen colours says earnestly, taking the prince’s palfrey before leading him away.

“At this rate, you will surpass your father in tourney victories,” a Dornish nobleman, a cousin to some degree, remarks as Valarr heads towards his tent.

“Perhaps the ‘Breakspear’ name will fit well with you also, your grace,” another nobleman, from some lesser house in the Stormlands, adds as Valarr passes by.

The prince offers all those who give him their congratulations a polite smile, but it is largely to conceal a grimace. He had received a solid knock to the ribs, the blunt head of a lance cracking off the edge of his shield and finding the curve of his armour. Despite the steel holding strong, the impact rattled him enough to bruise.

“Where is my wife?” Valarr asks suddenly, glancing up towards the Targaryen pavilion that overlooks the tiltyard. You, his wife, are nowhere to be seen—the seat between his father and his younger brother achingly vacant.

His words seem to fall on no ears at all as the excitable crowd disperses around him. However, he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he turns to find an elderly woman with a kind smile and even kinder eyes. She dresses in shawls of varying lengths and colours, presenting herself as a traditional healer that frequents the villages throughout the Crownlands.

“Your grace, do your ribs pain you?” The woman asks, and Valarr instinctively raises a hand to his side. The woman notices the movement and nods solemnly, brushing one of her shawls aside and revealing a belt laden with small pouches. She takes one between two wrinkled fingers, presenting it to the prince. “This is a tannin that will ease the pain and reduce bruising. Simply mix it with water—”

The woman is interrupted by a hand gilded in white armour. Valarr sighs softly as Ser Roland plucks the small pouch from the woman and inspects it with little interest.

“Be gone, witch,” Roland says, dropping the pouch onto the ground. With his head, he gestures in the opposite direction. “If you approach his grace again with your poisons, you will be hanged.”

Valarr bristles, eyes snapping back to the elderly woman, who he expects to look petrified. But as his mismatched eyes find her, she appears calm, almost serenely so. She appraises Roland carefully, looking him up and down with dark eyes that seem to bore directly into his soul. Valarr notices the way Roland stands a little straighter.

“I hold no poisons,” the woman says, still looking at the man of the kingsguard. “And you, Ser Roland Crakehall, should know that.”

Roland clears his throat, obviously a little shocked that the woman knows his name. She continues looking at him, before gesturing to the pouch on the ground. Roland looks to Valarr, who simply nods as he silently observes, and the knight sighs through his nose. He plucks the pouch from the ground and hands it back to the woman.

“Thank you,” the woman smiles at Roland, then turnes her attention back to Valarr. “As I was saying, your grace, simply mix this tannin with water and drink hot. It will ease your pain.”

Valarr takes the pouch, ignoring the sharp look from Roland. He bows his head in respect. “Thank you.”

“And this,” the woman continues, pulling another small pouch from her rope belt. “Will… improve your celebrations, should you find your wife. You can mix it with the tannin, if you like. It will improve the taste most definitely, but be aware that it will also increase the properties of—”

“Your grace,” Roland interrupts. “It would be foolish to—”

Valarr raises a hand and stops his guard. He takes the pouch along with the other, and offers the woman a kind smile. He then turns to Roland, gesturing to the elderly woman with a wave of his arm, his armour clinking.

“Pay the woman, Ser Roland,” Valarr orders, then backs away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my wife.”

He leaves Roland with the woman and heads for his tent. Inside, it is spacious but warm, glowing gold with lantern light. Servants flock him immediately, hands working to unhook and unlatch the plates of his armour. He hands the two small pouches to one of his attendings as he stands atop a small platform.

“Please brew a tea with these,” he says, and the servant nods before disappearing somewhere behind him. 

He stands patiently, arms and legs widened as his servants strip him of his tourney armour. When the steel is lifted from his body, and his padded, sweat-damp gambeson is stripped from his torso, he dismisses his servants as politely as he can. His ribs ache something fierce, and he finds himself staggering across the tent in his linen chausses and breeches, bare chest shining with a thin layer of sweat.

The last servant in the room is the one whom he’d asked to brew him the tea. She approaches the prince with her eyes lowered and, bless her heart, trying very desperately not to look at the toned abdomen directly in front of her. She offers the prince the cup of steaming tea, before taking her leave and skittering out of the tent like a frightened mouse.

Valarr sinks down into his plush chaise, peering into the surface of the tea. It’s a milky white in colour, perhaps something closer to cream, but there is an intense berry-sweetness that catches him by surprise. The steam caresses his warm face as he brings the cup to his lips, taking a tentative sip. There is an obvious bitterness in the initial wash across his tongue, but it does not linger.

He smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tasting between sips. The sweet acidity of ripe mulberries is heavy on his tongue, and it takes him back to his youth, where he and Daeron would fill their pockets with the berries from shrubs that sprouted plentifully in the woodland near Summerhall.

He drinks the tea happily, enjoying the silence of his tent. He listens to the distant noise of the tourney, and only when the bottom of the cup stares up at him, pinkish-white sediment sticking to the bottom, does he realise he still hasn’t found you.

With a small huff, Valarr gets to his feet and places the cup aside. Immediately, there is less of an ache in his ribs as he stretches his arms above his head. He pops the tension from his upper back before approaching the flap of the tent, pulling it back and getting the attention of one of his kingsguard.

“Will you find my wife and bring her to me?” Valarr asks, and the guard nods then disappears.

Valarr peels back into the tent, and when he turns, the entire interior seems to glow even brighter beneath the suspended lanterns. He freezes, bare feet on the red Myrish rug that obscures the ground. He peers around the tent, eyes narrowing, as he realises that everything seems clearer. Everything looks more colourful: the reds and blacks of his tent seem even more vibrant, the silver of his sword glints even brighter where it lays across its mount.

That is what he notices first. What he notices second is the fact that his body is on fire.

His blood boils beneath his skin, but it doesn’t pain him. Valarr lets out a strangled groan as he pitches forward, catching himself on the post that holds the ceiling of the tent up. It doesn’t cause him pain, like a blade through flesh, but it causes him discomfort, like the press of an orgasm that just didn’t want to release.

He groans again, body suddenly overcome with this heat. Sweat beads high on his forehead, along the nape of his neck, between the muscles of his pectorals. Something contracts low in his stomach, and he looks down, mouth agape, as blood rushes south and heat spreads through his pelvis.

His hands find the ties of his chausses, and he rips them from his body as he stumbles deeper into his tent, now just in his breeches. His cock pushes painfully against the linen, hardening with each step towards his chaise. By the time he sinks into the plush cushions, he’s completely hard and pitching a tent in the front of his breeches.

His heart hammers wildly in his chest, eyes wild as he lowers a clammy palm to his pelvis. Pushing against the tent there does not help, and he lets out a pained hiss as the friction seems to sear a path up the column of his spine. His hips twitch involuntarily, and his face flushes red as he realises he’s leaking against the soft white linen, a little wet patch spreading across the front.

“Gods, oh gods,” Valarr mutters, fingers tearing apart the knots of his breeches. 

Biting his bottom lip to hide any more sounds, he dips his hand beneath the material and grasps himself. He successfully swallows a groan, his cock hot against his palm, velvet skin pulling taut across Valyrian steel. His chest shudders when he wraps his fingers around himself, the head already wet with pre-cum. He smears it, biting down another desperate groan as he gives himself a short, sharp tug. Sinking into the chaise, he spreads his legs as he jerks himself again, a heavy knot finding its way into the base of his stomach.

Then, the flap of the tent pulls back, and his eyes shoot up to find you stepping inside, dusting your hands down the front of your dress. Your eyes are elsewhere as you pull your cloak from yourself and hang it on an adjacent rack.

“Please forgive me, my love,” you begin, voice soft in the relative silence of the tent. You bend and remove your shoes as well. “You remember Ser Raymun Fossoway, don’t you? Such a lovely lad he is. Well, he and his lady invited me into their tent for a cider, and I just couldn’t refuse. It was delicious, by the way. We really must purchase—”

You finally look up and notice your husband panting in his chaise, his pale skin slick with sweat, his chest heaving. You pause, back to the flap of the tent, brow furrowing as you take him in.

“My love?” You question, taking a step forward. But you stop yourself, eyes shooting down to where Valarr’s hand moves in quick, short strokes beneath the white linen of his breeches. Your eyes widen, then rise, skimming across your husband’s flushed face. “Valarr?”

“My sweet wife,” Valarr breathes, stilling his hand and simply clutching the base of his cock. His other hand lifts, begging you to draw closer. “Gods, I have missed you.”

You stay rooted to the spot. “Valarr, what’s happening?”

Valarr groans at the way you say his name, his cock giving a feeble jerk in his hand. His heart clatters against his sternum too, nearly rendering him breathless.

“I believe,” he starts quietly, eyes roaming across your body. “I have been given a… stimulant of sorts.”

You gape at him, noticing the cup beside him. You sigh then, turning back to the flap and enclosing your fingers around it. Before you can peel it open, Valarr lets out a broken whine behind you.

“No, no, please don’t leave me,” he begs, wobbling to his feet. 

You peer at him over your shoulder as he staggers, hand flying out of his breeches, which sit low on his hips now, a thatch of neat hair—dark but flecked with white—exposed where they fold open. He makes it to the post in the centre of the tent, wrapping an arm around it in support as he gazes at you, desperate and absolutely ragged with desire.

“Wait,” you instruct him, and your husband’s whimpering quietens. 

You poke your head out of the tent then, urging for the nearby kingsguard to draw closer. The day was slipping away now, sky alight with the colours of the setting sun. 

The kingsguard approaches, and you speak to him quietly. “Please ensure no one interrupts us for the rest of the night. My husband is… unwell.”

“Of course, your grace,” the guard says, and you offer him one last smile before dipping back into the tent. 

When you back into the tent, your back collides with a warm, sweat-damp body, and you immediately sink back into the heat as Valarr wraps his arms around you. You quickly tie the tent door shut for good measure as Valarr buries his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling and whining, hips bucking until he can grind his hard cock into the curve of your arse.

“I’m very proud of you, by the way,” you tell him, hands smoothing across his forearms as you shift your head to the side, allowing him to drag his nose along the junction of your neck and shoulder. “That might’ve been your best tilt of the tourney.”

Valarr groans into your shoulder, and then his teeth come down in a bite. It’s not hard, not at all, but he sinks his teeth into your skin just enough to leave little indents. You hum, then muster as much strength as you can to pry his arms away from you. He hiccups around a groan as you turn and step out of his embrace, your back pressing to the tent canvas.

“What have you taken?” You ask, crossing your arms across your chest. The action presses your breasts a little higher in your low-cut dress, and Valarr can’t help the way his eyes follow the movement.

He groans, still looking at the swell of your chest. “A tea…”

You huff and breeze past him. Valarr closes his eyes as your movement shifts the air, and he catches the smell of your perfume: powdery and sweet and enough to make him salivate. But your warmth leaves his personal space and he whimpers at the loss, spinning on his heel so fast he loses his balance. He falls and catches himself on the post in the centre, watching as you cross the tent and pick up the porcelain cup.

You inspect the inside, finding the pinkish sediment gathering at the bottom. Without another thought, you dip your finger and wipe the sediment from the base, lifting your finger and watching the white-pink granules sparkle like sugar.

Valarr leans a shoulder against the centre post, his hand dipping back into his breeches. As he grasps his cock and hisses serpent-like into the heated air of the tent, he watches the way your eyes glisten as you inspect the strange powder.

You look over at him when he whines. His breeches finally fall, slipping down his hips and pooling at his ankles as he strokes his cock. You try your best not to look down, but you can’t help it: his cock hangs heavy between his legs, the tip blushing pink and wet. His lips part as he strokes himself, his brows furrowing.

He looks at you like you’re the prettiest thing in the realm. Well, if you ask him, you are the prettiest thing in the realm. The prettiest woman in the known world.

“Taste it,” Valarr whispers, the vowels broken around a poorly hidden whine as he supports himself against the tent’s post.

You frown at him, but raise your finger anyway. You smell summer berries and jasmine, and you lock eyes with Valarr as you stick your finger in your mouth and suck the granules clean from your skin. The act makes Valarr moan, and you watch as his cock drips as he gives himself another sharp stroke before he’s crossing the tent towards you.

You like the taste. It’s sweet and acidic, and the smell lingers in your sinuses as you place the cup back down.

“I don’t want to know where you got this from,” you say, dancing around your husband as he makes a move to grab you. Your laughter lifts through the room, and Valarr groans, collapsing onto the chaise with a blush heavy on his cheeks. The dresses of your skirts whip around your bare ankles as you stand over him. “But I assume it’s not from our maester.”

Valarr whines, fingers tight at the base of his cock. “No.”

“No? Oh, Valarr.”

“Please,” Valarr pleads, eyes shining like gemstones as he gazes up at you. His long eyelashes flutter as his pupils expand. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, I just—I didn’t think—”

You hold up a hand, and he silences with a whimper. With that same hand, you reach down and cup his cheek. His eyes close and he leans into the contact, his skin burning. You stroke your thumb across his cheekbone, glancing down at where he holds his cock.

“Don’t apologise,” you say gently, and your husband’s eyes open. “We shall discuss it later. For now—” Your hand drags up the side of his face until you can thread your fingers into his damp hair. The sound that leaves his throat is broken as you continue. “—does my champion need some help?”

“Please,” Valarr hurries out, and then groans when your fingers leave his hair. But he waits before complaining, watching instead as you gather your skirts enough to slip your fingers through the ties of your smallclothes. Slowly, you pull them down, your skirts dropping as your smallclothes hit the floor. Valarr gapes as you kick them aside, knowing you were now bare beneath. “Oh, pretty girl—”

“I love watching you compete,” you utter, approaching slowly. Valarr leans back in the chaise as you step between his spread legs. “You’re so strong, and you look so good in your armour.”

“Yeah?” Valarr has stars in his eyes.

His cock aches, the knot in his belly heavy, pressure building along his spine, but he ignores it all to reach for you. Two hands find your hips, but he doesn’t try to pull you to him. Not yet.

“Yeah,” you reply, hands covering his atop your hips. You stroke your fingers across his knuckles, across the bones of his wrists. “That armour… gods, Valarr, you look so good.”

Valarr gapes at you. His cock jerks against his stomach, smearing across the skin.

You gaze down at him, fingers ringing around his forearms now. “I can’t help myself. It makes me so wet watching you like that—”

“Oh, fuck,” Valarr curses, pulling you to him. He buries his face into the mound of your lower stomach, nuzzling you there as a moan rips free of his throat. One of your hands finds his hair again, this time carding through the streak of white, and you feel him shudder where he hides himself against you. “Oh, my sweet girl. My pretty wife.”

“I’ll take you so well,” you purr, delighting in the way your husband squirms in your hold, whining into the thick fabric of your bodice. “I’ll take all of you.”

“I know you will,” Valarr gasps out, lifting his head. 

You finally allow him to pull you, and you find yourself straddling his lap as he sinks back into the chaise. You had long given up arguing about being too heavy to sit in his lap like this, for he simply retorted that you could sit on his face instead if you wish. You slide into his lap, skirts billowing out around you as his mouth finds yours, with the initial contact making him moan down your throat.

The kiss is messy. He’s burning hot against you, and his hands hold you tight as his tongue licks the berry-sweetness from your lips. You make a noise from the back of your throat when his tongue finally bullies inside, finding yours and pulling another little noise from you. He whines in response, one of his hands bundling into your skirts and pushes it up around your hip as you press yourself further into his lap.

As his tongue smooths against yours, you find yourself heating up. Suddenly, the material of your dress is too hot against your chest, your nipples pebbling beneath your chemise and a shiver running down your spine. You pull out of the kiss to suck in a breath, eyes opening and finding the room glowing with previously unseen colour. The lantern suspended overhead blares like a trapped sun, and when your eyes find your husband’s, the lighter one seems to shine.

“Oh, I think I feel…” You lose your train of thought as Valarr hums his acknowledgement, head shifting to suck at your neck. You grind yourself down against his lap, and you finally angle yourself well enough to feel the length of his cock rut against your inner thigh. You moan, “Valarr.”

Valarr’s breathing hard against your throat as his hips rock, a desperate string of “huh–uh–uh” as his cock slides against your bare thigh, velvet skin smoothing back, pre-cum a sticky smear as you shift your legs to draw him in closer.

You throw one of your arms around his shoulders. The other dips down between your bodies, fingers wrapping around the thick of him and giving him a teasing squeeze. His kisses across your throat falter, and his head falls back. He whimpers softly as you stroke him, before lifting your hips slightly to drag the tip of him through the wet split of your pussy.

“Oh, gods, sweet girl, you’re soaked,” he moans, holding you tightly.

His breath comes in quick pants, his chest flushed with sweat. You whine at his words and bend to kiss him again, sucking his lip into your mouth as you run the tip of his cock through your folds again. You swallow his whimpers as you rock the wet heat of your cunt against his length with as much precision as you could offer (considering your body was alight like a pyre).

“Please let me have you,” Valarr whines, angling his head to kiss along the line of your jaw.

You nod, sitting higher in his lap to drag the head of his cock to your hole. You notch it there yourself, running a few tight circles before slowly pushing in, sinking at the same time. The sound that leaves your husband is a garbled mix of whimpers and groans of your name as you take him. You put both hands on his shoulders now, squeezing the strong muscle there.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he mutters, mouthing where your pulse hammers beneath your ear. Your head tips, allowing him to suck and bite, before lifting a hand from your hip to seize your jaw. He forces your mouth to his, teeth clashing, tongues sweet with mulberries. When he pulls away, a thin string of spit connects your mouths. It breaks when he says, “Keep going, sweet girl.”

You listen, finally sinking all the way down until your arse presses to his thighs. Your skirts fan out around you in a pool of black and crimson.

Valarr groans. “Yes, yes, thank you, fuck, thank you.”

“Valarr,” you whisper as you slowly start to rock your hips. 

You lift as well, then slide yourself back down. The movements are slow, calculated, and it takes the strength of all Seven not to simply drop down and take him to the hilt. There’s a fire burning deep within you, clawing up your diaphragm, spreading through your chest as you sink, feeling every velvet ridge against the walls of your pussy. Valarr hisses, one hand holding your hip, the other still on your jaw—not gripping, just holding, as his mismatched eyes watch your face, utterly transfixed.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he breathes as you lift yourself, circling your hips. He groans, thick from his chest, when you lower yourself back down. Your pussy flutters when he hits deep, angling right up towards the plug of your cervix. He groans again. “That’s it, that’s a good girl. My best girl.”

“Valarr,” you whine. Your body is burning hot as you set a rhythm, rocking in his lap and taking him again and again.

Valarr releases your jaw and hooks his fingers into the neckline of your dress. He tugs roughly, and you gasp out when you faintly hear something tear. Your breasts spill free, and the moan that leaves him rips through the tent so loud that you’re certain it pierces the canvas. But it doesn’t worry you—all that concerns you now is the fact that you’re fucking yourself on your husband’s cock and his mouth is taking a wet hold of one of your nipples.

He sucks, and you keen. “Valarr.”

The prince’s hand works around the other, pinching and rolling as he continues to rut himself into you. His eyes flutter closed as he mouths at you, huffing with each upstroke and each squeeze of your cunt around him. Your fingers find his hair then, threading between the soft, dark strands until you find the strip of white. The hair is slightly coarser, the texture different from the rest against the pads of your fingers as you curl it between your knuckles and give it a solid tug. His mouth leaves you with a wet pop, his lips kiss-bruised and parted around a whine when he looks up at you.

“You feel so good,” you mewl, arching your back. Heavy pressure builds at the base as your thighs start to ache, and you tug at his hair again to steady yourself. Your husband groans, burying his face between your tits. He mouths at the soft skin of your sternum, panting like a dog. You pet his white streak as you grind down against him. “You always make me feel so good.”

Valarr kisses the slope of your tits as he gently pulls away, both hands on your hips now as he helps you take him at a steady pace. “Yeah? M’so good to you, aren’t I?”

“So good,” you agree. Your body is on fire, sweat slick where your dress clings to you.

“And you’re proud of me?” Valarr whines out as your fingers card through his hair. His movements begin to quicken, and he thrusts up hard, cock hitting that gummy spot inside you that has you seeing stars. Your head rolls on your shoulders as you whine, your husband continuing as he kisses across your chest. “You’re proud of me winning the tilt? The lists?”

The air of the tent is thick with heat, smelling of arbor gold, ripe mulberries and the musk of sex. 

You shudder as you cry out, then force your reply around a breathy whimper. “Yes, Valarr, yes—gods, m’so proud of you.”

Valarr groans. His hips jerk, and he hits even deeper, the thick of his cock splitting you open as you roll against him. You’re so warm against him, the clutch of your pussy silken and hot, and he whimpers when you drool around him, slick running down his balls as he rucks up.

“Did it for you,” he whines, and you bend to kiss him then. It’s not much of a kiss, the two of you high on the mulberry stimulant that makes the tent glow. It’s more tongue and spit, pathetic little whimpers being exchanged as your lips slide together with no pattern. Valarr’s tongue drags to the corner of your mouth, licking the berry-sweetness from the groove. “I want you to be proud of me. I did it for you, sweet girl.”

Your entire body’s pulling taut now, that pressure in your spine migrating deeper and deeper into your pelvis. You gasp as it settles and Valarr’s cock knocks right up against it. You lift and drop, taking him deep and grinding yourself down until the swollen pearl of your clit catches against his hair. The contact sends you reeling, and you clutch him tightly as your body stretches rigid like a bowstring.

“Always proud of you,” you manage to whisper, knot tight in your belly, pussy fluttering around him. “My prince, always such a good—oh, gods, such a good boy.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Valarr whines into the valley of your tits, arms hugging around you completely now as he holds you to him, rutting like a man driven to the brink.

A breathy whine leaves his throat and you feel his cock jerk before he’s coming deep inside you, hips working himself through it as he chases your pleasure like a hound.

Your orgasm crests then, release taking you hard as the bowstring snaps. Your thighs clench where you straddle him, and the fingers in his hair tighten as you come. His name is a wanton chant from your mouth as something in the depths of your belly clenches and your pussy draws him in tight enough to urge another desperate whimper from his throat. Heat spurs through your veins, bursting like stars as your eyes close, your release hitting you hot and hard.

Valarr moans your name as he continues to spill, seed filling you deep as the rolling of your hips stutters. His heart lurches in his chest as the heat within him begins to dissipate, and he can’t help the satisfied groan that leaves him as his cock finally gives one last weak twitch before it stills inside you.

You pet his hair, resting your head on the crown of his as you fizzle down, embers dying. You feel him dripping out of you as his cock slowly softens, and it feels like you can finally breathe again without igniting the pyre within you.

“Valarr, my sweet boy,” you whisper, kissing the top of his head before withdrawing. He does the same: kissing your sternum one last time before reclining back in the chaise. He gazes at you with those glassy, mismatched eyes you love so much, and you drag your hands to cup his flushed cheeks. “Do you feel better?”

You lean in and kiss him softly on the lips.

He hums, content, eyelids drooping. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” You kiss the tip of his nose, then pull back. You smooth his dark hair away from his forehead, the strands wet with sweat. “Shall I call for a maester to be sure?”

His hands tighten on your hips. “No.”

You give your husband a pointed look, palming the sweat from his forehead as you check his temperature.

He huffs out a lazy laugh. “I’m fine, I promise… and, if I may be honest, I have no intention of letting you leave this tent until the morrow.”

You smile, allowing him to lift his head and capture your mouth in another tender kiss. You cradle his face and return it, trying to hide your smile as you feel his cock twitch heavily inside you.

“Valarr…” You whisper, and your husband just hums, beginning to trail a line of kisses from your mouth, over your jaw, and then down your throat and onto your chest.

“I love you,” he says, mouth over your heart now, kissing the warm skin. “I love you.”

———

i’m a valarr loves giving AND receiving praise truther

tags 🌿

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are,,," you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of Prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw Prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

He feels helpless as he watches you toss and turn, the thin material of your chemise clinging to your sweat-soaked skin, the bed sheets a tangled mess at your feet. Your eyes are closed, but small, breathy whimpers leave your cracked lips as whatever is pumping through your veins burns through you like a fever.

Dunk sits on a wooden chair in the corner of the room. It is much too small for him, and his knees are practically at his chest as he keeps an eye on you. Guilt churns in his stomach, and his dinner sits untouched near the door. He doesn’t have the stomach to eat. He feels that it’s his fault that you’re like this: writhing like an animal in pain, whimpering in your sleep.

He wasn’t there to protect you when you wandered into the crowded markets. He wasn’t there when a mysterious healer foretold your future and urged you to sip from an ornate silver flask. He wasn’t there to protect you when the tonic you drank consumed you in a feverish delirium.

He still doesn’t know how you managed to find your way back to the inn, but you did, and he was quick in hauling you up the stairs and straight into bed.

The fever seems to have worsened. You’re muttering to yourself, and your hips twitch against the thin straw mattress. Dunk runs a hand down his face, not allowing himself to sleep. He’s not sure what time it is, but all he knows is that the sky outside is pitch black, and Egg has been sound asleep in the next room for a long time.

Despite his guilt, the hedge knight can’t help the way his eyes linger. The clean white linen of your chemise clings to the curve of your hip as you lie on your side. It sits high on your thighs too, and his eyes travel down the expanse of your legs. Your chest rises and falls quickly, the neckline having dipped to expose the top of your chest. The skin there is dewy with sweat, collecting between the mounds of your breasts.

He shakes his head to himself as his eyes find your face, tracing the lines of your closed eyes and fluttering eyelashes, the slope of your nose and the contours of your parted lips.

Dunk shakes his head again, groaning inwardly and running a large hand through his hair. The room is thick with heat, and he finds himself leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, his tunic damp along his back and under his arms.

Suddenly, you make a little squeaking noise. Dunk sits up straight, drooping eyes now snapping open. He observes you startle yourself awake, sitting up as though possessed, eyes wild with confusion as you stare around the candlelit room like a cat in a trap.

Dunk’s on his feet before he can even think. He calls your name.

You look over at him, chest heaving. “Dunk?”

“Yeah,” he says gently, approaching the edge of the bed. “I’m here, it’s okay.”

He allows himself to sit on the very edge of the mattress, and it dips heavily under his weight. You whine out, body falling into his as you wrap your arms around his thick middle. 

He coos softly, petting your hair with one hand, the other balled in a fist on his lap. “S’alright… s’alright, I’m here.”

“Dunk,” you whisper, broken around the vowel. You turn your head, and Dunk feels you press your nose directly into the side of his pectoral, dangerously close to his armpit. It makes him jolt, and you whine out, nuzzling your face into the heat of the muscle. “Dunk.”

“Wouldn’t get too close,” he jokes, shifting his arm to rub a hand down your back. He is hyper-aware of the thin material that clings to you, and the way he can feel the dip of your spine as his palm flattens against you. “Haven’t bathed since yesterday’s swim in the river.”

You don’t reply. Your body is frighteningly hot against Dunk’s, and he wonders if you’re going to cook yourself from the inside out. He can see the perspiration beading like little gems on your forehead, reflecting the nearby candlelight.

You rub your face against him, inhaling. You whine out, and suddenly, Dunk feels your fingers grip the fabric of his tunic. You’re tugging upwards, as if you’re trying to urge him to take it off.

He freezes. “What’re you doing?”

“Too hot,” you whimper into his side, hands dropping to the hem of his tunic. Dunk sucks in a breath as your warm fingers slide beneath the material, finding the bare skin at his hip, skirting along the band of his trousers.

His arms move from around you, and he quickly takes hold of your arms. He’s gentle, and he takes you away from him until there’s a good foot or two of space between you now. But the whine you let out is heartbreaking, and Dunk bites down on his lip to stop himself from giving in and saying something stupid.

“Dunk,” you whine out, his hands large and completely engulfing your wrists. “Dunk, please help me.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

His eyes momentarily drop to where your loose chemise has fallen. More of your breasts are on display, and your nipples are hard beneath the material. He swallows thickly, noting too the way you wriggle against the mattress.

“Need you,” you murmur, leaning down to press your lips to his knuckles where he holds your wrists. You plant a kiss to a scar across the middle knuckle on his pointer finger, and he retracts as if your touch burned him. You pout. “Dunk, please. Thought y-you always want to help me?”

“You’re sick.” Dunk takes the hand you had kissed and instead places it against your forehead. Hot steel, a blade left in the sun. You groan at the contact but he ignores you. “You need to rest.”

“M’not sick,” you tell him defiantly, your eyelids drooping as you look your friend up and down. He’s so big and so muscular and so thick. Everywhere. “M’not sick, Dunk, I swear it.”

“You are a poor liar.”

You whine like a child. “M’not lying.”

Dunk’s hand drops from your forehead. “Your body tells me otherwise.”

Tentatively, the hedge knight releases your wrists and allows you to sit before him, and you’re left swaying like a drunkard as your gaze rakes down his body. He feels a little self-conscious at the way your eyes linger across the strong stretch of his arms. But you’re too busy thinking about his words to notice the slight furrow in his brows: your body tells me otherwise.

“You’re obviously not looking hard enough,” you say after a moment thick with tense silence. “My body can tell you other… other things, Dunk.”

You watch the lump in his throat work as he swallows. You continue, drunk on lust and completely undeterred. “I had a love potion… or, s’pose it was like… like a sex potion or something… I dunno.”

Dunk blushes at your words.

“I’m only sick ‘cause I need—” you swallow, then slowly reach your hands out again. Your fingers skate along the covered muscles of his chest. “—need you to fuck me.”

Dunk gapes, then recoils, practically leaping off the bed. You whimper, arms dropping uselessly in front of you as he pins himself to the far wall. He’s shaking his head as you sit, alone and a lot colder now, on the bed, staring at him helplessly.

“You’re ill,” he says slowly.

You shake your head, tugging at the neckline of your chemise, trying to filter air between the material and your damp skin. “Nuh-uh.”

“Then you’re drunk,” he says instead. “You’re—whatever you had has made you drunk.”

You pout, a little offended. “M’not drunk.”

Dunk continues to shake his head, but his breathing is laboured. You whine, sitting further back and spreading your legs just enough so your chemise rides further up your thighs. If he looks down, he will surely catch a glimpse of your core—which is flushing hot with blood beneath your skin, slick drooling from you almost painfully.

“I—” Dunk sucks in a deep breath. His big hands are balled into fists at his sides, and he screws his eyes shut. “I can’t.”

You continue to pout. “But… you’re meant to be looking after me.”

“I know, I know,” Dunk utters, running a hand down his face now. His eyes open hesitantly. “I just… this isn’t you. You’re not thinking clearly. I can’t… I can’t take advantage of you like this.”

“Dunk,” you whine, and you watch him screw his eyes shut again. “Dunk, please look at me.”

He cracks his eyes open.

“I’ve always wanted you,” you tell him, your stomach aflutter with butterflies. You’re nervous, but the fever the potion has you under is strong. Your boldness shines through. “Dunk, I lo—”

“No, no, no,” Dunk interrupts quickly, crossing the room in two wide strides to press a hand to your mouth. His palm presses to your face, and the contact makes you moan against him. He jerks back as if you had bitten him, staring down at you with furrowed brows. “M’lady, I can’t—”

“It will cure me,” you decide to tell him, leaning back even further. Your chemise rides up again, and this time, you know your pussy’s on complete display. But Dunk doesn’t look down: his eyes remain on your face as you wet your lips with the point of your tongue. “All I need to… need to do is release a few times, and I’ll feel better.”

Dunk shudders around an exhale. “I… I can’t.”

Then, he’s retreating. You nearly shout in frustration, pleasure searing the inside of your chest as you watch him back away. He sits back on the chair in the corner of the room, crossing his arms over his chest as he averts his eyes from you.

“Dunk…” you whisper. “Please… I feel… it hurts.”

“You’re not thinking right,” Dunk replies, voice cracking. “And you’ll hate me if I do anything.”

“Never,” you reply, then curl your fingers around the hem of your chemise. You rip it over your head, and now you’re bare to the room. To Duncan. “I’ve always wanted you, Dunk. Y’just too bloody noble to see it.”

Dunk’s eyes widen as your breasts spill free. With a small sound of surprise, he drops his head and stares down at the creaky wooden floor.

“I promise you,” you begin, leaning back on one arm, the other trailing down your body as you look over at your brave, noble knight. Your fingers trail over the softness of your belly, then down over your mound. You let out a whiny little whimper as your fingers make contact with your core, brushing the swollen pearl of your clit. “I could never hate you. I’ve wanted you for as long as I’ve known you, Dunk. Since Dorne. Since the Stormlands. For goodness sake, since our days in Flea Bottom.”

Your clammy fingers part your silken folds. They’re slick to the touch, and you spread them between two fingers, the warm air of the room bracing against you. With hooded eyes, you watch Dunk squirm in his chair, his big shoulders heaving. He refuses to look up at you, but you can see the way he’s chewing on his lip, and you can see the way one of his arms drops to cover the front of his trousers.

“Please, Dunk,” you plead as your fingers find your hole. Two draw a neat circle, before you push in and whine. You’re warmer than usual, slicker than usual. You hiccup around another whine, and finally, finally, Dunk’s eyes lift. You gaze longingly at him. “Need you to help me. Please.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes don’t leave your face. Your fingers crook deeper inside yourself, sinking down to the middle knuckle now, but he still doesn’t let his eyes wander. His eyes scan your face, looking for any signs of inebriation—any signs you might not mean what you say.

But he can’t find anything.

And he’s not sure why that scares him more.

“I’ll help you,” he whispers finally, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s saying. 

That earns him a beautiful moan, a melodic singing of his name as your head tips back. His eyes drop now, down the curves of your body, to where you split yourself open on your fingers. You’ve sunken down even further, hand pressed to the curve of your arse, and Dunk’s cock hardens straight away. Blood rushes south, and it almost makes him dizzy with the speed in which his cock chubs up.

He doesn’t move from the chair though. Instead, he pulls his tunic over his head. You’ve seen him bare like this many times before, but it never gets old. His shoulders are so wide, and so strong. His chest is wide and muscular, and his stomach is tense with thickly corded muscle, but the layer of fat there makes you salivate. You yearn to scrape your nails along the freckles across his shoulders, or mouth along the thick trail of hair that disappears into his trousers.

You pump your fingers in and out, hips bucking to match the movements. The bed creaks loudly, which Dunk had feared from the beginning, the straw mattress groaning beneath your desperate movements.

With one hand pulling the ties of his trousers, the other crooks a finger in your direction. Your eyes light up, your ministrations pausing.

“Come here,” he instructs, tone soft as if coaxing a timid horse. It makes your pussy flutter around your fingers before you pull them from you with a huff and get to your feet. You teeter towards him on shaky legs, and he catches you before you can fall across his lap. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “M’perfect, Dunk. Gods, you’re so handsome.”

Dunk blushes deeper than before, cheeks a brilliant pink as he finally gets the ties of his trousers undone. You help by pulling the fabric apart and reaching down with a quick hand. You grab his cock with your slick fingers, and he hisses as you pull him out of his trousers. He’s huge, which you already knew, but staring at it leaking in your hand, you’re not sure if it’s going to fit.

He pulls you into his lap until his cock rests against your belly. The chair is surprisingly solid beneath your combined weight.

“Easy, easy…” He murmurs, watching the way your fingers struggle to wrap around his girth. The size difference makes his cock jerk against your palm, a desperate groan stuck in his throat.

You stroke his cock a few times, lifting your face to run your nose along the side of his neck. You inhale, taking in his scent as you rock your hips, dragging your bare cunt against his thigh. He groans in your ear, and you suck the skin of his jaw between your teeth, nibbling lightly as your hand works his length. Your fingers barely touch as you wrap your fingers around him, twisting near the base. He’s soft and warm in your hand, and he paws at your hips as you rock against him.

“Dunk,” you whisper in his ear, biting his earlobe.

“Hm?”

“Kiss me.”

Dunk releases a breath and turns his head at your request. Your mouths slot together easily, and he tastes of cheap ale. His lips are just as soft against yours, and you can’t help the way you pant into his mouth as you part willingly part for him. Tongues clash, and his is just a bit too clumsy, but it makes you whine. He’s desperate for your pleasure, and he holds you firmly against him as you lick into his mouth.

Simultaneously, you angle your hips enough to drag the heat of your pussy over the length of his cock. His breath hitches, and you steal his moan from between his teeth as a vein on the underside of his shaft rubs against the slick heat of your folds. Your hips roll against him, the fat tip of him nudging against your swollen clit, sending little shocks through your nerves.

“Need you inside me,” you whisper against his mouth, the point of your tongue touching a small scar at his Cupid’s bow. “Please, Dunk, please put your cock—”

Dunk groans, head falling back. You take the opportunity to suck at the shifting lump in his throat, then lick along the muscles that end at the strong line of his jaw.

“M’too big,” he says to the ceiling.

You grumble, lifting yourself in his lap. He gasps, holding your hips and catching you before you can sink down onto him. You groan, your hands flying up to his shoulders to pinch at the freckled skin, the head of his cock just kissing your leaking hole.

“M’too big,” he repeats, stern this time as you wriggle in his grasp.

“Don’t care,” you huff, body shaking. You were slick with sweat and your heart was racing so fast you thought you were about to pass out. “Need it.”

Dunk grunts, then sits you on his lap. His cock rests back against his stomach as he takes two fingers and, without warning, swipes them through your folds. You yelp, then moan as he collects the slick there. The two blunt tips find your hole and tap, making your hips buck.

“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it properly,” Dunk tells you quietly, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to your lips. He pulls back before you can deepen it. “If you can take—” he’s so red in the face, you just want to kiss him all over. “—three of my fingers, then you can… you can have my cock. Okay?”

He’s trying his best to sound confident. If you weren’t so horny, it probably wouldn’t have worked. But instead, you whine and nod enthusiastically. He huffs, amused, before his two fingers slowly, slowly breach inside you.

Maybe he should have started with one.

You’re impossibly tight around him. Your gummy walls are slick and warm, but they wrap around the digits like the leather of his sword’s sheath. You release a small breath as he pushes into the middle knuckle, then he withdraws. You don’t have time to complain though, since he’s pushing in once more, this time to the very bottom knuckle. He splits you open, fingers moving gently as he crooks them enough to make you yowl.

He shushes you with a kiss. This time, it’s his tongue slipping into your mouth. He licks the spit from your tongue as he rucks two fingers into the tight clutch of your cunt, feeling the wetness drool out of you and run down the inside of his wrist. The whiny little whimpers you’re breathing into his mouth add fuel to the fire, his cock twitching against his abdomen as he increases his speed. He hits deep, and finds a gummy spot inside of you that makes you arch into him, your mouth growing lax as you moan his name.

You kiss for a while before he presses his ring finger to the rim of your cunt. He feels you stiffen as the tip breaches in alongside the other two, and then you’re leaving the kiss to mewl as he presses in further.

“Is this okay?” Dunk questions, kissing your jaw.

“Y-yeah,” you sigh out, delirious. “So good.”

The third finger sinks deeper, past one knuckle and then the next. Your walls part for him, and you moan loudly in his ear when it finally settles alongside the others. He keeps still for a second, marvelling in the heat of your body, the way you burn up against him, and the heat of your cunt and the slick that drips from you. He wonders if this is how wet you usually are, or if it’s a result of the potion

The thought has a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

You whine, hands squeezing the fat of his pectorals, hips bucking. “Please move.”

He does. He draws all three fingers out until just the tips sit inside you, before he’s slowly pushing them back in. Your head drops back again and you moan into the quiet room, nearby candles flickering. Dunk leans forward again and trails a line of kisses over your shoulder and up your neck until he can suck on the pulsepoint beneath your ear.

Three fingers curl inside you, stretching you open. He reaches deeper than you ever could, seeking the spot inside you that’s going to make you scream. And when he does find it, with a slightly graceless press of his knuckles to your folds, you kiss him to stop yourself from crying out. Instead, you moan his name, slurred as your teeth clash and your tongues flick against each other.

You move your hips, meeting the rucking of his fingers with each thrust. You’re practically bouncing on his lap as he fucks his fingers in and out, building a rhythm. The sound of your pussy squelching makes Dunk’s ears burn, and your stomach clenches. That sends you right towards the edge: your first release crawling down your spine and spreading low in your womb as his fingers pry you apart, piece by piece. Your mouth drops to suck on his neck again, and you feel the vibrations of his groan as your pussy clenches around his fingers. Again and again, until—

“Dunk,” you moan, tension snapping in your womb as you come around him. 

He groans towards the ceiling at the feeling of you pulsing around him, and his fingers stutter, but continue their movements, as more slick dribbles down the inside of his wrist. Your orgasm racks through you in tremors, and your teeth scrape against his sensitive skin as you try to dictate your volume, small whimpers escaping your throat as you rock in his lap.

“There,” you whisper, pulling back. A string of saliva connects your lips with the mark you had sucked onto his neck, and it snaps when you speak again. “I did it. I did it, Dunk.”

“You did,” Dunk coos, pressing a kiss to your warm cheek as he pulls his fingers from you.

You whine, and watch with stars in your eyes as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, his blush still high on his cheeks. His pupils grow wider in the shadowed darkness of the room, and you run your fingers along his chest as he tastes you. Blindly—you can’t take your eyes off where his lips wrap around his fingers—you clasp his cock in your hand and guide him back to your entrance. You sit up a little, legs trembling, as you tap the head against your drooling hole.

Dunk rips his fingers from his mouth, two hands coming to rest on either of your hips. He kneads the flesh there a few times.

“Nice and gentle,” he tells you as the head of his cock notches. You suck in a breath, and Dunk soothes you, fingers swiping over your hips. “I know you need it, sweet girl, but we need to go slow.”

You huff, but do as he says. With his help, you gently sink down inch by inch. You can’t help the reverberating moan that leaves you as the girth splits you open. He feels so much wider than his fingers already, but your pussy is so wet and your head is so cloudy that you don’t even register any pain. There’s little resistance too as you continue to slide down, eyes darting up to watch the hedge knight’s face contort in pleasure.

His brow pinches a little as he focuses on where your pretty pussy swallows his cock. He’s never seen anything like it.

Then, when your whimpers go a little too quiet, he looks up at you. Your eyes meet and he whines deep in the back of his throat. You look stunning taking all of him like this, and he can’t help but lean in for another kiss. You accept it gratefully, lips sliding together as you sink another few inches down.

“Being such a good listener,” Dunk murmurs against your mouth as he catches your bottom lip between his teeth. You whimper in response, and he plants a solid kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Taking me nice and slow, just like I said. Never knew you were such a good girl.”

His sentence finishes when he bottoms out and the curve of your arse rests comfortably on his thighs. His trousers are slightly rough on the supple skin at the back of your thighs, but as you grind your hips experimentally against him, it adds to the sensation. You shiver as the head of his cock prods against the entrance to your cervix.

“You’re so deep,” you tell him, and he nods dumbly. He’s not really listening, too busy focusing on not spilling directly into you right that second.

“M’so deep,” he somehow manages to echo around a murmur. Then, he whines. “Oh, my sweet girl. Can… can you feel me in your tummy?”

You moan, unable to answer with words. But you could feel him there.

You decide then to start moving, and Dunk’s mind goes blank. He helps you rise and fall, cunt milking around the thick of his cock like it was made for him. Forged for him, only for him. He watches the fat of your breasts bounce as you shift against him, and he listens to the breathy little whimpers you release as he fills you over and over.

“Gods, you feel so good,” Dunk moans, the back of the wooden chair digging into his bare skin. It creaks quietly, but nothing severe, as you bounce in his lap. Your pussy takes him well now, stretching perfectly around him. Your hands slide around his shoulders as you anchor yourself to him, and you hold on for dear life as you take what you so badly need. Dunk moans again. “Oh, gods, just like that—that feels so good, sweet girl, oh fuck.”

You pant loudly, the muscles in your legs and lower back beginning to ache. You’re just too hot, and you can feel your second orgasm building up quickly. It surges within you like water, and the intensity of it has you clinging to him, nails dimpling his flesh.

“Dunk,” you mewl, taking him all and grinding your swollen clit against the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “Oh, fuck, Dunk, m’so close already.”

Dunk huffs, leaning forward and mouthing at the curve of your breasts. He drags his tongue between the mounds, collecting the sweat that trails there. The sensation makes you whimper, a hand shooting down to collect a fistful of his hair. You grip his scalp as his warm mouth wraps around the bud of your nipple, and the feeling is so sharp with pleasure that you jerk against him, tears pricking in your eyes.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you babble as he switches to your other nipple. His teeth graze you, and you buck wildly in his lap. When he pulls away, he finishes with a wet kiss to your mouth. Your hand leaves his hair and finds his throat, holding there gently as you moan. “Gods, Dunk, feels so good. M’gonna—fuck, m’coming.”

“Let me feel you,” Dunk whispers, and the dams burst.

Your orgasm floods you, then pulls you under. You can’t lift yourself up anymore as it surges through, and you can’t help the cry that falls from your lips as pleasure zips down your spine and splinters in your core. Your blood boils hot beneath your skin as you shiver against him, pussy clenching around the thick of his cock. It feels realm-shattering, like nothing you’ve ever felt before: he’s so deep inside you, so thick inside you, that you can’t help the way you writhe and call his name as if he weren’t mere inches from you.

He watches you in absolute awe.

Taking over, he snaps his hips upwards, chasing his own high in the midst of yours. As you fizzle down, his balls draw up tight, and a guttural groan is ripped from him as he hugs you to his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His cock barely moves as he rolls his hips, thrusting desperately once, twice, thrice more before he comes.

You think you hear your name muffling against the damp skin of your neck as he spills inside of you, flooding your womb. Goosebumps rise across his back as you drag your nails across the freckles there, breathing deeply as he empties himself, then stills. He gasps against your neck, mouthing the skin there before you gently urge him away.

Your mind feels clear, and Dunk notices the glaze over your eyes has vanished.

“You okay?” He asks, panting. His big hands rub up and down your back, his cock still nestling deep inside you.

You nod. “I’m so good, Dunk. Thank you.”

Dunk looks bashful. “S’alright.”

“I mean it. Thank you for doing this.” You kiss his cheek, then the other. His blush is as hot as embers as you kiss along the few freckles there. When you pull back, he’s looking at you with puppy-eyes that make you want to kiss him all over again. You reach up and cup his face.

“I love you,” you tell him.

His eyes go wide.

You giggle. “You don’t have to say it back. I just… I suppose I’ve been meaning to tell you that for a while.”

Dunk rushes forward and slams his mouth to yours, hugging you so tight to his body you fear the two of you may become one. Your hearts beat in sync as you kiss him, his hands all over your back, yours still on his face. When he pulls away, his pupils are still blown so wide his eyes appear black in the candlelight.

“You’ve made me question everything I thought I knew about myself,” he tells you earnestly.

You cock your head, slightly apprehensive. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yes,” he eases your worries. “Because now I know how much I love you.”

You kiss him again, and again still, until the candle nearby almost runs out of wax.

———

gosh he’s so noble and kind and sexy and beautiful and

———

tags 🌿

You enjoy your nights in Summerhall much better than your nights in the Red Keep.

There’s a certain sort of tranquility that lingers around you as you recline in your chaise, perched beneath one of the many latticed windows that overlook the rolling countryside. The sky is an inky black beyond the glass, and a storm brews on the horizon, the smell of rain seeping through a crack in the frame.

You read your novel surrounded by the silence of your chambers, save for the crackling of the fire across the room, the light rustling of parchment as you flip through the pages, and the occasional drip of wax from your chamberstick into the steel pan at its base.

But as you begin a new chapter, your peace is shattered by a great commotion outside your door. You jump a little in your seat as a chorus of voices fills the halls, and it takes you mere seconds to cross your chambers and pull open the door to investigate. In the hall, you find two kingsguard, their armour gleaming beneath the thrown light of overhead torches, hauling your husband across the stones. Your mouth drops open, listening to the clamour that falls from Daeron’s mouth as he’s pulled down the hall like a petulant child.

“She will scold me, don’t you understand? I–I will be punished. You ca–can’t let—”

The kingsguard spots you in the doorway, dumping the prince unceremoniously at your feet. One of them offers you a polite, but sorry smile, whilst the other gestures to the kneeling prince with a wave of his hand.

“He is claiming he is ill,” the guard says quietly.

Your husband is yet to look up. His blond hair falls across his face like tattered curtains, and his entire body shudders as he kneels before you. You can hear the ragged panting falling from his lips, and you can’t help the small flicker of guilt that passes through you.

“He says he consumed something,” the other guard adds on, noting the pity in your eyes. He has a small, slightly humoured smile on his face. “A prince should not accept uncorked wines from strangers.”

With that, you nod curtly and dismiss the guards with a mumbling thank you. You stare down at your husband, who sways a little where he’s hunched. You don’t know what to say to him. So you back away, the material of your chemise fluttering around your knees as you move.

The movement finally draws Daeron’s eyes, and he snaps his head up to look at you. When you lock eyes, now several feet separating the two of you, he lets out a pained moan. It catches you off guard, and you freeze where you stand, your frame illuminated by the roaring fire beside you. Daeron grips the doorframe as he hoists himself to his feet, his legs shaking. His cheeks are flushed a brilliant red, and his eyes water, filled with tears.

“My heart,” he says, syllables strung around a broken whine. “P–Please do not be mad. I did not mean—I did not intend for this to happen.”

“You are drunk,” you reply plainly, crossing your arms over your chest. In response, Daeron whines, stumbling into the room and slamming the door shut with an uncoordinated kick. He loses his balance and leans back against the door. You scoff, looking him up and down, taking in his dishevelled and obviously inebriated state. “You told me you were riding into the village.”

“I was,” Daeron huffs, running a hand through his locks, brushing them away from his eyes. “But I took—I drank something.”

“Clearly,” you bit out, and the venom in your tone makes him whimper.

And then fall to his knees.

Your eyes grow wide, lips parting. “Daeron—?”

“A wine. No, a potion,” Daeron corrected, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. “She s–said it would make me feel good.”

You frown, taking a subconscious step forward. “Who?”

Daeron whines as he watches you draw nearer, eyes raking down your body. Swollen pupils drag down the curves of your chest and where the fabric of your chemise flutters softly against your waist and tummy. His breath hitches when his eyes settles on your obscured pelvis, his mind running wild, his knowing of what lies beneath driving him to shut his eyes and let out another high-pitched sound.

“The woman,” he replies, breathless as his eyes remain closed. When he opens them, he finds your face, and you’ve taken another step closer. “A witch.”

“A witch?” You echo, sceptical.

“Yes,” Daeron sobs, arms reaching up now. He takes two handfuls of your hips, fingers digging into the covered flesh of your arse. You let out a squeak, and your husband pulls you to him, burying his face against your covered mound. He speaks against the fabric, voice muffled. “She said it would m–make me feel good. But I’m hurting, my heart, I’m h–hurting.”

He nuzzles against your mound, and you let out another squeak-like sound, one of your hands shooting down to fist his hair. He groans loudly as you pull him away, only to see a wet patch on the thin white material from where he had been trying to mouth at you. For a moment, you peer down at him curiously. He meets your gaze, and the fire you see in his eyes makes something swoop low in your belly.

“Where are you hurting?” You ask him softly, scratching at his scalp.

The blush on his cheeks deepens, and with surprising strength, he pulls your hips back to him once more. He presses a kiss to the curve of your lower belly, then to the top of your mound, his eyelashes fluttering as he attempts to keep his eyes open and on you.

“Need you,” he says simply, not answering your question. The hands gripping your hips shift, and he finds the hem of your chemise. Dragging his palms along your knees, and then your thighs, he slowly starts to lift the material, eyes flicking down to your pelvis again. “Need her.”

Before he can push your chemise up any higher, you take a step back. A loud, distressed moan falls from between his lips, and he falls forward onto his hands and knees. He pants like a dog, raising his head to stare up at you as his knees and palms kiss the worn Myrish carpet sitting across the stone.

Your chemise settles back around your knees again. “You need to see a maester.”

He groans. “No, no, no, please, my sweet girl, please don’t s–send me away. Please, I’ll be good, I just need—I just need you, please.”

You bite your lip, assessing, one last time, for any real illness that may be consuming him. But you see nothing. He appears drunk, but his eyes are watery not cloudy, and he speaks to you through desperate stutters not inebriated slurring. As you watch him, he sits back on his haunches, his hands flying to the hem of his tunic. He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning the garment, instead simply ripping it over his head to reveal his flushed chest and sweat-slick abdomen. You realised then that his cock was almost splitting the seam of his trousers, straining taut against the stiff material.

You breathe in, then out, steadying yourself. He waits patiently in the burning silence of the room. Sitting there like a puppy.

“Okay,” you say finally, delighting in the way excitement sparks in his eyes. “Okay, Daeron, you can come here.”

You step to the side and settle down in one of the chairs sitting before the fireplace. Daeron groans, relieved, before crawling across the floor to settle himself between your legs. You part your knees as his palms find the soft skin of your thighs, pushing the soft cotton of your chemise upwards until it bundles at your hips.

He lets out a pleased, almost wistful sigh while you take your chemise and pull it over your head, dropping it down the side of the chair. Daeron hooks his hands beneath your knees and pulls you forward a bit, and you grip the arms of the chair as your arse slides against the cushioning.

“Thank you,” he whispers, licking the side of your knee. Not a kiss, a lick. You squirm, caught by surprise, as he licks a flat stripe up the inside of your thigh. The sensitive skin there is ticklish, and you can’t stop the way your muscles tense up. But he continues: sliding his tongue along your bare skin until his lips press to the thin fabric of your smallclothes. He hums, visibly delighted. “Here she is…”

Daeron lifts your legs and hooks the back of your knees over his shoulders as he pushes himself forward, planting his mouth firmly against your clothed core. He inhales deeply as his lips part, his tongue pressing to the split of your cunt as one of your hands finds his hair again. His arms hug around your thighs, his biceps tacky with sweat as he kisses across the gusset of your smallclothes, holding you at an angle so he can drag his tongue up and down.

Small sounds of pleasure leave your throat as you gently rock against him, head tossed against the backrest of the chair. You idly stroke your fingers through his hair, massaging at the nape, and you feel him purr against you: a soft, content growl from the back of his throat as he pushes the tip of his tongue against the covered bud of your clit before attempting to suck it into his mouth.

You sigh out, scratching shallow lines down the warm skin at the back of his neck. “Daeron, take them off.”

He pulls away from you straight away and does what he’s told. His lips are glistening and puffy, the tip of his nose red and his eyes shining with tears as he hooks two fingers into the band of your smallclothes. You use the armrests to lift yourself, helping him pull the item over the curve of your arse, down your thighs, and away from your ankles.

“There’s my pretty girl,” Daeron mutters as he repositions your legs back over his shoulders once more.

He kneads the fat of your thighs, shifting his head to take a gentle bite. You shudder against him, a low sound passing through your lips as you slip your hand back into his hair. He kisses over the indents of his teeth, then angles inwards. He licks straight between the split of your pussy, hole to clit, and you suck in a breath.

He hums. “The prettiest girl in the whole realm. All for me…”

“Daeron,” you moan, and he finally places his mouth on you.

His lips and tongue burn hot against you as he licks between your folds, his tongue quick to swipe downward and across your hole. You feel him collect the slick pooling there, and his eyes shoot up to find yours. He mumbles something into you as his tongue pushes in, but you catch him before he can get too far.

You pull him out by the roots of his hair. “Speak properly.”

“Love it when you’re this wet,” he whispers, pink lips glistening with your slick. “Love it when I make y–you wet like this.”

You bite your lip to suppress a moan, smiling around the pressure of your teeth as you push him back between your legs. He groans happily, lips drawing the pearl of your clit into his mouth in a lazy drawl, suckling gently as he squeezes the meat of your thighs. You hum, a satisfying weight forming in the base of your spine, weighing down the pit of your tummy.

Stroking his hair, you recline on the chair as he takes what he needs. His tongue moves quickly once he releases your clit from his mouth with an audible pop. The sound makes you whine into the quiet of your chambers, and you stare up at the high ceiling as his tongue drags down through your folds before curling straight into your hole. You keen then, your husband splitting you open, tongue shifting deep as his nose ruts against your clit. Heart hammering in your chest, you tilt your head down to watch him, the hand you have in his hair tightening as he whimpers against you.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, the syllables nearly vanishing amongst the hissing of the fireplace. It throws out a pleasant heat that warms the bare skin of your chest. “Daeron, sweet boy, m’so close.”

He releases a loud, broken moan against you, his eyes lifting to watch the pleasure fissure across your face. His eyelids flutter, his chest heaving, his panting loud as he flicks his tongue against you. It’s a burning-hot desire in the depths of his soul: he wants to see you release above him, wants you to come on his tongue and sear the image deep into his retina. Too many times he has left you for princely duties, and too many times he has fisted his cock raw to such visions.

“Need it,” he’s slurring into you, but you can’t hear it. “Need it.”

The vibrations of his drunken rambling have you cresting the edge of pleasure like a ship across a wave. Your ringed fingers pull tight at the roots of his blond hair as you anchor him to your core, your thighs tightening against his ears as your release surges, peaks, then spills. Your legs shudder as you come around his tongue, the pressure in your spine releasing a flood of tremors through your body as he licks you through it. Chants of his name fall from your lips, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

Daeron pulls away from you, a thick strand of saliva connecting his bottom lip with your pussy. His mouth and chin is slick with you, and he takes a moment to stare at where your hole flutters and drools in the absence of his tongue. It makes him pout, brows furrowing as he leans forward to press a warm—too warm—kiss to your swollen clit.

“S’alright, my sweet girl, I’m here,” he mutters against you, before he’s pressing a line of kisses down the seam of your pussy and back to your hole. His eyes flutter shut, dizzy with need, as his tongue finds you again, and the sensation has you yanking on his hair. You moan around a gasp as you pull him from you, his lips parted, his eyes black under the expansion of his pupils. 

Daeron swallows, eyes flitting over the features of your face. You smile down at him as you remove your legs from his shoulders. You take your fingers out of his hair too, before angling your leg down to nudge your foot against the laces at the front of his trousers.

“Take them off,” you tell him, the ball of your foot brushing over the heavy tent at the front.

That makes him groan lowly, and you remove your foot as his fumbling fingers find the laces, tugging them impatiently. As he does this, he shifts forward to kiss your knee, spreading your slick from his chin to the skin there.

“I love you more than anything,” he says as his trousers loosen. 

He pulls away and quickly gets to his feet so he can tug his trousers down. You watch him from your seat in the chair, naked body warmed by the fireplace. Daeron kicks his trousers away, and then undoes his breeches. When the white material falls, you can’t help but moan at his hard cock bobbing free—and you notice the cum already leaking from the tip, smeared down his shaft and glistening on the soft skin.

You spare a glance at his discarded breeches, the front of the material damp with spend. You bite your lip, hiding your grin. He’s spilled in his trousers from putting his mouth on you. He catches your expression and moans softly, his brows drawing together, a blazing blush creeping up his neck. His ears are red too.

“M’sorry,” he murmurs, slinking back to his knees. One of his hands shifts to grasp the base of his cock. “M’sorry, my heart, I didn’t mean to—”

You pick yourself up from the chair and sink to the floor with him. The worn carpet beneath you provides an ample landing site as you close the gap between the two of you.

Your husband’s mouth is warm and sticky against yours. His tongue wastes no time in pushing past your lips with each move of his mouth, and his free hand finds the back of your neck. Your arms wind around his neck as the two of you kiss beneath the orange glow of the steadily dying fire.

You shuffle forward, feeling the wet tip of his cock slide against the skin near your navel. Daeron shudders against you, rocking his hips to chase the feeling, his cock rubbing along the softness of your tummy as your tongues meet again and again. One trembling hand holds the base of his cock, guiding the movements with tiny little jerks of his hand, and you feel him sighing into your mouth as pre-cum smears across the skin that covers your womb.

“Need her,” Daeron whispers into your mouth as your nails scrape across the strong span of his shoulders. You whimper as he gently nudges your legs apart with his strong thigh, the head of his cock trailing down your mound. “Need you, sweet girl. Need it s–so bad, I—”

You plant one last warm kiss to his lips to shut him up, before you retreat backwards onto the carpet beneath you. He watches you carefully, eyes following the bounce of your tits as you fall back onto your hands, beckoning him with a tilt of your chin.

“Yes, yes, yes,” your husband drags out, practically throwing himself over top of you. He settles between your bent, parted legs, and he fists himself as he angles his hips, pushing the head of his cock against your pussy. He groans when it makes contact, skin-on-skin, fiery hot. He rocks his hips, sliding the length through your folds. “Ah, f–fuck, fuck, oh my gods, sweet girl, oh—”

You lift your legs and wrap them around his hips. The sudden movement snaps him out of whatever stupor he’d sunk himself into, and he allows a taut grunt to slip between his teeth. He drags his cock back down until he can press it to your hole.

“Here we go,” he mumbles, more to himself than you. The head of his cock is sucked in, and your legs tighten around his hips, urging him to shift closer. Daeron’s head lifts, watching bliss consume your pretty features. The sight has his cock jerking, barely an inch inside you, a sticky sort of pleasure trekking down his spine. It makes him shudder, eyes snapping back down to where your pussy takes him. “That’s it, open up for me.”

You arch against the carpet as your husband shoves into you. No warning, no more slow and steady. The prince snaps his hips, and suddenly, he’s balls-deep inside you, stuffed tight to the hilt and moaning like a whore. You lock your ankles behind him, taking him deeper, mewling his name as his arms cage either side of your head, his face hovering above yours. His blond hair frames his wrecked face, and you watch in amazement as he groans. His cock twitches heavily inside of you, and then you feel it. He’s coming.

Again.

“Huh–huh, f–fuck, shit,” Daeron rambles around his dog-like pants as he spills inside of you, his abs shifting as his stomach tenses, balls drawing tight as a second orgasm spears through him. He screws his eyes shut, gasping as he empties himself, one-thrust in. 

It makes you moan, one hand reaching up to swipe his hair from the side of his face so you can cup his cheek.

“You feeling good, sweet boy?” You ask him gently, thumb stroking the scar along his cheekbone.

His eyes snap open, and he whines. “Yeah, m’sorry. M’so sorry, sweet girl.”

You shake your head, hand finding the back of his neck now. You bring him down to kiss you, and he mewls desperately into your mouth as the two of you connect, your tits pushing against his sweaty chest. Your tongue finds his, and he rescinds control, allowing you to lick across his teeth until he stops panting. When you part, you squeeze your thighs around him, urging him on.

“One more then, Daeron,” you tell him, slowly shifting your hips, prompting him to move. “Be a good boy and give me one more.”

Daeron groans, and listens. He draws his hips back then slams forward. You moan when the tip of his cock punches right against a spongey spot inside you that has you keening, mind going blank. His pace is hurried, desperate, but his rhythm is drunken and rolling. His hips slide against yours, his cock rutting in and out as you meet his movements. Your back scrapes against the carpet as he surges above you, his breathing hitting him in hard grunts as his arms tremble. 

You hold him tightly, feeling the rub of his cock against the tight walls of your pussy. A searing pleasure sparks low in your belly. Dull to begin with. But as your prince shifts above you, driving you against the carpet again and again, flushed skin glowing orange from the flickering flames adjacent, it starts to build. You call for him, and he coos down at you, brows drawing together as he nears his third release.

“I’m here, I’m here, my heart, y’doing so good,” he mutters, rolling his hips. His cock hits deep, and he struggles to speak around a whimper. “Doing so good. So good, sweet girl. Fuck, you’re perfect. All—all mine.”

You mewl your response, and Daeron bends down to kiss you. He keeps his rhythm as steady as he can as your mouths slot together. The movement of his lips is lazy, and before long, you’re simply pressing your parted mouths to one another, panting as your bodies join. His nose brushes against yours and he places a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth.

His cock pushes up towards the plug of your cervix, and you can’t help the strong current of electricity that thrums through your veins. Your body shakes, and a moan slips out of your mouth as your head falls back, your back arching further off of the carpet. Daeron takes the opportunity to suck a kiss to the base of your jaw, then another to the column of your throat. As you rock together, his teeth graze your skin. His pants brush past your ear as he licks the thin sheen of sweat from the apple of your cheek.

You huff, managing a small frown through the weight of your impending release. “Daeron.”

“M’sorry, m’sorry, I know,” he rambles, pulling himself upwards to hover above you.

His thrusts speed up, and you let out an animal-like yowl as he grinds against you. He sees your face flickering, the way your entire body racks with tremors as your legs draw tight around his hips. Your heels dig into the muscles of his arse, urging him closer, and your fingers trace bright red lines down his back.

He can’t help but moan your name. “Gods, I love you. I want you to come for me. Please, sweet girl, need to feel you come around me.”

You try your best to keep your eyes open as the fire dwindles beside you, but something even hotter blazes deep within your belly.

“M’coming,” you tell him, body stretched taut, burning hot like an ember. “Come with me.”

Daeron’s mouth drops open in a desperate, whiney plea of your name, his eyelids fluttering as he spills inside of you. Your words were like a lever, opening the floor beneath him. His third orgasm is even harsher than the first: it sears along his spine, forcing him to curl over, and his weight becomes too much, arms giving way until he’s practically lying on top of you. He continues to rut his hips, whimpering as he empties himself inside of you, cock jerking, and jerking still, as the wet walls of your cunt hold him in a vice.

The feeling of being filled sends you over the edge, your release pulling you under alongside him.

“Daeron—” You gasp out, body stiffening as you come. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, mouthing at your pulse as he continues to roll his hips against you. Your release has you shuddering, and your prince holds you through it as the world around you turns on its axis and stars burst vividly behind your drooping eyelids.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Daeron whispers into the damp skin of your neck, nuzzling your pulse. You give him a little moan from the back of your throat in response, and he presses one last kiss to your cheek before he gingerly lifts himself from you.

Lazily, you gaze at him as he rights himself and draws his eyes to where his cock splits you open. You bite your lip, muscles mellow as you watch him pull his cock from you with an oversensitive hiss. Cool air kisses you there, and a small gasp leaves you, his seed drooling from your hole, much to his amazement.

“Don’t waste, sweet girl,” he mutters to your pussy, hands slowly caressing your legs until he can hold the backs of your knees. He shuffles forward, pulling your pliant body to him, hoisting your legs up enough for him to comfortably bend and slide his tongue into you.

You seize up, a moan caught painfully in your throat.

Daeron moans loudly into your core as his tongue spreads you open. He licks his own seed from inside you, his nose rubbing against your puffy clit. The moan in your throat finally escapes, and you swear it hits the roof as you angle your chin to the ceiling. One unsteady hand drags down your body and finds his hair, but you don’t have the strength to tug. Instead, you hold him securely, blond strands soft between your fingers.

He fucks his tongue into you with his eyes closed. You realise then that, although he knows this will make you feel good, he’s not doing it for you. He’s doing it for himself.

A stuttered mewl leaves his throat and is muffled in your core. His tongue curls deep inside you, and you feel it wriggling, moving, searching. Overstimulation becomes a heavy weight in your abdomen, and you finally muster enough strength to wrench his face away from you. He manages to sneak one last flat lick against you before he finally concedes and rests his head against your thigh.

He places a kiss to the soft skin there as he looks up at you, eyes glistening, face wet.

You look down at him, the hand in his hair dragging down the side of his head to cup his cheek.

“D’you feel better?” You ask, your thumb finding the corner of his mouth. You push it to flatten against his lips, and he easily parts for you. You slip the digit inside, hooking over his teeth, running over the front of his tongue. He closes his mouth and sucks.

“Yeah,” he mumbles around your thumb, his tongue vibrating against the pad. He says your name, desperate and needy. Then his eyes close, and he hums, content. “I love you. More than anything.”

You smile at him, cooing in response, “I love you too, my prince.”

———

need a man to talk to me like this

tags 🌿

Aerion: Need your help. Urgent.

The message comes just after nine—no greeting, no context. You stare at it for a second before typing back.

You: That sounds like a you problem.

Aerion: Get over here.

A beat. 

Aerion: Please. 

Aerion: And bring that face I like.

You exhale through your nose, thumb hovering over the screen longer than it should. 

You: You’re impossible.

Aerion: I know.

Aerion: See you soon, pretty girl.

By the time you reach his apartment, the hallway was quiet as the building settled into the late hour. You stop in front of his door and knock once, barely having time to pull back before it swings open.

Aerion stands there, already stepping aside like he expected you down to the second.

"Took you long enough.”

You brush past him without answering, the door clicking shut behind you as you shrug off your coat.

"You said urgent," you reply, "not life or death."

The living room has been half-dismantled, lamps dragged into corners and blinds drawn low, the overhead lights killed entirely.

On the coffee table sits a bulky VHS camcorder surrounded by a stack of labeled cassettes, and in the corner an old CRT monitor hums faintly, washing the room in a pale greenish glow. 

Aerion moves past you toward the coffee table without a word. He picks up the camcorder, cradling it in both hands before fiddling with it.

"…What is all this?" you ask, something between curiosity and amusement edging into your voice. 

He finally glances up, gaze dragging over you and lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. 

"Character study," he says. "Isolation. Routine. Subtle shifts in behavior." 

He reaches for one of the cassettes before popping it into the camera. 

"Professor wants something original." 

"That sounds like bullshit."

"It is," he agrees easily. "But it looks good on paper."

You drift closer, drawn in by the setup—the space he's arranged spare and specific, every element placed with intention.

“Stand there,” he says, nodding toward a cleared space in front of him.

You glance at it. “You didn’t say I was acting.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Just… exist there.”

“So you just called me over to make me your… what, subject?”

His mouth twitches faintly at that. “Something like that.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then tilt your head just slightly. “And what do I get in return?”

That earns you something—his gaze sharpening, interest flickering as he adjusts his grip on the camera.

“Depends,” he says after a pause. “Are you here to argue, or are you going to do what you came for?”

You blink at him, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Wow. Bossy today.”

His mouth twitches again as if he’s trying not to give you too much of a reaction. You hold his gaze for a moment, weighing it, then move to the spot without further argument. 

The camcorder comes up and you hear the soft mechanical click of it starting to record.

“Stay right there,” he says again, quieter this time, more to himself than to you.

You let your weight settle, arms loose at your sides, and look back at him through the lens.

It’s strange being watched this intently, not uncomfortable exactly, but present in a way everyday life rarely asks you to be.

You barely shift before his voice cuts in, calm and immediate. 

"You're thinking too hard," he says, without looking up from the viewfinder.

"You're pointing a camera at me."

"I've done worse." The smirk is audible. "Relax. Pretend I'm not here."

Easier said than done, but you try, letting your gaze slip off the lens before it lands on him instead.

The way his hands work over the camcorder, steady and precise. The quiet focus in his expression, the set of his jaw in the pale glow of the monitor—and lower, where his shirt has ridden up just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waist of his jeans.

God, he looked so good tonight.

You force your attention away before it lingers too long.

A few seconds pass and gradually you start to move. Slow and aimless, the way you might cross a room when no one's watching, picking something up off the shelf and setting it back down.

After a minute or two, you pause mid-step and glance toward him, one brow lifting.

“How long am I supposed to be doing this?”

“Until it stops feeling like a performance,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Keep going. Touch your hair. Roll your shoulders. Whatever feels natural.”

You exhale through your nose, somewhere between annoyed and amused, but you do it anyway.

One hand lifts to push your hair back, fingers lingering at the nape of your neck a beat too long. You can feel the lens tracking the movement.

He stepped closer, boots quiet on the hardwood. The camcorder stayed glued to his eye, but his free hand reached out, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

“Better,” he murmured.

The pad of his thumb grazed the shell of your ear, then trailed down the side of your neck, slow enough to raise goosebumps. 

“You’re tense. I can see it in your shoulders.”

“I’m being filmed by a man who texts like a hostage negotiator,” you shot back, but your voice had already softened, breath catching when his fingers continued their lazy descent, tracing your collarbone.

Aerion hummed, the sound vibrating low in his chest. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his body. 

The camera dipped slightly, angling down to capture the way your nipples had tightened visibly against the fabric.

A flush of heat rushed to your face as you became painfully aware of just how sheer the material was, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

You regretted not putting on a bra earlier—though, if you were being honest, a part of you had half-expected that coming over to Aerion’s, you wouldn’t really need one anyway.

"Take a breath," he said. "Let it out slow."

You did as he said, though the exhale came out unsteady, catching slightly as your chest rose and fell under his lens.

His thumb found the hollow of your throat, resting there just long enough to feel your pulse jump.

“Good girl.”

The praise landed hot and low in your belly. You hated how easily he could flip a switch from casual to charged with nothing more than a look and a few quiet words.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips. “This still for your project?”

“It was.” 

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s for me.”

The air shifts with it, subtle but immediate. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the air feeling thicker, more electric. 

He lowered the camera for a moment before taking a step fully into your space, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as he tilted your face up to his.

“Tell me to stop if you want,” he said against your lips, breath warm and mint-tinged. “But I think you like being watched.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead you rose onto your toes and kissed him. Slow at first, testing, then deeper when he groaned and pulled you flush against him.

His tongue slid against yours while his hand drifted down to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

When he broke the kiss, his lips brushed your ear.

“How about we make this a little more exciting,” he whispered, voice rough with want.

“Strip for the camera. Slow. Let it see everything.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. He pulled back, just enough to look at you—whatever he found in your expression seeming to satisfy him—then stepped away before raising the lens and finding you again, and this time there was nothing clinical about it.

Your gaze drops without meaning to, catching on the front of his jeans that pulled taut, the outline of him pressing against the denim in a way that made your mouth go dry. 

"Go on," he said quietly before stepping back and angling the lens towards you once more. 

You held his gaze for one second, then reached for the hem of your shirt, peeling it up and over your head.

The cool air hit your skin, nipples pebbling instantly under the camcorder’s indifferent stare.

Aerion’s eyes tracked every inch like he was memorizing you. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Keep going.”

You hooked your thumbs into your waistband next, pushing your pants down your hips, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your underwear.

The lace was already damp, and you knew the camera would catch that dark little spot when you turned just right.

Aerion made a low, appreciative sound. 

Without breaking eye contact, he sets the camcorder down on the coffee table. The red light keeps blinking, angled just right to keep both of you in frame. 

Then he closes the distance again, his hands finding you. He cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you arched into him with a soft moan. One hand slid down, slipping beneath the lace to find you slick and aching.

“So wet already,” he murmured, two fingers gliding through your folds before circling your clit with firm pressure. “All this just from me pointing a camera at you?”

You bit your lip, hips rocking instinctively against his hand. “Aerion…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw and down until it reached the sensitive spot beneath your ear. 

Suddenly he pushed two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right, and your head fell back on a broken moan.

The wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out filled the room, accompanied by the faint mechanical hum of the camcorder still recording every second.

Aerion’s mouth found your throat, sucking a mark into your skin while his thumb kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praised, voice dark and filthy. “Let the camera hear how pretty you sound when I touch you.”

Your legs trembled making you grab his shoulders for balance, nails digging in as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.

He pulled his fingers free suddenly, making you whimper, before bringing them up to his mouth and sucking them clean with a low groan.

He looked at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with heat as he licked the last traces from his fingers.

Without breaking eye contact, he undid his belt before shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, freeing his cock. 

It sprang out, thick and heavy, the flushed head already glistening with a bead of precum. He wrapped a hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, his thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive tip as he watched your reaction.

Then, softer but still commanding, he spoke with a wicked little smile, “On your knees, baby.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine.

You sank down without hesitation, the hardwood cool against your skin. Aerion moved closer, one hand tangling gently in your hair as he guided the head of his cock to your mouth, tapping it against your lower lip once, then twice.

“Wanna show the camera how good you use your mouth?” he murmured, the words dripping with filthy promise.

His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender.

“Open up for me, pretty girl. Let it see how deep you can take me.”

Your pussy clenched at the words. You looked up at him through your lashes, then parted your lips before taking him in.

The first slide of his cock over your tongue drew a deep, guttural groan from his chest. He was thick—stretching your mouth in that perfect, slightly overwhelming way.

You hollowed your cheeks and sucked, tongue swirling around the head before you sank lower, taking as much of him as you could.

“Fuck,” Aerion hissed, fingers tightening in your hair. His hips twitched forward, pushing another inch past your lips. “That’s it… just like that. Look at the camera while you suck me.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking toward the blinking red light.

The knowledge that it was recording every second, your spit-slick lips stretched wide around his cock and the way your throat worked when you took him deeper, made you moan around him. The vibration pulled another curse from Aerion.

He kept one hand in your hair as he started to rock his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts. 

“Gods, you look so perfect like this,” he rasped, voice strained with pleasure.

His gaze kept darting between your face and the camcorder.

“All sloppy and eager… taking my cock so well while the camera watches. You like knowing it’s filming how wet your mouth gets for me, don’t you?”

You hummed in agreement, the sound muffled and obscene. Drool had started to slip from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin but you didn’t care.

You bobbed your head faster, one hand coming up to stroke what you couldn’t fit, twisting gently on every upstroke the way you knew he liked.

Aerion’s head tipped back for a moment, a low, broken moan escaping him. His stomach flexed visibly under the hem of his shirt, and his cock throbbed against your tongue.

“Shit—slow down or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warned, but he didn’t pull away.

Instead he looked straight at the camera, lips parted and cheeks flushed, his signature arrogance melting into raw lust. 

“So fucking good with that pretty mouth… that’s my girl,” he groaned, violet eyes half-lidded as he stared back down at you.

He pulled out suddenly, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head of his cock.

You gasped for air, lips swollen and shiny, and he immediately tapped his cock against your tongue again, letting the camera catch the messy sight.

Aerion cursed under his breath, the sound raw and reverent.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek.

His voice dropped even lower, thick with lust.

“But first I’m going to fuck that tight little cunt while the camera records every second of you falling apart on my cock.”

The words hit you like a spark.

You looked up at him, lips parted and shiny and you barely had time to respond before he was hauling you up off your knees with strong hands under your arms. 

He spun you around and bent you over the arm of the couch in one smooth, possessive motion, your stomach pressed against the soft fabric, ass raised high for him—and for the camera.

He shifted the camera slightly so that the lens was perfectly positioned, capturing the curve of your back, the way your tits hung heavy and swaying, and the slick shine between your spread thighs.

Aerion stepped up behind you, one large hand smoothing possessively down your spine before gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

His other hand guided his cock, dragging the thick head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes that made you push back against him desperately.

“Eyes on the camera,” he reminded you, voice a dark rumble.

He leaned over your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he finally pushed inside slowly, allowing you to drink in every inch as he stretched you open.

A broken moan tore from your throat the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.

The stretch was perfect, almost too much, the slight burn only making the pleasure sharper.

“Fuck… so wet,” he groaned, hips flush against your ass.

He gave one shallow thrust, then another, letting you feel every thick inch.

He started moving faster, each snap of his hips driving deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely through the quiet apartment.

One hand stayed anchored on your hip while the other reached around to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.

Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, eyes locked on the blinking red light as he fucked you harder, the couch creaking beneath you with every powerful thrust.

The pleasure was already spiraling, sharp and relentless, but Aerion wasn’t done with you yet.

Without warning he pulled out, the sudden emptiness dragging a needy whine from your throat.

Before you could protest, his hands were on you flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion.

Your shoulders hit the couch cushions, legs splayed wide as he loomed over you, silver-blond hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving.

“Much better,” he murmured, voice rough. “I want to see your face properly when I ruin you.”

Aerion reached for the camcorder on the coffee table, scooping it up with one hand. The red light never faltered.

He held it steady, angling the lens down as he knelt between your spread thighs, framing the shot perfectly—your swollen, dripping cunt, the way your chest rose and fell, the desperate look in your eyes.

He stroked his cock before spreading your arousal along his length, then pressed the thick head against your entrance.

The camera captured every second, closer this time: the slow push as he sank back into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you open again with a wet, obscene sound.

A low groan tore from his chest the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.

“Fuck… still so perfect. Gripping me like you never want me to leave.”

He started thrusting immediately—deep, rolling strokes that made your back arch off the couch.

The camcorder stayed in his grip, pointed shamelessly between your bodies so it could record the way his cock disappeared inside you over and over, slick and shining with your combined wetness.

“That’s it,” Aerion growled, voice strained with pleasure.

“Let the camera see your face. Show it how pretty you look getting ruined. How your eyes roll back when I hit that spot riiiiight…there—”

A broken moan tore from your throat as white-hot pleasure exploded behind your eyes from the new angle.

Your back arched sharply off the couch, legs trembling uncontrollably while your fingers clawed desperately at the cushions beneath you.

“Oh fuck— Aerion!” you cried out, voice cracking as another precise thrust sent sparks shooting through your veins.

The coil in your belly tightened viciously, threatening to snap at any second.

He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Listen to those sweet little sounds you’re making for the camera. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, baby. You gonna come already? Gonna show the camera how beautifully you fall apart on my cock?”

“Gonna watch this later,” he snarled, slamming in deep with a brutal thrust.

“Gonna stroke my cock raw to the way your greedy little pussy clenches and milks me.” 

Another vicious thrust.

“Gonna cum so hard to the sight of you falling apart while I flood…” thrust “this…” thrust “tight…” thrust “sloppy fucking cunt.”

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, the pressure building fast and overwhelming under his relentless pace and the wicked swirl of his fingers on your clit.

The camera kept recording, merciless and intimate, capturing every twitch of your face, every bounce of your breasts, every slick thrust as Aerion fucked you closer and closer to the edge.

“Cum for me,” he demanded, voice breaking with his own impending release.

“Cum on my cock while the camera watches. Let it see how good you look when you’re mine.”

The coil snapped.

Your orgasm crashed over you violently, walls fluttering and clenching hard around his thick length as you cried out, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before you forced them open again, staring straight at the red light like he’d ordered.

Your whole body shook with the force of it, a broken sob of pleasure tearing from your throat.

Aerion groaned loudly, hips stuttering as your pussy milked him.

“Fuck—yes, just like that—”

He fucked you through it, kept the camera trained on your face through it all as he chased his own release with deep, punishing strokes until, with a guttural moan of your name, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard.

You felt every pulse as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you until it started to leak out around his cock with every shallow thrust he gave to ride it out.

He stayed buried for a moment, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat. Then he leaned down, pulling out just enough for the lens to catch the thick white cum leaking from your swollen pussy before he pushed back in, fucking it deeper with lazy rolls of his hips.

Finally, he reached over and stopped the recording, setting the camera aside on the coffee table with a soft click.

He looked down at you, eyes still dark but sparkling with mischief, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

Deep within the expanse of Winterfell, a dragon broods over a late summer’s snow.

His predicament is not out of the ordinary, for the North is often unwelcoming to those unfamiliar with its ruthlessness, but the reason behind it is. He is, after all, a prince of the realm — his lady wife should have journeyed to him, not the other way around! Alas, his father had not listened to his raging, and had merely sent the newly-wedded couple on their way forth to Lady Stark’s childhood seat on the morrow following their wedding feast. Blessings and condolences upon Winterfell, Maekar had muttered. The utter nerve, the blatant gall! Dragons were not meant to thrive in the depths of winter, and yet, he is required to try. No. He is the Brightflame, the dragon made flesh. He is expected to succeed.

“He’s all but sent me away like you would a misbehaving child,” Aerion mutters under his breath. “As if I were not the blood of the dragon.”

He has been like this since departing Summerhall: he mopes, he sulks, and on occasions, he rages. You would think he would have tired of it already if you did not know him as well as you do. Eight moons have passed since, after all.

“Perhaps he merely thought the cooler weather would favor your spirit,” you reply, your voice so delicate and composed he cannot help but compare it to the first falling of snow: gentle and certain, and yet painfully aware of the power that lies beneath. “You must not think of it as a punishment, my prince.”

“Except he is punishing me, wife,” Aerion answers. He grits his teeth, willing his tongue not to loosen too much in his lapse of annoyance. “He has been doing it ever since we came back from that Gods-forsaken tourney in the middle of nowhere. It has been years. Besides, it was me who was wronged, and it was not my fault my uncle was injured. You know this.”

A breath passes before you answer. You had only been betrothed to Aerion for a few moons before the tourney that almost witnessed the death of Baelor Breakspear, and it was all still a whirlwind inside your head. You don’t think you can remember much of the whole ordeal, in truth. Northern houses rarely bothered with southern tourneys, and you had only journeyed down to Ashford Meadow to join the royal entourage and meet the man you would soon wed.  You witnessed the results of his fury instead.

“I do, husband. I simply meant that I, for one, do not think of our union as a punishment. Much less so of you staying here,” you say, words meant to appease.

Aerion frowns, his lips pursed into a thin line. He weighs on your words for a moment before he speaks. “That is not what I meant. I have made clear that I consider you to be an appropriate companion.”

And you know it. But allowing Aerion to dwell too much upon the actions of his father (or what he thinks them to be) has never ended favorably. So instead, you simply smile, and allow your fingers to tread down the sides of his torso. Your husband lets out a content hum, and lets his shoulders relax as he leans back against the smoothed stone of the bathtub.

The hot springs had become Aerion’s favorite feature of Winterfell not long after arriving. It had been one of the first places you showed him upon journeying back home, and he had soon found solace from the cold inside the underground caverns. He does not mind spending the majority of his days cooped up in mere candlelight, and would not admit to his appeasement when you finally join him, but it had become easier and easier for you to read your husband with each passing of the moon.

You are the only ones in the bathhouse tonight. Aerion had retired early after dinner, not caring much about socializing with the people of Winterfell. It is all the same to him, and in his mind, he would not even have to if only his father had not but kicked him out of Summerhall as soon as he had found the chance. He had eaten the stew and drank the wine, and then excused himself from the Hall with a squeeze on your thigh. An hour later, you had known where to find him, and joined him inside the water as you normally would. 

It is a curious thing. There are times, just like now, where the man in front of you seems so unlike the man in your head, that you have to ransack your brain while thinking of dualities. The steam from the water rises in thin, delicate ribbons all around you, wrapping around his skin in a form that seems otherworldly. His hair, silver and always so meticulously arranged, now drips droplets of water onto his face, almost resembling liquid gold as it catches the candlelight. And his eyes, so sharp and cunning, shine like starlight when your gaze meets his. Oh, how beautiful he is. Oh, how the most dangerous of creatures sometimes wear the prettiest of masks.

You break the silence with a giggle, and adorn your words with a smile. “Did you know, husband, that the smallfolk believe there to be a dragon sleeping under the castle?”

Aerion opens his eyes, lazily, and fights back a smile of his own. “That is nonsense.”

His fingers find yours under the water, and he brings you closer with a tug. Your bodies move out of their own accord, as if on second nature, and your legs wrap around his waist as you settle over his lap.

“Well, that much is clear,” you reply. Your arms move to rest over his shoulders, with your fingers drawing shapes upon the soft skin of his back. “But they do, truly. They believe it is its breath that warms these springs.”

Your husband hums, content, a deep groan traveling up his body and culminating in a sigh. He will say it was caused by temperature. You know it to be a result of your touch.

“It is still impossible,” Aerion laughs, quietly. It is a low, grumbling sound, and for a moment, it reminds you of the roaring of a hearth. Wild. Uncaring of what burns in its wake. “For the blood of the dragon is ours alone, my precious wolf. It is not Winterfell’s to claim. Do not speak what could be mistaken for treason.”

You refrain from rolling your eyes at his words, and lean forward, pressing a kiss upon his collarbone.

“Treason?” You hum along his skin. “When I serve my Lord husband just as nicely?”

“Perhaps this is how you mean to ensnare me,” he mumbles, his eyelids once again fluttering closed. A breath breaks past his lips and betrays his efforts at masking his desire. “With pretty words, devious touches, and your deliciously warm cunt, like a properly cunning wife.”

Your lips travel upward, teeth raking up his throat, and his manhood begins to wake at the brazen contact. 

“Gods above, you’ve caught me,” you laugh against his skin, amused. You press a kiss upon his jaw, then trace down the shape of it with your tongue. “What a clever dragon you are.”

Aerion’s hand finds the back of your head, lithe fingers curling around the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls, and you whine. His cock swells at the sound, growing harder under the water.

“Do you toy with me, wife?” He grumbles, his free hand finding your hip. He pulls you tight against his form in a single motion. “I cannot decide if I find it foolish or enticing.”

“Then I suggest you dwell on it no longer,” a whisper, followed by a kiss on the sweet spot under his ear. “For tonight, I only mean to feed into your fire.”

He smirks.

“I am a dragon. And dragons do not bow down to wolves,” Aerion mutters, amused. The tip of his cock throbs against your center as he raises his hips in a teasing motion. “But I suppose I will permit you to take as much as you want, if only for tonight.”

You smile against his skin, and Aerion leans back slightly. The hand on the back of your hand travels lower until it meets the bottom of your back, and he grabs at the roundness of your ass to make you gasp against his cheek. You laugh, and press your palms upon his chest. You push, and he replies with a sound of his own. The reaction surprises him as much as it does you, but for once, Aerion finds no need to pretend. He will, no doubt, claim it is the steam making his mind soft. You grind down against him, and the hardness of his cock, however, lets you know it is pure want.

Aerion’s mouth finds yours half-way, lips meeting in a kiss that steals all the air out of your lungs. It is a messy, desperate thing, the result of two hungry creatures fighting for dominance. Your tongue meets his inside his mouth, and for a moment, he relents. He lets you cup his jaw with your hands as you suck on his tongue, raising yourself just enough for his own hands to find the apex of your legs under the water, and trails his fingers down your cunt. He circles your pearl with long, skilled fingers, teasing your warmth as you moan into his mouth.

“You are more dangerous than you let on,” Aerion says, quietly. The moment is yours alone, voice not exactly tender, but lacking his usual bite. He finishes his words by biting on your lower lip, just as he presses softly into your pearl with the tip of his thumb. He relishes in the sound you produce, breathless and hoarse. “They are such fools, thinking this marriage would ever tame me. You may not be made of fire and blood, pretty wolf, but you burn all the same.”

You answer by fisting the hair at the back of his head, pulling back just enough, and he stares up at you through half-closed eyes. His pupils are blown wide with desire as he smiles, lazily, eyes glinting mischievously. His hand moves down along your cunt, sliding a finger inside your heat, and you tug on his hair again.

“See?” He mutters, voice dripping with something that rests somewhere between brazen arrogance and fervent devotion. “No one else would ever dare to tread as dangerously as you do. No else could ever bear to. It is us alone who can burn in this fire.”

A grin curls up at the corners of your lips, and a shiver runs down Aerion’s back at the sight. He drinks you up, little by little, and meets a thousand small deaths in each and every one of your warm touches. He lets his finger dip inside you a little deeper, curling up ever so slightly, and steals a moan from your mouth. He drinks it in, slipping a second finger inside your cunt before he pumps then in and out, repeating his motions as your walls flutter around them.

His smile widens, ever so slightly, as you reach down with one hand to fist his cock while the other remains gripping his jaw. He does not speak, but as your hand brushes past his mouth, his tongue darts out to trail the side of it. He presses a wet, fleeting kiss into your palm, just for the fun of it; just because he is a dragon, and you are his to please.

You give his cock a slow, teasing pump, and he hisses. The look in his eyes sharpens, and he tightens the grip on your hip. His pupils widen ever so slightly  as he retreats his hand from your cunt, bringing his soaked digits up to his mouth. He parts his lips and sucks on his fingertips as if he were feasting on the sweetest nectar.

“My clever dragon,” you hum, saccharine smile hanging on your lips as you line his cock with your warmth. He hoists you up, mouth parted just the slightest bit, and moves the hand that was toying with your cunt back to rest upon the swell of your ass. “You were always meant to be here, with me.”

Aerion does not answer, eyes set on yours with an intensity that threatens to burn you where you stand. The look on them is tender no more, their shine no longer mirroring the stars upon the midnight sky. You look at him, and as you begin to sink down upon his manhood, can think of nothing but wildfire.

“You were always meant to be mine,” you say, voice slightly breathless as your own pleasure begins to consume you. The stretch of him, entering you inch by delicious inch, has you moving your free hand back to rest upon the nape of his neck. A hoarse, breathless moan slips past your lips as he’s sheathed in fully, and you cannot help but tug upon his silver strands again. “And I was always meant to be yours. This is proof.”

Your husband hisses, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip before both of his hands move to grip the bottom of your thighs. He waits for a moment, caressing the supple skin under his fingertips while you revel in the stretch, and then decides he has waited enough. His hips buckle up as if with a mind of their own, and your lips crash against his once more as you begin to move. Aerion’s digits press upon your skin, his tongue brushing past yours as it enters your mouth, and he feels like he’s on fire.

“Such a perfect cunt,” he whispers into your mouth, voice breaking and dripping with pleasure. “She’s the only one that could ever take me so well. You — fuck, wife. Gods be damned, this is the only heaven I will ever need. The other seven of them can rot, for all I care.”

You don’t reply, breath quickening, lifting your hips to allow him to thrust into you as he wills. Your breasts brush past his mouth for the briefest of moments, and he attaches his lips to a stiff, sensitive nipple before you can move back down. He flattens his tongue upon the bud before he teases the tip of it with his teeth, your eyes falling shut as a whimper breaks past your lips. He licks, sucks, and teases, holding you tight against him as you move down to match his rhythm.

“Such perfect tits, too,” he mumbles against your breast, and his nails dig into the skin upon where his fingertips rest. “Is this not just as it should be, my pretty wolf? That I get such a perfect wife, all to myself? It is but what I deserve, after all.”

The water ripples furiously around you, crashing against the edges of the bath like waves upon the shore. Aerion’s breath hitches, inhaling sharply as he lets his head fall back against the stone. His mind is spinning, bliss overcoming his senses, and you’re all he can see. All he can feel. He closes his eyes, exhaling, his hands caressing your skin as he thrusts up in search of his pleasure. You ride him in a slow, sensual rhythm, counteracting his furious pace with one much more measured. He pants, low whimpers leaving his lips before he can make of them.

“This pleasure is ours alone, husband,” you mumble, breathless. “Ours alone to revel in.”

He groans, loud and hoarse, and you don’t bother with pretending you do not hear it. Your lips collide once more, hungry for each other’s closeness, teeth clashing and tongues meeting. You move faster, mind blurry, overfilled with the need of release. Your pleasure builds, growing at the bottom of your stomach until it threatens to swallow you whole. You’re so close to your peak, back arching slightly, Aerion’s hands moving upwards to rest on the small of your back to pull you even closer. 

Steam continues to rise, the candles continue to burn, and one of your arms wraps around the back of his head until your fingers meet his hair one more time. Your eyes are closed in bliss, and you pull Aerion flush to you as your cunt begins to clench around his cock. His head falls to rest over your shoulder, mouth open and eyes clamped shut. It is all too much, far too much, and it is in the depths of Winterfell, buried under the summer snow, that Aerion Brightflame, forged in fire and blood, meets something akin to salvation.

“Wife, I’m —,” he pants, and then chokes on his words as it all crashes around him at once. “Gods.”

Aerion lets out a moan, a wanton sound, pressing an open-mouthed kiss that is more teeth than lips upon your pulse-point. He stills, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his spend. It all but burns, seed flooding you in a warm, abundant torrent, making you feel whole. You move for a couple seconds more, the warmth coating your insides finally pushing you over the edge. Your cunt tightens around him as you meet him in his bliss, your own orgasm ravaging through your body as a sob leaves your lips. You’re lost in your own pleasure for the moments to come and take a long breath, warm steam filling your lungs as your husband’s cock begins to soften inside you.

Neither of you move, however, and he keeps you flush in an embrace that would seem tender if only you did not know him better. No. He is a dragon, laying claim on his prize. He feels the base of your stomach kissing his, your womb so full of him and standing as a promise for the future, and allows himself to smile against your skin.

Fools, all of them. The dragon’s fire has never burned brighter.

He wanted to take things slow tonight, and have you feel every inch of him. It was almost like a challenge for both of you to enjoy the sensuality and passion with each other. To not just grab each other and fuck until your screams echoed around the halls. He wanted both of you to enjoy each other's bodies for once.

"Can you feel all of me inside that tight cunt of yours?" He teased as his hands reached around your backside to give a quick squeeze. "Swallowing me whole like a greedy cock whore."

Typically that type of language and name calling would have you smacking whoever across the face, but they held more truth than not. Especially with Aerion. You loved when he talked to you like this. It was like you were under some kind of hypnotizing spell, and always wanting him, like you couldn't get enough. Aerion was the same way with you, and he always had to be touching you, no matter how subtle or soft it was.

"Aerion please, it's too much." Whining as the ache was starting to hurt, and you couldn't hold on any longer. You needed to feel something more.

"I know, I'll make it all better." Grabbing your hips and moving them back and forth a completely different angle and feeling washing over your body, as your nails scratched down his chest leaving marks. "Does that feel better my sweet girl ?"

"Yes gods Aerion." Picking your pace up just enough, unable to stop yourself, and this time Aerion was letting you.

His hands left your hips as he put them behind his head watching you take control. "Take what you want my wife. My cock is all yours."

Going faster and harder both of your bodies rocking against the sheets. The bed was creaking underneath you, and the headboard knocking against the wall. Servants scattering as soon as they heard those familiar moans, with some lingering wishing they were you in that moment.

“Fuck, just like that.” Aerion groaned as a hand reached up to softly wrap his fingers around your neck applying just enough pressure to feel it right between your legs. “Keep going my sweet girl.”

Rapidly thrusting your hips back and forth to the point you could feel his pubic hair brushing your swollen clit making you cry out. As both your hands wrapped around his wrist, urging him to squeeze just a little bit harder. The burning in your lower stomach was almost becoming too much, and it was like a dam that was about to burst.

“Come all over my cock like the good wife that you are.” Aerion growled as you looked into his dark eyes, him silently commanding you to let go. Fingers pressing harder into your neck feeling like your cheeks were swelling and heating up, like someone held a torch to your skin.

Instantly you felt the trembles and shakes overcome your body, and your mind goes completely blank as your orgasm crash over you like a wave. Mouth hanging open but no sounds coming out since his hand was wrapped around your neck, as your cunt walls clench around him until you feel the last of juices leave your body.

“That felt..fucking phenomenal love.” Aerion was out of breath as he removed his hand and placed both hands on your hips rubbing soothing circles on the skin. Panting above him as your mouth was extremely parched now, and you could feel your eyes lids start to droop.

“everything okay, ma’am?” he asks, accent rich, “yall need somethin?”

“i just wanted to offer you some tea,” you hold out the glass, “my family’s inside eating, but you’re more than welcome to come get a plate, too. i’m sure you’re starvin.”

“aw, no, it’s no problem,” he waves a dismissive hand but accepts the tea anyway, and you watch as his throat bobs, “you’re sweet, though. thank you.” he downs the glass in moments, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth, clearing away the sticky sweet residue, “what’s your name, darlin?” you tell him, cheeks warm, for an unplaced reason. “i haven’t seen you around, ‘s all. i’m dennis whitaker,” he holds out one hand for you to shake, but when you accept, he brings yours to his mouth, pressing a featherlight kiss against the back of it.

“oh,” you laugh breathily, face undoubtedly crimson, “you’re- thank you. i should get back inside, but you come on in if you get hungry, okay? i’ll bring you out somethin on my way out if you don’t.”

“yes ma’am,” he grins, nodding, “don’t you worry about me.” you do, anyway.

two hours later, he’s still working, despite the sun being well set over the horizon. you come out of the house, smiling brightly as you wave goodbye to your parents and younger sibling, wrapped plate in hand.

“dennis!” you call, stepping down off the porch, “i brought somethin for you!” you look around, pouting when you don’t see him at first glance, but he appears behind you after a moment, startling you slightly.

“you sure are sweet,” he drawls, “told you not to worry, honey. i’m just fine.”

“you’ve been out here for hours,” you protest, passing him the neatly wrapped plate of dessert, brownies you’d brought over, “at least have a bite.”

he hesitantly takes it, eyeing it before bringing it to his mouth, and you try not to watch too intently as he bites through the fudgy cake, stray crumbs falling to his stained shirt.

“this is great,” he smiles, and you watch as he finishes it, giving you the sense that he had been as starving as you thought, “thank you s’much, honey. i owe you.” you just nod, unsure anything sensible would come out of your mouth if you spoke, but not yet wanting to be out of his presence.

“thanks for taking care of the farm,” you finally manage, “you help my parents out a lot.”

“it’s no trouble,” he shrugs, “your old man pays me pretty good. plus it keeps me busy.” he runs a hand through his hair, and your eyes linger on the corded muscles running through his shoulder, his bicep straining against his white t shirt.

“well, i should go,” you swallow down the growing lust, “it was nice meetin you you, dennis.”

“so soon?” he teases, but nods anyway, “it was real nice meetin you too, y/n. here, let me walk you to your car.”he walks beside you down the driveway, and when you arrive next to your sedan, he hovers once more, rocking on the heels of his beat up cowboy boots. you lean against your driver door, looking up at him, enraptured by the shadows of his face in the moonlight.

“don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, “makes me wanna do somethin real stupid.”

“do it, then,” you whisper, “let’s be stupid.”

he makes a small sound, something of a protest, before he crashes his lips to yours, pressing your back against the cool metal door. you stand on your tiptoes to twine your arms around his neck, pulling him down to your level, as close as you can possibly get to him. his hands settle on your waist, one knee moving between your thighs, seemingly subconsciously. you let out a small whimper against his lips as the rough denim brushes against your already damp core, fingers tugging slightly at the curls at the base of his neck.

“fuck,” he pants, dropping his forehead to yours, “we shouldn’t do this out here, don’t wanna treat a pretty thing like you like some slut.”

“maybe i want you to,” you hummed, peppering kisses along his jaw, “nobody can see us, denny. ‘s okay.”

“oh, god,” he groans quietly, “you’re testin me, honey.”

“want you,” you reach between the two of you, one hand cupping the obvious tent in his jeans, “m not usually like this, but i knew as soon as i saw you.”

“jesus,” finally, his restraint breaks, and he kisses you once more, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting effortlessly, carrying you around to the back of your car, setting you down on the trunk and stepping between your thighs. he pushes the skirt of your dress up around your hips, hissing out a sharp exhale as he spots the wet patch on your underwear, which he quickly pushes aside. you knew he was a gentleman, could tell it in the way he’d hesitated, but it seemed to all leave his mind the second you’d touched him.

you fumble for his belt buckle, impatient to finally free him from his oppressing jeans. he helps you, pushing them down around his knees, his plaid boxers following. your pupils dilate as you finally see his length, veiny and thick, with a tuft of blonde hair at the base. he pulls you to the very edge of the trunk, one hand settling at the base of your neck, grounding you, gentle and warm, while the other guides his leaking cock to your entrance.

“don’t have a condom,” he mumbles, drawl even thicker than before, “fuck, didn’t even think-“

“i’m on the pill,” you cut him off, almost frantic with desire, “it’s okay, i promise.”

he nods, kissing you roughly as he finally pushes into you, your nails digging into his shoulders at the searing stretch. he bottoms out in one motion, pausing to let you accommodate to his size before pulling out and slamming back into you, his fingers harsh on your thighs.

“oh, fuck, dennis,” you gasp, eyes rolling back, grasping onto him tightly, “that’s- you’re so good, jesus.”

“i got you,” he breathes raggedly, “you feel so goddamn good, honey. taking it so good.”

your hands are everywhere, all over each other, wandering and memorizing as best you can in this intense, sudden moment. you’re a flurry of kisses, your lips on his neck, his shoulder, his on your collarbones, your chest.

“cum for me,” he coaxes as you clench around him, “need to feel it, beautiful.” you mewl, hovering just over the edge. the moment his fingers find your clit, you topple over it, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood just to keep the moans from spilling into the twilight.

“oh, fuck,” he groans, his head in the crook of your neck, “i’m gonna cum, baby. inside, is that okay? please?” he’s almost whining, the tough exterior fading away as he’s caught up in pleasure.

“yes,” you nod quietly, feverishly, “please, denny, fill me up.” that tips him over the edge, and he bites lightly at your shoulder as he spills inside you, hot and full, the feeling washing over you. he stills for a moment before slowly, carefully pulling out, settling back into his jeans as you pull the skirt of your dress down, smoothing it out against your legs.

“so,” you say after a moment, smiling lightly, “d’you, yknow, do this a lot?”

“this?” he looked up, almost startled, “no, no,” he laughed, then, “i’m not this kind of guy.”

“good, because i’m not this kind of girl,” you laughed, grateful for the way he’d casually said it.

“your old man might kill me,” he said, and you thought you caught a tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“no, he wouldn’t,” you shook your head, taking his hand in yours, playing with his fingers absentmindedly, “unless you broke my heart. then yeah, totally.”

younger!bf who loves hearing just how good he’s being and how perfect he is for you

younger!bf who’s equally submissive as he is dominant, who can take control or give it up freely, who decides how he wants to act based on what you’re feeling and what you need today

“tell me what you need today baby”

“we don’t have to do anything at all”

“we can just cuddle, or i can leave you alone if you need some space”

“you can take control, own me if that’s what you want”

“whatever you’d like, pretty girl”

younger!bf who goes down on you like it’s exam day and he’s been studying all week to make sure he nails it

younger!bf who begs for every touch, every taste, any little piece of yourself that you’ll allow him

“please, i’ve been waiting for you all day”

pretty eyes staring up at you, waiting patiently for you to allow him some of your time

younger!bf who moans and whimpers so prettily while you tease him. your nails running over his chest and nowhere else is torture but he’ll take anything he can get from you. utterly obsessed.

younger!bf who breathes you in, who embarrasses you by how deeply entranced he is by your cunt

muffled between your thighs “everything, you’re everything”

“i could die here”

“i can’t remember my life without you here, a goddess walking the earth” he says it with a joking tone but the adoration in his eyes is almost frighteningly intense.

it would be frightening if you didn’t feel the exact same way about him

younger!bf who’s an overachiever, who takes care of you, who wants to make sure you’re beyond satisfied, to say screw you to anyone who underestimated your relationship with him, to anyone who said he wasn’t mature enough or man enough for you

younger!bf who knows just how to twist his words to make sure he gets what he wants

“c’mon, one more for me baby please, i know you can do it” “just cum one more time for me”

“don’t you think i deserve another one gorgeous? you told me you’d always tell me when i was doing good, show me please”

its never just once more

younger!bf who talks you through it, who knows how to be commanding when that’s what you need from him, who knows how to let you shut your brain off and just follow instructions

*over the phone* “i know it was tough today, do you just want to stay on the line with me? i’ll be back tomorrow night” — “of course i’ll help you pretty girl, just lay back for me and listen to my voice yeah?”

younger!bf who above all prioritises your safety and how you’re feeling

“i know you’re tired baby, but you promised me one more”

“remind me of your safe words beautiful, c’mon you know what they are, tell me what they mean”

“okay so you know your safe words, traffic lights pretty girl, you can tap out whenever you like, don’t be afraid to use them, i won’t be mad i promise”

“give me a colour baby, can you give me another one?”

a shaky nod, a breathy exhale

“words for me beautiful”

‘green’ “ohh my perfect girl, you’re too good to me” a stroke of your hair, a kiss on your forehead, before he’s back between your legs, thighs clasped around his head, suffocating him, allowing himself to be suffocated, you trying to muffle your moans, biting down on your own hand before he snatches it from you, entwining it with his own and puppeting your other hand to grasp onto his hair

younger!bf who says everything outright because who has time to be coy

“harder baby”

“pull it like you mean it”

younger!bf who surprises himself every-time with just how loud he is when you finally do listen, tugging at his hair and inciting something deep within him. every-time.

younger!bf who will spend the early am’s running you a bath, shampooing your hair, and changing the sheets while you’re still hazy from the countless “just one more for me”s he managed to pull out of you

younger!bf who loses himself in you and welcomes it every-time