heyyyy

“Damn, I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever managed to make you cum. Our little chase must have really turned you on, baby. Makes me wonder how fast I can make you cum with my dick… maybe we’ll even beat our last record. We’re going to have some fun tonight…” 

He studied you for another moment, then raised an eyebrow. “Can I let you get up?” he asked, his voice calm despite the warning underneath it. “You're not going to run again, are you?”

You hesitated just long enough to make it believable before giving him a small nod. “No,” you replied quietly. “I won't.”

Suspicion flickered across Dick's face. He searched your expression for any sign of deception, but all he found was exhaustion and what looked like reluctant acceptance. After a brief pause, he slowly climbed to his feet, never taking his eyes off you.

You could feel his gaze following your every movement as you pushed yourself up from the floor. Instead of standing immediately, you slowly lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him, your eyes fixed on the floor as though you had finally accepted your situation.

Dick stared down at you in silence. A small part of him remained cautious, waiting for another desperate attempt to escape. But the moment your eyes finally lifted to meet his—wide, hesitant, almost innocent—something inside him tightened.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something dangerously soft. “Already on your knees where you belong.”

A satisfied smirk spread across his face as he stepped closer. He reached down, gently cupping your chin between his fingers, guiding your face upward until your eyes met his once more. His thumb brushed slowly across your bottom lip, his touch almost unbearably gentle compared to everything that had happened only minutes earlier.

You hated how familiar it felt. Hated that, despite everything, your body still remembered the countless times he had touched you with the same tenderness.

Without breaking eye contact, Dick's free hand drifted to the waistband of his trousers. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he wanted to give you every opportunity to watch. One button. Then another.

Your breath caught. You instinctively wet your lips before you could stop yourself.

God, get it together, you scolded yourself silently. Fear, adrenaline, muscle memory—you didn't even know anymore. All you knew was that this was exactly what he wanted: for you to look at him, to hesitate, to forget, even for a second, that he was the man who had murdered your best friend.

Without breaking eye contact, he shoves 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. Dick 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.

“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. All thoughts of escape disappeared from your head.

“Fuck,” Dick hissed, fingers tightening in your hair.

You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking toward his eyes. He kept one hand in your hair as he started to rock his hips, fucking your mouth in slow thrusts.

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

You hummed, 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.

Dick’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. “So fucking good with that pretty mouth… that’s my girl,” he groaned.

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. Suddenly, cum shot out of his cock right into your open mouth. You closed your lips around the tip and licked it a few times, making sure you licked up every drop of cum.

Dick let out a slow, satisfied breath as he looked down at you. You looked beautiful beneath him—your hair hopelessly tousled, your cheeks flushed a deep pink, your lips swollen. A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His hand rose to your face almost instinctively. Warm fingers brushed your cheek before his thumb slowly traced over your bottom lip with surprising tenderness.

Now, you thought. Before he could react, you sank your teeth into his thumb as hard as you could.

"Fuck!" Dick hissed, immediately jerking his hand away. His eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in pain as a thin line of blood welled around the bite mark. "Jesus Christ..."

You scrambled to your feet without a second thought. Your eyes darted frantically around the room until they landed on the bathroom just a few steps away. You ran.

Throwing yourself through the doorway, you slammed the door shut behind you. Your trembling fingers barely managed to turn the lock before you stumbled backward, your chest rising and falling with frantic breaths.

For one brief, precious second… Silence.

Then something crashed violently against the other side of the door. You flinched so hard your back hit the sink. Another deafening bang rattled the thin wooden frame.

"Open the fucking door!" Dick roared, all traces of his playful tone gone. Rage bled through every word as he pounded against the wood hard enough to make the hinges groan. "Honey, don't do this," Dick called through the door, forcing his voice back into something gentle. "Open the door. I'm not mad, I promise. Just let me in, and we'll talk."

You knew he was lying. You had known him long enough to recognize the subtle edge beneath his calm voice. He wasn't just angry. He was furious.

Your eyes darted around the tiny bathroom, desperately searching for another way out. They landed on the small window overlooking the backyard. Your heart lurched. The police station. It was only fifteen minutes away on foot.

Fifteen minutes didn't sound impossible... 

...unless Dick caught you first.

A violent crash against the bathroom door made you flinch. The frame groaned. He wouldn't need much longer. Without giving yourself time to think, you rushed to the window and shoved it open. Cool night air rushed into the room. You swung one leg over the windowsill, then the other. For one brief moment, you glanced back at the bathroom door as another deafening bang echoed through the room.

He was almost inside. You jumped.

You landed awkwardly on the damp grass, pain shooting through your ankles, but adrenaline kept you moving. Without looking back, you sprinted across the yard and disappeared into the dark streets.

Dick let out a frustrated growl and slammed his shoulder into the bathroom door one final time. The lock gave way with a loud crack. He stumbled inside, immediately scanning the room.

Empty.

His gaze snapped toward the open window. "Shit."

He crossed the room in seconds and looked outside just in time to catch the faint silhouette of your figure disappearing around the corner of the neighboring house. 

His jaw clenched. Chasing you now would only make things worse. If anyone saw him dragging you back, everything would fall apart. No. He'd let you run. Because he already knew what came next.

By the time you stumbled through the doors of the police station, your lungs burned with every breath. Every head in the room turned toward you. Your clothes were wrinkled, your hair a mess, and tears blurred your vision.

"Please..." you whispered between ragged breaths. "Please help me."

A young police officer hurried over immediately, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. "You're safe now," she said softly. "Come with me."

She led you into a small interview room, handed you a bottle of water, and asked you to wait while she informed her superior. The next ten minutes felt endless. Your leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the table as your mind replayed the last few hours over and over again. Then the door opened.

Commissioner Gordon stepped inside.

"Please," you blurted out before he even had a chance to sit down. "You have to believe me. It's Dick. Dick Grayson. He's Ghostface."

Gordon froze. For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes carefully studied your face—your trembling hands, the tears clinging to your lashes, the bruises already beginning to bloom against your skin. You looked terrified. Not confused. Not hysterical. Terrified. He had seen enough victims over the years to recognize genuine fear when it was sitting right in front of him.

Dick Grayson...

Gordon had quietly suspected him for weeks. There had been too many coincidences, too many loose ends that somehow always led back to Bruce Wayne's adopted son. But suspicion wasn't evidence, and evidence was exactly what he lacked.

Arresting Dick Grayson wouldn't be easy. He wasn't just another suspect. He was Bruce Wayne's son. Gotham's golden boy. Without solid proof, no judge would sign off on keeping him behind bars for long. Gordon slowly pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, keeping his voice calm.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Take a deep breath." He slid a box of tissues across the table. "Start from the beginning." His expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Tell me everything."

You talked for what felt like hours. Every detail. From finding the box beneath Dick's bed to the knife stained with dried blood. The mask. Stephanie. The chase through the house. Every word that had come out of his mouth. Maybe you just left out the parts where he put his fingers in your pussy and you sucked his cock. 

The room remained silent otherwise, broken only by the scratching of a pen across paper. When you finally finished, your voice was barely above a whisper. "...and then I ran."

Silence settled between you. Gordon closed the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair. "I believe you." The words almost made you cry. "But believing you and proving it are two different things."

You lowered your gaze. "I know."

He stood, reaching for his jacket. "I'm going to the Grayson apartment myself."

Twenty minutes later, three police cruisers rolled to a stop outside Dick's house.

The porch lights were still on. The front door opened before anyone had the chance to knock. Dick Grayson stood there in a plain black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his expression calm—almost curious. His blue eyes swept over the officers before settling on Gordon.

"Commissioner."

"You know why we're here?" Dick tilted his head slightly.

"I have a feeling this is about my girlfriend’s lies."

Gordon's jaw tightened. "Dick Grayson, you're under arrest on suspicion of multiple counts of homicide."

For the briefest moment… Dick smiled. Not nervously. Not in disbelief. Just... amused. He slowly raised both hands. "I'll cooperate."

One officer stepped forward and secured his wrists behind his back. The metallic click of the handcuffs echoed through the quiet house. Dick didn't resist. He didn't argue. He didn't even ask for a lawyer. Instead, his gaze wandered past the officers toward the staircase leading upstairs.

Everything's gone. The costume. The knife. The phone. Every trace that mattered had disappeared.

The ride back to the station passed in complete silence. Dick sat in the back of the cruiser with his cuffed hands resting in his lap. He looked almost relaxed. As if this were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

You were standing outside the interview room when you heard footsteps approaching. Then voices. Several officers rounded the corner. And between them...

Dick.

His wrists were bound in steel cuffs, yet he carried himself with the same effortless confidence he always had. When he saw you, he stopped walking. One of the officers nudged him forward. "Keep moving."

But Dick's eyes never left yours. There wasn't an ounce of panic in them. Only quiet certainty. A slow smile spread across his face. "There you are," he said softly.

You felt your stomach twist.

One of the officers shoved him again. "Move."

Dick obeyed without complaint. As he passed you, he leaned his head just enough for only you to hear. "You did the right thing." Your brow furrowed in confusion. His smile widened. "I would've gone looking for you eventually." A chill ran down your spine. Then his voice dropped even lower. "So enjoy the peace while it lasts." He glanced briefly at the handcuffs around his wrists before looking back at you. "They won't keep me here for long." Your blood ran cold. "I'll see you again soon."

The morning of the day everything changed began like so many mornings before it quietly, with the weight of someone else's choices pressing down on you before you had even opened your eyes.

You woke to the sound of the bells. Oldtown was a city of bells, something you had not known before you came here. They rang at dawn, at noon, at dusk, at every hour in between, marking time with a relentlessness that made you feel like you were living inside a heartbeat. The sound echoed through the stone walls of the Hightower, bouncing off the ancient masonry, seeping into your dreams. On Dragonstone, you had woken to the sound of the sea and the distant cry of your dragon. Here, you woke to bells.

You lay still for a moment, watching the light creep across the ceiling. The curtains were heavy but a single sliver of gold had found its way through the gap, painting a line across the stone above your head. You traced it with your eyes, following it from one corner of the room to the other, and tried to remember what day it was.

It did not matter. The days were all the same now.

You turned your head on the pillow. Ormund was already gone. His side of the bed was cold, the blankets pushed back, the indentation of his body already fading from the mattress. He rose early, your husband. He had a city to run and a household to command. You had learned quickly that he did not expect you to be awake when he left. He did not expect anything from you in the mornings except that you would be there with your legs opened when he returned.

You sat up slowly, pushing the heavy blankets aside. The air in the room was cool, carrying the faint, familiar scent of smoke from the fireplace. Your shift was wrinkled from sleep, twisted around your legs, and you smoothed it down automatically before swinging your feet to the floor.

You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain, just a little. The view was spectacular, you could not deny that. The Hightower rose above the city like a spear thrust into the sky, and from your chambers near the top, you could see everything. The Honeywine River winding its way to the sea. The rooftops of Oldtown spreading out below, a patchwork of slate and tile and thatch. The Citadel in the distance, its domes and spires gleaming in the morning light. And beyond it all, the Whispering Sound, blue and endless, stretching toward the horizon.

It was beautiful. It was not home.

You let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. Your gown was laid out for you already. It always was. You had not chosen the dresses you wore since your wedding night. They simply appeared each morning, draped over the chair by the hearth, waiting for you. Today's was a deep charcoal grey with silver embroidery along the scooped neckline and long, tight sleeves. The fabric was heavy—it was always heavy—and the cut was modest. You had never worn anything like it before you came to Oldtown, and now you wore nothing else.

Your ladies arrived as you were washing your face. Three of them, all Hightower women, all chosen by Ormund's steward. They helped you into your dress without comment. The laces were pulled tight, the sleeves smoothed down, the high collar fastened close around your throat. You stood still and let them work, lifting your arms when they needed you to, turning when they asked. You had learned that it was easier to comply than to question.

"Your hair, my lady?" Ellyn asked, her hands already reaching for the brush.

You hesitated. "I thought I might leave it down today."

A pause. Barely a heartbeat, but you felt it.

"Lord Ormund prefers it up," Ellyn said. Her voice was neutral. Polite. The voice of a servant who had been given instructions and intended to follow them.

You opened your mouth to argue—it was your hair, after all, your head, your choice—but the words died on your tongue. It was not worth the fight. Nothing was worth the fight anymore.

"Very well," you said quietly.

Ellyn nodded and began to brush. You watched yourself in the mirror as she worked. The girl looking back at you was beautiful—you knew that, had always known that, had been told it so many times it had ceased to mean anything—but she did not look like you. She looked like a portrait of you, painted by someone who had only heard a description. The hair was right, silver-gold and falling in soft waves. The eyes were right, violet and clear. But something was missing. Some spark. Some light.

You looked tired. You looked pale. You looked like a woman who had been slowly fading for weeks and had not noticed until this moment.

Ellyn pinned your hair up in an elaborate twist, securing it with silver combs. You felt the weight of it pulling at your scalp, the familiar tension that always followed. Your mother had never made you wear your hair up. Your mother had let you wear it however you wanted—loose and wild when you were flying, braided with ribbons when you attended court, simple and unadorned when you were alone. Your mother had always said that you were beautiful because you were yourself, not because you looked like anyone else's idea of beauty.

You missed your mother. You missed her so much it felt like a physical ache, a hollow space in your chest that nothing could fill.

"There," Ellyn said, stepping back to admire her work. "Very proper, my lady."

"Thank you," you said, because that was what you were supposed to say.

They left you alone after that, retreating to their own tasks, and you sat by the window for a long time, watching the clouds move across the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, beyond the Whispering Sound, beyond the Reach and the Kingswood and the Blackwater Bay, your mother was sitting on Dragonstone. Your brothers were running through the halls, laughing, arguing, living their lives.

And you were here. In Oldtown. Married to a man you barely recognized anymore.

The courtship had been so different. You remembered it now, sitting in the grey morning light, turning the memories over in your mind like stones. Ormund had come to King's Landing two years ago, representing his house at some council or another, and he had seen you across the throne room. You had been ten and eight then, young and shy. He had been thirty-six, a widower with four children, a lord in his own right. He had looked at you with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the room.

He had been charming. He had sent you gifts, books from the Citadel, rare perfumes from Lys, a necklace of sapphires that matched your eyes. He had written you letters, long and eloquent and full of praise. He had sought you out at feasts and tourneys, always finding a way to sit beside you, to speak with you, to make you laugh.

Your mother had been skeptical at first. "He is older than you," she had said, her brow furrowed. "And he is a Hightower. The Hightowers are ambitious, my love. They do not do anything without purpose."

But you had argued for him. You had told her that he was kind, that he was good, that he made you feel special. And eventually, reluctantly, she had agreed to the match. Not because she trusted him—you knew now that she never had—but because she trusted you. Because she wanted you to be happy. Because she thought that denying you this would only make you want it more.

And there was the political reality, too. You had known that, even then. The Hightowers were powerful. The Hightowers were influential. The Hightowers could tip the balance in the coming struggle for the throne. Marrying you to Ormund was a way of securing their loyalty, of ensuring that when the time came, Oldtown would stand with Rhaenyra.

You had been a gift. A guarantee. A hostage wrapped in silk and sent south with a smile.

You had told yourself it did not matter. You had told yourself that Ormund loved you, that he would be good to you, that the political reasons were secondary to the personal ones. You had believed him when he promised to cherish you, to protect you, to make you happy.

You had been so stupid.

The knock at the door startled you out of your thoughts. You turned, smoothing your features into the placid expression you had learned to wear, and called out, "Enter."

It was a servant, one of the many whose names you had not yet learned. He was young, barely more than a boy, and he bowed awkwardly when he saw you.

"My lady," he said. "A shipment has arrived for you. From Dragonstone."

Your heart stopped.

"A shipment?" You rose from your chair, and your voice came out breathless, eager, the way it used to sound before you learned to keep your feelings hidden. "Where is it?"

"In the courtyard, my lady. I can have it brought up to your chambers, if you wish."

"No." The word was too quick, too sharp. You forced yourself to slow down, to breathe. "No, thank you. I will come down myself. I would like to—" You stopped. You did not know how to explain what you wanted. You wanted to see it. You wanted to touch it. You wanted to hold something from home in your hands and remember what it felt like to be yourself.

"Of course, my lady," the servant said. He bowed again and retreated, and you were alone once more.

You did not run. Running would have been undignified. Running would have drawn attention. But you walked faster than you had walked in weeks, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands clasped tightly in front of you to hide their trembling.

The courtyard was busy when you arrived. Servants and guards and grooms going about their daily tasks, none of them paying much attention to the crate sitting near the stables. It was large, nearly as tall as you were, made of dark wood and bound with iron bands. And stamped on the side, clear and unmistakable, was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly afraid to approach. It was silly, you knew. It was just a crate. Just wood and iron and the things your mother had sent. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a message. A reminder. A lifeline thrown across the distance between Dragonstone and Oldtown, telling you that you were not forgotten.

"My lady?" A servant—a different one, a woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron—approached with a slight curtsy. "Shall I have it brought to your rooms?"

"Yes," you said, and then, because you could not help yourself, "No. Wait. I want to open it here."

The woman looked surprised, but she nodded. "As you wish, my lady. Shall I fetch a crowbar?"

"Please."

You stood there, in the middle of the courtyard, while she went to find the tools. The sun was warm on your face, warmer than it had been in days, or perhaps it only felt that way because you were happy. You were actually happy. The feeling was so unfamiliar that it took you a moment to recognize it.

When the crowbar arrived the scent hit you first.

Jasmine. Your mother's perfume. The same perfume she had worn since you were a child, the same scent that had clung to her hair when she held you, to her gowns when you pressed your face into her shoulder. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough. Your eyes stung, and you had to blink rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

And then the dresses. They were packed in layers of fine paper, each one wrapped carefully to protect the delicate fabrics. You pulled them out one by one, your breath catching in your throat each time. Silk. Chiffon. Velvet so soft it felt like water running through your fingers. The colors were breathtaking, deep violet, pale blue, crimson, silver, black, gold. Lyseni cuts, every one of them. Flowing skirts and fitted bodices and sleeves that would flutter when you walked.

These were your dresses. These were the clothes you had worn before your wedding, before Oldtown, before everything. These were the clothes that made you feel like a Targaryen princess instead of a Hightower wife.

And then, at the very bottom of the crate, you found it.

The silver-grey gown.

You lifted it from the paper with hands that shook, and the sunlight caught the beadwork, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

It was the most beautiful dress you had ever seen. The bodice was gathered chiffon, layer upon layer of it, so fine and sheer that it looked like morning mist made solid. Tiny silver beads traced patterns across the fabric—flowers, vines, delicate spirals that caught the light and sparkled like captured stars. The neckline was a sweetheart, low and elegant, designed to frame the collarbones and accentuate the curve of the breasts without being vulgar. The sleeves were off the shoulder, sheer and flowing, held in place by jeweled straps so fine they looked like threads of starlight. The waist was fitted, structured, creating a dramatic contrast with the flowing pleated skirt below. And the skirt was layer after layer of soft, swirling fabric that would catch the air and dance with every step you took.

It was a dress for a princess. It was a dress for a dragonrider. It was a dress for you.

You held it up against your body, right there in the courtyard, and you could not stop smiling. You probably looked ridiculous—a lady of House Hightower clutching a gown to her chest like a child with a new toy—but you did not care. You did not care about anything except the feel of the fabric beneath your fingers and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that things were going to be better now.

"Would you like to wear it, my lady?"

You looked up. The servant woman was still there, watching you with an expression that was almost a smile.

"May I?" you asked, and then realized how foolish the question was. You were the lady of the house. You did not need to ask permission. But somehow, without thinking, you had.

"Of course, my lady," the woman said. "I think it would suit you beautifully."

You dressed alone. You did not want anyone else's hands on this dress. It was too precious, too personal, too much a part of you. You slipped it over your head carefully, reverently, letting the silk whisper against your skin. You adjusted the bodice, settled the sleeves on your shoulders, smoothed the skirt down over your hips. And when you looked in the mirror—

You gasped.

You were beautiful. You spun in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare out around you, and you laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind of laugh you had not made since your wedding night.

And then the knock came.

"My lady?" Margot's voice, muffled through the door. "The other ladies are asking if you will join them in the solar. They have heard about the dresses and are eager to see."

You took a deep breath. You smoothed your hands down the front of your gown. And then you opened the door.

Bethany gasped first. Loud and delighted, the way only a girl could gasp. "Oh, my lady! You look like a queen!"

Ellyn was more restrained, but even she could not hide her surprise. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly before she caught herself. "It is... very fine work, my lady," she said carefully. "Lyseni, I presume?"

"Yes," you said, and your voice came out stronger than it had in weeks. "My mother sent them. I used to wear this style at court."

The walk through the Hightower was different than it had ever been before. You had walked these halls dozens of times since your wedding, head down, eyes averted, trying to take up as little space as possible. But today, in your gown, you walked with your head high. You looked people in the eye. You smiled.

And people noticed.

Servants stopped to stare as you passed. Guards straightened, their gazes lingering on you longer than was proper. A young squire dropped the sword he was carrying and had to scramble to pick it up, his face bright red. You felt their eyes on you and you did not mind. You had been invisible for weeks. It was nice to be seen.

—

Ormund found you in the solar.

It was late afternoon by then, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. You were sitting by the window, reading your mother's letter at last—it was full of news from Dragonstone, gossip about your brothers, questions about how you were settling in—when the door opened and he walked in.

You looked up and smiled. "Husband. I did not expect you back so early."

He did not smile back. You should have noticed that. You should have seen the storm gathering behind his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were clenched at his sides. But you were still floating on the happiness of the morning, still wrapped in the warmth of your mother's words and you did not see.

"Where did you get that dress?"

His voice was flat. Too flat. The kind of flat that comes before a storm.

"It was in the shipment from my mother," you said, and you heard the happiness in your own voice, bright and fragile and utterly unaware. "She sent me dresses from Lys—the kind I used to wear at court. Isn't it beautiful? I have not worn anything like it since—"

"Stand up."

You blinked. "What?"

"Stand. Up."

You stood. The letter slipped from your fingers and floated to the floor. You stood, and he looked at you, and the silence stretched out between you like a wound opening.

"Ormund," you said carefully, "is something wrong?"

He crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed your arm and pulled you toward the door.

"You will come with me," he said. "Now."

"Ormund, you are hurting me—"

"Now."

He dragged you through the corridors. You stumbled after him, your beautiful skirt tangling around your legs, your jeweled straps digging into your shoulders. Servants saw you—you knew they saw you, you saw their faces turn away, their eyes drop—and shame burned hot in your cheeks. You were the lady of the house. You were a princess of the blood. And you were being pulled through your own home like a disobedient child.

He did not speak again until the door to your chambers slammed shut behind you.

Then he let go of your arm, and you stumbled backward, catching yourself on the back of a chair. Your chest was heaving. Your heart was pounding. And when you looked at his face you barely recognized him.

"What," he said, low and dangerous, "are you wearing?"

You stared at him. "It is a dress. I told you. My mother sent—"

"Your mother." He spat the words like they tasted of poison. "Your whore of a mother sent you a whore's dress, and you decided to parade yourself through my keep in it."

The word hit you like a slap. Whore. Your mother. He had never—no one had ever—

"Don't look so shocked." He stepped closer, and you stepped back, and the chair between you felt like nothing, like paper, like a wall that would crumble at a single touch. "You know what I am talking about. You know exactly what your mother is. The whole realm knows. She spreads her legs for every man who looks at her twice, and now she cannot even control her own daughter."

"That is not true." Your voice came out thin. Reedy. Nothing like the strong, confident voice you had used all day. "My mother is not—you cannot speak of her that way. She is your future queen—"

"She is a whore." He said it flatly. Calmly. Like he was remarking on the weather. "She is a whore who put bastards in the line of succession and expected the realm to bow. She has fucked her sworn shield for years—everyone knows it, even if they are too afraid to say it—and those Strong bastards she calls sons are proof. And now she has sent her daughter to me, dressed like a common bedslave, and I am supposed to be grateful?"

Your hands were shaking. You pressed them to your stomach, trying to steady yourself. "I am not dressed like a—I am not. This is just a dress. This is the kind of dress I have always worn. You saw me in them at court. You said I was beautiful. You said—"

"I lied."

The words stopped you cold.

"I lied." He stepped closer again, and this time there was nowhere to back away to. Your shoulders hit the wall. "Of course I told you that you were beautiful. That is what men do when they are courting. We flatter. We praise. We tell you what you want to hear. And you—" His eyes raked down your body, and you felt naked, exposed, like every inch of skin was on display. "You were a maiden then. Untouched. A prize to be won. I could look at you and imagine all the things I was going to do to you once you were mine."

He paused. His tongue swept across his lower lip, and the gesture made your stomach turn.

"Do you want to know what I really thought, when I saw you in your pretty little dresses? I thought about what was underneath. I thought about tearing them off you. I thought about bending you over a chair and seeing if you were as tight as you looked. I thought about how sweet it would be to be the one who finally got to touch what you were showing everyone."

"Stop—" The word came out as a choked whisper. "Please, stop—"

"But that was then." His voice hardened. "That was when you were a maiden. That was when you were untouchable. Now you are my wife. Now you wear my name and live in my house and sleep in my bed. And my wife does not dress like a whore."

"I am not a whore." Tears were burning in your eyes now, hot and stinging. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "I am a Targaryen princess. I am a dragonrider. I am your wife, and I have done nothing wrong—"

"Nothing wrong?" He laughed, and it was an ugly sound. Ugly and cruel and nothing like the warm, charming laugh you remembered from the courtship. "You paraded yourself through the entire keep in a dress that shows your tits to every man with eyes. Guards stared at you. Servants stared at you. My squire -your own uncle- dropped his sword because he was too busy looking at your body to remember what he was doing. And you think you have done nothing wrong?"

You had not known about the squire. You had not noticed. But it did not matter. It would not have mattered. He had made up his mind about what you were, and nothing you said would change it.

"It is just a dress," you whispered. "It made me feel beautiful. It made me feel like myself. I have been wearing your dresses for weeks—your grey dresses, your heavy fabrics—and I have not complained. I have not asked for anything. I just wanted one thing that was mine. One thing that felt like home."

"Home?" He sneered the word. "You mean Dragonstone? You mean your mother's castle, where she hides her bastards and her lovers and pretends she is fit to rule? That is not home. That is a den of sin and corruption, and you are lucky I took you out of it."

"Lucky?" The word escaped you before you could stop it, high and incredulous. "You think I am lucky? You think I am grateful for this? For being dragged through the corridors like a prisoner? For being called a whore in my own home? For being married to a man who—"

"Who what?" His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. "Who what? Say it."

You opened your mouth. You closed it. The words were there, burning on your tongue, but you could not make yourself speak them. You were afraid. You were so afraid.

"Who does not love you?" He finished the sentence for you, and his smile was terrible. "Is that what you were going to say? That I do not love you? Let me tell you something, little wife. I love you more than you deserve. I love you despite your mother, despite your reputation, despite the rumors about your parentage. Everyone knows you are not Laenor's daughter—no more than the Strong bastards are. And now you come here, dressed like a whore, and expect me to be grateful?"

"My father loved me." Your voice cracked, and the tears spilled over at last. Hot and wet, tracking down your cheeks. "Laenor Velaryon raised me. He was my father. And you will not speak of him that way."

"Laenor Velaryon was a fool." Ormund's lip curled. "He raised another man's bastards because he was too weak to do anything else. Just as your mother is too weak to control her own desires. And you are just like her. Weak. Vain. Desperate for attention. You think you are special because you have a dragon? You are nothing. You are a spoiled princess who has never had to work for anything, who has never had to serve anyone, who does not know the first thing about being a wife."

"I am not—"

"You are a piece of property." He stepped forward, and his hand came up, and for one terrible moment you thought he was going to hit you. But he did not. He touched your face instead, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that made your skin crawl. "My property. Your body belongs to me now. Your hair, your face, your tits, your cunt—all of it. You do not get to decide what you wear or what you show. You do not get to decide anything. You are mine. And I will not have my property parading around like a common whore."

"Let go of me."

You did not recognize your own voice. It was quiet and cold and utterly steady, nothing like the sobbing, broken girl you felt like inside.

He did not let go. His grip on your jaw tightened, just slightly. Just enough to remind you of his strength.

"You do not give me orders," he said softly. "You are my wife. You obey me. You do what I say, when I say it. And if you cannot do that—" His thumb pressed harder, digging into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone. "Then I will teach you. I will teach you to be grateful for my attentions. I will teach you to be the wife I need you to be. And by the time I am finished, you will thank me for it."

"You are hurting me."

"I am trying to help you. But you are making it so difficult." He released your jaw, finally, and stepped back. His eyes dropped to the dress. To the silver beadwork. To the sweetheart neckline that he hated. "Take it off."

Your blood ran cold. "What?"

"Take. It. Off."

You did not move. You could not move. Your body was frozen, your mind screaming, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, Ormund, I will not wear it again. I will put it away. I will wear whatever you want. Just please—"

"Take it off, or I will take it off for you."

You raised your hands. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely grip the fabric, but you tried. You tried to be good. You tried to do what he wanted. The jeweled straps slipped from your shoulders, and the bodice sagged, and then—

His patience ran out.

He grabbed the neckline with both hands and pulled.

The sound the fabric made was like a scream. A high, rending shriek of tearing silk, and then the bodice was splitting, the beadwork scattering in all directions like falling stars. You cried out and tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His hands found the seams and pulled, and the dress came apart in his grip like paper. Chiffon shredded. Beads flew. The jeweled straps snapped, the tiny stones scattering across the floor and skittering into corners where you would never find them again.

"No, no, no—" You were sobbing now, your hands batting uselessly at his arms, your voice rising to something that was almost a scream. "Please stop, please, it was a gift, it was from my mother, please—"

"Your mother." He grabbed the skirt and tore it from the waist, the pleated fabric ripping with a sound like thunder. "Your mother should have taught you how to be a wife. Instead she taught you how to be a whore."

"My mother—" You could barely speak. The words were choked with tears, your throat raw from screaming. "My mother loves me. She sent me this because she loves me—"

He laughed. It was the cruelest sound you had ever heard.

"Your mother sent you here because she wanted to get rid of you. Because you were inconvenient. Because she has her bastards to think about now, her precious Strong boys, and there was no room left for you. You were a spare. A surplus. A problem to be solved. And I solved it. I took you off her hands when no one else would."

That was when you slapped him.

You did not think about it. You did not plan it. Your hand just moved, arcing through the air and catching him across the cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. You stared at him, your palm stinging, your breath coming in ragged gasps. And he stared back at you, his head turned slightly from the force of the blow, his cheek already reddening. For a long, terrible moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he turned back to you, and his eyes—

His eyes were dead. Empty. Two pits of black that looked at you without recognition, without humanity, without anything at all.

"You should not have done that," he said quietly.

And then he reached for the rest of the dress.

You did not fight him anymore. You could not. Your body had gone limp, your strength drained, your spirit crushed into something small and broken. You stood there, shaking and crying, as he tore the remaining fabric from your body. The skirt fell away in ribbons. The underskirt followed, ripped from the waistband like paper. And then you were standing in nothing but your shift, your arms wrapped around yourself, your shoulders bare and trembling.

He stepped back. His chest was heaving. His face was flushed. And in his hands, he held the ruins of your dress. He held it up. Looked at it. Then looked at you.

Then he walked to the fireplace.

"No." The word came out as a broken whisper. "No, please. Please, Ormund. Please don't."

He threw it into the flames.

You watched it burn. The silk caught immediately, curling and blackening like a living thing in its death throes. The beadwork melted, silver droplets running down the fabric like tears. The chiffon vanished in a flash of orange, there and gone, consumed by the fire that had never felt warm, not once, not since you arrived in this cold, cold city.

You sank to your knees. You could not stop crying. Your whole body was wracked with sobs, your shoulders heaving, your hands pressed to your face to muffle the sounds. You were kneeling on the cold stone floor in nothing but your shift, surrounded by scattered beads and torn silk and the ashes of the only thing that had made you feel like yourself in weeks. And you had never felt so small in your entire life. You had never felt so alone.

And then he was there.

He knelt in front of you. His hands found your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so that you had to look at him. His expression had changed completely. The fury was gone. The cruelty was gone. In their place was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love.

"See?" he said softly. Gently. As if he were comforting a frightened child. "See what you made me do?"

You stared at him through blurry eyes. You could not speak. You could not think.

"I do not want to be like this." His thumbs brushed your tears away, tracing gentle paths across your cheekbones. "I want to be a good husband to you. I want to love you, and cherish you, and protect you. But I cannot do that when you dress like a whore. You make me angry. You push me to do things I do not want to do."

You shook your head. It was a tiny, weak movement, barely perceptible. But he saw it.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was so certain, so utterly convinced of its own righteousness. "It is your fault. If you had worn what I told you to wear, if you had been a good wife, if you had simply obeyed me, none of this would have happened. I would not have had to raise my voice. I would not have had to rip the dress. You made me do this."

"I did not—" Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely audible. "I did not make you do anything."

"You did." He stroked your hair now, smoothing it back from your tear-stained face with a gentleness that made your stomach turn. "You know you did. You knew how I felt about those dresses. You knew I did not want you wearing them. And you wore it anyway, in front of everyone, flaunting yourself like a common—" He stopped himself. Took a breath. Softened his voice even further. "You chose to disobey me. And actions have consequences. You understand that, don't you?"

You did not answer. You could not answer. You were trapped in a nightmare, and the monster was stroking your hair and telling you it was all your fault.

"But I forgive you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and his lips were warm and dry, and you wanted to scrub the feeling of them off your skin. "I will always forgive you. Because I love you. Do you understand that? Everything I do, I do because I love you. If I did not love you, I would not care what you wore. I would not care who looked at you. But I do love you. I love you so much it drives me mad. And that is why I get angry. That is why I cannot control myself sometimes. Because I love you, and I cannot bear to see you make yourself look like a whore."

You were shaking your head again, but you did not know what you were denying. The words coming out of his mouth? The gentleness of his touch? The horrible, impossible reality of everything that had just happened?

"Say you are sorry," he said.

"I—"

"Say it." His grip on your chin tightened, just a fraction. Just enough to remind you that he was still in control. "Say you are sorry for what you did."

You were sorry. You were so sorry. You were sorry you had worn the dress. You were sorry you had opened the crate. You were sorry you had been happy, even for a moment. You were sorry you had ever come to Oldtown, ever said yes to his courtship, ever believed him when he looked at you with hunger in his eyes and told you it was love.

"I am sorry," you whispered.

The words tasted like ash.

"Good girl." He kissed your forehead again. "Good girl. I forgive you."

He pulled you into his arms. He held you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. Satisfied.

"See?" he murmured into your hair. "It is over now. It is over. I love you. I love you so much."

You could smell the smoke from the fireplace. The ashes of your dress. The death of the girl you used to be.

"I will always take care of you," he said. "I will always forgive you. But you have to learn. You have to be better. You have to be the wife I need you to be. Do you understand?"

You nodded against his chest. You did not know what else to do.

"Say it."

"I understand." Your voice did not sound like your own. It was hollow. Empty. A shell of the voice that had laughed in the dragonpit this morning.

"Good girl." He stroked your hair. "Good girl. We are going to be happy together. I promise you. We are going to be so happy."

He held you there, in front of the dying fire where your dress was ash, and you cried into his chest until you had no tears left and when he finally pulled back and tilted your face up to look at him, you let him see the tears drying on your cheeks and the emptiness in your eyes, and you did not flinch when he smiled.

"There," he said. "That is better. That is my good, obedient wife."

He kissed you. Softly. Tenderly. The kiss of a lover, not a monster.

And you did not pull away.

Because you were learning. You were learning to be the wife he needed you to be. You were learning to smile when you wanted to scream, to nod when you wanted to fight, to say "I love you" when what you really meant was "I am afraid of you."

“Both of you shut the fuck up and go for walk!” Maekar interjects, fed up with all the shouting. Aerion then trying to follow you when you storm off. “In different directions!”

-

“Ohh, I’m Aerion I think I’m a dragon in human form when actually I’m just a blond bitch with a god complex.” You mumbling to yourself as you explore the caves on dragonstone, dismissing your guards as you wanted to be alone. “He’s suck a prick.” At that you feel a hot blow of air hit you, almost as if the big pile of rocks that looked a bit scaly let out an exhale. “Huh, I didn’t know rocks could do that?”

As is the rock heard you it opened its eye??? Since when did rocks have eyes? And just huffed again almost as if waiting for you to notice it. “Not a rock.” You mumble to yourself as it moves its head to look at you. “Holy shit, you’re a dragon!”

The massive dragon just lets out another huff as if saying ‘obviously’.

“How long have you been here? You’re massive, no offence, I’m only asking because like 10 years ago my cousin Aelan when missing on dragonstone when he went into the caves. Did you eat him? I wouldn’t be mad from what I remember he was a major dick.” You say looking at the dragon who seemed to take up most of the cave. It? Him? Her? Just looking at you like you’re an idiot. “Can I pet you?”

“Oh right you only understand High Valyrian, how do you say please don’t eat me?” You ask the dragon, trying to think back on your lessons, you spending most of the time trying to annoy your brother and cousins. Deciding to just continue talking when all you can remember is sit and fire. “Can I claim you? It’s just Aerion will be pissed if I claim a dragon before him. If not I can just leave you to your cave.”

At your request the dragon just lifts its head and you think it’s going to eat you, but he just gently grabs the back of your dress with his front teeth and places you near his back. Like he was telling you to climb on. “What ever you say bud.” You say not really sure what’s going on but just going with it while you climb the dragon, sitting on his neck. “What now?”

“Holy shit!” You exclaim clinging to the dragon when he stands and starts walking out the cave, spreading his massive wings in the entrance before taking flight. “What the fuck is happening!?”

-

“Daeron? Did you drug me?” Valarr asks sat in the courtyard with his cousin, father and uncle. The men sat drinking wine while discussing random things, waiting for the king to join them.

“Not that I know off.” Daeron says to his cousin, swirling wine around in his glass while leaning back in his chair. “Why?”

“Because I think that’s a dragon.” Valarr says looking at the massive outline of a dragon in the sky.

“What?” Maekar asks his nephew, thinking Valarr has been spending too much time with Aerion.

“Are you quite well Valarr?” Baelor asks quickly checking his son’s temperature, but finding it to be normal.

“Look.” He says pointing.

“No yeah, I think that’s a dragon.” Daeron says sitting up staring at the massive creature fly through the sky. Baelor and Maekar just staring in shock, too stunned to speak. “How hasn’t it been seen before?”

“What the fuck.”

-

“Yes!” Aerion shouts running over to you as you climb off the dragon, him meeting you at the bottom. His eyes wide as pulls you into a hug. “Thank you.”

“What?” You ask, him swaying you both back and forth in happiness. Pressing kisses all over your face, dragon just looking at you like ‘really? This is your mate?’

“You got me a dragon!” Aerion says practically vibrating in excitement. “This is the best proposal ever!”

“Fuck off he’s mine!” You say, not mentioning the so called proposal.

“Sweetheart, where did you find this dragon?” Baelor asks cautiously, the kings guard stood behind him, hands on swords. Maekar slightly in front of the man ready to push him out the way if the dragon attacks.

“He was in the caves.” You say casually, patting the dragons side. Aerion not letting you go as he gently strokes the dragon.

“The caves? The one place I told you not to go, especially unsupervised. Those caves?” Your father asks raising an eyebrow at you, not sure how to address the dragon situation properly so focusing on you not listening to the one rule of dragonstone.

“Uhhh, no comment?” You say awkwardly, a sheepish smile on your face. Aerion kissing your cheek before trying to climb your dragon. Dragon (you really need to find out its name) just shaking slightly to get Aerion off him. Aerion begins lucky you clearly like the annoying creature or dragon would have eaten him. “Plus side I found a dragon and i think I’ve found out what happened to cousin Aelan.”

“Aerion get of it you fucking moron.” Maekar snaps at his second son, not liking him being so close to the massive dragon that could wipe out all of the family in a breath. “It’s not safe.”

“Bronzey’s nice he won’t hurt him, much.” You say trying out a new name for your dragon who just lets out a noise of disagreement, clearly not liking the name. “Not bronzey got it.”

“What are you doing?” Baelor asks you, thinking he’s going to need a very large bottle of wine tonight.

“I’m trying to work out his name. It’s definitely not dragon, rocky, bud or bronzey.”

“If he’s who I think he is you might have more luck with Vermithor.” King Daeron says walking through the guards with a proud look on his face. The dragon ,Vermithor, letting out a happy noise at his name. “Well done sweetheart, you’ve found the last living dragon.”

“Father, it’s not safe.” Maekar says trying to get the king to go back into the castle. At least until he’s sure the dragon isn’t a threat.

“Oh hush Maekar you worry to much, your niece has just restored the Targaryen name.” King Daeron says walking over to you, so he can admire the dragon up close. Vermithor weirdly liking the attention. “He’s magnificent.”

“And me.” Aerion adds, hand on your waist. “I helped.”

“What have you done, my boy?” King Daeron asks, knowing Aerion has nothing to do with you finding the dragon. He was too busy pestering the old man, begging to be allowed to marry you.

“If we didn’t get into that argument she would have never found our shared dragon Vermithor.”

“Right.”

“And given the fact we’re got a dragon we should call off the possible betrothal with the Lannister’s and she should marry me instead. So dragons stay in the family obviously.” Aerion says, trying to should logical and decently not that he’s desperate to marry you.

“Surly it would make more sense for me to marry Valarr with that logic?” You ask him with a smirk on your face, loving when he gets all pathetic.

“No, definitely me.” He says, not wanting you to marry anyone else. Him being in love with you since you were children.

“What would you do if you were the one to find Vermithor?” You ask him softly wrapping your arms around his neck, looking into his eyes. Not caring about the audience.

“Threaten to burn the world if I couldn’t have you.” He says softly, hand coming up to brush your cheek. “I do it too.”

“That’s so romantic.” You say about to kiss him before Vermithor lets out a grumble annoyed he’s not the center of attention.

“Romantic?” Maekar whispers to Baelor both of them sharing a look at their odd children.

-

“This is so unfair.” Matarys says stabbing his chicken with his fork, sulking that you found a dragon and he didn’t. “Valarr gets to be king, you find a dragon, what do I have? Nothing.”

“How come Aerion gets a dragon.” Egg asks also sulking, not finding it fair that Aerion gets a dragon and he doesn’t. All of you sat outside for dinner, Vermithor sunning himself on the cliffs.

“He hasn’t got a dragon, I do.” You say rolling your eyes at the young boys, having to share a plate with Aerion as he refuses to let go of you. You having to sit on his lap, everyone else just ignoring how improper it is.

“We do, married couples share.” Aerion corrects bringing your fork to his mouth.

“We’re not even married.” You say leaning forward slightly to get some more wine. Aerion quickly pulling you back.

“Yet.”

“How are we meant to explain this?” Baelor asks his father, the king the only ‘adult’ who’s not stressing out over Vermithor. King Daeron having a lovely conversation with other Daeron about different wines before Baelor interrupted.

“Explain what?” The king asks, his free hand in his wife’s while she talks to the other children.

“That we leave to go on a family holiday and the princess comes back with a dragon.” Baelor says clearly stressing about what to do and how to explain to the lords and commons folks.

“The bronze furry at that.” Maekar interjects pouring more wine into his and Baelor’s glasses.

“He’s so sweet I don’t know why he’s called that.” You say smiling at your dragon who’s just swallowed a bird whole.

-

“You are a goddess.” Aerion says kissing you in bed, him meant to be in his own chambers. “My goddess.” He whispers kissing down your neck when there’s a knock at the door. He quickly stops and you look at each other panicking. “What do we do?”

“Sweetheart, it’s me.” Baelor says through the door knocking again. Aerion quickly getting off the bed and looking for somewhere to hide. When you go over to the door to let your father in. Aerion slipping under the bed as the doors open. “Hello sweetheart, I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“You didn’t.” You say smoothing your hair slightly letting him in and going to the seating area. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve spoken to the king and we’ve agreed you and Aerion can marry.” Baelor says, knowing you didn’t mean the question rudely. Luckily not hearing the sharp intake of breath from under your bed, or the whispered ‘fuck yes.’

“Really?” You ask trying to mask your excitement at the news.

“Yes, Maekar is just going to tell Aerion so he’ll probably come visit you tonight. But please if he does come and see you be respectful.”

“Of course.” You say as your chamber doors open and Maekar lets himself in.

“Maekar what are you doing here? I thought you were speaking with Aerion.” Baelor asks his brother ever more confused when Maekar looks under your bed.

“Ow.” Aerion says as he’s pulled out from under your bed by the arm. “Hello, lovely weather isn’t it?”

“You know what? I don’t care. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Baelor says kissing your cheek, just wanting to go to bed, too tired to deal with all this shit. “Good night.”

-

“I can’t believe we get dragonstone.” Aerion says, looking around your new chambers. You being named princess of dragonstone, Valarr still future king obviously.

“Well we have got the only dragon.” You say dismissing the servants who have been unpacking for you, Aerion not even noticing as he’s looking through the window at Vermithor resting on the rocks, having just flown back from kingslanding. The dragon finally letting Aerion ride him with you.

“For now.” Aerion says critically, already thinking of names.

“What are you insinuating?” You ask walking over to him, your husband looking incredibly smug.

“Daeron had a dream with lots of dragons so ether we have lots of children or lots of dragons.” He says smirking as he looks you up and down. “Or both.”

“I like both.” You say leading him to the bed.

-

“What are you pouting about?” You ask sat by the fire knitting a blanket as Aerion dramatically flops onto the sofa letting out a huff.

“Vermithor won’t let me ride him without you.” Your pouty husband responds, having just come from the dragon. Vermithor moving every time Aerion tried to mount him.

“Well he is my dragon and we can go for a ride later.” You say wanting to finish your knitting project first or you know you’ll never finish it. Only having a few rows left to complete.

“You’re with child.” Aerion says giving you a look, not wanting you riding a real dragon in your condition.

“And?” You ask, having already spoken to the Maesters about it and them saying a lot of Targaryen women still rode when they were with child. “The maesters said it’s fine and Vermithor won’t let me if he thinks it’s not safe.”

“You know this dragon?” The village leader asks, when you throw yourself between a pitchfork and the dragon. Knowing it won’t hurt her but not wanting to risk it. The man viewing you as the crazy ward of the village healer. Who admittedly was also a bit crazy when she was alive.

“Yes, she’s my friend. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone.” You say standing protectively in front of the bright blue dragon. The girl hissing when someone tries to touch you.

“Sure looks like it.” The man who tried to pull you away says sarcastically.

“If she wanted to hurt you you’d be dead.” You snap, pulling the pitchfork off the moron.

“Exactly, so we’d better kill the thing!” Someone else shouts, multiple others agreeing with the idea.

“No, if the Targaryens find out we’ll all be dead. Best have them deal with it.” The old woman who sells cattle says wisely. Not wanting to think about what would happen if the royal family found out the village killed a dragon.

“You want to pass a dragon over to the Targaryens?” The butchers boy shouts, his father slapping him over the head to shut up.

“What choice do we have?”

“Kill it!”

“Please.” You beg tears welling up in your eyes. “She’s good, I’ve kept her hidden for moons. We can leave and no one ever has to find out.”

“I’m sorry dear.” The village leader says giving you a sad smile before looking over to his wife. “Contact the Targaryens.”

-

“They’re clearly lying.” Aerion says riding his horse along side his father, uncle and kings guard. The three going to investigate the alleged dragon.

“I agree with Aerion it’s clearly bullshit.” Maekar says having dragged his second son along, not wanting to go himself but Baelor made him.

“We still have to check it out.” Baelor sighs wishing he brought Valarr, at least then it could be a nice father son trip. “We’ll go, smooth over their worries and go home.”

“So you also agree it’s bullshit, good.”

“Maekar-.”

-

“So where’s this dragon?” Maekar asks as soon as he dismounts his horse not even to do the introductions like Baelor. Aerion just looking at a peasant boy in disgust when he tries to touch the prince.

“I’m the caves your grace, we’ve got people on watch so it can’t leave with the girl.” The village leader says bowing in greeting, stumbling over his feet as he does so.

“What girl?” Aerion asks thinking even more that this whole thing is bullshit. Why would a dragon show themselves to some girl when he’s alive. It just doesn’t make sense.

“The one who found the dragon, she’s been keeping it secret for moons we only found out a few weeks ago your graces and we immediately sent word for you.” The leader over explains not wanting to get in trouble for possibly hiding a dragon.

“Have you actually seen this dragon or a you taking a crazy girls word for it?” Maekar asks deciding to take the lead, ignoring Baelor’s look.

“Oh we’ve seen it alright.” The butcher says with a scoff before Baelor can interject. “Vicious blue thing, it almost took my arm.”

“Yet you still have it.” Aerion says raising an eyebrow at the man who clearly still has both of his arms attached.

“Look just see for yourselves.”

-

“We’re coming in!” The village leader who Baelor learnt is called Dale shouts into the cave that has multiple ‘guards’ standing outside. Ser Roland being sent in first to check if it’s a trap.

“Holy shit.” The knight says from in the cave. “You might want to look at this your grace!”

Maekar and Baelor share a look before making their way into the cave, hands on weapons with Aerion following behind. When they reach the open area they are met with a light blue dragon with yellow lines shooting across it, looking like lightning. Curled up in the corner like it was trying to hide with you stood next to it looking like you’re guarding the mighty beast. “What the fuck.”

“Hello, this is stormfrye.” You say offering a small wave, not sure how to greet them.

“Marry me.” Aerion blurts out dropping to one knee in front of you. Making you blink at him in confusion, you thought the Targaryens would try and steal Stormfrye not marry you.

“I don’t know you.” You say tentatively not sure what to say to the pretty silver haired boy.

“That doesn’t matter.” He says looking at you and your dragon in wonder. “I love you.”

“Get up you pathetic boy.” Maekar says pulling his second son up by the arm. “Have some dignity.”

“That’s a dragon.” Baelor says staring at the beast who kept its eyes on you all.

“Yes.” You answer simply, scratching the dragons head.

“Right, how did you find this dragon?” Baelor asks after a moment. Not expecting there to actually be a dragon.

“I found Stormfrye when I was out looking for herbs during a storm and she was curled up crying, the poor girl looked so hungry. So I took her home and fed her.” You explain, like it’s an every occurrence to bring a dragon home and feed it back to heath. “And when she got too big for the house I took her here.”

“Right.” Baelor says, trying to think of what to do next.

“You’re not going to take her away from me are you?” You ask worried, loving the growing dragon. Who only got caught that day because she wanted to explore and got too close to town.

“Of course not! You’re my dragon queen.” Aerion says quickly trying to get closer to you but his father pulls him back.

“Aerion shut up.” Maekar snaps, looking back at you and your dragon. “We’re not leaving a dragon here.”

“You can come with us, I’m sure Stormfrye will need a familiar face.” Baelor offers, wondering how to even transport the thing. “Have you ridden her?”

“A few times around the cliffs.” You say fidgeting on the spot deciding not to mention the first attempt when you both fell into the sea.

“Then you’ll have to come with us.” Baelor tells you, still trying to think of where to house the dragon.

“Why?”

“You’re her rider.”

-

“I shall ride with you my dragonness.” Aerion says to you kissing the back of your hand, as you check you’ve got everything before you leave your village. No one coming to say goodbye, not that you’re surprised you’re always been seen as odd.

“Aerion stop being so fucking weird.” Maekar sighs, having no idea his second son could be so pathetic.

“That would actually be a good idea, Aerion you can show her the way.” Baelor says, having sent word to his father to meet at summerhall.

“Will two even fit?” Maekar asks looking at the relatively small dragon.

“I think so, we might just be a bit slower.” You say looking at stormfrye knowing your girl can handle it.

-

“Are you sure about this?” Maekar asks his older brother as they mount their horses. Waiting for you and Aerion to mount stormfrye.

“No, but who knows maybe when we get there you’ll have a daughter in law.” Baelor says looking at you and Aerion talking.

“I think I already do.” Maekar says looking at Aerion who’s got the biggest smile on his face as Stormfrye nudges him wanting his attention.

-

“We’ll marry as soon as we get to summerhall, I can’t wait to show everyone our dragon.” Aerion says as you fly through the sky, his arms wrapped around your waist.

“Can I get to know you first?” You ask, finding him weirdly endearing. You know he only wants you for stormfrye but he’s the first person you’ve been able to actually talk about stormfrye to. No one else caring that she doesn’t like eel or likes to play.

Today was the day you were returning to the targaryen manor , reuniting with your family after a long time.

You still had memories from the manor etched into your mind from when you were a kid to your teenage years, memories with your uncles and their wives , with you grandparents and mostly importantly them .

Your "cousins".

You had always been fond of valarr your elder by only one year, he had always been a gentleman with his mismatched eyes and gentle persona. Your other cousin aerion who was the same age on the other hand had always been a sadist, teasing you and valarr about how you didn't look like a true Targaryen, the way he constantly picked on you and pulled your hair, his brother daeron on the other hand was a different matter he was outgoing he liked drinking and partying all night and hooking up with people, his behaviour had always made uncle maekar blood pressure increase .You sighed at all these memories.

The car stopped and you got out of your inner thoughts.

The targaryens manor was right in front of you, it's doors large and heavy you can still remember the day your father walked out of that same door while angry and your mother dragging you away in the car with your things packed in large suitcases.

You got out of the car removing your earphones and saw a few maids and a butler coming towards your direction, they swiftly took your luggage from your car trunk and informed you that your grandparents were waiting for your arrival inside .

The sounds of your footsteps were echoing through the hall with every step you took, your heart beating violently through your chest and your eyes drifting everywhere to see every corner of the house.

You were now standing in front of the large black door of the living room only a few steps away was your family, you inhaled deeply calming your mind , your hands feeling a tingling sensation and slightly sweating as the butler pushed the door .

You saw two familiar faces , your grandmother was looking anxious and your grandfather was sitting in his chair his expression stern . As they hear the sound of you coming inside Myriah walked forward in your direction her expression softening as she embraced you in a hug your grandfather stood up he didn't move from his place, his expression stern but his voice was gentle " I hope your journey here was without any problems" .

You smiled feeling their warmth embracing you ," yes,it was fine-" you didn't know how to refer to them after a long time , "grandpa and Grandma" myriah added "grandpa and grandma" you repeated softly.

"Marie will take to you to your room, sweetheart " myriah added as she gestured for a girl who was not much older than you to show you your room .

Your room was relatively large by your standards, as the butler finished arranging your luggage inside you felt your phone vibrating in your pocket, you picked up and saw it was your mom .

"Honey , have you arrived there" your mom's voice reached your ears " yes , mom " you replied your voice a bit tired from the journey.

"How's dad" you asked , " you know he is as always as he has been " you knew your father disliked the idea of you staying here he disliked the idea of you being anywhere near them .

It was not your grandparents he disliked, not even his other successful brothers who were far successful than him . It was your "cousins" .

He always told you that your relationship with them was a bit inappropriate, that they would bring trouble , and most importantly to stay away from them. The only reason you returned here for vacation was because the insistence of your grandparents for you to meet the rest of the new additions of your family .

"Well I hope you enjoy your vacation " your mother sighed softly .

"Bye mom'' you muttered as you ended the call .

You let out a long breath as you sprawled across the bed, wanting nothing more then to rest for now .

A/n : this chapter is short but I hope you like it , and in the next chapter you would be finally meeting the "cousins " .

If you liked it pls reblog and comment .

When the septon bound your hands together with a ribbon and declared you one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, Ormund had smiled. It was a slow smile, a satisfied smile, the smile of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.

You should have noticed that. You should have understood what it meant.

The feast afterward had been a blur. The great hall had been transformed into a sea of candles and flowers and glittering silver, and the noise of a hundred conversations had washed over you like a wave. You had been seated beside your new husband on the dais, your hand in his, and course after course had been presented to you. You had barely eaten. Your stomach was too tight, too fluttery, too full of nerves.

But you had drunk. Oh, you had drunk.

The wine was sweet and it went down like honey, and every time your cup was empty, a servant was there to refill it. You had not meant to drink so much—you had never been much of a drinker, had never developed a taste for it—but the wine warmed your belly and softened the edges of your anxiety and made everything feel slightly distant, slightly dreamlike, like you were watching yourself from very far away.

Ormund had encouraged it. His hand had rested on your knee beneath the table, heavy and warm, his thumb tracing slow circles through the silk of your gown. Every time you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, and his eyes were so dark, so hungry, that you felt yourself blushing and had to look away.

"Drink," he had murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "It will help with the nerves."

And so you had drunk.

Now the feast was over. The guests had retired to their chambers or continued their revelry elsewhere. Your ladies had undressed you an hour ago their hands efficient and fast as they unlaced your wedding gown, unhooked your corset, removed your stockings and your slippers and your jewels. They had chattered as they worked, offering congratulations and advice and sly, knowing comments that made your cheeks burn.

They had dressed you in the shift. The bridal shift. It was beautiful, you could not deny that, pale ivory silk so fine it was almost transparent, the fabric clinging to every curve and hollow of your body like a second skin. The straps were thin as spider silk, the neckline dipping low enough to show the swell of your breasts. The hem barely reached your thighs. When you moved, the silk slid against your skin in a way that made you acutely aware of your own nakedness beneath it.

It was meant to entice. It was meant to be removed.

Your ladies had left you then, retreating with final words of encouragement and knowing smiles, and the door had clicked shut behind them with a sound that felt terribly final. You were alone. Alone in your husband's chambers, in your chambers now, yours and his together.

You had been standing by the window for what felt like a very long time. The wine cup was still in your hand—you had refused to give it up, had clung to it like a talisman—and you raised it to your lips again, letting the sweet liquid coat your tongue. The windows looked out over the city, over the Honeywine River glittering silver in the moonlight, over the distant shadow of the Citadel and the dark expanse of the Whispering Sound beyond. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, Aegarax was sleeping in a field. You wished, suddenly and fiercely, that you were with him. That you could climb onto his back and fly away, fly home to Dragonstone, fly anywhere but here.

But that was foolish. That was childish. You were a wife now. You had a duty to perform.

You heard the door open behind you. The soft click of the latch, the whisper of the hinges. Footsteps on the stone floor, heavy and deliberate. The door closed again.

"Are you well, my love?"

His voice was low and warm. The voice that had spoken so many sweet words to you during your courtship. The voice that had told you that you were beautiful, that you were precious, that you were the most desirable woman he had ever seen.

You did not turn around. You could not turn around. Your heart was beating too fast, your palms suddenly damp against the wine cup.

"Yes." Your voice came out smaller than you intended, almost childlike. "I am just... I am a bit nervous."

"There is nothing to be nervous about." His footsteps drew closer, slow and measured. You could feel him approaching, feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence filling the room behind you. "It is only me. Only your husband."

"I know." You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The wine had made everything soft and hazy, but it had not quieted the anxious flutter in your chest. "It is just that I have never... I mean, I do not really know what to..."

What to do. What to expect. What to say. What to feel. You did not know anything. Your mother had told you that it was your duty, that you must submit to your husband and let him guide you, that there might be some discomfort at first but that it would pass. She had spoken in euphemisms and poetic metaphors, her hands clasped around yours, her violet eyes searching your face as if looking for something she did not find.

"Shh." He was right behind you now. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell him, leather and wine and something musky underneath, something that made your stomach tighten with an emotion you could not name. "There is nothing to be afraid of, my sweet girl. I am going to take care of you. I am going to make you feel things you have never felt before. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." The word came out automatically, the way it had a hundred times during your courtship. "Yes, I trust you."

"Good girl. Turn around."

You took one last sip of wine for courage. The cup was almost empty now, and you wished it were full again. You wished you had drunk more. You wished you had drunk enough to make the world disappear entirely, and then, because you could delay no longer, you turned around.

The wine cup slipped from your fingers.

He was completely, utterly naked.

He stood not three feet away from you, and he was so much. So much bigger than you, so much more solid. His shoulders were broad and heavily muscled, his chest covered in a thick mat of dark hair that trailed down his stomach in a narrowing line. His arms were thick with muscle, his hands large and strong. And lower—

Your eyes dropped before you could stop them, a horrified fascination drawing your gaze downward. The hair continued, thickening again at his groin, and jutting from it, unmistakable and impossible to ignore, was his—

You jerked your eyes back up to his face, your cheeks flooding with heat, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your hands were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. You had never seen a man's naked body before. You had never seen that before, that thing, that part of him, and it was so much larger than you had imagined, so much more intimidating. It stood erect, curving upward toward his stomach, and you could not comprehend how it was supposed to fit inside you. It looked impossible. It looked like it would split you in half.

He was smiling. It was a slow smile, a knowing smile, the smile of a man who had seen your shock and found it deeply satisfying. He stood there in his nakedness with the absolute confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had no doubt that he would get it.

"You are shy," he said. It was not a question.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You could not stop staring at his face now, clinging to eye contact like a lifeline, terrified that if your gaze dropped again you would see it again, that thing, that impossible thing.

"I—I have never—" The words came out in a stammer, broken and breathless. "I did not realize you were—that you had already—when did you—"

Your eyes flickered involuntarily to the pile of clothing on the floor behind him. His tunic, his breeches, his smallclothes, all discarded in a heap near the door. He must have undressed while you were standing at the window. He must have stripped himself bare while your back was turned, and you had not heard a thing. You had not heard anything except your own panicked heartbeat.

"I did not want to waste any more time." He stepped closer, and you instinctively stepped back. Your bare shoulders pressed against the cold stone of the window frame, and you realized with a jolt of panic that there was nowhere else to go. You were trapped between him and the wall. "I have been waiting for this night for a very long time. A year. More than a year. Every moment I spent with you during our courtship, I was thinking about this. About having you. About what it would feel like to finally be inside you."

The word inside made your stomach clench. You pressed yourself harder against the window, the stone cold through the thin silk of your shift. "Ormund, I—"

"Do you know how many nights I lay awake thinking about you?" He took another step, and now he was close enough to touch. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that if you reached out, your hand would press against his bare chest. "Do you know how many times I imagined this? Imagined you? Imagined all the things I was going to do to you once you were finally mine?"

Your breath caught in your throat. His words were meant to be romantic—they were the words of a man who desired his wife, who had been patient, who had waited—but there was something in his voice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"I thought about you too," you whispered, because it seemed like the right thing to say. "I thought about... about tonight. About being your wife."

"Did you?" His hand came up, and you flinched before you could stop yourself. He noticed but he did not comment on it. Instead, he reached past you and took the wine cup from the windowsill where it had come to rest. He set it aside, his movements slow and deliberate. "And what did you imagine?"

You shook your head, your cheeks burning. "I do not know. I do not... my mother told me some things, but I do not really understand. I do not know what to expect."

"Your mother." He said the word with an edge that you did not quite understand. "And what did your mother tell you?"

"She said..." You swallowed hard, trying to remember the exact words. "She said that it was my duty. That I must submit to my husband. That there might be some discomfort at first, but that it would pass. She said that it was how children were made. That it was the marriage debt."

"The marriage debt." He smiled again, and this time there was something almost predatory in it. "Is that what you think this is? A debt to be paid?"

"No, I—I do not know. I do not know what to think."

"Then let me tell you." He reached out and touched your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. His hand was warm, almost hot, and you felt yourself trembling beneath his touch. "This is not a debt. This is a gift. The gift of your body to me, and my body to you. The gift of pleasure. The gift of children. The gift of becoming one flesh, the way the septon said. Do you understand?"

You nodded, even though you did not understand. You did not understand anything except that his hand was on your face and his body was so close and you were trapped against the cold stone window and you could not stop shaking.

"You are trembling," he said. His thumb stroked your cheek, gentle and slow. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No." The word came out too quickly. "No, I am not afraid. I am just... I am nervous. I told you. I have never done this before."

"I know you have not." His voice dropped lower, becoming almost a purr. "That is what makes this so precious. You are untouched. Pure. No man has ever seen you like this, has ever touched you, has ever been inside you. I am the first. I will be the only. Your body will know no one but me, for the rest of your life."

The words should have been romantic, but they did not feel like it.

"Lift your arms," he said.

You hesitated. Your arms felt heavy, weighted down by something you could not name. But he was waiting, his eyes fixed on your face, and you did not want to disappoint him. You did not want to be a bad wife on your very first night.

You lifted your arms. He grasped the hem of your shift and pulled it upward. The silk slid over your skin, cool and whispering, and then it was over your head and gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. You were naked. Completely, utterly naked, standing in front of your husband with nothing to hide behind.

The air in the room was warm from the fire, but you felt suddenly, terribly cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, trying to cover your breasts, trying to hide, but he caught your wrists and gently pulled them away.

"No," he said. "Do not hide from me. You are my wife now. I want to see you."

He stepped back, just slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes traveled over your body with an intensity that made your skin prickle. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so utterly seen. He looked at your breasts, at the curve of your waist, at the curls at the juncture of your thighs. He looked at you the way a collector looks at a new acquisition. The way a hungry man looks at a feast.

"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was thick now, roughened by something that made your stomach clench. "More beautiful than I ever imagined. And I imagined you a great deal."

His hand reached out and touched you. Just the tips of his fingers, tracing the line of your collarbone, down your sternum, between your breasts. Your skin broke out in goosebumps, and you shivered, and you did not know if it was from cold or fear or something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered, and you did not know what you were asking for. Please stop? Please continue? Please be gentle?

"Please what?" His fingers continued their slow exploration, circling one breast, brushing over the nipple. You gasped at the sensation, it was strange and sharp and not entirely unpleasant, a tingling that seemed to travel from your breast down to somewhere much lower. "Please what, my sweet girl?"

"I do not know," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I do not know what to ask for. I do not know what I want."

"Then let me show you." He cupped your breast fully now, his palm warm and rough against your sensitive skin. "Let me teach you. That is my role now, as your husband. To teach you what your body is capable of. To show you pleasures you have never dreamed of."

He leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss. You had been kissed before. Chaste kisses, the kind of kisses a betrothed couple exchanged in chaperoned parlors. This was not that. His mouth was hot and demanding, his lips pressing against yours with a force that made your head spin. His tongue pushed past your lips, filling your mouth, and you made a small, startled sound against him. You did not know what to do with your tongue—no one had ever told you—so you just let him take what he wanted.

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, holding you in place. The other continued its exploration of your body, sliding down your stomach, over your hip, around to grasp your arse. He pulled you against him, and you felt it, that part of him, that impossible part, pressing hard and hot against your bare stomach. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

"You taste like wine," he murmured against your lips. "Sweet. So sweet."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hand slid from your backside to your thigh, gripping it, lifting it. He pressed himself against you, and you felt him there, right there, so close to where you had never been touched.

"Ormund," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "Wait. Wait, please. I am not—I do not—"

"Shh." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. "I know. I know you are nervous. But I have waited so long. So very long. And you are so beautiful. Can you feel what you do to me? Can you feel how much I want you?"

You could feel it. Gods, you could feel it. It was pressed against you, insistent and impossible, and you did not understand how this was supposed to work. You did not understand how any of this was supposed to work.

"Come," he said, and it was not a request. "Come to the bed."

He did not wait for an answer. He bent and scooped you into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively, your face pressed against his neck, your heart hammering so hard you were certain he must be able to feel it. His skin was hot and smelled of sweat.

The bed was soft beneath you when he laid you down. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, and you sank into the feather mattress, feeling very small and very exposed. He stood over you for a moment, looking down at you with those hungry eyes, and then he was on the bed with you, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

He was so heavy. So much heavier than you had expected. You had never had a grown man lying on top of you before, and the sensation was overwhelming—the weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer size of him surrounding you on all sides. You felt trapped. Pinned. You could barely move.

"Relax," he murmured against your throat. His lips were trailing down your neck now, kissing and sucking, and you felt a strange, tingling warmth spreading from each place his mouth touched. "Relax, my love. I am going to make you feel so good. You just have to trust me."

You tried to relax. You tried to let go of the tension coiled in your muscles, tried to surrender to the sensations washing over you. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak. The sensation was sharp and strange and not entirely unpleasant, it sent sparks of something through your body, sparks that seemed to travel downward, settling low in your belly.

"Ormund," you breathed, and you did not know if it was a protest or an encouragement.

"Good," he murmured against your skin. "Good girl. You feel that? That is pleasure. That is what your body is made for."

His hand slid down your stomach, over your hip, between your thighs. You tensed immediately, your legs trying to close, but he was already there, his body blocking you, his hand pressing insistently against your most private place.

"No," you whispered, your face burning with shame. "Please, not there—"

"Yes." His voice was firm. "Yes, there. You are my wife. Every part of you belongs to me now. Even this part. Especially this part."

His fingers began to move, stroking and exploring, and you turned your face into the pillow, unable to look at him. No one had ever touched you there before. You had barely even touched yourself there—it had always seemed forbidden, shameful, something good girls did not do. But his touch was insistent, and despite your embarrassment, despite your shame, your body was beginning to respond.

The heat was building. That strange, unfamiliar heat, coiling low in your belly like a spring being wound too tight. Your hips moved without your permission, pressing into his touch, seeking something you did not understand. He made a low sound of approval.

"That is it," he said. "That is my good girl. Your body knows what it wants, even if you do not."

His fingers found a particular spot, a place that made you gasp and arch off the bed, and he laughed softly. "There. That is what I was looking for. Does that feel good?"

You could not answer. Words had deserted you. There was only sensation, his fingers, his mouth, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The pleasure was building and building, and you did not know what was happening, did not know what to expect, only that it felt like you were climbing toward something vast and terrifying and unknown.

"Let go," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "Let go, my sweet girl. Let me see you fall apart."

And you did. The pleasure crested, and your body arched off the bed, and a sound tore from your throat that you had never made before, a cry, almost a sob, your fingers clutching at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything you could reach. The world went white and hot and overwhelming, and for a long, suspended moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot your name. You forgot everything except the feeling of his hands on your body and the pleasure crashing through you in waves.

When you came back to yourself, he was looking down at you with a smile of pure, male satisfaction. His fingers were still between your legs, gentle now, stroking you through the aftershocks.

"Good," he said. "Good. Now you are ready."

He shifted his weight, settling more firmly between your thighs, and you felt him pressing against the place his fingers had just been. Your eyes widened, and the haze of pleasure began to clear, replaced by a cold trickle of fear.

"Ormund, wait—"

"This will hurt," he said, and his voice was strained now, tight with something that sounded almost like pain. "But only for a moment. Try to relax. It will be easier if you relax."

You tried. You tried to relax, tried to do what he said, tried to be good. But when he pushed inside you, the pain was not just a moment. It was sharp and tearing and all consuming, and you cried out—a real cry this time, high and startled, your hands flying to his shoulders to push him away.

He did not stop. "Shh," he said, but his hips were already moving, pushing deeper , forcing his thick cock deeper into a body that was not ready for him . "Shh. It will pass. Just breathe. Just breathe."

You breathed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on and tried to breathe through the pain. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes and slid down your temples into your hair. You felt yourself stretching around him, felt a burning ache that radiated through your entire lower body, and you did not know if this was normal. You did not know if it was supposed to hurt this much. Your mother had said there might be some discomfort. She had not said it would feel like being torn apart.

"Fuck, there," he groaned against your shoulder, voice thick with lust. "Gods, your cunt is so fucking tight. So perfect."

He began to move. Slow at first, then faster. The bed frame creaked beneath you, a rhythmic counterpoint to the sounds he was making, low, guttural grunts that vibrated against your neck. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his cock plunged in and out of your clenching hole, each thrust punching deeper than the last.

You lay pinned beneath him, body jolting with the force of his fucking, your body rocking with each thrust, and tried to find the pleasure he had shown you before. It was there, somewhere, buried beneath the pain and the discomfort and the overwhelming strangeness of it all, but you could not reach it.

"Taking my cock so well," he rasped, sweat-slicked skin sliding over yours. "You were made to be fucked like this. Made to take every inch. Made for me. Say my name."

"Ormund," you whispered, and it came out as a sob.

"Yes. Yes. Again."

"Ormund—"

He slammed in to the hilt and came with a guttural roar, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum deep inside your stretched pussy. Hot seed flooded your insides, overflowing around his shaft and leaking down your crack as his fingers bruised your hips. You felt every heavy spurt, the wet heat filling you until it had nowhere else to go but out, you realized with a distant sort of shock that you did not even know what it was. Your mother had not told you. No one had told you anything.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and you lay there pinned beneath him, staring at the canopy above the bed, feeling the tears drying on your cheeks and the soreness already beginning to bloom between your legs.

"That," he said, his voice muffled against your neck, "was worth every moment of waiting. Every single moment."

You did not answer. You did not know what to say. You stroked his hair because it seemed like something a wife should do, and you waited for him to move, to roll off you, to let you breathe.

But he did not move. Not for a long time.

When he finally stirred, you felt a rush of relief. It was over. You had done your duty. You could rest now, but he lifted his head and looked down at you, and his eyes were still dark. Still hungry. Still unsatisfied.

"Again," he said.

You stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"

"Again." He pulled his cock free, leaving your raw, cum slicked cunt gaping and dripping. The sudden emptiness made you wince. Thick white seed leaked from your stretched hole and slid down your thighs "We are not finished. This is our wedding night, my love. Did you think once would be enough? I have waited a year for this. I am going to have you in every way I have imagined. And I have imagined a great many ways."

"But I am—I am sore—"

"This is your duty." His voice hardened, and the tenderness from a moment ago evaporated like mist in the morning sun. "You are my wife. Your body belongs to me now. And I will have it when and how I choose. That is what you agreed to when you said your vows. That is what it means to be married."

You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because he was right, wasn't he? This was what you had agreed to. This was what marriage was. Your mother had told you that your body would no longer be your own. She had told you that you must submit to your husband in all things. This was just... this was just what wives did.

Wasn't it?

"On your hands and knees," he said. "Like a bitch. I want to take you from behind."

The word bitch made you flinch, but you obeyed. You did not know how to disobey. You rolled onto your stomach, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pushed yourself onto all fours, ass raised, thighs parted, your dripping pussy fully exposed. The position felt filthy and degrading. The position felt obscene, degrading, your body exposed and vulnerable in a way that made your face burn with shame.

"Good girl." His hand stroked down your spine, and you shivered. "You learn quickly. That will serve you well in this marriage."

He positioned himself behind you, and you felt him pressing against you again—still hard, still impossibly large. How was he still hard? You did not understand. You did not understand anything about male bodies or male desires or what was normal and what was not.

"Look at that pretty cunt already leaking my cum."

This time, there was no gentleness at all. He entered you in one rough thrust, and you cried out, your arms nearly buckling beneath you. He gripped your hips hard and started pounding you—fast, merciless strokes that made your ass ripple and your tits swing beneath you. There was no pretense of making you feel good this time, no gentle words, no coaxing. This was for him. Only for him. You cried out as his cock speared your sore walls again, forcing more of his previous load out around his shaft.

"This is what you were made for. To be bent over and used. To milk my cock until I fill you again, your cunt is clenching. You like being fucked like this. You like being my breeding bitch on our wedding night."

Each savage thrust punched deep, the wet slap of his balls against your clit sending sparks through the ache. His hand reached under you, fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed it in tight circles while he fucked you harder, the mix of rough pounding and steady stimulation making your thighs shake.

He grunted, his hips slamming against your backside. " This is your purpose. To take my cock. To give me pleasure. To give me children. Nothing else matters."

You buried your face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds you were making. Your body was still responding despite everything, your hips pressing back to meet his thrusts without your permission, your body betraying you in the most intimate way possible.

"You feel that? Your body is hungry for me. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind does not."

The pleasure built fast and sharp. Your body betrayed you again, hips rocking back to meet every thrust. The dual sensations, his cock battering your cervix and his fingers working your clit, pushed you over the edge. You came with a broken moan, walls pulsing and fluttering around him as fresh wetness gushed down his shaft.

Your body obeyed. Your body had always been a traitor. The pleasure built and crested and crashed over you, and you collapsed onto the mattress, your arms no longer able to hold you up. He followed moments later with hot cum pumped deep, mixing with the first round until it overflowed and ran down your legs in thick rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last spurts emptied into your twitching cunt.

When he pulled out, and you lay there face, down on the bed, trembling, trying to catch your breath. You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.

But it was not over.

He let you rest for perhaps ten minutes. Maybe less. You could not track time anymore, it had become meaningless, measured only in the spaces between his desires. He lay beside you, his hand stroking your back, your hair, your thigh, and he spoke to you in a low, soothing voice. He told you that you were beautiful. He told you that you were doing so well. He told you that he loved you, that he had always loved you, that he would love you until the end of time.

And then his hands were on you again, and he was pulling you on top of him. "I want to see you ride me," he said, positioning you so that you were straddling his hips. "I want to watch your face while you take your pleasure from me, I want to watch that tight little cunt swallows my cock." he ordered, voice thick with lust.

You looked down at him, at his expectant face, at his hands gripping your thighs, and you felt a wave of exhaustion so profound it made your bones ache. "I do not know how," you whispered. "I do not know what to do."

"I will show you." His hands guided your hips, lifting you, positioning you over him. "Lower yourself. Slowly. Yes, like that. Gods, yes."

He lined his thick cock with your entrance and pushed your hips down. The fat head breached you again, stretching your swollen walls wide. A wet squelch filled the room as you sank onto him, his previous loads already leaking out around the intrusion. The new angle forced him deeper than before, the blunt tip grinding straight against your cervix and you gasped at the sensation. He began to move beneath you, thrusting up into you, and his hands guided your hips into a rhythm that matched his own.

"Good," he said, his eyes fixed on your face. "Good. You are learning.''

Each time you dropped down, his cock punched up to meet you, the wet slap of your soaked pussy against his pelvis loud and obscene. Your breasts bounced with every impact, nipples stiff and aching.

"Look at me," he growled. "Eyes on mine while you fuck yourself on my cock."

You met his gaze, cheeks burning, as he drove up harder. His hands slid to your ass, fingers digging in, spreading you wider so he could watch his shaft disappear inside you. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me who this cunt belongs to." face was flushed, his eyes dark and intense, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist.

"Y-you," you gasped, the word breaking as another thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

"Louder."

"You! My cunt is yours!"

He snarled in approval and slammed upward, the brutal pace making your thighs shake. One hand left your ass to find your swollen clit, rubbing it in fast, rough circles while he fucked you from below. Your orgasm hit hard. Your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing and milking his shaft as fresh slick gushed out, mixing with the cum already inside you. You collapsed forward onto his chest, body jerking, but he kept thrusting up into your twitching hole, chasing his own release.

With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt and pumped another thick load deep into your womb. Hot spurts flooded you, forcing even more of the previous loads to squirt out around his shaft and run down his balls in sticky rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last pulses emptied, keeping you impaled and full.

You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.

But it was not over.

He took you twice more that night. The fourth time was on your side, your leg hooked over his hip, his mouth on your throat, his hands gripping your body with a possessiveness that left bruises. The fifth time, he woke you from a deep sleep—you had finally drifted off, your body giving out from sheer exhaustion—and took you from behind again, roughly, quickly, with no gentleness at all.

By the end of it, the sky outside the window was beginning to lighten. The bells rang for dawn, and you heard them as if from very far away, as if you were underwater and the sounds of the world above were muffled and distorted.

You were lying on your back, staring at the canopy. Your body was a landscape of unfamiliar sensations—soreness and exhaustion and a strange, hollow ache that had nothing to do with the physical. Between your legs was wet and sticky and sore, and you could feel his seed leaking out of you, soaking into the sheets. There was blood too, you thought, though you had not looked. You did not want to look.

He was asleep beside you. Finally, mercifully, asleep. His arm was thrown across your waist, heavy and possessive even in unconsciousness, and his breath came in slow, even rhythms. You stared at the canopy. You stared at the ceiling. You stared at the fire burning low in the hearth, and you tried to make sense of what had happened.

This was marriage. This was what wives did. This was your duty.

Was this normal? You had no one you could ask. The only married woman you knew well was your mother, and your mother had spoken of the marriage bed in such vague, poetic terms that you had no way of comparing her experience to yours.

Perhaps it was always like this. Perhaps the first night was always overwhelming, always painful, always disorienting. Perhaps you would get used to it in time. Perhaps you would learn to find pleasure in it—he had shown you that pleasure was possible, had coaxed it from your body even when you did not want to give it. Perhaps that was the key. Perhaps you just needed to learn.

You turned your head on the pillow and looked at him. Your husband. Lord Ormund Hightower, the man who had courted you so tenderly, who had written you such beautiful letters, who had made you feel like the most cherished woman in the world. In sleep, his face was relaxed, almost boyish, the lines of age and command softened by the grey morning light. He looked like a different man than the one who had taken you five times over the course of the night. He looked like the man you had fallen in love with.

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer even in sleep. You felt his breath against your hair, warm and steady. You felt the heat of his body, the solid weight of him, the overwhelming reality of his presence.

Mine, you thought. He is mine now. And I am his.

The thought should have brought you comfort. It should have made you feel safe, protected, cherished. Instead, it made you feel something you could not name. Something that sat heavy in your chest like a stone.

You closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Your body was exhausted, wrung out, desperate for rest. But your mind would not quiet. It kept circling back to the same questions, the same confusions, the same half-formed doubts that you did not know how to examine.

Was it supposed to be like this?

Was this what love was?

You had no answers. You had only the grey morning light and the distant sound of bells and the weight of your husband's arm across your waist.

And the knowledge, slowly dawning in the back of your mind, that your life would never be the same again.

—

You woke to the feeling of lips on your neck. Soft and persistent. A mouth pressed to the curve where your shoulder met your throat, trailing slow, open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. You stirred from the depths of exhausted sleep, your mind foggy, your body heavy with a weariness that seemed to have seeped into your very bones.

For a moment, you did not remember where you were. The bed was too large, too soft, the pillows too many. The light filtering through the heavy curtains was grey and pale, early morning, the hour when the world was still half-asleep. The air smelled of sweat and sex and burned down candles, and beneath it all, the faint, musky scent of a man.

Ormund.

Your husband. He was behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his arm wrapped around your waist. His body was warm—almost too warm—and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine. His lips continued their exploration, moving from your neck to the curve of your ear, nibbling gently at the lobe. His breath was hot against your skin, and you felt the soft scrape of his teeth, barely there, a ghost of a bite that made you shiver.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else. Something darker. "I was beginning to think you would sleep through the entire day."

His hand moved from your waist, sliding up your stomach to cup your breast. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, and he cupped you with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the roughness of the night before. His thumb found your nipple and brushed across it in a slow, deliberate circle. The sensation was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core, and you gasped—a small, involuntary sound that seemed to please him.

"You are so sensitive this morning," he said. "I like that. I like knowing that I am the first thing you feel when you wake."

His thumb continued its lazy circles, and you felt yourself responding despite everything. Your nipple hardened beneath his touch, pebbling against his palm. Your hips pressed back against him, between your thighs a pulse of heat bloomed, shameful and undeniable.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the evidence of his own arousal pressing against the curve of your backside. He was hard again, thick and insistent, and the knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

"That is it," he whispered against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Your body remembers last night. It remembers what I taught you. It wants more, does it not?"

You shook your head weakly, even as your body betrayed you. "I am tired," you managed. "I did not sleep."

"Neither did I." His hand slid lower, over your stomach, his fingers splaying across your belly before moving down to the thatch of hair between your legs. "I lay awake for hours, watching you. You looked so peaceful. So beautiful. I wanted to wake you, but I did not. I let you rest."

His fingers found your center, parting your folds with practiced ease. You were wet—embarrassingly, shamefully wet—and he groaned softly when he felt it.

"Oh, sweet girl," he breathed. "You are so ready for me. Even after everything. Even after I kept you up all night. Your body knows what it wants."

His fingers moved in slow, gentle circles, tracing the outline of your most sensitive places. The sensation was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. Your hips bucked against his hand, and you heard yourself whimper, a small, desperate sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside yourself.

"Ormund," you whispered. "Please. I am so tired."

"I know." He kissed your shoulder, your neck, the hinge of your jaw. "I know you are tired, sweet girl. I am not going to do anything you do not want. I only want to touch you. I only want to feel you. Is that all right?"

You should have said no. You should have told him to stop, to give you space, to let you breathe. But his fingers were moving in slow, gentle circles, and your body was betraying you, softening beneath his touch, your hips tilting to give him better access.

"That is not a no," he said. His voice was soft, almost playful. "That is a I do not know how to say yes because I am too shy. Am I right?"

You buried your face in the pillow, your cheeks burning. He laughed and kissed the back of your head.

"It is all right to want this," he said. "You are my wife. You are allowed to want your husband. There is no shame in it."

He rolled you onto your back gently, positioning himself above you. The weight of him was familiar now, the heat of his body pressing you into the mattress. But he did not push inside you. He only looked at you, his blue eyes soft, his curls tousled, his face relaxed in a way you had not seen before.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. He studied your face as though memorizing it, as though you were something precious and rare. His gaze moved from your eyes to your lips to the hollow of your throat, and you felt seen in a way that made your breath catch.

"Before you say anything," he said quietly, "I need to apologize to you."

You blinked up at him, confused.

"Last night," he continued. "I know I was... I know I got carried away. I promised you I would be gentle, and I was, at first. But then..." He exhaled slowly, his thumb still stroking your cheek. "It has been a long time for me, sweet girl, years since my wife died, years since I have laid with anyone. I had forgotten how overwhelming it could be. How consuming. The feel of you beneath me, the sound of your voice, the way your body responded to mine—I lost myself in it. I was too rough with you at times. I know I was. And I am sorry for that."

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm on your lips. His eyes were closed, his expression vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache despite everything.

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said. "You must believe that. I would never hurt you on purpose. You are my wife. You are the woman I have dreamed of for years. The last thing in this world I want is to cause you pain."

He took your hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. You felt it beating beneath your palm, steady and strong. His skin was warm, the hair on his chest soft against your fingers. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the way it quickened slightly as you touched him.

"Can you forgive me for last night? For being too rough when I should have been more careful?"

You swallowed. Your throat was tight, your eyes stinging with something that might have been tears. You had not expected this. You had expected him to be pleased with himself, to preen and boast and make you feel small for your weakness. Instead, he was asking for forgiveness. He was acknowledging his fault. He was promising to do better.

"Yes," you whispered. "I forgive you."

His face broke into a smile, relieved and almost boyish. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Each kiss was soft, lingering, as though he was trying to pour all his gratitude into the gesture.

"Thank you," he said. "You are so generous. So kind. I do not deserve you."

He kissed you then gently, the way he had kissed you at the altar. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you felt yourself melting into him despite everything. His tongue traced your lower lip, asking permission, and you parted your lips for him, a small surrender that made him groan softly against your mouth.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire, but he did not push further. He only looked at you, his thumb stroking your jaw.

"It will get better," he said. "I promise you. The first time is always the hardest. But as you grow accustomed to me, as your body learns to welcome me, it will become easier. It will become pleasurable. And one day, you will wake up and you will want me. You will ache for me. You will not be able to imagine a morning without my hands on you."

His hand slid down your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as though he was learning the geography of you by heart. His fingers trailed over your stomach, and you shivered at the sensation.

"I love the way you feel," he murmured. "So soft. So warm. So perfectly made for me."

He kissed your collarbone, then lower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast. His mouth was warm, his breath hot on your skin, and you felt yourself arching into him despite your exhaustion.

"I am going to be so good to you," he said against your skin. "I am going to take care of you. I am going to give you everything you deserve. You will never want for anything, sweet girl. Not while I draw breath."

His hand found your breast again, cupping it gently, his thumb circling your nipple. He lowered his head and took it into his mouth, and you gasped at the sensation, his tongue warm and wet, his lips soft, his teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you. Your fingers tangled in his auburn curls, holding him there, and he made a sound of approval against your skin.

He moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you felt yourself spiraling, the pleasure building despite everything. The pain of last night was still there, a dull ache between your thighs, but it was overshadowed now by the heat of his mouth, the tenderness of his hands.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were red, his eyes dark. He looked at you with an expression that made your heart stutter.

"Beautiful," he said. "So beautiful."

He kissed you again, deep and slow, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he could taste your pleasure. His hand slid between your legs, finding you wet and ready, and he groaned against your lips.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "I want to make you forget everything but me. Can I do that, sweet girl? Can I touch you? Make you come apart for me?"

You should have said no. You should have told him you were tired, that you needed rest, that you could not bear any more. But his fingers were stroking you, circling that sensitive place that made your vision blur, and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

He smiled and lowered his head to kiss your neck as his fingers continued their work. He was gentle, so gentle, nothing like the rough urgency of the night before. He took his time, building the pleasure slowly, watching your face as you gasped and moaned beneath him.

"That is it," he murmured. "Let go for me, sweet girl. I want to see you fall apart."

And you did. The pleasure built and built until you could not hold it back, and then you were crying out, your body arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. He held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure.

When you finally came down, you were trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.

"So perfect," he whispered. "So beautiful. I could watch you come apart forever."

He rolled you onto your side, pulling you against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist. His hard length pressed against your backside, but he did not push inside you. He only held you, his lips pressed to your hair.

Even free kicks bend like the ball is scared of disappointing him. First-time finishes look pre-planned. Through balls cut past defensive lines like an arrow. 

His passing is even better because he does not pass unless he has decided, mathematically, that you deserve the ball. And when he does, it lands exactly where he meant it to. Commentators are always like, “That is frightening precision,” and the camera cuts to Dex looking completely dead behind the eyes.

So no, he does not just kick a football. He selects a target and executes.

The weirdest part to most people, is that Dex doesn’t even celebrate his goals.

Not because he is humble. But because what is he celebrating for?

It’s his job.

He scores, turns around, and walks back to the halfway line like he just filed paperwork. Everyone else is screaming. The stadium is shaking. His teammates are chasing him, trying to jump on his back and get him to celebrate, and Dex is just standing there, blank-faced, waiting for the match to restart.

Commentators hate it. Fans are obsessed with it. The club media team wants to die.

Because how are they supposed to market this man?

“Here is our star striker, Benjamin Poindexter. He has scored twenty-six goals this season and smiles once every three months.”

The club is exhausted.

They have tried everything: Media coaching, charity shoots with children, behind-the-scenes videos where he is supposed to seem approachable. It never works. He stands there and says the most mundane things in the most unsettling tone anyone has ever heard.

What is the club supposed to say?

“Our striker is a psychopath but at least he scores goals????”

C’mon.

And then the press conference incident happens.

Some journalist asks, “Dex, do you think people overstate your finishing ability because the team is built around giving you so many chances?”

And Dex just stares.

He should’ve said something flattering about his team and his manager, something like, “credit to the lads” or “our coaching staff is wonderful”

But no. Flat-faced, he says, “No. I think if your job is watching football and that’s what you saw, you should be embarrassed.”

The whole room goes silent.

It’s not even the rudest thing a footballer has ever said, because footballers say insane things all the time. It’s because Dex says it like he’s already decided where the journalist would be buried after he kills him.

So the club panics and assigns him to you.

You, the PR manager everyone loves. You, who can charm the press, calm agents down, make a scandal sound like a “miscommunication,” and somehow convince angry sponsors that Dex is “passionate” and “misunderstood” and “just very committed to the game.”

And Dex needs you. Badly.

After your first meeting, you start by printing off a list of safe answers: 

“We take every game as it comes.”

“The boys worked hard.”

“I’m grateful for the support.”

“The manager has a plan and we trust it.”

“I don’t listen to outside noise.”

You even add notes:

Smile here.

Mention the team.

Do not stare for more than three seconds.

Do not correct the journalist unless I say you can.

Dex takes it way too seriously.

He practices in the mirror after training, still in his club tracksuit, hair damp from the shower, face empty, saying, “I’m proud of the boys,” like the boys are being held hostage off-camera.

Then the next press conference happens.

Reporter says, “Dex, how do you feel the team handled the pressure today?”

Dex leans into the microphone, dead-eyed and emotionless.  “The boys worked hard.”

And you think, okay. Fine. He’s trying.

Reporter: “You scored twice today. Do you feel like you’re in the best form of your career?”

Dex glances at you, and you give him a tiny nod.

“We take every game as it comes.”

Okay. Robotic, but it’s okay, I guess.

Reporter: “There’s a lot of talk about the title race. Do you listen to outside noise?”

Dex pauses, as if trying to remember the sheet of paper you gave him. “I don’t listen to outside noise.”

See, technically, he’s doing it right. The answers are safe and no one can accuse him of being rude.

But he’s saying it like an assassin reading an insulting birthday card. 

Then a journalist asks, “You seem calmer with the media lately. Has something changed?”

Dex looks directly at you. Directly. In front of everyone. And says, “I’ve been taught to behave.”

You facepalm so hard you nearly concuss yourself.

The journalists start typing like wolves.

Dex looks pleased because he thinks he nailed it.

So after that, you stop trusting the list and start practicing with him properly, in person. You sit across from him with your notebook while he sits there like a cat being taught not to scratch the scratching post.

“No, Dex. Less… murder-y.”

He tries again.

“No. I— why does that sound like more of a threat? Can you say it normally?”

He blinks. “That was normal.”

“It’s not.”

He tries again.

You teach him where to pause, when to smile, how long eye contact can last before it becomes a problem. How to say “credit to the team” without making it sound like the team owes him money.

You even physically stop him from answering “what went wrong in the first half?” with “our midfield kept making bad fucking decisions.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. But he cannot say that into six microphones.

After a while, Dex gets obsessed with you because you’re nice to him.

You’re not even fake-nice or club-mandated nice. You talk to him like he’s a person. Like his brain is strange, yes, but not broken beyond understanding.

One day, a reporter asks about his parents.

Dex freezes, because he has never been briefed on this yet. What the hell was he supposed to say?

Before Dex can answer, your voice cuts in, sweet as sugar.

“You don’t have to answer that.”

Oh?

You even smile at the reporter, “We’re keeping questions focused on the match today, thank you.”

You didn’t even flinch. You just stepped in front of the question like it was nothing.

So Dex fixates on you.

How could he not?

He watches your mouth when you explain things. He copies your tone. He stands perfectly still when you fix his collar before interviews.

You chuckle, “Relax.”

And his body listens to your command. 

It becomes a problem. Especially when that stupid midfielder asks you out.

And he’s not even a good midfielder! Why the club even signed him is beyond Dex’s understanding.

Like, that’s the part that really makes Dex feel insane. The guy kills every counterattack by taking one extra touch. He sees a perfect run and passes backwards. He overhits simple balls. He cannot cross to save his life. Last game, he sent one so badly behind Dex that Dex had to stop in the box, turn around, and look at him like he was deciding whether murder was worth the red card.

That guy gets to go out with you?

Well. You keep saying it’s not a date. You say it’s just friendly drinks because you work with all of them and you are friends with all of them.

But Dex thinks you’re amazing. And he knows his teammate thinks that too, that creep. He knows he has a crush on you.

Ugh.

Dex feels sick.

So he follows you. Secretly, obviously. He tells himself it’s for safety reasons, which is fascinating because you are literally just sitting in a bar, laughing politely over a mojito, while Dex stands across the street in a hoodie, glaring through the window like a widowed mafia wife.

And then the midfielder kisses you goodnight. Not sweetly, and not in the way Dex has imagined kissing you, careful and shaking and half-ruined by wanting you so badly.

The idiot leans in like he’s earned it, and you push back almost immediately, startled and uncomfortable, because you thought this was friendly. You thought saying “not a date” had been clear enough.

And Dex remembers it forever.

Next match, he simply refuses to pass to him.

The midfielder makes run after run. Dex sees every single one. Of course he does. Dex sees everything. Dex could spot a gap in a backline during a thunderstorm with one eye closed. He could make that midfielder look brilliant if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

The midfielder points. Dex ignores him.

The midfielder shouts. Dex turns the other way.

The midfielder is wide open in the box, practically begging for the easiest assist of Dex’s life, and Dex takes the shot from a worse angle and scores anyway.

The commentators call it confidence. The pundits call it hunger. The fans call it ice in his veins.

By the time the transfer window opens, Dex walks into the manager’s office and says, “He doesn’t fit the system,” talking about the midfielder, of course. 

And what are they going to do? Upset the league’s most accurate finisher? Their star striker? The man who scored four goals in two games this week and made every single keeper look stupid?

Bye bye, stupid midfielder. Sold to a second-tier club for pennies. 

Anyway.

With the only competition removed Dex starts making his moves.

He brings you coffee with your order memorised. He asks if you have eaten, like, every twenty minutes. He starts giving better interviews only when you are in the room, because he’s not really speaking to the press anymore.

He’s performing being good for you.

Then, after one press conference where he actually sounds almost charming, the club management praises him for finally learning how to handle the media.

Dex barely reacts.

He just waits until you are walking beside him in the corridor, away from the cameras and staff, then leans close enough that his shoulder touches yours.

“Did I do good?”

Oh. My. God. 

Pathetic star striker. Six-foot-something nightmare of a man who can ruin an entire back line’s confidence forever, make world-class defenders second-guess every step, send keepers home questioning their career choices, and he’s still standing in front of his PR manager with those hazel eyes because if you don’t tell him he did good, he might actually die.

And he looks so earnest about it!! So hungry for it!! 

It’s as if  all the goals, all the chants, all the headlines mean nothing compared to you looking up at him and saying, “Yes, Dex. You did so well.”

His face changes. His shoulders drop. His eyes flick to your lips and stay there.

And sure, maybe you should step back.

No. Actually. Obviously, you should step back. He’s the club’s star striker. You are his PR manager. This is a bad idea. A terrible idea. A “you should know better” idea.

But then he says, almost embarrassed, “I like when you say it.”

And that’s it. You kiss him first, and you feel him freeze under your hands, all that frightening control going useless the second your mouth touches his.

Then he kisses you back like he has been waiting through every practice interview, every press conference, every time you fixed his collar and told him to breathe.

It’s not casual. It’s not smooth. It’s very Dex.

So of course it feels a little insane.

His hand finds your waist carefully at first. And then you make this tiny sound against his mouth, and when you don’t pull away, he presses harder, and suddenly the league’s most clinical finisher is backing you against the corridor wall like this is the only target he has ever been afraid to miss.

You whisper between kisses, “This is a bad idea.”

Dex kisses the edge of your jaw. “Yeah?”

“We work together,” you point out 

He kisses you again, slower this time. “And that’s bad?” He asks, genuinely confused. 

“It is,” you breathe, even though your hands are already in his hair. “Starting a relationship in the workplace is always bad.”

Dex pulls back just enough to look at you.

His mouth is wet, eyes are dark. He almost laughs in your face. “What are they gonna do, fire me?”

No, actually, they won’t.

Dex knows how valuable he is.

What are they going to do? Sack the man carrying them through a title race? Bench the striker who treats goalkeepers like training cones? Fine him for kissing the PR manager when he is the only reason half their sponsors are still smiling?

Ha! Of course not!

They are going to sigh and panic and schedule another meeting with HR. And Dex is going to score anyway.

So when he drags you into the empty locker room after the next match, you know you should really stop him.

You don’t.

Because he scored twice and still came off the pitch looking for you before anyone else. Because he stood under the floodlights with the whole stadium chanting his name and didn’t smile once until he saw you waiting near the tunnel.

The second the door shuts behind you, he is on you.

His hands are at your waist, your back, your hips, like he is trying to convince himself you’re real. He kisses you against the lockers with all that bottled-up focus, metal rattling behind you. 

You tell him, “You were brilliant today.”

And Dex makes this ruined sound against your mouth.

You say it again, because now you know exactly what it does to him. “So good, Dex.”

His head drops to your shoulder as you both desperately and frantically take every piece of clothing off.

The lockers rattle again.

And yes, this is reckless. Yes, anyone could walk in. Yes, later you will have to fix your lipstick in the mirror while Dex stands behind you looking smug and so completely in love and the club owner has to pretend like he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

But in the moment, all you can think about is him pressing you against cold metal, kissing you like winning meant nothing until he got to come back here and be with you.

Then the next week, he scores again.

And for once, he doesn’t just walk back to the halfway line.

For once, Dex celebrates.

The stadium goes wild. His teammates barely know what to do when Dex scores, turns, and points straight at you.

Like what else would he celebrate for?

The goal is his job.

You are the reward.

—end. 

Note: Yes yes, I know I will eventually do a pro baseball Dex AU because that is literally his sport, but I have no idea how baseball works. I do know football, though. Also it’s the World Cup, so this is topical!!! Leave me alone 🫠🫠🫠I also lowkey am thinking about turning this into like my full-length Bucky football au fic. Thoughts?

This is also inspired by this variant cover of the upcoming Daredevil #4 by Geoff Shaw:

A dull ache of shame grows in Leon chest from the sight of her, completely unaware that just by being here — being his wife, that she had gotten in the way of a preplanned special night that you had been waiting to spend with her husband.

Leaving her to drift into the silence of a quiet house, lost to the fact that the father of her child were in their way to be parked a long while away from home on some dirt road behind an abandoned gas station to sleep with his daughter, in a way that used to be saved for her.

Leon can't afford to think about that anymore, he already dealt with his demons that comes with him choosing to love you in this way. Coming to understand that he's not a good man. Never said he was. He solidifies this every time he turns the lock your bedroom door at night, checks the two of you into hotels under made up names, or even fucking you in their bed when she's away.

The simmering guilt of his actions going silent in his head with every brief look that the two of you share, hugs that get tighter every time, or stolen touches under the dinner table. Every ounce of attention you give him melts away every bad thing he's ever thought about himself. Every kiss, every touch, every murmur of 'I love you' is what keeps him turned away from his wife in bed before as she falls asleep. He wants you and you only.

And he'd do anything, to let this fact cement itself into your mind.

Which why he left with you, his sins coming to life under the proud sun, walking to the car without shame.

Holding hands while he gets you seated before driving off to the edge of town with the view of the haunted house he's forced to maintain, in his rear view.

Anticipation burns a hole into his stomach, it's been a while since the two of you have fucked. Only quick blowjobs in your bathroom or him eating your pussy on your made bed while your mom is on a work call. You missed the intimate stretch of him, and he misses your warmth.

He enjoys the secluded intimacy that fucking his daughter gives him, being able to hold you close as he fills you anytime he can. Looking you into your eyes and knowing he's the one who's made you feel this way. Familiar eyes, boring into his tired ones.

Your hands find their way to the crotch of his pants, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter as you press down harder. His cock twitching under your determined hand.

"I missed you" you whisper, leaning over so that your mouth is right by his welcoming ears. A warm smile spreads on his wear face, turning to give you a quick peck before turning his gaze back to the clear roads. I Love you I love you I love you I love you-

This is where he's happiest….

Driving into that empty field the two of you occasionally hide out at, ready to fill you up while you cling to him like a father, like a lover.

"Get in the back princess"

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

"You needed dad's cock that bad baby?" Leon groans by your ear, your face tucked into his naked neck as you rest your head onto your arms that are wrapped around it, while Leon drills up into your creamy pussy. The two of you sitting on top of an old hot pink towel that's usually hidden in the trunk for times like these. Laying bunched under your knees that are spread around his wide frame, your calves bouncing from how hard he's fucking you.

"Ye-yessss ohh fuck mhmm" you mewl shamelessly, finally getting your way after going to him with puppy eyes for him to think of an alternate plan to get him balls deep inside you by before the end of the night. One of Leon's taut hands grips on the swell of your ass, already leaving faint marks, while the other is around your back to hold you in place.

"Wonder what your mom would think if she could see you, fucking leaking on l dad like this shitttt. You get this wet by yourself baby?" he moans, giving your shoulder a long bite before speeding up.

You're drooling so much, you’re only able to faintly nod against him. Making his cock throb inside you. He loves knowing that he's the only one that can get you like this, cock drunk and submissive. Being your very first and getting to further understand the body he helped create, before you even got to know it definitely has its perks, your pleasure is taught from him. Reliant on focusing on how the way Leon touches you.

He showed you how to get your own body to respond to yourself, secretly buying you toys to explore in the times he couldn't be there to get you there.

"Hear how wet dad gets his pussy, shhh listen baby" he hushes you, using the hand that was on your back to wrap around your hair, pulling on it to tilt your head back, forcing you to leave the warmth of his neck so you could hear the filthy squelch of him fucking you over the soft creak of the rocking car.

PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP

He's soooo deep, filling your cunt raw from tip to base, again and again. Your slick lips stretching around to fit his fat cock that smears his pre cum inside your pussy that's just taking it all in. He hungrily leans forward to latch on your nipples while looking up at you, rolling and flicking his tongue around the raised bud before quickly detaching — a string of spit webbing from his mouth.

"So good for me, aren't ya? Cunt's just swallowing, every. fucking. inch" he grunts, matching his thrusts to his mean words as he kisses your exposed neck, sucking and nipping at the area desperately.

Your head's still hanging back with your mouth embarrassingly drooped open, unable to speak with your vision slightly blurring in and out of focus. Your body growing warmer, partly from the feel of his wet mouth pecking and dragging all over you, and the rest from how vulnerable you are under his devoted touch.

"S'goood mhm, so full daaa-"

"Oh? daddy's in here?" he teases with a cocky tilt of his head, he lets your hair go to push on the bottom half of your stomach. Now able to look back down at your dad who's somewhat disheveled from pleasure beneath you — being met back with his blue-eyed stare.

His eyes slightly wide as he looks at you in awe, feeling the gentle push of his cockhead hitting that lower spot again and again. Your head spinning from bliss,

I Love you I love you I love you I love you-

"Fuckk — taking me so deep" Leon praises, grabbing your jaw with his free hand to lay a kiss on your warm lips before slipping his tongue in your mouth. His words go straight to your cunt that tightens around his thick length, another gush of your slick sliding down his dick.

With his mouth still on yours — humming his moans onto your eager tongue, he lets your jaw go to reach behind your ass. His index and middle rubbing the back of where your leaky pussy is swallowing his cock — swiping up your slick on them before breaking away from the kiss to shove them in your mouth, wrapping your mouth snug around his digits.

"Hngnn pleaseee dad" you whimper around them, growing desperate. Flicking your tongue between his fingers, cleaning your wetness off of them. His eyes shift to a look of weakness, wishing it was his cock in his daughters mouth instead. A thin layer of mist forms on the glass windows from the heat radiating off the naked damp bodies that refuse to stay still. Leon's hips hammering into you at a steady pace, making your spread legs shake around his waist. Growing weak from how close you are.

He can tell you're gonna cum soon from all the breathy whines leaving your pouty lips, he's an expert in everything you. He takes quiet pride in being the first person to see your face twist in confusion and ache as your first orgasm bathed over you. You questioned the feeling, asking if it was okay, he ushered it in. Thanking you for letting him be able to unravel you like this.

I Love you I love you I love you I love you-

Your forehead sits against his damp one, "Gonna cum for me baby?" he coos, his voice rough yet full of yearn. Lost for words again, you let your body do the talking, allowing it to speak in the language only he can decode. Throwing your hips down on his busy ones — matching his mean pace.

"Shi-fuckkk you're gonna make dad cum baby. That what you want?, want me to fill you up? send you back to the house with my cum leaking outta ya while mom kisses you goodnight?"

"Y-yes yes yes yes" you cry out, snapping your hips down harder. Bringing a restless hand between the two of you to rub your clit like he showed you, feeling how wet you are. Your fingers slipping as you rub in fast circles while your dad slams into you even harder.

"Let it go baby it's okay, p-please— mhm fuck —need you- need it so bad" he moans, waiting on the familiar feel of you pussy tightening around him so he can fill you up. Both Leon's hands are focused, gripping the swells of your ass to force his length into you again and again.

PLAPPLAPPLAPPLAPLAPPLAPLAPPLAPPLAP

"m'cumming dad, ugh-cumming, hngh yes yesyesyesyes" your body goes stiff, even your hands on your clit as your orgasm washes over you. "Ughhh mhmmm" you cry and quiver onto his shoulder as you cum around him hard. Leon's hips still quick in speed, completely pussy drunk on the way you're tightening and creaming on him.

"S'good for me princess mhm take it. take it. take it. take it. take i— please" he hisses, his hips stuttering one last time with a loud squelch, his balls slightly scrunching and releasing as he empties his seed inside his daughters twitching cunt.

The two of you lay still for several beats, embracing each other loosely while you're still connected down below. His hands sweetly rubbing your back, soothing you —still somewhat twitching under his touch. "You did so good baby" he hums in an almost whispery tone, laying a gentle kiss on your slick shoulder. I Love you I love you I love you I love you-

The air in the car is thick, beads of moisture rolling down the windows as evidence of the previous moments. You take a lazy finger to it, inking out a star against the slippery glass. The two of you still quiet, eyes growing heavy— just enjoying the moment in an attempt to catch a steady breath….

"Fuck, we have to get the sweets for mom" your head jumps up from the memory, clenching around your dads cock when you talk, earning a small groan from him. You place your hands on his hard chest, lifting off his dick slowly with a wet shlick, slightly sore and still messy down there as some of his cum slips out of you.

"That was supposed to stay in" Leon teasingly grumbles, laid back with his cock growing soft, watching you scramble around in the dim lighting.

Leon's eyes rake over your naked form —so beautiful and soft like, before something else catches his tired eyes. The fact that it's much darker than it was when the two of you left home. The beaming sun and few clouds that were scattered all through the bright clear sky were now gone — hidden in the peachy hue from the summer setting sun that is now leaking into the weakly tinted windows. Creating a map of color and light trails over your naked body. I Love you I love you I love you I love you-

His eyes softens at the sight.

Each day the sun goes down means another day of living in continuous sin for the two of you, at least during the day Leon's able let the sun wash away his demons that hide inside the shadow of the fake life he has to wakes up to. Lying dormant while he waits for this time of day. The night, ironically, bringing him his light. You. You to take and take and take until you come up to gasp for relief.

You own him as much as he does you.

Everyday he is the same man, until the sunsets — where he is able to fruitfully exist in the life he wishes he could see while the sun is still up. I love you I love you I love you I love you-

"Come here" he murmurs. Grabbing your elbow and spreading his legs for your to sit between them with your back turned from him. "Mom's probably wondering what's up, we shoul-"

"That’s not important right now" he cuts you off, slightly stern — talking in his dad voice that he puts on when he's saying something important.

You relax against him with an understanding hum, leaning your head back in the slot of his neck, shifting slightly to fix the pink towel back under you comfortably. Leon's hands slip to the hilt of your hips, rubbing slow circles there with his thumb — tracing over faint fingerprint marks that are gradually coming to life.

You both settle down in sync, looking through the smudged window from your frail attempt at wiping off the moisture with your shirt that was thrown on the car floor.

"So beautiful" he whispers, lifting his head to rest his chin on top of your head, the weight of him comforting and aware. Allowing you to be consumed by him. He snakes his wondering hands from your plush hips to sneakingly brush over the slight swell of your nipples before wrapping it around your waist to pull you even closer to him.

"I know. I love seeing all the pretty colors like this. Everything looks so much more real under a sunset" your eyes locked on natural the scene in front of you, taking in the saturated colors filling the sky that's leaking into the balmy car.

"…Not what I meant"

I Love you I love you I love you I love you-

Fawn: I love doomed incest💔

Titus Danforth shouldn’t be having wet dreams at his age. But the thought of bending you over, anywhere in this goddamn mansion, and fucking you from behind? That’s his damned heaven. Or perhaps, in his case, Hell. You’d take him so nicely. Like you’re made for him. Begging for more. Then he’s awake. Sat up. Mind still on you.

Titus Danforth grabs your chin, makes you look at him. Grip tight enough to leave a mark. His eyes should be cold. That’s what you’ve been warned about. But they’re not. Pupils blown with greed. Leaning down to take your lips between his, kissing you with such harshness that when he pulls away your blood trails down his chin. Mixing with his salvia.

Titus Danforth will marry you. He’s certain of it. No one can stop him. His father’s dead. Ursula knows not to cross him. Not when he wears the ring. So he will marry you. You just have to understand and see how deeply he loves you. This is love, after all.

“Daddy, I don’t think it’s workin’,” you scrunch your nose and squint down where your hand was on the verge of cramping from the sheer velocity it was moving at, fingers alternating between cupping his heavy balls and stroking him base to head, “you’ve been like this for… five, almost six minutes, I think.”

He scoffs. “Jesus, fuck, what are you talking about?” the words spill out of gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, his larger hand cupping yours tightly, fingertips clamping down on the hills of knuckles forcefully, “Not like that—do it like this, you’re petting it like a fuckin’ dog, stop acting like you haven’t done this before.”

With his guidance, some sufficient progress is made. Good, but not terribly great, nor terribly bad either. Seems like Leon doesn’t know much about working himself to a decent mast either. You couldn’t really blame him in that department of knowledge, though. Not when he goes through pairs of six-packs in a single sitting, or how he has to plead you in faux-pitifulness, coming up with a half-ass sob story on the spot to send your little ass marching down the block to fetch him a fresh pack of Marlboros. Nobody else knew your daddy or his underlying health problems like you did.

A tightened fist, thanks to his clutch hovering over yours, pumps his cock more rigorously now, just how he likes it. His head bows forwards slightly and you can see how his eyebrows come together in a deep furrow, crow’s feet and those fine grooves of age going rigid as the pleasure is made gradually evident on his face. Your tits smush against the side of Leon’s compression and you tilt your head, resting a cheek to his shoulder while you sigh.

“That make you feel good, daddy?” you try, an attempt at seduction with not just your voice, but combined alongside dark batting lashes and a sweet smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” Leon huffs dismissively, a palpable droplet of sweat trickling down his nose as his chub-lined bicep flexes to accommodate the way he helps himself to your poor hand, an ache being put in the bones and nerves and whatever aspect of feeling had been numbed, “got my dick hard, that’s the least you could do for your dear ol’ dad.”

You’d think he was talking to a prostitute how a scowl sneaks into the edge of his voice, and to that you simply pout and say: “The least you could do is thank me,” you scoff and keep your eyes focused on his leaking cock, “momma’s not around anymore so you have to resort to me, you pervert.”

“Hey, when a man’s gotta get off, he’s gotta get off,” for the first time tonight, a genuine, albeit snarky smirk finds a way to his lips, “you’re the just like your momma, y’know, pretty eyes, pretty face, pretty tits—“

“Ew, gross! Don’t talk like that!” you huff in irritation, and despite the conspicuous tension in your words and having your limbs lock in a state of defense, “you’re making this even harder than it needs to be.”

And with that, you had cleared the air yourself. Did himself the favor of coming to terms that, in actuality, daughters were no better than a bone for him to take in his jaws and feed on. No better than a prostitute. They cling, they want, they need, they desire, they’ve got the faces and tits of the woman he once loved all compact into one package. He has a faint recollection of the admission from your own tongue, the first time he’d stalk his way down the hall to your room, exchanging services for goods—

I’d be anything for you, daddy, you had confessed at an unrecognizable tone, beneath him, squirming and making love to the highest degree of perversity, I’ll be your girl forever—I’ll be your wife, your everything—I’ll never leave you, I swear by it—must I sit at your feet and have you tug me around forever?

But he’d rather not bring it up in the heat of the moment. Not when you yourself have gotten to the point of being utterly flustered; cheeks going feverish and perspiring under the spill of silvery moonlight illuminating the grotesque scene, a natural spotlight putting a relationship that you and him would rather keep beneath wraps for now. The wet, audible shlick shlick shlick burns at your ears and reverberates off your walls, suffocating you under the pooling embarrassment that settles deep at your core. Shifting in place, your thighs chafe against one another when the seeds of arousal bloom, pussy sticking to the now damp gusset lining your cotton panties.

When he’s close, the telltale signs come to the surface; loose strands hanging over his forehead, his hips going to instinctively thrust up into your fist—which was more of a fleshlight than anything right now—with his grasp on your hand loosening, and beads of pre leaking down the slit till it gathered in a mess at your fingers. You wrench your lips open to speak up, tongue swiping, but he is much quicker to take initiative. Leon may not be able to get it up as quickly as he used to, but he’s one hell of a stallion. Literally.

It goes by in a matter of seconds. The last thing you remembered prior to being underneath per usual is the warm, individual clasps he tightens on either side of your hips, using the newfound leverage and laying you down with ease. For a second, the sheer velocity in his maneuver sends you rebounding off the mattress’ surface for a second, pressing a small gasp out from your lungs. However, in no time you’re back to being completely stupefied by the sight he offers graciously. Looming above, he is all fat and muscle and that ridiculous side-part that you’ve gone your entire life seeing him sport with pornstaches and beards and whatever got a whore on his dick. Merely highlights his rugged, charm nature; your daddy’s a living, breathing sex symbol.

Leon nudges both your legs apart and sits on his haunches, sighing deep when he catches a full glimpse of how you look under the weight of him. Nipples pebbled by the humid air, a damp patch somewhat visible at the center of your panties, hair tousled around your head in disheveled strands—you’re a dream. The closest thing your daddy’s ever going to have to her again.

“God, this ain’t ever getting old,” he caves in and succumbs to his utmost desire, meeting you the full way and pressing his lips to yours hungrily, all teeth and a tangle of tongues.

You wrap your arms around his neck and do not refuse his advances—squeezing your eyes shut and feeling the last remnants of your morality slipping away onto his tongue. It’s dirty, reckless, a sharing affection that in no way should’ve been embraced by his fatherly hand, but he did, anyway. Leon always did. After all, god who knows how many years he’s got left, how much brawn he’s got built into his aging body; he’s using his resources to an advantage.

Giving a lick against your inner cheek, he pulls back slowly, connected by a sole bridge of saliva stringing from his lips to yours. The barrage of perverted affection continues down your neck, between the spanning expanse left between your tits, then to the clothed mound of your pussy. Teasing was totally out of the question at this point, so he hooks his fingertips into the lace-trim waistband of your panties, tugging them down to your ankles.

With that, something of a gasp and a sigh escapes your lips when the air hits your tender cunt. For a brief moment, he takes great admiration to the sight—silken pussy lips, shaved no longer than a night or two ago, dews of slick shining at your edges and staining at your inner thighs. Real sight for sore eyes you’ve got going on.

“You look just like her down here too, baby,” he compliments almost fondly, but it’s hard to tell when you’re head’s transcending planes of pleasure beyond basic comprehension, “just as gorgeous as she was.”

“Dad,” you whined pitifully, flitting your eyes to the framed photograph of you two together sat on a shelf, a depiction of innocent affection on the surface looking you right in the eye of your rather contrasting and depraved circumstances, “stop saying shit like that, you’re embarrassing, this is embarrassing.”

“Awe, honey,” pausing, he takes the time to take his thumbs and spread your folds apart, opening you up, pink and soft on the inside, to press a gentle kiss against your throbbing clit, “that’s a whole lot of talk for someone who’s her daddy’s girl, besides, you like the affection—you were always a sucker for it.”

Jolting at the kiss, the incessant squirming and sighs that are fished out of your throat are nothing better. “I’m not a little girl anymore, though,” you attempt at refuting, splaying a hand over your forehead and subconsciously thrusting your hips closer to his face, till his nose bumps your clit, sending shocks along your spine, “I wish you would believe that.”

“Maybe I do, but you’ll always be my girl, at least,” he’s easy to shut you up as the warm, eager muscle of his tongue licks a long strip at the seam of your cunt, mercilessly thumbing at your nub in the meanwhile.

You lay there in an arousing puddle of defeat, yielding to his relentless ministrations. A repetition of moans and keening noises flow out your lips in no time, the sheer ecstasy doubling on the already-dumbified state Leon has reduced you to. He keeps a hand flat on your stomach, the other accompanying his tongue. With his pointer and middle finger, they prod at your entrance before inching in, stretching you out ruthlessly. Both instruments of rapture work together in tandem; making you feel full, birthing a coil at your lower stomach and nestling deep in your core.

“Oh my god, daddy, dad,” you gasp in an unusually pitchy tone, rolling your hips over and over again, pupils blown as specks of black dot your vision, clinging to the vast landscapes of your ceiling above, “it’s too much, I can’t—“

“C’mon, I didn’t raise you to be like this,” he tsks in a muffled voice, finding the strength to amplify his brutality where he laps at your pussy like a starved man, sloppy and downright nasty, scruff of his beard leaving burns at your inner thighs’ delicate flesh, doubling on the stimulation that’s already lashing against your raw sensitivity, “take what you can, let daddy love you.”

Your head rolls back to your pillow and there is a sudden need to grasp onto him, hand planted firmly into his silvery-blonde strands while your fingers take a dig at his scalp. As your tits are left heaving, expanding and lowering with every little sound and breath you take, the pleasure only proceeds to build and build and you think it might kill you at this rate. His mouth is unforgiving, relishing the tangy flavor of your arousal exploding across his tongue, mouthing at your pussy like there was so little time he had to savor it. Those fingers were no help either, pruned and constantly plunging in a manner that was nearly mechanical.

(It’s all for the money—always the money, the transaction. The tedious exchange of your pussy given up to your daddy, crawling back to him despite the many times you try to detach yourself from his side. That’s just the way these things work.)

Not much time is wasted for the coil in your stomach to fall apart altogether, the sensation of an encompassing, seeping warmth quick to replace as your brain is obscured instantly. Choir-esque moans of daddy, daddy, daddy spill out like perverse gospel and you can feel your limbs going loose, hips bucking up in an attempt to get him deeper, mashing his nose against your pubic bone while your pussy bursts like a leaking pipe. Earns you a satisfied grunt from below and a meeting of his rising face shining with the evidence of your arousal.

“See? I knew you had it in you,” Leon breathes in short intervals, dabbing his wet cheek, straightening himself up and somehow having enough vigor left to return to his haunches, placing your still-quivering legs at his sides, “that’s one thing you must’ve gotten from me, perseverance… or something.”

In an unknowing move to prove him right, you bite your lower lip and reach down, shivering as your fingers make contact with your raw pussy lips, spreading them open for him, “Please, you’re gonna kill me here, dad,” you’re aware of how pathetic you sound but you do not have a care in the world, not when his heavy cock is put back on display, moving to rest where you hold yourself open, “I can be so good for you, daddy, I promise, I love you so much—“

“Well, better use those words and tell me exactly how much, baby,” he insists and gazes into your eyes, huffing and readying his hands at your hips, the pudge of his stomach resting on your own. His head bows, a cascade of hair caging both of your faces in, closed off from the outside world and inducing the sensation that you and him were the only two people left respectively. Adam and Eve, in better lack of words.

With a sore throat and an inability to put yourself on a coherent track of consciousness, you do your daddy a favor and fix for a more physical response. Wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him inward, libido granting you a sudden burst of exuberance and working your overwhelmed senses as a response. A surprised umph comes from him, followed by a knowing chuckle as he braces his knees to the mattress, slapping the head of his cock against your nub a few times before breaching inside, stretching your walls around the invasion.

“I love you,” you tell him again, desperate, feeling wet tears line your eyes at the initial stretch, or the pure sentimentality he cradles you in—comforting thumbs rubbing your sides, sweet cooes reaching your ears in encouragement.

“I love you too, sweetheart, so much,” he finally admits and finds a measured pace to bind his hips in, upper body bending forward to shadow your vulnerable form, tender lips meeting only meeting briefly before his head falls to the empty slope of your shoulder.

Two of your bodies move together in a sweat-slicked, fornicating mass of flesh. His throaty grunts and your uncontrollable, pitched moans pierce the air and then roll off like rippling waves, like a needle through skin. One ear and out the other. He fucks you into the mattress as if he were trying to leave a permanent impression, molding your hole to the size of him. It gapes and swallows in a vaccum-tight force, accommodating his drilling movements while his tip kisses your cervix passionately, bottoming out with all ease.

Each thrust sends your driven body up the mattress, and it is impossible to escape him. Tied down by blood, by coded genes, by all those little features decorating your face that served as permanent testaments to who you came from. You never wanted this. You never asked to be born of perversion and have your chances of a normal life inhibited just like that—you never asked to have a natural-born tendency that always brought you back to your daddy’s side.

Through sickness and health, through ruined morals and one fucked-up family tree, you are destined to find your way back to him; the one who cherishes and makes love as a paramour yet holds you close to him in paternity. Nothing but the remnants of an Electra Complex reek in your path.

“How do I make you feel?” Leon whispers against your shoulder, running his tongue along the flesh affectionately.

You whine. “So good, dad, fuck—I think I’m close,”

“That’s okay, baby,” he assures, gently kissing the same area where he had been licking, “don’t think I can last that much longer anyway.”

He’s about a few years off from kicking the bucket at this rate, trying to make use of what time there is left. At your expense, he rarely plays into tradition and goes the opposite way—he was daddy, only daddy. Dull, foul-mouthed daddy that just so happened to have himself a girl of his own to take his bottled-up frustrations on.

He braces himself one final time and hastens his plummeting, aching knees sunk into the mattress while his heavy balls slap the underside of your ass unforgivingly. He stretches you deliciously, the previous discomfort falling back and bringing forth a haze of pleasure that overruns the circuits of your mind. Together, you rut like mindless creatures, the strokes of his brutal cock cutting your breaths and noises short.

Reaching your breaking point, the pressure in your guts brims over for a second time tonight—nails puncturing his taut back as you allow your eyes to roll back, soft yes, yes, yes’s following the way your walls squeeze around his thick cock, draining the life, and come, from his drawn-up balls. In spite of this, he continues pounding you at a velocity that challenges your sensitivity, smirking in satisfaction at the sight of your slick wetting his pelvis.

Leon doesn’t hide the fact he is as wound up as you are, ‘cause it doesn’t take very long for him to spill his load inside you, the potent fluid coming in ropes that seem to go on forever, filling you up till your combined releases dripped a pearly white down the sides where he was still connected. You don’t get a say on the predicament as he relishes in the blissful swamp of riding his orgasm out, and it isn’t till an audibly shaken sigh puffs out of clenched teeth that he pulls out with an exasperated sigh.

You lay there full of a heavy heart and even heavier limbs, spread legs remaining spread in a crude exhibition of what he’s done to you. Taking a glance over his handiwork, there’s a temporary hitch in Leon’s breaths, thumbs drawing comforting circles into your moist inner thigh. He, quite literally, did manage to fuck a hole through you, putting your body through the mattress, as there was a visible print of your lax form laying there blissed out of your mind—pupils blown into two dark orbs and the near-vacant conveyance sewn from your brows that were no longer furrowed, or the slack jaw that had caused your lips to be left parted.

“Think you could give me one more?” his voice is strained yet wears that tone of insistence, emphasizing on the curiosity and dragging a hand back down to your legs, harsh fingers parting your delicate folds, eyes blue as the the clearest waters feasting on the depraved view.

“I’m too sensitive,” you shake your head, sniffling when you register his fingers prodding at the source of overstimulation twinging your body.

“Don’t give me none of that,” Leon tuts in disapproval, the pads of his fingers massaging your sore labia before striking his palm straight at the center, sending a overstimulating strike across the sensitive area, “one more, I’m only askin’ for one more.”

To hell with the money. You’ve just learned that working your way up required tough skin and ongoing persistence to indulge whatever degenerate fantasies have gone to his head. You can hardly recognize the man he used to be anymore. Especially when refusing pleads of no and daddy rush profusely from your lips, a hand slotted between and pushing at his abdomen in a futile attempt to put an end to this. But libertines like him are stronger, seductive, working a path downwards and giving another strike against your sensitive hole.

It starts off slow and somewhat meticulous, testing the waters, if you will. You couldn’t reach liberation even if you wanted to, not when he uses one hand to push your legs up to your chest, massive figure mounting you efficiently. The coarseness becomes more familiar by the brutal acts of cruelty ravaging your cunt. Poor thing, you think to yourself. You think you’re gonna treat yourself to sitting on a nice, frozen bag of peas tomorrow. Better yet, you would force him to hold you for hours as punishment in your debt—holding you in his big arms, kisses peppering your flushed cheeks, your hairline, your throat. It’s the right thing to do.

“There you go, baby, like that, no, move your legs further apart—there we go,” he stifles his breaths in concentration, fingers digging in your flesh hard enough to leave splotches of blue and black in their wake, his flattened palm merciless when it came to overstimulating your nerves, “you’re a real natural, I hope you know that, daddy’s little pornstar.”

“Daddy!” you gasp for air, back bowing off the mattress in a gorgeous arch, an internal instinct itching somewhere and causing you to grip at his bicep, digging your nails for moral support, the rest of your body writhing and no longer hanging onto playing obedient.

The last thing you remember is the onslaught of strikes sending you higher, higher and getting you closer to god, his kisses assaulting one of your ankles suspended in the air. God. The second it becomes too much for you, you’re a total goner—moaning at a volume so loud that you couldn’t even tell if it had been you in the first place. He’s made an entirely different woman out of you; who you once were was gone astray, lost, for better or for worst.

Batting your lashes and blinking hard, you’re brought back down to Earth at Leon shuffling back slightly, leaning back on his feet in withdrawal. At last there is an atmosphere of peace that settles over the room, the after-tranquility feeling heavy with silence. His cock, now back to its average flaccid state, rests on his thigh while the shine of your… oh, you can’t be on the exact mark here, third or fourth orgasm of the night, glimmers on his stomach, his thighs, his hands like the shiniest piece in locked away as prized memorabilia.

Through misty eyes, you watch as your daddy steadily collects himself, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair. Shame is not yet to settle, and both parties are grateful for such. That’s a feeling to save for the morning. He makes a reach for his jeans discarded on your perfectly-polished floors—thanks to the simultaneous government and retirement benefits—and fishes out his wallet. Leather, pure, soft and confining leather. You wonder how he’d look in that sort of thing. He’s got that look going on with the sculpted face and a mean cock on him, a stallion, in other words. A heartthrob, a regular Casanova, all checkboxes marked off in that category.

As expected a fat wad of green crumples lands on your chest in a messy spread, the fat of your tits peeking out beneath. A scene he’s seen too many times to count. It’ll never get old in his book ‘cause once a filthy pervert, always a filthy pervert, even in the supposed ‘innocence’ of his fatherhood. That simple.

“Seriously? This is really how much I’m worth to you?” you spit teasingly, lagging breaths carrying behind your voice and pouting lips.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, squinting his poor eyes in the lowlight and scrambling around for something his shirt, “all that matters is that you’re worth a good fuck.”