my circus, my monkeys

Jack can’t help himself when his eyes trail behind your figure as you walk by him to the kitchen wearing a sundress, maybe in a bright color, purposefully making it hard to miss you. His sight isn't the only thing that follows you; his feet move in your direction, quickly coming up behind you to wrap a thick arm around your waist. You spin in his arm to face him, and his grip around you tightens, effectively pinning you to his chest, just enough so your breasts are squished against him.

“Hey there old man,” you greet him sweetly, almost with faux innocence, and your arms move to settle over his shoulders.

“Hey baby. Is this dress new?” He knows it’s new, he knows every single dress you have in your closet. He simply likes knowing you spent his money dressing yourself up.

“Mhm. I ordered it the other day with a couple of other things. Do you like it?” It’s hard to ignore you when you were looking at him with a flirty flare of your lashes and plump glossy lips.

Did he like it? It seems like a stupid question, but he was willing to indulge you just a bit.

Jack stays quiet but his eyes greedily rake over your body. The light blue fabric stretches almost too well. The deep cut of the lace neckline ends right by your sternum, the golden necklace he gifted you last year dangles as your breasts rise and fall with every breath you take. He can tell you weren’t wearing a bra underneath, his blood runs hot and rushes below the belt as your nipples poke through the material.

Yet that wasn’t the best part.

Taking a large hand, Jack palms the middle of your back and traces the length of your spine. He stops just a little bit before he hits your tailbone, digging his fingers to put some pressure before moving lower. His hand follows the curvature of your ass, grabbing a handful and giving you a loving squeeze. You laugh from the touch, stretching your back more so he can continue to grope you just the way you liked.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” his chuckle rumbles against your chest, and a smile creeps up onto his aged face.

“I like it a lot. It’s very pretty on you. You’re very pretty. Always are.”

Jack grins and leans forward to plant a kiss on your waiting lips. You expected him to pull away, but he only lavishes you with more attention. He kisses you again and again until your tongue curls around his, both of his hands now kneading your ass, he groans when you sigh happily against his mouth. He grips you harder and lifts one of your cheeks, and you gasp as he spreads your bare pussy just the slightest bit.

Of course, he also knew you weren't wearing any panties underneath.

“What time is brunch with the girls again?" 

"The reservation is for 12:30. I still need to fix my hair and find my shoes." You can sense Jack thinking, the cogs in his mind working overtime so he’d come up with a solution to the problem that was the growing bulge in his pants.

“You can spare a couple of minutes for me. Right, baby?” He kisses you once, attempting to coax you to agree with him, as if you needed any more convincing. “I want a taste of you before you go.”

The look in his eyes told you that he wasn’t suggesting. You merely bit your lip and nodded. A thrumming pulse beats under your warm skin, slowly building up between your legs, right where you needed him.

“Bed or couch?” As Jack listed your options, he kissed your neck and walked you backwards towards the living room, pawing at your hips and groping your chest.

“Couch is closer," your voice shakes and you clutch the back of Jack's head to steady yourself. He gets close enough to the couch to gesture at you to sit and lean back on the cushions, grabbing a spare pillow to place under your hips as he gets comfortable to lay down in front of you.

"I only need 5 minutes, then I'll drop you off. I promise."

He was already getting your dress out of the way and impatiently kissing on your inner thigh, mouthing at your hip and pubic bone, so close to his target he could practically taste it. He didn’t even hear you say yes before he dove in head first between your legs, lapping away at your sweetness with a satisfied moan and a roll of his eyes. You let him take what he needed, digging your nails into the graying curls you loved so much and shifted your hips to grind into his mouth, giving yourself to him until his craving was sated.

You arrived at brunch only a few minutes late thanks to Jack driving faster than usual. As he rolled up to the driveway of the brunch spot and kissed you one last time, you could still taste yourself on his lips. From the gleam in his eyes and his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, he was well aware of that, and wasn't too bothered by it. In fact, he was probably a little too happy for your liking. Though the two orgasms he gave you earlier and the rasp of his stubble on the skin of your inner thighs certainly worked in his favor.

"Text me when you're ready for me to pick you up," Jack says, caressing the side of your cheek before he has to let you go. "Don’t get into too much trouble."

"I’ll be good, Jack. I promise." With one last smooch, you exited the car and made your way into the restaurant, with Jack happily watching your ass jiggle as you walked away from him.

He hates to see you leave him, but man, did he love watching you go.

You wonder sometimes if the Gods decided to curse you with a union to your husband, because of a slight in your past life. This thought passes your mind frequently, because Aerion Targaryen does not know the meaning of the word restraint. Has never suffered the consequences of his actions. And thinks himself above the Gods themselves. 

As the Brightflame lives up to his name, roaring like a raging fire could spew from his mouth, grabbing at the puppeteer girl’s fingers and bending them backwards, forcing the bones to break. 

This sight is not an uncommon one. What is uncommon, is the seven foot giant that hurls his boulder of a body towards Aerion to stop him from further injuring the puppeteer girl. 

You clamp your hand around your mouth, not in shock, but to shield away the smile you fail to repress. The blood that spills from your husband’s face makes a sly sense of pleasure slither up your spine. 

The crowd exclaims in shock and horror at a dragon overtaken by a man. You try your best to stop delight from reaching you visibly in the eyes. It has been so long since Aerion has caused  much trouble. He had been on his best behaviour for a suspicious amount of time, that you were beginning to think him a lazy lizard basking in the sun. But something about the air in Ashford has brought back a wyvern of some kind in your husband. 

Delight fills you at the prospect of correcting your prince’s behaviour when the moon reaches its peak, and he is alone with you.

“Untie me at once, wife!” Aerion pulls at his wrist and leg restraints with all his princely might. The silk strains against the wooden headboards. “I am your prince! And I demand you release me this instant!”

Gazing at him with half lidded eyes, admiring the cut of his body. Muscles evident from swordsmanship training for as long as he could hole one up. 

“Are you deaf, woman?!” Cherry red creeps up from his neck all the way to his cheeks and ears. Aerion always feels exposed during his punishment, and he has every right to, considering only a goose feathered pillow covers his naked body. 

What makes Aerion so entertaining, is that he will never be the perfect pet. The beast that cannot be tamed. He’ll behave after a punishment session for a length of time, but will always act out in the end. And the dragon in prince form always puts on a brave face before every fight.

“Aerion,” you sit your fully clothed self on the bedside next to him, “do you believe your behaviour today was one befitting of your station?”

He watches as your fingernail lightly traces up and down his torso. “I-I acted just as a I should, as is my duty to defend my line against slander and treason,” he hisses out between bared teeth. A puppy whose canines have started growing out. 

“Mm,” your head nods at him the same way you would nod to a child telling you a charming tale, “I meant, are your actions and behaviour befitting of your station as my husband?”

His mouth opens as if to say something, but the thought quickly crosses his empty mind that maybe he shouldn’t. That silence would most likely be the answer that gets him the least lashings in this moment. You raise one perfect brow at him in question, “Well?”

The single fingernail that traces the pale field of his body becomes a warm palm. Daintily reaching over and cupping his face. Thumb gently rubbing the apple of his cheek. You maintain eye contact with him. Defiance flickers across the periwinkle center of them. “That wretched girl was boasting to the commoners that dragons could be slayed”. 

Your hand stops its comforting ministrations, and you lean in close to Aerion’s face, noses almost touching. “That girl was performing  a puppet show, Aerion”

The deadpan seriousness of your face and tone tells Aerion that there is nothing he could say to escape from the situation he put himself in. That once loving hand wraps around his throat and squeezes. The flame dies out in his eyes, smothered by panic and fear. 

“How many shall we do tonight, my love?” 

Aerion’s mind races, trying to decipher if this question was a trick meant to make him even more of a fool. 

“I think you deser-”

“Damn you, witch! Release me!” His final act of resistance. 

“Silence, Aerion”, his mouth clamped shut as if it was a bear trap. “Utter the phrases you are permitted to say aloud during this time”.

The insolent thing utters nothing. 

Your gaze upon him becomes sharper and your tone stern, “Aerion. What are the phrases”.

Silence stretches on as the wind howls across the night sky. He thinks himself clever by simmering in the quiet. A sweet smile graces him from your lips,an evil glint in your soft gaze. You declare  lovingly, “Perhaps we shall attempt three tonight”.

“NO! Please my lady, I canno-,” you drown out Aerion’s flustered pleading as you make your way to the tent’s icebox. Opening the container reveals a silver bucket supported by a chest full of ice. The bucket is filled, and you begin to make your way back to your stubborn husband. He is thrashing upon the silken restraints now, a desperate snow white rabbit attempting to escape a snare. 

Returning to your original seat, the gems embedded in his skull disappear into the void of his pupil as they see what you’ve brought him. “Wife, w-what are you doing?!”

You reach into the silver bucket and grasp a cube of ice. Its chill spikes through the touching points of your fingers. You bring it to touch the light rose coloured buds of Aerion’s nipples.

“AH-ah! Cease that at immediately, woman!”, the pearly whites of his teeth grind against each other, his whole body tensed from the sensation of biting cold against sensitive flesh that was scarcely touched before your marriage. You circle them gently around the right side of his chest until the ice melts to water, sliding down his torso and pelvis. His right nipple raised and slightly rosier than before, it screams at you to give it more attention. Though, its owner proclaims the exact opposite. 

His chest heaves in heavy breaths,desperately  swallowing oxygen. The pale brows on his face are furrowed with tension. His Andal nose, scrunched ever so adorably. Your husband in pleasurable agony is a sight that you will never tire of. He opens his eyes just in time to catch you reaching for another piece of ice. 

Frost once again bites at his sensitive flesh, now targeting his untouched nipple. “AH!”tears itself from Aerion’s mouth before he clenches his teeth. The expression he presents returns to his most adorable one. Pain and pleasure mixed into a tortuous kind of conflict. The cube melts and drips down his pelvis once more, disappearing under the decorative pillow protecting what little dignity your dragon had left. 

“Answer the question, Aerion”, your tone as cold as the ice used to make the beast surrender. 

He is on the verge of tears, but  would rather die than admit it. Redness had replaced the white of his eyes. His lashline glistening with tears begging to be shed. “Thank you, my lady. Yes, my lady”, is said ever so softly from the once proud dragon prince. Now looking as if a small prey animal caught unaware and at a larger predator’s mercy. 

“And what word shall you say when you can no longer endure?”

His face blushes a bright red against his sickly skin and he mumbles, “Vhagar:

A smile is blessedly bestowed upon him from your lovely visage. He can see that you’re pleased with him, and it fills his chest with warmth and pride. Something he has been lacking immensely. You grab the vile of oil from on top of the bedside table. Pouring a small amount on your dominant hand, you remove the decorative pillow from its place upon Aerion’s flesh. 

You gingerly take hold of Aerion’s shaft. Slow and steady strokes up and down the length. “Ah-ah-ah”, he pants with every pass of your hand. The slide of the oil, combined with the friction and pressure from your delicate hand, cultivates a volatile ball of pressure within Aerion’s abdomen. The muscles in his body tense in preparation of the cliff he claws his way to fall over. Each loving pass feeds the fire in him. There is fire in his lungs and blood, and you keep adding more and more accelerant. 

You begin to focus on the tip of his member. Paying special attention to it with increasing friction. Aerion is near to reaching his climax. His breaths have matched pace with each wet sound that originates from where you’re both connected. 

Slick, slick, slick. 

Pant, pant pant.

You lean closer to his ear, whisper secrets only known to the two of you, “How pretty you look like this, husband. What would the realm think? Their vicious dragon prince reduced to a whimpering whore at the hands of his lady wife”.

“AAaaH!” gutturally escapes from him. It looks as if he’s drowning in carnal delight, his eyes straining to open more than halfway, mouth perpetually open. Sweat drips down the planes of his body, trying to regulate the internal meltdown happening to its host. His hips start chasing the brun of your hands, thrusting up into it. You meet his hips with every pathetic thrust. You bend down and place just his tip in your mouth. You swirl and lick at his small opening, while squeezing him periodically. Aerion’s pants become high pitched whimpers. 

“Mmm!...Unh….Fuck! Your mouth!”

You pull away right before he reaches his peak.

“NO! No no no no!” His member is an angry weeping red, mirroring Aerion’s face. You bring your untainted hand to cradle his head against your chest and pet his hair to soothe him. 

“Do not fret, husband" you softly comfort with a sly deceiving smile,  “We still have 2 more to be done”.

♧ ♧ ♧

Because BB has seen plenty of want. Want is common. Want is just hunger. But what he heard through that wall (the slow moments, the ones where Bobby's hands weren't rushing, where you were just holding each other in the dark of a closed furniture store, foreheads together, breathing in sync, moaning into each other's mouths) that was something else.

That was two incomplete things trying to become one complete thing, and for a creature who's been singular and untouched for his entire ancient existence, that was the most fascinating phenomenon he'd ever encountered.

Not the sex.

The merging.

Every gasp that said I trust you with this. Every caress that said I know exactly where you need me. The way your bodies seemed to already know a language he didn't have a mouth to speak.

He wanted that.

Not the act itself. Not yet, not at first. He wanted to be the reason someone made those sounds. He wanted to be held like that. Wanted to know what it felt like to have someone pull him closer instead of pulling away, to have someone say his name (whatever his name would become) with that same open-door warmth.

So when he finally builds his body (Bobby's body, better, perfected) he's not starting from zero. He's been studying. He knows what Bobby did. He knows what worked, what made you arch, what made you laugh, what made you go quiet in the good way. He's an apex predator and you're a subject he's devoted himself to with the same focus he'd give to hunting.

But here's the thing: he's never felt it.

He knows the steps. In theory. He doesn't know the sensation. The first time you touch him (really touch him, skin to skin, your hand on his chest, his brand-new nerve endings firing for the first time) it's going to hit him like a freight train.

Every point of contact lighting up a body he built specifically to be touched by you. He designed these hands to hold you. He designed this mouth to kiss you, and kiss you, and kiss you. He built every nerve ending in this skin as an instrument tuned to your specific frequency, and he's never once been played.

Is he going to be good at it?

He's going to be devastating at it.

He watched Bobby fumble, watched Bobby get lazy, watched Bobby take shortcuts because Bobby knew you'd forgive him for it.

BB doesn't have that luxury. BB knows he's a copy, an imitation, a face borrowed from a man who didn't deserve it, and he knows you're going to be comparing every single second of it. So he's going to be meticulous. Thorough. He's going to take what Bobby did right and do it slower. Do it better. Do it sweeter and meaner and with that all consuming want he has for you.

And the things Bobby wasted? The way Bobby would roll over after, already half-asleep, already somewhere else in his head? The way Bobby would let the distance creep back in before your skin was even cool?

BB's not going to waste a single second of it. He's going to be the Bobby in the beginning, the one who loved you, but better in every way.

He's going to stay. He's going to keep touching you. He's going to learn what it means to feel another person's heartbeat slow down against his chest and he's going to become addicted to it.

He's someone who wanted this (wanted you, specifically, only you) for a long time. Who's built himself from the ground up to be the version of Bobby that never looks away, never checks out, never lets the silence curdle into something cold.

He's been alone for an eternity. He watched Bobby have everything he wanted and let it rot.

He's not Bobby.

The California sun was doing its best to bake everyone alive, even with the constant splashing coming from the pool.

It was a quiet day at the Cody house, which just meant no one was currently bleeding or planning a heist in the kitchen.

You were lounged on a deck chair, the heat making you fee lazy. In your lap sat a stubborn navel orange. You’d been picking at the skin for a minute, but between your sunscreen slicked fingers and a lack of nails, you were losing the battle.

Without looking up, you felt a presence shift beside you.

Andrew.

He just sat there on the edge of the lounger, his eyes fixed on the water where J and Deran were arguing over something.

You didn’t even have to ask. You simply nudged your hand toward him, the orange resting in your palm.

His hand moved automatically. Andrew’s fingers were moving in seconds. He stripped the rind away in a few perfect spirals, his thumb digging in just enough to clear the pith without bruising the fruit.

He kept his gaze on the horizon of the backyard, his jaw tight in that way it always was, surveying the perimeter like he was expecting a strike team.

But his touch with you? Quiet. Attentive. Grounded.

Within seconds, he was nudging your hand back. The orange was perfectly cleaned, split into two neat halves, and placed back into your palm.

"Thanks, baby," you murmured, popping a slice into your mouth.

He finally looked at you then. His eyes softened, just a fraction, the kind of look he saved only for the people he’d decided were worth protecting.

It was his version of a love poem. He didn't need to be told you were struggling; he just saw a need and fixed it before it could become an inconvenience.

"Too much sun," he said. "Go inside soon."

"I will," you promised, reaching out to offer him a slice.

He leaned in, his frame blocking out the glare of the afternoon sun and shielding you entirely from the rest of the backyard.

His lips caught yours in a slow kiss that tasted faintly of citrus and salt. It was deliberate and grounding, his hand coming up to rest gently against the back of your neck.

When he finally pulled away completely, he took the orange slice from your fingers with a smirk, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary.

He ate the fruit, the two of you sitting in a small pocket of peace while the rest of the Cody brothers moved loudly around you.

He was a dangerous man but he was the man who made sure you never had to break the skin of an orange yourself.

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚