whole house hot idccc

Author’s note: Damn, school is rough. Five chemistry experiments in under an hour. Anyways, hope you enjoyed! Once again, feel free to send requests through if you have any plot ideas.

The scent of lemons and salt air from the Arbor still clung to your skin, even in the heart of King’s Landing. In your chambers high in Maegor’s Holdfast, the final fittings of your wedding gown had just concluded.

The cloth of silver, woven with vines of garnet thread to honor House Redwyne, lay across a chair like a sleeping ghost. Tomorrow, it would be yours. Tomorrow, you would become the princess consort, wife to the heir of the heir.

A soft knock, too authoritative to be a servant, sounded at your door. Your handmaid, Lysara, opened it to reveal the stern, familiar face of Ser Roland Crakehall of the Kingsguard. “My lady,” he intoned, his voice a low rumble. “The Prince of Dragonstone requests your presence in his solar. At once.”

Your heart, already a flutter of nerves, gave a peculiar lurch. Baelor Breakspear. Your good father to be. Since your arrival at court a moon’s turn ago, you had found him a figure of immense, comforting gravity. Where his son Valarr was a bright, cheerful flame, all quick smiles and excited plans for the tourneys he would hold in your honor, Prince Baelor was the steady hearth.

His mismatched Dornish eyes, so unlike the lilac of his Targaryen forebears, held a wisdom that seemed to quiet the room. In his presence, the frantic gossip of the court faded. He had been kind to you, asking after your mother’s health, discussing the vintage of a particularly fine Arbor gold your father had sent. You had felt safe under his gaze. Protected.

“Of course, Ser Roland,” you said, your voice steady despite the sudden dryness in your throat. “Is… is Prince Valarr summoned as well?”

“The Prince Baelor wishes to speak with you alone, my lady.” The finality in his voice brooked no further question.

You followed the white cloak through the serpentine corridors of the Red Keep, the torchlight casting long, dancing shadows. The summons was unusual, so late on the eve of your wedding. Perhaps it was about the security arrangements, or a last minute change to the ceremonial order. Valarr had mentioned his father was a stickler for tradition.

The Prince of Dragonstone’s solar was not the glittering chamber you expected. It was a room of work, a massive oak desk strewn with scrolls and ledgers, books lining the walls, a dying fire in the hearth. The air smelled of parchment, sealing wax, and the faint, clean scent of steel. Prince Baelor stood before the fire, silhouetted against the embers. He had shed his formal court doublet and wore a simple black tunic, he turned as you entered, and Ser Roland closed the door behind you, leaving you alone.

“Lady Y/N,” he said, his voice warmer than the fire. “Thank you for coming. Forgive the hour.” You curtsied deeply. “It is no trouble, my prince. You wished to speak with me?”

“I do.” He gestured to a high-backed chair opposite his own by the fire. “Please, sit. Some wine? It is from the Arbor, I believe. A gift from your father.” He poured two cups of deep red wine without waiting for your answer, handing one to you. His fingers brushed yours, and they were calloused, a warrior's hands.

You sat, cradling the cup. “Is something amiss, my prince? With the wedding?” Baelor took his seat, studying you over the rim of his cup. In the flickering light, the streaks of grey in his dark hair seemed more pronounced, the lines of care around his eyes deeper. The broken line of his nose gave his face a rugged, tragic nobility. “The wedding proceeds,” he said slowly. “All is in readiness. It is not the ceremony that concerns me, Y/N. It is you.”

“Me?”

“You are very young. And very far from home. You come to us with… a certain reputation.” He held up a hand as your cheeks flushed. “I speak not of gossip, but of observable fact. You are celebrated as one of the great beauties of the realm. Your features, a gift from your Lyseni mother, are striking. More pronounced, some whisper, than even in our own line.” He took a sip of wine. “Such beauty is a power. And power attracts attention. It also attracts… rumors.”

A cold trickle, distinct from the wine’s warmth, traced down your spine. “What rumors, my prince?” He leaned forward, his dark eyes capturing yours. “There are whispers, my lady. Whispers that the daughter of House Redwyne, who spent her girlhood between the vineyards of the Arbor and the pleasure of Lys, may not have come to her betrothed… untouched.”

The world tilted. The wine in your stomach turned to acid. “They are lies,” you whispered, the words scraping your throat. “Vile, filthy lies. I am a maiden. I swear it by the Seven, by the gods of my mother, by every star in the sky.” Tears of furious shame pricked your eyes. “Prince Valarr knows my character. He does not listen to such slander.”

“Valarr is a boy in love,” Baelor said, not unkindly. “He sees your hair, your eyes and hears only the songs he wishes to sing. A king—and a future king’s heir—cannot afford such poetry. He must deal in facts.” He set his cup down, the sound final. “I believe you, Y/N.” You blinked, the tears falling. “You… you do?”

“I do. I have watched you. I see your virtue, your dignity. But my belief is not enough. The Iron Throne, the continuity of our bloodline, rests upon certainty. There is a custom, an ancient Valyrian rite of accountability, that addresses this precise doubt.” You had never heard of such a thing. Your mother had spoken of many Lyseni customs, some shockingly libertine, some deeply private, but never this. “A rite?”

“Among the dragonlords of old,” Baelor continued, his voice dropping into a soothing, pedagogical rhythm, “the purity of a bride entering a direct line of succession was not a matter of trust, but of verification. It was considered the solemn duty of the senior-most male of the direct line to… ensure the bride’s state. To remove all doubt, for the good of the family. To take the question into his own hands, so that no shadow could ever fall upon the union, or the children that sprung from it.”

The meaning unfurled in your mind, slow and horrific, like a poisoned blossom. You stared at him, your breath caught in your chest. The kindness in his face had not vanished, but it had transformed. It was still there, but it was now the kindness of a physician about to lance a wound, practical, inevitable, and utterly devoid of personal desire. Or so it was presented. “You cannot mean…” you breathed.

“It is called ēlī bantis,” he said, the High Valyrian words smooth and liquid from his tongue. “The First Valyrian Night. It is not a right, as the petty lords of the First Men corrupted it into. It is a duty. A burden of office. One I had hoped never to bear again.”

A shadow of what looked like genuine pain passed over his features. “My own wife, Jena… she is gone but a year. This gives me no pleasure, Y/N. But with Valarr as the next heir but one to the throne, the custom is invoked. The doubt must be erased, utterly and verifiably, by me. For the realm.”

He stood and walked to the fire, his back to you, giving you a moment. You sat frozen, the silver and garnet future you had envisioned for tomorrow shattering like glass. This was a nightmare. A cruel, twisted test. “And if… if I refuse?” you asked, your voice a thread of sound.

He did not turn. “Then the rumors, in the eyes of the court and the kingdom, are confirmed. The wedding would be… postponed. Indefinitely. House Redwyne’s standing would be shattered. Your father’s alliance with the Crown, broken. And you would be returned to the Arbor, disgraced, your beauty forever shadowed by the mark of a false oath.”

He turned then, and his gaze was heavy, inescapable. “I do not think you wish for that. I do not think you are false. This is but a formality. A final, private step before the public celebration. It is how things are done. How they have always been done, to keep our bloodlines pure and our successions unquestioned.”

He approached you, not as a predator, but as a solemn priest approaching an altar. He stopped before your chair. “You wish to marry my son?”

“With all my heart,” you choked out.

“You wish to be the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must trust the wisdom of your kings. You must pass through this last gate.” He extended a hand, not to grab, but to receive. “Give me your doubt, Y/N. Give me the rumors. And I will give you back certainty, and a crown.”

The world narrowed to that hand, to the firelight in his dark eyes, to the crushing weight of duty he made sound so reasonable. You thought of Valarr, waiting blithely in his chambers, dreaming of the joust he would win in your name. You thought of your father’s proud, smiling face. You thought of the shame that would swallow them whole if you walked out that door.

This was the price. Not for a song, but for a throne. A numbness, cold and clear, spread through your veins. It was the feeling of stepping off a cliff. You placed your hand in his. It was ice against his warmth.

“I understand, my prince,” you heard yourself say, as if from a great distance. “For the good of the realm.” A sigh, almost of relief, escaped him. He drew you to your feet. “It will be done with respect,” he murmured, his other hand coming up to cradle your cheek. His thumb brushed away a stray tear. “You are brave. Valarr is fortunate.”

He led you not to the desk, nor to the floor, but to a large, padded couch near the bookshelves, its deep crimson cushions plush and inviting in the flickering firelight that danced across the room's stone walls.

The air was thick with the scent of aged leather from the surrounding shelves and the faint, smoky tang of burning oak. He sat first, his powerful thighs spreading slightly as he settled into the corner, the fabric of his dark tunic straining against his broad chest. With a firm hand on your elbow, he guided you to stand before him, your heart pounding like a war drum in your ears.

His blue and brown eyes locked onto yours for a moment, holding you captive, before his hands moved to the intricate lace fastenings at the back of your evening gown. His fingers were steady, not fumbling in the least, deliberate, expert, as if he had unlaced a thousand such garments in his long life.

Each loosened tie felt like the unspooling of your future, the silk whispering against your skin as it gave way. The gown slid from your shoulders with agonizing slowness, the cool air kissing your exposed flesh, then pooled at your feet in a silken heap, leaving you in nothing but your thin silk shift that clung to your curves like a second skin.

“The custom is specific,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the space between you, as his gaze raked over the sheer fabric outlining your breasts and the shadow of your hips. “It must be witnessed by no one but the principals. It must be performed on the eve of the wedding. And the senior lord must… be thorough in his examination.”

Without another word, his hands gripped the hem of your shift and lifted it upward, the silk dragging over your thighs, your stomach, your ribs, until it joined the gown on the floor.

Now you stood utterly bare before him, the firelight painting your skin in warm gold and deep shadow, highlighting the gentle swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the cascade of your hair tumbling over your shoulders.

You crossed your arms instinctively, but he caught your wrists in one large hand, pulling them down to your sides with unyielding gentleness.

His gaze traveled over you with a dispassionate scrutiny that pierced deeper than any lustful leer, cataloging every inch, the pert nipples hardening in the chill, the soft thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs, the tremble in your knees.

He reached out and took a lock of your silver-gold hair, rubbing it between his calloused fingers, the texture rough against the fine strands. “So like true Valyrian stock,” he mused, almost to himself, his breath stirring the air near your face.

“More than my own.” Then his hands were on your hips, turning you gently but firmly, his touch clinical, like a maester assessing a specimen.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a fresh wave of hot shame washing over you, burning your cheeks and chest. You felt his rough fingers trace the curve of your spine, starting at the nape of your neck and sliding down, vertebra by vertebra, a general inspecting a piece of territory he intended to conquer.

He paused at the small of your back, his thumbs pressing into the dimples there, then continued lower, over the swell of your ass cheeks, parting them slightly to expose you further to the room's warmth.

A sob welled in your throat, but you swallowed it down, biting the inside of your cheek until the metallic tang of blood flooded your mouth. His inspection dragged on, eternal in its intimacy, his palms cupping your ass, squeezing the firm flesh, then sliding forward to your belly, fingers splaying wide to feel the flat plane and the subtle quiver beneath.

He turned you again, facing him now, and his hands rose to your breasts, lifting them, weighing them in his palms as if testing their ripeness. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, not roughly, but enough to send unwelcome sparks through your body, making them tighten further. You bit your lip harder, tasting more blood, as his eyes remained solemn, dutiful, betraying nothing.

But his breathing had deepened, just slightly, a subtle hitch that betrayed the man beneath the mask. “The final verification,” he said, his voice dropping to a low husk that sent a shiver racing down your spine, “cannot be merely visual.”

Before you could protest, he pulled you down onto his lap, your back pressing against the solid wall of his chest, his heat seeping through his tunic into your naked skin. One strong arm banded around your waist, holding you firmly but not painfully, his forearm like iron across your midriff.

The other hand slid down your trembling stomach, fingers trailing fire over your navel, dipping lower to the soft curls guarding your pussy. You stiffened, a silent scream locked in your chest, every muscle coiling tight.

“Be still,” he whispered against your temple, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm and scented with wine. “It will be faster if you are still. Think of tomorrow. Think of the crown.”

You focused on a crack in the stone of the hearth, its jagged line blurring as tears pricked your eyes. You thought of the Arbor's sun-drenched vineyards, the laughter of your siblings, anything but the feel of his exploring hand parting your thighs, his thick fingers delving between your folds.

He spread your pussy lips with clinical precision, exposing your virgin slit to the air, and you felt the cool draft tease your clit, making it swell despite your horror. His middle finger traced the seam of your cunt, up and down, gathering the faint slickness that your body betrayed you with, before pressing against your entrance.

The intrusion was slow, deliberate, a single finger pushing inside your tight, untouched channel, stretching the delicate walls. You gasped, the burning stretch making your hips buck involuntarily. He held you steady, his arm tightening, as he probed deeper, curling his finger to feel every ridge and flutter within you.

“So tight,” he murmured, almost clinically, but with that husky edge sharpening. He withdrew slightly, only to add a second finger, scissoring them to open you wider, the wet sounds of your pussy echoing obscenely in the quiet room. The pain sharpened as he reached your barrier, pressing against the thin membrane of your hymen, testing it.

A sharp, burning pain made you gasp aloud, your body arching as he pushed harder, breaching just enough to draw blood. A single, traitorous tear escaped your clamped eyelids, trailing hot down your cheek. He twisted his fingers once more, coating them in your essence and that crimson proof, before pulling them free with a slick pop.

“There,” Baelor murmured, his arm tightening around you like a vice, possessive now in its hold. You felt the evidence of his inspection—a smudge of your own virgin’s blood mingled with your arousal—on his thumb as he held it before your eyes for a moment in the firelight. It glistened dark and crimson, a seal of your defilement. “The proof. The doubt is gone.”

But he did not release you. The arm around your waist did not loosen; if anything, it pulled you closer, grinding your ass against the growing bulge in his breeches.

Instead, the hand that had been the instrument of proof moved to your thigh, his grip shifting, turning you slightly in his lap so that one leg draped over his, exposing your dripping pussy to the fire's glow. You felt the hard, insistent pressure of his cock through the layers of his clothing, thick and throbbing against your skin, a promise of worse to come.

“The custom…” you whispered, terror finally breaking through the numbness, your voice a fractured plea. “It is done. You have your proof.”

“The custom,” he breathed into your hair, his voice now thick with a tension that was no longer dutiful, the words hot against your scalp, “demands finality. The proof must be… irrefutable. A witnessed testament is one thing. A consummated fact is another.”

The pretense of dispassion fell away like a shed cloak, his solemn facade cracking under the weight of raw desire. The solemn duty curdled into something hungry and possessive, his hands roaming now with purpose—gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, sliding up to knead your breast, pinching the nipple until you whimpered.

He shifted beneath you, his free hand fumbling with the laces of his breeches, shoving them open with rough urgency. His cock sprang free, hot and heavy against your ass, the veined length slapping your skin, the tip already leaking precum that smeared wetly across your thigh.

“You will be my son’s wife tomorrow,” he growled, a raw, desperate edge in his voice you had never heard before, laced with jealousy and madness. “But tonight… tonight, you are the answer to the rumor. You are the seal upon the pact. You are mine.”

There was no more discussion. No more ritual pretense. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you just enough to position you, the broad head of his cock nudging against your slick, blood-tinged entrance. With a brutal, claiming thrust, he sheathed himself inside you, forcing past the remnants of your maidenhead in one savage plunge.

Your pussy stretched impossibly around his girth, the burning tear making you cry out, a short, sharp sound that he swallowed by sealing his mouth over yours in a devouring kiss, his tongue invading as ruthlessly as his cock.

The pain was deeper now, a rending of soul as much as body, your walls clenching in futile protest around the invading shaft that filled you to the hilt, his balls pressing against your ass.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound primal, as he began to move, slow at first, savoring the tight grip of your cunt, then faster, harder, his hips snapping up to bury himself deeper with each thrust. The couch creaked beneath you, the padded surface muffling the wet slaps of skin on skin, the obscene squelch of your pussy taking his cock over and over.

His free hand came up to cup your breast, squeezing the soft mound, his thumb circling the hardened nipple in a parody of tenderness that only heightened the shame. “So beautiful,” he rasped between thrusts, each word a confession torn from his depths, his teeth grazing your neck.

“All this time… in my halls… with his smiles… Gods, your pussy was made for this—for me.” He pinched your nipple sharply, drawing another gasp from you, your body betraying you with a fresh gush of wetness that eased his pounding.

You were a doll in his arms, used and posed, your legs splayed wide as he fucked up into you, his cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting spots that sparked unwanted pleasure amid the agony.

The numbness returned in waves, a blessed, hollow shield, but it cracked with every brutal drive, every grunt he made against your skin. His pace quickened, hips pistoning relentlessly, the head of his cock battering your cervix as he chased his release.

His hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in firm circles that made your traitorous body quiver, your pussy fluttering around him despite the tears streaming down your face.

He was right about one thing, it built to a shattering peak, but not without prolonging your torment. His rhythm fractured, thrusts turning erratic, deeper, more desperate, until his body tensed like a bowstring.

A low, guttural groan was torn from him as he spilled his seed inside you, hot jets of cum flooding your womb, marking you irrevocably as his. He held you impaled on his pulsing cock, grinding deep to ensure every drop claimed you, his breath ragged against your neck.

For a long moment, he stayed like that, his forehead damp against your shoulder, his body heavy and slick with sweat on yours, his cock softening but still twitching within your abused pussy. Cum leaked out around him, trickling down your thighs in a sticky mix with your blood.

Then, with a shuddering sigh, he withdrew, the wet slide of his shaft leaving you empty and aching. He set you aside on the couch like discarded finery, your limbs loose and unresponsive, your pussy gaping slightly, sore and dripping his seed.

He stood, righting his clothing with swift, efficient motions, tucking his spent cock away as if nothing had transpired, the Prince of Dragonstone reassembling his armor of composure. He walked to a sideboard, poured a finger of amber liquor from a crystal decanter, the liquid glinting in the firelight, and drank it in one swallow, the burn steadying his hands.

When he turned back to you, his face was a mask again, but the edges were blurred, the solemnity now tinged with a sickened exhaustion that mirrored the hollow ache in your chest. He looked at you, curled naked and trembling on his couch, your silver-gold hair tangled, your eyes wide and empty, thighs smeared with the evidence of his possession.

He fetched your shift and gown from the floor. He did not hand them to you, but laid them beside you with careful folds, as one might lay a shroud beside the dead, the silk cool against your heated skin.

“The custom is fulfilled,” he said, his voice flat, drained of the fire that had consumed him moments before. “No shadow touches your marriage now. It is… clean.”

You did not move. You could not. “Dress yourself,” he said, not unkindly, but with a firm distance. “Ser Roland will see you back to your chambers. You will not see me again until you stand before the High Septon. You will look at my son, and you will smile. And you will never, ever speak of this. For if you do, you will not only destroy yourself and Valarr, you will prove that the rumors were true all along—that you are a woman who speaks falsehoods and seeks to undermine the Crown with vile fabrications. Do you understand?”

You understood. You understood with a crystalline clarity that froze the marrow in your bones. The trap was perfect. He had not just taken your body; he had taken your voice. Your truth was now the most dangerous lie in the kingdom.

With mechanical, puppet like movements, you pulled the silk over your skin, your fingers fumbling with the laces you could not reach. He watched for a moment, then stepped behind you and fastened them himself, his touch now making your skin crawl. He did it quickly, impersonally.

He walked to the door and opened it. Ser Roland stood outside, his face a blank white slate. “The lady is returning to her chambers,” Baelor said, his tone that of a man concluding state business. “See her there safely.”

You walked past him, out of the room that smelled of parchment and sin. You did not look back. Ser Roland fell into step beside you, a silent, judgemental ghost. The walk back was a blur. The corridors seemed longer, darker. In your chamber, the wedding gown still lay across the chair. The ghost awaited its occupant. Lysara was dozing in a corner but awoke with a start. “My lady? Are you alright? You’re so pale.”

“I am tired,” you heard yourself say, the voice not your own. “The prince wished to review the final oaths of the ceremony. It was… lengthy. Help me to bed. And in the morning, draw me a bath.

The hottest water the pipes can carry.” As you lay in the dark, the phantom feel of his hands on your skin, the ghost of his weight upon you, would not fade. You stared at the canopy overhead.

Tomorrow, you would wear the silver and garnet gown. Tomorrow, you would walk to the sept on Valarr’s arm. Tomorrow, you would smile at Baelor Breakspear as he stood beside the king, the image of paternal pride and royal wisdom.

You came back from the dissociation where your mind was taking refuge when the priest called your name with a trembling voice. Teary eyes filled with hope gave you the awareness that his life was in your hands. A wrong answer, and Aymer would have ordered his death.

“Do you take this man as your husband?” He repeated. “My Lady…”

“She’s not a Lady, my dear priest. God only knows how many cocks she saw.” Aymer’s eyes weighed on you like stones as he spat out his disrespect with disgust, causing widespread amusement. “But I’m sure our Lord will forgive her for her sins, in the end. Right?”

The priest nodded frantically, humouring him without hesitation, too scared to pronounce a word outside the ceremonial lines. Aymer's sharp teeth showed up in a cruel smile. “I already forgave her, that’s why we are here today. I want to make her a respectable woman.”

It was free humiliation led by jealousy of seeing you with another man, which was ridiculous considering your profession. When Aymer tasted you for the first time, he became addicted. A woman who submitted to him uncomplainingly and satisfied his whims was liquid gold for his limbs. And he took his time to ruin you in every way he wanted.

“Aymer… please. I will be your wife, but don’t get him killed.” You begged, trying to sound convincing.

“Are you dithering to marry me to keep him alive?” It was a trap without a possibility of saying the right thing. “What if I order his death right now, and I will lead you in chains around the country until we find another priest to marry us?” His irritation pressed through his gritted teeth.

“I do.” You answered in the blink of an eye, taking his hands in yours in a desperate attempt to keep him calm, and you repeated your answer while looking at the priest, nodding with no hesitation. You even brought out a smile, pretending to be happy with it, with the mere hope he would have been pleased, at least.

But Aymer hated being fooled. His mocking smirk faded instantly, and his eyes, lost in yours, revealed a furious calmness that made your toes curl with terror.

“In the name of our Lord, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

In the wake of those words, with a sudden and firm grip of your hair, Aymer dragged you out of the church, ignoring your whimpering of pain. “Kill him.” He ordered his men.

A few hours before…

The cheap incense failed its purpose to cover the smell of sweat and sex, but inebriated the senses like a good drug regardless. The dim light of the candles, strategically placed to hide imperfections, helped to give an erotic aura to turn on the customers’ desire.

The entrance was for those who didn’t have much money or decency. A tangle of naked bodies addicted to wine and orgasms writhed on the pillows and carpets of the floor. A good advertisement for the hesitant ones, an invitation to come back for those who enjoyed the treatment.

Aymer entered the brothel with a smirk painted on his face and an already half-hard cock in his pants. It was a circle of hell, but it was his favourite place since he met you. The memory of your body, your voice, and your smell filled his mind throughout his journey. It didn’t matter in which corner of the country he was; he always came back to you.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t devotion. You were only his favourite whore, and the only woman who could handle him just right. Or at least, he was convinced of it.

Heavy steps crossed the room, ignoring everyone around but the Mistress, who approached him in a hurry. The woman was visibly terrified, and she had all the reasons to be. She was breaking their agreement for you to be always available if he showed up.

“My Lord. We were expecting you in a few days.” She stood in front of him, who didn’t slow down even for a moment.

“And yet here I am. Where is she?”

“Ser, she’s not ready yet.” Her broken voice followed her stumbling pace as she walked backwards. “Please, allow me to introduce you to another beautiful flower. You will not be disappointed. Hanna, Catherine!”

He suddenly stopped; his irritation was palpable. “I don’t fucking want flowers. I want her.”

“And you’ll have her, My Lord. I'm just asking for a few minutes.” She tried her best to show a reassuring smile, but showed only hesitation.

The silence that followed was thick with fear, and Aymer tasted it as if it were a delicious cake. He loved the power he had over the frightened people, those who indulged him only to save their useless lives. He drew his sword and pointed at Hanna’s throat. The poor woman stood still in sheer fright and whimpered as she silently started to cry.

“No, please! No, Ser!” The Mistress begged for Hanna’s life. “Upstairs, the second room on the left.”

Aymer didn’t knock at your door because he was horny, you weren’t a lady, and he was paying well for your services. It was a real shame when he witnessed you entertaining another man. Those familiar moans escaped from your mouth like a song while your body moved so elegantly as you rode him. Those same movements you used to offer to him, those same vibrations of your throat that thrilled his senses as he fucked you. Your sweet scent was everywhere, but the stench of that worm was polluting the entire room.

“Wait for you to turn outside, please.” You moaned and turned your head as if the invasion of your room was routine, but your blood ran cold in your veins when you recognised Aymer. You moved out of the bed quickly, covering yourself with your robe and bowing at him, something really annoying for your customer.

“Hey! I didn’t finish yet! Come back here, you wh…”

The man couldn't finish his complaint, because Aymer cut off his head with one clean blow of his sword. It was the first time for you to see his true nature, the beast behind the man, the satisfaction in his eyes as he stared down at that lifeless body. The blood of his victim was still warm when he took you, face pressing against the wall, nails scratching the surface. Aymer cared to leave the sword belt on the floor, but he was so eager that he had time only to drop his trousers to his ankles and pull his hauberk enough to free his cock. The chain mail around his chest was cold and uncomfortable against your naked back, and your toes struggled to keep you balanced. Each thrust inside you was claiming and brutal as he cared to keep you firmly in position.

“I got you, my beautiful butterfly. No one else will have you.”

It was the only thing he said right before marking you with his seed, as if he needed to wash all of your customers' fluids off you.

What happened next was a series of events beyond your control.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The spiral staircases leading to his chambers seemed endless as he kept dragging you around by your hair. You hit his back and his arm with all your strength, lamenting and begging, but he didn’t slow down, until you stepped on your robe and fell on your knees. Aymer lifted you by your weight, pushing you against the cold, stony wall. His grip around your hair was still too strong. “I teach you what it means to make fun of me.”

“I was trying to save his life, you monster! You sow death wherever you go.” You hissed back, showing an anger he had never seen in you. He liked it, even if he would have never told you, not to ruin his whims.

“It was better when you were a whore. All buttering and sweet, always ready for me.” He pushed a hand between your legs, pressing as much as possible to feel something through the light fabric. “Do you remember when I bought you the first time? You were wrapped up with fine silk like an expensive gift, and adorned with flashy jewellery.” He lowered his voice. “Fuck, your tight cunt was heaven, even when you bled for me.”

Of course, you remembered. Aymer’s face at that moment would have remained indelible in your mind for the rest of your life, as the breathless pain pervaded your intimacy, just because he couldn’t restrain himself from taking you roughly. Even the Mistress was sorry for you, but she couldn’t do anything in your favour. Refusing what Aymer de Valence wanted meant death.

“I would bring you back if I could, but there is only a pile of burnt wood left and a bunch of dead whores.”

“What?” You sighed. That revelation broke you enough to make you sob, even if you promised yourself you would have resisted. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but there he was, licking your tears and growling with wild desire. “My poor butterfly. I took you from your cocoon by force, but I assure you, no other men will fuck you. It will be like at the beginning. Promise.”

You suddenly realised what Aymer meant and the possible reason behind that wave of violence that led him to kidnap you from the brothel, burn it down and kill everyone else in the middle. He was in love with you, or better, he fell for the idea of having a compliant, gentle woman, happy to stay with him. Someone who could love him despite his sins. It was your professional role; it was what you learned from your job, accepting all the customers, no matter what their lives were outside the brothel. Aymer forgot the reality in favour of a sweeter fantasy, something that he never had in his life, the love of a woman.

In the last stretch of the way to his chambers, Aymer dragged you by your arm, giving your scalp immediate relief. The doors opened with a sharp blow, and he threw you inside with such impetuosity that you stumbled to avoid falling.

You knew you never stood a chance, but you could control it. It was your job, it was what your Mistress taught you, it was the only thing that allowed you to survive him. Your mind suddenly relaxed, reminding yourself that you already went through it. You knew Aymer de Valence. That was your power.

You wiped your tears and walked to the table to pour two cups of wine. “Alright, husband. I have no intention of fighting you. Moreover, we are married now, and you have all the rights to me.” You approached him with calculated steps, trying to show confidence and offering him the wine. “I didn’t thank you for saving me from a life of misery.”

Aymer caressed his teeth with his tongue as a conscious smirk appeared on his face. He took the wine from your hand and drank it all in one sip before throwing the cup against the wall with strength, making you jump out of your skin. He slapped your hand that was holding the other cup, making you drop it and wrapped your nape with a firm grip.

“Don’t play with me, wife. You were happy to be a whore, your cunt let you earn a lot of money with no effort.”

The mask you built to survive anything he was planning vanished, and something else emerged from your heart. Rage.

“Let’s make this quick, then.” You said in a strangely calm tone, staring into his eyes fearlessly.

The light blue of his eyes darkened as he watched you shed your robe, his gaze sweeping over the curves revealed. A flicker of something primal ignited in his expression, replacing the cold contempt he had worn moments before. He let you go, moving back enough to take a full view of your naked body.

“Quick?” He repeated with a dangerous edge to his voice. “I don't recall agreeing to that arrangement. I was promised a wife, not a transaction.”

He moved around you like a predator studying his prey, and you mirrored his movements to be prepared for what was next. “I don't remember making you such a promise.”

“Is that so? She didn't have time to tell you. Your Mistress sold you to me in exchange for all his girls.” His large frame moved slowly with purpose as he closed the distance between you two, his boots were heavy on the stony floor.

The heartbeat pulsed into your ears, appalled by his words. “What?” You asked in a faint voice, causing his animalistic laugh.

“Too bad she’s not here to confirm it, but it doesn't make a difference now since you’re my wife now.”

Your eyes moved from him only to land on the fireplace poker. He looked in the same direction, his eyebrows shot up at your defiance, his lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts amusement and irritation. “Do you want to hit me with that?”

You replied with a mere attempt to reach the fireplace as quickly as you could, somehow already aware you wouldn't have made it. Aymer moved fast without giving you an escape. His hands came up to grip your arms firmly, painfully, his touch rough and demanding. “Do you think you can dictate terms in my chambers? I am Aymer de Valence, and you will learn your place.”

He dragged you to the bed, throwing you on the mattress as he dropped his trousers and slid his robe off his head without ceremony. He didn’t need to wait for an excuse to take you, but he always liked to play a bit before consuming his meal.

You knew he liked it when you were all sweet, purring, and praising into his ear, and taking him completely as if he were the only man on Earth. That’s why you fought. “Touch me, and I’ll drag you into hell with me.” You roared like a lioness.

“I'm sure we'll have fun down there together.”

When he spread your legs, you slapped him. Once, twice, and the pace of the slaps increased when his shock turned into amusement. Your body slipped down under him easily, as he pulled you to him and pushed a couple of fingers into your cunt. The sudden invasion made you tense up, boosting his excitement.

“Are you sure you want to play this game? I’m going to hurt you.”

Your strategy of toying with him in your favour broke instantly. The helpless situation where you were and his guttural laugh led you to fight more strongly, turning your slapping into fists, but even when his lip started to bleed, he didn’t move away from you.

“I'm beginning to think I may have gotten the better end of this bargain.” He spat some saliva and blood on your cunt as lubrication, and it was the last thing you heard before his hardness penetrated your intimacy with disrespect. You tried to relax your body as much as possible to avoid physical pain, but effortlessly. You were already exhausted by the journey, the wedding, and the general violence your mind and body suffered in the hours before, to resist any longer.

He slipped inside you easily, moving your hands from his chest, above your head and squeezing your wrists at every thrust. The familiar scent of his sweat, the texture of his skin and every damn scar you knew so well dragged your mind back to the past months, when you used to be his paid whore; when even if you pretended to be pleased by his attention, the sex was different. He has always been rough and generally disrespectful, but he let you peek at his caring side, the same side where he kept the love he felt for his sister and nephew like a treasure. The beast had feelings.

That was what betrayed you, because in those months, you felt pleasure when you lay with him. And even if it was a bad joke of your mind to protect yourself, your cunt became wet and your skin sensitive to his rough touch.

“Keep tightening, my love. Your cunt is heaven.”

You weren’t tightening for his pleasure, but for yours. It didn’t matter, though; he was having what he wanted. Your broken gaze, humid with tears, moved away from his aroused face.

“Don’t you dare. Look at me.” He commanded.

You deliberately took your time to meet his feral eyes again, but your expression remained emotionless. If he wanted you angered, fighting or broken, you gave him indifference.

“I feel nothing, husband.” Your tease was a hazard, but how satisfying his rage was. You were ready to take the blow. The grip around your throat was so strong that you couldn’t breathe, and while the remaining air was slowly leaving your lungs, he felt enjoyment in having your life in his hand. His pelvic movements became erratic and faster; he wanted to reach the final pleasure without killing you, but still, keeping you on a thin wire.

“Yes, fuck… that’s it. Do you feel it?”

Yes, you felt it. Your body trembled with the unwanted orgasm, shaking with intensity. Damn, it was better than all the fucks you did for work in your whole life. You hated it, but you needed it more. Your face was red, as tears wetted your temples and your fingernails sank into the flesh of his hand around your throat. You couldn’t beg using your voice, but the feeble hope for his mercy filled your heart. When his cock emptied into your womb and his guttural voice filled the room, he loosened his clutch to let you take one last breath before passing out.

You woke up the following day, dizzy, with a huge headache and suffering every time you swallowed. Dark marks were printed on your throat and wrists as you checked your body in the mirror. Aymer was gone, but you didn’t know for how much, and you knew he wasn’t done with you yet.

“He’s my son.” Maekar says rubbing looking down at the cooing babe in his arms, the little boy holding his father’s finger in his little hand.

“He’s mine too.” You laugh, not minding that he’s stolen your baby from you. Happy he loves his children so much, him not always able to show it.

“You got to carry him for nine moons, let me hold him now.” Maekar say turning away from you as if you were going to steal the babe of him. You just wanting to kiss him.

“But-.”

“I’m sure the older boys would love some time with their mother.” He tells you, him having been working all day and unable to be with your sons.

“Would they now?” You ask raising an eyebrow at your husband. Daeron and Aerion both sleeping as it’s late. You having just read Daeron back to sleep. You giving your husband a look. “Stop sniffing him.”

“I’ve missed having a newborn.” Maekar muses swaying slightly with the boy, while kissing his forehead. “You’re already more well behaved than your brothers.”

“Maekar.” You say sternly giving him a look. “It’s time for bed.”

“Wife.” He teases a smirk apart in his face, him at his happiest with you and the children, a newborn babe in his arms.

“You get so mushy when we have a baby.” You say rolling your eyes while you get ready for bed. Letting him cuddle Aemon for a while longer, the babe needing to actually sleep in his crib for a change.

“I love you.” Maekar whispers to you later while you cuddle in bed, your head resting on his chest while he holds you close to him. All the children sleeping in their beds.

“I love you too.” You say kissing his chest softly. Tired but also wanting to spent time with just Maekar.

“Can we have more?” He asks quietly as if saying it any louder would scare the idea away.

“Isn’t three enough?” You ask, happy with any amount of children you have.

“Just a few more?” He whispers kissing the top of your head, already picturing a future with more children.

“We’ll see.”

“Thank you.” He says softly, loving you and the children more than anything in the world.

“What for?” You ask in genuine confusion, not knowing what you’ve done to warrant being thanked.

When the two of you are first wed, Daeron is utterly determined not to drag you down into the darkness with him. He avoids you mostly, not because he wants to but because he thinks it's what's best for you. If he's off drinking in taverns instead of at feasts, he cannot embarrass you in front of the court. If he's paying for a night with a woman (or man), then you don't need to feel like you have some sort of wifely obligation to please him. What he doesn't understand is that you like when you have him at your arm at gatherings, someone to whisper to, to laugh with, to spin in his arms when he's on the good side of drunk. He certainly cannot wrap his thick head around you wanting to keep him in your bed, despite his devotion to your pleasure. Maybe you’ve mentioned a time or too that he need not seek the companionship of others when you are so willing to give it; but he's been either too drunk to understand, or cannot believe you are doing anything but attempting to flatter your lord husband.

You're not embarrassed by the dreams, or the rumors, or even the antics, but it does anger you to see him suffer- and it doesn’t help that you think he's ignoring you. Finally, you decide you’ve had enough. You find him one night, passed out on the floor of his chambers. A gentle nudge with your toe in the ribs has him up, shaking, clearly waking from some fiery nightmare. It's hard not to comfort him, but you’d come to speak your mind. He's not as drunk as you thought he’d be, and maybe that's why he's suffering so, but it also means he hears you more clearly. With a wistful tone that breaks his heart, you question why he’d even agreed to marry you, if he was so disinterested. Daeron is extremely confused. Why would you be unhappy with him forcing himself so far away? You have to be clear with your own heart, he barely believes but the small hope that you might love him keeps him from arguing too much.

Side note: I do think in general Daeron is not much of an arguer, especially with you. He seems like if he's got something good going for him, he’ll just agree with what you say because it's easier, or because he’d rather suffer than be upset with him. This also may be a point of contention the poor man has to work through in your relationship.

Maekar:

You fight with Maekar over his complete inability to show his feelings, while also managing to be so deeply jealous. He is callous, cold, sometimes bordering on cruel, even with you. You knew it before you’d been with him; watching the flippant way he treated servants and nobles alike, cutting words meant to strike deep, a perceived lack of emotion towards his children. It all irked you, how he clearly thought that his princehood or knighthood or name alone was enough to warrant the respect and reverence of those around him. (Aerion gets it from somewhere lol).

It's why, once the two of you are married, the people living and working at Summerhall know to give the two of you a wide berth when he’s irritated you- or if you’ve angered him. Dragonfire burns between you when a fight stirs. You’ve said something kind, sweet, gentle, and Maekar’s responded in the only way he knows how. Scoffing, ignoring, deflecting; anything but giving up his own true feelings. Deep down, he feels weak admitting how much he likes the affection you give him, and how completely smitten he is with you, and because of that he’s acting like a giant baby. He says something arrogant, you respond with confrontation, he says something he doesn't really mean to get you to stop. The older Prince so starved for tenderness, but can barely manage hearing a compliment without bristling.

As much as he initially pretends not to care for you, jealousy bleeds through the armor he’s created. You think him disinterested in you, because he’s shown you nothing to prove his devotion, and maybe you’ve let some handsome young knight lean a little too far in to speak with you at a feast. It's not like you’ve done anything truly improper; being married to Maekar means conversing with the gentry, but you cannot deny you’re enjoying the soft smiles and playful words of the man in front of you. Your back is to your husband, else you’d see the lavender death-stare permeating the crowd and finding a place where the knight has gently taken your elbow to pull you away from a drunken bout. It's cautious, protective, respectful; everything the touch of a husband should be, and it sets Maekar’s blood on fire.

He’s on you in an instant, not even sparing the man a glance before tugging you away with an iron grip on your waist- not enough to hurt, but it certainly gets your attention. By the time he’s found a place far enough from the crowd that you can hear one another, you’re just as angry as he is. What right does he have to all but ignore you, then pull you from your innocent enjoyments? He accuses you of impropriety, you question why he cares, and you find yourselves close enough that your breath mingles between you, chests close. He’s leaning down to speak right into your face, but he falters when he realizes proximity. The makeup comes in the form of hot, rough, baby-making sex; the kind where the truth is whispered out against bare skin at his most vulnerable.

Apologies come after, when you’re both sated, laid in his arms and drifting off to sleep. It's always quiet, he’s not going to repeat it, but it's raw and true and the way into his guarded heart.

Aerion:

There’s no question about what you fight with Aerion about; the man is crazy and you’re the only one who seems to say it to his face (besides his family). There is a deep seated cruelty to him, a bitter fascination with seeing just how far he can push someone’s buttons before they snap. Anything from chewing loudly to cheating in a joust, Aerion will go out of his way to rile up his rival that extra notch. He craves the attention, revels in it, and feels a high off the control other people’s spiraling gives him.

When you’re betrothed to the Prince, he immediately assumes you to be another plaything for him to torment. Wives are meant to head their husband’s wills, and certainly someone given to him would know their place, right? The first time he goes after you, snide words about the ostentatious way you’ve dressed to meet him, the table silences. Your family is of course taken aback, though they’ve heard the rumors, and can do nothing in the face of royalty but sit back and pray you don’t take it too personally. Maekar has all but grabbed the back of his son’s doublet when you snap back at him. Something about the plainness of his cloak, and shouldn’t someone whose own father is downed in finery, and a Prince no less, look the part?

Instead of offense, Aerion feels a piqued interest in you, and a firmness in his trousers. Awkward chuckles from the other dinner guests get the evening back on track, but the Prince’s eyes do not leave you for another second. From then on, he’s constantly trying to chase the high you’ve given him. For so long, most people he’s tormented roll over and take it, but you meet him with your own fire. It's almost childish, how he tries to instigate fights. Petty namecalling, clever jibes, he even goes as far as to try to back you against walls, attempting to use his physical advantage to get a reaction from you. He’s the type to get you yelling at him, just so he can sit back and watch with a grin, palming himself through his clothes. This of course gets you even more angry, as he’s clearly not listening and is doing this on purpose.

Eventually, arguments progress from screaming in anger to screaming in pleasure. The argument definitely continues throughout your lovemaking, only now it's interspursed with your whimpering and his grunts against your throat. Be ready for him to increase his terror; he now knows what the end result will get him.

Dunk:

The problem with Dunk is that he’s too kind for his own good. It gets him into trouble wherever he goes. He’ll stand up for anyone he thinks could use his help; a child unfairly scolded by an adult, an old man overcharged by a greedy merchant, a young woman jeered at by lecherous tavern goers. Often it leads to getting run out of towns, kicked out of inns, and more than a few cuts and bruises. It won’t stop him, there’s a pureness in his heart that keeps him from allowing injustice to occur, but it doesn’t mean you like to see him scraped up.

Fights with him never end in screaming, he’s too good for that. He’s also not one to try and use his obvious physical advantage over you; scaring/intimidating you is out of the question and the thought of putting a hand to someone he loves makes him sick. Instead, it's mostly lectures about him needing to take better care of himself, make better decisions, and stay out of trouble. Once or twice, he’s mumbled out with his head hung low and his worn boots scuffing the dirt:

“No need to worry yourself over me. M’not worth the concern.”

He says it to try and calm your nerves, as if telling you he thinks himself expendable will make you feel better. There’s a look of shock on his face when you get angry at him for even suggesting it. Dunk will fight back with you, but it's always in a low, calm voice, desperately trying to get through to you that he will never stop fighting for those who need him, even if he hurts himself in the process.

It makes his heart stutter and his ears warm when you show such attention for his wellbeing. Some nights, after a particularly physical altercation, you’ll have him sat out close to the fire so you can try to clean him up. Dunk will perch you on his knee as you dab at the gash in his arm with a cloth. You’re telling him off as you clean him. What was he thinking, getting into the petty squabbles between villagers? Did he really think he’d be alright against four other men? What would you and Egg do without him? He’s not really listening to a word out of your mouth, other than the fact that you clearly cannot fathom seeing him hurt. He’s just watching you with a dopey grin on his face like “my lady wants to fix me up and love me and take care of me” while you’re yelling at him. (Egg of course butts into your lecture, fueling the fire with “oh and ANOTHER thing.” He doesn't want anything bad happening to his hedge knight either.)

Baelor:

Fights with Baelor are almost always about the same thing. Your Prince is so, so dedicated to his work; it becomes a problem when he puts it before taking care of himself, sleeping, eating, and spending time with you and the boys. The worst part is, you know he's not trying to upset you, he’s just the kind of man who wants things done correctly, and is dedicated to the Realm and crown. As a man raised in King’s Landing, where vulnerability is a weakness and every eye has been turned to him since birth, he naturally conceals his feelings- even from you on occasion.

The arguments come when you can see he's struggling. The dark circles round his eyes, the dinner cold and untouched at the edge of his desk, the bed cold from him getting back late and rising too early. He won’t mention it, but you know him enough to know he’s holding on by a thread. It's his need to prove himself; years of whispers over Dornish features and death of dragons has him constantly striving to be the best. You're angry, but it's more about feeling helpless in a pursuit to help him. He’s not really doing anything wrong; of course the Hand is busy, and of course the heir to the throne has better things to do than lay about. There also may be some insecurity baked in: who wouldn’t have doubts if their husband chose duty and honor over their love?

When you do finally say something, admitting you’re hurting without him, and how it pains you to see him suffer so, Baelor’s immediately understanding and apologizing. It’s jarring, because you had a whole speech prepared and ideas on how to help and you’re ready to bear your heart and soul to him to get him to understand and now he’s just… on your side? It’s because he’s fully aware that he’s stretched himself too thin, that he’s neglected you, that throwing himself into his work has hurt himself, but more importantly, it's hurt the people he loves. If you’re still hot after the apology, tense and shaking with nowhere to put it, he’ll sit back with a soft, lovestruck look in his eye and listen to you rant about the affairs of your heart. Baelor’s tugging you into his lap, arms coming around you, nodding along and pressing a kiss to your forehead as you lose steam. (He’s definitely the type to “yes ma’am” when you’re ranting at him.)

Lyonel:

The thing about Lyonel is that, if you act like a wild, indulgent, unserious playboy, people are eventually going to assume certain things about you. There is some truth to it; he does love to entertain, to satisfy himself and others, and there’s a storm brewing behind his eyes that unsettles even the bravest of men. He feels every emotion to the fullest extent, but seldom does he share those particular, vulnerable feelings with others. Occasionally, a pure heart will break his facade and he’ll expose parts of himself he normally keeps hidden. Dunk instantly connects with Lyonel so personally that the Stormlord is willing to fight to the death over him. The problem is, if you’re married to a man like that, eventually he will have to confront the fact that keeping feelings buried and acting casual about important matters does not make for a very good husband.

Fights with him go one of two ways.

The first is him deflecting. You tell him it hurts your feelings when he goes off on hunting trips with “friends” who don’t really care about him, or when he leaves for a tournament and insists you’ll be better off stuck at Storm’s End. (AN: If you haven't read anything I’ve written about Lyonel before, I kind of see him as the type of man who is disinterested in marriage at first and doesn’t really want to be involved in it until he realizes his feelings for you and it hits him like a brick.) He’s scoffing, telling you you’re crazy for being upset- which of course makes you angry.

As your relationship progresses however, a second type of fighting begins to occur. Lyonel doesn’t do anything by halves, and when he starts falling in love with you, it overtakes him. It also means that when the two of you are worked up about something, he’s no longer casually cool and aloof. You’re everything to him, but it means you get the full brunt of his feelings when he’s in a snit, and that's its own type of storm. It comes from his heart, though the shouting between you shakes the stones of his keep.

You’ll follow each other down the dark halls, continuing the argument as servants scurry away from your shared wrath. There's so much passion in it, the drama of it all, yelling and pointing, faces hard and teeth bared. It's not about him making you feel small, it's about his incessant need to be heard. Typically, these fights end in your bed, snug in his arms and hot from his body, somehow barely remembering what either of you were angry about in the first place.

the door is ajar so he would catch a glimpse through the crack of it: you spread in bed, naked except for a tank top. one hand shakily, slowly thrusting your vibe in and out. the other handling the wand on your clit.

he would push the door open slowly as to not frighten you, when you turn to see him you're fighting to keep your eyes open but you still don't stop. so he walks over to you, seeing that his presence doesn't stop you from continuing to chase your orgasm.

you've gotten bold. maybe he should correct that. later.

"you missing me, honey?" ormund asks once he's at the foot of the bed.

you can only nod your head.

then he caresses your leg, his knuckles traveling all the way to your thigh, parting it slowly.

then he sees it.

the shiny silver of a butt plug.

"well, you're just full, aren't you?" he asks as he leans down to kiss you chastely when you nod once more.

"almost." he says, unbuckling his belt and zipping his pants just low enough to take out his half-hard member.

"open." he orders.

you do, starting to suck on him.

he adjusts, getting closer to you and holding your head for support. his thumb caresses your cheek as you continue getting him hard as a rock and his other hand pulls your tank top up and starts toying with your nipples.

it doesn't take long for you to cum, he talks you through it, the feeling of being completely full while he praises you makes you shiver, your legs shaking at the overstimulation and his oh so perfect words.

"all warmed up for me, perfect." ormund says as you're coming down.

he unbuttons his shirt while you're catching your breath, folding it neatly on the nightstand, his pants follow.

then he gets in top of you, he carefully removes the wand from your still shaky hand, and slowly takes the vibe out of you. you whine at the loss, pouting at him.

he looks at the butt plug, debating for a second what to do with it, but finally deciding to keep it in.

he knows how much you love anal, he may reward you, if you're good.

"we have something to discuss later." he says as he teases your wet hole, his forehead on yours as he slowly starts to push in.

"your use of toys- fuck-" he grabs one of your legs, moving it to rest on his shoulder. "there has to be moderation... regulation."

then he gets lost in it... in you.

yeah, you'll discuss that later.