[18aw]

ﾟ。₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ｡ﾟ WORKS / RULES / ABOUT / TAGS / RECS

ari . 20s . she / her . personal + writing blog . multifandom / [n]sfw & dark content ahead . strictly 18+ / minors & blank blogs do not interact .

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[18aw]

pervert thoughts about..

[18aw]

had a tourney today and had to watch the episode with headphones while i played LOLLL

[targlocket]

WEREWOLF!CREGAN THOUGHTS...

cw: (mdni+18), monsterfucking!!, dubious content, oral(f!receiving), primal play, biting, feral werewolf!cregan, scenting, predator/prey dynamics, kissing, choking, humping, scruffing, mounting, fluff, pregnancy mention, nipple play, lactation kink, pregnant sex, knotting, p in v, breeding breeding breeding, period sex, blood kink, squirting, public sex (godswood, cave), praise, body horror, marking, rough sex, aftercare, overstimulation, (3.3kw).

a/n: in my au, werewolf!cregan has two forms! one closer to man and one closer to direwolf. the first one looks something like this, but with more fur! the second one looks closer to this! hope that's not too confusing. wrote this in between errands so i'm sorry if there's any errors! will proofread again tomorrow. thank you underworld franchise for making me what i am today, a shameless pervert. this is PURE FILTH, so read at your own discretion!

werewolf!cregan stark who was reluctant to let you witness him in such a way, furred and massive and dangerous, thinking you would resent him, banish this ancient, feral form he can take at will. but you did not. to his utter surprise, you embraced it fully, saying that loving your husband before gods and men means accepting him as is. cregan believed your words not to be true, until one night when you demanded he take the form of the beast and settle in bed next to you for warmth. he was powerless to deny you, wanting more than anything to be accepted and welcomed by you, despite his reluctance, which dissipated into ash when you burrowed into his furred chest, nuzzling along his neck and wrapping yourself around him as if he were a plush to sleep with. you were not afraid of him, and it rattled cregan to his very core. even more when you demanded he turn fully, more direwolf than man, and lay next to you as if he were one of the beasts prowling around winterfell than your husband. you argued he was warmest that way, and you liked how his paws kneaded at the fat of your hip and patted at your thighs even in sleep, as if in search of more of you.

werewolf!cregan stark who loves chasing his pretty wife through the woods, snapping his jaws at the hem of your skirts just to make you gasp and run faster. you just look so good like that: skin warmed from exertion, chest heaving, mouth parting to breathe properly. he could catch you at any moment, but the view of your body swaying and jiggling as you quicken your pace, of the way you yelp and whine when your delicate bare feet scrape against the dirt and pebbles on the ground... gods, it makes his maw water, fangs aching to sink into any part of you.

werewolf!cregan stark who plunders your mouth, clawed paw willing your jaw open as far as it will go so he can lap inside, slow and filthy. he is uncaring of the way it must look, towering over you, maw pressed close, his textured tongue licking the inside of your mouth, tasting you fully. spit and drool running down your chin, and lower, glistening against your neck and dirtying your clothes, but you do not mind. not when your husband’s thick, long tongue is reaching the back of your throat, thrusting it as deep as it would go, fucking your mouth and making you choke around whines of pleasure. the feeling is debauched and sinful, but the growl of approval you get from the beast every time you struggle around the insistence of his kiss makes you preen.

werewolf!cregan stark who calls you pup in private, when it’s just the two of you, and he still has the sense of speech with him, more man than beast, crooning it into your ear, rumbled from deep in his chest. at first, you thought it was a means to make jest of you, but cregan wouldn’t dream of using such a special endearment with anything but aching devotion. “so pretty for me, pup,” he’ll mouth against your cheek, nuzzling into the warm flesh as he holds you close after another night of giving your bodies to one another. “does my pup want more?” your husband would ask seeing you eye the now empty plate of lemon cakes onto the table at supper, a pout onto your lips. “no, pup. we can’t afford such luxuries today,” he regretfully murmurs before pressing an apologetic kiss to your cheek. “be good for me, pup. don’t fuss.” cregan would growl against your nape as he held you down beneath him, ceasing your squirming.

werewolf!cregan stark who lets himself be the ancient, feared beast in the sanctity of your chambers. massive, furred, and dangerous, but never one to hurt even a hair on your pretty head unless you wished it. at times, you ask for the animal yourself, needing to prove to your husband that you love every inch of him. that, and having a hulking, panting mountain of a man-wolf wanting nothing but to lose himself in you makes your cunt shamefully wet. you know most people would find you mad, to feel and desire such a thing from a beast who could tear your throat out in one swift movement, but you cannot help yourself. for that is still your husband, and knowing that even like this, changed and wearing the skin of a wolf, he still wants for you in the most primal of ways, wills your thighs to spread open and present yourself to him in a heartbeat.

werewolf!cregan stark who takes you to the godswood late into the night and tells you to run as fast as you can, for he will give you a wide berth before catching you. the night air is so cold, and you’re wearing nothing but his cloak around you, since your husband wanted you bare and ready for him when he’ll get his claws on you. clothes are bothersome, and the beast is hungry, but he, of course, allows his wife the decency of a warm furred cloak, not wishing for you to freeze before the hunt even began. watching you move through the trees, giggles falling from your mouth as you make sure to sway your hips from side to side as you move further and further away, cloak billowing behind you, offering cregan flashes of soft skin and lush flesh he wishes to sink his fangs into. he had never transformed faster, bones creaking, flesh tearing to make room for fur and muscle and brawn, growling as he leaped into motion on all fours to follow your trail. his prey was waiting for him, and he could already sniff the slick of arousal between your thighs calling out to him like a spell.

werewolf!cregan stark who finds you no long after, but doesn’t pounce yet. instead, he circles. prowls through the trees, allowing you to see flashes of him, hear the rumbles of his need, and the snapping of his maw. your breath hitches, and your chest heaves with heavy breaths of exertion from running, but it does not compare to the delicious ache you feel between your thighs, pussy fluttering and clenching around nothing, the thrill of the chase spiking your adrenaline, steadily weening it into lust. and cregan smells it, willing him into getting closer, making himself seen, paws digging into the damp earth as he approaches enough to snag at the cloak with his claws and nip at a flash of bare calf that got too close to his maw.

werewolf!cregan stark who tackles you into the ground, tearing away the cloak from your body, impatience eating away at the little restraint he has, words ceasing to exist now, all that remained being the low sounds of need from a beast whose cock hangs heavy between his legs, needing to be sheathed inside your cunt as soon as possible. he covers you fully, pinning you belly first into a pile of leaves and dirt, jaws parting to close around your nape, scruffing you, as a wolf would a misbehaving pup, keeping you beneath him as he molds his furred body against the length of your back. the bite doesn’t draw blood, but wills you into obedience, limbs melting, surrendering yourself fully to the beast above you, which draws a growl from deep within his chest, a sound of satisfaction at your subservience. you’re already so, so wet, dripping down your thighs, and cregan cannot help but hump against your ass like a dog in heat, claws scraping against the earth on either side of your head from the feeling. he’s a bow drawn tight, and the way his big, girthy cock rubs between the fat cheeks of your bottom makes his fangs ache.

werewolf!cregan stark who feeds the head of his cock into your hole with a snarl muffled against your nape, holding back from howling from how snug your pussy is around his weeping length. he should be ashamed that he is knotting the air, gorged flesh already pulsing at the base of his cock, but can’t bring himself to when you squeeze so deliciously around him, pulling him deeper and deeper inside. cregan takes you like what he is: a beast. growling and panting against your skin, scruffing you firmly as he pounds into you with fervor, drooling against your nape from how good it feels, blanketing you with his massive, furred form, rutting into your pussy hard enough to jostle you back and forth against the ground.

werewolf!cregan stark who wishes words were still given to him in this beastly form, only able to enunciate the delectable pleasure you’re giving him with nothing but growls and croons and rumbles, hoping those are enough for you to know that your cunt is the best gift you could bestow upon him, next to your heart. your moans and wanton cries delight him, only coaxing him to fuck you harder, faster, deeper, nudging his knot past the opening of your hole and stuffing you so full of him you swear your soul ascends to the gods for a mere moment. the beast rumbles when you squeeze him tight, only able to give sharp grinds into your pussy now, the knot binding you both together. cregan unlatches his maw from your neck, rough tongue lapping at the indents his fangs have left behind in silent apology, but preening with pride at having left his mark upon your skin. you babble incoherently, so lost in pleasure you barely can form a word, tears running down your cheeks from the sheer mounting pleasure you’re given, which cregan licks sloppily, tasting salt and wife on his palate.

werewolf!cregan stark who pins you down and makes you take it, knowing you can, knowing you want it, even in the dirt, and breeds you so full it leaks out of you, dripping between your thighs and onto the ground, even staining his fur. it irritates and delights him in equal measure that your body is smaller than his, not being able to take all his cum into your womb, but loving to know that he is giving you so much of his seed, his potency and virility so strong that your hole cannot keep all of it. a shame, really, to waste it away, but that is alright. cregan will only have to breed you again to make up for it, like he always does. your womb is made to take his litter, to have his pups, and he will make sure he prepares your body for it accordingly, giving it what it needs for the seed to catch.

werewolf!cregan stark who loves to press a heavy paw against the pudgy flesh of your belly, right above your crotch, to feel the head of his cock kissing your womb. to feel the slight roundness of your stomach after he has pumped you full of his cum, the flesh protruding a little from the sheer amount of it. or, to apply pressure in time with his thrusts, making you feel every inch of him as he ruts into you like an animal.

werewolf!cregan stark who gives in to his most primal desires, feral from the full moon, and fucks you into a cave at the outskirts of winterfell, at the foot of a mountain. it’s cold and damp and primitive, but your husband is too far gone to care, driving his cock into your sopping wet cunt, pressing you into the floor of the cave, only cushioned by his cloak. he claws at the rocky, rough surface, leaving indents behind on the ground on either side of your head as he mounts you like a beast, one paw lifting your hips up and backwards to meet his thrusts, presenting you to him, arching your body as far as it would go, like a cat in heat, ready to give him what he needs. your ass jiggles with every snap of his furred hips, and he howls in delight as his knot nudges deep into your hole and rubs against your gummy walls. your mouth is open and drooling onto his cloak as you leave yourself in his clawed paws to do with as he wishes, moving you as he wants you, pulling you onto his cock again and again while you moan and take it, warm cheek flush against the hard ground of the cave. cregan is mad with need, filling you with his seed until your belly swells with it, crooning against your throat as he nips at it enough to sting, then laps the pain away, only to do it again. his precious, gorgeous mate, spent under him, mewling and hiccuping wanton whines of pleasure as you let him use your pretty hole, even squirting around his cock, dampening his fur, marking him back. it satisfies a sick feeling in his chest, willing you to do it again and again, delirious with overstimulation until his fur is drenched in your juices and you are so spent you cannot string more than two words together.

werewolf!cregan stark who croons so sweetly as he cradles you under him, gentle as he turns you around to see your pretty face, your dazed, drowsy gaze, your drooly lips. and he swears there is no better sight in all the seven kingdoms and beyond. your husband is so careful as he curls beside you, using his massive, furred body to offer you warmth, paws maneuvering you slowly until you are pressed to his chest. his maw nuzzles against the top of your head, the length of your throat, the valley between your breasts, rough tongue lapping lazily at the sweat-slicked skin, offering comfort. cregan always handles you as gingerly as he can after he’s wrung every ounce of pleasure from your body, thanking you in his own brutish way for allowing him to have you, even like this, more beast than man. he grooms you, as a wolf would a pup, nuzzling and licking at every patch of skin he can, sweeping dirt and tears from your cheeks, crooning as he lulls you into drowsiness, your body lax and pliant against his hulking frame.

werewolf!cregan stark who begrudgingly allows his body to will itself into the form closer to a direwolf at times, at your request, growling as he listens to you argue that it is better for keeping you warm on the colder days and allows you to curl around him better than his other, more ferocious, towering form. you will never admit how fond you are of your husband like this, all furred and fluffy, a perfect candidate to hold and snuggle to bed, to his utter dismay. he gets more playful like this, nipping at your skirts and nosing underneath them, receiving countless scoldings from you, which the beast only responds to with a flicker of his ears and a swish of his tail. cregan can be a bastard at times, and he enjoys toying with you, lifting one of his forelegs to paw and knead at your ass or thigh when you least expect it. or smack it. whatever fancies him in that moment.

werewolf!cregan stark who has a hard time allowing you to be at your desk, foreseeing scrolls and letters for more than half an hour before he noses his way under your skirts to lap at the soft skin of your thighs and nip at your small clothes, tearing them away so he can get to your cunt. there is not much you can do when a beast is pushing his maw against your pussy, snout pressing against your slit, panting and drooling as he sniffs at the curls that hide his favourite meal. your husband’s rough tongue has no shame as it laps at you, parting your folds to taste you fully, furred ears twitching in delight as your slick floods his mouth and makes his fangs ache. his tail wags incessantly as he licks at your pussy, growling into the heat of you, uncaring of the work that needs your attention. your skirts are pooled over your waist, your wolf is between your legs, and you’re powerless to push him away, fingers coming to weave through the fur between his ears, petting fondly, eliciting a pleasant rumble from him.

werewolf!cregan stark who has no qualms in pressing his snout right against your crotch when he can sniff your moon blood has befallen you, whining needily, akin to a pup, until he can get his big, furry head under your skirts so he can lick away the blood between your thighs, lapping at it greedily, tail wagging in delight as the beast feasts. you are absolutely horrified the first time it happens, pushing at him and yelping as you try to scramble away, but big, clawed paws hold you still, pitiful whines and growls rumbling from his maw as he pleads, in his own way, for you to let him ease the pain and ache between your thighs, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you, cramps becoming merely dull afterthoughts under the care of your husband. looking at him afterwards always makes you ashamed, the fur around his jaws stained red with your blood, dripping down his neck, marking him. he licks at his chops, preening under your gaze, ears twitching. the bastard.

werewolf!cregan stark who is the first to know when his seed has taken root inside of your womb, circling you as he sniffs at every inch of skin he can press his snout against, crooning so deep you swear you feel it in the marrow of your bones. you’re going to have his pups. his litter. and he is utterly obsessed with keeping you close as much as possible, foregoing his duties when the north allows it so he can spend his time curled up next to you, nosing at your belly and lapping at the growing pudge, nuzzling it as he croons and purrs. your husband sleeps with his head onto your belly, or one heavy paw kneading ever gently at the skin there, needing to know every sound, every shift.

werewolf!cregan stark who fucks you slow and deep, even while you’re heavy with his pups, rutting into you as he’s pressing his hulking, furred body against your back, both of you lying onto your sides where you’re most comfortable, to not put strain onto your pregnant belly. one paw is splayed against it, holding it from the underside to ease the heaviness of it for you as he makes sure to drive his cock right where you need it, careful to keep his knot away, mindful of the way your body is too sensitive for such things now. instead, he knots the air, not nudging it inside your hole like he would’ve done before, restrain made of iron, the safety and contentment of his mate paramount. cregan offers his cock to you whenever you wish it while you’re pregnant, knowing that pheromones can make you crave pleasure more than before, and he is more than delighted to provide his length, mouth, everything at your service.

werewolf!cregan stark who cannot help but nuzzle against your chest, nipping at the neckline of your nightgown, sniffing greedily when he catches whiffs of sweet, warm milk leaking from your nipples and staining the fabric of your chemise. his rough tongue is lapping at the pebbled peaks through the soft material, hungry and greedy for a taste, whining and snarling softly, having half a mind to rip the garment to pieces with his fangs. he can’t help the rumble of satisfaction when you tug your neckline down with a huff, presenting your tits to him, heavy with milk and dripping what he can only assume is the nectar of the gods, for it tastes like so when he lets his tongue lap at your nipples like a frenzied dog, tail wagging incessantly behind him, looking more a pup tasting milk than an ancient beast thrice the size of his wife.

werewolf!cregan stark who fucks his pregnant wife with his tongue when he is too fearful to use his cock anymore, allowing you to rock against the textured surface of his palate to your delight, squeezing around it as if to milk him dry. he ruts his tongue into you steadily, giving you the pleasure you seek as you hold onto his fur and moan prettily. your husband is so good to you.

werewolf!cregan stark who will never admit how weak he gets when you let mewls of “good boy” slip past your lips whenever he is between your legs, his tail having a mind of its own as it wags uncontrollably, whining into your pussy from the praise, driving him to satisfy you with more vigour, leaning into the pets you offer him so sweetly.

werewolf!cregan stark who is like a sentinel when your pups are born, grooming them so carefully, licking at their downy heads and nuzzling their soft cheeks, cradling them against his furred body, cocooning them in his warmth. he scents them as often as possible, nosing at their chubby bellies and soft throats to make sure they smell just like him. so everyone knows that these precious pups are his and yours. a labour of your love.

werewolf!cregan stark who needs to leave his mark on you and his pups, scenting all of you heavily every morning before he leaves for court and duties, needing to groom and tend to his little family, crooning and purring happily when all of you nuzzle back into him. cregan’s heart couldn’t be more full.

taglist: @venmondiese @breakspearz @mademoisellepetite @pinkdoeweirdo @brlghtflame

[18aw]

gwayne whimpering was the highlight of the episode for me

[ormundshightower]

Help me, she prayed, send me a friend, a true knight to champion me.

[winterstellars]

ormund hightower screaming CUNT CUNT CUNT (about a man mind you) and then fixing his beachy waves... first time i've seen me on my period representation from a man

[18aw]

lowkey LUSTING over ormund, i get it now..

[18aw]

WHIPLASH / AERION TARGARYEN.

— summary: just aerion getting ridden to pieces. — pairing: aerion targaryen x targaryen!reader — word count: 1.8k  — content: pwp, targcest, p in v, older sister!reader, power dynamics, slightly sub!aerion x dom!reader, riding, perhaps bratty aerion. — notes: very self indulgent, comments and reblogs are appreciated!

ﾟ。₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ｡ﾟ WORKS / RULES / ABOUT / TAGS / RECS

The silk sheets twisted into a frantic, damp ruin beneath you, a chaotic sea of fabric that betrayed the lack of grace in this collision. Aerion felt the air leave his lungs as you moved, your body driving into him with the ruthless, mechanical precision of a siege engine. There was no courtly rhythm, no measured dance of the bedchamber; you rode him with a predatory stamina that made his vision blur, your hips relentless, your strength a physical weight that threatened to crush the breath from his chest.

Smashing your hips down on his cock, your silver hair fell in a tangled, shimmering veil, framing your face that was both haunting and fierce. Your lip curled into a sharp, triumphant grin as you watched his struggle.

“Tired, little brother?” you rasped, your voice low and roughened, stripped of its royal tone. It was the voice of the barracks and the blood-soaked mud of the campfires, blunt and honest, something you were known for. 

Aerion choked out a strangled sound, his gaze locked on yours as you took him apart, punishing and demanding his whole soul. The impact jolted the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping and exposed.

“And here I thought you were a dragon,” you mocked, your voice a jagged edge of heat.

The world had narrowed to the friction of skin on skin and the rhythmic, punishing snap of your hips as you rode him. Aerion, who prided himself on his unshakeable composure, found himself undone by the sheer ferocity of your movements. He was a prince of the blood, a man who demanded the world bend to his will, yet here he lay, pinned beneath the weight of your strength, his lungs burning as you stole the very air from his chest.

Every time you drove down, his spine arched off the mattress, his heels digging into the ruined silk as he tried to meet your intensity. The sensation was overwhelming. The slick, wet heat of your core sliding tightly against his cock, the friction of your thighs bruising his hips. He knew his skin would be purple in the morning. 

"Tired?" he choked out, the word a ragged, broken thing. His hands flew upward to seize your waist. His intent wasn’t to hold you; he wanted to command you, but his fingers only betrayed him, digging into the flesh of your hips as if trying to anchor himself in a storm. "Hardly..."

He watched you through hooded, feverish violet eyes, his vision swimming. You looked like a goddess of war carved from moonlight, your silver hair lashing against your shoulders like silk whips. The way you looked down at him not with reverence, but with the calm, certain look of someone who had already won sent a jolt of pure, raw electricity straight to his groin. It was maddening. It was humiliating.

As you pushed deeper, the blunt force of your hips bottoming out against his pelvis, a low, guttural groan escaped his throat. He felt the pressure building, a frantic, tightening coil in his gut that threatened to snap his very sanity. He wanted to reach up and pull you down, to bite at your neck until you bled, to force you to submit to him just as he was submitting to the relentless rhythm of your body.

But he could do nothing but endure you.

"You... arrogant... woman," he hissed through gritted teeth, his head tossing back against the pillow as you drove him toward the brink. His cock felt swollen, stretched to its limit within the tight, pulsing heat of you. The friction was almost too much to bear.

His hips bucked instinctively, trying to meet your descent, his muscles corded and trembling with the effort to keep pace with your unrelenting stamina, you were born to ride a dragon. He was losing himself to the sensation, the tempo of your hips becoming the only heartbeat he knew.

"Keep going," he commanded, his voice a raspy, desperate snarl of a plea. "Fuck me, damn you!"

You did not merely obey; you escalated, your movements becoming more violent, more rhythmic, as you leaned forward to brace your hands against his chest. The weight of your breasts brushed against him, a tantalizing softness that contrasted sharply with the bruising strength of your thighs as they squeezed his hips.

Aerion let out a strangled cry, a sound half sob and half snarl, as you increased the pace. You were unyielding. You didn't slow, didn't soften, and every time he thought you might, you didn't. The slick, wet sound of your bodies colliding the slap of your pelvises meeting filled the room, a primal beat that drowned out the crackle of the dying hearth. He felt the wetness of your heat coating him, a slick lubricant that made every lunge of your hips feel deeper, more invasive, and more devastatingly powerful.

He reached up, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, his fingers digging into the muscle of your legs to pull you even harder against him. He wanted to fuse your bodies together, to feel the very bone of you grinding against his own. He was a man possessed, his pride dissolving into a singular, desperate need to be consumed by you.

"Gods..." he gasped, his head thrashing from side to side.

As you drove yourself down upon him once more, the sheer force of the impact sent a jolt of lightning through his spine. He could feel the walls of your cunt clenching around his length, milking him with every downward thrust, the tightness of you threatening to shatter his control totally. He was close, so dangerously close to the edge, his muscles coiling tight, his veins standing out on his neck as he fought to remain present in the madness.

His eyes flew open, searching yours in the dim light. He saw the triumph there, the unapologetic power of a woman who knew exactly how much she was breaking him. You were not just riding him; you were conquering him, the title meant nothing here, he was just someone who needed this.

He was on the verge, his muscles trembling so violently he could barely hold you, his fingers digging so deep into your hips that his knuckles were white with force.

As you slammed down one final, devastating time, burying his length as deeply as possible within the tight, pulsing walls of your cunt, Aerion let out a shattered, guttural roar. The world exploded. His body bucked violently beneath you, his spine arching so hard it seemed he might break, lost to the convulsions of his own release.

His cock throbbed inside you, a violent, rhythmic pulsing as he shot thick, hot jets of seed deep into your womb. The sensation was blinding, a current ran from his groin to his throat and back again. He gasped, his head snapping back against the pillows, his throat tight as he choked on the sheer intensity of the orgasm. He was spilling himself into you, his body shuddering with every spurt, every jerk of his hips as he poured his essence into the warmth of your depths.

He could barely breathe, his lungs working in ragged, desperate heaves. His hips made a few more involuntary movements before they stopped. He clung to you, his hands sliding from your hips to your shoulders, his fingers trembling as he held you there.

Aerion lay there, his chest still heaving in uneven rhythmic gasps, his skin slicked with a sheen of sweat that made him feel uncharacteristically unkempt. The heat of your body was still pressed against his, a heavy, suffocating reminder of how completely he had just lost control. He stared up at the canopy of the bed, his eyes unfocused and stinging, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. He felt unmoored, as if the very floor had vanished beneath him, leaving him adrift in a sea of post-coital exhaustion.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at you. His hair, usually so perfectly kept, was a tangled, damp mess of silver strands plastered to his forehead. His face was flushed with the lingering heat of a man who had been thoroughly stripped of composure by a woman.

"Do not look at me like that," he snapped, though the command lacked its usual bite, sounding more like a huff of indignant exhaustion. He reached up, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he tried to brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes. "Do not wear that look of triumph as if you have conquered a kingdom. You have simply... made a mess of my dignity."

He tried to sit up, to reestablish the distance that defined his pride, but his muscles felt like lead. A low, annoyed groan escaped him as he realized he was still caught beneath the weight of your gaze.

"You are a savage," he muttered, his voice still a raspy wreck from the screams he had let slip. He reached out, not to caress you, but to push your shoulder away with a clumsy heaviness. "A brute. You do not dance with a man, you attack him. One would think you were trying to kill me rather than... rather than this."

He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his brow furrowing in a scowl that was half furious and half dazed. 

"And your hair," he added, his voice dropping into a hiss of disdain as he gestured toward the tangled mess of your locks. "It is a disaster. You look like you have just emerged from a battlefield, not a bedchamber. Truly... you are a terror."

Despite the scowl, despite the sharpness of his tone, he did not move away. He remained trapped in the tangled mess of the linens, his heart still thudding a frenetic rhythm against his ribs, a silent testament to the fact that while his tongue was biting, his body was still entirely at the mercy of the woman who had just broken him.

You looked down at him, a plastered smirk on your face, “Ah, fuck me, keep going,” you mocked him with a high-pitched voice, repeating the words he threw at you while you were busy on his cock.

His face went red, if that was even possible.

"Get off," he snarled, his hands moving to your waist to shove you away, and then not moving at all, fingers curling instead, holding on. The command dissolved before it could land. He turned his face away, jaw tight, as if looking at the wall was somehow more dignified while his softening cock was still inside you, his seed dripping off onto the silks.

[18aw]

what if i write for bakugo katsuki again i’m missing my prohero wife

[18aw]

I JUST READ YOUR OMEGA FIC AND YES MORE OMEGA BRATTY MEN WE YELL >< (honestly in my head, I'd think alpha woman would still have a pussy, and their cock would look slightly different because it's either hidden inside idk biology or the clit engorges to y'know dick size to close the entrance and there's balls hhh, some said that omega man have both pussy and a cock, and some just put the womb and vagina in the ass with the passage being open only when aroused to not confuse with shitting) this is too long but just wanna say keep up the good work <3

HEYYY THANK YOU!!!! also i appreciate any input bc i’ve been deciding on what to do with my alpha!reader <3

[18aw]

this episode was GOODDDD i enjoyed it sm

[18aw]

HEAVY GOLD / AERION TARGARYEN.

PART 1 * PART 2

— summary: locked in your shared chambers after the wedding, aerion tries to break your composure one last time. instead, you take the leash and show him exactly how sharp a wolf's teeth can be. — pairing: aerion targaryen x stark!reader — word count: 3.1k  — content: arranged marriage, afab!reader, toxic relationship? they're toxic for each other, p in v, power play, physical intimidation, choking, biting, mild blood, dominant reader, aerion getting absolutely ruined and begging for it lmao. — notes: part 3 is here! the way i can't stop writing this bc this is all i ever wanted to read LMAOOO, perhaps some pegging is on the way if i'm feeling mischievous, who knows? reblogs and comments are encouraged! thank you for the love in the first chapters <3

ﾟ。₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ｡ﾟ WORKS / RULES / ABOUT / TAGS / RECS

Three days in, the shared chambers feel less like a bridal suite and more like a fighting pit.

The king’s master of protocol had arranged the rooms. He had filled the massive space with the heavy, suffocating aesthetics of the Crown. Crimson velvet draperies block the balcony doors. The carpets are thick, woven black-and-red atrocities that swallow the sound of footsteps. The hearth is unnecessarily large, kept roaring by servants until the air inside the room feels like the inside of a kiln.

It is designed to make you sweat. It is designed to make you pliant, stripped down to your lightest shifts, lounging like a proper Southern bride.

You are currently sitting on the edge of the massive, carved mahogany bed, wearing your heavy linen day-shift and a hardened leather bodice that you haven't unlaced. You are not sweating.

Aerion is.

He has been pacing for twenty minutes. The performance of the flawless, unhurried prince was abandoned the moment the heavy oak door locked behind the kingsguard an hour ago. Now, the nervous, violent energy he usually suppresses under perfectly tailored silk is bleeding out into the room.

He is down to his breeches and a fine white linen shirt, unlaced at the throat. He hasn’t taken the rings off. You watch the gold and rubies flash in the firelight as he drags a hand through his silver hair, ruining the immaculate styling.

"You're making a trench in the carpet," you say.

He stops. The sudden stillness is absolute. He turns his head slowly, the firelight catching the sharp, patrician slope of his nose and the dark, furious violet of his eyes.

"I am attempting," Aerion says, his voice a low, vibrating wire, "to decide what to do with you."

"I'm sitting on a bed. It doesn't require a strategic council."

He crosses the room in three strides.

He doesn't stop at the edge of the mattress. He steps directly into your space, his knee forcing your thighs apart so he can stand flush against the edge of the bed. He reaches down and grips the thick leather collar of your bodice.

He hauls you up.

You don't resist the pull. You let him drag your weight upward, your boots scraping against the carpet, until you are standing face-to-face. He is taller. He expects you to lean back, to try and put space between your face and his.

You lean in.

"You have been looking at me," Aerion breathes, the words hitting your mouth, "with that same flat, dead expression for three days. You sat through the wedding feast looking like a bored spectator at a hanging. You stood in the sept as though the High Septon were a street beggar you were waiting to walk past."

"I said the vows."

"You said the words." He twists the leather of your bodice, his knuckles digging hard into your collarbone. "You haven't yielded an inch of ground since you arrived in the Reach. You think this is a game of endurance. You think you can outlast me by freezing me out."

"I don't think about outlasting you at all."

His grip tightens. The leather groans. "Lie to me again."

"Aerion," you say. You drop the title. You strip all the courtly reverence out of his name, leaving it bare and sharp in the stifling heat of the room. "If I wanted to fight you, you would already be bleeding."

He slams you backward. The heavy mahogany bedpost catches you directly between the shoulder blades. The impact knocks the air out of your lungs in a sharp, involuntary hiss. Before you can draw breath, his forearm is across your throat, pinning you flat against the carved wood.

His weight is fully on you, pressing you against the post. The heat radiating off his body is intense, feverish. He smells like arbor gold, expensive myrrh, and the sharp, metallic scent of raw adrenaline.

"Do you know how easy it would be?" he whispers. The courtly melody is completely gone from his voice. It is a ragged, feral rasp. "I could crush your windpipe. I could leave you choking on the floor. I am your husband. There is not a single lord in this castle who would ask a question if you bruised."

The heavy gold of his signet ring bites deeply into the skin of your neck just above your collarbone. The pressure on your windpipe is real. He is not posturing, the muscle in his forearm is rigid.

You look up at him. His pupils are blown wide, eclipsing the violet. The cruelty is right there on the surface, frantic and hungry. He is waiting for the panic. He is starved for it.

You lift your hands, you don't claw at his arm, you don't try to pry his forearm off your throat. You only bring your hands up and grip the sides of his face.

Your thumbs trace the sharp line of his cheekbones, your calloused fingers bury themselves in the thick, sweat-dampened silver hair at his temples as you hold his head exactly where it is.

Aerion freezes. The pressure on your throat stops escalating, though he doesn't pull away. The sheer confusion in his eyes is a physical stutter in the dark.

"If you want to bruise me," you say, your voice barely a rasp under the weight of his arm, "you don't have to threaten me with the lords of the court. You just have to do it."

His breathing hitches. A short, sharp intake of air that rattles in his chest.

"But you don't get to do it like a coward," you continue. Your thumbs press harder into his cheekbones, forcing his gaze to remain entirely locked on yours. "You don't get to press me into a wall and pretend you're a monster to see if I'll scream. If you're going to put your hands on me, you do it on purpose. You do it because I let you."

You drop one hand from his face, slide it down his chest, and grip the thick muscle of his forearm where it pins your throat.

You don't push it away, you pull it closer. You press your own throat harder against his arm, deliberately cutting off your own air supply for two seconds, letting the heavy gold ring break the skin over your collarbone.

A tiny line of heat trickles down your chest. Blood.

Aerion lets out a sound that is half-snarl, half-groan, he drops his arm as if the skin of your neck burned him. He steps back, his chest heaving, his hands flexing at his sides, he looks at the drop of blood welling against your pale skin, and the control he has been clinging to for three days completely shatters.

He catches you by the waist and throws you onto the mattress.

You hit the heavy velvet coverlet hard. You don't scramble backward, you don't try to sit up. You stay exactly where you landed, sprawled on your back, the leather bodice restricting your breath, watching him.

He follows you down. He doesn't climb onto the bed; he throws his weight over you, his knees caging your hips. His hands drop to the thick leather lacing of your bodice. He doesn't fumble with the knots. He grips the edges of the stiffened leather and violently yanks them apart. The reinforced linen laces snap with a sharp, cracking sound that echoes in the quiet room.

He rips the leather off your shoulders and tosses it blindly onto the floor. You are left in the thin linen day-shift. It is no barrier at all against the oppressive heat of the room or the crushing weight of him against you.

Aerion grips both of your wrists. He drags them up above your head, pinning them against the mattress with one massive hand. His grip is bruising, his rings grinding directly against your wrist bones.

"You arrogant, frozen bitch," he breathes, his gaze locked on yours.

He leans down, his mouth hovering an inch above yours. You can feel the frantic, ragged exhalations of his breath against your lips. He waits.

"Bite," you tell him.

He crashes his mouth down on yours.

It’s not a kiss, he is too violent. His teeth clash against yours, hard enough to send a shock of pain up into your jaw. He bites down on your lower lip, scraping the tender skin until he tastes the copper tang of your blood. You don't turn your head, you open your mouth and meet the aggression right in the face.

You twist your wrists under his grip, not trying to escape, but shifting the angle so your own calluses scrape against his bare skin. You arch your back, lifting your hips directly into his heavy, crushing weight.

A low, guttural noise tears out of his throat. He lets go of your wrists.

Both of his hands drop to your hips, gripping the thin linen and the flesh beneath it. His fingers dig in, bruising your skin, anchoring you to the mattress as he drags his mouth off yours and buries his face in the curve of your neck.

His teeth scrape down the line of your throat. He finds the small, shallow cut his ring left on your collarbone. He presses his open mouth over it, his tongue hot and wet against the broken skin, sucking the drop of blood away.

Your hands are free. You don't push him off. You bury your fingers in his silver hair and grip it hard, pulling his head back just enough to expose his throat.

"My turn," you whisper.

You pull him down. You sink your teeth directly into the thick muscle where his neck meets his shoulder. You bite down hard, grinding your teeth into the flesh until you feel him shudder violently against you.

Aerion gasps, his hands tightening on your hips until the pain borders on blinding. He doesn't try to pull away from your teeth. He presses deeper into the mattress, forcing his heavy thighs between your legs, grinding his hips down against yours in a stuttered rhythm.

The friction is agonizingly hot. The thick velvet of the coverlet burns against the back of your thighs where the shift has ridden up. His linen breeches are rough against your bare skin.

He releases your hips and slides his hands up your ribs. His palms are burning hot. He finds the neckline of your shift and tears the delicate fabric downward, exposing your chest to the suffocating heat of the room.

He looks down at you. The flawless Targaryen prince is entirely gone. His hair is a chaotic silver mess. His mouth is wet, stained slightly red from your lip. There is a dark, distinct bite mark bruising rapidly on the pale skin of his shoulder.

He traces the line of your collarbone with two fingers, the heavy gold of his rings dragging cold against your heated skin.

"You want to command me," he whispers, his voice dropping into a register of pure, dark obsession. He presses his thumb directly over your hammering pulse. "You want to hold the leash. Tell me what to do."

He isn't mocking you. He is asking. The realization hits the center of your chest like a physical blow. The sadist, the cruel prince who breaks horses and cripples servants for sport, is kneeling between your legs, entirely ruined by the fact that you aren't afraid of him.

He needs you to tell him how to be a monster.

You reach up and grip the open collar of his shirt. You twist the fine linen in your fist, pulling him down until his face is inches from yours.

"Take the shirt off," you command, your voice flat, hard, entirely devoid of mercy.

Aerion doesn't hesitate. He grips the unlaced collar, the thick, twisting veins of his forearms standing out sharply under the skin as he rips the linen over his head and discards it onto the floor.

Without the heavy fabrics of the Crown, the reality of his build is laid bare. He doesn't possess the blunt-force bulk of a brawler. He is built like a whip. He is lean, tightly coiled muscle pulled taut over defined ribs and the sharp, arrogant jut of his collarbones. A smattering of dark moles stands out starkly against his pale chest, slick with a fine sheen of sweat in the firelight. Even perfectly still, his body hums with a highly strung, violent kinetic energy.

"Now," you say.

Your eyes lock onto his, the heavy brow ridge casting his violet gaze in predatory shadow. You slide your hands down his bare chest, your calluses scraping deliberately over the hard ridges of his ribs until you reach the heavy leather belt of his breeches.

"Take mine off."

He grips the torn edges of your shift. He doesn't pull it gently. He rips the linen entirely down the center, parting the fabric and exposing you completely to the stifling air of the room. He doesn't look away from your face, he tracks the slight dilation of your pupils, he watches the way your chest rises and falls.

He slides his hands down your ribs, down the curve of your waist, his thumbs tracing the sharp jut of your hip bones. His touch is no longer frantic. It is deliberate, heavy, claiming the territory with the slow, terrifying precision of a conqueror mapping a newly taken city. He slides his heavy hands down your bare thighs, gripping the backs of your knees. He pulls your legs forward, opening you wider, hooking your knees over the outside of his waist.

The intimacy of the position is suffocating. He is pressed so tightly against you that you can feel the heavy, erratic thud of his heartbeat against your own ribs. You can feel the hard, thick heat of him pressing desperately against the rough linen of his breeches, right at the juncture of your thighs.

He leans down, his mouth brushing the bruised skin of your jaw.

"Are you going to bleed for me, little wolf?" he murmurs, his lips dragging against yours.

You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together at the base of his spine. You pull him in, eliminating the last fraction of space between you.

"I'm going to make you bleed for me," you say against his mouth, sliding your hand down to grip his length over the cloth of his breeches, he fumbles to get himself out of his clothes as fast as he can while keeping his face just an inch from you.

As he springs free from his personal jail, you take in the sight of him, his chest stained with a blotchy red that blemishes his usually pale marble skin. He takes himself in his hand and jerks himself off slowly, his gaze locked with yours as he uses his other hand to wrap it against the plump of your breast, his fingers grazing your pebbled peak.

You huff, “Are you done taking your time?” you snake your legs back to where they were initially, locking your ankles behing his back, pulling him back into you harshly, his cock nestled between your folds with a sick squelch.

Aerion groans, a raw, defeated sound, and drives his hips up and down, the friction maddening as he sucks marks into your neck, his hands everywhere on you. The head of his cock catches around your clit with each thrust, and you can’t help but shudder at the contact.

“Fuck off, put it in already.” you mumble, your voice with a dash of roughness you’re trying so hard to hide from him.

He is beyond words now, Aerion is just capable of sneaking a hand between your bodies and placing the tip at your entrance, groaning with restless energy. With a last look at you he drives in.

The heat of the room disappears, swallowed entirely by the friction. His hands are everywhere, heavy and bruising, his rings leaving dull, red indentations on your skin. He doesn't make love to you. He fights you for every inch of flesh, he bites your shoulder, your collarbone, the soft curve of your breast.

But you fight back. You rake your nails down the smooth expanse of his back, leaving four long, angry red welts. You drag his head down and bite his lip again, tasting your own blood mixed with his.

It is a violent, grinding rhythm, the heavy mahogany bed frame groans under the sheer force of the impact. He uses his weight to pin you, but you use your leverage to guide him, digging your heels into his lower back to pull him deeper, setting the pace, demanding the cruelty he is so desperate to give.

He is gasping, his breath hot and wet against your neck. The flawless control he values above all else is completely decimated. He is entirely at the mercy of the friction, his hips driving in a frantic, punishing rhythm that borders on desperate.

He hooks one arm under your lower back, lifting your hips off the mattress to change the angle, driving himself so deep you feel the impact at the base of your spine.

You let out a sharp, fractured breath.

Aerion hears it. He catches the sound in his mouth, kissing you violently, his tongue sweeping past your teeth. He uses his free hand to grip your jaw, his thumb pressing hard into the hinge, holding your face exactly where he wants it while he takes you apart.

The heat spikes, sharp and blinding. The muscles in his back lock completely tight under your hands, he tears his mouth off yours, throwing his head back, a raw, choked shout tearing out of his throat as he drives down one final, agonizingly deep time.

He collapses against you, his seed deep inside your cervix, exactly where he wants it to be. His weight crushes you into the mattress. His chest is heaving, slick with sweat, his heart hammering against yours like a trapped bird. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing loud and ragged in the heavy silence of the room.

You don't push him off. You let your legs fall open, your ankles unlocking from his spine. Your arms rest loosely against his back. The air in the room is still suffocatingly hot, smelling of burnt wood, sweat, and sex.

You stare up at the crimson canopy of the bed.

Aerion shifts slightly, his heavy gold rings scraping against the sheets. He doesn't lift his head. He turns his face slightly, pressing his mouth against your pulse point.

His teeth scrape lightly over the bruised skin, you swat the back of his head, softly this time.

[18aw]

I WANT TO WRITE BUT WORK HAS ME ON CHOKEHOLD HELP

[18aw]

god ur omegaverse fic was so fire i think ive read it at least once a day every single day since it came out. legit keep going back to it like fem!alpha fics are so hard to come across. if u blessed us w a part 2 we would happily devour it. loved itttt <33

omg.. this makes me so happy !!!!!! fem!alpha fics are THE SHITTT i’m glad people liked it !!!!! i’ve been thinking hard about part two.. it’s gonna take me a while though… thank YOUU

[18aw]

older sister!reader and aerion was so good ily

HELLLLLL YEAHHHHHH tysm!!!! i love you too <3

[18aw]

WHIPLASH / AERION TARGARYEN.

— summary: just aerion getting ridden to pieces. — pairing: aerion targaryen x targaryen!reader — word count: 1.8k  — content: pwp, targcest, p in v, older sister!reader, power dynamics, slightly sub!aerion x dom!reader, riding, perhaps bratty aerion. — notes: very self indulgent, comments and reblogs are appreciated!

ﾟ。₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ｡ﾟ WORKS / RULES / ABOUT / TAGS / RECS

The silk sheets twisted into a frantic, damp ruin beneath you, a chaotic sea of fabric that betrayed the lack of grace in this collision. Aerion felt the air leave his lungs as you moved, your body driving into him with the ruthless, mechanical precision of a siege engine. There was no courtly rhythm, no measured dance of the bedchamber; you rode him with a predatory stamina that made his vision blur, your hips relentless, your strength a physical weight that threatened to crush the breath from his chest.

Smashing your hips down on his cock, your silver hair fell in a tangled, shimmering veil, framing your face that was both haunting and fierce. Your lip curled into a sharp, triumphant grin as you watched his struggle.

“Tired, little brother?” you rasped, your voice low and roughened, stripped of its royal tone. It was the voice of the barracks and the blood-soaked mud of the campfires, blunt and honest, something you were known for. 

Aerion choked out a strangled sound, his gaze locked on yours as you took him apart, punishing and demanding his whole soul. The impact jolted the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping and exposed.

“And here I thought you were a dragon,” you mocked, your voice a jagged edge of heat.

The world had narrowed to the friction of skin on skin and the rhythmic, punishing snap of your hips as you rode him. Aerion, who prided himself on his unshakeable composure, found himself undone by the sheer ferocity of your movements. He was a prince of the blood, a man who demanded the world bend to his will, yet here he lay, pinned beneath the weight of your strength, his lungs burning as you stole the very air from his chest.

Every time you drove down, his spine arched off the mattress, his heels digging into the ruined silk as he tried to meet your intensity. The sensation was overwhelming. The slick, wet heat of your core sliding tightly against his cock, the friction of your thighs bruising his hips. He knew his skin would be purple in the morning. 

"Tired?" he choked out, the word a ragged, broken thing. His hands flew upward to seize your waist. His intent wasn’t to hold you; he wanted to command you, but his fingers only betrayed him, digging into the flesh of your hips as if trying to anchor himself in a storm. "Hardly..."

He watched you through hooded, feverish violet eyes, his vision swimming. You looked like a goddess of war carved from moonlight, your silver hair lashing against your shoulders like silk whips. The way you looked down at him not with reverence, but with the calm, certain look of someone who had already won sent a jolt of pure, raw electricity straight to his groin. It was maddening. It was humiliating.

As you pushed deeper, the blunt force of your hips bottoming out against his pelvis, a low, guttural groan escaped his throat. He felt the pressure building, a frantic, tightening coil in his gut that threatened to snap his very sanity. He wanted to reach up and pull you down, to bite at your neck until you bled, to force you to submit to him just as he was submitting to the relentless rhythm of your body.

But he could do nothing but endure you.

"You... arrogant... woman," he hissed through gritted teeth, his head tossing back against the pillow as you drove him toward the brink. His cock felt swollen, stretched to its limit within the tight, pulsing heat of you. The friction was almost too much to bear.

His hips bucked instinctively, trying to meet your descent, his muscles corded and trembling with the effort to keep pace with your unrelenting stamina, you were born to ride a dragon. He was losing himself to the sensation, the tempo of your hips becoming the only heartbeat he knew.

"Keep going," he commanded, his voice a raspy, desperate snarl of a plea. "Fuck me, damn you!"

You did not merely obey; you escalated, your movements becoming more violent, more rhythmic, as you leaned forward to brace your hands against his chest. The weight of your breasts brushed against him, a tantalizing softness that contrasted sharply with the bruising strength of your thighs as they squeezed his hips.

Aerion let out a strangled cry, a sound half sob and half snarl, as you increased the pace. You were unyielding. You didn't slow, didn't soften, and every time he thought you might, you didn't. The slick, wet sound of your bodies colliding the slap of your pelvises meeting filled the room, a primal beat that drowned out the crackle of the dying hearth. He felt the wetness of your heat coating him, a slick lubricant that made every lunge of your hips feel deeper, more invasive, and more devastatingly powerful.

He reached up, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, his fingers digging into the muscle of your legs to pull you even harder against him. He wanted to fuse your bodies together, to feel the very bone of you grinding against his own. He was a man possessed, his pride dissolving into a singular, desperate need to be consumed by you.

"Gods..." he gasped, his head thrashing from side to side.

As you drove yourself down upon him once more, the sheer force of the impact sent a jolt of lightning through his spine. He could feel the walls of your cunt clenching around his length, milking him with every downward thrust, the tightness of you threatening to shatter his control totally. He was close, so dangerously close to the edge, his muscles coiling tight, his veins standing out on his neck as he fought to remain present in the madness.

His eyes flew open, searching yours in the dim light. He saw the triumph there, the unapologetic power of a woman who knew exactly how much she was breaking him. You were not just riding him; you were conquering him, the title meant nothing here, he was just someone who needed this.

He was on the verge, his muscles trembling so violently he could barely hold you, his fingers digging so deep into your hips that his knuckles were white with force.

As you slammed down one final, devastating time, burying his length as deeply as possible within the tight, pulsing walls of your cunt, Aerion let out a shattered, guttural roar. The world exploded. His body bucked violently beneath you, his spine arching so hard it seemed he might break, lost to the convulsions of his own release.

His cock throbbed inside you, a violent, rhythmic pulsing as he shot thick, hot jets of seed deep into your womb. The sensation was blinding, a current ran from his groin to his throat and back again. He gasped, his head snapping back against the pillows, his throat tight as he choked on the sheer intensity of the orgasm. He was spilling himself into you, his body shuddering with every spurt, every jerk of his hips as he poured his essence into the warmth of your depths.

He could barely breathe, his lungs working in ragged, desperate heaves. His hips made a few more involuntary movements before they stopped. He clung to you, his hands sliding from your hips to your shoulders, his fingers trembling as he held you there.

Aerion lay there, his chest still heaving in uneven rhythmic gasps, his skin slicked with a sheen of sweat that made him feel uncharacteristically unkempt. The heat of your body was still pressed against his, a heavy, suffocating reminder of how completely he had just lost control. He stared up at the canopy of the bed, his eyes unfocused and stinging, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. He felt unmoored, as if the very floor had vanished beneath him, leaving him adrift in a sea of post-coital exhaustion.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at you. His hair, usually so perfectly kept, was a tangled, damp mess of silver strands plastered to his forehead. His face was flushed with the lingering heat of a man who had been thoroughly stripped of composure by a woman.

"Do not look at me like that," he snapped, though the command lacked its usual bite, sounding more like a huff of indignant exhaustion. He reached up, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he tried to brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes. "Do not wear that look of triumph as if you have conquered a kingdom. You have simply... made a mess of my dignity."

He tried to sit up, to reestablish the distance that defined his pride, but his muscles felt like lead. A low, annoyed groan escaped him as he realized he was still caught beneath the weight of your gaze.

"You are a savage," he muttered, his voice still a raspy wreck from the screams he had let slip. He reached out, not to caress you, but to push your shoulder away with a clumsy heaviness. "A brute. You do not dance with a man, you attack him. One would think you were trying to kill me rather than... rather than this."

He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his brow furrowing in a scowl that was half furious and half dazed. 

"And your hair," he added, his voice dropping into a hiss of disdain as he gestured toward the tangled mess of your locks. "It is a disaster. You look like you have just emerged from a battlefield, not a bedchamber. Truly... you are a terror."

Despite the scowl, despite the sharpness of his tone, he did not move away. He remained trapped in the tangled mess of the linens, his heart still thudding a frenetic rhythm against his ribs, a silent testament to the fact that while his tongue was biting, his body was still entirely at the mercy of the woman who had just broken him.

You looked down at him, a plastered smirk on your face, “Ah, fuck me, keep going,” you mocked him with a high-pitched voice, repeating the words he threw at you while you were busy on his cock.

His face went red, if that was even possible.

"Get off," he snarled, his hands moving to your waist to shove you away, and then not moving at all, fingers curling instead, holding on. The command dissolved before it could land. He turned his face away, jaw tight, as if looking at the wall was somehow more dignified while his softening cock was still inside you, his seed dripping off onto the silks.