need to see shane and ilya play wrestling in a non-sexual context because ONE they are jock bros and play wrestling should be a natural part of their dynamic TWO did you see ilya pretending to do an elbow drop on svetlana. imagine him with someone who’s actually going to wrestle him back and can match his size and strength. they’re breaking furniture for sure. THREE whenever we see them get handsy/pushy with each other it’s as a prelude to sex so shane isn’t really fighting back but that man is also a competitive freak and i want to see him genuinely trying to win. you know he’s biting ilya at least once.
✿ after your stimulant-induced night together, aerion isn't letting you go so easily (part two of Here With Me).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 9k (omfg)
✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, mild description of wound (sword-inflicted, blood), threats of violence (guess from who), power imbalance, SMUT, dry (wet?) humping (reader rides his abs), fingering, pussy pronouns, two (2) pussy slaps, finger-sucking, riding!!, creampie, dirty talk, praise, light degradation, pet names (sweet girl, etc), cw for aerion being somewhat like himself, reader lowkey drugs him at one point lol, strong language, ser donnel feature again <3
a/n: the highly requested part two of Here With Me (i definitely recommend reading the first part before this part, as some elements will not make sense). thank you for the love !! also i fucking love that gif he so sexy :(
Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, clattering against your ribs as you peer up at the imposing towers of the Red Keep. They didn’t seem as scary from the low streets beyond, but here, directly before the grand doors, the entire castle seems to lurch skyward and pierce the heavens with thick-stoned talons. It casts a long shadow too, and the cold that comes with it quickly seeps beneath the material of your cloak, soaking through your marrow.
“His grace is this way, m’lady,” Ser Donnel says, gesturing for you to follow.
You move without a word, following the knight into the Keep and down a long hall. Flaming torches light the way, and the long hall that stretches before you seems to glow with it. Ser Donnel guides you up a flight of stairs, then another, and by the third you find yourself breathless as you clutch your satchel of supplies. Another long hallway awaits you, and Ser Donnel slows his pace to allow you to catch up. He peers down at you then, soft eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes in the well-disguised terror.
“Do not fret,” he says, offering you a small, sympathetic smile.
“Easier said than done,” you reply, eyes finding the thick red fabric draped across the walls. Blood red, a deep crimson, strung up high above your head to obscure the pale stone walls. Ser Donnel’s gaze brings you no comfort.
A couple of lesser guards open a set of thick wooden doors, allowing you and Ser Donnel to pass through uninterrupted. A few servants bow their heads as the pair of you pass, and you finally have the courage to look over at Ser Donnel.
“How long have you been with the kingguard?” You ask as Ser Donnel leads you around a corner and then down another long hall.
This one is lined with windows, and the hall is filled with brilliant, golden rays of sunshine. You glance out the windows as you pass and admire the glistening surface of Blackwater Bay. It looks nicer from this high up.
Ser Donnel chuckles quietly to himself as the hall ends and traps you within the thick stone walls once more. “Longer than you’ve been alive, m’lady.”
The answer leaves you lost for a reply, and you chew on your lip nervously as, after a few more paces, Ser Donnel stops before a door and wraps his knuckles against it. You stand patiently, hands clasping your satchel and willing your hands not to tremble.
Inside, there’s a murmur of a voice, and somehow that gives Ser Donnel permission to enter, for he opens the door with one big shove. He beckons for you to enter first. You do.
The chambers look ordinary for what you assumed belonged to a prince. A large, four-poster bed on one side, draped in thick fabrics and lush brown furs. A stone basin and a writing desk sit not far from it. The other side boasts a large fireplace with a stone hearth that extends outwards towards a pair of cushioned chairs. Shadows dance across the room, and latticed windows are obscured by fluttering curtains that pick up the breeze that flows through the open door between them.
You inhale deeply, smelling salt and sea. It smells nicer this high up, too.
Ser Donnel gestures to the open door, which leads to a balcony, with a sky-facing palm.
You frown, turning to him. “I can’t go alone.”
Ser Donnel nods solemnly. “You can.”
“I can’t. He listens to you.”
“Judging by the circumstances which have brought you here,” Ser Donnel says, eyes twinkling. “I can guarantee you he does not.”
Warmth fills your belly at the memory, but you quell it with a shake of your head. Taking a deep breath, you turn from Ser Donnel and make your way out onto the balcony, where the sun kisses warm against the skin of your face, the seabreeze dancing beneath the hem of your cloak.
Aerion Targaryen sits facing the sea, stretched out like a cat on a lounger. His torso is bare, pale skin nearly glowing beneath the sun, and despite the urge to trail your eyes down the firm lines of him, your eyes immediately draw to the gash in the soft flesh of his upper abdomen. It bleeds freely down the inside of his bicep, ruby-red against ivory.
“Your grace,” you greet softly, dropping into a curtsy.
Aerion’s head shifts lazily to the side, his violet eyes finding you. There are dark rings beneath his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept, and there’s a colourlessness to his cheeks that makes you frown. He looks ill, and as you draw nearer, you spot the puddle of blood on the other side of the chair.
You frown, settling on his other side straight away and opening your satchel of supplies. The prince watches you carefully, wordless, as you rifle through bottles and bags.
“This is ridiculous,” you say openly, your fear having departed in the seabreeze. The angry puncture on his arm and the thick droplets of blood that mar the stone is enough to boost your confidence. “You should have let a maester see to you.”
“I didn’t want a maester,” Aerion mutters, and it’s the first thing he’s said to you. His words are firm in their landing, sending your heart into a clatter against your sternum. He sighs through his nose when you take out a gauzy spool of linen bandages and a generous bottle of orangey-brown liquid. “You can fix me, can you not?”
His words echo those from three days ago, but you ignore them. You take a small scrap of linen and clean the wound with gentle hands. The prince hisses lowly, but otherwise makes no sound, his eyes glancing out to sea momentarily before finding your face again. You feel the way he traces the lines of your eyes, your nose, your lips, and you feel as though he’s committing you to memory.
You dab up most of the blood before uncorking the little bottle. Your other hand takes hold of the prince’s wrist, and you carefully angle his arm so you can pour some of the liquid across the wound. He watches you without a flinch, the liquid staining bronze on his skin and suffocating the bleeding wound.
“You’ve bled a lot,” you remark when the silence becomes too much and his gaze is too heavy on you. “You should’ve wrapped it.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“A maester would have,” you retort as you pull apart the linen bandage and begin winding it around his bicep.
Aerion hums from the back of his throat. The rise and fall of his chest is even, and you see the curves of his pectoral muscles shifting in the corner of your eye as you wrap his wound. After another tense bout of silence, you secure the linen in place and pull your hands back to admire your work. It’s neat and clean and you can’t help but smile to yourself.
The prince gives it a brief once-over. “Perfect.”
You stuff the bandages and the rest of the bottle back into your satchel, ignoring the way that one word of praise sets your entire body alight. Your blood pumps hot in your veins, treks beneath your skin, body a furnace beneath the wrap of your cloak.
You clear your throat. “How do you feel?”
Aerion drags his eyes across your face again. “Better.”
“Good,” you say, then get to your feet.
You don’t get far before Aerion’s hand is on your wrist though, sun-warmed fingers pressing firm against the joint. You freeze, satchel of supplies gripped in your hands as he holds you near him.
“Actually,” he drawls, the blunt nail of his thumb digging into the supple skin on the underside of your wrist. A warning. Don’t move, don’t leave. He continues, “Give me some pain relief.”
You think for a second. “I have some sourleaf you could chew on—”
“I don’t want any of that shit,” Aerion interrupts with a disgusted growl, as if he could taste the bitter herb on his tongue. It flicks out, as serpent-like as you remember, swiping against the corner of his mouth before he speaks again. “I know you have something in that bag of yours.”
“Of course, your grace,” you murmur, setting your satchel down again and opening it up. You shift through your vials of pain reliefs before settling on one used frequently by injured sellswords in Volantis, of which you learnt to brew on your travels across Essos. You offer the prince the vial. “Drink this. The whole lot.”
“What will it do to me?”
“Ease your pain,” you reply plainly, still holding the vial out. “Like you wanted.”
Aerion huffs out a quiet laugh at your impatience, but he still doesn’t take the vial. His hand is still on your other wrist, and it slowly drags further up until he can push the fabric of your cloak up your arm. His fingers ghost the inside of your elbow before trailing back down your forearm.
“Feed it to me,” he says, fingers back on your wrist now. He thumbs at your beating pulse before drawing his hand back, gesturing to himself with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Fix me.”
You want to roll your eyes. “Your grace—”
“Feed it to me,” Aerion utters and it’s firmer this time. It’s as thick as the castle walls around you. As strong as the sea that slams against the jagged black rocks below.
You swallow your retort and inch closer, uncorking the vial with a press of your thumb. The prince parts his lips for you as you gently press the vial there, tipping it and watching the murky green liquid empty from its glass. Your other hand instinctively moves to his cheek, cupping his face to steady his head as you feed him the pain relief. His skin, having bathed in the sunshine, is warm to the touch, soft and clean beneath your palm. Aerion closes his eyes as he drinks, head inclining the tiniest fraction, chasing your touch.
The little bottle runs empty and you slowly draw it away. Aerion smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a light dip in his brow as he tastes the pain relief. You ignore the way you heat up even more as the lump in his throat works as he swallows, and the narrow point of his tongue runs over the ridges of his teeth. You retract your hand too.
“Tastes like wildgrass,” Aerion says as he closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath.
The peacefulness of sleep threatens to take him as he reclines on his cushioned chair, the sounds of the ocean below a lulling melody to drift off too. But you see him fighting it: you see the way his arms twitch, the way his lips curl into a subtle snarl, and the way his eyes wrench open as his brain tries to pull him under.
He appraises you with narrow eyes. “What’s happening?”
You hook your satchel over your shoulder, standing back now. “It’s an incredibly effective pain relief, your grace, but it also acts as a natural sedative. Rest helps the body heal, you know.”
Aerion scowls. “Witch.”
He pushes himself off the chair then, stumbling to his feet. You yelp as he reaches for you with his injured arm, and you quickly dart around him, cloak billowing behind you as you hurry inside. Ser Donnel is nowhere to be seen. Aerion follows on unsteady feet, clutching the doorframe as you make it across his chambers. He holds himself against the frame, and you toss a look over your shoulder, his lean body silhouetted by the bright ocean that stretches beyond.
“Don’t leave me,” Aerion calls, vowels hinged across tonal desperation. He breathes heavily, bare torso heaving, his linen trousers hanging low on his hips as he pitches forward, staggering into the room, affected both by the sedative and prolonged blood-loss.
The way he speaks hooks your heart and forces you to turn fully, your back to the door. You watch as he makes it to his bed, ringing his arm around one of the thick wooden posts to hold himself up. He’s no longer the preening prince who had been lounging cockily on his outside chaise, his pretty little woods witch tending to his wound. He was a shell of a man, injured and alone in the sea-kissed warmth of his chambers.
Curse your kind heart.
You sigh softly. The prince watches you with hooded eyes as you cross his chambers with careful steps, and he groans with relief, unwinding his arm from the post as you take his forearms gently.
“Come now,” you whisper, urging Aerion towards his bed.
You pull back the furs and linens and allow him to tumble onto the plush feather mattress. It’s thick and spongey, and you’ve never seen anything like it. The one you sleep on is thin, tearing at the seams and stuffed with straw you find yourself replacing too often to be practical. The prince settles on the mattress with a groan, and you draw the blankets over top of him. He continues watching with those calculating violet eyes, but they’re hazy with sleep.
“Rest,” you say.
“Don’t leave.”
“It’s okay,” you reassure him. Before you can stop yourself, you run a hand across the blankets in a soothing swipe; a gentle caress across his chest. “Rest.”
Aerion stares you in the eyes one last time. “If you leave me, I’ll burn your shop to the ground and chain you to my fucking bed.”
Then, he’s gone. He topples into a sedative-heavy sleep with a flutter of white eyelashes. You exhale a shaky breath, waiting a minute, before getting up and hoisting your satchel with you. He won’t remember any of this when he wakes. So, cloak flicking out behind you, you take your chances and slip out the door.
—✿—
Early the next morning, you’re in the market with a basket full of herbs and flowers. You peruse the stalls, crowds of other commonfolk milling around you, going about their daily lives amongst the damp, narrow streets of the inner town. There’s a gentle buzz of collective voices that hangs in the air, and you add to it as you hum a tune of your childhood, your skirts picking up road dust as you walk out onto the main thoroughfare.
That buzz, however, is quickly interrupted by a burst of commotion up the road. The rumbling of hooves against cobbled stone echo through the streets, and whinnying horses piece the din in high-pitched whistles. You weave through the crowd of onlookers as a group of riders descend upon the open-air market, banners and colours unmistakable. You stare the red, three-headed dragon directly in the face as it billows in the wind, held high by one of the guards.
You quickly spot Ser Donnel atop his palfrey, eyes scanning the crowd. You have it in your mind to simply duck your head and hurry back to your shop undetected. But something draws you to the front of the crowd, and something even stronger in your mind, something even louder, tells you that they’re here for you.
You break the line of people, still holding onto your basket. “Ser Donnel?”
Ser Donnel’s eyes snap to yours and a look of pure, unbridled relief washes over his face. He quickly dismounts his horse and beckons you out of the crowd. The other guards are quick to pull their horses around, shepherding the rest of the commonfolk away with stamping hooves and threatening brandishes of their glinting blades.
The kingsguard addresses you by name. “You weren’t in your shop.”
You nod down to your basket. “I had to replenish my supplies. What’s going on?”
“He requests your presence again,” Ser Donnel says, and this time, you don’t need to ask for clarification. You know exactly who he’s talking about.
Still, you shake your head firmly. “No.”
Ser Donnel frowns. “M’lady, you must understand—”
“If he is unwell, or if he is injured, he must see a maester. A real maester,” you reason, fidgeting with one of the flowers in your basket. “He cannot just summon me if he requires—”
“But he can,” Ser Donnel interrupts plainly. “He can summon you if he requires you, m’lady. He is a prince of the realm. He is the son of the Prince of Summerhall. You are in no place to refuse.”
You’re taken aback by Ser Donnel’s words. He speaks plainly, and with little interest, as if his admittance that you have no autonomy over this situation is boring him. You suspect he’s becoming tired of chasing you around at Aerion’s command.
“Please,” Ser Donnel suddenly adds, softer now. “The prince is not known for his patience, nor his understanding. I beg you not to make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
You sigh through your nose, crushing the velvet petal between your thumb and forefinger. You look around, flanked on all sides by colours of black and red; trapped by flashes of ash and blood and a three-headed dragon with its fangs at your neck.
“What does he need now?” You question.
“You,” Ser Donnel replies simply, and now you see that twinkle in his eye you’ve become accustomed too.
“I understand that,” you say. “But has he injured himself again? Is he ill?”
“No.”
“Then what—?”
“He needs you,” Ser Donnel interrupts, then gestures to his horse. “Now, m’lady, if you’d be so kind.”
You gape at him. “But Ser Donnel—”
“Get on the horse.”
“…Yes, ser.”
—✿—
You know how to get to Aerion’s chambers, but Ser Donnel follows you there anyway. He’s your shadow—a gleaming white shadow with a hand on the hilt of his longsword—as you traipse through the halls. This time, servants are quick to scamper out of your way, dropping their eyes. They do not bow to Ser Donnel like they did yesterday.
“They look frightened,” you comment when you reach the top of the stairs, another servant jumping out of your way to let you pass by.
“They are,” the kingsguard replies.
You frown. “Of me?”
“For you,” he says pointedly as you pass through those heavy doors again. A moment later, you reach the sunlight-drenched hall. “The prince has been irate these last few days. No one but you and I know the real reason, but whispers travel well through these stone walls. You’re the poor little woods witch Aerion has decided to torture. You’re one of them. Commonfolk, pressed beneath the thumb of another unruly Targaryen prince.”
You bite your lip, feeling the warm sunlight on your skin with each window you pass.
Ser Donnel continues. “But please do not fret, m’lady. No harm shall befall you as long as I’m here.”
That makes you scoff as you arrive before the prince’s door. Even the sight of the thick wood on its steel hinges has your stomach churning with anxiety.
“Yet you send me in there alone,” you murmur, eyeing the door as if it might leap forth from its solid frame and slam you into the ground.
Ser Donnel offers you a small, comforting smile.
“The prince is… temperamental. He is unruly and stubborn and acts with a cruelty I have never before seen within these castle walls,” Ser Donnel says gently. “But he wants you. He needs you, and he has gone to great lengths to get you here. He will not hurt you. I don’t know what exactly happened those days ago, but he needs you more than he’s needed anything. So, m’lady, I can assure you that you’re safe here.”
You chew your lip nervously.
Ser Donnel gestures to the door, then wanders off down the hall, his armour gleaming in the sunshine. You know he never goes far, but the isolation of it all hits you as you raise a tentative fist to the door. Your heart is in your throat and your stomach is in knots.
But before you can knock, the door flies open. A servant stands there, eyes wet with tears, and she lets out a startled squeak as she almost crashes into you. She holds a silver tray and clutches it tightly as you step out of her way.
“Apologies,” you mutter, then take in her distraught appearance. “Are you alright?”
The servant looks you up and down, eyes widening as if just realising who you are.
She lowers her voice, barely above a whisper. “He is a man most cruel, and I pray the gods shield you from his wrath better than they did me.”
And then, she’s gone, scurrying up the hall and disappearing from sight. Her words don’t scare you, but instead ignite something deep within your belly. You frown to yourself, recalling the tears in her eyes and the slight tremble in her lip. You are not going to be the poor little woods witch everyone thinks you are.
You enter the prince’s chambers and find it much the same as yesterday. You close the door, traipsing across the red patterned Myrish carpets strewn across stone. Blinking against the summer sun, you step out onto the terrace and find Aerion in the exact place as yesterday. He reclines in his plush chaise, mostly lying down with his upper chest and head supported by the chair’s back. Once again, his torso is bare of a tunic or doublet. His linen trousers sit low on his hips, showing off the lines of his abdomen and the white trail of hair you remember being soft beneath your tongue and fingers.
You shake your head and rid yourself of the heat the memory causes, instead focusing on your frustration at the prince’s malevolence.
“Aerion,” you say as you approach, and he inclines his head to peer at you. His bicep is still bandaged as he rests his hands on his stomach.
“Careful,” he warns, but you ignore him.
Your skirts swish around your ankles as you stand before him, casting a shadow across his body. He looks up at you, violet eyes flashing.
“You made that poor girl cry,” you tell him, hands balling into fists at your sides.
He looks at you with a mixture of amusement and confusion. “Who?”
“Your servant,” you say, gesturing to his chambers. “You upset her—!”
“I don’t care,” Aerion interrupts, eyes narrowing. “She insisted my bandage be changed and the wound be cleaned. I told her to fuck off, and if she tried to touch me again I would throw her into the fucking Blackwater.”
You spare a glance behind you. The ocean crashes against the rocky precipice with thundering power, and your heart lurches in your chest when you remember just how high you are. You turn back to the prince with a frown.
“She’s right,” you say. “The wound should be cleaned and the bandage should be changed.”
“Which is why you are here,” Aerion replies as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. He reacts to your face of shock with a roll of his eyes. “What? Did you think I wanted some grimy little servant girl putting her hands on me?”
“Your grace…”
“No. The only hands I want on me,” he speaks lowly. “Are yours.”
Your throat works around a nervous swallow as the prince bends to the side and plucks a fresh role of linen bandaging from the ground beside him. He offers it to you, pointing at the same time to a small basin and cloth sitting nearby.
“Fix me,” he orders, and your feet are moving before you can even think.
You take the gauzy bandages from his hand and grab the small stone basin and cloth from near the Keep’s wall. You return to the chair, and he shuffles to the side to allow you to perch yourself on the edge. He hums, obviously pleased, as you gently unwrap the bandaging from the previous day. The wound beneath weeps, but it is clean of infection.
The prince continues to hold his arm out as you dot the wet cloth against the wound, soaking up the blood-misted fluid that leaks from the clotting edges. Aerion hisses when you press the cloth directly against the wound—on purpose, but not too hard since it actually does have to be cleaned out again—and you pull it away when you’re satisfied.
“See? I don’t need a maester,” Aerion mutters as you wrap the wound again. You secure the soft, fibrous linen against the muscle and fat with careful fingers. Aerion watches you curiously. “Why would I need a maester when I have you?”
“Stop it,” you whisper as you secure the bandage to his bicep.
You can’t help it. His tone is cloying and heats you like a sparking ember beneath your skirts. It’s the same tone, just lighter, more awake, that he had used when he stumbled into your shop several days ago.
Aerion ignores you. “You can fix me. You can fix anything. I don’t need anyone else—I don’t need servant girls and I don’t need any of those useless fucking maesters. I have you.”
“I’m not a maester. I can’t work here as one.”
“Does it look like I care?” Aerion’s hand shoots out, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist as you attempt to get up. You settle back on the edge of the chaise. “You’re better than any maester who has ever treated me. Why would I want anyone else but you?”
His words continue to fan the heat sitting deep inside you. You’re powerless against his pull. His leg presses to the curve of your arse where you sit on the chaise, and he holds you so firmly that you know you can’t flee.
“Besides…” Aerion continues, eyes drawing down your body again. “How many princes can say they fuck their healers?”
Your surprise lodges in your throat. “Wha—?”
“Come here,” the prince interrupts, patting his thigh. When you shake your head, Aerion tugs on your wrist. “Don’t be like that.”
Your body is humming with arousal at the way he wants you so openly, but your fear is constricting. Shakily, you turn and clamber across his lap, spreading your legs across the mass of his torso. You hover yourself just above his navel, your skirts fanning out around you. Soft hands rest on his chest, and he hums from the back of his throat, something closer to a purr, as he urges you to touch him with his hands splayed across the backs of yours.
“That’s it,” he whispers, head reclining in the chaise. It’s a large seat and comfortably cushioned, so your knees rest easily either side of him. He urges your hands to knead at the flesh of his pectorals. “That’s it, touch your prince.”
You follow his actions, spurred on by his words that are not clouded by the effects of one of your stimulants. His skin is delightfully warm under your fingers, and you feel the gentle beating of his heart as you massage your thumbs down the curve of his chest. You bite your lip, heartbeat settling between your spread thighs as your thumbs ghost over the short, almost invisible white hairs between his pecs, then across the muscle, before swiping over his nipples. He groans, eyelids low as he watches you through light-coloured lashes.
Where you straddle his torso, you glow hot. And he feels it—he feels the slick heat of you building between your thighs, trapped beneath the linen of your smallclothes as your fingers work along his chest. Experienced hands drag away from yours now, shifting downwards to tug at the skirts of your dress, riding them up until he could take two large handfuls of your thighs.
“I meant what I said the other night,” Aerion begins, rubbing the flesh of your thighs. It causes you to jerk your hips involuntarily, the heat of your covered core rutting against the lines of his abdomen.
He groans, pleased. “You’ve a pretty little pussy that belongs in a whorehouse. So tight and wet…” One of his hands drags inwards, two fingers brushing over the damp gusset of your smallclothes. He continues, “...You think she’ll remember me?”
You exhale a shaky breath and it dances along a whimper. Aerion preens at the sound, taking that as further encouragement to rub his fingers firmly down your covered slit. The points angle inwards, and he spreads the lips of your cunt beneath your smallclothes, dampening the fabric as he moves up and down. Another trembling breath leaves you as you stroke the flesh of his pectorals, hands shifting up to squeeze at the muscle near his shoulders.
“Of course she will,” the prince continues as he ruts his fingers along your slit. The linen of your smallclothes is completely wet now, sticky against the warmth of your core as his fingers continue to move. A rumble sounds from deep in his chest, his other hand still kneading the flesh of your thigh. “She’s already so fucking wet, sweet girl. Making a mess of herself in here.”
His fingers draw back and he pinches the fabric of your smallclothes between two fingers. He pulls it away from your slick core, a rush of air bracing against your folds and forcing a whimper from your throat. Your fingers cup the muscle of his chest, hips rocking as he releases the linen before patting your core with two heavy slaps. You jolt, lifting your hips to flee the sudden pressure, but his hand bundles in your skirts and drags you right back down.
“Rub yourself on me,” he says, both hands settling above your skirts now, gripping the flesh of your hips. He holds you tightly against his torso, his cock slowly hardening behind the curve of your arse. “Show me how much you need this. How much you need your prince’s cock.”
You pout a little, fingers holding warm muscle, but you do as you’re told. With his hands a heavy and guiding weight on your hips, you slowly start to grind yourself against him. You roll your hips, moaning softly as a gentle sea breeze braces against your back, the heat of your clothed cunt smothering against the rigid lines of his abdomen. He responds with a low sound of his own, the muscles of his abdomen contracting as you rut yourself against him. The heat inside you picks up as the heartbeat between your thighs surges, blood pounding in your ears.
The contours of his stomach are soft but prominent enough that your clit catches with each upwards rut, the linen of your smallclothes rubbing against the split of your pussy in just the right way. You keen, holding yourself against his chest, as you roll your hips and chase the heat spreading through your womb. It’s dizzying, overwhelming. You smell the rich salt of the Blackwater Bay and you can hear her churning against the rocks below, and the distant calls of seabirds are largely obscured by the little moans that drip from your lips.
Aerion watches you with a pleased smile stretched across his face. There’s a light hue of pink on his cheeks as his eyes alternate between your face, which filters beautifully through emotions of pleasure as you rub yourself against his torso; and your core, which he just manages to see by holding your skirts at your hips. He looks like a man who’s got everything he wants, and then some more.
“Can you feel how wet you are?” He whispers, cocking his head as he watches you drag your clothed core against the ridges of his stomach. “Can you feel the mess you’re making? Gods, she’s a messy girl, isn’t she?”
You whine in response, circling your hips and angling your clit down hard against his muscle. A shock travels through your legs and fissures deep in your belly, igniting the heat that fans through your womb. The linen of your smallclothes is soaked through, and the remnants of shame prickle at the back of your neck, but it doesn’t last. Not when Aerion is pulling you down even harder on his stomach, his muscles flexing beneath you, cock hard and aching behind you. He grinds you down onto him, grip tight as you mewl and whine, your fingers groping the muscle of his pecs.
“Come for me,” Aerion says after a long, quiet moment, filled only with your soft whimpers and his deep breathing.
“Aerion,” you moan out, the sound carried along the breeze. There’s a dull ache in your thighs as your hips increase in speed, grinding your clit down hard onto his torso. “My prince, I can’t—”
“Don’t fuss,” he hisses, and those two words hurtle you back in time to when he had you bent over your shop counter. You respond with another moan, nails pressing red crescents into the flesh of his chest. He holds you tightly and grinds you onto him. “Don’t fuss and do what you’re told.”
The heat in your lower belly solidifies into a pressing weight, and you feel it grow heavy in the heartbeat that strings through your core like a live wire. You toss your head back, sun a wash of honey and gold against your face, as you whimper through a few last rocks of your covered pussy against him. You moan his title into the salt-licked breeze, and it’s carried away as you come into the gusset of your smallclothes. Your thighs tighten either side of him as you release, body shaking as he gently guides you through it.
He pulls your orgasm from you with a proud smile on his face, the points of his teeth visible against his lips. “There we go…”
You shudder out an exhale as you hang your head, palms flat on his chest. You collect yourself, listening to seabirds cawing high above and water lapping far below.
Aerion doesn’t wait for you to rest, though. His hands disappear from your hips and gather beneath your bunched skirts. He slides a hand between your thighs and palms at the wet bridge of your smallclothes, huffing out a laugh to himself before he takes the fabric across two hands. You feel his arms straining beneath you, but before you can say anything, Aerion rips the gusset of your smallclothes apart with a loud tear.
“Aerion!” You gasp, snapping out of your post-orgasmic bliss with the sound of fabric shredding loud in your ears.
Aerion ignores you, prying the linen apart and baring your cunt to him. He groans when he settles his fingers against you, sliding over your puffy clit and running between your slick folds. You’re hot and wet against his fingers, and your release traps in strings between the digits when he pulls his hand away.
That same hand quickly pushes against your lips.
“Open.” He taps them against your closed mouth.
You do as you’re told, lips parting for him to slide two inside. He’s not gentle with the movements: shoving them in, knuckles knocking against teeth, pressing hard to the back of your tongue in such a way you gag. His thumb shifts to rest against your chin, locking his fingers in place as he rubs them along the bumps of your tongue. You gag again.
His other hand fills the space left between your legs. Your cunt aches with your heartbeat as he slides two fingers through you, petting you with a surprising gentleness you hadn’t been expecting. You whine around his fingers, allowing the tips of your teeth to sink down into his skin as your tongue writhes beneath the press of them.
“Missed this mouth,” Aerion murmurs, and you wonder if you were supposed to hear it. His fingers rub against your tongue as his other hand works through your folds. Two blunt fingertips find your leaking hole, tracing a delicate circle. The corner of his mouth quirks up as he feels the slick drooling from you. “Missed her, too.”
You moan around his fingers, hands still pressed to his chest as he sinks inside you. All the way to the bottom knuckle. He shoves his fingers all the way in. No stretch, no gentle pulling you apart on his lap, just an unceremonious thrust upwards that has you keening against his torso. A trickle of saliva escapes the corner of your mouth as your hips jerk, responding to the solid curl of his fingers inside you. He splits them apart, then brings them together, curling and searching for that spot inside you he found easy enough with his cock.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Aerion grunts, crooking his fingers towards himself. That presses against something inside you and your jaw goes lax around his fingers. He hums, pleased, pressing down a few times before retracting his fingers—then thrusting back in with a third. He settles into a blistering pace with his three fingers splitting you open. “Ride my fingers, c’mon.”
You do as you’re told. Again.
With a shaky whine around the fingers in your mouth, you lift yourself slightly then drop back down. Your thighs are still aching, and you whine again at the pull of your muscles along the back of your hamstrings. There’s a pinch in the base of your spine too as you roll your hips, knocking the tips of his fingers against that good spot inside you. The pleasure that emerges from the depths of your belly, crawling from your first orgasm, is quick to quell your aches and pains though, dragging you back towards a searing pleasure.
Aerion’s fingers are thick inside you. You can feel the bump of his sword callouses against your gummy walls, and you squeeze him tight each time you take him to the hilt. Something tugs at your womb when he moans in response, the sound loud and unabashed in the air around you. You wonder then if he ever made these sounds for the girls he used to pay for. You also wonder, briefly, how much he’d be willing to pay for you.
He moans again as he watches you take his fingers, his hard cock rutting against the stitched seam of his trousers as his hips lift to meet your movements. Phantom strokes: he’s chasing a pressure that isn’t there as you rut yourself onto his fingers, slick dribbling down his wrist as your movements deepen.
“Fuck, fuck, that’s it.” Aerion watches you, transfixed. “Gods above, you’d take anything I give you, wouldn’t you? You’d ride my knife like my cock if I asked.”
You’re relieved you can’t see a knife anywhere as you sink up and down against his fingers. The idea passes across Aerion’s face like a shooting star, lighting up his violet eyes as they drag up to your face. You shake your head in a silent response, tongue still pinned to the bottom of your mouth by his fingers.
Aerion huffs. “One day.”
He removes his fingers from your mouth, wiping your spit across your cheek. They wrap around your throat next as he helps in pushing you down onto his fingers. The curve of your arse ruts against the tent in his trousers too, and you can tell he’s getting himself worked up by the flush crawling up his chest and neck. He’s warm beneath your palms, but he grows hotter as he watches his fingers stretch you apart.
“Shit,” he growls out, suddenly pulling his fingers from you. It leaves you coldly empty, and you sigh, desperate, as both of his hands snap down to your hips. But before you can protest, he’s urging you backwards, and you shuffle back until you’re straddling his thighs instead. He groans, “Take my trousers off.”
Nimble fingers make quick work of the ties of his trousers, and you tug them down before reaching the ties of his breeches. Those unwind too, and you pull his undergarments apart as he waits patiently, watching you with pupils blown wide across the violet of his irises. As you pull his aching cock out, he sucks his fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of you from his skin, before he’s reaching down with that hand to tug on your skirts.
“Spit on it and sit,” he instructs as your warm fingers wrap around his length.
He hisses out when you squeeze him, chest shuddering as your thumb presses firmly to the underside of his reddened head. Pre-cum beads at the slit, and you watch it pearl before bringing a wad of saliva to the front of your mouth and letting it drop from your lips. Aerion watches it happen with a groan, eyelids lowering. Your spit lands squarely on the tip and follows a vein on the underside, and the prince moans your name loudly as you chase it with your fingers. You smooth it, wet and warm, around his shaft, your pussy clenching around nothing at the wet sound it makes, and the small whine that leaves him when you squeeze around the base.
You lift yourself then, breathing deeply as you run the head of him through your slick folds. His hands find your hips, holding you in a vice-like grip as you shift, sliding the tip of his cock back and forth.
“I said sit,” Aerion grunts, and you can’t help the little smile that graces your lips when you finally notch the head at your entrance and slowly sink down.
The angle drags him deeper inside you, the warmth in your stomach resuming its fiery tirade as you sink lower and lower, and lower still until you settle flat to his pelvis. The thick of him stretches you open, and you whine helplessly as you wriggle your hips a little, the stretch warm and familiar.
“There she is,” Aerion drawls, head resting back against the chaise as your cunt sucks him in.
You moan softly as the head of his cock comes to rest near the plug of your cervix, so deep, so close to you. You feel the heat of him, how he throbs as you still, as your pussy clenches as you shift your hips. His hands are branding on your hips, gathering up your dirt-stained skirts to watch the way you take him.
He groans when you decide to rock against him, puffy clit catching in the hair at the base. The white shines with your slick, and the sight alone has his balls twitching beneath the soft press of your arse on his thighs.
“Pretty girl,” the prince whispers. His eyes are hungry as they take you in, sweeping down your body. His hips jerk up, and he nudges deep inside you, relishing in the way you gasp. He groans, “Yeah, that’s it, sweet girl, ride me—ride your dragon.”
You respond in kind, whispering out a desperate call of his name as you cautiously lift yourself up, then drop back down. That same ache appears in your thighs again, but you ignore it as you start up your rhythm. Your hands find his abdomen, much of it dewy with you as your fingers scramble for purchase, nails etching between the strong lines as you grind yourself against him. His hands move lower, squeezing the fat of your arse over your skirts as you flatten yourself against his pelvis.
The sun watches on amongst a veil of cloudless blue, sweat beading beneath your dress and down the dip of your spine. It gathers where your knees bend too, and you whine at the heat trapped beneath your weakly-boned bodice as you ride him.
“What’re you pouting for?” Aerion asks, lifting a hand to cup your chin. He angles your head so you’re looking at him, and your pout only deepens when he squeezes your cheeks. You can smell yourself on his fingers as he holds your face firm, and it makes you dizzy with need. Aerion cocks his head, imploring, “Huh? What’s the matter?”
His hips lift to meet the rolling of your hips, and the head of his cock nudges that spot inside you hard. You hiccup around a moan, the sound coming out like a strangled gasp. He releases your face, slapping your cheek gently, like one would the hind of a hound.
“S’too much,” you say as the heat builds inside you.
Each knock of his length against the plug of your cervix has you keening, and the heat in your belly mirrors the fires that mount the walls of this very stronghold.
Aerion laughs, but it’s mocking in its delivery. He observes the way you writhe in his lap and remediates it simply with a hand to the front of your dress. Threading his fingers through your low neckline, he pulls downward and you feel yourself lurch forward as he tears the front of your bodice down your chest. Beneath, you feel your chemise give way too, a painful tug at the back of your neck as some of the fabric rips at the seams. Your tits spill out, nipples hardening in the warm, salty air.
“Aerion,” you gasp, but he dismisses your shock.
“Bet that feels better,” he says instead, and, shamefully, it does. As you rock your hips, pussy working up and down the length of his cock, heat coiling inside you like a copper-ringed serpent, the cool air against your chest is heavenly.
You can’t help but whine. Aerion’s hand cups one of your tits beneath slow moving fingers. He rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and you keen with his title falling from your lips.
The sound of your cunt sinking up and down his cock is loud and wet in the emptiness of the terrace, and the skin-on-skin as his pelvis ruts against the backs of your thighs is even louder. Aerion grunts, exertion pink on his cheeks as one of his hands grips your hip and helps you drop onto the thick of his cock. His other hand moves to your other breast, kneading the flesh with skilled fingers as you begin to come apart in his lap.
“Four fucking days you left me without this pussy,” Aerion growls, biting through the silence. “Four days—and don’t think I forgot about that little sedative you gave me.”
He twists one of your nipples, tugging it. You yowl, arching forward before he smoothes over the sensitive flesh with a swipe of his thumb.
“Too smart for your own good,” he continues, hand leaving your tits now. He seizes your hips, clutching at the material of your skirts. The chaise creaks beneath you both as you come together again and again. Aerion swallows, then grunts. “Gods, but I can’t stay mad at you, can I? Sweet girl. My sweet girl, doing so well for me.”
For me is said pointedly. Molasses-thick and sweet as green nectar wine. That sets you off, and you lean forward with your tits bouncing above the bunched fabric of your bodice. You moan, heat blooming thick and fast through your stomach, reaching into the depth of your core.
“Aerion, fuck, oh–oh gods,” you ramble as you begin to lose your rhythm. You grind yourself onto him, chasing your high that spreads through you like a wildfire. Your cunt clenches tight around the thick of him, and he groans, holding you tightly as you take, take, take, legs shaking atop the chaise’s cushions. You moan, heart pounding against your ribs as the pressure in your womb stretches tighter. “Please, please, my prince, oh my—ah, ah…”
“Let me feel you, go on,” Aerion whispers through his panting. “Come on my cock. You can do it, sweet girl, c’mon.”
You shake in his lap as you come, his words pushing you into it. You tumble into the embracing heat, tossed into the churning sea, and you moan as your pussy clenches tight around him. You gush, soaking him as your hips twitch and you writhe as the warmth of your release consumes you. Fingers stamp crescents into his pale flesh while you rock, swollen clit throbbing heavy with your heartbeat as you whimper.
“Aerion,” is a soft whisper as your hips tremor to a stop, chest rising and falling with the speed of your panting.
Aerion groans, and you feel his cock twitch inside you. The hands on your hips tighten even more as he thrusts up into you, slick pooling out with each thrust. His balls slap up against the soft curve of your arse, wet with your slick, and he huffs with each clench of your pussy around him. Gods, how was he ever going to go back to a whorehouse when he knows he has this waiting for him?
“You’re mine,” he spits out then. “You can’t leave me.”
His cock jerks inside you.
You moan, almost pained, as his cock punches up against the plug of your womb. You call his name softly, trembling fingers running over the contracting muscles of his abdomen.
With another deep-seated groan, the prince spills inside you. A chant of your name—closer to a prayer the way he whispers it towards the sky—greets your ears over the crashing of waves as he fills you, buried all the way to the hilt. He comes, and comes, filling you warm as he leans forward and buries his face between your tits. A desperate, strained moan fights its way out of his throat, muffled in the valley of your chest as his cock twitches, emptying against your womb. You hum softly, feeling the thick warmth in your belly.
He stops coming, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays rooted deep, even when you feel him softening inside you. The sensation has a shiver running down the length of your spine, and you whimper a little as you adjust yourself, rocking your hips.
Aerion closes his eyes as he leans back in the chair. He doesn’t say anything.
You slowly, slowly lift your hips.
His hands tighten and you freeze, cock half-way inside you. His cum dribbles from you, down his flushed shaft and onto his pelvis.
“You don’t move until I tell you,” he says quietly.
You settle yourself back into his lap. The wind braces against your bare tits, and you make quick work of tucking them back into your bodice—although the fabric sits looser now, the seams at the back of your neck having been torn apart. You look mangled.
The prince catches his breath as you rest in his lap, pussy aching where it sits split apart on his softening cock. A few long moments later, his hands slip away from your hips. You take that as your cue, lifting yourself up. His cock falls out, wet and spent against his thigh as you clamber, with shaking legs, off of his lap. You grab the blood-stained cloth from the basin and rinse it clean, before dabbing it between your legs where your smallclothes lay in ruins.
You rinse the cloth again, then reach across the prince to wipe the slick that smears across his stomach and pelvis. He opens his eyes, watching you as the tepid water braces over his skin, and you clean him without a word. Once he’s clean, you discard the cloth, replace the knots of his breeches and trousers, then get to your feet.
“Where are you going?” Aerion asks, looking almost offended as he reclines in his chaise.
Perplexed, you gesture to the door. “I just assumed—”
“You don’t move until I tell you,” Aerion repeats, then pats the space beside him.
You look around briefly, then clamber back down onto the chaise. Aerion doesn’t move to make space for you, forcing you to curl up at his side. You keep your hands tucked against your chest as his arm—the injured arm—wraps around your shoulders in an alien display of affection.
Noticing your tentativeness, Aerion grunts. “Put your hands on me.”
You do. You drape one of your hands across his chest, palm flat. You feel the strong beating of his heart as you rest your head against him. And you lie there, tucked into his side, lounging in the heat of the summer sun and listening to whispers of the Blackwater.
—✿—
Two days later, you’re replenishing your stash of moon tea—considering you’ve been through a significant amount of it—when your shop door opens. At this hour, the streets alight with the colours of the setting sun, you expect Ser Donnel. Aerion had agreed to let you spend the day at your shop, and you awaited the gleam of white armour to whisk you back to the Keep.
Instead, Aerion himself stood in the doorway.
“Your grace,” you greeted as calmly as possible.
“I need you to pack your things,” he says in return.
You frown, shaking your head. “Your grace, I’ve told you, I cannot leave—”
“My father makes for Summerhall on the morrow. The city grows too warm, and my siblings and I will accompany him,” Aerion interrupts. He doesn’t look around the shop with disinterest as he enters. He’s looking at you. “You’re coming with me.”
You gape at him. “No, my prince, I can’t—”
“Leave your shop.” Aerion rolls his eyes. “What do you make in a day?”
You don’t really know, but that isn’t the point. “It’s not about the coin. It’s about the people that need me.”
“I really don’t care. I need you,” Aerion says pointedly. “That’s all that should matter.”
You swallow, nervous. “My prince…”
“Whatever you make in a day, I will triple it.” Aerion waves a hand dismissively through the air. “Now, pack your belongings and come with me.”
“But—!”
“Or I can pack for you, tie you to the back of my horse, and set this damned place alight,” Aerion utters, leaning across the counter to pluck a sprig of lavender from your hair. “What shall it be?”
✿ despite your warnings, aerion drinks a powerful stimulant, and then seeks your help when nothing else seems to fix him (or, a sex pollen fic with the dragon himself)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7.7k
✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (m!receiving), face-fucking, unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, hyperspermia!!, reader gets bent over her shop counter, rough sex, dirty talk, cw for aerion being himself (he's lowkey mean, mentions of frequenting brothels, slight degradation, etc), strong language, ser donnel mentions <3
a/n: inspired by this ask
Your shop is rather small, but you love it.
Behind the sturdy wooden counter—which itself is laden with misshapen plants sprouting from old teacups and half-filled bottles of sparkling powder—sits rows upon rows of shelves. The shelves are stocked full of your natural remedies and creations, vials big and small, pouches of linen and pouches of ribboned silk. You have everything, perfectly organised, by remedy and in alphabetical order.
For years, you’ve operated out of your little shop in a narrow side-street in the heart of King’s Landing, just a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare. You’ve helped countless travellers and residents with a range of issues: from sedatives for unruly hounds and salves to treat festering hoof-rot, to fast-acting contraceptives and bitter-tasting hallucinogens.
You can make anything.
And because you can make anything, you’ve become familiar with many a noble and knight in your time.
The door to your shop opens as you’re serving a little old lady, handing her a parcel of dried mushrooms. A cool breeze smelling faintly of winter rain and freshly baked bread sweeps into your shop, jostling the bundles of herbs you have hanging from your ceiling. You wave goodbye to the elderly women as you look up, smiling politely as you catch the unmistakable glint of midday sun against white armour.
“Ser Donnel,” you greet with a small bow of your head as the older kingsguard enters your shop, his gleaming armour making him appear like a pearl in the sand amongst your dim wooden shelves. “How is your finger? I trust the salve I made you helped the wound heal?”
Ser Donnel approaches the counter, offering you a small smile as he lifts his hand. He flexes his fingers, eyes lingering on the index, which he had sliced open a week prior.
“It did, thank you,” Ser Donnel says, his eyes lingering now on the shelves behind you.
“What can I do for you?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the solid wood of your counter, watching as the older knight spins slowly on his heel, taking in the other shelves and tables packed into your small shop.
“Don’t suppose you have something for horses?” He asks, back to you. When he turns, however, he gives you a rueful smile, then laughs. “Of course you do.”
“Of course I do,” you mimic, rounding your counter and leading the older knight across the room. You find a shelf near the shop’s far side, gesturing to an array of small vials, many labelled “Dog – Rash” or “Cat – Sneezing” and even “Chicken – Eggbound.” Ser Donnel looks at the array of small vials with complete amazement as you turn back to him. “What’s wrong with your palfrey, ser?”
Ser Donnel points to his own eye for emphasis. “Got something in her eye. All red and weepy and that. Not pleasant.”
“I see,” you say, then turn to your shelf. It takes you less than a second before you’re plucking a vial with dark brown glass off of the shelf. You hold it out to Ser Donnel. “Sounds like conjunctivitis. Very common, and, lucky for you, easy to treat. Just a few drops of this, morning and night, and she should be all better in a couple of days.”
Ser Donnel looks at you, visibly pleased, as you gently press the small vial into his palm. “You’re an absolute darling, you know that?”
“I try,” you reply, smiling as you return to your counter. Ser Donnel follows you, dropping the vial into a pouch and pulling out his coin purse at the same time. He drops several stags onto the counter, and you gape at him as they clatter loudly against the wood. “Ser Donnel, this is too much—”
“For the eye-drops,” Ser Donnel insists, pushing the stags towards you. “And for your services, okay? Now, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”
You bite your lip, hiding your smile as you reluctantly scoop up the stags and slip them into the coin pouch on your belt.
“Well, can I at least give you something for your generosity?” You ask, ducking beneath the counter before he could even open his mouth to reply. You snatch up a small pouch and get to your feet, offering it to the knight, who peers at you as if you had grown another head. You sigh through your nose, amused. “Sourleaf. Fresh in this morning.”
Ser Donnel offers you another kind smile, taking the pouch of painkillers and slipping it alongside the pouch with the vial.
“Thank you,” he says, bowing his head, just as the door to your shop opens and another gust of wind blows in.
The cold breeze sweeps through the store, and the door bangs harshly against the side wall, creaking on its hinges from the force. You startle, and Ser Donnel whips around. Composing yourself, you’re quick to sink back, making yourself appear smaller, as Aerion Targaryen bursts into the room with eyes spitting embers.
“How long could it possibly take to buy an ointment for a fucking horse?” The prince seethes as he steps into the shop, looking around with genuine distaste. His eyes linger on a murky liquid in a large bottle on the wall beside him, before they drag through the dim to Ser Donnel. He makes a face, eyebrows raising like he’s expecting something. “Well? Did you get it?”
You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.
“Yes, your grace,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder sympathetically before stepping towards the prince. “We may be off now.”
Aerion scoffs, allowing Ser Donnel to brush past him, but his eyes lift and land on you. He peers at you, as if just noticing your presence, his gaze burning holes right through the centre of your face. He looks at you half with distaste—probably due to the leaves in your hair and the powder dusted across your arms and apron—and half with interest, like a merchant admiring a newly minted coin.
“So you are the woods witch Ser Donnel speaks so highly of…” Aerion comments, eyes unwavering in their stare. You shift your eyes to the floor. Aerion huffs, partially amused. “I expected an ugly old thing, but this—”
“Your grace,” Ser Donnel warns with a sternness akin to a strict father.
“—is unexpected,” Aerion continues, unphased. He traipses into the shop, cloak swishing behind him like a pair of raven’s wings. His eyes scan the walls of bottles and vials and jars, and he plucks a small one from the closest shelf. Spinning it between his fingers, he speaks with considerable disinterest, “How exactly do you know how to make all of this?”
You lift your head slowly, hands clasped in front of you. “My… my mother taught me, your grace.”
The vial he holds holds a sticky green liquid, the colour of forest moss. He peers at it strangely. The liquid inside sticks to the glass, viscous and slow-moving as he turns it.
“What’s this for?” He asks, and you know he doesn’t actually care. You lock eyes, and you realise he’s testing you.
“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.
Aerion drops the vial on the floor and it shatters against the wood. You flinch, startled by the sudden noise. You hear Ser Donnel protest with a gruff call of the prince’s title, but Aerion is undeterred, slipping behind the counter and appraising the towering shelves behind you. He takes another vial, the liquid inside a deep, mustard yellow.
“And this?”
“Inflamation caused by pox,” you answer. “Soothes the skin.”
He huffs, and drops that vial too. It shatters, but this time, you don’t flinch. You watch the syrupy yellow liquid leech between the floorboards, glass shimmering in the ghostly light streaming in through the only window near the door.
Aerion walks further behind the counter, and you shift until the small of your back is pressed to the solid wooden lip. The prince closes in on several vials on the very top shelf, and he has to stand on his toes to reach one of them. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you open your mouth to say something, but no words fall.
Aerion’s pale fingers snatch a small bottle from the top shelf. The glass is clear, and it’s labelless, but you know exactly what it is. The substance inside resembles wine: a deep, blood-red that bubbles a little on the surface as the prince sloshes the liquid around. There’s a small, oil-like sheen to it as he holds it up, violet eyes finding yours.
“What’s this?” He presses, and you wonder if he catches the fear in your eyes.
You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”
He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.
“It’s a stimulant,” you blurt out, stopping yourself from pulling the vial from his hands. Aerion continues, unphased, as he lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs. You can almost smell it yourself: overripe grapes, crushed honeysuckle, and what smells uncannily like the perfumed skin of an expensive courtesan. Aerion pauses, something flashing in his eyes as you continue shyly, “To… increase desire and maintain… maintain a man’s excitement.”
Aerion stares at you, slowly lowering the little bottle from his nose.
He holds it carelessly, and as Ser Donnel sends another warning from across the room, you attempt to prise the bottle from his fingers, your touch slow and gentle.
“Please be careful, your grace,” you utter, fingers skimming the cool glass of the vial. “It’s incredibly potent in large doses—”
Aerion jerks away, and you snap your hand back as though you’d been burned.
The prince hisses at you, serpent-like as the pointed ivory of his teeth glint in the grey light. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”
“You’re trying to scare me,” he seethes, shaking the bottle enough for a few droplets to flick out and onto the pale skin of his fingers. It stains like mulled wine. He continues, staring you down. “How dare you even—”
“Your grace,” Ser Donnel’s voice booms through the small room, and you find yourself cowering back against the counter, stuck between two brewing storms. Ser Donnel sighs loudly. “Listen to her. She knows a lot more than you do, believe me.”
Aerion lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t mock me.”
You chime in hesitantly. “Please, your grace. It’s a concentrated mixture. I wouldn't want you to—”
“I can do what I want,” Aerion spits out, and before you can even react, he downs the entire vial in two quick mouthfuls.
You gasp out. “Your grace—!”
Aerion drops the vial and it shatters right at your feet. You jump back, avoiding the splash of broken glass, as the prince turns on his heel and makes for the door. You scramble after him, but you’re stopped by Ser Donnel, who places a gentle hand on your shoulder.
At the door, Aerion turns and gives you one last look, eyes trailing up and down your figure, before he rolls his eyes and vanishes back onto the street.
You’re breathing deeply, overcome with guilt. Ser Donnel strokes your shoulder gently, calming you.
“It’s alright, it’s his own doing,” Ser Donnel assures you, hand shifting up to pat you comfortingly on the cheek.
“But—he just—the entire thing.”
“Will it harm him?” Ser Donnel asks. His voice is firm and it almost makes you want to cry. “Will it kill him?”
You quickly shake your head. “No, ser! It—it will be very intense, and very, uh, difficult to remediate without—without help, but it will not harm him, no.”
“Can a cure be made?”
You feel yourself warming beneath your clothes, and you clear your throat, soothing your hands over your apron and your skirts.
“I suppose I can give you something to ease the racing heart,” you say quietly, ducking off to the side to pluck another small vial from a nearby shelf. You hand it to Ser Donnel. “Mix with hot water and it will ease the fast-moving heart, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid the other symptoms will have to be cured… in other avenues.”
Ser Donnel chuckles, taking the vial. “I suppose I’ll be taking him to the Street of Silk later tonight then?”
You offer Ser Donnel a sympathetic smile, nodding and trying to ignore the warmth in your belly. You put it down to the shock of the whole thing, and you give Ser Donnel a polite wave as he leaves your shop without another word.
You sigh, turning and examining the broken glass and spilled liquid across your floors. You grab your broom from near the door and set to work.
—✿—
Later that night, you’re setting a new set of vials on a shelf across the store, extinguishing the wall-mounted candles as you move. You hum to yourself, skirts brushing the dusty floor, the street beyond the small window empty and pitch-black as night falls across King’s Landing. A crescent moon hangs, thin and pale, above the horizon.
You take your apron off and place it neatly on a hook near the door behind the counter—the door which leads up a narrow flight of stairs to your home above. As you do this however, there’s a thud at the locked door. It rattles the old wood where it settles on its hinges, and your heart flutters a little in fright as you look over, spying a shadow through the stained glass. Taking a knife from a block behind you, you approach the door with your hand obscured behind your back.
There’s another thud. More like a knock this time.
“Are you alright?” You ask through the stained glass, the outer pane caked in grime kicked up from the street. You gently unbolt the door and open it a crack, peering out at the shadowed figure that hunches in your alcove. “I’m closed for the night, but if you are ill—”
“Let me in,” comes a familiar voice, and you squeak in fright when you recognise it.
Quickly, you pull open the door, still holding your knife, and the shadowed figure slips into your shop. You close and bolt the door behind you, turning with your back to the surface as the figure drops his hood, and subsequently, his cloak, and you watch as Aerion Targaryen turns slowly as the thick black fabric pools at his feet.
“Your grace,” you mutter, dropping into a polite bow. Worry clenches tightly in your chest as the prince looks at you with narrowed eyes, features appearing gaunt in what remains of the shop’s fading candlelight. You spare a glance through the stained glass of the door, then through the pane of the window adjacent. “Your grace, I’m not sure if—”
“What have you done to me?” Aerion interrupts you, his question slicing through the nervous quiet like the blade you clutch. He takes a step forward and you suck in a startled gasp, slipping around him and hurrying towards your counter. You just want to put as much distance between him and you as possible. He groans when you breeze by him, slowly turning as he speaks, “You’ve poisoned me.”
You’re behind your counter now. “I’ve done no such thing.”
“You have,” Aerion hisses, and he takes another step forward. You notice he’s slightly wobbly on his feet, pitching forward chest-first as though his legs are too heavy. He catches himself on a nearby shelf, bottles clinking together as the wood trembles. “This is your fault. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve—you’ve cursed me.”
Your eyes grow wide. You shake your head. “Your grace, please, I would never.”
In the low candlelight, sweat sparkles like broken glass on Aerion’s forehead. His white-blond hair clings to his skin, damp near his temples, and there’s a dip in his brow that casts a dark shadow over his eyes. But when he cocks his head, staring you down, you see them flash violet in the ochre light, his pupils slowly expanding.
“Ser Donnel informed me of what I had taken, and what it would do to me,” Aerion mutters, his voice hoarse as he pushes himself off the shelf. His palms slam down on the counter directly across from you, and you take a step back, fingers tight on the bone handle of your knife. Aerion huffs, “So I drank your little tea for my heart, and I fucked a couple of whores, but nothing is working.”
You swallow, heart in your throat.
“I tried to sleep,” Aerion says, dragging himself around the counter. You mimic his actions on the other end, slipping to the other side to avoid him. He continues, one of his hands shifting to the thin buttoned tunic he’s wearing. He pops open the top button. “I tried to bathe, I tried to pleasure myself, and I went back to that fucking whorehouse twice more and nothing—” He groans, and undoes another button. “—is working. What have you done to me?”
Slowly, he exposes the pale, unblemished skin of his chest. He’s damp with sweat as you round the counter, skirts flowing around your ankles. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest as he advances on you lazily, eyes drawn to the movement of your body like a falcon.
“You drank the stimulant,” you tell him as gently as possible.
You’re at opposite ends of the counter now. He pauses, undoing another button.
“So it’s my fault?” Aerion hisses out.
You watch as he pushes his hips against the lip of the counter and he groans, hoarse and animal-like from the back of his throat. It strings across a whimper, and heat floods your belly. You curse yourself, watching as the prince—the Targaryen prince Aerion Brightflame—ruts himself slowly against your counter. You can see the stimulant’s effects on him: the tent pitched in the front of his trousers, the beads of sweat that trek down beneath his now open-tunic, rolling between the grooves of his abdomen.
“Yes,” you say boldly, holding the knife. “You shouldn’t have drank it.”
Aerion huffs out, then groans again as he looks up at you, hips pressed firmly to the edge of the counter. “You’re a witch. Fix me.”
You release a shaky breath, then approach him. You move behind your counter, and he watches you with serpent-like concentration as you slowly place your knife onto the surface. He smirks at that, moving behind the counter too.
“You…” Your heart is wild beneath your ribs, and you can smell him as he nears. He smells expensive: smoked oud, honey-washed skin, patchouli incense from the Street of Silk. You smell sweat and wine too when he gets within a foot of you. You continue, “I cannot fix you, your grace. The easiest fix is to find… find a woman, or a man, I suppose, and engage in sexual intercourse until the effects wear off.”
You hope you sound confident enough. You fear you may faint as he looks you up and down, bare chest rising and falling, smoke trapped beneath shifting scales.
“This is your doing,” he says, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. One of his hands finds your hip and you seize up. “You will fix me. You will fix this.”
You find yourself shifting then as he pushes you up against the counter, the print of his hard cock pressing between your thighs as he pins you. You frown as he groans, the hand on your hip tightening while the other slowly rises to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“I can’t fix it,” you whisper as he forces your eye contact. You’re trapped beneath him, but there’s a heat in your belly you can’t deny, and the pounding of your heart travels south, settling between your thighs despite your racing mind. “I, well, I can try and make a cure—”
“I don’t want an elixir or a salve or a bunch of dried fucking herbs,” Aerion utters as his fingers tighten on your jaw. He ruts his pelvis against your thigh, and you watch as something flits through his eyes, the black of his pupils having engulfed the violet of his irises. “I want you to fix me.”
You swallow. “Your grace—?”
“I want your mouth on my cock, and I want you bent over this fucking counter,” Aerion interrupts with a voice strewn through gravel, dark and hoarse. Something twists deep in your belly as he bends his head, dipping his nose against the curve of your jaw. He grunts when he inhales, lips vibrating against your skin when he speaks again. “Will that fix me?”
Your hands are tight around the edge of the counter. “Yes, your grace, but—”
Aerion hums, teeth just skimming the skin of your jaw before he pulls back. “Good. Then get on your knees.”
The heat of his body leaves yours then, and you blink up at the ceiling. Aerion Targaryen was telling you to get on your knees? Aerion Targaryen was currently pulling apart the knots of his trousers, panting like a wounded dog as he dips his hand into his breeches to fist himself? Your mind was a mess.
But you did what you were told. You could have easily overpowered him in this state. Simply leapt from his reach and locked yourself in your room. But you didn’t want to. There’s a heavy fire kindling in your belly, fanning out over your womb as blood pumps hot between your thighs.
You sigh gently, slowly pushing yourself off the counter and sinking to your knees, your powder-dusted skirts flowing out around you. The wooden ground is hard but well-worn from years of footfall, and you settle on your knees as the prince takes a step forward, his trousers gathered just beneath the curve of his arse. The print of his cock strains against the white linen of his breeches, the front wet with pre-cum, and the way his fingers tremble when he attempts to unknot them makes you whine.
“My prince…” you whisper, reaching your hands to take hold of the strings of his breeches.
He stills above you, muscles in his abdomen clenching as you pull the knots apart. While you do this, one of his hands comes to rest on the back of your head, and he pulls you to him. Adrenaline is thick and viscous in your veins, but you let yourself be guided despite the hammering of your pulse up the side of your neck. You’re dizzy with both need and fear as you open your mouth and press it, hot and wet, to the front of his breeches.
He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”
You kiss over the line of his cock, open-mouthed and messy against the soft linen. You smell perfume and imagine the skilled hands of trained sex workers pulling the prince’s breeches down for him. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought, and you finally manage to pull apart the knots beneath his navel.
“Kiss me, that’s it,” Aerion groans out, holding your head firmly as your lips move across his covered cock. He’s burning hot and rigid beneath the fabric, and your hands find his thighs as you lave your tongue. That earns you a groan, and your eyes flit upwards to find him already looking at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “That’s it, fix me… fix this.”
Your head rocks beneath his hand as you mouth at his covered length. You feel him twitch beneath your lips, tip drooling out onto the fabric as you run the point of your tongue across it. Aerion hisses, hips bucking so harshly he knocks against your nose. Tears well along your waterline as he pulls you away then, just long enough to shove his breeches down.
He pulls his cock out, pale fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft. He groans at the raw contact, and you can’t help but gape as he clutches himself, tip a bruising red and wet with pre-cum. Pearlescent beads roll down the dip of his frenulum, and down his length as he slaps it against your cheek, then the other. He groans again when he pushes the tip across your lips, your eyes glassy as you watch him.
“Didn’t think witches could be as pretty as you,” he says suddenly as he ruts his cock along the warm lines of your face: over the curve of your cheekbones, rolling beneath the angle of your jaw. You kneel there, breathing hard, as he rubs himself over your skin. His words have heat flooding from your belly to your chest. The prince continues, “Might take you back to the Keep with me, huh? Keep you locked away…”
He tapers off when he groans, his balls drawing up tight. He grips the back of your head as he slides the head of his cock across your wet lips. He manages to bite out a quick “open” and you listen, opening your mouth and letting him slide just the tip in before he’s spilling in thick, hot spurts. Aerion groans, a shaking timbre from his chest as he rubs the head of his cock against the front of your tongue and spills into the warmth of your mouth. Some hits the back of your throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to choke as he releases, fingers firm on the back of your head.
After a moment, his cock jerks, but doesn’t soften. A loud, frustrated groan rips from Aerion’s throat as he pulls out and smears the remnants back over your cheek again.
“You did this to me,” he growls out as he shoves himself back into your mouth, barely giving you enough time to swallow. You open your eyes when he feeds himself into you, cock a velvet warmth against your tongue. He releases a stuttered breath, his other hand finding the back of your head as well. “So you’re going to take it.”
You gag when his hips rock forward and the leaking tip nudges down the back of your throat. You swallow, huffing out of your nose, and he groans loudly enough for it to echo. His hands tighten on your head and he physically starts moving you, pulling your head back and forth and fucking his cock down your throat. You try your best to lax your jaw, minding your teeth as you slide your tongue along the underside—you find a prominent vein easy enough, and you squeeze your thighs together as he whines, the muscles in his abdomen shifting.
The velvet of his trousers is plush beneath your fingers as you grip his thighs. They sit low on his hips, ties swaying as he pitches his hips, pulling your head back and forth. Every other thrust, he’s pushing you deep against him with a guttural groan, forcing your lips to the very root as the tip knocks against the back of your mouth. Your nose finds the neat white hair at the base, and the smell of perfumed oil should be a turn off, but it isn’t.
You whimper around him, cheeks hollowing. Your eyes are glassy and there’s a thin rivulet of saliva running from the corner of your mouth as he fucks your throat. Heat settles deep in the marrow of your bones, fluttering heart between your thighs. The feeling of spit rolling down your chin makes you whimper again, and suddenly, his eyes are on you. They’d been closed in, what you can only assume, is ecstasy as he chases another high. But now, he stares down at you with a subtle pinch in his brows. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.
“If I knew you’d take my cock like this,” Aerion utters, petting the back of your head as he stretches your lips apart. “I’d’ve skipped the fucking whores and come straight here.”
You moan, something like a protest, but it’s shoved right back down your throat by the leaking head of his cock. You choke and splutter when he rolls his hips and he, somehow, goes even deeper. Aerion pulls back with a groan draped across a chuckle, letting you suckle the head as you catch your breath. His balls twitch as he slowly ruts back in, and once you blink the tears from your eyes, you reach a hand up to cup them.
He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”
You let him press you to his pelvis, nose between the prominent lines of his hips. Your fingers and thumb work gently, rubbing over smooth skin as the grip on either side of your head tightens as he thrusts once, twice more before he begins to lose his rhythm.
“That’s it, that’s it, take it,” the prince moans, still looking at you, eyes black with lust as his hips slow and he forces you right down onto his cock again. He moans again when he spills—another thick, hot release that splatters down the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, practically holding your breath as his cock jerks, balls drawing up beneath your fingers. When your eyes close, Aerion lets out a quiet, “Look at me.”
It’s surprisingly soft. You blink up at him. His hand finds your warm cheek then, petting you two times like he’s trying to be gentle, and the effort puts a pit in your stomach. But it doesn’t last: his cock, still hard, dribbles as he pulls it from your mouth, taking a step back but still holding your head in one hand. His other hand finds the base of his slick cock and he moans as it pumps hot against his palm.
His bare chest is flushed, as are his cheeks. He pants like a dog too, and as he grips his cock, you watch with lowered lids as cum beads against the slit, then strings out like a spider’s web. It drips onto the floor as he groans, his lip curling up in a frustrated snarl.
“Why isn’t it working?” He asks you, fingers on the crown of your head.
You flick the point of your tongue across your teeth before you speak, tasting his release in the grooves. Overripe grapes linger in the back of your throat.
“You drank six doses worth,” you whisper, hands caressing his thighs.
“Fuck,” Aerion curses, and he watches with dark eyes as you lean forward, testing the waters, and press a wet kiss to the tip of his flushed cock.
You continue speaking as you slowly kiss down his shaft. “A single dose will usually allow a normal man three or four releases, if he’s lucky.”
Aerion grunts as you lick over the vein on the underside. It’s throbbing and hot against the flat of your tongue.
“But you, my prince…” Your tongue lowers and you lick a stripe from root to tip, and the sound that leaves him is more animal than human. You hide your smile. “Are not a normal man, are you?”
“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, but he’s preening. Like a cat being praised, a small groan lifts from his chest like a purr, and something flashes across his eyes. Pride. His hand pets your hair softly despite the venom in his tone, and he watches you in awe when the tip of your tongue darts out to collect a welling bead of pre-cum. He grunts then, pulling his cock away from your mouth with great effort. “Stand up.”
You do as you’re told. You clamber to your feet, and you feel slightly silly as you wait for him to kiss you. Of course he doesn’t—he spins you around with a grunt and pushes you roughly against the table. It hits your tummy as you bend, and you exhale a little “oof” as his hands make quick work of flipping up your skirts. He gathers them at your hips before he’s ripping your smallclothes away from your core.
“Cunt this wet from sucking my cock?” Aerion plasters himself to your back, leaning over to whisper in your ear as he runs the length of his cock from your arsehole to your pussy. You whine as he spreads you apart, slick webbing between your folds before they snap where he runs his cock through you. He groans at your heat, head dropping to rest between your shoulder blades as he rocks back and forth. “Gods, you’re dripping, sweet girl.”
The pet name has you reeling.
You hadn’t been expecting it, and it seems like he hadn’t been either. The length of his body stiffens behind you, as if his words were involuntary beneath the haze of his pleasure. With a grunt, he pulls back, taking the flat of his palm and muscling you down from between your shoulder blades until your tits are pressed tightly to the surface of the counter.
“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, still holding his cock as he drags the flushed tip through your folds. You suck in a breath, mewling when he slaps it against your clit. He makes a pleased sound, squeezes it out between clenched teeth, before he circles the tip at your entrance. “You did this to me. You did this to yourself.”
He pushes in with a low moan. There’s no slow stretch. There’s no slow.
The prince shoves himself in like it’s all he can do, the thick of his cock pulling you apart from the inside out. There’s a sting low in your pelvis and a dull kind of ache that festers like a bruise in the base of your womb as he bullies himself into you. A deep, keening sound is pushed involuntarily from your chest as you clutch the counter, followed by a gasp of “my prince” as he bottoms out, hips flush with your arse.
Your pussy is slick and warm around him and you squeeze tight when he pauses.
He’s panting. You can feel him straining behind you, his hands gripping your hips so hard it’s like he’s anchoring himself to you. The walls of your cunt hug around the thick of him in such a way that he’s completely lost himself.
You press your cheek to your counter, attempting to look back at him, but the angle is awkward and you can only just make out the look of pure awe on his face. His dark eyes focus on the tight pull of your cunt as he slides out, shaft slick with you. A small whimper—he covers it quickly with a grunt—falls from his parted lips when his head notches at your hole.
“Maybe you belong in a whorehouse,” he whispers after a moment of tense silence. He rolls his hips and shoves himself back in, ears picking up the wet schlick as he slides home, balls coming to rest against the curve of your arse. He hums, pulling out again, then pushing back in. “Men’d pay good coin for a cunt like this.”
The prince sets a rhythm that rocks you against the counter. It’s sharp, desperate. You clutch onto the edge as if he might push you over, his cock rutting in and out of you at such a pace you’re becoming dizzy. He’s panting, frantic, the speed of his hips filling your small, dark shop with the echoing sounds of skin-on-skin.
His previous words settle and then he hisses like he’s offended himself. A disgruntled jeer as he grips your hips and fucks you back onto him.
“Too bad you’re here,” he utters. His thighs are a firm bracket behind yours as he fucks you. The way he speaks is dark and smooth. Dangerous flashes through your mind as you moan, a solid heat collecting in the very depth of your belly. He continues, “Too bad you’re here. With me. Too bad no one’ll stuff this cunt like your prince.”
You gasp around a small moan at his words. They hit you right in the stomach, churning something erotic inside you. You grip the counter, bottles nearby clinking at the movement, and you try to turn your head to look at him again.
“My prince—”
“Shut up and take it,” Aerion interrupts with a bite. A gnashing of ivory as he fills you over and over, the head of his cock finding that spot inside you that has you arching for more.
Your body trembles, shaking against the counter as he folds you over it. The fat of your arse shifts with each of his thrusts, his fingers a bruising hold on your hips. Sweat builds beneath your dress, damp along the dip of your spine as you grow hotter and hotter. It’s an unbearable sort of heat that sparks in your womb, then spreads. It spreads up and out, flaring like a pair of glowing wings.
“Fuck, I can feel you, sweet girl,” Aerion says, his pace slowly losing it’s pattern. He’s scrambling now, sweat tracing down the back of his neck as his heart clatters against his ribs. Your pussy flutters around him like she doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, eyes slipping up your body, before resuming on where you take him. “Let me have it. Give it to me.”
You gasp out. “My prince, I—”
“Don’t fuss,” he snaps, hips stuttering. “Don’t fucking fuss and do what you’re told.”
There’s a heaviness in his tone that pins you down, but you expect nothing less. You instead focus on those gold-guilded wings spreading out inside you—filling your tummy, fanning heat through your chest as your tits squeeze almost uncomfortably against the wooden counter. The flames of pleasure are crawling down your spine now too, and with four more heavy thrusts of his cock against that perfect spot inside you, it reaches your core.
You can’t help what happens next: you call for him, his name, a sickeningly sweet “Aerion!” as you come around him, pussy pulling tight as the warmth overwhelms you. Your release is bulky as it takes hold, dragging you into ecstasy as his cock drives you through it. Your eyes squeeze shut, body shaking, as it takes over.
He mutters something under his breath then, hips rolling as he slowly begins to lose focus. You feel his cock jerk inside you as he slams inwards, tip nudging up towards the plug of your cervix. The feel of him is muddled in your brain and you feel sick with need as your orgasm begins to fizzle out, embers flickering.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans.
He spills then, with his cock flattened deep inside you and his fingers vice-like on your hips. He curls forward, dewy forehead finding your shoulder blades as his cock twitches, filling you in hot strings. It’s thick and viscous and makes you moan, and Aerion matches the sound with his own, feeling the clutch of your pussy tighten around him.
Some long seconds pass and he’s still spilling. Your eyes fly open as his cock, still pulsing and hard and hot inside you, jerks with his release. Spurts of it, again and again. You whine at the feeling. Too full, too full, you want to mutter, but you can’t. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, throat dry as the prince rolls his hips, rutting himself against you with his face in the laces of your dress. You writhe, and he groans, open-mouthed and pained as he holds your hips, unwilling to let you go.
“No, stop, fuck,” he hisses out, muffled in the material of your dress. “Don’t fucking move—don’t—ah, ha, fuck, fuck.”
You still immediately, freezing like a scolded puppy. The prince breathes heavily against you as his cock jerks and jerks inside you. He whines into your dress. The sound has your heart fluttering.
“Gods above…” Aerion whispers after another long moment.
His cock stills now, but he’s still hard. And he doesn’t pull out. He does, however, lift himself from you gingerly. His hands tremble on your hips, but you pretend not to notice.
“I can’t…” He tapers off, breathing heavily.
There’s a searing pleasure in his abdomen that’s almost painful now, and his cock aches something fierce—like he needs to release again, like he’s edged himself for an hour. But he hasn’t. He’s spilled more times than he can count, but the pent-up need is making him nauseous with desire. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his skin feels too hot against his flesh.
He swallows thickly as he plugs your pussy full of his seed. His cock twitches and, much to his horror, he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. “I can’t… I need…”
“I know,” you whimper.
The change in his tone, in his demeanour, is a slap across the face. It’s abrupt and unexpected. You almost feel sorry for him—sorry for the man he’s become as he slowly rolls his hips, his cock barely moving inside of you—but you don’t. He’s done this to himself.
“One more,” he whispers, pulling out until only his flared head rests inside you.
“One more,” you repeat after him.
He groans, pushing back in once he’s caught his breath. You moan quietly, body pliant and spent beneath him now. There’s a prickle of overstimulation in your belly, but you don’t complain. His cock knocks right back up against that perfect spongy spot inside you and you shut your mind up with a string of whimpers.
The prince builds his pace again. His cheeks are pink with the effort, and strands of his white hair cling to his forehead as he ruts into you. A thin white ring builds at the base of his cock as he thrusts, his seed drooling through your folds as he bends and fucks you. It’s wet and loud, and paired with the little whimpers you’re trying to hide, it’s better than any sex he’s ever bought. And he didn’t spend a single coin on you.
“No one else took me like this,” he utters as thoughts of you, you, you clatter around his skull. You’re a witch. You’ve poisoned him. He grunts, almost mad at himself. “You take me like you were made for it.”
“Aerion,” you whisper, eyes drooping, another orgasm encroaching on you. This one is even heavier than before. You can feel it in your bones, seeping into your marrow as he fucks you and rambles all the while.
“Made for me,” he continues. “Made for the dragon.”
His thrusts are loosening, and he chases his release with his cock barely leaving you. He rolls his hips, sliding against you as he huffs and bends. To your surprise, he places a kiss between your shoulder blades, teeth tugging briefly at the laces of your dress before he pulls back. He rocks and rocks, a thick moan fighting its way out of his throat as the counter trembles. A glass vial topples with the force, rolling off and onto the floor. It shatters, but neither you or Aerion flinch, too consumed in your pleasure to pay it any mind.
“Ah, fuck, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl—” Aerion rambles, and then he’s spilling again.
He moans loudly as he ruts himself through it, cock shuddering inside you as he comes in more thick spurts. Back dipping, you feel him fill you even more than before, and you feel the heat of it seep like honey into your womb. It makes you dizzy, and it makes your own orgasm reveal itself from the ashes of the first.
You come with his name on your tongue again, holding onto the counter as you stiffen up. He groans when your pussy tightens around him, fluttering as the tension releases like blood pouring from an open wound. He falls over you as you tremble, sweat-slick chest finding your back as his cock gives one last jerk while your orgasm tapers off, slipping back into the shadows. He pants behind you, hands still on your hips, cock still inside you—but it’s softening.
The prince moans in relief as his cock slowly softens, his seed leaking from your spread pussy as he slowly, slowly pulls himself from you. A quiet moment passes before he exhales, presses one last almost imperceptible kiss to the covered space between your shoulder blades, then rights himself.
“I trust you have something to deal with… this,” Aerion mutters, and you feel two thick fingers drag through your folds before pressing inside you. Despite his words, obviously slightly concerned with the fact you’re filled with him, he plugs you, knuckles against your core.
You release a shaky breath. “Yes, my prince.”
“Good,” he huffs, still catching his breath.
You’re still bent over the counter. And his fingers are still inside you. He sighs, more to himself than to you.
“Thank you,” he whispers, sounding the most unlike himself of the entire night.
That’s all he says, and you know he doesn’t want a reply.
—✿—
Three days—and several cups of moon tea and other fast-acting contraceptives—later, you’re restocking the shelf behind your counter when the door opens. You cast a glance over your shoulder, finding Ser Donnel entering, white armour gleaming as his mass fills the doorway. You turn and greet him properly.
“Ser Donnel,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “How is your horse?”
Ser Donnel smiles. “Fine. You fixed her right up.”
You smile back, busying your idle fingers by stuffing a small pouch with crushed willow bark. “That’s great to hear. What can I do for you?”
The knight clears his throat, looking around the empty shop for a moment before speaking. “He requires your presence. At the Keep.”
“I beg your pardon?” You cock your head. “Who?”
“The prince,” he says pointedly.
You frown, tying a knot around the little pouch and placing it to the side. Nerves spike in your chest as you wait for Ser Donnel to continue. He does.
“He’s earned himself a nasty gash—” Ser Donnel gestures to his own bicep for specification. “—during training. And he’s, uh, refusing the help of his maesters. He wants you.”
You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”
“But you can help him, can you not?” Ser Donnel interrupts you before you spiral. “You’re a smart wee thing. You can fix anything.”
You bite your lip, nervous. “Ser Donnel, I don’t think—”
“Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request,” he says as gently as possible. “He won’t be taking no for an answer. I’m here to escort you.”
“Right…” You sigh, turning back to the shelf and gathering some supplies.
You shouldn’t have expected anything less from Aerion Targaryen.
Once again saying sex pollen my beloved 😩🥃 that should be me
“So it’s my fault?” Aerion hisses out.
Dumb whore
“This is your doing,” he says, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. One of his hands finds your hip and you seize up. “You will fix me. You will fix this.”
🙄
He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”
No this made my mouth water
“Might take you back to the Keep with me, huh? Keep you locked away…”
His ugly stepmother era
“Why isn’t it working?” He asks you, fingers on the crown of your head. “You drank six doses worth,” you whisper, hands caressing his thighs.
CRINE FUCKER DRANK SIX DOSES HE SHOULD BE GLAD HE DIDN'T GET A HEART ATTACK
“But you, my prince…” Your tongue lowers and you lick a stripe from root to tip, and the sound that leaves him is more animal than human. You hide your smile. “Are not a normal man, are you?”
How does she know he's delusional about being a dragon???? Ggggirl the fact that she knows just shows how delulu he is rip Aerion you would have loved getting your stomach pumped
“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, but he’s preening. Like a cat being praised, a small groan lifts from his chest like a purr, and something flashes across his eyes. Pride. His hand pets your hair softly despite the venom in his tone, and he watches you in awe when the tip of your tongue darts out to collect a welling bead of pre-cum.
“Cunt this wet from sucking my cock?”
Egotistical maniac
“Don’t fuss,” he snaps, hips stuttering. “Don’t fucking fuss and do what you’re told.”
“No one else took me like this,” he utters as thoughts of you, you, you clatter around his skull. You’re a witch. You’ve poisoned him. He grunts, almost mad at himself. “You take me like you were made for it.”
Congrats yn
“Made for me,” he continues. “Made for the dragon.”
“I beg your pardon?” You cock your head. “Who?”
Jinja thought it said your cock head and I was like SHE GREW A COCK?
“He’s earned himself a nasty gash—” Ser Donnel gestures to his own bicep for specification. “—during training. And he’s, uh, refusing the help of his maesters. He wants you.”
One one had aerion is a lyric pos but also I can imagine him genuinely stabbing himself just to get her
Once again incredible work. Love the descriptions and dialogue. You have an amazing attention to detail. 10/10 creamed my pants no notes aerion come home u brat
Getting plowed is for the country folk. Here in the city we call it being taken to pound town. And if it's a place with decent public transit, getting railed.
I've known a number of non binary people in my life and I think single biggest conclusion I can draw from that is that non binary people are not the same. Like if Men fit in box A and women fit in box B, people really, really want nonbinary people to fit in a theoretical box C, and it just doesn't work like that. They are outside the boxes. They defy any simple categorization because they are not a third way of being, but every other possible way of being.
Being supportive of binary people is relatively simple, they have decided to sort themselves into one of the boxes that we have lots of experience interacting with. Being supportive of nonbinary people can be comparatively tricky, because you have to resist the urge to create box C and drop them all there. That's how we end up with various prejudices like "woman lite". Humans really, really like to categorize things. It helps us think. Unfortunately, sometimes it helps us think wrong.
If you have a non binary person in your life, I think it is important to take the extra effort to learn about them specifically.
"going out to get milk" is a common turn of phrase used to describe a man abandoning his family.
the "milkman" is a common figure in stories depicting a woman's infidelity and adulterous affair.
this implies that the ability to provide milk would both decrease the likelihood of a man abandoning his wife and children, as it would eliminate the need for leaving to get milk AND would secure that man's marriage, as his wife would have no need to seek milk from an extraneous source.
therefore, all men should produce milk, through various means such as:
- being a cow
- being an almond
- being a woman
- being a coconut
- being in the omegaverse
- being an oat
(list is exemplary and not finite)
in this essay, i will redefine the nuclear family and explain the seductive and inflammatory nature of the 1993 "Got Milk?" commercials.
"You know what's harder than Getting Better? Living Like That" is just the thesis for my whole shit going on right now honestly. You know what's harder than doing my physical therapy? Hurting All The Time. You know what's harder than addressing my gender dysphoria? Hurting All The Time
I'm Doing The Hard Thing and it's *easier* than how I was living before. If you make yourself feel better you will have more energy to spend on Getting Better. Nice inch nails - the upward spiral. Crawl out of your grave Thursday
