[dragonquilled]

𓈒𓏸⋆ ꫂ᭪݁──── 𝖎f j𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 (𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗐) ⋆

ׅ 22 ✶ she/her ׅ 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍 ⋆ 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘

[dragonquilled]

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON ──── aerion targaryen.

𝓼 they say the dragons died out ages ago. but how could that be true, seeing as you ride one every other week or so?

─── ༯ warnings targcest (reader is baelor’s daughter), p in v—smut minors do not interact, bratty dom aerion, breeding kink, cheating (sorry valarr), knife play, blood, biting, reader & aerion are schizophrenics who think they’re dragons, they’re both evil & crazy, pussy eating, aerion gets tamed in high valyrian, they’re having a brat off, idk man i just made shit up this is pure filth and aerion brain rot.

✉️ porn with a slight cheeky plot me thinks. let’s all collectively ignore the logistics. anyways, hello bloody mouth aerion nation!

REBLOGS&FEEDBACK APPRECIATED ── ༯ word count 3k

SOME GIRLS ARE BORN with pretty eyes or nimble fingers, but you came into this world with both and a third thing, which is the stubborn certainty that you’re fire made flesh.

Not that anyone in King’s Landing would believe it—least of all your utterly loyal and even softer lady in waiting, slipping into your chamber ever so discreetly.

In her hands is a small vial wrapped in plain cloth and half concealed by the fall of her skirts.

“Your—ah, your tea, as you asked, princess.” Amara hands it over without looking at you because she’s polite enough to pretend she isn’t dying to ask, but you see the question flicker over her face anyway, and so you brace yourself for it. 

“Go on, Amara, out with it. you’ve been itching to ask.”

“Forgive me for prying, princess, but… must the Maester prepare it every month? His Grace would be so happy, I believe, if you were to give him a child. The realm would rejoice—”

You cut her off with a smile and take a slow sip of the disgustingly bitter brew. “I am not fit for motherhood, my sweet summer child. There are enough monsters in House Targaryen as it is. Best not give the gods more ideas, don’t you think?”

Amara blushes at your sardonic friendly tone. You know what she’s thinking—she probably assumes you mean your cousin with a known monstrous reputation (and to be quite fair, you do), but you offer her a wicked grin in return because it never once occurs to her that you might mean yourself.

Of all the masks you wear, being the realm’s darling is by far the most tedious of them all.

But what’s a Targaryen princess such as yourself meant to do when she’s Baelor’s one and only precious daughter and Valarr’s terribly adored gleaming little wife? These are roles the gods (or fate, or perhaps your father’s hunger for peace) chose for you that you play so well you almost convince yourself you are who they say you are. 

Amara — the closest thing you possess to a conscience (gods bless her foolishly tender heart) — is now halfway through recounting some spectacularly unflattering gossip about some Lord’s cock (allegedly as underwhelming as his sense of honor) and all you can do is smile like a sweet dove and nod as if your mind isn’t a thousand leagues away.

“—swore it on his honor, can you imagine?” Amara giggles giddily. “But truly, princess, what of you? Has His Grace been keeping you sated?”

Oh, dearest, sweetest lamb. If only she knew a tenth of the filth that fills your nights. She looks at you with such open admiration that you do not have the heart to tell her that this talk of cocks…? and bedding and ordinary desire bores you senseless. 

Though you do enjoy her company. She’s the only person left in this godsforsaken pit who makes you feel almost human, but that’s hardly a high bar. You care for her as much as you’re capable of caring, but loving you is a bit like cradling a starving wolf and praying that they do not lose a hand. Or rather a dragon, if one insists on being poetic. (And you always insist.) Still, you’d cut out your own heart before hurting her. You are quite as certain as your hair is silver that if Amara glimpsed even a sliver of what you have done, she would cross herself and flee to the ends of Westeros as she sobs for the Mother’s mercy.

Which is precisely why you lie to her. (And more so because that is what good princesses do.)

So you go on to tell her pretty stories about Valarr’s gentle hands and careful kisses, and you let her believe the bullshit that you truly are the perfect princess they call you to be — blessed by the Seven and favored by every godly old wife who’s ever prayed for a daughter with silver hair and untroubled eyes. 

“Dragons are never sated,” you say teasingly, and she thinks you are only being poetic and demure and endlessly loyal to your sweet, stifling, perfectly polite princely husband. “Valarr is… ever the gentlest, of course. He is a man who would never risk a wrinkle in my gown, let alone a bruise.”

Well, this much is true.

Valarr is golden and kind and dutiful to a fault. He fucks you as though you’re made of glass, and he worries amd frets and dotes and prays for you before he ever thinks to pray for himself, amongst other things—all of which is to say: he is everything a proper lady could wish for.

The thought alone is nearly enough to make you yawn.

“You are so blessed, princess,” she sighs, and you watch the naivete dance in her eyes. “To be cherished so dearly—surely the Seven watch over you. I hesrd he sent you a dozen flowers just last night?”

What you wish to say is: Is that not the true horror of it all? To be cherished and adored in a cage of silk when all you crave is to be bloodied and devoured.

What you actually end up saying, though, is:

 “Wasn’t it lovely?” You giggle prettily, and sip your wine as if you’re not thinking about blood on your teeth and the sound a certain someone makes when you drag your nails down his back. “He is ever so thoughtful. It’s as if I am in a dream.”

Amara sighs and looks as if what you’re saying is the height of romance, and you wonder with viscous curiosity what she would look like if you told her what you truly dream of. Would she scream or simply crumple? Would she faint, or better yet, would this conversation finally grow interesting? 

The idea of it makes you smile.

The truth is, princess, you… oh, you are not so much the darling the realm believes you to be—and you rather like it that way. Gods, it truly is indescribably tedious, really. The only time you’re even halfway sated is with blood on your tongue with your hands wrapped around a throat and your lips shaped into a cruel smile as you watch a man beg for your mercy. What would Amara say if she knew there is a man who sees you exactly as you are and wants you more because of it? And that that man is not your perfect princely husband? 

You think about him, and something dark and delighted coils in your chest.

“I must leave you for now, sweetling,” you press a kiss to her brow as you stand. “I promised the gods a prayer before supper.” 

“The gods smile down on you, your grace.” she says dreamily and none the wiser.

Oh, you highly doubt the gods are smiling at all—considering the mere reality that the only prayers you’ve offered in years are whispered into the mouth of a monster with silver hair, and your good sense long since abandoned.

Poor Valarr. If only he knew. He will spend his whole life trying to love you, and as fate will have it, it will never be fucking enough. But not because he fails—oh no, it’s not his fault at all. It is just that love is a fickle thing for a dragon, much less a monster such as yourself.

But what your darling doting brother doesn’t know just makes your nights all the more sweeter.

After all, who else could ever sate you, if not another dragon with blood on his mouth and a hunger just as ugly as your own?

Aerion Targaryen is never in the habit of bothering with courtesies.

His idea of a greeting more so leans towards the clatter of a locked door and the snarl of your name as his hand mercilessly finds your throat. 

Tonight in particular, you are pressed to the bedpost with your gown bunched at your hips, and Aerion’s mouth is buried between your thighs as he devours your pussy like a madman. Somewhere beside you, the moonlight glints off a discarded knife—the same one he traced along your thigh minutes earlier, which was just sharp enough to sting but also just dull enough to leave nothing you couldn’t explain away. (Which is utterly disappointing, really, but there are only so many times you can explain away strange marks to your poor husband before he starts asking questions he doesn’t really want answered.)

You’ve already been at it for gods know how long, but your monstrous cousin is nothing if not a sadist who takes his sweet twisted time.

Aerion is far too entertained feasting between your thighs, licking into you with a tongue so wickedly precise it feels as if he’s trying to find the last traces of dragonfire hidden in your cunt. It feels entirely too incredible—except you’re also keenly aware that you’re running out of time before someone comes knocking, and you’re not sure you have another plausible lie left in you today.

“Patience, cousin,” he hisses against your pussy when you whine at him to hurry. "Didn't your septa ever teach you that virtue?”

“My septa died. Much like I’m about to of weariness if you don’t make fucking haste and learn to behave,” you snap, though you grind your hips up into his warm mouth and hiss as he bites your inner thigh. “Fuck— Aerion. I’ll have your head on a spike before morning if you fucking mark me again.”

Aerion flicks his tongue over a faint bruise he left the last time, all while making a show of humming. “You talk so prettily when you’re angry. Do it again.”

“I shall do worse than talking.” You yank at his hair so hard his eyes flash, but he only grins wider and does nothing to stop you. “Don’t. Mark. Me. Valarr’s not half as stupid as he acts.”

Aerion lazily smirks, though his face twists momentarily with something which seems to resemble jealousy quite a bit. “Come to think of it… Perhaps I should hold you down and carve my name into you right here, so there’s no mistaking who you truly belong to. Then we’ll have your brother come running to find you with my cock still inside you. You think he’d put up a fight, little dragon?” 

“I do not belong to anyone, least of all you. And stop smiling, you fool. I’ll cut your cock off and hang it above the—”

“Tsk. You’d mourn it, you impudent little brat,” Aerion cuts you off when he leans and bites at your throat quite harshly. 

“Shut up.” you hiss, though your actions do not match your words as you arch into his touch and moan. “You find too much pleasure in your own voice.”

Aerion’s mouth curls into a twisted smirk, then he licks your slick off his thumb and pushes it between your lips. You suck his thumb and bite down just enough to make him curse, then you moan around his fingers and his eyes glint with hunger. 

“Fuck. Look at you, such a little filthy whore.” 

Your hand flies up and you slap him, and Aerion’s head snaps to the side as a wicked laugh breaks out of him. Anyone else would be dead for even daring to do so, but you’re the only creature in the realm who gets away with this, and you relish in it.

“You’re the only whore in this room, cousin,” you sneer. “Would you just fuck me already?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Aerion laughs as he drags his fingers ever so slowly over your slick, aching cunt. “Say please. Princesses should know their manners.”

You roll your eyes. “Just get on with it, Aerion. Or I ought to get my husband to do it for me.”

Aerion’s face twists with anger. “Careful. You know what happens to little brats who bare their fangs at dragons.”

Well, it’s a good thing you’re a dragon yourself then, isn't it? And though it is true that you’ve never seen a true dragon with your own eyes, you are well versed enough to know that dragons only ever listen when commanded in their own tongue. 

“Dohaerās, Aerion.” the High Valyrian slides off your tongue as sharp as any blade he has ever used, and the effect is instantaneous. Aerion’s eyes flare in the candlelight as he tilts his head, and for a moment he looks very much like the wicked little dragon he’s been accused of being. 

Obedience is not exactly known to be in Aerion Targaryen’s nature, but you’ve always been the only one who could ever tame him.

Aerion’s hand hungrily drops to rip your skirts even higher, and the next thing you know you’re properly sprawled across silk sheets which you’re supposed to keep pristine for your dear husband. Your head presses into the pillow so your crown of silver hair tumbles loose, and Aerion roughly spreads you out once more, baring your cunt to the candlelight as he frees his cock and fists it.

“See? All you had to do was ask nicely, little dragon.”

Aerion lines his cock up with no preamble or any hint of gentleness whatsoever. He’s bigger than any man has the right to be, and the stretch is always just on the edge of pure utter agony, but it is always your favorite part, anyway. He slides in all at once and steals your breath in a single brutal thrust, and as always, he does not even bother to wait for you to adjust before he starts snapping his hips into you relentlessly—and the filthy beast holds your gaze the entire time, and takes pleasure in your pain.

“Fuck—fuck,” you choke repeatedly as your cunt swallows him whole, and you are so full you can barely breathe. 

“Quit your whining,” he ruthlessly buries himself to the hilt in your glistening cunt. “You can take it. You always do.” He groans and thrusts harder, voice washing over with delight as he watches your already fucked-out face twist in pleasure. “Though… let’s see if you can still curse me and speak of my foolish cousin when you’re full of my cock like this.”

You try—oh, you really fucking try. But all that comes out is a noise that would get you sent to a sept for the rest of your life if anyone ever heard it.

“What a shame. You can’t even—ah—look at you, taking every inch like a whore. can’t even get a single word out, can you?” Aerion’s laughs as he thrusts in so deep your head tips back. The headboard bangs out a rhythm against the wall in time with the obscene slap of skin on skin, and it only gets louder every time he slams into you. “Fuck, you are clinging to me like some maiden at her first bedding. You feel that? Always such a perfect little cunt for me, princess,” 

“Harder, Aerion. Gods, fuck me harder!” you moan deliriously, raking your nails down his back hard enough to mark him as you utter a few words in High Valyrian as though you’re commanding a dragon.

He groans and obeys. The stretch is so utterly dizzying and filthy, and your words continue to sloppily choke out of your throat as he fucks into you. Every single thrust rocks you up the bed with your ankles caught around his waist. 

At some point, your nails find the knife by the pillow and you slash a line down his shoulder just because you can. Aerion hisses, then he grins while he watches his blood paint your fingers. You suck at the mark and drink his blood in when he leans over you, and he groans into the kiss when you crash your lips into his with your bloodied mouth.

“Vicious little bitch,” he pants through bloodied lips, and his balls slap harshly against your ass as he thrusts his hips harder into you.

Then he shoves two fingers into your mouth, and he groans when you bite down on them. Your eyes roll back as you suck and moan around his knuckles, so utterly drunk on the way he fucks you that you can barely remember how to speak.

“Dokimavorse,” the command falls off his tongue in eager High Valyrian, dragging you back from the edge just so you’ll look him in the eye. “Say my name, princess. Say it.”

You gasp as he pulls his fingers out. “Aerion,” you moan.

He rewards you by pulling all the way out slowly, just to slam back in so hard you are quite sure you could swear you feel it somewhere in your soul.

“Again,” he snarls, “Louder. I want them to hear you in the sept.”

“Aerion. Aerion. Aerion,” you scream this time, and you don’t care who hears, not even when you know Valarr is somewhere in this keep, being the terribly oblivious fool he is. 

With a growl, you put your whole weight into twisting out from under him and flipping him onto his back with a force that makes him laugh. The feel of his cock dragging along your walls as you lower yourself onto him makes you both hiss, and the stretch is even more obscene from this angle. 

“Gonna ride the dragon, are you?” 

“Only a dragon can handle a dragon, isn’t that right?”

“Of course it is,” Aerion’s head falls back as he grins, and the sharp line of his throat gleams in the candlelight. “Go on, then. Show me.”

You let out a blood-curdling moan as you feel him pressing up into your deepest parts, and he latches his mouth onto your breast and bites at it. The two of you moan in unison as you begin to bounce on his cock, and his palms are utterly unrestrained as they clamp bruisingly tight to your hips as you set your pace riding him. 

“Tell me what I am. Tell me who you’re fucking. Say you want the dragon.” he demands.

“You’re my dragon,” you gasp into his mouth as you ride him harder, feeling him throb inside you. “Only mine. no one else’s.” You throw your head back and moan. “I want it, I want you, I want to break you open and eat your fucking heart.” 

“Good girl—ride your dragon.” He grins as though you’ve bewitched him, so stupid and awestruck and so madly and desperately in love with every inch of your wicked soul, even if he’d rather cut out his own tongue than say so.

Aerion is damn near weeping with pleasure as he pants your name like a prayer, bucking up into you all while you bounce on his cock and wetness squelches obscenely with every slap of your bodies. “Fuck,” He slaps your ass and then he does it again and again, the pain oh so sharp and sweet. “You take me so well. Ride me, wicked girl, ride me till you can’t speak.”

“Gods, you’re so fucking big—”

“Yeah? Too much, is it?” He fists your hair and yanks your mouth down to his, and he bites your lip until it bleeds. Then he groans and slaps at your ass again. “Fuck, you are mine. My dragon.”

Aerion’s eyes are wild as he watches you with his mouth dropped open, and your cunt squeezes around him as you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge. He must feel it too, because he grabs your hips and takes over entirely. He jackhammers up into you, and your moans grow higher and more desperate. “Gods, I want to fill you up. Make you round and see your pretty belly swell and let that idiot wonder why his heir looks nothing like him.”

The thought of it makes you clench around him harder, though the bitter taste of the moon tea still clings to the back of your throat.

You collapse on his chest as your thighs begin to tremble. “I will gut you. Don’t you dare cum in me again—”

“Or what? You’ll slay your dragon?” Aerion grins all too cruelly and cuts you off with a brutal snap upwards. “Try and stop me—”

Whatever else he says is lost upon you as heat coils tighter in your belly.

“Fuckfuckfuck. GODS. Aerion. Aerion, I’m—”

A scream tears out of you as your orgasm hits you like fire, and your cunt clenches so tight you see white as you squeeze the life out of him. Aerion follows right after and groans your name over and over as he spills inside you anyway, filling your sensitive cunt up with his seed deep inside until it’s leaking out along his cock ans onto Valarr’s pristine sheets.

After, you both lie there in the ruined mess of your stupid sheets and bruised bodies and smeared blood, both of you entirely too stubborn to speak first.

“Wipe up your mess,” you finally mutter, glaring at the crimson stain you just seemed to notice alongside his leaking seed on the white silk. “If Valarr sees that, he’ll—”

“He’ll do nothing,” Aerion cuts you off with a sneer as he pushes the ruined sheets under your hips. “Speak of him once more and I swear by all the gods, I’ll sneak into your chambers and fuck you while your dear husband sleeps beside us.”

You shove at his shoulder, and he grabs your hand and kisses your bruised knuckles reverently.

Seven hells. You truly think you might kill him someday, and you know he hopes you try it.

© dragonquilled all rights reserved — please do not copy, repost, or translate my work. characters belong to the world of asoiaf, but all writing and original content are mine.

[beljude]

[dragonquilled]

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON ──── aerion targaryen.

𝓼 they say the dragons died out ages ago. but how could that be true, seeing as you ride one every other week or so?

─── ༯ warnings targcest (reader is baelor’s daughter), p in v—smut minors do not interact, bratty dom aerion, breeding kink, cheating (sorry valarr), knife play, blood, biting, reader & aerion are schizophrenics who think they’re dragons, they’re both evil & crazy, pussy eating, aerion gets tamed in high valyrian, they’re having a brat off, idk man i just made shit up this is pure filth and aerion brain rot.

✉️ porn with a slight cheeky plot me thinks. let’s all collectively ignore the logistics. anyways, hello bloody mouth aerion nation!

REBLOGS&FEEDBACK APPRECIATED ── ༯ word count 3k

SOME GIRLS ARE BORN with pretty eyes or nimble fingers, but you came into this world with both and a third thing, which is the stubborn certainty that you’re fire made flesh.

Not that anyone in King’s Landing would believe it—least of all your utterly loyal and even softer lady in waiting, slipping into your chamber ever so discreetly.

In her hands is a small vial wrapped in plain cloth and half concealed by the fall of her skirts.

“Your—ah, your tea, as you asked, princess.” Amara hands it over without looking at you because she’s polite enough to pretend she isn’t dying to ask, but you see the question flicker over her face anyway, and so you brace yourself for it. 

“Go on, Amara, out with it. you’ve been itching to ask.”

“Forgive me for prying, princess, but… must the Maester prepare it every month? His Grace would be so happy, I believe, if you were to give him a child. The realm would rejoice—”

You cut her off with a smile and take a slow sip of the disgustingly bitter brew. “I am not fit for motherhood, my sweet summer child. There are enough monsters in House Targaryen as it is. Best not give the gods more ideas, don’t you think?”

Amara blushes at your sardonic friendly tone. You know what she’s thinking—she probably assumes you mean your cousin with a known monstrous reputation (and to be quite fair, you do), but you offer her a wicked grin in return because it never once occurs to her that you might mean yourself.

Of all the masks you wear, being the realm’s darling is by far the most tedious of them all.

But what’s a Targaryen princess such as yourself meant to do when she’s Baelor’s one and only precious daughter and Valarr’s terribly adored gleaming little wife? These are roles the gods (or fate, or perhaps your father’s hunger for peace) chose for you that you play so well you almost convince yourself you are who they say you are. 

Amara — the closest thing you possess to a conscience (gods bless her foolishly tender heart) — is now halfway through recounting some spectacularly unflattering gossip about some Lord’s cock (allegedly as underwhelming as his sense of honor) and all you can do is smile like a sweet dove and nod as if your mind isn’t a thousand leagues away.

“—swore it on his honor, can you imagine?” Amara giggles giddily. “But truly, princess, what of you? Has His Grace been keeping you sated?”

Oh, dearest, sweetest lamb. If only she knew a tenth of the filth that fills your nights. She looks at you with such open admiration that you do not have the heart to tell her that this talk of cocks…? and bedding and ordinary desire bores you senseless. 

Though you do enjoy her company. She’s the only person left in this godsforsaken pit who makes you feel almost human, but that’s hardly a high bar. You care for her as much as you’re capable of caring, but loving you is a bit like cradling a starving wolf and praying that they do not lose a hand. Or rather a dragon, if one insists on being poetic. (And you always insist.) Still, you’d cut out your own heart before hurting her. You are quite as certain as your hair is silver that if Amara glimpsed even a sliver of what you have done, she would cross herself and flee to the ends of Westeros as she sobs for the Mother’s mercy.

Which is precisely why you lie to her. (And more so because that is what good princesses do.)

So you go on to tell her pretty stories about Valarr’s gentle hands and careful kisses, and you let her believe the bullshit that you truly are the perfect princess they call you to be — blessed by the Seven and favored by every godly old wife who’s ever prayed for a daughter with silver hair and untroubled eyes. 

“Dragons are never sated,” you say teasingly, and she thinks you are only being poetic and demure and endlessly loyal to your sweet, stifling, perfectly polite princely husband. “Valarr is… ever the gentlest, of course. He is a man who would never risk a wrinkle in my gown, let alone a bruise.”

Well, this much is true.

Valarr is golden and kind and dutiful to a fault. He fucks you as though you’re made of glass, and he worries amd frets and dotes and prays for you before he ever thinks to pray for himself, amongst other things—all of which is to say: he is everything a proper lady could wish for.

The thought alone is nearly enough to make you yawn.

“You are so blessed, princess,” she sighs, and you watch the naivete dance in her eyes. “To be cherished so dearly—surely the Seven watch over you. I hesrd he sent you a dozen flowers just last night?”

What you wish to say is: Is that not the true horror of it all? To be cherished and adored in a cage of silk when all you crave is to be bloodied and devoured.

What you actually end up saying, though, is:

 “Wasn’t it lovely?” You giggle prettily, and sip your wine as if you’re not thinking about blood on your teeth and the sound a certain someone makes when you drag your nails down his back. “He is ever so thoughtful. It’s as if I am in a dream.”

Amara sighs and looks as if what you’re saying is the height of romance, and you wonder with viscous curiosity what she would look like if you told her what you truly dream of. Would she scream or simply crumple? Would she faint, or better yet, would this conversation finally grow interesting? 

The idea of it makes you smile.

The truth is, princess, you… oh, you are not so much the darling the realm believes you to be—and you rather like it that way. Gods, it truly is indescribably tedious, really. The only time you’re even halfway sated is with blood on your tongue with your hands wrapped around a throat and your lips shaped into a cruel smile as you watch a man beg for your mercy. What would Amara say if she knew there is a man who sees you exactly as you are and wants you more because of it? And that that man is not your perfect princely husband? 

You think about him, and something dark and delighted coils in your chest.

“I must leave you for now, sweetling,” you press a kiss to her brow as you stand. “I promised the gods a prayer before supper.” 

“The gods smile down on you, your grace.” she says dreamily and none the wiser.

Oh, you highly doubt the gods are smiling at all—considering the mere reality that the only prayers you’ve offered in years are whispered into the mouth of a monster with silver hair, and your good sense long since abandoned.

Poor Valarr. If only he knew. He will spend his whole life trying to love you, and as fate will have it, it will never be fucking enough. But not because he fails—oh no, it’s not his fault at all. It is just that love is a fickle thing for a dragon, much less a monster such as yourself.

But what your darling doting brother doesn’t know just makes your nights all the more sweeter.

After all, who else could ever sate you, if not another dragon with blood on his mouth and a hunger just as ugly as your own?

Aerion Targaryen is never in the habit of bothering with courtesies.

His idea of a greeting more so leans towards the clatter of a locked door and the snarl of your name as his hand mercilessly finds your throat. 

Tonight in particular, you are pressed to the bedpost with your gown bunched at your hips, and Aerion’s mouth is buried between your thighs as he devours your pussy like a madman. Somewhere beside you, the moonlight glints off a discarded knife—the same one he traced along your thigh minutes earlier, which was just sharp enough to sting but also just dull enough to leave nothing you couldn’t explain away. (Which is utterly disappointing, really, but there are only so many times you can explain away strange marks to your poor husband before he starts asking questions he doesn’t really want answered.)

You’ve already been at it for gods know how long, but your monstrous cousin is nothing if not a sadist who takes his sweet twisted time.

Aerion is far too entertained feasting between your thighs, licking into you with a tongue so wickedly precise it feels as if he’s trying to find the last traces of dragonfire hidden in your cunt. It feels entirely too incredible—except you’re also keenly aware that you’re running out of time before someone comes knocking, and you’re not sure you have another plausible lie left in you today.

“Patience, cousin,” he hisses against your pussy when you whine at him to hurry. "Didn't your septa ever teach you that virtue?”

“My septa died. Much like I’m about to of weariness if you don’t make fucking haste and learn to behave,” you snap, though you grind your hips up into his warm mouth and hiss as he bites your inner thigh. “Fuck— Aerion. I’ll have your head on a spike before morning if you fucking mark me again.”

Aerion flicks his tongue over a faint bruise he left the last time, all while making a show of humming. “You talk so prettily when you’re angry. Do it again.”

“I shall do worse than talking.” You yank at his hair so hard his eyes flash, but he only grins wider and does nothing to stop you. “Don’t. Mark. Me. Valarr’s not half as stupid as he acts.”

Aerion lazily smirks, though his face twists momentarily with something which seems to resemble jealousy quite a bit. “Come to think of it… Perhaps I should hold you down and carve my name into you right here, so there’s no mistaking who you truly belong to. Then we’ll have your brother come running to find you with my cock still inside you. You think he’d put up a fight, little dragon?” 

“I do not belong to anyone, least of all you. And stop smiling, you fool. I’ll cut your cock off and hang it above the—”

“Tsk. You’d mourn it, you impudent little brat,” Aerion cuts you off when he leans and bites at your throat quite harshly. 

“Shut up.” you hiss, though your actions do not match your words as you arch into his touch and moan. “You find too much pleasure in your own voice.”

Aerion’s mouth curls into a twisted smirk, then he licks your slick off his thumb and pushes it between your lips. You suck his thumb and bite down just enough to make him curse, then you moan around his fingers and his eyes glint with hunger. 

“Fuck. Look at you, such a little filthy whore.” 

Your hand flies up and you slap him, and Aerion’s head snaps to the side as a wicked laugh breaks out of him. Anyone else would be dead for even daring to do so, but you’re the only creature in the realm who gets away with this, and you relish in it.

“You’re the only whore in this room, cousin,” you sneer. “Would you just fuck me already?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Aerion laughs as he drags his fingers ever so slowly over your slick, aching cunt. “Say please. Princesses should know their manners.”

You roll your eyes. “Just get on with it, Aerion. Or I ought to get my husband to do it for me.”

Aerion’s face twists with anger. “Careful. You know what happens to little brats who bare their fangs at dragons.”

Well, it’s a good thing you’re a dragon yourself then, isn't it? And though it is true that you’ve never seen a true dragon with your own eyes, you are well versed enough to know that dragons only ever listen when commanded in their own tongue. 

“Dohaerās, Aerion.” the High Valyrian slides off your tongue as sharp as any blade he has ever used, and the effect is instantaneous. Aerion’s eyes flare in the candlelight as he tilts his head, and for a moment he looks very much like the wicked little dragon he’s been accused of being. 

Obedience is not exactly known to be in Aerion Targaryen’s nature, but you’ve always been the only one who could ever tame him.

Aerion’s hand hungrily drops to rip your skirts even higher, and the next thing you know you’re properly sprawled across silk sheets which you’re supposed to keep pristine for your dear husband. Your head presses into the pillow so your crown of silver hair tumbles loose, and Aerion roughly spreads you out once more, baring your cunt to the candlelight as he frees his cock and fists it.

“See? All you had to do was ask nicely, little dragon.”

Aerion lines his cock up with no preamble or any hint of gentleness whatsoever. He’s bigger than any man has the right to be, and the stretch is always just on the edge of pure utter agony, but it is always your favorite part, anyway. He slides in all at once and steals your breath in a single brutal thrust, and as always, he does not even bother to wait for you to adjust before he starts snapping his hips into you relentlessly—and the filthy beast holds your gaze the entire time, and takes pleasure in your pain.

“Fuck—fuck,” you choke repeatedly as your cunt swallows him whole, and you are so full you can barely breathe. 

“Quit your whining,” he ruthlessly buries himself to the hilt in your glistening cunt. “You can take it. You always do.” He groans and thrusts harder, voice washing over with delight as he watches your already fucked-out face twist in pleasure. “Though… let’s see if you can still curse me and speak of my foolish cousin when you’re full of my cock like this.”

You try—oh, you really fucking try. But all that comes out is a noise that would get you sent to a sept for the rest of your life if anyone ever heard it.

“What a shame. You can’t even—ah—look at you, taking every inch like a whore. can’t even get a single word out, can you?” Aerion’s laughs as he thrusts in so deep your head tips back. The headboard bangs out a rhythm against the wall in time with the obscene slap of skin on skin, and it only gets louder every time he slams into you. “Fuck, you are clinging to me like some maiden at her first bedding. You feel that? Always such a perfect little cunt for me, princess,” 

“Harder, Aerion. Gods, fuck me harder!” you moan deliriously, raking your nails down his back hard enough to mark him as you utter a few words in High Valyrian as though you’re commanding a dragon.

He groans and obeys. The stretch is so utterly dizzying and filthy, and your words continue to sloppily choke out of your throat as he fucks into you. Every single thrust rocks you up the bed with your ankles caught around his waist. 

At some point, your nails find the knife by the pillow and you slash a line down his shoulder just because you can. Aerion hisses, then he grins while he watches his blood paint your fingers. You suck at the mark and drink his blood in when he leans over you, and he groans into the kiss when you crash your lips into his with your bloodied mouth.

“Vicious little bitch,” he pants through bloodied lips, and his balls slap harshly against your ass as he thrusts his hips harder into you.

Then he shoves two fingers into your mouth, and he groans when you bite down on them. Your eyes roll back as you suck and moan around his knuckles, so utterly drunk on the way he fucks you that you can barely remember how to speak.

“Dokimavorse,” the command falls off his tongue in eager High Valyrian, dragging you back from the edge just so you’ll look him in the eye. “Say my name, princess. Say it.”

You gasp as he pulls his fingers out. “Aerion,” you moan.

He rewards you by pulling all the way out slowly, just to slam back in so hard you are quite sure you could swear you feel it somewhere in your soul.

“Again,” he snarls, “Louder. I want them to hear you in the sept.”

“Aerion. Aerion. Aerion,” you scream this time, and you don’t care who hears, not even when you know Valarr is somewhere in this keep, being the terribly oblivious fool he is. 

With a growl, you put your whole weight into twisting out from under him and flipping him onto his back with a force that makes him laugh. The feel of his cock dragging along your walls as you lower yourself onto him makes you both hiss, and the stretch is even more obscene from this angle. 

“Gonna ride the dragon, are you?” 

“Only a dragon can handle a dragon, isn’t that right?”

“Of course it is,” Aerion’s head falls back as he grins, and the sharp line of his throat gleams in the candlelight. “Go on, then. Show me.”

You let out a blood-curdling moan as you feel him pressing up into your deepest parts, and he latches his mouth onto your breast and bites at it. The two of you moan in unison as you begin to bounce on his cock, and his palms are utterly unrestrained as they clamp bruisingly tight to your hips as you set your pace riding him. 

“Tell me what I am. Tell me who you’re fucking. Say you want the dragon.” he demands.

“You’re my dragon,” you gasp into his mouth as you ride him harder, feeling him throb inside you. “Only mine. no one else’s.” You throw your head back and moan. “I want it, I want you, I want to break you open and eat your fucking heart.” 

“Good girl—ride your dragon.” He grins as though you’ve bewitched him, so stupid and awestruck and so madly and desperately in love with every inch of your wicked soul, even if he’d rather cut out his own tongue than say so.

Aerion is damn near weeping with pleasure as he pants your name like a prayer, bucking up into you all while you bounce on his cock and wetness squelches obscenely with every slap of your bodies. “Fuck,” He slaps your ass and then he does it again and again, the pain oh so sharp and sweet. “You take me so well. Ride me, wicked girl, ride me till you can’t speak.”

“Gods, you’re so fucking big—”

“Yeah? Too much, is it?” He fists your hair and yanks your mouth down to his, and he bites your lip until it bleeds. Then he groans and slaps at your ass again. “Fuck, you are mine. My dragon.”

Aerion’s eyes are wild as he watches you with his mouth dropped open, and your cunt squeezes around him as you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge. He must feel it too, because he grabs your hips and takes over entirely. He jackhammers up into you, and your moans grow higher and more desperate. “Gods, I want to fill you up. Make you round and see your pretty belly swell and let that idiot wonder why his heir looks nothing like him.”

The thought of it makes you clench around him harder, though the bitter taste of the moon tea still clings to the back of your throat.

You collapse on his chest as your thighs begin to tremble. “I will gut you. Don’t you dare cum in me again—”

“Or what? You’ll slay your dragon?” Aerion grins all too cruelly and cuts you off with a brutal snap upwards. “Try and stop me—”

Whatever else he says is lost upon you as heat coils tighter in your belly.

“Fuckfuckfuck. GODS. Aerion. Aerion, I’m—”

A scream tears out of you as your orgasm hits you like fire, and your cunt clenches so tight you see white as you squeeze the life out of him. Aerion follows right after and groans your name over and over as he spills inside you anyway, filling your sensitive cunt up with his seed deep inside until it’s leaking out along his cock ans onto Valarr’s pristine sheets.

After, you both lie there in the ruined mess of your stupid sheets and bruised bodies and smeared blood, both of you entirely too stubborn to speak first.

“Wipe up your mess,” you finally mutter, glaring at the crimson stain you just seemed to notice alongside his leaking seed on the white silk. “If Valarr sees that, he’ll—”

“He’ll do nothing,” Aerion cuts you off with a sneer as he pushes the ruined sheets under your hips. “Speak of him once more and I swear by all the gods, I’ll sneak into your chambers and fuck you while your dear husband sleeps beside us.”

You shove at his shoulder, and he grabs your hand and kisses your bruised knuckles reverently.

Seven hells. You truly think you might kill him someday, and you know he hopes you try it.

© dragonquilled all rights reserved — please do not copy, repost, or translate my work. characters belong to the world of asoiaf, but all writing and original content are mine.

[bullseyegoon]

i really like the hip thing he does. For no particular reason.