s.boy x fem!reader ⋮ nsfw, 17+ ⋮ grinding ⋮ riding ⋮ mentions of war ⋮ ben being a cocky s.o.b ⋮ mean!ben ⋮ use of the words 'baby', 'slut', 'doll', and 'cockslut' ⋮ ass slap ⋮ no use of y/n ⋮ reader's appearance is not detailed !
“Look at ‘ya,” Ben grunts, watching you grind down on his lap, little skirt riding up your thighs as you rotate your hips. He had your legs bracketing his thighs, big hands rubbing your soft skin. A wicked smile adorns his lips. Ben’s eyes are narrow slits, green eyes swirling with hunger. “Little fuckin’ patriot.”
Ben was sitting propped up against a lawn chair in your backyard. His long legs were stretched straight out, boots planted firmly on the ground. Spurts of colors painted phantasmagoric images across the night sky, the booming sounds of fireworks ricocheting off the Earth. The lights bathed Ben’s face in red and blue shadows. He looked in his element– America’s colors bouncing off his skin.
It was the 4th of July- a holiday that Ben took seriously. He’d spent the day telling Hughie and Butcher stories from war and what the trenches were like. He recounted how he’d filled a commie with lead, only stopping when the magazine of his gun was empty. He lounged around on the couch and snapped at Butcher whenever he asked him to do something– using the excuse of how he fought for the country to be free. It was another Veterans day for him.
Ben nodded as your hands pawed at his chest, whimpering his name softly. “Please.. Ben, please.” Need had pooled between your legs, leaving a wet patch on his sweatpants right over his crotch.
His hand left your thigh to grab the bottle of beer sat next to him, hand gripping the neck of the bottle. He took a leisurely swig. Grinned when you ground your clothed pussy down onto the outline of his cock. He watched how you withered over him, hips bucking and twitching.
“Ready to thank me, baby?” He asked, setting his beer back down. His eyes glanced down at your figure, holding a sort of power in his gaze that never failed to make you shiver. “Fought for this fuckin’ country. Deserve some fuckin’ gratefulness for slaughtering them fuckin’ commies.”
Ben’s hand bunches up your jean skirt, thumb rubbing your clit through your panties. A jolt of pleasure shoots through you. A whimper falls past your lips, feeling yourself flutter and clench around nothing. When you nod, hips jerking as you chase for friction, Ben coos softly.
He helps you get his cock free from his sweats, pulling it from the slit in the front. You made a mental note to thank whatever high up above for him being allergic to wearing underwear. His cock is large in your hands, thick and heavy. The crown is flushed a deep shade of pink, twitching as you stroke up the length.
Like you were staring down at your favorite food, you felt your mouth water at the sight of it. You knew what would come next. You knew the delicious stretch of your cunt around him would feel like heaven. Every nerve inside your body felt frayed, anticipation bubbling through your veins and clouding your mind.
Ben leans back and grabs his beer, looking down at you without another word. His gaze is predatorial as he watches you peel your panties to the side. He brings the bottle to his lips as you line him up to your entrance, taking a long swig as you sink down on him.
“That’s it, jus’ like that. Bounce on that cock.” His words are slow as he watches you find a rhythm, hips rising and falling and rolling around him. “Earnin’ those stripes, huh slut?”
If you thought Ben was big in your hand, the looks of him was an extreme understatement to him inside you. He stretched your cunt out, thick length splitting you open. Just sitting on him, filled up to the brim, the tip of his cock was kissing your cervix. Your walls clenched around him, the stretch bordering on painful. But every inch felt like magic as he nudged himself further inside.
“Fuck! Ben.. so full.” You mumbled your words as your hips rocked, starting a sloppy rhythm. Your eyes had fluttered shut, focusing only on the immense pleasure each glide of his cock in your cunt brought exploding through your nerves.
Ben’s grunting is barely heard over the clamoring of crackles and booms coming from the sky. His free hand slithers behind your back to slap your ass each time you sink down. It’s not a little love tap– it’s a cracking smack that is sure to leave a handprint on your asscheek.
A mewl leaves your lips as you slip and slide on his cock, chasing after that sweet release. Ben laughs as he watches you try and fail to keep up with the tempo. He watches with faux sympathy before he slams his hips up, length pistoning into you.
His pace is wild. Animalistic. He lets his now empty beer bottle clatter to the ground, hands gripping knot your hips. His hands ignite a fire in your skin, burning all the way down to your bones. He guides you forcefully until you’re babbling and your body goes limp.
“Fuckin’ perfect little pussy.” His voice is rough like gravel, shooting fireworks of pleasure rattling your ears. His grasp is bruising, skin tingling as he slams your hips down against his. “squeezin’ me s’well. shit, I’d fight another million fuckin’ commies just to feel this cunt ‘gain.”
The coil in your abdomen feels tightened, every stroke of his length hurdling you closer to the edge. Every ridge and vein of his cock was indented into your cunt, absolutely ruining you for anyone else. This moment— when Ben’s watching your greedy pussy welcome his cock every time he rutted his hips up into you— was better than winning a damn war.
“Rub that fuckin’ clit, doll.” The command fell from his lips easily, voice smooth as whiskey. “Fuckin’ cum on my cock, you little cockslut.”
Your fingers trembled as they found their place nestled between your folds, rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your eyes fluttered closed. Just focusing on how good everything felt.
You came in tandem with the last boom from the fireworks show, light exploding in the sky as light exploded behind your eyes. It was messy— cunt dripping down the length of him. Walls squeezing him so tight he shot up into you, his mark painting your cervix.
“Happy fuckin’ Independence Day.” He groaned, cock twitching inside of you.
Your body slumped against him, chest heaving as you crashed down from your high. Every light seemed brighter, every crackle louder, and every pass of Ben’s hand up and down your back had you shivering.
This 4th of July would be one for the books.
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conquest, who loves missionary because he can use it as a excuse to press his needy hot body against yours as he fucks into you nice and slow. he'll smother you with his weight just to hear the way you whine for him to let up. he knows you cant take it but instead of easing off, he just grunts out sweet encouragements and drowns out your desperate whines with sloppy kisses.
conquest, who pets and runs his fingers through your hair whenever you've done anything to satisfy him. he'll coo and tell you how much he looves when you're good to him. he likes the way you lean into his syrupy voice and the way he can basically hear your needy pussy clenching around nothing.
conquest, who'd abducted you after conquering your planet and had settled on keeping you around as a sort of pet companion. he never liked your birth name, so he'd taken it upon himself to rename you as a crossover to him being your new 'owner'. conquest wasn't a complicated man, he'd simply liked watching you prance around like a sick little barbie doll. he'd like hearing you shuffle to tidy up whenever he arrived home earlier than usual. it made his dick ache just thinking about returning home to these little domestic normalities.
conquest, who refused to cum anywhere but inside you and it even made his dick twitch just thinking about making you a mama. when he came he'd gently fuck his cum deeper into your pussy until he was sure she'd swallowed every drop. he'd leave for months on end and dream about returning home to you with a swollen belly, and every time he didn't, he viewed it as a opportunity to fill up your pretty hole all over again.
conquest, who'd always had this fantasy of watching you get fucked by grand regent thragg. he'd imagine how you'd look to him for approval before sliding down thragg's thick cock. his mouth watered at the thought of the grand regent praising him for the way your pussy clenched around his dick with a needy vice grip. he'd imagine how thragg would sound as he bred your sweet pussy for viltrum's gain, the grunts he'd make as he came. conquest had cum all over his fist more times than he'd care to count at the thought of pleasing thragg with his little pet companion.
☆ ──꒰summary꒱ ❞ aerion makes his sweet girl take all of him, even though you’re so nervous.
contains! manipulation, p in v, aftercare (kinda?) requested material ❤︎
⤷ ゛authors noteˎˊ˗ i am currently (and very desperately) trying to change my writing style to be more interesting and engaging… but like, still lmk if there are any inconsistencies or grammatical/spelling mistakes! xx
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢 ⠀ᰋ you laid back against your floral duvet, legs trembling as Aerion tried to position himself between your legs—which were currently clamped shut with anxiety. the sheets felt impossibly cold against your skin. you looked up at him with wide, watery eyes, your chest heaving. “i really don’t think i can, Aerion.” you whispered, voice shaking. “please, it’s just too big.”
“shh, baby. you can do it for me, right? you wanna make me happy.” he slid his hands down the tops of your thighs, trying to wedge his fingers in between them and pry them apart.
“i do, but it hurts just thinking about it!” you buried your face in your hands but unclenched your legs, letting him spread them, bearing your cunt to his greedy eyes. his gaze made you feel a million times more naked than you already were. it was like he had the ability to strip away each layer of skin and tissue until he saw right to the core of your being; the lustful animal of your person.
“it only hurts because you’re being stubborn. just relax.” he rubbed his thumb through you folds, smearing around the slick, enjoying the wet sound it made. he pressed the broad, blunt head of his cock against your entrance. you gasped despite the lack of intrusion, hips instinctively jerking away.
he began to nudge his way inside. you whimpered and dug your fingers into the sheets, trying to breathe through the pain of the stretch like he had told you to do so many times before.
“almost there, baby, just a little more. see how well you’re taking it?” he cooed, rubbing comforting circles into your skin.
you just whined in response, looking up at him with a pained expression.
“shhh, don’t cry. you’re just a little tight.” he gripped your hips tight, watching his cock slowly bully its way into your cunt, pushing through inch by inch, “such a tight little pussy… can barely fit my cock…” he groaned, mostly to himself, “we’ll fix that.” he pushed harder, ignoring your whining. he felt the narrow canal of you fighting him, the walls gripping his shaft tight, like a vice.
he forced himself deeper, stretching you beyond your limit with his girth, until finally, he had buried himself to the hilt. you sniffled, a few tears still wet on your pinked cheeks.
“look at you, taking every inch. who’s my brave girl?”
that tone was familiar, and you knew that it meant he was making fun of you, but it went straight to your clit despite the fact.
he started to move, and you let out a choked cry as you felt him hammer into your cervix. he watched your face, enjoying the way you look completely overwhelmed by him, the way your eyebrows knit together in a look of almost pained satisfaction, the whimpers that slipped past your lips every time he thrusted.
he groaned, emptying himself inside while he gripped your hips tight, his nails digging in so harshly you thought they’d puncture the skin. they didn’t, but a nasty bruise was sure to be left behind at the least, and you’d look at them in the mirror, remembering this moment fondly, imagining the next time it would happen while your cunt soaked through your cotton panties.
Aerion withdrew slowly, leaving you open and leaking, your pussy still throbbing from the immensity of the stretch. he leaned down and kissed your forehead, his voice suddenly soft and sweet. the gaze of your orgasm shielded you from the artificial nature of it. “you did so good for me. such a good girl. my perfect little girl.” he smiled.
i could eat that girl for lunch ⧗ natasha x avenger f!reader
♡ wlw ⋆ no use of y/n ⋆ smut 18+ ⋆ friends to lovers ⋆ natasha’s gaydar is off ⋆ r eats box like a champ ⋆ lesbian protector thor ⋆ one bed trope if you squint but it’s not important ⋆ images are not mine ⋆ ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes i will probably find them later ⋆ russian is from the interweb
♡ dobroye utrechko - good morning
♡ masterlist ♡ word count: 2.9k
bones’ now playing ▶︎ lunch - billie eilish
natasha romanoff seldom hoped that she was wrong. this was not one of those times.
The Black Widow, specialist in espionage, had profiled you wrong? She was so certain that you were straight, but now she wasn’t so convinced.
Her real suspicion started with Thor.
Clint, Tony and Natasha sat playing cards. Natasha had won every round of every game they’d started and she just cleared her hand in Rummy. They were interrupted by Thor boasting from the hallway, “this is marvelous news!” He laughed.
“What’s got you so giddy?” Natasha asked him.
“The Littlest Avenger considers me to be a tolerable man.” He was very proud, chest puffed out, hands on his hip. Natasha’s eyebrows raised. She knew he meant you by the nickname. Not that he thought of you small, but less rivaling in physical strength and age as a human.
Tony was fast to answer, “I’m sorry, she what?”
“She has a list on her cellular phone of tolerable men.” He stated. “And of course she has placed The Mighty Thor on this list.”
Tony and Clint began asking about the list and if they saw their names on it. When Thor asked you about a tolerable women list, apparently you just laughed at him. Claiming that “you had a different kind of list for women.” She grew very curious about that one.
Then, few days after, the team was all together for a rowdy dinner. It had gone smoothly, most party’s Tony Stark had a hand in were a hit. By the tail end of it, Tony and Thor were drunk and bickering about which Avenger had more sex appeal or something.
Tony called your name. “You’re young and not Natasha Romanoff. Which of us would you take home?”
Natasha would have lied if she contemplated tuning out your answer, but then heard you boldly announce, “Tony, I would rather sit on a hot grill than sleep with any men in this room.” You would prefer to physical pain over sleeping with any man in the room. Maria had left with Pepper to help clean up after a spilled bottle of champagne that one of them had tipped over onto the table. And Natasha was the only woman in the room at the time.
Natasha was looking at you now and she was sure through your peripheral vision you saw her too.
She decided to set you up, now helping guide the conversation towards the information she wanted out of you.
“Clint, remember that one drag queen in Boston-” Natasha randomly brought up.
“She was very good at her job!” Clint defended himself. Drunk you found it hilarious to picture a slightly tipsy Clint get hit on by a drag queen with a heavy Boston accent. “I’ve never slept with a man.” Clint drunkenly confirmed.
“Me neither.” you giggled out, trying your best to whisper.
Clint looked at you confused or surprised, trying to showcase both in his stupor. “Wait a minute.” He loudly whispered crunching his eyebrows. “Do we bat for the same team?”
You nodded your head yes with a lackadaisical roll to your neck as the giggles continued before tony announced the door dash was here. You didn’t pay him any mind as you were too busy to remember natasha was still next to you.
She called your name, stealing away your attention. “Thor was telling us that you have a list of tolerable men.” You nearly choked on your drink. Thor told Natasha about your list.
Taking a breath, you nodded. “It’s a short list. He should be honored to be on it.” Natasha hummed.
“He mentioned you have a list of women too. hopefully, I’m tolerable enough to on there.” She feigned innocence, leaning her chin in her palm.
“Oh, that’s it’s a different list.” You blurted, too inebriated to stop yourself. Natasha should be ashamed of herself, taking advantage of your drunken brain, but she was afraid you would may have clammed up the moment she started poking otherwise.
“Oh yeah?” She continued, keeping the eye contact.
“Yeah.” You breathed. Nat raised an eyebrow.
“So, I’m not on that one?”
“You are!” You rushed. Her eyes caught the black shine of your phone slotted between your thighs. “Mind if I peak?” She dropped her voice to a lower whisper, continuing to lean into you. If you were assumed straight sober, drunk you absolutely was not, shamelessly staring at Natasha’s cleavage.
You nodded dumbly opening you phone to the notes app. Natasha read through the notes as you opened the app. Random lists, meaningless words and number sequences that probably made little sense to you anymore, Natasha’s eyes lagged on the note that had your bra size typed out before you opened the untitled note.
You were right, the list was short. Immediate names were Clint, Bucky, Thor, Scott? (question mark included) followed by one of the oldest janitors in sheild and the very flamboyant nurse from medical. Natasha did not try to contain her laugh. “What are your standards of this list?” You shrugged, laughing along with her.
The second list a few lines down and far longer. it started with Natasha’s name, then Wanda, Brunnhilde, Carol, Okoye, Maria, followed by a collection of reputable shield agents, and a firefighter in the NYFD you had met during the battle of New York, and lastly one Natasha did not recognize, Lisa from the bakery.
“I see a theme, but I must ask about the baker.” Natasha looked back up at you. You were chewing on the straw of your now empty cup, clearly nervous.
“Have you ever watched a woman make bread dough?” You simply asked. Natasha shook her head. “I’ll have to take you.” You promised, nodding enthusiastically.
Wveryone in the room seemed entranced in the food or their own conversation, so Natasha pushed on. “What’s this list then, if it’s not tolerable women.” Natasha watched your eyes shift nervously as you felt all the blood in your body rush to your face. It was at this point when your drunk brain began to catch up to what she was doing.
“Pretty women.” You murmured.
“And I’m number one. That’s sweet.” Natasha smiled at you taking a sip of her beer. Not missing the way you watched her sip and swallow.
Hook, line and sinker.
ཐི⋆⚰︎⋆ཋྀ
The next day you didn’t remember exactly what had gone on last night. Just the general overview. You didn’t care much to dig on the topic as getting drunk with the team wasn’t out of the ordinary.
When you peeled yourself out of bed, your brain felt like it was replaced by sludge and you were unsure of where you had last had your phone. You began wandering downstairs with the intention to try and retrace your steps to find it.
When you got to the kitchen, it was empty, aside from Natasha who was leaning against the opposite counter. Still in the sweats you were seen in at dinner, you regretted not being fully presentable.
On the other hand Natasha looked freshly showered, wearing jeans and a tight black tank top. you could even see the black strap of her bra poking out from behind the material. “Dobroye utrechko.” You assumed it was a greeting. You blink the drowsiness out of your eyes as you ripped your eyes back to her face.
“You’re up early.”
“It’s 10.” She laughed. You had no excuse. “Here.” Natasha poured you a cup of water and opened the cabinet where the team collected their over the counter stuff. She slid you the glass and placed two tablets of whatever in front of you. Zero survival skills in sight, you took the meds she gave you without even looking at them once. She then placed a muffin in front of you, remembering which ones you tended to chose over other flavors. Natasha then pulled your phone out of her back pocket. “Probably missing this too.”
“Oh my god.” You rushed, mid-bite of the muffin. “Thank you.” You cheered. “You’re the best!” F.R.I.D.A.Y. called out something over the PA about Steve needing Natasha so she grabbed her water bottle and began to exit the kitchen.
“Wouldn’t want you to have to restart your lists and I want to maintain my number one spot.” She exited the kitchen. You blinked. Her words were like a bucket of ice cold water and suddenly your memory of last night suddenly became abundantly more clear.
ཐི⋆⚰︎⋆ཋྀ
A few days later you’re stuffed into some tiny dress at some black tie cocktail party while the team works undercover with hotel security. The event was winding down and guests were beginning to leave. Natasha was on the upper floor, blended into the regular security like the rest of the team.
Tony sat outside the hotel watching the camera feeds from a large disguised rental van. He was only there if the Iron Man suit was needed, so he was running extra surveillance. but was Tony and Tony was getting bored. When you appeared on the feed rotation on one of the screens, he called you out over the com. “Can somebody drop a pen? I want to know what shield issued g-strings look like.”
“Looking to get one for yourself?” You asked him, looking to the wall to not look insane speaking to yourself. You were instructed to limit your com usage.
“If you help me pick one that matches pepper’s eyes.” He joked.
Steve broke up the quip. “Guys that’s enough. All dolled up or not she’s still your teammate.”
“She does look nice doesn’t she, boys?” Natasha ignored steve. “Too bad she’d burn her ass off before she’d touch any of you.”
“Romanoff.” Steve warned.
“Did you really say that?” Bucky laughed.
Natasha answered for you. “She did.”
“Ouch.” Sam said.
Before you could even attempt to defend yourself, you were interrupted by some diplomat curling an arm around your waist.
You politely turned him down, telling him how flattered you are and that you’re with the event. He doesn’t like that answer, telling you that it should be the reason he take you.
Like an angel, Natasha appears in that stupid security uniform. “Sir, this waitress is working I’m going to have to ask you to please allow her do her job.” She said curtly, keeping you behind her. After three minutes of torturous arguing the man was gone.
“Am I done?” You whined, to both Natasha and everyone on the comms. “I don’t think I can take anymore of this.”
“They’ve started packing up.” Natasha confirmed while you puffed out a sigh of relief.
“Thanks for that back there.” You told her.
She shrugged. “It’s the least I could do after having to watch you get picked at like a carcass all night.”
The team had finished and rounded up in a vacant lounge at the hotel. Steve went over their plan to head out in the morning, he kept it short and sweet as the small team of agents looked tired. Not battle worn, but socially worn, all spread out around the fancy couches. The dress you wore was inconvenient so you opted to sit on a barstool and by the end of the meeting you were miserable. Meeting adjourned, Steve began handing out the room assignments. “2 to a room, rank based, no coed.” Very chivalrous, Captain America. Fourth group down was you and Natasha. You found out upon arrival that she would be roomed with you so you had no surprise to mask. The team checked in your room a day early to have the space to get ready in. “Everyone get some sleep.” Steve ordered.
“If it’s worth anything,” Natasha said appearing next to the bar. Her overnight bag was slung over her shoulder, your bags were already in the room. “I really like the dress.”
“I’m still pretty convinced that it is actually just a top.” You hiked the pleather material down your upper thigh, as the two of you now made your way towards the elevators. Having long since discarded the heels, the sounds of Natasha’s boots and your bare feet sounded through the hallway. The cocktail dress only leaves about two inches to the imagination and just barely came down over your ass. Steve was so flustered that he had given you his jacket to tie around your waist until mission go.
Natasha selected the button for the second floor and you spoke up. “You know, it took two people to get me into this thing.” You said. Natasha let out a light chuckle imagining the scenario. “I might need a hand getting out of it.”
A small flame lit itself inside Natasha. Her mouth ran dry, but she didn’t miss a beat. “Of course.” She agreed with a smile. You, yourself, were smiling straight ahead at your warped reflection of the shiny metal until they slid open.
Smiling, because of course you noticed natasha’s fishing expedition after you had asked clint to fill you in on whatever drunk you told Natasha. You had always assumed natasha placed you in the coworker box but it became obvious that she genuinely did not know you liked women.
Natasha held her breath when you reached into your bra and pulled the room card to key your door open. You pushed it with your shoe-clad fist, allowing Natasha to step inside behind you.
She could see the mess the team had made getting you ready. Cosmetic and garmet bags along the table and an open bathroom door where she could only imagine what chaos the counter was in.
She watched you drop your shoes by your suitcase on the floor before you began peeling off your jewelry. Rings and bracelets gone. The hoops you had been asked to wear had pulled at your ears all night that you were glad to bid goodbye. You turned to Natasha, who now sat at the corner of the four-poster king bed. The security uniform jacket discarded beside her, now only in a tight black t-shirt and tactical pants.
“Help me unzip?” You asked her as you turned your back to her. Through the mirror you could see the top of her head raise from behind you as her posture straightened up. You made sure you were standing up straight, holding your posture to specifically draw her attention. You were pretty sure it was working.
You felt her fingers grab at the top of the tight dress. She pulled the fabric back slightly, jerking you momentarily, before she unlatched the little eye and hook at the top. You had to try to regulate your breathing before she began on the zipper. “I think every man attending that event was thinking about doing this.” She spoke with a light laugh as her touch prickled your skin.
“Ew.” You chuckled airily, deflating your lungs so she could get the zipper past your strapless bra. Natasha could see from the band that it was red lace.
“I’m not going to lie, you had me so fooled.” Natasha finally said. She peeked over your shoulder to lock eyes in the mirror. Dress now fully unzipped to the swell of your ass. You’d have to shimmy out of the rest of it.
“Fooled?” You parroted. Playful look on your face.
“Unclockable.” Natasha corrected. You turned to face her, a single hand on your chest being the only thing holding the last piece of whatever modesty that dress allowed in place.
“I wasn’t trying to be stealthy.” You joked. understanding what she meant.
“Good, because that’s my thing and I’m taking it back.” Natasha tipped her had to the side, her eyes wandering your face.
“You can have it,” you agreed, “you can take the dress with it if you’d like.” Natasha made prolonged eye contact, silently asking permission. You hand dropped and the material being held to you chest fell. Natasha was not shy when your gaze dropped to your chest. The strapless bra was shelf styled, worn specifically to boost your cleavage. that was the final nail in natasha’s coffin.
She used the folded fabric at your waist to yank you past the foot of space in between you two. when you stepped in between her open thighs, natasha didn’t hesitate to kiss you. It was soft, but desperate. Like something she didn’t know she was starved of. You broke away to bunch your fingers around her shirt, untucking it and hauling it over her head.
Her chest was covered with a black sports bra, a white logo you couldn’t read printed on the side of her ribs. You two didn’t stall, reaching for the black belt keeping the cargo pants at her waist and quickly undoing it’s strap. The button came easily thank god. You yelled back to allow her to stand and shimmy the pants down.
You tried to bite back a comment about how much you liked the fitted material, but the black tiny boyshorts she was wearing had you more distracted. When you felt the zipper of your dress pinch your back. Natasha helped you work the tight material over your hips. Red and black lace, of course you were wearing a set.
“I’m underdressed.” She joked, referring to your contrast between your undergarments and herself. “No, you’re practical.” You shrugged. Keeping your eye contact, you reached behind yourself and unhooked the eyes of your bra.
Once again Natasha felt no shame as her eyes dropped back to your bare chest. “But I do want them off.”
Natasha watched you sink to the floor with a twinkle in your eye, hands climbing for her panties. “I can’t believe i thought you were fucking straight.” She said lowly, pulling the material down her very well built thighs. Your free arm wrapped around her one of her legs to pull her closer to you, curling at the top of her inner thigh.
“So the Black Widow has a shitty gaydar?” You began kissing Natasha’s thighs, moving closer to her center.
“Or you’re just full of surprises?” She countered, her breath stuttering when your kisses had finally reached their destination. You landed a kiss just over her clit, feather light. She didn’t flinch, but drew a long breath.
“I think i’m very predictable.” You made sure you were looking in her eyes when your tongue flattened out and lapped up her slit, each time your tongue toying with her clit. It wasn’t long before you pulled the bud in between your lips, sucking lightly. Natasha was unable to catch the moan that pulled from her throat. You adored the sound and you hummed against her, responding in a subdued encouragement. Pulling one of her legs over your shoulder, opening her up further to you.
You’d been so forward this entire time, Natasha allowed the hand of hers not gripping the bedpost to hold the back of your head. She experimentally rolled her hips forward just so slightly. And to her not so surprise you followed the movement, sat up straighter and eagerly allowed her to use your face.
She moaned when she locked eyes with your bleary stare. Keeping your hand wrapped around Natasha’s thigh, your dominant hand traveled around from her inner thigh to tease her entrance, then slipping a finger inside.
Her pace increased as she chased her high and you dutifully swallowed down her arousal, it messily dripped down your chin mixing with your saliva. Natasha’s breathing increased as she felt her orgasm nearing. When natasha’s hips stuttered, you pulled her clit between your lips once more sucking harder this time. Her heel dug into your bare back as your grip on her standing leg tightened, the strong muscles switched and flexing under you fingers. She began cursing in russian, you would have no idea what she was saying even if you weren’t busy with her thighs muffling the word in your ears. When she did cum, you stayed in place and chased her hips with your mouth swallowing her down.
You grinned up at her dumbly, face soaked in her arousal. Your face felt hot and your head felt light. Natasha had begun to catch her breath as you felt her fingers smooth over your hair. As her hands find their way to your face, thumbing over your swollen lips. “You would have been wasted on a man.”
SUPER SUIT ━━╋━
mdni .ᐟ thigh riding, dry humping, clothed sex, praise, clark talks you through it...
“such a pretty girl…”
clarks holding down your hips tight as he lounges back in your bed tired from his long day, he's got you trapped on his thigh and he knows how needy you are. you can't help it. he's just so busy all the time from the daily planet to saving the world and helping stuck kitties from trees. it's a little unfair you think, makes you a little greedy, a little possessive.
and fuck if that doesn't turn clark on.
that look in your eye while you chew your lip raw, rolling your hips across the thick, rugged fabric of his super suit. he could feel your cunt already soaking through your panties with every throb of need. it drove him crazy, but he kept himself grounded, and you, by keeping his big hands around your waist and pressing you down onto the pure muscle of his thigh with little effort. you let out quiet whimpers while he sat back watching you crumble before him. taking it all in, the thin of your sleep shirt with the peaks of your tits poking through, the way your eyes rolled back slightly as you got yourself off.
“mhm… that's it— just take what you need angel.”
even while you were literally grinding your soaked pussy over him, he was still a gentleman, it drove you insane.
your hips twitch at the way he's watching you, so patiently with that little smirk. clark's quick to notice the fault in your pace, making his smirk grow.
“need help baby?”
you whine, clasping your hands over his chest, your fingers tracing the red and yellow embellishment of his suit, pouting a little.
“but you said you were tired…”, you whisper a little embarrassed now.
“yeah not for you—”, he lets out a laugh, softly flicking your forehead.
“clark—”, a giggle escapes your lips as you rub your head softly.
“nah uh— no whining, I always have energy for you sweetness—”
clark smiles, pulling you closer, pressing kisses across your face and shifting his thigh juuusttt right, enough for your clit to get enough friction to have you slowly seeing stars.
he's half hard now.
you only know because he's just that big, his cock already bulging through his suit.
now his hands are dragging your dripping pussy across his thigh with ease, a little faster now but he's being so patient with you, cooing softly and rubbing soft circles into your hip bones. you're practically limp now, just focused on the soft gooey feeling between your legs and the knot in your stomach that was so, so close to breaking.
“yeah— just lemme do all the work—”
“so pretty baby—”
“gonna cum soon angel?”
his voice is low and firm as he whispers into your hair, one hand leaves your hip to rub over the small of your back and run over the supple skin of your ass, squeezing softly.
“just a little more i can feel it…”
he's listening closely to your whines, whimpers and fluttery heart beat. he doesn't have to ask if youre gonna cum he just knows. he knows every tick of your body so well, it's like he's studied you or some shit.
“it's okay, cum over my thigh, go ahead—”
“make a mess sweetheart, it's okay.”
you moan into him, nails digging into the shoulders of his suit, holding him closer as the band in your stomach snaps, creaming in your little panties and letting it drip down onto his suit. he holds you tight in his warm, comforting embrace as you gasp and cry out, arching through your high.
clark just smiles and holds you close, blanketing your small frame, rubbing your back and pressing kisses to your skin.
“did so good f'me— so good—”
once you calm down and ran through all your jolts and jitters he holds your face between his palm and rubs gently at your tear soaked cheeks, pressing soft kisses over your tired out expression with a quiet laugh.
tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, dubcon/noncon, toxic relationship, possessive behavior, corrupt cop, bully to lover, humiliation, praise kink, dom!aerion, coercion, dacryphilia, fingering, sex (p in v), handcuffs, public sex, size king, spit kink, orgasm denial, degradation, spanking, Stockholm syndrome vibes, yandere
pairing: cop!aerion x prostitute!reader
The roads were completely silent.
That should've been the first red flag.
Sure, there'd been quiet nights before. Nights where the only sound you heard for hours was the monotonous hum of car tires. Nights where you'd lost yourself staring into the dark abyss. Nights where you nearly froze in the cold before a customer pulled up.
But sooner or later, one always did.
Maybe a business man looking to blow off some steam after a hard day at the office. Or maybe some frustrated sixteen-year-old looking to lose his virginity.
Whatever the case, there was always gonna be a man willing to pay you for a fuck. Always.
The only reliable part of your life. More reliable than your family who'd steal the cash you kept under your pillow to buy some booze. More reliable than the high school that threw you out for a theft you didn't commit because it's easy to assume the apple doesn't fall from the tree. More reliable than the boyfriends who played savior only to start hitting you a week after you moved in.
If that's all you could count on, then so be it. God didn't give you many things, but he gave you your body. And you'd survive off of it.
It was hard in the beginning. You were a pretty romantic person. Sensitive. You loved love and thought that sex was sacred. Two bodies entwining as one. But such pretty thoughts aren't meant for trash like you. What you once considered your core belief was now not even an option.
You learned how to disassociate very well. You'd turn yourself off, no feelings, no emotions, and perform. Every moan, every arch of your back, every orgasm - calculated. Intentional. Meant to get him off quicker so you could be done with it.
You really didn't feel like it was - you.
Just a job. Something to pay the bills. Like waitressing or cleaning. But those jobs didn't pay enough for you to look after your younger brother and keep him in school so he wouldn't turn out like you.
That's what you were thinking about when it happened. Him. What fancy college he would end up at. What city he'd leave to. What life would look like once he got one of those nice banking jobs and whisked you out of here.
Then a police siren rang and you were right back to that dingy street corner instead of a daydream.
You took of your stilettos and carried them in your hand, putting one foot in front of the other as you took off into a dark alley. Running was second nature. Police cars would come by once a month and scare girls off. They'd laugh as you scattered off like mice wearing fuck me pumps and tight little dresses. It was funny. A little game they liked to play between home invasions.
You hid behind a trash can for five minutes. Surely they had their laugh and would be long gone by now, actually getting back to work or finding some other poor gals to mess with. You slid your heels back on and looked left and right for any sign or whisper of another person. All clear.
You tiptoed out of the alley, trying as hard as you could to not make a sound. As you peered your head around the corner - a shadow.
You gasped then covered your mouth.
A laugh, twisted and delighted, rang out from the dead of night.
You stumbled backwards, eyes darting frantically all around you desperate to find the source of that terrible sound.
"Who - who's there?"
You stuttered out, voice thick with fear.
Another laugh even more sinister than the first pierced through the air.
You reached into your purse, a raggedy old thing falling apart at the seams, and pulled out a switchblade. You had only used it a handful of times before. Some customers thought they could get by without paying, others tried to be rougher than what you had outlined.
Just the sight of it was enough to spook them into placing a couple hundred dollars into your hand and taking off without question.
You yielded it in your hand, still shaking.
"Stay back! I have a knife!"
A hand came down on your arm in a flash, pinning it behind your back. You lifted the other, slashing the knife in every direction as you struggled to break free. You felt a body press into your back as two feet stepped just outside of your own, caging you in between your assailant's legs.
Your heart was pounding out of your chest. Your breath was fast, heavy, uneven.
Whoever or whatever this was, they were strong. Very strong.
No matter how much you squirmed, how hard you kicked, the body behind you remained steady. Feet firmly planted at your sides, hand gripping your wrist unyieldingly, your attacker was trained.
"Let me go!"
You screamed, hoping you'd scare him or maybe someone would hear you. But it was hopeless. There'd be nobody on this corner, not at this time of night anyways. And if there were, it wouldn't be the kind of person who'd intervene to save you.
In your final attempt to escape, you mustered all your strength to turn around and strike your attacker in the face.
You had him. Your aim was precise and you were strong enough, quick enough. Just one more inch and -
Another hand clasped where your hand held the knife, pulling you to face him completely.
You weren't sure what exactly you expected, but it was something disgusting, ugly, only a truly horrible creature could've had such a laugh.
You were stunned looking at the man in front of you. Under a black "Police" beanie laid delicate features placed perfectly on sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. Two violet eyes shooting a supernatural, but beautiful light into the pitch black alley.
You studied him longer, face fixed on the sick smile imprinted on his mouth. The way he licked his bottom lip at the sight of you trembling.
The knife was still between you both, silver steel glistening with starlight. His hands tightened around yours, fingers pressing deep into your skin.
You let out a yelp as he dragged your hand to his mouth, darting out a long tongue to lick the blade before him, eyes not parting from yours for a second.
"I wouldn't try that, honey."
He yanked your other hand in between his thighs, clawing between your fingers to force your hand open. You gasped as he dragged your hand along his cock pressed hard against his pants. Even through clothes, you could feel he was big. Very big.
"The more you struggle, the harder I get."
He threw the knife on the ground. The clattering of your last line of defense filled you with a new wave of fear. But something worse than fear - familiarity.
That face. That voice. You... you knew him.
Your eyes travelled to across his face, desperately trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.
"Starting to remember me, crybaby?"
Crybaby.
That's what he called you.
Aerion.
Ever since that first day of kindergarten when he pulled your pigtails up until reaching his hand under your skirt freshman year.
That was the one good thing about getting kicked out.
You didn't have to see him again.
You fought your hardest to stop it, to swallow the burning sensation building up inside of you. But Aerion had always had this effect on you, this cruel control you couldn't understand.
As tears welled in your eyes, you turned your head away so he wouldn't see. You'd heard him before. It would only make him want this more.
"Awwww, crybaby."
He dragged his pointed tongue along your jaw, catching the falling tear and licking up back to your cheek.
"Mmmm. Nice to know I still make you wet after all these years."
In one swift movement, he turned you over and twisted your hands behind your back. He bent you over the trash can, hips flush onto yours, his bulge pressing through the laughably sheer fabric of your mini dress. Your legs stumbled further apart, involuntarily making room for him.
A jingling sound ran from behind you and before you realized what was happening the unforgiving metal of handcuffs was clamped shut around your wrists.
You were breathless, unable to speak. He had moved so quickly, with such tact - it was as if he'd rehearsed it for months.
His body moved closer, hovering over your laid out back when he ran two fingers up your dress and along your folds.
You couldn't help it. You weren't sure if it was the adrenaline, the excitement of it all - maybe some sick part of you actually enjoyed this, enjoyed being hunted. You weren't sure if it was his unavoidable handsomeness or his brute strength.
But you were wet. Dripping down your thighs. And now he knew.
"In more ways than one."
He whispered, voice hoarse and intoxicating. He grabbed your face with one hand, turning you to face him as he leaned down. Eyes glued to yours, he brought the two fingers to his mouth sucking your juices off their length, eyes rolling back ever so slightly.
"So sweet. Sweeter than I imagined you'd be."
He planted a sickeningly tender kiss to your forehead before moving behind you again. He pushed your head down into the rails of the trashcan before tearing the sheer fabric of your dress from the neckline down to the end of your skirt.
You let out a cry as he shifted the rest of the fabric off revealing your naked body.
"Help! Somebody help me!"
You shouted at the top of your lungs, tears pouring down your face. This man humiliated you in every way possible in your childhood. And your life since him had been equally humiliating, if not more. And now, here you were. Head pressed against the edge of a trash can, naked and trembling in handcuffs, as your childhood bully stood behind with the imposing length of his clothed cock rubbing against your bare ass.
"Nobody's here, sweetheart. Don't you think I'm smarter than that?"
The words drifted into your neck as he nuzzled his chin into your collarbones.
"When I heard you were selling this - "
He slapped your pussy, the impact against your wetness making a pathetic squelch.
"Pretty little pussy on the street I just - well, I couldn't help myself."
He slapped again, harder this time. He then dragged his wet lips up to your ear, stopping to bite your earlobe.
"I had been saving you for myself all these years. You know, I was supposed to be your first."
His long fingers slowly slid back between your slick folds, teasing your clit with faint circles.
"Your biggest tormentor"
He picked up his speed and laughed as you kicked your legs, overwhelmed with sensation. You'd never admit it, but it felt good. Very good. The sick asshole knew what he was doing.
"Giving you the ultimate gift."
You bit down on your lip as his fingers pressed harder into your clit, trying to muffle out the pitiful mewls and whimpers escaping your lips.
"I had waited for so many years. Needed you to hate me. Really fucking hate me. So when you finally begged me to fuck you, begged me to ruin you, it would be that much sweeter"
He practically moaned the words as he sank his index finger into your pulsing hole, his thumb continuing to ruthlessly rub your clit.
You arched your back into his touch, unable to control the wave of pleasure building up in your stomach.
"When I heard my sweet little girl had become a trashy prostitute all these years later, you can imagine. I was very... angry"
He thrust his middle finger into you with animal force. You reared your head back as his free hand pulled your hair.
"Took me a while to find you. You went quite far, crybaby, didn't know you had it in you."
Tears were rolling down your face as hopeless moans fled from your mouth. His fingers were fucking you relentlessly as his cock twitched on your ass, throbbing harder after every little movement you made. Every time your walls clamped around his digits, you could feel him smile as he pressed his lips to the skin on your neck.
"But eventually I got my hands on your file. Saw those soliciting charges. Found you out here."
You tried everything in your power to fight it. You tried moving away, thinking about other things, breaking free from his grasp, but it was no use. Aerion had you right where he wanted you. The pleasure was so intense now you could envision it - envision yourself screaming his name against your will as his fingers brought you to release.
But just as you began to reach your final peak, he stopped.
He pulled his fingers out of you and laughed as you whimpered pathetically at the feeling of emptiness. At the loss of being denied an orgasm you hadn't even wanted in the first place.
He gripped your face with his hands, turning you to face him again. You looked a mess, naked, hair tangled, eyes coated in a desire-fueled haze. But still, he licked his lips with want, with need.
This was exactly how he wanted you.
"Not yet, baby. Remember? I want you to beg"
He started rubbing again, slower this time. Painfully slower. Your legs twitched in frustration at his cruel teasing.
"You've been such a bad girl without me"
His hand came down on your ass with a sharp crack as the other picked up its pace, tracing circles around your clit. You let out a muffled moan, trying your best to quiet yourself.
Another sharp crack landed on your ass cheek.
"No, no. That's not what I said I wanted, is it baby?"
He slapped your ass again as he slid his fingers back inside you, your body convulsing at the overwhelm of sensation.
"Answer me!"
He spat, voice crossing from teasing to unforgiving. You searched his purple eyes for any sign of what he wanted. Any sign of what you could do to make him stop. There was nothing.
You shook your head in defeat.
"Good. That's a good start. What do I want then, honey?"
You tried to find something to say, but it was impossible to concentrate with the way his fingers pushed into you. The way his thumb commanded your throbbing clit. The way wetness was pouring like a waterfall down your legs to the point you could feel it pool around your ankles now.
Then just like that, he pulled his fingers out again.
The groan you let out could only be described as desperately animalistic. He was breaking you in. Training you. Ruining you. Forcing you to be a naked, whimpering mess in the alley and worse. Forcing you to enjoy it. To beg for it.
He carried on for what felt like hours. Fingering you senseless. Circling your clit with relentless precision. He stuck his fingers in your mouth, leaving you to drool all over him and yourself. He pulled your hair each time you arched your back, mocking your body's willingness to let him take you. He landed occasional slaps to your ass and pussy, blending the unbearable pleasure with pain.
And every time you were about to orgasm, he'd stop.
He'd laugh as you cried, as your legs writhed with need and your hips bucked up against him, asking him to fuck you, to finish you off.
But it wasn't enough. He needed to hear you. And at this point, you needed release so badly, you cried. Not from pain, not from fear, but because you needed him to fuck you so badly you couldn't think about anything else anymore.
He eyed you as he wiped away some of the wetness running down your thighs.
"Do you feel that, baby? You're fucking soaked for me. You're fucking nasty. A nasty, slobbering mess for me. All you have to do now is admit it."
You opened your legs wider with anticipation as you forced the words out of your mouth.
"I - I - I want you."
Your voice was shaking. It almost sounded like a cry rather than a statement.
"You - you - you want me to what, honey?"
Aerion's mocking voice poured like a sweet poison into your ears.
"I want you to - to fuck me."
Your body betrayed you. You betrayed yourself. But he'd just spent the last few hours completely ruining you, playing your body like an instrument to where you now were just a toy. A toy who'd let him play with you. Who'd beg him for it.
"There she is. There's my girl."
Aerion smiled as he undid his pants. Your mouth watered as he unzipped his pants and let out a pained moan as he revealed his cock. It was quite long, but more than anything it was thick. Thick and pale, coated with veins and an angry red tip that filled you with a combination of desire and fear.
He disappeared behind you and you felt his hand trace your spine as he aligned his tip with your entrance.
"You want this cock?"
He teasingly tapped the end of his cock onto your entrance, your hips desperately moving backwards to try to close on his length. But he always remained just out of reach.
"Y-yes. I want your cock."
He moved his tip from your hole to your clit, tapping and rubbing it as you thrashed around squealing.
"You're gonna have to beg better than that, sweetheart."
You cried out as he removed his cock again.
"Please, Aerion. Please. I want - I need you to fuck me. I need your cock. Please."
The tears came down harder in a mix of shame and need. You couldn't believe the words that came out of your mouth, but you couldn't have said anything else.
"That's better."
Aerion whispered as he kicked your ankles apart with his boot, spreading you wide as he sunk his cock into your clingy hole. Your walls clamped around him immediately as you screamed his name.
But then stillness. He refused to move.
"Aerion, please move."
"Who's pussy is this?"
Aerion's voice came out controlled.
"Yours." A muffled cry escaped as you tried to sink your hips onto his cock, but his hands held you firmly in place.
"What do you want me to do to you, my pretty girl?"
Your mind was completely blank right now. His cock was inside you, yes, but it wasn't enough. Another tease. Another thing reminding you of how much you needed him to fuck you.
"Anything, e-everything."
And with that, he smashed into you, hips bucking onto your ass as he thrust deeper and deeper with a brutal tempo. The lewd squelches of your wet pussy on his throbbing cock sent him into a frenzy.
Your jaw dropped, drool spilling everywhere, and your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he fucked you harder and harder. He pulled your head back by your hair so he could see your face.
"Look at you, baby. So cockdrunk off me you can't even say anything anymore? Can't even form thoughts?"
You nodded your head thoughtlessly and he let out a cruel laugh. He pulled on your jaw, opening your mouth further before titling your head back and spitting into it.
"You hold that there for me, you dirty slut. You hold it for me until I tell you to swallow."
You nodded, eyes glued to his as he continued rocking his hips into you. You kept your mouth open, holding his sticky spit on your tongue as he leaned over and began rubbing your puffy clit with his thumb again. You rolled your hips back onto him, desperately needing more.
"That's it. You're mine. You're my dirty little plaything. See how good you are for me? See how well I treat you when you obey?"
You nodded again as he dug his fingers into your hips.
"Swallow."
You swallowed the thick layer of spit he left in your mouth moments ago.
"That's my good girl. That's my pretty girl."
He slapped your cheek, sending you into a sickening fit of pain and bliss.
"Where do you want me to come honey, huh? Where do you want me to spill on you?"
The sweetness of his voice sent chills up your spine.
You couldn't respond for a minute, mewling and whimpering pathetically as he split you open with his cock.
"An - anywhere. On me. Inside me."
He thrashed in you with newfound fervor, bringing you dangerously close to your release as you bounced up and down on his cock. His hands trailed up your body, grabbing your breasts, thumbs circling around your nipples. His breath hitched as he spoke
" I -hah - I'm gonna come inside you. Fill you up with every drop of me till you love me. Till you're nothing but a stupid mess of spit and cum and the only word you're able to say is my name."
"Aerion, Aerion, Aerion, Aerion"
You chanted hopelessly, shouting his name like a prayer as he pushed into you over and over.
Your orgasm came violently, like a wave knocking everything out of you. As your walls clamped forcefully around his cock still twitching inside you, Aerion came, cock filling you stupid with his cum.
He rested his head on your back, hands gently stroking the sides of your legs, as both of you caught your breath. You were still seeing stars, unable to shake off the last hours of sick, twisted, mindless pleasure. You were a pool of spit, of cum - both yours and Aerion's.
He took off his police jacket and placed it on your shoulders, wrapping you in an embrace as you trembled. You turned to face him, his pale face covered in sweat, but his eyes. They worried you. Perhaps more now than before.
"I was sent to arrest you. Asked to transfer to vice so I could clean up the mess that tight pussy's been makin' all over town."
He moved his hands to your face and planted a whisper of a kiss onto your nose.
"Figured I'd give you a choice. Since we go back and all."
He almost sounded kind.
"I can arrest you and take you to the police station for being a whore for any pathetic schmuck on the street -"
He let out a laugh. That same wicked, vile sound that had filled you with fear earlier.
"Or I can take you to my place and you can be my whore. Only mine. "
His lips brushed gently on your cheek as he kissed away your remaining tears.
"What do you say, crybaby?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: please read the warnings/don't be upset if you read and saw things you didn't like. def a very dark aerion take but just thought of it tonight seeing that gif of him in the beanie (eek). Will be continuing the other Aerion series, next part out soon. As always, hope you enjoy and thanks for all the love, kisses xxx
being lex luthor’s star employee because you wanted to impress him so much you helped him improve his weapons against superman to show your loyalty
lex luthor who doesn’t let this go unnoticed and unappreciated
lex luthor who lets you say things he would never let others get away with because you’re too valuable
lex luthor who puts his hand on your lower back and lets it wander down to “smooth down your skirt” as a show of gratitude while you work just to see you shiver under his touch
lex luthor who knows how to put a brat in her place when she talks back too much
lex luthor who smirks when he sees his employees exchanging looks when you come out of his office after a private meeting looking disheveled
lex luthor bringing you to meetings as his top expert on a particular subject just to keep his hand on your thigh the entire time and whisper things into your ear while the others are talking just to see you giggle
lex luthor who only eats you out when you make another scientific breakthrough for him but when he does he leaves you squirting and crying for dear life
lex luthor who still has girlfriends for pr and lets them watch when he bends you over the table and rips your pantyhose open
lex luthor who sees a coworker flirt with you and then you never see that man again. not in office, not outside. number deactivated
lex luthor who doesn’t care about anybody except superman, except he does, a little, and he’ll rather die than admit it
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ husband!nanami and the alluring things he does
tags. suggestive. nsfw. smut (not explicit?). married life. established relationship. soft!nanami. domestic bliss. gentle. ⋮ author's note. went from 'attractive things he does' to 'alluring things he does' and although i think i kind of like this i can't reread it again because i'm genuinely going to cringe, i've never written anything like this before LMAO, it's SO out of my comfort zone oh my days ⋮ word count. 1.0k
Husband!Nanami who always, time and time again, makes sure to get your consent in a verbal way before continuing whatever he's started. It doesn't matter to him if he's been married to you for half a decade or that he knows you'll constantly say yes to certain things.
It’s a husky, “Tell me to slow down and I will, honey,” here. And a firm, “Are you all right?” there. It’s his eyes flickering up to catch the expressions on your face, especially when something new is involved, and if he catches even a trace of doubt, he’ll stop.
Husband!Nanami who, despite trying his best to stay composed, always looks like a complete mess after a make-out session. Bottom lip shining with the slightest hint of saliva on it—or your lip gloss, you're not entirely sure, and neither is he—until he swipes his tongue over it.
Blond hair messy, the short strands disorganised and dishevelled because you've been running your fingers through it for the last fifteen minutes. Hazel eyes focused on your face with a horrifying type of intensity, pupils slowly dilating, chest rising and falling in a restless, uneven pace, meanwhile his fingers twitch from where they're holding onto your waist.
Husband!Nanami who can't help but place a mirror near your shared bed and make love to you in front of it. His devoted eyes stay entirely focused on yours, never wavering, not even thinking about glancing away in case he might miss a single facial expression you make. One hand stays entwined with yours, squeezing when it gets too much, kisses being placed on the smooth skin of your shoulders, and the hairs on the back of your neck shooting up straight.
A fun fact about Nanami? He doesn't boss you around, but the one thing he wants you to do during intimate moments is to tell him the things you find pretty about yourself. Nothing more, nothing less, (something about seeing yourself the way he sees you, which is nothing short of perfect).
Husband!Nanami who lets his warm, gentle hands which wouldn't dare lay a finger on you, wander over every part of your body. Every dip and curve is thoroughly touched by his finger pads, promising and adoring, even the parts you dislike about yourself. Those are the ones he's most fond of—the soft indent of your waist, the faint violet tracks on your breasts, the flesh-toned and sunken stretch marks on your hips that spread all the way to the skin of your butt—and he intentionally spends extra time worshipping them.
Husband!Nanami who places a lingering, wet kiss on your throat, hot breath fanning the skin, while your pulse immediately quickens due to the feeling. And then he's fisting his hands in your hair, tugging your head back the slightest bit so his lips are able to move up to your jawline, and he continues to pepper kisses all over the skin there, too. “You’re incredibly gorgeous,” he’ll whisper, breathy and completely undone. “So beautiful, darling.”
Husband!Nanami who takes off his belt, purposefully slowing down the action, while keeping eye contact with you. The first time he did it, in the early stages of your relationship, where everything was still new and nerve-wracking, you had flushed a pretty red colour while you bit down on your bottom lip, and back then, in that specific moment, he decided that he wanted that look to be reserved for him and him only for a long time yet to come.
Husband!Nanami whose lips follow wherever his hands go. He’ll start by unhurriedly taking off your shirt and unclasping your bra, and once those are thrown to the other side of the room, he’ll press kisses to the bare flesh in front of him. From your collarbone to the valley of your breasts, hands lightly holding down on your hips since you tend to squirm when he reaches the softness of your belly, and so on.
There's nothing better than having him keep eye contact with you from where he's kneeling between your legs, your thighs almost making him suffocate—although he secretly thinks it’d be an incredible way to go—whilst he presses fleeting kisses to your inner thighs.
Husband!Nanami who’s become awfully skilled at lowering his voice, hazel eyes softening while his hand never lets go of yours. “I know, darling, I know.” His lips brushing the shell of your ear, they’re mere whispers in a husky voice, yet it’s the only thing you're able to hold onto. “Oh, my love.”
With each groan that escapes his lips, you’re arching your back into him more. “You’re doing so good for me, so perfect.” Foreheads pressed together, and even if the only thing you do is roll your hips, the praise just keeps coming. “You’re such a good girl for me, baby.”
Husband!Nanami who kisses your sweaty forehead afterwards, nose pressing against your hairline for a simple second before he gets a damp cloth from the bathroom. Within seconds, the material is pressed against you, cleaning up the sticky mess that's left staining your inner thighs. “Feeling all right, honey?” he asks in a low tone, steady and peaceful, despite still trying to catch his breath.
He's aware you're too tired to move, that's why he makes sure to clean you up as thoroughly as possible, and ushers, more like practically carries, you to the bathroom so you can use the toilet before fully dozing off.
Husband!Nanami who pulls you flat on top of his body right before you fall asleep. Your leg thrown over his hip, face nuzzled deeply into the crook of his neck, the smell of his cologne, mixed with the slight remnants of sweat and a scent that smells an awful lot like dark musk making its way into your nostrils, whilst your hair tickles his chin with each movement you make.
He easily slips one warm hand under your sleeping shirt and runs the tips of his fingers up and down your spine, ignoring the goosebumps he leaves in its wake.
For as long as you can remember, your sweetest memories are of Aerion’s head in your lap, his silver hair soft under your touch, his violet gaze never leaving your face.
You remember, when you were children your closeness was a thing of wonder. Aerion’s voice, so harsh with your other siblings, softer than anyone had heard it around you.
Flower crowns he spent hours making with your mother placed atop your head as gifts in exchange for your forgiveness.
Rings, too big for your childish fingers, stolen from your parents’ chambers, slipped onto your hands until the Valyrian steel met your knuckles, soft kisses placed upon your fingertips as he recalled his many accomplishments during training.
You’re not sure when exactly the wonder at the love you had for one another shifted to disgust at your closeness. When the courtiers started whispering in hushed judgmental tones about how his hand never left yours, how his eyes were always trained on your figure, how his nights were spent in your bed, the glow of the fire casting golden shadows atop your silver hair.
Sometimes, when you remember those innocent moments shared with your brother under the old trees of the palace gardens, you laugh without malice at the court’s inability to understand what passed between you and Aerion
Other times, you understand where their disgust comes from. Especially during times like these.
His hands are caressing your face as you sit upon his lap, fingers cradling the back of his neck.
Aerion’s lips trace the muscles of your throat, teeth scraping against your skin as you fight the shudder that passes through you.
Nights like these are not rare.
In fact, Aerion’s spent more time in your bed during the last year than he has in his own, your father turning a blind eye to your closeness, quietly thankful for the calmness you bring him.
But most nights end just like this.
His tongue lapping at your skin, your core wet and throbbing, the weight of him heavy against your thigh. But then he retreats, places you softly against the cushions and hugs you from behind, waiting till slumber overtakes him.
The frustration has been building within you for quite some time now, forbidden from bringing yourself pleasure, while Aerion refuses to finish what he has started.
You expect the same tonight. A few hours of grinding down against him, until he thinks he’s had enough and forces you to sleep, your sticky wetness covering your thighs.
You think your time of pleasure is about to end when Aerion sits you down on the bed, but then he’s reaching for his robe, making you stand before placing it atop your shoulders.
His hand is heavy in yours, his skin marred from years of training.
Aerion leads you to the door, peaking outside to check if anyone’s watching.
He tries to fight the anger that rises within him when he realises there are no guards at your door.
Baelor’s children you may not be, but you are still royals, your door should be flanked by white coats.
Yet, when he tugs you into the hall, you are completely alone.
Valarr’s nameday is soon, that is what has brought you to the capitol.
You wonder if being in the Redkeep is what’s inspired this burst of energy in your brother.
You follow quietly, footsteps muffled against the stone floor.
The chill of the night begins to settle in your bones and you tug at Aerion’s hand, looking at him with a questioning gaze.
He just grins back, amusement dancing in his violet eyes.
Your feet have grown numb by the time you reach the place he has in mind.
The light is low, only a few candles lit around Balerion’s skull.
The dragon’s head had been moved from the throne room soon after the last dragon passed, a pale comparison to the majestic beasts they once were.
Now, the skulls remain somewhere deep within the castle, the Targaryen memorabilia replaced by the stars of the seven.
The sight before you is breathtaking.
Balerion’s skull stands tall and proud, even after over a century since his death.
His sharp teeth seem bigger than they were when you were a child.
You look at the dragon face, the set of his eyes, the slits of his nose and you can’t help but note the similarities between him and the boy standing behind you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist.
“Why did you bring me here?” You ask, unable to take your eyes off the great beast before you.
“I know you are frustrated, that I have not bed you even after all this time.” His voice is low and dangerous next to your ear. “But this is what I was waiting for. To do it here, in the tradition of our house.”
You cannot help the shudder that runs down your spine.
Aerion turns you, his forehead resting against yours.
“I want him to watch.” He breathes into your mouth. “I want him to see that we are still what we once were. That they haven’t taken anything from us.”
Your heart beats against your chest rapidly, as his fingers slide the robe from your shoulders.
His violet eyes are filled with a lust you’ve never seen before as he lays you down against the cold floor.
“You will let me, yes?” Aerion noses at your throat, fingers slipping beneath your nightgown, sliding it up against your leg.
“Yes.” You moan, when his nails sink into your thighs. “Let him see us become one.”
Aerion makes a hungry sound and kisses you like he’s ready to swallow you whole.
“Gods, you’re soaked.” His teeth sink into your flesh as his fingers dance over your slit. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you?”
His serpentine tongue licks stripe up your throat, teeth rolling your earbud when he reaches it.
“Beg for it.” He growls in your ear, unsatisfied at the nod of your head. “Beg for it like a sweet little princess.”
The words slip out of you quicker than your mind can wrap around them, your body desperate after years of build up.
“Please. Please, Aerion, just fuck me.”
His fingers stutter over your slit, and you feel his grin against your skin.
“As you wish, sweet sister.”
His thumb is at your clit as soon as the words leave his mouth, pressing harshly and drawing circles over and over again.
Your moans fill the room before his mouth closes over yours, swallowing every whimper that slips from your lips.
His finger is brutal in its ministration, nail digging into your bundle of nerves in a way that has you shivering and screaming out.
Again and again the circles continue, unending in their pursuit of driving you insane.
Your hand wraps around his neck, digging your nails into the skin as you roll your hips against him.
“More, more, please.” You beg when you finally free your mouth from his and he laughs, the sound mean.
Two fingers slip into you at the same time, barely giving you time to adjust before he’s drawing them back and sliding into you again harshly.
You bury the scream that rips from your throat into his shoulder.
His fingers open within you, stretching you apart before sliding back out.
Your whimpers are loud in the night air, the chill long forgotten as sweat builds on your skin.
Aerion’s thumb slips from your bundle of nerves, replaced by the heel of his hand.
His fingers speed up, hitting your gummy walls from a new angle and you try to be quiet, failing miserably as your hips roll against his hand.
His lips are on yours again, tongue slipping into the awaiting warmth of your mouth.
His fingers are heaven inside you, stretching you and hitting that same sweet spot over and over again.
You feel your body shudder, the weight of him above you helping build the suspense as you moan into his mouth.
“‘m close.” You slur into his mouth when you come up for air, and he’s speeding up his fingers, the heel of his hand pressing with more pressure as you grind against him like a dog in heat.
You moan and shudder, goosebumps covering your skin as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the precipice.
All it takes is Aerion using his hips to push his fingers further into your cunt, and you’re falling off the edge of the cliff.
Soft whimpers leave your mouth, Aerion never easing up on you as he helps you ride out your orgasm.
You whimper again from overstimulation when he doesn’t stop, gripping at his shoulder.
“No more, please.” Tears fill your eyes and slip down your cheeks, Aerion licking them up before they can escape into your hair.
His fingers retreat, and you watch him lick each one clean with a smug look on his face, his eyes never leaving yours.
His mouth is on yours as soon it’s free of his fingers and your release feels sweet and a little salty against your tongue.
His hand comes up to cradle your face, tongue slipping further into your mouth.
You can feel him, heavy against your thigh and you fight the urge to shiver.
He keeps kissing you, letting you come down from your high before he continues.
When his mouth leaves your lips, it travels down the expanse of your throat.
Aerion slips your nightgown further up your body, fingertips tracing your soft curves as he reaches your waist.
He kneads the skin there, pliable under his touch as you shudder.
He keeps kissing you until his hands reach your chest, hoisting you up to slip the gown off of you.
He tries to lay you back down but you stop him, conscious of the fact that only you are bare.
“Take it off.” You say, fingers tugging at his shirt and pants.
He laughs softly, kissing you again as you help him out of his garments, until he’s as bare as you.
His mouth doesn’t part from yours as he lays you back down, warm back meeting the cold stone of the floor.
A shiver runs through you, nipples hardening, although you’re unsure if it’s from the cold or Aerion’s closeness.
His lips leave yours and kiss a soft path down your throat, fingers settling at the dip of your waist.
His mouth is hot against you as he tongues your collarbone, needy moans leaving your lips.
It doesn’t take him long to reach your chest, hot mouth wrapping around one bud, as his hand starts circling the other.
His tongue is wet against your skin as he all but drools on your chest.
He settles into the rhythm he knows you love.
A kiss, a bite, a lick.
Not long after, you feel your wetness run down your thigh towards the floor.
“More, Erri, please.”
He chuckles at the desperation in your tone and what can he do but oblige.
His mouth moves to your other nipple, fingers come to pinch the one he left behind, his thigh slipping between yours.
He lets you grind against his naked skin, biting at the soft flesh of your chest, as you start to mewl, desperate for more.
Your nails dig into his shoulders and he smiles at the desperate whimpers falling from your lips.
His mouth leaves your chest, thigh retreating from between your legs.
The sound that slips from you is one of annoyance, but he pays it little mind, wrapping his hand around your throat, squeezing till your lashes flutter.
“Are you ready, ñuha zaldrīzes?”
He laughs, voice deep as he watches you nod desperately.
“Kostilus.”
Aerion dips his head into the crook of your neck, spreading your thighs further apart before settling more comfortably and guiding his hard length towards your slit.
His tip meets you fluttering hole and you fight the moan that threatens to tear from your throat.
“It will hurt a little in the beginning, little dragon.” His breath fans over your throat. “Just relax, the pain will be over soon.”
His voice is so soft, so caring that it makes you melt, nodding softly as you tug at the ends of his silver hair, meeting his violet gaze.
Your lips brush and he makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a whine, but you don’t have the time to tease before his tip is slipping into you.
He going slowly, you can tell from the strain of his muscles, but the stretch of him is so painful you can’t seem to give a damn.
Your whimper of pain reaches his ears and his hand comes up to caress your face.
“Just a little longer, I promise.” His head drops into the crook of your neck, your tight walls squeezing the life out of him. “Relax, little dragon.”
His voice is a plea and you finally realise as he pants into your skin the power you have over him.
It takes longer than you were expecting to sheathe all of him inside you.
You’re so full you feel like throwing up.
Your toes are curled as your heels dig into the stone floor and your breathing is laboured, nails digging into Aerion’s shoulders, drawing blood.
He remains still, watching your face, letting you adjust to the stretch of him.
“Breathe.” His voice is soft, hand spreading your legs further apart to help elevate your pain.
It takes a while before your breathing finally calms.
“I know it hurts.” Aerion whispers in your ear when you make a pained sound. “It will be less painful after this, I promise.”
The gentleness in his voice brings you back to his tiny hands around your face, trying to calm you down as blood seeps from your scraped palm and panic rises in your chest. He was so soft then, and he’s so soft now.
Your perfect prince.
“You can move now.” Your voice is wrecked even to your own ears and Aerion looks at you, unsure. “Please, Erri, just move.”
He nods, kissing you again, as he slips out the tiniest bit, thrusting back into you softly.
Your breathing hitches, but you adjust.
He carries on, each thrust a little deeper and a little harsher than before and soon the pain of the stretch fades into the pleasure of being so full.
Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your tongue slipping into his mouth.
His thrusts sharpen, as he swallows your moans.
Aerion’s lips part from yours, coming up for air.
“Harder, please, Erri.”
His chuckle is amused but he does as he’s told, wrapping your legs around his waist, reaching inside you deeper with each thrust as you cry out.
You’re shuddering with every slap of his skin against yours, this new angle allowing him to kiss the opening of your cervix.
Your moans fill the night air, unbridled, as he’s too busy sucking bruises into your skin.
“Ñuhon.” He repeats again and again, as if trying to brand it into your skin. Mine.
You can’t help as your hand slips into his hair, tugging until his tongue slips into your mouth, sliding against yours.
His kisses are so dizzying, you barely notice his arm sliding under your arched back, his free hand slipping into your hair until he’s tugging harshly, forcing your gaze back.
“Look at him.” He commands, thrusts growing meaner. “Look at him as I fuck you, let him see us become one.”
Your eyes land on the dragon, lit by the candlelight and you can’t help the moan that slips from your mouth at the thought of doing this atop his back.
“What?” Aerion asks between harsh thrusts.
“You could’ve taken me harder on dragon back.” Your moans are loud in the quiet space, the sound of skin slapping against skin faltering as Aerion shudders under your touch.
He angles his hips, his length descending down on you harder than before, the white hairs between his legs rubbing against your sensitive clit as you cry out.
“Fuck.” He mutters under his breath, forcing your back to arch higher as he brings your stomach flush against his, his dragon-like teeth biting and sucking at your chest until all you feel is white-hot pleasure.
You don’t even know what you’re asking for when you open your mouth, you just know you want more, harder, until your blood covers his length and he’s fully yours, your cunt remembering the shape of him buried inside you.
His thrusts grow uneven and mean as he pants in your ear.
“Look at you, my sweet little sister. My perfect princess, crying and ruined by my cock.”
Your whimper is loud as tears descend down your cheek.
“Say you want me to come inside you, say you want to carry my children, say it.” He growls by your ear and thrusts inside you harder when you just nod. “Say it.”
“Please, Erri.” The words slip from your mouth easily. “Come inside me, let me carry your children, I want to be yours. Please.”
He cries out with you this time, hips slotted perfectly against yours, tongue back to lapping at your nipples, the hairs above his length bullying your clit.
You can feel it building, the blinding pleasure that you know will soon turn to delicious pain.
His thrusts falter, falling victim to the same feeling you are.
“Gods, I have wanted you my whole life.” He mutters against the drool-covered skin of your chest. “Since I saw your little fingers slip beneath your nightgown when you thought you were alone.”
A scream rips from you at his admission, cunt spasming around him, as you continue hiccupping and blabbering for more.
“My sweet sister, all mine, to love and to ruin.” He says, as he forces your gaze back on him. “Open your mouth.”
You obey before you can even think about it, tongue hanging over your lower lip.
The spit that lands in your mouth is hot and it does little to help the way you’re clenching around his dick, desperate for his release.
He watches you swallow it, groaning as he speeds up.
His balls slap heavily against your ass, your poor overstimulated pussy spasming around him, as you run your nails down his back, leaving ugly red scratches on his porcelain skin.
You don’t know how long passes before his fingers find your clit again, but then his nails dig into the skin above your pleasure point as two of his fingers massage you harshly and you feel yourself falling off the precipice again.
“‘m coming-“ you scream out and feel yourself grow faint at the feeling.
Aerion groans in your ear and all it takes is a few squeezes of your cunt and he’s pouring inside you, your cunt milking him until he’s spent.
When he’s done, his body falls back on top of yours, spent fully.
His breathing is harsh, pants matching your own.
“Gods.” You breathe out, at a loss for words.
He hums in quiet agreement.
The two of you stay like that for a while before Aerion lifts his head, fingers caressing your cheek.
He smiles down at you again, expression soft and content.
“I’ll keep fucking you until you’re full of me, and father can’t deny us our marriage, and then you’ll be mine until the end of your days, understand?”
His voice is so sure, you can’t help but nod, clenching around him again.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
GIF by Blondemarieee
He’s such a freak (i say with barely contained lust). Also the nickname Erri is from a fic i read on ao3, lmk if you want the name!
SUMMARY: Kidnapped as a child and presumed dead, you survive years of abuse before becoming the kept woman of Prince Aerion Targaryen. In a world where survival means loving a monster, your fragile sense of safety shatters when your past resurfaces in the worst possible way.
TW: rape, sexual abuse, sex trafficking, forced prostitution, domestic abuse, dubious consent, trauma bonding, graphic violence, torture, child endangerment, kidnapping, misogyny
WC:25K
209 A.C Flea Bottom
The first thing you ever remembered was your brother’s hands.
Not your mother’s face, that was gone, worn away like a coin passed through too many fingers. You could summon the shape of her if you concentrated: the blurred watermark of a jawline, the suggestion of a mouth that laughed like a cracked bell, the smell of cheap wine and cheaper perfume that clung to her hair long after she stopped breathing. But her face? No. That belonged to the dark now, along with everything else from before.
But the hands, those you remembered. Dunk’s hands. Too large for a boy of eight, the knuckles already crosshatched with scars from street fights and kitchen fires, but impossibly gentle as they lifted you from the straw mattress where your mother lay cold and still. You had been five years old. You had not understood death, only that Mother would not wake. It was Dunk who wrapped you in a blanket thin enough to see through. Dunk who carried you out into the grey morning, your face pressed to his neck so you would not see the body being hauled away. Dunk who said, in a voice that splintered because he was barely more than a child himself, “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
And he had, you slept in doorways at first, curled together like kittens against the cold that seeped up through the cobblestones. Dunk learned quickly which bakers threw out day old bread and which watchmen could be bribed with a sad eyed look. He found work at an inn in Flea Bottom and the innkeeper’s wife let you sleep in the stables so long as Dunk scrubbed the floors and hauled the kegs and made himself useful in a dozen small ways. You would sit in the corner while he worked, your knees drawn up to your chin, watching him. Watching the boy melt away, season by season, into something that looked more like a man. He grew taller and broader and harder, his shoulders widening, his voice dropping. He was three years older than you, but sometimes he felt like thirty. He had never been a child. Neither of you had.
But you had each other. And that was enough. It had to be.
Every night, after his labors were done, Dunk would come to you in the stables. He would reek of sweat and sour ale, and he would lower himself onto the hay beside you with a groan that belonged to a man three times his age. And then he would tell you stories he’d gathered like dropped coins from travelers and old soldiers and the septon who sometimes came to beg a bowl of soup. Stories of knights who never faltered, dragons who spoke in riddles, castles of white stone that caught the sunrise like mirrors. Maidens so beautiful that kingdoms burned for a single glance.
You were twelve when the men began to notice you. It happened on an ordinary night, with an ordinary drunk who’d had too much ale and too little sense. You were carrying a tray of empty cups back to the kitchen, your arms aching with the weight, when a hand came out of nowhere and closed on your backside. You froze, no understanding of what the sudden heat crawling up your neck meant or why your body had locked itself rigid as a board. The man laughed and then Dunk was there.
One moment the drunk was leering at you, his hand still on your body, and the next he was on the floor with blood fountaining from his nose and Dunk standing over him like a thunderhead. He threw the man out into the mud, and when he came back inside his hands were trembling with a rage so profound it seemed to warp the air around him. “Stay close to me,” he said, and it was not a request. His voice was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that lives on the far side of fury. “Always. Do you understand? Always.”
You understood. From that day forward, you were never more than arm’s reach from your brother. When he walked to the market, you walked beside him, your fingers sometimes hooked into the rope that acted like a belt, when the crowds pressed too close. The men still looked, by fourteen, you had grown into the kind of beauty that stilled conversations mid sentence, your mother’s eyes and your unknown father’s soft mouth arranged on a face that seemed to belong in a ballad rather than a Flea Bottom inn, but they looked from a distance. Dunk saw to that.
You were inseparable. Joined at the hip, the innkeeper’s wife liked to say, shaking her head with a fondness that bordered on bewilderment. “Never seen the like. That boy would tear the world apart for his little sister.”
You were sixteen when everything ended. The festival came in the spring, an eruption of color and noise that spilled from the gates of the Red Keep and flooded through the city like a tide. Mummers on stilts, jugglers with flaming torches, singers with harps slung across their backs, knights in armor that caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand glittering shards. Dunk had been given the night off—a rarity—and he had taken your hand with a grin you hadn’t seen since you were children hiding from the rain under a stolen tarp. “Come on,” he said, and his eyes were bright in a way that made your chest ache.
You laughed and followed. The crowd was too thick. The torches made everything swim, light and shadow bleeding together until faces became masks and masks became faces. Dunk kept his hand clamped around your arm for the first hour, his grip unwavering, but then a knot of drunkards staggered between you and in the space of a single heartbeat, you lost him.
“Dunk?”
You rose onto your toes, straining above the heads of the crowd. You saw him turn, saw his mouth open to call back to you, saw the sudden alarm flash across his features, and then the surge of bodies carried you sideways, a riptide of flesh and noise, and you stumbled into an alley to escape the crush.
That was when they took you. There were three of them. You never saw their faces clearly, only hands. Rough and quick and impossibly strong, one clamping over your mouth, another banding around your waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You tried to scream. You bit down on the palm pressed against your lips, tasted blood and salt and felt the man curse and shift his grip, but there was no time. A sack came down over your head, coarse and stinking of something you did not want to name, and the world went dark and muffled and small.
The last thing you heard was the festival. The music, the laughter, the endless churn of celebration. It went on without you, as if you had never been there at all.
Dunk searched for three days. He did not sleep. He did not eat. He tore through Flea Bottom like a storm given flesh, overturning carts and kicking down doors, bellowing your name until his voice shredded into something barely human. He went to the City Watch, and they laughed, a girl from the slums, what did he expect? He went to the sept, and the septon only clasped his hands and murmured prayers that tasted like ash. He went to every inn, every brothel, every lightless corner of the city where a girl might be hidden or sold or worse, and he found nothing. Nothing. Nothing and nothing again.
On the fourth day, a woman came to him, she found him in the alley where you had vanished, sitting against the wall with his head in his hands, and she knelt beside him.
“You’re the one,” she said. Not a question. “Looking for the girl with the H/C hair. The pretty one.”
Dunk’s head came up so fast his neck cracked. “Where is she?”
The woman shook her head. Slowly. Deliberately. A gesture that held everything he did not want to know. “They found her in the water this morning, lad. Some men…” She paused, and something that might have been pity flickered across her ruined face. “They took her. And when they were done—” Her hands made a twisting motion, a brutal pantomime that needed no translation. “The women who found her said she was hardly recognizable. They’ve already burned the body. Too much damage, they said. You don’t want to see that. Trust me. You’re better off remembering her the way she was.”
Dunk did not speak. He simply sat there, staring at the woman’s face, and something inside him cracked straight down the middle and bled dry.
“Who?” His voice did not sound like his voice. “Who did it?”
“No one knows. Drunkards, maybe. Travelers passing through. They’re long gone now.” The woman rose, joints creaking, and looked down at him with something that was not quite pity and not quite indifference. “I’m sorry, lad. Truly.”
She left him there. And Dunk stayed. He stayed in that alley as the sun bled out and the moon rose pale and indifferent and the city settled into its night noises around him. His little sister was dead. He had promised—promised—to protect her, and she was dead. And the world, which had never been kind to either of them, now seemed to hold no color.
—
213 A.C Ashford
The gardens of Ashford Castle were not as grand as the ones in Summerhall but they were still beautiful. You had been here for less than a fortnight, arrived as part of Prince Maekar's retinue for the tourney celebrating Lord Ashford's daughter's nameday, and already the place had worked its way under your skin. The roses were in full bloom, cascading over stone walls in waves of crimson and gold and softest pink. The hedges were trimmed into the shapes of birds and beasts.
The little girl was running through the grass ahead of you, her silver gold hair streaming behind her like a banner caught in a high wind, her bare feet slapping against the earth with the unselfconscious joy of someone who had never known hunger or fear or the back of a stranger's hand. She was two years old, small for her age but fierce, so fiercely alive that it stopped your breath sometimes, with violet eyes that missed nothing and a laugh that could fill an entire hall and still demand more room.
"Rhaenyra," you called, and you tried to sound stern, you really did, but the smile kept breaking through no matter how firmly you set your jaw. "Come back here before you trip and ruin that dress."
"Won't," the child announced, with the absolute conviction of someone who had never been wrong about anything in her life, and kept running.
You sighed, gathered your skirts in both hands, and gave chase. The dress you wore was finer than anything you had owned before Aerion had claimed you, a gift he had given you specifically for this journey. Pale blue silk that whispered when you moved, with silver embroidery at the sleeves and neckline. He had wanted you to look presentable at Ashford. You suspected, though you had not said it aloud, that he also wanted to show you off. To remind his family, and perhaps himself, what he possessed.
You were twenty years old now, no longer the trembling girl who had been thrown into a black carriage while a brothel burned behind her, no longer the hollow eyed creature who had learned to disappear inside her own body while men did what they pleased. The past months and years had reshaped you, smoothed some of the sharp edges and hardened others.
But there was something new in you now, something forged in the long nights of learning to survive Aerion Targaryen and the longer days of learning to love your daughter. You knew how to bend without breaking. And you knew, with a certainty that lived in your bones like marrow, that you would kill any living soul who tried to harm your child.
Rhaenyra had tripped over an exposed root and was sitting in the grass, more affronted than injured, examining a smudge of dirt on her palm with the grave concentration of a maester confronted with an ancient and inscrutable text. You scooped her up before the tears could organize themselves, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in the smell of sunshine and crushed grass and something warm and sweet that was just her.
"Told you," you murmured into her hair. "You fell."
"Didn't cry," Rhaenyra pointed out. This was technically true, and there was a note of such fierce pride in her small voice that your heart performed an odd, painful little flip in your chest.
"No," you agreed, pulling back to look at her solemn face. "You didn't. You're a brave little dragon, aren't you?"
The child beamed. She adored being called a dragon. It was one of the few gifts Aerion had given her that did not make your stomach twist into complicated knots. This inheritance of fire and blood and the unshakeable conviction that she was meant for something magnificent.
You carried her back toward the castle, her small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, her voice a ceaseless ribbon of chatter about the butterfly she had almost caught and the bird that had flown directly over her head and the flower she had picked that was pink, Mama, pink and pretty and can I keep it forever please please please. You made the appropriate sounds of wonder and encouragement, your eyes scanning the courtyard as you crossed it, your body perpetually aware of who was watching.
The servants of Ashford avoided your gaze, much as the ones at Summerhall did. They had learned, over the course of the tourney's first days, to treat you with a careful neutrality. Not quite respect, not quite disdain, something suspended in the ambiguous space between. They knew what you were. Prince Aerion's paramour. The woman he had brought with him from Summerhall, installed in a guest chamber near his own, paraded through the grounds like a provocative piece of art he wanted everyone to see whether they wished to or not. They did not speak to you unless absolutely necessary, did not meet your eyes, did not acknowledge the child in your arms except to incline their heads stiffly and step aside.
Ashford Castle was a crowded place during the tourney. Lord Ashford's daughter Gwin had turned thirteen, and to honor her nameday, her father had declared a tourney that would last five days. Knights and lords from across the Reach and beyond had gathered to compete, their banners snapping in the spring breeze, their pavilions spreading across the fields like a crop of colorful mushrooms.
Prince Maekar's entire family had come with his children. You saw them sometimes, in the corridors or the courtyards or the great hall at supper, but you never spoke to them. You were not permitted. Prince Maekar had made that blisteringly clear from the very beginning, his voice cold with a disgust he did not bother to disguise.
"The woman stays in her chambers," he had told Aerion when he first met you. "I will not have her parading about in front of the children. She is a whore, Aerion. A whore and you will not embarrass this family."
Aerion had not argued. He rarely argued with his father directly. But he had kept you anyway, had dressed you in silk and silver, had installed you in a room that connected to his own. And now you were here, carrying your daughter back toward the keep while the roses nodded in the breeze and the distant sounds of the tourney grounds drifted over the walls like distant thunder. You had not been permitted to attend the jousts. Not since the yesterday.
You closed your eyes for a moment against the memory. It had been horrible. Aerion's tilt against Ser Humfrey. You had been watching from the stands, Rhaenyra on your lap, your heart in your throat the way it always was when he rode. He was a skilled jouster, your prince, but he rode with a recklessness that bordered on suicidal, and sometimes you thought he would not be satisfied until he left someone broken in the dirt.
This time, he had aimed too low. Deliberately, you were almost certain, though you would never say so aloud. His lance had struck Ser Humfrey's horse in the neck, a brutal, illegal blow that sent the animal crashing to the ground with a scream that would haunt your nightmares for weeks. Ser Humfrey had been thrown, his leg twisted at an angle that made your stomach lurch, and the horse had thrashed in the dirt with blood pumping from its throat.
The crowd had broken through the barriers. Prince Baelor Breakspear himself had risen from his seat, his face a mask of disgust, and you had seen the way he looked at Aerion. The way everyone looked at Aerion. Like he was something monstrous. Something broken beyond repair.
Aerion had found you afterward, still flushed with adrenaline, his eyes too bright. He had forbidden you from attending any more of the jousts.
"It's not safe," he had said, his grip on your arm just shy of bruising. "The crowds are unpredictable. The horses are dangerous. You and Rhaenyra will stay in the castle or the gardens. I don't want you anywhere near the lists."
You had not argued. You rarely argued with him about things that mattered. But you had seen the truth behind his words, the truth he would never admit. He did not want you to see him lose. He did not want you to see the way the other knights looked at him after what he had done.
So you had stayed away. You had walked in the gardens, and played with Rhaenyra, and smiled your careful smile whenever Aerion returned to your chambers in the evenings, bruised and bristling and desperate for the praise only you could give him.
"Up," Rhaenyra demanded as you approached the castle's side entrance. "Up high, Mama. I want to see."
You lifted her higher, settling her higher on your hip with the practiced ease of two years of motherhood, and she gazed around the corridor with the same wide eyed wonder she brought to everything. You loved her so much it scared you sometimes. Loved her with a ferocity that made the love you had felt for your own mother, dim and distant and blurred at the edges, seem like a candle held up against the sun.
"You spoil her."
The voice came from behind you, and you did not startle. Months with Aerion had taught you the particular cadence of his footsteps, the faint jingle of the sword he wore even at peace, the way the air in a room seemed to tighten and grow watchful when he entered. You turned, shifting Rhaenyra to your other hip with a fluidity that had become second nature, and offered him the smile you had perfected over your time together.
It was not a false smile. That was the strange thing, the thing that still surprised you when you stopped to examine it. It was not false at all. There was calculation in it, yes. There was calculation in everything you did, a habit you could not have broken if you tried. But there was warmth there too. The warmth of a woman looking at a man she had somehow, against all odds and reason, come to care for.
Love. The word still felt strange in your mouth, like a garment that did not quite fit. Aerion was not kind. He was not gentle. He was not good, in any sense that your brother Dunk would have recognized. But he was yours, in his possessive, consuming, infuriating way, and you were his, and somewhere in the crucible of the past years, that mutual belonging had transmuted into something that looked, from certain angles, remarkably like love.
He was not a tall man, standing at five and a half feet, and you knew it rankled at him. Knew that every inch he lacked compared to the warriors he trained with was a splinter under his skin. But what he lacked in height he more than compensated for in presence. The way his boots struck the stone floors, deliberate and commanding. The sharp, hawkish beauty of his face, all angles and shadows. The particular weight of his attention when it landed on you, heavy as a hand on your shoulder.
"My dragon," you said, and the word was warm, intimate, a private jest between you that no one else would recognize. "She wanted to explore the gardens. You know how she loves the roses."
He stepped closer, and Rhaenyra immediately lunged toward him, her small arms outstretched, her face alight with the uncomplicated adoration of a child who had never been given a reason to fear her father. "Papa! Papa, I found a flower!"
She had dropped the flower somewhere in the garden, of course. You had seen it fall, a little pink bruise against the green grass, left behind in her headlong rush toward the next thing and the next and the next. But Aerion did not know that, and you suspected he would not have cared if he did. He took the girl from your arms with an ease that still surprised you, settling her against his chest as naturally as if he had been doing it all his life.
Aerion, who was never gentle with anyone. Aerion, whose hands had left bruises on your body in the early days. Aerion, who had aimed his lance at a horse's throat and watched it die without flinching.
But Rhaenyra had never seen that side of him. Rhaenyra saw only the father who bounced her on his knee and called her his little dragon and looked at her as if she were the single good thing he had managed to produce in a life full of sharp edges and bad decisions. And you saw both versions of him, the monster and the man, and you had learned to hold them both in your mind at once, to love the whole complicated, contradictory mess of him.
"A flower," Aerion repeated, bouncing Rhaenyra gently against his chest. "What color?"
"Pink!"
"Pink," he said, with the solemnity of a man receiving a sacred revelation. "Pink is an excellent color. You have impeccable taste."
Rhaenyra giggled, burying her face in the curve of his neck, and Aerion's eyes met yours over the top of her head. There was something in his gaze. A flicker of warmth, a flicker of something that might have been gratitude. It made your heart clench in that way you had long since stopped trying to explain away.
I love him, you thought, and the thought did not feel like a lie. It felt like the truth, strange and inconvenient and slightly terrifying though it was. Gods help me, I truly do.
You knew what people would say if they could hear your thoughts. How can you love him? After what he did to that horse? After what he did to you? After what he is? And they would not be wrong to ask. The early days had been brutal; there was no use pretending otherwise. He had hurt you, in ways that still surfaced in your dreams on bad nights. He had fucked you without asking, had demanded without giving, had treated your body like territory to be conquered and your compliance like tribute to be extracted.
But then something had shifted. Slowly, incrementally, in the way of seasons changing. He had begun to see you. The woman who praised him when no one else would. The woman who listened to his fears and his rages and his strange, tangled dreams of dragonfire and destiny. The woman who had given him a daughter and held his hand through the disappointment and taught him, patient as a stone worn smooth by water, how to be something other than cruel.
And you had seen him, the man underneath, the one who craved praise because he had never received it, the one who lashed out because he had never learned another way to ask for what he needed. You had seen him, and against all wisdom, against all self preservation, you had loved him.
He still hurt you, sometimes. When his black moods descended and his hands grew rough and the words that came out of his mouth were designed to wound. But those moments were rarer now, spaced further and further apart, and after each one he would come to you with his arms full of gifts. Dresses of silk and velvet, jewels that glittered in their velvet nests, books with leather bindings and gold leaf on the pages that you devoured in the quiet hours when he was training and Rhaenyra was napping. He would hold you afterward, his face pressed into your hair, his arms wrapped around you like a cage he was afraid you might slip through.
"You understand me," he would whisper, and his voice would crack on the words in a way that made your heart splinter. "You're the only one who does. The only one who ever has. Don't leave me. Promise me you won't leave."
And you, holding him in the dark, would stroke his short silver hair and murmur the words he needed to hear. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm yours."
You meant them, too. That was the strangest part. After everything, you meant them.
Where would I even go? you thought, watching him bounce your daughter in his arms in this borrowed garden in a borrowed castle, surrounded by roses that belonged to someone else.
You looked at Rhaenyra, at the small, fierce face that was so clearly her father's, and you thought about the day she had been born.
It had been the longest day of your life.
The labor had lasted nearly eighteen hours. You had screamed until your voice gave out entirely, had bitten straight through the leather strap the midwife had given you, had prayed to gods you had not believed in since childhood to make it stop, please make it stop, I can't do this, I'm going to die, please let me die. Aerion had paced outside the door like a caged animal, his boots wearing a groove in the stone, demanding updates every few minutes and threatening bodily harm to the maester whenever the news was not to his liking.
"Is it a boy?" he had shouted through the door, over and over, his voice fraying at the edges. "Tell me it's a boy. It has to be a boy. I'm going to name him Maegor. A strong name. A dragon's name. Tell me!"
You had heard him, even through the wall of agony that had swallowed the world, and you had felt a cold dread settle into the pit of your stomach like a stone dropped into deep water. Maegor. He wanted to name his son after Maegor the Cruel. You had prayed then, harder than you had ever prayed in your life, with what remained of your shredded voice and your failing strength. Not a boy. Please, not a boy. Whatever else you give me, don't give me a boy who will carry that name.
The gods, for once in their capricious existence, had listened.
When the baby had finally emerged, slick and furious and impossibly, breathtakingly alive, the maester had looked between her tiny legs and pronounced, with the careful neutrality of a man who knew exactly how dangerous this moment was: "A girl, my prince. A healthy girl."
The silence that followed had been more terrifying than any scream.
Aerion had burst into the room, his face pale as milk, his short hair standing up in wild disarray from running his hands through it for eighteen hours. He had stared at the child in the maester's arms. At the tuft of silver gold hair plastered to her scalp, at the violet eyes that were already open and glaring at the world with an indignation that seemed profoundly personal. His expression had twisted into something ugly.
"A girl," he had said, and his voice was flat. Hollow. A room with all the furniture removed. "I waited nine moons. Nine moons. For a girl."
He had not touched you. He had not touched the baby. He had simply turned on his heel and walked out of the room, and you had heard his boots ring down the corridor, and then the distant slam of a door, and then nothing.
The next three days had been the darkest of your new life. Aerion did not come to your room. He did not send for you. He did not acknowledge the existence of the child at all. He ate his meals with his family, trained in the yard with a brutality that left his sparring partners bloodied and bewildered, and refused to speak to anyone who so much as mentioned the baby's existence. The girl, the servants called her in whispers, because she had no name yet, and a child without a name was a ghost.
You lay in your bed, your body slowly knitting itself back together, your breasts aching with milk, and you held your daughter against your chest and wondered if this was the end. If Aerion would cast you both out, send you back to the streets of King's Landing with nothing but the clothes on your back and a bastard child in your arms. You made plans in the dark hours. Foolish, desperate plans, the kind of plans that only seemed reasonable at three in the morning when you were alone and terrified and your stitches still pulled every time you moved. You would run. You would find Dunk if he was still alive, throw yourself at his feet, beg him to take you back even though you were ruined and used and nothing like the sister he had lost. You would find work, honest work, kitchen work, anything, and you would raise your daughter to be strong and fierce and free, and she would never, ever know what it felt like to be owned.
But on the fourth day, the door had opened.
Aerion stood in the frame, and you barely recognized him. His eyes were ringed with shadows so dark they looked like bruises, his short hair a disheveled mess, his fine clothes rumpled and stained as if he had been sleeping in them, or not sleeping at all. He had been wrestling with something, you realized. Himself, his pride, his expectations, his disappointment. And from the look of him, he had lost.
"Let me see her," he said. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw, as if he had been shouting or weeping or both. "Let me see my daughter."
You did not trust yourself to speak. You simply lifted the baby from your chest. She was awake, her violet eyes tracking the movement with that unnerving intensity newborns sometimes had. And you held her out toward him.
Aerion approached slowly, cautiously, like a man approaching a wounded animal that might bite. He looked down at the small, wrinkled face, at the silver gold fuzz on her head, at the tiny fists that clenched and unclenched in the air as if she were already fighting battles only she could see. And something in his expression shifted. Not softened. Aerion did not soften, not in any way you had ever witnessed. But cracked. A fissure in the ice, unexpected and profound.
"She looks like me," he said. It was not a question.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice still ruined from screaming. "She's a true dragon, my prince. Just like her father."
He reached out one finger, just one, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly, and touched the baby's cheek. Rhaenyra turned her head toward the contact, her tiny mouth opening and closing in that instinctive rooting reflex.
"Rhaenyra," he said. "I'll call her Rhaenyra."
You knew the name, of course. Everyone in Westeros knew the name. The princess who had been called Maegor with teats, who had fought a war that tore the realm in half and refused to surrender even when the odds were hopeless. It was a name soaked in controversy, in blood, in the stubborn refusal to be anything other than what she was. It was a cruel name to give an infant daughter, in some ways. A challenge. A provocation. A reminder that girls could be as dangerous as boys, if they were bold enough.
But it was not Maegor. It was not the name of the Cruel. And on that fourth day, with your daughter finally named and Aerion's hand resting awkwardly, almost shyly, on your shoulder, you had decided to be grateful for small mercies.
"Rhaenyra," you repeated, trying the name on your tongue. It tasted like strength. Like fire. Like survival. "My little dragon."
And now, two years later, watching that same daughter tug impatiently at Aerion's doublet while he laughed, that hope had only grown. Rhaenyra was fierce and stubborn and clever and alive, so vibrantly alive, and you would make certain she stayed that way. You would die before you let that happen. You would kill before you let that happen. And the truth of that, the absolute crystalline certainty of it, was the most liberating thing you had ever felt.
"Y/N."
Aerion's voice pulled you back from the precipice of memory. He was watching you over Rhaenyra's silver gold head, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and irritation.
"You're brooding again," he said. "You get that look on your face when you're thinking too hard. I've told you. I don't like it."
You let your expression shift, the distant look replaced by something warmer, more present. But you did not apologize; you had learned, over your time together, that apologizing for your thoughts only made him more suspicious. Instead, you reached out and straightened the collar of his doublet, letting your fingers brush the skin of his throat, a gesture of casual intimacy that you knew he craved even if he would never admit it.
"I was thinking about how happy she looks," you said, and it was the truth, or a version of it. "You make her happy, Aerion. You know that, don't you?"
He grunted, but you caught the flicker of satisfaction that crossed his features before he could suppress it. Praise. He could never get enough of it, had been starved for it his entire life, and you had learned to feed him with the same regularity you fed your daughter. All this time, and he still turned toward your words like a flower toward the sun, drinking in every affirmation, every acknowledgment, every whispered you are magnificent, you are powerful, you are loved.
"She's a dragon," Aerion said, adjusting Rhaenyra on his hip with practiced ease. "Dragons don't get sad. They incinerate the things that upset them."
"Papa," Rhaenyra said, with the sudden, intense solemnity that only a two-year-old can muster, "I want to incinerate something."
Aerion threw back his head and laughed. A real laugh, full throated and genuine, the kind of laugh that transformed his sharp features into something almost boyish, almost approachable. "That's my girl," he said, and pressed a kiss to her forehead with an uncharacteristic tenderness. "That's my little dragon. We'll find you something to burn later."
You watched them, this strange, fierce man and this strange, fierce child, and your heart performed that complicated maneuver it had been practicing for years, folding affection and exasperation and hope and fear all into one impossible shape.
This is real, you told yourself. Whatever else is happening, whatever else they say about us, this is real. He is my Aerion, and she is my daughter, and this is my life, and it is real.
Aerion shifted Rhaenyra to his other arm and extended his free hand toward you. His earlier tension seemed to have eased, replaced by something almost eager, a restless energy that crackled just beneath his skin.
"There's a play tonight," he said. "Some puppeteers have set up in the village. I've heard it's about a dragon." His mouth curved into that sharp, knowing smile you had come to recognize. "I thought we might go after supper. You and me and the little dragon here. She should see something worthy of her name."
Rhaenyra's head came up at the word dragon, her violet eyes bright. "A dragon play, Papa?"
"A dragon play," Aerion confirmed, tweaking her nose. "With fire and scales and everything a proper dragon ought to have. Would you like that?"
Rhaenyra's shriek of delight was answer enough. She bounced in his arms, clapping her small hands together, already launching into a stream of questions about whether the dragon would be big or small, whether it would breathe real fire, whether she could meet it afterward and be its friend.
You smiled, and this time there was no calculation in it at all. Aerion was trying. In his own strange, possessive way, he was trying. He had brought you to Ashford to wound his cousin, yes. He had paraded you in front of his family like a trophy, yes. But he was also here, in this sunlit corridor, planning an evening at a play with his paramour and his bastard daughter, and there was something in his face that you had learned to recognize as hope.
"That sounds wonderful," you said, and meant it. "Rhaenyra will be talking about it for weeks."
"She'll be talking about it regardless," Aerion said dryly. "The child never stops talking. She gets that from you."
"From me?" You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense. "I am the very soul of silence, my prince."
Aerion snorted. It was an undignified sound, entirely at odds with the sharp, cruel prince the rest of the world knew. "You are a terrible liar, Y/N. You always have been."
But he was smiling when he said it, and when he offered you his arm, you took it without hesitation. Rhaenyra was still chattering about dragons, her small voice filling the corridor with improbable questions and even more improbable declarations. Aerion answered her with patience, with warmth, with the particular tenderness he reserved for her alone.
And you walked beside them through the halls of Ashford Castle, your hand on Aerion's arm, your daughter's laughter echoing off the stones, and for this moment, this single bright moment, you let yourself believe that everything would be all right.
—
The screaming started before you understood what was happening.
One moment there had been music, the thin reedy piping of a flute and the thump of a hand drum, and Rhaenyra had been bouncing on your hip with her small hands clapping together in delight. The painted dragon had been swaying above the stage on its strings, its wings catching the torchlight, its jaws opening and closing in roar while the puppeteer below made a rumbling growl deep in her throat to give it voice. Rhaenyra had laughed. You could still hear the echo of that laugh, bright and silver and utterly without fear.
Then Aerion and the white cloaks moved, and the world splintered. The first tent pole went down with a sound like a thunderclap. Silk billowed inward, red and gold and orange, catching the torchlight and becoming flame even as it fell. People were screaming. People were running. A woman stumbled into you from behind and you curled around Rhaenyra on pure instinct, your spine curving, your arms locking, your body becoming a shell with your daughter at its center. Someone's elbow drove into your ribs and you felt something grind and shift and send a bright white bolt of pain up your side.
"Mama," Rhaenyra whimpered, and her voice was small, so terribly small, the voice of a child who did not understand why the world had turned cruel between one heartbeat and the next. "Mama, I want to go. I want to go home."
"Shh," you breathed into her hair, though your own voice was shaking so badly the word hardly had a shape. "Shh, my love, my dragon, Mama's here. Mama's got you. Close your eyes, sweetling. Close your eyes and it will be over soon."
She buried her face in the curve of your throat. You could feel her tears, hot and wet, soaking through the silk of your gown. You could feel her heart beating against your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. You could feel every tremor that ran through her small body, and each one was a knife slipped between your ribs.
The guard Aerion had assigned to you stood at your back like a statue carved from ice. Ser Harrold, his name was, you had begged him to escort you from the pavilion the moment the violence began. You had turned to him with Rhaenyra clutched against your chest and pleaded with him to let you leave, to let you take your daughter somewhere safe, somewhere the screaming did not reach.
He had looked at you with eyes that held no more warmth than a winter pond. "Prince's orders," he had said, and the words fell from his mouth like stones dropped into still water. "You stay until he says otherwise."
"But she's frightened," you had said, and you had hated the tremor in your voice, hated the way it made you sound weak when you needed to be strong. "She's two years old, Ser Harrold. She doesn't understand what's happening. Please."
"Prince's orders," he had repeated, and he had not looked at you again.
On the stage, Aerion had the puppeteer by the wrist. She was young. That was the detail that lodged itself in your memory like a splinter, the detail that would come back to you in the dark hours of the night for years afterward. She was young, perhaps your age. Her mouth was open in a scream that you could not hear over the roaring of the crowd, and her free hand was beating uselessly against Aerion's chest, against his arm, against the unyielding iron of his grip.
She had made a dragon out of paint and wood and string. She had painted scales on its wings with her own hands, had worked its jaws with her own fingers, had given it a voice that made children laugh and grown men cheer. She had made the terrible, fatal mistake of letting her dragon be killed in the story she told. The knight had slain it with his sword and the audience had gasped and clapped and cheered the hero's victory.
Aerion had not cheered. Aerion had stared with a face like a thunderhead, and then the Kingsguard had begun to move, and now he was on the stage with the puppeteer's wrist in his hand and her dragon lying forgotten at his feet.
He started with her fingers. The first one broke with a sound like a dry branch snapping underfoot in the depths of winter. It was surprisingly quiet, that sound, almost delicate, almost polite. The puppeteer's index finger bent backward at an angle that made your stomach contract violently, and she screamed, a high thin shriek that cut through the chaos of the pavilion like a blade through silk.
Rhaenyra flinched in your arms. "Mama," she whimpered, "why is the lady screaming? Is she hurt? Mama, I want to go."
"Close your eyes, sweetling," you whispered again, and your voice was breaking now, splintering into pieces you could not put back together. "Close your eyes and think of something nice. Think of the roses in the garden. Think of the pink flower you picked. Think of anything but this."
The second finger broke wetter than the first. A muffled, grinding crack that seemed to echo in the hollow of your chest. The puppeteer's legs gave out beneath her, but Aerion held her up by her ruined hand,ìand his face, his beautiful face that you had kissed and praised and learned to love, was alight with something that went beyond cruelty into a territory you had no name for.
Pleasure. A bright, burning pleasure that lit him from within like a lantern lights a room. His violet eyes were wide and shining, his lips parted slightly around his bloodied teeth, his breath coming in short sharp bursts that were almost sexual in their rhythm. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying this in a way he had never enjoyed a single moment of the years you had spent together, and the realization crashed into you like a wave into rocks, cold and brutal and undeniable.
You love him, you had thought earlier in the gardens. No, you hate him. That was the horror of it, the horror that would never leave you no matter how many years passed. You loved him, you loved the father of your child, you loved the man who had burned down a brothel for you. You loved him, and he was standing on a stage in a village called Ashford, breaking a girl's fingers one by one because her puppet show had insulted his pride.
The third finger made a sound like a walnut being crushed in a vise.
"Please," you heard yourself saying, and you did not know if you were speaking to Aerion or to Ser Harrold or to the gods who had never listened to a single prayer you had ever sent their way. "Please, someone stop him. Someone make him stop."
Ser Harrold's hand closed around your upper arm, immobilizing you. He was wearing gauntlets, the leather stiff and unyielding against your skin. "Hold still," he said, and his voice was the voice of a man who had learned long ago that obedience was safer than conscience.
The puppeteer's fourth finger snapped.
Then the giant came out of the crowd. His hair was dirty blonde, cut short against his skull in a way that suggested practicality rather than fashion, and it was matted with sweat and dust and something that might have been blood. His face was a shadowed blur in the torchlight, his features obscured by the angle and the distance and the chaos, but his size. Gods above and below, his size.
He was enormous. Seven feet of bone and muscle and righteous fury, with shoulders broad enough to block out the firelight behind him and hands the size of dinner plates curled into fists at his sides. He did not slow. He did not hesitate. He cleared the edge of the stage in a single stride, and then he was on Aerion, and his fist was connecting with the prince's face with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil.
Aerion staggered backward. His grip on the puppeteer's wrist broke, and she crumpled to the stage in a heap of brown wool and ruined hands, sobbing. Blood flew from Aerion's mouth in a dark arc that caught the torchlight and glittered like rubies scattered across the stage. He hit the wooden planking hard, his head snapping back against the boards, and for one impossible, crystalline moment, the entire pavilion went silent.
Then the Kingsguard moved. They came from every direction at once, white cloaks streaming behind them like wings, white enameled armor flashing in the firelight. Six of them. Seven. More, perhaps. They swarmed the big man the way wolves swarm a bear, throwing themselves onto his back and his arms and his legs, trying to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers. He fought them. Gods, he fought them. You saw one Kingsguard reel backward with blood pouring from the visor of his helm. You saw another take an elbow to the throat and go down choking, clawing at his gorget. You saw the big man's fists rise and fall and rise again with the relentless rhythm of a blacksmith's hammer, each blow carrying the weight of a righteous anger that no amount of white armor could withstand.
But there were too many. There were always too many. They dragged at his legs and his arms and his neck, six white cloaked knights and then seven and then eight, and still he nearly threw them off, still he nearly got free, still he nearly made it back to his feet with his massive hands reaching for Aerion again. Then one of the Kingsguard drove the pommel of his sword into the back of the big man's skull, and his knees buckled. Another kicked his legs out from under him. Another twisted his arm behind his back at an angle that made the joint scream in protest even from where you stood watching.
They forced him to his knees on the stage. One of them, a tall man with a captain's bars on his white cloak, grabbed a fistful of that dirty blonde hair and yanked his head back, forcing his face up into the torchlight.
Aerion rose to his feet. He moved slowly, carefully, the way a man moves when he is holding onto his composure by the thinnest of threads. His lip was split open, a gash that ran from the corner of his mouth nearly to his chin. Blood sheeted down his jaw and dripped onto the white silk of his collar, staining it crimson. He probed at his teeth with his tongue, grimaced, and spat a wad of blood and saliva onto the stage. Something small and white and hard skittered across the wooden boards.
“Why did you throw your life away for this whore” Aerion said.
"You've loosened one of my teeth,"
The pavilion had gone very quiet. The screaming had stopped, or perhaps it had simply receded to a distance where it could no longer reach you. The only sounds were the crackle of the torches, the soft sobbing of the puppeteer still huddled on the stage, and the ragged, labored breathing of the big man as he knelt in the grip of the Kingsguard. Aerion's voice was soft, almost conversational, the voice of a man discussing the weather over a cup of wine. It was more terrifying than any scream could have been.
"So," Aerion continued, prodding at his mouth again with his thumb and forefinger, examining the blood that came away, "we'll start by breaking out all of yours."
"No." The word came out of your mouth before you could stop it, a reflex as automatic as breathing, as instinctive as flinching from an open flame. "Aerion, no."
He did not look at you. He was not capable of hearing you, not in this state, not with the blood of a puppet show on his hands and the taste of his own tooth in his mouth. He was looking at the big man the way a child looks at an insect he has caught in a jar. Curious. Utterly without pity.
One of the Kingsguard, the captain with his hand still fisted in the big man's hair, forced his head down toward the stage. Another moved to stand on either side of him, gripping his shoulders, pinning him in place. A third stepped forward, removing his gauntlets one finger at a time, flexing his bare hands with the deliberate precision of a man preparing to perform a task that required both strength and care.
"Hold him still," Aerion said. "I want to watch."
Rhaenyra was sobbing in earnest now, her small body shaking with the force of her terror. She did not understand what was happening. She understood only that her father was on the stage and there was blood on his face and the safe bright world of the puppet show had collapsed into screaming and white cloaks and a big man on his knees who was about to be hurt in a way she had no language for.
"Mama," she wept, "Mama, I want Papa to stop, make Papa stop, please make him stop."
"I can't," you whispered into her hair, and the admission was a wound that would never fully heal. "I can't, sweetling. Mama can't make him stop. Close your eyes. Close your eyes and don't look."
The Kingsguard with the bare hands stepped forward. He was flexing his fingers, working the joints loose, his movements unhurried and methodical. The captain still had the big man's head forced down at the angle required for what was about to happen. The other guards braced themselves, digging their heels into the wooden stage, preparing for the struggle they knew would come.
The big man lifted his head against the pressure of the captain's grip. It was a monumental effort; you could see the muscles of his neck straining, the veins standing out like cords, the sweat cutting tracks through the blood and dirt on his face. He lifted his head, and the torchlight fell full upon his features for the first time.
You saw his face.
Time did not slow. It did not fade. It stopped. It stopped completely, absolutely, as if some vast and terrible hand had reached down from the heavens and seized the mechanism of the world itself and held it motionless. The torches froze mid-flicker. The screaming faded to a hum that existed somewhere beyond the boundaries of hearing. The blood in your veins turned to ice and then to fire and then to something that had no name at all.
You knew that face. You knew the hands. The enormous hands that had lifted you from your mother's deathbed, that had carried you through the cold morning while the other whores watched with pity and disgust, that had wrapped you in a threadbare blanket and held you against his chest while he promised you in a cracking boy's voice that he would always, always have you.
Dunk. He was alive. He was on his knees on a stage in a village called Ashford with a Kingsguard's hand in his hair and another Kingsguard's bare knuckles preparing to break his teeth out of his skull one by one, and he was alive.
"Dunk."
You did not recognize your own voice. It did not sound like a voice at all. It sounded like something that had been torn out of you by the roots, something that had been buried so deep and so long that pulling it free left a bleeding hollow in the center of your chest.
"Dunk."
Louder this time. Louder, and it cracked on the second syllable, cracked like your mother's laugh had cracked, like a bell that had been rung too hard and too long and had nothing left inside it but splinters.
"DUNK."
Time restarted itself with a violence that made your vision swim. The torches flared back to life. The screaming returned, a wave of sound that crashed over you and through you and left you gasping. The Kingsguard hesitated, their hands pausing on their prisoner, their white helms turning toward you with the synchronized precision of hunting dogs catching a scent.
Dunk turned his head. The captain still had his fist twisted in his hair, still had his neck bent at that brutal angle, but Dunk turned his head against that grip with the slow, inexorable force of a continent shifting, and he looked at you.
His eyes found yours across the chaos of the ruined tent. You saw the recognition hit him. Saw it travel through his body like a physical blow, a shock wave that started in his eyes and rippled outward through his shoulders, his chest, his hands. His face went slack with it, the tension draining out of his jaw and his brow, replaced by something that was too raw and too vast to be called surprise. It was disbelief. It was hope, the kind of hope that had been dead for so long its resurrection was indistinguishable from agony. It was joy and grief and guilt and love, all of them crashing together in the space of a single heartbeat.
His mouth moved. Formed the shape of your name. You could not hear it over the screaming, over the roaring of your own blood in your ears, but you saw it, saw the way his lips shaped the syllables he had not spoken in years, the name he had called across a hundred alleys and a hundred dark streets while he searched for you, the name he had whispered to himself in the long nights when he believed you were dead and gone and never coming back.
He surged against the guards holding him. Not fighting to escape now. Fighting to get to you. His massive shoulders bunched and heaved, nearly throwing off the two Kingsguard who were gripping his arms. A third lunged in to reinforce them, his white cloak tangling around his legs in his haste. Dunk did not seem to notice. He did not seem to feel the hands dragging at him or the knees pressing into his back or the captain's fist still grinding into his scalp. He was looking at you and only at you, and he was trying to reach you, trying to cross the impossible distance between the stage and the place where you stood with Rhaenyra in your arms.
You surged forward to meet him. You did not think about it. You did not calculate the odds or weigh the consequences. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, driven by an instinct older than thought, older than fear, older than anything you had learned in the years since they took you from the festival. Your brother was here. Your brother was alive.
Ser Harrold's arm locked around your waist like an iron bar. "Hold still," he snarled, and he was no longer calm now, no longer indifferent. He was struggling to hold you, struggling to keep his grip on a woman who had spent years learning to be still and silent and obedient and had finally, in this single shattering moment, forgotten how.
"Let me go!" The words tore out of your throat with a force that made your vision white out at the edges. Rhaenyra was screaming in your arms, her small fists beating against your shoulders, her voice a thin high wail that you could barely hear over the roaring in your ears. "Let me go, that's my brother, that's my brother, let me GO!"
"Aerion!" You were screaming his name now, the name of the man you loved, the name of the monster on the stage, the name of the only person in this pavilion who had the power to make the nightmare stop. "Aerion, please, please, you have to stop, he's my brother,please, Aerion, PLEASE!"
Aerion turned to look at you.
His face was still smeared with blood, his lip still split and swollen, his violet eyes still bright with the pleasure of the violence he had been orchestrating. But something flickered in their depths when he saw your face, when he registered the raw, unvarnished desperation in your voice. Confusion first. Then irritation, a flicker of the familiar petulance that crossed his features whenever something did not go the way he had planned. And then something else, something that chilled you more than any cruelty could have done.
Something calculating.
"What," he said, and his voice was a blade drawn slowly across a whetstone, "the fuck are you doing? What is she screaming about?"
You could barely form the words. Your throat was raw, your chest heaving, your arms trembling with the effort of holding Rhaenyra while Ser Harrold's grip threatened to crack your ribs. But you forced them out, forced them past the sobs that were building in your chest, forced them into the space between you and the man who held your brother's life in his bloodstained hands.
"He's my brother. He's my brother, Aerion." Your voice cracked on his name, splintered into something that was half a plea and half a prayer. "The brother I told you about. Dunk. The one I thought was dead. The one who raised me. Please. Please don't hurt him. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything. Just please, Aerion, please don't hurt my brother."
Something moved in Aerion's face. A muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes narrowed, the bright pleasure of the violence draining out of them, replaced by something harder and colder and infinitely more dangerous. He looked at you, and he looked at Dunk, and he looked back at you, and you could see him putting the pieces together. The brother you had wept for in the dark hours of the night, the brother whose name you had whispered in your sleep, the brother Aerion had forbidden you from ever mentioning again.
The brother who was now on his knees in front of him, bloodied and defiant, the man who had dared to strike a prince of the blood, and his expression closed like a door slamming shut in a winter gale.
"Take her back to her chamber," Aerion said. He was not looking at you anymore. He was looking at Dunk, and his voice was utterly without warmth, utterly without the history that stretched between you, utterly without anything that might have been mistaken for mercy. "Lock the door. No one goes in or out until I give the order."
"No." The word was barely a whisper. Ser Harrold was already dragging you backward, his arm still locked around your waist, his heels digging into the trampled grass of the pavilion floor. "Aerion, no, please, you can't do this."
"Take the child to the nursery," Aerion continued, as if you had not spoken, as if your voice did not exist, as if you were already gone. "She does not need to see any more of this. Make sure she stays there."
"No!" The scream that tore out of you was not a sound. It was a living thing, a creature with claws and teeth and a heart full of desperation, and it ripped its way out of your throat and into the torchlit air of the pavilion with a force that made the nearest Kingsguard flinch. "You can't separate us! She's my daughter! She's MY daughter!"
Rhaenyra was shrieking now, a high thin sound that rose above the chaos like a needle sliding into flesh. Her arms were wrapped around your neck so tightly that you could feel her small fingernails digging crescents into your skin, and her legs were locked around your waist, and her face was buried in the curve of your shoulder, and she was screaming, screaming, screaming. "Mama, Mama, don't let them take me, Mama, please, I want to stay with you, Mama, MAMA!"
Ser Harrold was dragging you backward. Another guard, a man in the pale grey of Prince Maekar's household, was trying to untangle Rhaenyra from your arms. His hands were gentle, gentler than you had expected, but that gentleness made it worse somehow, made it more real, made it a kindness that was not a kindness at all. He was murmuring something to Rhaenyra, some meaningless reassurance that neither you nor she could hear over the screaming, and his fingers were prying at her small grip one digit at a time.
"Don't," you sobbed. "Don't take her. Please. Please don't take my daughter."
But your arms were being pulled backward, and your strength was failing, and Rhaenyra's grip was slipping. You felt her fingers lose their hold on your dress. Felt the warmth of her body pulled away from yours. Felt the cold air rush in to fill the space where she had been, and that cold was worse than any physical pain, worse than the bruises blooming on your arm where Ser Harrold held you, worse than the raw burning in your throat from screaming, worse than anything you had endured in the brothel or the alley or the long dark nights when you believed your brother was dead.
"RHAENYRA!"
She was being carried away, still reaching for you over the guard's shoulder, her silver-gold hair bright as a candle flame in the torchlight, her violet eyes wide and streaming with tears. "Mama! I want my mama! Give me back my mama!"
You fought. You fought the way Dunk had fought, with every ounce of strength in your body, with your teeth and your nails and your fury. You twisted in Ser Harrold's grip and raked your nails across his face, felt the skin of his cheek tear beneath your fingers, felt the hot wet rush of his blood against your palm. He cursed and tightened his hold, and something in your side gave way with a sharp bright spike of agony, but you did not stop. You could not stop. Your daughter was being taken from you, your brother was on his knees with a prince's boot on his neck, and the world was ending, and you could not stop.
And then, cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk, a young voice rang out across the pavilion.
"No! Don't touch him!"
Everyone froze. The Kingsguard with his bare hands paused mid-motion, his knuckles inches from Dunk's clenched jaw. The captain's grip on Dunk's hair loosened slightly in surprise. Even Aerion turned, his bloodied mouth twisting into an expression of annoyed bewilderment.
The boy who stepped forward from the chaos of the crowd was small, skinny, with a shaved head that gleamed in the torchlight like a polished stone. He could not have been more than nine or ten years old, and he moved with the absolute, unshakeable confidence of someone who had never been told that the world did not bend to his will. He was bald and his clothes were the roughspun of a stable boy, dirty and sweat-stained, but he wore them like a prince wearing borrowed silks.
Dunk's voice was a ragged gasp, desperate and afraid in a way it had not been when the Kingsguard were beating him. "You stupid boy! Hold your tongue or they'll hurt you."
The boy did not slow. He did not even glance at Dunk. His eyes were fixed on Aerion, and there was something in them that made the prince's expression flicker with the first hint of uncertainty you had seen all night.
"No, they won't," the boy said, and his voice was calm, steady, the voice of someone stating a fact as immutable as the rising of the sun. "If they do, they'll answer to my father."
He stepped past the Kingsguard as if they were not there, as if the white cloaks and the white armor and the drawn swords were no more substantial than morning mist. He stopped directly in front of Aerion, this small bald boy in dirty clothes, and he lifted his chin and looked the prince full in the face.
"Let go of him," the boy commanded. "Wate, Yorkel, do as I say."
And the Kingsguard obeyed.
The captain released Dunk's hair. The other guards stepped back, their hands falling away from his arms and shoulders, their white helms inclining slightly in gestures of deference that stopped your heart in your chest. They knew this boy. They knew him, and they obeyed him, and that could only mean one thing.
Aerion stared at the boy. His violet eyes narrowed, studying the shaved head, the dirty clothes, the small defiant face that was upturned to his own. And then, slowly, recognition dawned across his bloodied features like a sluggish sunrise. It was followed immediately by annoyance, a deep and profound irritation that seemed to cut through even the pleasure he had been taking in the violence moments before.
"You impudent little rat," Aerion said. His voice dripped with contempt, but beneath it lurked something else, something that sounded almost like wariness. "What's happened to your hair?"
The boy did not flinch. He did not blink. He looked at Aerion with the steady, unblinking gaze of someone who had spent his entire life watching and learning and understanding things that others missed, and when he spoke, his voice carried the unmistakable weight of royal blood.
"I cut it off, brother," he said. "I didn't want to look like you."
Brother. The word landed in the center of the pavilion like a stone dropped into still water. Brother. This boy, this small bald boy in stable clothes, was Aerion's brother. Which meant he was Prince Aegon Targaryen, the youngest of Prince Maekar's sons, the one you had glimpsed occasionally in the corridors of Summerhall, the one who had looked at you like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
And he had just intervened to save your brother's life. The revelation halted the attack instantly. The Kingsguard could not carry out Aerion's orders now. Not against a man who was connected, through his squire, to the royal family. Not against a man who was protected by a prince of the blood, however young and however bald and however inexplicably dressed in the roughspun of a stable hand. The captain stepped back further, his white cloak settling around him like folded wings, and the other guards followed suit, leaving Dunk kneeling alone on the stage.
Aerion's face was a study in frustration. The pleasure had drained out of him entirely now, replaced by a seething, impotent fury that he could not express without defying his own brother, his own blood, in front of half a dozen witnesses. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The blood from his split lip still dripped down his chin, and his violet eyes were dark with a rage that had no outlet.
But he was a prince, and he knew the rules, and striking a man who was connected to the royal family was a crime that even he could not simply burn his way out of.
"Take him to the cells," Aerion said finally, and his voice was flat and cold and utterly drained of the pleasure that had animated it before. "He struck a prince of the blood. That crime remains regardless of whose squire the little rat has chosen to become. He will await trial and judgment, and lock her in her chamber."
Ser Harrold hauled you backward through the ruins of the pavilion. Your legs gave out beneath you, and he dragged you the rest of the way, your heels scraping furrows in the trampled grass, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice reduced to a raw and wordless keening that did not stop. You passed overturned benches. You passed torn silk and scattered cushions and a child's abandoned shoe.
The last thing you saw before the tent flap closed behind you was Aerion. He was still standing on the stage, his red tunic splattered with blood, his face a mask of cold, distant contemplation. He was not looking at you. He was looking at the place where Dunk had disappeared, and there was something in his expression that you had never seen before. Something that went beyond jealousy, beyond possessiveness, beyond the casual cruelty of a man who had never been denied anything.
He looked like a dragon counting its hoard, and finding a single coin out of place.
—
The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that echoed through your bones.
You had screamed until your voice gave out. You had beaten your fists against the iron banded oak until your knuckles split and bled, leaving dark smears on the wood that looked like accusations. You had thrown yourself at the door again and again, your shoulder bruising, your strength ebbing, until finally your legs had given way beneath you and you had slid to the cold stone floor with your back against the unforgiving wood and your face buried in your bleeding hands.
Rhaenyra was gone. Dunk was gone. Everyone you had ever loved had been ripped away from you in the space of a single night, and you were locked in a borrowed chamber in a borrowed castle with nothing but the silence and the dark and the terrible, circling thoughts that would not let you rest.
You pressed your forehead against your knees and tried to breathe.The hours crawled past like wounded animals dragging themselves toward death. You did not move from your place against the door. You did not lie down on the bed, though it was soft and wide and covered in Ashford's finest linens. You did not drink the water that had been left on the side table, though your throat was raw and burning from screaming. You simply sat, curled into yourself, and waited.
For Aerion. For news. For something, anything, that would tell you what was going to happen next. You thought about the look on Dunk's face when he recognized you. The shock. The joy. The desperate, agonized love. What must he have thought? What must he have assumed about you, about your life, about the choices that had led you to this place?
The shame of it burned in your chest like swallowed fire.
You did not know how long you sat there. It might have been hours. It might have been minutes. Time had lost all meaning in the darkness of the chamber, with the candles unlit and the fire unbuilt and the only light coming from the pale sliver of moon that crept through the narrow window high in the wall. But eventually, eventually, you heard the sound you had been dreading and hoping for in equal measure.
Footsteps in the corridor. Boots on stone, deliberate and unhurried, the particular cadence of a man who knew that the world would wait for him. The jingle of a sword at the hip. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a key turning in a lock.
The door swung inward, and Aerion Targaryen stepped into the room.
He had cleaned the blood from his face since you last saw him. His lip was still swollen. His silver gold hair had been combed back from his face, still damp from washing. He had changed his clothes; replaced by a simple black doublet that made his pale skin look almost luminous in the moonlight. He looked almost calm. Almost controlled. But his violet eyes were too bright, too sharp, the eyes of a man who was holding onto his composure by the thinnest of threads.
He closed the door behind him. You heard the lock click into place.
"My dragon," you said, and your voice came out as a croak, raw and broken from screaming. You tried to rise to your feet, but your legs would not hold you, so you remained on the floor, your back against the wall, your hands still stained with your own blood. "Aerion, please. Please tell me what's happening. My brother. Where is my brother? Is he all right? What are they going to do to him?"
The change that came over Aerion's face was instantaneous and terrifying. The careful mask of composure cracked like ice hit by a hammer. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His hands, which had been relaxed at his sides, curled slowly into fists.
"I come to you," he said, and his voice was a blade being drawn from its sheath, slow and deliberate and full of promise, "after being attacked in front of half the nobility of the Reach. My lip is split open. My tooth is loose in my skull. My dignity has been trampled by some hedge knight with dirt under his fingernails and hay in his hair. And the first words out of your mouth are not 'Are you all right, my prince?' Not 'Let me tend your wounds, my love.' Not a single word of comfort or concern for me, the man who saved you from a brothel, the father of your child, the prince who has kept you fed and clothed and protected for years."
He took a step toward you. Then another. His shadow fell across you like a shroud, blocking out the pale moonlight, plunging you into darkness.
"Your first words," he said, and his voice was rising now, climbing toward a register you had learned to fear, "are about him. A stranger. A man who struck me. A man who loosened my tooth and spilled my blood in front of the Kingsguard. That is who you ask about. That is who you care about. Not me. Not your prince. Not the father of your child. Him."
"He's not a stranger," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. You knew you should stop. You knew you should placate him, soothe him, tell him everything he wanted to hear. That was what you had done for years, what you had become so skilled at doing. But you could not. Not tonight. Not with Dunk's face still burned into your memory like a brand. "He's my brother, Aerion. He's my brother. He raised me. He protected me, and you have him locked in a cell like a criminal. Please. Please, just tell me he's all right. Just tell me you haven't hurt him."
Aerion stared at you for a long moment. The torch from the corridor outside cast his shadow long and dark across the floor, stretching toward you like a grasping hand. His breathing was audible in the silence, harsh and uneven, the breathing of a man who was losing a battle with his own rage.
"You love him," he said finally. The words were flat, toneless, utterly without inflection. "This brother of yours. This hedge knight with his dirty hands and his dirty hair. You love him more than you love me."
"That's not true," you said, and it was the truth and it was a lie and it was everything in between. "I love you, Aerion. You know I love you. But he's my brother. He's my blood. I thought he was dead. I mourned him for years. And now he's here, and he's alive, and I just want to know that he's safe. That's all. I just want to know that he's safe. Please."
"Safe." Aerion repeated the word as if it were a foreign language, a concept he had heard described but never experienced. "Safe. You want to know if the man who struck me is safe. You want to know if the man who humiliated me in front of my family and my father is safe."
He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. It was the sound of something breaking.
"You're mine," he said, and his voice cracked on the word, splintering into something that was half rage and half desperation. "You have been mine since the night I bought you. I paid fifty gold dragons for you. I burned down a brothel for you. I gave you a home, a place in my household, a daughter who bears my name. I have given you everything. Everything. And you stand there, bleeding on my floor, asking about another man."
"I'm not standing," you whispered, and you did not know why that was the detail you chose to focus on. He crossed the distance between you in three swift strides. His hand closed around your arm, hauling you upright with a strength that would leave bruises, and you cried out as the blood rushed back to your legs and the pain in your side flared white hot.
"You are mine," he said again, and his face was inches from yours, his violet eyes blazing with a fire you had seen directed at others but never, never at you. Not like this. Not with this intensity. Not with this complete and absolute absence of restraint. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you gasped. His grip on your arm was agony, his fingers digging into the bruises Ser Harrold had left, and tears were streaming down your face. "Aerion, please, you're hurting me."
"Good." He shook you, once, hard enough that your head snapped back and hit the stone wall behind you. Stars burst across your vision. "Good. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll remember who you belong to. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll stop asking about other men. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll finally understand that the only way you leave me is in a shroud."
"My brother," you sobbed. "He's my brother. Not another man. My brother. Please, Aerion, please try to understand."
"I understand perfectly." His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing your face toward his, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I understand that you have spent years telling me you loved me while you dreamed of someone else. I understand that the moment he appeared, you forgot everything I have done for you. I understand that you are a whore I pulled from a brothel, and no matter how many silk dresses I put on you, no matter how much of myself I pour into you, you will never, ever stop being what you are."
The words hit you like physical blows. Each one was a fist to the gut, a slap to the face, a knife slipped between your ribs. You had known, intellectually, that this was how he saw you. You had always known. But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing it thrown at you like an accusation, like a crime you had committed against him simply by existing, was something else entirely.
"Aerion," you whispered, and your voice was so small, so broken, that you barely recognized it as your own. "I have never been unfaithful to you. I have never looked at another man. I have never wanted anyone but you. He is my brother. My brother. Why can't you understand that?"
"Because I don't care!" He screamed the words directly into your face, his spittle flecking your cheeks, his breath hot and sour with wine and blood. "I don't care who he is! I don't care if he's your brother or your father or your long lost lover! The moment you chose him over me, the moment you screamed his name instead of mine, the moment you fought my guards and clawed Ser Harrold's face to try to reach him, you made your choice! And now you will live with it!"
His hand released your chin and came across your face with a crack that seemed to echo off the stone walls.
The backhand caught you across the cheekbone, hard enough to snap your head to the side, hard enough to send a spray of blood from your already split lip, hard enough that your legs gave out beneath you entirely. You fell. You did not fall gracefully, did not fall the way women fell in the songs Dunk used to tell you, floating down like petals on a breeze. You fell like a sack of grain, heavy and graceless, your hip striking the stone floor with a jolt of pain that made you gasp, your palms scraping raw against the cold flagstones, your already injured side screaming in protest as you landed.
You lay there for a moment, stunned. The taste of blood filled your mouth, copper and salt and something that might have been despair. The world swam in and out of focus. The moonlight from the window seemed very far away, a distant silver promise of a world that existed somewhere beyond this room, beyond this night, beyond the man who was standing over you with his chest heaving and his eyes blazing.
Then he was on top of you. His weight pressed you into the cold stone floor, heavy and immovable, the weight of a man who had trained with sword and shield and lance, the weight of a prince who had never been denied anything in his life. His knees pinned your thighs. One hand caught both of your wrists and forced them above your head, pressing them into the stone with a grip that made your fingers go numb. His other hand was at your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there, a reminder, a threat, a promise.
"You're my whore," he said, and his voice was a growl, low and guttural and utterly without the cultured refinement he wore like armor in the daylight. "Mine. You have been mine since the night I bought you, and you will be mine until the day you die. Do you understand? Do you understand what that means?"
"Get off me," you gasped. Your voice was barely audible, strangled by the hand at your throat and the weight on your chest. "Aerion, please, get off me, I can't breathe."
"It means," he continued, as if you had not spoken, as if your words were less than nothing, as if your voice did not exist in any way that mattered, "that I own you. Your body. Your heart. Your soul. Every breath you take, you take because I allow it. Every night you sleep in a warm bed, you sleep there because I permit it. Every moment you spend with our daughter, you spend because I have chosen to let you. And the only way you leave me, the only way you ever leave me, is if you are dead. Do you understand? Dead."
He was tearing at your dress as he spoke, the silk that he had given you, the dress he had chosen, the dress you had worn to the puppet show, the dress Rhaenyra's tears had soaked through. You heard the fabric rip, felt the cold air on your skin, and you found what remained of your strength and pushed against him. Your hands were still pinned above your head, but you bucked your hips, twisted your body, tried to throw him off the way Dunk had thrown off the Kingsguard.
It was useless. It was always useless. He was stronger than you, heavier than you, and he had the advantage of gravity and rage and years of training in violence that you had never received. He pressed you back down against the stone, and his hand left your throat to grip your jaw, forcing your face toward his, forcing you to look into his eyes.
"Say it," he demanded. "Say you're mine. Say you belong to me. Say that no one else matters. Not your brother. Not anyone. Say it."
You did not say it. You could not say it. The words were locked in your throat, trapped behind the tears and the blood and the terrible, crushing weight of what was happening to you.
You tried to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee drove between them, forcing them wide. He was hard and the sight of his cock made your stomach turn.
"Look at it," he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head forward. "Look at what you made me do. This is your fault. If you had just obeyed—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, already sore and swollen from the first time, and you whimpered, a high, broken sound that seemed to please him. He held there, just barely breaching you, letting you feel the pressure, the promise of invasion.
"Please," you whispered, your voice cracked and raw. "Please, Aerion, please don't—"
He thrust.
The sound you made was not a scream. It was something worse, a choked, guttural sob that tore from your throat as he buried himself inside you in one brutal push. The angle was wrong, too deep, too dry despite the precum already coating your thighs. You felt every ridge and vein of his cock as it forced its way deeper, splitting you open, claiming space that did not want him.
He paused, buried to the hilt, and let out a low groan that was almost human. Almost tender. Then he began to move.
Not fast. Not yet. He fucked you slowly, deliberately, with a cruelty that made every inch of the motion deliberate. He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in with excruciating leisure, watching your face contort with each stroke. His eyes were locked on yours, challenging you to look away.
You did. You turned your head, pressing your cheek against the cold stone, staring at a crack in the floor until your vision blurred. But he would not allow that. He grabbed your jaw, forced your face back to his.
"Watch," he commanded. "Watch me take what is mine."
His pace increased. The slow, torturous rhythm gave way to a sharp, punishing fucking that drove the air from your lungs with every slam of his hips. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed off the walls, mingling with your ragged breaths and his grunts. He leaned down, his chest pressing against yours, and bit your shoulder, not a kiss, a bite, hard enough to break skin. You cried out, and he licked the blood, humming in satisfaction.
"That's it," he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "Make sound for me. Let the whole castle hear how much you hate it. Let them know who you belong to."
He drove deeper, harder, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your back arch despite yourself. A spark of unwanted pleasure shot through your pelvis, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He slowed down, grinding against that same spot, watching your body betray you as your hips began to rock in counterpoint to his thrusts.
"There she is," he breathed, almost reverent. "There's the whore underneath. You can't hide her from me. She wants this. She needs this."
"No," you gasped, but your body said yes, clenching around him, drawing him deeper. Hot shame flooded through you, hotter than the pain, as your cunt began to slick with something that was not blood. He felt it too, he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his grip on your hips tightening.
"I'm going to fill you," he snarled, his composure cracking. "I'm going to pour every drop of my seed into this worthless hole until you're pregnant with my heir, a son this time, and then I'll do it again. And again. And—"
He came without warning, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he shoved himself as deep as he could go, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside you. You felt the hot flood of his cum, felt it spill out around him, felt it mix with the blood and your own unwanted wetness. He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the stone, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then he shifted, pulling out with a wet sound that made you flinch, and rolled onto his back beside you. The moonlight had moved, illuminating his face now haunted gleam in his violet eyes that looked almost like regret.
But you knew better. You knew he would do it again. And again. And again. Because in his world, you were already dead. You just hadn't stopped breathing yet.
He did not speak. Neither did you. You lay on the cold stone floor with your torn dress twisted around your body and your wrists still aching from his grip and your thighs slick with the evidence of what he had done, and you stared at the ceiling, and you thought of nothing at all.
After a long time Aerion rose to his feet. He straightened his clothes with mechanical precision, adjusting his doublet, smoothing his hair back from his face. He did not look at you. He did not offer you a hand to help you up. He did not speak a single word of apology or comfort or explanation.
"Your brother will stand trial," he said, and his voice was the voice of a stranger, flat and cold and utterly devoid of the passion that had consumed him moments before. "For striking a prince of the blood. The sentence will be severe. How severe depends entirely on you."
He paused at the door, his hand on the latch, his back to you.
"If you try to see him again," he said, "if you try to contact him, if you so much as speak his name in my presence, I will have him executed. Do you understand? His life is in your hands. Remember that."
The remainder of the night passed in darkness. You did not move from the floor. You could not move from the floor. The torn silk of your dress had dried stiff and crusted against your skin, and you had not bothered to cover yourself. There was no one to see. There was no one to care. The moonlight crawled across the stone floor inch by inch, and you watched it the way a corpse might watch the shifting of its own shroud, with a detachment that went beyond despair into something vast and empty and still.
Morning came grey and cold through the narrow window. The sky outside was the color of old iron, heavy with clouds that had not yet decided whether to rain. You heard the castle waking around you. Footsteps in the corridor. The distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. Servants calling to one another in voices too muffled to understand. The tourney, you remembered dimly. The tourney was still happening. Lord Ashford's daughter still needed her champion. The world was still turning, indifferent to the ruin of your life.
Someone brought food. You heard the door unlock, heard the tray scrape against the stone as it was pushed inside, heard the door lock again. You did not get up to look at it. The smell of bread and broth turned your stomach. You had not eaten since the puppet show, since before the puppet show, since the garden when Rhaenyra had found the pink flower and you had believed, foolishly and desperately, that everything would be all right.
The morning wore on. The light shifted. The clouds outside the window thickened and darkened and began to spit a thin, miserable drizzle that streaked the glass like tears.
And then, sometime in the afternoon, you heard the commotion.
It started as a distant murmur, a disturbance somewhere in the lower levels of the castle that grew louder and more urgent as it climbed toward your door. Shouts. Running footsteps. The clash of something metallic hitting stone. You lifted your head from the floor for the first time in hours, your neck aching, your vision swimming. Something was happening. Something was wrong.
The door crashed open. It was not Aerion who entered first but a maester, an old man in grey robes with a heavy chain around his neck and blood on his sleeves up to the elbows. Behind him came two guards, household men in the pale grey of Prince Maekar's service, carrying between them a litter on which lay a figure you recognized only by the silver gold of his hair.
Aerion. He was unconscious. His face was nearly unrecognizable. His lip had been split anew, a fresh gash that ran up toward his cheekbone. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the skin around it purple and black and glistening with some kind of salve. His chest was bare beneath a makeshift bandage that wrapped around his ribs, and the bandage was soaked through with blood, bright red and seeping, the color of life escaping. His right arm lay at an angle that was not natural, and his breathing was shallow and labored and made a wet, rattling sound that turned your stomach even as it ignited something else in your chest. Something you did not want to name. Something you did not want to feel.
You scrambled backward on the floor until your shoulder blades hit the wall. Your torn dress bunched around your knees. Your hands came up in front of you, a defensive gesture that was pure instinct, the instinct of a woman who had spent the night being broken and had no more pieces left to give.
"What," you said, and your voice came out as a croak, barely recognizable. "What happened? What is this?"
The maester did not look at you. He was directing the guards to lay the litter on the bed, his hands already reaching for the blood soaked bandages, already issuing orders about hot water and clean linen and milk of the poppy. But one of the guards, a young man whose face was pale and shocked and streaked with someone else's blood, paused long enough to answer.
"Trial of the Seven," he said, and the words meant nothing to you. "The prince demanded it. Against the hedge knight."
"Trial of the Seven?" The phrase was foreign, nonsensical, a collection of syllables that refused to resolve into meaning. "What are you talking about? What trial? What hedge knight?"
The maester looked up from his work at last. "The hedge knight," he said, and his voice was clipped and efficient, the voice of a man who did not have time for explanations. "Ser Duncan the Tall. The hedge knight demanded a trial by combat. The prince escalated it to a Trial of the Seven. Fourteen knights in the lists. The hedge knight's side won, but the prince was wounded. Gravely wounded. We have done what we can for the immediate injuries, but when he regained consciousness briefly, he insisted, quite forcefully, that he be brought to you. He said he wanted you to be his primary caretaker."
The words washed over you in a tide of incomprehensible information. Trial of the Seven. Fourteen knights. The hedge knight's side won. Dunk's side. Dunk had won. Your brother had won. Your brother was alive and he had won his trial and he was free, he must be free, because if the hedge knight's side had won the trial then the gods had judged him innocent.
But Aerion was on your bed with his ribs crushed and his arm broken and his face beaten into something barely human, and he had asked for you. Even after what he had done to you on this very floor. Even after the things he had said, the things he had called you, the violence he had visited upon your body. He had regained consciousness long enough to demand that you, and no one else, be the one to care for him.
You stared at the maester. The maester stared back at you, and something in his expression softened, just slightly, at whatever he saw in your face. Perhaps it was the bruises on your wrists. Perhaps it was the torn dress. Perhaps it was the way you sat huddled against the wall like a wounded animal that had learned to expect only more pain.
"I have done what I can for the immediate wounds," the maester said again, more slowly this time. "The prince will live, though his recovery will be long and painful. But he needs constant care. Someone to change his bandages, to administer his medicine, to watch for fever. He asked for you. Given his condition and his royal status, we are not inclined to refuse him."
You looked at the figure on the bed. The man who had raped you on the stone floor less than a day ago. The father of your daughter. The monster you loved. The prince who had promised to execute your brother if you so much as spoke his name. He lay unconscious and broken, his breath rattling in his chest, and you were being told that you would be his caretaker. That you would sit by his bedside and change his bandages and mop his brow and listen to him breathe.
The absurd cruelty of it was almost beautiful, in its way. A kind of poetry written in blood and bruises and the particular viciousness of men who believed they owned the women they had purchased.
"Leave us," you said, and your voice did not sound like your own. It sounded like the voice of someone much older, someone who had survived worse things than this and would survive worse things still. "I will care for him."
The maester hesitated. "My lady, there are instructions I must give you regarding the dressing of his wounds. The risk of infection is significant, and the milk of the poppy must be administered precisely. Too much will stop his breathing. Too little and the pain will be excruciating. Do you understand?"
"I understand," you said, though you understood nothing. You understood only that your brother was alive and free, and the man who had destroyed you was lying broken on your bed, and you were supposed to heal him. You were supposed to sit beside him and tend his wounds and keep him alive so that he could continue to own you, continue to threaten you, continue to hold your brother's life in his hands like a coin he might spend on a whim.
The maester gave you his instructions. You listened with half an ear, nodding in the appropriate places, filing the information away in a part of your mind that was still functioning, still capable of processing data and making decisions. Change the bandages every four hours. Watch for red streaks radiating from the wounds. Administer the milk of the poppy in doses measured by the small copper cup on the bedside table. If he wakes, give him water. If he develops a fever, send for the maester immediately.
And then they were gone, the maester and the guards, and the door was closed, and you were alone with him.
You stood in the center of the room for a long time, staring at the bed. At the rise and fall of his chest beneath the bloodied bandages. At the hand that lay limp and pale against the silk sheets, the hand that had struck you across the face, the hand that had pinned your wrists above your head, the hand that had held your chin and forced you to look into his eyes while he destroyed you.
You could let him die.
The thought came to you fully formed, as if it had been waiting in the back of your mind all along, biding its time. You could let him die. The maester had left you with the milk of the poppy and precise instructions about dosage. You could administer too much, or too little. You could neglect to change his bandages and let the infection take hold. You could hold a pillow over his face while he slept and press down until the ragged breathing stopped forever. There was no one else in the room. There were no guards at your door, not anymore. You could end this. You could end him. You could free yourself and your daughter and your brother with a single act of will.
You looked at the copper cup on the bedside table. You looked at the pillow beneath his head. You looked at your own hands, still bruised, still crusted with your own blood, still capable of doing what needed to be done.
And then you crossed the room, and you sat down in the chair beside his bed, and you began to prepare the first dose of milk of the poppy with hands that did not tremble at all.
If you let him die now, his father would investigate. There would be questions. There had been a maester here, and guards, and they had seen you alone with him. If Aerion died under your care, the blame would fall on you. You would be executed, or worse. And Rhaenyra would have no mother at all.
Not yet. But the knowledge was there now, a small cold seed planted in the dark soil of your heart. Not yet. But someday, perhaps. Someday, if the opportunity presented itself, if the circumstances aligned, if you could be certain of escaping the consequences. Someday, you might be free of him.
—
The days that followed blurred together like watercolors left in the rain. You were not permitted to leave the room. Aerion made that clear the first time you asked, your voice carefully neutral, your eyes on the floor. He had been awake for perhaps an hour, propped up on pillows that you had arranged behind his back with your own hands, his broken arm splinted and bound, his ribs wrapped tight in fresh linen. His face was still a ruin of purple and black and sickly yellow green, his lip still split, his eye still swollen half-shut. But his voice had lost none of its edge.
"Leave?" He had laughed, a humorless sound that turned into a wince as his ribs protested. "Why would you need to leave? Everything you require is here. Food will be brought. Water for washing. Fresh bandages from the maester. You have no reason to go anywhere."
"Aerion, please. I only want to see Rhaenyra. Just for an hour. Just to hold her and know she's all right. She must be so frightened. She's only two years old. She doesn't understand why her mother disappeared."
His expression had darkened, a cloud passing over the sun. "The child is fine. She is being cared for by the nurses. She does not need you hovering over her like a hen with one chick. What she needs is a father who is not an invalid, and what I need is a caretaker who does not spend every waking moment asking to leave."
"Aerion..."
"Enough." The word was a door slamming shut. "You will stay here. You will tend to my wounds. You will keep me company. You will not leave this room unless I give you permission. Is that understood?"
So you stayed. You woke when he woke, which was often, his sleep broken by pain and fever and the strange, feverish dreams that made him thrash and cry out in the darkness. You changed his bandages with the careful precision the maester had taught you, peeling back the old linen, examining the wounds for signs of infection, applying the salves and poultices with gentle fingers. You fed him broth when he could eat, spooning it into his ruined mouth one careful measure at a time. You helped him with the bedpan when he needed it, a humiliation that made his jaw tighten and his eyes go cold, as if his body's weakness were a personal insult you had somehow engineered.
You did all of this in silence, for the most part. He did not want conversation. He did not want to be soothed or coddled or reassured. The man who had craved praise like a drug, who had turned toward your words like a flower toward the sun, was gone. In his place was a creature of pure, distilled bitterness, a man whose humiliation had curdled inside him until it became something toxic.
He had lost. That was the core of it, the wound beneath the wounds. He had been beaten by a hedge knight in front of half the nobility of the Reach, and then he had demanded a Trial of the Seven, the most sacred and dramatic form of combat the gods permitted, and he had lost that too. His side had lost. The gods themselves had declared against him, had declared in favor of the dirt-smeared giant who had loosened his tooth and spilled his blood and stolen his dignity. Aerion Targaryen, the prince who had burned a man alive for making a joke, the prince who had broken a puppeteer's fingers for telling the wrong story, the prince who believed with every fiber of his being that he was a dragon in human form, had been brought low by a nameless hedge knight with hay in his hair and dirt under his nails.
And you, who had witnessed the beginning of that humiliation, had become the vessel into which he poured all his bile.
"I should have you hanged for being related to that oaf." His hand shot out and closed around your wrist, hard enough to make you freeze. "Why would a brother fight like that? Why would a brother look at a sister like that? Tell me the truth. Was he your lover before he was your brother? Did you share a bed in the slums of Flea Bottom, before I found you?"
The accusation was so vile, so utterly, grotesquely wrong, that for a moment you could not speak at all. You could only stare at him, at his swollen face and his blazing eyes and the jealousy that was consuming him from the inside out like a fire that would not be quenched.
"He is my brother," you said, and your voice was quiet and steady and utterly without the rage that was boiling in your chest. "My brother. My blood.Nothing more. Nothing less. I have never lain with him. I have never wanted to. The very thought is disgusting to me, and it should be disgusting to you too."
Aerion held your gaze for a long moment. Then he released your wrist and turned his face away.
"Finish the bandage," he said, and said nothing more for the rest of the day.
Sometimes, rarely, they brought Rhaenyra to see you. It was never for long. Ten minutes, fifteen, never more than half an hour. A servant would bring her to the door, and she would run across the room on her unsteady two year old legs, bewildered relief of a child who did not understand why her mother had vanished from her life. You would scoop her up and hold her against your chest and breathe in the smell of her, that particular sweetness of soap and milk and sunshine that you had missed like a severed limb.
"Mama," she would say, her small hands patting your face, your hair, your shoulders, as if reassuring herself you were real. "Mama, where did you go? I looked for you. I cried and cried but you didn't come."
"Mama was taking care of your father," you would say, and your voice would be steady even though your heart was breaking. "Your father is very sick, sweetling. He needs Mama's help. But Mama loves you. Mama thinks about you every moment. Do you understand? Every single moment."
She would nod, her small face solemn, and then she would launch into a breathless account of everything she had done since she saw you last. The bird she had seen on the windowsill. The game the nurses had taught her. The dreams she had dreamed. You drank in every word like water in a desert, memorizing the cadence of her voice, the animation of her expressions, the way her tiny hands moved when she was telling a particularly exciting part.
And then Aerion would stir in the bed behind you, and the servant would step forward, and Rhaenyra would be lifted from your arms.
"No," you would say, every time, reaching for her even as the servant pulled her away. "Please, just a few more minutes. Just a little longer. She's only just arrived."
"Prince's orders," the servant would say, and the door would close, and you would be alone with him again.
The nights were the worst.
During the day, Aerion was mostly manageable. Irritable, demanding, prone to dark silences and darker accusations, but manageable. You could distract yourself with the work of caring for him, the constant rhythm of bandages and medicine and meals. You could count the hours until the next time Rhaenyra might be brought to you. You could lose yourself in the small, finite tasks that kept your hands busy and your mind from wandering to places it should not go.
But at night, when the candles burned low and the fire died to embers and the only sound was the soft, labored rhythm of his breathing, the monster in him stirred.
It started on the fourth night. You had been dozing in the chair beside his bed, your neck cricked at an awkward angle, your body aching for the comfort of a proper mattress. You were dreaming of the garden, of Rhaenyra's laughter, of pink flowers crushed beneath bare feet. And then a hand closed around your forearm, and you were jolted awake with a gasp.
Aerion was looking at you from the bed. His eyes were fever bright in the near darkness, and his hand was hot and dry against your skin. The blanket had slipped down to his waist, and you could see the bandages around his ribs, the splint on his arm, the bruises that spread across his torso like storm clouds. But you could also see, in the shadows beneath the blanket, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
"Come here," he said. His voice was hoarse, rough with pain and desire in equal measure. "I need you."
"Aerion," you said carefully, "you're injured. The maester said you need to rest. You could reopen your wounds. You could..."
"I don't care what the maester said." His grip on your arm tightened. "I've been lying in this bed for four days. I've lost everything. My pride. The hedge knight walks free, and I am trapped in this room like a cripple. The least you can do," and his voice hardened on the words, "is give me this."
"You're not well. Please, just wait until you're stronger. I promise, when you're healed..."
"When I am healed, I will take what I want anyway." He pulled you closer, and you could smell the sourness of his breath, the stale sweat of his unwashed body, the cloying sweetness of the milk of the poppy that still lingered on his tongue. "But I want it now. I have spent four days flat on my back like a turtle overturned, watching you flutter around me with your careful hands and your careful voice and your careful eyes that never quite meet mine. I know what you think of me. I know what you think when you look at me. You think I'm a monster. You think I got what I deserved."
"No," you whispered, but it was a lie and you both knew it.
"Yes," he said. "You do. And I don't care. You can hate me all you like, in the privacy of your own mind. But you are mine.Now. Come. Here."
He could not be rough with you, not in his condition. His broken arm lay useless at his side, and his bandaged ribs prevented any sudden movement. But he did not need to be rough to make you feel the weight of your captivity. He directed you with his voice, that voice you had once praised and soothed and loved, telling you where to touch him, how to move, what he wanted from you. He could not take you the way he had on the stone floor, could not pin you down and force himself inside you while you sobbed and pushed at his chest. But he could make you take him in your mouth while he lay back against the pillows with his eyes half closed and his hand tangled in your hair. He could make you straddle him carefully, carefully, moving with the slow precision his injuries demanded, while his one good hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure and pain and the strange, twisted satisfaction of ownership. "That's my good girl. My sweet girl. You know what I need. You always know what I need."
"Now you should rest." He was already drifting, the exertion combined with the milk of the poppy pulling him back toward unconsciousness.
"You're the only one," he mumbled, his voice slurring with sleep. "The only one who stays. The only one who doesn't leave. Don't leave me. Promise you won't leave."
You did not promise. You dried your hands on a cloth and returned to the chair beside his bed, and you watched him sleep, and you thought about the copper cup of milk of the poppy on the bedside table, and you thought about what it would be like to be free.
—
The servant came for you on the seventh day. You were sitting in the chair beside Aerion's bed, your hands idle in your lap for the first time in what felt like years. He was sleeping deeply, the milk of the poppy dragging him down into a place where even his dreams could not reach him.
The door opened without a knock. You turned, expecting another servant with a tray of food, another maester with fresh bandages, another summons from the nurses saying Rhaenyra was crying for you and would not be soothed. But the woman who stood in the doorway was not a servant you recognized.
"Prince Maekar requests your presence," she said. Her voice was flat, neutral, the voice of a woman delivering a message she did not fully understand. "You are to come with me immediately."
You stared at her. Prince Maekar. The man who had called you a whore to your face, who had forbidden you from speaking to his children, who had looked at you for years with an expression of cold, unwavering contempt. He had never once spoken to you directly, had never acknowledged your existence except as a problem to be managed. And now he was summoning you?
"Prince Maekar," you repeated, and your voice came out uncertain, almost afraid. "Why would Prince Maekar want to see me?"
The servant's expression did not change. "I was not told, my lady. Only that you are to come at once. Prince Aerion is sleeping. He will not miss you. Please, follow me."
You looked back at the bed. Aerion's chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. His good hand was curled loosely on the pillow beside his face, his fingers twitching slightly as he dreamed. If you left and he woke to find you gone, there would be consequences. There were always consequences. But the servant was watching you with her sharp grey eyes, and something in her manner told you that this was not a request. This was an order, delivered with the full authority of the man who ruled Summerhall.
You rose from the chair. Your legs were unsteady beneath you, your body still aching from the nights of sleeping in chairs and on pallets, from the strain of lifting and turning and tending a man who outweighed you by half.
The castle was quiet at this hour. The afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. You had not been outside Aerion's room in seven days. The world seemed larger than you remembered. Brighter. More dangerous.
The servant led you through corridors you did not recognize, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor, until you stood before a heavy oak door banded with iron. She knocked twice, a sharp, deliberate rap that echoed in the silence.
"The woman is here, my prince," she said.
A voice from within, muffled by the door, said something you could not make out. The servant pushed the door open and gestured for you to enter.
You stepped inside. The room was small, sparsely furnished. A table. A few chairs. A narrow window that looked out over the castle's eastern wall. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting the room in shadow and flickering orange light. And standing near the window, one hand braced against the wall for support, a thick piece of wood tucked under his other arm to hold him upright, was your brother.
Dunk.
You stopped in the doorway as if you had walked into a wall. Your heart seized in your chest. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands flew to your mouth, pressing against your lips as if to hold in the sound that was trying to escape, a sound that was half sob and half scream and half something that had no name at all.
He looked terrible. His face was a mess of bruises, purple and black and yellow-green, one eye swollen nearly shut, a gash across his cheekbone held closed with clumsy stitches. His lip was split in two places. His left arm was wrapped in a sling, and the piece of wood under his right arm was a crutch, crude and hastily made, the kind a maester might fashion for a patient who refused to stay in bed. He was leaning heavily on it, his massive frame listing to one side, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion and pain. He looked like a man who had been through a war and had only barely survived.
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was exactly the same as it had been when he was eight years old and lifting you from your mother's deathbed. Cracked. Hoarse. Full of a desperate, aching tenderness that made your chest splinter into a thousand pieces.
One moment you were standing in the doorway with your hands pressed to your mouth, and the next you were in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your shoulders shaking with sobs you had been holding back for years. His good arm wrapped around you, pulling you against him, and you felt the crutch fall away, felt him stagger and brace himself against the wall so he would not fall. He was so big. He had always been so big. Even broken and bruised and barely able to stand, he surrounded you, enveloped you, made you feel for the first time in longer than you could remember that you were safe.
"I've got you," he said into your hair, and his voice was breaking, splintering, cracking into pieces that sounded like your mother's laugh and your father's name and every promise he had ever made you. "I've got you. I've always got you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I looked for you. I looked everywhere. They told me you were dead. They told me they found your body in the river. They said you were burned beyond recognition. I believed them. Gods forgive me, I believed them."
"I didn't know," you sobbed into his chest. Your fingers were twisted in his tunic, gripping the rough wool as if he might disappear if you let go. "I didn't know they told you that. I thought you were still looking. I thought you would find me. I waited for you. Every night, I waited for you. I never stopped believing you would come."
"I'm sorry, i believed them. I believed you were dead, and something inside me died with you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, little sister. I should have kept looking. I should have known. I should have..."
"Stop." You pulled back just enough to look up at his face, at the tears that were cutting tracks through the blood and the bruises. "Stop apologizing. You searched for me. You believed what they told you. Any man would have believed it. I don't blame you. I have never blamed you. I only ever wanted you to know I was alive. I tried to send word. I tried so many times. But Aerion..."
You stopped. The name hung in the air between you like a curse. Dunk's expression darkened. His good arm tightened around your shoulders. "Aerion," he repeated, and the word came out like a growl. "What happened to you, Y/N? Where have you been all these years? How did you end up here, with him?"
You pulled away from him gently. Your legs were shaking. You found a chair and sank into it, and Dunk lowered himself awkwardly onto the edge of the table, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, his crutch clattering to the floor. He did not take his eyes off you. He watched you the way he had watched you when you were children, with that fierce, protective intensity that had once been the only thing standing between you and the darkness of the world.
"They sold me," you said, and your voice was quiet and hollow and did not sound like your own. "The men who took me. They sold me to a brothel on the Street of Silk. A high end place, for lords and merchants. The madam... she was cruel. She said I was special. She said I would make them very rich."
Dunk's hands tightened on your shoulders. His face had gone very pale beneath the bruises, and his jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"And then," you continued, "Aerion came, he bought me and never left me"
And then you told him about Rhaenyra.
"Her name is Rhaenyra," you said, and your voice softened on the name, the way it always did. "She's two years old. She looks like her father. But she's kind. She's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She's the only good thing that has come out of any of this. And she's the reason I can't leave."
Dunk was silent for a long moment. His face was unreadable, a mask of bruises and exhaustion and something that might have been grief. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough.
"I'll take you away," he said. "Both of you. You and the little girl. I'll find a way. I have friends now. A prince and a lord. We can protect you. We can hide you somewhere Aerion will never find you."
You shook your head. The tears were streaming down your face again, hot and silent, dripping off your chin and onto your hands. "You don't understand. He would never let me go. He would hunt me down like a dog. He would burn cities to the ground to find me. He told me... the night after the puppet show, when he came to my room, he told me the only way I would ever leave him was in a shroud. He meant it, Dunk. I have seen what he does to people who defy him. I have seen him cut a servant's hand for spilling wine on him. I have seen him laugh while a man burned alive. If I tried to run, if I took Rhaenyra and disappeared, he would never stop looking. And when he found me, and he would find me, he would kill me. He would take my daughter and he would kill me, and Rhaenyra would grow up without a mother, raised by a monster who would teach her that cruelty is strength and kindness is weakness and love is just another word for ownership."
"He would have to go through me first," Dunk said, and his voice was hard, the voice of a man who had faced seven knights in single combat and emerged victorious. "I lost you once. I believed you were dead for years. I mourned you, Y/N. I sat in that alley and I let the darkness take me because there was no light left in the world. And then I found you again, alive, here, in this place, with that man. I am not going to lose you again. I don't care if he is a prince. I don't care if he has a hundred Kingsguard. I will find a way to get you out of here. I will find a way to keep you safe. I swear it. I swear it on our mother's grave. I swear it on everything I am."
"Dunk." You reached out and took his enormous hand in both of yours. His knuckles were swollen and bruised, the skin split and scabbed over. The hands that had lifted you from the mattress where your mother had stopped breathing. The hands that had carried you into the cold morning while the other whores watched with pity. The hands that had promised you silk and lemon cakes and a world where no one would hurt you. "I want to believe you. I want to believe there is a way out of this. But you have to understand what you're risking. He will kill you. He will kill you without hesitation, without a trial, without anything but the cold satisfaction of removing an obstacle. And if you die, if you die trying to save me, I will have nothing left. Nothing. Do you understand? You are my brother. You are the only family I have in this world besides my daughter. I cannot lose you again."
He squeezed your hands. His grip was gentle, impossibly gentle for a man who had killed knights and broken bones and fought his way through horrors you could only imagine. "You won't lose me," he said. "I promise you, little sister. You won't lose me."
—
You ran. Egg had barely finished speaking before you were out the door and flying down the corridor, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth, your lungs burning with every breath. You did not care if anyone saw you. You did not care if there were questions. All you cared about was getting back to Aerion's room before he woke, before he realized you were gone, before the fragile illusion of your obedience shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.
You reached the door to Aerion's chamber and paused, pressing your palm flat against the wood, forcing yourself to breathe. You could not go in looking like a woman who had just run across half the castle. You could not go in looking like a woman who had been crying in her brother's arms. You smoothed your hair with trembling hands. You wiped the tears from your cheeks. You arranged your face into the careful mask you had worn for years, and you pushed open the door.
Aerion was still asleep. He had not moved since you left. His breathing was slow and steady, his bruised face relaxed in the depths of his drugged slumber. The milk of the poppy still held him in its grip. The bandages on his ribs were unrumpled. His splinted arm lay exactly where you had arranged it. He had not woken. He had not called for you. He had not noticed your absence at all.
You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, your legs threatening to give way beneath you. You had made it. You had made it, and he did not know, and you were safe. For now. For this moment. For as long as you could keep the mask from slipping.
You returned to the chair beside his bed and sat down, and you waited.
Days passed. Aerion healed. Slowly at first, then with the stubborn, grinding determination of a man who refused to be seen as weak for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. The bruises faded from black to purple to yellow-green. The swelling around his eye went down until he could open it fully again. The split lip closed, leaving a thin white scar that tugged at the corner of his mouth when he spoke. The ribs were slower to mend, the maester said, and he would need to be careful for weeks yet, but the splint came off his arm and he began to flex his fingers, to test the range of motion, to push against the limits of his own body the way he pushed against everything else in his life.
By the end of the second week, he could walk with a stick. You were the one who helped him take his first steps. His arm draped over your shoulders, his weight pressing down on you until your knees buckled, his breath harsh and labored against your ear. You walked him across the room and back again, step by agonizing step, your body bearing the burden of his in a way that felt like a metaphor for everything your life had become.
"Good," he said through gritted teeth when he finally lowered himself back onto the bed. “That's good. I'll be out of this room by the end of the week.”
"My father is sending me away," he had said, and his voice was flat, toneless, drained of its usual fire. "Lys. A city of whores and perfumed merchants. He calls it self reflection. A chance to contemplate my actions and return a better man. But we both know what it really is. Exile. He cannot bear to look at me. He blames me for Baelor's death, even though it was his own blow that killed him. He blames me for everything."
You had not known what to say, so you had said nothing. That was safest. That had always been safest.
"You and the girl will come with me, of course, Lys is said to be beautiful. Warm. The sea is the color of sapphires, and the women walk around in silks so fine you can see their skin through the fabric. You will like it there."
You would not like it anywhere he was. But you had smiled, because that was what you did, and you had told him that Lys sounded lovely, and you had turned away to prepare his next dose of medicine so he would not see the despair in your eyes.
After that, things shifted slightly. Perhaps Aerion felt guilty for uprooting you. Perhaps he was simply trying to secure your loyalty before the journey. Whatever the reason, he began to allow you to visit Rhaenyra in the nursery. Not for long, not unsupervised, but every day. Every single day, you were permitted to leave his chamber for an hour and go to your daughter.
It was the only thing that kept you sane. You would sit in the nursery with Rhaenyra on your lap, her small body warm and solid and alive against your chest, and you would listen to her chatter about the games she had played and the songs she had learned and the dreams she had dreamed. You would brush her hair and sing to her in the soft voice you used for no one else. You would tell her that you loved her, that you would always love her, that there was nothing in the world she could do that would make you stop loving her. And you would try very hard not to think about the fact that in a few weeks, a few months at most, you would be on a ship to Lys, and the only world Rhaenyra had ever known would disappear behind her forever.
It was on one of these days, when you returned from the nursery with Rhaenyra's laughter still echoing in your ears, that everything fell apart.
You pushed open the door to Aerion's chamber and stopped dead in the doorway. There were two guards in the room. Between them, kneeling on the stone floor, was the servant. The one who had come to you days ago. The one who had said Prince Maekar requests your presence. The one who had led you through the corridors to the room where Dunk was waiting.
She was barely recognizable. Her face was a swollen mass of bruises, her lips split in three places, her nose broken and crusted with dried blood. One of her eyes was swollen completely shut, and the other stared at the floor with the glassy, unfocused gaze of someone who had retreated so far inside herself that she might never find her way back out. Her dress was torn, stained dark with blood and sweat and things you did not want to name. Her hands, folded limply in her lap, were missing three fingernails.
You knew, in that moment, that you were going to die.
Aerion was standing by the window, leaning on his stick, his back to you. He did not turn when you entered. He simply stood there, silhouetted against the grey afternoon light, his shoulders rigid, his free hand clenched into a fist at his side.
"Close the door," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The calm of a sea that had gone flat and glassy in the moment before a tidal wave.
You closed the door. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely grip the latch.
"Aerion," you said, and your voice came out as a whisper, thin and reedy and full of the terror you could not hide. "What is this? What happened to her?"
Now he turned. His face was the face you had seen on the stage of the puppet show, cold and cruel and utterly without mercy. His violet eyes were dark with a rage that had been simmering for days, waiting for this moment, and his mouth was a thin hard line that made the scar at the corner of his lip stand out white against his skin.
"Is it true?" he asked. His voice was still calm. Still quiet. Still terrible. "Did you betray me? Did you see that treasonous bastard of your brother?"
Your heart stopped. Your blood turned to ice. The world narrowed to the space between you and him, the fire in the hearth, the broken woman on the floor.
"Aerion, please, let me explain..."
"Did you see him?" He did not shout. He did not raise his voice at all. But each word was a hammer blow, driving the breath from your lungs, the strength from your legs. "This woman, this servant, has told me everything. How she came to you while I was sleeping. How she led you through the castle. How my father, my own father, arranged for you to meet your brother in secret behind my back. Is it true? Answer me. Is it true?"
Your mind raced, scrambling for a lie, a deflection, anything that might save you. But the servant was kneeling on the floor with her fingernails torn out and her face beaten to pulp, and you knew that whatever you said, whatever excuse you offered, he had already made up his mind.
"It was not my choice," you said, and your voice cracked on the words. "The servant came and said your father wanted to see me. I did not know it was a trick. I did not know Dunk would be there. I went because I was afraid to refuse. Please, Aerion, you have to believe me. I did not seek him out. I would never..."
"Liar." He spat the word like a curse. "You have been lying to me since the moment you saw his face in the pavilion. You have been lying to me while you changed my bandages and brought my medicine and performed your little duties like the devoted whore you pretend to be. All this time, you have been dreaming of him. Planning with him. Scheming behind my back. Did you think I would not find out? Did you think I would not have you watched? Did you think I was stupid?"
"No, I never..."
"Be silent." He took a step toward you, and the stick thumped against the stone floor like a death sentence. "I have listened to your lies for years. I have listened to you whisper that you loved me while your eyes were always looking somewhere else. I have listened to you promise that you were mine while your heart belonged to another. I am done listening. Now you will listen to me."
He gestured to one of the guards. The man stepped forward, his face still grim and impassive. You barely had time to register the movement before his gauntleted hand cracked across your face.
The blow sent you sprawling to the floor. Your head hit the stone with a crack that made stars burst across your vision. The taste of blood filled your mouth. Your ears rang with a high, thin whine that drowned out everything else. You tried to push yourself up, but your arms would not hold you, and you collapsed back onto the cold stone, gasping.
"Take her away," Aerion said, and for a moment you thought he meant you. But the guard was already hauling the servant to her feet, dragging her toward the door, her head lolling on her broken neck. The other guard followed, and then the door closed, and you were alone with the dragon.
Aerion stood over you. The stick thumped against the floor as he took another step closer. You could see his boots from where you lay, the fine black leather, the silver buckles shaped like dragon wings.
"Let me tell you what happens now," he said, and his voice was soft, almost gentle, the voice of a man explaining something to a child. "You are going to Lys with me. You are going to share my bed and warm my sheets and perform your duties as you have always done. You are going to smile and praise me and tell me that I am magnificent. You are going to be exactly what you have always been. My whore. My property. My thing."
He lowered himself slowly, painfully, until he was crouching beside you. His hand came down and gripped your chin, forcing your face up toward his. His fingers were cold and hard and utterly without tenderness.
"If you ever see your brother again," he said, "if you ever speak to him, if you ever so much as learn his whereabouts and fail to tell me, I will not kill you. No. Killing you would be a mercy, and I am not feeling merciful. What I will do is make you pray for death. Every single day, you will pray for it, and it will not come. Do you understand?"
You tried to speak. No words came out. Only a thin, animal whimper that you barely recognized as your own.
"And Rhaenyra," he continued, and your blood turned to ice water. "If you betray me again, if you give me even the slightest reason to doubt your loyalty, I will take her from you. Not just for a few days. Not just to the nursery. I will sell her. Do you understand? I will sell her to a brothel the moment she has her first bleeding. She will spend her life on her back with strange men between her legs, just like her mother before her. Just like the whore who whelped her. That is what happens to the daughters of traitors. That is what happens to the children of women who forget who they belong to."
"No." The word tore out of you, a desperate, animal sound. "Aerion, no, please, she's your daughter, she's your blood, you can't..."
"I can do whatever I want." His voice was flat. Final. The voice of a god passing judgment. "She is mine. You are mine. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because I allow it. Your life is a privilege. Your motherhood is a privilege. Your identity as a mother, as a daughter, as anything other than what I tell you to be, is a privilege. And privileges can be revoked."
He rose to his feet with a grimace of pain, leaning heavily on his stick. He looked down at you, crumpled on the floor at his feet, and his expression was utterly without pity.
"Your only duty is to me," he said. "You are not a mother. You are not a sister. You are not a person with a past or a family or a soul. You are my whore. That is all you have ever been. That is all you will ever be. Everything else, every moment you have spent with Rhaenyra, every breath you have taken as a free woman, has been a gift. A gift that I gave you. A gift that I can take away."
He turned to the guard who remained. The man had been standing motionless by the door, his face a mask of professional indifference. He had watched the whole thing without flinching. You wondered, distantly, how many women he had seen broken on the orders of the men who paid him.
"Incapacitate her," Aerion said. "I want her unable to walk. Not permanently. I still need her to be able to perform her duties. But I want her to remember, every time she takes a step, what happens when she forgets who she belongs to."
The guard stepped forward. You saw him coming, saw the purpose in his eyes, and you tried to scramble backward on the floor, your heels slipping against the stone, your hands clawing for purchase. It did not matter. He was on you in three strides, his hands closing around your ankle, and you heard yourself screaming, heard Aerion's voice saying something you could not understand, and then there was a sound like a branch breaking in deep winter, and your leg exploded into white-hot agony.
The world went away for a while. When it came back, you were still on the floor. The guard was gone. Aerion was still standing over you, leaning on his stick, watching you with an expression that was almost curious. As if your pain were an experiment he had conducted and he was evaluating the results.
"The maester will come to set the ankle," he said. "You will tell him you fell down the stairs. You will not mention the guard. You will not mention this conversation. You will not mention your brother or your disobedience. You will smile, and you will thank me for my concern, and you will continue to perform your duties. Is that understood?"
You could not speak. The pain was too much. Your leg was a column of fire, and every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of agony through your body. But you managed to nod, a tiny, jerky motion of your head, and that seemed to satisfy him.
"Good," he said. "I am glad we understand each other."
He limped to the door, his stick thumping against the stone with every step. He did not look back at you as he left. He did not offer you a hand to help you up. He simply opened the door and disappeared into the corridor, and you were alone.
Dunk had promised. Dunk had sworn on your mother's grave, on everything he was. And Dunk had never broken a promise to you. Not once. Not ever.
You held onto that ember as the darkness closed in. You held onto it as the pain in your ankle pulsed and throbbed and dragged you toward unconsciousness. You held onto it as the door opened and the maester's voice exclaimed in shock and you heard yourself saying, over and over, the lie Aerion had given you. Fell down the stairs. Fell down the stairs. Fell down the stairs.
And when the maester's hands began to work on your ankle, when the world went white with pain and then mercifully black with oblivion, you held onto it still.
pairings — Icky Gynecologist! Nanami x Naive Fem! Reader.
꒰ྀི১ ໒꒱ིྀ synopsis — you book your very first gyno appointment with nanami. you didn’t realize then that you would leave a completely different person and craving for more.
wc: 3.2k
warnings/tags: dead dove do not eat, dark content. NSFW. MDNI 18+. younger sheltered virgin fem! reader (early twenties), gross and pervy older! nanami (mid to late forties), medical au, medical malpractice, taking advantage, gaslighting, dubcon and noncon themes, fingering, power imbalance, panty stealing, forced orgasm, gaslighting, age-gap, degradation, praise, breeding kink, corruption kink, coercion, size difference, humiliation, shame, manipulation. also please note that if you do not like any of these tags, you do not have to read. please feel free to block me and go about your day. if you go out of your way to leave hate i will literally ignore or block your ass, don’t look stupid. not proofread.
you were always so confused about your body. growing up without an older sister, aunt, or mother figure left you with no one to guide you through the depths of your own body. you had no one to ask what did things mean, you were mostly clueless to women’s health. you pieced what you could together through basic info on the internet. googling symptoms, even spiraling in wikipedia hell, yet you still felt deeply embarrassed and ignorant.
after months of vague pelvic discomfort and irregular periods you decided to bite the bullet and book an appointment with your local gynecologist, especially after your best friend vaguely mentioned that “you should get checked out.” you chose dr. nanami because of his reviews, while there were only a few, they were all positive. they said he was “thorough” and “patient with anxious first-timers and younger patients.” everything you needed, yet as you sat in the waiting room with sterile white lights shining over you, you fidgeted. blushed while filling out the initial intake form. when the reception finally called you back, you knew that there was no turning back now. you sat on the hard plastic chair, already shy, clutching your purse, thighs pressed together so tight under your sundress it was like your unconsciously body is already refusing the exam before it even started. but when dr. nanami walked through the door, a small weight seemed to lift off your shoulders for a reason you couldn’t understand.
He greeted you with a warm, paternal smile that seemed to make you give a shy smile back. in that gentle, professional, doctor way that made patients relax “miss l/n.” mid-to-late-40’s, tall, deep voice, polished, impeccably dressed in a white overcoat over slacks and a white button down, and framed glasses. you didn’t notice the slight shift in his demeanor when he first saw you.
he knew the moment he laid eyes on you that he wanted to ruin you.
then the standard questions started. menstrual history, medical background, sexual activity (to which you admitted you had no past partners, only touched yourself occasionally, and even then it was only clumsy external rubbing). “it doesn’t really feel… good? Or maybe it does? I’m not sure what it’s supposed to feel like.” you admitted to him, because that was the truth, you could never bring yourself to finish or even get closer to that edge, everything just felt unsatisfactory but you just convinced yourself you were one of those people who maybe just didn’t find masturbation enjoyable? nanami listened with a perfect bedside demeanor, nodding empathetically that made you feel utterly seen “It’s quite common for young women without proper guidance to be uncertain about their own bodies. That’s why we’re here.”
but what he really thought? clumsy little thing doesn’t even know what an orgasm is. perfect.
he recommended a “full pelvic exam” for baseline health, emphasizing how important it is for someone your age with “limited experience.” you had to undress, pulling your dress off with shaky hands in the corner of the room, then your bra, then your panties, but nanami stayed in the room while you changed. his eyes locked onto the floor (or so you thought) from across the room, he claimed him staying in the room “saved time and reduced anxiety,” and poor old you believed every bit of it. the thin paper gown he gave felt harsh on your skin and made you feel utterly exposed, yet the warm aura that came from nanami made you believe that everything was going to be alright.
everything felt normal. he checked your vitals, the breast exam was swift, etc. he was thorough in ways you should’ve noticed if you weren’t so ignorant, lingering touches, the subtle bulge that slowly started to form in his slacks the longer his fingers were on you, him rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger. just once. barely noticeable, and over as soon as it started but causing a small whimper past your lips that make his cock twitch in his slacks while explaining everything in textbook language you barely understood.
sensitive, bet she’d cry so pretty with my mouth on them while begging for more. you, so stupid, so naive, thought that maybe all doctors were this thorough.
stupid.
then the pelvic exam came.
so stupid.
he had you lay back on the stiff table, thighs pressed together as he changed his gloves. the latex snapping against his wrist sounded like a round being put in a chamber. you watched his back as he moved across the room grabbing the necessary equipment, you were actively avoiding the stirrups where your feet were supposed to go. but the moment he turned around and saw you there, shaking slightly, something shifted in him. most doctors would comfort you, take their time with you. but nanami? it fueled his disgusting brain even more. the look of you, so nervous and at his expense, he almost turned you over and fucked you raw on this very table. the sight of your thighs pressed together made his cock throb heavily against the front of his slacks. but externally? he just gave you the a small warm smile, the kind that made your shoulders relax despite your legs still being pressed tight.
“don’t worry, miss l/n, it’s alright. we’ll take it nice and slow. many young women find the stirrups intimidating at first. let’s get you comfortable, yeah?”
his voice was steady, professional in the way you believed everything he said. he rolled his stool right between your thighs. he then helped you position your feet in the stirrups himself, one hand lingering on your calf while the other stayed on your inner thigh for a moment too long “for support.”
bullshit.
the paper gown crinkled loudly as he lifted the hem up to your waist, exposing you completely under the harsh and sterile white light. the cool air hit your bare skin making you shiver, or maybe it was the way nanami gazed at your cunt, like he had been undressing you with his eyes long before you were actually naked, you couldn’t tell from which. you stared at the tiles on the ceiling like they were the most interesting thing in the world, afraid if you looked down that all of this would become real.
“perfect. just scoot your hips a little closer to the edge… there you go. excellent.” he adjusted the overhead lamp, staring openly at your pussy while pretending to calibrate it. he used his gloved fingers to slowly inspect the external vulvar area with clinical precision. parting your folds gently with his index finger, noting positively on the color, the lack of lesions, and the “healthy appearance.” but his sick thoughts inside his mind were a complete devoid of what he said outwardly.
fuck, look at the pretty pink slit. barely touched, clenching around nothing. dripping already just from being looked at. this little thing walked right into my office like a gift. he thought. no fucking way i’m wearing latex for this, i want to feel how soaked this clueless cunt gets.
his cock was already half-hard in his slacks. he palmed himself once, slowly, while “reaching for the light.” but what really got you was the sound of latex, not being put in place, no, being taken off. he peeled off his gloves right in front of you, tucking them in his coat pocket. your eyes snapped from the ceiling to him, searching, yet instead he told you “for the internal portion i’m going to proceed without gloves. latex can dull the temperature and texture perception, and for a baseline exam on a younger with limited experience, direct contact can give us much more accurate information about elasticity, lubrication, any subtle tenderness, and overall vaginal health. it’s standard in thorough practices. is that all right with you?”
you nodded quickly, too quick, embarrassed to even have an opinion. afraid of being a bad patient. afraid of being a problem. “if that’s what’s best…”
so so stupid.
he kept one hand on your inner thighs “to steady you.” you didn’t even remember trying to close your legs again, he used his other hand to part you open. his fingers were warm compared to the latex you braced for. slightly rough. bare. no latex barrier. just the friction of skin on skin.
the sterile room smelled sharply of antiseptics, but something underneath it was muskier. the paper crinkled loudly as you shifted, the cold metal from the stirrups bitting into your heels.
one thick digit traced your slit just like earlier, but this time he collected your wetness, circling your clit in small slow motions. “how does this feel?” he asked, voice low and even, bordering clinical like he was checking your blood pressure. like this was normal.
“it-it feels kind of… strange. tingly i guess?” you whispered unsure, staring hard at the ceiling tiles while your face burned. “perfectly normal,” he murmured. so fucking clueless that she doesn’t know that she’s doesn’t know that she’s getting wet for her doctor. pathetic, greedy cunt. i could knock her up right here on this table—fill her up until she’s leaking my cum for weeks.
“you’ll feel some pressure now. try to relax your muscles… good. how does this feel?” he pushed one thick digit in slowly, then a second, curling, stroking your walls with precision while his thumb “accidentally” kept brushing your clit. the wet squelching noise filled the filled the room obscenely as he scissored you open. the stretch burned slightly but sent a confusing spark to your gut as he pumped slowly. his other hand stayed resting on your inner thigh, parting, rubbing small circles into them all while gently but firmly keep them apart.
“it… it feels weird. full? but i don’t know if it’s supposed to—“ he deepened the motion instantaneously, hitting the spot you didn’t have a name for that made your hips jerk. the spongy spot inside of you he rubbed with deliberate yet professional strokes caused a involuntary moan to slip past your lips. “excellent response. that’s normal. some discomfort mixed with sensation is expected.” he said calmly. “your pelvic floor is quite reactive. that’s a good sign.”
like he’d had done this before.
his hand that was resting on your thigh moved abruptly. under the exam table, away from your vision, though not entirely, his other hand palmed his thick obvious bulge that was straining against his slacks. he squeezed himself once through the fabric, stroking once, twice, while his finger continued to work you open.
monthly appointments from now on— i’ll have her bent over this table like my own personal cumdump every four weeks, pretending it’s “pelvic floor therapy.”
the sounds that were coming from your cunt were obscene. wet squelching, those very noises would keep nanami up for days straight feeding his sick fantasy while he jerked off under his desk between patients, in the shower, in bed.
you caught the motion from your peripheral — the rhythmic movement of his arm, the way his hips shifted slightly. your eyes flicked down for half a second. was that…? no? no. you’re just nervous. hallucinating. doctors don’t… you’re imaging it because you’re gross and anxious. don’t be stupid. you snapped your gaze back to the ceiling, heart hammering. the nerves of your first gyno visit is clearly making you hallucinate.
no one ever taught you about this kind of thing, so this must’ve been normal.
he felt you clench and smiled that paternal smile.
“excellent muscle tone. you’re doing very well.” he said. she saw my cock. looked away like a scared little rabbit. but she saw it. next time i’ll make her watch me stroke it while i finger-fuck her. he kept the rhythm steady—slow, deep, agonizingly so. curling his fingers every few thrust—while his thumb brushed your clit “to assess sensation.”
“how does this feel now?”
you whimpered. “it’s… a lot. i feel really weird. like something’s building.”
he added a third finger, stretching you wider unpredictably. “breathe through it. tell me if the pressure changes.” i could cum in my pants right now just from how she’s sucking my fingers in. bet she’s never had anything this thick inside of her. i own this pussy now. she’ll be booking monthly appointments thinking that this is what healthcare feels like. stupid slut.
your mind questioned what was happening while your body betrayed you — slick coating his bare hand and practically leaked down to his wrist. you didn’t understand what was happening, only that it felt complete overwhelming, the pressure became intense. your thighs shook in the stirrups, you bit your lip to supress those pathetic whimpers and moans. you didn’t understand the heat coiling low in your belly or why your hips kept wanting to move.
“dr. nanami… it feels… really intense. like my body is doing something on its own. can we… can we take a break. please? or maybe i can finish this another time? maybe i could reschedule an appointment for another day…”
he didn’t pull his fingers out. he just slowed them. kept them buried deep inside you and he looked at you with that warm, parental, understanding expression that made your feel like you were the one being ridiculous.
“i hear you. and it’s completely valid to feel overwhelmed—many-first-time patients do. but stopping now would leave the exam incomplete. your symptoms, the pelvic discomfort, irregular periods, the uncertainty about pleasure—point to possible pelvic floor issues or possible vaginismus. this could indicate something that we’d need to catch early on. if you reschedule, we’d likely have to repeat a lot of this, which might be even harder next time. we wouldn’t want that, right? many patients regret not finishing. you’re already being so brave. just a little longer and we’ll have everything we need. you don’t want to be one do this girls who avoid care because of nerves, do you?”
you hesitated, tears forming in your eyes. “breathe. you’re safe. this is what a proper exam feels like. your body is reacting this way because it had never properly been examined before. trust the process.” he added, his voice dropping slightly.
you felt guilty. stupid. like you were wasting his time and being difficult to a man who was only trying to do his job.
you cracked, self-deprecating “i-i’m so sorry. you’re so right… i don’t want to be a problem, i’m just being silly. i can do it. really. please just keep going. i trust you. i’m sorry for interrupting…” you even spread your thighs a little wider in apology, mortified at yourself.
his smile softened. “no need to apologize. you’re communicating perfectly. let’s finish strong.” you didn’t even notice while you were apologizing he took the opportunity to palm himself again—full, slow squeeze of his cock through his slacks, thumb brushing at the angry head where a wet spot was starting to form. you didn’t look this time. you kept your eyes glued to the ceiling like it could save you. he rewarded you by speeding up, his mask slipping just a fraction. “Good girl. such a cooperative patient. how does this feel now?”
but you didn’t respond this time, you couldn’t, not properly at least. your breath hitched. your head was all fuzzy, tears blurring your vision. your walls fluttering, then clamping down hard around his bare fingers like your pussy was trying to both push him out and pull him back in at the same damn time. a sudden, intense, and overwhelming wave crashed through you—your whole body jerked, face twisted, back arching off the table. slick gushed around his hand and the table beneath you. you came with a broken little sound you’ve never heard yourself make before.
he kept fucking you through it, repeatedly hitting your g-spot, drawing it out and milking it, pupils dilated far beyond reasoning. your first real orgasm—you whimpered, ashamed. he prolonged it while palming himself to the edge but not finishing, saving it for a later fantasy.
when it finally subsided you were panting, confused, mortified. “i think… i had an accident? or… what was that?” he slowly removed his fingers, letting them linger on your swollen clit for just a moment too long. showing you, holding them up to the sterile light, then wiping it on your inner thigh with clinical detachment.
“no accident at all. that was an involuntary release—completely normal during internal stimulation, especially for you first time experiencing it. it tells us that your nerves are responding appropriately. nothing to feel ashamed about miss l/n.” he deepened his fingers one more time, claiming to “check your cervix” all while your body was still twitching, wanting to push you over the edge. he helped you sit up, praised how well you did, let you pull down your gown. the rest of the appointment passed in a haze.
“everything looks healthy. no abnormalities. however, given your full history and the fact that this did your first full exam, i’d like to see you back in four to six weeks for a follow up. we can recheck your cycle patterns and go over any self-monitoring techniques if you’d like.” he handed you his business card with his direct line scribbled on the back. “call the office to schedule. or you can reach me directly if anything comes up before then. please, don’t hesitate.”
you got dressed once again, slipped off your gown to put your sundress back on. you didn’t notice that your panties were gone, must’ve been the way way that your thigh were shaking or how your mind was still cloudy. you didn’t see just earlier when he slipped them inside his coat pocket. but as you thanked him and left the room he took the damp fabric and brought them to his nose, inhaling deep with a small smirk. i’ll wrap them around my cock tonight and jerk off to the memory of her gushing on my fingers. next visit i’m tasting her directly. he put them back in his pocket along with the facade he slipped back on.
you left on shaky legs, still wet, still throbbing, still telling yourself that this was normal.
later that night you tried to sleep. you couldn’t. every time you closed your eyes you felt his fingers, heard his deep voice.
how does this feel?
your hand slipped between your legs almost on autopilot without you even realizing. you started like you always did—clumsy circles on your clit—but it wasn’t enough. not after today. you slid two fingers inside yourself the way he had. tried to copy the curl, the upward press.
how does this feel?
you moved faster, chasing that same “tingly” feeling as you did earlier, the same pressure. shame flooded over you instantly.
no one ever taught me… this must be what he meant by reactive. i’m just following his instructions. he was helping me.
tears pricked your eyes even as you rolled your hips against your hand. you added a third finger, gasping at the stretch. though it didn’t feel as good as when he did it, but it was close enough to make you moan broken into your pillow. you whispered his words back to yourself.
how does this feel?
the guilt made the pleasure sharper, more intense. when it hit you again you had to bite your pillow to stay quiet. your body shook harder then it did on that exam table. you came again thinking of his calm face between your legs.
what the fuck is wrong with me? you thought. he was just doing his job. being through. and i’m here fingering myself to the memory like some gross pervert. he even said it was normal. i’m the one making it sexual. i’m the problem.
completely unaware that the real pervert had been that man in the white coat.
you curled up small, eyes burning. you felt dirty. ignorant. broken.
but you also knew that were already going to call in the morning and book that follow up. better yet? you would use his direct line.
his monthly toy.
a/n: this is my first fic on this account so y’all better go easy on me lmao. xoxo, ly loves you 💋! divider is by @cursed-carmine
pairings — Perverted Bestfriend! Nerdjo x Popular Naive! Fem Reader.
꒰ྀི১ synopsis — he’s your best friend, of course you guys are super close. he says it’s okay because it’s normal, all best friends do the things that you guys do!
wc: 2.3k
warnings/tags: NSFW. MDNI 18+. college au, heavy corruption kink. sweet popular naive fem! reader (she’s a bit airheaded) x secretly vile and perverted! nerdjo (he’s actually a little sick in the head). dumbification, dollification, praise & degradation, somnophillia, dacryphillia, dubcon and noncon themes, coercion, power imbalance, emotional dependency, lots of masturbation on gojo’s end, facefucking, blowjob, spit, possessiveness, slight breeding kink, blackmailing, videotaping, heavy manipulation, gaslighting. satoru is lowkey sweet then cruel, doting then mean asf. no official relationship — just psychological ownership.
you were the girl everyone loved. the campus sweetheart. that’s what they called you. the girl who smiled at everyone, brought cookies to study groups, and somehow aced (or appeared to ace) all of her work because of her best friend was always there to “help.” you were sunshine in human form—soft cardigans, pleated skirts that fluttered when you walked, glossy lips that always curved in that gentle and slightly vacant smile. everyone loved you. but gojo? he owned you.
you met him in freshmen chem. he was the towering lanky nerd who wore oversized hoodies and framed glasses that always seemed to slide down his nose. always scribbling notes at an impossible speed while you stared at the periodic table like it was written in hieroglyphics. he offered to tutor you after you bombed the first quiz. you said yes because he was nice. safe. funny in that dry sarcastic way that made you giggle behind your hand. he was always polite, always offering to explain concepts in that patient, soft voice “you’re too pretty to stress like this,” he said once, pushing up his glasses with a shy smile. you thought it was endearing. he was the smartest person you knew yet he never made you feel stupid for needing help.
he became your best friend almost overnight. how could he not?
he helped you study all the time—by which he meant he did most of the work while you sat prettily in his dorm, legs tucked under one of the soft little skirts he brought you.
“it makes you feel empowered, right? like you own the room,” he’d coo with a boyish grin, eyes hidden behind those lenses as he watched how it’d ride up your thighs. you’d twirl for him in his dorm, oblivious to the way his eyes devoured the way the hem barely covered your ass. “wear this for me? i picked it out thinking of you.” you’d send him dozens of photos for “feedback”—outfits pics for every new piece he ordered with his family’s black card which you accepted with open arms, you loved that he looked out for you always. pleated skirts that barely covered anything when you bent over, expensive little dresses.
he saved every single one in a locked album on his phone named “my pretty girl.” he’d scroll through them, zooming in on the way fabric clung to your tits, the innocent little peace signs you made. he jerked off to them under his desk late at night, biting his sleeve so his roommate wouldn’t hear him, cumming all over the thesis he was supposed to be writing for you.
you never noticed how his breathing hitched during your late-night phone calls.
“—and he ghosted me, toru. i thought he really liked me.”
satoru leaned back in his gaming chair, one hand lazily stroking his thick cock under the desk while the other held the phone up to his ear. “shh, sweetheart. he didn’t deserve you. none of them do. you’re way too good for those losers.” satoru’s responses always were perfect — soft, reassuring, steady, comforting, all while his fist pumped faster at the sound of your hiccups. thumbing the head when you let out one particular pathetic, broken sob. fuck, the way you cried—so delicate, so broken. he imagined those same tears streaming down your face as you gagged on his cock, mascara running down those puffy cheeks, lips stretched wide and swollen. he came hard when you whimpered “i just really want someone who really sees me,” painting his fist while murmuring “i see you. you’re safe with me. i’ve got you,” whispering sweet nothings to you until you calmed down.
you never suspected a thing.
he loved keeping you dependent on him. there were times when you tried to study alone sometimes or attend a professor’s office hours — determined to be better. satoru would lean over your shoulder, voice honey-sweet and condescending “why bother with that when i can just do it for you? you’re too pretty to fry the brain on this.” he’d gently take the text book from your hands, the way words sounded like praise, but they carved away at your confidence bit by bit. murmuring “such a dumb little thing, aren’t you? it’s okay that you’re not as smart as me. that’s why we’re perfect together. i’ll always take care of you.”
the degradation always came wrapped in sugar. it made your cheeks burn and your pussy clench in confused shame.
or other times he’d just simply pat your head, then finish your entire assignment while you watched cartoons on his laptop “—aw, baby. look at you trying so hard. it’s cute, really. but we both know you aren’t built for this kind of stuff. that’s why you have me… see? no one understand you like i do. no one ever will.” you’d just mumble a little “i know, toru,” while absently staring at the screen, biting on the cap of a pen.
but the words sank in deep. you started believing it. why fight when satoru made everything so easy? he was so smart, so patient, so there.
sleepovers became routine, especially long nights cramming (him cramming, you napping on his pillow). “best friends can share a bed, silly. it’s not weird,” he’d laugh, spooning you innocently from behind, pulling you against his chest in nothing but one of his oversized shirts. no bra. you were too trusting, too naive to question it, you loved your best friend. he’d wait till your breathing evened out into deep sleep, then slip out of bed.
one night he couldn’t hold back. you were out cold, lips parted, head hanging off the edge of the mattress just slightly. satoru stood over you, cock in hand, heavy and leaking in his fist, stroking lazily at first just inches away from your sleeping face. the thin shirt had ridden up; your tits look so soft, nipples faintly visible through the fabric. your mouth looked so warm and inviting. the power was intoxicating — you, the untouchable campus sweetheart, completely vulnerable under him.
“just a little more…” he whispered to himself, hips jerking. he leaned in closer, the angry red head of his cock hovering inches from your lips. precum beaded at the tip and leaked onto the pillow beside your cheek. what if you woke up right now? the thought made his balls tighten. he jerked faster, imagining sliding between those plush lips, fucking your throat while you blinked up at him in confused, teary panic. he came hard—thick ropes painting the pillowcase right next to your face, some landing on your cheek. you stirred slightly but didn’t wake. in the morning you woke up and felt something sticky, assuming it’s lotion or something. you just yawned and chirped a “good morning, toru!” with a smile, completely oblivious. he watched with dark, satisfied eyes as you rubbed it in absentmindedly but then he just ruffled your hair and called you his favorite dummy.
he saved a short shaky, video from that night anyway. just the last few seconds of it when he came, zooming in to your painted face with the flash on while you were in deep slumber. insurance, he told himself, just in case. but he never used it. he was your best friend, after all.
the corruption deepened slowly, like honeyed poison.
he’d sabotage all your dates, though it was subtle. any guy who got too close suddenly seemed wrong. a few well-placed rumors, a “concerned” conversation where’d he casually mention the guy had been talking shit about you behind your back or only wanted to fuck you and nothing else. you’d cancel, crawl into his lap while he played video games. ass pressed right up against his constant hard-on. “you’re too good for them,” he’d murmur into your neck, hands on your hips, grinding up just enough to make you squirm. “stay with me instead. all friends sit like this.”
you’d blush and trying to focus on the game screen, babbling about any and everything else. too shy acknowledge the thick length throbbing under you. he loved how polite you were — too sweet to call him out, too airheaded to connect the dots.
you trusted him completely. he was your bestfriend. the smartest person you know.
he was doting and cruel at the same time. sweet kisses on your forehead when you brought him coffee. mean little degradations slipped in like affection: “my dumb little doll. what would you do without me?” followed by immediately by, “it’s okay, princess. i love how you need me.”
the breaking point came after another ruined date.
you showed up at his dorm in tears again, wearing the little baby pink dress he brought you last week. satoru pulled you inside, and sat you on his bed.
“toru… maybe i’m just not meant for anyone,” you whispered, voice small.
he cupped your face, thumb brushing your lower lip, “poor little thing. they always break your heart, don’t they? because they don’t know how to handle someone as sweet as you. but you already have someone, sweetheart. me. why keep wasting your time?”
you sniffled, nodding “you’re the only one who gets me, toru.” his cock twitched hard in his sweatpants. “that’s right, baby. i’m the only one.”
the manipulation was so smooth you didn’t even register it. one moment he was comforting you, the next his hand was guiding yours to palm him through his sweats. “just help your friend out a little? i’ve been so good to you. don’t you wanna be good for me too?” the tone felt innocent enough, but the intent was far from that.
you hesitated, eyes wide and glassy “but… isn’t that… weird?”
“it’s okay,” he murmured, guiding you to your knees gently between his spread thighs. “all best friends do stuff like this sometimes. it’s normal.” his voice was so reassuring, so logical. you were already his doll—pliant, airheaded, desperate for his approval.
you nodded shyly, hands trembling as you pulled down his sweats. his cock sprang free, long and thick, veins pulsing, head flushed angry red and already leaking. your eyes widened. “satoru… it’s so big…”
“shh, pretty girl. just the tip. just for a second. i just need to feel that sweet mouth. open up, baby. let me in.” he threaded his fingers through your hair, not forcing—yet—but guiding.
you obeyed because it’s satoru. because he’s safe. because he always took care of you.
you wrapped your lips around the head, sucking softly, tongue swirling like you were trying to be good. the taste was salty, musky. satoru groaned low, hips twitching. “fuck, look at you. such a good little cocksucker already. my perfect dumb doll.”
you whimpered around his dick, brows furrowing just slightly, the praise making you wet despite the confusion. he pushed deeper. “just a little more baby. you can take it.” tears pricked your eyes as he hit the back of your throat. you gagged, drool down your chin, but he held you there even as you sputtered. “that’s it. cry harder for me. you look so fucking pretty when you cry. choking on your best friend’s cock like you were made for it.”
the gentle best friend facade had cracked. he started thrusting—shallow at first, then deeper, fucking your face with wet, obscene sounds. “been dreaming about this pretty little mouth for months. every time you sobbed on the phone, i jerked off thinking about ruining it.” his voice was darker now, meaner “all those losers never deserved this. you’re mine, you know that? always been. no one gets to have you. my little fuckdoll. now say it with your mouth full.”
you couldn’t of course—just garbled moans and choked sobs as he used your throat. mascara ran streaks down your cheeks. he loved it, the power hit him like a fucking drug. loved how your naive little brain tried to process what was happening while your body submitted so sweetly. he pulled out just long enough to let you breath for a moment, slapping his heavy cock against your tongue, then drove it back in, balls deep, nose pressed to his pelvis and the snow white hair scratched you slightly.
when he finally came down your throat, it was with a broken groan, flooding your throat until you were coughing and sputtering, and even then he held you there until you swallowed every drop, coughing and gasping as he pulled out. strings of spit connected from your swollen lips to his softening cock.
you sat the on the floor for a moment, thighs pressed together, mind hazy and body aching with confusing heat. he was right. he always took care of you. why fight it? he pulled you up gently afterwards, adjusted his glasses, cleaned your face with a warm cloth, like the caring friend he pretended to be.
“good girl,” he praised softly, kissing your forehead gently, almost shy. “see? that wasn’t so bad, was it? best friends help each other.” then he turned back to his game, pulling you onto his lap like always, voice soft again, like nothing happened. like this was what all friends did. his cock still twitching against your soaked panties under that little dress, cunt neglected.
you sat there dazed, thighs trembling, cum still warm in your belly, wondering why your body felt both so violated and needed?
he never officially asked you out. he didn’t need to. you were already his—corrupted, dependent, sitting pretty in his lap while he played video games, whispering filthy promises about breeding his perfect little doll one day soon.
deep down satoru knew the truth: you’d given him the chance the moment you let him in. every study session, every late-night call, every skirt he dressed you in, every time you ignored his cock pressing against you — you were already his. he didn’t need a label. he didn’t need you to say “boyfriend.”
he owned you psychologically, piece by piece. and he’d keep ruining you sweetly, cruelly, until there was nothing left of the campus sweetheart except the pretty, vacant, dependent you who sat obediently in his lap.
why waste your time on anyone else when your best friend had been right there all along?
a/n: sometimes i get a lil tired of reading the nerdjo fics where he’s all shy and subby and shit knowing damn well that this mf would be freaky asf, so i decided to write something nasty for y’all, i hope y’all like it! xoxo, ly loves you 💋! divider by @/cursed-carmine
ೀ ⋆.˚ WHY HAVE ONE WHEN THERES TWO ? t. fushiguro + k. shiu
pairings — Grimy Stepdad! Toji x Bratty Fem! Reader x Stepdad’s Bestfriend! Shiu
synopsis — toji is your stepdad and your mother is cheating on him heavily, so you made it your mission to show him what real attention felt like, even if that meant fucking shiu along the way.
wc: 2.8k
warnings/tags: MDNI, NSFW 18+. stepcest, daddy kink, taboo, age gap (toji and shiu late 40’s, reader 22). exhibitionism, voyeurism, brat taming, power imbalance, threesomes, manipulation, teasing, objectification, jealousy, praise & heavy degradation, cuckolding elements (but reverse), infidelity, panty stealing/sniffing, pet names (kid, daddy, slut, good girl, etc.), hidden cameras, choking, p in v, size kink, m!masturabation, sharing, shame play, humiliation, possessiveness, spit roasting, dubcon themes, psychological ownership, spit, creampie, cum eating, throat fucking, aftercare with twisted tenderness. toji is the outwardly gruff but reluctant “moral” stepdad who’s secretly vile and depraved, shiu is casually complicit and just as fucked up.
you loved coming home from break.
winter break, summer break, easter—didn’t matter. the second your mother’s house came into view, that familiar heat pooled low in your belly. not because of her. never because of her. it was because of him. toji fushiguro. your stepdad.
the house always smelled the same—faint cigarette smoke, expensive cologne, and the stale resentment your mother left behind like perfume. she was gone again, like always. another “girls trip.” another week of radio silence while she fucked whoever could pay for her drinks and pretend she wasn’t a married woman while toji sat in the living room of their shared home nursing a beer.
you met him two years ago when you were twenty right after your sophomore year of college. your mother had dragged him home like a trophy after two months of whirlwind dating, flashing the ring like it meant something. toji fushiguro. tall, broad, scarred, thick arms with a lazy smirk and eyes that looked like they’ve seen every sin the world had to offer. he’d shaken your hand that first night, called you “kid” in that low, rough voice, calloused palm swallowing yours, and something shifted in his gaze when you smiled up at him—soft, curious, already a little too interested.
you thought it was politeness. surprise. maybe even a hint of moral hesitation.
you had no idea it was that exact moment he’d make a terrible mistake marrying her… and the exact moment his mind started rotting with thoughts of you.
he married her for the quiet life, he claimed once. a stable home after years of underground work. he was the grimy enforcer type who cleaned up nicely in public but still carried the smell of cigarettes and motor oil. she had money from previous husbands, the house, the lifestyle, and a pretty face. but the way she spoke to him, the constant arguments, the cheating, the way she treated him like he was disposable… it made your stomach twist. it reminded you of the reason you fled to college hours away the second you turned eighteen. to you, she was just the woman who gave birth and checked out.
you never understood how she could treat him the way she did. he was too good for her shit. the more she treated him like an afterthought with a pulse—the more you decided that he deserved better. deserved you.
toji played the moral stepdad part perfectly at first. you ate it up. the tired, reluctant, decent man trapped in a bad marriage who frowned when you flirted too obviously. at first it was little things. lingering hugs when you came home. sitting on his lap during movie nights while she was upstairs on her phone because “there was no more space on the couch.” he was the kind of man who cleared his throat and looked away when you “accidentally” brushed against him wearing nothing but lace panties and an oversized tee that barely covered your ass.
“kid,” he’d grunt, voice rough like gravel, eyes fixed on the fridge instead of your body. “go put some clothes on. it’s three in the morning.”
you’d just smile sweetly, stepping closer until your tits brushed his arm while reaching for water. “oops. sorry, daddy. didn’t see you there!”
or other times you’d whisper to him, lips brushing his ear. “i don’t understand why you stick around. she treats you like shit anyways.” toji stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight, looking ever bit of the man wrestling with morality. “watch your mouth, kid. she’s still your mother.”
he never reacted the way you wanted. never grabbed you. never pinned you to the counter and fucked the brat out of you like you fantasized. he’d just deadpan, sip his beer, and mutter something about not calling him that and “respecting boundaries.” it drove you insane and it only made you push harder. made you bolder.
you loved the game. tight little outfits around the house. “accidental” lap sits while shiu—his bestfriend—was over for cards. whispering filthy things in his ear when no one was looking: “bet she doesn’t even suck your cock, does she? i would. i’d swallow every drop like a good girl.” toji would just stare at you with those flat unreadable eyes. muttering “behave. brat,” under his breath, pushing you off his lap with a rough hand on your hip.
it made you bratty. frustrated.
god, you wanted him to break.
so you fucked shiu.
his best friend—equally older, sharp eyed, cigarette perpetually between his lips. he was always around, watching you with that quiet, calm, knowing smirk. you knew he was hot. you thought seducing him would finally make toji snap with jealousy. you “dated” him in secret for a few weeks. or at least, that’s what you told yourself—stolen kisses in the hallways while toji was supposedly out. quick fucks in his apartment, letting him bend you over the hood of his car when he picked you up for “coffee”, in your childhood bedroom, fucking you raw as you bit your lip to stay quiet when toji had gone to “bed”. sometimes you’d corner him in the guest room, drop to your knees like the little brat you were. he smirked down at you, fingers threading through your hair.
“does your stepdad know his pretty girl is such a slut?” you moaned around his cock, thinking of toji the whole time.
you didn’t know toji orchestrated the entire thing, in fact, he encouraged it. every bit of it. had practically handed you over so his best friend could break you. he got off on that kind of thing. listening to you getting fucked like some desperate slut in your bedroom. he’d stroke himself slowly in the other room, from tip to base, listening to the sound of your gargled moans and sputtering, eyes dark with satisfaction as his best friend used your throat. “that’s it” he’d mutter under his breath. “break her in for me.”
toji had already broken since the day he laid eyes on you. he stayed for one reason only: access. easy, constant, deniable access to you. the sweet little thing who looked at him like he hung the fucking moon while her mother treated him like dirt. he played the part flawlessly. the gruff but decent stepdad who fixed things around the house, who asked about your classes, who told you “no boyfriend this time?” when you came home for break without your usual fling, pretending to be relieved for your sake. he stayed because every time she bitched at him, every time she ignored him in bed, he had fresh material waiting for him in the laundry room.
he was careful at first. moral on the surface. the first time he truly slipped was months after the wedding. you had come home for summer break and left your worn panties out in the laundry hamper near the washer. toji found them. the grimy, disgusting part of him he buried under layers of “i shouldn’t” took over. he pressed the damp fabric to his nose in the dim laundry room, inhaling your scent like a man starved while your mother slept two rooms away. licking the slick from the fabric like a depraved animal before stroking himself quiet and fast. “fuckin’ tease,” he’d growl under his breath, thick cock pulsing in his fist as he imagined ruining you.
he came hard in the seat of your panties, then carefully placed them back like nothing happened.
he was disgusting. and he loved it.
while you were away at university, he’d install a small pinhole camera in your bedroom—disguised as a smoke detector. every break—winter, summer, easter—he’d watch you at night. after a long day you’d peel of your clothes, fingers buried deep in your soaked cunt, moaning his name while you played with your tits. “toji—daddy—please…” he sat in his office, watching the feed on his phone, saving every clip. he’d stroke himself in time with your frantic little thrusts, cumming hard when you whispered how much better he would feel than your pathetic flings.
shiu had been in on it almost since the start. toji showed him the footage one night over whiskey. “look at her go,” he’d said casually, like he was showing sports highlights, phone screen glowing with you fingering your pussy, legs spread wide, whimpering “daddy, want your cock…” shiu exhaled smoke slow, eyes gleaming “lucky bastard,” voice low and dark, not a trace of humor. “look at how she spreads her legs thinking about you. pathetic little thing. you gonna break her soon or keep letting her play her games?” toji grunted, palming himself through his pants. “keep breaking her. i want her desperate when i finally take what’s mine.”
toji let you think you had the power. let you flirt, tease, “accidentally” grind on him. he acted the conflicted moral man—furrowed brow, heavy sighs, the occasional “we can’t, kid. i’m married to your mother.” all while his cock throbbed and filed away every whimper, every flash of skin, every bratty “daddy” you tossed at home when shiu was around.
because he wanted shiu to see. wanted to show off his pretty, desperate stepdaughter like a trophy.
it all came to a head one cold night. your mother was gone again. you had spent the evening teasing toji mercilessly—tiny shorts, bending over in front of him, whispering filthy promises. when he still wouldn’t react, you’d “stormed off” and found shiu in the living room. you dragged him upstairs, loud enough for toji to hear, determined to force a reaction.
shiu fucked you right on your childhood bed, rough and efficient, slapping your ass and calling you toji’s pretty little stepdaughter. you came hard, moaning “daddy” the whole time, thinking it would finally make toji jealous enough to claim you.
you didn’t know they planned this.
toji walked in while shiu was still buried deep inside you, face pressed into the mattress, ass up.
you startled, eyes wide with shock as your stepdad leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the same unimpressed expression on his face. except this time, his eyes were burning.
“keep going. don’t stop on my account. should’ve known you’d go running to my best friend when you didn’t get what you wanted, kid.” toji said calmly, stepping inside and closing the door. “been teasing me for two years, flirting like some shameless whore. thought fucking shiu should make me jealous?”
shiu chuckled darkly, still thrusting slow and deep, making you whimper. “she’s been a brat about it too. kept moaning your name while i fucked her.”
your mind reeled. “w-what… toji—?”
he moved closer, towering over you. one big hand gripped chin, forcing you to look up at him while shiu continued to use you’re cunt. “you really thought you had the upper hand, huh? all those little outfits, sitting on my lap, calling me daddy in front of him?” toji’s thumb brushed your lower lip. “i let you think that. made it more fun.”
he leaned down, voice dropping an octave. “i’ve been watching you. every night you spread these legs and finger this sloppy pussy thinking about me. got the camera feed right here.” he tapped his phone. “showed shiu how pretty you look creaming to your stepdad’s name. he agrees—you’re the best entertainment we’ve had in years.” shiu grunted in agreement, hips snapping harder. “lucky man. she’s so fucking tight. been dreaming of sharing this hole with you.”
the realization hit you like a ton of bricks. all this time… he’d been in control. the moral stepdad act, the deadpan reactions, letting you fuck his friend—it had all been apart of his game. you were never the predator. you were the prey they had been toying with.
tears pricked your eyes even as pleasure built again. brows furrowed, lips pulling into a bratty sneer even as you cunt clenched traitorously. “you… you’re sick—“
“yeah,” toji said simply, unzipping his pants. his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, veined, already leaking. far bigger than you had imagined. “but you’re still gonna take both of us, aren’t you? because you’ve been begging for it.”
you hated how much he was right. the humiliation made you ache.
they used you together.
shiu stayed in your pussy while toji fed you his cock, stretching your throat until your nose pressed against his pelvis. they talked over you like you weren’t even there, voices casual and dark.
“pass her over when you’re done,” toji said, voice steady even as he fucked your face. “i want to feel how sloppy you left her.”
shiu chuckled breathlessly. “she’s been sloppy since the moment she started flashing her panties at you. little exhibitionist whore showing off for you every time i came over.”
“i let her because i knew you’d want a taste,” toji grunted. hips snapping, balls slapping your chin as spit started to soak the bedding beneath you. “been dreaming of breeding this tight cunt since the day i met her. fill you up until you’re swollen with my kid. bet her mother would love that.” he held your head there still for a moment as you began to gag around his length. “you’d look so good ruined, kid. tits leaking, belly round, still calling me daddy while i fuck another load into you.”
shiu laughed low, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he pounded you from behind. “she’s clenching so hard hearing that. pathetic. all that teasing and she’s just a needy little slut for her stepdad and his best friend.”
your mind fractured under the overwhelming pressure. pleasure, shame, betrayal, and overwhelming need mixed until you were sobbing sobbing around toji’s cock, cumming hard on shiu’s dick.
they switched positions—toji finally claiming your pussy while shiu used your mouth. toji fucked you like he owned you, which he did. deep, punishing strokes that hit every spot, pressing down on your lower belly so you could feel him rearranging your insides, pushing shiu’s cum from earlier back inside of you with his cock.
“fuck—been waiting two years to ruin this hole,” he growled, eyes locked on where your pussy was stretched so obscenely around him. “so much tighter than your mother’s. this cunt was made for me.” you sobbed around shiu’s cock, mascara running, body trembling from overstimulation. the powerlessness was overwhelming—humiliatingly and shamefully intoxicating. they had reduced you to nothing but a toy between them, and some broken part of you loved it.
toji’s pace grew brutal. “gonna fill you up, kid. knock you up so everyone knows who this pussy belongs to. say it—tell daddy who you belong to.”
you could only moan brokenly, but they didn’t need words. your body gave them everything. when they finally pulled out, you were a wrecked, cum-filled mess—leaking from both holes, thighs shaking, mind blissed out and empty.
toji gripped your hair, pulling you off the bed and onto your knees on the floor. both men stood over you, cocks still half-hard.
“clean us up, princess.”
you obeyed without thinking, broken, mouth open, tongue lolling out like a good little doll as you licked them clean—first toji’s cock, tasting yourself and his cum, then shiu’s. giving them both small kitten licks, cleaning the mess you made like a good girl. they stroked your hair almost gently, murmuring praises that made you nuzzle into their touch and little degradations that made your leaking hole clench around nothing.
“such a well trained princess,”
“good girl… such a perfect cumdump.”
“swallow every drop. that’s it. look at you, all fucked out and obedient. knew you’d break so pretty, baby.”
when you finished, licking every inch until they were spotless, shiny and spent, toji pulled you into his lap on the bed. shiu lounged beside you, flicking open his zippo, lighting a cigarette in the dim lit room. “she’s even better in person than she is on camera,” he muttered.
toji’s hand rested possessively on you hip, thumb circling the bruise he left. “told you. she’s been mine the whole time. you just got to break her in first.”
“you’re ours now, kid, understood?” he murmured against your temple, voice deceptively soft. “no more games. no more pretending. you come home for break? this is what happens. every single time. but dont worry… daddy’s gonna take real good care of you from now on.”
shiu smirked, exhaling smoke. “both of us will.”
you whimpered as you nodded weakly, too drained and owned to argue. cum still drying on your tongue, mind blissfully blank. deep down, the twisted part of you that started this knew the truth: you never wanted the power anyways. not really.
toji let you play your games because it amused him. because it made claiming you all the sweeter. why have one when there’s two? because two filthy older men could ruin you so much more thoroughly.
and you’d coming home for every single break from now on.
toji had pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to your temple, voice low. “welcome home, kid.”
a/n: i hoped you guys liked enjoyed the filth, it took way longer than expected because i gave up so many times. i always imagine shiu and toji double teaming someone so i thought why not write something nasty. part two of pervy nerdjo is on the way! xoxo, ly loves youuuuu 💋! dividers by @/cursed-carmine
↦ cw : dddne , fauxcest , forced intox , dubcon , bottle fucking , icky mean Ben , non consensual photo taking at the end , small mention of blackmail at the end , minors do not interact.
↦ okay what da flip !! Enjoy !!
You don’t know how many drinks Ben had shoved down your throat tonight. You’re perched on his lap in a nightgown, you’d planned to sleep, but he practically forced you onto his lap. He brought another shot up to your lips of god knows what, but you refused to take it.
“E- enough daddy… please.” You were starting to really feel the alcohol in your system, feeling hot and dizzy. Ben’s face hardens, his other hand grips your hair tightly and yanks your head back.
“Better fucking open those lips doll, this shit's expensive, you’d better be grateful.” Tears well in your eyes, with no other options, you part your lips, and he pours whatever drink down your throat. It burns and you nearly gag at the taste of it.
You start to feel really dizzy, and everything starts to get hazy, underneath you can feel Ben’s cock start to harden.
“N- no moreee” Your speech starts to slur a bit, and all you get from Ben is a hard slap to the face. It stings, and your left ear is ringing. Tears fall down your cheeks. He brings the whole bottle to your lips and shoves the neck past your lips and tilts it back, the liquid burns, and you’re trying your hardest not to choke.
"Yeah, that’s a good bitch, taking what Daddy's giving ya." Liquid falls from your lips onto your nightgown, it’s a mess of alcohol everywhere, but Ben doesn’t seem to care about your discomfort. After a long couple of minutes he puts the bottle away, and you feel even more hazy and relaxed.
"Yeah, all fuzzy and floaty for Daddy? Look at ya baby.” He pulls your nightdress up and pulls your panties down to your knees, you’re so out of it you don’t even notice how he takes an empty bottle and starts to rub it up and down your slit. After a bit of doing that, he slips the bottle into your hole, and you let out a loud moan.
“Fuck, baby, those moans would put a pornstar to shame.” He’s fucking you with a fucking beer bottle right now, his other hand starts rubbing your sensitive clit. It’s all so overwhelming.
“Daddy, please, please, please!” His pace quickens and the pressure builds up in your tummy, you feel so filthy letting him use you like this, but you didn’t really care that much.
“Yeah you gonna cum from this? Being fucked like a cheap whore with a beer bottle? Maybe I’ll take a picture and send it to all your friends. What would they think if they saw their friend being used like this?” His dirty talk pushes you over the edge, you cum so hard. He lets you ride out your orgasm before pulling the bottle out and making you suck it, he makes sure to snap a picture for blackmail when you sober up tomorrow and try to kick him out of your life!!
Pairing: shy afab!reader × problematic dom!Johnny, ft. Simon
Reader Pet Names: bonnie, birdie
Content & Warnings: car sex, no seat belts, noncon, dubcon, coercion, intimidation, manipulation, humiliation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, begging, smut (fingering, cunnilingus, unprotected PinV, orgasm control, orgasm denial, squirting), bad BDSM etiquette, brating, subspace, cucking?
Word Count: 2.6k
There's a secret signal you give Johnny when you want him.
His libido far outpaces yours, the horndog, so he's made it clear that whenever, wherever he's game. Within reason though, you were a little shy and fucking in pub bathroom was not something you wanted to make a habit of. You had to clarify that the signal didn't necessarily mean, now-now-now, but let's say our goodbyes and leave.
So here you are, in the back of the car day dreaming. Simon was at the wheel and Johnny crowded next to him in the front. It must have been the bumpy countryside road that did it, a good hour of crunching gravel and rumbling from the engine that warmed you up. You snuck a hand through the crevice on the side of the vehicle, finding his hand. Without a word he adjusted in his seat to give you better access to it.
You played with his hand for a few minutes, comforted by his touch more than anything else, stroking up and down his palm and fingers, massaging and mapping all the scars and callouses. After a few minutes, that's when you started making the sign, drawn on the inside of his palm, over and over again until he pulled his hand away. You held in your disappointment, you didn't think he'd recoil from you. He’s never done that before.
Five kilometers down the road, he broke his steadfast stoicism. “Pull over a beat, Si.”
“Dont wanna be late.”
“It'll be quick, don't even have to put it in park,” the Scot sang.
When Simon pulled over, you didn't raise an eyebrow when Johnny stepped out…until he went for the rear door handle and shoved himself inside. You raised your eyebrow then, “Johnny?”
“Drive, Si”
Simon didn't know or really care what Johnny was up to, and he let off the brake rolling back onto the road. He just wanted to arrive at their destination and stretch his legs, on time.
Johnny descended upon you like a landslide. He crammed you back against the door, seatbelt digging into your neck. His lips slotted over yours, stealing your breath and licking into your mouth. Teeth clacking and tongue twisting, he ate away at you. Your head spun and you tried to counter him, and failed. The seatbelt restricted your movements, you were buried alive under the mass of him. A moan bubbled up in your throat but you sealed your lips shut, cutting off his access. You tried again, pushing back on his thick shoulders.
“—Johnny, I didn't…” you pleaded after unsuctioning his mouth from yours.
But he ignored your protest—silenced them really—by pulling your legs apart under your dress and running his fingers through your damp folds, and easing in a finger. “Needed me bad, yeah bon?” His breath curled against your ear, voice thick with lust.
“Really Soap?” Simon interjected.
Johnny began to move torturously in and out, and you tensed around him, trying to push your thighs together. Your brows furrowed and you bit your lip after it fell open in a silent moan. “Not like this,” you hissed and shook your head at him.
Johnny tracked your eyes as they flicked to the driver’s seat and back, he caught your meaning. A devilish smirk spread across his face, “Oh, big fella’s not paying attention, eyes are on the road right.”
Simon offered no response, pretending nothing was going on in his backseat.
It didn't make you feel any better though. There was no privacy here. Just because he wasn't looking, didn’t mean he couldn’t hear, or smell, or feel movement. If he checked his mirrors, he'd see more than enough—more than you wanted. You couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Simon was watching, even though you were right behind him and under Johnny.
You captured Johnny’s attention with soft palms on his face, looking like a scared animal searching the eyes of your apex predator. They were overblown, bright blue overshadowed by his appetite. Bargaining with him couldn't sway him, and you tried.
“There’s not gonnae be ‘nough time after we get there, bon. Gotta have you now.” Slipping in another finger, beckoning all your reservations to melt like ice in the summer sun. His fingers had the power of persuasion. Your body betrayed your will, sucking him deeper. A stifled moan climbed up your throat. You squeezed your eyes shut, like that could shut out the world.
It didn’t.
It only made everything worse. His fingers dragged along your walls, and the wet sounds grew louder now. Scratching stubble blistered the swell at your neckline, his mouth hot where your skin was bare. A cold rush followed the wet trail he licked up your throat. The seatbelt pinched and pressed into your waist. Anywhere his mouth wasn’t, the coarse texture of his other hand polished your skin until smooth. The motion-sickening swerve of the car dazed and disoriented you.
Johnny released your seatbelt and you squirmed in place, trying to shrink smaller and sink deeper into the seat and away from him. He retrieved his fingers from your dripping cunt and grabbed your thighs. “Just a taste first,” he said. It was a rough whisper meant only for your ears, but so loud in the small space.
His hands flew, firmly rearranging and folding your limbs like kama sutra origami until your back was against the door and legs pressed to your chest, feet in the air. He rolled your wet panties up and off, never to be found again, and latched onto your cunt. You inadvertently bucked your hips up into his mouth, grinding on his face while he lapped up your slick and sucked on your clit. Vibrations carried to the sensitive bud when he groaned into your pussy. There weren’t any noises to mask the slurping, no music was playing, the engine was drowned out by the obscenity. Your mind fought the pleasure he was causing, breathing gone shaky from holding it.
This was too vulnerable, too exposed, and your self consciousness held you back. The embarrassment burned hot under the weight of Simon's presence. Inescapable, his phantom pressure bore down on you.
Your hand dug into Johnny's mohawk. Gripping at the roots, you tried to pull him off, but it only encouraged him to dig deeper, tongue swirling inside your walls. “That's enough, Johnny,” you urged him to stop, this time with more seriousness and resolve.
He retaliated, biting your tender flesh, teeth sharp and jaw hard enough to make you yelp. Then he came up, nose, lips, and beard shiny with your arousal. The image made your heart kick hard against your ribs, stuttering, and you swore you could feel your own eyes dilate.
His tongue circled his lips, like a dog licking their chops and he rose up on his haunches. Canting forward, he encroached your space, sucking up all the air, and pinning you down with his hungry stare. There was no mistaking the message in his eyes: you weren’t prey, you were possession.
“Nah hurtin’ ya,” he rasped. His breath, humid with your scent, fanned across your face. “An ‘m nah gonnae. But ya gonnae quit with these games and do as you're told,” he growled.
Your stomach churned, anxiety and thrill blending into something molten and foul, something that should not exist at all. It was forbidden and writhing. Whatever happened after this would be nothing but brutal consequences. You didn’t know that he was a steaming bull, all muscle and fury, when you waved your red flag in his direction. It only tempted him to charge.
Johnny sat back, shifting to shove his pants down, thick thighs spread in the middle seat, and he pulled out his cock. He was the perfect size, big, but not too big. Uncut, thick and veiny, with a slight upwards curve and a thick patch of dark hair. You shuddered, the air in your lungs was stuck from the vacuum he left.
Maybe you could placate him with a handjob, you thought. But you silently salivated for something more.
You reached out for him, but Johnny intercepted. Grabbing your arm, he pulled you to him, wrapping an arm around your back. He was strong enough that even in these close quarters he easily scooped you up into his lap. Johnny reached up and tugged down on your neckline, threads popping and ripping, and freeing your braless tits to the humid air.
“Johnny! I just bought this,” you whined.
“Hush. I'll replace it—with one that has better access,” he mumbled. Stubble bit into your skin as he moved from your throat, flaying sensitive skin down to your chest. He licked and pulled each bud until they were hard and rubbed raw, then pushed up your skirt. You throbbed when he notched at your entrance, and he drew his tip through your wetness. “See…know what you need, bon. No need to be shy…We're all friends here.”
A shiver ran down your spine. Facing the back of the car, with only Johnny to fixate on, you almost forgot about Simon. Successfully seduced to the point of putting on a show for his best friend. You tensed back up again, just in time for Johnny to shove himself inside.
Tears rose up from the stretch and the car filled with the sounds of sex; the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the creak of the leather seats, Johnny's rough grunts. You braced your hands on his chest, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he used your body, driving up into your heat with animalistic force, pushing through the squeeze of your cunt.
Some hidden part of you didn’t just want this — it reveled in it, thrilled at how rough and mean he was to you, how he treated you like something to be taken rather than asked for. The rest of you scattered, shutting doors, silencing your own noises as if hiding from yourself. The air inside you pressurized, tight and scalding, until you could feel every pulse in your body screaming for release. In the end you broke, your hips rolling of their own accord, taking him in and moving against him like you’d been starved for it.
A small part of you didn’t just want this, it delighted in how rough and mean he was to you. Johnny had never treated you like something to be taken rather than asked for. The air inside you pressurized, tight and scalding, until you could feel every pulse in your body screaming for release. In the end you broke, your hips rolling of their own accord, but you still held back, because Simon was still there, seeing, sensing, and hearing.
“You wanna come bon?”
You nod, half drunk.
“Ask Simon if you can come.”
Like a record scratch, it ripped you back to your reality. “What? No!” you whined like a spoiled child.
“Can’t come til he gives permission.”
“No.”
His hand cracked down on your rear and winced in pain. He spanked you because you were being a stubborn brat about it now and his would be the firm hand that set you right. “Not gonnae make you come if ya don't want…” His hands gripped either side of your hips, so tight, fat spilled from between his spread fingers and he fucked you however he wanted, punishing you for defiance, controlling the pace, the rhythm, the angle. “Gettin off in your cunt either way.”
Your orgasms were like a lock, if you didn’t have the key, you had to be talented enough to pick it to release it. Johnny was a skilled locksmith when it came to you, but he cast aside all his delicate tools of the trade, picking up a sledge hammer instead.
Your eyes rolled to the back and lighting coursed through your body. Even when he avoided your sweet little spots on the inside of your walls, he was too big not to graze them by accident. He came inside, unashamed and loud, and pulled you right off, riding his high without you wrapped around him.
His dick was coated and glistening. It twitched while the tip kept oozing, leaking down to his balls. You wanted to clean him off—that was your job. A realization dawned on you and him from the way you looked at his dripping cock, you were losing yourself in this. You wanted Johnny to fuck you more than you needed air to breathe. You were so close, built up and crazed, tears threatening to spill.
“Johnny—”
“Wrong lad, bon.”
You whimpered.
“Shush. ‘M still hard. Got one more for you, can hop back on—” he grabbed your face, the motion jerks a single tear free, dropping onto his shirt “—if Simon says,” he finalized with a shit eating grin.
You sniffle. “Why can’t you just…” you pouted. “I don't want to with him here.”
His expression soured on you, temper flaring, and he corrected you again with a strike to your rear. That hurt the most and you could feel a handprint shaped heart beat on your ass.
“That’s impolite. Ghost’s been nice enough to let me fuck you in his car.” His fingers threatened to bruise where he gripped your waist and rubbed to soothe your backside. “Now apologize.”
You didn’t have to obey if you didn’t want to, but you surrendered when Johnny brought a hand up to draw lazy circles on your clit, making your tired legs wobble. He rubbed harder, making you stutter though the apology. “‘M sorry, Simon. Didn’t mean to be rude or hurt your feelings.” Johnny encouraged you to keep going with a nod. “And it won’t happen again. Please forgive me.”
You said all of this staring into Johnny’s unkind eyes, lip trembling and tears streaking down.
“It's always polite to ask when you're a guest,” Johnny teased. And so you begged his best mate for permission to be fucked by him. The question came out in whispers at first, until Johnny brought another hand down on your rear and you spoke up properly. “Please Simon, can I-”
“Yes. Go for it” weak and rough
Your skin erupted in goosebumps and waves of sensation rolled all the way down to your toes. A filthy deep moan rolled from your throat, the loudest you’d been this entire time. The light in your eyes changed, focused on rebuilding your ruined orgasm.
Johnny filled you back up with his aching cock, this time exactly how you needed. He watched you adjust your stance on the back seat to ride him more enthusiastically, breast bouncing in his face with every thrust. It was too tempting not to rub his face into them, gnawing at the flesh and burning them sensitive with his beard.
“Can feel you're close, bon. Know what to do?”
You licked your lips, you were drooling. Beads of sweat coated your body, exertion began to take its toll and your steady rhythm stumbled.
“Simon,” you whined for him. “Can I come for you?” you panted.
Johnny whispered praises in your ear and rubbed circles on your clit as a reward while you kept throwing yourself on him. Over your shoulder, he caught Simon white-knuckling the steering wheel. “One more time, bonnie thing. Make it count,” he cooed sweetly in your ear.
For the first time, you craned your neck to get Simon in your periphery. “Please, please, sir,” you stuttered. Johnny arched an eyebrow, you never called him sir like that. “Am I allowed to come, sir?”
He held his tongue, like he might refuse to answer at all, until his breath rattled out and broke it. “Christ—shut her up, Johnny.” The words hit harder than he meant, rough and laced with frustration.
“You're the only one that can give the order, sir.” Johnny was sweating, you were going to draw blood with your nails and choke his cock off if you got any closer.
Simon audibly sighed. The confirmation tore from him, more confession than consent, through gritted teeth. “Yeah, birdie. You can come.”
You slammed down one more time and came, crying and whining, legs shaking, dripping and spraying all over Johnny. He reached so far up inside you, it hit the off button on your brain. Lights out.
☆ ──꒰summary꒱ ❞ Aerion’s jealous, and wants you to remember that the only man that knows his way around your cunt is him.
contains! fingering, name calling, p in v.
requested content ❤︎
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢 ᰋ inside the cab of Aerion’s rusted old chevy, the dusty warmth of summer clung to your skin. he gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the distance. you sat beside him, hands folded in your lap, dress smoothed over your knees. “i saw you,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road like he couldn’t even bear to look at you. “i saw you with that caleb, leaning in all close.”
“he was telling me about the church bake sale, Aerion. he’s a friend.”
“a friend.” he mused, “you think i’m a damn fool, don’t you? you’re out here playing house with some boy who probably ain’t even grown enough to shave, acting all pious while you’re sneakin’ around.” he pulled over on the side of the red dust road.
“i’m not sneaking! i love my church and i love my friends.”
“no, you love the way he looks at you.” he reached over, arm on the back of your seat while his hand reached for the back of your neck. “you like playing the innocent little church mouse for him. but we both know what you are with me. you’re a whore. a dirty little whore playing dress up with your bible and your modest little dress.”
your breath hitched, a sob catching thickly in your throat, “how can you say that? i’ve never… i’ve only ever been with you.”
Aerion’s thumb pressed into the soft skin behind your ear, rubbing there in a way that made you shiver. “you keep that sweet, holy face for the congregation, but i know you crave this. you crave a man that knows how to treat you like a slut.” he shifted, his hand moving from your neck, sweeping across your chest and giving one of your tits a firm squeeze before diving beneath your skirt. you gasped, back arching as his hot palm hit the cotton of your panties. he didn’t hesitate, grinding his hand hard against your mound.
“does caleb make you leak through your drawers, sweetheart?” he whispered, “does he rub you like this?”
“Aerion… please, stop it…” you whined, though your hips tilted into his touch.
“you’re soakin’ sweet girl, look at that.” he hummed, moving his hand so that you could see the wet patch forming on your underwear. he hooked two fingers into the waistband of them, pulling the fabric tight against your clit. he began to rub in fast, punishing circles, the sensation sending jolts through you. “tell me, does that little church boy make you feel like this? does he make your pussy throb?”
“no,” you gasped, eyes screwed shut. “no, he doesn’t.”
“damn right he don’t. he ain’t got the balls for dealing with you anyways.” he pushed the fabric aside, his fingers diving deep into your wetness. you let out a moan, your head hitting the headrest.
the sound of you beneath his fingers was embarrassingly loud, a wet noise as he rubbed through your creamy pussy. “listen to that,” he chuckled, “you’re just a thirsty little bitch, ain’t ya?”
he pushed two fingers inside, hitting your soft walls with a force that made your head spin. he pumped rhythmically, the sound of flesh on flesh filling his truck.
“bet you think about me during all your sermons,” he teased, his voice a rough growl, “bet you sit in that pew thinkin’ about my cock stretching you out while the preacher talks about sin.”
“i… i dont,” you stuttered out. it was a lie. you thought about it constantly. you prayed the thoughts away.
Aerion withdrew his fingers, the wet strands of your arousal clinging to his skin until they pulled tight and thin and snapped. he wiped the rest on his thigh and grabbed your thighs, hauling you towards him so that you laid sideways on the bench seat, your back pressed against the warm leather.
he reached for his belt, the leather creaking as he hastily undid it and freed his thick, veiny cock. it sprang out, glistening already, the head an angry red. he shimmied your underwear off, positioning himself between your legs and exposing your wet pussy. he gave his cock a few pumps, “look at it, sweetheart, see what a real man looks like.”
he touched his tip on your cunt, giving your clit a few wet slaps with his cock head. he rubbed the precum around your pussy lips before sliding into your opening.
he filled you completely, his girth stretching your tight walls to their limit. the sound of the impact was a heavy, vulgar slap of skin on skin. “you like that?” he groaned, “you like feelin’ this big cock rip through that pure little pussy?” he sped up, holding your hips tight. “tell me you’re my whore. tell me you don’t want that church boy.” he breathed, a needy desperation in his eyes that he tried to disguise with the bruising pressure that he fucked you with.
“i’m your… i’m your whore…” you whimpered, fingers digging into the cracked leather upholstery. “i don’t want him! please, Aerion, don’t stop!”
your plea seemed to set the both of you off. Aerion buried himself as deep as he could while your pussy pulsed around him, and let out a long shaking breath as he erupted. he stayed buried inside you for a long moment, the only sound the heavy panting from both of you.
he pulled out slow, “now,” he started, leaning in to kiss you, tongue tasting of salt and cigarettes, “no more talking to other boys, ain’t that right?”
you nodded sheepishly while he helped you put your panties back on.
adam whines, he's not like other guys (positive), and he needs to be kissed to cum (idea from @st4rfckerz)
MDNI 18+
"oh my g-god."
truthfully, you never knew you could actually have this sort of affect on someone.
every other guy you've ever had sex with seemed so focused on having the sexiest sex ever.
everything felt so manufactured, curated, performative. unnaturally deep, lustful groans. cheesy one liners that were fine while you were being fucked, but caused you to instantly cringe over your coffee days later when it flashed banged your memory. calling you nicknames that have clearly never slipped from their lips until their cock was in you.
thankfully, adam is none of that.
everything about him is so earnest.
that first groan he let out when his tip sunk into you was pure and from the deepest pits of him. the hazy look that instantly took over his puppy brown eyes as soon as he started moving in tentative thrusts was so genuine. the sweet, practically adorable croak in his voice when you began riding him was honest.
the best part: he didn't try to cover up the crack in his voice afterwards. he sat there, soft fingertips digging into the fat of your hips, and watched you through that same hazy look that hadn't escaped his gaze once since you two started this.
"you feel so good," he tells you yet again. you don't know how many times he's actually said those same words tonight, but each time he utters them he seems to mean them even more, if even possible.
with how blissed out he is, you don't know how he hasn't came at this point.
your head tilts and you plant a hand at the center of adam's chest. he's smooth and a little soft there. the force of your bounces on his cock trigger the tiniest ripples in the flesh of his stomach. every so often, you see him tense and there's definition in his abdomen. paired with the strained look on his face, you catch on.
"adam," you coo, your voice strained from effort.
"yeah?" he asks, voice just as strained but definitely from a different kind of effort.
"are you close?"
his eyebrows knit together as if the mere mention of an orgasm puts more strain on him. his lips part to speak, but just then you put your weight into your hand and glide your cunt up and down over the tip of adam's cock.
the groan he lets out comes from the top of his throat—tight and punctuated. his teeth press into his bottom lip and he nods.
"you can cum," you tell him, your voice soft and gentle. "i want you to cum."
you're so close now that your nose knocks against adam's. instinctively, you lean back just a bit. and instinctively, you assume, adam chases you.
"i know," he clarifies.
"kiss me," he says. then, "kiss me, please," he begs.
your lips connect, adam's fingers press harder into your flesh and he gets strength in his hips, strong enough to thrust up into you.
your weight shifts and you topple over, collapsing onto adam's chest. one of his hands rush to the back of your head, locking your lips together.
he doesn't moan when he cums.
he doesn't whine or groan. he just kisses you harder. he breathes through his nose harder, each breath fanning out against your skin. he thrusts harder, punctuating each drive of his hips until he's warming your insides through the latex barrier between you both.
he doesn't pull away until his cock stops twitching inside of you. and even then, his hips remain in their elevated position. finally, his hips sink down, he pulls away from you with a pronounced smack!, and barely a second passes before he's asking you, "can i eat you out?"
