“Right here. Nobody’s gonna look for us right here, baby.” Dick hums. His fingers are tangled with yours as he pulls you into the latest public space he was hell-bent upon defiling. “It’s... perfect.”
“It’s a broom closet.” You correct.
Dick’s practically an exhibitionist, the way he constantly manages to sniff out a place to fuck wherever the two of you go. The bar bathroom? Did it. The gas station? Did it. The park? Did it. Bent over the bat computer? Did it twice. Dick knows you like it. Knows how wet it gets you. It’s written all over that shit-eating grin permanently plastered across his face, crinkling the edges of those pretty blue eyes that are peering down at you, alive with mischief.
“Exactly.” Dick draws you in close with a sharp tug, and you stumble flush against his chest with a small gasp. “Discreet. ‘Sides, it’s not my fault you look this pretty.”
“Oh, shut up, Grayson.” You huff, but his grin only pulls wider.
“No can-do, sweetheart.” He laughs, brushing his nose against yours.
As the door swings shut behind you, Dick’s hands leave yours to settle on your hips, wasting no time backing you up against a wall. Neither of you mind that he knocks over half-a-dozen things as he does — who knew broom closets were actually used for housing brooms?
He palms at your ass for a moment, before he’s bunching up your dress and hoisting you up from under your thighs. Like instinct, your legs wrap around his hips, and he leans down to capture your mouth in a kiss. It quickly turns messy; his tongue presses into your mouth, and you gladly welcome the familiar feel of tongue and teeth and spit.
“Look so pretty it would be a crime not to fuck you.” Dick murmurs when he pulls away, his mouth working a sloppy trail along your jaw and down the column of your throat.
He’s memorised the map of your skin, he kisses and sucks and bites till he’s marked the spot that has you shivering, your hands wandering up his chest and winding around his shoulders, tangling in the dark strands at the nape of his neck.
He only pulls away enough to undo the buckle of his belt, a low laugh leaving him when you tug his hair in a silent hurry up. His cock is hard, thick and flushed when he pulls it out, pumping it with one hand as the other pushes up your hips and shoves aside your panties.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, that grin returned as his fingers slide through the slick gathered between your folds. The slightest of sensations is enough to have you nudging your hips forward, your thighs clamping around him. “So wet f’me.”
He draws away his fingers, but they’re promptly replaced by the head of his cock. He drags it against you, smearing his precum from the entrance of your cunt up to the sensitive bundle of your clit, circling there just to watch you squirm for a moment.
“Dick,” you whine, tugging on his hair once again, hips pressing forward once again, desperate for the feel of him inside. “Don’t tease.”
“Greedy thing,” Dick tuts, but you can feel his head line up against your entrance. He may be a tease, but god, if some days he isn’t downright needy to get buried in your pussy.
Whatever retort, whatever demand, was on the tip of your tongue is promptly muffled by the feel of his hips rocking forward that first inch. The stretch is a familiar burn, the slow feeling of being split apart as his cock bullies you open inch by inch. At once, your walls are desperate to suck every bit of him in. He lets you feel the drag of every vein against your walls when he pulls all the way out, only to push back in again.
“Perfect...” Dick coos as he feels his balls slap against the curve of your ass, the head of his cock kissing your cervix as he rocks back and forth, back and forth, feeling your pussy mould around the girth of him. “Perfect, perfect pussy, baby.”
“Dick,” you whine out again, though this time it is less greedy and more desperate, your hips meeting his as he rocks against you, “please, need you so bad.”
“I know, pretty. Gonna give you what you need, don’t worry.” He murmurs, leaning forward to graze his teeth along your throat, nipping until he finds a spot to clamp down and bite. You moan, louder when he begins to fuck you in earnest.
Dick’s quick to pick up the pace. His thrusts grow faster, harder, creating a symphony of the slick sounds of his dick pounding into your soaked cunt, his balls smacking against you, and the slew of moans you can’t quite hold back — even though you’re perfectly aware that anyone could walk past this broom closet and hear Dick fucking out your brains.
One hand still slick with your arousal, comes up to your mouth, rubbing your wetness over your lips, hanging parted.
“Suck f’me, pretty.” Dick croons at you, pushing two of his slick fingers past your lips right down to the knuckles, humming with approval as you obeyed, gagging around them and biting down. “That’s a good girl. Don’t want everybody knowing what we’re doing in here, now do we?”
You nod around his fingers, which effectively muffle your whines, your moans, your sobs, as he keeps fucking you full of his dick. Each drag of his cock against your walls has your nails digging into his scalp, pulling on his hair as he mouths at up your neck and at the crook of your jaw.
“Feels so good, always feels so good, baby,” Dick’s praise had your walls clamping down around his cock, “fuck, baby, she’s just loving my dick, feels so perfect ‘round my dick.”
His hips thrust up a little faster, his hand squeezing the underside of your thigh, hiking it up higher, angling himself till the tip of his cock was ramming deep into your g-spot, and you were on the verge of crying from how good it felt. It was only then that Dick pulled his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop. When his hand found your clit, rubbing his fingers against it in fast, tight circles, any sense to keep quiet was forgotten in favour of crying out.
“‘M so close,” you gasp, your head falling back against the wall when he pushed up a little harder, “fuck, Dick, ‘m gonna cum — ”
“I know, baby, me too.” Dick pants against your ear, pounding into you a little rougher, rubbing on your clit a little faster, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, that hot, tight sensation coiling low in your stomach as he fucks you. “Make a mess f’me, pretty, want your cum all over my cock.”
You did — you always did with Dick, especially when he fucked you where anyone could catch you.
Your orgasm all but crashed down upon you. Your fingers dug deep into Dick’s skull, tangled and tugging on his hair as your back arched up from the wall and against his chest. Every roll of pleasure shuddered through you, every roll of his hips keeping you steady through it.
“Dick, Dick, Dick,” His name was falling almost incoherently off your lips, you were a babbling mess as you came, creaming around his cock till he could see the slick ring of it at his base. He watched, eyes dark and awed, till at last letting up on your clit.
“That’s it — fuck.” Dick’s thrusts grew more insistent, less measured, as he chased after his own release, the pleasure of your orgasm blurring into overstimulation. “Gonna fill you up, yeah? Shit, gonna fuck you full, pretty girl.”
Dick did, too. His balls tightened as he buried himself right to the hilt, his dick all but bruising your cervix as he came, hot lines of cum painting the walls of your pussy for a good, long moment, before he finally relaxed.
“See?” Dick hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Broom closet’s perfect for a quickie.”
Warnings: praise, pet-names, degradation, explicit references to piv (missionary, riding, cowgirl), fauxcest (use of ‘dad’/‘kid/kiddo’), ben refers to reader’s v as ‘she’, bit of brat/brat-tamer and sub/dom dynamics, slight dumbification, hint of free use (ben for reader), mentions of mirror sex, talking you through it.
will talk you through it — even if, at times, it’s just talking during it.
loves to tease you, in whatever way; overstimulation, edging, talking
asks you questions he knows you can’t answer
he’s heavy with the praise, with the caveat that it’s so disgustingly condescending
he’d absolutely refer to himself as your “dad”
(gross? yes. will he stop? no)
definitely will talk to your pussy as well
pet names galore: “doll” “dollface” “sweetheart” “pretty” “pretty girl” “good girl” “honey” — even “kid” or “kiddo”
will also use some less savoury pet names — “slut” mostly, but he can get creative
(he’ll usually throw in a bit of praise around it so you don’t get too mad, not that he doesn’t like it when you do)
he won’t shy from outright degradation, but it’s for his meaner days
if you’ve been a brat, or you’ve picked a fight, he’s so much worse
he’ll probably be sweet from time to time — given it lets him fuck you longer
he’s much sweeter, almost soft, when you’re making love, but if you’re fucking? you’re getting fucked
see below:
“so fucking wet f’me, doll.”
“what happened to all that big girl talk, hm?”
“thought you fuckin’ hated me, what happened to that?”
“gonna put it in pretty, hold still.”
“christ, relax a little, would you kid? that’s it, good girl.”
“perfect fuckin’ pussy, know that?”
“don’t need me — fuck, is that right?”
“look at the state’ve you. god, do anything for this dick, wouldn’t you?”
“now, c’mon pretty, cum f’me, all over dad’s cock.”
“jus’ the prettiest slut, ain’t you?”
“what? no snarky comeback from little miss feminist?”
“did I fuck all that big talk out of you?”
“too dumb for my cock to use that smart mouth, huh?”
“well? I’m listening, sweetheart. c’mon, tell me how dumb you are over dick.”
“think you can give me one more. c’mon pretty, be good for your dad.”
if you haven’t pissed him off, it’s a whole lot more praise — it’s still condescending, but a little less so
especially if you’re on top
when you’re on top it’s not really a different story
loves to lean back, let you get off, whilst giving you the full running commentary
for example:
“that’s it, honey.”
“know it’s big, but look at you. fuck. taking me so well.”
“wish you could take a look at this view princess, so fuckin’ pretty.”
“jus’ taking what you need from dad’s dick, yeah?”
“shit, already making a mess. you gonna clean that up later?”
“selfish little whore. been waiting for this, hm? been a good fucking girl for this?”
“y’know your tits look so perky when you bounce like that. christ.”
“c’mon kid, keep going, know that pussy just loves bouncing up and down on dad, don’t she?”
“wanna see you make a big fuckin’ mess all over my cock, sweetheart.”
“that’s it, keep going... knew you just couldn’t wait to cum f’me, always such an eager fucking slut.”
“gonna give me one more, ain’t you? turn ‘round and let me see that ass while you ride my dick.”
“gonna miss ‘em tits, though.”
“god. remind me to get a mirror next time I’m out. just gotta see both.”
Warnings: cursing, possessiveness, toxic relationship dynamic, oral f!recieving, unprotected piv, loss of virginity (reader’s), breeding, knife play (aerion has a dagger to his throat basically the whole time), kissing, biting, blood, slight choking, dubcon, power imbalance, slight praise, canon typical, Aerion Targaryen
It was your fate to be Aerion Targaryen’s wife.
It was a fact as simple, as unchangeable, as the sky was blue since you were a child.
You had not much understood what it would mean to be Aerion’s wife when you were first told of it. You saw only a pretty dress, and the court calling you “princess,” standing besides your strong Targaryen husband, and all your beautiful Valyrian children. Those were the delusions of a child — a sheltered girl, who did not know better. It did not take long for you to learn.
Aerion was clever, but he was cruel. Aerion was beautiful, but he was brutal. You grew to know him well, and you did not like what you knew. The Brightflame, the Monsterous, the man whom you would someday wed.
You made no effort to hide your resentments. He made no effort to hide how very much it amused him. You defied him at every turn. He would laugh at your defiance. You busied yourself keeping as far away from him as possible. He would weasel his way by your side with a taunt ready on his tongue. He was impossible, you decided. He was the only thing possible for you, he decided.
He proved himself right.
Your fate proved itself inescapable.
On a day deemed auspicious by the Faith, the two of you were wed. The black and red cloak of House Targaryen was draped over your shoulders. You exchanged vows you did not truly mean. In the eyes of the Gods, of the Realm, and of Aerion most of all, you became his.
His, in every sense of the word.
The wedding feast was suffered through without so much as a glance his way.
It did not keep him from taunting you. His hand still found your thigh beneath the table. You were still forced to put on a false smile as you stood beside him and cut the pigeon pie. You were still made to take him up in a dance, a show of your happy marriage to all the world.
The revelry grew boisterous as the night bore on. The men were deep in their cups, dancing and groping the serving girls, spilling drinks wherever they went. The pair of you seemed to be forgot for a moment, and it was a relief. A relief, until Aerion stood up beside you abruptly, holding out his arm with the expectation you would accept.
“Let us retire, wife.” He said.
You’d half a mind to refuse, but should you stay, you would certainly be made to endure the bedding ceremony. You had thought he might want for one, if only to humiliate you, but perhaps he was all too possessive for that. Perhaps he did not enjoy the thought of every drunk lord of the Seven Kingdoms groping his newly wedded wife.
“Very well.” You took his arm stiffly, though that did not upset him in the slightest. In his mind, you were his, and he had won.
He did not bother with words once your chambers were reached. He was upon you the second the doors fell shut. You had seen the dogs in the yard, seen a stallion mount a mare, your maids told you scandalous stories they heard of one another — you were not a fool. The ladies of Westeros were sheltered, and though you remained a maid for the sake of it, you knew what Aerion’s intentions were. The thought of it sent something hot and uncomfortable running down your spine.
He did not kiss you, no, he simply grabbed hold of your elbow and pulled you towards him. For a moment, you went stiff. His hands found your cloak, unfastening it with little ceremony, letting it fall behind you with a satisfied grunt. Then his hands were upon your gown; one held your waist, firm, refusing to let you slip away.
“Aerion — ” you hissed when his other hand found the laces of your bodice; when he threatened to tug them loose, you swatted his hand away. “Let go of me.”
“No.” He answered, blunt, not letting you move an inch when you made to jerk away from him. You felt your stomach twist with fear, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. He should not have been so strong. He did not deserve his strength. His hand reached up for your laces yet again.
“Let go.” You repeated.
“No.” He repeated, mocking, fingers toying with the strings, watching how you might react.
You’d a very beautiful wedding dress; Myrish lace was carefully worked over the bodice, it was encrusted with blood red rubies and black diamonds, with flowing silk skirts. It had long, billowing sleeves, too, the sort which were good for keeping things tucked away. You were not a fool, you knew Aerion. He was an overgrown babe at arms, afflicted with delusions of grandeur, who believed that all in the world were beneath him, that all the world belonged to him — yourself included.
So, in your wisdom, you had tucked a dagger into your sleeves. It was a simple thing, not the elaborate creations of Valyrian steel with decorated hilts that Aerion might enjoy. It was sharp, however, and that is all that mattered. He would see it, and he would release you. You knew that he would. He would, would he not? He had to.
You let the dagger slip from your sleeves, taking a deep breath, steading yourself, steadying your resolve. You did not give him the opportunity to realise what you were doing. You were quick, you had to be quick.
The blade presses against his throat.
Aerion stills.
His eyes flicker down towards the blade. There is something detached about the way he studies it, as he might idly observe any number of the mundane happenings of life.
“Will you do it, then?” He asks, with a callous disregard, entirely unperturbed.
It is terrifying that he holds such little regard for his life. It is terrifying that he holds such little regard for you. For the threat you might pose to his life. He seems every inch a dragon, a haughty and prideful monster, not in the least affronted by a little bird, beating her wings against the cage of his claws.
It sets you off balance — you had expected he would balk. You had expected that he would seethe and rage, every inch the indignant, arrogant, spoiled child that all the world had made him out to be. That you had expected him to be. You had not considered that he might be quite so sure, so deluded, that even with a blade pressed up against his throat, he had not the slightest worry that he might be denied.
“Well?” Aerion drawls, something too close to a cold, ugly amusement playing across his face as he observes your turmoil. “You’ve drawn the blade. Do not tell me you do not mean to follow through.”
“Aerion.” You warn.
“Wife.” He hums, the word a taunt, a reminder.
You press the blade closer. It is an effort to keep your hand steady. He leans in, towards it, until the edge kisses the line of his throat. Too deep a breath, and the dagger would draw his blood. It was infuriating that it made your breath catch in your throat, fear spiking up your spine.
You were no fool, you knew better than to murder a Targaryen prince. He knew you did. Or, perhaps he did not. Perhaps he simply did not care if you would murder him. Perhaps he wished to toy with you a moment further, to poke your flank and see if you might bite. Never-mind if you do.
“No?” Aerion sighs, bored too quickly, the brief excitement of the moment soured by your hesitance.
“Let me go.” You hiss, but he has stolen the conviction from your words, he has stolen the threat from your hands.
“Ah, would that I could...” He shakes his head, as though your suggestion is entirely implausible. To a princeling like him, it must seem as much.
His hand, the one not toying with the strings of your bodice, trails up your side, to skim across your neck. His fingers are cold. His touch burns. He observes a moment, as he writes secrets across your flesh with his fingertips. His hands frighten you more without a blade, than yours, with a blade, had frightened him.
“But you are my wife.” He continues, words simple. “We are married before the Gods.”
“You have no respect for the Gods.” You interject, breathing too fast, too shallow as his hand slips around your throat, tightening a moment, then easing the next.
“It makes no matter how it has been done, but you have been made mine. From this day, till your last, you are mine.” His words have conviction. There is not a question in his mind about what he says; to him they are more than vows and laws and traditions, they are the truth, and the only truth that matters.
When his eyes rise back to yours, you are caught between stiffening and shuddering.
“Put away your arms, wife.” His words soften around the command, as though he has any desire to ease the humiliation that eats up at your pride. When your only response is to set your jaw with defiance, he huffs, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Keep it, then.”
He tilts his head to the side, eyes pinned upon your face, as his fingers once more tug at the laces of your bodice. They come undone with a practised ease, and you tense, your hold on the blade tightening. He pays it no mind.
“Take it off.” He orders, hands falling away from you to gesture broadly at your undone dress. He takes a measured step backwards, away from the blade, though you’re sure it is only to give you the room to obey.
“If I refuse?” Your protest feels futile, but you’ve enough pride to protest him still.
“I will not repeat myself.” He snorts. “I’ve let you keep up your dagger, have I not? The least you could do is obey like a proper wife.”
Your jaw works a moment as you regard him. You should refuse. You should do anything but obey. Yet — and yet, with the dagger still in hand, you find yourself pulling your arms from your sleeves, and tugging down your bodice and your skirts, till they lay in a pile of Myrish lace and silk and jewel encrustations at your feet.
“Good.” Aerion nods. “Now the rest.”
You listen again, trying to keep your breathing even, trying to fight the flushed feeling that rushes up your neck as you loosen your chemise and unfasten your small-clothes, letting them join the pile, too. It is only when your stockings have been peeled off and your slippers kicked away that Aerion is satisfied.
The air of the room bites; despite the heat from the hearth and the braziers, gooseflesh runs up your arms and legs. Yet, nothing bites quite like his gaze.
He is entirely unabashed in the way his eyes rove over your body, taking note of every little detail. You feel raw, as though more than your clothes have been peeled away, as though your insides have been turned out for him to see. You supposed, soon enough, he’d be well acquainted with your insides. The desire to heave up your wedding feast at the thought is unbearably strong.
When he steps forward, onto the fortune that is your wedding dress without a care, your dagger rises to his throat once more. He is still unbothered by its presence. To you, it is all you have to feel some semblance of control. To him, it is little more than an inconvenience, an afterthought, an amusement. A small smirk pulls on his lips when you press it firm against his throat as his hands settle upon your waist.
“Your arm will grow tired, wife.” He remarks, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin. His hands belong there, in his mind, for you belong to him. You must seem the grandest fool for trying to fight it.
He guides you back against the bed, not so much so as flinching when the dagger digs into his throat as he moves.
“Worry not.” He murmurs, pressing your back against the sheets. “I’ll take care of you, wife. Haven’t a choice, now have I?” He nods towards the blade, his jaw nudging against it.
You despise that he does not care about the weapon, that him obliging to the threat it poses is nothing more than a favour, a small token to appease your pride. Yet, you do not stop him as he settles over you, as he pushes apart your thighs. Your spine goes rigid, your chest feels tight. There are a dozen things you should like to say, but you say none.
He spends a moment examining you, appraising his latest possession. When he is satisfied, he gives a low hum of approval. You had almost expected him to say something cruel, to mock you, but perhaps he has enough sense to know you’d certainly bleed him — if only a little — should he.
“I shall taste you, wife.” He declares, unceremoniously. “You may resume threatening my life once I am done.”
You open your mouth to protest, but even if you had the chance to speak, he would not have cared. He pulls away from the blade, dragging his nose down the length of your stomach, breathing in the scent of you, till he’s settled between your legs. He looks up at you, those pale lilac eyes hazy with desire. You’re not stupid enough to believe it is a desire for love, even for bedding you, or for any other reason than to possess you completely, to claim what is his.
“Do not look away.” He breathes, hot against you. “I will know if you look away.”
You nod, sharp, and inhale, sharper. You refuse to be affected by that smallest of sensations. Your resolve is instantly challenged when he presses closer, his tongue skimming between your folds, with teasing intentions. It seems, though, his resolve is as weak as yours; when his tongue laps out again, giving your cunt a proper lick, all the way up to your clit, he groans, and all teasing intentions are forgotten.
Your hips buck into his face of their own volition as his mouth moves against you, kissing, sucking, licking you from your entrance to your clit, letting his teeth graze against you just to see how you might squirm. Though you’re certain it feeds his behemoth pride that you do, his hands find purchase on your hips, holding them down so that he may give you pleasure only as he sees fit.
He works with a skill that belies experience. You had not thought Aerion the type to worry about a woman’s pleasure, but perhaps it feeds his vanity to see your defiance give way to your desire, perhaps it is simply the threat of being cut that motivates him to make it tolerable enough for you.
This is more than tolerable. Pleasure builds low in your stomach faster than you had thought. Your fingers were never so quick to pleasure you, you’d never the recklessness to let someone else. You do your best to keep your eyes on him, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other white-knuckled around the dagger. You’re gasping, moaning, to your shame, after but moments spent with his mouth sucking on your clit. You feel your muscles tighten, already brought to the edge, shifting beneath his grasp to further the friction, seeking relief with a desperation you despise.
He lets you for a moment, loosening his grip just enough to have you grinding against his face. Then he pulls away, leaving you raw and pathetic with your need to finish.
“Aerion.” You hiss, breathing fast.
“Wife.” His smirk broadens, his face messy with the slick of your arousal. “Do you want to come?”
Your pride tells you to say no.
“Yes.” You swallow down your pride and answer from your clit, throbbing with need, and your cunt, clenching around absolutely nothing.
“Then ask politely.” He says, as though it should be the easiest thing in the world.
“Please.” The word is dry, foreign on your tongue, and entirely debasing. It is not enough to satisfy him — it does not meet the parameters of his demands, and so with a sigh, you find yourself nearly begging. “Please, Aerion, let me come?”
“Good.” He says. “You will learn to do better, but I will not deny you, lest you cut off my cock.”
It is a tempting thought, but before you can contemplate it, Aerion’s mouth has found its way between your legs again. He makes quick work of your release; he licks a stripe up your cunt before his mouth latches onto your clit once more. Your climax comes fast, sudden, your back arching up as the tension spikes and then melts. Aerion does not cease, not until every last shudder has been wrought from you, until you’re on the verge of begging him to stop.
He pulls away with a groan, licking up the slick of you from his mouth. He’s risen up from between your legs and his mouth finds your own before you’ve the chance to put the dagger to his throat again. You taste your release on his lips. It is anything but a kiss. It is a claim; rough and demanding, his teeth bite into your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and then he’s soothing the wound with an obscene sucking.
It is only when his tongue pushes into your mouth that you find the sense to press the dagger against his throat again, pushing his mouth away from yours with the bite of the steel.
He laughs, and it settles into a sigh, caught between something strangely bemused and something mocking as he looks down upon you.
“You’ll do well.” He muses, leaning back and away from you, only to make quick work of his own clothes, speaking on as he does. His words bear no affection, no true praise, only that same possession that is in all he says and does. “Carrying the blood of the dragon. You’ve enough fire in you. You will give me many little dragons, wife. No matter if you hold a dagger to my throat when I fuck them into you.”
His words make you bristle. It is a wonder, that his tongue can be so skilled at bringing you to your peak in one breath, and humiliating you in the next. Though, when you consider it, there is little difference between the two. Not to you, and surely not to Aerion.
His cock is hard when it is free of its confines. Your breath catches when you see it, all too much to Aerion’s amusement. You wonder how long he has wanted to shame you like this, fuck into you and make you come, over and over, till you’re round with his children. You’re sure he has thought of it ceaselessly, since he was old enough to have such thoughts.
He settles himself over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other one running up your side, finding purchase on your chest. He squeezes your breast beneath his hand, watching you tense a moment. You know not whether it is from fear or anticipation, and you refuse to entertain any other reason besides the two.
You press your dagger against his throat, but he does not seem to notice. He busies himself lining the head of his cock up with your entrance, and you exhale, breath trembling, when he grinds the tip of it against you.
He is not rough when he sinks in, but nor is he slow. He pushes himself in with one thrust. The stretch of it burns, more than you had thought it would, and you squeeze your eyes shut with the pain of it. Aerion does not stop until he has buried himself to the hilt, but he gives you a moment to adjust. It is a small mercy, one you did not think him capable of.
“Open your eyes.” He demands, and it is only when you do that he slowly begin to rock his hips, back and forth. Testing at first. Not for long. He groans, low in his throat, wasting no further time in setting a steady rhythm, even as you stiffen beneath him, biting back the pain. “Your body will adjust. It will not if you fight it. Let go, wife.”
It is difficult to listen. Each movement of his hips stretches you out further, and it burns, sears your walls. Yet, you force the stiffness from your spine, let your head fall back against the bed. The slick from your first release helps, and so does the blood — you’re more than certain you’ve bled, your maidenhead smeared across his cock, across the sheets. Your spare hand weaves around to grip on his back, and Aerion only groans when he feels your nails dig in.
He keeps his pace steady a while, not slow, but not nearly as fast as he should like. You’ve no choice but to ignore the burn, to focus on the good that might be found in it. It is no easy task, but only at first. You observe Aerion’s face, the way his sharp lines have softened, the soft grunts he makes, and there is a begrudging satisfaction that you are capable of pleasuring him — he may never have pretended otherwise, but to see him so unguarded whilst buried in your cunt is perversely fulfilling.
The pain does not go, but the pleasure builds, becomes easier to focus on.
It does not take long for a little whine to escape you at the feeling of his cock pushing into you, and that only goads him further, moving a little quicker. You’ve kept the dagger pressed against his throat the entire time. There are times where you fear that he might slice himself upon the edge of the blade as he thrusts into you.
“Do you think it scares me?” He grunts, his hips picking up, his movements rougher, quicker. “The dagger. Wife, do you think I do not know what it is to bleed?”
“Aerion,” you gasp, nails digging deeper into the flesh of his back. It is an effort to keep the blade steady in your hand. Every thrust into you has the blade jerking upwards, threatening to bite into his neck as you tremble, as the pleasure builds up. He still does not care.
“To bleed to keep what is mine... for what is mine — ” His words cut off with a groan, his breath shuddering, chest rising and falling quicker. He doesn’t relent his pace, even as it becomes an obvious effort to keep his thrusts even. “Seven hells, look at you. Taking me so well. Your body betrays you, wife. Fuck, good, let it.”
His hand leaves your chest, trailing down until it’s between your thighs, his thumb finding your clit and circling. His movements are insistent. The pleasure is unfair; the sensation coiling low in your stomach is unfair. It has your back arching against him, your hips pushing upwards to meet him, cunt clenching around his cock as that sensation tightens. It spurs him on, he circles his thumb faster, his cock presses in deeper, faster still.
“Come.” His order is firm, but there’s a breathlessness to his voice, it’s gone higher, needier in a way you never imagined he would be. He does not make you beg this time, he simply works harder.
You obey him; that sensation peaks, then comes down in rolls of pleasure. Each one racking through you has your nails scratching harder against his back, your head tipping back, another pathetic moan escaping your mouth. He keeps steady enough through it, watching with intent focus as you ride through your release, keeping his thumb pressed firm against your clit even when the last of the waves bleed away, leaving you a melted, boneless mess beneath him. He relishes in the sight of it, that much is obvious even to your murky mind.
He does not fight the way your walls clench around his cock, practically milking the seed from him as the pleasure of coming gives way to overstimulation. His pace becomes less controlled, less purposeful, chasing after his own release with a single-minded focus. He makes no effort to hide the way his groans become whines. When he does come, when he spills himself inside of you, it’s with your name on his lips. His head tips forward, just enough for the dagger to bite into his throat, leaving a little knick of red against his skin.
He does not pull out, does not move at all — neither of you do. Both your breaths are ragged, heavy, regaining sense of the world for a moment as the haze of fucking slowly fades.
You, at last, pull the dagger away. Your fingers unfurl their iron-clad grasp around it’s hilt, letting it tumble from the bed and clatter upon the floor. As soon as it is gone, Aerion sighs, letting his head drop to the crook of your neck, his mouth pressing there in something almost tender enough to be a kiss.
He moves then; he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him till your back is flush with his chest, but he does not leave his cock out of you for long, pushing his seed back in with it.
“My wife.” He murmurs, and there is a softness to his voice that should make you stiffen, but you are too spent to fight it. “My good wife.”
His arms are gentle when they wind around your waist, but the way he tightens them is nothing but possessive. His hands skim over your abdomen, as though you might already be with his child. That thought must please him incessantly.
“You are mine.” He declares.
You are too spent to fight that, too. Perhaps you will be his. Perhaps you already are. Perhaps there are worse fates than to bleed for Aerion Targaryen, and perhaps there are worse fates than Aerion Targaryen bleeding for you. Then again, perhaps there are not. It makes no matter. There is no other fate for you.
Your relationship can never be more than “untitled”... right?
Warnings: cursing, mentions of sex, kissing, (kind of) angst to fluff
The last thing your relationship with Jason needed was a title.
Things were better off undefined. He’d slip in through your window in the early morning hours, in a crappy old tee-shirt and torn up sweatpants he seemed to have just thrown on, bruised, sometimes bleeding, though he’d never tell you why. You didn’t ask. Gotham was hardly a kind city. You just figured he did what he had to do to make money.
Most of the time he’d be gone before the sunrise — which was a kindness, really, it was. At least that’s what you told yourself. You were spared the awkwardness of breakfast conversation, and the both of you could get on with your days as though the other didn’t even exist at all.
At least, that was the way things had been.
He began to come around a little earlier sometimes — and on a rare occasion, he’d turn up before it was even ten pm. He’d sit on your couch whilst you showered (because, for some strange reason, you were real nervous when he came around... you had no idea why. At least that’s what you told yourself), flicking through free TV channels or streaming something from some shady pirating site that tried to open up a page filled with “single moms in your area” every time you clicked the screen. There were times where you’d be too tired to do anything, or just weren’t in the mood, and probably because it was too awkward to admit that he was just there for the sex, he’d stick around. There would be pizza or Chinese food or tubs of ice cream. The man was six-foot... something? He could eat.
You’d get on so well, laughing and yapping and playing games, arguing about what to watch on the television, taking naps together — and, well, obviously, having really good sex. Time went by so easily together.
But when you weren’t together? Radio silence. Days of it, sometimes weeks. You’d miss him — but only for the sex. At least that’s what you told yourself. He’d come back around again sure enough, a couple weeks down the line at most.
There’d been an occasion where you hadn’t even been home when Jason had swung by. You didn’t really call or text each other, so you didn’t expect him to turn up when you were in the suburbs for a family reunion. Your place had been completely ransacked. It wasn’t a shock, really, not in the shabby part of Gotham you called home. Windows smashed in, most of your comparatively valuable items gone, your furniture torn apart.
When you came back, you found yourself locked out of your own apartment, fighting with the door to let you in until Jason opened it up. He’d took it upon himself to fix the place up; better windows, new (and many more) locks — he even replaced the flea-market frames of your childhood photos up on the mantle. You never realised that he noticed. When you asked him why, he just shrugged, “didn’t wanna be ‘round a messy place, is all. I didn’t think you’d have time with all those shifts you were pullin’ last week.”
You accepted his reason with an; “oh — well, thank you... so much.”
You knew there could never, possibly, ever be something between you and Jason. This untitled state of relationship was what worked for the two of you. Titles meant commitments. Commitments meant complications. Complications meant break-ups. You didn’t know if you could handle breaking up with Jason Todd... not that you really liked him, or anything... you just didn’t need to go through all that mess all over again.
At least that’s what you told yourself.
Well, you had pretty much come to assume that your relationship with the recluse had come to an end.
It had been nearly a month since you’d seen Jason, pretty much the longest stretch of time there had ever been. You’d been surprised, sort of. Before, he’d been around every night, and the two of you got on like peas in a pod — he was Forrest, and you were Jenny. You had no fucking clue when you told him to run.
The worst part of it all is that you texted him. Texted him. He’d given you his number out of his own free will, sure, but there was only a scant number of texts between the two of you guys. I mean, he was still saved in your phone as “Jacob - SL.” All you had said was ‘hey, u ok?’, but you might as well have been begging him to come back into your life, demanding intimacy. It had been three and a half weeks of no-contact and you texted him. At least it wasn’t a phone call. That would’ve been absolutely diabolical.
It was nearly eight pm on a lazy Friday when there was a knock on your door. You almost jumped out of your seat, thinking that The Exorcist had finally become interesting. Alas, the movie playing in shitty quality from an illegal website on your third-hand MacBook dragged on, and you had to drag yourself to the door, a little bit weary of who the fuck might be disturbing you at this ungodly hour.
When you peeped through the peep-hole, it was Jason. All six foot... something of him. You were surprised to see him. You honestly didn’t know what to do with yourself.
A little embarrassed, a little bit angry (or rather a lot, but pretty much all of it was being shoved back down your throat to simmer in your stomach for a good while), you tightened your robe and nervously unlocked each and every lock he’d installed and opened the door. There was a moment where you considered not opening the door. But it was Jason, so, of course, you swallowed down your dignity to wither away in your stomach down next to your rage.
“Hey.” It was the most awkward ‘hey’ of your life.
“Hey.” His was the exact same caliber.
He stepped into your apartment, it was a familiar moment, and yet he did it in such a way that everything felt completely and irreversibly changed. You knew you shouldn’t have texted him. Not that he had even bothered to read your message. You exhaled, sharp, and awkwardly fumbled trying to re-lock your door, watching Jason walk through your apartment, beyond your little dining table with mismatched chairs and to your couch.
He gestured vaguely at your laptop; “watching... what? The Exorcist?”
“Ye— Yeah.” You didn’t know why it was so fucking awkward. It wasn’t like you guys hadn’t gone a few weeks without talking before. This was supposed to be normal, if anything. “You, uh, wanna watch with me? I mean — we could always watch, like, a rerun of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice.”
“No, no. Let’s just watch this, ‘right?” He sat down on the couch, not bothering to take of his jacket or shoes, sitting so frigidly he seemed like a chair himself.
“If you want.” You hobbled over and sat down next to him, cross-legged, with a little distance between the two of you, pulling up your blanket to your chin.
It was that rigid sense of awkwardness and nothing more until the exorcism was done and the movie credits began to roll. It was just past nine, and you had ascertained through a nervous question that Jason: a) hadn’t eaten and, b) thought Chinese was “fine.”
But, of course, because absolutely nothing could go right on this night, the Chinese place wasn’t delivering. The only Chinese place around wasn’t delivering on the busiest night of the entire fucking week. The guy on the phone even had the audacity to hang-up on you after yelling, “pick-ups only.”
You wanted to throw your phone across the room — of course, it didn’t make it past the coffee table and landed with a dull thud on your carpet.
“Pick-ups only.” You re-iterated, before Jason could make a remark on your little outburst.
“Alright.” He said, taking a breath, “can’t we just get pizza or somethin’ else?”
You clenched your fists. Internally you were screaming. But, because you’d had the misfortune of growing up with a dad, you managed to stay calm; “I really, really want Chinese food, Jason.”
“Well, they’re not —”
“Does it seem like my cravings give a fuck?” You snapped. “I can just walk and get it. You don’t even have to come.”
“You are not walking around this neighbourhood this time of night.” Jason sounded just as annoyed as you, but you didn’t really care, you were already picking up your phone from the carpet, shrugging off your robe, putting on a hoodie, and a pulling on pair of Ugg dupes.
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Well, if you care so much, Jason, why don’t you come? I’m going either way.” You’d managed to unlock the door and were already out the door, not bothering to wait for him. You’d had enough of that these past four crappy weeks.
His only response was silently getting up, fixing his jacket, and following you out.
It was freezing cold outside, and completely dark. You were shivering, but you were absolutely not going to turn back — not after the massive tantrum you’d just thrown to even go in the first place. Neither of you said a word to each other; you just kept walking on in complete silence, slipping in and out of view between the scarce amount of street-lamps that were still working. Jason kept right behind you the whole time, and it was tangible just how pissed-off he was.
It wasn’t really all that far to the Chinese place, a fifteen minute walk at the most, but their delivery was pretty much free for loyal customers (which you were pretty sure you had become since you’d moved in, especially so after it became ritual to order-in when Jason came around).
When you arrived at last, all you said to Jason was, “the usual good with you?”
He nodded, and mumbled a, “yeah, ‘ts fine” under his breath, rummaging through his pockets, only to hand you a twenty.
“You don’t — I’ll just pay.” You would die before admitting it, but you felt bad taking his money to pay for a meal he didn’t even seem to want. Honestly, he didn’t seem to want a part in anything to do with you right now.
Yet he insisted. “Just take it.”
You did, with great reluctance and a sigh, but... fuck it. If he wanted to compensate for his depressing attitude with a bit of cash, who were you to say no?
It had been over a year since you’d actually stepped foot in this restaurant. There were a few metal tables and plastic chairs lined up by the windows, but most of the space was occupied by a big red counter and display windows stuffed with various dishes. You went up to place your order, listing off the top of your head what you usually got.
It didn’t sound all that appealing to you, but then again, when did you ever do anything different?
Some guy took your order. He seemed your age, maybe a little younger, a bit short. It was so obvious he was flirting with you, and normally you would’ve never flirted back, but today — well, what was really stopping you? Jason’s gaze drilling into the back of your head? You were never, ever, going to be anything more with Jason than just a hook-up. So yeah, you flirted back — just a little, anyway. He didn’t even end up asking for your number, so it didn’t really matter. It was just... nice. Nice to think that some guy out there might actually like you.
It took a little while for the order to get ready. You and Jason stood side by side in complete silence. You looked out the window, Jason was doing something on his phone. When it was done, you left, plastic bag in hand, denying Jason’s offer to hold the food for you, keeping a brisk pace so you could get home all the sooner and this night could be over all the sooner. Jason didn’t argue, just followed, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, a broody look on his face.
You liked walking fast — it helped clear up your head, clam you down. You were half-way to forgiveness when it started to rain. At first it was light, a drizzle you could handle without batting an eye, only annoyed you’d have to figure out how to un-frizz your hair when you got home. Then it started to pour. In the blink of an eye, it was raining cats-and-dogs.
This was your thirteenth fucking reason.
Everything had gone so completely wrong today — fuck, not even today, your entire fucking life. It all came crashing down on you with the rain. For a moment, you stood paralysed, a little ways ahead of Jason, who might’ve been about to ask you what was wrong, or to tell you to hurry up so you could get out of the rain quicker, or to offer you his jacket to put over your head or something else so fucking stupid — because that’s what he did. He didn’t talk to you for a month, and then fought with you when he finally showed up again, and then offered to do something sweet because he knew you’d forgive him at the drop of a hat.
You screamed then, really screamed, and before you even knew what you were doing, the Chinese food Jason had paid for was hurled onto the floor, chow mein splattering everywhere. You were so completely aggravated and overstimulated and a dozen other things you didn’t even know, and there was absolutely nothing left for you to do but just break down crying.
You were sitting on the floor, sweats soaked through, crying by the time Jason caught up to you.
“What —” it was humiliating to think what he might’ve thought of you in this moment.; “Here — take this,” he was draping his jacket over your shoulders, trying to help you get up, “c’mon, let me help — ”
“Stop — Jason, just fucking stop.” You swatted his hands away, a little too forcefully. You shrugged off his jacket and stood up, just for the sake of getting away from him. “I don’t want your stupid jacket or your stupid help. I — I don’t even fucking want this.” You tugged at your hoodie, the one he’d left behind at your apartment the first night you’d ever taken him home, the one you had practically subsumed yourself into, pulled it over your head and threw it on the floor.
He looked as though he’d been slapped in the face — hurt, really fucking hurt, but at the same time shocked in place. “Then what do you want?”
“Oh my god —” you scrunched up your hair in your hands, and if you had the willpower to pull it all out, you might’ve. “How long have we fucking known each other? How do you still not know what I want, Jason? Isn’t it so completely obvious?”
“No, it’s not.” You’d never seen Jason come this close to yelling before — not that you had ever had an argument before. Shutting up and taking it was the way you’d decided to play your whole entire relationship, if there even was one. “How — how the fuck am I supposed to know what you want? You wanted Chinese food, then you throw it on the floor because it starts to rain. You wanted to watch that stupid Exorcist movie, and then — then you just sat there, saying nothing, doing nothing, I mean — you have never once told me what you actually want. How am I supposed to know?”
“Because!” You couldn’t even believe him. You couldn’t even believe yourself — what was wrong with eating Chinese and then fucking and then not hearing from him for weeks, maybe never again?
“Because what?” Jason asked, just barely taking a step towards you. You fought your instinct to back away or run for it.
“Because you should just know, Jason.” You were crying so hard, your voice was so high-pitched you doubted he could even make out what you were saying, your chest felt like it was about to explode. “Because, last month, you spent nearly every fucking day of the week with me, and this month, I don’t hear from you. At all! I mean — you don’t even read my one fucking text message. And then you show up here, trying to act as though everything is normal, but it’s not, it’s absolutely fucking not, because all I will ever be to you is just sex, and you — you’re... Y’know what, just forget it, okay?”
You turned away from him then. You didn’t want to see the look of indifference on his face, you didn’t want to be disappointed again. You also didn’t want him to see you crying anymore. It was too embarrassing. You just wiped your tears with the sleeves of your top, not that it mattered all that much in the rain. It was silent then. You didn’t really know what to do, so, in lieu of doing absolutely nothing, you just knelt down and tried to clean up the mess you’d made of the Chinese food.
“I’m sorry.” You said, standing up, not because you were, but because you didn’t want to fight anymore. “Let’s just go home. I think... I think most of the food can be salvaged.”
Jason had a look on his face, and you didn’t really know what it meant. He was just so fucking difficult to read sometimes, it drove you to insanity. “Fine.” He conceded, much to your relief, “but at least put this on.”
He handed you his jacket (the hoodie you’d thrown off was tucked under his other arm, and you doubted you would ever get it back). You accepted, with some reluctance, but you had to work, and you didn’t wanna be getting sick.
The walk home was painfully quiet — just about the same as the whole evening had been. You felt like a complete and total disaster. Like, oh my god, who couldn’t keep together a sneaky link? Your life was a mess, and by tomorrow, it would be a mess without Jason in it. You had no idea how to feel about that — how to really feel about that, beyond the things you told yourself.
When you stood outside your apartment building, under the little screen over the door, you might’ve broken down again, but you were really just too tired. “I forgot my keys. We’ll... we can go up the fire escape or something.”
“I have them.” Jason said, picking them out of his pocket and shuffling through the array for the ones that unlocked the building entrances. Of course he had the keys — of course he knew that you’d forget them.
“Thank you.” You said, trying everything but to look up at him, yet you couldn’t really help yourself. If you could, you might not’ve wound up in such a dumb situation. It took a moment before he looked down at you too, and you felt like a deer caught in the headlights, like you’d been caught doing something you weren’t really supposed to do.
He didn’t look away. You didn’t look away. You were reminded of just how easy it was to be attracted to him — of how easy it was, how easy it might’ve been, to just kiss him. But... that’s all you would ever be. Just, this. No titles, no emotions, no nothing. You didn’t even need to tell yourself this time, you’d done it enough that you knew it.
It seemed like he was going to lean in, go the distance, but he didn’t. He handed you the keys to your apartment, taking a step back, a deep breath in.
“Are you... leaving?” You asked, looking at him with so much hope, and yet, such limited expectations.
“Yeah.” Jason said.
You scoffed, but, then again, what did you expect? All you could say was, “okay.” But, before you could turn away, try to unlock your stupid building door, Jason caught your arm. It was like a movie scene, sans happy ending.
“Look —” he said, just barely meeting your eye, “I’m sorry. For being such a dick, y’know, and... for the other stuff, too.”
“Jason, you don’t have to apologise. I’m the one who ruined... this.” You tried to shrug away from him, but he didn’t budge.
“Jus’ let me speak, okay?” He said, letting go of your arm to push his hands into his pockets, the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. You could do nothing but nod ‘fine.’
“I — it’s just so fuckin’ hard to be around you, because — well, ‘cause you mean so much fuckin’ more to me than just sex. I mean — I can’t, I jus’ can’t because... It’s like that time your apartment got robbed, and I thought you were gonna be — and, I wasn’t even fucking there. I called your mom that day, y’know, and — fuck.” He was breathing hard, real fast, too, and you had never seen him so vulnerable. He had always been just out of reach, even when you were right next to each other. And here he was, pouring out his guts, to you. To you. The one person who you always supposed meant the least to him.
You had no idea what to say — you mean, what do you say to things like this? Things you had always needed to hear, but never quite let yourself wanted. “Jason... you, called my mom? I... just, don’t —” you wanted to reach out to him, to hug him, to cry, but...
“I’m so fucking scared that, if I get real close to you, I’ll pull some shit like this, and... I’d rather never have you than loose you because, well, ‘cause I wasn’t enough. You can do better, anyway, like that stupid fucking guy from the stupid fucking Chinese place.”
All you could manage was a sad little, “Jason.”
He took another step back, and even though you felt like you could finally breathe, the painful realisation that this might be the very last time you ever speak to this stupid, beautiful man was enough to knock the wind out of you again.
“Y’don’t have to say anything.” He mumbled, looking down at the floor, and you could’ve sworn he was on the brink of tears.
“I —” You dropped the Chinese again, a little more gently this time, and your keys, only to put your hands up in the air in exasperation. “Jason.” You decided that it was finally fucking time to be a little brave, and do what the fuck you wanted to do, so you put your hands against his shoulders, trying to catch his gaze, “I want you.”
He still refused to look up, to meet your eye, because that would make it so real, and both of you had spent months in fear of that — but you had no choice but to push forward. “All I’ve wanted is you, Jason, and you — how could you not know? You’ve fucked up so, so many times, Jay, but, I’m still here, I — I don’t want some guy from the Chinese place, I want you. I don’t know how much more obvious I need to make it.”
He finally, finally looked up, looking into your eyes with those pretty green ones of his. “Do you...” he took a breath, and you could feel how fast his heart was going, “D’you really mean that?”
“Yes —”
Before you could even finish Jason’s arms were around you, his chin tucked in against your head, and it was completely intense and entirely sweet at the same time. You just took the moment to breathe him in, in a way you’d never really done before. It felt like you stayed exactly like that for years, the rain crashing down around you, but the rest of the world unmoving.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t wait a second to catch his breath to, at long last, kiss you. Really kiss you — one filled with all those pent up emotions and desires and everything else. It was intense at the start, so much passion driving his tongue against yours, but after a minute, or an hour, or a year, it softened, melted into something comfortable, something sweet, something that still left you feeling butterflies in your stomach. It felt like it lasted forever.
When he finally pulled away, you had that feeling again — like you could breathe, but at the same time were suffocating.
“Are you sure, y’know, that you want this, Jay?” You asked, chest tightening at the possibility he might say ‘no’; “we don’t have to be dating, or whatever, there’s no need for... titles or anythin— ”
“I don’t care what we call it, I jus’ wanna be yours.” Jason muttered, brushing his nose against yours, giving you one chaste kiss before picking up the keys to unlock the door. “How ‘bout next time we try somethin’ new?” He asked, picking up the Chinese as well, grabbing you with his free hand.
“I’d like that, Jay.” You said, smiling a true smile for the first time in what felt like decades. He gave a nod, and just as quickly dragged you upstairs to watch that re-run of BBC’s Pride and Prejudice whilst eating Chinese, with a little bit of gravel, wearing his hoodie, together. Each other’s.
My blog is a space where I write fan-fiction, orignal works, or just do some general drabbles. I mostly write for fem or afab readers, but if asked I could do male or amab readers.
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There have been seven drafts. Wait... Let me go check...
...Okay, yes. There have been seven drafts of the novel that I believe I’m destined to complete. After pondering and brooding over why this could be, I found myself hungry. 1:45 AM is a great time for writing but not eating. Sure, I haven’t eaten since lunch, but my hunger for conjuring words on the blank page is something that ignites me. I refuse to surrender to food.
Back to the point, I feel like my biggest struggle in writing is complicating things to the point of losing the fun. See, I believe that my novel has to be so perfect that it needs to be edited over and over and over again. But...this just isn’t good for anyone. I found out.
No novel is perfect. It doesn’t exist. There will never ever, ever, ever be a perfect story. And my persistence for perfection has carried into my craft...to a fault. Over-editing defeats the purpose of the passion.
Heck, I even tend to edit my messages to friends. No! I need to stop doing that... Editing so much can leave no meat on the skeleton. Now that I have addressed my biggest weakness in writing (impossibly contrived perfectionism), I expect to see a polished manuscript come to fruition...hopefully...
