B @vixenshiftsvrs - Tumblr Blog

Simon’s giving the dog his last walk of the evening. He’s on the last third of a cigarette when the dog stops to sniff around the trunk of a tree.

He exhales into the sky then glances down the gap between the houses, and the sightline runs clear across two dark gardens, straight to the back of his house — the kitchen window, blinds up, overhead lights blazing, and you crossing the kitchen right in front of it—

completely nude.

Five seconds, maybe, and you’re gone from the frame, but he’s already doing the recon — the angle of the gap, height of the fence, the pub that turns out people all night — and the information is saying that every pissed bloke stumbling home gets the full exhibition, compliments of his wife.

He sucks down the last of his cigarette as he picks up the pace home, the dog jogging alongside him. He flicks the butt into the street and turns down the path. The back door bangs behind him. You’re still at the counter, and you’re still naked, spooning peanut butter out of the jar. You smile up at him and the dog runs down the hall with the leash dragging.

“Good walk?”

“The blinds,” he points at the window.

“What about them?”

“They’re open.”

You look at the window and furrow your brows. “It’s dark out.”

“It’s dark out there.” He crosses the kitchen and yanks the cord, the slats fall down with a clatter. “I saw ya from the road. If I can see ya, so can every sod stumblin’ home from The Fox.”

“You saw me from the road?”

“Yes!” He points back with his thumb through the wall, in the vague direction of the gap.

“Huh,” you shrug. You dig the spoon back into the jar, unalarmed. “That’s actually kinda impressive.”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “There’s a pub at the end of that road, love,” he reiterates.

You lick the spoon clean and talk around the mouthful. “Simon, I really don’t care. It’s hot, nothing fits me anymore, and your son sat on my bladder all damn day.” You gesture at yourself with the spoon — the growing swell of your belly. “Did I mention nothing fits me?”

His eyes drop to your stomach and the scolding dies, the way it always does these days.

“Nothin’ fits?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got my shirts.”

“Your shirts fit you.” You let him pull you in, his hand finding the curve of belly, splaying across the side. “We outgrew them weeks ago.”

He’s quite a second, thumb rubbing over the spot the baby kicked this morning. “New rule. Clothes off means blinds down.”

“And if I break it?” you tease.

“You won’t,” he grumbles. “And I’m buyin’ bigger shirts.”

beebymoonlight

6eons

simon cries during sex (because it feels so good)

cw/tags: MDNI 18+ afab!reader. smut, piv, creampie, overstimulation, whimpering man<33

“come on dove, wan’ another one from you,” simon pants from above you. your skin is liquid lava the way the satin sheets under you stick to your back, clinging onto to curve of your ass for dear life.

rawme-price

No thoughts just ghost desperately jerking off, thinking of you, right?

The soldier in the barracks next to his, nothing but a thin wall separating you two.

He knows you as the lieutenant for some other team. The one who always makes him fight for q Victory when you two spar in the gym. That's where his little...fascination...began.

Few people are willing to spar with the guy who looks like he's been through hell, even less are able to take him down consistently. The first time you took him down, holding his arms behind his back with an iron grip and a knee firmly at the base of his skull, ghost swears he heard god in your laugh.

Almost every time he'd fantasize at night, it'd be to the memory of your hands on him. Of the pain blooming under his skin. Or, on rare occasions, his own calloused palms holding you down.

He's learned to be quiet about it, no need to creep you out with how often he's jerking off to you. Guiltily, he tries to keep his entire room silent, listening for you on the other side of the wall.

"Fuck! Mmghhg, yes–!" Tonight is not one of those nights.

"Please, christ please–" ghost rocks his cock into his palm, slick and desperate. You're out tonight, he made sure of that. Meaning ghost has been moaning openly, really getting into it like he hasn't allowed himself before.

He adjusts his grip, squeezes tighter at the base, pulls all the stops and–

And nothing. Everytime ghost feels so damn close to the edge, it's like he meets a wall. Constantly on that peak of pleasure but unable to push over. He whines, high and needy "no! No, no, c'mon! Please!"

A thump on the wall so loud ghost flails, falls half off the bed. Followed by your shouting "fuckin' hell, riley! Keep it down!"

His cock pulses once, twice. Thick ropes spilling over his stomach. Deathly quiet, refusing to breathe, he jerks himself until it hurts. Distantly, he registers you moving around the room, your nightly routine.

Fuck.

Ghost can't finish unless you're there.

bunniibabex

Simon hated his hands.

They were always too big, considering his behemoth size above the rest of his peers. Long, spindly fingers that over the years in the military, became thick with callouses and scars. Yellowed with cigarette butts, a knuckle here and there slightly out of place from all of the fractures and breaks.

The palms of his hands were completely webbed with delicate lines from both age and the extensive length of times he had worn his fingers in a fist. He had tried to make them look a little better, had gotten tattoos, would lotion when he could remember. The ink ran deep, little swirls and designs eating up the thick, aged skin on the back of his hands, fingers blotched on the first knuckle with little images or letters. It had started to bleed and fade that strange sort of navy that tattoos do after a prologued time under the skin.

But no amount of ink on the planet would erase the blood that they carried each day. Breaths silenced by those jagged palms, lives ended with just one pull of an index finger. His hands were dirty. Worse than the muck constantly tucked under his trimmed nails. They were forever stained crimson with decisions he would never be able to take back.

Right now, he was fighting hard to stop his fingers from trembling. He’d never felt his heart race this way. His palms were tense, outstretched to minimise the age lines that spanned them, and waiting for when the weight settled between them.

His breath stopped.

Bundled up in blankets and a tiny pink hat, those same hands that had carried grenades and guns and knives, was now so carefully balancing a tiny baby girl. No bigger than the length of his hands held open side by side, weighing nothing more than just a small few pounds and ounces.

Just her face was visible. Still a little smushed up from birth, peach fuzz coating the softest, pinkest skin. Her eyes shut, tiny lashes splaying across little rosy cheeks. She had his nose. Well the one before it has been broken four times. A little button nose, a little long, with a tiny bump down the bridge. But she had the poutiest little lips on the planet. Glossy with salvia, undoubtedly a carbon copy of her mother’s.

Simon was breathless and speechless.

This tiny thing, no bigger than this calloused, ugly hands… it had come from him. And the fact somebody loved him so much to give him one.

He could feel the hot sting of tears in the corner of his eyes.

His daughter stirred, her little face scrunching up even more before she yawned. Simon only watched, how her tiny pink tongue flexed in her mouth, how the fat of her cheeks shifted to accommodate that teeny tiny jaw to open as wide as it could go. Then, she settled back into the blankets, clearly comfortable in Simon’s hands. She squeaked quietly before settling in completely.

The first tear streamed down Simon’s cheek. Then the next. And the next.

His hands. Those calloused, ink stained, bloodied evil-doing hands. He had hated them for as long as he could remember.

But now, holding the smallest, most delicate, precious being in the world.

He couldn’t remember why.

rawme-price

Being roommates with soap means he gets to hear every part of your life, and vice versa.

Every weekend when you're both able to, you buy takeout and gossip. Soap fills you in on the ongoing bet about when exactly ghost will realize gaz has been flirting with him for weeks, and you fill him in on your recent bedmates without noticing how jealous he is everytime you talk about them.

Right now, fore example, he's working very hard not to snap his chopsticks while you tell him about the guy you hooked up with two days ago. You wake a hand dramatically "like, I get that I'm into older men, don't get me wrong– but usually they can keep up with me!"

"What? Finally sent one into cardiac arrest?" Soap raises a brow teasingly, then adds "so what happened?"

"Nothing!" You toss your hands up, every bit dramatic and charming as you always are "why?! Because he couldn't get it up!!"

"Yikes." Soap mumbles more for the cue to continue, quietly thinking he'd never have an issue getting going if you'd let him–

"Which, isn't usually a problem, it happens yknow? But he was such an ass–" you scowl at the memory, takeout box crinkling slightly from how hard you hold it. Soap frowns too, mostly because he hates knowing someone you trusted to sleep with was mean, "he blamed me! Me! Said I didn't work hard enough!"

From the many, many, detailed accounts soap has heard from you he knows that isn't true. He's had dreams of you sucking him off from how often you talk about it. "What a cunt," soap sneers, knocking his shoulder with yours "bet his profile sucked too."

"It did! But he was nice, so I took a chance. Here, I'll show you–" you reach across the spread of food to grab your phone, settling back practically tucked into soaps side to show him your screen "here, look."

Soap leans over your shoulder, ready to verbally tear this man to shreds like you and him often do only–

John Price, 47.

Not looking for anything serious.

Soap coughs, doubles over choking on his food–

"Holy shit–! Are you okay? Johnny?" You gasp, slapping him on the back until he stops making concerning wheezes.

"That...that's my captain–"

"....oh shit, really?" You look back at the profile. Technically you never ended anything for good with him, just told him to fix his attitude. "Should I go back and bet blackmail?"

Soap starts wheezing again.

twolegsandbleeds

simon riley, looking down at your upper body hanging off the mattress after he nearly fucks you off of the edge of the bed, cunt still fluttering around him, cum and slick leaking onto the bedsheets. hooking one big arm around your shoulders and hauling you back into bed whilst muttering got you, petal.

you're not sure if he's referring to the fact he's just stopped your head hitting the floor, or the fact you're glassy eyed and trembling from the four orgasms he's pulled from you.

cyberdrream

there’s something price doesnt understand about having a wife. in sickness and in health, those are what the vows said, and yet when you feel frail, with taking care of your daughter yourself, he barely cares. you’re his wife, you’re supposed to keep the house clean and a nice dinner on the table when he comes home. and a warm cunt for him, that’s. the whole point of you.

he never stays at home, he’s always on base. fucking his secretaries. your daughter grows into her teenage years never having her father around, angry at him, fighting him on your behalf. you’re too tired to deal with him, your life force sapped away with your husband’s lack of care. even before he was a captain, back when you’d married him as a sergeant.

there’s something simon could never understand about having a family. he’s always around these days, especially since he’s gotten that promotion to captain. after your divorce to his former co, he’s around your house much more often, teaching your daughter kung fu in the back garden whilst you chop vegetables and watch through the kitchen. it’s because he’s never had a wife, or a family, and yet he’s the one driving you around. he’s the one taking beautiful pictures of you, he’s the one who you invite on vacation.

you want to marry him, but the third degree burns your ex husband left on your heart match the same ones simon’s family’s death left on his.

rawme-price

Reader getting the worst callsign on base despite the fact you're not even a soldier.

No one knows your name, but everyone knows you're "ghost whisperer" which, in your opinion, is a shit nickname.

Why that name? Because you're the only one ghost listens to.

If anyone needs anything from ghost, reports, papers, signatures or anything else, they go through you. Because through you it actually gets done instead of brushed off or on rare occasions spitefully burned.

The current rumor is that, being prices kid, you're protected by the captain and ghost has to listen to you.

Other rumors include you and ghost having a...different kind of relationship.

The truth?

Nearly every Saturday you and ghost meet up late into the night at one of the gyms your friend owns, and you beat the shit out of him. As it happens, the way to earn ghosts respect is to accidentally send him to medical at least once every few months.

You still tell people he's sleeping with you, but that's mostly to piss off your dad.

cyberdrream

soo i had an evil idea…

there’s times at night when simon misses you, away on deployment. it’s like an ache he can’t shake off, it hurts right in his chest, in the pit of his stomach.

he keeps a simple polaroid of you, tucked in the pocket near his chest, with your shining eyes that are squinting in the unexpected flash. where you’re laughing at a joke he made, with your name doodled on the back.

it’s bad. he knows it’s bad. if anyone found it on him, you’d be dead. but he’s selfish, he needs this photo of you to survive, his sweet wife as you smile at something your friend is saying to you.

he kisses the photo goodnight, every night.

nobody has seen it yet, or so he thinks.

problem is john price has seen that photo, seen the sweetness in your eyes, and his heart starts fizzing. someone as sweet as you, a young thing, barely simon’s age. in a sweet dress, he wants to eat you whole.

he could eat you whole.

simon still holds your photo close to his chest at night, hoping you’re there. price imagines your soft weight on him. his subordinate’s wife, imagine that

gimmie ur thoughts…..

cntloup

professor price who's cheating on his wife with younger student reader continues...

one day you see him at the store after class. with her. you'd seen pictures if his wife, but never in person. they don't seem close. they're talking about what brand of laundry detergent to get. it all seems too forced. almost mechanical. or are you being a fool, imagining stuff to soothe your own heart?

he spots you in his peripheral, but looks away before you know it, focusing on her instead. until she leaves for another aisle. and finally, he approaches you.

you can see the fire burning in his eyes. "hi." you offer a lovesick smile. he doesn't speak, just grabs your hand and drags you away to a hidden corner, before slamming your back to the stack of groceries and crashing his lips onto yours.

the kiss is messy and sloppy, just like the emotions coursing through you. it's full of unspoken words, but known in your hearts. it's sinful. a forbidden love.

he pulls away slowly, panting against your wet swollen lips. "looking good, sweetheart." he murmurs. you're wearing his favorite dress on you. it's a casual summer dress that he gifted you on your birthday. it highlights your softness and angelic features, driving him absolutely crazy. "thanks." you reply, dazed smile never leaving your face.

he gives you a quick kiss before stepping away, haphazardly grabbing a bottle of shampoo and leaving you to go find her again. you follow behind him and hide behind the shelves. "where were you?" you hear her ask him. "just getting this." he responds.

and you watch with tears in your eyes as he places a hand on the small of her back as they walk out, squeezing your thighs together when you remember what he was doing to you earlier today. it's as if you can still feel him inside you...

bl00dyodin

Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.

He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.

"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"

Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.

"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because he’s returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.

Right now, you’re feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.

His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing you’re doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."

That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didn’t stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didn’t stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didn’t stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.

Until you. Until he met you.

You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.

"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like he’s got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."

Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"

"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."

He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like you’re effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.

"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he can’t tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like you’re shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."

Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.

He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.

"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm –" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."

twolegsandbleeds

foxes have been digging up your flowerbeds the entire time simon's been deployed. your carefully planted flowers dug up and pooped on by your local creatures of the night.

so as soon as simon comes home? you're asking him to pee in the garden - explaining that the testosterone scares them off.

you expect him to piss in a bottle, sprinkle it around - you know, like a normal bloke.

what you don't expect to see when you look out of the kitchen window at approximately seven in the evening is him standing with his cock swinging free in the garden, pissing over the grass like a dog marking it's territory, grumbling about fuckin' foxes ruinin' my petal's 'ard work. absolute cuntin' creatures.

well, if it gets the job done you won't complain.

(and edna next door isn't complaining either when she gets an eyeful from her bedroom window.)

twolegsandbleeds

something something simon riley shirtless and working on his bike in the sun.

you, in a folding chair with a canned cocktail in one hand and a ciggie in the other, watching the muscles in his back work as he moves. pale scars catching the sunlight. sweatpants dangerously low on his hips. a slow smile spreading over your face when you notice the crescent moon shaped indents on his shoulders; evidence of how well he fucked you last night.

edna, the 83 year old next door neighbour, sipping tea in her lounge, slightly disappointed her view is obscured by an overgrown shrub.

something she just happens to mention the next time you and her share a cuppa and a gossip.

she's entirely thrilled to see the next time simon's working on his bike, you've trimmed the leaves back.

you catch her eye through the window and wink.

simon sees the exchange in his peripheral vision. the tips of his ears go red.

notgaybuckybarnes

AIDAN TURNER British Vogue

llliissyyy

Price inviting the team over to his house to meet his lovely wife and his sweetheart daughter.

His daughter only living there at the moment after a nasty break up and not being able to find a new apartment immediately.

Prices wife welcoming the guys at the door and letting them into the warm house.

The boys take off their shoes after misses Price tells them to. Then they look at the stairs seeing a sweet and beautiful woman descending them.

Soap’s mouth falls open, Gaz’s eyes widen while he is actively trying to keep his mouth closed and Ghost drops his jacket when he tried to just put it on the hook.

“Hey, I’m …” you beam at the men that collectively think:

We’re fucked and not the good kind.

_______________________________________________

Price is over 50 in this and his daughter is like 23.

sweetplea

aerion “why did you stop?” targaryen

like when you’re playing with his hair. late at night, in your chambers—

your fingers root themselves into the white, almost silver strands delicately. as if you’re afraid he’ll run if you rush into it. you wait until he completely melts on top of you to gently drag your nails over his scalp. his face presses into your chest, nestled between your breasts and nosing at your sternum like he’s been reduced to basic instincts. he seeks out more of your touch once your hand stills. he needs your nails teasing him in the softest ways, he needs your fingers twisting and tugging at his hair in a manner that comforts him. a whine crawls up his throat, raspy and unguarded. your other hand raises, just so you can swipe your thumb over where his brows furrow in the middle. his lashes flutter in response, his lips move— “why did you stop?”

or when you’re kissing him. somewhere you shouldn’t be at all—

the stone is cold against your back. aerion’s hands are traveling everywhere and anywhere he can manage. squeezing your waist beneath his palms, rubbing your hips, even daring to grab your ass through your silk and linen. you gasp quietly against his lips, eyes falling shut as you realize your prince is feeling you up in an abandoned hall. you can hear footsteps. they’re faint but present enough to coax you to turn your head as if that helps by any means. your lips are already kiss swollen, you’re already struggling to keep up. and his own remain connected to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. they’re murmuring against your skin— “why did you stop?”

especially when you’re in his lap. in the bath, after a long day of duties and requirements—

the warm water has you hazy and aerion needy as you settle against him, sinking down until you feel complete again. you both release a broken breath, sticky foreheads pressed together and lips slick with shared saliva. his nails bite at your hips under the water, the sting is dull but there’s more than enough pressure to leave small indents behind as he urges you to rock your hips. once, and then twice, despite your trembling and the way you smush your cheek against his shoulder. you still, huffing out another breath. your hands rest on his chest for a second and he grabs them, thumbs pressing into your palms and rubbing in little circles. he hisses— “why did you stop?”

pinkdoeweirdo

DOWN BAD AND NASTY

aerion targaryen x daeron's wife!reader

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ cw: mdni 18+ infidelity f!reader threats unhealthy relationship secret relationship mentions of mutilation blood

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a/n: found this small piece in my drafts that has been sitting there for literal months

the clicking sound of your steps on the stone floors of the red keep echoed throughout the corridor, as your stride quickened. you were annoyed. irritated. on the verge of exasperated anger, even. it wasn’t your fucking fault that your pathetic, so called husband, didn't even bother to show up at the feast. not to mention that he was barely ever at the castle at all. how could it be your fucking fault? what do they think you were, a nanny for a drunken moron? no fucking way. you pulled the door to your chambers open and slammed it shut behind you.

“someone is in a good mood.” a mocking voice snapped you out of your fury. you turned suddenly, a mix of surprise and further irritation on your face. it was quite an unexpected sight. prince aerion sprawled on your bed, shirt unbuttoned, hands behind his head, the smug smirk on his face. his eyes lazily looked you up and down as if you came in here with a sole purpose of entertaining him.

“what are you doing here?” you asked sternly, brows furrowed.

“my prince.” he murmured lazily.

“what?”

" ’what are you doing here, my prince?’ royalty should be addressed with proper respect.” his tongue flicked, brushing his bottom lip. “be careful, or I will think you have forgotten your place.”

you fought the urge to curse him out.

“what are you doing here, my prince?” you repeated, voice filled with venom.

“just wanted to see you.” his smirk widened. “aren’t you honored?”

“who let you in?”

“some trembling wench. does it matter?” his hand reached out to the bedside table carelessly taking a strawberry from a bowl and into his mouth. “my favourite girl isn’t happy to see me?”

you decided to ignore his presence and approached a mirror to adjust your gown, trying to appear composed. aerion sighed irritably before putting another strawberry into his greedy mouth. you felt his hungry gaze even without needing to turn your head, his eyes roaming over your forms with torturing slowness.

“they are implying that it is my fault daeron isn’t showing up in court.” you huffed, staring at your reflection in the mirror as you twisted a few unruly strands of hair around your fingers. “saying i can’t keep the prince interested enough.”

aerion shifted and lazily lounged across the bed behind you.

“oh, you surely can keep the prince interested enough… just not the one they are implying.”

you turned sharply, shooting him a hateful look. “you think this is fucking funny.”

“i think…” he shifted slightly, pushing himself up on his knees on the mattress. “…you are being rather too bitchy with me.” his head tilted, studying you. “that’s not very polite, is it?”

“you broke into my chambers,” you said sternly.

aerion lifted one hand and crooked a finger, silently beckoning you closer. when you didn’t move, holding his gaze, he clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes with annoyance.

“don’t make me stand up, sweet thing,” he said suspiciously calmly. “it would be such a shame to disfigure this pretty face of yours.”

you rolled your eyes at the empty threat but finally stepped toward the bed. the moment you reached the edge, his hands were on you in an instant. one fist closed roughly in your hair while the other slid more gently along your collarbone. he pulled you forward, leaning in until his breath brushed your throat.

“i don’t like it when other people ruin my precious girl’s mood,” he murmured against your skin.

his mouth drifted along your jaw. “i am already spoiling you rotten, aren’t i?” his grip tightened, tugging your hair back sharply and forcing your head to tilt. “so i don’t want my sweet little creature coming back to me acting like a brat, because another man said something.” he looked up at you. “understand?”

you managed a small nod and aerion clicked his tongue again.

“i don’t hear you. what should a good girl say?”

“yes, my prince,” you mumbled. “thank you, my prince.”

a slow grin spread across his face.

“good girl indeed.”

then he pulled you down and captured your lips in a brutal kiss. His grip in your hair tightened, keeping your head tilted exactly where he wanted it. the kiss was wet, rough and filled with teeth, his greedy mouth pressing hard against yours as if he meant to silence every complaint with his tongue. your hand snaked to the back of his neck, skin warm beneath your fingers.

aerion finally broke the kiss just enough to breathe, though his hand remained tangled in your hair. his other hand slid from your collarbone to the curve of your waist, holding you firmly in place. he studied your face for a moment, his grin still lingering, eyes sparkling with hunger.

“who dared to say that to you, hm?” he murmured, trailing light kisses along your neck. “i need their names.”

“i don’t know their names.” you huffed, annoyance now mixed with arousal.

“you don’t?” he murmured against your skin, nibbling lightly at your neck.

“some minor lordlings,” you said. “from the south, i think.”

“if you cannot name the particular ones, i suppose i will have to cut out everyone’s tongues, won’t i?” he chuckled softly against your throat. “show everyone you belong to the dragon.”

“you are forgetting I am not your property,” your hand shot into his hair, gripping tightly and forcing his head back so he had to look up at you. “want everyone to fucking find out that i am sleeping in your chambers more often than in mine?”

aerion winced slightly, more in surprise than in pain.

“you are reckless,” you hissed, your other hand sliding up to seize his jaw between your fingers. “last week that tantrum with the mummers, now this?”

for a moment he simply stared at you, then his expression twisted.

“tantrum?” he spat.

his hands flew to your wrists, gripping them tightly, half trying to pry you off and half dragging you closer at the same time.

“you—”

you leaned into him, pressing down your knee to his crotch, forcing a gasp out of him. hand on his pretty throat.

“one day, your insolent behaviour will get us in serious trouble,” you said coolly. “so you better stop testing your luck, my prince.”

“how dare you?” he breathed, stunned.

for a heartbeat he simply stared up at you, squirming under your touch

“you vicious little—” he snapped, voice pitching higher with indignation, but he was forced to choke on his words as you pressed your knee harder.

“vicious little what? i can’t hear you.” you mocked, lips hovering over his. he groaned in desperation and helplessness, hands clutching your dress.

“you—hah—you witch,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “do you truly think you can tame a dragon?”

his defiance was pitiful, undermined by the way his hips eagerly bucked back into your knee.

“a dragon must control its silly impulses,” you said, tightening your grip further. he let out a moan that made you smile. his forehead pressed against your shoulder, face contoured in humiliating submission. truly pathetic.

“you will behave during today’s feast and furthermore. understand?” you said, nipping at his jaw. his hands trembled against your waist, torn between shoving you away and dragging you closer. “and if I find out that you are overstepping again…”

aerion sucked in a sharp breath, fingers clutching at your waist as though it were the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. he bristled at your words, it looked as if he’d protest. but with your knee still pressed between his legs, he could only manage a strangled sound.

“fine.” he mumbled, averting his gaze in shame.

you smirked cupping his cheek gently but still keeping your knee firmly planted on his crotch.

“that wasn’t so difficult, was it, my prince?” you purred mockingly.

his jaw flexed in irritation, eyes flicked back to yours, burning with wounded pride and embarrassment.

“no,” he admitted through gritted teeth, fingers flexing restlessly against your waist, almost bruising.

aerion tilted his head and pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist in a soft kiss.

“good dragon,” you cooed, satisfied.

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