Erotic fanfic with Roderick Dustin 🐺🐉⚔️
Outside the thick stone walls of Barrow Hall, a brutal northern blizzard was raging—the kind that can freeze your blood in just a few heartbeats. The howling wind battered the heavy oak shutters, sounding like the lament of a thousand lost souls.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, thick with tension and heavy shadows. The only light came from the massive fireplace, where resinous pine logs crackled and popped. The scent of burning wood mingled with the musk of leather, old wine, and sweat. The shadows cast by the flames danced across the stone walls, making the room feel like a predator’s den.
Roderick Dustin stood by the table, hunched over maps as his fingers traced the path of the Kingsroad. Without his armor, he looked even bigger, more primal. His broad back, covered only by a thin, half-unbuttoned linen shirt, tensed with every breath. His silver-white hair, tangled and damp with sweat, fell over his neck, tracing the old scars left by battleaxes.
You closed the door behind you. The heavy thud of the iron bolt sliding into place cut through the silence like the crack of a whip.
Roderick froze. Slowly, with a hesitation that betrayed his internal struggle, he turned to face you. His steel-gray eyes, usually cold and entirely focused on war, now burned with a dark, restless heat.
"I told you not to come," he rasped. His voice was low and rough, carrying the heavy weight of a man who had spent too many winters on the ice. "My Wolves march south tomorrow. The blood we spill there won't be water. You should forget about me."
You didn't say a word. Instead, you slowly untied the laces of your heavy woolen cloak. The furs slid to the stone floor with a soft thud, leaving you in nothing but a thin, linen chemise. The draft from the loose window quickly nipped at your skin, making you shiver.
Roderick saw that shiver. That was all it took for whatever walls he had built to completely shatter.
He took two long, predatory strides. Before you could even catch your breath, his massive, warm hands gripped your hips. **His grip was tight, bordering on painful, but it was exactly what you wanted.** He pulled you against him so suddenly that your chest slammed into his rock-hard torso.
"You're my undoing," he muttered against your lips, his hot breath smelling of spiced, strong mead.
In the next second, his mouth crashed onto yours. There was nothing gentle or polite about this kiss. It was possessive, hungry, and filled with the desperation of a man who knew he was staring death in the face. Roderick kissed you like he wanted to drink the very life out of you, to keep it inside him for the coming war. His rough stubble scraped against your skin, and his tongue dictated the pace, demanding absolute surrender.
Every move Roderick made was pure, raw power. His hands roamed your back, bunching up the fabric of your shirt.
His rough thumbs dug into your hips, lifting you slightly off the ground.
Low, throaty growls escaped his chest with every deep breath.
With one rough tug, not caring about the delicate fabric, Roderick ripped your chemise from collar to waist. The white linen fell from your shoulders, exposing you to the warm glow of the hearth. Dustin’s eyes widened, a look of pure, unbridled hunger flashing in his gaze.
He lifted you effortlessly and sat you on the heavy oak table, sweeping away the wax seals and war maps. The parchment rustled beneath you as Roderick pressed himself between your thighs. His hands, calloused and scarred from years of wielding a greatsword, began to trace your body. The contrast between his rough skin and your softness was electric.
He leaned down, his mouth tracing a path lower.
He bit you gently, leaving dark marks to remind anyone who looked at you exactly who you belonged to.
His hot tongue teased your nipples, which hardened under the chill of the room and the heat of his breath. You gripped his thick, silver hair, arching your back and whimpering into the dark.
His hand slid lower, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin of your belly and inner thighs, sending waves of goosebumps across your skin.
"Roderick... please," you whispered, burying your nails into his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles tensed to their absolute limit.
"I want to feel all of you," he growled. "I want your scent to wash away the smell of blood I've carried for years."
As he stripped off his own clothes, his massive frame towered over you, blocking out the rest of the world. You could see every single scar—every story written on his skin.
Roderick didn't wait. He grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide and tilting your hips up so there was no escaping his weight. When he pushed into you, a deep, sudden thrust, a loud cry escaped your lips, only for him to swallow it with another kiss.
The rhythm he set was wild and relentless. Every drive of his hips was heavy and sure, promising absolute surrender. The table creaked beneath you and the discarded maps rustled under your back, but all that mattered was the burning, melting heat pooling between your thighs.
Roderick loved you with a fury and passion that was both terrifying and intoxicating. His sweat dripped onto your chest, mixing with your tears of pleasure. He pinned your hands, lacing his massive fingers through yours and pressing them against the table, as if to make sure you couldn't slip away.
"Look at me," he demanded, his face tight with the sweet ache of desire. "I want to see your eyes when you're mine. Only mine."
With every deeper, harder thrust, you felt yourself spinning closer to the edge. His movements grew faster, more frantic, his breath hitching in his chest. As the waves of release washed over you, Roderick let out a low, guttural roar—like a wounded wolf—and hit his peak right along with you, filling you with his warmth.
It was hours later when you finally crawled into bed, tangled together under heavy bearskin throws. The storm outside had died down, and the first pale streaks of winter dawn were starting to show on the horizon.
Roderick twirled a strand of your hair around his finger, his face—usually so stern—completely soft.
"The North remembers," he whispered, kissing your forehead. "And I won't forget this warmth, not even in the deepest hell of the south."
You knew he would leave in the morning to lead his Winter Wolves to their fate. But tonight, in this one hidden moment, Roderick Dustin belonged entirely to you.
