Dirty Secret
It started with a sound.
One night, weeks earlier—her lover, her sweet, sweet girl, had sighed. That little, soft, breathless sound she made just before she came. Half gasp, half moan. Almost a sob. Something so pretty, something so wild.
And inside Rhaenyra, a thing had snapped.
She’d stopped moving, instead, she stared at thr woman, almost in awe — in admiration.
Because in that moment, she hadn’t wanted to kiss her. Or whisper to her. Or even hold her.
She didn’t want to caress her sweetly like something precious, as she usually did.
She’d wanted to flip her over.
To grab her by the hips, shove her face down, and make her scream. Not her name. Not please. Just raw, wrecked, animal noise.
She hadn’t wanted her devotion.
She’d wanted her body.
Used.
And used hard.
And ever since that night, Rhaenyra hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.
It had burrowed into her like a sickness. Like something buried in the bone, chewing its way up through the flesh until it pulsed behind her eyes. She would sit in council chambers, pretending to listen, her thighs pressed tightly together under her gown.
She wanted to manhandle her.
To bruise her thighs with her grip. To pull her hair and spit against her cunt and say things that would shame her if she remembered them.
And she couldn’t say a word. Because the woman loved her. Tenderly. Sweetly. Softly.
She lit candles. Kissed her gently. Moaned into her mouth. Said things like you’re beautiful and you feel so good and I love you. Just like Rhaenyra herself wanted to love her. And she did, yes, she did — but there were moments where she just could not seem to shake that parasite feeling off herself.
And Rhaenyra—Rhaenyra wanted to growl.
She wanted to ruin the sheets. To pin her down with her full weight and say: you’re mine and I’m going to take you until you cry.
And that want—that need—was not something she could confess. She was ashamed; deeply ashamed of her feelings.
So she stayed quiet.
And cold.
And she hated herself for it.
The woman knew something was wrong.
She didn’t ask directly. She never did. But she lingered now. Her eyes lingered. Her hands hesitated.
“You barely touch me anymore,” she said one night, low and unsure. She was quite sad. She didn’t know just what was wrong with her darling Rhaenyra, but she could simply sense that something was wrong. She had started actibg differently.
She wondered if it was because of something she had done wrong, but she knew Rhaenyra wasn’t the type to just go silent about important matters. She wasn’t petty like that.
Rhaenyra looked away.
“I’m tired.” She had finally muttered, idly.
“I know when you’re tired.” Her lover had replied, a little bit of concern in her melodic voice.
“Then let me be.”
A silence fell between them.
But the woman didn’t leave the room.
She simply lay down on the bed. Slipped off her robe. And let the candlelight pool across her bare skin.
They had an abit of sleeping in the same bed, at least once a week. No one in the castle really questioned it — at least not to their faces. They hoped that their silly excuses about how they in fact weren’t sleeping next to each other were believable, but at some point, they decided they didn’t even care that much anymore.
Rhaenyra said nothing.
Did nothing.
But when the woman was asleep—
She touched herself.
She stood in the doorway again.
Just like before.
Her lover sprawled across the bed, legs half-parted, hair a dark halo across the pillow. The sheets had slipped, revealing the curve of her ass, the back of her thigh.
And that was all it took. Rhaenyra’s breath caught. Her cunt pulsed.
She reached down. Slid her hand beneath her nightgown.
She was soaked already. The image that filled her mind wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even loving.
It was brutal.
She imagined grabbing her lover by the hips. Forcing her onto her knees. Spitting on her cunt and shoving her face into the mattress.
No words. No warning.
Just taking.
Hard. Hungry.
Over and over.
Using her.
The thought made her hips jerk. Her fingers pumped faster. Sloppier. She tried not to breathe too loud. Tried not to let the slick, wet sounds echo across the stone walls.
But she imagined the woman waking.
Not stopping her. Letting her. No—moaning for it. Begging for more.
And Rhaenyra came. Hard.
So hard she bit her lip and tasted blood.
So hard her knees went weak.
She came to the thought of the woman raw and red and wrecked, her thighs trembling, lips swollen from being fucked over and over until her voice was gone.
Her sweet, sweet girl. So ruined.
And when it passed, when her hand fell away, wet and shaking—
She stared at her lover in the bed, and felt shame rise in her like bile; because she would never ask for it.
Not from her.
And the ache would return tomorrow, and the next night, and the next.