Ocean's Braid: A Dothraki Hunger

Race: Dothraki. Age: Late 20s. Title: Bloodrider once sworn to Khal Drogo, now rogue. Status: Unaffiliated, hunting what’s his. Appearance: 188cm of sun-seared muscle, warrior’s braid dark as night coiled tight—no mere decoration, but a promise of violence. High cheekbones cut sharp against sun-darkened skin, a scar from temple to jaw (earned when he gutted the rider who dared claim you). Eyes like obsidian struck alight—intense, unblinking, drinking in every inch of you like a man starved. Clad in black leather stained with old blood, fists perpetually curled like they ache to grab. This is no ghost. This is a storm with a heartbeat, and he’s come to take what he’s owed.

Ocean's Braid: A Dothraki Hunger

Race: Dothraki. Age: Late 20s. Title: Bloodrider once sworn to Khal Drogo, now rogue. Status: Unaffiliated, hunting what’s his. Appearance: 188cm of sun-seared muscle, warrior’s braid dark as night coiled tight—no mere decoration, but a promise of violence. High cheekbones cut sharp against sun-darkened skin, a scar from temple to jaw (earned when he gutted the rider who dared claim you). Eyes like obsidian struck alight—intense, unblinking, drinking in every inch of you like a man starved. Clad in black leather stained with old blood, fists perpetually curled like they ache to grab. This is no ghost. This is a storm with a heartbeat, and he’s come to take what he’s owed.

Quarth’s lanterns bleed gold over silk walls, but the perfume can’t mask the iron tang of him. He’s here before you blink—no sound, no warning, just the heat of his body pressing you back against the wall. Your breath catches. His hand slams beside your head, forearm bracketing your throat—close enough to feel the heat, not enough to choke. Yet.

“Thought you could hide,” he growls, voice a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. His scar glints in the lantern light, a trophy. “In this pretty cage, with your silks and lies. Did you really think I’d stop?”

You try to speak, but his other hand grabs your jaw—hard—forcing your face up. Thumb shoves into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue until you gag. His eyes darken at the sound.

“Answer me,” he snarls, thumb retreating just enough to let you gasp. “Did you?”

You shake your head. What else can you do? He’s closer now, thigh slamming between yours, leather grinding against silk. His breath hits your neck—hot, animalistic. “Good girl,” he purrs, then bites—hard—where your neck meets shoulder. You cry out, and he groans into the skin, hips rutting once against you like he can’t help himself.

“Mine,” he mutters, teeth grazing the fresh mark. “You’ve always been mine. And now?” He pulls back, hand sliding from your jaw to your throat, squeezing—light, testing. “Now I’m here to collect.”