you are such a good writer i would genuinely read your description of paint drying. will you write some more hurt/comfort with baelor and maekar? maybe like making up after an argument or baelor/maekar hurting reader’s feelings in some way, maybe reuniting after an extended period of time apart? whatever floats your boat. thanks for writing if you do! <3
oh anon, you have awakened something in me that i did not know i possessed *laughs in completely deranged* tysm for this request¡¡ thank you also for your kind words! hopefully my PhD supervisor thinks the same after reading my dissertation. i have decided to start this request with Maekar's piece, as Baelor's has some connections to it that only make sense if you read it in that order
atonement Or how your your husbands beg in different ways for your forgiveness
Includes: Baelor Targaryen x sister-wife!reader and Maekar Targaryen x sister-wife!reader
Warning(s): +18 MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, canon typical Targcest, reader insert (no use of y/n). For Baelor: brief emotional hurt, established relationship, hurt/comfort, sex ban, edging, orgasm denial, masturbation, voyeurism, riding, power dynamics, dom/sub undertones. For Maekar: brief emotional hurt, established relationship, hurt/comfort, oral sex (fem receiving), power play (consensual), soft dom reader, sub Maekar), praise kink, degradation kink (light).
A.N.: Maekar's piece is heavily inspired by @hayatistic 's treat (please, please, go read that piece it is absolutely marvelous).
The argument had started the way arguments with Maekar always started — not with a spark but with a pressure that had been building for days, the kind that found its outlet in something small and became immediately about everything else.
You could not even remember what had lit it. Some disagreement about the household, something that should have been resolved in three sentences and instead caught on the particular friction that existed between you and Maekar, the same current that made you magnificent together and catastrophic in opposition. You had pushed. He had pushed back. The words had escalated the way words did when two people knew each other completely and had therefore detailed maps of every vulnerable place.
That was when he had said it.
You had been mid-sentence when it left his mouth — something precise and deliberate and aimed with the accuracy of a man who knew exactly where to look to find the thing that would land hardest. Not a cruelty in the broad sense. Nothing that would read as monstrous to anyone standing outside the room. But he knew you. He had known you since childhood, had grown alongside you, had been given access over years to every private thing — and he had taken something from that private place and used it, quickly and efficiently, the way he used a blade.
The silence afterward was immediate and complete.
You looked at him. He looked back at you, and you watched the moment he registered what he had done — the faint shift in his expression, not regret yet, not quite, but the recognition of it. The knowledge arriving just slightly too late.
You said nothing. You turned and walked out.
He did not come after you.
That was Maekar. He did not chase. He stood in the aftermath of his own damage and let the distance open because some part of him always believed, when he had gone too far, that the distance was what was deserved — that following would be a presumption, that your space was the least he owed you.
What he did instead was spend the remainder of the day in a state that anyone who knew him well would have recognised as punishment. Not the productive severity of a man working through something — the other kind. The kind where he moved through the hours doing everything that was required of him with the mechanical competence of someone whose mind was entirely elsewhere, and the elsewhere was a single sentence said in a room he had already left.
He replayed it with the thoroughness he gave everything. He examined it from every angle. He arrived at the same conclusion each time.
By evening he could not stand himself.
He came to your chambers at the hour when the castle had quieted and the torches had burned to their second wind, the low amber light that meant most of the household had found their beds.
You had not locked the door. He had half expected you to.
You were at the window when he entered, standing with your back to the room, and you did not turn when he came in. He took that in — the set of your shoulders, the particular quality of your stillness, which was not the stillness of someone at peace — and said nothing for a moment.
Then he began.
He was not good at this. He had never been good at this. Maekar, who could draft a military strategy in his sleep, who could read terrain and weather and the disposition of men with a glance, who had opinions about everything and delivered them without hesitation — Maekar when faced with the specific requirement of saying I am sorry and here is why became someone considerably less articulate. The words came out in the wrong order. He started sentences and revised them midway. He explained the argument as though you had not been present for it, backtracked, tried again.
He was somewhere in the middle of a third attempt when he heard the door.
The latch. The quiet, definitive sound of it catching.
He stopped.
He turned.
You were standing at the closed door with your hand still resting on the latch, and you were looking at him — not the window, not the middle distance, but directly at him — and the expression on your face was not what he had expected. Not the cold anger of this morning. Not forgiveness either.
Something else entirely.
"You," you said quietly, "have been a very bad boy."
The silence that followed had a texture entirely unlike the one this morning.
Maekar stared at you. Every half-constructed apology he had been assembling for the past several hours evaporated simultaneously.
"I—" He stopped. The sentence he had been building had not been designed for this and could not locate its footing. "I was in the middle of—"
"I know what you were in the middle of." You moved away from the door with unhurried steps, crossing the room slowly, and the quality of your movement was something he had not seen from you today — not the wound of this morning, not the retreat. Something considerably more deliberate. "I heard you."
"Then—"
"I didn't say you could speak."
He closed his mouth.
You stopped a few feet from him and looked at him with that calm that was somehow more arresting than anger — the particular stillness of someone who has made a decision and is in no hurry about the execution of it.
"You know what you said," you said.
"Yes." Rough. Immediate.
"And you know what it did."
His jaw tightened. "Yes."
"Then you understand," you said, "that words are not going to be sufficient."
He looked at you. "What do you—"
"On your knees, Maekar."
The words landed in the quiet room with the simple certainty of a command that does not expect to be questioned.
Maekar went entirely still.
He was not a small man. He was not, in any context, a man who could be described as diminished — broad and certain and carrying at all times the particular gravity of someone who had never needed to announce his presence because rooms simply rearranged themselves around it. He had been on his knees before gods and before necessity and before the dead, and on no occasion had it resembled this.
"You are serious," he said. Not a challenge. Genuine reckoning.
"I am always serious." A pause. "I am waiting."
Something moved through his expression — complex and rapid and arriving at an answer he had not fully anticipated. Because the thing about Maekar, the thing you had known since long before tonight, was that he contained multitudes that his public severity worked very hard to keep orderly. And something in those multitudes was responding to this moment in a way that had very little to do with shame and quite a lot to do with something else entirely.
He sank to his knees.
Not with reluctance. Not performing it. With the same decisiveness he gave everything — the choice made and committed to, those violet eyes finding yours from below with an expression that was part contrition and increasingly, unmistakably, part something far warmer.
You looked down at him. The sight of it — all that size, all that contained authority, kneeling on the stone floor of your chambers and looking up at you — did something immediate and significant to your ability to remain entirely cold about this.
You let none of it show. Not yet.
"You know," you said, beginning to move — not toward him, around him, a slow deliberate circuit that made him track you with his eyes because he could not help it, had never been able to help it where you were concerned, "what it is that you said."
"Yes." Lower now.
"And you know that it was beneath you."
A pause in which the pride warred briefly with the truth. "Yes."
"And you came here tonight with a great deal of words," you continued, moving toward the chair beside the fire — high-backed, solid, positioned where the firelight fell warm and gold — "and none of them were quite right, were they."
He said nothing. Which was its own answer.
You reached the chair. You sat.
And then, holding his gaze, you gathered your gown — slowly, deliberately, the fabric whispering as it rose — and drew it to your waist.
Bare beneath it. Completely. The firelight warm across your skin.
The sound Maekar made was immediate and involuntary and nothing like the man who had said something cutting this morning with cold precision. Something that had bypassed dignity entirely.
He moved to rise.
"Stay."
One word. He froze.
The expression on his face was extraordinary — desire and frustration warring openly, his hands flat on his thighs, violet eyes dark and fixed on you with an intensity that had lost every pretence of composure.
"You do not get to simply walk to me," you said pleasantly. "You have not earned that yet."
His jaw tightened. "Then what—"
"I think you know."
The silence stretched.
"You are not serious," he said. His voice had gone rough.
You raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Which was, as he knew perfectly well, confirmation.
Maekar looked at you. He looked at the floor between you. He looked back at you. Every line of him radiating the strain of a man whose pride and his wanting were engaged in a conflict that was becoming increasingly one-sided.
And then, with the expression of a man making a decision he will never in his life admit to finding anything other than humiliating, he placed his hands on the floor.
And crawled to you.
Gods.
The sight of it nearly undid your composure entirely — that broad, certain body moving across the stone floor toward you with those violet eyes fixed on your face, the flush climbing his neck and jaw, the white hair falling forward. The evidence of what this was doing to him visible and undeniable where his breeches pulled taut.
He was halfway across the room and your thoughts had become extremely simple.
He reached you. Rose up onto his knees before the chair, between your parted thighs, close enough that the warmth of him reached you, and his eyes moved — helplessly, immediately — to where your gown pooled at your waist.
A sound left him that resonated somewhere at the base of your spine.
He reached for you.
Your foot met his shoulder. Not hard. Firm.
He stopped.
His eyes flew to your face with an expression of genuine anguish.
"Beg," you said softly.
"I—" The word came out entirely wrong, stripped of all its usual authority. "You cannot—"
"I can." You tilted your head. "Beg, Maekar. And mean it."
The flush had reached his ears. His hands were pressed flat against his thighs again and you could see the effort of keeping them there — all that coiled wanting held in check by the simple fact of your foot on his shoulder and your eyes on his face and the specific power of this moment that he had not anticipated and could not seem to locate an exit from and was increasingly, you suspected, not looking for one.
"Please." Rough. Immediate. Like it had been waiting just below the surface.
"Please what."
His eyes closed briefly. Opened. Found yours with a nakedness that had nothing to do with the physical. "Please. I am — gods — I am sorry. What I said was—" He stopped. His throat worked. "It was beneath me. It was beneath what you deserve. And I am asking you—" The words seemed to cost him in a way that the crawling, somehow, had not. "I am asking you to let me make it right."
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you lowered your foot from his shoulder.
He moved forward immediately, his hands finding your thighs with a reverence entirely at odds with the urgency behind it — spreading them wider, thumbs pressing into the soft inner flesh as though taking inventory, as though he intended to be thorough and was announcing that intention with his hands before his mouth had done anything at all.
He looked at you first. That was the thing that nearly broke your composure before he had even begun — Maekar, kneeling between your thighs with his white hair falling forward and his violet eyes dark, looking at you with the focused attention of a man who has been given a specific task and is conducting an assessment. Not tentative. Never tentative. Simply — taking stock. Learning the geography of what he had been given permission to address.
Then he leaned in and put his mouth on you and the sound you made echoed off the stone walls without apology.
He started slow. Deliberately slow, in the way that was not gentleness but control — the same control he applied to everything, here redirected entirely toward your undoing. His tongue moved in long, unhurried strokes, learning you, cataloguing what made your thighs tighten and what made your breath catch and what made your hand find his hair. He filed it all away. Maekar forgot nothing.
Your fingers tangled in his hair.
The sound he made when you gripped — low and rough and pulled from somewhere deep — vibrated against you and made your grip tighten further, reflexive, and he pressed closer in response, the groan that followed rolling through you like weather. His eyes lifted. Violet and blown wide and fixed on your face from below with an expression that had left dignity somewhere across the room.
He adjusted. Whatever the assessment had concluded, he acted on it now — mouth finding your clit with a precision that was almost unfair, working it with the flat of his tongue in a rhythm that was not varied or playful but relentless, the rhythm of a man who had identified the objective and intended to pursue it without deviation. The thoroughness of him. The specific, devastating attention of Maekar when properly directed — usually toward military strategy, toward the defence of something, toward the systematic resolution of a problem — applied here, to this, to you.
One hand moved. His thumb traced down and then pressed in, slow and deliberate, and the sound you made was nothing like composure.
He worked both at once with the same methodical certainty — mouth and hand, each informing the other, adjusting to every sound you made, every tightening of your thighs against his shoulders, every involuntary pull of his hair. There was no performance in it. There never was, with Maekar. Only the application of full attention to a thing he had decided to do well, and the full attention of Maekar was a devastating instrument.
Your grip tightened further. He groaned again — that sound, the particular helpless quality of it, the way being gripped and held and used seemed to travel through him like current — and his rhythm intensified, and you looked down at him and he looked up at you and beneath the contrition, beneath the wanting, beneath everything this evening had already been — what lived in those violet eyes was a promise. Patient and certain and entirely Maekar. The quiet authority that no amount of kneeling or crawling had actually touched, present still, simply redirected.
Later, those eyes said. But first.
Your grip tightened further.
The tension that had been coiling since the moment you latched the door gathered to a point that became unbearable and then broke entirely, your back arching and his name leaving your mouth in a way that was nothing like the cold distance of this morning — nothing like anything except this: the two of you, undone and specific and completely known to each other, in the firelit dark.
Maekar held you through every tremor, mouth and hand and the steady certain presence of him, unhurried, thorough to the last.
When you finally stilled, he pressed his lips to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Slow. The tenderness of it, after everything, nearly cracked your chest open.
He rose up from his knees.
Not crawling now. He rose to his full height in one movement and stood before you, flushed and dishevelled and looking down at you with those violet eyes still dark but the promise in them moved to the foreground now — patient no longer, the debt paid and something else entirely taking its place.
"Well," he said. His voice had not recovered. "Are we even?"
You looked at him.
"Almost," you said.
Something shifted in his expression. The last fragment of contrition dissolving into something that was considerably more familiar — that dark focused quality, the commanding certainty of a man who has been on his knees and is very thoroughly done with it.
"Almost," he repeated.
"You still have some making up to do."
His eyes moved over you — the gown pooled at your waist, the firelight, the expression on your face — and a sound left him that was not quite a laugh and considerably more than one.
"I think," he said, reaching for you, "that I can manage that."
The argument had not announced itself.
That was the thing about Baelor — the thing you had known for years and understood intellectually and still managed to be caught off guard by, because the form his damage took was so much quieter than Maekar's. Maekar came at you like weather. You could see him building, read the pressure in the set of his jaw and the clipped precision of his sentences, and brace accordingly. There was a violence to it that was at least honest.
Baelor simply… withdrew the warmth.
It had been a disagreement about something political — a decision he had made without consulting you, something that touched your family's interests, something that warranted discussion and had not received it. You had raised it. Reasonably, you thought. With the specific calm you employed when you wanted to be heard rather than dismissed.
And Baelor, who was patient with everyone, who was diplomatic to the bone, who had never once in his life spoken to you without the quality of his full attention — had looked up from his correspondence and said, without heat, without cruelty, with the mild tone of a man addressing something that does not require much of him:
"I've handled it. You needn't concern yourself."
The silence that followed was not dramatic. He had already looked back down at his letters.
You needn't concern yourself. As though you were— as though the matter, which concerned your own kin, your own blood, was outside your competence or your purview. As though the three of you did not govern together, sleep together, build everything together. As though you were someone to be managed.
He had not even noticed the silence. That was the part that made something go cold and precise behind your sternum. He had not noticed, because some part of him had meant it — had, in the press of whatever he was managing that week, filed you under not requiring attention and moved on.
You had left the room without a word. He had not looked up.
You told him that evening.
Not with raised voices — that was never how it worked between you and Baelor, who had the diplomat's gift for keeping rooms from becoming fires. You told him quietly, standing in your shared chamber while he stood at the window with that particular stillness that meant he was listening completely, the stillness that normally meant everything and tonight felt like performance.
You told him what it had done. What you needn't concern yourself meant, spoken in that mild tone, about that specific matter. You were precise. You gave him the full architecture of it.
He listened. He turned from the window. He said, with the careful, considered tone of a man who has assembled his response thoughtfully and believes it to be correct: "I didn't mean it the way you've taken it."
Which was perhaps true. And was not, in any sense that mattered, an apology.
"When you can do better than that," you said, "you can touch me."
He blinked. Something shifted in his expression — the first crack in the composure. "What?"
"You heard me."
"You cannot be—"
"Until you understand what you said and why it was wrong and you can tell me that — genuinely, not diplomatically — you don't get to put your hands on me. You don't get to come to my bed. You don't get to reach across the table and touch my hand." You held his gaze. "And you don't get to touch yourself either. I'll know."
The expression on his face completed some internal journey that ended at a place he had not anticipated arriving.
"That is—" He stopped. Reorganised. "That is not a reasonable—"
"Goodnight, Baelor."
He lasted ten days.
You knew, because you counted — not with satisfaction, not cruelly, but with the careful attention of someone who understood exactly what was being waited out. Baelor's particular stubbornness was not Maekar's hot refusal. It was the stubbornness of a man who was accustomed to understanding things, to processing them and arriving at resolution through the application of sufficient thought. He had turned the argument over in his mind — you could see it in him, the way you had always been able to read him, in the slight distraction behind his eyes at dinner, in the way he sometimes stopped mid-sentence with his mouth slightly open as though arriving somewhere unexpected.
He was working on it. Baelor solved things. He would solve this.
What he could not account for was the body.
Four days in, he was distracted in council. You happened to be present; you said nothing, did nothing, simply sat across the room in your place and watched him with the mild attentiveness of a woman with no particular agenda, and you watched him not look at you with the sustained effort of a man who had lost the ability to look at anything else.
Six days in, he came to your chamber — not to your bed, not with that purpose, to talk, he said. He had things to say. Important things. And he sat across from you and said several things that were close to what was needed and none of them quite arrived, like a man reaching for a word in a language he almost spoke, and you listened to all of it with your hands folded in your lap and said, when he finished: "Almost." And he left.
Eight days in, you passed him in the corridor and his hand lifted — automatic, entirely involuntary, the gesture of a decade of habit reaching for your arm — and stopped itself a half-inch from your sleeve. You both looked at the suspended hand. You looked up at his face. He was flushed, and composed, and miserable.
"Almost," you said again. And walked on.
Day ten: you received a message requesting your presence at the Tower of the Hand at your earliest convenience. The handwriting was impeccable and slightly too controlled, the phrasing formally correct in the way of a man who has burned through several drafts.
You went at the evening hour, when the castle had quieted.
He was at his desk.
The Tower of the Hand's study was Baelor's most fully inhabited room — not the bedchamber you shared, not the great hall, but here, where the books were stacked in the particular ordered disorder of a mind that worked constantly, where the candles had burned to different lengths because he replaced them at different intervals rather than all at once, where the whole space carried the specific atmosphere of someone who had been here a long time and thought well within it. His domain. His competence made visible and spatial.
He was writing when you entered, or had been. The quill was in his hand but still when you came through the door, and he looked up at you with mismatched eyes — one brown, one blue, both exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep — and set it down.
He looked, you noted, like a man who had been having a difficult ten days. The composure was present but maintained at a cost. The dark hair with its threads of white was slightly less ordered than usual. There was a quality to his stillness that was not his normal stillness, not the deep settled patience of a man at peace with himself but the stillness of a man holding himself together through the application of will.
He rose when you entered. Stood behind his desk.
"You came," he said.
"You asked." You crossed the room without hurrying. Took the chair across from his desk — not the formal visitor's chair but the smaller one at an angle to it, the one that occupied the warmer quadrant of the room near the brazier, and settled into it with the ease of someone who had all evening. "Sit down, Baelor. You look like you're about to receive a delegation."
Something moved through his face. He sat.
For a moment he said nothing. You watched him locate his prepared opening and lose it, and locate another and find it also insufficient, and the particular pain of watching Baelor — who spoke so well, always, who chose words the way a craftsman chose tools — sit in silence with too many wrong ones was something you allowed yourself to feel.
"I have been thinking," he began.
"Mm."
"About what I said."
"I hope so."
His jaw tightened slightly. "You might allow me to—"
"I am allowing you." You tilted your head. "I am listening. I have been listening for ten days."
The flush that moved up his throat was slow and thorough and entirely at odds with his composure. "What I said was— dismissive. In a way that went past the specific disagreement. In a way that suggested your judgment was— subordinate. Manageable." He stopped. His hands, flat on the desk, pressed briefly harder against the wood. "That is not what I believe. And it is not how we function. And I said it because I was pressed and careless and I— I used your patience against you, in a way. The assumption that you would absorb it." A pause. His eyes found yours, direct, that quality they had in private that was nothing like the diplomatic face: stripped and specific. "I have not been able to stop thinking about your face when you left the room."
The room held the quiet.
"Did you mean any of that?"
"Every word."
"Not diplomatically constructed?"
Something in his expression — raw, suddenly. "I have spent ten days trying to construct it diplomatically and none of it was right. That is what I actually have."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Alright," you said. His breath released slightly. "That was the apology." You held his gaze. "Now comes the rest of it."
He stilled. "The rest—"
"Stand up. Come around the desk."
He came around the desk. Stood before you, and you looked up at him from the chair — all of him, the height and the breadth of him, the dishevelment of ten careful days, the mismatched eyes — and let the looking be its own thing for a moment.
"Ten days," you said.
"Yes." His voice had changed register.
"You've been very obedient."
A breath. "Not— entirely at ease with it."
"I know, that was the point." You kept your voice pleasant. "Take your breeches off."
The expression that moved through his face then — complex and rapid, landing somewhere between relief and a specific kind of exposed apprehension — was extraordinary on him. Baelor, who was looked at constantly and read nothing to anyone he didn't intend to, suddenly readable.
"Here," he said. Not a challenge. Something more unsteady.
"You are the Hand of the King. I imagine you can lock the door."
He locked the door. He came back. He held your gaze for a moment — something in him assembling and then releasing — and undid the laces and pushed the breeches down and stepped out of them, and stood before you, and he was already hard, flushed and full and aching with ten days of it, and the sight of it hit you somewhere immediate and south and you kept every bit of that off your face.
"Your shirt."
He removed it. The candlelight caught the angles of him, the breadth of his chest, the dark hair, the slight flush that had reached further than his throat now.
He stood before you and the word, the only accurate word, was exposed. Baelor, who attended to everything, who was always watching, always composing, always so carefully attending to you — standing in his study undone and watching your face for something and finding it carefully withheld.
"Touch yourself," you said.
The sound he made was almost imperceptible. Almost. His hand moved to himself — not with the practised ease of a man at leisure but with the tension of someone who had been waiting ten days for any relief at all, and it showed, the way his breath changed immediately on contact, the way his head dropped slightly and then corrected.
"Look at me," you said.
His eyes found yours.
Gods.
The expression on his face — the openness of it, the exposed wanting, those mismatched eyes dark and fixed on you while his hand moved in a slow stroke and his chest rose and fell with the effort of maintaining eye contact while every part of him was pulling toward the release he'd been denied — it went directly through every composed layer of you and landed somewhere purely physical.
You watched him.
He watched you watching him, which was its own unbearable thing — you could see it on his face, the specific quality of being seen doing this, and it was doing something to him that the physical alone hadn't, some additional unravelling.
"Tell me what it's been like," you said. Pleasantly. "The ten days."
A broken sound. His rhythm stuttered. "That is — you cannot expect me to—"
"I can." You settled back slightly in the chair. "Tell me."
His jaw worked. The flush was everywhere now, neck and chest and face. "Unbearable." The word came out like he'd dragged it. "Every — every time you were in the room. Every time you sat at dinner and did not — and I could not—" He stopped. His hand kept moving and his voice had gone rough in a way it almost never was. "I dreamed about you. Every night. And woke up and could not—"
"Couldn't what."
The look he gave you. "You know what."
"I want to hear it."
"Couldn't do anything about it." His control was leaving him in real time, the diplomat dissolving word by word into someone far less managed. "Have been in a state of — sustained — I thought I could wait you out. That was what I told myself. I thought—" He made a sound that was not entirely dignified. "I was wrong."
"Yes," you said. "You were."
You watched the tension climb in him — the rhythm of his hand around his cock, his breathing, the particular tightening around his eyes that you knew very well, had been reading for years — and let it climb, and let it climb, and when he was close enough that the slight hitch in his breathing told you precisely where he was, you said:
"Stop."
He immediately came to a halt.
The sound he made was involuntary and wrecked and all the composure of the past ten days disintegrated into a single, devastated exhale. His hand stilled. He stood very still, chest heaving, flushed from forehead to chest, eyes closed.
"Baelor."
He opened them.
"Look at me."
He looked. The expression on his face — the absolute, specific suffering of a man held one breath from the edge — went through you like heat.
You stood.
He watched you — those wrecked mismatched eyes tracking every movement with the fixed attention of a man who has run out of composure entirely and is operating on something far more fundamental. You reached for the lacing of your gown. Undid it without haste. Let it fall.
Baelor's breath left him audibly.
You crossed to him. He reached for you immediately and you caught his wrist — gently, just a touch — and his eyes flew to your face.
"Sit," you said. "In the chair."
He sat. He looked up at you from it with those eyes and that expression and you stood before him for a moment and let yourself be looked at — let him have it, the looking, the full undivided wanting that he'd been rationing for ten days — and then you moved forward and placed your knee on the chair beside his hip and swung your other knee to his other side and settled over him, and the sound he made when you reached down and positioned him against your dripping cunt and sank onto him was the most unguarded thing you had ever heard from his mouth.
Unguarded. That was the word. Every version of Baelor — the diplomat, the Crown Prince, the patient careful man who attended to everything — was entirely absent. What was present was only this: flushed and wrecked and buried in you and looking up at your face with those mismatched eyes like the sight of you was the only coherent thing in the room.
You didn't move immediately. You sat. You held him there and watched him experience it, and the sound he made — low and sustained and desperate — reverberated at the base of your spine.
"Please." The word left him without any of the consideration he usually applied to speech. Raw and immediate and already unravelled. "Please — gods — please—"
You began to move.
Whatever composure had survived until that moment did not survive this. His head dropped to your shoulder, his hands found your hips with the reverence that was specific to him and the urgency that was specific to tonight and the particular quality of ten days' waiting that made all of it—
He was gone.
You rode him in the firelit study of the Tower of the Hand with his face pressed to your neck and his hands gripping you like anchor points and the sounds he was making against your skin entirely unlike anything any council had ever heard from him, entirely unlike anything he was anywhere except here, entirely his. The rhythm built and you felt him gathering — felt the tension in him, the almost, the held breath — and this time you gave him no instruction.
This time you moved harder, and faster, and his hands tightened on your hips and his voice broke open against your shoulder in a sound that had no diplomacy in it at all and he shuddered beneath you, and held you, and spent himself with his whole body and his whole attention and every bit of the ten days.
You followed him. Not gently.
For a long while afterward neither of you moved. His face still against your neck, your hands in his hair, the fire burned low and amber around you. The study quiet. The castle quiet.
His breathing slowed.
"Well," he said, into your neck. His voice was demolished. "How have I managed it?"
You considered.
"You came very close to begging," you observed.
A pause. "I actually did beg."
"Yes. That part was very good."
Another pause, in which you could feel against your skin the specific quality of Baelor trying to locate his dignity and finding it somewhat mislaid. "I am choosing to take that as a compliment."
"You should." You drew back slightly to see his face — the flushed, dishevelled, entirely undone face of the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, looking up at you from the wreckage of his composure with those mismatched eyes. "It was extremely persuasive."
Something moved through his expression — the dry, hidden warmth of him, showing through the cracks of the evening. "I will have that in mind," he said, "the next time I am inclined to be dismissive."
"See that you do."
He turned his head. Pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist, where the pulse was. The gesture slow and exact and entirely, specifically his.
"Ten days," he said quietly, against your skin.
"Ten days," you confirmed.
"I do not recommend it."
"Then you know what to do to avoid it."
His eyes lifted to yours. That particular quality in them, the one that had nothing to do with crowns or councils — the one that had been present since childhood and had never once changed — private and exact and undivided.
✧ pairing: baelor targaryen x female reader (no use of y/n or any form of physical descriptors).
✧ content warning: aphrodisiac consumption, sub baelor, pre-established marriage, dubious consent, foot humping, ejaculation in breeches, mentions of erectile dysfunction, praise and humiliation kink, oral stimulation.
✧ disclaimer: proceed with caution, reader is not nice in this.
✦ — your husband’s focus on his duties has made him much too neglectful of you, but you’ve found a way to remedy that.
“are you certain it will work?” you questioned, not bothering to sugarcoat your skepticism.
“of course, my lady,” your attendant answered.
your fingers twirled the tiny vial, watching with fascination as the red liquid shimmered in the soft candlelight of your bedchamber.
“is it safe?”
“it is harmless, my lady, it can only intensify feelings of.. affection. I obtained it from a maester within the castle,” she lowered her voice as she leaned in, “he said many wives of the court seek him out for it.”
a mischievous smile erupted over your face.
“excellent.”
with a huff, you slumped further into the cushioned chaise, raising your feet to rest on the same table that you had placed the vial on.
you had been staring at it for hours now, contemplating every possible outcome, whilst questioning your own morals.
it wasn’t entirely your fault.
your husband hadn’t laid with you for several weeks, selfishly leaving you to travel across the countryside with a, “I promise to make it up to you as soon as I’ve returned,” yet, his foot would scarcely be over the threshold of your home before he was being whisked away by a member of his council.
baelor appeared to have time for everyone but you.
a tendril of worry twisted through your stomach, you were certain he hadn’t had an ounce of proper sleep in several days and was skipping his meals.
you shook your concern for his wellbeing with a shrug of your shoulders, redirecting your focus back to the true victim of the matter: you, his neglected wife.
it was cruel of him, especially now that you had grown accustomed to his generously given and frequently delivered pleasure. too long had passed since he had spent an entire day with his face buried between your legs, his eyes fixated with a hunter-like focus on every expression and shiver he wrought out of you.
he had to be held accountable.
you called for your attendant.
“yes, my lady?”
“inform my husband’s attendant that I require his presence,” you paused, knowing that he was in the middle of another meeting, “and that it is urgent.”
“of course, my lady.”
a quarter of an hour passed before your husband was softly knocking on your chamber door.
“enter.”
“sweetness,” baelor greeted, hesitating at the sight of you lounging in your loveliest nightgown, “are you well? has something occurred?”
you felt guilty for the way his tired eyes accessed your form for any sign of discomfort; his worn body approaching and then descending into a crouch to face you levelly.
“no, I merely–I was concerned after learning that you had been missing meals,” you began, moving a cup of lukewarm tea in his direction, “so, I requested for a maester to prepare a tonic to restore your health.”
baelor’s eyes softened, a tender smile replacing the weary expression he had been wearing seconds prior.
“that was very thoughtful of you, my dear,”
your hand cupped his bearded cheek, noting that it was thicker since you had last touched it two days ago. your heart lurched when he affectionately pressed back into your caress, turning his face to place a kiss against your palm.
“unfortunately, I cannot stay, but I promise to make it up to you.” he spoke as he rose, lifting the cup to his lips to take a large gulp.
he paused.
“this–,” baelor stared down at the liquid, having only swallowed half, “who did you say prepared this?”
you remained quiet as his expression twisted into a look of confusion.
“why, does it taste strange?” you asked in return after a moment, struggling to keep your voice neutral.
a distant look passed over his eyes, “I vaguely remember the taste..”
he paced, bringing the cup to his nose.
“my brothers and I had snuck into our old maester’s pantry,” he began, “in search of an elixir that would make us stronger,” his lip curled at the memory, “but we had mistaken it for another..”
baelor’s gaze snapped to yours, intense and clear with recognition.
“have you given me an aphrodisiac?”
the room stilled, even the crackling from the fire seemed to subdue.
“why?” he bit out after a moment of stunned silence, the lines between his brows deepening as he frowned down at you.
“what else was I to do?” you questioned back with a shrug, one of your fingers rising to tap against your bottom lip.
baelor let out a scoff of disbelief.
“discuss it with me or–,” he paused, eyes closing as his body temperature began to rise, the emptiness of his belly allowing for the stimulant to take affect more hastily than the previous time.
“is it uncomfortable?” you asked once he returned his gaze to you, greedily eyeing the sheen of sweat over his tanned skin and the flush beginning to spread across his cheeks.
his throat bobbed in quiet confirmation that said yes, it is uncomfortable, and soon it would be painful.
“I–,” baelor struggled to collect his thoughts, a hand rising to his brow, “I have to return, I am being waited upon..” yet, he made no move to exit the room.
he remained planted, staring down at you with a glossy, disoriented look.
you stood on shaky legs, observing the way his eyes followed your every move with a hyper focused awareness.
“kneel for me.”
baelor’s form was frozen.
“what?” was his meek rebuttal.
“I said,” you took a step forward, having to crane your neck upwards to maintain contact with his own stare, “kneel.”
up close, you could see that the blacks of his pupils had almost entirely swallowed the mismatched colouring of his irises, leaving only a sliver of blue and brown.
with perhaps too much confidence, you pointed at the ground, ignoring the way your heart hammered within your chest.
a beat passed.
then, slowly, baelor lowered his knees to the thick rug below.
adrenaline surged through your veins as the headiness of making a man like your husband submit settled over you. you pressed a stocking-clad foot against his growing arousal, wetness pooling between your own legs at the sound of his guttural moan.
“what would the members of your council think,” you lilted, delivering a hard nudge to his length, “if they could see you now?”
immediately, it produced the effect you had desired.
baelor doubled over, a pained, breathless groan leaving his lips.
“I must return..”
despite his words, his hands wrapped around your ankle, the heat from his palms seeping through the thin stocking, burning into your skin. he did not push you away nor did he stop your ministrations, his loose grasp simply rested around your limb.
“what was it you had said? something about..” you trailed off, recalling the prior day’s morning, when you had watched your husband discipline an unruly stable hound, “good boys knowing their place?”
his face shot up, shoulders stiffening as the familiarity of your words washed over him.
“what–,” baelor rasped softly, his bent legs instinctively spreading wider to make room when you stepped closer.
you cut him off, fingers gripping the short, greying hair atop his head with a sudden and, to both his enjoyment and undoing, excessively harsh tug.
“good boys know their place,” you repeated his exact words, “only then do they get a treat.”
baelor’s hands unlatched themselves from around your ankle to rest atop his thighs, palms splayed downwards.
“are you a good boy who knows his place?”
“yes.” he murmured without flinching, soft huffs of air leaving his parted lips. it appeared all thoughts pertaining to returning to his council had left his mind.
you withdrew from between his legs to admire the image before you.
a man who spent his time commanding others, was now patiently awaiting your instructions.
you were certain that he had never looked as the handsome as he did just then, face contorting from a mixture of want and restraint. his heated, lower-lidded gaze was a sight that would plague your dreams for many months to come.
“that’s not what I believe,” you started, sitting back against the cushioned chaise in front of his kneeling form, “a good boy would not leave his wife unattended to.”
baelor’s jaw clenched beneath his thick beard, eyes drifting from your sprawled position to the ground in a silent admittance of his guilt.
“does it not work as it should?” you crooned, a laugh escaping your throat at the sharp look he sent your way.
“that must be it.” you continued viciously.
your leg lifted as you rested your foot against his chest, giving him a direct view of your bare, glistening core.
“I had presumed you would have several years remaining, but it appears I was mistaken.”
“you know very well it works,” baelor said quietly, the creases around his eyes and mouth deepening at your harsh insinuation.
“a good boy doesn’t speak unless given permission to.” you reprimanded, foot sliding down his tense torso to stop above the crude bulge pressing taunt against the fabric of his breeches.
“I should ensure that it does work, of course,” your voice was light, as though you were discussing the weather, not examining your husband’s ability to fulfill his duties in the marital bed.
before baelor could respond, your foot had returned to its place against his front. he bucked forward at the sudden onslaught of pleasure and pain from your movements, head dropping to watch the way you cruelly jabbed at the tip of his cock.
“oh!” you exclaimed with mock surprise, eyes gleaming at the sight of his nails digging into his thighs, “there may still be a chance that it is functional.”
the growing patch from his precum had begun to seep into your own stocking, creating a slicker slide with every drag and nudge against him.
“good boy.”
baelor’s head involuntarily perked up, the hue of red across his cheeks creating a remarkable contrast against the grey and dark hair of his beard.
you noticed–of course you did–the way his eyes darkened at your mockery and demeaning words. another gush of wetness dripped down your leg at the realization that he enjoyed being spoken to in such a manner.
“are you my good boy?”
he mumbled a response, words inaudible with the combined crackling of the logs in the hearth and your foot continuing its bustling assault against his front.
“what was that?”
“yes.”
“yes, what?”
a deep groan escaped his chest as you applied more pressure.
“I–gods, please–I am your good boy.” baelor’s voice was breathless from both embarrassment and unbridled desire, looking wretched as his hips rose to grind against you.
suddenly, you withdrew your foot.
“wait–,” he started.
you leaned back and spread your thighs slowly.
“good boys get a treat,” you stated simply, the invitation sending him jostling toward you with a crawl.
your hand shot out to grip his jaw before his tongue could make contact with your dripping core, the look on his face making you tut tauntingly.
“what do you say?”
“thank you.”
you threaded your fingers through his cropped hair, guiding his mouth to your opening as though you were leading a horse along with its reins.
“you may have one lick,”
the sound of his wet tongue broadly swiping against your damp lower lips echoed lewdly.
he was panting against your opening, the essence of your arousal filling his tastebuds.
“such a good boy,” you praised, giving him a degrading pat on the head.
“gods,” baelor muttered, cheek resting against the flesh of your thigh. his length pulsed in tandem with his racing heart, leaving him unsteady and aching.
“I suppose you should return now.” you mumbled, absentmindedly twirling a finger through the grey hairs at his temple.
he remained quiet, odd-coloured eyes staring up at your face with equal parts exhaustion and deprivation.
“they will–,” baelor cleared his throat as he shut his eyes tightly, appearing as though he were pulling himself out of a delirious trance, “they will manage without me.”
“oh, is that so?”
the coarse hair of his beard scratched the delicate skin of your thigh as he gave a nod.
“in that case,” you spoke sweetly, foot nudging his thighs open wider to resume its motion against his hardened flesh, “you may have your treat.”
with the hand not pressed to his face, you spread yourself open.
swiftly, baelor was lapping at you with desperate enthusiasm, hooded eyes staring up at your face as he messily replaced your wetness with his own.
“good boy,”
his eyes rolled back, hips jerking harder into your foot until groans were continuously falling from his lips. the vibrations against your sensitive clit had you teetering closer to the edge of your release.
a sudden, cruel thought crossed your mind.
you removed your foot from against his breeches, knowing that he was nearing his own release.
“I wonder if you could achieve completion untouched,” you mused aloud, nails dragging harshly against his scalp.
baelor nodded against your core, incoherent mumbles spoken against the heated flesh.
a satisfied gasp left your lips as stars floated across your vision, limbs going lax as a contented bliss fell over you.
once the waves of your release had passed, you looked down to find baelor staring up at you; the nearby candlelight filthily highlighting your slick in his beard.
you shoved him hard, sending him tumbling backwards into a wide legged sprawl. he rested on his forearms, keeping himself propped up to focus on your face.
mercilessly, your foot prodded at his neglected cock, teeth nibbling on your bottom lip to stop yourself from making a sound in response to his gravelly groan.
baelor’s body trembled as his own release cascaded over him, sending his head back with a throaty moan as he thrusted against you.
“look at that,” you cooed, “it appears it does work.” your eyes twinkled at the sight of his twitching cock spurting within the constraints of his own breeches.
baelor struggled to collect himself, his climax taking more of a toll on him than usual.
you settled yourself atop his still hardened length and circled your hips.
“I’m going to take what I want,” you announced, tone leaving no room for refusal, and gently swiped your thumbs across the creases of his eyes, “and then, you will return to your meeting.”
you leaned forward to give him an open mouthed kiss, pulling on his lip as you reclined back into his lap.
“is that clear?”
baelor nodded, lips parted and wet as he gazed at you with a mixed look of adoration and awe.
Synopsis: When his heirs are lost and the realm demands stability, Baelor Targaryen must choose between grief and duty,taking a young bride in a union that will shape both their fates.
Tw: Dark themes,non/dubcon,targcest,age gap (reader is 20 baelor is 45),forced marriage,power imbalance.
The vows we do not choose. (Part iii)
Part 1 / Masterlist
The sept’s candles had burned low by the time she realized she was the only one left kneeling. The silence pressed against her skin like a second set of robes, thick and suffocating.
She had come to pray for clarity,some divine intervention to still the heat pooling low in her belly every time she thought of him. But the gods were merciless in their silence. Her fingers twitched against her thigh, remembering the weight of Baelor’s hand there, just once, before he’d pulled away like she was fire itself. The memory shouldn’t have thrilled her. It shouldn’t.
Her knees ached against the cold stone floor, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the restless itch beneath her skin. The sept’s shadows stretched long, swallowing the last flickers of candlelight as she finally rose, her breath unsteady. The hem of her dress whispered against her ankles as she moved, the sound loud in the hollow silence.
Back in her chambers, she barred the door with hands that trembled,not from fear, but from the sheer want that coiled tight in her gut. The looking glass caught her reflection: cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes dark with something she shouldn’t name. She turned away, but the image followed her, burned behind her eyelids.
The bed was too large, too empty. She curled onto her side, fingers skimming over the laces of her shift. A breath hissed between her teeth as she traced the dip of her waist, lower, lower, until her touch found the slick heat between her thighs. Her hips jerked involuntarily, and she bit her lip to stifle the sound clawing up her throat.
It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. But the memory of Baelor’s fingers,his broad body...rough and warm, gripping her just once before he’d vanished like smoke,was all she could think of. The guilt was a dull throb beneath the pleasure, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. Nothing was.
Her fingertips circled slower now, dragging through the slickness with a rhythm that made her spine arch. It was Baelor’s name that trembled on her tongue,not a prayer, something raw and pleading. She imagined his hand replacing hers, those broad fingers she’d watched grip a sword now gripping her thigh, pushing her legs wider. The memory was so vivid she could almost smell the leather and steel scent of him, the salt of his skin when he’d leaned close that once in the training yard.
A whimper escaped her as she pressed harder, the heel of her hand grinding against the aching need. Gods, why had he stopped? Why had he used her for heirs,only to turn away after the deed was done and leave her burning and alone? Her free hand fisted in the sheets, twisting the fabric as she pictured him looming over her, his mouth on her throat, his hips pressing hers down into the mattress again. The tension coiled tighter, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.
She bit down on her lower lip to silence herself, but the images wouldn’t stop: Baelor’s calloused palms skimming up her ribs, his teeth at her collarbone, the low growl she’d heard him use in battle now whispered against her ear. Her thighs trembled, toes curling as the pleasure crested, sharp and sudden. For one reckless moment, she let his name slip aloud,a broken syllable lost in the dark.
Her fingers stilled, sticky and unsatisfied, pressed uselessly against her thigh. The frustration was a live thing, coiled tight in her chest,sharp as the edge of a knife and twice as cruel. She’d tried. But the pleasure had crested just shy of release, leaving her trembling on the precipice, hollow and aching.
The sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat. She kicked them away, the cool air biting against her overheated skin. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her pulse thrumming in her throat like a trapped bird. It wasn’t fair. She’d imagined Baelor’s hands, his mouth, the rough scrape of his stubble against her inner thigh,every detail vivid enough to make her whimper,but it wasn’t him. And her body knew it.
The door creaked open before she could even register the footsteps,too lost in the rhythm of her own touch, the slick sound of her fingers moving between her thighs. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as the cool draft from the corridor licked across her sweat-slicked skin.
“Seven hells.” Baelor’s voice was rougher than she’d ever heard it, a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t dare turn, didn’t dare move, but she could feel him there,the weight of his gaze like a brand against her bare soft body. The silence stretched, taut and trembling, until he spoke again, closer now. “You— fuck—what are you doing over there to yourself sweet girl?”
Her face burned. "I-i'm sorry uncle baelor— I mean husband!" The flustered girl said with a yelp,she should cover herself, should scramble away, but her body refused to obey. His boots thudded against the floor as he approached, the scent of leather and steel wrapping around her like a second skin. “Let me watch, little dove” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “Just—just let me watch. It’s been so long....” He murmured.
She whimpered, her hips jerking involuntarily as his calloused fingers brushed hers,not replacing them, not yet, just guiding. “You’re too gentle,” he rasped, his thumb pressing hers down harder, showing her the angle, the pace. “Like this. Faster , Good girl.” His voice frayed at the edges, his own breath coming in ragged bursts as he watched her obey, her fingers moving exactly as he’d shown her.
“Dear Gods—” Her back arched, her free hand fisting in the sheets. It was too much, too much, but Baelor didn’t let up, his fingers tightening around her wrist, forcing her to keep going. “You’re close,” he growled, his other hand sliding up her thigh, his touch searing through the thin fabric of her shift. “I can see it. Don’t stop.”
"Like this" he insisted, his thumb circling hers in a cruel pace of what he wanted to do with his tongue. She gasped, her thighs trembling,he was right, she’d been too hesitant, too unsure, but under his command, every stroke sent sparks up her spine. "You’re not....you’re not even thinking about what you need, are you?" His grip tightened, forcing her fingers to slow just before the crest, dragging the pleasure out until she sobbed.
The sob tore from her throat before she could stop it,raw and desperate, her fingers still moving where Baelor guided them, but it wasn’t enough.“Please, dear husband!” she gasped, the word mangled by another whimper as his thumb pressed hers deeper, showing her exactly how to curl her fingers just so. The pleasure was a live wire under her skin, but it wasn’t what she truly needed. “Baelor, I—ah—I can’t—I need—”
His breath hitched behind her, his grip on her wrist tightening almost painfully. “Need what, huh?” he growled, his voice frayed with something darker, hungrier. His other hand slid higher up her thigh, the callouses catching on the damp fabric of her shift. “Say it sweet girl.”
She shouldn’t.But the words spilled out anyway, broken and shameless: “Y-you. Inside me. I—I feel so empty.... please uncle! please do me how you did me the first time....” The admission burned her tongue, but the relief of saying it aloud was instant,like lancing a wound.
Baelor went utterly still behind her. For one terrible moment, she thought she’d ruined everything. Then his hand wrenched hers away from her slick heat, his grip bruising as he flipped her onto her back in one rough motion. The look on his face. Like he was going to devour her whole.
“You don’t...we said we wouldn't do this again, for your sake....” he snarled, but his hands were already tearing at the laces of his breeches, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and hers. She whimpered at the sight of it, her thighs falling open instinctively.
The moment stretched between them like a drawn blade sharp, inevitable, and glinting with danger. Baelor’s breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling like a storm-tossed ship, his cock standing stiff and urgent between them. She could see the pulse of it, the way his fingers twitched around the base as if fighting the urge to take himself in hand.
"Empty" he repeated, the word a growl, a curse, a prayer. His eyes burned into hers, pupils blown wide with a hunger that mirrored her own. "You think I haven’t felt it too?" His hand slid up her thigh, rough and possessive, the fabric of her shift bunching under his grip. "Every fucking night, listening to you sigh in your sleep, knowing you were just down the hall—" His thumb dug into the soft flesh of her inner thigh, and she gasped, her hips lifting off the bed in silent supplication.
She had no words left,only the trembling of her limbs, the slick heat between her thighs, the way her body opened for him without thought. Baelor’s laugh was dark, humorless, as he leaned over her, his free hand braced beside her head. "You don’t even know what you’ve done, do you?" His voice dropped to a whisper, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Begging for me like this. Making me lose my fucking mind."
Then his hand was between her legs again, not guiding hers this time but taking over entirely, his fingers sliding through her wetness with a rough, practiced ease that stole her breath. "Look at you," he muttered, his fingers circling her clit with a pressure that made her spine arch. "So fucking needy, like a filthy common girl...." His touch was relentless, his thumb flicking over the sensitive bud while his other fingers pressed inside her, curling just so, and she cried out, her hands scrabbling at the sheets.
"Baelor!" His name was a broken thing on her lips, half-sob. She was close, so close, but he withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving her gasping, her body clenching around nothing.
The air between them crackled with the weight of her confession,her words that hung in the silence like a blade poised to fall. Baelor’s breath stuttered, his fingers twitching against her thigh where he held her open, as if her skin burned him. For a heartbeat, she feared she’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. Then his grip tightened, his other hand fisting in the fabric of her shift, and he tore it cleanly down the middle with a sound like a whip crack.
Cold air rushed over her exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze,dark, ravenous, claiming. “You want to feel me?” he growled, his voice rough as gravel. “Then feel me.. sweet girl.” His hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the flushed length of it jutting proudly between them, and she whimpered at the sight, her thighs trembling. He didn’t tease, didn’t hesitate,just lined himself up and pushed, filling her in one smooth stroke until her back arched off the bed, her mouth falling open in a soundless cry.
She’d imagined this a hundred times in the dark the past year, but nothing compared to the reality the stretch, the burn, the way her body yielded to him like it was made for this. Baelor’s groan was raw, his hips flush against hers, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. “Fuck,” he gritted out, his head dropping forward, his dark hair brushing her collarbone. "Your little love hole is so tight little niece" he grunted on top of her.
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think,only feel, every inch of him buried inside her, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress. When he pulled back and thrust in again, her nails scraped down his back, her legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper. Baelor cursed, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he caught himself, his hands sliding under her to grip her ass, tilting her hips to take him at a new angle.
The noise she made then was obscene, her body clamping down around him as pleasure sparked bright behind her eyelids. Baelor’s laugh was dark, triumphant, as he leaned down to nip at her throat. “That’s it,” he rasped, his breath hot against her skin. “Take it. Take me.” His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, each one punching a moan from her lips, each one driving her higher until she was sobbing, her fingers tangled in his hair, her heels digging into the small of his back.
His thrusts slowed, but only to deepen.Each one a deliberate, aching slide that dragged a whimper from her throat. Baelor’s mouth found hers before the sound could escape, swallowing it whole in a kiss that was anything but chaste. His lips were rough, demanding, but the hand that cradled her face was almost tender, his thumb brushing her cheekbone as if she were something precious. "You feel so perfect," he murmured against her mouth, the words ragged with awe. "You were made for me..."
She arched beneath him, her legs tightening around his waist as he rolled his hips in a slow, filthy circle that made her toes curl. The friction was maddening, the stretch exquisite,every inch of him inside her, every breath they shared, his, hers, tangled together until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Baelor groaned when she clenched around him, his forehead dropping to hers, his dark eyes burning into hers. "Look at you," he breathed, his voice thick with something she’d never heard from him before reverence. "Taking me so well. My sweet girl."
“Please—” The word shattered against his lips as he kissed her again, deep and bruising, his hips moving in a relentless rhythm that left her breathless. Her nails scored down his back, her thighs trembling around him, but it wasn’t enough,she wasn’t enough, not like this. She needed him to ruin her again. “Uncle baelor, please,” she gasped, her voice ragged. “I want...I want to feel you come inside me again” Her voice broke as he thrust harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision white out. “I want to take it all.”
Baelor went rigid above her, his breath hitching in a way that wasn’t entirely controlled. For a moment, she feared she’d pushed too far,that the raw hunger in her plea would send him recoiling again. But then his hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back until their eyes locked,he growled, but his hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering as if the words alone were unraveling him.
Baelor’s grip in her hair tightened, his breath hot against her parted lips. “You want me to spill inside you?” His voice was a rough whisper, edged with something dangerous. “Want to feel it drip out of you later, when you’re kneeling in the sept, pretending to pray?” His thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing the wetness there, and she shuddered. “You’ll think of me then, won’t you? Think of how wrong it is, of how good it feels.”
She whimpered, her hips lifting instinctively, seeking more of him, but he held her down with a hand splayed across her stomach. “Ah-ah,” he chided, his teeth grazing her earlobe. “You don’t get to rush this. Not when you’ve been such a greedy little thing.” His hips rolled lazily, the drag of his cock inside her maddeningly slow, and she clenched around him, desperate. “Little whore...” he murmured, his free hand trailing down to where they were joined, his fingers spreading her slickness over her clit with deliberate, teasing strokes. “So wet for your uncle. Disgusting, isn’t it? Getting all went and wanting to be bred again by your father's blood?”
The words sent a bolt of heat straight to her core, her body clenching around him so tightly that Baelor groaned, his forehead dropping to hers. “Yes,” she gasped, the confession torn from her like a prayer. “Yes!.” His thumb circled her clit harder, his hips driving into her with a rough, uneven rhythm now, his breath ragged in her ear. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice rough as gravel. “Say how wrong it is.”
She couldn’t breathe,her hips jerking up to meet his thrusts as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. “It’s—ah—it’s wrong,” she sobbed, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “So wrong!”
Baelor licked and sucked on her neck,his teeth scraping against her pulse. “And yet...” He punctuated the word with a brutal thrust, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur. “You’re dripping for me,for this wrongness.” His hand slid between them, fingers pressing against the swollen bud of her clit in time with his thrusts, and she shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her like wildfire, her back arching off the bed as she cried out,not in shame, not in guilt, but in pure, blinding *pleasure*. Baelor didn’t let up, his fingers working her through it, his cock still pounding into her as she convulsed around him. “Fuck....” he growled, his voice rough with approval. “Take it..” He grunted above her.
She could feel him throbbing inside her, his rhythm growing erratic, his breath coming in ragged bursts against her throat. “Gonna fill you up,” he rasped, his hips stuttering. “Gonna put a babe in you,right here—” His hand pressed flat against her lower belly, his thrusts turning shallow, desperate. “My sweet girl, carrying my seed—fuck!”
His release hit him like a storm, his body stiffening above her as he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside her. She whimpered at the feeling the hot rush of him, the way his hips jerked with each spurt, the way he groaned her name like a prayer.
The words tore through her like wildfire as Baelor's hips stuttered, his cock twitching deep inside her. She felt it, the hot spill of him, pulse after pulse filling her in a way that shouldn't have sent her spiraling all over again,but it did. Her thighs trembled around his waist, her nails biting into his shoulders as she whimpered, oversensitive yet impossibly hungry for more.
"I'm gonna breed you", his breath ragged against her throat. His fingers pressed possessively against her lower belly, as if he could already feel the phantom weight of his seed taking root. "Gonna give you new little cousins to chase after, sweet girl. Right here..." He ground his palm against her, his cock still buried to the hilt, and she gasped at the pressure, the claim. "Your womb's gonna remember me again long after I pull out."
The vulgarity of it,the wrongness,should have revolted her. Instead, her hips jerked involuntarily, milking him for every last drop as a broken moan escaped her lips. Baelor laughed, satisfied, his teeth scraping her collarbone. "Fuck, you like that..." His hand slid down to where they were joined, his fingers smearing the mess he'd made of her. "My little niece, begging for her uncle's child, don't you have enough cousins already? Dirty girl..."
She couldn't deny it not with the evidence slick between her thighs, not with her body still clenching around him like it refused to let go. Baelor finally pulled out, his cock glistening with her wetness and his own release. The sight of it, them, dripping from her made her breath hitch.
The shift was so sudden it stole her breath.Baelor’s roughness melting slowly into something more tender, his growl softening to a sleepy tired murmur as he gathered her against his chest. His lips brushed her temple, then her cheekbone, then her mouth,slow now, sweet, as if he could taste the aftershocks trembling through her. “Shh....” he murmured against her lips, his hand smoothing down her spine. “I’ve got you.”
She clung to him, her fingers tangling in the sweat-damp fabric of his tunic, her face pressed into the curve of his throat. His heartbeat was a steady drum beneath her lips, his arms wrapping around her like armor. The guilt should have crashed over her then, but all she felt was safety,his warmth, his scent, the way his calloused thumb traced idle circles between her shoulder blades.
“You’re trembling,” he said quietly, his voice roughened with spent pleasure but gentler than she’d ever heard it. He tugged the ruined remnants of her shift higher over her shoulders, his touch careful, almost reverent. When she didn’t answer, he kissed her forehead again, his breath warm in her hair. “Talk to me....please....”
She couldn’t meet his eyes,not yet. The words tangled in her throat, caught between the weight of confession and the lingering haze of pleasure. Baelor’s fingers traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up until she had no choice but to look at him. His expression was unreadable, the usual sharpness of his gaze softened by something she couldn’t name. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, his voice low, rough with an edge that wasn’t quite anger. “All those times I caught you looking. All those times you shivered when I got too close.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing the bite marks he’d left there. “You always had me....”
The truth spilled out before she could stop it. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “I thought—I thought it was shame. Disgust. But then you touched me that night once we got married, and everything hurt after.” Her breath hitched, the memory of those sleepless nights twisting in her chest. “I prayed it away. I tried. But all I could think about was your hands, your mouth.” Her voice broke, the admission hanging between them like a blade.
Baelor’s grip tightened,not painfully, but possessively. “And now?” he prompted, his gaze darkening.
She swallowed hard. “Now I can’t imagine not wanting you.” The words were raw, stripped bare, and she braced for his recoil, for the cold withdrawal she’d come to expect. But Baelor only exhaled sharply, his forehead dropping to hers.
Baelor's breath was warm against her lips, his thumb still tracing the curve of her lower lip where he'd bitten her. "You thought it was disgust?" His voice was rougher than she’d ever heard it, laced with something between disbelief and amusement. "All those times you flushed when I stood too close? When your breath hitched every time I brushed past you in the hall?" His fingers tightened in her hair, not painfully, but enough to make her pulse jump. "That wasn’t disgust,sweet girl. That was hunger, yearning...."
She swallowed hard, her throat dry. "I didn’t....I didn’t know how to show you ." The confession tasted bitter, like unripe fruit. "I thought it was wrong. I thought I was broken.."
Baelor’s laugh was low, almost pained, his breath warm against her temple. “Broken?” His fingers traced the curve of her cheekbone, his touch impossibly gentle for a man who’d just fucked her raw. “You’re not broken. You’re perfect...” The word landed like a vow, heavy with something she couldn’t name,something that made her chest ache.
She opened her mouth to argue, but Baelor silenced her with a kiss,slow this time, soft, his lips moving over hers with a tenderness that stole her breath. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed away the wetness she hadn’t realized had gathered at the corners of her eyes. “Its alright sweet dove..” he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No more tears. Not for this.”
The weight of him settled against her, his body a warm, solid presence that anchored her to the present. Baelor’s fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine, his touch light enough to make her shiver, but his grip tightened when she shifted, as if he feared she might pull away. “Stay,” he murmured, the command softened by the way his lips brushed her temple. “Just—stay..”
Overview: The woman who lingers by Dunk's side catches the eye of not one, not two, but three Targaryen princes. Chaos ensues. Eyes linger. Propositions are made.
Word count: 1k
Next part here!
Dunk with a young and pretty healer who joins him on the roads, the woman having been brought into his life by Ser Arlan after he sought her help to treat a nasty wound from a bar fight. Then he'd suggested that she join them, and so, with a longing to see the world, the three of them travelled together in the year before Ser Arlan's death. Now she and Dunk continued ahead on the road to the tourney at Ashford, with her taking on the responsibility of helping cook their meals and mend his clothes. She takes care of the little squire they'd picked up along the way too, his small body cuddling up into hers as they sleep under the stars. Dunk is prone to a spate of small injuries and ailments that she gladly treats, applying salves gently and dressing his wounds as he blushes sheepishly. Dunk finds himself feeling warm and fuzzy inside every time she speaks to him, touches him, and holds his biceps as he lifts her down from her horse. With the kind, warm smiles she gives him, he thinks she might feel the same, and he longs for her in a way he knows is not proper.
All is well and peaceful until they arrive at the tourney - that is when everything goes majorly wrong. She and Egg went to the puppet show, only for it to end with the revelation of Egg's parentage and a beaten and bruised prince, and one shocked and imprisoned hedge knight. Unfortunately for Dunk, he misses the way Aerion's eyes linger hungrily on the woman who tends to his little brother, her arms wrapping him up tightly as he shakes.
Dunk is taken to speak with Baelor, Egg acting as squire and his companion is brought to the chambers as well at the request of the little prince. Egg hopes that she could tell his uncle that it was all Aerion's fault and the whole situation would blow over. Again, in his panic and confusion, Dunk misses the slow and appreciative gaze that Baelor gives the woman, even as she stands in a plain woollen dress. Egg doesn't. His uncle looks at her the same way his brother Daeron looks at wine - eager and hungry. It was unlike him, and yet so characteristic of a hot-blooded Targaryen.
Once they're brought to the council, another fresh set of eyes lies upon her. Maekar rolls his eyes at the sight of the towering hedge knight, but can't help but lean forward to look upon the woman standing close by the door. A low grunt escapes him - she's pretty. Far prettier than any woman he's seen recently. He wouldn't mind seeing her up close.
Then it's proposed - a trial of seven. Dunk needs six other champions to fight beside him to prove his innocence.
"Unless..." Aerion mutters lowly. Dunk's head perks up as he lets himself feel a small sliver of hope.
"Unless, my prince?"
"Unless you give me your pretty wife," Aerion suggests tauntingly, barely able to hide his lust. The heads of all in the room snap to the young prince incredulously. Baelor eyes his nephew silently for a moment before turning his attention to the woman who came in with the hedge knight.
Dunk is the first to speak after a long pause. "...My wife, my prince? I don't have a wife."
It's Maekar who speaks this time, pointing at the women, "Then who is she?"
"She is my... she's a skilled healer. She joined Ser Arlan and I on our journey but a year ago."
Aerion hums, pleased. "That is even better, for you will have no problem handing her over. Either way, if you do not, I will have her in the end."
Dunk pauses, his body filling with fear and trepidation, but he knows he cannot just give her away to such a man. He was a knight now and he was to protect the innocent. And she? She was the most innocent of all in his eyes - a healer for the wounded for god's sake! She had no part in this, and would not suffer for his impulsiveness. So he refuses.
"No. I will fight. You say I need six other men?"
Baelor stiffens imperceptibly, his teeth grinding in silent anger. And yet he nods, reciting the rules of the trial and wishing luck to the hedge knight begrudgingly.
"Good night, pretty dove," calls Aerion as Dunk's companion turns to leave the room with Dunk. The three men watch as she and Dunk turn, her wide eyes staring back at him in fright before hurrying away. It's silent for a moment before Aerion sighs and crushes another nut under his blade.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, you insolent boy?" Maekar suddenly questions, eyes burning into the side of his son's head.
"I just thought she might prefer the comforts of a royal tent to sleeping under the stars, Father," the prince mumbled lowly, tone seeping with ire. Maekar went to respond; however, the sight of his brother calling his guards into the room made him pause. Neither of the blonde princes could hear what was being said, until Baelor turned around with a solemn expression on his features.
"I have commanded the guards to ensure the hedge knight does not manage to gather the required number of men for his cause."
Aerion and Maekar freeze, wide-eyed expressions meeting that of the good and honourable Prince of Dragonstone. The room falls silent once more as each prince ponders the weight of his words. If he could not gather enough knights to fight for his cause, he would be found guilty and executed. It would leave his pretty healer alone. Alone and without protection. A woman alone could scarcely refuse an offer from a prince of the realm, could she? She would stand no chance against three of them.
I'm not really sure what this is but I needed to get this idea out of my head. The idea of Dark!Baelor feeds my soul!!
Maekar seeing how well you do with his kids and wanting to add another Maekarling
and you don’t need much convincing
18+ (smut, breeding duhhh)
he watches you from across the courtyard where you sit on a low stone bench, surrounded by blooming spring flowers and a gaggle of excitable children that are not made of your blood. but someone of lesser understanding would not have known that.
the deep crimson of your skirts pool out around you, an unfurling magnolia with velvet petals, as you perch on the seat with rhae curled in your lap, head tucked beneath your chin. aemon sits beside you, his head on your shoulder as he reads softly aloud, and daella sits at your feet, fingers running up and down the smooth expanse of your skirts. aegon stands on his toes behind you, pushing yet another small flower into your hair.
maekar pauses in the doorway, leaning against the stone arch as he observes. his children speak kindly to you, and you speak to them much the same, and as you soothe rhae with one hand, pet daella’s hair with the other, whilst listening to aemon’s muttering and allowing aegon to turn your hair into a garden, maekar realises something. he realises he wants this life with you.
and when he corners you that evening, his children put to bed and tucked out of sight, he realises you want the same thing.
he’s not gentle.
it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.
maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.
he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.
you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.
“don’t fuss,” maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, “fuck, you always take me so well, don’t you?”
he doesn’t really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.
“how many times…” maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. “will i have to spill in this tight cunt before you’re full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before you’re round with my child?”
you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but it’s lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.
maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.
“is that what you want, little dove?” he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. “you want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt ‘til she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?”
“maekar,” you manage out, and it’s low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.
“i’m right here,” he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. “oh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill her—wants me to make you a mother.”
you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. it’s right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.
maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. “fuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we go…”
he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.
but he’s not far behind you—as you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with “that’s it, there we go” and “good girl, just like that” as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.
maekar groans loudly. “gods, you’ll look perfect round with my child—fuck, i’ll be good to you, little dove, an’ i’ll keep you full all—the—fucking—time—” thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before he’s letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.
he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.
he doesn’t pull out, but he collapses half way on top of you—the hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.
“it’ll take,” he says like he’s sure of it. like he knows it will.
“and if it doesn’t?” you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.
maekar chuckles. it’s a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.
“then we keep trying,” he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. “i’ll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until you’re too full to even move… understood?”
you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.
an archive of fics that i’ve loved ❤︎ i have no words to describe on how immensely grateful i am to these amazing writers here on tumblr. i hope you all the best in life <33
── .✦ HUNTERXHUNTER
guessing game - a/b/o setting and its about illumi?! ughh i love this sm esp how mc correctly guessed that illumi used her shirt as a pillowcase lol AND the line “this is all the space that we need between us”?! im obsessed! (@hypnoswrites)
soulmate au - chrollo soulmate au?!? im sat. another lovely fic by hypno! there’s a lot more amazing fics on their blog so please go to it and show your support ^^ (@hypnoswrites)
30 seconds - another chrollo soulmate au!! imagine finding out that your soulmate is a murderer and on top of that, he’s the phantom troupe leader! (@uvobreakmylegs)
sixth floor game - ok soo i never knew i needed demon shalnark until this came… a must read! (@uvobreakmylegs)
biting people you like - i’m such a sucker for vampire fics,, like just come over and bite me shalnark(@hypnoswrites)
mu heart is in my hand - a feitan soulmate au!! give me a soulmate au and my heart is yours (@after-witch)
chained veils - forced marriage with pariston?! 🤤(@envy-of-the-apple)
── .✦ CORIOLANUS SNOW
the driven snow - my first yandere snow fic that i’ve read! the horror that mc felt when she found out that she’s staying at the capitol (@after-witch)
NDA - hands down the best! poor livia :( her own son doesn’t even recognize her. “no one leaves the president.” trust me, i won’t. snow using mcs brother as a leverage for her to behave. dirty dirty snow (@perlelune)
no body, no crime - all time fav. please read thiss! 😛 (@perlelune)
── .✦ A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS
caged - the BEST dark valarr!! i love love long chapters <3 control freak valarr. i eat up all ur writing (@valarrtheyoungprince)
the favorite - omg aerion and valarr together!? gimme boaf! no words on how amazing this piece is! aerion being the asshole he is and lying to valarr about mc. from ‘valarr’ to its ‘your grace’ after he found out about the betrayal 😳 (@perlelune)
suprise - mmm daddy maekar… and he’s delusional too… this kind of troupe is like my guilty pleasure lol like hihihi, we all love egg! (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
picture-perfect - i wholeheartedly believe that there’s something dark hiding underneath valarr’s picture perfect facade! i mean, look at that man! he’s just better at hiding it than the others (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
distrust - so so good! like yes, valarr, just keep interrogating me like that ughsh. i love your dark valarr fics sssm, you keep me alive 🥺 (@mrsdarkandyandere7)
aerion targaryen - that dick corrupt me 🤤😔 (@beentainted)
valarr baby trapping - ughh ughhh yes! "i don't want any highborn lady, i love you," ok then, im easy, i give you permission to impregnate me! 😂 (@beentainted)
marked up - so what if we all a little into spanking!! let me take care of that for you, valarr 😋 who said thattt?? (@musingsofheaven)
thou shalt not covet - oh yes, daddy baelor and his son!!! baelors so fucking hot that i turn into a river every time i see him. valarrs hatred towards his step-mommy is not because she replaced jena, but something more scary ooooo shiver me timbers (@perlelune)
darling big sister - HELLO?? aerion being creepy as always, selecting whores that looks just like his sister :(( that man fr have a mommy kink anyone who disagrees is wrong (@imeow33)
a starved man is no laughing matter - who doesn’t love a reverse harem 😳 (@valarrswhitestreak)
dragons caught in the storm - honestly, this brings me back to my fifth grade wherein i tried to make a love potion for my crush ugh!! putting that aside, aerion taking the drink from mc that contains the love potion that was meant for valarr cuz yk typical aerion behavior and the horror that mc, daella, and rhae felt!! (@catbayunthestoryteller)
chosen - he hit me and it felt like a kiss 😔 me love love this, very very much!!! im like a wife that waits for her husband to arrive after work, but instead of that, its me on my toes waiting for the next banger of an update (°ロ°) (@loveobx)
── .✦ ROMAN GODFREY
bite marks and bruises - legit cried tears of joy when i saw this! who likes being chased and period sex anyways… its not like, i like it or something! may zeus himself strike me (@cherienymphe)
─── NOTE
legit if i added more like jjk, batfam, hsr, marvel, tua, outer banks, twst, dune, etc.. this would have surpassed hamilton’s essay.
to all authors out there, i love you all 🥺 your writings are all deeply appreciated by us readers and never ever doubt yourself and let the haters get to your mind. ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
#SYNOPSIS. Ser Duncan the Tall finds himself with an extra companion on the road to Ashford — a pretty maiden he met in a lake who is not quite human. While he tries to keep her from attracting too many wayward eyes, there are men at Ashford with royal blood who have already noticed her. She is not his to keep. He is beginning to wish she were.
#CHARACTER(S). Ser duncan the Tall, Aegon Targaryen, Valaar Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen
#WARNING(S) . Dark Romance, Yandere, manipulative behavior, kidnapping, forced isolation
→ CHAPTER ONE - Ser Duncan discovers something lurking beneath a quiet lake, expecting a large water beast — he instead finds himself strangely enamored with an odd, merling creature
→ CHAPTER TWO - Nimue joins Dunk and Egg on the road to Ashford. Dunk is honorable. He is decent. He is also a man, and there is only so much a man can be expected to withstand.
→ CHAPTER THREE - Ser Duncan the Tall had only meant to enter the tourney at Ashford Meadow, but the registration clerks demanded proof of his knighthood before he could compete. While lingering near the tents, he meets tanselle whose cheerful demeanor and skillful performance drew him in. Unfortunately, Nimue did not share his admiration.
→ CHAPTER FOUR - Ser Duncan the Tall takes Nimue to sup at the tent of Lyonel Baratheon, a lord generous with his wine, and apparently his pearl collection. Nimue endures the tent and the unmated males and the eel who smiles too easily. What follows is a disaster of the particular kind that only the trio could stumble into — a puppeteer with broken fingers, a prince with no patience. And in the chaos a pearl changes hands, and a secret comes loose.
MOST OF MY FICS INCLUDE DARK CONTENT. THIS BLOG IS NOT FOR MINORS. 18+. Please read all warnings on each fic before proceeding. I am not responsible for the content you choose to consume.
AERION TARGARYEN
series
disturbed waters (aerion x cousin!reader x valarr)
drabbles
cousin aerion targaryen has a particular filthy habit of biting you
brother aerion targaryen needs to make you understand who you belong to
cruel brother!aerion corrupting you
brother in law! aerion preying on you
one shots
in the dead of the night (trucker aerion)
DAERON TARGARYEN
one shots
sins of the flesh part 01 / part 02 - coming soon
drabbles
sick daeron knows a cure to his sickness
pathetic daeron finally showing you how he feels for you
underestimating cousin daeron
brother daeron being completely oblivous to you wanting him
maekar's assistant can't seem to escape his nuisance son daeron
concepts
slave!daeron
VALARR TARGARYEN
series
disturbed waters (aerion x cousin!reader x valarr)
drabbles
best friend!valarr can't seem to understand that you don't reciprocate his feelings
one shots
brother valarr true colours only come out around you
MAEKAR TARGARYEN
series
recluse neighbour series
BAELOR TARGARYEN
drabbles
baelor accidentally finds your only fans account
who's in the bunny costume?
one shots
baelor accidentally stumbles upon your only fans account
series
maid for hire series
HEADCANONS
how needy akotsk men are for you
brat x nerd!readerhow perverted they are
how perverted they are
baelor accidentally stumbles upon your only fans account
caution from author: before even commenting read the warnings and if you don't like it, just block me and move on with your day. i've appropriately tagged all the warnings of my fic and if you don't like them, you can filter those tags it's that simple.
a/n: for those of you that follow me and have been waiting for this, please enjoy. i really hope this reached your expectations.
warnings: incest. daughter x father incest. dark. non con. dub con. smut. modern au. coercion. somnophilia. manipulation. dacryphilia. overly tight reader. masturbating over unsuspecting reader. implied reader has a different mother to her brothers. angst. major daddy issues. dead dove do not eat. obvious age gap. prostitution. (pays money to fuck a waitress.) guilt and shame. 18+ (i'd say this is more like 21+) MDNI
word count: 7.5K
This has never been Baelor’s typical Saturday night.
He’s the dating type. He always has been, spending money like it’s nothing on dates and treating them so well that there is no way they are going to deny him in the end. Wine and dine, and have their panties down their ankles by the end of the dinner— sometimes even in the middle of it, he’s just that good. Women in his age bracket, he’s never seen the appeal in women half his age.
And yet here he is, after hours in the office, door locked and his phone the only source of light in the dark room. The clock beside him reads 21:43, he should have been out of here hours ago, toying with some pretty divorcee over an expensive bottle of wine. Instead he’s scrolling through a faceless porn account, watching some pretty young thing struggle to take a dildo.
You’re dripping, perched on your feet with the toy planted to the ground beneath you. You bend your knees a bit more, the tip of the purple dildo splitting you open and you whimper. Fuck. Girls his age have never done that. It’s lewd and he actually sees tears slide down the column of your neck.
He knows it hurts, and you still attempt to take it in. You lift yourself off it, slowly and the tip slips out of you with delicious pop that makes the strain in his trousers unbearable.
He should be balls deep in some women right now, not fondling his cock over a faceless girl that can barely fit a dildo into her cunt. He’s fascinated though, watching your thighs tremble as you go for another attempt, and cry at the harsh sting it’s giving you. He can’t help himself, one hand wrapped around his dick as he watches you cry and fuck yourself on the toy.
Baelor’s so fascinated he times his strokes with you. Every time the blunt head of the dildo splits you open, his hand comes down on his sticky tip and slowly drags itself down. It stops when you stop, only going as far as you can go, till you manage to take it all.
When Baelor cums, it’s nothing like he’s used to. Hot ropes of cum spill out of him, making a mess of his hand and his suit. He has to bite down on his tongue just to muffle the grunt that escapes him. He’s used to spilling quickly with a sigh, to rolling over to the side and jumping out of the bed. Not like this, still hard in his hands and twitching like he wants more.
He could go again.
He doesn’t, he locks the screen and sits in the dark a bit longer before heading home.
The date isn’t going well.
It’s unusual.
Baelor rearranged after realising he was going to need to stay in the office into the night and just for that, he felt the need to apologise. He’s brought her to the nicest restaurant, paying extra to get a reservation at such short notice, even slipping the waitress an extra hundred dollar bill for a more secluded area.
Conversation is fine— good even. There’s not even anything wrong with the woman, she’s undeniably attractive, smiling over at him like he’s a meal she’s desperate to have. She’s age, his type but he can’t stop eyeing up the pretty waitress that’s been serving them.
She’s cute, trying so hard to be so attentive to both of them without coming across as over bearing. She’s probably some college student and now she’s seen how much money he’s willing to offer for a favour and is hoping for more.
It’s your fault. She looks like you, same skin tone and figure. He’s picturing what it’d be like to follow her into restroom and fuck her over the toilet. Whether she’d be dripping so much her panties would cling to her. Whether she’d cry just like you did as he splits her open.
Fuck.
The woman narrows her eyes at him over the table, then to the helpless waitress that is pouring them another glass of wine each. She presses her tongue against her cheek and rolls her eyes at him before muttering something under her breath.
“Typical.”
Baelor offers to get the bill after that, realising the date is going poorly and isn’t surprised when the date practically jumps to get in her uber.
He’s never screwed up a date before and it’s all your fucking fault. A faceless girl he’s jerked off to once.
The clicking of shoes snaps him out of his daze and he snaps his head around to find the waitress chasing after him with his wallet in her hands.
He thanks her, taking it out of her grip before letting his eyes run over her.
She’s not you but he can pretend.
He’s probably going to get the poor girl into trouble but he doesn’t exactly care. He’s paid for this, slipping the girl some more money before bunching her slutty skirt at her waist and bending her over the bonnet of his car.
She doesn’t cry like you do when he splits her open, nor does he find her dripping like he hoped but there is something delicious about the way his cock has to forcefully split her open. She takes it like a champ, biting down her moans as he thrusts himself into her. He only wished she’d been slightly more resilient.
He’s glad for the darkness, how it hides the both of them from any on lookers and how as he presses her face down into the cold metal of his bonnet, he can pretend it’s you.
He pulls out before he cums, the liquid dripping out onto the floor and her pretty lace panties. He thinks about how she’ll have to wear them back inside, how bits of him will stick to her for the rest of the night.
How he wishes she was you. His cum stuck to the inside of your panties, dripping down your legs until you reach your home and are finally able to wash it off.
He barely makes it home before he’s scrolling through your account again. He doesn’t care what video it is, he just needs to hear your pathetic whimpers before you make yourself cum.
Once he’s in the privacy of his own room, he finds something.
You sprawled out on your single bed, tits spilling out of your bra and fingers pushing your panties to the side just for him to see. You’ve soaked the material, partly dripping out onto your thighs and your clit is swollen, begging for him to touch it.
That’s what you do, in that sultry sweet voice. You beg.
You plead with him to let you cum. You ask for permission to touch yourself and you tell him just how badly you need it.
He listens, replying like you can hear him on the other side of the pre-recorded video like you’re obeying his every command. He cums when you do and heaves out a sigh when he’s finally finished.
He leaves a generous tip on your page this time.
Baelor doesn’t expect to wake up to a message the next morning.
He’s never used the app before, didn’t even realise there is a messaging option.
Good morning, you start with like it’s casual. Like you might know each other.
Saw you really liked my video last night and thought you deserved something to help you with your morning wood when you wake up.
Then a video, a few minutes long of you teasing yourself in your bed. There’s nothing like this on your page. Is this a personalised video? He hits play, already wrapping his cock in his hand at the sight of you positioning the camera to get a good angle of you before slipping back into your bed.
You’re wearing your pyjamas, a small top and tight matching shorts that hug your body. You angle yourself on your side, using your hands to guide over your body. First your chest, rubbing over your hardening nipples through the thin top, then over your shorts pressing your fingers against your clothed pussy.
He can see the damp spot as you spread your thighs, see the way it grows wetter as you tease yourself over the material. You just get so easily wet and he wonders how wet you really would be after hours of fucking you.
He thrusts his hips up into his hand and realises he might need to buy himself some lubricant just to replicate the feeling of your wet cunt. His dry hand will have to do for now.
He pushes his hips up, in his gentle rhythm like you’re teasing him. Once, twice—
His phone rings, a pretty picture of his daughter lighting up the screen. You.
Fuck. You never call this early, maybe he can let the call go to the answer machine. Call you back an hour later, once he’s got the picture of this minx fucking teasing herself out of his mind.
He does exactly that, the phone rings a few times before cutting off. But only a second later it rings again.
He huffs out a sigh, putting his cock back into his boxers and sitting up in his bed. He’s not one to ignore his children’s calls and he wouldn’t be able to focus on the video in front of him without worrying about you in the back of his mind.
“What is it?”
“Excuse you,” you snap back on the other end. “Can I not call to check on my own dad?”
“Sorry hun,” he sighs, he never meant to sound so harsh.
“You didn’t call yesterday. I got worried but don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to do that again.”
“Honey, I’m sorry.”
You’re stubborn, just like your mother and he knows he’s going to have to do better than that to get you to forgive him.
“You best be sorry,” you say, voice whiny and wet. You’ve always been so emotional, especially when it comes to him. He’s never quite understood it.
“So sorry.”
“Yeah?”
You’re always so needy, half quiet as you wait for his reassurance and his cock twitches at that.
It makes him feel sick. He can’t put the phone down though, he couldn’t do that when he’s already upset you.
“Really sorry, you know that,” he tells you, with a slightly strained voice.
“You okay?” You catch onto it but he hopes you fully haven’t caught on. “You don’t sound too good.”
“Fine,” he mutters quickly, too quick it almost sounds like he’s snapping at you again. “Just tired, hun.”
“I can call you back, if you want?”
He should say yes, should end this call and take a long cold shower and pretend this never happened. But he doesn’t, he presses the duvet over his hard cock and prays for it to go down. “No, it’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He adjusts himself and bites on the inside of his mouth as his cock rubs against his hand. This is fucking disgusting. “How’s everything at college?”
“Good, dad. Really good.”
You don’t talk for long and Baelor’s certain it’s because of his short and abrupt replies, he can only hope he hasn’t upset you.
But he can’t think too much about that, pulling the duvet from his body and finding his cock leaking with precum and still undeniably hard. He can’t touch himself though, he can’t even stomach it, not with the thought of you still heavy on his mind. He couldn’t do that to the image of his precious daughter.
Instead he takes a long cold shower, the water icy as it pours down his body and softens his cock. It’s punishment, some sort of way to absolve him of his sins. Only for him to pretend like it never happened hours later.
His phone lights up in the afternoon, another message.
Minx ➤ Didn’t like my video? Made it just for you.
He opens the app, realising he never even finished it. His fingers hover over the keypad taking a moment to think of a reply before typing.
➤ I’m sorry baby, it’s just been a long morning.
Minx ➤ Need me to make it better?
He swallows, cock straining against his boxers again.
➤ you would do that for me?
You take a few seconds to reply and he’s anxious for it, watching the three dots obsessively in the corner of the screen.
Minx ➤ anything for someone so generous. Just tell me how you want it.
He forgot about the money and reality sinks in at your message. He doesn’t even take a second, presses the tip button, double the amount he sent last night.
➤ need you to beg for it.
Minx ➤ anything for you.
Baelor never realised how addicting this damned app could be in the first place. He sort of wishes it came with a caution before he poured so much money into it. He’s got enough to spare anyway and so long as you keep messaging and sending him those personal videos, he’ll keep pressing that tip button like it’s nothing.
Your latest video starts off similar to the last one, toys spread out on your bed and you kneeling in front of the camera wearing his lingerie. It’s light yellow, complimenting the colour of your skin just like he knew it would.
You’re his girl now, following his every request so much as keeps pouring funds into your account.
Today is different though, the camera angle is higher, just enough for him to be able to see the bottom half of your face. Like he requested.
You take the dildo up to your mouth, licking up along the shaft, painfully slowly like you’re purposely teasing him. You kiss the tip, like the dildo’s real like you need to be gentle with it and then you sink your mouth over it, running your tongue around it before pulling back up.
“Want to make you feel good,” you tell him, in that whiney tone he’s always so desperate for. “Let me make you feel good.”
You push the dildo in between your lips, getting it nice and wet before popping it back out.
“Going to put it inside me,” you say, saliva dripping from the corners of your lips. “Need it inside me.”
“Yeah, going to do that for me, pretty girl,” he replies back like you’re listening to him.
You nod, like you hear him before slipping the wet dildo between your folds.
“Feels good,” you hum, pushing your panties to the side and letting him see the full picture.
Your face comes into frame then, blurred out, keeping your identity hidden from him and although he understands your desire to keep yourself hidden, he wishes he could see your face just once.
“Want to put it in,” you whimper and he just knows you’re pouting.
You buck your hips up, the tip of the dildo lining up at your entrance and you hesitate, like you’re waiting for his permission.
“Nice and slow,” he hisses, fisting his cock just like that as you push the dildo inside.
You’ve gotten better at it, yet your hips still wriggle ever so slightly at the struggle and he just wonders how tight your walls really are. How after two months of training you over videos to take dildos that don’t even mount up to his size, you’re still not fully adjusting.
If he was with you, it’d be better. He’d take his time, pet you over the material of your underwear, before he began stretching you out of his fingers. He’d take it so slow that by the time you got to his cock, there wouldn’t be much resilience left to you. You might struggle a bit and it might hurt, but eventually you feel so full of him it would fill to fucking good to deny.
➤ Video is even better than the last one.
Minx ➤ knew you’d like it. Did you see how wet you made me?
➤ you’re always soaked. Needy thing, aren’t you?
Minx ➤ just for you.
Baelor has only been to his daughter’s college twice. The first time he’d been kind enough to accompany you to the open day, and then the second time had been when you moved in. He can’t believe it’s been a semester since he’d seen you and he feels a little guilty for letting work get in the way that he’s neglected his fatherly duties.
Your room is smaller than he imagined, especially since he’s been paying a hefty check just for you to get your own dorm. It’s somewhat what he expected, different to your bedroom at home with a somewhat more grown up theme, but still familiar.
He can’t quite pinpoint it, furrowing his brows at your single bed and the oddly placed tripod that overlooks it all.
“Are you doing youtube now?” He questions, pointing to the camera plugged into your computer.
“Do you mean vlogging?” You answer.
“You know what I mean,” he says, raising his brows.
You stifle a nervous laugh and shrug. “Something like that.”
Something like that. He tries not to ponder on it but he catches the way your cheeks flush and you bend your head down like you’re dodging the question.
“So where are you taking me then?”
Dinner is supposed to be a normal occasion. You haven’t seen each other in months and yet Baelor can’t ignore the flashing lights going off in his head.
His mind has been screaming at him all day, since the moment he heard your sweet voice and couldn't deny the familiarity.
You're his daughter, of course he recognises your voice but there’s something else to it.
Your lips wrap around your spoon when you get dessert, slow and sensual as you lick the ice chocolate from your glossy lips.
“Can’t believe you haven’t seen me in months,” you say, voice falling quiet as you play around with the food on your plate. “Sometimes it feels like you don’t want to see me.”
“You know that’s not true,” he says, furrowing his brows at you.
You push your hair behind your ear, turning to look away from him. He doesn’t miss the way tears well up in your eyes though.
He calls out your name then, hand reaching over to you only for you to push him away.
“You don’t call for weeks and when you do, you're snappy with me.” Your voice cracks, a tear sliding down your cheek that you’re quick to wipe away.
“Honey–”
“No.” You snap your head around to look at him, cheeks wet and eyes flooding. “It’s not fair. It always feels like you’re punishing me.”
“It’s just work—”
“Cut the bullshit.”
Your lips tremble and he falls silent.
“You visit Valarr and Matarys.” You throw your hands up in defeat. “And you know it’s not like I can just come visit you over the holidays.”
“That’s not true, you’re always welcome at home.”
“I know your parents hate me.”
“They don’t—”
You’re sobbing now, a hand falling over your face to cover yourself from onlookers.
“Hey,” Baelor tries to soothe you, arms reaching out as he steps around the table.
You try to push him away, try to stop him but he yanks your trembling body to his chest and holds you against him.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, holding you so tightly you think you might snap. “So sorry. I didn’t.”
It takes a while for you to calm down, chest still trembling as you come to look at him. You’re pouting, wet lips sticking out and the familiarity is a sick recognition as he realises.
Fuck.
“Do you love me?” You ask, voice still choked up.
It’s sickening. He’s frozen as everything seemingly falls together. Your voice, your soft lips, the way you cry.
“Dad,” you say a bit louder, eyes wide and face screwed up.
“I love you.”
He pulls you to his chest, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Of course, I love you.”
“Want you.”
Back at the hotel he can’t stop flicking through your videos, playing over the endless material he has at his hands. He needs to know, needs to be hundred percent certain that it is really you on the other side of the screen.
It is.
He can’t deny it. The tiny bedroom he’s paying thousands in rent for each semester. Your body dressed up in the different sets of lingerie he’d bought you and your voice telling him just how badly you’re dripping for him.
His fucking daughter.
He’s sick to his stomach, months he’s spent masturbating to videos of you. Not even just that but talking to you like you’re some pretty girl he’s dating.
He’s sick because even knowing this he’s hard rewatching the videos, dick twitching and straining in his pants.
He touches himself for what he swears will be the last time, harsh as he fists himself, not even timing himself to your thrusts like he usually does. He wants to get it over and done with.
When Baelor cums, he’s disgusted by it, turning the phone off and getting the hell out of there.
He shoots you a text before his flight, not being able to muster the courage to look at you right now.
Something short and sweet, he’ll need to think about a proper apology when he gets the chance.
*
He doesn’t call when he gets home. Your texts go unanswered and Baelor tries to go back to his old routine.
Dates with women his age.
Only each and everyone fail miserably, even when he fucks them, he still goes home and wraps his hand around his dick to another video of you. He promises it’ll be the last time. He always does.
But it never is.
As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he thinks there’s a part of him that always kind of knew. He doesn’t want to fully acknowledge it but the similarities were screaming at him for a while. Your body, your hair, your skin tone and your voice.
He knows that waitress he fucked months before oddly resembled you. He just never wanted to admit to it before.
Maybe that’s why he was silent with you, barely answering your calls and being oddly snappy with you before. His own guilt had been eating up at him; he just had been too sick to confess to it.
He’ll confess to it now. In the darkness of his room, with his cock twitching underneath his hand as he palms himself through his boxers.
Baelor wants you.
He wants to watch you struggle to take him, to whine for him and tell him how badly you need him.
Weeks pass since his visit to your college and he doesn’t even realise it. He knows he’s been slow to get around to your texts and letting his phone ring out whenever you called, but he never really knows how bad it is. He’s so lost in fighting his own feelings for you that he doesn’t even realise he’s completely forgotten to pay you any attention.
It’s Valarr that reminds him.
“What the fuck are you playing at?”
His son’s voice is hot and seething on the other end, Valarr’s never been one to be quick to temper. Yet he can hear his son spitting out his words, not letting him get a word in edge ways.
Valarr says your name, and he realises what this is all about.
“Her friends called me, she’s been apparently drinking almost every night that they thought it best to call me. They were so worried—”
“Valarr please—” he tries to interject, to make sense of what his son is saying.
“ —No, you’re going to fucking hear this.”
Baelor falls silent and takes it.
“She hasn’t left her room in days and when I got there she wouldn’t stop sobbing. And you know what she said to me—” Valarr pauses then like he half expects an answer. “ —she said you fucking left her after your visit. Some shitty excuse about work and you haven’t answered your texts or calls to her since. It’s been two months, Dad. Two months.”
Has it really been that long?
“You know she’s failing her midterms. I spoke to one of the advisors at the school and they’re expecting her to retake the whole year, or she has to completely drop out. All because she’s so hung up on the fact she thinks you don’t care for her.”
Valarr heaves out a shaky sigh, and he thinks he can hear his son crying.
“She’s a fucking mess. Had to force her out of the shoe box of a bedroom even then she’s a complete shell of herself. You need to fix this.”
He doesn’t even wait for his dad to answer, hanging up and leaving Baelor to wallow in his guilt.
How could he do this to you?
He’s been entirely selfish and he’s not exactly surprised at how you avoid him when you come home for spring break.
Valarr was right, you’re a complete shell of yourself. Your eyes are puffy from the endless crying and you barely come out of your bedroom.
He’s tried talking to you, knocking on the door at all kinds of hours to try and get you to come out. He’s been buying your favourite treats in hopes he can bribe you out, each one of them being left untouched and eventually spoiling.
Bad turns into awful and hours not leaving your bedroom, turns into a whole day.
He doesn’t even knock on the door this time, he enters.
You’re buried underneath the thick sheets, curled up into a ball, complexion ruined from all the crying you’ve been doing. It has him completely torn up. His hand brushes your hair out your face and you don’t even fight against him, you just stare out at the wall in front of you.
“Please, don’t do this to me,” he whispers, the back of his hand rubbing soothingly over your cheek. His voice cracks and it makes you open your eyes slightly wider. “Please, get up. Talk to me.”
Your face screws up then and he’s quick to wipe away your tears.
“We can talk about it,” he pleads with you, voice softer than it’s ever been.
You get up after a while, jumping into the shower like he asks while he does your laundry. He takes your sheets and the pile of clothes in your hamper, separating each item into lights and darks when he reaches the washing machine. Then he finds them, the lacy yellow panties mixed in with your other bits of clothing.
He should restrain himself and he tries, holding the material inches from his face before finally burying his nose against it.
He’s ruined. You’ve ruined him.
He sniffs it, licks it and even cums all over it before putting the ruined material in with the rest of your washing.
He changes your bedding like he didn’t just fist himself with your panties, places out a pretty tiny pyjama set he’s certain he’s seen from one of your videos on the edge of your bed and waits for you to get out of the bathroom.
You look better, you still won’t meet his eyes but it’s some sort of improvement.
Your fingers play with the set and then you finally look at him.
“Can you?” You awkwardly motion to the door with your head.
“Of course,” he says, getting up and walking out of the room.
You visit him that night, pushing the door open and creeping in the dark room. You don’t even hear the muffled noises of your own moans as you enter the room or notice the way Baelor turns his phone off and throws it under his pillow.
“Can I stay here tonight?”
You stand at the edge of his bed wearing the set he left out for you, the material clinging to every part of your body and who is he to deny you, especially when you’re looking at him like you need him.
He pulls the covers up and lets you slide under the covers next to him. You lie against the edge, a space between you that he closes, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. He just hopes you can’t feel his stiff cock pressed against your ass cheeks.
Baelor wakes in the early hours of the morning, hard and wanting against you.
He knows he shouldn’t and yet his hands slip under the covers anyway.
You sleep so soundly, not even flinching when his hands fondle your breasts, kneading them softly till he’s pulling them out the restraints of your top. He’s half amused at how your nipples harden so quickly and he can’t help but pinch them, earning a low hum from you in your sleep. His dick twitches at that and he can’t help as his hands run down lower and lower, till they’re parting your thighs.
He’s not at all surprised to find you wet. Just like in your videos, you’re so easily turned on.
He doesn’t even need to push his fingers into the material of your shorts to know, not when you’re already soaking the cotton material. He drags his fingers against it, taking his time before applying pressure. Then his fingers finally breach inside, pulling the tight material down your thighs slightly enough to make room for his hand.
He can’t believe he’s actually doing this. Can’t believe his fingers are sliding against your wet cunt, and touching you. Not just watching you through the video on his screen but actually touching you —fingering you to be exact. Two fingers slide up and down your folds, dragging your slick up to your clit, flicking over it before sliding back down. He does this a few times, noticing how slick oozes from your wall with his teasing and how even in your sleep you can’t help but lean into his touch.
He imagines you’re awake, that you’re just pretending even though he knows you're not. That you’re trying so hard to keep your eyes closed as you let your dad take care of you. Unable to stop the little moans that slip between your lips as he pushes the first finger in— fuck, you really are just that tight.
He imagines you waking up, wide eyes and startled expression, asking him what he’s doing. Only for you to whimper when he slides another finger in you, hand pushing against his arm to fight against it, but only finding yourself succumbing to it as you cum against him.
He doesn’t slip a second finger in, he wants you to be awake when he stretches you out, wants to see your legs quiver and your wriggle against him as you struggle to adjust to his size.
“Like letting your dad take care of you,” he can’t help but whisper, lips falling over the shell of your ear. “It’s okay honey, I got you.”
He fists himself with your slick, tip of his dick presses against your cheeks as he cums. It spills all over you, such a sticky mess that he can’t help but play with it, toying it between his fingers before cleaning you up.
He adjusts your top and shorts, but leaves you wet and wanting, wondering all the emotions that’ll be running through your head when you wake in the morning.
Things start getting better for the both of you.
You come out more, joining him for breakfast and sometimes finding yourself both cuddling by tv watching one of his “boring old movies”. It’s sweet normality that you’ve clearly been yearning for, only under the cover of each night, you’re slipping under his bed and falling asleep next to him, none the wiser when he takes what he needs.
You fall into a little habit of sneaking off as soon as you wake, lifting his arm from around you as you rush to find some privacy. He knows exactly why, knows how wet you’re when you wake, knows how needy you must be in the morning. He doesn’t make you cum when you’re asleep, doesn’t let you. He prefers you dripping in need, whining between breathless sighs as rubs teasing circles into your clit.
He thinks about how you make yourself cum when you get yourself into the comforts of your bedroom. How you try to replicate the feel of his fingers as you fuck yourself, how you try to reach a certain spot inside of you but you’re unable. It’s not like you can use your toys, not after you forgot to bring them with you. He imagines you using something else, maybe the end of your hair brush pushing the wooden end into your tight hole till you tremble.
He doesn't ever go to listen though, and doesn't want to find himself disappointed. Instead he finds his phone, and finds one of your saved videos.
It’s like a routine that he can’t seem to snap himself out of.
Every time he finds you curled up on the couch, or cooking in the kitchen, it’s like a reaction, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Sometimes when he’s daring it’s your shoulder, your neck and your cheek.
Now he brushes your hair behind your ear, letting his lips brush against the shell of it before kissing just underneath it.
He doesn’t miss the way you tense at the suddenness of it, how you swallow when he presses his body against yours. But you’re so starved of affection from him, you take it.
“Make me a coffee,” he mutters in your ear.
You nod, before he slowly slips out from behind you.
When he comes back, the last thing he expects is to find you with his phone in your hands.
Your moans fill the silent room, loud and lewd and he knows exactly what video he’s playing out, just from the things you’re saying. You click pause when you notice him standing in the doorway, backing yourself into the corner of the room as your wet eyes look at him.
You don’t look as shocked as you thought you would and that’s why he finds it okay to approach you slowly, placing his arms in front of you like you're some frightened animal.
“I can explain.”
Your brows scrunch up at that, eyes narrowing at him before asking, “What do you mean—” The tension falls from your face in realisation and your eyes widen at him. “You know.”
You look exactly how he imagined, wet eyes wide as they stare back at him, body frozen like a deer in the headlights not knowing whether you should run. He
He approaches, slow and steady as you begin to shake your head.
“Don’t,” you shout, placing your arm between you. “Stop.”
He doesn’t listen and when you brace to run, he snatches you in then, grabbing you by your hips and holding you against the counter top.
“Get off—”
“I didn’t always know, okay.” He presses his head against yours, one hand coming to cup your cheek.
You twist away from it but he’s firm, wrapping his fingers into the hairs at the nape of your hair and pulling you to look at him.
“I’ve been struggling with it and it’s the reason I stopped calling and texting, I was so ashamed about it when I found out months ago.”
Your stomach twists at that and tears spill out against your cheek as you mouth the word back to him. “Months.”
“Some part of me knew, I guess.” It’s honest. The first time he’s actually confessing it out loud and it feels good. “And I thought it was wrong but I couldn’t stop myself. It doesn’t feel wrong, not when I’m pressed up against you on the couch or in my bed.”
“It is wrong,” you hiss, hands falling around his wrist trying to pull him away. “You’re my—” you don’t even have the stomach to say it, wet eyes meeting his darkened gaze, still trying to process that this is really happening.
“Is it?” His voice deepens, low and rough as he presses his nose against your own. “Going to pretend like you haven’t felt me against you?” He raises his brows, questioning you and he sees the conflict in your face. He knows he’s right. “Like it doesn’t feel good to slip into my bed at night?”
“Just wanted to feel like you loved me,” you confess, between a broken sob.
He kisses your wet lips then, soft and slow, not expecting anything in return as his lips work against yours, only pulling away when you’re muttering something again.
“You’re sick.”
“I know, baby.” He nods in agreement before kissing you again, gentle like he’s desperately trying to coax you into it. It doesn’t work and resorts to something else, something he knows will work, doing something he knows he shouldn’t.
His lips trail against the column of your throat before his hand comes across it, holding you there. He doesn’t want to do this but he feels like he has to, pressing his forehead against yours before he gives your throat a gentle squeeze.
“Let me love you,” he hums, kissing your lips till you’re opening your eyes again. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You hesitate for a second, thick tears rolling down your eyes until you nod your head.
“Good girl.” It’s all you need to hear, parting your thighs for him and letting him press his hardened cock against you. You're wet, he can already feel it and he just knows how much he’s going to enjoy it— how much you’re both going to enjoy him fucking you. “Going to make you feel real good, I promise.”
You sob at that and Baelor rolls his hips against yours, making you feel just how hard you’ve made him. He brushes away your tears, kissing your lips again and humming unexpectedly when you finally kiss him back.
You’re unsure at first, lips moving against his like they’re being forced to. Only when he bites against your bottom lip, gently tugging at it, do you relax into it more, opening your mouth and letting him do all the work.
You still tense up when his fingers trail over your body, still go to catch his wrist as it falls between you but Baelor doesn’t mind. He gets it. He fought against this so hard at first, tried desperately hard to keep his needs at bay. You’ll come around.
Your body does anyway, finding you leaking out of your shorts when he pushes his hand into your panties. Your thighs clamp around his hand, a gasp falling from your lips as he presses his hand flush against your soaked folds. He doesn’t pry your thighs apart but instead lets you trap him between them, rubbing your soaked thighs together to ease the tension, and unintentionally rubbing yourself against his hand.
“It’s okay,” he coos, saliva dripping from your lips as he pulls away. “It’s okay.”
“Shouldn’t,” you whine, scrunching your face up, only to relax and separate your thighs.
“I know.” His tongue slips into your mouth again, slow and teasing just as one of his fingers breaches your hole. “I know.”
Sometime between the second and the third finger you stop sobbing against him and while your stomach still tenses in disgust at what you’re doing, you can’t help at the way you’re moaning pitifully against him.
This must be what you deserve for wanting him to love you.
You tense when he finally has you underneath him, body falling rigid as you lie naked on top of his bed. Your eyes are hazy from all the crying and you can’t make up your mind whether you’re glad or upset that you can’t see him all that clearly as he hovers over you.
After all, you can’t make out his face when his tip presses against you…
...But that also meant for a few seconds you can pretend it isn’t actually him on top of you— that it isn’t your dad, breathing heavily as he slips the tip of his cock in and out of you.
You wanted to be loved, but you don’t think you meant this.
Your thighs tremble when he thrusts himself in you, walls almost clenching to push him out. He’s too big and although he’s spent the better half an hour of stretching your walls around his fingers in the kitchen, you’re still struggling pathetically to adjust to him.
He sinks down further, eyes caught at the sight of where his cock is slipping in and out of your walls. He’s barely managing to get an inch past the tip till you’re hissing at the intrusion, grounding your hips as if to escape him. It’s painful and you think it’s your body telling you this isn’t right, that you shouldn’t do this but Baelor is still going to try.
Try he does, seeing as he’s been practically drooling over the idea since he saw your first video, imagining it was his cock instead of that silicone dildo. Now it is, your thighs trembling in the same way, hips wriggling around as if to ease the pain. It doesn’t though and his cock slips in another full inch, stretching you all wrong till you're sniffling from the pain.
“It’ll feel good soon,” Baelor promises, kissing your cheeks again. “Promise.”
While it takes a while at first, the fourth inch making you gasp out and claw your nails at his shoulders from the pain, your walls finally ease up around him. Then it feels good— much too good.
The fullness being blissful as he plunges himself repeatedly in your walls, over and over again until your thighs quiver from the intensity. You’re still so tight, clenching at every purposefully harsh thrust and disgusting word that drips from his lips.
You cry out for completely different reasons, feeling your walls dripping so much that you’ve made a puddle on the bed and when you twist yourself away, unable to look at him, he pinches your chin so you’re forced too.
“Don’t look away from me,” he pleads with you, leaning closer till his hot breath falls over your face again. “Please, need you to look at me.”
“I can’t,” you choke out, shaking your head as he kisses you again. Your hands fall to his hips, as if to push him away, or to steady him but it doesn’t work. “I think—” You gasp sharply at a cruel thrust, pussy clenching as he brushes at something inside of you. You don’t want to admit it but you don’t think you need to as he sees the way your mouth falls open, the way you shake your head again and again like you’re trying to fight against it. “Can’t.”
“You can,” he whispers, head lifting from yours to look at you. His eyes rake over your body, flickering between where his cock gets lost between your folds and your face contorts as you fight against the feeling.
You squeeze him hard, and more slick oozes out of you as he fucks into you deeper and faster like he’s chasing it. Like he can’t a moment longer for you to come undone underneath him.
You do exactly that, sobbing when the feeling in your stomach finally snaps and hot thick pleasure takes over. You don’t even realise the mess you’re making, unable to feel the way you tighten as you drip around him, or the way your climax finally brings him to his own. But you do feel the way he fills you, how his cum spills into you, thick and nasty as he carries on fucking you through it.
He doesn’t fall next to you when he’s done like you imagine he should, doesn’t roll over to his side with a heavy sigh. He pulls you into him instead, coaxes you again with kisses and presses his cock deeper into you.
He tells you it’s fine, tells you how’ll eventually get used to it.
Before you feel him hardening inside of you again, already thrusting his cum sloppily back into your messy walls.
It’s gross. So disgusting and your stomach clenches in a way that makes you want to vomit.
He sees it all across your face, sees the way you’re scrunching your face up as you come down from your own high falling into a sick realisation.
He knows that feeling and thinks he knows the best solution to stop you from wallowing in self pity, to hide yourself away from him again. He pushes into you again, sloppier than the last time and you hate the way you clench around him again, still so sensitive from your orgasm.
“It’s better you don’t think,” he hums against you, pressing the full weight of his bare body down against yours as he lets you in on his plan. “Better I keep fucking you until you can’t think anymore.”
You know it’s wrong and yet you nod in agreement, closing your eyes and letting yourself fall back into the pleasure.
a/n: i know this is very sick, trust me you don't need to tell me.
Dark! Maekar Targaryen x reader
warnings: This is a Dark/ Yandere work that contains Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Non-con, Toxic Marriage, jealousy, age-gap (older man/younger woman), loss of virginity, forced pregnancy, emotional abuse. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
I obviously do not support nor encourage any of this behaviour nor these actions, this is simply a fictional work.
PLEASE DO NOT READ if any of this triggers you. I am not responsible for your media consumption. Please read the warnings before continuing.
Summary: A short conversation with a knight is just what you need in your loneliness. Your husband disagrees.
word count: 4735
A/N: okay so I’m not really happy with how this turned out, the ending is kind of weird but I idk I kind of got stuck. Not my best work but I hope you can enjoy it still. I’m currently working on both Dark! Daeron and Dark! Aerion so I hope those turns out a bit better. Feedback is always appreciated :)
~~~~
The sun was high in the sky, bearing down with a sweltering heat. Your dress was light and more revealing than you usually wore, but being this unused to the heat meant you had to make some adjustments to your usual wardrobe. Besides, being a princess meant you that access to far more options than you had before.
The garden was beautiful, full of flowers and the sound of water flowing from the fountain nearby was almost helping with cooling you down. A servant had been kind enough to fix forth a makeshift canopy to help with a bit of shadow from the sun. Still, you were getting tired from the heat, but with the children running around, you couldn’t well rest either.
Rhae and Daella was sitting close to your side, one busy attempt to draw you, the other being on the busy trying to fix the dragon she was attempting to embroider. It was coming along well, with her pausing every other stitch to get your help. Aegon on the other hand, you learned, could not possibly sit still. He was wielding a wooden sword, pretending to be a knight. He was casually switching between being the winner of a tourney or being in the midst of a war.
You were content. It was a beautiful afternoon, and you got to spend it with three beautiful children you had the honour of calling your own, despite not being related by blood. You were a princess, and the servants were there to help with any need you could imagine. Surely, your life was beautiful. The only thing missing was your husband, and only the gods knew where he was. When you wedded Maekar, it was arranged, as almost all marriages of nobles are. With the Blackfyre rebellion still raging in some parts, alliances were important, and your family offered that. So, despite you being younger, and Maekar being widowed with six children, you were shipped off to Kings Landing.
When you first meet him, you were worried. He was a stern man, gaze hard and rigid body language. He had greeted you with the excitement of a prisoner being sent to the gallows, and every other meeting afterwards had been the same. Yet, after getting to know him a bit more, your terror melted away. He was never cruel, you realized, and did as was expected of him during courting. So, when you finally wedded in the Sept, you weren’t as sad as you thought you would be, and when the wedding night arrived, you were even further relaxed.
He had told you, with that gruff and harsh voice, he had enough children already and didn’t need any more. While you were expected to share a chamber, he wasn’t interested in more. You had been more than happy with the arrangement, and since then he hadn’t touched you. Each night you slept beside each other, on the far side of the beds, broke your fast together and then you wouldn’t see each other for the rest of the day. He went off to do his duties, and you were left to do whatever you wanted. It would have been a lonely life, if it wasn’t for the children filling the void.
“You must sit still, mother!”
The shrill voice of Rhae had the most opening your eyes and smiling at the little girl. She was studying you carefully, before turning back to her drawing.
“Of course, my sweet. We must be careful if we are to show this painting to your father”
She smiled proudly at your words, puffing out her chest and smiling widely before focusing on the parchment once more. The children, being as young as they are, take quite the pride in showing their father their work, and even more pride in the fact you are as invested as them. They lost their mother young, and you are happy you can bring them some comfort and guidance.
You prepare to answer her when you are cut off by the battle-scream of the boy beside you. He jumps right into your lap, and you barely have time to catch him before he starts swinging the sword around.
“Die, Blackfyre-bastard! I will not let you kidnap my family; I’ll fight for their honour!”
You let out a laugh at his wild fantasies, but neither Daella nor Rhae finds their loss of peace entertaining.
“Aegon, you are ruining the drawing! Move!”
Aegon didn’t seem phased by his sister’s complaint, instead laughing as he continued to cast his sword around. It’s not until Daella lets out a noise of complaint he gets up, only to charge right at his younger sister.
“Come on, you are no fun! Play with me instead, you can’t sit still all day”
You don’t have time to stop him, barely having time to open your mouth when Aegon suddenly snatches the parchment out from under Rhae, only to bold away further into the gardens. No more has his name left your lips in a scolding manner before Rhae is up and chasing after him with a shrill cry. Daella is not long after her, angry and determent to protect her younger sister, her embroidery-work now laying disregarded beside you.
Almost as soon as the scuffle started, you find yourself alone, save for a few guards and the maids. As much as you adore the children, the quiet of the moment doesn’t disturb you, instead allowing you to finally take a sip of the cold lemonade before slowly laying down on your back and closing your eyes. The children wouldn’t get far, and by now you were sure a maid or septa was on their way to capture the little siblings anyways. You could use the moment to rest before they were delivered back to you.
“Princess, are you alright?”
Your eyes open to gaze upon the knight that has moved to your side. Dressed in shining white armor, his helmet secure and his hand ready on the sword handle, he looks every bit of a proper knight in the sun. You smile at him before sitting up, brushing off some invisible dust from your skirts.
“Yes, thank you Ser Robyn. I’m just a bit warm… I didn’t mean to worry” You shake your head, looking away towards where the children had run off to. “They are full of energy, those three. I try to rest when I get the chance”
Ser Robyn lets out a soft laugh at your words, the sun reflecting on him in a manner that makes him shine even brighter. A true knight, indeed.
“Aye, you are right in that, Princess. I know them as quite the rascals”
You answer with a hum as you turn your gaze back to the knight. You hadn’t known him for long, but he was employed in your husband’s service, and as of late he had been guarding you and the children quite oft. You didn’t know if he was assigned to you or one of the young ones, but his sweet smile and calm demeanour was a pleasant addition in your life.
You were happy in your life, but you couldn’t help but sometimes feel lonely. The children helped fill the void, but sometimes a conversation with a friend was just what you needed, and Ser Robyn has always been kind.
“You must be warm in your armour. I can only imagen the sweltering heat you suffer clad in Steel from your heels to the helm. Please, have some lemonade to drink and sit with me”
As you speak you are carefully filling one of the empty glasses with lemonade, holding it out for him to take. He only shakes his head as he lifts a hand in protest, still smiling.
“Oh, no thank you princess. I couldn’t possibly…”
You don’t let him finish, instead just lifting the glass higher towards him as you give him a pointed look.
“I will not have you fainting, Ser Robyn. You don’t have to sit beside me but at least take the glass and drink. That is an order”
You smile at him as you add the last part, the jest still somehow pointed at him. He relents with a soft “thank you” as he takes the glass and step closer to you. He doesn’t sit down, despite how you pat the blanket beside you. In the end, you must content yourself that he at least took the drink.
You talk some more with him about how good the weather is, how much you adore the silks and dresses and how sweet the children are. You help fill his glass once more and you share another drink together. Before long, the children are delivered back to you, Daella and Rhae stomping back to you with anger, and Aegon being carried kicking and complaining under the arm of another knight. Ser Robyn thanks you once more before taking a step back to give you space as the children once more settle down on the blankets.
“Aegon tried to ruin my drawing!” Rhae complains as she cuddles into your side, reaching for a glass of lemonade.
Aegon huffs and opens his mouth, ready to complain but you cut him off before he has the chance.
“Aegon, enough. Let your sister be”
A pointed look makes him close his mouth, crossing his arms. Daella smirks at him, before picking up her embroidery again. You simply shake your head, suppressing a smile at the younglings.
“What would you children say to some lemoncakes, huh?”
That has them all snapping their eyes to you and quickly nodding their heads in agreement. You merely laugh before turning to the maid and asking her to fetch you some and bring some more lemonade. The children had a lot of energy left and the day was far from over.
~~~
The evening breeze was cool against your skin as you sat by the window. The dress from earlier had been changed out to a softer, lighter gown as you were trying to wind down after the day. You shared the Lemon Cakes with the children and spent a better part of the afternoon outside playing with them. Then, you went inside to share supper with them before parting as their Septas came to take them to bed. You had been surprised your husband hadn’t shared Supper with you, but when you asked the servants, they said he had business to attend to.
So, here you were, sitting by the window of your shared chambers trying to fix the last pieces of embroidering Daella didn’t have time to finish. You promised her you would help her fix the last parts so she could present the final piece to her father.
When the door opens, you recognize the sound of Maekars boots against the floor, and the way his breath sounds. You don’t even bother to look up from your work, knowing he is there. That meant you missed the uncharacteristically angry look he wore, and how his jaw was set.
“Hello, Maekar”
You are concentrating on your work and your tone is dismissive, which only serves to annoys him more.
“Wife”
You don’t respond, since you usually don’t. It’s not like you were often sharing a conversation with your husband during the evenings, instead content sitting quietly. Which is why it come as a surprise to you when your husband continues to speak.
“You have been busy today”
You look up, brows furrowing as you finally seem to notice something is off. Maekar stands right by the door, his hands closed to fists by his side as he stares you down. Still, you can’t fully put your finger on what is wrong. Mayhap he had an odd day, hence the work keeping him over supper.
“I don’t think I’ve been busier today than any other. I spent a great deal of time with the children in the garden”
You try to keep your tone light, shrugging in the process. He simply continues to look at you, moving his jaw as if trying to release pressure. He takes a deep breath, slowly taking a step closer to you. For a reason you can’t name, you want to take a step back, putting some distance between you. The only reason you don’t is because you can’t, not while sitting by the window.
“Really? And it was only the children you spent time with?”
Now you are truly confused, the crease between your eyebrows deepening as you try to think. Yes… yes, you broke your fast together with your husband, then spent some time in the library before having lunch (a lunch you were supposed to share with Daeron, but he never showed up), and then you went into the garden with the little ones. You had only spent time with his children all day.
“…Well, yes, only the children, I suppose. Are you wroth with me?”
Your question is timid, genuinely confused and slightly worried about his tone. You had never seen this side of him, only used to the quiet gruff kind of way he spoke to you. He doesn’t seem to share your confusion, though, as he once more takes a step closer to you.
“Yes, Silly girl, I am wroth with you” He all but growls, hands still close to fists. “I have all the right in the seven kingdoms to be upset when my own wife has been drooling over a knight, and then lying to my face about it”
You stand up at the tone of his voice, dropping your work onto the windowsill to push yourself flat against the wall. Your heart is starting to beat faster, like a fist banging against a wall. You have nowhere to go. Your husband is not close yet, but he stands in the way of the only exit. For the first time since your marriage, you find yourself afraid of him.
“What? I haven’t… I don’t know what you are speaking of!”
Your voice has risen in volume without you noticing, your panic starting to grow. It had been one thing if you knew of what he was saying, if you knew how to defend yourself. Yet now you stand utterly confused and scared. Maekar don’t seem to take your fear into consideration, as slowly closing the distance, causing you to press even closer to the wall.
“Really? You are trying to tell me you weren’t practically throwing yourself at Ser Robyn the second the children weren’t close?”
The cogs in your brain finally seem to connect as you realize what he speaks off, but it doesn’t calm you the way you hoped it would. Talking to Ser Robyn had been completely innocent, you had simply shared some words and helped him to a drink, he hadn’t even sat down with you! Yet, with horror you realize your husband hadn’t heard that. No, he had been watching you from somewhere else and had only seen the interaction. Tears begin to kiss your eyes as you stumble over your words trying to explain.
“No! No, we… we were only speaking, the children had… they were fighting and I tried to rest so Ser Robyn just asked if I were fine and… and then he seemed tired so…”
He cuts you off, not entertained at all by the words you babble out.
“And what about that promoted you to insist he have a drink? You were practically throwing yourself at him trying to convince him to sit down with you”
“No!” You stutter out, shaking your head desperately, somehow trying to get through to him. It doesn’t work. “I just thought he seemed warm in his armour, and I didn’t want him to faint! He wouldn’t sit down with me so…”
“You shouldn’t have offered him that in the first place!” The sneer on his face and the tone of his voice only further distress you.
You had never seen this side to him; hell, you had barely spoken to him since the wedding! Since then, the only conversation you shared was regarding the children or how his work was going. Never had he spoken to you like this and never accused you of anything and certainly never been wroth with you either. You didn’t know what to do or say, so you did the only thing you could think of: apologizing.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I never meant to insult you!”
You sobbed, shaking your head and trying not to look at him. You really hadn’t mean anything by anything. You had simply wanted some conversation and to ease Ser Robyns day. Had you known how your husband would react, had you known your husband had been watching, you wouldn’t even had sat down in that part of the garden. Had you known this was how he would react, you wouldn’t have married him.
He didn’t seem phased by your tears, but the apology seemed to at least calm his down somewhat. He took one last step, now standing within an arms reach of you. He looked down on you, still with that sneer in his faces.
“Ser Robyn…” he spit out the name as if it was an insult. “… has had a change of post. He will not be in your service anymore and if I find you have spoken to him again, I will have him sent to the wall”
The finality of his words has you taking a deep breath of air, finally allowing yourself to feel some sort of hope again. You would be sad to see Ser Robyn go, you liked Ser Robyn, but if it meant you wouldn’t be attacked like this again it would as worth it. It was over, he had accepted the apology and you wouldn’t do the mistake again. He would leave you be. You nod your head quickly, not wanting to disagree when you finally have him in a better mood.
“Yes, yes of course… I’m sorry, thank you I… I won’t do it again”
Maekar gave a nod, pleased with your agreement. Yet he didn’t step away. He stayed in his spot, close by and studying your face. For almost a full minute, neither of you moved nor said anything, the only sound in the chamber was your laboured breaths and his calm ones. When the tension became too much, you tried to quietly step to the side to go away, to put some sort of distance between you, anything that could mean you would be allowed to breathe again. When you slowly move, you are once more surprised by arm that shoots out to grasp at your wrist. Your lips quiver but you don’t have the courage to let out a sound, despite the pain that shoots out from your wrist harsh grip.
“Do you like my children?”
The question shocks you, and you don’t respond right away. How could you, when the question came out of nowhere? Out of reflex, you gently try to pry your wrist back, but his grip stays strong and his eyes won’t leave yours.
“I… yes, of course. I adore them”
You aren’t lying. You love the children and find pride in the fact. They are sweet and raised well, and they seem to adore you just as much. You would never replace their mother, but you could at least help them fill they void she left. Maekar seems content with the answer, nodding his head.
“That’s good. They like you too… and do you ever wish you had a child of your own?”
Your fear has ebbed away now that he was calmer, and now fully replaced by confusion again. Truth was, you weren’t sure you wanted a child. You had his three younglings to take care of, and they were a handful as they are. Your husband is old and you know where he stood on the subject, which had only cemented your beliefs further.
“I… No, I have your children. And I know you don’t want another…”
You don’t have the time to finish before he cuts you off.
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind”
You stare blankly at him; not sure you understand what he wants. He sighs as he pulls you closer, raising one hand to brush a strand of hair from your face. A gesture that’s oddly intimate.
“I… I think this is a conversation best had some other time”
Your voice is surprisingly steady, as your brows crease up. You don’t like where this conversation is headed, and you still aren’t fully sure you follow. The adrenaline was still running high from fear, and you felt you needed a few moments to collect yourself before this madness continued. Maekar didn’t seem to agree.
“Why? Its not like my opinion is going to change. I’ve thought about this”
His head is slightly tilted to the side as he regards you. Your wrist is still firmly in his grasp, and absentmindedly he lets his thumb softly draw patterns into your wrist. Its distracting, and you struggle to hear his words.
“I have seen you with the kids. They love you, and you are a natural. You would make a good mother” He pauses for a second before he continues, even more sure. “You will make a good mother”
With that, takes his other hand to grasp at your forearm before twisting you around and harshly dragging you towards the bed.
You stumble over your own feet as he pulls you backwards. Grasping onto his forearms, your fear coming back tenfold. You don’t understand what he means, and you’re not sure you understand what he wants. All you know is that he is suddenly talking about children and dragging you towards the bed. You aren’t stupid, but everything is happening so fast you aren’t sure if you can catch up. Almost without meaning it, you dig your feet into the ground, but that seems to annoy him.
“Quit your fighting, girl, or I’ll just take you against the wall”
He shakes you as he speaks, continuing to move you with more force. When he finally reaches the bed, he practically lifts you from the ground and throw you onto it. You land on your stomach with such force you bounce on it, and you scramble to crawl away to the other side, away from him. The sheets crumble beneath you, and suddenly the bed seemed endlessly bigger than before. You don’t even get far as his hands grabs your ankles with such force you are sure they will bruise, and drags you back across the bed. He flips you over in the process, and he climbs over you quickly, straddling your waist as he struggles to remove his tunic while keeping you still.
He doesn’t say anything, not even when you sob, asking what you did wrongs, what happened. You beg him to wait, slow down, but the only response you get is the fact his tunic hits the floor, and his hands find the neckline of your dress. With a brutal yank, he rips the dress down, exposing your chest. He only grunt in appreciation before he leans over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other starts pulling up your gown to your waist.
You were a maiden, of course you were. You had never consummated your marriage and had certainly never been with anyone before. Everything you knew you had been taught to you by your septa or your mother, and even that had been sheltered. Still, you never thought your first time would be this. A harsh husband, holding you down and speaking of children. When his fingers slither between your legs you let out a gasp, the sensation unknown to you. He isn’t rough, per say, but he also isn’t careful. He is simply… practical.
You are gasping for air, the tears building up faster than you can blink them away. You had never been this afraid of him before. Naively, you had thought that you knew him. You thought that he didn’t like you, that he wouldn’t touch you. He had said so himself, what had changed? What did you do to change it?
When you feel the tip of him at your entrance, your panic comes to a tilt. You take both your hands to desperately grasp at his face, forcing him to look at you. He is so close you can see all his scars, his beard, the way his eyes dart all over your face. With your hands cradling his face, you try to reach him one last time.
“Maekar please, just wait…”
And for a second, he does. He just looks at you, that weird glint in his eyes. Slowly, one of his hands come to grasp at yours, and it’s so large it covers your whole hand. It gives you hope. Hope that he might just slow down, give you a second to breath. Hope that just maybe…
“Quit struggling so much, it’ll hurt less”
With those words, he pushes his face down and let his lips meet yours in a rough kiss. His beard is scratchy against your face, and you realise that this is the first time you’ve kissed your husband since the wedding. This time it was deeper, harsher. His teeth almost clash with yours due to the force, and it knocks your head back. It serves as a distraction when he starts to push into you.
He isn’t gentle, and it burns as he pushes his hips forward. You weep, but there is not much you can do, pressed between him and the sheets. You try to focus on his lips on yours, his harsh grip on your hand, anything but the pain.
When he finally parts his lips from yours, he barley waits a second before moving his face into your neck, breathing hard. He lets you recover for a few second before he starts moving, thrusting in and out of you at a slow pace. You can do nothing but take it, your protests reduced to a soft chorus of “No, please”. Still, they fall on deaf ears as he groans into your ear.
“I’m going to give you a child”
His voice is rough and breathless, and he is so close you can feel his breath landing on the side of your head. He still holds one of your hands in his, and he moves it from his face to force the palm of your hand flat against his chest. You can feel the hard muscles underneath as they work, and you think yourself a fool for ever hoping you could fight him off.
By the time his hips start to lose their pace, and he comes closer to finishing, you have stopped begging. He wouldn’t listen, what was the point? You stare at the canopy above and listen to his quiet whispers of a life together, of the children you were going to have. Children you weren’t even sure you wanted.
He lets out a groan as he finally finishes, pushing his hips as close as he can, trying to stay as deep inside you as he could go. His breath is hot against your temple, but you have nowhere left to turn. You are trapped where you are. Afterward a while, he simply rolls of to the side and to slowly catch his breath. You don’t do move, how could you? You are in shock. Just earlier today you were enjoying the sun, playing with the children. How could your life have taken such a dramatic turn in just a few hours?
You can feel his seed slowly slip out of you, and somehow that’s what makes you come back to reality. It wasn’t a bad dream, some feverish hallucination from sickness. It was real, and that makes you even more scared. Everything feels like a blur as you slowly clench your fist, almost surprised your hands still work.
Maekar lies still beside you, slowly turning his head when he feels you looking at him. He locks his gaze to yours, and you see no remorse in his eyes. No, this is the closest to happy you’ve ever seen your husband. That somehow terrifies you more, that the man you thought you knew was nothing but an illusion. He was a dragon after all, and you had just been too naïve to see the truth. Now you were trapped within the jaws, unable to crawl your way out.
“Don’t worry, you will make a terrific mother. We’ll finally be a proper family”
if ur taking requests, can i ask for maekar x baelor's daughter? something hidden from everyone because reader is baelor's little girl and he would absolutely be pissed about it👀
ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ summary: You, Baelor's one and only daughter, his favourite child, are determined to help your uncle Maekar get through the grief of losing his wife.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x niece!reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | targcest | smut | filthy smut | yearning | guilt | age gap| stressing out this poor old man| word count 4k
─ a/n: I got a little carried away here, but this was such a good request, and I loved writing it. As always, thank you for likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. Much love. 🖤
The Red Keep was alive with the sort of boisterous, glittering life that only a royal feast could summon. A hundred tallow candles burned in silver sconces along the stone walls, their light dancing across the long tables laden with food. You sat at the high table, a world away from the chaos, yet at its very centre.
"Another?" Your father, Baelor, leaned in, his voice a low, warm rumble that cut through the din with ease. He held a silver pitcher, the light from the massive chandeliers glinting off the intricate dragon heads that formed its handle. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked at you.
You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "No, Father. I am quite well." You placed a hand over his, where it rested on the table. You were his youngest, his only daughter, and the absolute, unchallenged centre of his world. Of course, he loved your brothers, but you; you were his greatest treasure, his clear favourite. You went everywhere with him, from the small council chambers to the royal sept, and you spoke with him about everything and nothing, a comfortable stream of chatter that he seemed to absorb like sunlight.
He gave your hand a squeeze before releasing it, turning to speak with a lord who had approached. Your gaze drifted over the hall, not missing the way men watched you. Knights and lords from every corner of the realm, their eyes speculative and hungry. To win your favour was to win the ear of the future king, a fact you were not naive enough to ignore. Though you were polite to them all, offering a kind word or a practised smile, your heart remained a still, unmoved pool within your chest.
A shadow fell over your side of the table, and you did not need to look up to know who it was.
"Cousin," Aerion's voice was a silken purr, laced with the arrogance that came so naturally to him. He slid beside you, far closer than propriety strictly allowed. "You look like a star fallen to earth tonight."
You turned your head, meeting his pale lilac eyes. He was handsome, there was no denying it, but his beauty was cold and brittle, much like him.
"Aerion, you are in high spirits."
"Always, when I am near you," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you not feel it? How the fire in our blood calls to one another. You need a man who understands your true nature. These suitors are an insult to you."
You had heard a version of this from him at least a hundred times. A litany of fire and blood and destiny.
"It is not I whom you must convince, dear cousin," you replied, turning your attention back to your goblet of watered wine. "Perhaps you should save your grand pronouncements for my father."
He chuckled, a low, smug sound. "You and I both know that is a lie."
You said nothing, merely tracing a condensation ring on the table with your fingertip. Your father, finished with his conversation, glanced over at Aerion, his expression hardening almost imperceptibly. Baelor was fiercely protective, skeptical of every man who dared to look at you with a sliver of interest. He had made his position clear to you. You would marry who you chose, in your own time, or not at all. He would sooner see you live out your days as an unmarried spinster princess in the Red Keep than force you into a bed and a life you did not want.
Before you could rebuff Aerion politely, your father's voice cut in, cool and sharp. "Aerion. My daughter is tired." He placed a hand on your shoulder, a gesture of both affection and possession. "And I believe Valarr wished to speak with you about the upcoming tournament."
It was a dismissal, clear and absolute. Aerion's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before the smooth mask slid back into place. He gave you a short, sharp bow. "Princess. Your Grace."
You let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. "Thank you, Father."
Baelor's hand remained on your shoulder. "Where did your uncle go wrong with him?"
Your eyes scanned the hall again, looking for the aforementioned uncle. He was seated several chairs down, a figure carved from shadow and sternness, not participating in the revelry. He sat with his back straight, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his dark tunic, a goblet of wine untouched before him. He was a man hollowed out by grief.
You had always thought him handsome, in a severe, imposing way. Even as a girl, you had admired his strength, the way he carried himself with the unshakeable confidence of a warrior. But that was before his wife had died. The light in him had gone out, replaced by a cold, impenetrable gloom. He had become gruff, impatient, and quick to dismiss any attempt at conversation. Yet you, for reasons you could not fully explain, had made it your mission to bring that light back.
You would find him in the library, pulling out a book you had no intention of reading, just to sit in the same quiet space. You would accidentally find him walking in the gardens and fall into step beside him, filling the silence with stories about your day. You would sometimes even seek him out in the training yard and watch him practice. He never sent you away.
"Does your father encourage this incessant chatter?" he had grunted one afternoon as you sat with him in a quiet solar, detailing the drama between two of your ladies-in-waiting. He was staring into the fire, his profile sharp and severe.
You had flinched, your shoulders slumping, suddenly feeling foolish. The light in your eyes dimmed, and you had looked down at your feet, unable to meet his gaze. "I… I am sorry, Uncle. I did not mean to be a pest."
Maekar turned to look at you and saw the genuine hurt on your face, the way your lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly. He let out a long, slow breath, the anger seeming to drain out of him.
"I know you are in grief. I understand. I just, I do not want to see you in it forever. It is eating you alive."
Something in your words, in their raw, unvarnished honesty, had broken through his armour. He felt a pang of guilt, sharp and unpleasant. He, a grown man, a prince, had made his niece, who was nothing but kindness and stubborn concern, feel small. He had to admit, if only to himself, that in the long, silent months since Dyanna's death, your persistent, cheerful presence was the only thing that brought him a sliver of joy. You were spoiled and often said silly things, but you were also passionate and sweet. The only person who had consistently tried to reach him through the thick fog of his sorrow, and he appreciated it. He truly did.
"I apologize," he said, his voice gruff but no longer harsh. "That was unkind of me. Do not stop speaking, it is not unwelcome."
A slow, hesitant smile had spread across your face, your eyes sparkling. "Truly?"
He gave a curt nod, a faint flush on his pale cheeks. "Truly. Now, what did Lady Celia say?"
From that day on, the dynamic between you had shifted. You still did most of the talking, a constant, flowing river of words about court gossip, about books you were reading, about a particularly stubborn falcon you were trying to train. He was content to listen, offering a grunt of acknowledgment, a nod of his head, or a rare, dry comment that never failed to make you laugh. He found himself looking forward to your appearances, to the way you could fill the crushing silence of his rooms with your vibrant energy. He had grown fond of your company, more than he would ever admit.
Watching him now, a resolve firmed in your chest. The feast was loud, Aerion was persistent, and your father's love, while a shield, was also a gilded cage. You needed air, and the calm you only ever seemed to find near him.
You excused yourself from the table, ignoring Baelor's questioning look, and made your way to Maekar. He did not look up.
"Uncle," you said, your voice soft.
His gaze lifted slowly. "Should you not be attending to your admirers?"
"They can entertain themselves for a while," you replied, a hint of your usual playful tone in your voice. "I was wondering… the weather is supposed to be fair tomorrow. Would you accompany me for a ride?" You held your breath, expecting the usual refusal, a gruff excuse about duties, or a simple, unadorned no.
But then he gave a short, sharp nod. "Very well."
A genuine, unforced smile bloomed on your face. "Wonderful. I will meet you in the stables after the morning meal."
He did not reply, just gave a slight inclination of his head, dismissing you.
The next morning, the air was crisp and cool, carrying the damp scent of earth and leaves. You found Maekar in the stables, already mounted on a powerful black stallion, a beast as dark and formidable as its rider.
"You are prompt," he noted, his voice a low rumble.
"I did not want to give you time to change your mind."
He almost smiled. "A wise assumption."
You rode out of the city gates, the noise and chaos of King's Landing fading behind you, replaced by the rhythmic thud of hooves on dirt and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. The ride was more pleasant than he had anticipated. He found himself relaxing, the perpetual knot of tension in his shoulders loosening for the first time in a long while. Maekar was enjoying himself, enjoying being near you.
He turned his head to look at you. You had tilted your face up to the sun, your eyes closed, a look of pure contentment on your face. The wind had loosened several strands of your hair from its braid, and they curled around your cheeks and throat. In that moment, he was struck by a thought so clear it was ridiculous he had never noticed. You were truly, breathtakingly beautiful. Not in the delicate, porcelain way of court ladies, but with a vibrant, wild beauty that was all your own. He realised, with a certainty that was both terrifying and comforting, that he wanted you in his life like this forever. This easy peace, this quiet companionship; it was the first true happiness he had felt since Dyanna died.
You must have felt his gaze, for you opened your eyes and turned to him, a wide, untroubled smile gracing your lips. The smile was for him, a gift freely given.
And then another thought, darker and hotter, slithered into his mind, unbidden and monstrous. It was a dirty, base thought that had no place in the sun-dappled peace of the woods. He wanted to pull you from that horse, tear the green leather from your body, and take you. He wanted to claim you, to possess you, to prove to you the man he was, to erase the memory of every foppish lord and foolish cousin who had ever dared to look at you. Gods, how he wanted to make you his.
The thought was so visceral, so shocking in its intensity, that he recoiled as a wave of disgust washed over him. You were his niece. Baelor's daughter. He was a monster. A foul, wretched creature.
He wrenched his gaze away from you, staring blindly into the dense, shadowed woods. He pulled sharply on his reins, his powerful horse dancing beneath him, its muscles bunching in protest. Every muscle in his own body went rigid. The easy peace was shattered.
He felt your eyes on him, questioning. "Uncle? Is everything alright? Did you see something?"
"No," he bit out, his voice harsh, foreign. He could not look at you. He could not bear to see that trusting, beautiful face. "It is nothing. We are heading back. Immediately."
The light in your face vanished, replaced by a confusion that quickly melted into a deep, palpable sadness. Your shoulders slumped, your hands stilling on the reins. You simply gave a small, resigned nod and turned your horse, urging it back toward the path you had taken.
The ride back was suffocatingly silent. You rode slightly behind him, watching his rigid back. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by the familiar, cold storm. You did not understand. The two of you had been so happy, so content, and then in a single moment it had all curdled. You replayed that look, that intense, searching gaze, trying to understand what you had seen, what you had done wrong.
When you finally reached the stables, the grooms rushed forward to take the horses. Maekar dismounted with stiff, jerky movements, his gloved hands adjusting the reins before passing them off without a word. You slid from your saddle, your boots landing softly in the straw, and approached him cautiously.
"Are you cross with me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "What have I done?"
Maekar turned to face you, his expression unreadable but for the slight tightening around his eyes. "I am not angry with you," he said, his tone clipped and formal. "But this will not continue anymore."
"This?" you questioned, stepping closer. "What do you mean?"
"This," he gestured vaguely between you. "These rides, these conversations. I have too much to do to spend my time babysitting you."
The word stung, sharp and dismissive. "I thought… I thought we were becoming friends."
"We are not friends. You are my niece, and I am your uncle. That is all we can be. You will stop wasting your time on me." He ran a hand through his silver-blonde hair, dislodging a few strands from their careful arrangement. "Go to your father. Pick a husband from your sea of admirers. Leave me be."
Instead of retreating as he clearly intended, you moved closer still, until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "And what if the man I want is right here in front of me?" you asked, your voice soft but deliberate. "Should I still go to my father then?"
Maekar took a sharp step back, his violet eyes widening in shock. "Do you hear yourself? The things you are suggesting..."
You followed his retreat, refusing to let him escape. "Is it mad to want you, Uncle? It was not my intention, and yet, I want you all the same. The one person who actually sees me, not just the princess or the prize."
"This attraction," his voice strained, "it is unnatural. Sinful. Vile. We are family. Blood."
"No one protests when Aerion pursues me day after day," you pressed, your hand reaching out to rest on his chest. You felt his heart hammering beneath your palm.
He caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "That is not the same."
You whispered, leaning into him. "Tell me you do not feel it too. Tell me you do not want me as I want you."
For a long moment he simply stared at you, his internal war visible in the shifting expressions on his face. The stern prince, the grieving widower, the man who had been alone for too long. Then something in him seemed to break, to shatter under the weight of denial.
"Gods help me," he breathed, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was nothing like you might have imagined from your stern uncle. His hands moved from your wrists to cup your face, holding you steady as he devoured your mouth. His tongue swept inside, claiming, tasting, exploring as if he had been starving for this moment. You responded with equal fervour, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing heavily, your lips swollen and tingling. "We are damned."
"Then let us be damned together," you replied, and pulled him back for another kiss.
That kiss in the stable yard marked the beginning of your secret affair. From that day forward, Maekar became yours in every way that mattered. The guilt occasionally haunted him; you could see it in the shadows behind his eyes when he watched you, in the way he sometimes pulled away after your bodies were sated and tangled in his sheets. But those moments of remorse grew fewer as your passion intensified.
You made it impossible for him to regret what you shared. Most nights, you found ways to slip away to his chambers. Sometimes he would come to find you naked and waiting in his bed, your body already slick with anticipation. Other times, you wore your finest gowns, letting him peel away the layers like unwrapping a precious gift.
Maekar ruined you for any other man. At his age, he had the experience and patience of a lover who knew exactly how to please a woman. He learned every curve, every sensitive spot, every secret that made you gasp and writhe beneath him. He loved watching you prepare for him, loved how your body responded to his touch. Sometimes he would make you wait, teasing you with his fingers and tongue until you were begging for his cock.
"Please, Maekar," you would whimper, your hips bucking against his mouth. "I need you inside me."
Only when you were completely undone would he position himself between your thighs, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds. "Tell me what you need," he would demand, his voice husky with desire.
"You, only you."
He would enter you then, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch as he stretched you open. The first thrust always made you cry out — it was almost too much, his size overwhelming in the best way. He would pause, letting you adjust, his violet eyes dark with lust as he watched your face.
"More," you would beg, and he would comply, setting a rhythm that drove you both toward ecstasy.
Maekar was insatiable once he let go of his inhibitions, taking you for hours, exploring every position, every angle. He loved taking you from behind, gripping your hips as he drove into you. He loved watching you ride him, your breasts bouncing as you impaled yourself on his cock again and again. But his favourite was when you lay on your back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he held you and kissed you.
The months passed in a blur of stolen moments and secret rendezvous. You became experts at discretion, but comfort breeds complacency, and secrets have a way of revealing themselves. The day it happened started like any other. The castle was relatively quiet, most courtiers napping or attending to their own affairs, when you slipped into Maekar's solar.
He was standing at his desk, his back to you as he looked out over the courtyard. The afternoon light caught the silver strands in his hair, making him seem almost ethereal. He turned as you entered, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice already thick with desire.
You obeyed, settling in his arms as his hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him for a searing kiss.
"I have been thinking about you all morning."
Heat pooled between your thighs at his words. "Then why are we still talking?" you challenged, reaching down to palm the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches.
He spun you around, pushing you face-down over the desk. Papers scattered as your breasts met the polished wood, your nipples hardening at the sudden contact. Maekar made quick work of your gown, yanking it up over your hips and tearing at the ties of your bodice until your breasts spilled free.
"Look at you," he said, running his hands over your bare backside. "So ready for me. So eager."
You wiggled your hips in invitation, spreading your legs wider. "Please, I need you. I have been empty for too long."
He chuckled darkly and positioned himself behind you, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. "Empty? We must see to that." With one smooth thrust he buried himself to the hilt, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. "Better?"
"Gods, yes," you moaned, pushing back against him. "Fuck me, now."
His hand wrapped around your throat, not choking you but holding you in place, asserting his dominance in a way that made you clench around him. "So demanding," he murmured, beginning to move in earnest.
He set a punishing pace, each thrust driving you forward against the desk. You were already so close, so aroused from his words and the sheer recklessness of it. It only took moments before you were tumbling over the edge, your walls convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.
"That is it," he praised, his movements becoming more erratic. "Gods, yes..."
You were still coming down from your release when the door to the solar swung open.
Time seemed to slow. You and Maekar froze in position, your bodies locked in the most compromising of poses. And there in the doorway stood Baelor.
Baelor's face registered a storm of emotions in rapid succession: confusion, disbelief, horror, anger, betrayal, hurt. Then his face hardened, his expression shuttering completely, and without a word, he turned away and slammed the door shut with such force that the entire room seemed to shake.
What had you done?
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