visxera. BloodyVisxera on ao3. he/they/it. 18. side blog. writer/artist. might post/might not post. if you know me no you don't. if you are under 18 i will block you.
-minors DNI. i will block you if i find you are a minor. please put your age in your bio if you follow me.
-BloodyVisxera on AO3.
-writer/artist. i write whenever and with little passion.
-i really like dragons
-i enjoy gothic or any dark themes, anatomical studies and other sciences.
-multifandom freak. give me anything dark with dragons and i devour it. did i mention i like dragons
-i am very shy with my writing/art; making this blog is an attempt at pushing myself.
-cringe is dead i killed it lmao. don't let it hinder your creativity
-I do not care for proship/antiship discourse. live and let live and keep the drama away from me
-if you harass people for the things they write/do with their media dni. fandom spaces should return to squicks instead of threats and harassment. the block button is free. remember your roots children
-if i have blocked you then i am uncomfortable with what you post. do not take it personally UNLESS you use generative ai get fucked.
-forever enraged at the ending of game of thrones
requests.
-this is mostly an x reader blog, but feel free to send whatever involving ships
-request status will always(?) be open.
-i will take NSFW and SFW suggestions.
-do not send the same suggestion more than two times please and thank you
-i am quite picky. do not be offended if i don't finish your request.
-i will write entire fics and headcanons.
-GNC, transmasc, or male readers only(?) in my writing. fem reader makes me dysphoric.
-i tend to get carried away when writing and try to make everything a slowburn
-i will not write/my squicks are noncon, incest, vore, inflation, immoral paraphilias like pedophilia, zoophilia, etc. - i will not write what i'm not comfortable with that may not be specified here.
-possible squicks that i will write are age gaps, power imbalances, daddy kinks, mild bdsm, etcetera.
fandoms and characters
-HSR, Genshin, TF2, Game of Thrones/HOTD(maybe). there are more but i wish to write about these only for now(?)
characters
-feel free to send anything on any adult male presenting characters from Genshin, HSR, and the ASOIAF shows (currently not finished with the books), though I am most likely to take interest in: Tartaglia, Neuvillette, Zhongli, Dottore, Pantalone, Ayato, Wriothesley, Xiao - Blade, Jing Yuan, Dr. Ratio - Tormund, Jon Snow, Aemond. i enjoy plenty more but i want to write about these the most
I hate things that say "dead dove" and give absolutely no clarification as to WHY it's dead dove. WHY IS THE DOVE DEAD. WHAT KILLED IT. WHO KILLED IT. WHEN WHERE HOW AND WHY. IT COULD BE ANYTHING FROM ELECTROCUTION TO A KID SNIPING IT WITH A TENNIS BALL TO A BIRD OF PREY. THE TAG IS FOR OTHER TAGS
𝘱𝘳𝘦-𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ might feel a little ooc, considering valarr is rather nice. you might've thought such a prompt would go to aerion but i like the confession scene. tiny spoiler rant for the book at the end
𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.83k
cw: fighting, blood, violence, doggy, biting
It had started off at the training grounds. You and Valarr had quickly grown tired of the dull-edge training swords shoved into your hands in the name of safety, and had dropped them, in favor of your fists.
He started it, you will both claim later. But for now:
Your first finds his jaw; your other hand, his lip. One or the other is malformed, because your nails dig into your palm and sting, though it is nothing compared to the pain of your knuckles.
Nor the satisfaction of drawing blood.
Valarr stumbles back and wipes the crimson from his lips. His tongue swipes over it next, but that should be none of your concern as he swings while you're distracted. He punches you in the sternum, which is a lot better aim than you managed.
You stumble back, nearly into the mud. He's punched all the air out of you, leaving you a wheezing mess. You sound like a fucking boar.
Where you had tried to ruin his looks and that pretty little face of his, he has done the same–and worse–to you.
Worst of all, he keeps his honor. Though a devilish smile rises and stretches the pierced skin of his lip, he lets you regain your breath. Once your composure has been regained and emboldened, he holds out his hand towards you in a gesture to come at him.
After that last punch, you won't be leaving any more superficial, pretty bruises. You're aiming for more.
You get him under the chin. He stumbles back, just as you had, but the stumbling becomes intentional as you keep charging forward.
Valarr successfully keeps his distance, though, and for that you are sorry; for the next moment, he kicks your stomach, then punches you in the nose.
It is clear his honor and mercy are gone too, from then on.
You exchange blows... volleys, kicks, dodges and blocks. Your arms are bruised, and it is likely that the skin hidden under your clothes is too. Valarr is not too far from you. He matches your persistence as well as his skin matches yours with beautiful shades of red.
When the shouting reaches your ears, you are both tired, heaving messes. You're standing crooked, your hair a pulled mess. There is grime under your fingernails and hot sweat at your brow, then blood pumping and spilling out of cuts.
For a moment, it seems like the shouting has stopped the both of you, but fuck that voice you can hardly recognize through the ringing in your ears—like a cornered boar, you charge at him. He is much too tired to move out of the way; and you, much too tired to be incredibly effective.
Both of you fall hard onto the mud, though he is on his back, and you, having slightly missed him, are half on top of him.
Half is enough. You press your weight against his leg, your knee against his sternum, and swing.
You don't get to see it land, because the next moment, you are thrown off by fresh hands.
...
Nobody knows what's wrong with either of you.
Valarr was raised to be honorable and just. Though your education must have paled in comparison, nobody has ever seen you behave in such a way before.
You should get along, the two of you, with your histories of good, appeasing behaviors—but you never have, even in your youth; and now that you are young men, you've the means to truly deal damage to each other.
You and Valarr butt heads the same way stags do.
Your first punishment is simmering in your wounds under the gaze of king Daeron—barred from having maesters attend to you—while being torn apart by his words.
Your second punishment, you hear, is better than Valarr's. For that, you should be happy, but you are not. It only goes to show just how much more important the Prince is than you—but is that why you fight? Jealousy? You could never even dream of sitting the throne in your lifetime, you've not got the blood for it.
So why do you despise the way he smiles? Why do you despise the color of his eyes, or the elegance of his fingers, or the power in his figure?
If it cannot be named, if it makes your blood rise simply to think of him, then it must be carnal and innate and appropriate.
It is midnight. The moonlight does Valarr no justice, and neither do you, as you're not the applicant.
Valarr speaks of sympathy, of apologies, and you don't believe him.
There are no King's Guard around, you're not given one. One little dagger hidden under his tunic, and you're dead. Valarr knows enough of convenience to do it, and you know it.
"What do you want?" You're cocky enough, still, to lean against your doorframe carelessly. Or is it your sore, limp muscles?
To his credit, Valarr does seem to show repentance. He's stripped of his usual cloaks and pins and jewelry—he bears only simple clothes, clothes of a petitioner.
After the fight, he looks less bloated, more appealing. The bruises are still red, but not fresh, beginning to bloom. He would look nicely flushed, if it were not for the cut at his cheek, or the broken skin of his lip; instead, to you, he looks satisfyingly flushed, knowing you're the cause. He looks far from the tall prince that you know him to be. He stands with a slouch, even, like a dog with its tail between his legs: pathetic and weak.
You know why he looks the way he does when Valarr says, "I want you."
Anger does not bloom in his chest like it should. It is in your hands when you grasp his collar and pull him inside, but not in the reason that you do.
You should shun him, punch him again and kick him to the ground, but, "What are you talking about?"
"Why do I cut you open, if not to spit my love between the layers of your skin?" Valarr places his hands above yours and grips tight, the way victims do as they are choked. "Why do I punch you, if not to have our bodies come into contact the only way you will allow them to?
Why do you break my nose if not to better slot our faces together? Why've you let me in, instead of shut me out? Fighting is as intimate as it gets."
It is enough that he deludes himself with these feelings, but now he must drag you into them?
Your hands remain harsh and angry as you shove him away. His body meets the door with a loud thud and a sound of pain, and you are quick to close the gap between the two of you, once more laying hand on him.
Valarr gasps as your hands envelop his neck. You stare at each other for what feels like a long moment, expressions of hatred mirrored. For a moment you think Valarr had been making a fool of you with his words to catch you by surprise, what with the furrow of conflict of his brow. You should get payback for it, and yet, for a reason neither of you know, you don't squeeze his neck like you should. Instead–
You kiss him, and he reciprocates, despite the vulnerable position—because of the vulnerable position, because you've shoved him hard and the contact is intimate.
You kiss him, because why would you lie about how his words resonated in you, who is there to lie to? The man you... harbor feelings for?
As you push your noses together, push him harder against the door, push your lips harder together, you actually think. Why do you wish to draw blood from his lips, if not to bite it out of them yourself?
He mewls against your mouth when the wound reopens, but the copper taste only adds to the experience for the both of you. You've cut him at the cheek, and the satisfaction of seeing that now isn't because you've caused it, but because it has turned him more vulnerable for you, weaker, more pliable.
There is no fight between your lips, only harmony; no dominance, just a push and pull, action and reaction.
Your tongues had met long ago, and now they continue, exchanging spit you had once flinched and repulsed at. Now, you want more of it, you want him.
Fuck him and his poetry, fuck your mind for thinking the same. That twist at your chest isn't hatred, it's godsdamned desire.
You pull apart from a breath. Though you both might sound like dying boars to some other, you can only think about how you've stolen his breath away not with violence, but with lust.
Valarr doesn't smile. He seems just as conflicted as you. His pretty eyes flutter between your swollen lips and your own intense eyes—and then his hand, elegant as ever, starts at your neck. Tingles sprout under his touch as it continues up your tender skin and settles at your jaw.
His breaths are hot, and they mingle with yours. You breathe the same air and, for once, you don't hate the idea of it.
He brings you in for another kiss.
But you want more than that.
For so long you have handled him with an unmeasured hand that you don't stay it even now. Clearly you are both startled when you push him onto your bed—but fuck, the way he looks scrambling onto his elbows reminds you of times you've had him in the mud... and of times you've been on top of him.
The way you crawl on top of him, it's like an animal. You've done this before, more desperately, like a tiger looking to bite at the jugular. No, you are still just as desperate, just now for something else.
Your blood boils hot and heavy as you kiss him again. It is hard to suspend yourself above him, your wounds continue to ache, but his would be worse if you leaned your weight atop him.
So your knees don't bracket his, they slide under. It's different, and you quickly learn how much different it feels.
The both of you groan as your clothed cock slidds against his; it sounds sweeter than painful, and it too is entirely different. Maybe even better.
"Valarr." You whisper. For so long, you haven't given his name the grace that it deserves. You've spoken it quickly, eager to be rid of it, but it sounds prettier, better now, spoken as it should.
"I want you." Valarr replies, his soft palm with bruised knuckles settles once more on your jaw. He doesn't say it like he did earlier, like a love confession, he says it with lust. He doesn't just want you, he wants your body too.
He doesn't just want you against him, he wants you inside him too. You fucking want him too.
You're headstrong, tunnel-visioned, even now. Time blurs until you finally get what you want.
The tip presses in and Valarr cries out; the rest of him makes him hold his breath. His cries are different from what you're used to, they sound even lovelier.
Though still pained. So mercifully, you lay still for a moment and admire him instead. Valarr's breaths grow heavier with arousal as he watches your eyes devour him.
You're the cause of every bruise on his body, but not every scar. Valarr is a masterful warrior, that much you've always been able to admit, but the Gods like to tip scales, and Valarr has been to many a tourney. You don't care for the scars of pinprick spears, nor any you know you haven't caused. Right now, you stare at every bruise you littered over his body.
They're fucking arousing. You think of the pain you've caused him, and the places your fists have contacted, the places you've touched him. You cut him open with your violence to spit love into the layers of his being.
You will add more bruises tonight, atop his hips, atop his arse, though one of these will be caused by your pelvis.
The break has been long enough and your body aches with both pain and the need to fuck him, to drive your cock into him until he is all but cries.
That much you have accomplished already, as you start fucking him. But you are a mess of cries too, aren't you?
It doesn't feel strange, to have his hole squeeze around your cock and make you moan. It doesn't feel strange to fuck into him. It doesn't feel strange to hear your mewls and cries intertwine in a disjunctive harmony.
It feels carnal, innate, and appropriately right. It feels as right as the warmth of a hearth or the heat of summer.
You give him only a warning in the form of his whispered name, "Valarr.", before you push him onto his stomach.
He gasps, beautifully, as you enter him once more. It's different while he's on his stomach, somehow it feels like even more of your cock fucks him open, like you're driving him into the bed even more each time that your pelvis meets his ass. You've pinned him down under your body—there's some pleasure in finally getting him to submit—but he wouldn't have it any other way.
Gods, does his body ache. He aches as he turns his head to look at you, because he needs to look at you, at the object of his desires and the man that gets him closer to the edge.
Your eyes catch his, and then they follow the muscles of his back and the power of his figure. You've droned on about it already tonight, but now you can only think of spilling over it and claiming him. Fuck, really, it would be better to spill inside of him. It's a conflict.
You're still cruel to him, cruel in how you ignore his cock, cruel in your thrusts and how hard you fuck him—but this is as intimate as it gets, you fuck him into the mattress until the only space between your bodies only occurs when you pull out to push into him again. He's used to your fighting, to pain, when it comes from you. He loves it, as he declared earlier: why do I punch you, if not to have our bodies come into contact? And as he declares now, "More. Don't stop."
You inflict wounds upon each others' to see his skin flush red. You avoid him because your desire is so overwhelming, you will want to lay your hands on him. You fuck him because you want him.
You grip his hips in order to fuck him better, to manhandle his ass into meeting your thrusts, to bruise the skin of both; and it's getting sloppier.
The room is filled with your heavy pants and your skin slapping against each other. You've never spoken a truthful, kind word to each other. That will be a learning process, but, "I'm almost there."
That is, at least, consideration. And on his part, Valarr finds the breath to say, mutually, "I'm close."
The pain here—your skin slapping, weight being pressed onto bruises and cuts, your cock forcing its way into him—feels familiar. In a way, it feels like a comfort, then a reward piled on: you've hurt each other for years, so even now, it only feels natural.
You press your mouth against the back of his neck as you feel yourself get closer, then your teeth to the skin. You won't draw blood, but you wish you would, to taste it and ingest it as if it were your own. This the first of your self-restraint.
The both of you finish at the same time.
For the quiet moment after, nought but the sound of fire finds your ears and repulsion fills your chest. The both of you are sticky with sweat and blood from re-opened wounds. Valarr is sticky with your come and his own. It is all over your bed. Your blood boils with a familiar anger. What have you done?
Then it ceases as Valarr crawls out from under you and rolls onto his back to catch your eye. The prince is the same, powerful frame, dutiful expression, Dondarrion features; but he doesn't not insight the same feeling in you as he would've before.
Your blood still boils, but now you can recognize it as the desire, the want, the need for him.
You press your bodies together, not to crush, but to feel, now that you are allowed. And when you press your lips together, it is finally returned softly.
Valarr wraps his arms around you in an embrace, not a grapple. It feels innate and so it must be correct.
𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵-𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ SPOILER !!
a multiple of fine af targaryens and they will all die?? incredibly soon?? wdym valarr is going to die of a mere sickness :'(. wdym I will not see his or daeron's pretty faces ever again? (they've got other shows, like daeron but as far as i can tell he's no a sad and pathetic boy)
𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ the amount of salt and pepper in this show feeding me
cw: implied roughhousing, doggy, possessiveness
Lyonel is too good of a warrior to show his back to anybody, but you have forced him so: on his knees and his elbows, body bare for you. Vulnerable, by all means, but he has grown to like it.
You've tamed the Stag.
Where he would usually be barking out laughter or easy insults, you've shoved two fingers into his mouth, against his tongue, to shut him up and make him take your cock.
You feed it to him, hard and fast, and it makes the only noises he can give be moans.
He's on all fours, befit of a stag, he's even still got crown on his head. Isn't that hilarious? It's likely you're mounting him, the way stags do in nature.
Your laughs insight his curiosity, or they would, if you hadn't stirred his brain to mush with your cock.
"The Laughing fucking Storm."
You take him by the antlers, lift his head off the mattress. It's like you're beckoning him speak, spew your pathetic mewls and words. His ass pushed against your pelvis, as your thrusts have slowed. You click your tongue an "ah ah ah", and beckon him speak with words, "Who do you belong to right now, Lordling? Who's cock are you taking?"
The antlers don't provide good leverage, but fuck, is it good to take him by the crown, to take his very sigilism in your hands and make a sexual mockery of it.
To turn his head with those very antlers just enough to see the way his eyes have rolled back into his head.
"You," He moves his ass to take your cock still, to fuck himself onto it, seeking, "fuck, to you."
Lyonel looks no different than when he's drunk, with those teeth of his, parted lips and sweaty, disheveled hair.
But he's cockdrunk, here, not a single ounce of wine or ale in him except for the lunch's cup. And for that you are proud, to have made him a mess he isn't usually.
If you had had him on his back, as if he were your sweet lady wife, you would've taken him by the antlers and kissed him. But you don't, so you let go of them and watch his head thud heavy back on the pillows.
Instead, you barrage the back of his neck with kisses as your thrusts begin anew; both actions are wet.
☾ baelor targaryen and maekar targaryen x top m reader (separate)
𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ my writing i feel is subpar but I’ll get this out of my drafts before it is condemned to stay there forever
cw: very much cheating on every man’s part, not much else
The Red Keep, with it's gardens, spacious halls, and wonderfully expensive architecture has been a lovely host for the entirety of your social call, and its extension after extension. If it weren't for that, maybe you'd have left already. You have stayed at the Keep for far too long.
Prince Baelor seems insistent on keeping you. There is always a pressing matter that keeps you from leaving, a matter so pressing it requires a walk through the garden, so pressing that it can only be whispered into your ear, so pressing that there is not even space for the Stranger between your walking bodies.
In the silence of the stables, and in the horseshit smell of them too, a heavy heel strikes hay. You know his presence without the need to see him.
"My horses grow restless." You stare your horse in the eye—and she, yours—as you pet her mane. It has been nigh on a fortnight since you journeyed to the Red Keep first.
"Then we shall ride together." Baelor offers. He walks towards you, then lingers at a distance for more than political lords, less than intimate. Shy, for how he has previously handled proximity with you. "The meadows of the Reach, or the Riverlands. Whichever you choose."
"And if home is that which I choose?"
Baelor laughs, it's a short thing, one at mockery of himself. He knows the both of you know he keeps you, and yet, "Then, surely, something that requires your opinion shall arise."
"Do you think so highly of my opinion?" You turn toward him, finally. Your eyes run along the white sprinkled amongst the black in his short hair and his beard, an excuse to trace the sharpness of his jaw and the softness of his lips.
He notices. "It is very... wise."
It is your turn to laugh, albeit softly. "I thank you, your Grace."
Now that he has your attention, he doesn't know quite what to do with it. His eyes drift down, to his feet, then yours, then not quite your face, but the bottom of it. "I–"
"The Reach."
"...hm?"
"Let us ride the Reach."
His brother, Maekar, less so; and yet his eyes follow your every move: the joints of your fingers as they bend, the intensity of your eyes at the dinner table, your backside as you lean over railings...
You are not as boring as he proclaims you to be—even though he may roll his eyes at you, even though he may not watch his tongue around you—you, or your body, must be entertaining enough to catch his eye.
"I do not understand why you remain in the Keep. Do your halls not call for you?"
"By raven." You are watching the going-ons in the courtyard idly—maidens enjoying the sun, white-haired children running, birds in the royal castle—while Maekar watches you. Unabashedly, might you add.
"And you respond–?"
"By raven." You finish for him. "Yes. There is work a plenty there, and just as much work a plenty here."
Maekar scoffs, for you have interrupted him, but punishment or a cursing is not what you receive, "What of your wife?"
"What of my wife?" You ask instead, because what is he asking? If you are lonely, if she is lonely?
"Surely you must miss her." And what is that, a feigned disinterest that you detect?
You entertain the thought for a moment, let him simmer in the silence of distant bird and human calls, and then you turn. You let your eyes drag over him, you let them speak meaning with motion.
Maekar reciprocates, in turn, by raising a brow filled with attitude.
"I find myself just as invigorated as if she were here."
His eyebrow falls.
The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife, with or without the two of them in the room. Relationship tension is built by two, after all.
"You summoned me, your Grace?"
The doors groans as they shut behind you. You have a feeling they will not open again until sunrise.
"Yes." Baelor doesn't deny it, nor is their urgency in his tone.
"Whatever for?"
You're not dense, in fact, Baelor thinks you wise. It's the middle of the night, the guards bid you come fast, no need to make yourself presentable. In the whorehouses, they call your attire "easily accesible": a simple tunic, simpler trousers.
Baelor, too, is "easily accessible", albeit decorated in the way Targaryens are in their sigils of dead dragons and dragonscale pins, in their reds, blacks, and golds. All this is to say that he looks good.
You know what this social call is for.
"Come."
You just didn't know when he'd muster up the courage for it.
As you approach him, and thereby the bed he stands in front of him, Baelor's smile remains passive. "I figured I have not rewarded you for your council."
"Your hospitality has been all I require."
That makes him laugh, as his hands find your collar, fixing it absentmindedly, "No."
"I've needed more." You reply, because you must agree with the heir apparent, and not just becauses of his status.
"Yes." He agrees too, "So, I found myself wondering in this late hour of the night... what could I possibly give the man who is already wise, and who has all the riches he could want?"
"Well..." Your hands twitch, wanting to reciprocate his touch in kind. His hands were at your collar, but now one finds itself at the back of your neck.
"Do pray tell." Baelor is cold, calculated, calm; and yet his eyes betray a sense of anticipation.
"What has no man in the nine kingdoms ever had?"
He recognizes your small riddle, and answers with a smile, "I'm not sure, my Lord."
"You, your Grace."
Whether it is true or not, whether Baelor has found the attraction of other men as entertaining and reciprocable as yours, you don't know it. But it is good flattery, nonetheless, and he replies, "Would you like to have me?"
There is no other answer but yes.
He grants you your desire: anything you could want with him, you can have.
Perhaps, then, you might be considered a bore, for you don't have your way with him, not really. You've asked him for a ride, just this time, without leaving the Red Keep.
The sheets cover your bodies, but there is no hiding the sin with just a cover. His body moves unmistakably over yours, the bed creaks under your combined weights. The heir apparent, prince Baelor, is riding you.
And he is doing it well.
He had veiled the encounter as a reward, and you are receiving one, yes. Greedily, you take handfuls of his hairy body as he rides you, the swell of his thighs, his thick hips. Greedily, your own buck up into his heat, tight in the way you're sure no one has taken him before; but he is an equestrian, and so, he rides you with the grace of a jockey...
Nevermind all that, he rides you like a fire. His lips have graced you with a kiss, but for the moment he focuses on the motion and the pleasure it brings the both of you. The blankets slide off his back, with every bounce on your cock.
He had veiled this encounter as a reward, but you both know that he's been wanting it.
And he's happy for it, too, what with the leverage he keeps on your abdomen, what with the groans that spill from his lips.
His skin is slick with sweat, shiny only where his hair does not sprout, which is not many places. White, gray, and black adorns his body, and you trail your hand down his chest to admire it. He stops for a second, his hips slowing to a grind, as his body focuses on the hand. He presses against it wherever it trails, undulating atop his diaphragm as he breathes, causing shivers as it rests atop his stomach. When you run out of hair, you wrap it around his cock and he gasps.
His motions begin anew, up into your hand, then down, speared on your cock.
You make him a mess, like this, mouth splayed open, drool at the corner of his lips.
"Fuck," He gasps, hips stuttering and tired. Not tired, actually. He has more endurance that. But you have taken his mind, and his control has been taken with it.
You relish in it. Baelor Targaryen on top of you, so far from controlled and ingenious and fair as he always seems to be.
Here, for you, he is vulnerable. So perhaps, you do have your way with him.
"Your Grace–"
"I apol–I'm sorry." His learned tongue has become lost to him, but his manners have not, as his weight bears heavier upon your stomach and he begins riding you anew.
When he finishes, you're sure he will chase your high as if it were your own; and once you have spilled that inside of him, you will ask him for another. He won't refuse, not when you tell him you would like his legs over your shoulders.
You must be popular around the Red Keep if the fourth son of Daeron the Good calls you to his chambers after dinner, right after the heir has done the same.
"I've sent your wife a raven." Maekar proclaims, sat imposingly on an armchair, yet his coat is stripped from him. He looks different, like this, the lack of coat has made him lose silouhette, and apparently, attitude. "Thanking her for your service."
"Really?" You resist the urge to laugh as you approach.
"Yes. As my brother asked of me." You realize as he shifts in his chair (a sign of discomfort), other things like how his tunic's laces have been pulled loose.
He shakes his head, says something under his breath. The next moment, his fierce eyes have been set upon you, and his familiarly unfriendly sneer bares his teeth, "Though you have not serviced me, as far as I'm concerned."
You do service him, put his sneer to a close, when you settle rather gracefully on your knees a couple minutes after; then again, a little rest time after that, when you hook his legs around your back.
He does not fight you, does not sass you, because your desires align.
His eyes continue to watch your every move, except this time it is to reciprocate as best he can. His ass meets your thrusts, his hands find your head.
He kisses like it's his first time, with teeth and saliva, and that sneer he usually holds; and his grip on your hair is like a grip on reigns, all this because he has forgotten himself under the influence of your cock.
It pushes him further into the mattress with each thrust, while his own movements become increasingly useless and lacking energy.
You don't service his cock, where it is trapped between your grinding bodies, but Maekar can't seem to care. With his legs around you, he beckons you in with each time you rear for another thrust.
Somehow, you find enough strength to duck out of his lips and press your mouth to his ear, "Is this what you asked for, your Grace?"
"Fuck off." Maekar brings you back where he wants you, the hand on your hair like that on the nape of a cat's neck. His lips crash against yours.
You have stayed at the Keep for far too long... at least, far too long without activity.
requests will be finished soon(ish) i have been getting horrible news piled on top of more horrible news and am dealing with that before i can sit down to write again
”with shapes.inc you can talk to your ocs!!” Dumbass. I’m already talking to them. In my head. “B-bbut what about your favourite charac-“ skill issue. In my head as well. get fucked.
John the Fiddler drunk out of his mind thinking him and Dunk are alone in his room: Be my dog ser, we can howl together and wake the very gods, you would look splendid in white
Lyonel Baratheon waking up in a cold sweat in Storms End: Something just happened
dunk stronger than me cuz if lyonel baratheon leans against me all moaning and groaning with his big black eye and bandaged hand patting all up on me after asking me to run away with him im pulling his pants down and giving him a new fingering song to sing about
Hello I have some Lyonel baratheon x transmasc reader ideas if youre interested
- Lyonel talking you through it after you come out you sitting in his lap as he teaches the reader how to masturbate "like a man"
- Lyonel on his knees between the readers thighs being a service top
- Reader begging for Lyonel to breed him
- (Sfw) Lyonel teaching reader sword fighting
Ill think of more if youre interested
(volume warning) i genuinely felt like this video reading these LMAO ill get started on them as soon as i can! my motivation changes with the wind but DAMN this gust is strong and will remain for another month or two or five. feel free to send more whenever these are PEAK
hey guess who has to make a donation post again because he’s still not in class because he still can’t get a student so he’s still not getting his paycheck so i have absolutely zero money
i have:
-639 in rent
- 180 for my phone bill
- about 800 dollars total in credit card debt, of which if i can get paid off i can get a student loan and i can stop doing this bullshit
so all together about 1619 bucks i gotta scrape together in 2 weeks
literally ANY and i mean ANY amount helps and if you can’t donate PLEASE for the love of jesus please reblog
