To worship the King of all Men - Nolan!Agamemnon x reader
As promised, another short smutty fic for the king! I hope you will enjoy it! When I take a liking in a new character, I like to start like this, writing one shots before diving into bigger and more complex stories
You had become his possession, his war trophy. One that followed him wherever he went, loyal, adoring. Obedient but not too much, and that's what he especially liked about you.
After a particularly grueling campaign, Agamemnon summoned you not to his private quarters, but to the grand throne room of the captured city. It was empty save for the two of you, the space cavernous and echoing. He was sitting on the ornate golden throne, still in his full dark armor, his helmet hidding any emotion from you, hiding a face that you never saw. He was a picture of power, a god of war. It made him less human, more god like…perhaps it was easier this way. He gestured for you to approach.
"Kneel." he commanded, his voice ringing in the vast space.
Instead of kneeling at his feet, lower than his throne, you walked deliberately up the three steps to the dais. You sank to your knees directly on the platform, placing yourself between his legs, your hands resting on your thighs. It's a gesture of submission, but on your terms. The defiance in your posture was clear.
"You are bold for a captive." His jaw tightened, but his eyes gleamed with dark approval from within the shadow of his helmet.
"I am your trophy, my king." you replied, your voice a purr. "Should I not be displayed closest to the one who conquered me?" You questionned with an innocent face, although your tone was everything but innoncent.
He reached out, his gauntleted hand tangling in your hair, but he didn’t force you. He simply held you, the leather and metal a contrast to your warm scalp.
"And what does a trophy do for her king?" He asked, his tone was almost…soft, like a master speaking to its pet.
"It offers him anything." you whispered, leaning into his touch. You took his thumb wrapped in his leather glove into your mouth, sucking on the tip, your eyes locked on his. A low groan escaped him. With his free hand, he impatiently lifted the hem of his tunic, freeing his already hard and straining cock.
"Show me your gratitude. Reward my victory." he growled, leaning back against the throne to admire you better.
You didn’t hesitate, leaning forward, taking him into your mouth. You started slow, swirling your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of his skin. He threaded his fingers through your hair, guiding your movements, but you set the pace. You took him deeper, your lips stretched around his girth, your hand stroking what you couldn't take. You watched his face as you pleasured him, watched the struggle for control as his hips began to thrust, fucking your mouth. You moaned around him, the vibration making him curse.
Just as he was about to spill, you pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. He snarled in frustration, his head thrown back in pleasure, the back of his helmet hitting the stone throne with a loud *clang*.
"By the gods…" He muttered as you stood and slowly striped off your tunic, revealing your naked body to his hungry gaze. He didn't move and instead simply watched, his chest rising and falling heavily beneath his armor. Your eyes searched his, surprise he hadn't jumped on you as usual.
"Get dressed." he commanded, his voice a low dangerous rumble his eyes burning into you. "We are going to my quarters. You will walk behind me, and every man we pass will know that you are mine. That their king has claimed his prize for the night." You took a deep breath at his words, now that was an interesting twist that made you squeeze your thighs together. This feeling of belonging, to the most power man in the known world was exhilirating.
He rose from the throne, his arousal still evident beneath the hem of his tunic. He began to pace slowly before you, his gaze devouring you.
"When we get to my bed, I am going to lay you down on the furs." he says, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. His gloved hand went to your thigh, playing with your tunic, lifting it to caress your skin "I will spread your legs with my hands and I will taste you. I will drink from you until you are begging me to stop, and then I will make you beg for more. I will put my mouth on that sweet cunt of yours and I will not stop until you have come undone on my tongue." His gloved hand come up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple.
"Then, when you are wet and trembling, desperate for me, I will enter you. I will fuck you slowly, so you feel every inch of my cock stretching you, claiming you. You will look at me as I take you, so you don't forget who is inside you." His thumb brushed over the pointy bit of your nipple, making you shudder in anticipation.
"And when I finally let you come, I will be buried so deep inside you that you will feel my seed filling you." He stepped back, his expression a mask of raw, possessive lust. "Now, cover yourself. And follow me."
You nodded, almost too eagerly and not so keen to resist him. For now. Sometimes you felt ashamed for the way you felt about the King of all Men. But you had survived and now you were treated like a favorite, bathed, oiled, fed fine foods, dressed in the softest fabric. It wasn't so bad to be the lover, no, the trophy of the cruel king.
The corridors of the captured palace were alive with the clamor of victorious soldiers. The air, thick with the scent of spilled wine, sweat, and the lingering metallic tang of blood, fell silent as Agamemnon appeared. He moved with the deliberate, crushing certainty of a mountain, his armored footsteps echoing on the polished stone floors. You followed, a step behind, almost hidden by his imposing shape, a reminder of your position and a stark contrast to the god of war who led you.
You kept your eyes lowered, not in submission, but in observation. You saw it all. The men-at-arms who had been laughing and gambling moments before snapped to attention, their backs straightening, their boisterousness extinguished by a single glance from their king. They did not look at you, not directly. Their gaze darted to the space behind him, to the shadow you occupied. You felt their collective awareness like a physical weight, a palpable wave of understanding that washed over the hall. They saw the rigid set of Agamemnon's shoulders, the predatory grace in his stride, and they knew. They saw the prize he was leading to his den.
A young captain, his face still smudged with dirt from the siege, dared to let his eyes linger on you for a moment too long. Agamemnon did not break his pace. He did not even turn his head.
"Captain." he said, his voice dangerously soft, yet carrying the force of a battering ram. "Find your duties elsewhere." The man flinched as if struck, his face paling as he bowed his head and melted back into the shadows. The message was clear. The king's treasure was not to be admired. But all had to acknowledge that you were his.
The walk was a conquest in itself. With every step, Agamemnon tightened the invisible chains around you, with his presence only. He was the sun, untouchable, all powerful. And you were no longer just a captive; you were an extension of his will, a testament to his power. The possessive energy radiating from him was so potent it felt like a physical touch, stroking over your skin, branding you as his long before he ever laid a hand on you in private.
At last, you reached a heavy, bronze-studded door, flanked by two imposing guards who snapped to attention so sharply their armor clanged. Agamemnon dismissed them with a flick of his wrist. He pushed the door open himself, revealing a chamber of opulent conquest. Furs from distant lands were thrown over a massive bed, treasures of gold and silver glittered in the torchlight, and a map of the known world was spread across a heavy oak table.
He stepped inside, and you followed, the heavy door swinging shut behind you with a final, resounding thud that sealed you in. He turned, his helmet still casting his face in shadow, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze. He began to unfasten the clasps of his cuirass, the sound of each buckle releasing like a countdown in the suddenly quiet room.
"I have waited long enough for my victory feast." he rumbled, carefully setting aside the bronze breastplate . He took a step toward you, his intentions burning in the air between you. "Now, on the bed. I want to see those pretty legs wrapped around my waist as I take you. You will be so full of my seed that you won't think about anything but me."
aaaaaa wanna be conquered by him T_T feel free to comment or request if you enjoyed ^^
summary: after months of solitude, odysseus finds you washed up on the shores of his island, and a quiet yearning begins to fester between the two of you.
wc: 1.2k words
warnings: 18+, brief scene of him killing bad men, piv, unprotected, we have a bush, choking, headlock, #biceps
a/n: firstly there’s 1000 of you guys now, i am so gagged and emo lowkey, ily. genuinely need to be put in a headlock by matt damon's arms. and yes this will become a fucking 15k word fully fleshed out fic eventually where i reignite my greek mythology hyperfixation that has lay dormant for years. divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: everytime by ethel cain
Odysseus was living on an island alone, lost, with only the sound of waves and the wind surrounding him for months.
And you were from a nearby island, taken captive by a conquering king after his army had ravaged your village. But the ship carrying you across the sea was swallowed by a storm, splintered into pieces, and you washed ashore on his island. Odysseus saw you half buried in the sand, the first human after rotting in his own solitude for months, alone in the middle of the ocean, and is enamoured by you immediately.
He gathered you into his arms, holding you against his chest with desperation. You were warm, real, alive. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of salt and seawater clinging to you, simply revelling in the press of your skin against his, the touch of another human. A beautiful one at that.
He carried you back to the small hut he'd built with his own hands and nursed you back to health.
You were a shy little thing, shrinking away from his touch at first, horrified and untrusting of men after having trusted the wrong men before.
So he never pushed. Instead, a companionship formed in the quiet spaces between you.
Words spoken in hushed whispers under the shade of trees stabbing at the sky, nights spent lying side by side on the cool sand, watching the moon. He’d always be the one going out to hunt, and cooking it, not letting you lift a finger.
Occasionally you wake up pressed against him, seeking comfort in his arms. Odysseus would lie perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe, afraid that even the smallest movement would break the beginnings of the trust you'd placed in him.
He did, though, eagerly await the day the thread would snap, the thread that grows precarious with every instance of you tending to his wounds after a bad hunt, every time your fingers brushed his as he handed you food.
Every morning he caught sight of you wading into the shallow water to wash yourself, rubbing the salt and sand off, the thin dress draped over you clinging to your skin. He would look away almost as quickly as he'd looked, ashamed of the longing and the lust growing heavier under his ribs, wondering how much longer that thread could hold before it finally gave way.
It snapped the day another ship washed ashore. A handful of men stumbled onto the beach, their laughter turning vile the moment they saw you. Odysseus was watching you from the corner of his eye as you bathed in the shallows below. The moment he saw them leering, he ran from where he was buried in the trees hunting for food. Grabbed his spear, the only weapon he had carved from wood, and met them before they could reach you. Striked them down with the fury he was certain not even Ares himself would possess, the God of War himself, as he killed them off, one by one, brutally.
He did not stop until the beach fell silent once more.
When it was over, you stepped out from the water, the hem of your dress dripping seawater onto the blood-soaked sand. You found him standing among the bodies, blood streaking his arms, his chest rising with ragged breaths.
And that’s when you know – he would protect you forever.
Slowly, almost timidly, you reached a hand out to cradle his face, wiped the splatter of blood on his cheek gently, before leaning in, and pressing your lips against his. For a heartbeat Odysseus stood frozen, unable to believe the warmth against his mouth was real. Then his hand free of the spear found your waist and drew you impossibly closer as he kissed you back with desperation, groaning into your mouth, breaking months of restrained longing.
Now after you carefully washed the blood off his body, Odysseus finally has you.
You sit on his lap, his chest pressing into your back, impaling you on his cock. His thighs are pressed into the sand, your waist gripped in one massive arm as he moves you up and down, face buried in your neck. His other hand is gripping your neck loosely, holding you upright as he pounds into you.
“Fuck, this what you wanted hm? To be sittin’ on me, milkin’ my cock?” he grits out, feeling you tighten around him, your slick dripping down to his thighs.
You only whine, “fuck-yes, yes,” grip him tighter, one hand coming up to hold his, pressing his palm harder against your neck. You writhe in his grasp, trying to grind your clit against something, anything, before he grips your waist even harder in warning.
He grunts against your neck, moaning your name. His beard rubs against the side of your face as he lifts his head up.
“Yeah, my girl needs to be choked? That’s what she needs to stay. Fuckin’. Still.”
He pounds into you harder between each word. You’re reduced to a mess, can only whine and blubber out soft begs, “please.”
Instead of choking your neck with his hand, Odysseus shifts. Still thrusting into you, the wet sounds of your slick echoing through the island, his arm slides across your chest, gripping your shoulder, one thick bicep pressing against your neck. He traps you in a headlock while he moves his hips faster. You moan, loud, at the weight of him.
“Try gettin’ out of this now,” he grunts against you. Everything is warm and fuzzy as he brings you closer to the edge, pounding into you with slower, deeper thrusts now. His hand slides down your waist, to your mound, rubbing at the patch of hair there.
“Please- fuck, please touch me,” you whine, desperately.
Then he pulls, hard, and you let out a whimper.
“You take what I give you, yeah? Don’t be fuckin’ greedy,” he groans against your ear.
You blabber out apologies, gripping his arm tighter. He feels his balls tighten when you claw your nails into his arm, leaving red marks.
“S’okay pretty girl, shush, just let me do all the work yeah?”
You nod, or try to as much as you can while wrapped in a headlock, as he peppers kisses to the side of your face. His beard scrapes you deliciously as he fucks his cock into you deeper, the perfect amount of coarse and rough.
After a harsh thrust, Odysseus finally takes mercy on you, and brings a finger to your clit, rubbing slow circles. Pleasure sparks up your spine.
“Fuck- yeah, just like that,” you moan softly, closing your eyes as you get closer and closer to your peak.
“That feel good?” He pants against you. You whimper out a yes, writhing in his grip.
“You gonna be my good girl and come now?”
“Fuck- yes,” You moan, loud, your voice echoing in the island as you finally reach your peak. Your body grows limp in his grip as you close your eyes, pleasure washing over you.
Odysseus jerks up, once, then twice, before spilling into you, groaning your name. It trickles down your thighs as you lean your weight against him, practically sitting on him.
You’re still wrapped up in his massive arms as he pants against you, loosening his grip slightly.
“Stay with me, on this island,” he whispers, tilting your head to the side.
His eyes bore into yours.
“Stay, forever. Please.”
You lean in, press the gentlest of kisses against his lips.
“Forever.”
And at last, Odysseus had found his way home, not to Ithaca, but to you.
u will not believe the state i wrote most of this in (hungover with five hours of sleep after hallucinating matt damon at the club)
I had to get this idea out of my head, the aura of this guy, a similar pattern to Commodus, my mask kink being teased, I had to write something XD (even if Commodus is THE GOAT)
Imagine you are part of a clan of women, like Amazones, but you are defeated by Agamemnon
The battle is lost. You lie in the mud, the coppery scent of blood thick in the air, your sisters fallen around you. A shadow falls over you, and you look up into the face of the enemy commander.
He doesn't look like a man who has just won a brutal fight; he looks immaculate, his black and gold armor polished, the helmet covering his face. A king. The one who decides of the fate of men but who does not bleed for them. Agamemnon.
He circles you slowly, his gaze appraising, not of your body, but of the quality of your defeat.
"Remarkable." he says, his voice a low rumble that carries over the groans of the dying. "You killed three of my best men before they brought you down." He looks at you from above "Such spirit and skill. It would be a waste to break it on the funeral pyre."
He slightly turns on the side and addresses his men. "She, and any others who can still stand, will not be killed. They will serve." He looks back down at you, a flicker of something predatory in his eyes. "You will serve me. Your strength will be added to mine. Your victories will be my victories. It is the highest honor a defeated enemy can receive." He says it as if it's an undeniable truth. The arrogance isn't in his tone, but in the very fabric of the offer. Agamemnon is pride incarnated.
Your first days are a humiliation. You are not a warrior; you are a trophy. Agamemnon parades you before the other kings, his hand possessively on the back of your neck as he introduces you. "The last of the Amazons of this coast. She now answers to me." He doesn't use your name. You are 'the Amazon', his acquisition.
You rarely sees him without his armor and helmet which makes him look like the god of war. But when he takes them off, he is strangely human. Handsome with his dark curls and full lips. You tell yourself it is a poisonous beauty. Still...
He took you away from your homeland, so why not take what you want? you could have decided to kill him but instead you decided something entirely different. To control a king was much more beneficial.
You find your place at his side during war council. A silent presence to get his interest, perhaps his trust.
It works. He decide's to test your loyalty with a cruel command: "You will lead the vanguard against the Thracians. They were allied with your people. I want to see you break their lines yourself."
"Why don't you fight them yourself for once." you refuse instead. He was cruel, not just pragmatic. But in return you receive a cold smile. "Or I can have your surviving sisters executed for insubordination. The choice is yours, but the outcome is the same."
He respects your skill in a detached way, like a man admiring a well-forged sword. After you single-handedly turn a skirmish, he'll simply say "Good. You've earned your keep today."
But if you offer strategic advice, he cuts you off. "You fight. I think. Do not confuse your function."
You are also prideful, confronting with his ego. Arguments are a daily occurrence between you. "We should take them alive." you argue after a raid. "They know the mountain passes."
He laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. "We know the passes. They are an obstacle. Obstacles are removed." He steps into your personal space, his presence overwhelming. "You seem to forget your place. You give me your strength, your skill, your body. Is that clear?"
The conflicts often end the same way: with a physical reminder of your position. He'll grip your arm hard enough to bruise, or back you against a pillar, his face inches from yours. "That fire in you... it's why I kept you alive." he might murmur, his voice dropping. "But do not mistake my generosity for weakness. I will break you if I must." The threat is always there, a leash around your throat.
The shift is subtle. He finds himself watching you in training, not just assessing your skill, but noticing the fluid grace of your movements.
You are not ignorant of men being weak to the flesh. You notice his gaze on you, shifting from pure observation of a soldier to the interest of a human being for another. You smile to yourself, this was an advantage that you only had.
You begin to use your body as a tool and a weapon. You serve him wine, letting your fingers brush against his. You stand close to him during councils, a silent, powerful presence that is both his guard and his temptation. He is constantly off-balance, aroused by your proximity but infuriated by your control over the dynamic.
You notice the growing bulge in his tunic when you're near, the way his breath catches when you accidentally brush against him. He finds himself wanting you not just as a spoil, but as a genuine desire, which angers him even as it fuels his obsession.
Late at night, when he is examining maps, you decide to take a step closer. You simply place a hand on his shoulder, letting your touch linger. He tenses, his paranoia gnawing at him. He looks up at you, surprised by the boldness. "I am here to serve, my king." you say, your voice low and husky. "But a warrior knows how to best serve their commander. Call me to your quarters if needed, my king."
That night, he summons you to his tent. He looks at you, knowing what you came more, but not voicing his own desires. He expects you to know exactly what he wants.
As you step in his quarters, you start untying the laces of your tunic. "Victories should be celebrated." you say, your eyes holding his. "And I am your greatest victory, Agamemnon."
The sex is a battle for dominance, but one you are winning. You meet his roughness with your own, his aggression with a fierce passion that matches his own. He tears at your clothes, his mouth claiming yours in a brutal kiss. You respond with equal fervor, your hands tearing at his tunic, needing to feel his skin against yours.
He pushes you onto his bed, his body heavy over yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head. But you arch against him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. He enters you with a groan, his thrusts hard and punishing, but you meet each one, your hips rising to meet his, your nails digging into his back.
You show him that surrender and strength can coexist. You take your own pleasure, refusing to be a passive vessel for his. You shift your position, rolling him onto his back, straddling him. His eyes widen in surprise, then dark lust. You ride him hard, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with each movement. You set the pace, taking control, and you watch as the King of Men falls apart beneath you, his hands gripping your hips as he loses himself in the pleasure you give him. You leave him breathless and confused, his body sated but his sense of control shaken.
After, you don't instantly go back to your tent. You stay. You trace the scars on his chest, your touch gentle. "This one..." you say, your fingers on a deep mark on his side. "A boar?" He is silent for a long moment, then speaks, his voice rough. "A man. In Thrace." It's the first personal thing he has ever shared.
The tension will shift between, you after this first time. The sex remains intense, a physical clash of wills, but now it's punctuated by these moments of quiet intimacy that you initiate. You are peeling back the layers of the king, reaching the man beneath, using your body not just for pleasure, but as a key to unlock the soul of the conqueror who now finds himself conquered by you.
Sometimes, you even witness him at his weakest. One, night, after a nightmare where he dreams of his daughter Iphigenia's face, he wakes with a strangled cry. You, sleeping on a pallet nearby, are the only one who sees it. He doesn't speak of it, but for a moment, in the flickering lamplight, you see not a king, but a haunted man. The next time he takes you, his hands are still rough, but there's a desperation in them, a need to silence his ghosts.
I hope you enjoyed! I certainly had fun writing this imagine, it was a bit chaotic in my head due to high inspiration, hoping it's an enjoyable ride^^
barbarian!cregan stark of the northern tribe calling his princess, his spoil of war, "little bird", "little dove", or "little rabbit/bunny". the cadence is condescending at first, meant to ridicule, but it slowly turns warm and fond, without his permission. seeing how at ease you look in his hut, burrowed beneath his furs, your body seeking the warmth of him left behind against the pelts he had hunted with his own bare hands, slowly gives the monikers a softer meaning.
or, on the contrary, turns them into molten heat when cregan growls them against your neck, holding you down beneath him, hips rutting into your cunt slow and deep, drawing out the most delicious whimpers from your reddened lips. "no more running now, hm, little bunny?" he would rumble, teeth bared in a wolfish snarl as his broad palms pull you down onto his length by the fat of your ass. "cock feels too good to run, doesn't it? d' you feel it here?" and he presses down onto that small pouch below your belly, feeling the head of his lenght kiss your womb again and again and again. "s' so deep, little dove. you're sucking me in like your pussy's starved for me." cregan's teeth only bare more, proud and a little mean. "is she?"
and you cannot do much other than wail and try to scratch at his arms, leaving streaks of red behind, which delight him beyond measure. you always fight back. gods, it's addicting, although cregan needs to tame it out of you soon enough.
The night air sweeping in through the window is bitingly cold, but you do not close the heavy arched windows of your chambers. You stand perfectly still, wrapped in a simple but elegant night dress of ivory silk that pools around your bare feet.
As the youngest daughter of Aemma Arryn and King Viserys, your blood is pure Old Valyria, yet you wear the heavy velvet and sigils of Oldtown. You are the lady of Oldtown, the wife of Ormund Hightower. For years, yours has been a marriage defined by a quiet, devastating distance. There were no grand declarations of passion, no sweeping romances; just a cold, dutiful alliance between a dragon princess and the Lord of the Hightower. Yet beneath the icy exterior lay an unspoken, terrifyingly deep love, a devotion neither of you ever dared to confess, out of pride, out of fear, or perhaps out of the sheer weight of the war tearing your families apart.
But now, the war has stripped away the luxury of your silence.
Your thoughts are miles away, trapped within the cold stone walls of the Red Keep. Your young son, a boy who inherited his father’s sharp Hightower features, dark hair, and striking brown eyes rather than your silver locks, was in the Red Keep when Rhaenyra’s dragons descended. The blacks had taken the castle. Your boy was a captive.
The heavy oak door to your chamber creaks open, then softly clicks shut. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The firm, deliberate weight of his footsteps tells you everything.
Ormund steps into the room, still wearing his heavy riding leathers, the scent of horse, leather, and the impending winter clinging to him. He stops a few paces away, his gaze locking onto the fragile silhouette you present against the dark sky. For all the coldness between you, the sight of you in your night dress, looking so terribly vulnerable, breaks something inside him.
Slowly, he closes the distance, coming to stand directly behind you. He doesn't touch you at first, respecting the invisible wall you both spent years building.
But tonight, you don't have the strength to maintain it.
With a ragged breath, you let your head fall back, leaning the weight of your body completely against his solid, armored chest. You feel him stiffen in surprise for a fraction of a second before his hands find your waist, his grip firm, steadying you as you tremble against him.
"I want my son back, Ormund," you whisper into the dark, your voice cracking with a fierce, agonizing desperation. "I want him back in my arms."
You turn slightly within his embrace, your hands coming up to grip the cold iron of his breastplate, your violet eyes shimmering with unshed tears as you look up at his guarded face. "You must do everything. Anything. Ride north, burn everything, march your armies to the very gates of the Red Keep, but bring him home to me."
Ormund’s jaw tightens, his dark eyes reflecting the absolute agony radiating from you. He opens his mouth to speak, to give you the measured, strategic response of a lord, but you press a hand to his chest, cutting him off.
"I have never asked you for anything, Ormund," you sob softly, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down your pale cheek. "In all the years we have been wed, through the coldness and the silence, I have never begged you for a single thing. But I am begging you for this. Give Rhaenyra whatever she wants. If she wants Oldtown, let her burn it. If she wants a head..." Your breath hitches, your fingers clawing at his armor. "Offer her mine. I will willingly give my life to the executioner's block if it means our boy walks free. I will die for him, Ormund. Please."
Hearing the woman he secretly adored, the fierce dragon princess who had never broken, never bowed now speaks of throwing her life away is too much for him to bear. The wall of ice between you shatters completely.
Ormund catches your face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away your tears. He pulls you flush against his chest, his head dropping down to press a deep, lingering kiss into the crook where your neck meets your shoulder. His lips are warm, trembling slightly with a profound emotion he has suppressed for a lifetime.
"Never speak of giving your life," Ormund murmurs against your skin, his voice thick, rough with a fierce, protective rage. "Do you hear me? Never."
He shifts his head, his forehead resting against yours in the dark, his breath hot against your lips. His eyes burn with an absolute, terrifying certainty.
"I will not lose him, and by the Old Gods and the New, I will not lose you," he vows, his voice shaking with the raw weight of the love he has never put into words until now. "I will raise every sword. I will march until the boots rot off my feet and the dragons tear the sky apart. I will get our son back, my love. At any cost. Even if I have to burn the world to do it."
As he pulls you tightly into his arms, burying his face in your silver hair, the coldness of your marriage vanishes entirely, replaced by the terrifying, beautiful warmth of a husband who would destroy the realm just to keep you whole and protect your son.
ormund with a targaryen wife he was forced to marry and very openly despises but also can't stop hate fucking.
he's so insane that he thinks he can purify her by making her his over and over, and he would start by bathing her himself prior to fucking. he would diligently clean her body in the bath, preparing her for the activities that are meant to clean up her soul and only when he is sure she is as clean as possible, he would take her out and shove her to bed.
he initially feels dirty at the mere thought of having to become one with her, flesh on flesh, so he starts off by scheduling their encounters.
he would position her on her belly as to not have to look at her on their weekly coupling, it would be quick and sloppy and ormund would leave the chambers immediately after.
convinced that he cannot father a half targaryen half hightower abomination, he always pulls out and cums on her lower back or thighs, and he secretly enjoys seeing her covered in his spend.
as time goes by, everytime he touches her he would get more drawn in. her skin, her scent, her responses to what he does to her and how much she seems to increasingly enjoy the force of his hips pistoning into her.
their encounters would start to last longer, he would start letting himself enjoy it and she would become a more active participant instead of just something that takes his dick. and he would let her, gods damn him, he would let her.
she would touch him back, beg for more, pull his hair, be more vocal about how good he feels. she would feed into his delusions because she just loves his cock inside her so much, "i can feel you become a part of me, husband" she would whisper to his lips the first time he faces her as he takes her. then she kisses him for the first time, devouring him, and he loses it.
he starts coming into her chambers at bedtime almost daily, after her servants have just finished bathing her. he pretends he's entrusted that part of the routine to mere peasants but in truth he's starting to not care anymore.
one day she skips a bath to see how he'll react and he unexpectedly goes feral at the smell of her after an entire day, their sweat mixing together as he ruts into her and she squeezes him tighter and tighter.
he becomes addicted to it.
he pretends their increasing encounters are because she is so filthy inside and outside and he still has to cleanse her, but in truth he no longer can stay away from her glistening cunt, which he feels pulsing as he fingers her in preparation each time.
she begs him to spill inside her, trying to persuade him that maybe the reason she's not clean enough yet is because his spend lands on her chest or belly.
"purify me, husband, I beg of you. I need it, I need to be clean." she would play into it just because she knows it would drive him wild even as he denies her.
and when he finally paints her walls white... well, that's a whole different story.
want more of this freak? I have a prompt list here!
↪ 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 possessed hands that had reshaped kingdoms. They had held sword and shield, dragged wounded men from battle, broken rebels, and delivered death when duty demanded it.
He just never expected you had other things on your mind when you looked at them.
warnings; hand kink, rough sex, breeding kink, baelor fucks you from behind, sinful thoughts, minors do not react.
Eh, I'd like to volunteer as tribute to have his hands wrapped around my throat. Gosh, please tell me I am not the only one.
𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 possessed hands that had reshaped kingdoms. They had held sword and shield, dragged wounded men from battle, broken rebels, and delivered death when duty demanded it.
Broad-palmed, calloused, and scarred by years of war, they were hands forged for command, not tenderness.
Yet for all they had accomplished, for all they had taken and protected alike, never, not once, had Baelor imagined that his own wife would become so utterly, hopelessly captivated by them.
He would catch you staring whenever his fingers drummed against a table, tightened the leather of his gloves, or absently turned the pages of a book, your gaze lingering with such shameless devotion that it left the Prince of Dragonstone wondering what, in the Seven Hells, possessed you to look at his hands as though they were the finest treasure in the realm.
It had begun with little things. Your gaze would drift toward his hands whenever he spoke at council, whenever he signed decrees, fastened the clasps of his cloak, or absently rolled the heavy rings upon his fingers with the idle habit of a man deep in thought. At first, he dismissed it as coincidence.
Then he noticed you did it constantly.More often than not, Baelor would lift his eyes from whatever occupied him only to find you staring intently at his hands as his thumb lazily turned one ring after another.
The instant he caught you, your cheeks would bloom crimson. You would sputter the most dreadful excuses—claiming you had been admiring the craftsmanship of the rings, or wondering whether the metal pinched his fingers, or insisting you had merely been lost in thought. Neither of you believed a single word.
He had faced charging cavalry without flinching, had stood firm before rebellious lords and seasoned warriors alike, yet there was something profoundly bewildering about the look in your eyes whenever they settled upon his hands. It was not mere admiration. It was fascination, tender and unguarded, as though the very hands that had known bloodshed and battle were, to you, the safest thing in all the Seven Kingdoms.
It happened, as most things between you did, in perfect silence.
Baelor sat across from you, the afternoon sun spilling through the windows as he reviewed yet another stack of petitions. One broad hand rested upon the table while the other idly turned the signet ring upon his finger—a habit so deeply ingrained he scarcely noticed he was doing it.
You noticed, you always fucking noticed.
Your book remained open in your lap, unread for the better part of five minutes, your eyes fixed shamelessly upon the slow roll of gold beneath his thumb.
Baelor sighed without looking up. “Again?”
You blinked and frowned, “Hm?”
“My hands.”
Now he looked at you, one dark brow lifting in quiet amusement. “You are staring at them.”
Heat rushed to your face. “I am not.”
He leaned back in his chair, “You are.”
“I was thinking.”
“About my hands.”
You lowered your eyes to your book with all the dignity you could muster. “Hmm, they are very nice hands.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Baelor's mouth. “What,” he asked, setting the parchment aside at last, “do you find so fascinating about them?”
You looked up from your book, your gaze drifting—as though entirely of its own accord—to those same broad, scarred hands. Your shoulders rose in a helpless little shrug. “I can just imagine them wrapped around my throat.”
Silence, absolute in it's infinite presence, lingered as Baelor simply stared at you, gaze darkening as amusement lingered beneath them. “Oh, is that so?”
You blinked and then, very slowly, the realization of what you had actually said caught up with you.
Your eyes widened. “Oh, Seven Hells.”
The book snapped shut over your face. “I did not mean—that is—I wasn't—”
Your words dissolved into hopeless spluttering and across the table, the Prince who had negotiated with quarrelsome lords and commanded men in battle found himself utterly speechless for perhaps the first time in years.
“My sweet lady wife,” he said at last, his voice unusually measured, “that is not the answer I expected.”
You blushed, “Just pretend I didn't say anything, you are good at that.”
Gods, the sight of your flushed cheeks threatened to undo him, because now he knew he needed to know more, “And what else do you imagine when you think of my hands?”
“Nothing, my dear husband,” you replied as you tried to return to the book in your hands, looking everywhere else but him.
He groaned and rose an eyebrow, “I see,” but then he pushed back, the scrape of the chair shattering the silence that lingered and your eyes widened when he walked around the table, fingers wrapping around the book and with a careful snap, he pulled it from your grasp, placed it on the table and leaned over you—
arms bracketing you as he placed them both on the armrests, “Look at me, sweet wife,” you did not, and the breathless hitch that tumbled from your lips as his left hand rose, fingers wrapping perfectly around your throat as his thumb then pushed your head back and then up, “that is not a nothing reaction.”
“I—I,” you murmured, “it is nothing, I promise.”
But Baelor Targaryen found himself incapable of letting this slip, “No, no more lies, you know how much I despise it. Tell me, or I will pull it out of you,” and then a sinful thought crossed his mind and his fingers tightened briefly around your throat, thumb pressing between your lips as your entire body shuddered, “slowly, quietly, until you are nothing but a squirming mess beneath these hands you admire so fiercely.”
He pushes his thumb forward, your lips parting and he groans as your mouth then wraps around the finger, pressing down on your tongue, “Tell me,” and then he releases you, but just enough to pull you flush against his chest, “or I'll fuck it out of you. Tell me what you imagine, tell me of what you desire.”
Your mouth opened and closed, and the desire he saw reflected in your eyes as you trembled before him, no coherent thought within his mind remained as honourable as he would have liked them to be, “I often think,” you blush further as he pulls you closer, fingers digging into the supple flesh of your hips as the other grips your chin, “of them wrapped around my throat as you fuck me from behind.”
“Hmm, such sinful things that occupy my wife's mind, and have you often imagined this whenever these hands of mine distract you?”
You could feel an insistent heat press between your thighs, “Not often, Baelor,” and then you uttered the word that had broken the carefully woven thread that kept him composed, “always.”
He kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was hungry and desperate and tasted like salt and years of silence, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand fisting in your hair, tilting your head back so he could take your mouth the way he'd wanted to since the moment the words had slipped from your mouth.
You made a sound—a whimper, a moan, you didn't know—and he swallowed it, pulled you closer, pressed you against his chesty until the warmth of him pressed through your dress.
His hands moved. Down your sides, over your hips, gripping the fabric of your skirts and pulling them up, bunching the wool in his fists until he could slide his palm along your thigh. The skin there was bare, pale and warm, and he groaned against your mouth when he felt it.
“Tell me more,” he growled against your lips, turning you around as the back of your knees bumped against the desk.
“I dreamed of this.” He dragged his lips along your jaw as you spoke, down your throat, over the curve of your shoulder where your dress had slipped. “I dreamed of your hands touching, claiming and not stopping.”
You felt the scrape of his nails against your neck as his hand other hand slid lower, fingers finding the wet heat between your thighs, and you gasped—a sharp, broken sound that he answered with a growl against your collarbone.
“You're soaked.” His voice was thick, reverent, his fingers pressing against you, through the fabric of your smallclothes. “Is this for me?”
“Yes.” You couldn't breathe. “Always—only you—”
He made a sound that was almost pain, and then his hand was gone, and you heard the tear of fabric, the rip of your smallclothes giving way under his fingers, and you didn't care. You didn't care about anything except the heat of his hand returning, bare skin against bare skin, his fingers sliding through your wetness, finding your entrance, pressing inside you with a single, desperate thrust.
You cry out, your head falling back as he watches—watches your face twist with pleasure, your mouth falling open, the way your body arches into his hand. His thumb circles your clit, rough and perfect, and you’re already too close, the weight of what you had just revealed to him something that he intends to fulfill.
“Not yet.” His voice is ragged, strained with need. “Not yet, I need—”
He pulls his hand back, and you sob at the loss, desperate for him. But then his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your protests, while his other hand fumbles urgently with the laces of his breeches. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you—”
You reach down, finding him through the fabric, feeling the heavy heat of his cock straining against his trousers. He shudders, his forehead dropping to yours, breath mingling with yours in the tight space between.
“I’m not going to last,” he warns, voice rough and low. “Gods, you have ruined me, you little minx. I need—fuck, you thought of these hands and thought sinful things.”
“Yes,” Your fingers clumsily pull at his laces, desperate and urgent, until you can wrap your hand around the length of him. He is hot and hard, leaking, and the sound he makes when you grip him is broken, raw, almost animalistic.
“I want to feel you. I want—” he grabs your wrist and shakes his head, grinning against your lips as he kisses you once more.
“You wanted my hands, sweet girl, you are going to get them.”
Baelor did not waste time, nor did he waste his words, he did not wait—he simply pulled you flush against his back, wrapped the fingers of his left hand around your throat, turned you both and pressed the other against your back and promptly bent you over his desk. “Is this what you imagined?”
“Fuck, yes.” his fingers tightened around your throat and then he hooked two of his fingers into your mouth, pulled your head back and grinned.
“Then what husband will I be not to indulge your desires,” His hand found your hip, pulled your arse flush against him and you felt the head of his cock press against your entrance, the slick heat of your body welcoming him, and he paused.
He pushed inside you in one long, desperate stroke, you felt it everywhere.
The stretch, the fullness, the way he filled you completely, pressing deeper than you'd thought possible. Your back arched against his chest, fingers curling around the edge of the table, and he groaned into the air, his mouth opening and closing as he removed his hand from your hip, thrust forward and then growled.
“Fuck,” he moved, pulled out and thrust back in, harder this time, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the quiet solar.
The candlelight flickered.
And you, pinned beneath him, gripping the table as if your life depended on it and voice muffled as his fingers delved deeper into your mouth, gods, what else had you kept hidden within your mind?
“So this is what you imagined,” he murmured, “whenever you looked at my hands.”
Baelor’s grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm. He kept two fingers hooked deep in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue while his hips snapped forward again, burying every inch of his cock inside you in one brutal stroke.
The desk creaked under the force. Your muffled moan vibrated around his fingers as he fucked you harder, each thrust driving you forward until your hips slammed against the wooden edge.
He leaned over your back, chest pressed hot against your spine, and growled low in your ear. “You wanted this—being bent over and used like a whore in my solar.” His fingers slid deeper, almost gagging you, saliva dripping down your chin onto the papers scattered across the desk.
He pulled out until only the head remained inside, then slammed back in, the wet sound of your cunt taking him filling the room.
Baelor’s hand left your hip to reach beneath you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in rough circles while he kept pounding into you. “Look at how wet you are,” he rasped, voice thick with lust.
“Dripping down my cock every time I fuck into you.” He thrust again, deeper, grinding against your cervix, and the pressure made your legs shake.
He released your throat only to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so your spine arched sharply.
His fingers stayed stuffed in your mouth, forcing you to suck on them while he railed you from behind. The slap of skin grew louder, faster. Sweat beaded on his chest and dripped onto your back as he used you, hips pistoning without mercy.
“Tell me what else you want,” he demanded, voice hoarse. “Because I’m not stopping until this tight little cunt is overflowing with my cum.” He angled his thrusts to drag against that sensitive spot inside you, each stroke deliberate and punishing, pushing you closer to the edge with every brutal snap of his hips. “I will not repeat myself,” he growled, “tell me.”
“Fuck, Baelor—I, I only ever thought of you taking me like this, your hands claiming every inch of me, gods, I imagined that perhaps if you fucked me like this long enough, I'd be able to give you a child.”
Baelor’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then slowed into deep, rolling thrusts that dragged every thick inch of his cock through your soaked walls.
He eased his fingers from your mouth, sliding his palm down to cup your throat instead, thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. His chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick skin sliding together as he curled over you, mouth brushing your ear.
“Keep talking,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-rough. “Tell me how you picture my hands on our child.”
His free hand slid beneath you, palm splayed wide across your lower belly, fingers spreading as though already imagining the swell there.
Each measured thrust bottomed out, grinding against your cervix, filling you so completely you could feel the heavy pulse of his cock inside you.
“I'd like to give you a daughter, and I can't help but imagine how you'd hold her.”
He huffed a breathless laugh. “I’d hold her the way I have always held you, not in the same manner I have done now,” he breathed, lips tracing the shell of your ear. “Gentle. Careful. But these same hands would never let go.”
His hips rolled forward again, slow and deliberate, the head of his cock nudging that tender spot with each pass.
“I’d cradle her against my chest while you rest. Kiss her tiny fingers. Watch her sleep between us.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another, softer, as his thrusts stayed deep and unhurried, letting you feel every ridge and vein.
“A daughter,” he repeated, almost reverent. “Ours. I’d teach her to be strong, but I’d also be the one she runs to when she’s scared. And every night I’d come back to you and put another one inside you if that’s what you wanted.”
His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make you feel owned, while the hand on your belly stroked in slow circles, matching the steady rhythm of his cock claiming you.
“Say it again,” he whispered. “Tell me how badly you want me to breed you until you’re carrying my child.”
LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING HANDS! LOOK AT THEM! SOMEONE SUFFER WITH ME.
Ormund Fic!! Daemon and Rhea Royce's daughter is a young newly flowered princess who is kidnapped by ormund hightower and stays as his prisoner but ormund begins to feel attracted to the young woman and she too and they end up getting involved and having a hidden affair but then when daemon appears they catch them right in bed and daemon with more hatred because ormund of flowered his daughter
I feel like this would work better without the kidnapping part? It doesn't really make sense to me😭 how would he catch them if she was kidnapped?
I actually really like this idea. If the reader is Daemon's and Rhea's daughter, she'd be a few years younger than Rhaenyra, so the timeline fits nicely during the early events of hotd after Alicent has already given birth to Helaena.
By this point, Ormund's first wife has died in childbirth, and they never had any surviving children. At Alicent's invitation, Ormund comes to the Red Keep, where he meets the reader: the daughter of the Rogue Prince, Lady of Runestone, and rider of Vermithor. Although she's the Lady of Runestone by right, her maternal uncle is acting as her regent while she remains in King's Landing.
I'd imagine the reader is around eighteen or nineteen, while Ormund is somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five (since he's older then alicent).
What immediately catches Ormund's attention is how completely different she is from both of her parents. Instead of inheriting Daemon's volatility or Rhea's sharp tongue, she's kind, patient, and compassionate. She's confident without being arrogant, and despite riding one of the largest dragons in the world, she's surprisingly gentle. That contrast fascinates him. Ormund falls for her almost immediately and begins pursuing her, but she rejects every advance. She's simply not interested. On top of that, she knows exactly how much her father despises the Hightowers, and the last thing she wants is to become involved with one.
But Ormund is persistent. He continues courting her, finding excuses to see her whenever he's at court. Eventually, she gives in because she's curious, lonely, and undeniably attracted to him. What starts between them is mostly physical, with both of them convincing themselves that it's nothing more than a secret affair.
Then, during a feast, everything falls apart, they're caught (ormund set it up) together by nearly half the court, including Daemon himself, who wants ormund dead for having sullied his daughter. The scandal spreads almost instantly, threatening not only the reader's reputation but also House Targaryen's honor. To prevent further disgrace, Viserys—following Alicent's advice—declares that the only way to salvage the princess's reputation is for Ormund to marry her immediately.
Neither Daemon nor the reader has any real choice in the matter. Daemon is furious, the princess feels trapped, and Ormund is happy asf.
Baelor Targaryen x Blackfyre!reader where reader is very closed off, prickly, quick to anger, and very clearly less than thrilled about her arranged marriage to the crown prince...
Until she gets pregnant.
Suddenly, she’s kind, agreeable, and initiating pleasant conversation. And when Baelor stops summoning her to his bed chamber, assuming that would be what she wanted now that her duty was done, she begins seeking him out, looking flustered and talking about nothing, looking for any reason to stay in his company. He can see the way her eyes linger on him, he sees the way she bites her lip and presses her thighs together, and he knows what she wants.
When he finally gives in and fucks her, she’s not rigid and quiet as a corpse, instead she whines and whimpers, arching her back, clinging to him, and pulling him down to kiss her. And the next morning, he wakes to her grinding her hips against him,
He becomes accustomed to this new normal. Relishing in his wife’s affection, kindness, and loyalty.
Then the baby is born
And it’s like a spell wore off.
She’s cold, mean, and wants nothing to do with anyone in the castle, least of all her husband, and he realizes he has to get her pregnant again asap.
Simply thinking about Jack Abbot correcting your posture.
He’s a doctor, so sure it starts there, in the territory of alignment and strain and long-term damage, all the tiny indignities a body absorbs when nobody’s paying proper attention to it.
And he worries about you, of course. Worries about the set of your neck and the rounded drag of your shoulders, about how you curl in on yourself over your charting like the screen might swallow you whole, about how you hunch over your phone texting those ridiculous little emoticons and memes he glances at with visible suspicion.
So he makes an effort to fix it.
A broad hand behind your chair, angling it closer to the desk until your spine has no excuse but the lengthen. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin when you’re bent out of shape around your phone on the couch, tilting your gaze upward until the vertebrae stack properly and the ache in your neck eases. Even in transit — plate to sink, fridge to stove — he stops to cup your shoulders, easing them from your ears with a downward glide of his thumbs.
A silent reward hums through the touch: a silent good girl, there you go.
“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.”
He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time.
He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look.
It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen.
So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.
Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.
“Up.”
You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.
His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting.
Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation.
“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”
You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”
He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.
“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”
He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it.
You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.
“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.”
Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way.
Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.
MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye
manipulative pope cody + ‘just the tip?’ + breeding kink drabble :3
this is for my moots who inspired me to blurb! i luv you~ @valleyanimalz @dirtygir1 @bbuuunnyyy @groovyangelkisses
*nasty smut below the cut teehee* ! mdni !
pope cody hates that you make him wear a condom, that you have been making him wrap it up for the entire two month relationship. he feels it’s an unnecessary barrier keeping him from feeling all of you and filling you up properly. but, he agreed the first time because he was so desperate to be inside you. always has been. always will be.
now, even after you’ve fucked more times than he can count while protected. he’s fed up. he knows that you’ll like it bare. that you’ll need it. that you’ll never make him wear a stupid condom again when you learn how good it feels when he sinks into you raw. you just need his help. need your strong, heroic boyfriend to take that step that you cant take yourself. god, he’s so good to you. that’s what he tells himself when he formulates his plan.
he made sure you came on his face at least three times. until your legs were jelly, brain mush, voice hoarse from begging him to stop. ‘i-i can’t’ you had whined, ‘ ‘s too much andy!’. he did it to get you into that floaty head space where you’re babbling mindlessly and lax for him.
and you’re exactly that as pope crawls up your body and settles where he belongs, above you and inbetween your legs. still, you breathlessly slur the question that he despises. “condom?”
he feigns frustration even though this is exactly what he planned. “shit— i left my wallet in craig’s car… i don’t have one.”
your response is a needy whine that morphs into a gasp when he rests his cock against your drenched folds and slowly slides back and forth. “can i just have you like this sweetheart?” pope rubs his thick length upwards, angry pink tip catching your clit with every pressing glide. you whimper through your desperate nods, nails clawing at his shoulders, fusing your knees to his ribs to stay spread for him. such a good girl, he thinks to himself.
he keeps his ruttings short. almost playfully light in order to not get you anywhere besides out of your mind from teasing. just how he wants it. when you start to wriggle beneath him, whimpering a few mindless “please please please”s, he looks down at your aching pussy to see her clench around nothing. poor baby, she needs me so bad, he tells himself.
his dick is so coated in your slick releases that pope ‘accidentally’ notches at your opening. staying in motion, he pushes in ever so slightly. your eyes shoot open in surprise “ohh- andy!” you squeal. frustration bubbles in his chest, but he doesn’t give up. because your panic simmers to pleasure and your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you moan at just his bare tip breaching your wet heat.
he buries his face into your neck to hide his satisfied grin, licking and suckling the skin how he knows you like. “jus the tip sweetheart? please?” he emphasizes his wimpy whines with an inching forward of his hips. your nails tear at the flesh on his back as you shudder. “p-promise?” you croak out in hazy compliance. his reply is strained. “ ‘course honey.”
popes promise — to him at least— goes up in flames when he slips a tiny bit further inside and is met with warm, silky tightness. fuckkk. he groans, muscles tensing and you cry out, eyes rolling back. his thrusts are shallow and unsatisfactory. after a only a few, he’s twitching in need, pathetically trying to inch deeper.
you notice, starting to whine and pant. “you cant andy! i’m not on the pill!” the words almost make pope start to piston in and out of you. the thought of coming in you until you’re swollen with his baby infiltrating his mind. that you’ll be tied to him forever and— oh yeah. that’s happening, he decides.
pope leans down to kiss you languidly. trying to tongue fuck you into submission. your pussy is rapidly fluttering around the first inch of his cock, telling him that you want this just as bad as he does. he uses his words. “you just feel so good sweetheart. need you so bad. need all of you.” a breathy moan slips from you at his praise as you return his kiss greedily.
you pull back and blink up at him with your glossy eyes and kiss bitten lips. when your legs start to wrap around him, crossing tightly at his back, he knows he’s almost home free. “okay... i- i need you too andy.”
you barely get the words out before he hastily pushes all the way inside of you. guttural noises of pleasure are ripped from you both as you clench around him so prettily and he stretches you out so perfectly. it’s searing, intimate and raw. so fucking raw.
as pope starts to thrust in and out of you eagerly, obscene slapping sounds echo throughout the room. he whimpers loudly at the warm, wet feeling of you and the noises your body makes for him.
when you shakily tell him between moans “you h-have to pull out.. okay?”
it takes all of his dwindling restraint to not laugh in your face.
jack abbot who jokingly complains to his girl that she's gotta stop getting stiletto nails every time you get your nails done. he whines about how you keep clawing up his back like a feral cat attacking him. s'not your fault that he bullies your cunt with his fat cock every time he comes home from work? ( ｡ •̀ ᴖ •́ ｡)💢 fine, if it's such a problem, you'll just get short nails with dull tips.
he's coming home from work knowing you had just gotten a new set done the night before, the entire drive home he was thinking about the sweet way you'll cry when he's fucking you silly on the couch. the way your nails will drag down his back, leaving red welts and scratches in their wake, or the way they'll feel when you're dragging them through his hair. his smile fades when he looks down at freshly done round-tipped nails that are currently holding a book.
"what... what made you do something so... different, honey?"
"thought i'd try something new out for a bit.... what? you don't like? can't scratch you up anymore, baby!" you point out so proudly.
even as he's thrusting into you, all he's thinking about is how soon he can book your next manicure and what else he'll have to be buying you to make up for this. poor baby is even finding it hard to cum without your nails digging into his back when he hits the sweet spot that has you clenching around him so tightly. that's the last time he makes a complaint about how sharp your nails are, ever.
- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.
contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen, alicent is dowager queen, historians will call them close friends), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread
Your body burns.
No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if you’d told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didn’t touch you soon, you were going to explode.
Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sister—the queen—and you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you don’t want to tell the maesters.
“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.
He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”
“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.
Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.
The windows are open.
“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.
“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.
“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.
“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”
“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.
Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”
She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”
“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.
She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.
“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.
You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”
“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t, Your Grace.”
She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”
You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.
And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.
You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.
You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”
Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”
“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”
“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.
You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.
“What did you say?” she asks softly.
“I had a potion brewed.”
Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“
“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”
“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”
“No…” you mumble.
“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”
You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.
The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.
“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.
You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.
You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.
The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.
Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.
The door swings open again.
Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.
The person unveils themself from the shadows.
It is your sworn protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.
Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.
“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.
The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.
You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.
“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”
“Help with what?” you breathe.
He remains silent.
“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.
Silence.
“Tell me. I command it.”
His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”
“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”
He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”
“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.
“How it can be cured,” he adds.
Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.
When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.
You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.
“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”
Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.
“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.
“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.
Not only is he able, he is willing.
He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.
You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.
Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—
You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.
“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”
You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?
But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.
Why must you tell him?
You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.
He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.
You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.
Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”
And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.
It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.
You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.
He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.
Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.
An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.
Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.
Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.
Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.
It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.
But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.
“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.
“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.
“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”
“My what?” he pants.
“I need you inside,” you mutter.
Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.
He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.
Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.
You nod lazily.
He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.
They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.
He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.
You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.
Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.
Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.
His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.
Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.
His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.
Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.
He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.
His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.
“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.
You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.
He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.
His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.
“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.
“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.
“Kiss me.”
As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.
Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.
“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.
It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.
You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.
“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.
“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”
You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”
“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.
You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.
Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.
“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.
He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”
You chuckle breathily.
“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.
“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.
Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.
In less than a minute, you’re beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.
About: Winterfell is undergoing a large blizzard, making everyone snowed into the castle. Jon ensures you stay warm with him. The two of you have sex on furs he laid out in front of the fireplace.
Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, oral (f), fingering (f), p in v, soft sex, hair pulling, praise, northern!reader but house unspecified, etc.
Word Count: 3.5k
Read on AO3
A/N: Please like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! GOT/HOTD requests are open if you’d like to request anything! Also this isn’t proof-read once again lol
Snow fell in sheets of white, decorating the entirety of Winterfell in its blanket. Winter had finally come, capturing the air with a bone-chilling cold. Fires illuminated the castle in every room, doing its best to warm the stone walls and those surrounded in it. But fires only did so much when the temperatures would drop so low. Jon, as King in the North and the caring person he was, had invited people to stay in the castle, ensuring a warm meal and shelter from the harsh cold outside.
You had received word earlier that Jon had been requesting your presence in his chambers. Though he preferred going to you himself, hating the idea of using servants, tonight was certainly different. With as busy as he was with his duties, you couldn't find yourself that surprised. The preparations for the impeding battle against the White Walkers, preparing for the harsh weather that was already happening, and the stressors that come with being King in the North. You knew he was glad to not be the Lord of Winterfell on top of it all, grateful that the title belonged to Sansa.
You made your way to his chambers, walking throughout the castle and squeezing your way past the copious amounts of people that filled the halls. Dressed in a heavy gown and an even heavier cloak, you did your best to shield yourself from the cold but alas, clothes can only do so much when the temperature is way below freezing. It wasn't as though you were unused to such harsh weather. You grew up in the North, it was inevitable. But no one could ever quite get used to just how cold it truly can get.
As you reached Jon's rooms, you took a deep breath before you knocked on the door. You heard movements from the other side of the door before it opened, revealing Jon. His hair was no longer in the half bun he had been wearing all day and he no longer wore his tunic and heavy cloak. He was dressed in a simple loose tunic and a pair of breeches. He held a softness to himself that you never really saw unless you were alone with him.
"My lady," He greeted with his usual Northern gruff and a quirk of his lips. A simple formality that didn't quite fit Jon's personality.
"Your grace," You replied with a slight tease in your voice as you smiled at Jon.
Jon's face fell into a grin as he reached for your hand. "Would you like to come in?" He asked, using his other hand to gesture into the room as he stepped to the side.
You nodded your head and stepped into the room, a sigh leaving your lips as the room was much warmer than yours was. Perhaps it was the fact that despite being King in the North, Jon chose the smaller chambers rather than staying in the lords chambers. His room was even smaller than your own though you didn't mind it. You glanced at the bed, noticing it was bare which confused you slightly. That was until you glanced at the hearth, noticing the piles of blankets and furs on the ground in front of the fireplace.
You glanced at Jon with a quirk of your eyebrow to which he simply chuckled. "I thought perhaps you'd enjoy something…romantic tonight," He said as he closed the door behind you.
It was quite the contrast to how Jon was. He wasn't an entirely romantic person, he wasn't one for big gestures to show how much he cared about you. You knew he cared for you in the way he spoke to you and how he treated you. He would ask if you had eaten, give you extra cider at dinner, give you extra potatoes on your plate. He's the type of person to fight for you, to ensure your safety above all others, to be truly and utterly devoted to you much like a knight would. But romantic gestures? That was not Jon's style at all.
"You didn't have to go through the trouble," You said softly, moving to place your hands on Jon's shoulders.
He hummed in response as his hands found your hips. "I wanted to," He murmured as he leaned in, his breath mingling with yours.
He wasn't much of a talker, not that you minded. He wasn't very good with words and you could hardly blame him. Being in the Night's Watch is not a place for deep and profound conversations. You supposed that's what you loved about him. You never felt expected to be anything more than just yourself and you never expected Jon to be anything more than him.
You said nothing else as you leaned in as well, gently capturing Jon's lips. The kiss was soft, gentle, and unhurried. One of Jon's hands moved up from your hips to cup your cheek, deepening the kiss as he did so.
When you and Jon had first gotten together, he had been open and honest about his lack of experience. He had only ever been with one woman, Ygritte, and didn't know much about what he was doing. You hadn't minded, mostly because you knew he would treat you well regardless. But gods was he a natural. The first night the two of you had ever lied with one another, he had gone down on you with as much excitement as a starved man who was having his first meal in a long time. You had peaked so many times from just his mouth alone that night.
Jon's hands moved to the clasp of your cloak as his fingers moved to undo it, allowing the material to fall to the ground around you. The kiss deepened as Jon's tongue began exploring your mouth. Your fingers moved to the top of his tunic, undoing the bit of laces before raising the shirt. Jon pulled away from the kiss just enough to pull his shirt off before his lips reattached to yours.
You hummed in the kiss as Jon's hands reached the back of your gown. His fingers fumbled with the laces, trying his best to undo them while his attentions were primarily on your mouth. It wasn't long before the material loosened as you took the sleeves off of your arms and allowed the gown to fall to the floor, leaving you in your small clothes.
Jon's lips moved to your jaw before he dipped his head to kiss your neck. He gently nipped at your pulse point. Your breath hitched at the feeling as a spark of pleasure made its way down your spine. "Jon," you voice came out as a whisper as he sucked on the skin, his fingers toying with your small clothes.
He pulled away to look at you with dark eyes, his expression heated in such a way that never failed to have you clenching your thighs. He removed your small clothes, revealing your naked form in its entirety to him. "You're so beautiful," he said, his voice hoarse from lust.
"His grace is far too kind to a lady such as myself," You said breathlessly and with a small smirk on your face. He hated when you acknowledged him as though he were nothing more than your king. He was yours in every manner except by the gods themselves, just as you were his.
Jon narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly at you. "Oh shut up," He replied. His hands found your hips once more as he guided you to the furs near the fireplace. "Lie down for me," he gently commanded.
You obeyed his command as you moved to lie down on the floor on top of the furs that Jon had laid out so delicately. The heat of the fire encompassed you like a blanket, finally working to move that chill you've felt continuously since the weather had gotten worse.
Jon smirked down at you as he began undoing the laces of his breeches. "You're always such a sight to behold, my lady," Jon said in that Northern gruff of his.
"Perhaps you've spent too much time with lords," You replied with a sigh. "You're getting better at sweet talking." You laid your head back on the pillows.
"Aye," Jon agreed with a sigh left his lips. "Doesn't make what I said any less true though," He said softly. As he finished undoing the laces of his breeches, Jon pulled them down alongside his small clothes. His cock was thick and red, angry and wanting attention. You licked your lips as a pulse went down your back to your cunt, causing you to clench around nothing.
Without another word, Jon went onto the furs next to you. He lied on his side facing you, moving so that his legs were atop yours. You turned your head slightly to look at him and suddenly, his lips were on yours, capturing you in a sensual and unhurried kiss. You brought a hand to Jon's hair, gently entangling your fingers with his curls.
He brought a hand to your hip, the other one holding himself over you. His cock prodded against your thigh, adding to the tension you felt within yourself. He pulled away to press kisses along your jaw and down your neck, gently sucking and nipping at your skin. You let out soft pants as the sensations pooled to your cunt.
"Jon," You breathed out.
"Hmm?" He hummed against your skin as he licked your pulse point.
"I want you," You whispered as you grabbed Jon's hand and brought it to your chest. He instinctively began massaging your breast, his thumb toying with the nipple. You whined softly, pressing into him.
"I'll give you whatever you want, sweetheart," he said, his voice rough. He began trailing kisses along your collarbone and down to your chest. With one hand still fondling your breast, his lips found your other one, trailing open mouthed kisses onto the mound of flesh. His tongue flicked your nipple, causing you to gasp in pleasure, before latching his mouth onto it.
"Jon," You whined gently as you tugged on his hair. The pleasure from your nipples being played with did little to ease the ache between your thighs. You could feel yourself getting wetter and needier, wanting nothing more than for him to touch you where you needed him most. After a few moments, he switched to sucking on the other one, giving them both equal treatment of course.
Part of you believed that Jon would be happy just sucking your tits for hours on end. At any given moment, he adored simply having his lips attached to you in some way, shape, or form. And to say you hated it would be a complete and utter lie as you too adored the feeling of his mouth on you. You especially wanted his mouth in a specific place at this current moment.
Under his touch, you were a whiny and needy mess. Your back arched as Jon sucked on your chest, your thighs clenched as you tried to ease the tension. Jon unlatched himself from your tits and began kissing down your chest and to your stomach. "Gonna make you feel so good," He murmured against your skin as he reached your pelvis.
"Finally," You breathed out as you looked down at Jon. You opened your legs for him so he could nezzle himself between them.
"Fuck," Jon whispered as he glanced at your glistening cunt. "Haven't even done anything to you, sweetheart, and you're already soaked," He rasped as he leaned in, breathing in the scent of you. You let out a shaky breath as you looked at Jon, anticipating the moment he'd latch his mouth onto you.
Jon said anything else as he moved his tongue on your slit, going from your hole to your clit. The taste of you had Jon closing his eyes in contentment. He adored having your juices on your tongue.
You let out a shaky breath that quickly turned into a moan while Jon began flicking his tongue against your clit. "Jon," You moaned as your own eyes closed, a hand going back to Jon's hair and tugging at the strands.
Jon moaned against your cunt as you tugged on his hair, adding to the pleasure you were receiving. His tongue moved in figure eights before he began sucking on your clit, causing you to gasp and whimper. "Fuck!" You exclaimed, bucking your hips
A finger prodded at your entrance as Jon gently eased the digit inside of you. You threw your head back in pleasure while at that moment he began thrusting it in and out of you. His lips were still firmly attached to your clit sucking on the bud. You tugged Jon's hair with one hand while the other bunched the furs below you. "Jon," You whined his name, feeling that familiar heat building inside of you.
It wasn't long before he added a second finger and curled them, eliciting a loud mewl from your lips. You opened your eyes to look down at Jon, his dark eyes already on you. He was groaning against your cunt, unable to help the way his hips moved needily against the furs as he pleasured you. The heat from the fire in the hearth along with the tension building inside of you had your body glistening with sweat.
You felt yourself getting closer and closer. Jon's free hand reached up to your breast, massaging your nipple between his fingers. The added sensation had you cumming instantaneously. You moaned loudly, uncaring of who may hear outside the door, while your back arched against the floor. Jon's name left your lips in a mantra as you tried to clamp your thighs closed around Jon's head.
When you finally came down from your high, Jon pulled away and looked at your blissed out state with a smirk. His lips were glistening with your juices. "You always taste like such a treat," Jon murmured as he crawled on top of you once more.
"I'm glad I'm to your liking then," You rasped out, breathing heavily as you looked up at Jon.
Jon said nothing else as he leaned down to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his lips but you didn't mind it one bit. Jon's cock prodded your thigh, hard and needy for attention. "Can I fuck you?" Jon whispered against your lips, his breath hot against your skin.
"Please do," You whispered back.
Jon reached between you both to grab his cock. He stroked himself a few times, a low groan leaving his lips as he did so. "Fuck," he whispered to himself before guiding his cock to your pussy. He used the tip to gather your wetness onto his length, causing you both to hiss in pleasure. And with little resistance, Jon eased himself inside of you.
"You're so fucking wet," He groaned as he bottomed out, burying his head in your neck. He stayed still for a few moments, giving you time to adjust and himself time to not immediately explode inside of you.
Your hands moved to his shoulders as you wrapped your legs around his waist. It didn't take you long to adjust to him as you were already so turned on. "You can move," You murmured into his ear.
"No I can't," Jon replied with a small shake of his head. His face was still buried between your neck and your shoulder, his lips pressing tiny kisses onto your skin.
"And why's that?" You asked.
"This will be over way faster than I would like if I move this instant," he breathed out.
A breathless chuckle left your lips. Your hands moved to Jon's face, gently removing his head from your neck. You said nothing as you stared at him, a small smile on your face. Jon looked like an absolute dream with his lips swollen from eating you out and his cheeks reddened from the heat of the situation, his hair messed up from your fingers. You said nothing as you captured his lips in yet another kiss.
For some time, the two of you stayed just like that, with Jon's cock inside of you as the two of you kissed. There was absolutely no need to rush. Nothing else mattered in this moment except the two of you. He wasn't the King in the North and you weren't the Lady of your house. He was Jon and you were you.
And when Jon eventually pulled away from the kiss to look down at you, only then did he begin moving his hips. You gasped and grabbed his shoulders while Jon hissed in pleasure. "Fuck, darling, you feel so good," He rasped, thrusting into you slowly.
"You do too," You replied breathlessly.
Jon drew his hips back and thrusted into you hard, causing you to yelp in pleasure. He did that a few more times before quickening the pace a bit. "Gods, you're so tight," Jon grunted, once again burrying his head between your neck and shoulder. "So perfect.”
"Jon," You moaned as he grew into a rhythm. One of Jon's hands moved to your right leg, untangling it from around his waist. He moved it up a bit, enough to add a stretch to your hips. The slight change in angle had you whining in pleasure as his cock hit that sweet spot inside of you.
The feeling of being inside of you was a feeling Jon could never get sick of. You were always so wet, so slick, so tight, and overall just perfect. Nothing ever felt as lovely as bedding you. Jon paused his moments to move away slightly. He adjusted himself to stand on his knees, his hand still on your right leg. The other hand moved to your other leg, pushing that one up as well.
And with that, Jon began moving once more, fucking you harder and faster. The room was filled with the sounds of your moans mixing with Jon's grunts of pleasure. "Fuck!" You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as that familiar heat began building inside of you once more. Your cunt squelched with each thrust of Jon's cock.
Anyone that could've been outside the door would certainly know what was happening and neither of you cared whatsoever.
"Fuck, sweetheart," Jon grunted as he looked down at his cock, watching the way it drilled into you. His curls stuck to his forehead as he began to sweat a bit from the fire beside the both of you. He knew he wouldn't be able to last much longer.
Jon let go one of your legs and began rubbing your clit, causing you to call out his name in pleasure. Your hands went to your chest as you began massaging your breasts in time with Jon's thrusts.
"I-I'm so close," You whimpered, your lips parted as you panted.
"Me too, darling, me too," Jon replied. His fingers continued to work your clit as he thrusted his hips faster.
It wasn't long before you were moaning and whining loudly, your walls clamping down on Jon's cock and your back arched as your orgasm overcame you. Your whole body tensed in pleasure as your eyes rolled back. "Oh my god," You cried out
Jon moaned loudly, unashamed of the noises leaving his lips. The feeling of your cunt wrapped around his cock so tightly was more than enough to send him over the edge. He buried himself deep inside of you as he came with a shudder, filling you up with his cum.
The two of you stayed just like that as you came down from your highs. Jon remained still, breathing heavily. You relaxed against the furs, opening your eyes to look at Jon, his eyes already on you. The two of you simply stared at each other, relishing in the immediate aftermath of the situation. And after a few moments, you began giggling which caused Jon to smile.
He pulled out of you and moved to lie beside you, taking you into his arms. "I hope that helped warm you, my lady," He said with a slight tease in his voice, amused at your giggles.
You looked at Jon with a smile and nodded your head. "You did excellent, your grace," You replied, matching his amusement.
The two of you remained just like that, entangled in each other as Jon held you close, for as long as you could. Eventually, the two of you moved to the mattress, dragging along the furs and pillows before having sex once again. And by morning time, you awoke to being warm and comfortable in Jon's arms, finally defeating that bone deep chill that you had all day yesterday.
