The Dream (Maekar Targaryen x Wife!reader, Maekarlings x Mum!reader)
Request
A/N: Got this awesome request a while ago but I put on some sad music and finally got to it today. I should be sleeping right now but I hit flow state y’all. Edit: I made myself cry with this one…
Summary: Daeron has been uneasy from the moment you told your children you were with child once more. He cannot explain it, only that he sees things and that they make him uneasy. You and Maekar do your best to comfort him, but as the child begins to arrive, the sorts of things the boy sees begin to come to pass.
Word count: ~3.7k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, ANGST, pregnancy, birthing miscomplications (descriptions of blood), major character death, no happy ending, just pure plain angst and fear and death :(, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Daeron shoved some hair out of his face as he sat nervously at your bedside. He chewed on his lip, tapped his little foot, but his anxious eyes never strayed from you. You were tired, he could see it painted around your eyes and mouth, the way you groaned if you shifted and how your breaths were often heavier than not. He could see it in the way you attempted to smile but could never reach it fully, the way your eyes fluttered every once in a while and you threatened to fall back into sleep. He could even see it in the way you caressed your own belly, round and protruding from under the sheets, ready to release the babe at any moment.
“I can almost see the thoughts running around in your head like little people, my little owl,” you called to him, smiling a bit brighter than before when he glanced up to your face. You held out your hand to him and he abandoned the stool he had been sitting on to slip in beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the sheet and turning to snuggle heavily into you. He wrapped his arm over you, in the lower space between your belly and chest, and then pressed his face to your neck, sighing long and low. He was practically trembling in your arms and you frowned as you began caressing his back, soft little motions of your fingertips up and down the lenght of his spine.
“What is it, my little owl?” You asked quietly, tilting your head to press a kiss to the top of his head. You loved his bronzey curls, soft and so different to your Aerion and Aemon’s pale white hair, to your little Daella’s hair so perfectly matching your own. He did not say anything at first, just lay there and breathed you in before slowly lifting his head up and asking,
“Why do you call me a little owl?” He looked sad asking it, pouting, but you just huffed a tired laugh and reached out to press your index finger to his nose. Your boy was ten namedays old now, and he was smarter by the minute.
“Owls are creatures of the night, you know. They stay up all the evening long, live their lives in the evening, and they fly silently, barely noticeable, but they are intelligent, known to be wise. You are like my own little owl,” at this you smiled and caressed his soft face, his forehead and plump cheeks, tickling him under the chin. “When you were a babe, you would stay up all night, even when you were not crying, you would simply stay awake and blink up at the ceiling. Even now, though you attempt to pretend otherwise, I know you are awake most nights. And though you are quiet, my little one, I know how clever and how wise you are, right up here,” you tapped his forehead again.
Daeron nodded then sat up and leaned against your belly, resting his head there on top of his folded hands. He blinked slowly at you, then began tracing the embroidery on the bedsheets, circling flowers and leaves. You could sense his worry, could sense that he wished to speak but did not know how, so you simply reached out and continued to caress his hair as you spoke.
“It is the same way Aerion is my little dragon. He is fierce, he has the temper of one. He used to scream and cry like a dragon roars. He would go so red I once thought perhaps he would breathe fire.” At this Daeron huffed a small giggle, pressing his face to your stomach to hide it.
“And Aemon is my little fawn, because though he is timid, he loves being around his family. And Daella is a little mouse, because she is still very small, and sometimes when she scrunches her nose it reminds me of a mouse,” you giggled at yourself, at the nicknames you came up with for your children, random but fun. Daeron nodded, as if it was all very serious and important.
“What will the new babe be?” He asked then, his voice going quieter, more grave, and you hummed in thought.
“Hm, our Aegon,” you pondered aloud, and then you furrowed your brows and looked down at Daeron. “I am not sure yet. What do you think he will be, little owl?”
Daeron too hummed in thought, still tracing the patterns on the sheets. He did not answer for a while.
“I think,” he began mumbling, “he will be like a dragon too. But not in the way Aerion is.” He frowned a little, pinching and releasing the fabric now instead of simply tracing it. “I think he will be like those large old dragons, like Balerion and Vhagar. Regal and majestic, not- not angry.”
You smiled at that, pinching his cheek and humming in delight.
“That makes me very happy,” you told him softly.
Daeron did not say anything for a little while, just lay against you and listened to you hum, but then he opened his mouth once more and mumbled, “I have been having dreams again.” You paused, going very still, and looked down at him. You shifted, sitting up a little, then returned your attention fully to your son. You caressed his head once more, nodding at him to go on. “They scare me.” You could feel his lips moving against your stomach with the way he pressed himself down to you, and your heart panged in your chest. “I cannot understand what they are trying to tell me. I just…” he murmured something you could not understand this time, but you prompted him to repeat it with a little ‘hm?’ of your own. “I hear the babe crying. It is screaming and crying and cannot be soothed. And… And I hear you. I can hear you screaming. I see you in the bed,” and he began to cry, soft little whimpers, tears rushing to his eyes as his breaths began to shake. “I can see you, mother, and you are all bloody, all over. And-and-” his hands clenched into the bedsheets, into your dress underneath them. “You are crying first, mother, you are crying and shaking your head and begging, and then you just stop. And sometimes you are just laying there, eyes closed, and sometimes you are all clean again and holding the babe and smiling at it and-”
“Shh, shh,” you quickly reached out and waited until Daeron had crawled back up, had thrown himself over you and wrapped his arms tight around your neck. You hushed him, softly and gently, kissing the side of his little head as your throat filled with a lump you could not swallow. “Hush now, little one, hush now,” you soothed, clenching your own eyes shut as you hugged him tight. He was still bony the way some children were at this age, all gangly limbs that he would slowly grow into, and you simply clutched him as tight as you could, attempting to breathe slowly as the images he had conjured filled your mind. But no, no, you could not focus on that either.
“Mother, please, do not- do not-” he began blubbering too much before he could say anything else and your own face crumpled, eyes filling with tears as you shook your head and shushed your boy again.
“No, no, do not even think such thoughts dearest,” you whispered to him, rubbing your hand up and down his back, kissing his hair, his forehead. “It is only a dream. Sometimes dreams can be very scary. Sometimes they scare us even when we are awake. But it is alright. Mother’s here.”
You clutched your boy tighter and silently cried against the top of his head. You felt like a liar. You knew the realities of the birthing bed. Though your past pregnancies had done well enough, you could never be promised true safety. You could not make any promises to your son. And it made you feel sick. It made you feel like a sick, sick, liar.
“Mother’s here,” you whispered to him once more, and he nodded, though he continued crying for a while longer.
By the time Maekar returned to your chambers, both Aerion and Aemon had come to join you and Daeron as well. Daella had already been put to sleep by the nursemaid, but Aerion and Aemon refused to leave your side, just as their brother. Daeron curled up under one of your arms, Aerion took the other, and little Aemon, still a chubby toddler to you, clambered all over your pregnant belly (sometimes making you huff when he knocked the wind out of you).
Though Maekar let out a long groan at the sight of his bed full of children, he was secretly pleased to see his brood all smiling and laughing, curled up with their mother. It filled his heart right to the brim.
You smiled brightly at him as walked over, reaching your hand out to him. He rounded the bed and first leaned down to press a tender kiss to your lips before he began tickling and ruffling up all the boys on the bed. He paused in his mission to check on you, reaching up and cupping your cheek to tilt your head up to him. He frowned at what he saw, noting the tiredness in your eyes, the darker tint underneath, and he was instantly all business once more.
“All of you, to your own beds now,” he ordered, picking Aemon up and waving his hand at Aerion and Daeron. Aerion pouted, brows furrowing with anger as he began to argue, but Daeron just curled up further and pressed to your arm. “I said now,” Maekar repeated firmly, glaring at Aerion until the boy huffed, pressed an angry kiss to your cheek, murmured a ‘goodnight, muña’, and then stomped off. “You as well, Daeron,” Maekar ordered, now turning his gaze to his eldest son, but the boy had his eyes closed and pressed his face to your arm.
You frowned a little at him. Your boy had always been clingy, had always preferred to stick to you more than anyone else, but he had not been like this, not for a long time anyway. You caressed his head once more, noted how fragile he still looked, but sighed and nudged his nose with the tip of your finger.
“It is alright, little owl,” you whispered, coaxing him to look at you. “Father will put you to bed, he will tuck you up tight, give you enough kisses from the both of us, and when tomorrow comes, you and I will find ourselves something fun to do together, just us.”
Daeron pulled away from you finally, blinking his big eyes up at you with a spark of hope. You wanted to cry, wanted to gather him up and keep him secure with you forever.
“Promise, mother? Just us?” He asked, voice small, and you nodded, leaning forward and pressing a firm kiss to his forehead.
“Promise, just us.”
Daeron nodded then, kissed your cheek one last time, and hauled himself off the bed, reaching up to hold Maekar’s hand as he walked both boys out of your room. Your husband turned to offer you one last look, murmuring how he would return shortly, and you only blew him a kiss in return.
It was late that evening, when all the candles had been blown out and the hearths had dimmed down to embers, when the owls hooted and all the princes and princesses slept, that the birth began.
Daeron was not meant to be awake. He should have been asleep. He knew both mother and father would be cross at him for being awake. But he had heard footsteps rushing outside of his door, and sleep never came easy in the evenings, so he could do nothing but leave and follow.
He caught a maid just turning the corner at the end of the hall, running quickly and disappearing, her plain gown just a flutter. He frowned, rubbing the residual tiredness from his eyes, and followed. He could hear more commotion around the corner, and he found all the flurry of activity outside his mother and father’s bedchambers.
“We need more water, hot and cold both. And cloths, Minara, more cloths!”
“Someone have the fire stoked-”
“Where is Septa Cyren-”
“Has the maester been-”
Daeron shoved himself close to the wall and stayed there, his heart pounding. His eyes flitted this way and that, following all the people who came rushing in or out of the chambers. He caught snippets of conversation, words that trailed off when the doors opened, and then screaming.
It was loud. A curdling scream, pure pain. Daeron had never heard anything like that. It was a howl, really, something a dying animal might make, he guessed. His hands trembled further as the scream began to die off. He could only see the wood of the chamber doors, the barest peak in when they opened, but nothing past the wall, nothing actually within the chambers themselves.
“...she has been asking for you, over and over, and though we usually would not call, she seems very distressed this time. We do not want her wasting energy on this.” His father appeared around the corner as well, dressed simply the way he would be in the evenings, eyes puffy and hair more mussed than usual. He was frowning, though it was not his usual scowl but more one of worry. Daeron watched his body go rigid at the words of the Septa, watched his eyes dart to the door to the chambers.
Just as Maekar reached them, he looked down the hall and noticed Daeron cowering by one of the end tables, pressed to the wall as if to hide. His frown deepened and he sighed, half frustrated and half tired. He marched over to his son, beckoning him to stand and glaring down at him.
“Why are you awake? You should be in bed.”
Daeron just blinked up at him at first, chewing on his lip, then he glanced in the direction of the chamber doors. Maekar’s face softened, just a tad, and he gently ran his hand over Daeron’s head, pressing the boy to his leg in a pseudo-hug before letting him go. He opened his mouth to speak when the screaming began again.
It was far too loud even from behind closed doors, and Maekar’s head snapped in its direction. He let go of Daeron and rushed into the doors, slamming them shut behind him. Daeron retreated to his spot against the wall, his entire body trembling. He blinked his eyes, quickly then slowly but hard, but nothing made the world change. Nothing made the screaming stop or magically found him back in his bed.
“What is the meaning of this…” He heard his father’s growl behind the door, the sound of sobbing, loud and pained. He knew it was his mother. He knew it. Daeron clenched his hands into his tunic and simply stared at the chamber doors.
“What the fuck do you mean complications, speak it plainly…”
“...breach, my prince…. The wrong way…”
“How the fuck do you fix it then? Do not blather…”
The screaming began again and Daeron clenched his eyes shut, pressed himself harder to the wall, until it hurt, until dust stuck to his shirt and trousers and his skin throbbed with pain. He pressed his hands to his ears and whimpered, but the screaming dissolved into sobbing and he cried too. He could hear his mother crying, he knew it was her. He wanted to be with her. He did not want to her mother crying, he wanted her crying to stop.
“Daeron?” A small mumble, he turned around to find Aerion come pattering up the hall, cheeks and lips puffed out as he rubbed sleepily at his eyes. “Who is screaming?” He asked, blinking blearily up at his big brother.
Daeron could not find words to say to him. He did not know what to say. He finally managed to break out, “the babe is coming.”
“Oh,” Aerion nodded, then frowned at the doors to the chambers where now there was scuffling and thuds and their father’s voice but unintelligible. “Does it hurt to have a babe?”
Daeron only nodded. He was overcome with fear, overcome with the images of his dreams. He could hear it so clearly, see it so clearly, his mother on the bed, writhing in pain, begging for something he could not give, did not know how to give.
“...fucking save her damnit!”
Daeron’s breath stuttered in his chest when something banged loudly from inside the room. Aerion too jumped at the noise, his face falling now, his lower lip trembling and a fearful little pout coming onto his lips. The younger boy stepped closer to Daeron, clutching at his loose shirt, and Daeron simply stood there beside his brother, trembling as they listened to the loud sobbing through the door.
“Is that muña?” Aerion asked, his voice gaining a higher pitch. The boy trembled more than Daeron now, both his fists coming to hold onto Daeron’s shirt. Soft sniffles started to shake him, his lower lip gaining a tremor.
“...what can be done? Please, tell me what can be done, I will…”
Daeron pressed harder to the wall once more, blinking harshly as the fear burned in him, as his eyes stung with it. He had never heard his father like that. Had never heard his father so… begging. Maekar was always firm, the warrior. Maekar never wavered. Why did Maekar sound like that?
Daeron saw it again, his mother on the bed, covered in blood, twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then-
“I do not fucking care! Save her fucking life you-”
Aerion whimpered then, pressing his face to Daeron’s back, and Daeron could only reach and touch his head softly. He stared at the hallway, empty now of the rushing maids and septas. He saw the sconces, the fire flickering in them, the dark sky outside the window at the end of the hall, crystal clear with stars blinking.
The screaming began again, long and even more pained than before, mixing with Aerion’s whimpering as he hugged his brother tight. But this time when the screaming faded, there was another sound, wailing, long and high pitched, crackling from fresh lungs. Aerion hugged Daeron even tighter, but tilted his head up at that, frowning as he blinked through tears.
“That is the babe,” Daeron muttered, a spark of hope inside him, no bigger than a kernel of fire. The babe was out then. The babe was out and mother could rest, and tomorrow, tomorrow it would be just them. She would wipe the nightmares away, would tell him that the dreams had simply scared him while he was awake, but Mother was there. Mother was there.
Daeron held tight to Aerion, let his eyes flutter shut, leaned into the wall, but amidst the babe’s crying, other voices rose, high and hurried, not yelling but loud and panicked.
“...too much blood, stop the bleeding…”
This time the crying was quieter, not the babe’s, but yours. Daeron closed his eyes and shook his head, tried to shake the sound right out of it, but it would not go. You were crying, pained and tired, and he could hear it over the babe’s quieted whimpering.
“...it is alright…” that was his father, quieter than he had been all evening.
“...my boys… all my beautiful boys…” Daeron shuddered, lurched forward toward the door. He stumbled, Aerion yelping, still clutching tight to the shirt on his back, almost bringing him down. Daeron shoved him off and continued forward, breath ragged. He reached the door, gripped the handle and shoved, stepping in. He could hear mother, surely she was calling for them, Aerion stumbling into his back.
There you lay, closer to the left side of the bed where you always lay in the evenings. Father was at your side, clutching your hand tightly between both of his and staring at your face, saying something, anguished. Your hair was splayed around you, stuck to you with your sweat. You were red, or, no, your dress was red, drenched really. Down your legs, up to your waist and stomach. Your face was pained, clenched into some expression Daeron had never seen on you before. He could only see the red, a bright wash. Then a Septa was gasping, pressing her hands to his shoulders and shoving him back out of the door and slamming it shut.
But Daeron could still see it, the red blood seeping through your clothes. He could see you twitching and going still. Was it the dream still, or had he just seen it? He blinked his eyes, once, then twice, then hurriedly a few times. But the image stayed, the image stayed pressed there as if someone held it there.
Aerion cried profusely now, clinging to Daeron, shaking and sobbing and yelling for muña. He pressed his face to Daeron’s stomach, clenched his hands into Daeron’s shirt, and sobbed. Daeron held tight to Aerion in return. Or maybe he did not. He could not quite tell what his limbs did. He too only wanted Mother. You had promised tomorrow would be just you two. You had promised.
Then there was a loud long moan of pain. It was like an animal dying. It was like the last sound a stag made before the hunt slaughtered it. It was like the lone wolf, crying out for it’s mate. It was the last dragon’s dying breath. Daeron stared at the door through which the sound came, through which his Father made that sound.
Daeron fell back against the wall, taking Aerion with him. His little brother curled up against him, sobbing in fear and confusion, begging for his mother. Daeron curled up around Aerion, pressing his face to the back of the boy’s head the way you always did when they snuggled into you. He clenched his eyes shut. You promised. You had promised.
Heyyy I love your work and I was wondering if you could do a quick thing about readers fever that made her blind in through the darkness and how it was for Maekar and the children ❤️
A/N: thank you for the request and for the compliment! I’m glad y’all are as interested in Maekar and his wife as I am! Happy to expand upon them further
Through the Darkness, Blazing
Maekar Targaryen x Blind!Wife!Reader
Tags: brief mention of intimacy, reader is sick, fever, headaches, blindness, the first three boys are sweet little princlings, gentle Maekar
WC: 1.4
Summary: the fever that started it all. Other fics related to this couple in chronological order: Prequel, This one, One, Drabble(2), Drabble(3), four
You felt the ache in every bone of your body, the gentle burn of oversensitivity across each inch of skin. It made everything you did, even the simple things uncomfortable and fatiguing.
Beyond fatiguing. It had been so bad last night that you had to stop Maekar while he was laid between your legs. At one point you felt so tired you did not even attempt to hold to his blunt hair and keep him where you wanted. It had to be your moon blood, that’s what you told him. You didn't know anything else that made you ache like this. The first one you got after having a child was normally accompanied by a lot of discomfort and with Aemon’s age it made sense that your moonblood was the thing causing all of this.
You did not bleed, did not cramp, did not feel anything but that exhaustion and ache.
You were holding aemon in the nursery, pacing and bouncing him while weakly singing a lullaby. Just trying to settle him down for his nap. That was when the warmth spread across your back and your lips suddenly felt tingly and cold. You squeezed him tighter because the feeling in your limbs was rapidly lessening.
“call for my husband.” You told the wetnurse who was sat waiting incase the little prince could not be lulled by you. “Quickly.” You reiterate voice distant but stern.
“shhh…shhh,” Aemon started crying, his little hands pawing at your jaw and you smiled weakly down at him for a moment. “It’s okay my handsome boy…it’s okay.” You kiss his temple and then startle when a heavy hands land son your shoulder and squeezes.
You were so out of it that you did not even hear maekar enter the room.
“I can’t get him to sleep.” You admit still facing away from him.
“That is what you called me for?” He raised a brow and looked to the wetnurse. “He’s rest better with a full belly.” You did not put up a fight when she slipped aemon from your arms to her chest and sat with him in the nursing chair.
“are you feeling well-“ the prince began to inquire but your turned around as he spoke and he saw the redness across your nose and cheeks, the pale blue color on your lips and the classy crystal quality of your eyes. “Sit down.” He ordered you, hands gripping the sides of your arms and putting you down on one of the trunks. “The aching still? Did your blood come?” He pushed your hair back and was surprised to feel how clammy your skin was. You looked like you were going to faint.
“I feel odd.” You whisper, a hand coming out to hold to his bicep, like you just need something to ground yourself. You almost were flattened when the back of his hand pressed to your forehead and then under your jaw against your neck. He wasn’t being rough, at all, it was just that even mild pressure against your body was to much for you to stay strong against at the moment.
“You are fucking burning.” He concluded and stooped down to grab you. One hand at your side and the under scooped under your bottom to haul you up. You did not even wrap a leg around him to help with the carry. He had to hold you laid out across his strong arms and nuzzled against his shoulder and chest. “Stay with the boy, have a maid call for a maester if he starts up with a fever.” The anvil ordered the wetnurse while he carried you out of the room and right up to the maesters study.
Things became significantly more hazy for you after you were quickly put into a soaking tub. So quickly upon the maesters suggestion that you were still in your gown. The maids could not get the soaked strings of your corset undone so Maekar used the blade on his hip to cut it off you eventually.
It got so bad that somebody, most often your husband, had to hold you up in the water so your head did not dip back to far.
“I need to cut Daeron’s hair…” you whispered at one point. Head turned to toward where Maekar was knelt at your bedside. They did not even bother dressing you when he lifted you out, just wrapped a robe around you and tucked the blanket around your sides to settle the shivering. You’d need to go back into the cold bath soon anyways.
“you do not.” Maekar sighed, palm to the hollow spot of your cheek as he swiped your damp hair back. “He can survive a day without you fussing over him.”
“it’s scraggly.” You exhale, even talking took it out of you.
“My lady, you must get this tonic down.” The maester urged and you frowned shaking your head. “It will help the fever break.” He explained and Maekar had his hand in the back of your neck lifting it up so he could hold the cup to your lips and make your drink it down.
“there you go,” he kissed your temple as you coughed a bit from the medicine mixed into the liquid irritating your throat. “We can get you better and then worry about our son looking like a commoner.” He assured you.
You couldn’t even crack a smile. Perhaps some part of you knew you weren’t going to wake tomorrow feeling better. After that first day you were on conscious on occasion, the poppy that Maekar demanded be given to you kept your asleep most of the time because when it wore off you cried and fought and pulled so fiercely at your own hair in a attempt to ease the pain in your head that Maekar was sure the ere going to rip the hair right out.
You remembered little of the weeks, Maekar’s hand running over your tender back, he didn’t talk to you much but his breathing was a comforted his presence alone calmed you. Occasionally you woke when he fought with the maester….and the new one he brought on when you were not better after a week.
You’d been sick for a moon when the septa who came to pray for you suggested that perhaps the older boys could at least be brought in to see you. That it might bring you some comfort and remind you why you needed to be strong and get better.
Maekar had agreed, and after a long discussion with Daeron and Aerion where he made it clear that they wouldn’t be bickering in your presence or whinning or doing anything but being sweet little boys, he brought them to your bedside.
“We miss you.” Daeron said, head pressed into your stomach as he wrapped his arms around you. Aerion stayed closer to his father, not scared exactly but just uncomfortable with seeing you looking so sickly. Maekar understood that, he felt similarly. It was alarming to see the person you loved so deeply, the person who was your home look like death.
“I miss you too my love.” Your hand trembled as it rubbed his back, fingers finding the back of his head and running through his long hair. “You need to listen to your nan for now, keep being my sweet boy and do as she bids.” You remind him.
“okay…” Daeron lifted his head looking up at you “I want you to be better.” He whispered and you nodded weakly, eyes welling up as you turned your chin down towards him.
“I know, I want to feel better to…” you pulled his head in and kissed the crown of his head. “Can you keep being my sweet boy? Keep looking after your brothers until I’m better?” You asked and when he nodded against your neck you sniffled a bit and tried to keep your emotions contained. “I need to get better so we can trim this unruly hair.” You whisper to him and smile slightly when you feel his hand reach back to fix his much too grown out hair.
“your mother needs to rest.” He gently squeezed Aerion’s shoulder and he rushed to the door.
“I love you too Aerion.” You called before Maekar untangled Daeron from your side and led both the boys out of the room.
“Father…” something weighed heavy on Daeron’s shoulders as he walked because he was slower than the other two and kept looking back at your room. “Why was mother not looking at me?”
You hadn’t seen anything since opening your eyes that morning but wouldn’t admit it for another day or so, even after Maekar came in to confront you as gentle as he could.
Hiiiii, #16 i didn’t know i was in to that. With Modern AU Maekar please, would love it if maybe it was him introducing the reader to something!💛
you gave me a scrumptious idea dear anon so here you goooo, hope it is to your liking!
16. "I didn't know I was into that" with modern maekar targaryen
maekar masterlist
crawl
cw: pure filth tbh… oral sex m receiving, face fucking, f masturbation
wc: 887
please do not repost my writing anywhere or feed it to any AI/LLMs, I do not authorize!
--
“What?” You asked, trying to gauge if your fiance was really serious with his request.
“I’m at the end of my fucking rope with you. I said: Crawl.” Maekar ordered, “I’m not telling you a third time.” the tumbler of scotch barely leaving his lips as he sneered.
All dressed up, and suddenly... nowhere to go.
Complaining at every single inconvenience the day brought probably wasn’t a good idea, not like you’d actually gave it much thought. But when you groaned loudly at not being able to find your favorite necklace, he’d had enough.
Attempting to talk your way out of it, you started, “But-”
“What did I say?” He asked, his nostrils flaring at you as he put his glass down on the side table next to the arm chair.
“Crawl.” You replied quietly, pouting a little as you got to your hands and knees.
The rug felt soft against your knees as you slowly advanced towards him, your heart beating fast at the implication of what may follow. All the while, he leaned on his strong thighs, his eyes never leaving yours.
When you finally reached him, Maekar cupped your cheeks softly, looking you over with that frown you normally found so endearing.
“What has gotten into you today?” He asked softly, the frown line by his brow still pronounced as he questioned. You looked away but he turned your head back towards him. “Talk.”
“I don’t know, I’ve been doing my best and still everything keeps going wrong.” You replied, your hands on top of his as you adjusted to a kneel.
“Everything today sorted itself after a while, all you had to do every. single. time. was wait. It’s my fault, I’ve been giving you everything you want whenever you want ever since I put that fucking rock on your finger, but the outside world isn’t always like that. You seem to have forgotten that.”
“I’m sorry…” You answered, tears welling up in your eyes, your lip quivering.
“Shh, shh. It’s alright.” He planted a kiss on your temple. “You just have to be reminded of patience.”
“How-”
He tsked softly, “I’m taking now, pretty girl.”
You looked at him expectantly.
“We’re gonna try this again, you’re gonna take all of it down that pretty throat tonight.” Maekar said as he let go of your face, his hands going straight for his belt and undoing his trousers. “You’re gonna do everything I tell you exactly when I tell you. No getting greedy, no speaking unless spoken to. Nod if you understand.”
You nodded, salivating as he took out his half-hard cock and started stroking it lazily.
“Open.” He ordered, adjusting in his seat to give you better access. “Remember, one tap is you’re okay, two taps is to stop. Nod.”
Once again, you nodded, your mouth finally making contact with him.
“Good, now suck. Slowly.” He made a messy ponytail with your hair, guiding your movements.
“Fuck, let me see those eyes... that’s it, look at me when you suck my cock.” Maekar grunted as he made you take him a bit further into your mouth.
“Hollow those cheeks for me darling, just like that, fuck…” He instructed as your saliva coated him, making him glide easier in your mouth as you found the perfect pace.
It wasn’t long before he was completely hard, his cock not quite fitting in your mouth now, making you sputter and gag a little.
“Easy, easy. Remember to breathe through your nose.” His grip on your now ruined hair getting deliciously tighter, sending a chill down your spine and making you moan around his cock.
You were drenched by now, pulsing with need and clenching at nothing as Maekar started to fuck up into your mouth.
“Touch yourself for me, pretty. I just know you’re fucking dripping down there, fuck, I’m getting close.”
Your hand immediately bunched up your skirt, fingers rubbing your clit desperately as his groaning became louder, more animalistic.
“Fuck, where do you want it? Think you can swallow or should I paint those perfect tits of yours? Answer. Jerk me off.”
You emerged, taking a huge breath, your voice rough from his abuse on your throat. “I want to taste it, please.”
His eyebrows directed you to take him into your mouth again, so you did, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked him once more, your nose finally reaching his pelvis as you swallowed him whole.
You continued trying to ease the ache between your thighs as he finally started twitching in your mouth, his hot cum shooting down your throat while you kept his length all the way in.
Maekar’s breath started evening out when you released him, hissing at the loss of your mouth’s warmth as you rested your head on his thigh, regaining your own breath.
He petted you, stroking your ruined hair as you looked at him with all the wonder in the world, your fingers lazily rubbing your clit still, pulling a tired moan out of you. You twitched, finally cumming as well. A quick, fleeting orgasm that had you staining the carpet and your thighs.
“I always knew you could do it.” He said, his thumb caressing your swollen lower lip.
“I didn’t know I would like that so much.” You almost whispered, looking at him tiredly.
the weather's got me down (but like the sun you'll come around) — M.T x Reader (chapter three)
series summary — a straying Aegon finds himself in trouble and nearly dies if not for you—a mystery woman that lives reclused from society—the Anvil, who loathes owing anyone anything, offers you something others would die for, but you refuse?
chapter summary — you wake up in an unfamiliar, strange place. with no memory of how you got there.
author's note — remember im not a doctor so im making shit up believe nothing i say lol — this shit was so fun though giggled a lot writing this.
tags — MDNI!!! tags contain spoilers bewarned: drugs! concussion! maekar suffering, yearning if you squint :)
you wake up in an unfamiliar, strange place. with no memory of how you got there.
Pain drove through your head like a sword. If that wasn't a fatal thing you would know that was what ailed you, but alas, your head was swordless.
You sat up with a groan, head in your hands, it felt too heavy. Your bed felt far too comfortable, the sheets too soft, too velvet-like. Uncovering your eyes, you looked around for Bluebell, confused — normally she would've been on you by now.
Slowly you began to realize a number of things. This was not your room. This was not your bed. These clothes were not your own—and this certainly was not your home. How did you get to this strange place? and why… was there a dragon sleeping beside you?
"What the fuck..." you whispered to yourself.
Taking a moment to calm yourself, you decided this was all a dream. Dragons have been gone a long time, and you don't remember how you got to this strange place. In fact, last thing you remember was laying abed. With that hypothesis, you found yourself stood across the should-be-dead creature, your movements addled with the strain of pain with every stretch of muscle, but you moved anyway. It was not everyday one is faced with a dragon—even if it was not real.
You've always wondered how they looked like, physically, not as illustrative lines of ink in a long aged book. This one was alive—and so, so magnificent.
It began to rouse ever so steadily, slow breaths quickening at the disturbance of your hands studying it's face. It all felt so real. It all looked so real too, its pitch black scales that seemed to absorb the moonlight to bathe itself with crimson red luster. It's eyes were alight with violet, like glimmering sugilites.
The Anvil sat back in the chair with a spine so rigid and frozen it might crack with his next breath, but even that was taken from him. Just what were you doing? Touching at a prince like that?
Your hand ran through his silver beard, the calluses borne out of hard-work scratching pleasantly at his jaw. "You are breathtaking."
Maekar would never describe himself with such a word, not in any way unrelated to combat, but he did not refute it. The maester said you might act strangely still, and advised all not to agitate you. However, he should have done something about this a half minute ago, but his hands were still clutched at the armrests. His breaths turned shallow when your caress traveled down, fingers softly feeling his throat and then moving down his chest. "That's enough!" Maekar stopped your hands from sating their strange interest. You gave a startled look, yet curiosity remained its main feature.
Remembering the man's instructions, he lowered his tone and released your wrists gently. "My lady," he called, as if it could tether you back to earth. "you must rest."
"You can speak?"
He blinked. "Yes. Sit down."
You obey, eyes still staring him down, studying… admiring? only for your attention to leave him for something to his side that did not exist. Maekar sighed. At least you were alive. He swept up the vial on the table and blocked your view of whatever it was you were hallucinating and offered it to you. "Drink this and sleep."
Quietly, you stared at the vial. "I am not trying to poison you." The gruff dragon said. That was not the problem, you still did not get to examine him enough — but all good things must come to an end you supposed.
Maekar watched you drink down the medicine like it was water, no flinch at the smell or complaints about the taste. He remembered recoiling when the revolting scent hit him. Either you were used to such strong medicine or that brainless cunt hit you hard enough for your senses to be impaired — he hoped it was the first explanation. Because then that means the blow to your head was not as bad as he initially feared it to be.
Your eyes fluttered slow, the onyx dragon blurring in your vision and for a blink of a moment you thought you'd seen a man in black.
After closing your eyes for what felt like mere seconds, you opened them once more to a sunlit room. The dragon replaced with an empty intricately carved wooden chair. You shot up and severely regretted the action, the dizziness wrecking your balance and feeling that same stabbing pain in your skull. When you finally recovered enough to open your eyes (with difficulty due to the sunlight attacking them), you realized where you were — The Same Room.
Frustration built up high in your stomach, was this one of those dreams? where you dream within a dream? You could still taste that disgusting liquid the dragon gave to you, the bitter aftertaste stuck on the back of your throat.
"You're awake!" a small voice cried. You turned to the door to find a familiar face staring back at you. "Egg?"
"I'd heard about what happened. I'm glad you're alright!" The boy ran up until he reached your bedside. You gave a confused look. "What do you mean?"
"Don't you remember?" He questioned, little head tilted in confusion. You shook your head in response.
"I don't know a lot either, only what I heard from father's conversation with the maester. It was a little hard to hear inside the secret passage," he noticed your confused look. "my grandfather—the King had them built for safe escape, that's what Daeron told me."
"I can show you how to get there from here if you'd like," he added, already looking towards where you assumed the entry was from within this chamber.
"I do not think you should be telling me this, sweet prince," you smiled.
"Why not? You're my friend."
"Yes, but still you–" The sound of the opening door stopped you from finishing your sentence.
"Aegon," the older prince said, exasperated, a familiar old man stood dutifully beside him, Maester Melaquin. The princeling called upon looked as if he was caught red-handed committing a crime. "what are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see if she was okay," Egg said quickly, before his father took his hand and led him outside, leaving you with the maester, who sat by your side after closing the blinds, dimming the room into a more comfortable and bearable lighting.
"Good morrow, my lady," he said, voice quiet and soothing. You returned the greeting.
"How do you feel? any headaches? pain or soreness anywhere?"
You leaned your back on the overly fluffed pillows, beginning to tire from this delirious dream, but you humored him anyways. "My head aches like nothing I've felt before and my muscles feel sore,"
"Nausea?"
You shook your head. He looked at you carefully before he spoke again, almost hesitant. "Have you seen anything strange? things that should not exist?"
His questions were far too specific, planting seeds of doubt in your mind. "Yes—many of them,"
"Do you see them anymore?"
"No."
Maester Melaquin pulled a pouch from his pocket, loosening the string as he spoke. "Are you familiar with the name: Devil's Fungus?" Recognition had your eyes widen as you looked at the plum mushroom in his grasp. "Yes," you responded grip tight on the blanket.
"We found them within a sack in your home. I believe you confused them for their twin the Blushing Cap, understandable error considering their identical appearance, the only difference is–"
The deep, deeply annoyed voice of the Anvil interrupted as he put down a seat on the other side of the bed. "With all due respect, maester—who cares about the difference?"
You did. You care about the difference.
It was not as if you had no knowledge of it, you did, but how could you be that careless? You do not even remember ingesting it. "Last thing I remember was going to sleep, I never ate anything that contained it," the side-effects crossed your mind one by one. "although I suppose it made me forget," you said more to yourself than to them.
"It must have been a small quantity since you hadn't dropped dead by now," the maester joked with a smile, trying to calm you down. You sighed, the embarrassment of possibly having mistaken not one, but five whole toxic mushrooms for their safe counterparts was just too hard to bear.
"No… I always use five or six," The way the maester balked at your words had the Anvil nearly jump in his seat. Maester Melaquin took a moment to compose himself. "While I do not understand how you did not die within the hour after consuming such a quantity—it is great that you haven't. And the antidote you had taken seems to have worked wonderfully with warding off the more daunting symptoms, you will take it again after you break fast,"
You tried to focus on the maester's instructions, but you were overwhelmed by a multitude of things other than his words. How have they found you? How long have you been here and how long will you stay? He made it seem like you were to recover here.
More and more questions flooded your mind as you fought off your headache. The screech of the chair resounded as the maester stood, bid you farewell and left. Leaving you with the prince.
"Your meals will be brought to you here, since you cannot strain yourself," he told you, and you nodded silently, accepting your fate. "a handful of servants will be assigned to attend you during this time, do you have any questions?"
A moment passed before you spoke up. "Will you tell me how you found me, your grace?"
He gazed back at your expectant eyes, debating if he should tell you or not, then sighed. "If you must know—I came to check on you with a handful of my household guards, only to find your front door wide open and the insides of your home in chaos. You mistook us for enemies and attacked,"
Your eyes widened. "Was anyone hurt?"
"None, save for yourself," Maekar lied. "one of the men knocked you right out before you could." The maester did say you hit your head, never explained to you why. You supposed he didn't want to overwhelm you with too many memories or information at once.
"Where's Bluebell?" You asked and hoped they hadn't left her at the farmhouse. You haven't spent a day apart since you first found each other, you couldn't imagine spending a day without her, much less being separated for a whole moon's time.
"In the kennels with the other dogs, took a while for her to finally calm, I heard, but I wouldn't worry about her, she's in good hands."
"May I see her? Here—I mean."
"I do not allow dogs inside," he responded. It used to be that no kind of animal was to be allowed within castle walls, until Egg begged and pleaded for weeks to have a cat, then cats were an exception. Something told him he would need to relinquish all animal bans from the way you looked at him now.
"Could you make an exception for her, your grace? She's very well-behaved—I promise she wouldn't make a mess," you tried to reason with him.
"Fine," he yielded with a hand raised to stop you from pleading your case any longer. "if it will not disturb your recovery—then fine."
"It will not." You said quickly as he stood.
You expected him to leave but instead he took a pitcher and poured some water before all but shoving the cup into your hand. "You will have your morning meal brought here shortly. Drink some water until then."
He went to leave immediately after, pausing in place when he heard your voice again, calling him, tone inquisitive, almost hesitant.
"Were you the one who gave me the medicine?"
The Anvil gave you a sidelong glance. "No, must have been the maester or one of his assistants. Does it matter?"
You avoided his eyes. "I suppose not."
His gaze drifted downwards to the floor. "Later then," he said before taking his leave, ignoring the aching wound gnawing hotly at his chest.
ִֶָ𓂃 STARK MEN who comfort you during your period and insecurities.
──INCLUDES ‧ Robb ‧ Jon ‧ Cregan ‧ Ned ೃ࿐
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 ROBB
You lay curled on your side, a mountain of blankets pulled up to your chin, the dull ache in your belly a persistent, unwelcome companion. Worse than the pain, though, was the thick, suffocating feeling of wrongness that had settled over you. You felt swollen, ungainly, and utterly miserable.
The door opened softly, and you heard the familiar, heavy tread of your husband. The bed dipped as he sat on the edge, his hand coming to rest on the curve of your hip through the wool.
“Wife” his voice was low. “You’ve not eaten.”
“I’m not hungry, Robb” you mumbled into your pillow, not turning to face him. You were acutely aware of your tangled hair, the sweat in your skin. “You should go. I… I am not fit for company.”
“Nonsense.” His hand began a slow, soothing circle on your back. “What’s this? You’ve been in here all day.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, a wave of self-loathing washing over you. “I look terrible. I feel like a great, bloated cow. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
A beat of silence. Then a soft, surprised chuckle. “A cow? My fierce lady, who faced down a Northern lord at the last council, thinks she looks like a cow?”
“Robb” you whined, a pathetic sound.
He leaned over, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple. “I have seen you covered in mud from a hard ride, your hair a wild nest from the wind, and your cheeks flushed with victory after a fight. You have never been more beautiful to me than in any of those moments. And you are no less beautiful now.” He gently tugged at the blanket. “Now, let me see my wife.”
You resisted for a moment, then relented, turning onto your back. He was looking at you with such open, unadulterated affection that it made your heart ache. His hand slid beneath the covers to rest on your belly, the warmth of his palm a soothing comfort.
“I’ll have the kitchens send up some of that honeyed tea you like” he murmured, his thumb stroking your skin. “And you will eat some bread. And then, perhaps, you will let me hold you for a while.”
You gave a small, watery smile. “Even if I’m a cow?”
He grinned, the boyish charm breaking through his kingly mask. “Especially if you’re my cow. The finest cow in all the North.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 JON
Jon was quiet, as he always was. He’d brought you a tray of food, setting it on the small table by the window without a word. You’d barely looked at it. You were huddled in the corner of the bed, a pillow clutched to your chest, feeling awkward and ungainly. The sheets felt too heavy, your skin too tight.
“Go away, Jon” you said, your voice small. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
He turned from the window, the grey light of the overcast sky softening his features. “See ya’ like what?” he asked, his voice a low, even murmur that held no judgment.
“All… like this” you gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m swollen and ugly. I can’t even stand the sight of myself right now.”
Jon crossed the room in a few silent strides. He didn’t sit on the bed, but instead knelt beside it, bringing his face level with yours. His grey eyes, so often guarded, were open and soft.
“Yer’ my wife” he said simply, as if that explained everything. He reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I have seen you command a room full of men twice your size. I have seen you hold a dying soldier’s hand. I have seen you smile at me in the morning when you think I am still asleep, and it is the most beautiful sight I know.”
He took your hand, the one that wasn’t clutching the pillow, and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “I do not see what you think I see. I see you.” He glanced at the tray. “You’ve not touched your food. You’ll feel better if you eat.”
“I don’t want to move” you murmured.
He nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He stood, retrieved the tray, and brought it to the bed, settling himself beside you. He broke off a piece of bread and held it up to your lips.
“Then I’ll feed you” he said, his voice holding a gentle command. You looked at him surprised, he smiled “Aye. Now, try the broth.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 CREGAN
Cregan was a man of few words, his actions speaking for him. You had tried to wave him away when he entered the solar, insisting you were fine and just wanted to be left alone. You’d pulled your heavy woolen shawl tighter, hiding your form, refusing to meet his eye. The deep, gnawing pain was nothing compared to the feeling of being so unattractive, so undesirable.
“Wife” he said, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument. He ignored your protests and swept you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You squeaked in surprise, your hands flying to his shoulders.
“Cregan! Put me down, I’m too heavy!”
He gave a short, sharp huff of amusement as he carried you across the room towards the large, cushioned chair by the fire. “I am a Stark of Winterfell. I have brought down bulls with my bare hands. Do not speak to me of weight.”
He settled into the chair, positioning you on his lap, wrapping his heavy arms around you and tucking your head under his chin. The heat from the fire and his own formidable body began to seep into your chilled bones.
“There” he grunted, his big hand coming to rest on your lower belly, the pressure of his palm a grounding comfort. “I have you.”
You tried to squirm away, still feeling self-conscious. “I’m all uncomfortable and… and fat.”
He gave you a firm squeeze, his arms tightening like bands of iron. “You are my wife” he stated, his voice a rumble against your hair. “You are carrying the weight of a wolf. There is strength in that.” He paused, then added gruffly, “And you are not fat. You are soft. And I like it.”
A teary laugh escaped you. “You like it?”
“Aye,” he grunted, resting his chin on the top of your head. “It means I can hold you easier. Now be still. Rest. I will not let go.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 NED
Ned found you in a puddle of misery on the bed. The drapes were drawn, the room dark, and you were buried under furs. You’d been weeping, you knew your eyes were red and your nose was running, and the thought of him seeing you like this was mortifying.
“My love” he said softly, sitting beside you. His hand was gentle on your shoulder. “What is the matter?”
“Everything” you sobbed into the pillow. “My stomach hurts, I feel sick, and I’m hideous. Just look at me. I can’t even go to the feast tonight. I can’t have anyone see me like this.”
Ned was quiet for a moment, his hand moving in a slow, steady rhythm on your back. “You know” he began, his voice thoughtful, “when I first saw you, you were covered in mud and sea salt from the ship.”
You hiccupped, turning your face slightly from the pillow. “That’s not the same.”
“It is” he insisted. “You were beautiful then, and you are beautiful now.”
He leaned over and gently, so gently, wiped a tear from your cheek. “Let me see your eyes.”
You shook your head, turning your face away. “No. They’re all red and puffy. I’m a mess.”
“Then I will look at a mess” he said, his tone so sincere and loving that it broke through your defenses. He cupped your chin and gently turned your face to his. He studied you, his eyes filled with a profound tenderness. “There” he whispered. “There is my wife. The most beautiful woman I have ever known.”
He pressed his lips to your forehead, then your nose, then each of your closed eyelids. “Now, what can I do to make you feel better? Some warm milk? A book by the fire? Or shall I just sit here and tell you all the reasons I love you until you feel better?”
A fresh wave of tears, born of relief and affection, spilled over your cheeks. “The last one” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Please, Ned. Just stay with me.”
“I always will” he promised, pulling you into his arms, cradling you against his chest.
Summary: As you deal with the aftermath of your encounter with Mike, you two clash again. And how else to solve your differences than by a long and thorough… power exchange.
Word count: 2.5k
Warnings: DARK CONTENT, MDNI, minors and ageless do not interact, NSFW, explicit, rape/NON-CON, non-consent, dead dove do not eat, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, degrading language, p in v, unprotected, creampie, praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), first draft, no beta, not proofread
DO NOT READ IF UNCOMFORTABLE WITH WARNINGS
I will delete/block all hate comments and tags. If you don't like the content, don't read it and feel free to block me. I am not responsible for the content you consume.
Notes: Continuation of Penalty, but can be read separately. I also have a rough idea for a third chapter.
Mike watched you wiping your tears from across the field, your teammates consoling you a little. At first, you tried lying, saying it’s the sun, the migraine, the period, but your friends knew better. He knew better. Mike gripped his clipboard, a frown marking his face. He hated seeing you like this. Against his better judgment, he decided to come closer.
“You said it yourself, babes,” your best friend had her arm around you, moving tear-soaked strands from your face, “he never wanted to fuck you. It’s important, you know it is.”
You just nodded, that pain half-laugh momentarily escaping your mouth.
“I just didn’t think it would hurt this bad,” you mumbled, trying not to burst into another crying fit. “We’ve been together for so long, and otherwise he was perf-”
“No. Fuck no,” your friend immediately interrupted. “Your needs were not met. And you don’t owe him a relationship just because he didn’t force fuck you when you were tired or sick. And didn’t you say that even when you did manage to do the nasty, he’d only cum jerking off? Come on, you owe yourself someone better.”
Mike had to admit, he wholeheartedly agreed. Someone better, how nicely put. Him.
“Stop clucking,” Mike growled at you two, waving at your friend to get lost.
“Coach, no, please, she’s really not-,” she tried, she really tried standing her ground for you, but you knew it was futile.
“Don’t make me fucking tell you again.”
With that, she mouthed a pitiful sorry at you and made herself scarce. You wiped your tears, tried to fix your hair a little. You could have carried on with your relationship, pretending nothing happened, not provoke Mike anymore and then think of him every time your boyfriend managed to get his dick up for you.
Except you couldn’t, for two reasons. First being that Mike wouldn’t stop, provoked or not. Second, you weren’t sure you wanted him to stop. The guilt was eating at you, absolutely, but there was also something freeing about the whole situation that Mike forced on you.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” you mumbled, your eyes momentarily drifting to his.
Mike didn’t say anything, his expression unreadable. And then, just as you wanted to do more drills, he grabbed your face, holding your chin between his thumb and index finger, the rest of his long fingers pressing into your throat.
The reaction in you was immediate: breath hitching, heart beating, palms sweating… And pussy wetting.
Mike was looking at you from behind his glasses like he wanted to eat you or drag you into the locker room to fuck the tears out of you. Instead, his lips curved into a rather smug smile.
“Good girl,” he whispered, sending another pleasurable jolt through you.
It didn’t take long for him to start screaming at you again when, not even forty-five minutes later, you kept missing your free kicks. Literally all of them would go wide over the net, not even close to the beam.
“Stop over-extending your fucking leg!” Mike yelled, already halfway to you, watching you fumble yet another kick. “These are rookie fucking kicks, what the fuck are you doing?”
You could hear him working himself into another hoarse throat situation, straining his vocal cords to the maximum. Not that you weren’t frustrated with yourself and your lack of follow-through and precision, mangling something that usually came with such ease to you. You felt pathetic. You were pathetic.
Even your teammates were at a loss for words, probably ascribing your lack of performance to your temporary emotional upset. You just wanted Mike to stop screaming at you, because if he managed to get you in your usual state, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your mouth shut.
“What now, Micha-,” you cut yourself off in the middle of the yell, swallowing the rest of his government name, reminding yourself he asked you not to use it.
“Other goal,” Mike growled, staring daggers at you. “Now.”
Just what you needed, spending the rest of the practice running drills with Mike. Alone.
“This is all your fault,” you spat out bitterly, watching Mike’s knuckles turn white and the clipboard caving under his grasp.
“Shut. Up. Fucking brat.”
It wasn’t that bad, actually, once you cooled off. Well, partially at least, still pressing your jaw shut, feeling the burn in your calf after repeated shots. You were tired, sweaty, and frustrated, and more tears threatened to burst out of you any second now. Luckily, the coach called the whistle, but before you even blinked in that direction, Mike crowded you.
Standing in front of you, making sure no one could see you from that side of the field, his eyes quickly darted around to see if anyone was paying attention.
Then, he turned back to you, brows furrowed, jaw clenched, and that flush spreading all over his face and neck.
“From now on, you will keep your mouth shut. You don’t talk back, and you don’t speak when I speak. Got it, angel?” his voice dropped on the last word to a throaty whisper.
You noticed how big his pupils were and how his lower left eyelid twitched. Mike took a step towards you, your nose almost touching his chest. Your breathing deepened again, and you looked up at him, wondering what he had on his mind.
“Open your mouth,” Mike whispered, his voice making you tremble.
You had no idea what he wanted, but you obeyed. Slowly, you relaxed your jaw, eyes still trained on Mike’s.
“More,” he mumbled, his eyes falling to your lips, watching your tensed tongue resting behind your teeth.
When he was finally happy, he spat in your mouth without a warning. Wet warmth spread across your tongue, drops landing over your lips and around them.
Sharply inhaling through your nose, your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed and aroused.
“Every time you open your mouth,” he watched you swallow every last drop, your tongue greedily dragging across your lips, “remember that only good girls get this.”
“Yes, Coach,” your eyes were still closed, the musky scent of Mike’s sweat still reaching your nose.
“Off you go then.”
**
“You okay?” your teammates rallied around you in the locker room, some faces concerned, some curious, some rather smug.
“Hm? Yeah, of course,” you dismissed them, but they still prodded.
“Why did he grab your face like that?” one voice asked, and you couldn’t really pinpoint who brought it up.
“He did what?” another voice piped up, and suddenly everyone was crowding around you like you were a wise old grandmother telling a scary story to a bunch of wide-eyed children.
“Ughh,” you growled, irritated to the bone. “I just struck a nerve, and he lost it a little. What’s new, right?” you laughed it off, putting on your best nonchalant face, shrugging.
The voices started again, everyone talking over each other, and not even your friend could tell them off. Clucking, as Mike said, was the correct word. You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to breathe.
“All right!” you finally yelled. “I get it, this is obviously taking too much attention from the game and the team. “I promise…” your eyes drifted from face to face, and then you looked at your captain, a woman you expected much more of than to allow these verbal offences, “that I will set all my differences aside and talk to Mike. And now, if you excuse me, I need to cry a little bit more.”
It worked, their excitement immediately dropped in disappointment that you wouldn’t trash Mike some more. You suddenly felt stupid for even doing so; venting in the locker room was common, but this personal beef you and Mike had for literal years had obviously been nothing but entertainment.
No one cared how much you suffered when his comments started, no one cared about your problems and issues; you were nothing but a class clown, a court jester. It washed over you, the wave of realisation, followed by sadness, disappointment, and emptiness.
You took a deep breath. No more.
**
It was two in the morning, and you were still tossing and turning, trying to sleep. Mike still hasn’t kept up with his promise, and you started to believe he only said it in the heat of the moment.
Pulling your eye mask down your face, you turned around, happy that at least you didn’t feel like crying anymore. And then you heard it, a beep and a door creak, but you still decided to pretend you were asleep, deep breathing and all.
Mike laid down next to you, gently, his arm enveloping you, immediately settling between your tits, before grabbing one.
“You smell so good, angel,” he whispered against your neck, inhaling deeply. He was hard already, again, pressing his cock against your ass.
You finally stirred, trying to reach for your mask, but Mike caught your wrist.
“Leave it on,” he chuckled, his lips dragging over the strained muscles of your neck, enjoying the warmth of your skin.
“I’m gonna make you so happy, angel, I know I can,” Mike cooed, pushing his tongue in your slightly open mouth, teasing a breathy moan out of you.
“Yes, Coach,” you mumbled between sloppy kisses, your hands dragging Mike closer and closer, until he was on top of you.
And then he started moaning, deep, throaty sounds that sent little jolts through your whole body, pooling heat directly in your pussy, tiny little spasms shocking their way through your abdomen.
His fingers, extended, drew a line starting at your throat, going lower, playing with your nipple, and even lower, slowly dragging over the thin fabric of your tank top, until he reached your panties, an obvious wet spot blooming.
He teased you through the soft cotton, his fingers pushing in a little, then dragging all the way up towards your clit, then back down again; you arched your back into Mike, begging in your mind for him to just move your panties to the side and stick his cock back in, and stay like that until morning, fuck you into the mattress.
“Did you wear these for me?” he teased, his fingers playing with the bow on your panties and sliding over the lacy parts.
“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, enjoying the way his tongue dragged over your throat, your heart hitching even higher at the vibrations his chuckle made against your sweaty skin.
“Good girl.”
And then he slid lower, his lips leaving sticky wet kisses on your collarbone; somehow he managed to pull off your tanktop without disturbing the mask, his mouth immediately closing around your nipple, his teeth grazing it.
He grabbed both of your tits, pressing and massaging, and you couldn’t do anything but moan, enjoying how much Mike wanted you.
“So pretty when you’re so needy,” he breathed out, going lower and lower, until he reached your panties. Mike started sucking and teasing your clit through the fabric.
Your whole body writhed in pleasure as you reflexively pushed your hips towards Mike’s mouth.
“Let me hear you, angel,” he mumbled, hastily removing your panties too, guiding both of your legs over his shoulders. He gently pushed one finger inside you, then the second one too, laughing at how greedily your pussy swallowed them.
You whimpered, jerking your hips, when he tried to push the third one.
“I know, angel, I know,” he cooed, “but we need to stretch you properly, don’t we? It barely fit the last time.”
He returned his attention to your clit, goading you towards the orgasm, feeling how your pussywalls started to tense and flutter around his fingers, listening to how your moans fell into needy whimpers; your hand grabbed his hair, and Mike couldn’t help himself but moan against your pussy.
“You taste so fucking good, angel, I can’t get enough,” he mumbled, his thumb now drawing tight little circles over your clit.
“Mike,” you moaned, overwhelmed, immediately biting your tongue. For a moment, you got scared he’d punish you, especially now since you were so close, that knot in your stomach threatening to explode.
“Good girl,” Mike moaned against your mound. “My good girl.”
When he felt you coming, he immediately lowered his head, greedily lapping up your juices as your body trembled in the best orgasm of your life. You had no idea how loud you were or what exactly you were saying, so thoroughly overwhelmed and overstimulated. But Mike wasn’t finished with you, far from it.
As your body relaxed, he pulled out his fingers, sucking on them, watching as your pussy glistened. You whined a little at a loss, but he replaced it with his cock soon enough, your legs still draped over his broad shoulders.
In one quick thrust, he pushed in and folded you up, hitting deeper than before. It was still a stretch, his big, fat cock spearing you in half. You whined in pleasure, begging Mike to fuck you hard.
“Fuck, angel, I can’t even think,” Mike kept snapping his hips, barely delaying his own pleasure to watch your tits bounce up and down and feel your nails against his skin. You lost all sense of time, tasting yourself repeatedly on Mike’s tongue, your hands pulling at his hair and drawing blood on his shoulders, as you kept begging and begging.
“Tell me you’re close,” Mike whispered, “because I want to flood your pussy so badly.”
“No, Coach,” you mumbled in response, “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, my poor baby angel,” he teased a little, “how about you take that mask off, let me see those pretty eyes, hm?”
“Please come into my mouth,” you begged, finally looking at Mike’s flushed, sweaty face.
“What?” his hips stuttered, slowing down.
“I want to taste you, please,” you pulled him in another desperate kiss.
Mike tried, he really wanted to indulge you, but before your lips even touched, he started coming with long, hoarse grunts, his mind and body overcome by the amount of your desire for him. You could feel it, Mike emptying his balls, the hot sticky seed spilling in you, dripping out of you.
“I’m sorry, angel,” Mike mumbled, falling forward after freeing your legs from his feverish hold. “Next time, I promise.” His lips went back to the same spot where they were the last time, just behind your ear, as he started to suck tiny bruises into your skin.
You groaned.
“Tell me I don’t have to wait three to five business days again. Didn’t you boast every night, angel, I want you to come around my cock every night?” you mocked him, imitating his manner of speech.
“Behave,” he breathed, somewhat amused.
“Yeah, yeah,” you countered, rolling your eyes and pouting.
You could still feel his cum dripping out of you, sticking you two together, his hot breath on your neck making your nipples harden again. You were so insanely insatiable, needing Mike to go again, last longer, fuck all your holes, or at least the ones his cock could fit into.
“Behave,” he gritted out, his hand falling onto your throat.
You smiled smugly at him, suddenly feeling his limp cock twitching against your thigh.
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-
Can I please have King Maekar Targaryen + heavy degradation/praise with prompt 33? ❤️🔥
𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
When King Maekar Targaryen overhears you defending him when a very ladies wish to know whether he can still perform as any young man ought to, Maekar has no trouble in showing you exactly what he can do.
Requested: King Maekar Targaryen.
69 ENTWINED SHADOWS:
Heavy Degradation + Praise.
Prompt: 33. “I’ll be your devoted monster — let me fuck you slow and deep.”
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: high degradation, high praise, gentle sex, headlock position, explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, maekar is most definitely in his late fifties, I said what I said because he and Baelor are aged up in the TV series), minors dni.
I cannot always write what anyone has in mind, so hopefully this leans towards what you wanted, cause I might have gotten carried away a bit here, emphasis on monster and emphasis on Maekar reminding you just what a good little whore you I mean we are.
The solar smelled of beeswax candles, myrrh incense, and the faint floral sweetness of the ladies’ perfumes, rosewater, lavender, and crushed violets. Soft laughter floated on the air like silk.
You sat among them, your young body draped in a gown of deep crimson silk that clung to your curves, the fabric whispering against your skin with every shift. The hearth crackled warmly, casting flickering golden light across the Myrish rugs and tapestries.
Lady Merryweather’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, her fan snapping shut. “Tell us truly, Your Grace… the king is a man of certain years. Does his age ever give him trouble in the marriage bed? Can he still perform as a younger lord might?”
Heat bloomed across your cheeks, a flush that prickled down your neck. The other women leaned in, silk rustling, eyes bright with curiosity. You stammered, voice soft yet defiant, the words tasting like loyalty on your tongue. “N-no, it doesn’t trouble him at all. The king is… vigorous. More than any man half his age could dream of. He leaves me trembling and sated every night.”
You didn’t see him at first, the tall, broad shadow just beyond the half-open oak door, the faint gleam of torchlight on black iron and red gold. Maekar had come for you after the council, his heavy boots unusually quiet on the rugs.
The scent of him reached you later, polished steel, aged leather, woodsmoke, and the sharp, distant promise of untamed dragonfire. He heard every word.
The doubt.
Your stammering defense.
His jaw clenched, violet eyes darkening like storm clouds over the Narrow Sea.
That night, the chamber doors thudded shut behind him with finality, the iron latch clicking like a judgment. The room was dim, lit only by a few candles and the low fire in the massive hearth. Shadows danced across the tapestries of ancient Targaryen victories.
The air was thick with the scent of beeswax, warm furs, and the faint metallic tang of the king’s presence.
Maekar filled the doorway, tall, powerfully built, the years only adding to the heavy, unyielding strength in his shoulders and chest. His warlike crown was set aside, but the authority clung to him like a second skin.
He crossed to you in measured strides, boots thudding softly. One large, calloused hand, rough from decades of sword and mace, cupped your jaw firmly, thumb pressing against your plush lower lip, tasting faintly of salt and ink from the day’s letters.
“I heard you today, little wife,” he growled, voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones, rough as grinding millstones. “Defending my cock to those twittering hens like a loyal little bird. Stammering so prettily while they questioned whether your old husband can still fuck you properly.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering. The heat of his body radiated against you, solid muscle, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin from the day’s labors. He yanked your gown up with impatient strength, the silk tearing slightly at the seams with a sharp rip, his rough palm sliding up the smooth, sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of his touch.
“I am no green boy,” he continued, lips brushing your ear, hot breath sending shivers cascading down your spine. His scent enveloped you, leather, smoke, clean sweat, and that dark, intoxicating growl that accompanied his words. “But you… gods, you’re so fucking young. Soft. Sweet. This tight little cunt still flutters like a virgin’s every time I claim it.”
He backed you toward the great canopied bed, the furs thick and luxurious against the backs of your knees. With a firm push, you fell back into them, the pelts cool and silky at first, then warming rapidly beneath your heated skin. Maekar loomed over you, stripping his black tunic away.
The firelight gilded the hard planes of his scarred chest, the corded muscle of his arms, the silver hairs that trailed down his abdomen. His breeches followed, freeing his thick, heavy cock, already rigid, flushed dark, the head glistening with a bead of precum that caught the light.
He descended on you like a conquering army. His mouth claimed yours in a bruising kiss, tasting of spiced wine and dominance, tongue stroking deep, teeth nipping your lower lip until it throbbed.
He tore the rest of your gown open, the fabric whispering apart, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His calloused palms cupped them roughly, thumbs circling your hardened nipples, pinching just hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from your throat.
“Listen to those pretty sounds,” he murmured against your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, the sting blooming into heat. One thick finger dragged through your slick folds, the obscene wet sound filling the chamber as he teased your entrance. “Already soaked for me. Dripping like a desperate whore for your king’s old cock. So eager to prove them wrong, aren’t you?”
He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, stretching, curling, stroking that sensitive spot with ruthless precision. The wet, rhythmic sounds of his hand working you mingled with your moans and the crackle of the fire. His thumb pressed firm circles on your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core. The scent of your arousal thickened the air between you.
Maekar withdrew his fingers, bringing them to your lips. “Taste how much you want this monster,” he commanded. You obeyed, tongue swirling around his digits, tasting yourself, tangy and sweet. He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest.
Positioning himself, he rubbed the thick head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your slickness, the friction delicious and torturous. His violet eyes bored into yours, dark with lust and possession. “I’ll be your devoted monster,” he rasped, the words heavy with promise and filth. “Let me fuck you slow and deep.”
Then he pushed in, inch by thick, veined inch. The stretch burned sweetly, your walls fluttering and yielding around his girth. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as he sank to the hilt, hips flush against yours, heavy balls pressed tight to your skin. You felt full, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the way he throbbed deep inside, the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickling your sensitive flesh.
He held there, letting you adjust, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone. Then he began to move, slow, rolling thrusts that dragged every ridge and vein along your inner walls, hitting that perfect spot with devastating accuracy. The heavy slap of skin on skin was muted by the deep pace, replaced by wet, filthy sounds and the creak of the ancient bedframe. His weight pinned you deliciously, chest hair rasping against your nipples, sweat-slick skin sliding together.
“Seven hells, you’re still so fucking tight,” he praised, voice hoarse with pleasure, laced with degradation. “This perfect royal cunt clenching around an old man’s cock like it was made for me. Younger lords would spill the moment they felt this heat. But I… I will ruin you for hours.”
His hand pinned your wrists above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into soft flesh. He hooked one of your legs higher, changing the angle so he drove even deeper.
The new depth made you cry out, the pressure intense, bordering on overwhelming. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto your breasts as he moved, slow, deep, relentless.
“Such a good girl,” he growled, nipping your earlobe, breath hot and damp. “Taking every inch so beautifully. My loyal little wife, defending my cock by day and milking it by night. But you’re also my filthy secret, dripping and moaning for a man old enough to be your father.”
The praise and degradation wove together, pushing you higher. The scent of sex, musky, salty, primal, filled the room. Your moans grew louder, unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls. Maekar’s rhythm faltered only slightly as his own pleasure mounted, but he mastered it, grinding deep and slow, hips circling to press against your clit with every thrust.
“Come for me,” he commanded, voice rough as gravel. “Let me feel this tight cunt squeeze my cock. Show your king how well he performs.”
Pleasure crashed over you like dragonfire, your body arching, walls pulsing rhythmically around him, a gush of wetness coating his length. The sensation tipped him over and with a deep, animalistic groan that reverberated through your joined bodies, Maekar buried himself to the hilt and spilled. Hot, thick ropes of his seed flooded you, pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock, trickling down your thighs in warm, sticky trails.
He stayed buried deep, rocking gently through the aftershocks, the wet sounds obscene and intimate. His weight was comforting now, heavy and protective as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to your sweat-damp skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of your perfume. One large hand stroked down your side, soothing the marks he’d left.
“Never doubt it again,” he whispered, voice softening with rare tenderness beneath the dominance, his breath warm against your ear. “Age be damned. This devoted monster will always fuck his young queen slow and deep… until the only sound in the Red Keep is you screaming my name.”
The fire crackled low as he held you close, the mingled scents of sweat, sex, and spent candles wrapping around you both like a claim.
The fire had burned lower, casting long, flickering shadows across the furs and your sweat-slicked bodies.
Maekar’s cock was still buried deep inside you, softening only slightly, his thick spend leaking warmly around him with every tiny shift of your hips. His large frame blanketed yours, chest heaving against your back, the coarse hair there damp and rasping deliciously over your skin. The heavy, musky scent of sex hung thick in the air, salt, slick, and the faint metallic edge of his skin.
But the king was far from finished.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated through his chest as he stirred. Strong arms shifted you with effortless power, pulling your back flush against his front.
One thick, corded arm slid around you, locking you in place with unyielding control, his bicep and forearm caging the side of your neck and shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted while his other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise.
You were utterly enveloped by him: the scorching heat of his body, the relentless strength in every muscle, the way his breath, hot, ragged, scented with wine and dominance, ghosted over your ear and the sensitive skin of your throat.
“Still so full of me,” he murmured, voice a deep, gravelly rasp that sent fresh shivers racing down your spine. He rolled his hips forward, sinking back into you with that same devastatingly slow, deep thrust. The stretch reignited instantly, your walls fluttering around his thickening length as he dragged every thick inch along your sensitive inner walls. “Greedy little cunt won’t let me go, will it? Even after I’ve flooded you like a claimed broodmare.”
The wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding through the mess he’d already made filled the chamber, filthy, slick, rhythmic with every unhurried grind. He kept the pace torturously deliberate, pulling back until only the fat head remained inside you, then pressing forward until his heavy balls nestled tight against your soaked folds.
Each deep stroke pressed you harder into the cage of his arm and body, the coarse hair on his thighs rubbing against the backs of yours, his sweat-slick chest sliding against your spine.
“Fuck… listen to that,” he groaned, the praise rough and filthy. “Such a perfect, sloppy little wife. Taking your this old cock so beautifully, milking every inch like you were born for it. Younger men couldn’t last a minute in this heavenly cunt—tight, hot, and dripping like a common whore for an old monster twice their age. But you are my good little whore, aren't you?”
His arm flexed subtly around you, pulling you even closer, the powerful muscle pressing firmly against your neck and shoulder as he drove deeper.
The position left you completely at his mercy, arched back against his solid chest, unable to do anything but feel every slow, grinding thrust that rubbed relentlessly against that sweet spot inside you. His free hand roamed, palming your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple until it throbbed, then sliding down to circle your swollen clit with calloused fingers.
The dual sensation, his thick cock stretching you open and those precise, firm strokes on your clit, made your moans rise uncontrollably, breathy and desperate against the heavy weight of his arm.
“You hear that, my sweet slut?” he growled, lips brushing the shell of your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “The way your cunt squelches around me? Soaking my balls because your old husband still fucks you better than any boy ever could. Defending my vigor to those court bitches by day… and creaming on my cock like a devoted cock sleeve by night. That’s my good girl. My perfect, filthy queen.”
He kept the rhythm slow and devastatingly deep, hips rolling in powerful, controlled waves that made the bed creak softly beneath you both.
Every thrust pushed a fresh gush of his earlier seed out around his shaft, trickling hot and sticky down your thighs. The friction was exquisite, burning pleasure bordering on overwhelming, the drag of his veined length against your fluttering walls sending sparks through your entire body.
His scent surrounded you completely: sweat, leather, and raw masculinity, growing stronger with every flex of his powerful frame.
“Gods, you’re exquisite,” he praised, voice dropping into a reverent growl as your walls clenched tighter around him. “So young, so tight, so fucking mine. This body was made to be ruined by me...stretched wide on a battle-hardened cock, marked and filled until you can’t walk without feeling where I’ve been.”
His fingers on your clit sped up just slightly, matching the deep grind of his hips. “Come for me again, little one. Let me feel this royal pussy worship its king. Show me how well this old anvil still hammers you into the furs.”
The combination of his degrading filth and soaring praise, the relentless slow-deep thrusts, the unyielding cage of his arm holding you helpless against his body, and the skilled torment of his fingers pushed you over the edge once more.
Pleasure crashed through you like wildfire, your body seizing, walls pulsing and fluttering wildly around his thick length as you cried out, the sound muffled against his sweat-slick skin. Fresh slick gushed around him, coating his cock and thighs.
Maekar groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back. He fucked you through it, slow, deep, possessive strokes that prolonged your orgasm until you were trembling and whimpering in his unbreakable hold.
Only then did his own control fracture once more and with a guttural snarl, he buried himself to the hilt one final time, hips grinding tight as he spilled again, hot, thick pulses flooding your already full cunt, so much that it overflowed immediately, dripping messily between your joined bodies.
He held you there, locked against him, both of you panting in the heavy, sex-scented air. His arm remained firm around you, not releasing you from the intimate cage, lips pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck.
“My devoted little monster-fucker,” he whispered, voice hoarse with satisfaction and dark affection. “Never doubt what this king can do to you.”
ok im SORRY for blowing up your inbox and im also sorry for being horny on main but i cant help it that maekar post woke me up.
i love the idea of maekar sending reader back to baelor exhausted and stumbling. she's so used to worshipful baelor that maekar's pace is probably so different. like the idea of maekar being reverent with reader, but if we know anything about him, its that he doesn't always know his own strength when he gets carried away in the throes of passion/emotion. (cough cough trial of seven cough "MY BOY!! MY BOY!!" and cough cough "my fingers feel like wood" cough COUGH.)
ANYWAYS.
i see him as being an overstimulation/orgasm denial guy. people always term them as being opposites but imo they work best in tandem. (like baelor and maekar) anyways.
so when reader gets back to baelor, he's all soft and sweet and comforting, "poor sweet girl, was he too rough?" and reader is living for the comfort so even though she loved maekar's roughness, she's leaning into it and letting baelor soothe her. he gives her easy pleasure, he's very much a giver in bed already but this intensifies it. because reader is his.
and amid this, he's driven wild just by the sight of his brother's marks on reader because bro is jealous, i just know it. his whole life has been providing for everyone, he wants one thing for himself. i can see the two brothers starting a silent competition to see who can pleasure reader more.
like they're with her seperately still, but after each night with the other, both (especially baelor) are silently trying to one-up the other.
i doubt this would extend to emotions because i would assume that reader is already in a somewhat established relationship with baelor. but it would be more of a sexual competition, with reader caught in the middle of the hammer and the anvil.
i've seen a few people do this concept in universe but never with a modern version, so it would be interesting to think how it would play out. it's probably ooc for both because i think neither like to share their partners lol.
sibling rivalry was real between them imo, maekar as a youngest child and baelor trying to take care of everyone and be the best.
see this post for the origins of the prof!baelor au "don't-kill-yourself dog but instead it's reader's pussy" concept (wherein maekar's life goes to shit and he gets to fuck reader... as a treat).
♡ getting hammered & anviled in the prof!baelor au: some concepts ♡
the first time you come back to baelor after you've been with maekar, you don't let him touch you.
your thighs are aching. you've got bruises on your neck and your tits and your hips. you run a bath and then stare at yourself in the mirror for a long time. what the fuck are you doing? who the fuck do you think you are? you're disgusted with yourself, but not because you let yourself get fucked like that. you're disgusted that you liked it.
you thought that it'd fix the moody, heavy atmosphere that's been hanging over summerhall. you thought it'd break the tension like a thunderstorm, and that the skies would clear afterwards. idiot, you chide yourself. you've made things a thousand times worse.
because now you're sitting at breakfast, hoping that your shirt covers the worst of the bruises that maekar left, and he's staring at baelor, and baelor's staring at him, and they're both giving you this look, and you feel like you've started something you can't stop.
so it happens again.
and gods, it's even better than the first time.
because now maekar knows that you can take it. he knows that you like it when he pushes you. you like when he stretches you out with his fingers, when he spits on your pussy before he eats it, when he shoves his cock in without any warning. you like when he fucks you to the brink of an orgasm and then pulls out, leaving you crying and whining and begging him to please let me come, please, maekar, please, i'll do anything, i swear, please please please...
you like when he turns you over and makes you come for the first time while he's pressing your head into the mattress. make me proud, he says, and you do, you come so hard you're sure that baelor can hear you in the other room. you're boneless and soaked and covered in sweat and all you want to do is collapse into the sheets and be held, but maekar just tightens his grip on the back of your neck and starts thrusting again. another, he demands.
it hurts so bad. it hurts so good. you've come three times and you've got drool running down your chin, your thighs are drenched and sticky, you're struggling to breathe, and he just keeps going.
and gods, you fucking love it when he finally lets himself come, when he puts you on your back so he can look at your face, when his chest gets bright red and sweaty, when his brow furrows and he's kissing you with this strange mix of ferocity and tenderness, when he's stuttering, good... good fucking girl, made me so proud, my good girl, my angel, i'm sorry, i'm so fucking sorry-
he's not supposed to come inside you. but in your fucked-out haze, you're not conscious enough to stop him. and how could you stop him? you couldn't, not when he's pinning you down with a grip that could snap you in half, not when you can taste tears on his lips, not when the heat of his come inside you is so sweet and satisfying.
it's okay, you whisper, i forgive you.
and you should get up, get cleaned off, go back to baelor.
but he's shaking, and you can't tell if he's crying, but he's got his head tucked into your shoulder and his cock is going soft inside of you, so you hold him. you kiss the side of his head. it's okay, you keep saying, over and over. i'm here. i'm not going anywhere. it's a lie. but it's a soft little lie.
when you stumble back to baelor at three in the morning, after maekar's gone still, he doesn't let you lock yourself in the bathroom and wallow in the confusion.
show me where it hurts, he murmurs while he guides you into bed. he kisses all the sore spots. he rubs your neck and your hips where they've gone tense and tender.
did he hurt you? there's an edge to that question. an implication that if the answer is yes, there'll be hell to pay. but you shake your weary head. i wanted it, you say. i asked him to.
you feel baelor's hands going tense around your thighs.
let me wash off. you owe him this mercy. you need to purify yourself for him, erase all the evidence of maekar's brutality. you know this was his idea. you're sure he knows exactly what his brother is capable of. and yet you can't bear to think of what he's feeling, seeing you completely unmade by another man's hands.
but he's parting your thighs, pulling your underwear down your legs, and he's staring at the mess maekar's made of your pussy. how swollen it is. how sticky. how his come glistens in the dim moonlight, so sinfully bright.
you're too weak to shove him away. you're too tired to feel all the disgust you ought to feel when baelor puts his mouth on your ruined cunt and eats his brother's come out of you. you're half-asleep by the time he's satisfied with how he's cleaned you up. you can't tell if you're coming again or if it's just a dream.
you'll wake up tomorrow feeling like you've been torn in half. you'll sit in the bath until the water turns cold. you'll scrub every inch of your body. you'll walk through summerhall on wobbly legs. and you'll sit there at lunch, baelor's hand on your thigh, maekar watching you from across the table, and you'll feel a hunger that supersedes any of the guilt, a hunger that makes your mouth water and your cunt go slick again, a hunger that could destroy all three of you but leave you so full in the process.
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five
All my works (except requests) are published on AO3
Summary: You and John grow close after another night of partying
Word count: 1.3k
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, age difference, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, angst, yearning, mentions of scars and self-harm (razors), sexual assault (groping), descriptions of violence, blood, mentions of murder, eventually: vaginal fingering, oral, rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, proofread once, no beta
Notes: Please read the tags/warnings. You are responsible for the content you read.
To John’s chagrin and growing irritation, you almost immediately went back to partying, so hard and so often that he couldn’t wait for your classes to start. He was barely keeping up, getting more and more mentally exhausted night after night. He finally had to admit that he was jealous of men and women pawing at you, touching you, having their arms around you. There was nothing he liked more than those seldom moments when you’d lean into him when walking or sitting in the back of the cab. And it always was just a moment, almost like you needed him to ground yourself, but pulled back before John could properly react.
He cherished those moments deeply, replaying them endlessly in his mind, finding comfort in the memories, especially when it felt like you were so far away.
Watching you dance, again, he was getting nervous, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was looking around, his fingers twitching again, and then finally decided to ask you to go home.
Both you and your friends happily hollered at him, watching him wiggle his way onto the dance floor, but John was determined.
“Call it a night, will you?” he leaned towards you, one of his hands protectively splaying against the small of your back. He was ready to fight you on this, and despite your occasional brattiness and proven stubbornness, he wasn’t going to back down from this one.
“Bye, bitches!” you shouted, blowing kisses at your friends. You grabbed John’s hand, the one that had just left your back, and tipsily followed him through the crowd, all the way to the outside.
This club was actually quite close to your place, but your feet hurt so much already, not that you’d admit it. You were still holding onto John’s hand, scared to grip harder in case he forgot your hand was there, but when you stuttered in your step, falling a little behind, you felt his hand tighten around yours.
“Johnny, is everything all right?” you pouted, causing him to stop. You knew he hated that nickname, always giving you a slight side-eye, his cheeks puffing out a bit, but you just couldn’t help yourself. You tangled one of your hands into his hair, fixing it a little. You weren’t thinking clearly, alcohol getting to you, but he was so irresistible tonight, and you wanted him to kiss you so badly.
“I don’t know,” his eyes kept darting between your face and your surroundings. “I’m just tired.”
“Okay, baby,” you cooed, batting your eyelashes, your hand slipping to the back of his neck, “will you let me take care of you tonight?”
You watched as his head moved in small, tired nods.
In one quick move, he pulled your arm over his head and tossed you over his shoulder, his other hand resting on your ass, shielding what’s left of your propriety. You giggled, trying hard not to kick your feet in excitement. He picked you up with such ease that it sent a wave of heat through you, making your breath hitch.
You were so prepared to do whatever John wanted, although you had a sneaking suspicion he would want you on your knees. You realised you let your horny imagination get ahead of you when John hugged you immediately after you locked the door.
He held you in a tight grip, his head falling to your shoulder, pulling you deep into his embrace, his sleeved forearms dragging over the sensitive skin exposed in your backless dress.
Your arms were around John’s neck, your hands caressing gently from his neck towards where his hair started, where he had it cut shorter. Listening to his growingly erratic breathing, you pressed against him harder, getting on your tiptoes. He still towered over you; your head could barely rest in the crook of his neck, your forehead pressed against the tight muscle there.
You could smell him under his shirt, a faint scent of cologne mixed with the intoxicating saltiness of his sweat. You had to hold yourself back from starting to lick and suck at his neck, even if you couldn’t reach it. This was John’s night, you reminded yourself, one of your hands sliding down, trembling slightly against his chest.
John took half a step back, his hands falling to your waist, his forehead falling against yours. He was still breathing hard, tiny beads of sweat spilling from his skin to yours. Against your better judgment, you reached up, placing your open palm to his jaw, your finger touching his cheekbone, just for a moment before you started pulling back, reminding yourself again not to force anything.
His hand shot up, enveloping yours and pressing it against his face. He exhaled, melting into it, his head turning slightly to press open-mouth kisses to your hand; he looked so lost in a distant fantasy, the fantasy you wanted to give him, if he’d only ask for it. And then he started to shake his head, almost in disbelief.
“Talk to me, please,” you pleaded, teary-eyed, watching as he pressed his eyelids together even harder.
He continued to shake his head, and you scolded yourself for pushing; you should have kept quiet.
“I’m here,” you whispered, placing that hand firmly against his face, “for whatever you need me, okay?
Another deep exhale, and then John slowly led you to his bed, kneeling next to you when you sat down. Your breath hitched the moment his fingers touched your ankle, slowly, gently unbuckling all the tiny straps of your heels, sliding over your skin. And then the other leg as well, and he leaned his head against your thigh, his eyes still firmly closed.
John was afraid that if he opened them, you’d disappear. You’d see him for what he was: a lowlife not worthy of your attention, of your love; trailer park trash, a foster home reject, a delinquent and an outcast, a criminal. John was never meant to be this close to someone like you, someone so beautiful and kind, someone whose star was shining so bright it set his on fire.
He lay you down and turned you on your side, so your back was pressed against his chest, still not having the strength to look you in the eye. He snaked one arm under you so your head rested on his bicep, and hugged you with the other, breathing you in, his forehead pressed against the back of your head as your hair tickled his face.
“I want you,” he swallowed, “to be here with me.”
“I am here, for as long as you need me.”
John swallowed a cry, cursing himself for being so soft. He had no idea he was reaching his breaking point until your hand caressed the back of his neck earlier this evening, and then he wanted to hug you, kiss you, take you home and make love to you, tell you how much he cared for you, never be apart from you again.
Instead, he settled for you two cuddling fully clothed on the bed, your hand gently sliding over his fingers, your head turning ever so slightly to kiss his arm through the fabric. The collar was biting into his neck, but John didn’t want to move, scared that you’d come to your senses, realising you were in the bed with your bodyguard. He clenched his jaw, stilling.
He was listening to your breathing until it settled into that deep, calm rhythm, a telltale sign that you fell asleep.
“You are always all over me when you drink,” he finally whispered, a hollow, tight feeling beating in his chest, spreading through his throat all the way to his jaw. “I wish you’d choose me sober. Just once.”
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-
“now where do you think you’re going?” with maekar targaryen
cw : modern au. age gap. babysitter!reader. old grump!maekar. smut. dub con. 18+ MDNI
a/n: just a drabble for you guys, sorry i've not been so active on here but i will be publishing a full one shot soon. inspired by the same idea just baelor and dark... please see original request here from @clockgirl94 and please note my side blog is not for the faint of heart...
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
you completely underestimated the level of stamina old-man!maekar still has in him.
spent weeks teasing him, brushing your hand across his thigh at dinner and fluttering your eyelashes up at him after you speak in that sultry voice that makes his jaw clench and his eyes settle over you in a glare that’d send any girl running for the hills. not you though.
it is rare that he’s home and not in the office till late, and when he is home, he’s usually couped up in his study, only stepping out for another mug of freshly brewed coffee that you’re eager to offer him. so those moments where he’s spread out on his couch, legs wide and back slouched against the cushions, you can’t help but perch next to him, eyeing the grey stands of hair that poke through the loosened buttons of his shirt, imaging how they probably coat his chest, undressing him like he’s a meal you just can’t wait to devour.
maekar's eyes drift over to you, noticing the way you keep shuffling closer to him and he rolls his eyes, letting out a huff before his hands fall to his trouser buttons, fingers pulling the button undone and the zip down—
your head twists around, cheeks burning at the realisation of what he’s doing.
“don’t get shy on me now.”
you swallow, feeling his fingers wrap around your chin to pull your attention back to him.
“didn’t you say just last night about how you’d show this old man a good time?” he questions, and for the first time in forever you see his lips curl up into a knowing smirk. “why don’t you stop gawking at me and put that pretty mouth to use, hmm?”
it only takes two hours later for you to regret every single passing comment you made, every moment bent over the coffee table wiggling your ass his way, every time your hands trailed closely to his crotch before he pulled you away.
your thighs are burning, but you try to desperately push through it, clearly on some sort of mission to prove yourself to the old man underneath you as you slap your ass back down on his thighs once again. it’s not just the exertion on your legs, or the sweat dripping off your body that’s driving you mad, but the fact his thick cock is splitting you open. all seven inches of him driving deep into your hole, making sure you take every single bit of him without complaint.
but you can’t, not when his hands come around to settle on your hips and he yanks you down against him, thrusting his cock impossibly deeper inside of you.
“wait—hmnphhh,” is all you manage to get out before he’s slamming his cock up into you, keeping you stuck in the same position. your hand falls against his own, trying to loosen his grip if just for a second, but he doesn’t let up one bit.
“nuh-uh,” he tells you, a hint of amusement laced in his deep tone as he shakes his head. “thought you wanted this?”
“i do— I—” you let out a gasp as he throws you over, pressing your back into the cushions and pinning you down with his weight. your eyes widen when his hands come around your thighs, pushing them down until your knees are hitting your rib cage and your ankles are by his resting against his shoulders. “wait, plea—” you try to crawl backwards, heels pressing into the cushions beneath you to escape—
only his hands drag you back, holding you down with his entire body weight and arching a brow as he stares down at you before asking, “now where do you think you’re going?”
he doesn’t let you speak though, burying his cock right back into your soaked walls and bottoming out until you can feel him hitting your cervix.
“and i thought you were going to be the one to show me a good time.” he tuts, pulling all the way out before shoving himself all the way in again, bringing tears to the corner of your eyes. “guess you were wrong.”
