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Abortion | Plan C | Miscarriage Information & Resources
I actually do think we should discourage women from becoming housewives. Do not become financially dependent on a man. That's how a lot of women ended up dead over the years. A man gets violent suddenly and you have to choose between homelessness or potentially dying at his hand because you have an enormous gap in your resume and no degrees or certifications or anything that will help you pursue a career that will allow you to be financially independent. He owns your bank account. His name is probably the one on the car. Try and leave and he can report it stolen. Where will you go then?
i love you porn i love you smut i love you intricacies of human sexuality i love erotica i love you freak nasty walls of texts i love you analyzing the subconscious through the lens of sexuality i love you bdsm i love you weird fetishes . u move me
Synopsis: You thought that a marriage between you and Aemond would quell the threats of war, but with each day of your marriage, you realized that even your love could never be the cure.
Warnings: Angst, Sad Reader, Soft Aemond, Comfort, Targcest, Mature, 18+
Word Count: 2,246
A/N: Quick fic for my girlies who are constantly plagued with a sadness they could never explain.
The laces of your wedding gown lay unraveled on the bedroom floor. The fresh morning sun filtered through the curtains, and your eyes followed the dust that gilded through the air, catching the sun rays. After a week of celebrations, three moons of preparations, five years of courtship, and seventeen years of hoping, you were finally wed to the only man that you’ve ever loved: Prince Aemond Targaryen.
“Return to rest, wife.” You hear your husband mutter, voice different and deeper, and you could not help but smile. After years of hoping and praying to each god, they finally answered your prayers and wishes– they finally gave you Aemond.
You hummed as you nestled yourself closer to him, your soft cheek resting against his toned chest, and you could not help but place a small, chaste kiss upon his skin. You hear your husband hum as he tangles his fingers in your dark brown locks.
For a moment, there was silence. A deep, serene silence that you had sought for your entire life. You could never explain why or how, but even as a child, you felt this sense of unrest and emptiness that always seemed to loom over your happiness.
For years, it frustrated you as you could not express why you felt such ugly emotions. It was not until the fateful and dreadful night in Driftmark that you realized why. Your family was being torn apart, and you and your brothers were the reason why. It was not until that night that you realized how truly different you and your brothers were from the rest of your family. In the dim light of your supposed grandsire’s keep, the difference between silver and bronze gleamed brightly.
It was the night that solidified your family’s animosity against one another. It was the night when you swore to yourself that you would lay your life to find the anecdote for your family’s hate. Now, here you were, lying beside the person you thought would be the cure.
When your husband’s eye was taken, it sealed your family’s fate. You spent restless nights in Dragonstone, wrapped in guilt and fear, even if your hands did not carve his scar. You spent your days writing to him. Sending scroll after scroll of apologies that meant nothing when it came from the wrong lips. You did not know why you did such things; all you knew was that you did not wish to leave things as they were.
And over time, your efforts bore fruit. When you and your kin returned to Kingslanding for the purpose of a trial over Driftmark, you met Aemond again. You were reunited with the boy who lost his eye at your brother’s hands. You were reunited with the prince who had left your apologies unanswered. You were reunited with the man you were to marry.
Your fears dissipated when a connection formed between you, from stolen glances across the halls to lingering touches under the table, and even secret kisses underneath the scarlet leaves. When your husband announced his intent to court you, the royal house was in an uproar. Neither side was thrilled about the match– if anything, they had done much to ensure that a marriage between you did not commence.
They tried to pawn both of you off on other houses. With Aemond being presented a Baratheon bride, and you were given a Northern Warden as your groom. Obviously, neither match worked out; however, it came from great personal expense. You exposed yourself to scandal and laid down your virtue just in hopes that you could be with Aemond.
“Are you certain?” Aemond murmured against your skin, his head resting against the crook of your neck, and you could feel each breath he took and each movement his lips made. You swallowed thickly, looking down on the earth below. The two of you high in the clouds and mounted on his dragon– his strong arms around your waist, and his hands itching to inch downwards to your heated core.
He sat behind you, your back resting against his solid chest, and you could feel his wanting and needing length. You nodded through fear and apprehension. You were not thinking clearly; all you wanted was him. “Make me yours.”
You hear him make a sound that was close to a growl, but was soft like a whine when you said the words. His thin, punishing lips latched quickly to the side of your neck, sucking and soothing the sensitive spot. A wanton moan escaped your lips as his fingers found your womanhood and his hand reached for your neck.
“You’ve been mine for a long time.” You tightly shut your eyes as your stomach fluttered the moment his dragon dipped past a cloud, and as his finger found your dripping core. Your hand instinctively gripped Aemond’s thigh, your heart beating erratically in your chest as Vhagar flew closer to the sun and flew you closer to your peak.
He claimed your maidenhead in the heavens, and when you returned on land, Aemond proudly announced that you were to be his wife, leaving your kin mortified as they saw your blood-stained gown. It was only fortunate that they no longer plotted to separate the two of you.
You stared at your husband as you two lay in bed. His eye peacefully closed while the other stared back at you with a sapphire gleam. You sighed, unable to help yourself as you cupped his cheek and traced the raised bump of his scar, your delicate touch making him hum.
“Do you love me?” You could not help but whisper. It was a question meant to stay in the confines of your mind, yet it hung in the early morning air. You watched as Aemond slowly peeled his eye open. A soft, adoring look in his unique lilac eye that could have been an answer enough. “I married you, had I not? I went against all their orders and my duties… of course I do.”
You gave a small smile as he placed a gentle kiss upon the tip of your nose. His lips trailing down to your lips, and you let out a delighted moan as he rested his weight atop you. He was warm and solid, his skin rough yet tender, and you wrapped your bare legs around his frame in hopes that you could feel more of him.
You bit your lip as you felt the head of his length brushing against your sensitive heat. Aemond smirked and placed an open-mouthed kiss against your neck as you gasped when he burrowed himself deep inside your cunt. “Does this prove my love, little wife?” He hummed, and you arched your back as he brushed against the spot that had you a whimpering mess that almost fell atop a dragon before.
You felt the inclination to nod– to moan out a yes, but a wicked, loathesome thought crossed your mind. The pleasure your husband, your Aemond, presented you with was borne out of practice. You tensed in his arms at the thought of him bedding whores, you felt your throat tighten, and tears threatened to spill as you tallied up the others he had lain with. He was your first, yet you could not claim the same.
Aemond had his eye closed in pleasure, and you took that opportunity to flip yourself on your stomach, his thrust abruptly ceasing as he opened his eye and searched for your gaze. You burrowed your face on the plush mattress, hiding your tears as you raised your behind for his hips to meet.
“My perfect wife.” You hear him groan against your ear, his fingers brushing away your brown locks so he could place chaste kisses upon your back. You battled with your tears and pleasure as you loathed yourself for letting melancholy find you even when tucked in your marital bed.
You wished that it was the last instance; however, your head was filled with poison, and your heart was filled with doubt. No matter what you did, sadness crept its way into our being, and it only worsened with each day after you sealed your marriage.
You breathed in a deep breath as you sat with your husband in your solarium. The afterglow of the sun bathed the room in an amber glow, and your eyes stared off into the rising moon. Aemond’s fingers mindlessly drew circles upon your thigh, where his appendage found its rightful place.
Aemond relaxed in his chair, but he was quick to tense as he heard you hiss and he vividly saw blood dripping from your fingers. The embroidery hoop you held fell onto the ground the moment your blood landed against your light pink dress, the silk quickly soaking up the stain.
Before you could even move, you watched through sudden tears as your husband took hold of your hand and raised your pricked finger to his lips, sucking away your lifeblood and momentarily masking the pain you felt as his tongue soothed your wound.
“Ought to be careful, wife. You know how I do not like seeing you hurt.” Aemond hummed as he brushed away your tears with his thumb. You gave him a small smile as you nestled your cheek into his palm. His cold, calloused touch is more than welcome against your heated cheeks.
You took a deep breath and watched as your husband dipped down and picked up the embroidery hoop by your feet, his hand never leaving yours as he did so. You heard him hum as he raised it closer to his eye, a small smile on his lips. Your gaze traveled to the figures you embroidered, a smaller version of the two of you that you wished to place on one of the pillows in your bedchambers.
“My, the gods were kind as they bestowed me with such a gifted wife.” He said softly and placed a kiss on your once-wounded finger before returning his hand to rest on your thigh once more.
A deep breath left your lips as you stared at the small image you stitched, wondering hard why you could not simply stitch shut the constant sadness and fear that seeped through your bloodstream.
Some days, your sadness was far too much for you to contain, and even your husband took notice. He tried his best to learn the cause of your sadness, but how could he know when you yourself did not know why?
“Have any of the courtiers upset you?” He asked softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. You buried your face into your pillow and endured the twisting you felt in your stomach that never disappeared. You felt entirely retched to subject Aemond to your sudden fits of sadness.
“Was it my mother? Had she said something out of turn?” Your husband asked further, and you harshly bit your lip to prevent a sob. You wanted to push him away. To shut yourself in your chambers and let the inevitable sadness that plagues you pass.
When you gave no answer, you hear Aemond sigh. You thought he’d leave, that he’d leave you alone, but he only settled himself by your side and lay with you until the tears ceased and night came. You hear his light snores and move to observe him peacefully resting after enduring your wretchedness. You nestled yourself into his chest again, letting him wrap his arms around your frame and letting the even beat of his heart lull you to sleep. Silently praying that the constant anguish you felt would fade.
The gods ignored your prayers. If anything, it only worsened from that night on. The threat of impending war loomed over the land and your marriage. Tensions were running high. Sides that were formed long ago began to solidify the moment they announced your grandsire’s death.
You saw it yourself how the seeds of hate had bloomed and flourished, and now both sides reaped the consequences. You felt foolish as you had thought that a marriage between your feuding families would at least beseech them to act rationally. You had foolishly thought that a marriage with Aemond– a Targaryen prince– a pawn for his grandsire’s ambition, would somehow heal the divide that carved through your family like a blade. Instead, it only deepened the wound.
“This is only momentary– their heads will cool, and we shall live in peace. Fret not, my wife.” You hear Aemond murmur against your skin as he holds you in his arms. How you wished for his words to be true, but the doubt that consumed you now manifested before your eyes.
Tears spilled from your eyes. You knew Aemond loved you. He showed you that he loved you every day, even as war threatened your union. But you reeled in pain as you realized that even his love for you would never be enough.
Your head kept spinning at the possibility that one day he’ll turn on you– that he’ll leave you because even if you were his wife, you're still a bastard. Even his devotion could not mend– could not stitch up the frayed truth of your birth. It no longer mattered how his love felt anymore. Your family’s hate and mistakes had festered so deeply that even your marriage– your love would never be the cure.
Summary: as a new maid at the red keep, you find yourself distracted by the lord of the house. when you begin to form a bond, he makes it his mission of rewarding you for being his most dutiful maid
Warnings: Fem!reader, reader has female anatomy, power imbalance, slightly ooc Baelor, smut, oral (f-receiving), vaginal fingering, little aftercare, slight angst if you squint, no use of y/n or name
WC: 4k
The Red Keep stood loftily, like a mountain wrought by giants. Walls of pale red granite veined with ivy, banners whipping proud against the morning wind, and gleaming windows that cast pools of ruby and sapphire light upon the halls.
You remembered the day you arrived as though it stalked the halls of your memory. The keep appeared daunting as you stood before its gate. A vast heap of stone, crawling with venerated royals, who deemed themselves Gods. Dragons, even. How ridiculous, you thought.
Despite its vile inhabitants, your labours became fairly simple as moons passed. Hauling steaming water in copper basins, beating dust from velvet draperies, polishing silver until it shone bright enough to mirror the faces of the Seven themselves. Your hands harbored an unrelenting ache, your back began to weary, and yet you held little resentment for the duties of your station.
At night, exhausted beyond measure, you would climb into your quaint servants’s bed beneath the rafters, where the wind sighed through the stone. Yet even there, wrapped in rough wool sheets, you often stare from the narrow window at the torchlit battlements and feel your soul overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. Your upbringing was scarcely noble or opulent in any measure. No sovereign hand to guide you through youth, no monarch’s blood throbbing in your veins. Not even a lord’s, at that. You proclaim a humbler lineage, something that showed just how successful you were in your pursuits.
Though you were raised far from the reach of courtly refinement, you carried your burdens with such poise that even lords mistook you for one of their own. With discipline and gentle conduct, that is. You answered every duty through honor, decorum, earning the respect of an unkind world. It was unheard of, to serve the house that warmed the throne, being raised in the plagued alleys of Flea Bottom.
You attended to your station with utmost diligence, yet the King‘s eldest son unraveled the discipline you so carefully maintained. His stare tested your composure. His silvery voice compromised your restraint. His kindness surpassed those of his kin, he was a man who carried himself with a quiet intensity. It made your knees buckle beneath your own weight. The way in which he fiddled with his rings, how he‘d sigh into the embrace of his chair after a strenuous day of court.
No labor seemed burdensome if it meant avoiding services in his chambers, study, or wherever else he tends to linger. The notion of speaking with him, even if it was solely for the sake of duty, horrified you beyond words. The few times you have spoken, he treated you kindly, looked upon you fondly. It was enough to fuel the delusions you shook from your thoughts.
And now, to your utter dread, you were bound for his study. The maid who customarily tended to Prince Baelor‘s study had been struck by sickness. Every footstep rang as a silent plea to the heavens, each fall of your foot a burial bell. Your slow procession could be mistaken for a march toward certain death, or an early pyre. Though as your trek continued, your steps did not falter. Quivering breaths racked your chest as you envisioned him awaiting you in his study. Seven above, slay me now, you think.
You hear a gruff, “you may enter“, through the heavy oak door, beckoning your entrance. With a final huff, you gently push the door, making your way inside.
“My Prince,“ you manage, gulping nerves as he spares you a glance. He offers you a fleeting smile, returning to the work before him. Seems like he wished to leave you to your work as well.
You began your labours in earnest pursuit. Smoothing fine leather, arranging tomes and straightening parchment with a careful hand. Still, he taps his quill in a soft cadence, breaking your focus like a distant bell. The subtle clink reminded you of the company you found yourself in, as well as your surroundings.
“Forgive my boldness, but I don‘t recall I‘ve seen you before.“ You whip around at the velvet hush of his voice, trying hard to suppress the scolding red finding your cheeks. It is considered unseemly to banter with servants regarding topics not revolving of duty. Still, you decide to entertain his attempt of friendliness, perhaps even familiarity.
“There is no need for forgiveness, your Grace. The maid who often tends to your study has fallen ill, I‘m afraid. I can request another servant if it would pleas-“
“That won‘t be necessary, thank you.“ You nod, opening your mouth yet no sound escapes. As you begin to pivot on your heels, he speaks again.
“Might I inquire who you formerly served? I take it you are newly arrived, seeing that I cannot recognize you. Unless I have failed as a prince to know all who labour in my keep. A troubling thing for any prince who would claim diligence over his household.“
“I assure you, my Prince, you are faultless in such matters. I arrived here after serving House Mormont as a ladies maid.“
“I am sorry this keep is without any daughters, otherwise I‘m certain you would do an exceptional job as theirs“ You fight a breathy laugh at his words, as you quickly give the prince your name in a rushed manner. Baelor nods, allowing you to resume your duties.
“Surely you must long for cooler winds, yes? The heat in these lands can prove rather relentless.“ You turn to face him a second time, bewildered by his fascination. None of the maids had ever mentioned Baelor being so talkative.
“A small price to pay, your Grace. I hold this position in high esteem.“ The remark earns a small grin from him, eyes darting back to the quiet chaos of his desk.
“The honour is mine.“ He insisted, the words finding you like a hand between your legs. Your heart fluttered like a captive bird as your knees threatened to give way beneath you. Never had you been acquainted with such temptation. Unfamiliar, insidious and lingering upon your skin like fevered touch. Perhaps Baelor is the sickness that struck the first maid.
***
Weeks came and went since that fateful meeting in his study, and no longer did he make himself distant from you. He became a frequent presence throughout the keep, appearing where he thought he may earn but the briefest glance from you. You, well, you were bewitched beyond remedy. Beyond any maester‘s repair. Rendered weak every time your eyes snagged on his as you passed one another in the halls. You remained servicing his study intermittently through the week, earning you witty, frivolous exchanges with the prince. You cherished every moment like a popper covets gold in his pocket.
That was until, you received word from another servant as you scrubbed the flagstone. You‘re knobby knees throbbed beneath you as your rag dug into the surface of the stone floors. A mess of suds, grime and a disregard for being on the floor.
“Sorry to interrupt, but the Prince requests your services.“
“Mine? Whatever for?“
“Well, his Grace mentioned somethin‘ about the way you arrange his parchment.“
You scoff as you set your scrubbing aside, pausing to shake your head in disbelief.
“He‘s askin‘ for yo-“
“Aye, I got that, great, thank you.“
He withdraws himself, hands thrown aloft defensively. As he makes his trek down the corridor, you rise to your feet with a weary breath. It was the first time he had ever called for you specifically. Apprehension began to rack your body, yet it had been accompanied by a foreign warmth that coiled in your stomach. In bordered between pride and adoration for the man you call ‘prince‘.
Your steps carried with mounting haste, carrying you onward. A joy unfurled across your features, till your cheeks burned sore from grinning. There was a rare exhilaration in basking in the prince‘s company. You were to earn yet another treasured exchange with him. A volley of wit and hushed laughter.
The moment began the same as the last, a gentle knock to the oak door, and a grant of entry. To your dismay, your beaming smile had yet to subside.
“Ah, there you are, I began to think you had lost your way.“ He rose from his seat upon your entrance, reciprocating the smile upon your lips.
“Please excuse my punctuality, my Prince, I came the moment you requested me.“ You winced at the words in your mind hearing them leave your lips. Yes, you would cum if he asked you to.
“Pay it no mind, I insist. It was my intention you would aid me in arranging the parchment cluttering my desk. Seems I have a talent for misplacing them. And I was rather delighted by the work you carried out some days ago.“
“Thank you, your Grace, I‘d be happy to assist you.“ With faltering steps you approach where he stood, feeling the throbs of blood in your ears grow louder. He separates himself a good distance from the desk, allowing you to insert yourself in between. A nervous huff of laughter left your lips as you felt him tower behind you, making sense of the skew of papers.
“Just, tell me what to put where, my Prince. I‘ll arrange it in a way that will make it easier for you to find.“ He hums in approval from behind you. In truth, you had a vague idea of how this work was to be done. Scribbles upon parchment were merely illuminated by a flickering candle, the rest of the study shrouded by nightfall. You began by taking one in your grasp, raising it towards your face.
“That one is for-“
“Trading, I presume?“
He falters behind you, ashamed of himself he was under the impression you were incapable of reading. Especially the cry for help he calls handwriting. He makes a small affirmative sound, encouraging you to place it in a separate pile.
Baelor gave a silent thanks to the Seven that his visage was hidden from your sight. You had utterly undone him, reducing him to putty in your grasp. Before him stood a woman most dutiful, wise and fair, and in her presence he felt himself wholly powerless.
“I would not willingly encroach upon your privacy, your Grace. Rest assured, I will not read any contents.“
“Nonesense. All trifling matters, to be sure.“
You nod as you continue your pursuit. All the while, Baelor feels himself emboldened by the late hour and goblet of wine he drank prior to your arrival. He was the next in line, the crown prince, hand of the king. Yet, your softness tempted him like no gold or whore could.
“The court is in dire need of a smart woman like you. I‘d like to see you prove them all fools.“ Heat crept from your neck to your ears at his praise. Similar to Baelor, you also began thanking the Gods he was incapable of seeing your face. As moments wore on, you began to grow restless as you stood. The scent of wine upon his breath crept close to your nape. And the nearness of him— Gods. Watching, waiting, left you weak upon your knees. It was near enough to wrestle with all restraint, longing to whip yourself around, claiming his lips with your own.
“Hm. A smart prince isn‘t enough for them, I see? Or does he also happen to be a fool?“ You wished to flee from where you stood, profusely apologize for addressing him so improperly, yet the words that tumbled from your lips felt anything but shameful. Still, before you could apologize for forgetting your station, he spoke.
“In your company, yes. The biggest fool.“ He hushes the quip on your tongue as his hands begin to snake around your middle. A claiming, tender touch, moving in closeness, rather than lustful seduction.
“Your Grace, I-“
“Do you wish to leave? You have my sanction, if that is what you wish.“
All you could muster was a clumsy shake of your head, denying his claim. There was nowhere else you longed to be in all of Westeros, but the closing distance between the eldest prince and the desk of his study. As your mind grew clouded by wanton desire, you strove against the notion of yielding to such temptation. You were a maiden, yes, one with honor and steadfast virtue. You did not consort with the likes of princes, or entertain perilous engagements.
“I must continue, my Prince, your parchments-“ Your pleas fell upon deaf ears as he swept every paper from his desk in one swift motion. In the parchments' wake, he hoisted you onto the oak desk, your dangling legs brushing against his.
“Are you aware of your own goodness? Hm? So faithful, so true of heart. I cannot recall the last time these halls were graced by a maiden of such spirit.“
“My Prince, you are drunk.“ You manage, eyes darting around the study to avoid meeting his blown pupils. You were weary of him bearing witness to your own, making it clear just how much you want him.
“Only a glass. What you are seeing is not wine, it is how you affect me.“
“And how is it I affect you, your Grace?“
“Mm. Those eyes, when they look up at mine, eager to be of service. Your lips, and how they snag between your teeth when you are deep in focus. Or perhaps your neck, when your hair clings to it from the heat.“ You got the picture as his words trailed on, drawing nearer with each syllable. You did nothing to halt his advances, nothing to withdraw yourself.
“Just tell me to stop,“ He murmured, a hair‘s length from your ear. His breath was warm against your neck as you reveled in the quiet debate of restraint. Your knuckles grew whiter than a sailboat as you fought against the idea of touching him. Once again, you shook your head bashfully, earning a small chuckle from Baelor.
“Tell me with words. You‘re a smart girl, I'm certain you can.“
“Please, do not stop…please.“
Your words were a broken plea, a prayer against your better judgement. It was as though your restraint rang in your head like a cracked bell, and only would he relieve you of that sound.
“Good. Now…tell me how much you need it.“ His silvery, hushed tone nearly made a mockery of you. You whined at the question, too undone by pleasure that has yet to even find you. Baelor took note of your lack of response, spurring him further.
“Shy so soon, hm?“ He hummed, maintaining his closeness to your neck, his chest flush against your heaving one.
“Do you even know all the ways a lady can be seduced?“ The question came as a hot whisper against your ear, feeling slickness gathering between your thighs. His lips began to trace the expanse of your neck, not quite kissing, just lingering upon your skin with faint caress. The teasing wears your patience thinner than a beggar‘s purse after market day. You prevailed against your submission, and claimed his lips with yours with a fervor unbridled and dire. He groaned into your mouth as your hands made their way around his neck, beckoning him closer. It was as though a thousand unspoken vows gathered at once upon your lips, and spoken in a silence more thunderous than war drums.
The kiss was not merely touch, but a claiming and a yielding, like crown and kingdom finding their rightful union after exile. It was a dance between two unrestrained forces. Nipping, sucking, licking, devouring. A passionate act of devotion between two souls who lost the battle of restraint. Your breath grew short in your lungs, your lips swelling entangled with this.
You pull away panting, resting your forehead upon his. The study is a symphony of shallow breaths and the rustle of fabric.
“May I- may I reward you…for your service?“ He pleaded through quivering breaths, eyes shut as he reclaimed his bearings. It was a rarity from him to fumble the words on his tongue, yet here he stood. The request vexated you, making your flustered mind dissect every possible act he may speak of.
“Reward me how, your Grace,“ you paused to continue panting, “what do you wish for me to do?“ Your need for instruction draws a soft laugh from his chest. You amused him far more than he‘d care to profess.
“I wish for you to lean back,“ he whispered hoarsely, planting a gentle hand on your stomach to recline you against his desk, “and enjoy yourself.“ He finished his thought, positioning you how he pleased. Though he provided you with simple instructions, your confusion remained the same as it was. He did not reach for the laces of his breeches, or fumble with the waistband. Instead, tentative fingers began to trail themselves from your calves to your thighs, drawing your skirts closer to bunching at your waist. The procession of his touch was agonizingly slow, a maddening pursuit of unraveling you as he pleased. With the faintest force, he beckoned your legs apart. They spread before him as you complied. You grew red at the thought of being in nothing but small clothes, quivering thighs spread before your prince.
Before you could protest the closeness of his face to your core, he nipped at your plush thighs in gentle pinches. The mild bites drew stifled whimpers from your throat as you familiarize yourself with the foreign sensation. You were certain this act was a means of working you up, making you grow needy under his touch to prepare you. Your suspicion then worsened as he removed your small clothes, his teeth drawing the waistband down your thighs. They made a gentle sound as they became a drenched pile beside the desk.
He drew closer to where you laid bare before him, to where you could feel his breath against the sensitive skin. You squirmed at the feeling, and also the vulnerability of the compromising position. His movements did not falter, growing closer and closer. Baelor was a refined, poised, crown prince. The next in line for the throne. Surely he was not going to-
Yes, he did. He licked a stripe across your folds, earning him a startled gasp from you. He chuckled in response, sending vibrations down your spine. One lick turned to three, lapping at your pearl as your fingers carded themselves through his short dark hair. The feeling brought a warmth to the pit of your stomach, spreading your thighs further to his seeking. The lip between ur teeth had begun to bleed from your stifled moans. The pleasure was foreign, unbearable.
“Mm, that‘s it,“ he rasped against your folds, “be a good girl for me and tell me how good my tongue feels.“ The last bit of your restraint dissolved through your fingers as you gasped and whimpered at the feeling. You were a squirming, wanton minx with his tongue on you, licking as though it was the only thing he knew. The joints of your knee soon met the broad expanse of his shoulders, smothering your leaking pussy against his tongue.
“Please, Baelor…please—mmph, don‘t stop. Feels so good, baby, please.“ You listlessly pleaded into thin air as your words spurred him further. Fist tightening in his hair as his tongue worked your clit faster, you felt your eyes roll back in unadulterated bliss, unmindfully moaning at his reward. You paid no mind to how quiet you were, how you sounded.
Just as you nearly felt the warm tension in your stomach snap, he prodded a slender finger through your neglected core, curling right against your sweet spot. The sensation made you cry out, a shiver racking through you in a wave. One finger became two as he continued suckling your clit, working you through the pleasure. You felt his mismatched eyes on you, the sight making you squeeze his thighs against his head in pleasure.
“Your prince is good to you, isn‘t he?“ He murmured against your swollen clit as he worked his fingers with a new vigour. In response, you let out a needy, broken whimper, squirming in his hold.
“Mmph—ah, yes…so good, fuck- so fucking good to me.“ He let out a small chuckle into your folds, amused by your attempt at a coherent sentence. Without warning, his free hand reached up, dragging the linen fabric down your chest. He kneaded your tits as they bounced, bouncing from the motion of your hips bucking against his face. Your free hand placed itself over the one he had on your breast, anchoring yourself to him as the pleasure grew relentless.
“Bael- fuck, it‘s too much…“ Your words trailed off into needy whimpers. Baelor knew you were nearing the edge. His fingers burrowed themselves inside you at an unrelenting pace, brushing so sweetly against the spot that makes you cry. He groaned into your clit as his tongue lapped it, eager to feel your release coating his tongue.
“Let go for your prince, be a good girl and soak my tongue.“ His muffled commands shattered the tension in the pit of your stomach, sending your body into surreal ecstasy. You shook in his firm grasp, quivering through the pleasure that snapped inside you. Moans met the stone walls in desperate mewls. As he worked you through your high, there was a shared quiet of shallow panting and raspy throats.
You felt his calloused palms find your back from under you, scooping you flush against his chest. Not a whisper stirred through the study, the shared stillness grounding you from a lustful-driven high. Despite the realm‘s decree and all surrounding circumstances, there was no shame dwelling in your heart. You laid against him, spent in the afterglow of pleasure. Cradled deep in a gentle bliss, only he could provide.
“I hope I did not overwhelm you, pretty thing.“ He whispered against the shell of your ear, drawing a sweat-soaked strand of hair from your face. You couldn‘t suppress a blissful smile at his words, so engrossed in the endeavor of making you feel good. You shook your head in response, allowing your breathing to slow in his hold. As your arms entangled themselves around his neck, you placed lazy open-mouth kisses down the column of his throat, drawing pleased hums from deep in his chest.
“What are you planning to do with all that parchment?“ You jest against his neck, accompanied by his soft chuckle. You both glance at the heap of papers from askew, coating the stone floors. Then, your gaze meets one another‘s. A hitch of silence passes till you both share an exasperated laugh. It felt strangely domestic, for something so forbidden. For all he knows, you‘d arrange page, after page, if it meant a glimpse into the life you could‘ve had.
note: this is my first time ever writing smut so I hope it’s not too terrible!! thank u for reading
Summary: Ser Arlan takes Dunk to a brothel for the first time, insisting it’s where he’ll truly find manhood. When he falls into readers service, she decides to teach him what it means to be good
Warnings: sub!dunk, inexperienced!dunk, use of sweet/good boy, prostitution/brothel work (obviously), handjobs, oral (m!receiving), riding, begging, gentle!dom reader, fem reader, fem anatomy, typical GOT/medieval misogyny
WC: 4.5k
note: not proofread- also, sorry if this is an inaccurate depiction of a medieval brothel, idk I wasn’t there LMAO- Also, im sorry the spacing is so weird, it turned into a huge pain in the ass so I hope it’s not too weird, thx!!
“You‘ve the body of a man, but not the spine of one, aye? Bit of stubble doesn‘t make you grown.“ Ser Arlan barked into the night air, Duncan in tow. Despite his squire being the age of twenty and…something, Ser Arlan insisted he had yet to be a man. Pretty adamant on the matter, actually. Perhaps it was because he still looked upon the same hunger-ravaged lad Duncan had once been. Or maybe the youthful glimmer that lingered in his gaze.
Regardless, Duncan was at his wit‘s end. After being berated with phrases like, you‘ve a man‘s height and a child‘s wits or, you‘re green as spring wheat and twice as foolish, what Ser Arlan deemed manhood was a riddle so thorned, not even the wisest minds could make sense of it.
Beneath the weeping heavens, they journeyed side by side. One wandering, one bound with purpose. They marched beneath the moonless rain as one debated in the chamber of his thoughts, where the seven hells are we going? And the other debated if he‘d spend his coin on a ginger or a blonde.
“Well now, this is where the realm stops coddlin‘ ya. Where men are forged.“ Ser Arlan remarks the brothel before them as though it was a gilded throne, eager for him to warm it. As the matter became plain to Duncan, he found himself stricken with unease. His nerves twist, restless with dread. He had been riddled with quiet torment as his eyes widened at the shelter ahead. Never had Duncan wielded a honeyed tongue nor the gleaming riches that women tended to favor. Still, coin in this establishment could succeed where his words failed. If he had any coin…
“Ser we- I mean no disrespect but, I‘m uncertain we can afford such…service.“ Verily, Duncan was ignorant of how heavy the coin purse was. But, it‘d make a fine plea to wait outside with the horses.
“Nonsense, boy, I‘ll buy myself the lowliest of the lot. You can spend the rest on a decent lady. The grimy ones are sold cheapest, and I‘d not shame ye with ‘em.“
To Ser Arlan, that phrase was even more endearing than “I love you“.
A restless quiver stirred in Duncan‘s blood as he envisioned his own hand offering the coin. The notion sickened him, striking foully against the image he had long held of himself. It defied every principle, every virtue and every moral he had. Regardless of the coiling dread in his stomach, he was highly aware of the inevitability of it all. Duncan opened his mouth in protest then closed it, in hopes to find wiser words on his tongue. He had never laid with a woman before. And he didn‘t wish to humiliate himself before someone who does it for coin.
Without so much as another murmur, Ser Arlan advanced upon the entrance and strode toward the brightly lit dwelling. Well, it appeared bright amidst the veil of impossible nightfall. With unwilling feet did Duncan stagger after, his heart beset by mounting fear as the haze upon his mind faded.
His senses gained clarity. Beneath the shroud of eveningtide there stood the house as he approached. A house of ill renown and impropriety. Yet, it was garbed in such splendor that even a septon’s eye might linger upon it. The timbered walls were painted a deep crimson and wine-dark velvet hues, whilst lanterns of amber glass hung from iron hooks. It casted honeyed light upon the rain slick cobbles below. Silken banners stirred languidly from the upper balconies, and from within came the muffled strains of girlish squeals, soft laughter and the clink of silver goblets.
Before Duncan knew what was hell and what was his reality, Ser Arlan pushed the heavy oaken door, amplifying every sight and sound from outside. The ceilings were draped with silk, sheer as a maiden‘s sigh. The gold thread glimmered like the eyes of the temptresses watching from their alcoves. Sweet perfumes of myrrh, rose and spiced wine wafted through the chill night air, entwining themselves with all who enter.
The madame of the house was quick to greet the pair of them, yet she couldn‘t help to think it odd a father brings his son to such a place.
“Cheapest you have.“ Ser Arlan grunts, placing coin in the madame‘s palm. Before Duncan could ask how much he ought to spend, he has nowhere to be seen, already escorted to the ‘cheapest accomodation‘.
“I- sorry, M‘lady, I‘m new to these…dealings. What‘s the fee? And- where do I head?“
The madame was a mere stranger to men of gentle make and virtuous heart. At once she perceived what should be amended in him, and where he must be sent. Duncan handed her the appropriate coin with a trembling, clammy palm. The woman takes it as though it‘s life blood, nodding vaguely down the hall.
“Eighth door to your right. Don‘t stray.“ Duncan nodded at her gruff words as though they were orders in battle. With a gulp, he began his death procession down the narrow hall. His ears were met with a growing symphony of skin against skin and restless pants. With eyes widened like silver platters, he cast his gaze from the gauzy curtains, behind which lurked filth scarcely shielded.
“Three…four…five…six…“
He counted each curtain as his feet carried him closer to what he thought was his certain demise. After a rushed recounting, he found himself before the eighth curtain to the right. He needed to be certain it was the right one. He didn‘t want to end up with the “lowly lot“ Ser Arlan entertains. Without another moment to lose, he clears his throat, reluctantly ducking through the archway.
The gruff sound from his throat alerted from where you lounged on your bed, tucked behind the silken canopies that shielded the bed from the rest of the room. Like muscle memory, you adjust the jewelry that sits heavy atop your skin. You then make sure your satin garment, (only worn for the sake of being taken off), sits right. Then came your speech, which also flowed from your lips like you had rehearsed it for years.
“Right then, shed your breeches and leave your boots by th-“ Your unenthused instructions were interrupted by a sharp hitch of your breath. You finally assessed the man that stood before you, awaiting your service.
A towering man of broad shoulders and abundant frame, fashioned strong as an oak yet fair upon the eye. His strength sat plainly upon him in the swell of arm and chest, though softened somewhat by a pleasing fullness around his mid section. His countenance was comely and warm, bearing the easy humbleness of a man often admired in tavern and hall alike. Even though Duncan found that far from the truth.
“Seven‘s bones…look at the height on you. I ought to tell someone to fetch me a stool. Or perhaps a ladder.”
You remark as you giggle at your own joke. He nodded politely at your crude comment, at an utter loss for words. Any would fail him if he tried. Still, there he remained, rigid and motionless, as though wit and will alike had abandoned him.
Tense in limb and uncertain in purpose, he obeyed what you instructed prior (only the second step), by removing his boots and leaving them by the threshold.
“You're quite the timid sort aren‘t you? May I have your name, Ser?“ You stood closer, radiant doe-like eyes peering up at him. The sight only made his words feel more scarce on his tongue. He opens and closes his mouth, anticipating sound. How would anything he say compete with your melodic, sing-song voice?
“Dunk…My name is Dunk, M‘lady.“ A flattered beam finds your lips as you blush at his formality. No man had ever addressed you as such. Somedays you were fortunate to even be referred to as “woman“.
“Please, spare me your fine formalities, Dunk, I am no lady. Unless, you have a knack for pretending…“ Your words trailed as he nervously interjected you.
“No, I do not wish to pretend anythin‘, M‘lady. You are a lady, so I‘d like to speak to you as one.“ Dunk managed to nervously choke out, to which you nodded in somewhat understanding.
You stole a moment to gawk at the kindness he had already shown you, despite being in your room for nearly thirty seconds. As you beheld the man before you, he finally allowed himself to drink you in properly.
You were fair in visage, (certainly the most beautiful woman he could‘ve bought his time with), radiant in youth. Your beauty was something gentle and natural, neither overworked or vain, but softly striking in its ease. Dunk thought the embodiment of grace had taken a particular liking to your form. Eyes bared bright, attentive life to them, keen as the morning sky.
“So, Dunk, what would you have of me? Or shall I decide, since you don‘t seem forward sort?“
“Pardon my ignorance, but I am untried in these matters. Not certain what‘s…customary.“
“Well, these sorts of places don‘t demand practice. All the girls know plenty of their trade for the likes of you. So, just tell me what excites you.“
“I suppose I don’t quite know, M’lady.” He curtly replied with a chuckle on his lips. You shrug at his response, having a quiet debate in your head. What were you to do with him?
You hum, beginning to drag your nails and finger tips across his chest, spurring him on. The muscle stiffened beneath the touch, but he seemed to relish the sensation. Still, there was much more to be done.
The idea took root in your mind, slowly lowering yourself to your knees. He appeared even taller from where you kneeled, and you appeared far smaller in comparison to his stature. Something foreign stirred in the pit of Dunk‘s stomach at the sight.
A faint, knowing curve of your lips betrayed your feigned innocence, taking delight in his slow undoing. You shifted your attention to the hilt of the long sword that rested at his hip. It was an old iron thing, clearly worn with use and age. Your fist grasped the base of it as your face neared closer to the handle of his sword.
“Does this excite you, Ser?“ Your sultry voice is followed by the breath stalling in Dunk‘s lungs, faltering as you drag your tongue up the expanse of the hilt. Through half lidded vision, you watch his brows furrow in what appears to be a wounded frustration. The drag of your tongue is met with the old taste of sweat from his palm, the masculine flavour going straight to the throbbing between your thighs. As he watched the lewd act, he couldn‘t help but picture the hilt of his sword as something much more…localized.
You brought yourself back to standing, your body in closer proximity to his than before. With an audible gulp, his stare conveyed a captivated terror. As though something he had been dreaming for was coming true faster than he could make sense of it.
“Or perhaps, this?“ You sang, eyes transfixed to where his stare lingered. As you began to fiddle with the clasps of your gown, the fabric bunched at your feet in one fell swoop. Leaving you completely bare before him, aside from the lavish jewelry adorning your form.
Before he could reply, his rigid cock strained against his breeches as he practically drooled beholding you. You tilted your head in hopes of finding his gaze, but it proved to be futile. His eyes feasted upon the sight of your breasts, mind restless with image. How they‘d feel in his hands, how they‘d feel in his mouth.
You took his rough hands into your own, guiding them to caress the tender swell of your breasts. The column of his throat bobs as he kneads the flesh in his palms, a muffled groan escaping him. His thumbs run across the pebbled buds of your nipples causing you tot shudder under his touch.
As you noted his newfound pleasure, you took his hands back into yours, escorting him to your bed with an unyielding smile upon your lips. He complied, his eyes now enraptured by your own.
You pushed him back onto the bed, surprising you slightly due to his size. He was entirely powerless under your gaze, pliant putty in your hands. His eyes peered up at you as though he was witnessing divinity. As though you were to pardon him from all worldly anguish. Unlike other men, who seek haste and efficiency, Dunk would not be hurried. He would have every fragment of time, and hold it close as though it were treasure beyond reckoning.
You joined him amongst furs and silks in slow, calculated movements. What was once dread had now turned to fervent impatience, a yearning for only nearness. He would deem it a blessed passing to die with so much as your company, without having to lay a hand on you.
In one swift motion your legs bracketed his, straddling him where he laid. The position somehow made him appear more helpless beneath you, completely at your mercy. Mercy you had, as you were inclined to be gentle and slow with the blushing giant underneath you. Your nails found their rightful place a second time, mindlessly tracing lines into his tunic.
“Do you touch yourself, Ser?“ Your keen gaze flicks to him as your lip catches between your teeth. The filthy question was spoken so innocently, so softly, he began to think he had misheard you. The question was a handy way of allowing your inexperienced clients to open up. Dunk turns a crimson that matches the silks the pile of you lay on top of.
“Most men do, M‘lady.“ Dunk nervously chuckles beneath you, still unsure where to put his hands. For now, they would lay tensely beside him.
“And… that means you do as well?“ The tease brought another wave of flush to his neck and ears, only making your smile grow wider.
“Show me.“ Your order finds his ears in a silvery whisper, to which he begins to fumble with the laces of his breeches. To save him the embarrassment, you place his hand aside, shifting your attention to the tangled prison. As your fingers work the strings, his hips buck into your hand as he suppresses a whine.
“Eager are we?“ You giggle in amusement, pushing his breeches to his ankles. For a moment, you deem yourself disoriented, that your eyes have betrayed you. You gulp in astonishment, unsure what to make of his…length.
“Your knight, Ser Arlan, you‘re certain he is not your father?“
“No, M‘lady.“
“Right then.“
You deny yourself a witty remark like your cock would do a better job impaling me than that sword on your hip, or perhaps, so men can just carry lances however they please? You did not wish to subject him to further embarrassment, considering it was his first time in a brothel. You wanted to give him a reason to return, you thought.
Dunk kicks them off, instantly taking his cock in his fist. With eyes half-lidded in languor, he keeps you vigilantly in his sight, as his hand squeezed amidst his clumsy strokes. You shifted where you laid, positioning yourself to replace his hand. His breath came in sharp exhales through his nose, cheeks redder than a field stained by battle.
“Dunk,“ the name crawled off your tongue, “you‘re blushing in front of a whore.“ You remark with an amused tone, watching as he tries to shield his face from you. Gently, you grasp his wrist, pulling his hand away.
“Allow me, sweet boy.“ You purr into the shell of his ear, taking his length into your palm. His breath hitches in his throat at the feeling, head thrown back against the furrs. He‘s sensitive, you note mentally. You start working him in slow, languid movements, his mouth falling open into an ‘o‘ shape. He feels heavy in your hands, finger tips just barely touching due to his size.
“M‘not a boy.“ He grits through his teeth as you continue stroking him exactly how he showed you. To his comment, your hand hastened in speed only slightly, watching his heaving breaths grow more laborious. You remarked every twitch, every stiffening muscle. As he lost himself in the abyss of his own pleasure, he became far less mindful of his sounds. It was a pleasure to bear witness to his unraveling.
“Forgive me, Ser. It‘s a fair assumption to make, when you're so needy for me, like a good boy.“ Despite his best efforts, he seems to cherish the title, a needy groan escaping him. You buried yourself against the crook of his neck, leaving a lingering path of kisses upon his skin, as though you were marking him with the memory of your closeness. The dual sensations draw needy whines and groans deep from his chest. Your fist quickens at the sound.
“D-don‘t stop, M‘lady, mmph, feels so g…“ His words trail off as he loses himself in the sensation, pleading eyes finding your own.
“Does my hand feel better than yours, Dunk? Am I making you feel good? Such a big strong man…so handsome when he‘s begging.“
The pad of your thumb drags over his slit, his hips bucking at the feeling. He nods and agrees listlessly, so enraptured by your touch. You maneuver yourself down the bed, your hand still working Dunk through his pleasure. His eyes snapped open as he felt your breath on his tip, your face a dangerous proximity to his cock.
“You musn‘t- I‘ll s-spend too soon.“ His empty plea draws a breathy laugh from you. A lumbering giant who could surely break firewood with his palms, reduced to a writhing mess beneath your touch.
“I won‘t tell a soul.“ You whisper, swearing yourself to secrecy. To your assurement, Dunk nods vigorously, eager to feel your lips around his cock. You began by placing sloppy kisses on his reddened tip, gently licking ever so often. It was pure anguish for Dunk, growing even needier as you continued. The tip of your tongue dragged right along his slit, causing him to nearly cry out.
“Shhh, ‘gonna take such good care of you. Just relax for me, sweet boy.“ He nods again at your assurance, watching intently as your soft lips wrap around him. It was rather challenging to deny such an offer when faced with your tempting, darling eyes. His lips part as he feels the warmth of your mouth, smothering him so sweetly.
The feeling was intoxicating, a surge of bliss coursing through him. He whined at the sensation, carding his rough fingers through your hair. Not with the intent to force or push, solely to ground himself to the moment.
You peered up at him through your glossy eyes, meeting his gaze, clouded with pleasure. A wistful part of his mind wished he could be subjected to the view of you every day. His reasoning warned him that such fantasies were but folly. He thought of your sweet kindness as purchased, not something he had rightfully earned.
Through the chamber resounded the lewd strains of your mouth, rich with sinful delight, until Dunk felt his senses reel. It was wicked indulgence, yet incredibly tender.
You grew bolder in your efforts, taking him deeper into your throat. The act was followed by wet sounding gawks coming from the walls of your mouth. His cock twitched and pulsed against your tongue, signalling you he did not make his claim in falsehood. He really was about to spend too soon. You hummed against his length, a pleased purr from your throat as his breathing grew more erratic.
“I can‘t-fuck- I‘m gonna…Gods I‘m so sorry, M‘lady,” His pleas are followed by strained groans that rattled in his chest, earning him another content hum from you. The vibration of your voice, the wet eyes boring into his, the soft tousled hair tangled in his fist, was enough to send him over the edge. He came with a hoarse, whiny moan, hips involuntarily bucking further into your mouth. Dunk had never felt such invigorating bliss in all of his days.
As you swallowed each drop of his release, your eyes never dared to leave him. You watched as he convulsed with each spurt, his eyelids fluttering with a pleasure he didn‘t think achievable. His chest rose and fell with each quivering breath. There was something so enchanting about a man who has entirely surrendered. As his breathing slowed and stalled in his lungs, your bare form crawled up the furrs to run your fingers through his wayward hair.
“So good for me, Dunk. Such a good boy for me, hm?“ He nuzzled into your touch as you tenderly caressed his head. Your other hand finds his flushed cheek, stroking the feverish skin as he regains his bearings.
With one elbow propped on the mattress, you lean into his chest as you touch him. You feel the raw heat of his body as one of your bare tits press into his tunic. With a newfound courage, his palm kneads your exposed breast, groaning at the contact. A few gentle squeezes then turns into him maneuvering you on your back.
The angle grants him access to both, nuzzling his face between the swells of supple flesh. To Dunk, air was a trifling matter. He could suffocate between your tits without a single lament on the matter. Your fingers continue gently stroking his scalp as he explores the skin. Open mouth kisses and nudges with his nose sends a pleasurable hum through your veins.
“Want t‘please you, M‘lady. Wanna be so good for you.“ He murmured with a strangled voice still buried between your tits. You gently tug on his sandy hair in hopes he‘d speak clearer.
“That‘s sweet of you, Dunk, but I can fetch us wine in the meantime. It is not my intent to overwhel-“
Your words are cut off by a soft gasp as he begins to suckle on the tender peaks of your nipples. His tongue flicks and sucks the skin as you feel yourself writhing beneath him. Your fist tightens in his hair as he bathes them in wet heat, the suction of his lips sending blood straight to your throbbing clit. And to your astonishment, he‘s hard again. Hard as stale bread.
The slavering sounds of his mouth on your tits fill the room, accompanied by your gentle sighs of bliss. His mouth left your tit in a wet pop, eagerly latching to your other one. In the midst of his movement, you clasp your arms around his torso, flipping him onto his back quicker than a flea on a farm dog.
He makes a vexated, wounded sound as you find yourself straddling him again. Your tits gleamed with the slick of his mouth in candlelight, bestowing a delicious vision unto Duncan‘s eyes. You drag a finger over his lips, hushing his confused pleas.
“Y‘wanna make me feel good, Dunk? You want this brothel to hear me cry your name?“
Dunk keenly nodded at your words, partial to that last suggestion. You tugged at the hem of his tunic, implying you wished to see it on the floor. Drool pooled in your mouth as you watched him comply. His muscles bulged from his flesh with every movement.
Dunk writhes beneath you, his chest heaving as he stared at you intently. With your eyes fixed on his, you lean back slightly, your hands finding the mattress behind you. You bare your dripping cunt to his gaze, watching his pleased grin turn to a wounded pout. As he watches your slick pussy, you begin rubbing your slickness across your folds, displaying how wet he makes you.
“See what you do to me? Need you to fill me like a good boy. Need you to fuck me so good, Dunk. You can make me feel good, can‘t you, baby?“
“Uh-huh, I can please you, M‘lady. Please- let me be good for you.“
You nod, humming at his words. Your leaking pussy hovers above his eager cock, practically begging you to sink down on it. Who were you to deny it such pleasure?
In slow, deliberate movements, you lower yourself onto him, feeling your walls accommodate him in a delicious stretch. His mouth falls agape as you sink further, a low groan rattling his throat.
“Gods above…“ He loses the thought on his tongue as your bare hips meet his, feeling himself entirely buried inside you. A sweet moan leaves your throat as you feel him reach places none of your customers could. So thick and deep, you were completely full with him.
Your hands take hold of his wrists, pinning them beside his head. The act startled him, his eyes widening in sweet bewilderment. You were a hair‘s length from his face, his ragged pants fanning your cheeks. The grip on his wrists tightened as you rolled your hips, feeling his tip rub against the spot inside you that made your knees limp. Your lids fluttered shut as he bucked into, feeling deeper than you had before.
Your chamber rings with the sharp, wet slaps of skin against skin, and strangled moans. With aching knees you bounced atop him, one hand groping your tit, the other scraping its nails down the plane of Duncan‘s chest. You were pleased by the helpless groans that escaped him, hypnotized by the sight of before him. You were even more pleased by the new red marks marking his pec.
“Fuck- Dunk, it‘s so fucking big- filling me so perfect. Such a good boy for me.“ You choke out through the haze of your pleasure. Shameless moans left your lips as you bounced with a newfound vigor, taking him from tip to base every thrust. Dunk began to meet your hips each thrust, brushing your sweet spot each time. The mounting pleasure in your stomach began to coil, threatening to snap.
“Oh Dunk, I- I‘m…mm…“
You listlessly warned as your pleasure thrashed upon you, igniting every vein in your body. Your aching pussy clamped down on his length, a surge of wet slick coating his cock. You were slightly humiliated by how fast you managed to finish. The feeling lessened as you felt Dunk coat your insides with hot ropes of cum, a shudder racking his body. He came with a groan more strained than the last, surrendering to his pleasure.
Soon, the only sounds that remained were your uneven breaths and the muffled commotion from the other rooms. You gaze upon the man, so spent, yet so swallowed by pleasure.
In a rare, defiant act of your morals, you leaned down to claim his lips with your own, tenderly kissing him. His hands clasped your jaw and he clumsily reciprocated the kiss. Duncan‘s inexperience was clear, but his enthusiasm was a force of nature.
Perhaps you didn‘t need a stool or a ladder, to take such a man
another note: sorry for the rushed ending, I had a bit of a writers block at the end- hope u enjoyed !!
cw: arranged marriage, shameless headstrong reader!!, enemies to lovers (they're enemies in maekar's head), bickering!!!, tension, bedding ceremony!!, non-consensual touching(not by maekar), grumpy maekar, jealousy, over protectiveness, possessiveness, body worship(m!receiving), prone bone!!, manhandling, nose riding, spitting, pussy sniffing, spanking!!, fingering(f!receiving), oral(f!receiving), p in v, dirty talk!!, slight breath play, headlock!!, biting, degradation, praise, hate fucking for one sec, a sprinkle of angst, insecurities, self worth issues, (8.9kw)
a/n: english is not my first language so i'm sorry for mistakes/repeating words!! im nervous to put out a bigger piece than usual aaaa. i will do maybe two to three parts!! this will be an au! so if you have any questions or requests about this pairing, let me know muehehe! i love them so much lol
credits: gif @/goodsirs divider @/feimingo
“i did not believe you wished for witnesses to our coupling, your grace.”
“it is tradition—”
“oh, so it is. a tradition in which half the court will see your wife bare as the day she was born. does that excite you?”
“excite—”
maekar took a deep, steadying breath, trying very hard not to snap at his newly betrothed. or throttle her. was it truly too late to call the arrangement off? a prince of the realm could do as he pleased, after all.
“it excites me in the same measure as a court meeting about grain taxes does, wife,” he grunted, fingers tightening onto the half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. he would need way more than that for what was to come in a few moments. maekar would drown himself in numerous barrels if it would spare him from having to pretend to fuck his wife in front of tens of courtiers and ladies in waiting. oh, and a maester. how could he have forgotten? the gods also needed to be witnesses to such a sacred arrangement. the more people see the proof of his virility, the better. they should invite the whole realm if they are so eager to see him perform his husbandry duties.
“grain taxes,” was heard from his right, your voice deadpan as you sneaked a glance towards him, a huff falling from your lips. “it pleases me that my lord husband would associate us having a moment of unbridled passion with the ever ardent intricacies of grain taxes,” your lips twitched, a little smile in the corner, cheeky.
he could feel the vein in his temple pulsing. a headache was on the way. and even then, it couldn’t even come close to the one that was already in his presence. he could’ve asked all the healers in the seven kingdoms, and none of them would be able to cure him of the ever-lasting migraine that was his wife.
a wound without a cure. a curse without benediction. a grueling fate without end, at least for now.
“unbridled passion?” he almost bristled at the words. the assumption that there will be anything but a poor attempt at make-believe on his part grated on his nerves. “i would have hoped that you would not delude yourself into believing we shall be doing more than a farce of this, wife.”
maekar was not about to engage in any intimate endeavors with his new wife. the court should be more than pleased that he was even willing to go along with this to begin with. having sycophants linger near their royal chambers while they were supposed to get lost in the throes of passion was unnerving enough. he will have to make it seem like the consummation happened, like he was on the other side of the door, pleasing his wife and proving the realm he was still a man in his prime, capable of desire. figures.
“a farce?” you probed, eyebrow raised, the arch of your mouth thinning in displeasure. “you would make a sham of our consummation?” the tone of your voice seemed almost… offended, as if you couldn’t believe your husband would even go to such lengths to avoid bedding you.
that timbre of your voice made his brows furrow, lifting the goblet of wine to his lips to stall his response, glancing to the side over the rim of the cup. he allowed himself a furtive glance towards you, enough to notice the slight narrowing of your eyes. you were opposing him, just as you have been doing since ink touched scroll a fortnight ago, when both of your fates were tied by duty and vow.
“not a sham,” he corrected, although he was not sure it held much truth. “i am sparing both of us of the dreadful act of having to touch one another more than necessary, which i was of the impression would please you. not make you look like a scorned child.”
there was a long, tense silence before you spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “you would think it dreadful to touch one another?”
maekar paused for a moment, taken aback by the note of disbelief underlying your words, making him turn to look at you fully now, needing to see why you would have that reaction to such a simple truth. “by the looks of it, wife, you do not seem to share my sentiment?”
there was a sharp glint in your eyes now, the poise in your posture faltering for a moment, giving way to tension, before you gathered yourself. “not in the slightest. i deem it preposterous that you would even think of it in such a manner,” you retorted, chin lifting, proud. “or, is it perhaps a ploy to conceal your dignity, my lord husband?”
“my dignity?” his voice dipped low, almost cautionary, making it clear that your next words should be chosen very carefully, lest you wish to start something maekar was not sure you had the wits about you to see through.
but you did not seem frightened in the slightest by his attempt to dissuade you.
“yes,” you reinforced, head tilting just so to the side, feigning innocence. “are you so unassured in your virility that you would devise such schemes to keep it from being questioned? i reckon it is normal for a man of your station to care so deeply about these things, but such lengths are truly ridicu—”
your words were cut off by rough, calloused fingers pressing into your cheeks, hard enough to stall your speech as maekar leaned into your space. he was gripping your face, keeping your gaze on his, not giving you an inch of room to even tilt your head one side or the other.
“one more word out of you, and i swear to all the seven,” he snarled, purple eyes slanted in a glare so scathing it could burn you whole, like dragon-fire. he felt the moment your breath hitched, the short puff of air brushing his fingers. “i will throttle you right here, in front of all these good-for-nothing lickspittles.”
he was expecting your demeanor to change. for fear to cloud your vision and reason to come back to you. for apologies to tumble unbidden from your mouth, hoping to appease and coax him into being merciful.
no wife, no woman of his will look him in the eye with so much fervor, insulting one of the qualities he was boastful about. his virility? maekar had sired six children. a feat worthy of praise. a testament to the strength of his seed, to the potency of it. to how easy it was for it to take root in a fertile womb and conceive heirs for him.
his newly betrothed had some nerve trying to undermine the one thing the whole realm knew to be true.
with that same nerve, you looked maekar in the eyes and smiled. a quirk of your lips, eyes lowering as the pressure of his fingers rose, half—lidded with something akin to satisfaction, as if you wanted this to happen, waiting for your husband to lose control and exert that temper you knew flared at the slightest provocation. too quick now, after a fortnight of constant instigation from you, feeling like his fuse grew shorter and shorter, and now it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose, inevitably.
your tone was soft, but the challenge beneath it was unmistakable. “did i perhaps touch a nerve, my lord husband? is it truly so easy to have you rattled? enough to grasp me like a brute, where anyone can see? and at our wedding feast, no less.” the more you talked, the more honey weaved through your words. but it wasn’t sweet, not in the slightest. it burned. “have manners been forgotten by a prince of the realm? i would've thought you more courteous than this.”
you were toying with him, like a cat would a mouse. and maekar targaryen had never been faced with such a thing, with a woman who dared bare her teeth back at him after he showed his. it made the ancient blood that flowed through his veins sear under his skin, hackles raising as if he was a dragon in human form, ready to breathe fire onto its enemies and leave smoke and ash behind.
the gods knew to take dragons away, for if they were still roaming around them now, maekar wouldn’t have hesitated to feed his novel betrothed to his own and watch from the sidelines, not missing a moment.
the thought made his fingers dig even harder into her cheeks, the soft skin dimpling under his blunt nails. your lips were pursed because of the pressure, and maekar will not admit to himself how his scathing glare flitted to the way they formed a pout, glistening still with the wine you were drinking prior. you looked ridiculous. that’s why his eyes lingered before returning to hold your gaze.
“you don’t deserve my manners,” he downright growled, a sound so deep and rumbly, like a dragon made flesh, leaning in until your noses almost touched, but he won’t allow more contact between you two than what he was willing to offer. “you don’t deserve anything that i have to give,” he almost spat, his broad chest heaving slightly, as if restraint was becoming hard to grasp. “i do not want to give you anything, you insufferable wench.”
your eyes widened for a moment at his words, but yet again, there was no fear, no offense, not even a sliver of rebuttal. only pure delight, as if his harsh words were music to your ears.
maekar did not understand. why were you not cowering? why were you not mellowing out? why in gods name were you tipping your head forward, close enough for your breaths to mingle.
“but you will, my lord husband,” came your whisper, brushing against his rough lips, as if you wanted him to taste the resolve in your words, the defiance in your tone. “i am your lady wife. what is yours, is mine.” another twitch of your lips, now higher, more pleased, like a cat that got the cream. “and i shall have it, even if i need to take it from you by any means necessary.”
“you know not of what you speak—”
“and neither do you,” you interjected, firmer this time, your gaze lowering to his lips for just a moment, as if pondering a secret only known by you, before lifting to make eye contact again. “your riches do not interest me. the crown i could do without. your name is nothing but an ancient thing that binds me to you,” you had his attention, to his absolute dismay, and it visibly pleased you.
“what i want,” a pause, leaning in enough to let your lips brush his, making him recoil, before he stubbornly held his place, not wanting to show how much the contact unnerved him. “is you, my lord husband.”
you must’ve had too much to drink, maekar thought. what you were saying made no sense to him, sounding like a lie the simpering women would whisper into one’s ear when they wanted to climb into their beds and rut on their cocks to solidify their station. it must be a ploy to try and soften him, to make him pliant and susceptible to future indulgences of yours.
you wanting him? why in gods name would that interest you in the slightest, when many other things should garner your attention, those which were mentioned by you. it should’ve been his gold, his station, his name, his connections.
not him. never him.
“do not think yourself so clever,” he spat, feeling his frustration mount, underlined with a begrudging sense of confusion, which he chose to ignore. “to believe that i shall fall for these empty words of sentiment,” maekar continued, fingertips squishing more of your now flushed cheeks, but not enough to bruise. he was not a brute to mar a woman, let alone one tied to him by marriage, contrary to rumors and whispers. “so do not waste your breath, my lady. it will do you no good, and i am not inclined to listen further.”
he thought that would be sufficient to shut you up, to make you see reason for once since you wed, and stop you from pushing nonsensical notions like they were fact. but you didn’t. his words seemed to only fuel the fire in your eyes, and he could feel the way your jaw clenched just so under his grip, resolve surging.
“i will prove it to you,” fell from your lips, solid and resolute, as if there was not an ounce of apprehension beneath your tongue. “one day, you will see that i speak truth,” a deep, steadying breath passing between your mouths, as if you were holding back something of great weight. “you will rid yourself of this meaningless whim of yours and accept what i am willing to give.” you spoke it as if the future was as you saw fit, and he had no say in it. it enraged and perturbed him in equal measure. “or you won’t have a sliver of peace in my presence.”
as if that was any different from how things have been since the papers were signed. maekar has not had any modicum of repose since he was cursed with a bothersome woman like you. the gods must jest at his expense now more than ever for the hand he was dealt.
“you have a lot of nerve for a—”
“and now, as the night grows near, we shall encourage the lord and lady towards what they surely are most expectant of! their bedding!”
the words boomed among the feast, ripping them apart from one another as every pair of eyes in the hall turned towards them, more attentive than ever.
maekar almost winced. he hated bedding ceremonies, for he would rather walk on glass barefoot than be subjected to such foolish nonsense. but alas, the court demanded it in fear of maekar showing reluctance towards another bride after many years of being a widower. so, he relented, kicking and screaming internally when it was brought to his attention, but anything to shut the mouths of courtiers and realm alike.
maekar did not look to his side. something in his chest pulled him away from meeting your gaze after the charged conversation you had. he hated that your words had been enough to unsettle him, even the tiniest bit.
instead, his eyes followed a group of way too eager lords who were rounding their high table to hoist you up and out of your seat. had they no shame in being so zealous? to let their hands grip at you, lifting you above their shoulders, fingers too rough against the fine silk of your wedding gown. where had decorum gone?
the sight made irritation spark in his gut, especially when he could hear your squeals of delight and the lilting sound of laughter that spilled unbridled from your lips as you were carried away to the royal chambers. it’s like you reveled in this whole travesty. in men touching you so shamelessly while hooting and hollering ribald jokes, one more salacious than the other.
in his case, being tugged on by simpering ladies was nothing but a nightmare come to life, but he had to bite his tongue and go along for the sake of tradition. maekar would’ve rather your hands on him, trying to rid him of his ceremonial cloak and vest, than a bunch of unknown women with too much nerve and too little propriety. he knew you better than he did these squealing birds.
your mirth was ever present when maekar made it to the chambers, his eyes narrowing to slits as he saw the way one of the lords was handling you, too ambitious in the way his fingers were nearly ripping your gown to the floor, leaving you clad in only a thin chemise. and he wasn’t the only one. the rest of the mindless, idiotic sycophants even dared to let their grubby palms smooth down your curves as they hollered more japes.
the ladies tending to him were more reserved, probably sensing maekar’s prickly nature, his body language so stiff they could barely get his tunic off, now half open, letting the broad expanse of his chest peek through, smattered with fine white hairs.
“a sword needs its sheath, don’t it, my lady?” exclaimed one of the men as his rugged fingers jerked your chemise down your shoulders, exposing the soft mounds of your breasts to the air, nipples hardening into dusky peaks. maekar’s breath stalled for a moment at the sight.
and like a beacon, every lord in the room had no shame in taking it all in, mouths open like panting bulls, some even licking their lips as if wanting to taste, making maekar’s restraint thin.
“gods, i wish my mother hadn’t weaned me, for your breasts are a sight to behold, my—”
“that’s enough,” slipped from maekar’s mouth, regretting it for a moment, before he pressed on. “keep your hands and your words to yourself if you wish to still draw breath where you stand.”
his tone was sharp, brooking no argument, if the people in attendance were smart. enough to cut every single jest, straightening the backs of every man in the room like clockwork, their mouths shut so tight their jaws trembled.
“y—your grace—”
“get the fuck out of the room before i decide to turn my wedding night crimson with the blood of the lot of you,” he barked, taking one step closer to where they stood, and it was sufficient to make them scramble, almost tripping over themselves to stand on the other side of the door.
the ladies remaining were uncertain of what to do, how to proceed. they haven’t undressed the prince like they meant to, hovering near maekar, almost trembling themselves.
“ah, ladies, do not fret,” you lilted, sweet like honeysuckle, stepping towards maekar, one hand lifting to press against the opening of his shirt, fingers spreading, brushing through the fine chest hairs. “i shall have the pleasure of undressing my husband myself. these muscles will know my touch alone.”
and for all the bravado he showed earlier, maekar could barely breathe under the bold touch of your hand, soft fingers brushing through the smattering of white onto his skin, reverent, as if you liked the sensation. and your words, spoken so saccharine, but he could tell it pleased you. having him to yourself. gods, what was wrong with you?
“now, off you go,” you continued, leaning into maekar’s space, pressing your bare breasts against his arm, his bicep cushioned between them. “my husband is ever eager to consummate our marriage, and i do not have the heart to make him wait any longer.”
maekar’s breath left him in one fell swoop, half from the feeling of your lush flesh pressing against his arm, and half from your words. you were a temptress, and the want to throttle you was coming back full force now, just as it was at the feast.
the door closed no long after, leaving you alone in the shared room, but not without company, for the lords and ladies, accompanied by one maester, had to hover on the other side, awaiting no doubt sounds of pleasure to waft through the mahogany wood.
“i’m pretty certain one of them was drooling while looking at my breasts,” you whispered, as if it was a secret, as if maekar hadn’t seen the hunger in their eyes and wanted to rip out each eyeball from their sockets with his bare hands.
“that does not concern me,” came his response, narrowed gaze dropping to where your hand still caressed his chest.
“mhm,” a pause, before your chin lifted, peering at him, a quirk to your lips. “i’m also certain one of them was eager enough to grope at them. i felt it.”
“which one?”
he hated the way he bristled, eyes traveling even lower now, to where your breasts were pushed up against his bicep, cushioning the corded muscle. god, but you had nice tits. they looked good squished against him, but he didn’t give that thought too much attention. he just liked tits a lot, is all. yours held no significance than, let’s say, a whore’s would.
the smile you gave him as soon as the inquiry left his mouth was so self-gratifying, he almost took his words back.
“i thought it did not concern you, my lord husband,” you reminded him, pressing even closer, the hand onto his chest drifting down, deft fingers slowly popping open the buttons on his tunic. “why the sudden interests, hm?”
maekar’s hand shot up to stop yours, halting your progress in undressing him, chest heaving slightly as he grit out, feeling tense as a coiled spring now that you two were alone and so, so close.
“stop it. we are not going to—”
and his words dissolve into a punched out groan as your hand trailed down to his crotch, where you seemed delighted to find him half—hard, and have no shame to press the heel of your palm into the growing thickness, rubbing in a slow downward motion.
“no?” you breathe, and the smile you give him is syrupy. he swears he can taste it, your words almost mocking him for his weakness, for the reaction his body had to… all of this. “then why are you hard, my lord husband? was the touch of all those ladies so satisfactory that it aroused you?”
and maekar wants to say that, yes, he got hard from those stupid court ladies feeling him up and tugging at his clothes, and not from the sight of your breasts pressed up against him, pebbled nipples brushing against the satin of his tunic. and definitely not from thinking how well his mouth could fit around one of them to suckle and lap at like a dog.
these feverish thoughts were just a result of not having seen a woman half—bare in years, and his body was betraying him by plaguing his mind with debauched scenarios that would never happen. that should never happen. he couldn't let himself show intimacy in such a way.
“because you keep touching me,” he snapped, harsher than he would have wanted, but he was so tense, and your hand felt too good, a fact which would never reach your ears. “even though i expressed no desire to want such a thing.”
your hand did not stop, whatsoever, continuing to rub slowly over the now fully hard cock in his breeches, making his breathing come in short, angry puffs against your cheek.
“then stop me,” you offered, only leaning closer, as if goading him into trying. “you’re a strong man. i reckon you could overpower a lady if you wanted,” then your lips pursued, thoughtful, and you continued. “unless… the stories i’ve heard about the anvil’s prowess were only tales for sleeping children?”
maekar knew what you were doing, playing him like a fiddle, making him lose all reason and succumb to your whims against his will, as if he were a weak man. as if he couldn’t discern between what he wanted to do and what you wanted him to do.
and still, he was powerless when challenged, like you knew his visceral need to prove himself to you, or anyone else. the gnawing ache in his chest whenever someone dared question him in any aspect of his life.
but more so, when his strength was disputed. undermined.
it did not even take a blink of an eye until he had grabbed you by the arm, hauling you over to the bed, pushing you backwards until you fell, sprawled against the furs and pelts, which cushioned the fall.
his weight pressed you into the mattress like the anvil itself, his knees bracketing your hips, holding you where he wanted you, wide-eyed and breasts jiggling with every breath. for a moment, he reveled in the surprise etched onto your face, before it turned into a cheeky smirk as your hands wasted no time before brushing down his chest again, seeking to undress him.
“so eager, my lord husband,” she whispered, still a bit breathless from the rough manhandling, but delighted beyond measure. “do not tell me that you’ve been secretly aching for this?”
maekar scoffed, scowling down at her from above, even as his breath hitched. gods, no one had touched him like this in so long. not with this teasing familiarity, and not on a night meant to be cold and ceremonial, even if they had never lain together. hell, even stood next to each other for more than duty demanded in the last fortnight.
your hands were warm, picking at the buttons like you had all the time in the world, and it grated on his nerves, even more so when he saw the smirk on your plush lips widening the more skin you uncovered.
he caught your wrist, firm enough to stop your exploration, holding it over his chest for a tense moment, before releasing it, brushing it to the side so he could take over, undoing the buttons himself. maekar rationalized that it was because you were agonizingly slow, and your touch annoyed him, the feeling of your fingertips brushing his skin prickling, leaving gooseflesh behind.
the tunic fell away swiftly, leaving him bare-chested, a mountain of corded muscle and sinew, veins traveling along his forearms and down his throat from how tense he was. your eyes drank him in, mouth parting in a sigh, overly pleased, as if the sight of him alone unraveled you.
it did not take long for your hands to follow the same path your gaze did, pawing shamelessly at the broad expanse of scarred skin, brushing over the smattering of thin white hairs onto his chest and down his navel.
maekar’s skin prickled further under your touch. he could feel your fingers over every scar. the one from dragonstone’s training yard when he was still a boy, the thin line across his ribs from a valyrian steel sword graze, now traced by curious, gentle fingers. but equally desirous.
the low rumble from his throat slipped without his permission as you continued, now groping at the thick muscles of his biceps and pectorals, sighing while you did it, breathy and satisfied, as if the feel of his muscles pleased you. being audacious enough to sink your fingers into the skin, to squeeze and feel every inch you could get under your palms. and he couldn’t do anything but watch you, feeling his breath hitch as he saw you lick your lips, slow and habitual, as if you didn’t realize you did it while feeling him up.
the prince could not get his bearings anymore. his breath came faster now—shallow, uneven. each one of your touches burned like fire, leaving behind a scorching trail. your hands were not those of a shy, hesitant maiden. no, they felt like a claim, like you were worshiping his body with shameless delight, exploring every hard ridge and dense muscle as if you’d been starved for it, as if you’d been waiting to do it.
“gods, husband,” slipped from your mouth as he felt a particularly lingering touch down his abdomen, your nails scraping along the skin, making the muscles ripple. “but you are a sight to behold,” you almost moaned, gaze half—lidded with nothing but unrelenting hunger. “you look delicious enough to eat,” you continued, downright purring now, like a feline playing with your food, daring to brush your hands down his shoulders, and along his arms, nails prickling at the protruding veins along the way. “so big and strong.”
you must’ve had way too much to drink. there was no other explanation as to why such words would come out of your mouth, why your palms touched him like you wanted him. that could not be. no one wanted him. no one should’ve wanted him. he was a hardened warrior, a widower, a father of six, a man who didn’t need—
gods above… delicious? how could you call him something so absurdly ridiculous? as if he were a feast laid out for your personal consumption. as if his body was made to be admired—devoured in its entirety—by her shameless gaze and persistent hands.
“how come no lady pounced on you sooner, hm?” you had the nerve to question—still touching him, mapping out his body like it was yours alone to do with as you pleased—as if there was a line out the door of ladies wanting nothing more but to jump on his cock and have their way with him. what preposterous notions had you in that head of yours? you must’ve hit it when you were a child, to think such perceptions.
his jaw tightened, trying to regain some sort of upper hand against you. “no lady is as impudent as you,” he reproached, his lip lifting in a half snarl, like a beast held at bay. “as adamant to touch something that isn’t yours—”
“isn’t?” you interjected, nails digging into the meat of his abdomen, hard enough to leave red crescent moons behind. a mark of yours, as if punishing him for even daring to say such a thing, when he knew you were bound by vow beneath the old gods and the new. it made maekar hiss, like a dragon challenged, ready to retaliate. “you are mine, by law and by vow,” you firmly stated, nails biting at skin anew, scraping down, painting red indent lines along ivory. “just as i am yours,” maekar had half a mind to snap, to bite, to do anything to stop the words coming out of your mouth, but you did not waver. “yours to have, yours to take, yours to touch.”
a beat, your chest heaving now, too, just like his was, only softer. “so touch me, husband,” provocation again, in your tone, in your gaze, in every single inch of your body. “unless you do not know how? has your prowess deserted you in the years of widowing?” maekar was moments away from strangling you, his fingers twitching with the urge to just wrap them around your throat and squeeze until not even breath slipped past your lips. but he had no such luck, for your next words stalled him, unmoving.
“shall i scream for all those court vipers to hear?” you incited, eyes narrowed, nails still deep into his skin, but he could barely feel the sting over the pounding in his ears over your goading. “shall i let the whole realm know that my lord husband is incapable of even touching his lady wife? of being man enough to make her feel good? instead of standing there gaping at a pair of tits like a green boy in his first whorehouse, incapable of—”
maekar’s eyes flashed—anger. humiliation. and something he couldn’t name, but it burned in his gut, spreading all the way down to his cock, hard enough to split stone now. it was surely the adrenaline of it all, his nerves on high alert, heart pounding so hard in his chest he could taste it in his mouth. nothing else. it couldn’t be anything else. not with you.
you were baiting him again. mocking his hesitation and reluctance to touch you, tone biting, just as your nails have been on his skin. words spoken like a commoner, not even close to the speech of a highborn lady, now wife of a prince of the realm. a targaryen.
he couldn’t continue like this. not with your hands on him, with your eyes watching him like you wanted him, like you desired him. with your—gods, with your tits bouncing with every breath, enticing him to forget all about your insolence and dip down to mouth and slobber all over them like a fucking dog until you moaned and arched against his tongue and teeth and—
his hands were rough, not enough to bruise, but firm as he grabbed your hips, holding onto the fat there and flipping you in one swift motion. not gently, not romantically.
dominant, like he had no doubt you would stay where he put you, where he wanted you, face down into the furs and pelts, hips angled backwards by his steady grip, bare breasts squished against the mattress, as was your tummy.
“m—maekar—,” you shrieked, surprised and muffled into the bed now, but he didn’t want to hear a word from you now, one palm dipping towards your shoulders, pressing down, keeping you in place. a silent command—stay there or else.
he was breathing hard, like a bull after a good run, nostrils flaring, broad chest heaving, eyes trained on the way your body looked beneath him now, arched, at his mercy, under his strong hands, held in place exactly as he pleased. no longer playing by your whims, no longer unnerved by your gaze or touches. no longer making him question things he was not ready to untangle.
his face was hot, hotter now, as his eyes traced the curves of you, the way your chemise hiked up your thighs, letting him get a peek at your rear. gods, what were you doing to him? maekar wished he could forget the way your ardent gaze devoured him whole, as if he were a god among men, as your tone dipped into sweet honey, sultry and purred.
nothing could unnerve him anymore. he was no longer shackled by—
a whine. pitched and demanding, slipped from your lips as your hips wiggled in his grip, pushing your rear back against him, brushing against the bulge in his breeches, ample flesh jiggling from side to side, catching his gaze like a beacon. “d—do something, you useless brute!” you demanded, back arching with the grace of a feline, pleading for attention without much preamble. still shameless, still without an ounce of decorum.
maekar’s breath left him sharply at the sight. your hips swaying, arse sticking out in unabashed invitation, like you were a cat begging to be scratched, petted—or worse, claimed. how dare you? he thought, incredulous as to how a woman could be this unashamed in her desires—in her want for… him. for this brute, as you called him so brazenly.
a brute, was he?
well, if he were such a brute, then he would act like one, and put you in your damn place once and for all, solidifying his place in this marriage and proving you wrong.
slowly, akin to a predator stalking his prey, his hand moved back towards the fat of your hip to join the other, thumbs digging slightly into the curve where waist met ass, feeling the warmth of you through the silk. you were burning, and he barely touched you yet. what a debauched creature you were.
and then, because you begged with that wiggle and sway, he answered. no longer useless, as his hands slid lower over plush cheeks, palm flattening over one rounded backside, and gave a sharp, resounding smack, making the silken flesh jiggle from the impact.
maekar expected a yelp, a rebuke. not a loud, pleasured moan, like a woman possessed, mouth parting against the pelt under your cushioned cheek, eyelashes fluttering, as if savoring the sting of the strike.
“gods, yes, yes,” you sighed, already pushing your arse back towards his palm, wanting more, like a greedy little thing.
his eyes darkened, the purple obscured by the black now, a flush crawling up his throat at the way you sounded, as if he offered you salvation and damnation both. like you’ve been waiting for this very moment since the wedding feast—his hand smacking your ass like a fucking degenerate commoner. and now you want more.
he didn’t hesitate.
smack. another sharp spank landed, not harsh enough to hurt deeply, but firm and stinging through the fabric of your thin chemise.
“look at you,” he grit out, mocking but reverent in equal measure as he hiked up your chemise to your hips, revealing the heated skin of your arse, where his palm smacked, marking you with ardor. it gave him a thrill like no other to see the labor of his punishment on you.
“arching and begging for it like a fucking cat in heat,” he continued, palm smoothing down the flush of your skin, but not to soothe. just to feel the heated pulse of the flesh there beneath his fingers.
it made his cock twitch in his breeches.
even more when he realized you weren’t wearing any small clothes, as a lady should. like a bride would on her wedding night.
gods, you were audacious beyond measure. he didn’t know if it angered him more than it thrilled him.
“no smallclothes,” he noted, tilting his head, as if assessing the expanse of bare flesh now at his disposal. maekar could even see a peek of the folds of your cunt as you continued to arch into his touches. and you were wet, almost dripping onto your thighs, onto the bedding underneath. his spanks have gotten you aroused. “not even a commoner would be this immodest.”
“don’t need them,” you retorted, only trying to push backwards more, relentless and needy. “they’ll only get in the way of you putting your cock in me.”
all the gods above, that mouth on you was lethal.
the words made a ragged, bitten-off curse fall from his mouth as his fingers moved to spread the globes of your rear enough to expose your pussy better to his gaze.
“drenched,” maekar breathed—still hang up on the way you mentioned his cock in such a raunchy manner, unbefitting of a lady—not being able to tear his eyes away from how soaked you were, and only dripping more, your hole clenching around nothing, as if already taunting him inside. “making a mess all over yourself, like you belong on streets of silk than in the bed of a prince.”
he couldn’t help but lean down, but not towards where you were softest. not yet. his rough lips pressed to the warmth now seared onto your arse, only hovering for a moment, before he pulled back his lips to bite, sinking his teeth into the ardent flesh. gently at first, just a slight press of canines. a dragon claiming what he marked.
then he kissed it. a hot, open—mouthed press that warmed the aching skin even more. no finesses, no romance. just raw possession now, letting you know with teeth and tongue that you belonged to him entirely now, and not the other way around. gods and vows aside. he was not yours. but you were his.
you couldn’t help the soft sounds falling from your lips, every touch from your husband burning. a true dragon’s claim on his hoard. no longer distant, no longer resisting that primal instinct you knew lay dormant within him, just waiting to be taunted out.
“a—ah, you could always move your mouth lower, my lord husband.”
lower.
said in such a sultry, daring way, as if you thought he wouldn't, as if you needed to coax him towards your cunt.
maekar exhaled slowly, the flush on his throat only blooming more insistent with every word from you, each more sweltering than the other. he even forgot about the courtiers lingering on the other side of the door. the thought only made his flush deepen, traveling all the way to the tips of his ears, reddening his cheeks along the way. he’s sure they heard the spanks. gods, they’re gonna think him a barbarian who slaps his wife around for pleasure. and it was only your fault for goading him into such things.
he couldn’t let shame burn too hotly in his gut, choosing to distract himself by slowly peppering kisses up your thighs, tongue laving across the skin, pulling more breathy sounds out of you. every press of lips was deliberate, each one slower than the last, inching where you wanted him most, where you smelled strongest. tangy, musky, and just a bit of sweetness, all dripping out of you, the more attention he gave.
for a prince of the realm, the way he comported himself tonight should’ve been shameful, but he couldn’t think about propriety and etiquette as his nose brushed along your folds, inhaling deeply, searing your scent to the back of his throat as he groaned aloud. fuck, fuck, fuck.
it felt perverted to trail the tip of his nose along your drooly folds, spreading them just so, nudging them apart, coating himself in your juices, mouth dropping open in a near growl.
the sound that got out of you was more like a yelped moan than anything, but you pressed your hips back, as if itching to hump your pussy against the bridge of his nose. and maybe one day, he would let you do just that, but today he had other plans, as he let the tip of his nose bump against your chubby clit, brushing against the silky skin.
“yes, yes, yes, right there,” you whined like a mantra, having no qualms in moving your hips, grinding down helplessly in hopes of pressing the tip of your husband’s nose more firmly against the bundle of nerves at the top of your pussy. “feels good, husband, gods—”
just this. just you humping his nose like a fevered whore, getting him soaked with your slick, enough for it to drip onto his reddened cheeks and even down to his lips, urging him to lick at them, tasting you on his tongue.
that was enough to urge him to stick his tongue out and lave at your pussy, a broad, firm flick of it, greedily soaking up all the wetness he could. maekar would drink from you if he could. if such a thing as the nectar of the gods existed, he was sure it wouldn’t come close to the taste of your cunt on his tongue.
your moan was loud, pulled from deep within your chest, melting you from head to toe as your husband continued to lap at you with a greed rivaling a thief's, stealing the sweetest sounds from your throat, the combination of his nose bumping into your clit and his tongue parting your folds almost making you go cross eyed from pleasure. “don’t stop, don’t—fuck, maekar, don’t stop licking.”
even like this, you were demanding and bossy.
“y’taste good, wife,” came muffled from between your thighs, accompanied by wet, slurping sounds, so lewd and arousing, it only made you drip onto his awaiting tongue more. “if i knew this was all i needed to do to keep your mouth shut,” a suck against your quivering hole, obscene enough to make even you flush. “i would’ve had you spread open right after we signed the papers,” a huff against your wetness, before he nudged his nose against your clit anew, grinding it in slow circular motions, making you shake. “it would’ve saved me a fortnight of peace.”
his words only made you seek his touch more, hips grinding with more fervor, seeking as much pleasure as he could give. “you should’ve,” you retorted, airy and soft, molded around a mewl as his tongue replaced the tip of his nose, circling your clit firmly, your eyes almost rolling back into your head from how good it felt. “should’ve taken me, too. put your cock to good use and render me speechless.”
as always, you were relentless. here he was, drowning in your pussy, and you wanted more. he should’ve left you like that, a sprawled mess onto the bed, aching and whining, showing you the importance of patience. of gratitude. of restraint.
but, alas, he has lost the will to make you suffer, to want to see you crumple, and now only desired this version of you. needy and pliant and pleading for every inch of him like a good wife would.
and even then, he couldn’t forget all the lip you gave him, all those jabs and ceaseless fussing.
your husband was not going to give you everything you wanted when you wanted it. not on your terms.
maekar drew back from between your folds, your juices smeared over the bottom half of his face, coating his beard, glistening in the candlelight, and twirled his tongue around his mouth for a few moments, before spitting right onto your quivering hole, thumb following to spread the wetness around. it was vulgar, but it made you whine louder. so he did it again, a bigger glob of saliva this time, dripping from your entrance to your clit, before trailing down onto the bedding.
“filthy,” he rebuked, as if he wasn’t the one dirtying you with such unabashed lewdness. two thick, calloused fingers swiped through the mixture of slick and spit, gathering it generously before feeding it into your hole, slow and methodical, all the way up to the second knuckle.
and curled, brushing against spongy walls.
“gods—,” you cried out, clenching around his fingers, as if sucking them deeper. it made your husband growl, punishing your greed by curling the digits again, dragging the rough pads along those spots which made your pitch higher, your thighs quiver. “more, maekar,” you pleaded, pushing your hips back, grinding onto his fingers, ass jiggling from the way maekar’s wrist slapped against the bottom of your rear. “need more, ah, need your cock. p—put your cock in me already, you brute—” you tried again, but he ignored you, only adding a third finger, stuffing you more full, placating you. but teasing you in equal measure, like the brute he was.
that seemed to frustrate you more, whine gurgling from your throat, hips gyrating with more insistence. “n—not enough!” you gritted, so, so impatient, focused on getting the only thing you truly wanted. “a true husband would’ve had his cock in me by now! a—are you, ah, fuck,” a harsh flick of his wrist interrupted your protests, deterring you for a moment, before you continued, brows furrowing. “does your prick not work anymore, my lord husband? are you afraid i won’t be satisfied?” the words tumbled out of your mouth unbidden, throwing every taunt at him in hopes of him biting.
“is it so small that it’ll leave me asking for your fingers again or—”
silence.
before a weight settled over your back like a blanket, so warm and sturdy, pinning your upper body onto the pelts ruthlessly, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you winded for a few moments.
“shut up,” was growled against your ear, so low and vicious it made your now empty hole quiver and drip even more slick. gods, where had his fingers gone? “you insufferable, wanton wench,” his words dripped with so much venom it made a delicious shiver run down your spine, more than delighted to have him pressed along your back, shoulders to hips, feeling the hard length of his cock press along the folds of your pussy through his breeches.
one of his hands fumbled with the fastenings, pulling himself out, thick and girthy, guiding the head towards your folds, smearing his precum all over the silky flesh as he panted against your ear. “you don’t deserve this,” he rumbled, gliding the cock-head slowly along the wetness, before slapping it against your clit. once, twice, like small love taps, barely giving you any stimulation. “but i’ll give it to you anyway,” he inched back towards your entrance, repeating the lewd motion, precum coating the throbbing hole with each slap of the head against it.
his arms moved, one settling by your head, elbow pressed into the mattress so he can curl all that muscle and sinew against your neck, cradling your head between his forearm and bicep, the crook of his elbow pressing softly against your throat, making you gasp, choked and whiny. your husband had you in a headlock, squeezing just so, just enough for you to feel his strength and what he could do with it, if he wished.
it made you moan shamelessly, palms coming to curl around the muscle there, nails digging in, making maekar hiss, and flex just a bit more in retaliation, before relaxing the squeeze.
“please, husband,” you pleaded, a little breathless from the hold of his arm, pushing your hips back against him. “take me, fuck me, have me.”
music to maekar’s ears. having you so desperate, begging for him so sweetly, letting him place you how he wanted and keep you there, his weight keeping you pressed to the bedding, your hips tilted up by his other hand, which now slowly pushed the head of his cock into your glistening hole, still careful, even with all the pent-up frustration and arousal. he never meant to hurt you, no matter how much you infuriated him.
a loud, suffering groan brushed your ear as he bottomed out, feeling how tight you were, how wet and warm and gods—he could die in your cunt. in this greedy, hungry thing, which pulsed and throbbed and squeezed around him like it wanted him deeper.
you were no better, practically drooling over his bicep, shameless moans spilling freely, loud enough to be heard by the courtiers, perhaps the whole castle. pleasure overtook you, urging you to babble, fingers gripping at his muscles like a lifeline. “have me, husband,” you repeated those salacious words, clenching around him tightly. “t—take me like a real man, not a green boy who—”
the hand that guided his cock inside snapped upwards, clamping over your mouth, thick fingers pressing into the flush of your skin, rendering any more comments to silence.
“shut,” he ground out, dragging his hips back before snapping them forward, thrusting inside you. “your insolent mouth, woman,” rasped against your cheek now, as he set a firm, ruthless pace, navel slapping against the flesh of your ass, making it jiggle, the sound echoing through the room.
your sounds of pleasure were muffled by his hands, slobbering all over the inside of his palm from how much you were drooling, moans and cries barely making it past the rough fingers pressed to your lips. maekar could’ve winced at the feeling of wetness, but it only thrilled him more to have you like this, mindless with bliss from how deep his cock reached, the tip hitting that one spot inside your gummy walls that made your nails scratch at his bicep and your tongue lolling out, pressing against his palm, even daring to lick.
every thrust brought him closer to the edge, feeling the telltale sign of heat at the base of his spine, spreading into the pit of his stomach. and by the way your sounds could barely be silenced anymore, so were you.
his pace quickened, hips snapping against your ass harder, rutting into you with fervor, close to snarling against your ear from how good it felt. gods, your pussy was made for this. for him. coating his cock, making tendrils of slick stick to his navel and the backs of your thighs from how wet you were, the sounds squelching and filthy. “pussy so good, wife,” maekar rumbled, the praise slipping from his mouth. “so good for your husband’s cock.”
his wife was getting close, he could tell; her hands now clawing at the one of his onto her mouth, making him slacken it just enough for her to cry out, garbled and supplicating.
“spend in me,” you mewled, little ah, ah, ah sounds muffling against the inside of his palm, now coated with your drool. “give me your seed, maekar,” the pleading continued, making his thrusts falter minutely. “let me have your seed, husband.”
you sounded so desperate, so… earnest, as if all that happened led to this, to you asking for something a husband should give freely, without a shroud of doubt. like a future where you might end up round and full with his child was something you would be pleased with. it was too much for him. he won’t be made to believe that such a forthcoming was meant to be sound, especially when you were overcome with pleasure.
maekar found himself shaking his head, palms pressing back against your mouth to silence any more begging, to cease such ramblings from a woman who didn’t mean what she was saying, even if your words almost made him cum inside of you moments ago.
“i—i can’t,” he groaned, low and shaky, as if pained. “i won’t, wife.”
This is so important. AI is ever evolving, especially with trillions being invested into it. There are no more weird fingers at all.
I have run into several videos into my feed thst I wouldn't have been able to tell they were AI if it weren't for the watermark alone. Especially ones posing as police body cam, security cameras and other similar low quality cameras.
A lot of people hinged their criticism of AI on how it consistently looked bad, which I have been saying for a while was always going to be a criticism with an expiration date attached since AI models have clearly been getting better with time
A lot of people operate with the assumption that AI can never get better than the most obviously AI content they've seen, so they end having no reason to suspect something was AI generated unless it's yellow-tinted pseduo-Ghibli art
