sentimental fool

akotsk pilled

[picatssso]

Casella Ladybright (oc) and her lovers; Ashara Dayne & Ned Stark

Upon meeting at the infamous tourney at Harrenhal, Casella and Ashara quickly grew interested in the younger Stark brother, Eddard. Over those ten days of the tournament the three nobles remained together in the spirit of keeping good company. Even after the end of the festivities and the beginning of the rebellion they all kept close correspondence through letters sent back and forth.

[itsacoffeemug]

Young Baelor and Maekar Targaryen with purple eyes<3

A little note: you can do whatever you want with these. Also if anyone wants me to do a specific Targaryen (canon or fancast) you can send me pictures

[sedonasummer]

Ive had a thought, and I just need to share it with someone- Maekar #1 biggest fan of his partner having bush 😩 like imagine his reaction when one day BOOM, bush has been removed, I just know he’d hate it

ɢᴏɴᴇ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

─ summary: You do something new for your husband. He kinda hates it for a little but only for a little bit.

─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x reader

─ content: 18+ MDNI | smut | p in v | no plot | fluff if you squint

─ a/n: I was giggling writing this. Thank you for your patience…we are slowly working through this inbox. 🖤

This week had been a slow-moving torture of missed connections. Maekar would stumble into your shared chambers long after the moon had reached its zenith, his face etched with the day's battles, only to find you deep in an exhausted sleep. When you woke, the space beside you was cold, his scent a fading ghost on the pillows. It was a chasm of silence and solitude, and you had grown tired of it. That morning, you had summoned Maekar's steward. "You will tell my husband," you instructed, your voice leaving no room for argument, "that his work ends today at the seventh hour. He will join me for dinner. He will not be late." The steward, a man who had seen the your husband’s frustrations at the constant near-misses, simply bowed. "Of course, my lady."

You spent the afternoon orchestrating the evening. The kitchens were a hive of activity, preparing everything Maekar favoured. You wanted to care for him, to wash the week's exhaustion from his bones with food and wine and quiet affection.

Dinner was a success. The tension in his shoulders finally unwound, and the lines around his pale violet eyes softened as he spoke of his day, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. He fed you from his own fork, his fingers lingering on your lips, a silent promise of what was to come. When you finally retired to your bedchamber, the air was thick with unspoken need. The week of abstinence had been a strain on you both; your life together was a passionate, physical one, and this dry spell had left an ache.

"You have missed your husband, I think," he teased, his voice a low growl as he pulled you into his arms. His silver-blond hair brushed against your cheek, and the faint, coarse scratch of his beard was a familiar, thrilling sensation against your skin.

You wound your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his. "And you, my lord," you murmured against his mouth, "have you missed your wife?" His answer was a kiss, deep and hungry. He backed you toward the bed, his hands roaming possessively over your curves, undressing you as he went, his touch igniting a fire low in your belly. You fell onto the soft furs, a tangle of limbs and growing urgency. His mouth moved from yours to your throat, nipping and sucking, and you arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

"Maekar," you breathed, your fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. "I did something… for you."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark with lust and curiosity. A slow smile spread across his lips. "Did you now?" he rumbled. "Show me."

You sat up and gripped the hem of your silky shift. In one fluid motion you pulled it over your head and cast it aside. The firelight kissed your skin, and you watched his face, your own breath held tight in your chest. His smile faltered. His eyes, which had been filled with a hungry heat, widened slightly. The look on his face was a flash of pure, unadulterated dismay.

"What is this?" He pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on the juncture of your thighs. "Who did this to you?"

A knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. "You… you do not like it?" you asked, your voice smaller than you intended.

The sound of your voice seemed to break him from his stupor. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, the slight tremble in your lower lip, and his expression immediately softened. He reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. "No," he said quickly, then corrected himself. "I mean, yes. You are beautiful, perfection, as always."He sat up fully, his muscular torso bathed in firelight. "But I love the look of you, all of you."

You could not help the small pout that formed on your lips.

He saw your disappointment and leaned in, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to your mouth. "You are spectacular," he insisted, his voice a low, earnest murmur against your lips. "But please, do not let that butcher touch you again."

A small, watery laugh escaped you at his dramatic choice of words. The tension in the room broke, replaced by something more complex, a mixture of your lingering disappointment and his overwhelming affection. He pulled you back down onto the furs, his mouth finding yours again. The kiss was different now, less frantic, more apologetic and tender. But the week of built-up need was a powerful force. His hands began to roam again, rediscovering your body, and the heat between you began to rebuild, slowly at first, then with a sudden, ferocious intensity. He rolled on top of you, and when he entered you it was with a groan of pure relief.

He began to move, his strokes deep and punishing, and as he took you, as he watched his thick, glistening cock disappear into your body, something shifted in him. He had been dismayed, yes, but now he was transfixed. Without the soft, neat curls he could see everything. He could see how the perfect, swollen folds of your cunt spread around his length, see how utterly soaked you were for him, your slickness coating him, shining in the firelight. The visual was filthy, intimate, and undeniably erotic. He could see every detail of your body's response to him, and it drove him wild with a possessive lust.

"Gods," he grunted, his rhythm growing faster, harder. He gripped your hips, pulling you onto him with each thrust, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing in the quiet chamber. "How long," he panted, his gaze locked on where you were joined, "until it grows back?"

"Four moons or so," you gasped, your hands clutching at his powerful shoulders, your body arching to meet his brutal pace.

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him. "Well, there is no point in waiting around." He drove into you, his hips snapping hard against yours. "We might as well make the most of this." The sheer, unexpected amusement in his voice, mixed with the power of his thrusts, sent you over the edge, and you cried out his name as your release tore through you. He followed you moments later with a hoarse shout, burying himself deep inside you and spending inside you, marking you as his.

As you lay tangled together, panting in the firelight, you could not help but laugh, a deep, satisfied sound. He was an impossible man.

[drallimylime]

... is a muddy dragon.

[daeron's dialogue is taken verbatim from the novella, lmao]

[iressasmailbox]

is there some sort of correlation with doomed first born sons being hot af?

[svkahug]

in sickness and in health

Summary: Baelor's wife is sick. The maesters forbid him from seeing her, until they can't.

---

It starts out as a chill. He notices the scarves and shawls you wrap yourself in even when you were just lounging in his solar during one of his late nights sending ravens and reviewing ledgers. Even when winter was moons away and he’s kept the hearth tended to throughout the night. He never says it but he loves it when you wait for him like this, though he wishes it was not at the expense of your own health.

Nevertheless, if you were cold, he only took it as another excuse to close the distance between you in bed, wrapping an arm around your middle. You don’t complain, intertwining your hands against your stomach. If he wakes in the middle of the night, he ensures the blankets are up to your shoulders and the hearth is burning enough to keep you warm.

But then came the coughing fits, so extreme it wakes you up, causes you to sit up in bed, catching your breath. Baelor wakes, a hand on your back, not crowding but also just there. He worries, of course. He gets you a cup of water and watches you finish the entire thing. He’d ring the servants for tea in the dead of night, ignoring your reassurances that you were alright and you didn’t want to bother the staff. No maesters, you insisted and he's but a slave to your whims.

The last straw for him is when you throw up the contents of your stomach in the middle of the night, swiftly pulling the covers back and running towards the silver pot in the far corner of the room. He’s up before he’s fully awake at the sound of your rushed steps across the stone floor.

I’m fine, you insist, sitting on the edge of the bed and clutching a goblet in both your hands as the sickness subsided. You can tell he’s restless. He wraps you up in a robe and the maesters are called before you can say anything.

While waiting, Baelor has inquiries of his own. What did you eat today? What were you doing? Who were you with? Were any of them unwell? You tell him you had the same food as everyone, did not do anything unusual. He seems unsatisfied by this.

The maesters conduct their examination and he’s standing behind them, watching, smallclothes disheveled under his robe. They tell you it’s probably just an upset stomach and leave. You reassure Baelor, and he caves but you can tell he files it away, similar to the way he assesses important information he finds when he holds council. He holds you just a little tighter that night.

The next day he lets you sleep in. He murmurs goodbyes against your temple and you mumble sweet nothings in return. He kisses your hand once, twice, asks you if you need anything, before leaving.

Call for me if you need anything, he reminds you before you shoo him away.

In the afternoon, when the duty provides respite, he decides to seek you out. You’re not in the gardens, or in the solar reading. One of your ladies informs him you’re still in your chambers. He feels the familiar creep of worry on his shoulders, especially when he enters your shared chambers and it is obviously devoid of sound, of life. Then he sees your form curled up under the covers. He sits on the edge of the bed, careful. He calls your name once, then twice. Then his hand is on your forehead and you’re burning up so much he nearly flinches.

He walks across the room, commands one of the kingsguard standing guard outside to fetch the maester. Quick. Now.

A hand on your cheek. Sweet girl, he sounds far away to you, can you sit up for me?

You push yourself up on your shoulders, body heavy and protesting. Your back is damp with sweat, hair slightly matted. Your eyes are hot and barely open. You hear water being poured, then a hand is on your face again, gently pushing strands of hair away.

Drink, you do a little too quickly like you’ve walked a mile in the desert, how are you feeling?

Baelor would feel bad about causing any discomfort to you even if it was for the sake of getting better. He’d press cold damp cloths to your forehead. You’d flinch and try to get away from the stinging cold, and he’d be there murmuring apologies. I’m sorry, sweet girl, this is just to bring your temperature down, he’d remind, a hand on your shoulder, I’m sorry, please stay still.

Would definitely be sweeter on you, more patient and caring. Knowing you’re unwell, you'd be on the back of his mind constantly.

He plans on seeing you after a small council meeting, but he’s intercepted by a maester halfway across the hall.

Isolation is best, the maester says.

For who?

For both of you.

He understands then what precautions they were taking, eliminating threats to the heir apparent. But all he could think of was how bad it could be for the maesters to isolate you, to separate you both out of fear of contagion. The maesters are concerned about his health, they check him too, but all he could think of was your condition.

Then he'd try to send Maekar in. Maekar would act offended about his brother’s lack of care for him, 'ah yes, allow the fourth spare to get the plague’. But it was all dramatics; he’d see the toll it took on Baelor, the worry about your condition, only hearing from you through the maesters, and give in eventually. You're responding well to the medicine, Maekar informs him, and you sleep most of the time.

At first, he'd try to reason with the maesters, that Maekar had been in your chambers and seemed well enough. But they are strict in their implementations.

A week of isolation, a week without his wife, and people can tell he’s more irritable than usual. Moments in small council meetings where he’d be quiet, lost in thought. He doesn’t let go of his duties but he’d definitely have a shorter span of patience than usual. Lords would learn to get to their points quickly and not stall any longer. He doesn’t snap, but he’d go quiet, nod tensely as if agreeing with whatever suggestion, but it’s clear it’s more of a do whatever you want, see what happens, than an actual agreement.

"She’s asking for you," Maekar says one night in his solar.

The space where you usually sat had been empty for many nights.

"What?" His writing halts.

"She’d been asking for you since yesterday." Something in his chest physically clenches.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing, really. Just said your name, asked where you were, then went back to sleep. She’s quite delirious, probably milk of the— Hey! What in the Seven— " His chair scrapes across the stone floor and he's out of the room before Maekar can finish.

Being forced apart from you rattled him, especially in your state. Already, the image of you, sick and alone, has his chest clenching. But to hear that you were searching for him, seeking him out, and he was not there was the last straw. Everyone had their duty. Him as heir, as prince. Even the maesters, he trusted, were doing everything in their knowledge to ensure a swift and safe recovery. But as of the moment, he felt as though he was the only one doing a disservice in being your husband.

He’s down the stairs of the tower of the hand lightning quick, nearly jogging across halls and abandoning the Kingsguard that followed him. Maester Yormwell greets him by the door of your chambers, mouth beginning to open in protest.

"Your Grace, I must insist on complete iso—"

"Let me through, or I’d have you back in the Citadel by nightfall."

The threat, akin more to Maekar than the heir apparent, has the maester stepping back both in surprise and fear. Everyone had their ends. Baelor, who was usually diplomatic, who seldom spoke unkindly, found that it was his wife who unraveled him.

You wake at the sight of your husband, pushing yourself up and immediately reaching for him. He closes the distance quickly, taking your hands and sitting by your bedside. He presses a kiss to your temple, a hand on the junction of your neck, feeling how warm you were. I’m sorry, he murmurs, I’m here, darling.

He knew you to be fiercely independent any other time, preferring to do your own thing and accompany him on your own time, so for you to be so rendered sick and incapable broke his heart a little, although he doesn't complain when you reach for him more often than not.

He seldom left your bedside by that point and any suggestion for isolation by the maesters were met with a glare. He seldom left you even when you were feeling better, enough to sit up in bed during long periods. He's gone for small council meetings but ensures you have one of your ladies in the room when he's not there.

He nearly moves his solar into your chambers.

The bed is large enough that he often works by the foot of it while you rested. You inspect the papers scattered on the bed leisurely. Mostly you slept. Then awoke to eat and have your medicine administered. He endures the steam in the room and eats with you. He holds you, without complaint, when it got too cold, when the sickness caused you to slip in and out of consciousness. He'd stroke your hair, run a hand across your back. Where does it hurt? He asks, and soothes the pain.

In the end, you feel as though his constant presence contributed a great deal to your recovery and the fever breaks eventually.

I'm fine, you urge him, go back to your work. Don’t you have any pressing matters to attend to?

My wife’s health, for one. He says, barely looking up from the paper in his hand.

At night, one call of his name has him abandoning whatever he was looking at, walking over to you and taking your outstretched hand. He takes whatever papers he needs and settles in the space beside you. You’d fall asleep to the sound of quill on paper.

You refuse to kiss him nearly the entire time. He leans in once, and you quite literally push his face back. I don’t want you to get sick, you reason, and laugh at the dejected look on his face.

When you get better, he’s still careful. But he accompanies you for a walk in the gardens, letting you feel the sun, or along the shore for some salt air.

"I heard you assaulted a maester." You say as you walk through the gardens. He holds your hand in the crook of his elbow. He matches your pace, slow and steady.

"Maekar exaggerates." He says. "Although I remember threatening to send someone back to the citadel."

"Baelor," you half laugh, half scold.

"They weren’t letting me see you." The gravel crunches under your shoes.

"Probably for good reason. I was ill, remember?"

"It wasn’t contagious. Maekar never got sick."

"Ah yes, I recall."

A squeeze of your hand. His other hand holds the shawl you've abandoned, one he insisted on bringing just in case. "He told me you were calling for me. "

"I was?" You frown, unable to recall.

"You were." He supplies. "It was torture."

You smile. "Maekar truly is your blood. Now you are the one exaggerating."

He stops half way through the path, facing you. "I’ve… Gods, I was so worried." A hand rests at your waist. "Never do that to me again."

"I’m better now." You cup his cheek, smiling, if only to reassure him. "I promise."

You see the worry disappear in his eyes before he closes the distance between you two.

[idksmtms]

so cute 🥹 you just know Baelor would be the best husband to have around when you're ill 💕

[robnikmeria]

The image of robb on his back laid out on the furs of their bed and nym straddling him…one hand gripping her boob and the other gripping her waist…nyms hands over his and she’s grinding down against him…yeah ❤️

[dododix]

sexiest couple in westeros

[jamesbarnesbuchanan]

[run-jungkook]

isaac lahey did THAT

[robnikmeria]

⊹₊⟡⋆ BODYGUARD AU

former cia agent robb stark is assigned the job of protecting westeros’ favorite tabloid couple; the presidents eldest son, niklaus lannister, and the daughter of dorne’s senator, nymeria martell. despite a rough start and a poor first impression, things begin to heat up between the three after a brush with death brings them closer.

[robnikmeria]

https://www.tumblr.com/robnikmeria/815980132706697216/ive-been-watching-citadel-so-naturally-im?source=share

Ooooh tell me more i love this

I GRINNED GETTING THIS ASK CAUSE THIS AU IS CURRENTLY ROTTING MY BRAIN. The concept I currently have in my head is presidents son!nik (Rhaena is president) and senators daughter!nymeria (Senator doran) are dating so they’re constantly together and robb is older than them and part of the secret service…possibly former CIA agent who is now in the secret service??? IDKIDK but he’s like their personal bodyguard and constantly glued to them.

Robb in plain clothes usually to blend in so like- a sweater or t-shirt + jacket, jeans, sun glasses and his gun holstered and hidden under his sweater…robb can’t stand them at first and feels relegated to babysitting duty but he takes his job seriously and protects them…nik and nym annoyed at first feeling like they don’t get any alone time but then an incident occurs where robb gets hurt and saves them…

So…secret age gap robnikmeria bodyguard au….

[robnikmeria]

⊹₊⟡⋆ HOUSE MARTELL IN CRIMSON CLOVER!

⊹₊⟡⋆ DORAN MARTELL! (248 ac - ???)

the prince of dorne; husband of jiang Yue and mellario of norvos.

⊹₊⟡⋆ ELIA MARTELL! (258 ac - 281 ac)

the younger sister to doran martell; the heart of dorne.

⊹₊⟡⋆ OBERYN MARTELL! (259 ac - ???)

the younger brother to doran and elia martell; the red viper.

⊹₊⟡⋆ ELLARIA SAND! (259 ac - ???)

the lover of oberyn martell; mother of tyene sand.

⊹₊⟡⋆ JIANG YUE! (249 ac - 282 ac)

the first wife of doran martell; mother of nymeria martell.

⊹₊⟡⋆ MELLARIO OF NORVOS! (248 ac - ???)

the second wife of doran martell; mother to trystane and quentyn martell, step-mother to nymeria martell.

⊹₊⟡⋆ NYMERIA MARTELL! (281 ac - ???)

the eldest child and only daughter of doran martell, the only child of jiang yue; the princess of dorne.

⊹₊⟡⋆ QUENTYN MARTELL! (286 ac - ???)

the eldest son of doran martell and mellario of norvos; heir of sunspear.

⊹₊⟡⋆ TRYSTANE MARTELL! (287 ac - ???)

the second son of doran martell and mellario of norvos.

⊹₊⟡⋆ KYRA SAND! (286 ac - ???)

the bastard daughter of oberyn martell and mariel of braavos; one of the sand snakes.

⊹₊⟡⋆ TYENE SAND! (280 ac - ???)

the bastard daughter of oberyn martell and ellaria sand; one of the sand snakes.

⊹₊⟡⋆ SARELLA SAND! (283 ac - ???)

the bastard daughter of oberyn martell and the captain of feathered kiss; one of the sand snakes.

⊹₊⟡⋆ OBARA SAND! (278 ac - ???)

the bastard daughter of oberyn martell and a prostitute from oldtown; one of the sand snakes.

[julez-5]

MY SWEET WIFE—Maekar Targaryen

Maekar x sunshine!second wife!reader

content: Maekar comes to realize perhaps his harsh tongue as rubbed off onto his sweet wife.

words: 3k

cw:MDNI 18+, p in v, oral, hair pulling, biting, scratching, nipple play, breeding, slight corruption kink? idk he lowkey just gets turned on his wife told someone off for him, lmk if I missed any

a/n: 1 out of 2 of the 1k special. I hope you enjoy and thank you all so much for all the support you shower me in!! <3

It had been a shock when Maekar Targaryen had decided to remarry, and even bigger one when everyone had met the woman. You were on the younger side, brighter and had always been described as sweet. You were kind to everyone, you were loving with his children, and you were even gentle with Maekar who most usually was not spotted without a frown, which was always a stark contrast to your bright smile.

Even after being married for over a year everyone still whispered about the pair of you in disbelief. Poor sweet kind you that had been trapped with sour old man. Even though you had chosen him. You had married not for duty, but for love. Maekar adored you, without a shadow of a doubt to anyone who had eyes, but gossip never did tend to mix with reason.

You had accompanied Maekar to King’s Landing, his presence was required and he insisted you come with him. He was off doing some business with Baelor as you sat enjoying the nice weather of the gardens and a book stretched open on your lap. 

That is when you heard it, clear as day your husbands’ name in someone else's mouth, and the way they said it caused you to stand making your way toward the sound. “Prince Maekar is a miserable bastard. I am unsure how his wife put up with it. I would have tossed myself off Maegor’s holdfast by now if I had to deal with him that much.”

“I heard she fucks the Princes’ brother instead.” 

Two knights you did not recognize stood talking to the other. One was older with silver sprouting through his dark locks and beard, his teeth looked as if they were going to fall out of his skull, and that if he had to protect anyone they would be better off to wield the sword himself. 

The other was much younger, probably not much older than Daeron. He had red hair, and a handsomeish face, but nothing spectacular. He had a smug grin across his face that reminded you too much of Aerion. 

Your fists curled as you made your way toward them without even realizing, the two knights immediately turned toward you, their eyes widening in horror. You continued toward them until you stood before them, your eyes burning into them, as your head snapped between the two,  “Mayhaps you stupid cunts should learn to check your surroundings before you see fit to sprout bullshit or are you too dimwitted for that.”

You raised a brow waiting for one of them to respond, but neither of them did, they only stood blinking at you, “Who was the one that suggested that I bed Prince Baelor?” you then asked. 

The younger knight immediately pointed to the bigger man, ratting him out as you turned toward him, your hand raised slapping across his cheek, his entire face turned at the emotion. “Not only do you question my dignity, but you question the Heir to the realms, Be glad you are not losing your fuckign tongue!” you hiss before stomping away making your way to your chamber as you shook with a feeling of rage. 

Maekar and Baelor’s conversation erupted with a knock on the door, and a young girl entering inside once the elder beckoned her in. She stood nervously scratching at her arms causing the brothers to share a glance before looking back to her. 

“Uh…my princes there has uh… been an incident,” she stuttered out. 

Maekar sighed leaning back in the chair, “What has my son done now?” he asked, rubbing his face harshly. He knew he should have left the children at Summerhall, it would have been more of a peaceful trip at least.

“It was not your son, my prince.”

That caused his head to shoot up, “Well, what is it then?”

“Your wife?” It came out as more of a question than a statement. As if she was not the one informing them of the incident rather than informing her.

Maekar’s pale eyebrows drew together, “My wife? Is she alright? What has happened?” he rattled off leaning forward in his chair. 

His questions only making the girl more nervous causing her to stumble over her words and nothing being coherent between her low whisper and pausing after every syllable. 

“Speak plainly,” he hissed. 

“Maekar,” Baelor chided at his younger brother’s tone, but knew it was no use. His words would not get through until he heard the confirmation that his wife was alright. 

“She… Well she struck a knight,” she finally got out. 

Both brothers stared at her only blinking, Baelor said your name as if he needed to check to make sure they were all speaking of the same woman. The one who brought them lunch hours ago pressed a kiss to Maekar’s cheek and reminded them to eat. 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“My wife? My sweet wife struck a knight?” She nodded in confirmation, causing Maekar to bark out a laugh, kneeling over in his chair at the thought of his wife hitting anyone let alone a knight. The same woman who made him take a bug back outside the other day, because she cried at the thought of him killing it. 

“Why did she hit a knight?” Baelor questioned, glaring at his brother trying to get him to stop his laughing so they could hear what else the young girl had to say, but he could hardly catch his breath hitting his leg. Finally after a moment Maekar sat up leaning back as he waited to hear what else she would have to say. 

“I am unsure of my lord. I only know that she told them they should be pleased they are not losing their tongue, and used language unbefittingly of a lady.” 

“Did this language reflect on how my brother talks?” 

The young woman eyed Prince Maekar for a moment as if she was afraid he would bare his teeth at her for answering honestly, but she finally whispered, “Yes, Your Grace.” 

Baelor dismissed her with a kind smile and a thanks for this information. “Two moons ago she told me it was her mission to save all the stray animals around Summerhall and now she's striking knights,” Maekar laughed, shaking his head slightly. 

“If I would have to guess she is probably striking a knight, because they said something about you,” the elder suggested. 

The comment hung in the air for a moment as the pair stared at each. It made sense. It was one of the only things that would make sense that you were trying to defend him to some capacity, but it still shocked your husband. Maekar’s eyebrows drew together, “You think my sweet wife was trying to defend my honor?” he then asked. 

Baelor shrugged, “It would make sense. I cannot see her striking and threatening tongues for anything else.” 

Something then flowed through Maekar, causing him to stand, “I must go see her,” was all he said as he pushed out of the office before practically sprinting through the castle trying to find you. 

There was something he couldn’t quite explain at the thought of his sweet, darling wife slapping and cussing someone out for him. The same woman who cried when Rhae does, the same woman who stayed up all night making Aegon a tunic like his father so that he and Aemon could reenact the Blackfyre Rebellion, and the same woman who would gently sing to Daeron as she forced him to drink water. 

His cock was semi-hard in his pants as he reimagined the scene. Your hand colliding with a knight's face as you spat at him urging him that he was lucky you were not taking his tongue. He groaned slightly, as his tip rubbed against the material of his breeches as he got harder and harder with each passing step.

Fuck. He really needed to find you before he came in his pants like a virgin boy.

To his luck you were in the first place he checked. 

You sat near the fire, your currency embroidery work held in your hands as you hummed to yourself lightly. “My sweet wife,” he called out as he shut the door. 

You turned toward him with a gentle smile, “Are you done for the day?” you questioned as you stood to your feet. Your hands moved, flattening your skirt as you set your work down, his face softened as noticed you were working on something with his house sigil. 

“We were not, but then I was brought some news,” he started moving forward, his hands cupping either side of your face. “I heard you struck a knight?”

“Oh,” you said, closing your eyes in shame, “I am sorry,” you immediately apologized. 

He laughed slightly, “Why did you hit him?”

“He was speaking ill of me?” he asked, his smile growing along with something else. 

“Yes. So I mayhaps have called them stupids cunts and told them they should be happy they did lose their tongues instead.” 

“You’re growing a mouth,” he joked, using his hands on the side of your 

“In truth they were your words, I have heard you say them before.” 

He leaned down claiming your mouth with his own. The action shocked you slightly. You expected him to lecture you on not hitting knights, but here instead he was kissing you as if he was a man starved and your lips were his last meal. Then you felt his hardening cock press into your thigh, and you raised a brow. “Maekar?” you questioned, causing him to hum. “You are hard,” you pointed out as if it was not obvious. 

He only leaned down pressing his lips to your mouth, then your cheek and then trailed down the side of your neck, “I am,” he confirmed, sucking just below your ear causing you to arch into him slightly.

“You liked that then? The thought of my striking men and cussing them out, because they said something about you,” you said as your hands moved to the ties of his trousers. 

“My sweet wife struck a knight attempting to defend my honor. I have corrupted you,” he mumbled against your neck, nipping his teeth into you as punctuation. 

“You would do the same,” you replied, pulling his trousers free, and then his breeches, until his lower half was naked. You pulled away from him sinking to your knees, as he began to undress his top half. 

“I would do worse, but that is me. You are different,” he groaned when your fingers wrapped around his length stroking him lazily as you looked up at him. You kissed the precum already coming out of his tip as his hands moved lacing through your hair. 

You leaned forward about to take him in your mouth before his hand that had been in your hair yanked hard from the root pulling you away. He angled your face upward as you looked up at him in confusion, your eyebrows pulling together. 

He then pulled you to your feet by your hair, as you continued to eye him in pure confusion, “Maekar?” you question, but he does not answer instead pressing his mouth to yours. He yanked your hair again causing your mouth to open in a gasp before his tongue was entering into your mouth, conquering it as his own. 

He led you back toward the bed as his fingers worked the strings of your dress pushing it down your shoulders caused it to pool at your feet. His fingers then worked trying to remove your small cloth before he let out a frustrated growl, finally removing his tight hold on your hair to rip apart the seams. This was not the first time he had done this nor would it probably be the last.

You tumbled back into your legs, hit the bed and you fell back, your husband then fell to his knees as he spread your legs over his shoulder dragging you toward the edge, “Let me taste her,” was all he said, staring up at you. 

You only nodded, and that was the last you saw of his face as he was diving in between your thighs. Maekar would spend hours between your thighs if you would let him, half the time you had to pry him off of you as he would not willingly leave himself. 

His tongue ran up your fold licking a long strip, and you could feel him grin as he met your swollen nub. He sucked his clit in between his lips as his tongue lapped against it as you arched into his hold. Your hand tugging harshing in his silver locks caused him to groan which sent a vibration through you. 

His beard provided an amazing friction as he worked his tongue around your pearl, his fingers moving to your entrance as he teased it slightly, before inserting two digits. You moaned his name loud as he continued on his way, fucking his fingers in and out of you as his tongue switched between lapping and sucking at your clit. 

Your hands gripped his hair as you pushed your hips further into his face as they began to move on their own, grinding harshly as you chased your own high. The coil in your belly finally snapped as your orgasm washed over you crying out your husband’s name as you soaked his face and fingers. 

He did not stop though, “Maekar, please!” you cried out trying to pry him away from your sensitive cunt, but he fought against your hold diving back in for more as if it was the only source of water on a hot day. 

You finally managed, to pry him away he looked up at you, his violet eyes blown from lust as he panted. You moved back up the bed as he did the same crawling after you until your head rested at the top. 

Your legs trembled slightly as you wrapped them around his hips, as he gripped himself in his hand stroking himself slowly as he held your gaze, he took his tip rubbing in between your folds gathering his slickness as he grinned down at you a moan slipping as it ran against your sensitive clit. 

“What do you say to those knights?" he asked, as he ran his tip over your clit once more, and then again. 

“I called–oh, fuck–stupid cunts,” you moaned out, your hands moving to claw against the pale skin of his back, leaving angry red marks in their wake. 

He grinned as he finally moved his cock lower entering inside you with one fluid thrust. His hips were flushed against yours as he hovered above you watching your face contort at the new feeling of fullness, “Such a mouth on you,” he tsked, as he began to rock his hips back and forth against yours. 

“Fuck off,” you muttered, your nails claiming his back, marking it as your own masterpiece as he began to set the fast rhythm. His hand moved down gripping your left leg and pulling it above his shoulder causing him to hit deeper than before as his free hand gripped into your hip no doubt leaving bruises. 

“Fuck, Maekar!” you cried out, as he fucked into you like a man possesed. 

“That’s it. Let everyone hear the mouth of my sweet wife,” he instructed, his hips pounding into you as the coarse hair as his base rubbed against your clit. He dipped his hand lower moving to attach itself to your hardened nipple, his teeth grazing it slightly. 

“Shit! Oh, fuck!” you moaned, you arched further into his hold as his tongue worked over the peaks. You could feel the pit already begin to form in your lower belly as he moved his mouth showering the other bud with the same attention. 

He could feel you clench into him as he picked up his pace, fucking into you harder, fast, sucking onto. Your nails split the skin of his back as your second release of the night claimed you. You came with a cry of his name, your body feeling on fire as your vision momentarily went white as the feeling of ecstasy filled your veins. 

“Fuck,” he grunted as he felt your cunt clamp down on him like a vice as his head moved from your breast to your neck his teeth barring down hard enough to break the skin as he chased his own high. 

Tears streamed down your fast as he fucked you through your high toward the point of overstimulation as you turned to putty between him. He continued to fuck into you brutally, your cries of his name only fuelign him further as  his hips never falterign until finally with one final thrust he buried himself to the hilt. He came with an animalistic snarl as ropes of cum shot out from his tip painting your walls white. 

His chest heaved as he leaned his head against your chest, feeling it rising and falling rapidly to match his own. He stayed buried inside you as your hands moved, petting the top of his hand gently, much too sweet for the event that just occurred which caused him to laugh in between your breasts. “Oh, my sweet wife,” he cried, pressing a tender kiss to your skin before lifting his head to press another to your lips. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he suggested, moving to pull out from you but your legs suddenly locked around him keeping him in place, pulling him back against your sweat soaked skin. He obliged lying back down and allowing you to run your fingers back through his hair as he simply enjoyed the feeling “I love you,” he muttered, causing you to grin as you leaned down pressing a kiss to his slick forehead.

maekar taglist: @sacha1slytherin @erylilly @thebl00dwyrm @ilocuras24 @xisabellaxo @eleventhboi @alaeratrrn

if you would like to join the tag list for future maekar stories feel free to drop a comment :)

[cintoasted]

in which maekar is completely lost without you

cw : modern au. age gap.reader is 20s and maekar is 40s, bimbo reader. old grump!maekar. (have tagged non-con as it mentions a previous part) insecurities. angst. lots of angst. obsessive maerkar. really seeing how maekar is a hermit. depressive. 18+ MDNI

a/n: i think this is quite beautiful and we also get a pov from daeron so please enjoy. master us open = golf.

recluse neighbour series

you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics

Maekar sits on his beaten couch, the master U.S. open playing on the TV and a beer in hand. He takes another gulp, the cheap liquid dulling his senses. It’s not enough, Maekar knows that. The pile of cans that sit by his feet tell that exact story. 

He has thought about the harder stuff, a bottle of whiskey, but he isn’t a fucking alcoholic and he doesn’t intend to be. He also doesn’t need to worry his children, they’re already increasingly worried about his current state of mind. He also knows that if drowning in himself in cheap beer doesn’t work, hard liquor isn’t going to change a thing. 

Life was meant to go back to the way it used to be. 

Except it hasn’t. 

His finger traces a patch on the couch, the blue cotton stitched together with pink thread, traces of you still lingering here and there. You’ve left him but your presence still remains, embedded into his home like you’ve always belonged there. Like you were built into the very house itself. 

Two months you’ve been gone, and he still hasn’t managed to get rid of your smell. He seeks it out, the candles, incense sticks you left behind, throwing them out and hoping the smell will return to what it once was. That doesn’t fully work, he catches whiffs of your perfumed scent all around him, it’s like he’s getting the notes of it, lavender in the hall, cinnamon in the living room— that fucking fruity scent of your body cream in his bed, lemon and mango. 

He can smell you here, even with the pizza cooking in the oven and the pile of bears at his feet— he can fucking smell you. He clenches his jaw, pressing the can to his lips again only to realise it’s already empty. 

The can falls to his feet with the rest of them, just another one to the many. It’s not the first, and it definitely won’t be the last. 

That’s how he feels about himself. If he’s being honest, that’s how he always felt about the thing between you and him. 

Relationship. 

The word has fallen from his lips a few times after you screamed it at him, mostly in utter disbelief. 

You’re entirely right, you two had been in a relationship. He never really saw it like that, mostly because he thought you would never actually want to be with him. He’s twice your age, five children, he’s already lived a life— Fuck, he’s entirely incapable in making friends since his wife died, except from his family ties he completely sticks to what resides in this house of his. 

Till you came along that is. 

Some dimwitted girl that decided to park in his spot one day. 

Even more stupid to turn up to his house in that tiny dress, the skirt falling not even an inch over your ass cheeks, the material clinging to your breasts, your waist and your hips. Skin showing in all the right places, it looked soft to touch and he had to fight against every indecent thought to stop himself from reaching out and touching it. 

He didn’t want to scare you, not at first, standing in front of his door, oven mitts still on, holding out a freshly baked pie as a peace offering. You never realised the actual meal you’d been offering him, his eyes watching the way your skirt lifted in each certain movement, slipping up as you took the seat next to him. 

You left his house unscathed that day, and Maekar believed he could go back to his life in peace. Only you stupidly came back the next day, and a few days after that, until your visits became a part of his very routine. 

You’d bring round some freshly baked goods then spend the next hour going on about some topic he thought would be better vented to your friends. Your future, your job, even a little into that hopeless dating life of yours. He should have turned you back around the moment you stood at his door, instead he let you slip in under his arm and he listened. 

You listened too. About his children, his older brothers, and the sports he seemed to like. You paid attention in fact, bringing him a decent case of beer for the golf tournaments— better than the cheap one he had got himself. You didn’t interrupt either, you sat next to him, flicking through your phone beside him, eyes glancing up to the tv every now and then. You’d reach out to grab a beer— his beer— taking a swig out of the bottle before placing it between you both again— since when did he start letting you share his bottle? 

The thought stayed with him for days after that and he freaked out over the idea that you had become accustomed to your company. Some part of it even fucking enjoyed it. He couldn’t have that. So he bunched that pretty dress of yours around your waist and fucked you into the couch with every intention to frighten you away. 

He never believed you’d come back, never thought for a second you’d be standing by his door, pouting those glossy wet lips and muttering “sorry” like you owed him an apology. 

The even more fucked up issue was that he felt you owed him an apology too. Gorgeous ditz waltzing into his life and making yourself the queen of his chess board. 

He found out you weren’t some brainless girl with nothing going for you. Maybe you lacked sense when it came to older men, didn’t realise how looks could be so deceiving. But you had everything going for you— have. 

And you were enamored by him? 

No, he told himself. Only he wishes he didn’t. Wishes he realised how you genuinely saw a future with him. Wishes he didn’t spend every single day thinking it would be the last, waiting for the inevitable time for you to realise you were better than him. 

It came eventually, just not in the way he thought. Tears in your eyes and snot dribbling from your nose as you scrambled to find all your things. 

Relationship. 

To you this had been a relationship. You were right of course and he’d denied it. Stood there and fumbled on words as he tried to explain his reasoning behind it. Instead of what he should have done which was admit that he was stupid and he was fucking sorry. 

He wanted a relationship with you. He wants a relationship with you although he doubts those cards are still on the table. He just never thought it’s what you actually wanted. He also didn’t want to wait for the day you eventually decided that this might not be what you wanted. Didn’t want you to become embedded into his heart that a part of him latched onto you wherever your life would lead you. 

It’s too fucking late for that. 

He’s not entirely focused on the game in front of him, the commentators' words fill the empty room, and his eyes gaze through the tv. His finger continues to trace the patch on his couch and as he sucks in a harsh breath, he catches a bit of you again. 

From his kitchen window he can see your block of apartments, his eyes look through the glass doors of his living room to his kitchen, to the window, to the pink curtains that hide your room from his view. They’ve not opened in the two months you’ve been gone and he swallows as his gaze returns back to the tv screen. 

He’s thought about ripping the patch completely off, digging a kitchen knife into the fabric and tearing at it. At this point he’d even drag the beaten up couch outside, cover in gasoline and set fire to it. Stare at your window as he does it, wait for you to see the flames behind those curtains before opening it. If that doesn’t work, it wouldn’t matter, he needs a new couch anyway. He can replace the coffee table while he’s at it, take apart that awful bed frame, order himself a new mattress seeing as it smells of you anyway. He’ll knock the entire house down, back till it’s just dust and rubble, till he’s sure there’s no part of you there when he rebuilds it. 

His fingers dig into the couch, catching a loose bit of thread pulling at it till it unwinds and snaps. He looks down and regrets it, fumbles with the thread like he can put it back together.

It’s futile. As useless as tearing this house apart just to be rid of you.

He’s sure you’ll still find some way to haunt the place. 

Daeron’s lost count of the amount of times he’s visited in the last month. He’s practically over twice a week and he stays if the situation calls for it. 

He’s not entirely sure what happened between the two of you, his dad won’t say and he hasn’t seen you. You’ve not even picked up any of the belongings you left. He’s got a box of random items, ones you must have not taken on your abrupt departure. 

Shampoo. Body butter. Lip balm. Bracelet. Fluffy socks. Pair of lace panties. He imagines there’s a few more pairs to be found in his father’s bedroom. Pictures. Polaroid pictures, ones of the pair of you two. 

He’s not certain they're still in the box though. He remembers his dad throwing them at him, he’d been fuelled with alcohol and the remnants of rage of seeing your things, tossing the photos at his own son as he hissed, “She can take these with her two.” 

Only when Daeron went to take the box with him to your apartment block the next day, the pictures were missing. 

He gave your apartment a try. Memorised the block and number from his father’s phone. He rang the intercom once, twice and then a third time. Nothing. Maybe you weren’t in or maybe you really didn’t feel like answering. 

By the third time he was glad you didn’t answer. He honestly isn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t cuss you out. 

What had you been thinking working your charms on a man twice your age like that? Only when you finally decided you had enough, to throw him to the curb like he was nothing. 

It was sick, possibly demented. Did you get off on it? Did you like the fact you left a man who had literally possibly no one outside his family until he met you. 

He’s felt that way for a while now, Aerion shares the same distaste for you, Aerion even voiced it in front of his father. That led them nowhere though, only hearing their father speak for the first time in what must have been hours with a stern, “Don’t.” 

Some part of his contempt for you dissolves a bit when he leaves his father’s house, a sense of hope when he leaves the house with the house clean and his father falling back to his old routine. Only for it to spark up again when he returns a few days later, the same mess he cleaned up last time cluttering the house, his dad sitting in the same spot on the couch and the polaroids of you sitting somewhere new. 

Daeron tried to throw them out, Aerion wanted to burn them, but their father had been insistent on tearing them from their fingers, hiding them in crooks and crannies of the house till their departure, just so Maekar could pull them out again. 

Those pictures and the way his father obsesses over them makes his hate come back full throttle, simmering under his skin as he stares at the picture of you kissing his father on the cheek and smiling from ear to ear like he meant everything. 

The hatred burns until he sees you. Then with the sight of you it’s completely snuffed out. 

You, who is standing in the cereal aisle, holding two different boxes in your hands for comparison. 

He almost misses you. 

He catches you out of the corner of his eye, a trolley full of his father’s groceries that he now has to buy. He has every right to storm over towards you and remind you of the poor man you left completely broken. 

Only he doesn’t. He does a double take, his eyes don’t quite believe it’s you at first. 

The girl standing in front of him is wearing joggers, an oversized hoodie and slippers. Your hair that is normally cascading down your back or braided in some particular way, is thrown into a matted top bun. There’s even a stain on your jumper. 

He tries to look a third time, only you drop both cereals in your trolley before walking to another aisle. You don’t notice him, you stumble into another passer by, mumbling apologies, and then he loses sight of you somewhere in the mass of people. 

Daeron thinks he’s seeing things, it couldn’t have been you. Only some part of him realises it must have been. He just hadn’t expected you to look that way. 

As he stands in front of you in your doorway, eyes taking you in once again, he’s slightly confused. He half-expected a pretty thing like you to be dating a new guy in no time, not strung up on some man twice your age that barely leaves his house unless for necessities. Yet your puffy eyes look through him as he stands in the doorway, too tired to even question how he managed to get into the block. 

“If you’re here to berate me, can you just get it over with?” You huff out, leaning against the door like you’re waiting to take it. 

Daeron doesn’t want to shout at you though, the rage died with him about an hour ago when he saw you standing in the aisles debating between two very similar cereals and looking as pathetic as his father. At least you’ve managed to leave the house. 

His mouth hangs open for a moment and when he does speak, he only manages to stumble, “W-Wait— Why do you think—” 

You cross your arms over your chest, before dropping them completely. You have no energy in you to argue. “Do you want something?” 

“No,” it comes out quickly from Daeron and you can’t help but roll your eyes at him. 

“Well you managed to get into my block so you must want something.” Your brows furrow, waiting for some sort of response that Daeron isn’t certain he can give you. 

“Is that golf?” He asks, eyes falling onto the laptop playing behind you. It is. 

You move, blocking the entry way and Daeron notes the way your body becomes stiff. 

“Sorry, it’s just—” he stops himself, not missing the way your eyes shift and you swallow uncomfortably. “Nothing.” 

“You were saying?” You question, a bit more accusatory now. It’s clear you want him to go. 

“It’s nothing.” He takes one last look at you before turning to leave. Only to stop himself. 

It’s really not nothing. He’s sure as hell didn’t hide in the bushes for fifteen minutes just to sneak into your apartment block in hopes he could see you. Not without getting some point across to you. 

He turns back around, placing his foot in the door before you close it and pushing it open again. 

You’re a bit taken back, but you don’t stop him and he takes the opportunity to say what he thinks needs to be said. 

“Golf,” he starts, not in the greatest way as he points towards the laptop screen. “You’re watching golf?” 

“I—I like it,” you shrug, eyes narrowing. “Can I not like golf?” 

“No, you don’t like golf.” 

“It’s comforting.” Your voice lacks the sharpness you’re clearly going for, and he misses the way it falters. 

He snorts, “Right.” 

“How is it any of your business?” 

“Because a girl like you doesn’t enjoy golf or watch it because it’s comforting.” 

“It is comforting—” 

“ —please enlighten me.” 

“Because I’m sad, and I’m alone. Because your dad told me he doesn’t want me. Because my friends made me delete every single picture I had of him. Because golf is the only thing I have left.” 

Your breath catches in your throat at that and you begin to furiously wipe at the tears that have slid down your cheeks. 

“Fuck.” 

“I didn’t mean—” 

“Can you—” your words crack on a sob and you turn away to desperately pull yourself together. You face away from him and motion him away. “Please.” 

Daeron doesn’t go, he takes the moment to slip through the door and close it behind him. 

You refuse to look at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Daeron simply says, knowing it won’t change anything but it might mean something in that moment. 

Your resolve softens slightly and there’s a pause between your breaths that allows him to speak again. 

“I think I can help.”

dividers by @/chrisssiren

a/n: daeron to the rescue possibly. aerion and daeron are such daddy boys in it's so sweet. miscommunication is just a fave trope of mine. like i know what i have planned for the next part but i also have this sweet idea of reader and maekar meeting like possibly even further down the line, and reconnecting. second trope just to really keep that angst going. i believe @getou-s suggested, would you guys want that. or maybe i could do another fic like that or maybe give you two outcomes on the series...

[dewypout]

𓂃 UNTIL MORROW COMES 𓂅

𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 :: how many rounds can these men go for, before they truly tire? 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 :: duncan the tall, aerion targaryen, valarr targaryen, lyonel baratheon, maekar targaryen, baelor targaryen, raymun fossoway, daeron targaryen, roland crakehall & donnel of duskendale 𝑐𝑤:: 17+ ╱ smut ╱ unprotected p in v 𑣲masterlist

‎ꫂ᭪݁ lace divider by ︵ @strangergraphics

— ser duncan the tall ;; two

duncan was more knight than man at times, and that was proven whenever he’d bed you. before meeting you, he only bedded a whore once and clumsily tried to please her. that being said, he is a man who will grow tired after cumming twice, but is desperate to make you reach your high more than that. which is why he’ll use his tongue, fingers and whatever else necessary to bring you to ecstasy a few times, before finally entering you. after he’s spilled his thick seed in you twice, he’s pulling you close and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. it is a good method; both of you are now well satisfied and ready to sleep.

— aerion ‘brightflame’ targaryen ;; he wishes he had a dragon's stamina

a spoiled prince, who only knew of brothels before you were wed to him, to have much stamina? slim chance. though he did learn to please you well, since he was smitten with his lady wife the moment he saw you, the most rounds aerion can go for is one. which is because the attentiveness he shows to your needs genuinely tires him out (not that he complained; aerion never complained when with you). not even when you’d nuzzle up against his half-asleep body, aching for more. he’ll let you undo his breeches and ride your dragon until he is too soft and keeps slipping out of your cum-filled walls, and even then, he lets you suck on his flaccid cock if you so please.

— valarr targaryen ;; three (two and a half?)

as a rare case, valarr believed that men also had chastity to protect and preserve for their wives, as women did. so it came as no surprise that he’d ejaculated prematurely into your mouth on your wedding night, apologizing profusely. only for his cock to start hardening a moment later as he watched you swallow his seed, looking up at him as if it wasn’t the most sinful thing he’s experienced in the past five minutes of his life. he takes you again from behind, and the last time, when the arousal comes from your nails stimulating his scalp, he rolls you onto your back and reclaims you for the third time.

— lyonel 'laughing storm' baratheon ;; five

the stag doesn't concern itself with quantity, only quality. if he's made you give him a good squirt and drench him up to half his stomach, he considers it a job well done. but the estimated number, until he fully tires, is five. by the fourth time, he's pinching and twisting your nipples and clit, anything so you fall apart first and he can just follow along. by the fifth, lyonel's seed is flowing out of you freely past his softening cock, ruining the sheets below as he observes over your shoulder with a proud smirk until he falls asleep. the stag does indeed concern himself with giving you a child, or three.

— maekar 'the anvil' targaryen ;; six

by the fifth release that he's managed to pull out of you — you're limp, mind far away from your tired and aching body. which doesn't stop more arousal from forming in your fucked-out cunt as you watch maekar approach your marital bed once more, cock bobbing between his legs — tip leaking with the same seed that's been emptied in you five prior times already. the prince makes sure to give you water to rehydrate, discarding the cup on the nightstand afterwards. his lips find yours as he reenters you for the sixth time, cock twitching at your pleas for mercy.

— baelor 'breakspear' targaryen ;; eleven or until morrow arrives

his calm exterior gave no indication of how well he could last in bed. it started off with just one orgasm being taken and given, while consummating your marriage. and it wasn't until a few moons passed that you saw just how insatiable an appetite your targaryen had hidden from you. your body lay spent in the luxurious bed, the headboard hit the wall with every thrust your husband made into you. baelor admires your worn self, a thin layer of sweat covers your back as his hands grip your waist tighter, bringing you closer to his plummeting cock. by the eighth time, you cannot hold your hips upward any longer; not to worry, as he swiftly places a pillow underneath for support. baelor's thirst for you is unquenchable, so don't try to escape.

— raymun fossoway ;; two

he tries to give you more, but one green apple can only produce so much cider before it's completely dried up. his stamina will definitely build up as your marriage grows, but for now, the man can only give you two loads into your tight cunt before his stones refuse to release any more. if you aren't satisfied, he'll let you glide along his soft cock, hole catching on his cockhead as you reach the top, before gliding back down to his stones. his eyes are blown wide as he observes you cum from humping him alone, and maybe, just maybe, you'll feel him start to harden once more.

— daeron targaryen ;; depends / it's a work in progress situation

due to his ongoing alcohol use, you've found yourself often unsatisfied with daeron's performance in bed. that doesn't mean you hate him, you just wish he'd let you help him with the visions, not turn to liquor. it isn't until daeron finds one of your books on self-pleasure that he truly considers what you need; more so, what he couldn't give because of his drunkenness. that night daeron claims you like a man dying of thirst, having finally found his oasis. your eyes screw shut as you feel his balls twitch against your butt, before releasing his fourth load of the night into your overflowing cunt. that night, nestled securely in his lady wife's arms, daeron dreams of a dragon egg.

— ser roland crakehall ;; two

he refuses to go more than twice. as your guard, before your scandalous relationship began, he tries so hard to keep his walls up, to remind himself of what he stood for, until one night, you cause him to snap. he takes you behind a tree in the gardens like a man possessed. speeding up his thrusts only to slow them when the sounds got too obscene. he comes twice, once on your stomach, and the other on the outside of your cunt. the knight believes that if he were to seek more, he's certain that he'd lack the ability to discard from your sweet mound, and that would be an inconvenience for both of you.

— ser donnel of duskendale ;; aims to please (your eagerness is his viagra, basically)

during your secret meetings, all that the seasoned knight cares for is to make you reach ecstasy. if you can go two times that night, so can he; if you can go eight, so can he. all you have to do is just look at him once, or utter 'more' in that needy tone of yours, and he's plunging into your stretched-out cunt as if his stones weren't completely empty seconds prior. in donnel's mind, this isn't just pleasure, but also a way of protecting you. afterall, if he, a man who loves you, fills your womb with his babe, then no other man, who may not, can. which is why he makes sure to fill you till morrow comes.

── © dewypout

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ღ

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ

dewynote (っ'-')╮💌:: hello luvies, this is all just my thoughts at the end of the day,, you are free to envision whichever one of these men having the stamina of a war horse and breaking your back out of this solar system xxxx also, i need to be between morally complex!ser roland and too old to care!ser donnel immediately‼️and by how many rounds they can last, i mean them being inside you + cumming, just so we're clear.

[veggiemedleys]

see my problem is if i “listen to my body” it literally only wants to lie down and take naps, all the time

[nessa007]

#this show has never once been subtle about these two ABBOTT ELEMENTARY (2021- ) 5x22 | 1x01