I told my little nephew that I'd wave at his airplane when it flew over my house today, and he very calmly and politely explained that it wouldn't be possible to see me due to the limitations of human vision. I said he just had to squint real hard, and he took a deep breath and went into the toddler version of "see, what you're not understanding–"
Can I please have King Maekar Targaryen + heavy degradation/praise with prompt 33? ❤️🔥
𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.
When King Maekar Targaryen overhears you defending him when a very ladies wish to know whether he can still perform as any young man ought to, Maekar has no trouble in showing you exactly what he can do.
Requested: King Maekar Targaryen.
69 ENTWINED SHADOWS:
Heavy Degradation + Praise.
Prompt: 33. “I’ll be your devoted monster — let me fuck you slow and deep.”
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: high degradation, high praise, gentle sex, headlock position, explicit sexual content, possessive behaviour, age gap (reader is in her late twenties, maekar is most definitely in his late fifties, I said what I said because he and Baelor are aged up in the TV series), minors dni.
I cannot always write what anyone has in mind, so hopefully this leans towards what you wanted, cause I might have gotten carried away a bit here, emphasis on monster and emphasis on Maekar reminding you just what a good little whore you I mean we are.
The solar smelled of beeswax candles, myrrh incense, and the faint floral sweetness of the ladies’ perfumes, rosewater, lavender, and crushed violets. Soft laughter floated on the air like silk.
You sat among them, your young body draped in a gown of deep crimson silk that clung to your curves, the fabric whispering against your skin with every shift. The hearth crackled warmly, casting flickering golden light across the Myrish rugs and tapestries.
Lady Merryweather’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, her fan snapping shut. “Tell us truly, Your Grace… the king is a man of certain years. Does his age ever give him trouble in the marriage bed? Can he still perform as a younger lord might?”
Heat bloomed across your cheeks, a flush that prickled down your neck. The other women leaned in, silk rustling, eyes bright with curiosity. You stammered, voice soft yet defiant, the words tasting like loyalty on your tongue. “N-no, it doesn’t trouble him at all. The king is… vigorous. More than any man half his age could dream of. He leaves me trembling and sated every night.”
You didn’t see him at first, the tall, broad shadow just beyond the half-open oak door, the faint gleam of torchlight on black iron and red gold. Maekar had come for you after the council, his heavy boots unusually quiet on the rugs.
The scent of him reached you later, polished steel, aged leather, woodsmoke, and the sharp, distant promise of untamed dragonfire. He heard every word.
The doubt.
Your stammering defense.
His jaw clenched, violet eyes darkening like storm clouds over the Narrow Sea.
That night, the chamber doors thudded shut behind him with finality, the iron latch clicking like a judgment. The room was dim, lit only by a few candles and the low fire in the massive hearth. Shadows danced across the tapestries of ancient Targaryen victories.
The air was thick with the scent of beeswax, warm furs, and the faint metallic tang of the king’s presence.
Maekar filled the doorway, tall, powerfully built, the years only adding to the heavy, unyielding strength in his shoulders and chest. His warlike crown was set aside, but the authority clung to him like a second skin.
He crossed to you in measured strides, boots thudding softly. One large, calloused hand, rough from decades of sword and mace, cupped your jaw firmly, thumb pressing against your plush lower lip, tasting faintly of salt and ink from the day’s letters.
“I heard you today, little wife,” he growled, voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones, rough as grinding millstones. “Defending my cock to those twittering hens like a loyal little bird. Stammering so prettily while they questioned whether your old husband can still fuck you properly.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering. The heat of his body radiated against you, solid muscle, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin from the day’s labors. He yanked your gown up with impatient strength, the silk tearing slightly at the seams with a sharp rip, his rough palm sliding up the smooth, sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of his touch.
“I am no green boy,” he continued, lips brushing your ear, hot breath sending shivers cascading down your spine. His scent enveloped you, leather, smoke, clean sweat, and that dark, intoxicating growl that accompanied his words. “But you… gods, you’re so fucking young. Soft. Sweet. This tight little cunt still flutters like a virgin’s every time I claim it.”
He backed you toward the great canopied bed, the furs thick and luxurious against the backs of your knees. With a firm push, you fell back into them, the pelts cool and silky at first, then warming rapidly beneath your heated skin. Maekar loomed over you, stripping his black tunic away.
The firelight gilded the hard planes of his scarred chest, the corded muscle of his arms, the silver hairs that trailed down his abdomen. His breeches followed, freeing his thick, heavy cock, already rigid, flushed dark, the head glistening with a bead of precum that caught the light.
He descended on you like a conquering army. His mouth claimed yours in a bruising kiss, tasting of spiced wine and dominance, tongue stroking deep, teeth nipping your lower lip until it throbbed.
He tore the rest of your gown open, the fabric whispering apart, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His calloused palms cupped them roughly, thumbs circling your hardened nipples, pinching just hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from your throat.
“Listen to those pretty sounds,” he murmured against your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, the sting blooming into heat. One thick finger dragged through your slick folds, the obscene wet sound filling the chamber as he teased your entrance. “Already soaked for me. Dripping like a desperate whore for your king’s old cock. So eager to prove them wrong, aren’t you?”
He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, stretching, curling, stroking that sensitive spot with ruthless precision. The wet, rhythmic sounds of his hand working you mingled with your moans and the crackle of the fire. His thumb pressed firm circles on your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core. The scent of your arousal thickened the air between you.
Maekar withdrew his fingers, bringing them to your lips. “Taste how much you want this monster,” he commanded. You obeyed, tongue swirling around his digits, tasting yourself, tangy and sweet. He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest.
Positioning himself, he rubbed the thick head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your slickness, the friction delicious and torturous. His violet eyes bored into yours, dark with lust and possession. “I’ll be your devoted monster,” he rasped, the words heavy with promise and filth. “Let me fuck you slow and deep.”
Then he pushed in, inch by thick, veined inch. The stretch burned sweetly, your walls fluttering and yielding around his girth. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as he sank to the hilt, hips flush against yours, heavy balls pressed tight to your skin. You felt full, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the way he throbbed deep inside, the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickling your sensitive flesh.
He held there, letting you adjust, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone. Then he began to move, slow, rolling thrusts that dragged every ridge and vein along your inner walls, hitting that perfect spot with devastating accuracy. The heavy slap of skin on skin was muted by the deep pace, replaced by wet, filthy sounds and the creak of the ancient bedframe. His weight pinned you deliciously, chest hair rasping against your nipples, sweat-slick skin sliding together.
“Seven hells, you’re still so fucking tight,” he praised, voice hoarse with pleasure, laced with degradation. “This perfect royal cunt clenching around an old man’s cock like it was made for me. Younger lords would spill the moment they felt this heat. But I… I will ruin you for hours.”
His hand pinned your wrists above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into soft flesh. He hooked one of your legs higher, changing the angle so he drove even deeper.
The new depth made you cry out, the pressure intense, bordering on overwhelming. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto your breasts as he moved, slow, deep, relentless.
“Such a good girl,” he growled, nipping your earlobe, breath hot and damp. “Taking every inch so beautifully. My loyal little wife, defending my cock by day and milking it by night. But you’re also my filthy secret, dripping and moaning for a man old enough to be your father.”
The praise and degradation wove together, pushing you higher. The scent of sex, musky, salty, primal, filled the room. Your moans grew louder, unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls. Maekar’s rhythm faltered only slightly as his own pleasure mounted, but he mastered it, grinding deep and slow, hips circling to press against your clit with every thrust.
“Come for me,” he commanded, voice rough as gravel. “Let me feel this tight cunt squeeze my cock. Show your king how well he performs.”
Pleasure crashed over you like dragonfire, your body arching, walls pulsing rhythmically around him, a gush of wetness coating his length. The sensation tipped him over and with a deep, animalistic groan that reverberated through your joined bodies, Maekar buried himself to the hilt and spilled. Hot, thick ropes of his seed flooded you, pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock, trickling down your thighs in warm, sticky trails.
He stayed buried deep, rocking gently through the aftershocks, the wet sounds obscene and intimate. His weight was comforting now, heavy and protective as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to your sweat-damp skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of your perfume. One large hand stroked down your side, soothing the marks he’d left.
“Never doubt it again,” he whispered, voice softening with rare tenderness beneath the dominance, his breath warm against your ear. “Age be damned. This devoted monster will always fuck his young queen slow and deep… until the only sound in the Red Keep is you screaming my name.”
The fire crackled low as he held you close, the mingled scents of sweat, sex, and spent candles wrapping around you both like a claim.
The fire had burned lower, casting long, flickering shadows across the furs and your sweat-slicked bodies.
Maekar’s cock was still buried deep inside you, softening only slightly, his thick spend leaking warmly around him with every tiny shift of your hips. His large frame blanketed yours, chest heaving against your back, the coarse hair there damp and rasping deliciously over your skin. The heavy, musky scent of sex hung thick in the air, salt, slick, and the faint metallic edge of his skin.
But the king was far from finished.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated through his chest as he stirred. Strong arms shifted you with effortless power, pulling your back flush against his front.
One thick, corded arm slid around you, locking you in place with unyielding control, his bicep and forearm caging the side of your neck and shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted while his other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise.
You were utterly enveloped by him: the scorching heat of his body, the relentless strength in every muscle, the way his breath, hot, ragged, scented with wine and dominance, ghosted over your ear and the sensitive skin of your throat.
“Still so full of me,” he murmured, voice a deep, gravelly rasp that sent fresh shivers racing down your spine. He rolled his hips forward, sinking back into you with that same devastatingly slow, deep thrust. The stretch reignited instantly, your walls fluttering around his thickening length as he dragged every thick inch along your sensitive inner walls. “Greedy little cunt won’t let me go, will it? Even after I’ve flooded you like a claimed broodmare.”
The wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding through the mess he’d already made filled the chamber, filthy, slick, rhythmic with every unhurried grind. He kept the pace torturously deliberate, pulling back until only the fat head remained inside you, then pressing forward until his heavy balls nestled tight against your soaked folds.
Each deep stroke pressed you harder into the cage of his arm and body, the coarse hair on his thighs rubbing against the backs of yours, his sweat-slick chest sliding against your spine.
“Fuck… listen to that,” he groaned, the praise rough and filthy. “Such a perfect, sloppy little wife. Taking your this old cock so beautifully, milking every inch like you were born for it. Younger men couldn’t last a minute in this heavenly cunt—tight, hot, and dripping like a common whore for an old monster twice their age. But you are my good little whore, aren't you?”
His arm flexed subtly around you, pulling you even closer, the powerful muscle pressing firmly against your neck and shoulder as he drove deeper.
The position left you completely at his mercy, arched back against his solid chest, unable to do anything but feel every slow, grinding thrust that rubbed relentlessly against that sweet spot inside you. His free hand roamed, palming your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple until it throbbed, then sliding down to circle your swollen clit with calloused fingers.
The dual sensation, his thick cock stretching you open and those precise, firm strokes on your clit, made your moans rise uncontrollably, breathy and desperate against the heavy weight of his arm.
“You hear that, my sweet slut?” he growled, lips brushing the shell of your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “The way your cunt squelches around me? Soaking my balls because your old husband still fucks you better than any boy ever could. Defending my vigor to those court bitches by day… and creaming on my cock like a devoted cock sleeve by night. That’s my good girl. My perfect, filthy queen.”
He kept the rhythm slow and devastatingly deep, hips rolling in powerful, controlled waves that made the bed creak softly beneath you both.
Every thrust pushed a fresh gush of his earlier seed out around his shaft, trickling hot and sticky down your thighs. The friction was exquisite, burning pleasure bordering on overwhelming, the drag of his veined length against your fluttering walls sending sparks through your entire body.
His scent surrounded you completely: sweat, leather, and raw masculinity, growing stronger with every flex of his powerful frame.
“Gods, you’re exquisite,” he praised, voice dropping into a reverent growl as your walls clenched tighter around him. “So young, so tight, so fucking mine. This body was made to be ruined by me...stretched wide on a battle-hardened cock, marked and filled until you can’t walk without feeling where I’ve been.”
His fingers on your clit sped up just slightly, matching the deep grind of his hips. “Come for me again, little one. Let me feel this royal pussy worship its king. Show me how well this old anvil still hammers you into the furs.”
The combination of his degrading filth and soaring praise, the relentless slow-deep thrusts, the unyielding cage of his arm holding you helpless against his body, and the skilled torment of his fingers pushed you over the edge once more.
Pleasure crashed through you like wildfire, your body seizing, walls pulsing and fluttering wildly around his thick length as you cried out, the sound muffled against his sweat-slick skin. Fresh slick gushed around him, coating his cock and thighs.
Maekar groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back. He fucked you through it, slow, deep, possessive strokes that prolonged your orgasm until you were trembling and whimpering in his unbreakable hold.
Only then did his own control fracture once more and with a guttural snarl, he buried himself to the hilt one final time, hips grinding tight as he spilled again, hot, thick pulses flooding your already full cunt, so much that it overflowed immediately, dripping messily between your joined bodies.
He held you there, locked against him, both of you panting in the heavy, sex-scented air. His arm remained firm around you, not releasing you from the intimate cage, lips pressing heated, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck.
“My devoted little monster-fucker,” he whispered, voice hoarse with satisfaction and dark affection. “Never doubt what this king can do to you.”
First of all, I just wanted to say that I am completely in love with your writing. I found your Tumblr through Tywin, and of course, I absolutely adore the way you write him. (I miss him, by the way 🥺)
And now finding out that you're also obsessed with Baelor and Maekar... hmmmm 🤭
I've seen a few people create AUs where Baelor survives, though naturally not without consequences. Would you be interested in exploring an AU where he lives and somehow ends up marrying again? And perhaps, who knows... their wedding night...?
Omg!! Thank you for your kind words!! Tywin is not forgotten!! I love that old man too!!
As to Baelor…
(These are just gonna be some loose headcanons just to bounce the idea around!!)
Warnings/content: smut (p in v), riding, female reader, loss of virginity, arranged marriage age gap (Baelor is mid-late 30s, R is early 20s), slight innocence/corruption kink?, references to injury/aftermath of Baelor’s head injury, Baelor lives (but I’ve bunked off Valarr and Matarys for the plot!!)
The marriage had been out of necessity, not desire, nor love, nor anything the singers sing of.
The Great Spring Sickness had taken his wife from him, the Lady Jena, and soon after his father the King. Then, as if the Stranger were mocking him, his boys were taken too.
212 AC, and the worst of the plague had dissipated almost a year ago, the realm still reeling. He was King now; it was his duty to put things to rights. His brother Aerys was now his heir, but Baelor knew he was not quite suited to kingship; he was too busy with his books.
He must needs take a new wife, is what he announced to his youngest and closest brother Maekar
Somehow, it is you who is chosen, your family who is honoured to have their daughter become Queen Consort
The wedding is modest for a royal wedding; the realm is still reeling from the Great Summer Sickness, and an ostentatious celebration would make the Crown seem out of touch.
Still, there is a ceremony and a procession and a feast. There’s music and dancing, and the royal family are dressed impeccably.
Baelor dances a few times with you, before retiring back to his seat; his head injury a few years prior during the trial makes him tire easily.
It is when you return to his side, eyes sparkling with joy and excitement that the first murmurs for the bedding ceremony begin.
The murmurs soon turn to chants, and the ladies of the court are soon swarming the head table.
Baelor, ever the gracious one, allows himself to be guided up, laughing along. But he glances over his shoulder. His sweet little wife looks like a deer cornered by the hunt as lords and knights begin to pull her up out of her seat as if she were a common wench, not their new queen.
It’s maekar’s gruff voice that separates the throng, and it is he who escorts his brother’s bride to the marriage bed.
When the door is shut firmly, you glance at the bed and feel your face heat
Baelor eases himself down into a chair by the fire. “Come and sit with me a while, my lady,” he says gently
You obey, and you sit opposite him. You share wine and speak. It’s quiet and calm and gentle, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flick over to the bed, then quickly down to your cup.
He sets his own cup down, and looks at you for a long moment. “Are you afraid, my lady?” He asks
You open your mouth, about to say that yes, you were. But then you thought about it, and shook your head. “No,” you breathed. “Just… I do not know what to expect,”
He lets out a little chuckle. “I’m sure your lady mother, or a septa, or a maid has explained everything to you?” When you nod, he smiles. “Women can… find great pleasure in the act,” he says.
“Yes, your Grace,” you say. “It would bring me great pleasure to bear you children,”
He smiles fondly, and his eyes crinkle. “It woukd bring me pleasure to give you children also, sweet lady,” he says gently, shifting a little closely. “But I mean a deeper… baser sort of pleasure. The sort you would feel all over your body during the act itself. Between your legs and in your heart,”
He leads you to the great canopied bed that had been strewn with petals and turned down for you both. The stripping of your clothes is a slow and reverent affair, each petticoat and skirt and sleeve fluttering to the floor, each jewel and pin set carefully on the dresser.
Your body is stroked and kissed and licked and sucked as he explores each dip and curve, each jut and angle, familiarising himself with the plaines of your body until you’re practically thrumming and weeping for more, for that base satisfaction he had promised you.
When he finally sinks into you, deeming you wet and ready enough to take him, you whimper at the stretch, the burn of his cock
He kisses away your tears as they trickle down your cheeks, shushing you gently, promising the sting will stop
He keeps his promise
When you get used to the tight fullness, you roll your hips experimentally, and moan low and long as you feel him shift inside you.
After a few deep, slow thrusts, he can feel himself growing dizzy; the heady pleasure he hasn’t felt in several years combined with the fatigued caused by his injuries from the trial have his head spinning.
But it feels so good, and he is determined for there to be a full consummation, and you’re moaning so prettily beneath him
So he adjusts your position so that you’re mounting him like a horse
“Don’t cover yourself, sweet lady. Not now. Let me see you,”
Your movements are somewhat clumsy and uncertain, as he expected, but he watches with lusty intrigue as you rock and grind your hips, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your waist and arse, his hips occasionally bucking into you
When he feels his release nearing, he presses tight circles into your pearl, his teeth flashing into a surprisingly roguish smile as you jolt and whimper and buck more wildly, chasing your own high
He manages to hold off until a few seconds after you cry out your release, holding your hips down to his as he pumps you full of his seed, groaning your name and praises and curses to the gods
Afterwards, he helps you clean off with a cloth and perfumed water, and has you drink some wine and nibble on some fruit
As you curl up like a cat beneath the sheets, he curls himself around you, pressing a kiss into your hair, falling asleep with his hand resting on your belly
omg hii idk if you’re taking requests, but if you are hehe, can i request what maekar is like with an introverted/shy-ish wife pleasee 🤭?
also i hope you had a wonderful vacation!! and can i just say, i love your writing so much!! i’ve gone through your masterlist multiple times already aslfjdjfgk it’s just so good and i always love the dialogue and how you write maekar. you’re amazing! thank you for sharing your writing with us :P
Maekar Targaryen Doting on his Shy Wife Headcanons
18+ MDNI
Maekar Targaryen x fem!reader
Warnings: smut, insecurity, misunderstandings
AN: Sorry this took so long, I just started a new job so things are kinda crazy lol but I promise I’m back at the writing thing and have lots of wips coming soon! But anyway thank you so much for reading what I write! It means so much to hear :) hope you enjoy <3
1.8k Words
- Initially, Maekar is a little irritated with his shy, genteel wife.
- It's not because you're introverted, gods know he’s not interested in chatting with dreary nobles and conniving gentry, but he finds he cannot get a read on you and it vexes him greatly. Why are you keeping your thoughts so close to your chest? Do you not trust your husband with your heart? He is so used to prying the sly words of courtiers apart, but you give him little besides soft smiles and lowered eyes.
- He knows he’s not good with words, better on the battlefield than charming young ladies, but for the life of him he can’t seem to get you to like him. He’s not even sure why he cares so much. It would be far easier to let you to your own life, and he to his, but there’s a nagging feeling in his chest that keeps drawing him back to your calm demeanor.
- Maekar is not a gentle man by nature, but he is honorable and had set out to do good by his wife, as well as he could anyway. His deep-set insecurity rises to the surface when your shoulders tense when he steps close, when you quickly curtsey and zip off when he enters the room, and when you can barely hold conversation with him when you dine alone together.
- Obviously, he handles this poorly. Anger getting the best of him and staining his image of your relationship. He’s curt, sharp, unsettled by your apparent indifference and bruised by how you obviously don’t care for him.
- He’s grumpy when he watches himself in the mirror, closely monitoring the imperfections in his face and the places time has changed. Then he’s grumpy that he even cares about something as foolish as a pretty wife thinking him grotesque.
- This is, of course, not actually the case. Maekar is just so intimidating. His longstanding reputation as the Anvil, legends of swordplay, snide words and furrowed brows. When you were told he’d be your husband, you’d fretted over how you’d overcome finding him so daunting.
- How surprising it was, then, to find him quite palatable when you finally met. Handsome as sin; tall and broad with his piercing lavender eyes and glittering silver hair. In place of the boorish words you’d expected, you were met with princely honor. He was not warm, or delicate, but he was formidable in his duty, and you soon realized he was daunting in a far more frightening way.
- It was not like he was the only one you didn’t make much conversation with. Maekar watched you like a hawk at feasts, eyes following you as you trapezed around the crowds, avoiding nosey guests and keeping to yourself. Whispering softly to the ladies you knew but generally staying clear of new acquaintances. He equates it to the nerves of being the new lady of Summerhall, nothing more. Your feelings for him and your disinterest in mingling have nothing to do with each other. Obviously.
- Maekar’s staunch belief in your apathy is tested when one afternoon, as he sits with you in the gardens of Summerhall, sweating in his leather doublet but pretending to enjoy his present condition for your sake. You’d finally risen to leave, something about a meeting with a Septa, when you turned back to him with an unreadable look on your face. As quick as lightning, you leaned in, fingertips gliding over his chin as you pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw. You’d backed away in an instant, eyes wide and fingers to your lips, before you curtseyed and ran off.
- It was not often that the Prince found himself bewildered, but that had certainly thrown him off.
- His mind was once again proven mistaken when upon idling up to the door of your chambers, he heard you conversing with a maid.
“I cannot ask him to spend an entire morning with me! He is a Prince, he has far more important matters than entertaining his wife.”
Maekar pushed down his embarrassment as he pressed his ear against the smooth wood of the door.
“M’lady, you could always ask him. Has his grace not treated you with kindness?”
You let out an exasperated sigh.
“He has been the very picture of a gentleman, yet I do not think he cares for me.”
The defeat in your voice made Maekar’s chest clench. You were the one who did not care for him? Why would it matter to you that he couldn’t get you out of his head, that the very thought of you upset with him gripped his heart.
- After months of marriage, Maekar finally begins to understand that maybe you feel the same skepticism toward him as he did to you. He does try to come off less harsh, less hardheaded, and slowly he watches with hidden delight as you open yourself up to him.
- It’s gradual, but eventually you start offering him answers to questions he’s asked himself about you. Why you favor chiffon gowns over velvet, how do you get ready for bed, what dessert makes you lick the sugar off your fingers (he’s particularly interested in watching that one). It dawns on him that you are allowing him in, that few people get the gift of your affections, and Maekar is exceedingly pleased that you feel safe in your marriage to him. Protection is his way of showing love, and he is more than happy to keep you close.
- When a knight becomes too forward with you at a tourney, leaning in low and asking after your favor, Maekar’s head almost explodes with white-hot anger at your wide eyes and worried brow. He’s there in an instant, stepping up behind you with a hand firmly gripping your elbow and his chest against your back. The Prince will gladly be your shield if it means you aren't frightened.
- Banquets are no longer the same dull, awkward affairs as before. Maekar sits close to you at the high table. The leering eyes of the court are harsh, but the arm he has possessively slung over the back of your chair, coupled with a glare that would make the bravest of knights turn tail, keeps anyone from staring too long. It also means he gets you all to himself; leaning in to whisper against your ear, and listening to you speak softly back. The first feast you laugh openly at something he says, leaning over and pressing your palm against the bulk of his thigh, his ears are turning red and his trousers are bursting at the seams.
- He craves your attention, proud to be a place you go when you cannot face the brunt of court. He is more than happy to tuck you into his cloak, mumbling some lame excuse before leading you off to have you alone.
- Even years into your marriage, there are still times Maekar makes you feel bashful and demure. Sometimes it's a grand gesture; a jeweled necklace that must have been a fortune he insists on clipping around your neck, a book so rare it was thought that every copy was lost to time. It has you giggling sweetly and insisting it's too much. Of course, to him, nothing is too much for his wife, the very thought is ridiculous. Sometimes it's the little things that get to you. Giving you his gloves when he feels your hands are too cold, fresh flowers on your nightstand every morning in spring, a gruff compliment that’s just the right combination of romantic and stoic awkwardness. It always has you biting your lip, covering your face, and shuffling your feet. Maekar will roll his eyes, a halfhearted comment about the ridiculousness of your shyness after all this time, but he’s still so charmed to get the reaction out of you.
“Surely you cannot still be coy around me, my lovely girl?”
- You kiss him so sweetly he can barely stand it. Hands curled around his face, mouth soft and timid against his own; he wants nothing more than to take you in his arms and kiss you properly, but he bides his time and lets you lead. He’ll blissfully sit back and let you perch in his lap as you explore him with your tongue. The nervous giggle you let out when you bite at his bottom lip ignites dragonfire deep in his belly, and the startled yelp you let out when he grips your hips tighter only fans the flames.
- The sounds you make in bed are music to his ears, but he has to work to get you to let them show. He’ll be tongue deep in your cunt, juices dribbling through his beard and hands gripping your thighs before he realizes you’ve got your hand over your mouth. He reaches up to bat it away, set on hearing the sweet moans you release as he pleasures you.
- “None of that, little lady, I want to hear you.”
- He’s holding your chin while he slides his cock through your folds and pressing into your entrance. He doesn’t want to give you the chance to look away; he likes watching your eyes as he sinks into your cunt, the way they roll back a little as he cants his hips up, the fluttering of your lashes as he thrusts into you and you fight to keep looking at him.
- Maekar insists on you being clear with what you want from him when he takes you. He will not have you silent, laying by as he takes his pleasure. It's mortifying at first, the way he presses close over you, whispering that he will not move again until you’ve told him how you feel. Is he too much? Would you like him slower? Faster? Do you prefer his fingers or his tongue? Pierced atop his cock or held underneath him? You mumble out responses, and he makes you repeat them until he can hear you clear as day. He’s a soldier, he lives to serve, and so knowing exactly what you want pleases him greatly; it means he can take your orders and execute them to the fullest extent.
- His kisses are hot on your neck, hands roaming from the swell of your bottom to the curve of your breast, clutching your waist and tugging you close to his chest. You whimper softly until he bites at our throat, a grin on his lips at the sudden shriek you let out.
“What do you need from me, my love? What can your husband do for you?”
I just got described as an "ad hating commie" by someone because I said a minute of youtube ads is unpleasant. fully spent 5 minutes arguing and defending youtube ads. insane stuff
synopsisyou just wanted to be helpful, robby's helpful girl, you didn't realise that helping out might've exposed robby in an un-expected sort of way... (2.1k words)
warningssmutish, mention of sex, mention of big dick (it's robby, duh) condom, language
authornotei just absolutely was obsessed with this ask, i loved it so much. it's a big short, just a little thing, lowkey i think it's ass but it was fun. (gif credits to @timothyolyphant)
Pitt masterlist. Last Robby fic!
“I need a condom,”
It wasn't the typical greeting you were used to, really, it wasn't a usual sentence you heard in the ED. Especially not from Samira, flushed in the cheeks with her hair scraped back into a bun.
She'd rushed to you and Santos as you stood outside exam room three, discussing a patient when she joined the two of you, making the statement a little louder than she probably intended. Samira looked around the space behind her and besides you.
Trinity smirked, eyeing Samira up and down. “Okay, Mohan.”
“No, no, not for me, my patient,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Please, I wish it was for me.”
“Why do you need a condom for a patient?” you asked, amused almost. “Is he hot?”
“What? No? My patient, he's HIV but apparently very, very active and he doesn't have condoms. He says he-he prefers it without and I've explained everything to him but there's no condoms in the draw where we keep them!” explained Samira.
“We have a condom draw?” asked Trinity, taking only that as the necessary information from Mohan's ramble.
You handed her the chart. “You sleep with women.”
“What? So I'm not allowed in the condom draw?”
“It's for sex ed teachings, people who are young and having sex,” you shrugged. “Stuff like that. Come on, I can help you out.”
The nurses desk was practically vacant. Around you everyone busied themselves with greeting the nigh shift and getting them out, taking away patients like the changing of the guard. It was almost too early to be dealing with tough patients who wouldn't protect themselves.
You led the way around the counter, Mohan and Santos (who took an invitation for herself) followed you over to the desk as you reached down for Robby's bag, propping it up.
It was no surprise to them that you were reaching for his bag, reaching for his stuff like it was yours. What was Robby's was yours. The real surprise had been when Mel found the two of you eight months ago making out in the storage room, shrieking and dropping a bag of blood that then splashed all over you.
And obviously at the scream everyone ran over and found the two of you rather compromised and covered in blood. You still weren't really done living that down.
You fished around in Robby's bag, the owner somewhere not there to see as you brought out an opened box of condoms. “Here,” you said handing her a thick strip as Santos laughed.
Samira took them wearily, a small dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Won't you... miss these?”
“No,” you said, rocking on your heels, suddenly feeling the familiar creeping heat of embarrassment. “We have... more.”
Santos smirked. “Keeping Robby in shape, huh?”
Samira shuddered. “I really don't want to think about my boss like that, but thank you!” you said, waving the strip like it was a flag and rushing off before her patient could walk off. She was a good doctor, dedicated you knew and you were just happy to help her reach her potential.
Distracted by watching her leave you failed to notice Trinity sneak over to Robby's bag, peeking inside like a nosy cat.
“Hey!” you lectured, pulling the zipper shut on her hand.
“What? Just wanted to know what else you got in there? Does he keep a pair of panties? Vibrator if it gets quiet,” she teased.
You blushed, shaking your head and looking down to the bag. “You have no shame, that's your boss you're talking about.”
She made a pfft noise. “You're the one screwing him.”
Yes, you were. Proudly and happily.
Javadi slid up next to you, practically shoving you a tablet and asking for your advice. You were somewhere deep in your residency, one of the first they were introduced to on their hell of a first day. Not as scary as Robby, easier to talk to than Langdon. It was typical for the Pittlings and Mohan to come to you when they needed advice. You liked it really, as much as Santos teased you and as much as Mohan and Javadi doubted themselves.
“Hey Crash,” said Trinity, all but giddy with the new knowledge she had about Doctor Robby's contents in his bag. “You wanna know what's in this bag of secrets.”
“No,” you chastised.
Javadi's eyes lightened up. “Is that Doctor Robby's bag?”
“It doesn't matter,” you said, pushing it back down to your feet.
“Hey,” Samira joined the group of you again, handing you back the strip of condoms. “He said he can't take these.” The rest of the doctors and nurses hustled around the Pitt, un-knowing of the personal dilemmas being aired out.
You lifted your shoulders. “You needed condoms, those are condoms.”
“Yes but they're not the right size,” said Mohan. “He says they wouldn't fit, they're too big.”
Oh.
Perhaps at some point you'd been shocked at the size of Robby. Before you'd only had your imagination and hints of him beneath his scrubs. The times when he'd brush past you in the teasing beginning of your relationship and you'd feel something prod at you. The first time he'd dragged you to his bedroom, lips seething in heat and teeth nipping in want to only lay you out on his bed and drag his pants and underwear down to show all of him- then you'd been shocked. Mouth watering so.
Over the months the shock transformed to desire, reaching hands and an eager mouth that you stopped thinking about the size.
You didn't think anything of it when you handed Mohan a strip of five extra-large condoms.
Standing at the nurses station it may as well have been a deserted island and you stared down at the condoms like it was your first offering of food.
“Uh-”
Javadi snatched the condoms from Samira first, staring down at them with mouth agape. “Oh my god.”
“Javadi-”
“Holy shit!”
You looked back and Santos had pulled out Robby's bag again, pulling out the box and staring at the size stamped on the front. “Santos!”
“No wonder you walk in limping.”
“I do not- I do not walk in limping!”
“Well, there was that one time-” said Mohan.
“No, there wasn't!” you argued. “I'd bruised my ankle.”
Mohan chuckled to herself. “Sure.”
Trinity smirked. “Bruised something.”
Javadi was still staring at the strip of condoms in wonder. “How do they even get this big?”
You snatched them away from her the way you might have if a child found them. Quickly you stuffed them in the box, threw them back in Robby's bag and kept it behind your back.
“Wait, why do you have a box of condoms for work?” asked Javadi.
“Oh please,” said Santos with a groan. “They're always at it in work. Better safe than sorry.”
“We are not always at it at work,” you defended.
“The storage closet?” asked Mohan, apparently abandoning the venture of finding fitting condoms for her patient.
You held up a finger. “That was one time.”
“The toilets,” added Santos, sadly remembering the time you and Robby had hid yourselves in the bathroom for a break. A break that was only supposed to be comforting touched turned hot and reaching quickly.
“That one time in the exam room where we thought we were examining a broken hip for a Mrs Driscoll-” began Javadi.
“Okay! Okay, I get it!” you interrupted.
“I think it's nice,” Trinity quipped her lip, arms crossing over her chest. “Get some dick when you can right.” She patted your shoulder like a proud sister as she left the group of you, laughing quietly to herself.
Victoria and Samira followed suit, leaving you with the ramifications of your own embarrassment. So what your boyfriend was largely endowed, wasn't it a compliment? Weren't you the luckiest girl in the world to have Robby with soft and tender touches turned to almost hateful thrusts with how hard he loved you.
You made sure Robby's bag was tightly closed before sliding it back under the desk.
The day brought the same usual storm the ED always brought. Enough to distract you from the mornings events and the package sitting inside of Robby's bag. You were left with only a creeping heat crawling up your neck, the last dregs of your doctors eyes on you and their giddy smiles.
You'd only managed to make it to the staff lounge for a coffee by mid day, taking the mug that was yours, marked with an inside joke and given one secret Santa round.
“Hey.” Robby slipped into the room, leaning his back against the sink and standing next to you.
“Hey yourself.”
For a moment there was a silence where you poured coffee for the both of you, handing him his mug.
Robby's fingers grazed yours, the simplest touch sending shivers through your skin. “Can I ask you something?”
You hummed, head tucked away. He wouldn't have heard about the mornings teasing's, would he?
“Santos has been... off today,” he said.
He would.
You gulped, a feign of concern falling to you. “She has?”
“Keeps looking at me and smirking. She's doing this thing with her hands where she-” he demonstrated, spreading his hands to different distances, some small, some bigger. His hands wavered around the imaginary object between his hands.
You were left groaning.
Robby's head tilted toward you. “Do you know anything?”
In attempts of hiding away the story your head ducked and shook side to side.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” you said.
Robby's fingers were slightly calloused but no less humble as he pinched your chin, realigning his gaze with yours. His brows rose, gaze pouring into yours. He didn't even have to ask you again.
You sighed. “This morning Mohan had a patient with HIV and she wanted to give him condoms but there was none where they usually are so I gave her some of ours. But they weren't exactly... the right size.”
There was a small furrow of confusion in his face as he waited for you to elaborate.
You turned your body into his, lowering your voice. “Not everybody can fit into an extra large, Robby.”
The furrow gave and a small grin split his cheeks as he glanced down to your shoes, a pink blooming under his beard and to his cheeks. It was different from your own embarrassment. He was more pleased with himself.
Robby straightened, hands wavering. “So how does... this connect to-”
“Santos was there this morning when Samira asked.”
He chuckled, tongue poking out into his cheek as he shook his head in amusement.
“It's not funny,” you said, nudging him.
He rocked on his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
Your coffee was turning lukewarm in hand, the bitter taste suddenly too sweet as you made to walk away from him and stew in your own humiliation.
Robby's fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged, using you to pull himself in closer. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he teased, voice dropping into the low drag in his condescending way. The sort of voice he used to coax you down into bed with his darkening eyes and lustful approach. “Is my dick too big? Do I fuck you too good?” His hands grabbed at your hips, bringing you into him, tongue darting out to your neck.
Your body wriggled in his hold, trying to escape as his arms grew strong around you. “Stop!” You laughed.
“Make me.” He nipped at your neck, licking over the sting he caused.
The door was pushed open and Langdon stumbled in the doorway, catching sight of the two of you tangled in arms and laughter.
“Are you two doing it in the lounge now?” he asked.
You guessed you just should've been thankful Langdon wasn't there that morning, otherwise there would have been competitions between him and Santos on who could make the best jokes out of your misery.
Slowly, Robby moved away from you, pulling himself up straight and pulling at his hoodie before leading the way out the room.
McKay was wheeling a patient away to x-ray, Samira was giving aftercare instructions to an elderly couple and Mel was somewhere lurking in a corner talking to Dana.
Santos, however, was still being the most productive, sitting across from Javadi and still trying to make sense of some invisible size between her hands.
You watched, un-able to stop as Robby walked behind Santos and spread her hands apart just a little, enough to leave more than enough inches between her hands.
Robby walked away, satisfied.
taglist (if you want to be added or took off just say the word!): @oldbaddies, @mafercita101,@tiddieshakeshownu, @mismwaa, @annabethpotter221b
First of all, I just wanted to say that I am completely in love with your writing. I found your Tumblr through Tywin, and of course, I absolutely adore the way you write him. (I miss him, by the way 🥺)
And now finding out that you're also obsessed with Baelor and Maekar... hmmmm 🤭
I've seen a few people create AUs where Baelor survives, though naturally not without consequences. Would you be interested in exploring an AU where he lives and somehow ends up marrying again? And perhaps, who knows... their wedding night...?
Omg!! Thank you for your kind words!! Tywin is not forgotten!! I love that old man too!!
As to Baelor…
(These are just gonna be some loose headcanons just to bounce the idea around!!)
Warnings/content: smut (p in v), riding, female reader, loss of virginity, arranged marriage age gap (Baelor is mid-late 30s, R is early 20s), slight innocence/corruption kink?, references to injury/aftermath of Baelor’s head injury, Baelor lives (but I’ve bunked off Valarr and Matarys for the plot!!)
The marriage had been out of necessity, not desire, nor love, nor anything the singers sing of.
The Great Spring Sickness had taken his wife from him, the Lady Jena, and soon after his father the King. Then, as if the Stranger were mocking him, his boys were taken too.
212 AC, and the worst of the plague had dissipated almost a year ago, the realm still reeling. He was King now; it was his duty to put things to rights. His brother Aerys was now his heir, but Baelor knew he was not quite suited to kingship; he was too busy with his books.
He must needs take a new wife, is what he announced to his youngest and closest brother Maekar
Somehow, it is you who is chosen, your family who is honoured to have their daughter become Queen Consort
The wedding is modest for a royal wedding; the realm is still reeling from the Great Summer Sickness, and an ostentatious celebration would make the Crown seem out of touch.
Still, there is a ceremony and a procession and a feast. There’s music and dancing, and the royal family are dressed impeccably.
Baelor dances a few times with you, before retiring back to his seat; his head injury a few years prior during the trial makes him tire easily.
It is when you return to his side, eyes sparkling with joy and excitement that the first murmurs for the bedding ceremony begin.
The murmurs soon turn to chants, and the ladies of the court are soon swarming the head table.
Baelor, ever the gracious one, allows himself to be guided up, laughing along. But he glances over his shoulder. His sweet little wife looks like a deer cornered by the hunt as lords and knights begin to pull her up out of her seat as if she were a common wench, not their new queen.
It’s maekar’s gruff voice that separates the throng, and it is he who escorts his brother’s bride to the marriage bed.
When the door is shut firmly, you glance at the bed and feel your face heat
Baelor eases himself down into a chair by the fire. “Come and sit with me a while, my lady,” he says gently
You obey, and you sit opposite him. You share wine and speak. It’s quiet and calm and gentle, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flick over to the bed, then quickly down to your cup.
He sets his own cup down, and looks at you for a long moment. “Are you afraid, my lady?” He asks
You open your mouth, about to say that yes, you were. But then you thought about it, and shook your head. “No,” you breathed. “Just… I do not know what to expect,”
He lets out a little chuckle. “I’m sure your lady mother, or a septa, or a maid has explained everything to you?” When you nod, he smiles. “Women can… find great pleasure in the act,” he says.
“Yes, your Grace,” you say. “It would bring me great pleasure to bear you children,”
He smiles fondly, and his eyes crinkle. “It woukd bring me pleasure to give you children also, sweet lady,” he says gently, shifting a little closely. “But I mean a deeper… baser sort of pleasure. The sort you would feel all over your body during the act itself. Between your legs and in your heart,”
He leads you to the great canopied bed that had been strewn with petals and turned down for you both. The stripping of your clothes is a slow and reverent affair, each petticoat and skirt and sleeve fluttering to the floor, each jewel and pin set carefully on the dresser.
Your body is stroked and kissed and licked and sucked as he explores each dip and curve, each jut and angle, familiarising himself with the plaines of your body until you’re practically thrumming and weeping for more, for that base satisfaction he had promised you.
When he finally sinks into you, deeming you wet and ready enough to take him, you whimper at the stretch, the burn of his cock
He kisses away your tears as they trickle down your cheeks, shushing you gently, promising the sting will stop
He keeps his promise
When you get used to the tight fullness, you roll your hips experimentally, and moan low and long as you feel him shift inside you.
After a few deep, slow thrusts, he can feel himself growing dizzy; the heady pleasure he hasn’t felt in several years combined with the fatigued caused by his injuries from the trial have his head spinning.
But it feels so good, and he is determined for there to be a full consummation, and you’re moaning so prettily beneath him
So he adjusts your position so that you’re mounting him like a horse
“Don’t cover yourself, sweet lady. Not now. Let me see you,”
Your movements are somewhat clumsy and uncertain, as he expected, but he watches with lusty intrigue as you rock and grind your hips, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your waist and arse, his hips occasionally bucking into you
When he feels his release nearing, he presses tight circles into your pearl, his teeth flashing into a surprisingly roguish smile as you jolt and whimper and buck more wildly, chasing your own high
He manages to hold off until a few seconds after you cry out your release, holding your hips down to his as he pumps you full of his seed, groaning your name and praises and curses to the gods
Afterwards, he helps you clean off with a cloth and perfumed water, and has you drink some wine and nibble on some fruit
As you curl up like a cat beneath the sheets, he curls himself around you, pressing a kiss into your hair, falling asleep with his hand resting on your belly
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