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@hirudofatalis
Alis ⚚ ⤷ Masterlist ⤷ Newest Fic (Julian Devorak NSFW Alphabet)
⤷ My blog is 18+! MINORS DNI. ⤷ I write for anything that piques my interest. ⤷ I'll always have trigger/general warning sections when I post.
AKOTSK men kinks? Any pet names for LS? High Valyrian in bedroom??!? I’m foaming at the mouth rn 😫
I did answer sizes/positions/kinks already, but did keep it relatively broad rather than Lady Stark!Reader specific, but holy shit did I have a lot to say about this. Strap in, we're gonna get real nasty and weird lol.
includes: baelor, maekar, aerion, dunk, lyonel, valarr, daeron, aegon the conqueror, maegor the cruel, daemon blackfyre && brynden rivers (bloodraven). 18+. mdni. this contains some dark themes/content (guess who lmao) but NO no-con (because we don't fuck with that here.)
BAELOR:
The Dornish approach to pleasure (unlike Westerosi prudishness, Dorne celebrates sex openly, and he very much brings that philosophy to bed, will spend hours on foreplay because Dornish lovers are generous, will make you come three times before he even gets inside you because in Dorne a man's prowess is measured by his partner's satisfaction)
Delayed gratification (he's been edging himself for too long when it comes to you; edging you is just the natural extension—he'll bring you to the brink a dozen times before he lets you shatter because he's teaching you the pleasure of waiting, of burning)
The praise specificity (he doesn't just say "good girl", he's specific: "The way you take me is perfect, the sounds you make, how wet you get, the way you clench when you're close", detailed observational praise that proves he's paying attention)
Competence kink (watching you ride, negotiate, command makes him harder than any bedroom game ever could—he wants to fuck you still wearing the confidence you wielded in the council chamber, wants to be the only one who gets to see you undone)
Feeding (Dornish culture is sensual about food too, so he'll feed you pomegranate seeds, blood oranges, watching juice run down your chin before licking it away, and sometimes he'll fuck you with sticky fruit-sweetness still on both your mouths)
Northern/Southern contrast fixation (your cold skin warming under his hands is a metaphor he can't escape—he's the southern prince, a dragon, with blood of Dorne in his veins, melting the winter queen, the dragon thawing the wolf, and he whispers it while he fucks you: "You're so warm for me now, aren't you? All that ice, melting.")
Lowkey breeding kink (he tells himself it's duty, political necessity, but the truth is he's obsessed with the idea of you round with his child even though he would never say it, likes watching his seed drip out of you, presses it back in with his fingers while you whimper)
Siesta sex (the Dornish afternoon rest becomes SEXUAL; he'll pull you into his chambers in the heat of the day, strip you both down, fuck you slow and sweaty while the castle is quiet, and there's something deeply intimate about mid-afternoon sex, sunlight slanting through shutters, no rush)
Mirror sex (he positions you so you have to watch: watch yourself take him, watch your face when you break, watch him watching you, "Look at yourself. Look how perfect you are. Look what you let me do to you.")
Breeding intensity (when he's actually trying to get you pregnant, he becomes almost feral, fucking you multiple times a day during your fertile window, keeping you in bed, barely letting you leave: "I'm not wasting this, I'm going to make sure it takes")
Orange blossom oil (he uses Dornish scented oils—orange blossom, mainly, his favourite—warming it in his hands before touching you, and the scent becomes rooted in your brain, you smell orange blossom anywhere and get immediately wet, and he knows, will sometimes wear it himself just to watch you react)
Oral fixation (he'll spend an hour between your thighs, ignore his own aching cock entirely, because tasting you is communion and he's a devout man; same can be said about finger sucking heh)
Spiced wine as ritual (he'll bring Dornish wine—the kind his mother drinks, heavy and spiced—and make you drink from his cup before sex, the sharing of wine a Dornish intimacy ritual, and sometimes he'll pour it on your skin and lick it off, the spices mixing with salt and sweat)
Praise kink (when you call him "my prince" while he's inside you makes him actually dizzy)
Orange grove fantasy (he talks about taking you to Dorne, fucking you in the orange groves of Sunspear, under the desert sun where no one would care about propriety: "In Dorne we could do this anywhere, the Water Gardens, the shadow city, no one would bat an eye")
The way he fucks you: Slow and controlled. He's a man who's been denying himself for years (in many contexts) and now that he has permission to have one thing he's wanted above all else, he's going to savour every second. He maps your body like territory he's conquering inch by inch. He learns what makes you gasp, whimper, beg, and then he uses it. A merciless commander of his favourite battlefield. With the same brilliance he brings to the tourney field.
Pet names: "Little wolf" (only in private, only in bed, and it makes you feral every time), "my lady" (even when you're naked and begging, because the formality is part of the game), "sweetling" (rarely, and when he does use it you know he's feeling extra soft toward you)
High Valyrian: He uses it sparingly because he knows the power it has over you. The intimacy of a language you don't fully speak, the intimacy of it. He waits until you're close, until you're trembling, and then he switches: "Gevie" (beautiful), "Ñuha zaldrīzes" (my dragon, ironic and possessive because you're the wolf but he's claiming you in dragon-tongue), "Māzīs syt nyke" (come for me).
Post-sex: He holds you like you're something precious he's afraid will disappear. Traces your face with his fingers like he's memorising you. Whispers things into your hair: "I've wanted you so long," "You undo me," "I would burn the realm for you and I know I shouldn't." The vulnerability lasts maybe five minutes before he rebuilds his walls back to the prince (because he still feels ashamed to want you this much), but every one of those moments is yours.
MAEKAR:
Competence + control exchange (he's furious that he wants to submit to your authority outside the bedroom—you're his wife or his political equal and you command respect he has to give, and it makes him feral—so in bed he takes it all back, pins you down, makes you yield, forces the power dynamic back into his favour)
Possessive marking (bites and bruises in places only he'll see, but also places that will show, just barely, under your gown's neckline, so every man at court will know you're claimed)
Restraints (his belt, your own clothes, his bare hands—he doesn't need silk ties, he needs you helpless and teeth bared)
Rough silent dominance (the sex is almost wordless sometimes, specially in the beginning, just commands: "Turn over." "Spread your legs." "Breathe." and the silence makes every sound you do make sound ten times filthier)
The rare praise (he almost never praises, so when he does, a muttered "Good girl" or "Perfect, just like that", it hits like a physical blow, and he knows the power those rare words have so he rations them like a miser)
Reclaiming his wife (after social events where you have to be polite to visiting lords, where other men look at you with appreciation, or even want, he'll pull you into your chambers and fuck you still half-dressed, possessive and intense.)
Aftercare denial (he makes you wait, trembling and aching, before suddenly pulling you against his chest and the tenderness hits harder because he made you earn it, left you on the edge before claiming you with his strength)
Scent fixation (burying his face in your hair/neck and just breathing you in before he fucks you, like he's trying to get drunk on you)
The cold prince warming (Winterfell's cold draws something out of him; he runs hot naturally and in the Northern winter that contrast is more stark, he's your personal furnace, and he'll warm you with his body deliberately, strip you down and press skin-to-skin in the furs: "Let me warm you, wife, let me—" and the service aspect gets him off)
The awkward tenderness (he doesn't know how to be soft, so when he tries it's clumsy; his fingers too rough when he tries to be gentle, his words stilted when he attempts praise, and the awkwardness is somehow more intimate than smoothness would be)
Authority kink (he gets off on giving orders and having them obeyed ("Spread your legs," "Don't move," "Stay quiet") and watching you comply makes him harder than the actual acts themselves)
Duty-bound breeding (he frames getting you pregnant as duty, as obligation—"We need heirs, this is necessary"—but really he's obsessed with the idea of you carrying his children, of permanent claim)
The northman's endurance (winters are long in the North and so is he; he'll fuck you for HOURS on long winter nights, nothing else to do but tend the fires and tend to YOU, and his stamina becomes legend between you)
The crack (very rarely, after particularly intense sex, his mask will slip; his hand will tremble when he touches your face, or he'll pull you closer with something desperate in the movement, and you'll see the sheer need underneath the iron)
Praise starvation showing (he's spent his life as the overlooked fourth son, so when you praise him genuinely, tell him he's good, tell him you want him, he goes absolutely still, and then something ignites and he's on you with desperate hunger: "Say it again")
Throat-holding (his hand on your throat is about control, about feeling your pulse race, about the trust it requires. He doesn't squeeze, just holds, and it's more intimate than any kiss)
Wedding night do-over (months into the marriage, when he's actually in love, he'll recreate your wedding night, but THIS time with passion instead of duty, and the contrast destroys you both: "I want to do it right this time, want you to want me this time")
The Lord's hand always on you (in the great hall during meals his hand is on your thigh under the table, possessive and constant, and sometimes his fingers will slip higher, reminding you what's coming later, and you allow the touch grounds him)
Seasonal intensity (winter makes him MORE possessive—something about the isolation, the darkness, the need for warmth—he'll keep you in bed longer, fuck you more frequently: "Nothing else to do but keep you warm, keep you satisfied, keep you full")
Possessive sleeping (he cannot sleep unless you're in his arms, will wake if you try to move away, drag you back unconsciously, and the need for physical contact even in sleep betrays how deeply he's fallen)
Hate-fucking his own desire (sometimes he fucks you angry—angry that he wants you, angry that you make him weak, angry that he can't stop wanting you—and it's rough and desperate and he won't look at you until after)
The way he fucks you: Hard and controlled, especially initially. He's not trying to make love to you; he's trying to do his duty to you, prove something to himself while he's at it. But underneath the roughness is a desperate need he won't name. He'll pin your wrists above your head and fuck into you with mechanical precision, but his eyes are wild, burning. He'll bite your shoulder hard enough to bruise and then his tongue will trace the mark like an apology he can't voice.
Pet names: He doesn't use them. You're "Lady Stark" even when he's three fingers deep. You're "wife" (bitten off like a curse), then like a claim. The closest he gets to softness is a muttered "woman" that somehow sounds like "beloved" in his mouth every time.
High Valyrian: Rare. Cold and commanding. "Kostilus" (please, but it sounds like an order), "Māzīs" (come, snapped out when he's losing control), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin like he's claiming territory).
Post-sex: He doesn't speak. Just pulls you against him with a grip that borders on bruising, buries his face in your hair, and holds. Sometimes his hands shake. Sometimes you feel his breath hitch like he's fighting something bigger than desire. He'll never say "I love you," but the way he clutches you in the aftermath speaks volumes. Nothing could take you from him. Nothing.
AERION:
Blood play (he bites until you bleed, licks the wound clean, mixes your blood with his—it's not about pain, it's about mingling, about becoming indistinguishable, about love as cannibalism)
Hair-pulling (your hands in his hair, yanking his head back, making him gasp—he's bratty and vicious until you pull hard enough and then he goes pliant)
Exhibitionism as claim-staking (he wants them to watch, wants them to see you choose him, wants everyone to hear you scream his name, wants the realm to know the wolf chose the mad dragon)
Degradation (call him "pretty," call him "desperate," call him a "temperamental little dragon" and watch him fall apart; he's been called brilliant and terrifying his whole life but no one's called him pretty like it's an insult and a caress)
You shaped Breeding kink (he's never wanted children with anyone else, the thought disgusted him, but you? He's obsessed with putting a child in you specifically, has spent years fantasising about it, wants to see you swollen with his seed, wants to bind you to him in the most permanent way possible—"You'd be so beautiful round with my babe," "Want everyone to see what I did to you," "Going to fill you until it takes"—it's possessive and primal and he can't think about anything else when he's inside you)
Humiliation play (making him perform, making him beg, making him prove he deserves you—he needs to earn it or it doesn't feel real)
Orgasm denial (he hates how much he loves being edged, being told when he can come, being controlled, but he's also achingly hard the entire time)
Oral fixation (his mouth is always on you—biting, sucking, licking, tasting—he needs his tongue on your skin like he needs air, will spend hours just kissing and biting his way across your body, sucking bruises into your thighs, your breasts, your throat, and when you're on your knees for him he nearly blacks out, watching his cock disappear between your lips is a straight up religious experience)
Bratty submission (his submission is never easy; he fights, he mouths off, he tests boundaries constantly, because he needs you to take it from him rather than have it given)
Mirror sex (he needs to watch himself break for you, needs to see his own degradation, needs the visual proof that you've undone him)
Jewellery/adornment fixation (he wants you dripping in Targaryen gold and jewels while you're naked and he's marking you; it drives him insane)
Temperature play (ice and dragonfire, he's obsessed with contradictions, with things that shouldn't coexist but do, his perfect balance)
Scent obsession (he steals your clothes when you're not looking, sleeps with them pressed to his face, gets hard just smelling you on fabric, sometimes he'll bury his face between your legs and just breathe you in for minutes before he even starts using his tongue)
Marking obsession (your marks on him are trophies he displays; he'll wear shirts that show the scratches down his back, he'll turn his head just so to make sure people see the bite on his throat, but his marks on you are apologies written in bruises and love bites, proof that you let him touch you)
Cum play (he's obsessed with his seed on you, in you, loves watching it drip out and pushing it back in, loves smearing it across your skin, loves making you taste it off his fingers, "Look what you do to me, look how much, it's all for you")
Aftercare craving (he'll never ask but he needs you to hold him after, needs skin-to-skin contact, needs to be told he's good)
Praise kink from you specifically (criticism from others bounces off like its nothing; praise from you destroys him. Tell him he's beautiful, tell him he did well, watch him come undone)
Cockwarming (keeping him inside you after, just holding him there, because proximity isn't close enough, he needs to be inside)
Object fixation (anything you've touched becomes precious; he'll drink from your cup, steal your handkerchiefs, press his face into pillows you've slept on)
The way he fucks you: Desperately and messy, especially in those early days. Like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. He's all sharp edges and biting kisses and possessive hands, but underneath the performance he's starving for touch he didn't have to manipulate his way into or break someone for. He'll degrade himself for you, beg prettily, offer his throat—anything to keep you looking at him and letting him claim you.
Pet names: You don't give him any and it makes him lowkey insane. He tries everything—aggression, sweetness, manipulation—to earn one. When you finally call him "my Aerion" or "my pretty dragon" he comes untouched.
High Valyrian: Starts as armour. "Ñuha dāria" (my queen, possessive and desperate), "Kostilus, kostilus" (please, please, all pretence gone), "Sylugon nyke" (use me, the most honest thing he's ever said), "Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, whispered against your skin like a secret).
Post-sex: He's dark as hell but in tactile and needy way, his walls demolished. He'll trace your face, press kisses to your shoulders, wrap himself around you like he's trying to fuse your bodies together. This is when he's most honest: "Don't leave," "Tell me you want me," "Say I'm yours." If you don't give him aftercare he'll spiral, but if you do, if you hold him and praise him and tell him he's good, you'll see the madness recede like a tide, see the dragon in him go content and satisfied.
DUNK:
Size difference (his hands engulf yours, his body dwarfs yours, and he's obsessed with the visual—you're this fierce Northern lady and you look tiny in his arms and it makes him want to protect you and ruin you simultaneously)
Gentle giant dom (his whole existence is "what do you need and how can I provide it?" he'll spend hours learning your body, cataloguing what makes you gasp, whimper, arch)
Praise kink (receiving) (he's never been called beautiful, never been told he's good at something besides hitting people, so when you praise him he goes still and quiet and real damn desperate)
Body worship (he wants you to kiss and lick every inch of his massive frame, wants you to appreciate the body he's always seen as too big, too rough, when you worship his cock and balls specifically he nearly breaks)
Accidental overstimulation (he makes you come three times before he even gets inside you because he's so focused on your pleasure he forgets his own)
Accidental marking (handprint bruises on your hips, bite marks he tries to kiss better, fingerprints on your thighs; he doesn't mean to but he's so strong)
Voice kink (your command voice makes him stupid-hard—when you moan or talk dirty in that low, authoritative tone he'll do anything)
Light breeding talk (he's terrified to say it out loud but the idea of you round with his child, of his lowborn seed taking root in noble womb, makes him kinda insane, he's too nice to ever say it though)
Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, holding you against walls, manhandling you into position, but gently, always checking you're okay)
The way he fucks you: Like you're something precious. He'll work you open with his fingers (so much thicker than any lordling's), murmuring reassurance: "That's it, you can take it, you're doing so well." When he finally pushes inside he goes slow, watching your face for any sign of discomfort, and the restraint costs him. You can literally see him shaking with the effort of holding back.
Pet names: "M'lady" (always, even in bed), "little one" (size kink goes brrrr and makes him melt), "my heart" (when he's being devastatingly sincere and doesn't realise how loving he sounds)
High Valyrian: He doesn't know any and feels insecure about it. You're highborn, educated, you probably expect courtly sophistication. When you tell him you prefer the Common Tongue from him, that you prefer his rough Flea Bottom accent, it makes him dizzy with relief.
Post-sex: He holds you like you're made of glass. Peppers your face with kisses. Asks if you're alright at least seventeen times. Fetches water, cleans you gently, tucks you against his chest just to have you close. The aftercare is instinctive—he's taking care of you the way he takes care of his armour, his horse, anything he values because he has so little. Sometimes he'll whisper: "Can't believe you let me touch you. Can't believe you're mine."
LYONEL:
Impact play (hard spanking that leaves your marked, but he's laughing while he does it, drops an open mouthed kiss against the mark, clearly having the time of his life, "You can take it, wolf, I know you can, there's my girl")
Loud dirty talk + booming laughter (he doesn't whisper, he proclaims, "Going to fill you so full you're dripping for days," "Listen to those sounds you're making, fuck," and sometimes he just laughs, delighted by your body's responses)
Primal breeding (hair-pulling while he fucks into you from behind, biting your shoulder, holding you down; pure animal dominance, he knows better than to try and tame a wolf)
Public risk/semi-exhibitionism (fucking in tents during campaigns, against walls at feasts where someone might walk by, in the godswood where the risk of discovery makes it better and someone always hears you)
Cum play as marking (he loves smearing his seed all over your body—your breasts, your thighs, your face—or making you wear it under your gown at court dinners, loves the secret knowledge that you're marked, you can see his eyes twinkling every time he looks at you)
Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, fucking you against walls, holding you up while you're impaled on his cock)
Competitive (how many times can he make you come, how loud, how wet—he's keeping score and he's winning)
Exhibitionist breeding talk ("Everyone's going to know I fucked you," "You're going to walk into that council meeting with my seed dripping down your thighs," "Going to put a black-haired babe in you and let the realm wonder")
The way he fucks you: Hard and fast. He approaches sex enthusiastically, messily, and with full-body commitment. He'll throw you onto the bed and laugh at your indignant yelp before covering your body with his, all muscle and heat. He doesn't make love; he celebrates you.
Pet names: "Storm Queen" (his favourite, said with open pleasure), "my she-wolf" (possessive), "gorgeous creature" (when he's being appreciative), "there's my girl" (when you do something that particularly pleases him)
High Valyrian: He knows like three phrases and uses them all wrong but with such confidence you can't even correct him 😭 He'll try to dirty talk in Valyrian and completely butcher the grammar and you're too busy laughing/coming to care.
Post-sex: He's really affectionate, pulls you against him, plays with your hair, traces the marks he left on your skin with obvious satisfaction. Sometimes he'll sing, some tavern song or Storm's End ballad, while you're trying to catch your breath. He has no concept of embarrassment or vulnerability; this is just another form of intimacy to him.
VALARR:
DM Verse context: He's in love with Daeron's betrothed. Or Aerion's lover. Or the woman caught between one or both of his cousins in a toxic dance that's going to consume all of you (and likely kill someone). And he's the fool watching from the outside, wanting in, knowing he'll burn if he touches but reaching anyway.
Modern AU context: He's in love with his father's girlfriend. His father's fiancée. The woman who smiles at him over breakfast and sleeps in Baelor's bed and is going to become his stepmother. He's so thoroughly fucked it's almost funny. Except nothing about this is actually funny.
Forbidden fruit (every touch is stolen, every kiss is betrayal, and the wrongness makes it better in ways that shame him)
Guilt kink (he hates himself for wanting you and the self-hatred makes him desperate; he fucks you like he's trying to purge you from his system and fails every time)
Voyeurism (he's seen you with them; through cracked doors, across courtyards, and it's destroyed him, burned the images into his brain so he can't escape them)
Touching himself to memories of you with them (this is the WORST part because he'll replay what he saw, you with Baelor/Aerion/Daeron, and he'll hate himself while he strokes his cock to the memory, imagining it's him instead, and the self-loathing after he comes is crushing)
Stolen moments (quick and desperate in shadowed hallways, gardens at midnight, anywhere you won't be caught because discovery would ruin everything but the risk makes his hands shake)
Teasing/edging as delayed gratification (if he's already damned, he's going to make it last—he'll edge you for hours, make you beg, draw it out because these stolen moments are all he gets)
Comparative worship (he kisses you softer than they do, fucks you slower, gentler, because he needs you to know he'd treasure you if he could have you. DM: softer than Aerion, gentler than Daeron; Modern AU: more tender than his father)
Marking he'll have to hide (he wants to bite, to bruise, to claim (he's still a dragon even if others don't see him as one) but he can't, so he settles for kissing places no one else will see, leaving ghost-marks only you'll know about)
Praise kink as vulnerability (when you call him "my perfect prince" or "so beautiful when you fuck me" he melts, goes molten; he's been good his whole life and hearing it from your mouth makes it hit ten times better)
Light bondage (silk ties, leather belts; he needs you to restrain him, needs the choice taken away so he can pretend he's not choosing this)
Perfectionism in bed (he wants to be PERFECT for you: studies your reactions obsessively, adjusts technique, asks what you like, and the desperate need to be good enough bleeds into everything he does)
The confessor's burden (DM specific) (if you ever confide in him about problems with Aerion or Daeron, he'll comfort you appropriately, but later he'll replay the conversation and get off on your vulnerability, on the intimacy of you trusting him)
Slow sensory teasing (prolonged foreplay with fingers, tongue, silk, feathers; he's savouring you because he doesn't know when he'll get this again)
Modern AU specific:
Age-gap reversal (you're older, sophisticated, his father's equal, and he's the college kid who can't control himself)
Household proximity torture (you're always there: in the kitchen in the morning, on the couch in silk pyjamas, in the pool in a bikini that makes him want to gnaw his own arm off)
Forbidden fantasy (he jerks off thinking about fucking you in his father's bed, in his father's shower, against his father's desk, then nearly throws up from how guilty he feels over it)
Good boy corruption arc (he's never been reckless until you, never lied until you, never wanted something absolutely forbidden until you—you're unmaking his careful golden-boy persona and he's letting you)
Listening through walls (he's learned which walls are thin, where he can hear—and when you're with his father he'll press his ear to stone and listen to the sounds you make, hating himself, aching, hard and horrified in equal measure)
Scent obsession (he'll get close enough to smell your perfume, your hair, and later he'll try to remember it exactly while touching himself, and once he passed you in a hallway right after you'd clearly been with his father and he could SMELL sex on you and he nearly came untouched from shame and want)
Overstimulation seeking (he'll ask you to keep going even when he's too sensitive, even when it almost HURTS, because the overwhelming sensation grounds him in reality, proves this is really happening)
Mirror to his father (he's aware he looks like young Baelor, same dark hair, same build, and he uses it, styles his hair the same way, dresses sharp, anything to make you see the resemblance and want)
The way he fucks you: Like he's trying to memorise you through his skin, tender and desperate. Every thrust is "I love you," every kiss is "I'm sorry," every whispered praise is "Choose me." He can't fuck you without emotion bleeding through, it's physically impossible for him to separate the mechanical from the meaningful.
Pet names: He doesn't dare. You're "my lady" (DM) or just your name (Modern AU) and the formality/distance is armour that doesn't work. Sometimes, when he's breaking, he'll whisper "beloved" (DM) or "baby" (Modern AU) like a confession.
High Valyrian (DM only): Whispered sins he shouldn't speak—"Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, and he does, and it's destroying him), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though you can't), "Ñuha mittys" (my mistake, said against your mouth like he's apologising to the gods themselves).
Post-sex: Guilt tastes sooo good. He holds you too tight and won't meet your eyes. Sometimes his eyes burn after tears (mostly due to guilt). He'll press his face to your shoulder and breathe you in like he's drowning. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "I'd give up the crown for you," (DM) / "I'd walk away from everything for you" (Modern AU), "I dream about you every night," "I'm going to the Seven Hells and I don't care."
DAERON:
Wine-sharing as intimacy (he'll take a mouthful of wine and kiss it into your mouth, or pour it across your skin and lick it off, the alcohol making everything hazy and warm, and sometimes he'll get you drunk WITH him so you can exist in that floating space together where nothing hurts quite as much)
Self-destructive exhibition (when he's spiralling he'll fuck you where someone might catch you—against the door while a feast happens outside, in the godswood where guards patrol, anywhere with risk—because part of him wants to be caught, wants the scandal, wants to burn it all down)
Lazy oral fixation (he'll spend hours between your thighs, drunk and dedicated, because focusing on you means not thinking about visions)
Light somnophilia (sleepy morning sex, half-awake and gentle, the only time he's soft because his defences are down)
Praise desperation (he's starved for affirmation, for being told he's GOOD, he's worthy, he matters; when you praise him during sex he falls apart, will bury his face in your neck and shake, and he needs the words as much as the physical pleasure)
Body worship from below (he loves lying back and letting you ride—his face, his cock—while he lazily praises you, because it means he can just receive for once instead of carrying the world)
Temperature seeking (he's always cold—the visions leave him chilled to the bone—so he seeks your warmth obsessively, will press his icy hands to your warm skin, bury his face against your neck, wrap himself around you like he's trying to absorb your heat, and the contrast makes you gasp)
The gift of laughter (on rare good days when the visions are quiet and the wine has him pleasantly buzzed instead of miserable, he's actually playful: tickling you, making you laugh, smiling against your skin, and the sex is light and sweet and you treasure these moments because they're so rare)
Reversal of caretaking (he spends so much time being taken care of—helped to bed, monitored, pitied—that when you're the one who needs comfort or care, he becomes almost manic about providing it, and he'll eat you out for an hour or fuck you exactly how you need, completely focused on your pleasure because it's the only time he feels useful)
Cum eating (he'll lick his own seed out of you or off your skin, because it's intimate and it grounds him)
The prophet's resentment (he resents that he needs you, resents that you're the only thing that quiets the visions, and sometimes he'll fuck you like he hates you for it, rough and graceless and mean, and he'll spit accusations: "This is your fault, you made me want this, I was better off alone")
Melancholy intimacy (the sex is tender and sad, like he's trying to memorise you before the visions come true and take you away)
Neediness masked as anger (he'll pick fights specifically so the makeup sex is intense, will say cruel things he doesn't mean just so you'll prove you won't leave, testing your loyalty through manufactured conflict)
Cum denial for himself (sometimes he'll fuck you and deliberately not let himself finish, will pull out before he comes and just stop because denying himself pleasure is another form of self-punishment, and you have to coax him or sometimes physically force him to let himself have good things)
Vulnerability (when he's drunk he sometimes cries during sex, clings to you, whispers prophecies he shouldn't, "I saw you burning," "I can't save you," "Stay with me, please stay")
The way he fucks you: Like every time might be the last time because in his visions it always is. He'll cup your face and stare into your eyes like he's trying to burn the image into his brain. He'll whisper your name like a prayer. And sometimes he'll just stop mid-thrust and hold you, because the weight of knowing is crushing him.
Pet names: "Darling girl" (sometimes teasingly if he's sober, lovingly if he's drunk), "my salvation" (because you are—you're the only thing keeping him sane), "sweet thing" (when he's eating you out, tasting you in some capacity)
High Valyrian: Mostly slurred but rather poetic, "Jorrāelagon ao" (love you, said like he's confessing a crime), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though the visions say you won't).
Post-sex: He holds you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. Traces your face with shaking fingers. Sometimes he talks—streams of consciousness about visions, fears, futures he can't prevent: "I saw Summerhall burning," "I saw Aerion's madness consume him," "I saw you and I wasn't there to save you." Sometimes he just cries, silent tears soaking into your hair. Truth is he's in love with you. Has been since the first vision where you appeared crowned in snow and ice before you began burning and he can't tell if you're dying or transcending. Every time he touches you he's trying to change the future, trying to make this real enough that it overwrites the visions. It never works but he tries anyway. In every vision, he loses you. You burn or you leave or you fade, and he's always reaching for you, always too late. So he treats every moment like borrowed time. Fucks you like he's trying to anchor you to this reality. Loves you like it's the last thing he'll ever do (because it is).
DAEMON:
Version One context: He knew you while you were betrothed to Baelor
This is the version where he watched you at court, saw you promised to the Baelor, and wanted you with a longing that predates any rebellion. This Daemon has context—he knows your laugh, knows how you take your wine, knows the way you argue in council. He didn't just want to take you from Baelor. He wanted you to choose him instead.
Competence worship (he's watched you negotiate, watched you ride, watched you command, and every display of capability makes him want you more, not as a prize but as an equal, as a queen in the making)
Stolen tenderness (in the rare moments when he's not performing conqueror, when it's just you in a quiet room, he'll touch you gently—fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone—like he's memorising something precious he was never meant to have)
Laughter during sex (with you specifically, because you knew him before the rebellion fully consumed him, you remember when he could still be light, sometimes mid-fuck he'll crack a joke or you'll say something cutting and he'll laugh, genuine and warm, before the bitterness crashes back)
Face-holding intimacy (he cups your face in both hands when he kisses you, holds you there like you're the only real thing in the world, like if he lets go you'll disappear back to Baelor)
Praise ("You're brilliant," "Gods, you're magnificent," "No one else sees the world like you do" said quietly, reverently, in the aftermath when his walls are down)
Slow morning sex (when you've spent the night together and woken tangled up, he'll fuck you slowly, lazily, with none of the usual conquest energy, just want and familiarity and something dangerously close to love)
Protectiveness masking as possession (he positions himself between you and danger, his hand at your back in crowded rooms, his body shielding yours, and he tells himself it's about owning you but really he just can't bear the thought of you hurt)
Confession intimacy (he tells you things he'd never tell anyone else. doubts about what he's doing, fears about failure, the weight of the name he carries, all whispered against your skin in the dark while he's moving inside you)
Naming (not "my queen" or "she-wolf" but your name, every time)
Version Two context: He takes you as conquest
This is the version where you're already wed to the enemy, where he has less history with you, where taking you is more about the statement than the person. This Daemon is harder, colder, more willing to hurt.
Conqueror roleplay (he wants you to resist so he can overwhelm you, the fight makes the submission sweeter, makes it feel like victory over Baelor)
Possessive territoriality (marking you as his even though you're not, even though you never will be—it's about claiming what the crown denied him)
Hate-fucking energy (anger and want tangled so tight neither of you can breathe; he's furious you're married to them, furious you make him want you anyway, furious he can't just take and keep)
Sword kink (Blackfyre stays in the room, propped against the wall, a third presence, threat and promise; sometimes he'll fuck you with the sheathed blade pressed to your throat, cold Valyrian steel a reminder of power and if/when you lean into it, he only laughs and fucks you harder, whispering how you're meant for a conqueror instead)
Exhibitionist (he wants Bloodraven to know, wants Daeron to hear, wants Baelor to know, wants the whole damn realm to whisper, "Did you hear? The she-wolf spreads her legs for the Pretender")
Degradation ("Does your prince fuck you like this? Does your king make you scream like I do?" every insult is aimed at the Throne through your body and pleasure)
Primal dominance (hair-pulling, throat-holding, forcing you to look at him while he takes you, "Eyes on me, I said.. on me")
Ownership through defiance (he'll fuck you in their colours, tear the Targaryen red off your body and replace it with nothing but his marks, and eventually his own colours)
The way he fucks you:
Version One (knew you before): There's a sick duality to it. Sometimes it's pure conquest—hard, commanding, relentless. He's the warrior-king in exile and you're territory he's claiming. But other times, when the walls come down, he fucks you like he's coming home. Slower. Deeper. With eye contact that lasts too long to be just physical. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, but then he'll press his forehead to yours and breathe you in like you're oxygen, like he's missed you so much it physically pains him. The contradiction is soul destroying for you both.
Version Two (pure conquest): Like pure warfare. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, and the whole time he's watching your face—cataloguing every gasp, every moan, proof that you want him more than you want anyone else. There's no softness here, just raw possession.
Pet names:
Version One: Your actual name (said softly in private), "my queen" (challenge but with genuine reverence underneath), "she-wolf" (affectionate despite the teeth, teasing)
Version Two: "My queen" (pure challenge—he's calling you what you'll be when he wins), "she-wolf" (with teeth, possessive and wild), "prize" (dehumanising and he knows it, and does it purely to see you bare your teeth at him)
High Valyrian: Usually commanding, "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request), "Ñuhon" (mine, over and over like a brand), "Kostilus jaelagon nyke" (please want me—the only time he sounds vulnerable, spoken only if he knows you don't understand what he's saying, and he hates himself for it—more common in Version One).
Post-sex:
Version One: He holds you. Actually holds you, not just claims you. His hand will stroke your hair, trace patterns on your back. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "If I'd won—" (he never finishes that sentence but you both know how it ends). Sometimes he'll just press kisses to your temple and pretend, for a few minutes, that you're his and there's no rebellion, no crown, no Baelor. Then reality crashes back and his jaw tightens and the tenderness evaporates, but for those few minutes he lets himself be soft, lets himself imagine what you could have been.
Version Two: He doesn't do tender. He'll drag you against him, possessive and silent, and sometimes you'll feel his heart racing like he's just fought a battle (and he has—against himself, against wanting you this much). Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You should have been mine. The crown, the throne, you. You were meant for me, not him."
Thing he won't admit:
Version One: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or make a political statement. He's fucking you because he loves you—has probably loved you since before he should have, since before the rebellion, since you were just Barthogan Stark's daughter at court and he was the legitimised bastard watching you from across feast halls. That's more dangerous than any war. Because loving you means he's not fighting for a crown anymore, he's fighting for you. And if you ever chose him freely, without conquest or coercion, it would undo him completely because a part of him would want to give it all up for you.
Version Two: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or send a statement. He's fucking you because he wants you—genuinely, devastatingly wants you—and that's more dangerous than any political game. Because wanting means weakness and Daemon Blackfyre cannot afford weakness. "Say the word. Say you want me and I'll take the throne. I'll crown you queen and fuck you on the Iron Throne itself."
You never say it.
(He's still hoping.)
AEGON I:
Prophetic obsession (he dreamed of you before he knew you, saw your face in flames and frost, your body crowned in stars, your womb as the forge for the prince that was promised, and when he finally touches you it felt like his entire life led to this moment)
Mythological breeding (this isn't about heirs, this is about fulfilling ancient Valyrian prophecy—the dragon and the wolf, fire and ice, the song that will save the world—he fucks you like he's writing fate itself)
Sister-wives trifecta (Visenya's fire—fierce and deadly; Rhaenys's warmth—soft and sweet; your ice—cold and burning—he needs all three elements to be complete, needs the contradiction you embody)
Sacred ritual (sex with him feels like religious rite; you're being consumed, worshipped, on an altar of dragon-bone and/or Northern weirwood)
Dream-sharing (he whispers what he's seen while he's inside you: "I saw our son on the Iron Throne," "I saw you crowned in ice and fire," "I saw the Long Night and you were the dawn" essentially prophecy as foreplay)
Dragon-bond (he wants to take you flying on Balerion, something of old Valyria, because wants you to feel the power he commands, wants the dragon to accept you as he has. He takes you flying, lands somewhere remote—a mountaintop, an empty beach, or simply the open sky—and fucks you against the dragon's flank while Balerion's heat radiates through you, the beast's breathing steady and enormous beneath you, and Aegon whispers, "He accepts you, he knows you're mine" while you're impaled on his cock with a living god at your back)
Claiming through titles (he doesn't just fuck you, he enthrones you; even before any official ceremony, he calls you queen, treats you as equal to his sister-wives, seats you at his councils, to him the political is inseparable from the personal)
Three queens, one king (he'll fuck you in front of Visenya and Rhaenys, not as humiliation but as inclusion—you're the third point of the triangle now. Sometimes it's not just witnessing, either, Visenya will hold you down while Aegon fucks you, her strong hands on your wrists or your throat, and Rhaenys will kiss you through it, touch you with eager hands, and Aegon orchestrates it like a battle: commanding, knowing exactly where everyone should be)
The Crown stays on (he wears the Conqueror's crown while he fucks you, makes you ride him while the Valyrian steel circlet sits on his head, and sometimes he'll place it on YOUR head mid-sex and watch you with something feral in his eyes, "This is what you look like as queen, this is what the realm will see")
Throne sex (he fucks you on the Iron Throne before it's even finished, you astride him while he sits on the half-built seat of swords, and the danger of the blades adds edge, just one wrong move and you'd both bleed, but he holds you steady, controls every movement, keeps you safe while making you understand the throne is as much yours as his)
Verbal dominance (he gives commands but frames them as questions: "You'll take me deeper, won't you?" "You want my seed, don't you?" "You'll give me a son, yes?" and the phrasing implies choice but his tone makes clear there's only one answer, and you give it more than willingly)
Orgasm denial (he'll edge you for HOURS, bringing you to the brink over and over, making you beg in Common Tongue and then Valyrian, teaching you the words for "please" and "mercy" and "I need you" in his language, and he won't let you come until you can ask properly, and if you turn those lessons back on him, and make him beg, on the rare moment his guard is lowered, even better)
Forced relaxation (you're both creatures of duty and vigilance, but he'll make you submit to pleasure, hold you down and eat you out until you stop thinking about politics or the North or anything but his tongue, and he's relentless about it, "You'll learn to take pleasure like you take everything else I give you—completely")
The way he fucks you: He'll position you exactly how he wants you (on your back, legs spread, open to him like the realm opened to dragons), and he'll watch constantly—how his cock disappears inside you, watches your face, watches fate happen. But there's reverence in it too. He touches you like you're something holy, something precious. Fucks you like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked the gods.
Pet names: "Northern star" (navigational but also his one true purpose), "my winter flame" (fire and ice in one), "the answer" (said with religious gravity, because you are), "ice-that-burns" (paradox made flesh), "ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, used more than your actual name)
High Valyrian: Used it often. "Ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, possessive and absolute), "Se dārilaros bona iksos kivio" (the prince/princess that was promised—he's not sure if he means your child or you, perhaps both), "Sagon sȳz syt nyke" (be good for me, because even destiny requires your cooperation), "Māzīs, ñuha jorrāelagon" (come, my love—the only time he uses a term of endearment and means it carnally).
Post-sex: He holds you like you're sacred. Traces your face like he's memorising constellations. Sometimes he'll talk—stream of consciousness about visions, prophecies, futures: "I saw a throne of swords and our son sitting on it," "I saw winter coming and you standing against it," "I saw us—centuries from now, in songs they'll sing forever." Sometimes he's silent, just staring at you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. He'll pull you against his chest and you'll feel his heartbeat—steady, like the turning of the world—and you'll realise this is the only place the Conqueror allows himself to be simply Aegon. You're the only answer that matters. He's been searching for you across a lifetime (in dreams, in visions, in prophecy). You're the reason he conquered Westeros at all—because he knew you'd be here, waiting, the missing piece of something vast and terrible. He can't separate desire from destiny. Can't fuck you without thinking about prophecy. Can't touch you without seeing visions—your belly swollen with the prince that was promised, your hand holding Lightbringer, your face illuminated by dragonglass as you stand against the darkness. You're not just his lover. You're his prophesied queen. The ice to his fire. The song itself.
MAEGOR:
Pain/pleasure blur (he genuinely can't tell the difference and doesn't care to, biting that draws blood, gripping that bruises, fucking that feels like violence and transcendence in equal measure)
Combat arousal (if you argue with him, if you fight back verbally with genuine fire, he gets HARD. He doesn't want you broken and meek, he wants you fighting, and the sex after an argument is intense and almost equal, like he's fighting you into submission and you're fighting back and you both get off on the struggle)
Ownership through fear (you should be afraid and you are and it makes the wanting worse—for both of you)
Jealousy sex (when another man looks at you too long, when someone at court speaks to you with too much familiarity, Maegor will fuck you that night (likely after punishing, if not killing whoever it was) with barely controlled violence. Not to punish YOU, but to reassert his claim, to erase the other person's existence from your thoughts, "You think he could make you feel like this? You think anyone else could handle you?")
Breeding obsession (he wants heirs and he wants you destroyed making them; wants you swollen and aching and marked as his, wants the realm to see his seed took root in Northern womb)
Ownership through adornment (he commissions jewellery for you, usually heavy Northern pieces in silver and sapphire, but designed so they feel like shackles: a thick torc that sits on your collarbones like a collar, rings that connect with delicate chains, and he'll fuck you wearing nothing BUT the jewellery, getting off on how thoroughly you're marked as his)
Temperature play reversal (he'll heat stones by the fire and press them against your cold skin, watching you gasp and arch, obsessed with warming you, making the ice melt or he'll drag ice across your overheated skin after he's fucked you brutal and sweaty, and the care in the cooling is the only softness he can manage)
Degradation (he'll call you "wolf-bitch" and "Northern savage" but his hands are too gentle for how violent you've seen them be with others, and you both know there's a reluctant thread of respect at your refusal to break)
Claiming through destruction (he'll rip your gowns off, tear Northern furs, destroy anything that marks you as not-his because you're his now and the realm will know it)
Sleeping vulnerability (he only truly sleeps when you're in his bed, and he'll pull you against him unconsciously in sleep, hold you with a tenderness he'd never show awake—you've woken to find him curled around you protectively, his face pressed to your hair, and if you move he tightens his grip without waking)
Size and strength dominance (he's massive, built for war, and he uses it; he'll pin you with one hand, lift you effortlessly, manhandle you like you weigh nothing, and the casual display of power makes you clench even when it terrifies you)
Forced eye contact (he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him while he fucks you, "Look at me. Look at who's ruining you. Remember this." he needs you to see him, needs to be SEEN)
Hair worship (he's fascinated by your hair, he'll will bury his hands in it, wrap it around his fist while he fucks you, brush it himself sometimes in the aftermath with rough, unpractised strokes, and once you woke to find him just running strands through his fingers, watching the light catch in it like he's never seen anything so fine no matter how ordinary)
Battle-high fucking (he'll come to you straight from the training yard or from sentencing someone to death, or actual battle, still in armour, still bloody, and he'll fuck you with that violence still singing in his veins, using you to burn off the excess)
Possessive scarring (not just bruises—he wants permanent marks, wants his initials carved into your skin, wants you branded as his in ways that can never fade—he hasn't done it yet but you see him thinking about it)
Scent marking (he'll fuck you and then send you to court without letting you bathe, wants everyone to smell him on you, wants your hair to reek of sex and sweat and HIM, and when you walk into the throne room dishevelled and marked, his eyes track you with open possession)
Silence as dominance (sometimes he fucks you without saying a word, just watching you with those cold eyes, and the silence is MORE intimidating than any threat, but with him, also far more intimate, too)
Forced orgasms (he'll make you come over and over, overstimulate you until you're sobbing, prove that your body obeys him even when your mind resists, "See? Even this is mine. Even your pleasure belongs to me.")
Corruption kink (he's obsessed with the idea of breaking you down, taking the proud Stark wolf and turning her into something that begs for him, that NEEDS him, and he's patient about it, methodical)
Contrast fixation (you're everything he's not—Northern ice where he's Valyrian flame, ice where he's fire, merciful where he's cruel—and he wants to see how much of that he can corrupt, how much ice can melt before it's just water in his hands)
Bathing (this is the closest he gets to tender; he'll wash you after he's fucked you raw, rough hands surprisingly careful, and he won't speak but you'll see something complicated in his eyes every time)
The way he fucks you: Like conquest. Like war. Brutal and unrelenting. He'll pin you down with a hand on your throat (squeezing just enough to make you gasp), and he'll fuck into you with no gentleness, no mercy. But his eyes—his eyes are wild with something that looks like desperation. Like he's trying to anchor himself in you. Like you're the only thing real in a world he's burned to ash. He's heavy and huge and overwhelming, and he knows it, uses it. Every thrust says "mine," every bite says "stay," every bruise says "I was here."
Pet names: None. You're "woman," "wife," "Stark," "wolf bitch" (when he's angry). Endearments are weakness and Maegor the Cruel is not weak. (But sometimes, very rarely, he'll whisper "mine" like it's a prayer and a curse. And once, ONCE, in the absolute depths of vulnerability after you nearly died in childbirth, he called you "ñuha perzys" (my flame) and then he never said it again.)
High Valyrian: Used as weapon. "Henujagon" (stay, barked like an order), "Dohaeragon" (serve/obey, because you will), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin with teeth and nails), "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request but a demand), "Sagon sȳz" (be good, and the threat in those two words could level cities).
Post-sex: He doesn't hold you gently. He claims you, drags you against him, possessive and silent. Sometimes his hands will shake and he'll hate himself for the weakness. Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You're mine. Say it. Say you're mine." (It's the closest he gets to vulnerability.)
Very rarely—so rarely you almost think you imagined it—he'll press his face into your hair and breathe like he's drowning and you're air. His arms will tighten almost painfully. And you'll feel him shake. Just for a moment. Then it's gone and he's shoving you away and getting dressed and the king is back.
The thing he won't admit: He needs you. Not wants—needs. You're the only thing that doesn't flinch when he enters a room (anymore, you learned not to), the only thing that fights him (when you're brave or stupid enough), the only thing that makes him feel alive instead of monstrous. He'll never say it but you're not as breakable as he expected. He's broken queens before, gentle flowers who withered under his attention. But you're Northern, and the North is hard. You bend but you don't shatter. And that fascinates him. Enrages him. Makes him want you MORE. Every time he thinks he's finally broken you, you get back up. And he doesn't know if he wants to crush that entirely or preserve it forever.
BRYNDEN:
Omniscient voyeurism (he's WATCHED you for months before he ever touched you—through his network of spies, through his greenseeing, through birds and whispers—he knows how you touch yourself when you're alone, knows what makes you gasp, knows your tells when you're aroused, and when he finally gets you in his bed he uses all of it with devastating precision, and you realise with creeping horror that he knew, he's always known)
The weirwood witnessing (he'll fuck you in the godswood, pressed against the heart tree, and he swears he can feel the old gods watching through the carved face, that they approve, that this is sacred, and whether it's true or he's just insane doesn't matter because the blasphemy of it makes you come harder)
Prophecy pillowtalk (he sees futures while he's inside you; his eye goes distant and unfocused and he'll narrate what he sees: "I see you heavy with my child, I see you standing over my enemies, I see you crowned in weirwood leaves and raven feathers" and you can't tell if he's fucking you or the future of you)
Information as foreplay (he'll tell you secrets while he's fingering you—state secrets, dangerous knowledge, things that could get you killed for knowing—and the combination of his fingers curling inside you and his voice reciting treason in your ear makes you come so hard you forget half of what he said, which was probably the whole point)
The birds are watching (his ravens are ALWAYS present, perched around the room, watching with their black eyes, and he insists they stay, says they're part of him, extensions of his sight, and you're being fucked under the gaze of a dozen birds and Bloodraven's one red eye and you don't know which is worse)
Marking with meaning (he doesn't just bite randomly; every mark is placed, deliberate, forming patterns across your skin that mean something in old magic you don't understand, and he'll trace them afterward murmuring in the Old Tongue, and you think he might be binding you to him through sex magic and the terrifying part is you don't want him to stop)
The thousand eyes penetration (he'll blindfold you and then describe in EXACT detail what you look like from every angle—above, below, beside—because he's watching through the birds, through the shadows, through eyes you can't see, and he narrates your own body back to you: "Your thighs are trembling, you're so wet it's dripping onto the sheets" and you're disoriented and overwhelmed because how does he know)
Corruption through knowledge (he teaches you things you shouldn't know—blood magic, greensight techniques, secrets of the old gods—and every lesson ends with sex, classical conditioning until you can't separate learning from arousal, until forbidden knowledge makes you wet, until that Stark magic in your blood becomes another binder between you)
The three-eyed crow (sometimes during sex his personality shifts—becomes something older, stranger, less human—and he'll speak in riddles or prophecy, his voice layered like multiple people talking at once, and you're being fucked by something that's only wearing Brynden Rivers, and it should terrify you but you come anyway)
Forced confession through pleasure (he'll edge you for HOURS, making you tell him every secret, every thought, every tiny rebellion, and he already knows but he wants to hear you say it, wants you to confess while you're desperate and aching, and only when you've told him everything will he let you come)
The whisper network as dirty talk (he'll tell you what your enemies said about you today, what lords are plotting, who wants you dead—all while he's inside you—using state intelligence as pillow talk, making you paranoid and aroused in equal measure)
Artistic torture (he approaches your pleasure like a problem to solve, methodical and brilliant, and he'll bring you to the edge and stop, making notes (actual notes, he keeps a journal), testing variables: does this angle work better, does this pressure, does this word, and you're a study to him and it's dehumanising and so intensely hot you can't think straight)
The inverted (he's obsessed with contrast; his pale hands on your skin, his white hair falling across your face, the red of his eye against whatever colour yours are, and he'll position you in lamplight specifically to watch the shadows, the interplay of light and dark, making art of you fucking)
Magical stimulation (he swears he can use greensight to stimulate you mentally, that he can make you feel phantom touches, can reach into your mind and trigger arousal without laying a finger on you, and whether it's real magic or just psychological manipulation you've definitely come untouched while he sat across the room staring at you with that red eye)
Possessive documentation (he sketches you—obsessively—in margins of reports, on scraps of parchment, elaborate drawings of your body, your face, anatomically precise studies of exactly how you look when you come, and you found the collection once and it was extensive and deeply unnerving and also kind of flattering?)
The breeding obsession (he wants a child with you specifically to see what the genetics produce. Will your colouring dominate or his, will the child have his gifts, will they be beautiful or monstrous, and he talks about it clinically while breeding you, analysing probability like you're a fascinating experiment)
Sensory deprivation with narration (he'll blindfold and gag you, bind your hands, remove all your senses except touch and hearing, and then he'll narrate everything he's doing in that quiet, clinical voice: "I'm going to touch you here, you'll gasp, your pulse will quicken" and he's always right, he's studied you, and the predictive accuracy is horrifying and arousing)
The master of whisperers (in the early days, he'll orchestrate scenarios to make you need him, arranges for you to be threatened so he can protect you, creates problems he can solve, manipulates you into his bed through elaborate social engineering, and when you figure it out he doesn't even deny it, just smiles that slight smile and says, "And yet you're still here")
Ancient bloodlines (he's obsessed with the idea of mingling bloodlines; his ancient Targaryen/Blackwood blood with your Stark/First Men heritage, talks about it like alchemy, like you're creating something NEW, and he'll murmur genealogies while he's inside you, tracing your ancestry like it's foreplay)
The loyal hound routine (in public he's the King's servant, bows and scrapes and plays the loyal spymaster, but in private he's ruthless, dark and feral, and the contrast gets him off, the idea that the court sees him as one thing while you know the terrible truth of him)
Rewarding intelligence (when you figure something out, when you demonstrate strategic thinking or cleverness, he gets visibly aroused—his pupil dilates, his breathing changes—and he'll praise you lavishly while fucking you: "So clever, Lady Stark, I've taught you well", sapiosexual to a disturbing degree)
The way he fucks you: With unnerving precision and complete control. He's not passionate in the traditional sense, he's FOCUSED. Every touch is deliberate, calculated for maximum effect. He watches your face constantly with that red eye, cataloguing every micro-expression, adjusting his technique in real-time based on your responses. It's like being fucked by someone who's already read the manual to your body and memorised it. But sometimes (rarely) the control cracks. And then he's desperate and almost human, clinging to you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows, fucking you with something that looks almost like simple human need.
Pet names: He doesn't use them in the traditional sense. You're "my lady" (formal, distancing), "clever girl" (when you've pleased him intellectually), "mine" (stated as fact), and once, in absolute extremis, "my only truth" (and he looked shocked he'd said it).
High Valyrian + Old Tongue: He uses both—High Valyrian for commands ("Gaomagon" - do it, "Sagon sȳz" - be good), Old Tongue for the weird magical shit (words you don't understand, phrases that make the air feel THICK, and once he spoke something that made the candles flicker out and you came so hard you blacked out briefly).
Post-sex: He doesn't cuddle so much as arrange you. Positions you exactly how he wants, your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, and then he'll talk. Not sweet nothings, he'll discuss philosophy, magic, the political situation, prophecies he's seen. He treats pillow talk like a debriefing. But his hand is gentle in your hair, and sometimes you feel him press a kiss to your temple so lightly you might have imagined it.
Sometimes he'll sketch you in the aftermath, your body relaxed and sated, and he's surprisingly talented, and the sketches are intimate in ways that make you feel more exposed than the actual sex did.
The thing he won't admit: You're the only person in the world he can't fully read. His birds tell him your actions, his spies report your words, his greensight shows him futures, but your thoughts, your interior world, remains slightly opaque. And that fascinates him, gives him something to obsess over. You're the one mystery he can't completely solve and it's driving him insane in the best way.
He's definitely used greensight to watch you across time—has seen you in the past, in potential futures, in moments that haven't happened yet or happened years ago. And he'll reference them during sex: "I saw you do this three years ago, you were alone in your chamber," "I've seen you pregnant with my child in six different futures," "There's a timeline where you killed me, you were magnificent." It's violations of consent across the space-time and your brain can't even process the ethics of it.
But for all his power and knowledge, he's lonely. Desperately, crushingly lonely. Everyone fears him or uses him and no one knows him. You're perhaps the second person who's seen the man beneath the legend and hasn't run. He knows every possible future. He's seen the timelines where you betray him, where you leave, where you die, where this ends in blood and tears. He knows the odds. He's the man who calculates everything.
But he reaches for you anyway. Because in at least ONE future, you stay. And he's decided that future is worth burning all the others to reach.
is this a safe space to admit i’ve been thinking about aerion fucking reader with the hilt of his dagger or no
18+ (fem!reader, smut, tw: aerion being himself, degradation but not huge, a little bit of praise, he is obsessed with you)
(for terminology in case you’re unsure^)
it started with you watching him fidget with it. his slender fingers moving over the black-hide hilt, tapping against the rounded silver of the pommel.
aerion looked up and over the table at you, following the path of your transfixed stare. he couldn’t help but smirk to himself as you watched his fingers work up and down the hilt in a state of boredom, occasionally skimming against the sharp, glinting blade.
now, here you were.
“this is what you wanted, right?” he asks you quietly, voice razor-sharp. “this is what you needed?”
the blade of the dagger is within it’s leather sheath, and he holds it there as he runs the cold pommel up and down the soaked slit of your cunt. you’re spread for him across his bed, chest heaving as he holds you open for him.
wet now, aerion taps the rounded pommel against your clit and it makes you yelp. it’s heavy and solid, electric-shocks springing from your nerves and making your fingers grip the silken sheets.
the pommel returns to your dripping hole and, his violet eyes watching closely, aerion slowly pushes it inside you. your pussy opens up around the hilt, the hide grip ridged and drawing a deep moan from your chest as it pushes into you.
when it’s in just an inch or two, aerion pulls it out and watches the way your pussy flutters around nothing. he hums, pleased, before slowly pushing the hilt of the dagger back into you again.
“greedy fuckin’ pussy…” he mutters as your cunt grips the grip of his dagger, stretching open so easily to take more. his other hand is splayed out over your tummy, holding you still. he groans lowly as he watches a trickle of slick dribble out of you and around the dagger. “gods, you’re wet. got all worked up watching me play with it, huh?”
soon, the biting cold steel of the dagger’s cross-guard presses tightly to your core and you cry out, fisting the sheets. aerion watches your body writhe as the hard steel pommel settles right up against that perfect spot inside you.
he can almost see your pulse jumping out of your jugular as you tip your head back, exposing your throat as tears prick in the corners of your eyes, pleasure a deep nagging in the base of your belly. his eyes drag back down your body to where your pussy clenches around his dagger, and he pulls out a few inches, then thrusts back in.
you moan loudly, and aerion feels the movement of contracting muscles beneath the softness of your belly where his palm rests.
“such a fuckin’ whore,” he utters darkly, watching himself fuck the dagger into you. each time he pulls it out, he admires the thick gloss over the ink-black grip. “takin’ the hilt of my dagger like it’s a fuckin’ cock. pussy’s made for it—look at her takin’ it all.”
his words make you moan again, and his pace increases. the sounds are obscene—wet and loud, timed audible squelches as your hole leaks out around the steel. aerion watches in amazement, the curve of your arse sticky with slick, your clit swollen and pumping hotly with blood.
“aerion,” you say across a moan. “my prince, please.”
the thrusts are quick but deep. he’s got his eyes on you, watching the way you take his dagger, before finding your face momentarily to gauge your reaction. he relishes in the glassiness of your eyes and slight tremble of your lower lip.
“what would the realm think?” he questions, ignoring your pleas. he twists the dagger slightly with the cross-guard flush to your folds and the movement makes you yowl. he continues with a dark smile, “if they saw a lady like this? spread out on a prince’s bed with her pussy full of his dagger, moaning for it like it was his cock. what would they think?”
his words are biting and condescending, and you feel yourself clench down around wrapped steel. your breath leaves you in dog-like pants, high-pitched and whiny as he continues to fuck you with well-timed thrusts.
but then, he pulls it out—all the way, and the cold emptiness makes you call out his name around a choked sob. his smile is vicious and victorious, and he pushes the pommel back to your hole, drawing circles around it.
“what would they think?” he repeats in a whisper, the rounded pommel toying with your slick opening. he marvels at the wetness that coats the grip, and his hard cock twitches within the confines of his breeches and trousers. slowly, he presses the pommel back inside you, watching your cunt swallow it.
“o-oh, gods,” you whimper.
“they’d think you were depraved,” he says, his movements torturously slow. the handle edges inside you, stretching you open. “taking a prince’s dagger like this. gods, no better than a common whore, huh? cunt fuckin’ drooling for it, making a mess of my sheets.”
“my prince,” you call for him as your tummy draws up tight, but he ignores you. or perhaps he just doesn’t hear, his violet eyes transfixed on where he feeds his dagger into your pussy.
“it makes me wonder,” aerion begins, bottoming-out the dagger before drawing it out again. he settles into a rhythm once more and you keen into it, hips twitching. his tongue darts out like a snake as if tasting your pleasure in the air. “if you could take the hilt of my broadsword? it’d be a big stretch, but i think you could take it.”
you shake your head and moan loudly, the thought of his sword, the pommel large, the grip long, the cross-guard jagged, makes your stomach clench. he laughs at that.
“my prince,” you try again, pleasure building inside of you. “my dragon, please.”
that seems to get his attention. the prince looks up at you, arm moving with the force of his thrusting into you. he’s still got a hand over your stomach, enjoying feeling the way it shifts with each bout of pleasure.
“begging for your release already?” aerion chides, cocking his head and appraising you with vivid eyes. his pupils are blown wide with lust, though, and you can see his cock straining in his trousers. “gods, you’re needy. so desperate for me.”
“please…” you whimper, back trying to arch off the bed but his hand keeps you weighted down. “feels so good.”
the corner of his mouth twitches into some semblance of a smirk, and he presses the tip of his tongue there. “what feels good?”
he maintains the thrust of the dagger, handle filling you over and over. the ridged leather drags against your silken walls, punching air from your throat as the pommel hits the best spot inside you again and again. the hand on your stomach slowly trails down, over your mound, to press a thumb to your puffy clit. the touch is heavy and unmoving and it makes you sob out for him.
“your—” you gasp. “the—fuck—”
“say it,” he hisses, eyes flashing. “what’s making you feel good?”
you moan. “your—your dagger. your dagger’s making me—fuck—feel good, my prince.”
“i know it is,” he coos, but his tone is harsh. “valyrian steel, sweet girl. the best in the known world.”
the switch to softness in his tone at the end gives you whiplash, but it also has you screaming his name as he drives the dagger’s hilt deep into you one last time before you’re releasing around it. your entire body trembles, shakes, as your pussy clenches around the warm steel, slick dribbling from you as the prince fucks you through it.
aerion watches you, pleased, fizzle down from your orgasm before he slowly pulls the dagger out. it makes you whimper, and then whimper again when he drags his tongue along the grip, eyes never leaving yours. he collects your slick on his tongue, tasting.
“always so sweet for me,” he murmurs, and then begins slinking up your body like an animal. prowling, watching.
he brings the wet hilt of his dagger to your mouth, the pommel skimming over your lips.
“open,” he orders.
you do. your lips part, jaw slacking as he slowly, surprisingly gently, guides the hilt into your mouth. you taste yourself on it, as well as a slight metallic bitterness and an earthy musk. you whine, eyelids fluttering. you wrap your tongue around it, sliding it up and down, allowing your teeth to touch the leather-wrapped grip without fear of hurting him.
or so you thought.
“mind your teeth,” he quips darkly, and your eyes grow wide. you nearly gag as you bring your teeth away from the hilt and he dips it further into your throat.
he watches you intently, lips parted, eyes unwavering.
“that’s a good girl,” aerion mutters, bending down to place a kiss to the corner of your mouth—where you are stretched around the handle of his dagger. he licks your cheek too and you whimper around the steel. he grins, “you always take me so well.”
I just found the most perfect onlyfanscreator!Aerion twitter link oh my gawd
p link here
The way he's got her over his lap? Ass already red from the spanks he's been giving her? The firm press of the vibrator against her? And the way he's keeping her where she is, but bringing her back every time she lurches forward to try and escape his torture?
AERION AERION AERIONNNNNNN
✦ — ALL HE WANTED ..!
summary: breaking up with aerion targaryen was the easy part. though nothing was truly ever easy when it came to him. it was everything after that nearly broke you, but you found out too late that it had only just began. (6k+)
pairing: aerion targaryen x fem!reader
content: modern au, dark themes, obsessive/possessive behaviour, stalking, harassment, abusive relationship, physical violence, non-con (implied/non-graphic), coercive control, threats, toxic relationship, unhealthy dynamics, drug use, alcohol use, blood mention, 18+ (MDNI)
note: please take in consideration this is a dark fic! if you aren’t comfortable with the tags (it’s aerion what do u expect), please scroll past. any hate will be blocked! i also wanted to give credits since i was inspired by a scene of one of rafe’s fic @/cherienymphes had written, for the ending of the last scene of my fic!
Nobody warned you that breaking up with someone didn’t necessarily mean they left.
You had done everything right, technically. You had the conversation, said what needed to be said, walked out when it was done. You had not cried in front of him, which you were quietly proud of. You had gone home and sat on the bathroom floor and cried there instead, which felt like a more dignified arrangement. And then you had gotten up and wash your faced, telling yourself that was the hard part over with.
What nobody mentioned was the part that came after.
Aerion had not argued when you ended it. That was the thing you kept turning over in the weeks that followed, lying awake at two in the morning while your phone lit up on the nightstand with yet another number you didn't recognise. It was probably the thirtieth number you had blocked throughout the whole month.
You understood now that his silence had not been acceptance.
It had been Aerion deciding he was going to handle this his own way, on his own timeline, and that your opinion on the matter wasn't something he particularly cared about.
The messages were the worst part. When he was high off whatever his friends put in front of him, or whatever he got from the provider he had been loyal to since college, you knew it immediately from the way the texts came in.
UNKNOWN: you're going to fucking run back to me. you always do.
UNKNOWN: you think hiding away forever is the solution. i need you. that night was a fucking mistake.
That night.
You hadn't even noticed your eyes beginning to water until they were. The memory of it arrived the way it always did, without permission. Him drinking, sniffing whatever was put in front of him after yet another argument with his father, a man who expected everything from a son who had already given up everything trying to prove he was worth it. Aerion had been wound tight all evening, looking for somewhere to put it.
And he found that somewhere.
Valarr, his cousin, your friend since you were teenagers, had called you pretty. The same way he always did, the same easy compliment he had given you a hundred times over the years. It had never meant anything. It had never been meant as anything. But Aerion had not been in the mood for context that night, and you had paid for it.
It wasn't like the other times, where his hands would find your throat until your vision spotted and then he would let go, coming back to himself, apologising over and over in that way that left you no room to do anything but accept it because of the hold he had on you even in those moments. Those times you had told yourself it was the drink, or the coke, or his father, or something outside of him that turned him into that. You had been very good at finding things to blame that weren't him.
That night he had taken you forcibly, ignoring your pleas, ignoring your apologies, and you still didn’t fully understand why you had apologised at all. Like the instinct to make yourself smaller had been so deeply worn into you by then that it came out even that, even in that. He ignored all of it. Took you over and over again, leaving bruises each time, his hand at your throat until the edges of everything went dark and you weren't sure for a moment which way it was going to go.
That night was different. That night he did not come back to himself. Or maybe he had, and that was the thought you couldn't stop sitting with.
You had never wanted to forgive him for it. You had wanted out before things got to a place there was no coming back from. So you left. And then you found out that leaving and being free were not the same thing at all.
You stared into the pool, eyes fixed on the way the sun moved across the surface of the water while your best friends Kiera and Ella talked beside you. You were not in the mood to talk but you were not in the mood to be alone either. You had been alone for the past few months, barely leaving your room, half convinced that if you went anywhere he would find you. That somehow, no matter where you went, he would already know.
Which was not as irrational a fear as it probably sounded.
He had always known things he shouldn't. Where you were, who you were with, what time you finished work on any given day. When you were still together you had told yourself it was because he paid attention, that it was a kind of love, the obsessive cataloguing of you. Now you understood it for what it was. A man who had decided a long time ago that you were something he owned, and had acted accordingly ever since.
The bruises had faded. That was the thing about bruises, they always faded, and then there was nothing left to show anyone and you were just a girl with a story that sounded worse every time you tried to say it out loud.
You had not told anyone. Not Kiera, not Ella, not a single person. They knew something had happened, you could tell from the way they looked at you, that careful soft-footed way people looked at someone they thought might shatter if they pressed too hard. They thought you were heartbroken. You let them think that because heartbroken was something they could understand and sit with, heartbroken had a shape to it, a timeline. What you were carrying did not have a shape. It just had weight.
There was another reason you hadn't said anything, one you didn't like to look at directly. Aerion had never made an explicit threat. He didn't need to. It was in the way he had looked at you once, early in the relationship, when you had mentioned offhand that you had told your mother something small and private about him. Nothing serious. Just a passing comment. The way his expression had gone very still spoke volumes.
He had told you that time that you should be more careful with what you said to people about him.
You had understood the shape of that perfectly. You had not needed it repeated. Some part of you, the part that had learned to read him the way you read weather, knew without being told what it would mean if the wrong person heard the right thing. Aerion did not make empty gestures. He did not say things he didn't mean.
So you smiled and nodded when Kiera asked if you were okay. You sat in the sun and let Ella talk and made the right noises at the right moments and kept everything that mattered locked somewhere behind your sternum where it was at least safe, even if it wasn't comfortable.
Your phone was face down on the lounger beside you. You had stopped turning it over to check it because checking it had started to feel like something he had trained you to do. Like a reflex that belonged to him rather than you. Screen lights up, stomach drops, and somewhere across the city Aerion Targaryen gets exactly what he wanted. You were trying, very deliberately, to stop giving him things he wanted.
UNKNOWN: i know where you are.
That one had come through at eleven last night. No follow up. Just that, sitting there on your screen, and you had put the phone face down and stared at the ceiling for an hour and told yourself it was a bluff. That he was just saying it to see what you would do. That he didn't actually know.
You were not entirely sure it was a bluff.
"You've gone quiet," Ella said beside you.
"I'm always quiet," you said.
She nudged your shoulder and said something about the guy across the pool and went back to talking to Kiera, and you smiled at the right moment and nodded and let the conversation wash over you like background noise.
Your phone buzzed against the lounger.
You felt it before you saw it. That specific dread, low in the stomach, that you had developed somewhere around the second week after the breakup and had not been able to shake since. You reached over and turned it face up without letting your expression change.
UNKNOWN: i'm sorry. you know i'm sorry. i just need you to talk to me, five minutes, that's all i'm asking. you can't keep doing this to me.
UNKNOWN: you're seriously going to throw away two years over one night. one night.
UNKNOWN: pick up the phone. i know you're seeing these.
UNKNOWN: i love you. why are you doing this to me.
You turned the phone back over.
One night. That was what he called it. One night, like it was a misunderstanding, like it was something that had happened to both of you equally, like you were the one being unreasonable for not getting over it. You had noticed he never said what that night actually was. Never named it. Just called it a mistake, called it one night, kept it vague in a way that made it easier for him to believe whatever version of it he had constructed for himself.
You stared at the water.
Even if you had wanted to do something about it, the thought of it was almost funny in a way that had no humour in it at all. The Targaryens had money that went back further than anyone in this city could trace, and what came with that kind of money was the kind of reach that meant things disappeared. Complaints. Records. People, sometimes, you suspected, though you had no proof of that and did not want proof of that. His father sat on the board of half the institutions in the city. His uncle had been a judge for twenty years. You had heard Aerion mention, once, casually, the name of the chief of police at a dinner like it was someone he had known since childhood.
Because it was someone he had known since childhood.
You had nowhere to go with any of it. That was the thing nobody told you about this kind of situation, the particular helplessness of it. It wasn't just that you were scared. It was that being scared was completely rational and there was nothing you could do with that except sit with it.
It was a gathering where you saw him next.
Your parents had given you no real choice in the matter. It was Aerion's father's birthday celebration, held at the Targaryen estate the way all their events were, because the Targaryens did not go anywhere to be entertained, people came to them. Your parents had been close with them for long enough that declining was not a conversation anyone was willing to have. Not that they had asked you. They had told you, the way they told you most things, with the assumption that you would arrange yourself accordingly.
You had tried anyway.
"I don't feel well," you had said that morning, which was true in every sense that mattered.
Your mother had looked at you over her coffee with the expression she reserved for things she had already decided. "You'll feel better once you're dressed."
"Mum."
"We're not doing this today." She had set her cup down and that was the end of it.
So here you were, walking through the doors of a house that had always made you feel small, not because it was unwelcoming but because it was the kind of place that was designed to remind you of the distance between what you had and what the Targaryens had. Every room was immaculate. Every surface deliberate. You had been here before, plenty of times, and it had never stopped feeling like walking into somewhere you had to behave yourself in a dress your mother had picked out, with your back straight because she had tapped it twice and looked at you in the way that meant she was watching.
"Put a smile on your face," she said now, fixing your dress strap with brisk efficient hands. "You look miserable."
"I feel sick," you said. "I told you I didn't want to come. Maybe that's why I look miserable."
"You're here now so make the best of it." She smoothed the strap and stepped back to look at you. "You're representing this family tonight, act like it."
"I'm always representing this family," you said, quietly enough that she chose not to hear it.
Your father had already drifted toward a group of men near the bar, that particular energy he got at these things, the one where he became slightly larger than his usual size, louder, readier to laugh. He and two other men were already congratulating each other on something, the way they always did, finding new occasions to celebrate the fact of their own wealth. It made your stomach turn in a way that had nothing to do with Aerion and everything to do with the simple fact that you had been brought to this place like an accessory and were now expected to perform accordingly.
"Go and say hello to the Strongs," your mother said, already turning toward someone she recognised across the room. "And smile, for god's sake."
You smiled. It didn't reach anywhere near your eyes but it was a smile, technically, and that was what was being asked of you.
You took a glass from a passing tray and stood near the edge of the room and kept your back to the door and told yourself you were fine. That he was probably not even here yet. That you could get through one evening. That you had gotten through worse.
You had, in fact, gotten through worse.
You were still telling yourself that when you felt it. That pressure at the back of your neck. The feeling of being watched by someone who wanted you to know they were watching.
You did not turn around.
You took a sip of your drink and fixed your eyes on the middle distance and kept your face completely still and thought, very clearly, do not turn around.
Your mother reappeared at your elbow with the bright social smile she wore at these things like a second outfit. "Doesn't this look wonderful," she said, meaning the room, meaning the flowers, meaning all of it. "The Targaryens really do know how to put on an event."
"They really do," you said.
"Are you going to stand here all evening or are you going to circulate?"
"I was going to stand here for a few more minutes," you said. "Then circulate."
She gave you a look. "Your father and I didn't raise you to stand in corners."
"I'm not in a corner, I'm near a wall."
"Don't be smart." But there was a flicker of something almost amused in her face before she smoothed it away. She touched your arm briefly. "I know you didn't want to come. I know things have been hard lately." A pause, the closest she was going to get to asking. "Are you alright?"
You looked at her. Your mother, who loved you in the practical unsentimental way of someone who had never quite learned how to say it plainly.
"I'm fine," you said. "I promise."
She looked at you for a moment longer than usual. Then she nodded and someone called her name across the room and she was gone, and you were alone again with your drink and your straight back and that feeling at the back of your neck that had not gone away.
You turned around.
He was across the room, glass in hand, talking to someone you didn't recognise, and he was already looking at you. He had probably been looking at you since the moment you walked in. His expression was unreadable in the way it always was when he was being careful, and he did not look away when your eyes met his, and neither did you, for three seconds, four, and then you looked away first because you always looked away first and you hated yourself a little for it every time.
You took another sip of your drink.
You were fine.
As time passed and your mother finally stopped circling back to check on you every ten minutes, you slipped out unnoticed. No one saw you go. That was the thing about these gatherings, everyone was too busy performing for each other to notice when someone left the room.
You had always loved their garden. Even as a child coming here with your parents you had liked it, the scale of it, the way it felt like a different world from the noise inside. The lawn was immaculate the way everything the Targaryens owned was immaculate, and the pool lights cast everything in shifting blue, and the party behind you became background noise, then less than that. You sat down on one of the tanning beds beside the pool and set your drink on the stone beside you and looked at the water and let yourself just breathe for a moment.
You let yourself think about it out here, away from the performance of being fine. How he had not always been like this. As children he had been different with you than he was with everyone else, quieter, less sharp. In the years at the private academy he had looked out for you in ways that had felt, at the time, like straightforward kindness. You had thought you were special to him. You had thought it meant something.
Now you wondered if it had just been the earliest version of what came later. Control dressed up as care, years before he had anything to control. The thought sat in your chest like something cold.
He wasn't always the way he was now. You knew that. But you also knew that people who had been given everything their entire lives had a particular way of turning when something didn't go the way they expected. When the thing they wanted didn't come easily. When someone had the nerve to leave.
"Finally stopped hiding from me?"
You went rigid. The voice came from directly behind you, low and unhurried, and every muscle in your body locked at once. You could not make yourself stand. You could not make yourself turn around. You just sat there with your hands in your lap and your eyes on the water and said nothing.
He came around to the side of the tanning bed, not in front of you, beside you, and when you still would not look at him he waited. He was patient like that. He had always been patient when it served him.
"Look at me," he said.
You looked at the pool.
He made a quiet sound, not quite a laugh. He reached out and put two fingers under your chin the way he used to and turned your face toward his, and you let him because resisting felt more dangerous than not resisting, and that was the calculation you had learned to make without thinking.
He looked awful and beautiful the way he always did, pale eyes and that jaw and the specific way he held himself when he was angry and keeping it contained, which you recognised because you had seen it enough times to know what came after it. There was a muscle working in the side of his face. His eyes moved over you the way they always did, like he was taking inventory of something that belonged to him.
"You've been avoiding me all night," he said.
"I just needed some air," you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt, which was the one small mercy.
"You've been avoiding me for three months actually." His thumb pressed once against your jaw, not painful, not yet, just there, just reminding you it was there. "Did you think I was going to let that go on forever."
You said nothing.
"Answer me."
"I didn't think anything," you said. "I just needed space."
Something shifted in his face. The contained quality cracked slightly at the edges and what came through underneath it was wose than anger, it was the particular cold of someone who had already decided how this was going to go and was now just moving through the steps of it.
Without much thought, you stood up, putting distance between you too, because sitting while he stood felt like exactly the wrong position to be in, some instinct you had developed along the way you couldn’t have explained but trusted.
He was taller than you and he used it, stepping closer so you jad to tilt your head back to look at him, the pool light catching the pale of his eyes and making them look like something not quite warm.
"Space," he repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it ridiculous.
"Aerion."
"Three months," he said. "You blocked my numbers. You had your mother turn me away at the door, telling me some bullshit excuse of how you're sick. You stood inside that room tonight and looked at me like I was someone you didn't know." His voice was very quiet, which was worse than if it had been loud. "And now you want to tell me you needed space."
"I want to go back inside," you said.
"No you don't."
"I'm going back inside."
You moved to step around him and his hand closed around your wrist,quite roughly, and you stopped. You both stood there in the blue light of the garden with the party a distant murmur behind the glass and his hand around your wrist and you not pulling away, your feet being stuck on the ground by some invisible force. The grip on your wrist became tighter as you tried pulling on it. Tears threatened to spill that moment, but you didn’t want him to think he still had a effect on you.
"I'm not done talking to you," he said.
"Aerion, let go."
He didn't.
"I have been patient," he said, and something in the word patient made your skin go cold, the specific way he said it, like patience was something he had extended to you as a favour and was now considering withdrawing. "Three months is patient. Most people would not have been patient."
You looked up at him and kept your face very still and said nothing.
"Nothing." He let out a short breath through his nose, something that might have been a laugh if it had any warmth in it. "After everything. After two years. You've got nothing." His voice climbed slightly on the last word, not loud enough to carry to the house, just loud enough that you felt it.
"Please let go of my wrist."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he released it, slowly, one finger at a time, watching your face the whole time he did it.
"You can hide in your room," he said, his voice dropping back down to that quiet register that was worse than the louder one. "You can ignore every number I call from, stay inside, pretend I don't exist. But we both know, princess, that I'll get my way eventually." The smile that came onto his face then did not reach his eyes at all. "I'm giving you the choice. That's me being generous. But if you make me force my hand." He tilted his head slightly. "You know how I get when you force my hand."
He raised one finger and pointed it at you, slow and deliberate, the way someone corrected a child who had done something stupid.
"You've never been dumb. Don't start now."
Your voice came out before you had decided to use it. "You think I'm going to come running back to you." It cracked on the last word. You felt it crack and hated it.
"You almost killed me." The words came out of you like something that had been sitting behind your teeth for three months waiting. "That night. Because my friend complimented me. Your own cousin said I looked pretty and you almost killed me for it."
Something moved across his face. He stepped forward and you stepped back and then his hands were on either side of your face, both of them, palms against your cheeks and fingers pressing in just past the point of comfortable, and he put his forehead against yours and looked at you from an inch away.
"I told you it was an accident." His voice was rough at the edges in a way that might have sounded like remorse if you didn't know him. "I'm sorry. I told you I was sorry. I needed you and you left me like I was nothing." His fingers pressed harder into your cheeks. "Like I was some dog you got tired of."
The pool light made strange shadows of his face this close. You could feel his breath. Your hands came up and pushed against his chest and he stepped back, one step, two, and let you create the distance, and you understood without being told that he was letting you because he was choosing to and not for any other reason.
"I said sorry." His jaw was tight. "How many times do I have to—"
"I don't care." Your voice was steady now, steadier than it had any right to be. "We're done. Leave me alone."
You turned and walked back toward the house. Even pace. Head up. You did not look back and you did not run, because if he got his hands on you again out here in the dark with nobody watching, some part of you understood very clearly that the walk back inside might not happen at all.
You were a mess.
That was the only honest way to put it. Kiera and Ella had dragged you to some college party at a house that belonged to somebody's parents, which meant every surface was sticky and the drinks were strong and nobody was being careful about anything. You had told yourself it would help. Getting out of your room, being around people, letting the noise of it drown out the noise of your own head for a few hours.
It had not helped.
It had been another month since the birthday party. Another month of the truck appearing two cars back when you drove to the store. Another month of watching Kiera's driveway from her bedroom window and seeing headlights sitting at the end of the road that didn't belong to anyone on the stree, except for a certain someone. You had started checking the bears he had given you throughout the relationship, the stuffed ones that sat on your shelf that you hadn't been able to throw out, pulling at the seams and turning them inside out looking for something small and black and electronic. You had found nothing. You didn't feel better for finding nothing.
The paranoia had weight to it now. It sat on you even when there was nothing to justify it, which maybe meant you were losing your mind, or maybe meant you had simply learned to read him well enough that your body stayed afraid even when your eyes couldn't find a reason.
Nobody at this party knew any of that. They knew you and Aerion had broken up. You had said something vague about it not working out, the kind of language that closed a conversation before it could open. Your mother even still lit up hopefully every time his name came up, convinced that whatever had happened was the kind of thing that sorted itself out with time. You had stopped correcting her. It was easier.
You sat on the porch steps with a bottle of water Kiera had pressed into your hands and tried to make the world stop tilting.
"You look ill," she said, watching you with that expression she had been wearing for months, the soft worried one she thought you didn't notice.
"I'm okay," you said, which was not true, but was the answer that ended the conversation fastest.
"Do you want anything else before I go?"
You looked up at her. Your eyes felt glassy, oversized, like they were taking up too much of your face. "Where are you going."
She caught the tone immediately. "I'm getting the car and taking you home. Ella can come too, this party's terrible anyway." She smiled. "I haven't had a drop of alcohol, I promise, scouts honour"
You nodded. Saying something that sounded like okay.
She went back inside. You sat with the water bottle and watched the dark end of the driveway and waited.
Fifteen minutes passed. More. You called her and listened to the dial tone, four rings, five, and then she picked up and behind her voice was wind and music and other voices and the specific ambient sound of a car already in motion.
"Hey, sorry," she said, slightly too loud. "I ran into that guy from the golf club and he's with some people and they're heading out, so—"
"Kiera, you were my ride."
"It's fine, it's sorted." The way she said it told you she already knew it wasn't. "I ran into Aerion inside. He said he'd take you home."
The porch went very still.
"He said you'd already talked and you said it was fine."
"I never spoke to him." Barely above a murmur now. Your eyes were already moving across the driveway, across the cars, scanning the dark between them. "I never said that."
"It'll be—"
"I'll call Valarr." You hung up.
You were already moving, off the steps and into the driveway, putting distance between yourself and the house. The music dulled behind you. The street ahead was dark and quiet and you walked fast with your phone in your hand and your bag pulled close, telling yourself that if you could just get far enough before he noticed you were gone you would be fine.
You called Valarr. It rang out.
Again. Four rings, five.
Nothing.
You tried a third time and kept walking and your fingers wouldn't stop shaking and you were still looking down at the screen trying to think of someone else, anyone else, when the headlights appeared at the far end of the road behind you.
You didn't have to look up to know. You had spent enough nights lying awake listening for that engine from your bedroom window that your body recognised it before your mind finished the thought.
And so before you could register what you were doing, you ran.
Behind you his voice came out of the open window, calling your name, and there was no urgency in it at all. It was hurried and patient, like he was calling after someone who had forgotten something and hadn't noticed yet. The engine revved once and then the car door slammed and his footsteps hit the pavement and the sound of them was already wrong, too fast, stride too long, the distance between you closing in a way that made the running feel almost pointless.
You kept going anyway because there was nothing else to do.
His hand closed around your arm and he pulled you back hard and you fought him, properly, in a way you hadn't let yourself at his father's party where there were windows and people and a whole house full of reasons to stay contained. Out here the street was empty and dark and there were no reasons left. You scratched at his hands and twisted and tried to get your weight low enough to break his grip, your bag sliding off your shoulder somewhere in the process, your phone hitting the ground behind you with a crack you felt more than heard. He got both arms around you then and you threw your elbow back as hard as you could and heard the breath go out of him and when you brought your knee up between his legs he made a sound and his hold went loose.
You ran again. It had been three steps, maybe even four.
He came down on you from behind, full weight, and the pavement came up fast and hard and the impact went through your palms, your knees and rattled your teeth together. You lay there for a moment because your body had decided that was what was happening now, the world tilting at the edges, something warm starting at your hairline and threading slow and certain down toward your temple.
You pressed your fingers to your head. Pulled them away and looked at them in the dark.
Dark, and unmistakably red.
He got up first. He stood over you breathing hard and his face had that quality you had learned to be most afraid of, the one that was worse than the loud angry version, where everything on the surface went flat and still and whatever was underneath got colder and more decided.
He didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked at you on the ground.
"You forced my hand," he said. "I told you not to."
Your arms shook as you tried to push yourself up. He grabbed you before you managed it, got his hand under your arm and hauled you upright in one motion and you stumbled against him and he was already walking, his grip on your wrist locked in a way that didn't leave room for anything else.
“Aerion–no, please.” The words came out already broken and he didn't slow down.
He put you in the passenger seat himself. Reached across and did your seatbelt like it was just something that needed doing, calm and efficient, and then he closed the door and you sat there watching him through the windscreen as he walked back down the street to where your things had fallen.
He picked up your bag. He picked up your phone, or what was left of it, and turned the cracked screen toward the light.
His jaw went tight. The muscle in the side of his face moved once.
He looked up and found your eyes through the glass. You knew in that moment that Valarr's name was still on the screen. The call log open, four attempts sitting there unanswered. He held your gaze through the windscreen for a long moment and you pressed yourself back against the seat without deciding to, some reflex that no longer needed a decision attached.
He took his time walking back.
He got in. Started the engine. Put his seatbelt on slowly, deliberately, clicking it into place and then letting his hands rest on the wheel for a moment, and you understood without it being said that he was doing it slowly on purpose. That he wanted you to watch him take his time. That he wanted you to understand there was no rush. That he had all of it.
You tried your door handle, though it was to no avail as it was locked.
You tried it again, with both hands, ignoring his voice telling you quit it. Without thinking much of it, you reached across toward the centre console, though as you did that he jerked the wheel without warning. The car lurched hard into the oncoming lane and snapped back, and you hit back into your seat with your heart slamming against the inside of your chest.
"I said stop." Eyes on the road, while the speedometer continued to climb.
You pressed yourself against the door and watched the streetlights start to blur and said nothing.
He drove without speaking for a while. His silences had different volumes and you had spent two years learning to read them. This one had that quality of him organising himself, finding the shape of what he wanted before he said it. That kind had always been more frightening than the loud kind. The loud kind you could see coming.
"I told you not to be dumb." Almost conversational. Like he was reminding you of something you had both agreed on a long time ago. "I said it to your face."
He scratched his jaw, a habit he did when he was pissed.
"Valarr." He let the name sit by itself in the air for a moment. A short sound left him that was not quite a laugh. "You really thought Valarr was going to get you out of this one."
The tears spilled over and you turned your face toward the window so he couldn't see them, because crying in front of him had always felt like handing him something and you had been trying for months to stop giving him things.
"Take me home," you said, as evenly as you could manage. "Please, Aerion. Just take me home."
"Why would I do that."
He exhaled slow and heavy through his nose and when he spoke again the controlled surface of his voice had started fraying at the edges, that quality it got when he had been holding something back past the point where holding it was possible.
"I apologised. I did everything right, I said sorry, and then you stood there and ended it anyway. Right when things with my dad were the worst they've ever been." His palm came down on the wheel. The car jumped with it. "Right then. That's the moment you chose." He glanced over at you and the car drifted before he corrected it. "Do you hear me."
You nodded. Small. Just enough.
"Slow down," you said. "Please slow down."
He was not slowing down.
"I tried to talk to you at my dads party. I tried and you looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was something you'd scraped off the bottom of your shoe." Another hit on the wheel, harder. "After two years." The speedometer kept moving. "But we're talking now. Now you're listening."
"You almost killed me." The words broke out before you could catch them, two months of keeping them down and they came out thin and raw and you couldn't stop them. "That night. You almost killed me because Valarr said I looked pretty. Your own cousin." Repeating the words from the party.
"I'll kill us both right now.”
He said it quietly. Plainly. The same voice he might use for anything, no performance in it, no rise or drama, just stated like a fact, and at the same moment he pulled the wheel left and the car crossed the centre line and the headlights ahead were white and enormous and still growing and the truck's horn tore the night open and you pressed both hands flat on the dashboard and the sound that came out of you didn't sound like your voice at all.
"Say the words." Completely calm. Eyes on the light coming toward you. "You know what they are, you know i’ll kill us both if i wanted too."
You looked at him with shock, eyes widened as tears fell freely now, not caring if he saw them. You shook your head no, being stubborn, but then he started speeding even more.
“Okay– okay! I’m sorry,” You say, your voice not sounding like yours. Though you knew that wouldn’t be enough to convince him. "I'm sorry, I love you, I swear, please, Aerion, please—"
He pulled the wheel right after a couple seconds.
The truck thundered past like a wall of sound and the car shuddered hard in its wake and then there was just the road ahead, and your own crying filling the space where all that noise had been. You couldn't stop it. You had stopped trying.
The silence came back slowly, settling around you both.
Then he laughed. Low and quiet, almost to himself.
"You know I was joking," he said. "Right?"
You pressed your forehead to the cold glass of the window and closed your eyes.
You said nothing. You both knew he wasn't joking and you both knew that. The silence it the car was loud. Something had shifted in you in those few seconds of the white light and blaring horn. Some last part of you that had still been holding on, still telling itself there was a door somewhere you hadn't found yet, a way through this if you kept looking. It had gone quiet. Not broken exactly. Just still in a way that felt like it might be permanent.
“I told you not to be dumb baby, I told you…”
There was no escape from him, now you had to pay for the consequences, and let it happen.
𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 | ser duncan the tall
( gif credits to @wonderins)
—summary: as the only daughter of lyonel baratheon—and the most spoiled—you get everything you want. the only thing you want tonight is to get that big man. and the big man you shall have. —pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader —word count: 3k —content: pure fluff, shy!dunk, sassy & spoiled reader, sexual tension, love at first sight trope, lots of romance, height difference, protective/intimidating dad!lyonel, dancing, knight x princess vibes!!!
ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Night is just descending, bringing darkness to the world, and men are already stumbling around and fighting each other in drunken brawls. Some have even pulled out their swords—you don't know if they're just fooling around or if they're serious.
Your father has always been very permissive with you, often letting you have whatever you want, however you want it. You are his only daughter, after all. And as his only daughter, you are frequently his guest of honor at his feasts and gatherings.
This gathering... it's like every other gathering you've been to. There's not much of a difference. Lots of noise, lots of people you've never seen before, lots of stinking booze, and to top it all off, way too many arrogant men who are bold enough to ask you for a dance. You reject them all, as you naturally would. There's no one who stands out tonight for you.
That is, until your eyes fall on him. Clearly, he stands out from everyone else. Your eyes are pulled to his massive size and broad frame.
He's tall, the tallest man you've ever seen. You wouldn't be surprised if he could touch the ceiling of the tent if he raised his hand.
Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.
But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.
It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.
When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.
He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.
He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.
“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.
You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.
“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.
“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”
“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”
“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”
“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.
“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”
“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”
“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”
“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.
That's your call.
“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”
Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.
Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.
And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that.
His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.
Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.
“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.
“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”
“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”
“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”
Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.
“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”
The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”
“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”
“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.
You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.
The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.
“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”
Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy.
He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”
A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.
Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.
“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”
Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”
By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.
“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”
Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.
“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”
“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.
Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.
“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”
“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”
“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”
He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.
“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”
“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”
His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.
“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”
“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.
He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”
You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.
He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.
Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.
You notice eyes on you then.
Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.
“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”
You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”
He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.
Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.
His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.
“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”
You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”
You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.
“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”
You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.
You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.
Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.
His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.
You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.
“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”
Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”
“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”
“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”
He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.
“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”
He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”
You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”
He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”
Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.
“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
He is truly pathetic. And you love it.
You hum softly, amused.
“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”
He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.
“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”
“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”
Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.
It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.
“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”
Your expression softens.
“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.
You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.
“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.
“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”
He blinks. “M-my lady?”
“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”
His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”
You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”
His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.
“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.
You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”
He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”
That makes you still.
Your teasing fades, just a little.
“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”
Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”
“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”
Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.
You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.
“I must go,” you announce softly.
Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.
“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”
There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.
“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”
“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.
You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.
“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”
You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.
“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”
“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”
“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”
“Good night, my lady.”
You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.
Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.
He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.
You are golden and he is brown.
And yet you said ‘I’ll find you’.
The thought burns.
── next chapter
𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐘 ── series masterlist
⋆ . ۰˚ ☽ ˚ 。 “I wonder wich will kill you faster, child—your loyalty or your kindness?”
── 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: During the Ashford Meadow tournament, where she is expected to choose a noble husband and secure her place within the dynasty, Prince Baelor Targaryen's only daughter feels increasingly burdened by the weight of her lineage and her lack of self-belief and identity, finding a sense of companionship in her cousin Aerion, with whom she has long shared a secret and passionate romance, a bond as suffocating as it is unbreakable.
Amidst the chaos of the event and that of her family, she crosses paths with Ser Duncan the Tall, a humble hedge knight with a noble heart and gentle eyes. Despite the vast gulf between their worlds, an immediate and soul-stirring bond sparks between them, one that feels like a reunion with an old friend, dictated by fate itself. This encounter forces her to confront the true cost of loyalty, questioning whether love is a burden to be endured through duty, or a path to be chosen through courage.
To find her truth and claim what is hers, the Gentle Dragon must bleed; she shall surrender the skies and cast away her wings, for only in falling shall she learn how to love.
── 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Ser Duncan the Tall x Reader ─ Aerion Targaryen x Reader
── 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~ 30k
── 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (this will contain major spoilers!): this story is intended for mature audience (18+ only). for aerion ─ targcest, dark romance, psychological manipulation, obsessive/toxic behavior, power imbalance, implicit smut. for dunk ─ past life lovers/soulmates trope, slow burn, forbidden romance, hurt/comfort. in general ─ love triangle, nudity, use of medieval contraceptives, canon-typical violence, descriptions of gore and severe physical injuries, complicated family dynamics, angst, major character death, grief and loss, canon compliant.
── 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬:
‧ ˚ ⋅ ✦ ── one
‧ ˚ ⋅ ✧ ── two
‧ ˚ ⋅ ✦ ── three
‧ ˚ ⋅ ✧ ── four
‧ ˚ ⋅ ✦ ── five
‧ ˚ ⋅ ✧ ── six
‧ ˚ ⋅ ✦ ── seven
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the-universe-at-large
roach:
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YES YOU DID
high-saffron
the more you reblog this the more it breaks
the-universe-at-large
WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO
dangergays
literally what is happening @staff you dun goofd
i tried to reblog this and the stupid app just crashed
If you’re seeing this, I managed to reblog this post.
I need to press his bruises like it’s his gspot
Julian Devorak Core
give him to meee uuungghhhn
⚚ The Arcana Masterlist
All of my work is meant for readers 18+, even if it's tagged as SFW. Please make sure to read all of the warnings!
Tag Guide: ⤷ SFW🤍 ⤷ Smut🖤 ⤷ Fluff🧸 ⤷ Angst🥀
Julian Devorak ⤷ NSFW Alphabet ⚚ [Complete: 3,004 words] ⚚ 🖤*🧸🥀
Julian Devorak: NSFW Alphabet [ Julian x Gn!MC ]
Genre: Smut🖤 / Fluff🧸 / Light Angst🥀 / Headcanons WARNINGS: 18+, mentions of low self-esteem (Julian), cum-play, wound-fingering, joking during sex, blood-play, edging, knife/edge-play, spit/sweat/tears, body worship, role-play, humiliation kink, public sex. Template Credit: @/the-coldest-goodbye Word Count: 3,004
A/N: I need this man so bad, so I wrote... a lot about it. This has been revised, but please feel free to let me know if I've missed any typos or any triggers/warnings!
A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex.)
It's almost as if he's in a daze. Even if it's just a quickie, it'll take him a moment to lock back in.
Lots of kisses and quiet giggles as you check in on each other. Did you like the new position? Did he like it when you called him a new pet name?
The "check-ins" used to feel a lot more formal, but now you both word-vomit your thoughts and call it a day.
He's made it a habit to press one long kiss to your forehead, breathing in your scent, after you've both finished. It's a sweet end to an intense session.
He will thank you afterwards. Sometimes it's because he's just grateful to delight in you, and more often it's because he feels he doesn't deserve your trust. He just needs a little reassurance!
B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s.)
If he had to choose for himself, he'd pick his eyebrows.
They're the cherry on top of his theatrics, and he loves how much he can make you laugh with a simple eyebrow waggle. (Modern Julian would 100% make that fuckass Roblox man face, and it's funny every time.)
He'd also choose his liver. It's his favorite organ.
If you asked him to choose what part of yours is his favorite, he'd start with something cheesy like, "You devil! Forcing me to make an impossible decision—is this a new form of torture?"
After some flirting and you begging him to take it seriously, he'll eventually choose your hands.
They're surprisingly expressive. He's noticed how your fingertips blanch as they press against the page of an especially thrilling book, how you fidget with them a bit more when you're speaking with the Countess, and how they fly around in the air in frustration when you've returned from the bazaar and not a single shop had the ingredient you were looking for. They hold so many insights into how you're feeling.
They're also very comforting to him. Whether you're massaging in between his shoulder blades as he's hunched over his desk, or habitually laying your hand on his chest as you chat idly with him, it reminds him of how much you love him and makes him feel wanted.
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically.)
He loves messy sex and feeling dirty, so he and cum are homies.
Pulling out and watching his cum spill out of you as it pools on his abdomen drives him fucking insane.
He gratefully drinks you up, swallowing anything you offer him with a smile.
He groans as you cum/squirt on his face, licking it off his lips as it drips down onto his chest.
He's throwing a Cum Party and you're invited! Yay!
D = Dirty secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs.)
He hasn't stopped thinking about the whole wound-pressing situation. When you first left the garden, the memory would pop into his mind every now and then. As time went on, it started occupying more and more of his thoughts until it became something he actively yearned to revisit.
He isn't sure exactly how to bring it up to you. Sure, you're the one who pressed it in the first place, but... is it weird to ask you to do it again? What if he wants you to push even harder, even deeper, digging past his epidermis?
He's decided that he'll ask you one day, but he'll leave the "how" and "when" up to fate. Thinking about it too much now makes him spiral.
E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)
He's had a few partners in the past. There's been a lot of fucking around, and a lot of finding out.
While he's very experienced with—and quite good at—sex, he has a hard time accepting affection from you.
F = Favorite position (This goes without saying.)
Submissive Julian favors being ridden. He can see all of you in your glory, head lowered as you sigh in pleasure. You're so close, yet so far away. His chest flutters when you whimper as he slightly angles himself to fill you better. It's also the most relaxing and healing position for him. He can give up all control to you, allowing himself to just feel good.
Dominant Julian favors missionary. It's simple, but it's perfect. He can see up close how your eyebrows furrow when he hits the right spot. He chuckles as he watches you shy away and gently guides your face back to his. He has direct access to kiss your neck and whisper in your ear as he sinks into you. He'll lower his head so that your moans pierce his eardrums (and he loooves it).
G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? Etc.)
He's the poster child for people who ruin the moment. (/j)
He's a romantic, but that doesn't mean he can't be a fool at the same time. He can multitask.
Sex is weird! Sometimes your throat makes a gurgling sound, you choke on spit, or you suddenly have to pee, and you need to take a quick time out. He's the first one to laugh about it, and it never feels awkward with him.
There have been times when he started laughing way too hard at a face you made, or made a joke that made you both pause to giggle before resuming.
Sometimes he'll tease you by imitating your moans or gasps.
You both will randomly make unrelated statements. It doesn't stop your movements; it's just calm.
"I should get into knitting."
"Maybe, but last time you got too frustrated and gave up."
"True."
All of these moments, even if they're small, bring you closer and make you both feel so safe and comfortable with each other. Why take life so seriously?
H = Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? Etc.)
His chest and stomach hair are light enough that they don't require any grooming. His happy trail requires a bit more grooming, but it doesn't get out of control very often.
He trims his pubic hair into a wide diamond shape that tapers into his happy trail. The length would be like... if you put a 3.5 or 4 length guard on some clippers.
Curly bush! Delicious!
And yes, the carpet matches the drapes. :3
I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? The romantic aspect.)
Even when he's being stupid or making a random comment in the middle of sex, you never doubt for a second that he's paying attention to you. It's just his way of showing how comfortable he is with you.
J = Jack off (Masturbation headcanon.)
Masturbates, on average, once a day. He'll refrain from it if you've talked about having sex later that day. He doesn't want to spoil the fun!
Quiet, uneven breaths. Very stealthy. He usually just uses his hand, unless he's especially horny.
If it's a Needy Julian kind of day, he'll use a dildo and/or a sounding rod on himself. He might get a little louder, whimpering every so often.
You've accidentally walked in on him before. You were reading in the bedroom and came out to get a drink. He heard your footsteps and tried to hide himself as quickly as possible, looking back at you from his spot on the couch. He was very awkward and a little sweaty, but it was a hot day, so you didn't notice anything particularly strange. Even when you got your drink and left, he was too embarrassed to continue after that.
Since then, he tries to masturbate only when you're already asleep. If he needs to do it in the middle of the day, he'll go to a closet or the washroom.
K = Kink (One or more of their kinks.)
Masochism is a freebie.
Cum-play. Facials, using cum as lube, felching, etc. Anything cum related, he's a fiend for it.
Blood. He thinks it looks so sexy when his/your blood is on your/his lips, or your hands, or anywhere, really. (This includes menstrual blood, if you have periods!) It feels like he's as close to you as he possibly can be, your bodies becoming one.
Edging, especially when he's on his knees and his arms are tied behind his back. It turns him into a sniffling, whimpering mess! :D
Edge-play. He loves feeling the jolt of initial panic as you skim a blade over his stomach, the shiver that runs down his spine when you cup him with icy hands, the restriction of his airflow and how it tunnels his vision.
Sweat/drool/tears. It's just hot.
Spit in his mouth, please!
Worship. He enjoys receiving, but he much prefers giving.
Roleplay. Especially doctor-patient roleplay. He knows it's silly, and he does not care.
Humiliation. He loves doing the most embarrassing shit just to get you off. Jerking off in front of you while mumbling about how badly he needs you, barking or meowing for you, licking his own cum off your chest, the works. He's working so hard for you, and he takes his payment in praise!
Pretty much all of these go both ways. Giving and receiving are all great for him.
L = Location (Favorite places to do the do.)
This is Ilya "Julian" Danger Devorak we're talking about, baby. He's down for sex anytime, anywhere.
Favorites are:
The forbidden garden. It's one hell of a throwback, and it's absolutely gorgeous. He loves to role-play as if it were the first time you both came here.
Random alleys at night. Exhilarating, and you can hide in the shadows if needed.
If you're both out at sea and there's literally nobody around, just fuck on the deck. It feels like you're the only people in the world.
The Magic General Store guest room. One of the most relaxing/comfortable locations, with familiar scents and soft cushioning. Of course, you both wait for Asra and Faust to leave before getting it on.
M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going.)
What doesn't?
His main turn-ons are:
Playing with his hair.
Your voice after just waking up.
Genuinely listening to any of his stories or rants.
Teasing him, or your reaction to being teased.
Your expression whenever you're focused.
Placing your hands on any part of his body for more than two seconds.
N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs.)
Angry sex. It makes him feel gross and used. He'd much rather talk things out with you before having sex.
He doesn't feel comfortable with degrading you. Any sort of degrading comment towards him will also be met with discomfort, and he'll promptly end the encounter.
He's made extremely uncomfortable by dub-con. He enjoys a game of cat and mouse, but once it crosses the line of "fun banter" to "possible coercion," he's out. He's a freak, but he doesn't want to feel like he's being a creep or overstepping.
If you tease him by attempting to make him jealous, all it does is make him feel ill. He already doesn't feel worthy of you. You saying, "Asra's probably a better lay than you," won't get him to prove you wrong. He'll just say a flamboyant quip to deflect, and then he'll disengage.
O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Prefers giving, but loves receiving as well.
He's very good at what he does. His main goal in sex with you is to make sure you feel absolutely incredible, so he listens to your vocal cues, watches what makes you squirm or move away, and adapts from there.
Expect a mess. He gives sloppy head, and there will be saliva everywhere.
Groans loudly against you whenever you moan.
When you give him head, he stays surprisingly quiet. His head tilts back, and his mouth slacks open to release his heavy sighs. He laces his fingers into your hair as your head dips past his pelvis and reemerges.
He's louder giving head than he is receiving. That's how you know he does it for the love of the game.
P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? Etc.)
When he's subbing, he'll do whatever you tell him to. Most of the time, he's bound while you're riding or fucking him, so he doesn't get many opportunities for movement. He'll try his best to rock his hips against you so he can fuck you/get fucked deeper.
When he's domming, he starts off fucking you slow and deep. He drags his hands over your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your chest and neck. When you've become a begging, pleading mess, he'll slowly start speeding up, fucking you harder and stimulating your genitals as you near your peak. He whispers praise into your ear in between sloppy kisses.
Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
He likes them a lot. They're a fun, spontaneous way to blow off steam and connect with you.
You'd do quickies 2-3 times a week, maybe less.
They happen most in domestic moments, and the intention usually isn't to initiate sex. It just... kind of happens.
He'll wrap his arms around your waist from behind as you're cooking (Because Gods know he can't cook for shit), and you'll turn towards him for a moment to kiss him. Five minutes later, he's got you bent over the counter.
You'll look over his shoulder, asking him about the book he's reading. He's explaining the plot, and you can't seem to focus on his words, for the life of you. Your eyes keep being drawn to his hands and forearms as he's gesturing, the way his lip curls into a sneer as he complains about a particularly annoying plot device, and you interrupt him to say that the book can wait.
R = Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? Etc.)
He's down to try literally anything. It's almost alarming.
"I was wondering if we could—"
"Yes. :)"
"I didn't even finish?"
More times than you can count, he'll come home from the Rusty Raven saying something like, "I overheard someone talking about a Standing 69? It's genius!—"
"How is that even possible?"
"I have no clue... But there's only one way to find out. ;)"
Even if the suggestion ends up being a terrible idea, he thinks it was fun to experiment, and now you both know a little more about what the other enjoys.
S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)
He can only handle one round, but he can last up to 30 minutes. Lasts longer if he's being edged, of course.
He gets very oversensitive after his first orgasm, and it breaks his ability to orgasm again. He might get to half-mast, if he really tried? But he still wouldn't be able to cum.
His recuperation period depends on whether he's subbing or domming.
Subbing is extremely physically taxing and exhausting for him. As much as he loves it, by the end of it, he feels like he got hit by a truck. He needs to eat something, take a nice bath, and sleep it off before he can even think about doing it over again.
Domming is easier for him, so he could probably get back to it in an hour. Though on particularly fiendish nights, he's gotten hard 10 minutes after an orgasm.
T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? With a partner or by themselves?)
Juuulie. /ref
He owns a lot of toys for both of you! How generous!
When he's on his own, he doesn't use sex toys very often unless he's extremely needy. Solo toys of choice are: a sounding rod and a dildo.
With you, the sex toy collection gets put to good use! Soft rope, cuffs, chastity cages, clamps, paddles, blindfolds, gags, dildos, beads, strap-ons—what doesn't he own?
If he's feeling subby, he prefers to start off gagged, sounded, and caged. Everything else you use on him is a bonus!
On a Dominant Julian day, he likes to start off by blindfolding and binding you.
U = Unfair (How much they like to tease or be teased.)
He loves it when you tease him.
Whisper something dirty to him in public, run your hands over his ass after a hug, edge him, tell him he can't touch you during sex. He will eat it up and then beg for more.
Of course, it's only fair you be teased back.
He'll lean in for a kiss, only close enough to graze your lips or down your neck, before pulling back. Another go-to is him randomly bringing up the memory of a past experience, "The way you looked in that get-up... They've fought wars over less, my love."
V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Whiny, whiny, whiny. It doesn't matter if he's subbing or domming.
He isn't very loud. If you pulled out a school volume scale, he'd be at a 2 or a 3.
If something hits especially right, he'll let out a long, breathy moan before going right back to it.
He doesn't dirty-talk much, unless you prompt him.
"Tell me how it feels, Ilya."
"S—so good... Gods—Please, darling, don't stop."
As he gets closer, his whines become more staccato and he starts to ramble and beg aimlessly, before he lets out a long, guttural moan.
When he's coming down from an orgasm, it's mostly heavy exhales and some quiet whimpers.
W = Wild card (A random headcanon for the character.)
Sleeping hcs!!!
Sleeping next to him is a fucking nightmare. He tosses and turns constantly, and the number of times he's just about pushed you out of bed is uncountable.
The number of times he's successfully pushed you out of bed is countable. Five times. And it will continue to ramp up as time goes on.
His snoring isn't much of a nuisance. It's loud enough to notice, but quiet enough that it doesn't startle you out of sleep or bother you. He's kind of like your personal white noise machine.
He runs very cold, and he sleeps in a light top and bottoms because of it. His feet and hands will inevitably bump against you, and it will suck every time. But he's so cute, you can't be mad at him! :)
X = X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes.)
Has light chest hair in an acuminate pattern.
Base: #F3DCD0. Tip: #E2BFBA. Yeah.
17cm. Tall twinks always seem to be hung, and he is no exception.
Average thickness with a very faint upwards curve.
Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)
While he's completely content with just spending time with you, he's almost always ready to go at the touch of his thigh.
Genuinely. If you lay your hand on his lap, there's a 70% chance he's getting hard.
On average, 2-3 quickies a week, and two full-on-fuck-events every 1-2 weeks.
(I say "event" because busting out the whips and chains takes a lot of effort, lol.)
Z = Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards.)
For a quickie, it takes him his usual 1-2 hours of tossing and turning before he finally falls asleep.
If it's a Whole Event, he falls asleep a lot quicker than usual. It still takes him about 30-45 minutes for him to start drifting off.
Like always, when he falls asleep, he sleeps Hard. No amount of pushing or shaking will wake him up.
A/N: Feel free to request prompts for anything you'd like to see/give constructive criticism!
Apparently, writing smut will have you reading about the history of lube.
⚚ Masterlist (by media)
All of my work is meant for readers 18+, even if it's tagged as SFW. Please make sure to read all of the warnings
Games: ⤷ The Arcana ⤷ Baldur's Gate 3 (TBA)





