BE A FREAK (LIKE ME)
Summary: The boy’s kinks and how they introduce you to them ! Based on this ask !
Characters: Valarr Targaryen, Baelor Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Ser Dunk, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen & Lyonel Baratheon x f!reader
Contents: 18+ | This is basically soft porn but it isn’t like insanely descriptive | Rough sex | Overstimulation | Bondage | Manhandling | Coercion…so dubcon elements | Marking | Orgasm denial | Blood play | Knife play | Sadism | Exhibitionism
Word Count: 2.3k (yooo….I yapped…)
Author’s Note: This is my first time trying my hand at smut/suggestive content lol so if it’s bad just say that </3, also ik the ask specifically asked how the boys introduce you to their kinks, and I tried my best to portray that but some of the headcanons don’t explicitly state they ask you to try or slowly introduce you to whatever I decided their kinks were so I hope this is still in the ballpark of what you asked for anon ! Enjoy ! Credit to @cursed-carmine for the dividers used and the user @/oliviajlee1 on pinterest for the header image.
Baelor Targaryen ↠ Overstimulation
Baelor Targaryen is a giver. He sacrifices over and over for the realm; his time, his patience, his mind, all to the king as he acts as his hand. It’s embedded in his personality at this point, to give back, to put others before himself, and you are no exception. It isn’t really introduced to you as it just happens.
You’ll be laid back in your bed, soft skin on softer silks, completely at ease when Baelor makes his claim. He’ll join you, strong hands gripping one of your ankles and bringing it to his lips, kissing a trail from the very bottom of you towards your knee, before ending on the plush, soft skin of your thigh. Broad shoulders part your legs, holding them apart as he makes himself at home between your legs. He eats you like he’s starving, open mouthed kisses to the most sensitive parts of yourself, uncaring of the fingers tightening in his hair as he works you over the edge. You expect him to stop, to come up for air, to kiss up the rest of your body before claiming you as he had many nights before. He doesn’t. He kisses at you, laps at your folds until you’re crying out his name again, positive he must just be taking his time tonight – and he is, just not in the way you think – breaths stuttering in your throat, feeble hands pushing at his shoulders in a weak attempt to get him to stop. You don’t want him to stop. His fingers join the mix after your second orgasm, pushing into the warmness of your heat, a groan leaving his chest at the feeling of you tightening around him, sucking his fingers in, desperate just like he wants you. He brings you to your peak again with his fingers and his mouth before he finally frees himself from his trousers, body hovering over yours as he kisses the tears leaking from your eyes from the oversensitivity. He shushes your quiet whines, kisses you deep and sure before he lets himself add just the right amount of pressure, drinking in your gasp with a greed a man could only have when it comes to his pretty wife. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until your back is arched off the mattress and your head shakes from side to side, pitiful whimpers leaving you about how it’s too much, too hard, too good. Only then would he be satisfied.
Maekar Targaryen ↠ Bondage
Maekar desires control. He wishes he could control his unruly children, wishes he had more control over what his father orders him to do, wishes things would simply just go the way he wants them to. How else is he supposed to take these frustrations out if not on you?
He brings it up in the heat of the moment, during a regular night laid beside you after the two of you are panting and breathless. How he wishes to see you at his mercy, wishes to tie your wrists behind your back while he drives into you. He says it softly, almost offhandedly, suspiciously uncaring. He reads your hesitation, quiet words ensuring you didn’t have to, that he could happily survive off of just this, happy to be drunk on only you. You agree anyway, head nodding slowly and giving your trust over to him. He introduces you slowly, just a few nights after your agreement, sure hands tying a loose knot around your wrists with the softest silk the realm had to offer. His fingers test the hold, tugging the silk back to him, watching as you come with it with a darkened gleam in his bright eyes. He relishes in watching your fingers curl into fists when he’s behind you, grins wide and wicked when you beg him to let you touch him, delights in the feeling of your fingers struggle against their hold, trying to claw at his forearms despite yourself. When you admit you liked it? It only fuels him further; the knots getting tighter, the positions more intricate, holding you in place against the headboard, your ankles to the posts. He switches the silk ribbons out for commissioned ropes, rough enough to where it hurts deliciously, leaving your wrists and ankles raw after a particularly rough night spent in his embrace. You are completely at his mercy, you’ve given him the permission to use you as he sees fit, and use you he will.
Ser Duncan The Tall ↠ Manhandling
Dunk is a big boy. You know this, he knows this to the point he’s self-conscious about it. Constantly shrinking himself when in the company of others, rarely standing to his full height at the fear of making those around him point it out. However, with you, it’s something he relishes in.
Just standing next to you causes his heart to race, having to peer down his chest just to make eye contact with you. The feeling of his hand coming across your back to guide you along when the crowds grow dense. The mere fact that he can, and has, thrown you over his shoulder when things get too rowdy in a crowd, putting your safety above what would be seen as respecting modesty. This only increases ten fold when he has you underneath him. Seeing you there, trapped under his large hands holding down on your hips, covering the softness of your skin with work-roughened hands. It really gets him going. There’s no need to ask you to perk your ass up, or tell you to turn this way or that, he simply does it himself. His hands will reach under your hips when they fall to the mattress, rearranging you so you’re set up just how he likes you to be. He’ll drag you towards him by your thighs until you’re flush against him, he’ll flip you mid thrust to lie on your side, a leg coming up as he drills into you from behind, a hand coming to rest on the nape of your neck, keeping your head pushed into the pillows. There is no ‘running from it’ with Dunk, he’ll simply tighten his hold and keep you exactly where you are, shushing your quiet cries and murmuring into your ear as he folds you in half to take it like a good girl.
Daeron Targaryen ↠ Orgasm Denial
Daeron does not believe he deserves nice things and this unfortunately carries into the bedroom with him. It isn’t like he’s forcing you to delay his orgasm, except he would totally be into that, but he does hold himself back. He wants this to be good for you.
This bleeds over at some point, he’ll have you situated on top of him, legs straddling his hips as he moves you up and down on his cock, veiny hands gripping onto your hips and thighs for dear life as he watches your face. Your brows furrow together, lips parting to make that expression that let him know you’re about to come. That’s when he stops, hands stilling on your hips, grip suddenly tight on your skin when you try to lift yourself up, chasing the high he just tore out from under you. He’ll shake his head, words leaving him in a pant of air. “Patience, my flower,” he’ll say it low, blue eyes staring up at you as you try to squirm your way into an orgasm. He’ll keep you pressed to him, just as desperate as you are, until both of your breathing slows to what he deems satisfactory. Only then will he let you start moving again, hands guiding you up and down, up and down, up and down. But then your eyes widen, your thighs begin to shake, and he’s holding you still again, voice soft and teasing, “Do you dare put your pleasure over that of Your Prince? Hold out for me.” He doesn’t let either of you reach peak until you’re both barely holding on, delirious with the need for it, bodies stuck together and shaking from the exertion. He isn’t letting up until you’re crying to him, begging him to stop doing this to you, whining about how you can’t hold on anymore.
Aerion Targaryen ↠ Bloodplay / Knifeplay
Aerion is the textbook definition of a sadist. He likes to see others in pain, he likes to cause them pain even more and nothing is a prettier sight than seeing you laid out for him, crying and bleeding.
His fascination with pain is something not easily described; all he knows is it gets him going like nothing else. He thinks of it the moment the two of you meet, how easily it would be to hold you down and drag ornate Valyrian steel over the expanse of your body. He barely contains it, he already loves to watch you cry, especially in the throes of pleasure, so it comes to no one’s surprise that he is swift to offer the idea up to you, promising he will be nothing but gentle. That’s a lie; well it becomes a lie. At first, it’s small knicks to your thighs, his tongue laving over the wound immediately in an act of soothing. He holds himself back enough the first few times, but it quickly spirals into something debauched. Soon enough, he’s dragging blades across your stomach, pressing deeper, listening to your pained cries as you beg him for more, more, more. You edge him on, with your whimpers and your pleas, the sight of you covered in red in places he put it, the sight of your tears streaming steadily down your face as you flinch away from his touch. Gods, there’s nothing quite like it in Aerion’s mind. Soon enough, he’s pressing the blade to your lips, dragging it over the middle of your bottom lip, just as they did in Old Valyrian mating rituals, watching the droplets collect and slide down onto your chin. This is when he really cannot help himself, you just look so darling covered in your own blood, and his lips will press into yours. Tongue entering your mouth as you gasp at the feeling, the pain that comes with his teeth sinking into your lower lip, leaning into his touch nonetheless. He drinks you in, both your taste and your blood, refusing to push away until your blood is covering his lips, his chin, his tongue. It’s in moments like that he’s certain he could get drunk off of the taste of you, he finds nothing sweeter.
Valarr Targaryen ↠ Excessive Marking
Valarr is always trying to hold himself a certain way, in a way he thinks the realm needs him to. He doesn’t lose his head, he’s been curating the art of not letting his emotions and impulses get the best of him.
This being said, it comes as a surprise to both of you when he just cannot help himself when it comes to marking your body. It happens on an off chance when one night he’s just rougher. You walk away from the encounter with bruises on your hips in the shape of his fingertips and when he first sees them, he’s apologizing feverishly. How could he not have noticed he was gripping his precious wife so hard? How could he have ever dreamed of harming you? When you shake your head, a grin blooming on your pretty lips, insisting you liked to see the reminders of your time together? You unlock something in him. Suddenly, every night spent together is filled with his hands digging into the plush skin of your thighs, his lips are attached to your neck, your shoulder, your breasts. He’s leaving lovebites all over any piece of skin he can get to, his fingernails are scratching down your back when you get on top to ride him, faint scratches glowing on your skin. He urges you to mark him back, to bite at his skin, scratch at his chest, to leave the reminders of your claim on him. It excites him whenever the two of you are around the court, knowing that just beneath both of your clothes lies the evidence of your time together. Knows that if your dress were cut just the slightest bit shorter on your chest most courtiers would think you had been attacked by an animal instead of ravaged by your compassionate, stone-faced husband.
Lyonel Baratheon ↠ Exhibitilism
The Lord of Storm’s End loves to put on a show, loves the feeling of eyes tracking him around the room while he moves with less than a care in the world. He loves to host parties and feasts, loves to enter the lists for tourneys, loves knowing people admire him.
With this in mind, it’s of little revelation that you find yourself pressed against the windows of his chambers when the two of you make love during your times at Storm’s End. You never start there, Lyonel prefers to start on the mattress, or on the wall, hands roving over your body, pressing you into any surface he can as he takes his time undressing you. But sooner than later, you’re pressed against the glass, hands bracing against the frame, your breaths fogging up the surface. Lyonel is mean with it, lips touching your ear while he’s inside of you, hand moving your hair from where it’s stuck against your face, lips pressing into the nape of your neck. “Do you think anyone is watching, my love?” He’d whisper like he was keeping a secret, like it was something embarrassing, something wrong. Which, it is, considering societies standards, but Lyonel has never cared much what other people thought of him. “Do you think the servants and the lesser Lords are watching you as you clench around me? Do you think they want to join?” He’d laugh in your ear, delighting in the way your face gets flushed, at the way a silent type of panic shows in your eyes at your words, head shaking as he reassures you. He might like to put on a show, but he’d never let anyone else touch you, but they could always watch.
