Ormund Hightower who reluctantly takes his wife with him when the Hightower army marches towards Kings Landing because he cannot bear to be apart from her and she cannot stand knowing that he is leaving for battle and might not come back.
Ormund Hightower that keeps his wife’s handkerchief tucked into his armor and pulls it out to press into his nose whenever a reeking commander or soldier approaches him after being summoned for new orders.
Ormund Hightower that orders his wife to stay in their tent at all times because it’s too dangerous for a lady of her birth to wander around soldiers but the in reality he doesn’t anyone in the camp ogling her and getting funny ideas about his wife.
Ormund Hightower marches into their tent buzzing with anger after getting a message from Kings Landing saying that he is meant to remain where he is and wait for Aemond to come on Vhagar before he can make any other move.
Ormund Hightower who takes his anger out by fucking his wife into the mattress — lewd sounds, desperate moans and grunts could be heard by anyone that passed their tent. He himself couldn’t care less by who heard or who knows that he’s fucking his wife — for him it’s even better because they all will know that she’s only his.
Ormund Hightower who takes his wife while she’s on her hands and knees, his hand wrapped around her throat to tilt her head back to rest on his shoulder, her back pressed to his chest, hair sticking to her forehead and eyes glossy with tears because of how well he fucks her. His cock hits all the right places making her clench on him and whine pathetically while his hand chokes her slightly.
Ormund Hightower whose hand slide off her throat to press into her lower belly when he cums — deep inside her, his seed planting another heir, another son for house Hightower and he throbs at the mental image of her swollen and filled with his child bearing the fruit of his love for her.
Ormund Hightower that pressed his nose into the heated skin of her shoulder as she breaths — trying to stop the tremor of her muscles after he finally pulls out
You slip out after a one night stand, rushing to make the first class of the new semester.
Unfortunately, the man you spent the night with is waiting at the front of the classroom.. because he’s your professor.
wc: 5.1k
the all awaited modern au!professor baelor! smut shot. might write a part two..
cw: smut18+, mentions of alcohol, age-gap, ass-slapping, blowjob, office sex, power-play, lots of kissing, slight choking, soft sex, some rough sex, overstim, baelor is obsessed with reader, hair pulling, taunting, teasing, whole lotta making out, cumming inside, probably far more warnings.
series masterlist.
taglist: @josis-teacup
The night had been a blur from the start, a dizzying cascade of laughter, music, and warmth that seemed too good to be real. You hadn’t meant to drink as much as you did, but one thing led to another - cocktail after cocktail, the thrum of the club’s bass pulling you in, the glittering velvet walls wrapping your vision into a cocoon of red and black. And then there was him. Baelor Targaryen. Tall, lean, impossibly composed, with those eyes... seemingly piercing right through you.
You first noticed him across the room, leaning against the railing above the VIP section, nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey, calm as the storm of flashing lights and screaming music around you. There was an effortless gravity to him, the kind that made you forget the crowd, the thudding music, everything but the way he moved, casually commanding attention without needing to do more than exist.
Somehow, in the course of the next hour, you found yourselves side by side, laughing at something or perhaps nothing, stepping closer with each round, the heat of the dance floor catching at your skin. Drinks clinked, laughter spilled over, and the world narrowed to him and the way his fingers brushed yours, sparking a thrill you hadn’t anticipated. The music roared, but the space between you had its own pulse, a rhythm all its own. You had gone from hanging with your friends – to them leaving you – to now dancing with this strangely beautiful, and strangely familiar man.
At one point, his hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently across the skin, tilting your head toward him. “Perhaps, we should go to my place..” he murmured, his voice low, quiet enough that even through the pounding music, you could hear it clearly. He was much older than you, and you did not know him – your mother would have scolded you if she knew anything about this.
But, you nodded before thinking, arms looping around his shoulders, feeling the warmth of him pressed against you. He placed a firm, steadying hand on your arm, rubbing it with the faintest pressure that made your heart stutter. And then, with a confidence that was both intoxicating and terrifying, he grabbed your hand, lacing fingers with yours. You let yourself be led, heart in your throat, to the sleek black car waiting below the club. You couldn’t help but marvel at it - the shine, the polished curves.
The driver was waiting, discreet, no words exchanged; Baelor slid towards the car first, holding the door open for you. You stepped in gingerly, and he closed it gently behind you. You tried not to stare, but the interior - tasteful, elegant, almost unreal - made your chest tighten with awe and anticipation.
The ride was a blur of city lights, murmured conversation, and the occasional brush of his fingers against yours - every small touch made your pulse jump, every glance from his sharp, mismatched eyes setting your thoughts spinning; You clung to the moment, to the tiny, electric closeness of it all, and to the way his presence filled the car without effort.
Finally, the car stopped; he led you up the elevator, floor after floor until the city sprawled below, glittering and endless, windows catching the neon glow. The apartment door opened, and your breath hitched. High ceilings, vast windows overlooking King’s Landing, light spilling across sleek floors that gleamed like marble - everything screamed perfection. You froze for a moment, mouth slightly agape, and then felt him behind you, one long-limbed arm curling around your waist.
The heat of his body pressed against yours, grounding and overwhelming all at once. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your shoulder, the nape of your neck, murmuring, You flushed as he pressed himself against you; you felt everything rub against you as he did so.
“How about we…” He lay down another kiss again, low and intimate, “…take this to the bedroom?”
You swallowed, your pulse hammering, mind spinning as you felt the weight of his hands and the quiet, unspoken dominance in the way he guided you forward. You didn’t need to see further; the heat, the closeness, the slow, teasing intimacy of it all spoke louder than words. You stepped forward, following him, caught between flustered nerves and the thrill of wanting, heart hammering like it might burst from your chest as the bedroom door swung open in front of you.
And then the world fell into touches, hot kisses, whispers of promise and moans dripping in lust and sin, the city outside irrelevant, the night stretching impossibly long, full of the memory of warmth, touch, and the kind of connection that left you dizzy before morning ever came.
The light that crept through the curtains hit your eyes with a force you weren’t quite prepared for - your head throbbed in perfect rhythm with a dull, persistent pounding behind your temples, the kind that only came from a night of reckless, thoughtless drinking. You groaned; curling back into the sheets, willing yourself to just stay there, to close your eyes and pretend the world outside didn’t exist. But reality clawed its way back almost immediately: your first class of the new semester was starting in two hours. You had a new professor, and you couldn’t afford - couldn’t even imagine - the embarrassment of arriving late.
Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes fluttered open, and everything hit you at once. The blur of neon lights, the thrum of pounding music from a club that’s name still lingered faintly in your head, the flash of Targaryen-red and black velvet walls in the VIP room, the sharp click of a car door slamming shut. You shivered at the memory of hands that had roamed freely, that had brushed against your skin in ways that sent both shivers and a faint, shocking thrill through your body. And beneath all of it, there was the warmth - the steady, surprising heat pressed beneath you as you had fallen asleep without realizing it.
Panic surged.
You froze, your head turning just slightly, and there he was. Baelor Targaryen - eldest son of Daeron Targaryen, man who, until recently, had held more sway over Westeros’ than you could ever hope to tally - he lay fast asleep beneath you, utterly still, and somehow impossibly beautiful even in rest. His face was comely, sculpted with the kind of precision that made you catch your breath - he looked almost Dornish, strong jaw, lips that were both commanding and unnervingly soft. His eyes, they were pierced into your mind from last night; mismatched and startling - one deep brown, the other a piercing blue - were hidden now behind relaxed lids, but even like this, he exuded a quiet authority, a kind of silently dominant presence that seemed to seep into the room itself.
Heat rushed to your cheeks as your heart hammered; you clumsily shifted, rolling off the bed with as much care as you could manage, hoping fervently not to disturb him. Your eyes swept the apartment with a mixture of awe and dread - sunlight poured through the tall windows, illuminating sleek, modern furniture that was far beyond anything you had ever seen, glinting surfaces, and subtle details that screamed wealth and exquisite taste. This wasn’t just an apartment – it was a fortress, and you were painfully aware of how exposed you felt in it – you were stark naked.
Your gaze darted to your clothes, strewn in a chaotic heap across the floor; you scrambled, hands trembling slightly, tugging the shirt over your head and wiggling into your jeans with more urgency than grace. Your phone was already in your pocket, a small comfort, and you fumbled through the Uber app with trembling fingers, you had no clue as to where you were - but by looking out the window, you were in the richer part of Kings Landing. Your eyes flicked nervously toward him. Baelor shifted ever so slightly, stretching, and you froze, caught somewhere between admiration and panic. His chest rose and fell in steady, easy breaths. His body, long-limbed and beautifully tanned, relaxed in a way that was almost taunting - untouchable, untamable, and entirely his own. For a moment, you let yourself just watch, caught in the memory of last night: the heat, the closeness, the way his hands grabbed at your thighs– No. Not even. Not now. Not ever.
Pulling yourself together, you dressed as best you could, securing your bag over your shoulder, and finally made your way toward the door. Each step was careful and measured, carefully picking which overly polished floorboard to step on - the doorknob was cool beneath your hand, and when you slipped through the doorway, descending in the elevator and into the hub of apartment; the city of King’s Landing hit you like a splash of reality. The smell of Kings Landing wafted towards you – in the distance someone was cooking, but the salt of the sea wafted towards the centre; you grimaced as you inhaled. In the distance, the poorer districts of the city stretched out, modest and messy, a stark contrast to the perfection you had just escaped. You swallowed hard, leaning back against the curb for a moment, letting the sun warm your face, and hailed your ride. Cheeks still flushed, head still pounding, mind still reeling.
The thought gnawed at you, relentless: He’s my professor. He’s my professor. Somehow, it made your chest tighten and your stomach flutter at the same time yet somewhere behind the panic and the hangover, there was a spark of awe you couldn’t entirely suppress.
The man who had spent last night pressed impossibly close to you, touching and kissing each part of you was now the man who would lecture you on the fucking history of Westeros.
You sighed, slouching into the backseat.
You finally make it home, fumbling through the door with one hand clutching your bag, the other tugging at your hair in a half-panicked, half-conscious attempt to gather yourself. The house feels impossibly quiet now, the remnants of last night’s chaos lingering faintly on your skin, the faint scent of alcohol and perfume haunting and clinging to your hair. You take a slow breath, trying to steady the flutter in your stomach, then set about pulling clothes from the closet. Each piece is chosen with care - comfortable enough that you won’t feel suffocated, but deliberate enough that you won’t step into the classroom looking completely disastrous. Black jeans and a matching black long sleeve; with plenty of jewelry.
You shower swiftly; yet thoroughly. The bathroom mirror greets you, merciless in its reflection, and you take a moment to steady yourself. Taming your hair, you work it into shape – you swipe on a little makeup, enough to even out the redness on your cheeks and tame the slight shadows under your eyes - every movement feels ritualistic, measured, almost sacred in a way, as your mind flickers through the images of last night: the heat, his lips, his eyes, his voice, his hips– gods.. the impossibility of it all.
By the time you slip into your shoes and grab your keys, your pulse is still quick, your stomach fluttering like a warning that the day ahead may be more daunting than any hangover. The city outside your window hums with its familiar soundtrack: the low roar of traffic, the chatter of people moving through streets, the distant aroma of roasted street-side coffee drifting up from vendors already on their feet. You slide into your car, taking a steadying breath and gripping the wheel until your knuckles whiten. Your head thuds faintly in time with your heartbeat, a reminder that last night was far more vivid than a simple memory, far more than something you can neatly tuck away.
He can’t be teaching my class, you remind yourself, swallowing against the sudden dry lump in your throat. Maybe you should text a friend, see if he’s theirs. But no - time is bleeding away, creeping closer to ten minutes past the start of the semester, and hesitation is a luxury you don’t have. You start the engine, ignoring the dull protest of your skull, and pull onto the street, weaving through the early-morning traffic.
Arriving at campus, the usual hum of students and footsteps feels charged somehow, sharper, as if the air itself has shifted. You park quickly, grab your bag, and weave through the halls with eyes lowered, heart hammering, mind repeating the impossible thought: Baelor Targaryen - eldest of Daeron’s children, second in command of the company that practically owns all of King’s Landing is your professor. Everyone knew about the Targaryen family – they’ve had their claws dug into Westeros’ since the beginning of time it seemed.
You slip into the classroom quietly, hoping to blend in, hoping no one notices your flustered entrance. At the front, behind the desk, stands him. Baelor. Calm, precise, the kind of control that doesn’t need to be shouted to command attention. Dark cropped hair, glasses perched delicately on the bridge of his nose, which he adjusts with a tilt of his hand that somehow manages to look casual and deliberate at once.
Your body stiffens – for a heartbeat, he doesn’t notice, eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the students, the empty chairs. Then, slowly, subtly, his gaze lifts, and something shifts. Recognition flickers in his expression, bright and sharp, as if he’s just caught sight of something he didn’t expect. A quiet, knowing smile spreads across his face, faint amusement lighting the lines of his features. He pushes his glasses up, tilting his head slightly, grounding himself in the moment.
“Welcome to class,” he says, voice calm, deliberate, carrying that effortless authority that makes it impossible not to listen.
You nod, sliding into your seat, grimacing slightly as the awkward weight of the situation settles over your shoulders. The lecture begins, words spilling from his mouth in a measured rhythm, and you scrape out notes in careful handwriting, trying to anchor yourself. Your mind drifts back to last night, the memory of his hands on your throat and the feeling of his lips against yours- and you bite your lip to stop from imagining things you shouldn’t. He is all-consuming, even the thought of him.
His gaze cuts across the room, precise and piercing, and though he surveys every student, it lingers too long on you. You keep your head down, pretending to focus on your notes, heart hammering every time the corner of your eye catches him; the pulse in your ears matches the faint ache behind your eyes, your stomach twisting with every glance.
Finally, the bell rings. Relief surges through you, muscles loosening as students shuffle, chairs scraping against floors, papers rustling. You shove your notebooks into your bag, ready to escape the oppressive weight of his gaze, eager to leave the room and forget that any of this had happened.
Almost ready to leave, you hear it–
“Except you. Come to my desk.”
Your hands falter over the zipper of your bag. Slowly and carefully, you turn back. Thankfully, everyone has left by now.
He is leaning against his desk now, arms folded, calm and measured, every inch the presence you remember from last night. His eyes are steady, unyielding, and they roam your body - taking everything in.
You take a deep breath, cheeks warming, and nod. “Yes… Professor?” Your voice is soft, tentative, betraying none of the boldness you wish you could summon.
His faint smile meets yours, approving but unreadable, and you start walking toward him, heart still hammering, mind spinning. Somehow, the semester has just become infinitely more complicated, and you know - without question - that nothing will feel quite the same again.
His faint smile meets yours, approving but unreadable, and you start walking toward him, heart still hammering, mind spinning. Somehow, the semester has just become infinitely more complicated.
You stop in front of his desk, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. He unfolds his arms, straightening just enough to close the distance without crowding you - yet. His voice drops, low and teasing, as if he's savoring every word. "You left rather quickly this morning, angel."
His lips tweak into that knowing curve, eyes piercing through you like they did last night, stripping away any pretense. Heat floods your cheeks at the petname, and you flush under his watchful gaze, the memory of waking up tangled in his sheets crashing back – gods... "I-well..." You stutter, fingers twisting the rings on your hand, the metal cool against your heated skin. He steps forward, invading your space just enough to make your breath hitch. His hand lifts, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckles, a feather-light touch that sends sparks racing down your spine. "Where's that tenacity from last night, hm?" he murmurs, voice laced with challenge.
You lean into it instinctively, the warmth of his skin drawing you in like a magnet. That simple contact reignites something fierce inside you, a sudden wave of boldness bubbling up past the embarrassment - your body aches for more, the way he looks at you making your thighs press together, a dull throb starting low in your belly. You want him - god, you want him so badly it hurts, the need coiling tight and insistent.
"Maybe I was just... surprised," you whisper back, your voice gaining an edge as you tilt your chin up, meeting his gaze. The fire's there, flickering back to life, and you see it register in his eyes, that spark of approval.
He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and nods toward the door adjoining his office. "Come on, then. Let's talk about that surprise." His hand settles at the small of your back, guiding you with a firm press. You follow, pulse racing, as he leads you into the smaller room - his private space, walls lined with bookshelves and a wide desk dominating the center. The door clicks shut behind you, and you hear the lock turn, the sound echoing like a finality.
He has no more classes today, you realize dimly, the thought sending a thrilling shiver through you; It's just the two of you now, no interruptions, no excuses. He turns to you, leaning against the door for a moment, watching as you stand there, breath shallow. He’s dressed finely; decked out in some extravagant brand. His fingers trail up your arm, wandering slow and deliberate, mapping the curve of your shoulder before dipping to your collarbone. "Nervous?" he asks, but there's no mockery in it - just that teasing pull, drawing you closer; the same teasing tone he used last night whilst whispering promises into your ear.
You shake your head, stepping into him, your hands finding his chest. "Not anymore." The words come out bolder than you feel, but the heat in his eyes makes you believe them. He captures your lips in a kiss then, slow at first, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that's been building since the beginning of class. His tongue slips past your teeth, tasting you deeply, and you moan softly into it, your fingers curled into his finely pressed shirt.
His hands roam, one sliding down to grip your hip, pulling you flush against him so you feel the hard line of his cock pressing through his pants - the other tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, his beard scraping lightly against your chin. He breaks away only to trail his lips along your jaw, nipping at the skin there before moving to your neck, sucking a mark that makes you gasp. "That's my girl," he whispers against your pulse, voice rough with want. "Knew you'd come back fighting."
You push against him, guiding him toward the desk, the need for him and solely him making you reckless. He lets you, but only so far - his grip tightens, reminding you who's in control. When he sits in his chair, you don't hesitate; the fire surges low in the pit of your stomach- you want to please him. And so you do; you drop to your knees, slipping under the desk with a determined glint in your eye. His legs part for you, and you look up, hands already working his belt open, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.
"Eager, aren't you?" he says, voice dropping to a growl as you tug his zipper down, freeing his cock. It's thick and heavy in your hand, already leaking at the tip, and you wrap your fingers around the base, stroking once to feel him twitch. He hisses through his teeth, one hand coming to rest on your head, not pushing - just holding, guiding.
You lean in, tongue flicking out to trace from his balls upward, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of his skin. He groans, low and guttural, "Ah, fuck," as you lap at him, swirling around the underside before reaching the head. Your mouth waters, and you take him in, lips stretching around his girth, sucking with a wet pull that makes obscene sounds fill the space. Saliva drips down your chin as you bob your head, tongue pressing flat against the vein pulsing along his length.
His hips buck slightly, fingers tightening in your hair. "Just like that, angel - suck it like you mean it-" The subtle praise hits you harder than expected, heat pooling between your legs, soaking through your panties. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, gagging a little when he hits the back of your throat but pushing on, the burn only making you wetter. He moans; the sound raw, and you feel him throb against your tongue, pre-cum bitter and slick.
You pull off with a pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock, and lick a stripe back down to his balls, sucking one into your mouth gently before releasing it with a hum. His free hand grips the armrest, knuckles white, as you work him over, messy and thorough, your hand pumping what your mouth can't reach. The desk creaks faintly above you, his control fraying.
"Enough," he rasps finally, pulling you up by your hair - not rough, but insistent; you almost moan at the tension in your scalp. You rise on shaky legs, lips swollen and glistening, and he yanks you into another kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands are everywhere, shoving your shirt up to palm your breasts under your bra, thumbs circling your nipples until they're hard peaks. He pinches one, drawing a sharp noise of surprise from you, and you arch into it, grinding against his thigh.
He stands, spinning you around so your back is to the desk, and lifts you onto it with ease. Papers scatter, but neither of you cares. His mouth is on your neck again, kissing and biting down your collarbone as he yanks your pants open, fingers diving straight into your panties. You're drenched, and he groans against your skin when he feels it, two fingers sliding through your folds. "So wet for me already. Dirty little thing, getting soaked in my classroom."
His tone makes you clench around nothing, a whine escaping as he circles your clit. "Please," you beg, hands fisting his shirt. He kisses you hard, swallowing your pleas, his beard rasping against your chin. His fingers plunge inside you, curling just right, and you buck against his hand, moaning at the stretch burning sweet.
But he pulls away too soon, smirking as you whimper at the loss. "Not yet." He strips you efficiently - pants and panties off in a tangle, shirt pushed up but left on, bra unhooked - then spins you again, bending you over the desk. Your cheek presses against the wood, ass up, and his hand comes down in a sharp slap, the sting blooming hot. You yelp, but push back for more, the pain twisting into pleasure.
"That's it, good girl." he praises, rubbing the spot before slapping again, harder. His cock nudges your entrance, slick with your spit and his pre-cum, teasing through your folds. You rock back, desperate, and he chuckles darkly. "So needy. Beg for it, sweetling."
"Please, fuck me," you rasp, the words tumbling out. He doesn't make you wait - thrusts in with one smooth push, filling you to the hilt. You cry out, walls fluttering around his thickness, the burn exquisite as he stretches you. He stills for a beat, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging into the flesh. This is far, far better than the drunken sex of last night.
Then he starts moving, slow at first, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the desk jolting with each thrust. You moan steadily, pushing back to meet him, the slap of skin on skin echoing. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, wandering over every inch he can reach - tracing your spine, squeezing your breasts - before settling on your throat from behind.
He leans over you, chest to your back, cock buried deep as he tightens his grip just enough to make your head swim. His lips find your ear, breath hot. "Taking me so well,” He thrusts deeper before continuing his litany of murmuring. “My perfect little slut, arching and clenching around me already." He groans; the noise sending a flutter through your body, your pussy tightening, and you moan louder, eyebrows knitting as the pleasure builds, sharp and overwhelming.
He thrusts harder, angling to hit that spot inside, his free hand slapping your ass again - once, twice - each impact making you gasp and squeeze him tighter. "You love it, don't you? Being fucked like this in my office, where anyone could hear." His taunts whisper hot against your ear, mingled with praise: "So tight, angel - fuck, you're dripping down my balls. Last night just wasn’t enough…" You clench at that, the dirty truth of it pushing you closer, your focus narrowing to the coil winding in your core, breaths coming in pants.
He kisses your shoulder, your neck, lips trailing fire even as he chokes you lightly, the dual sensation making stars burst behind your eyes. "Come on, let go for me. Milk my cock like the good girl you are." Another slap to your ass, and you shatter, climax crashing over you with a strangled moan of his name - walls pulsing around him, soaking his length as you tremble.
But he doesn't stop, drawing it out with relentless thrusts, his groans mixing with yours. "That's it - fuck, yes." He pulls back suddenly, hands clamping on your hips, holding you still as he watches where you're joined. His cock slides in and out, coated in your release, a sticky mess glistening between you. You tighten instinctively, still sensitive, and he groans deep at the sight. “Gods.. so tight f’me..”
The sight - or the sound of his voice - makes you whimper, aftershocks rippling through. He leans in again, kissing your spine, your hair, anywhere he can reach, hands wandering to pull you upright against him. One arm bands around your waist, the other hand slipping between your legs to rub your clit, prolonging the high. You kiss sloppily over your shoulder, tongues tangling, his cock grinding deep inside.
He picks up the pace, chasing his own release now, thrusts turning erratic. "Gonna fill you up," he mutters against your lips, nipping at your bottom one. You nod frantically, another orgasm building fast from the friction, his fingers working you mercilessly. "Yes, Baelor… please!" you gasp, and he slams home one last time - the sound of his name on your lips sending him into overdrive, groaning loud, "Ah, fuck," as he spills inside you, hot pulses flooding your pussy.
You come again with him, clenching down, milking every drop until you're both spent, his weight pressing you into the desk. He stays buried, softening slowly, as you both catch your breath. His lips find your temple, kissing softly now, hands stroking your sides in lazy patterns.
After a moment, he pulls out gently, a slight gush of cum following, sticky and warm down your thighs. He turns you around, lifting you for a proper kiss - deep, passionate, his tongue exploring - even after all of that, he can't get enough.
His kiss lingers, warm and reassuring, before he breaks away with a soft chuckle, his mismatched eyes sparkling with affection. "We can't stay like this forever," he murmurs, glancing toward the office door as if someone might intrude any second.
He steps back, grabbing a box of tissues from his desk drawer - practical as ever.
Gently, he wipes the sticky trail down your thighs, his touch careful and intimate, like he's memorizing every inch. You take a few for yourself, dabbing at the mess between your legs, the cool paper a stark contrast to the heat still flushing your skin. He helps you straighten your shirt, fingers brushing your hips as he tugs your pants into place, then buttons his shirt with your assistance, your hands lingering on his chest as you straighten it from your incessant pulling.
Once you're both decent - clothes smoothed, no evidence left behind - he pulls you close for one last kiss, quick but full of promise. "Meet me in the car park when your ready," he whispers against your lips. "I want more time with you." You nod, heart swelling, and slip out of the office first. You smoothen your hair - surely your makeup is all but wiped off or smudged; you wipe under your eyes and the corners of your mouth before you step into the hallway; the chatter pulling you back to reality. He follows not even a minute later, looking immaculate and heading the opposite way, but the stolen glance over his shoulder says it all: this isn't over.
Pairing: Modern!Aerion Targrayen x Fem!Reader
Summary: Aerion makes you the main focus for his little project.
Word Count: 3.6k
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI! smut. unprotected p in v. internal ejaculation. creampie. possessive sex. exhibitionism. sex tape/filming during sex. oral (m!receiving). dom Aerion. marking. dirty talk. praise kink. fingering. clitoral stimulation. bb's a little less mean in this, but still just as nasty. no use of y/n.
A/N: this took me way too long to post 😭 life’s been busy so updates might be a little slower for now… but backroom Finn Bennett has me a bit unhinged, not gonna lie. gifs by me | divider: @/strangergraphics
Masterlist | AO3
Aerion: Need your help. Urgent.
The message comes just after nine—no greeting, no context. You stare at it for a second before typing back.
You: That sounds like a you problem.
Aerion: Get over here.
A beat.
Aerion: Please.
Aerion: And bring that face I like.
You exhale through your nose, thumb hovering over the screen longer than it should.
You: You’re impossible.
Aerion: I know.
Aerion: See you soon, pretty girl.
By the time you reach his apartment, the hallway was quiet as the building settled into the late hour. You stop in front of his door and knock once, barely having time to pull back before it swings open.
Aerion stands there, already stepping aside like he expected you down to the second.
"Took you long enough.”
You brush past him without answering, the door clicking shut behind you as you shrug off your coat.
"You said urgent," you reply, "not life or death."
The living room has been half-dismantled, lamps dragged into corners and blinds drawn low, the overhead lights killed entirely.
On the coffee table sits a bulky VHS camcorder surrounded by a stack of labeled cassettes, and in the corner an old CRT monitor hums faintly, washing the room in a pale greenish glow.
Aerion moves past you toward the coffee table without a word. He picks up the camcorder, cradling it in both hands before fiddling with it.
"…What is all this?" you ask, something between curiosity and amusement edging into your voice.
He finally glances up, gaze dragging over you and lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.
"Character study," he says. "Isolation. Routine. Subtle shifts in behavior."
He reaches for one of the cassettes before popping it into the camera.
"Professor wants something original."
"That sounds like bullshit."
"It is," he agrees easily. "But it looks good on paper."
You drift closer, drawn in by the setup—the space he's arranged spare and specific, every element placed with intention.
“Stand there,” he says, nodding toward a cleared space in front of him.
You glance at it. “You didn’t say I was acting.”
“You’re not,” he says immediately. “Just… exist there.”
“So you just called me over to make me your… what, subject?”
His mouth twitches faintly at that. “Something like that.”
You narrow your eyes at him, then tilt your head just slightly. “And what do I get in return?”
That earns you something—his gaze sharpening, interest flickering as he adjusts his grip on the camera.
“Depends,” he says after a pause. “Are you here to argue, or are you going to do what you came for?”
You blink at him, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Wow. Bossy today.”
His mouth twitches again as if he’s trying not to give you too much of a reaction. You hold his gaze for a moment, weighing it, then move to the spot without further argument.
The camcorder comes up and you hear the soft mechanical click of it starting to record.
“Stay right there,” he says again, quieter this time, more to himself than to you.
You let your weight settle, arms loose at your sides, and look back at him through the lens.
It’s strange being watched this intently, not uncomfortable exactly, but present in a way everyday life rarely asks you to be.
You barely shift before his voice cuts in, calm and immediate.
"You're thinking too hard," he says, without looking up from the viewfinder.
"You're pointing a camera at me."
"I've done worse." The smirk is audible. "Relax. Pretend I'm not here."
Easier said than done, but you try, letting your gaze slip off the lens before it lands on him instead.
The way his hands work over the camcorder, steady and precise. The quiet focus in his expression, the set of his jaw in the pale glow of the monitor—and lower, where his shirt has ridden up just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waist of his jeans.
God, he looked so good tonight.
You force your attention away before it lingers too long.
A few seconds pass and gradually you start to move. Slow and aimless, the way you might cross a room when no one's watching, picking something up off the shelf and setting it back down.
After a minute or two, you pause mid-step and glance toward him, one brow lifting.
“How long am I supposed to be doing this?”
“Until it stops feeling like a performance,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Keep going. Touch your hair. Roll your shoulders. Whatever feels natural.”
You exhale through your nose, somewhere between annoyed and amused, but you do it anyway.
One hand lifts to push your hair back, fingers lingering at the nape of your neck a beat too long. You can feel the lens tracking the movement.
He stepped closer, boots quiet on the hardwood. The camcorder stayed glued to his eye, but his free hand reached out, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“Better,” he murmured.
The pad of his thumb grazed the shell of your ear, then trailed down the side of your neck, slow enough to raise goosebumps.
“You’re tense. I can see it in your shoulders.”
“I’m being filmed by a man who texts like a hostage negotiator,” you shot back, but your voice had already softened, breath catching when his fingers continued their lazy descent, tracing your collarbone.
Aerion hummed, the sound vibrating low in his chest. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his body.
The camera dipped slightly, angling down to capture the way your nipples had tightened visibly against the fabric.
A flush of heat rushed to your face as you became painfully aware of just how sheer the material was, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
You regretted not putting on a bra earlier—though, if you were being honest, a part of you had half-expected that coming over to Aerion’s, you wouldn’t really need one anyway.
"Take a breath," he said. "Let it out slow."
You did as he said, though the exhale came out unsteady, catching slightly as your chest rose and fell under his lens.
His thumb found the hollow of your throat, resting there just long enough to feel your pulse jump.
“Good girl.”
The praise landed hot and low in your belly. You hated how easily he could flip a switch from casual to charged with nothing more than a look and a few quiet words.
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips. “This still for your project?”
“It was.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s for me.”
The air shifts with it, subtle but immediate. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the air feeling thicker, more electric.
He lowered the camera for a moment before taking a step fully into your space, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as he tilted your face up to his.
“Tell me to stop if you want,” he said against your lips, breath warm and mint-tinged. “But I think you like being watched.”
You didn’t answer.
Instead you rose onto your toes and kissed him. Slow at first, testing, then deeper when he groaned and pulled you flush against him.
His tongue slid against yours while his hand drifted down to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
When he broke the kiss, his lips brushed your ear.
“How about we make this a little more exciting,” he whispered, voice rough with want.
“Strip for the camera. Slow. Let it see everything.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. He pulled back, just enough to look at you—whatever he found in your expression seeming to satisfy him—then stepped away before raising the lens and finding you again, and this time there was nothing clinical about it.
Your gaze drops without meaning to, catching on the front of his jeans that pulled taut, the outline of him pressing against the denim in a way that made your mouth go dry.
"Go on," he said quietly before stepping back and angling the lens towards you once more.
You held his gaze for one second, then reached for the hem of your shirt, peeling it up and over your head.
The cool air hit your skin, nipples pebbling instantly under the camcorder’s indifferent stare.
Aerion’s eyes tracked every inch like he was memorizing you.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Keep going.”
You hooked your thumbs into your waistband next, pushing your pants down your hips, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your underwear.
The lace was already damp, and you knew the camera would catch that dark little spot when you turned just right.
Aerion made a low, appreciative sound.
Without breaking eye contact, he sets the camcorder down on the coffee table. The red light keeps blinking, angled just right to keep both of you in frame.
Then he closes the distance again, his hands finding you. He cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you arched into him with a soft moan. One hand slid down, slipping beneath the lace to find you slick and aching.
“So wet already,” he murmured, two fingers gliding through your folds before circling your clit with firm pressure. “All this just from me pointing a camera at you?”
You bit your lip, hips rocking instinctively against his hand. “Aerion…”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw and down until it reached the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
Suddenly he pushed two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right, and your head fell back on a broken moan.
The wet, obscene sound of his fingers pumping in and out filled the room, accompanied by the faint mechanical hum of the camcorder still recording every second.
Aerion’s mouth found your throat, sucking a mark into your skin while his thumb kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praised, voice dark and filthy. “Let the camera hear how pretty you sound when I touch you.”
Your legs trembled making you grab his shoulders for balance, nails digging in as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.
He pulled his fingers free suddenly, making you whimper, before bringing them up to his mouth and sucking them clean with a low groan.
He looked at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with heat as he licked the last traces from his fingers.
Without breaking eye contact, he undid his belt before shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, freeing his cock.
It sprang out, thick and heavy, the flushed head already glistening with a bead of precum. He wrapped a hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, his thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive tip as he watched your reaction.
Then, softer but still commanding, he spoke with a wicked little smile, “On your knees, baby.”
The command sent a shiver down your spine.
You sank down without hesitation, the hardwood cool against your skin. Aerion moved closer, one hand tangling gently in your hair as he guided the head of his cock to your mouth, tapping it against your lower lip once, then twice.
“Wanna show the camera how good you use your mouth?” he murmured, the words dripping with filthy promise.
His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender.
“Open up for me, pretty girl. Let it see how deep you can take me.”
Your pussy clenched at the words. You looked up at him through your lashes, then parted your lips before taking him in.
The first slide of his cock over your tongue drew a deep, guttural groan from his chest. He was thick—stretching your mouth in that perfect, slightly overwhelming way.
You hollowed your cheeks and sucked, tongue swirling around the head before you sank lower, taking as much of him as you could.
“Fuck,” Aerion hissed, fingers tightening in your hair. His hips twitched forward, pushing another inch past your lips. “That’s it… just like that. Look at the camera while you suck me.”
You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking toward the blinking red light.
The knowledge that it was recording every second, your spit-slick lips stretched wide around his cock and the way your throat worked when you took him deeper, made you moan around him. The vibration pulled another curse from Aerion.
He kept one hand in your hair as he started to rock his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts.
“Gods, you look so perfect like this,” he rasped, voice strained with pleasure.
His gaze kept darting between your face and the camcorder.
“All sloppy and eager… taking my cock so well while the camera watches. You like knowing it’s filming how wet your mouth gets for me, don’t you?”
You hummed in agreement, the sound muffled and obscene. Drool had started to slip from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin but you didn’t care.
You bobbed your head faster, one hand coming up to stroke what you couldn’t fit, twisting gently on every upstroke the way you knew he liked.
Aerion’s head tipped back for a moment, a low, broken moan escaping him. His stomach flexed visibly under the hem of his shirt, and his cock throbbed against your tongue.
“Shit—slow down or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warned, but he didn’t pull away.
Instead he looked straight at the camera, lips parted and cheeks flushed, his signature arrogance melting into raw lust.
“So fucking good with that pretty mouth… that’s my girl,” he groaned, violet eyes half-lidded as he stared back down at you.
He pulled out suddenly, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head of his cock.
You gasped for air, lips swollen and shiny, and he immediately tapped his cock against your tongue again, letting the camera catch the messy sight.
Aerion cursed under his breath, the sound raw and reverent.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek.
His voice dropped even lower, thick with lust.
“But first I’m going to fuck that tight little cunt while the camera records every second of you falling apart on my cock.”
The words hit you like a spark.
You looked up at him, lips parted and shiny and you barely had time to respond before he was hauling you up off your knees with strong hands under your arms.
He spun you around and bent you over the arm of the couch in one smooth, possessive motion, your stomach pressed against the soft fabric, ass raised high for him—and for the camera.
He shifted the camera slightly so that the lens was perfectly positioned, capturing the curve of your back, the way your tits hung heavy and swaying, and the slick shine between your spread thighs.
Aerion stepped up behind you, one large hand smoothing possessively down your spine before gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
His other hand guided his cock, dragging the thick head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance with slow, deliberate strokes that made you push back against him desperately.
“Eyes on the camera,” he reminded you, voice a dark rumble.
He leaned over your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he finally pushed inside slowly, allowing you to drink in every inch as he stretched you open.
A broken moan tore from your throat the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.
The stretch was perfect, almost too much, the slight burn only making the pleasure sharper.
“Fuck… so wet,” he groaned, hips flush against your ass.
He gave one shallow thrust, then another, letting you feel every thick inch.
He started moving faster, each snap of his hips driving deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely through the quiet apartment.
One hand stayed anchored on your hip while the other reached around to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.
Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, eyes locked on the blinking red light as he fucked you harder, the couch creaking beneath you with every powerful thrust.
The pleasure was already spiraling, sharp and relentless, but Aerion wasn’t done with you yet.
Without warning he pulled out, the sudden emptiness dragging a needy whine from your throat.
Before you could protest, his hands were on you flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion.
Your shoulders hit the couch cushions, legs splayed wide as he loomed over you, silver-blond hair sticking to his forehead, chest heaving.
“Much better,” he murmured, voice rough. “I want to see your face properly when I ruin you.”
Aerion reached for the camcorder on the coffee table, scooping it up with one hand. The red light never faltered.
He held it steady, angling the lens down as he knelt between your spread thighs, framing the shot perfectly—your swollen, dripping cunt, the way your chest rose and fell, the desperate look in your eyes.
He stroked his cock before spreading your arousal along his length, then pressed the thick head against your entrance.
The camera captured every second, closer this time: the slow push as he sank back into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you open again with a wet, obscene sound.
A low groan tore from his chest the moment he bottomed out, buried to the hilt in your tight heat.
“Fuck… still so perfect. Gripping me like you never want me to leave.”
He started thrusting immediately—deep, rolling strokes that made your back arch off the couch.
The camcorder stayed in his grip, pointed shamelessly between your bodies so it could record the way his cock disappeared inside you over and over, slick and shining with your combined wetness.
“That’s it,” Aerion growled, voice strained with pleasure.
“Let the camera see your face. Show it how pretty you look getting ruined. How your eyes roll back when I hit that spot riiiiight…there—”
A broken moan tore from your throat as white-hot pleasure exploded behind your eyes from the new angle.
Your back arched sharply off the couch, legs trembling uncontrollably while your fingers clawed desperately at the cushions beneath you.
“Oh fuck— Aerion!” you cried out, voice cracking as another precise thrust sent sparks shooting through your veins.
The coil in your belly tightened viciously, threatening to snap at any second.
He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.
“Listen to those sweet little sounds you’re making for the camera. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, baby. You gonna come already? Gonna show the camera how beautifully you fall apart on my cock?”
“Gonna watch this later,” he snarled, slamming in deep with a brutal thrust.
“Gonna stroke my cock raw to the way your greedy little pussy clenches and milks me.”
Another vicious thrust.
“Gonna cum so hard to the sight of you falling apart while I flood…” thrust “this…” thrust “tight…” thrust “sloppy fucking cunt.”
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, the pressure building fast and overwhelming under his relentless pace and the wicked swirl of his fingers on your clit.
The camera kept recording, merciless and intimate, capturing every twitch of your face, every bounce of your breasts, every slick thrust as Aerion fucked you closer and closer to the edge.
“Cum for me,” he demanded, voice breaking with his own impending release.
“Cum on my cock while the camera watches. Let it see how good you look when you’re mine.”
The coil snapped.
Your orgasm crashed over you violently, walls fluttering and clenching hard around his thick length as you cried out, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before you forced them open again, staring straight at the red light like he’d ordered.
Your whole body shook with the force of it, a broken sob of pleasure tearing from your throat.
Aerion groaned loudly, hips stuttering as your pussy milked him.
“Fuck—yes, just like that—”
He fucked you through it, kept the camera trained on your face through it all as he chased his own release with deep, punishing strokes until, with a guttural moan of your name, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard.
You felt every pulse as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you until it started to leak out around his cock with every shallow thrust he gave to ride it out.
He stayed buried for a moment, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat. Then he leaned down, pulling out just enough for the lens to catch the thick white cum leaking from your swollen pussy before he pushed back in, fucking it deeper with lazy rolls of his hips.
Finally, he reached over and stopped the recording, setting the camera aside on the coffee table with a soft click.
He looked down at you, eyes still dark but sparkling with mischief, a cocky grin spreading across his face.
“Think I just got a new favorite movie,” he says lightly, voice rough around the edges but unmistakably pleased.
ser duncan the tall x wife!female reader / smut / domestic dunk / rainstorm / intimacy/ i went absolutely feral when i wrote this so please be mindful of that
word count: 9.2 k 🗡️❤️🔥
POV: Your husband is seven feet of good to the core, and you're the only one who knows how to make his pulse thunder.
A rainy afternoon, a simmering hearth, and a man who would walk through the seven hells just to hear you whisper his name. He thinks he's just a hedge knight with nothing to his name. You’re about to show him he’s a king in your bed.
Author’s Note: i’ll be the first to admit i went feral writing this, but i’m a romantic at heart, i promise. to me, this is just really, really intimate, you’ll see. ♡
p.s. i had to repost it because tumblr index system sent the first one beyond the Wall. sorry guys, i love you ♡♡♡
You wake to the sound of rain hammering against the cottage's thatched roof, a steady, persistent drumming that has merged with your dreams. The air is cool and carries the scent of damp earth and the metallic tang of an approaching storm.
Your fingers curl into the linens, and they are saturated with him; that clean, honest smell of sweat, leather, and the soap he makes himself from wood ash and lavender.
He isn't there. The space beside you is empty, the sheets already cool.
With a groan, you push yourself up. The light filtering through the single window is the soft, pearlescent grey of a day swallowed by clouds. A crack of thunder rattles the windowpane, making you flinch. You've slept past midday, the deep, dreamless sleep of someone who feels safe. Protected.
You can hear him. Not in the cottage with you, but outside. The rhythmic thwack of an axe splitting wood, punctuated by another distant rumble of thunder. Each swing is a testament to the man you married, the power of him. Another sound follows, a softer one, the scrape of a whetstone along steel.
You pull on a simple woolen dress, the fabric rough against your skin. You don't bother with shoes, your bare feet silent on the floor as you make your way to the door. The cottage is small, but it is yours. It is his. A pot of something hearty and meaty, likely rabbit he snared yesterday, is simmering over the dying embers of the hearth.
Your body tingles with the ghost of last night's touch. A deep, pleasant ache settles between your thighs, a sweet reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed you. Your cheeks flush with heat, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wool of your dress. Butterflies, frantic and wild, beat against your ribs. You already miss him, the solid weight of him, the way his large hands, so adept at violence, could map every inch of your body with such tender reverence.
Your Dunk. Your kind, good man, who had seen you stir restlessly in the predawn darkness and had slipped from your bed to let you sleep, taking his toil out into the rain. Good to the very core.
You pull open the heavy oak door. The world explodes in a rush of wind and water. The rain is a solid, silver curtain, and the wind whips it against your face. And there he is.
Duncan.
He stands in the center of the muddy yard, a giant of a man framed by the grey fury of the storm. He's shirtless, his feet planted in the churned mud. The splitting axe, heavy enough that most men would struggle to lift, rests easily on one broad shoulder. His skin is slick with rain, each drop a shimmering jewel as it catches what little light there is.
They trace paths through the dark hair on his chest, down the ridges of his stomach, following the powerful landscape of his body. The muscles of his back and shoulders are bunching and releasing as he turns toward the sound of the door.
When he sees you, he stops. The world seems to hold its breath. The rain continues to fall, the thunder to grumble in the distance, but in that moment, there is only him.
Your eyes catch a flicker of movement near the stables. Chestnut and Thunder, your two beautiful horses, stand sheltered in the overhang, their coats gleaming in the dim light. They are safe, cared for. Just like you.
And then you are moving. There is no thought, only need.
You launch yourself from the doorway, your bare feet slapping against the wet, packed earth, then sinking into the mud. You don't care. You are running towards him, towards your hot, wet man, your husband. You need him with a desperation that eclipses all reason, a need as vital as the air in your lungs.
He's frozen for a heartbeat, a statue of a pagan god in a downpour, and then he's moving too. He drops the axe. It lands with a dull thud in the mud. He takes two long strides to meet you, his powerful legs eating up the distance.
He catches you.
His arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off your feet. The impact is a shock of wet skin against the thin wool of your dress. You gasp, your arms flying around his neck, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder. He smells of rain and sweat and him, and you inhale deeply, greedily, filling your lungs with him.
"You'll catch your death, my love," he rumbles, his voice low. His hands are splayed wide against your back, holding you, and despite the strength in them, his touch is impossibly gentle.
You don't answer with words. You pull back just enough to see his face, to see the way the rain has plastered his hair to his forehead, tracing the strong line of his jaw. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, are alight with a joy so fierce it takes your breath away.
He thinks you're mad. You can see it in the twitch of his lips, the fond exasperation in his gaze. But you don't care.
You surge forward and crash your lips against his.
His lips are cold at first, then warm against yours, and they feel like coming home, like the sun breaking through the clouds. He makes a sound, a low groan of surprise and pleasure that is swallowed by the storm.
He tries to speak, his lips moving against yours. "Seven hells, woman," he mumbles, the words lost in the deluge. "Wha—"
But you silence him with another kiss, deep and wet, pouring every ounce of your longing into it. Your hands knot in his wet hair, holding him to you, and you moan into his mouth, a soft, needy sound that is almost stolen away by the wind.
One of his huge hands slides down your back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and comes to rest on your arse. He grips you, possessive and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through your soaked dress. You press yourself against him, feeling the hard planes of his stomach, the proof of his desire pressing hot against you.
He grunts into your mouth, a raw, animal sound, when you suck on his tongue. It's a filthy kiss, the kind of kiss that would make a whore in a King's Landing tavern blush.
You pull back, gasping for breath, your chest heaving. A thin, delicate string of saliva connects your mouths for a moment before the rain washes it away. Your eyes are locked on his.
"Need you, Dunk," you whisper, your voice hoarse, almost broken with the force of your want. "Need you now."
The dress is a second, sodden skin, clinging to every curve, every dip. The dark wool is rendered translucent by the downpour, leaving little to the imagination. The hardened points of your nipples press against the fabric. The generous swell of your hips and the soft roundness of your thighs are outlined in perfect detail.
His eyes rove over you, a hungry, worshipful gaze that makes your skin feel too tight. He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working.
"This is madness," he rasps, his voice strained. "You'll be sick, my love."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He shifts you in his arms, one arm banded around your waist, and starts moving towards the stables. He half-carries, half-drags you through the mud, his long strides covering the ground in an instant. The shelter of the stable overhang is a welcome relief from the onslaught of the rain, though the air is still thick with the smell of wet hay, horse, and him.
He sets you down, but doesn't let go. He keeps you pressed against him, framing your face with his hands. "My love," he starts, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and desire. "Look at you, shivering. We need to get you inside, by the fire, get these wet things off you—"
"Mmm-need you, Dunk," you interrupt, your hands coming up to cover his where they cradle your face. You turn your head and press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his palm. "I need my husband right now. Not the knight. Not the hedge knight. Just you."
He looks at you then, and the concern in his eyes is slowly consumed by a fire that makes your breath catch. He sees the need in you, that want that mirrors his own. He sees that this is not a whim, but a necessity.
"Dunk, please," you whisper, and it's a broken, beautiful sound. "Please."
"Seven hells," he breathes, the last of his restraint crumbling to dust. "You'll be the death of me."
His hands move from your face, one tangling in your wet hair, the other fumbling with the ties of your dress at your shoulder.
"I saw you," you pant against his skin as his clumsy fingers work at the wet knot. "I saw you standing there... your axe... the rain... gods be good, Dunk, I am burning up for you."
You lean in, your lips tracing the wet, hard curve of his bicep. The muscle tenses under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along its length, tasting rain and salt and man. Then you bite him, gently at first, then harder, sinking your teeth into the firm flesh. You leave a dark, wet mark, a claim. You do it again, lower down, marking him.
A ragged groan tears from his chest. His hands still on your dress, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder. His entire body is trembling against yours.
"Stop," he begs, but it sounds nothing like a command. It's a prayer. "Gods, my love, stop. I can... I can hardly hold myself." He turns his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of your ear. His breath is hot. "I'll take you right here against the wall, with the horses watching, and I'll not care for aught else. I'll be rough. I'll hurt you."
His confession hangs in the damp air between you. He's not threatening you. He's warning you, pleading with you. And you have never been more aroused in your entire life.
"Then take me," you whisper back, your voice a silken thread of challenge. "Take your wife, Ser Duncan."
The title, the honorific he so rarely uses for himself, is the final push. He growls, a low, feral sound from deep in his chest, and finally rips the ties of your dress. The flimsy wool gives way, and he pushes it down over your shoulders.
The sudden cold of the air makes your nipples tighten into hard, aching points. His eyes devour you, tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. He looks at you like you're a miracle, a goddess made flesh, and the awe in his face makes your knees weak.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, as if to himself.
You lunge for him again, your lips finding his with a desperate hunger. You press your naked body against the hard, wet wall of his chest, grinding yourself against him, seeking friction, seeking relief. The coarse hair on his chest abrades your sensitive nipples, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.
"Can't get enough of you," you gasp against his lips between frantic kisses. "Dunk, I can't... I need..."
This time, he meets your need with a ferocity of his own. He kisses you back, not just receiving your passion but returning it, matching it. His tongue plunges into your mouth, claiming it, stroking against yours in a rhythm that promises a deeper, more intimate claiming to come. One of his massive hands cups the back of your head, holding you in place while the other roams down your spine, over the curve of your arse, pulling you against him. His arousal is a hard, thick line against your belly, and the knowledge that you have this effect on him, this shy, good man, is a powerful, intoxicating aphrodisiac.
"Gods, me neither," he groans, the words a vibration against your lips. "Woke up this morning and you were still asleep... all soft and warm... all mine. Nearly broke my resolve to let you be."
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, a rare, breathtaking sight. It transforms him from a simple hedge knight into a man of breathtaking beauty. "No more of this," he rumbles, his voice a low growl. "You're not getting fucked against a wall like a tavern whore."
He hooks one arm behind your knees and another around your back, and with a grunt, he lifts you into his arms. You yelp, a half-scream, half-laugh of pure delight, as he turns and starts running.
"Dunk! Dunk, what are you doing!" you shriek, clinging to his neck as he barrels back out into the torrential rain.
"I'm taking my wife to our bed!" he roars back, his laughter booming over the storm.
He moves with an impossible speed, a charging beast carrying its most precious treasure. Mud splashes, the world is a blur of grey water and green, and you are laughing, utterly lost in the glorious madness of him. He's a madman. Your madman. And you have never loved him more.
He bursts through the cottage door, kicking it shut behind him with a thunderous bang. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, crossing the small space in three long strides before unceremoniously dumping you onto your bed. The furs are soft, the mattress a welcome relief, and the fire burning in the hearth bathes the room in a warm, golden glow that makes the rain outside seem a distant memory.
You land with a soft oomph, bouncing slightly on the mattress. He's on you in an instant, a mountain of wet, hot skin and hard muscle. The shock of it is electric. You are both soaked, and the water from his hair and skin drips onto your face, your neck, your breasts, mingling with the heat rising from your own body. He smells of rain and clean earth.
"You are a menace," he growls as he makes quick work of the last remnants of your sodden dress, peeling the wet wool from your legs and tossing it to the floor. Then his hands are on you, everywhere, tracing the curves of your hips, the softness of your thighs. He props himself up on one elbow, his other hand splayed across your stomach, and he just looks. His gaze is so intense, so full and raw, that it makes your breath catch.
"Dunk," you whisper, reaching for him.
You pull him down, needing his weight on you, needing to feel the sheer solid reality of him. He settles over you, a heavy, comforting presence that makes you feel both small and incredibly safe. Your legs part instinctively, making room for him, and he settles into the cradle of your hips. You start to move, a slow, deliberate grind against him. The rough fabric of his breeches is a delicious friction against your most sensitive flesh, and you can't stop the soft moans.
You meet in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss, making love with your mouths. His tongue is a slow, sweet invasion, and you meet it, stroke for stroke. Your hands are everywhere, tangling in his damp hair, now tracing the muscles of his back, feeling the way they flex and bunch under your touch.
"Too many clothes," you pant against his jaw, your fingers fumbling with the laces of his breeches. "Get them off, Dunk. I want to feel all of you."
He groans and pushes himself up, just enough to give you room. Your fingers are clumsy with haste, but you manage to undo the ties. He shoves the wet leather down his hips, kicking them away. And then he is naked, all of him, and he is magnificent.
His body is a map of old scars and new bruises, a testament to the life he leads. A long, thin one on his ribs, a puckered circle on his shoulder from an arrowhead, a web of smaller ones on his forearms. You know them all. You have kissed them all. But it's not the scars that hold your attention now. It's the overwhelming masculinity of him. His chest is broad and covered in a thatch of dark hair that narrows to a line leading down to the powerful V of his hips. And there, heavy and proud, is the part of him that is yours alone.
He is hard, so hard it looks almost painful and already weeping with need. The sheer size of him still takes your breath away, an intimidating reality that you crave with every fiber of your being.
He lowers himself back over you, but this time, his lips find your breast. He doesn't kiss the nipple, not at first. He kisses the soft, sensitive skin on the underside, then the valley between them. His mouth is hot, and his breath is a warm gust against your skin.
"My beautiful wife. My good girl." He nips gently at the swell of your breast. "I think about this, you know. When I'm on the road. I think about your skin, your taste. I think about burying my face right here and never coming up for air."
His other hand, the one not supporting his weight, begins a slow, torturous journey down your body. It skims over your ribs, pauses to trace the curve of your hip, and then slides down the outside of your thigh. His touch is light, almost teasing, a ghost of a caress that makes your skin prickle with awareness. The heat in your belly builds, a slow, coiling fire that spreads through your veins, making you restless, needy.
You arch against him, a silent, pleading motion, and he finally, finally takes your nipple into his mouth. He sucks, hard, and the sensation is a bolt of lightning. You cry out, a sharp, breathy sound, and your hands fly to his head, holding him to you.
"Dunk," you moan, his name a prayer on your lips.
He lifts his head, a possessive fire in his eyes, and claims your lips again. It's deeper, slower, a thorough, claiming exploration. His tongue strokes against yours, and you can taste yourself on him, faint and sweet. The hand on your thigh moves inward, tracing a path up the sensitive skin until his fingers brush against the highest curve of your thighs.
"Is this for me, my love?" he asks, his voice a husky whisper against your lips. "Is all this wetness for me?"
You can only nod, your words lost, your ability to form coherent thoughts shattered by the gentle, circling motion of his thumb. He's not touching you where you need him most. He's just stroking the sensitive skin around it, a maddening, delicious torture.
"Please," you finally manage to gasp out. "Dunk, please."
But then you push against his chest, a gentle but firm pressure. He lifts his head, ocean eyes clouded with a confusion that is almost comical. He doesn't understand why you'd stop this, why you'd push away the very thing you've been begging for.
You sit up, pushing yourself to your knees in the center of the bed. You take his massive hands in yours, your small fingers looking impossibly delicate against his calloused, scarred knuckles.
"What is it, my love?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern. "Did I hurt you?"
You shake your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. "No," you whisper, your gaze holding his. "No, you could never." You lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. "I want to taste you," you murmur against his skin. "I want to worship you."
He stares at you, utterly bewildered. Worship him? This hedge knight, with more scars than sense and hands better suited to holding a sword than a woman's touch? He opens his mouth to protest, to say something self-deprecating and utterly, painfully Dunk, but you silence him with a look.
"Let me, Dunk," you say, and it's not a request. It's a command, gentle but firm.
Slowly, hesitantly, he nods. He lets you push him, and he shifts until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor. You slide off the bed and sink to your knees in the furs before him. The sight makes him suck in a sharp breath. You, his beautiful wife, on your knees for him. The unbidden eroticism of it is a punch to the gut.
You start at his stomach. Your lips trace the hard ridges of his abdomen, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint, clean taste of the rain. You press open-mouthed kisses to each of the old scars, your tongue darting out to soothe his flesh. His muscles jump and twitch under your touch, and you can feel the tension in him, the effort it's taking him to remain still, to let you lead.
Then you move upwards, your face burying in the thick, dark hair on his chest. You inhale deeply, breathing him in. He smells of life, of strength, of safety. You let your tongue flick out, tasting the hollow at the base of his throat before moving to one of his nipples. You circle it slowly, lazily, before taking it into your mouth and sucking gently.
A choked gasp escapes him. His head falls back, exposing the strong column of his neck, and his eyes roll back in his head. His hands curl into fists, the knuckles white. You are utterly destroying him, and you have never felt more powerful.
You lavish the same attention on the other nipple, giving it the same slow, torturous treatment. His breathing is harsh now, a series of uneven pants. He's muttering something, a stream of incoherent praise and curses that are the most beautiful music you've ever heard.
Then, you begin your descent.
You press kisses down the hard plane of his stomach, following the dark, tempting trail of hair that leads to your ultimate goal. You can feel him trembling, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder that runs through his entire frame. You can hear the desperate quality of his breathing. He is at your mercy.
Finally, you are there.
His beautiful cock.
It stands proud and erect, a magnificent, intimidating thing of flushed skin and throbbing veins. You look at it for a long moment, your gaze reverent. This is the part of him that makes you his wife, that fills you so completely, that brings you such exquisite pleasure. This is the part of him that has given you the sweetest aches and the most blissful sighs.
You lean in and press a soft, almost chaste kiss to the glistening tip. A bead of pearly fluid wells up, and you taste it with the tip of your tongue. It's slightly bitter, and uniquely him. His entire body jerks at the contact, a full-body spasm.
"Gods," he chokes out, his hands flying to your hair. He doesn't force you, doesn't guide you. He just buries his fingers in the strands, holding on as if for dear life. "What are you... oh, gods..."
You smile, a slow, almost secret smile, and then you take him into your mouth.
You start slow, savoring the experience. Your lips stretch wide to accommodate his impressive girth, the hard, velvety skin sliding over your tongue. You take just the head at first, swirling your tongue around the ridge, teasing the sensitive nerves just beneath.
His hand in your hair tightens, not a pull, but a steady, grounding pressure that makes you hum in pleasure. He's so big. So wonderfully, overwhelmingly big.
He throws his head back again. "Seven bloody hells," he grits out, the words a harsh exhale. He's muttering a stream of curses, praise, and your name, incoherent sounds. He hisses when you take him deeper.
"Your mouth... gods, your mouth... so warm... so wet..."
You take more of him, inch by slow, deliberate inch. You feel your jaw begin to ache, a dull, pleasant ache that only adds to the intensity of the moment. Your saliva pools, and you can't stop a single drop from escaping the corner of your mouth, tracing a glistening path down your chin. But your eyes never leave his.
You hold his gaze, watching the array of emotions flicker across his face. Awe, disbelief, unbridled lust. His mouth is open, his chest heaving. He looks at you, at his beautiful wife on her knees, worshipping him with her mouth, and the look in his eyes is one of pure, shattered reverence.
His hips twitch, a tiny, involuntary movement, and he immediately stills them, a groan of frustration torn from his throat. You can see the struggle in every tense line of his body, the way the muscles in his thighs stand out like knotted rope. He is fighting a primal instinct, a battle of will against want, all for you. He is so good, so fundamentally, achingly good, that he will endure this exquisite torture rather than risk causing you a single moment of discomfort.
Then you hear it. A sound so at odds with his massive frame, so full of vulnerability, it makes your heart clench. A whimper. It's a deep sound that rumbles up from his chest, and it is the most erotic thing you have ever heard. You shiver, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the cool air on your bare skin. The sound is a surrender, a confession of his absolute undoing. It makes you want to devour him whole.
You relax your throat, take a deep breath through your nose, and push down, taking him deeper still. You let the head of his cock brush the back of your throat.
The reaction is instantaneous and explosive.
"Oh, fuck!" The word is a roar, torn from his very soul. His control shatters.
Both of his huge hands fly to your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, gripping you tighter. He doesn't push, he just holds on, grounding himself in you as the world spins out of control. He becomes impossibly vocal, a chorus of grunts, groans, and choked-out curses that fill the small cottage.
You swallow around him, a deliberate, rhythmic contraction of your throat muscles. The sound is wet, obscene, and it drives him wild.
"Gods, f-fuck," he gasps, his hips bucking again, a deeper, more desperate thrust this time. "What are you doing to me? Your... your mouth... ah, seven hells... like sweet, hot honey..."
His praise becomes a torrent of raw, unhinged filth, a beautiful but desperate litany that washes over you.
"You love it, don't you?" he pants, his voice slurred with pleasure. "My beautiful girl... down on her knees... taking me so well. Made for me." He groans, a long, shuddering sound. "Swallow again. Yes, like that. Take it."
His eyes are squeezed shut. He is completely, utterly wrecked by you.
"My Dunk," you manage to moan around him, the words a garbled, vibration that makes him cry out. "My love."
"Yours," he grits out, his eyes flying open to lock with yours. The desperation in them is breathtaking. "All yours. Now... gods…”
He tries to pull away, to be a gentleman even in this, but you hold him fast, your hands gripping his powerful thighs, nails digging into the skin. You take him deeper, humming, a clear, unmistakable signal. You want all of him. You want to taste him, to claim him in the same way he claims you.
"Are you sure?" he asks, the last vestiges of his self-control warring with his primal need. "Are you sure, my love?"
You answer by taking him as deep as you can one last time and swallowing, hard.
"Ah, seven hells!" he roars, but with a speed that belies his size, he firmly disengages, pulling free of your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. He scoops you up, laying you back against the damp sheets and furs. The world is a blur of motion and panting breaths.
He doesn't hesitate. He kneels between your spread legs, his massive body blocking out the warm glow of the fire, casting you in his shadow. He grips himself at the base, guiding the thick, flushed head to your entrance. He pauses for a heartbeat, his eyes burning into yours, asking a silent question.
And then he enters you.
It's a single, slow, inexorable slide. He fills you, stretches you, the slick, tight fit a perfect, exquisite union. You feel your own wetness, the way your body grips him, welcoming him home.
You both moan together, a single, harmonious sound. It's not a sound of pain or pleasure alone, but of rightness, of a key finding its lock after a lifetime of searching.
He doesn't move for a long moment, just holds himself deep inside you, letting you both savor the feeling. His body is damp, your skin is damp, the sheets beneath you are damp, but the only thing that matters is the heat building where you are joined.
The sound that tears from your throat is a soft, breathy "Ahhhh," a drawn-out sigh of absolute surrender. Your eyes flutter closed, and your back arches off the bed, pushing your breasts against the hard wall of his chest. The pleasure is a crushing wave that obliterates all thought, all sensation save for the feeling of him inside you.
Your cunt clenches around him, a greedy, involuntary spasm, and he answers with a deep raspy groan. "Oh, gods," he pants, his forehead dropping to yours. His big hands frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that is in stark contrast to the raw, primal way he's claiming you. "So tight. Always so tight for me. Like you were made for me."
Your clit is throbbing, swollen and aching. The pressure of him, the way he's stretching you, is almost enough, but not quite. You need more. You need friction. You need him to move.
“Mmm, Dunk…”
He starts to move, a slow, deliberate retreat followed by an equally slow, deep thrust. The rhythm is hypnotic, a languid dance that stokes the fire in your belly into an inferno. Each stroke drags against your sensitive walls, shooting pleasure through your veins.
"Like that?" he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly murmur against your ear. "Do you like it when I fill you up like this?"
You can't form words. You can only nod, a frantic, desperate motion, your nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice gentle but firm.
Your eyes flutter open, and you're lost in the dark, stormy depths of his. They're burning with a fierce, possessive fire, but underneath it, there's an ocean of love, of worship, that threatens to drown you.
"That's my good girl," he whispers, and the praise, combined with a particularly deep, grinding thrust, makes you cry out, a high, breathy sound. "My beautiful girl. Tell me what you need. Tell your husband how to please you."
"Harder," you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, trying to urge him on. "Dunk, please... harder... faster..."
He complies, his control shattering bit by bit. His movements become quicker, more forceful, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room. He's pounding into you now and it is exactly what you crave. The bed is creaking in protest, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust.
"Oh, gods! Dunk! It feels so right... don't stop... please don't stop!" you're crying out, a stream of incoherent pleas and praises that are a perfect echo of his own earlier filth.
He goes faster, harder, just as you begged, but a flicker of something holds him back from unleashing his full, brutal strength. You can feel it in the tensed muscles of his back, the way he holds himself ever so slightly in check. It's because of you.
He can feel your cunt clenching around him, a series of tight, greedy spasms that milk his cock, and the sensation is so overwhelming he's afraid of breaking you. And your moans... gods, your moans. They are high, breathy things, music to his ears, and he loves it, he loves it so much it hurts.
"By the Seven," he grunts, the sound ripped from deep in his chest. "You take it so well. So sweet and tight... a velvet fist around me." His hands are everywhere now. One grips your hip, holding you steady for his thrusts, the other slides up your sweat-slick back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the long, vulnerable line of your throat. He mouths at your pulse point, his teeth scraping your skin.
You scratch him, your nails leaving trails down the broad expanse of his back. He hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and in response, his other hand moves, grabbing the entirety of your ass in a grip of possession. He squeezes, hard, and uses the leverage to pull you into each thrust, to meet his cock halfway. He's fucking you now, truly fucking you, with a desperate, frantic energy that borders on violence.
"That's it," he pants."Let me hear how much you need this, my love." He pounds into you, the rhythm relentless. "I love the sounds you make. Let all the gods in the heavens hear how well your husband fucks you."
You are a mess of whimpers and pleas, a babbling stream of "yes, Dunk, yes" and "don't stop, please don't stop." He is your man, this great goddamn knight, and he is ruining you for any other. He is your world.
"I love you," he whispers, the words a raw, vulnerable confession against the shell of your ear. He says it again, a mantra, a prayer. "Love you, love you, love you," as he fucks into you, each word punctuated by a powerful thrust.
And then you feel it. The knot in your belly tightening to an impossible degree, the world narrowing to the single, blinding point where you are joined. You're so close, hovering on the very precipice.
He feels it too. He feels the change in your body, the way your inner walls begin to flutter and spasm. And in a move that shatters you completely, he stops.
With a groan of effort, he pulls out of you, leaving you feeling achingly empty. Before you can even form a protest, he's shifting, moving down your body with a speed and grace that is startling in a man of his size. He settles between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them even wider apart.
"Dunk!" you cry out, your voice a ragged, desperate thing. "What are you d-"
Your question is cut off by a gasp as he buries his face in your cunt. There is no teasing, no gentleness. His tongue, flat and wide, strokes through your slick folds, a direct, unerring path to your throbbing clit. He wraps his lips around the sensitive nub and sucks, hard.
Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your throat. Your hands fly to his head, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to you as if you're afraid he might stop. He doesn't. He devours you, his tongue a wicked, swirling torment, his lips a persistent, sucking pressure that is pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Please," you sob, the word a broken, desperate plea. "Oh, gods... Dunk... please..."
His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still for his assault. He slides one long, thick finger inside you, then another, curling them upwards to find that hidden place inside you. He pumps them in and out, in perfect, maddening rhythm with the sucking of his mouth.
That's it. That's all it takes.
The orgasm rips through you, violent and beautiful. A high, thin squeal is torn from your throat, a sound you don't recognize as your own. It's followed by a series of helpless, breathy moans, each one punctuated by a wave of pleasure that is so intense it borders on pain. Your body convulses, your back bowing, your thighs clamping around his head. Your hands tighten in his hair, pulling, grounding yourself in him as the world dissolves into a tapestry of blinding light and roaring sound.
"Dunk! Oh, gods, Dunk!"
He doesn't stop. He lets you ride out the storm against his mouth, drinking down your release as if it's the finest wine. He is the best man you know, the best knight, and he is giving you all of himself.
As the last tremor subsides, a sob of overwhelming emotion escapes your lips. "I love you," you gasp, the words a raw, ragged confession. "I love you so much."
He lifts his head, his face shining with your essence. He licks his lips and the sight of it makes your cunt clench with a renewed, desperate ache.
He rises, moving over you with fluid grace. And then he's back inside you.
This time, it's different. There's no slow, gentle entry. He slams into you, one thrust that almost takes you off the bed. The breath is knocked from your lungs. He's so deep, deeper than ever before, and you can feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against every sensitive inch of you.
Each retreat is a sweet, agonizing emptiness, each return a homecoming that fills you so completely you think you might break apart.
Your response is immediate and uncontrollable. You start to squeal again, a series of high, desperate sounds that you can't hold back.
"Ah! Ah! Dunk! Oh, gods, right there!" Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
He leans down, his massive body blanketing yours, and his hands find your breasts. He cups them, his thumbs flicking over your hard, sensitive nipples, teasing them, tormenting them. The sensations are overwhelming, a perfect, exquisite storm hurtling you, toward another, even more powerful peak.
"Again for me, my love," he whispers, his lips brushing against yours. "I want to feel you cum on me this time. I want to feel you milk me dry."
You can only whimper, a desperate, needy sound that is all the encouragement he needs. He claims your lips then, and it's a messy, desperate kiss. He's not just kissing you; he's breathing for you, sharing your air, your spit. His tongue plunges into your mouth, a hard, possessive thrust that mimics the rhythm of his hips. You suck on it, greedily, desperately, your tongue dancing with his.
"So beautiful. So wild. My wild little wife." He slows his pace, making each thrust a deliberate, grinding circle that rubs against your clit. "Is this what you wanted? To be fucked like this? Tell me…”
"Yes!" you scream, the word torn from your very soul. "Only you, Dunk! Only ever you!"
"Good girl," he rasps as he buries himself to the hilt and stills.
The words are a choked, raw confession. "Yours," he gasps, the rhythm of the word matching the frantic, uneven beat of his heart against your chest. "All yours, my love. My wife. My... my everything."
Then he pushes himself up, his powerful arms straightening. He's still deep inside you, and the movement shifts him. Then he's grabbing your legs, his hands wrapping around the backs of your knees. He lifts them, pushing them up, up, up, until he can rest them on his broad shoulders. The new angle is devastating, opening you completely to him, allowing him to plunge deeper than ever before, a depth that feels impossible, a divine intrusion.
"Dunk," you whimper, your eyes wide as you stare up at him. The position is vulnerable, exposed, but all you feel is a thrill of power. You are a feast laid out for a god, and you have never felt more beautiful.
He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a fire that threatens to consume you both. And then he starts to move again.
"Mmmhmm," he grunts, the sound deep and guttural, torn from his chest with each powerful thrust. "Ughh... gods... look at you... takin' all of me."
The rhythm is relentless. The headboard is a frantic, percussive beat against the wall, a wild, tribal rhythm for your desperate coupling. Your moans are no longer words, just a series of high, desperate cries.
"Deeper," you sob, your hands fisting in the furs beneath you, your knuckles white. "Dunk, you're so deep... I can feel it... gods, I can feel you everywhere."
"You like that, don't you?" he pants. He's looking down, watching himself disappear into you, and the sight is clearly driving him wild. "You like me buried so deep you can't breathe."
"Yes! Yes, I love it!" you cry out, your back arching off the bed. You look up at him, really look at him, at the sheer, overwhelming size of him. His massive chest is heaving, the muscles in his arms and stomach standing out in sharp relief. His face is a beautiful agony of pleasure and exertion. His goregous blue eyes are locked on yours, and the connection is so intense it's almost painful.
And then, a sudden, shocking tenderness.
He slows, his thrusts becoming long, slow, and deep. He carefully unwraps one of your legs from his shoulder. For a heart-stopping moment, you think he's stopping, that he's done. But he's not. He takes your small, delicate foot in his massive, calloused hand. His thumb strokes the arch, a slow, gentle motion that makes you shiver. He looks at your foot, at the delicate bones and soft skin, with the same awe he looks at your face.
And then he presses it flat against the center of his chest, right over his frantically pounding heart.
The contact is a shock. You can feel the frantic, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat against your sole, a desperate, primal drumbeat. The gesture is so intimate, so possessive, so achingly tender that it steals the breath from your lungs.
"Feel that, m’love?" he asks, his voice a low murmur, barely audible over the sound of your own desperate cries. "That's you. You do that to me. You're the only one... the only one in this whole world who can make my heart beat like this." He starts to move again, a slow, grinding rhythm that is somehow more devastating than the frantic pounding. "The only one who can break my fucking heart."
A sob, raw and ragged, tears from your throat. "Never," you gasp, your other leg wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to pull him closer, to fuse your bodies together. "Never, never, never!" Tears stream from your eyes, tracing paths through the sweat on your temples. You're not just crying from pleasure, but from a love so overwhelming it feels like a physical force.
You look up at him, at this giant of a man, this shy, good-hearted knight who could break you in two without a thought, who is holding your foot to his heart as if it's a sacred relic. He is everything. He is your entire world.
"You're my knight," you sob, the words a sacred vow. "My Dunk. My love."
And with those words, something inside him breaks.
He roars as he releases your leg, letting it fall back to the bed, and then he is on you. He covers you completely, a mountain of hot, hard muscle, his forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his harsh pants hot and ragged against your skin.
"Ughh... gods," he grunts, the words a raw, guttural sound against your ear. "Say it again."
"My Dunk… my love… ‘m yours," you moan, your hands flying to his back, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin, holding on for dear life as he resumes a desperate rhythm. "All yours, my knight. My husband."
"Mmmhmm," he groans. His thrusts are short, sharp, and deep, aimed at that one spot deep inside you that makes your vision go white. Each one is accompanied by a raw, guttural sound from deep in his chest.
His cock is rubbing against your clit with each thrust, a constant, maddening friction that is pushing you, hurtling you, toward a peak so intense you're almost afraid of it. His balls are slapping against your arse, the sound filling up the small room.
You can feel him starting to lose control. The rhythm of his hips becomes erratic, less a dance and more a search for release.
Your hands map the landscape of his back, a frantic exploration of quivering muscle and sweat-slick skin.
"Let go, my love," you whisper, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. You tilt your hips up to meet him, a silent, urgent invitation. "Don't hold back. I want all of you. Spill your seed inside me, Dunk. Give me every last drop."
A shudder wracks his massive frame, a wave that you feel deep in your own bones. He lifts his head, and his eyes are wild, unfocused, a storm of love and lust that threatens to consume you both. And then, he does something that shatters you completely.
He lowers his head. He lifts your thigh, and presses a soft, lingering kiss there. It's a kiss of absolute reverence, a benediction, an act of worship so profound it makes your soul ache.
With a final, guttural groan, he shifts, letting your leg fall to wrap around his powerful waist.
"Ah, gods," you sob, the sound torn from your very soul.
The coil in your belly tightens again to an impossible degree, a white-hot knot of pure sensation. Your entire body is trembling, a fine, uncontrollable quiver that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the sheer, overwhelming force of your pleasure. "Dunk…’m close," you gasp, the words a desperate, ragged plea. "I'm so close. Don't stop... please don't stop."
He answers with a series of deep moans.
"Mmmhmm... ughh... my love... my wife..."
His hips are a blur of motion now, a relentless, driving rhythm that pushes you higher and higher.
You meet his gaze, and the connection is pure love and lust that flows between you, binding you together. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, a window into a soul laid bare.
"Fill me," you beg, your voice a husky, desperate whisper that is thick with need. "Dunk, please... I want to feel your hot seed. Give it to me. All of it. Claim me. Make me yours."
"Yes!" you sob, the word a torn, ragged thing. "Yes, gods, Dunk, yes! You're giving it to me so good... so deep... so perfect... Ughh... don't stop..."
"Say it," he demands, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Say that you're mine, beautiful."
"I'm yours!" you cry out, the words a sacred vow. "All yours, Dunk! My knight! My love!"
He takes your face in his hands, forcing you to hold his gaze. "Look at me," he pants, his hips pistoning, a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Look at me when you cum for me, my beautiful girl."
The command is the final push.
A scream is torn from your throat, a high, thin sound of pure. The orgasm rips through you, so violent and beautiful. Your cunt clenches around him, a series of tight, greedy spasms, milking him for all he's worth.
"Ah, gods... yes... you're gripping me so tight," he grunts, the words a choked, admiring gasp. "Mmmhmm... that's it... take it all, my love."
Your body convulses, a series of tremors that rack your frame, helpless in the face of the overwhelming pleasure.
"Dunk! Dunk! Dunk!"
You feel the hot pulse of him, a deep, rhythmic throbbing as he spills himself inside you, filling you with his seed. He pours all of himself into you, not just his body, but his soul, his love, his very life force.
He collapses onto you, a dead weight, a mountain of boneless muscle. You can't breathe, but you don't care. You wrap your arms and legs around him, holding him close, never wanting to let him go. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, a beat that slowly, slowly, begins to return to a normal rhythm.You lie there for a long time, listening to the sound of the rain.
The world slowly comes back into focus. The warmth of the fire on your skin, the scent of rain and damp earth, the rough texture of the furs beneath you. The pounding in your ears subsides, replaced by the crackle of the fire.
Dunk's weight is an anchor, a solid, living shield that pins you to the earth and makes you feel safe, cherished. You rest your cheek on the broad expanse of his chest, right over his heart, feeling the steady, powerful thump-thump against your skin. His arms are banded around you, one splayed across your back, the other cupping the back of your head, his fingers stroking your hair in a slow, soothing rhythm.
You can feel the dampness of his sweat and yours, the slickness of your combined releases between your thighs. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of him, of you. It's a primal, comforting scent, the scent of home.
"I could stay like this forever," you whisper, your voice muffled against his skin. "Right here. With you."
His chest rumbles with a low, contented hum. "Aye," he murmurs, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration that resonates through your entire body. "And the world would likely fall to ruin while we did. The crops would wither, the roof would leak, and Egg would likely burn the keep down." He pauses, and you can feel the smile in his voice. "But by the Seven, it would be a happy ruin."
You smile, a slow, lazy thing, and press a soft kiss to the damp hair on his chest. "I'd rather have a happy ruin with you than a pristine world without."
He shifts slightly, rolling onto his side but keeping you tucked securely against him. He props himself up on an elbow, his free hand coming up to gently trace the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. His touch is so gentle, it almost breaks your heart. He looks at you, and the love in his eyes is a physical thing, a warmth that spreads through your chest.
"Sometimes," he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant, "I look at you, and I wonder what I did to deserve this. To deserve you."
Your smile fades, replaced by a rush of fierce, protective love. "You deserve this, Dunk. You deserve everything good in this world."
"I'm a hedge knight," he says, a familiar, self-deprecating note in his voice. "I've little more to my name than this horse, this sword, and the clothes on my back. I'm big and clumsy and I've a temper that gets the better of me more than I'd like."
"You're Ser Duncan the Tall," you correct him, your hand coming up to cover his where it rests on your cheek. "You're the kindest, most honorable man I have ever known. You're strong, and you're brave, and you have a good heart. That's worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock."
A slow, deep flush creeps up Dunk's neck, spreading across his face, a stark crimson against the backdrop of his scars. The shy hedge knight is back, abashed by your praise even after the most intimate of acts. He tries to look away, but you hold his gaze, your fingers tightening on his.
"And," you add, a wicked glint in your eye, "you do things with your tongue and your hands that would make a pillowhouse whore weep with envy. So I'd say I've quite the bargain."
A little sound escapes him, a cross between a laugh and a gasp. He buries his face in your hair, his great body shaking with laughter. The vibration is a warm, pleasant rumble against your skin.
"Seven save me, you have a wicked tongue yourself, woman," he mumbles against your shoulder, but he's smiling. You can feel it in the curve of his lips against your skin.
He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. His arms are a fortress around you, an unbreachable wall of muscle and warmth. The rain continues its assault on the cottage roof, a steady, percussive rhythm that is no longer a storm, but a song, a lullaby.
In the safety of his arms, the world outside ceases to exist.
"This is my favorite part," you murmur, your voice sleepy and content.
"Hmm?" he rumbles, already half-lost in the comfortable haze that follows.
"This," you say, softly. "After. When the world is quiet and it's just you and me. When you're not a knight and I'm not... well, whatever I am to the world. We're just... us."
He's quiet for a long moment, and you think he might have drifted off. Then he speaks, his voice so low it's almost a whisper. "This is all I've ever wanted," he confesses, the words carrying the weight of a lifetime of loneliness. "Not glory. Not lands or a title. Just this. A small cottage. A warm fire. And you."
His arms tighten around you, a reflexive, protective gesture. "I'd burn the world down to keep this," he says, his voice suddenly fierce, absolute. "To keep you safe. I'd walk through fire for you, my love. You know that, don't you?"
You lift your head, your eyes finding his in the warm, dim light of the fire. There are no shadows of doubt in them, only a fierce certainty. He means it. Every word. This great, humble, awkward man would face down gods and monsters for you.
You close your eyes, letting the scent of rain and woodsmoke pull you under, knowing that when the sun finally breaks through the clouds tomorrow, you will still be exactly where you belong: safe within the arms of the love of your life, your protector. Your knight of the seven heavens.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──AERION TARGARYEN x !twin sister reader | WARNING targcest, mommy issues, not beta read, AERION mayybe ooc, hes sorta subby 🥺, angst and fluff, twincest, sucking on breast yum! We freaked out over here , English is not my first language, so I’m sorry for any errors
Wc! 1.3k
Summary - After the Trial of the Seven , you find your twin brother and comfort him. Holding him is sweeter than it should be
You don't stay
You remind yourself that you've watched him fight before, seen him bleed, and laugh as if nothing happened, but when Duncan yanks the shield from Aerion's hand and slams it down onto him. Watching it hit Aerion's helmet, coming up and down and down again. Your belly lurched with dread, your fingers clutching the folds of your dress, listening to the metal clash against metal.
Duncan keeps coming down with the shield and comes to a halt before he starts swinging punches. He stands up and drags Aerion through the dirt. You rise quickly and smooth your dress and leave, you leave before he even yields, not because you couldn't bear it but because you know where it was going and you refuse to sit there and watch.
In your chambers you sit on the edge of your bed, teeth sunk deep into your finger. Biting the skin around the nail, like the day he split his palm open to the point it turned raw pink with blood seeping. You cried when you looked at it, and he looked at you as if you were foolish and told you to stop. “It’s only skin”, he said.
You remember how you shoved the maester away and said you'd do it yourself. Aerion sat on the stool watching you as you wrapped his hand yourself. He allowed it even though you were clumsy. He wouldn't let anyone else touch it
The memory hits you all over again and makes your heart ache now. You’re so lost in your thoughts that you didn't hear the knocks.
“My lady?” A maid says quietly with her eyes lowered, but before she could utter another word you lift your hand.
The walk to his chambers felt eternal, still thinking about his hands in yours when you were kids , about how he watched you bandage his wound, how he flexed his finger afterward and said,
“See? Better already.”
You don't realize you have arrived at the door until your stomach churns. You reach for the doorknob and turn it– you see him. There he is, you think to yourself, lying on his back shirtless with bandages wrapped around his torso.
Pale fur across the mattress, and sheets of cream colored linen that are slightly wrinkled. The window across the room is narrow and tall with curtains drawn halfway back.
“Aerion”, you whisper, closing the door behind you gently. You walk across the room in hurried steps and sit onto the edge of the bed. His eyes flutter open, violet eyes hazy with who knows how much milk of the poppy they dosed with him, softening as they meet yours. He stays silent and keeps his eyes on you.
Your hand hovers over his face, fingers itching to touch his swollen face. Slowly but surely your hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing the line of his jaw tenderly. Careful to not touch the bruises, he scoffs and jerks his head away from you slightly. “Don’t touch me.” Even so prideful as he is his own body betrays him, head tilting into your palm.
You let out a soft, almost guilty? Laugh, shaking your head, not at him but at the way he acts. “Are you upset with me Aerion?” You ask as your fingers slide gently through his silvery-white hair, brushing it back from his forehead as each strand slips like silk in between your fingers.
“Mad? I am not mad,” he says, “I do not need you to coddle me, sister.”
You sigh, pressing your hand down onto the mattress, the mattress dips under your weight as you bring your legs from the floor up onto the bed. Careful to not press against his bruised side , you lie on your side , facing him and feeling the warmth radiating from his body.
Your fingers trail lightly over his chest, Aerion tenses at your touch but doesn’t say anything. “Gods, that fight..” you whisper, eyes staring at his face, “That Duncan … he didn't hold back… he had no right .”
“It was nothing I couldn't handle,” he answers, you heard a crack in his voice but turned oblivious. You swallow hard, the memory flooding back to you, of Duncan's relentless blows to your brother.
For a heart beat you imagined a life without Aerion, his silvery white hair covered in his blood instead of being clean and silky under your touch. The thoughts twist in your gut.
You move closer, “I know that you're strong… but I hated it when they touched you, hitting you, and how he dragged you through the dirt, you looked so small for a moment, brother it killed me to watch i had to leave.”
He scoffs, “I don't need pity” he rasps, words lacking conviction, he rarely allows himself to crave the comfort he seeks. “Im no child who needs to be pitied, sister. Father always said ....” His voice trails off.
You don't say any more words. You understand that the wound runs deeper than these bruises. The cold dismissals, demands for perfection, and the absence of any warmth from your father. Leaving you both bound by blood and always seeking each other, with no one else to turn to.
You reach out to cradle his cheek once again and, this time he doesn't jerk away, if anything he leans into it. Your free hand slides, fingers brushing the design with a subtle window around your breasts. “I'm here,” you murmur.
With a gentle tug you ease one of your breasts out, plump flesh, spilling out. Guiding his head to your chest, cradling him like you always have. “Let me hold you aerion. Like i always will.”
He hesitates, “This is foolish,” he says but does not resist. His hand lifts from the fur, trembling from the pain, cupping it without straining his injuries. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, his palm warm and callused against your softness. “Sister..” he breathes, half pleading.
“Let me take care of you.” you whisper, thumb tracing his lower lip, feeling it part slightly. He stares at you then shifts awkwardly on the bed, he inhales sharply but despite the pain he turns his body towards you.
His mouth finds your nipple, tentative at first but latches onto it, sucking gently and tongue swirling. You gasp as you feel the wet heat of his mouth enveloping your sensitive bud, teeth grazing just enough to sting you so sweetly.
You moan softly as you hold the back of his head, fingers playing in his hair as he tries to draw out the milk of comfort he so craves. No milk flows out of course.
This is not the first time you and your brother have done this. It feels wrong and you know that, you know if your father or anyone else found out, it would be looked down upon. You can’t help but melt at his touch and enjoy the pleasure.
“That’s it” you breathe out. This is you two, messy, holding each other through the pain. Aerion murmurs around your breast, voice muffled and as he pulls away to speak. “Tell me I'm good,” words raw , violet eyes staring at yours with a plea. “Tell me i did well in the yard against him, please sister. Say i was the better man.”
His voice cracks through his pride, Aerion lifts his hand to squeeze your breast gently. Once again you run your fingers through his scalp, “You were magnificent Aerion, no one could touch you, truly no one, I'm so proud.”
A shudder runs through him from your words, relief flooding to his face. He continues on sucking your breast harder than before. His breath grows uneven with ragged gasps, the pain in his ribs now forgotten in the haze of need.
Finally, Aerion releases his mouth from your breast with a wet sound, forehead dropping in between your breasts to nuzzle into your soft perfumed flesh. His silvery white hair tickling your chest as he inhales your scent deeply.
“You belong to me,” he whispers.
“Remain with me. Do not leave me like this.”
It aches seeing your twin brother act like this, stripped of all his pride. You can't help but whisper endearment and he also can't help himself but suckle. Filling the room with soft sounds and your quiet gasps.
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