iris || valarr’s lover girl

got/akotsk/hotd/ SPAM 18+ sometimes msgs and asks: open

[iressasmailbox]

AKOTSK men reactions to their partner bringing in an injured animal, and nursing it back to health. Reader is taking a stroll, and comes across the injured animal and immediately takes it to see the measter.

Akotsk men when you bring home an injured animal

so cute, thank you for the req anon! also guys i just realized apparently i need to fill up the tags to the max so i reach more people?? i did not know that

hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr

Aerion - You had wanted to go foraging. Aerion insisted on coming, not because he enjoyed tramping through the woods, but because you had a habit of wandering off and getting lost. He wasn't going to admit he worried. He just said he needed fresh air.

You found the raven at the base of a twisted oak. Its wing was bent, its feathers matted with blood. It let out a weak croak when you knelt beside it.

"Aerion, look."

He looked. His nose wrinkled. Gross. In his opinion.

"It's probably diseased. Don't touch it."

"I'm already touching it."

"Of course you are." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Put it down. We'll find a healthy bird somewhere else."

"It's hurt. I'm not leaving it."

He watched as you carefully scooped the raven into your shawl. It didn't peck you. It just lay there, breathing shallow, its black eyes fixed on your face.

"You're going to carry that all the way back?"

"Yes."

"This is why I don't let you go anywhere alone."

You smiled at him. He glared. But he walked beside you the whole way, and when the raven let out a pitiful cry, he even held a branch out of your way so you wouldn't trip. Maybe sliced a few branches too.

The maester set the wing. You set up a small nest in your chambers, nest being a basket lined with soft cloth, placed near the fire. Aerion watched from his chair, arms crossed. What an attitude.

"If it gives me a disease, I'm blaming you."

"It won't give you a disease."

"You don't know that."

The raven recovered slowly. You spent hours feeding it scraps of meat, changing its bandages, talking to it in a low, soothing voice. Aerion pretended not to notice, but he noticed. He noticed that you weren't paying attention to him.

"You're obsessed with that bird," he said one evening.

"It's healing."

"It's a bird. I'm your husband."

You looked up. He was scowling, but his ears were red.

"Are you jealous of a raven?"

"I'm not jealous. I'm stating a fact. You've spent more time with it this week than with me."

You laughed. He didn't. In fact he does not find it funny.

The raven, sensing an opportunity, let out a loud caw. Aerion glared at it.

"I hate that thing."

"You don't hate it."

"I do."

He didn't hate it, you knew that because you caught him sneaking it bits of bread when he thought you weren't looking. You saw him talk to it once, low and gruff, when you were pretending to sleep.

"You're not so bad," he muttered to the bird. "But if you tell her I said that, I'll pluck your feathers."

The raven cawed softly.

When it was finally strong enough to fly, you carried it to the window. It sat on your wrist, looking out at the sky.

"You have to go," you said.

It didn't move.

"Go on."

It hopped to the sill, turned, looked at you. Then it flew.

Aerion came up behind you, his hand on your waist.

"It'll come back," he said.

"How do you know?"

"Because you're its person now."

You leaned into him. He pressed a kiss to your hair.

"Don't get another one," he said.

"I make no promises."

He sighed. But he was almost smiling. Maybe next time you could bring home more birds, or maybe a deer!-

As if Aerion read your mind, he cut you off. "Don’t get carried away."

Okay. Nevermind.

Daeron - You found the squirrel at the base of a chestnut tree, its leg trapped under a fallen branch. It was tiny, frantic, its tail twitching as it tried to drag itself free.

Daeron was walking with you, as he'd been trying to spend more time outside, fresh air instead of wine. He stopped when you stopped and crouched down.

"What's that?"

"A squirrel. Its leg is stuck."

He crouched beside you, peering at the animal. "It's very... twitchy."

"It's scared."

"It looks like it wants to bite me."

You lifted the branch carefully. The squirrel scrambled back, then collapsed, its leg bent at an odd angle.

"We need the maester," you said.

"You want to bring that thing to the maester?"

"I want to bring it to the maester."

He sighed but helped you wrap the squirrel in your handkerchief. It bit him through the fabric.

"See?" he said, wincing. "Vicious."

"You'd be vicious too if your leg was broken."

Once the maester did what he could, you set up a small box in your chambers, lined with some rags. The squirrel slept for a full day.

When it woke, Daeron was sitting nearby, watching it.

"It's staring at me," he said.

"It's curious."

"It's plotting my demise."

You laughed. He didn't.

Later that evening, you found Daeron offering the squirrel a drop of wine on the tip of his finger.

"Daeron!"

"What? It looked thirsty."

"It's a squirrel! They don't drink wine!"

"It's an animal. Animals like wine."

You slapped his arm playfully, but you very serious.

"Don't give alcohol to wildlife."

"Fine. More for me."

He took a sip himself, then watched as you fed the squirrel a piece of apple.

"You're good at that," he said.

"At what?"

"Being gentle. I'm not."

"You're gentle with me."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and took your hand.

"That's different. You don't bite."

The squirrel healed slowly. It grew bold, climbing the curtains, stealing crumbs from the table. Daeron complained constantly, but you caught him talking to it when he thought you weren't listening.

"You're a menace," he muttered to the squirrel. "But she likes you. So I suppose you can stay."

When the squirrel was fully recovered, you carried it to the forest. Daeron came with you, standing a few feet back.

"You'll miss it," he said.

"A little."

"It had character."

"It had a lot of opinions."

He laughed. You set the squirrel down. It scampered a few feet, looked back, then disappeared into the trees.

"Goodbye, little one," you whispered.

Daeron put his arm around your shoulders.

"You know, I would never run away from you, if I was a squirrel" Daeron says, triumphantly.

"I wouldn’t let you."

Duncan - Duncan heard the crying while you guys were being adventurous, a thin, desperate mewling coming from a pile of rubble near the old watchtower. He lifted a broken beam and found her: a tiny grey kitten, no bigger than his hand, one leg bent, her fur matted with dust.

"Oh, sweetheart," you breathed.

Duncan knelt beside you, his big hands gentle as he scooped her up. She was trembling, terrified, her eyes huge in her small face.

"We need the maester," he said.

"I'll run ahead."

"No." He tucked the kitten into his tunic, against his chest. "She's scared. She'll be warmer with me."

You ran together. As the maester did his work, Duncan held the kitten the whole time, murmuring to her, his deep voice a low rumble.

"There now," he said. "You're all right. We've got you."

The kitten stayed in your chambers for weeks. She was too small to be away from her mother, but it seems the kitten was abandoned already, the maester said. She needed round the clock care.

You fed her warm milk from the tip of your pinky. Duncan built her a bed in a wooden box with your softest scarf as her bed. She slept curled against his chest at night, tucked under his chin.

"She likes you," you said.

"She's scared of everything."

"She's not scared of you."

It was true. The kitten, who hissed at the servants and hid from the maester, would climb into Duncan's lap the moment he sat down. She kneaded his tunic with her tiny paws and fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

"She thinks you're her mother," you teased.

"I'm not her mother. I'm her... large warm thing."

When the kitten was fully healed, you sat down with Duncan to discuss releasing her.

"She's wild," you said. "She belongs outside."

Duncan looked at the kitten, who was currently asleep on his shoulder.

"She's not wild. She's never caught a mouse in her life."

"She needs to learn."

"She needs a home."

He looked at you. His eyes were soft.

"I want to keep her."

You stared at him. "You want to keep the kitten?"

"I want to keep the kitten." He shrugged. "She's small. She's quiet. She doesn't take up much space."

The kitten opened one eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.

"We're keeping her," you said.

"We're keeping her."

You named her Pip. She grew into a sleek grey cat who followed Duncan everywhere, sat on his shoulder during meals, and slept on his pillow every night.

(fun fact! Pip is actually based off of a REAL GREY KITTEN THAT I FOUND. it was yearsss ago but I still miss her.)

Valarr - You were eavesdropping conversations while walking with Valarr around the village, one conversation piqued your interest. A farmer was grumbling to his wife about the weakling lamb, the one born too small, the one that couldn't keep up with the flock. "No use wasting good grain on it," he said. "Let nature take its course."

Your heart clenched.

Valarr was beside you, as always, his hand resting on your lower back. He felt you tense.

"What is it?"

"That lamb. The farmer's going to leave it."

"You don't know that."

"He said 'let nature take its course.' That means he's going to let it die."

Valarr looked at the lamb, a tiny, shivering thing, one leg dragging, its eyes half closed. It was curled in a patch of straw, separate from the others.

"You want to take it," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"To the castle."

"The stables. Just until it's strong enough."

He was quiet for a moment. You could see him calculating the space, the feed, the maester's time, the inevitable mess. He did not like the idea of this whole thing. But he knew you. He knew this was important to you.

"Fine," he said. "Go talk to the farmer. I'll arrange for a cart."

You kissed his cheek and ran to the farmer.

The lamb was installed in a clean stall in the royal stables that afternoon. The maester examined it, malnourished, a damaged leg, mostly genetics but not entirely hopeless with enough care. You named it Clover.

Valarr visited once a day. Not because he cared about the lamb, but because he knew you'd be there. He'd lean against the stall door, arms crossed, watching you care for the tiny creature.

"It's going to follow you around like a dog," he said.

"That would be adorable."

"It would be annoying."

You smiled. He didn't, but his eyes softened.

When Clover grew strong enough to wobble around the stable, Valarr started bringing apple slices. He claimed they were for his horse. You noticed the lamb nibbling them from his palm.

"You're feeding her."

"I'm feeding the horse. She steals them."

"She can't reach your horse's mouth."

He smiled and didn't answer.

The day came when Clover was fully healed, her leg strong, her coat thick, her eyes bright. You knew she needed to go back to the flock, but your chest ached.

Valarr found you sitting in the straw, the lamb's head in your lap.

"You're going to miss her," he said.

"A little."

He sat down beside you on the straw, in his fine tunic, without a word of complaint.

"She can't stay forever, my love." he said.

"I know."

"But she can stay another day."

You looked at him. He was watching the lamb, not you.

"Really?"

"One more day." He shrugged. "Then she goes back to the farmer."

You threw your arms around him. He stiffened, then relaxed, his hand coming up to pat your back.

"Thank you," you whispered.

When you finally returned Clover to the farmer, Valarr walked with you. The farmer was very grateful and extremely surprised, a healthy lamb was worth something after all. He offered you coin. You refused.

As you walked back to the castle, Valarr took your hand.

"She has a good life because of you."

You squeezed his fingers. "Does that mean this can by a daily thing?"

No response.

[iressasmailbox]

sarcastic dad’s best friend that dislikes EVERY guy you date and says you can do better

[iressasmailbox]

Hiii could i ask how would akotsk men (valarr, daeron, aerion, baelor, maekar) deal with a frail!reader who falls ill nonstop pls ? need me some fluff headcanons 🥹

Akotsk men with a frail wife

hiii anon! i personally adore this lineup lol. this reminds me of all my friends with a vitamin d deficiency bc they are ALWAYS fainting and getting sick. thank you for the req:)

hcs of aerion, baelor, daeron, maekar, valarr

Aerion - Aerion never wanted a weak wife. He wanted someone who could keep up, who wouldn't collapse during a hunt or faint at a tourney. But the gods gave him you. Prone to fevers that lasted weeks and coughs that rattled your chest. He couldn't change it. He could only adapt.

He adapted by becoming a tyrant.

"You're a Targaryen now," he said, shoving a fur-lined cloak into your arms. "Start acting like one. That means not dying of a chill because you forgot to dress properly."

You were just going to the garden. It was spring. There was no chill.

He made you wear the cloak anyway.

He watched you constantly, the color of your face, your breathing, the way you held yourself. When you swayed, he was there. When you coughed, he appeared with water. When you had a bad spell, he dismissed every servant and sat in the corner, pretending to read, while actually counting your breaths.

"You don't have to do this," you said once.

"I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I can't stand the noise of you coughing. It's irritating."

Right. Okay. He handed you a cup of tea. It was already sweetened. He knew you liked it that way.

One evening, you wanted to go for a walk. He came with you, “not for company”, he said, but because he needed to stretch his legs. He brought a small flask of water, a woolen blanket, and a piece of dry bread in case you felt faint.

He walked beside you, close enough to catch you. And when you stumbled on a root, his arm was around your waist before you could fall.

"Clumsy," he muttered. It didn’t sound like he was actually annoyed, though?

You knew he cared. You could see it in the way he hovered, the way his eyes tracked you, the way he always found an excuse to be near when you were ill. He'd never admit it. He'd rather swallow his own tongue than say "I'm worried." But you didn't need the words. You had his actions.

When you caught a summer cold that turned into a lung fever, he cancelled his meetings. "They're pointless," he said. "Nothing but fools droning on about taxes. I'd rather be bored here."

He sat by your bed for three days. He read reports. He sharpened a dagger. He glared at anyone who came near. But every time you coughed, his jaw tightened. Every time your eyes closed, he checked that you were still breathing.

On the third night, you woke to find him slumped in the chair, his head dropped forward, snoring softly. You reached out and touched his hand.

He jolted awake. "What? Are you worse? Do you need the maester?"

"I'm fine. You're exhausted."

"I'm not exhausted. I was resting my eyes."

"You were snoring."

"Targaryens don't snore."

You smiled. He saw it and looked away, his ears reddening.

"You're not allowed to get sick again," he said.

"I'll try."

"Try harder."

He poured you a cup of water and held it to your lips. You drank. He set the cup aside and, after a moment's hesitation, brushed a strand of hair from your face.

"This is your fault, you know," he said quietly.

"My fault?"

"If you weren't so... you. I wouldn't care. It's very inconvenient."

He said it like an accusation. But his hand lingered on your cheek.

"I know," you said.

He grunted. "Good. Now go back to sleep. I'll be here."

"Because you have nowhere else to be?"

"Because the chair is comfortable."

He settled back, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. But his hand stayed on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch.

You fell asleep with your fingers brushing his.

In the morning, he was gone. But there was a fresh cup of tea on the bedside table, a plate of warm bread, and a note in his sharp, messy handwriting.

Had to go, will be back in a few. Don't die. It would annoy me.

Baelor – Baelor was a man of action. He solved problems. He didn't wring his hands or hover. So when he realized you were chronically unwell, prone to weakness, to sudden fevers, to days where you couldn't rise from bed, he did the only thing he could. He built a life around you that accommodated your frailty, and he never once made you feel like a burden.

He moved your chambers to the warmest part of the keep. He had the maester prepare a satchel of remedies that went with you everywhere. He assigned a handmaiden to stay with you when he couldn't be there.

You noticed, of course. You noticed the way the fires were always lit, even in summer. The way fresh linens appeared whenever you had a bad night. The way he carried you to bed when you fainted at a feast, his face betraying nothing, his arms steady as stone.

"You don't have to do all this," you said one evening, after he'd personally carried you up three flights of stairs because you were too weak to walk.

"I know."

"The realm needs you. You have council meetings, tourneys, duties-"

"The realm will survive a few hours without me." He set you down on the bed and knelt to remove your shoes. "You’re also my duty."

You giggled and looked at him, the strong line of his jaw, his dark hair, the strong hands that had held a sword in battle now gently unlacing your boots.

"You're too good to me," you whispered.

He looked up. His eyes were soft.

"I'm not good. I'm practical. You're my wife. Taking care of you is my duty."

He paused.

"And my privilege."

When you had a particularly bad spell, a fever that raged for days, leaving you delirious and weak, he stayed by your side. He read to you. He fed you broth when you couldn't hold the spoon. He held your hand through the worst of it, his thumb tracing slow circles on your palm.

One your fever broke, you opened your eyes to find him slumped in a chair by the window, still in his tunic, his head dropped forward. He looked exhausted. There were shadows under his eyes.

You reached for him. He woke immediately.

"You're awake, how do you feel?," he asked. His voice was hoarse.

"I'm awake, I feel way better."

He crossed to the bed and pressed his palm to your forehead. "Fever's gone."

"You stayed?"

"I stayed."

He sat on the edge of the mattress, took your hand, and held it to his chest.

"You scared me," he admitted quietly. "I don't scare easily."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He kissed your knuckles. "I’ll always be here to take care of you."

He then pulled the blanket up to your chin and tried to make you sleep for another few hours.

Daeron – Daeron had spent most of his life being the one who needed care. He drank too much, stumbled too often, relied on others to pick him up. So when he married you, someone who needed him, it changed something deep inside him. You were always getting sick. A cough that lingered for weeks. A fever that spiked without warning. Days when you were too tired to lift your head, too weak to walk to the window. Daeron didn't panic, well, he tried not to. He also tried to make sure he wasn’t overbearing or micromanaging you. He just stayed.

He learned your rhythms. The way your skin went pale before a bad spell. The way your breathing shallowed when the pain was bad. The way you smiled through it, like you didn't want to be a bother.

"You're not a bother," he said one afternoon, when you'd apologized for the third time.

"I keep you from your duties."

"My duties can wait." He handed you a cup of tea.

He didn't make very grand gestures. He just showed up. Every day. Every night. When you were sick, he brought you whatever you craved, sweet cakes, warm bread, broth from the kitchen. When you were well enough, he took you for slow walks in the garden, his arm looped through yours, ready to catch you if you stumbled.

When you fainted at dinner, in front of everyone, he scooped you up, carried you to bed, and sat with you until you woke.

"You're going to exhaust yourself taking care of me," you said.

"Then we'll be exhausted together."

He smiled.

Another winter, you caught a chill that settled deep in your chest. You coughed for weeks, couldn't keep food down, lost weight you couldn't afford to lose. Daeron moved into your chambers. He slept in the chair by the fire, woke every few hours to check on you, to make sure you were still breathing.

"This isn't sustainable," you said, your voice a rasp.

"Then get better."

"I'm trying."

"I know." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I know."

On the worst night, you woke from a coughing fit to find him holding you upright, his hand on your back, his face pale.

"I thought-" He stopped. Swallowed. "I thought you stopped breathing."

"Daeron, I’m not going to die."

"O-of course not. I was just… worried."

He held you all night and in the morning, your fever had broken. Your chest was still tight, but you could breathe easier.

He brought you tea and sat beside you, his knee pressed to yours.

"I love you," he said. "Even when you're sick."

"Especially when I'm sick?"

"Especially."

Maekar – Maekar was not a soft man. He did not coo or coddle. He communicated in grunts and glares and the occasional sharp word. So when he married a woman who was constantly ill, who fainted, who coughed for weeks, who needed constant care he handled it the only way he knew how.

He got gruff.

"You look terrible," he said, not looking up from his papers.

"Thank you."

"Drink this." He pushed a cup toward you. It was some foul-tasting tonic the maester swore by. Ew.

"What is it?"

"Medicine. Drink it."

You drank. He grunted in approval.

Throughout your marriage, he learned to read you. The slight sway before a faint. The shallow breath before a coughing fit. The glassy eyes that meant a fever was coming. He didn't ask if you were okay, he just acted.

When you fainted in the courtyard, he carried you inside and didn't say a word. When you had a coughing fit at dinner, he put his hand on your back, steady and warm. When you were too tired to walk, he picked you up and deposited you on the nearest surface, a chair, a bench, the bed.

"You don't have to-" you started once.

"Shut up." He wasn't being mean. He just didn't know how to say “I'm worried.”

He started keeping a small bag by the door, water, dried meat, a warm cloak, smelling salts for when you went out. He never explained it. He just grabbed it and threw it over his shoulder.

"You pack like a mother hen," you said.

"You collapse like a sack of flour. We're even."

One day, you caught a fever that wouldn't break. You were sick for weeks, too weak to rise, too tired to eat, your skin pale and clammy. Maekar cancelled his meetings. He didn't say why. He just didn't go.

He sat by your bed for hours, pretending to read, his eyes flicking to you every few seconds. He fed you broth when you couldn't hold the spoon. He held your hair back when you got sick. He grumbled the whole time, but he never left.

"You don't have to stay," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

"I know."

"The castle needs you."

"The castle can burn."

You stared at him. He stared back.

"Don't look at me like that," he said. "I'm not being romantic. I'm being practical. You're my wife. I'm supposed to keep you alive."

He pressed his palm to your forehead. "Fever's still there. Fuck."

"I know."

He cursed under his breath and went to fetch a cold cloth.

When you were all better, you woke to find him slumped in the chair by the window, his head dropped forward, his sword across his knees. He was pretending to sleep, but his eyes opened the moment you stirred. He crossed to the bed, pressed his hand to your forehead, and grunted. "Fever's gone."

"You watched over me?"

"Obviously." He sat on the edge of the bed. "Someone had to." Yes. Maekar is so mother hen.

Valarr – Valarr was a planner. He liked to be ready for anything. So when he married you, he did what he did best. He prepared.

There was always a basket by the bed. Inside: a warm cloak, and a handwritten list of your symptoms, medicine, and more remedies in case someone else needed to help.

"Valarr, we're just going to the garden," you said.

"The garden is outside. You could faint. You could get cold. You could-"

"Valarr."

He sighed. "Humor me."

He brought the basket everywhere. To dinner. To the library. To the courtyard. The servants whispered, mainly because that basket was a woman’s basket, but he didn't care.

Aftwr a particularly bad fainting spell, he just moved into your chambers, brought his books, and stayed.

"You don't have to-"

He didn't look up from his reading. "I want to."

He read to you when you were too tired to hold a book. He held your hand when the pain was bad. He tracked your fevers on a piece of parchment, noting the times, the temperatures, the effectiveness of the tonics.

"You're very organized," you said.

"Someone has to be."

Alas you caught a cough that turned into a lung infection. You couldn't keep food down. You couldn't sleep. Every breath was a struggle. Valarr barely left your side.

He brought you tea. He fluffed your pillows. He read aloud from a history book, his voice low and steady, even when you couldn't follow the words.

"You're going to exhaust yourself," you said.

"I'm fine."

"You're pale."

"I'm always pale."

He wasn't. He was tired. You could see it in the shadows under his eyes, the way his hands shook when he poured your water.

"You should rest," you said.

"So should you."

He climbed onto the bed beside you, careful not to jostle you, and wrapped an arm around your waist.

"I'll rest here," he said. Yes. No problem with that.

You woke to find him asleep beside you, his face pressed to your hair, his arm still around you. The basket was on the floor, rummaged through but still packed.

You touched his cheek. He woke instantly.

"Your fever," he said, already reaching for your forehead.

He exhaled and closed his eyes.

"Good," he said.

When you finally recovered, he took the basket and repacked it. More water. An extra blanket. A new vial of everything.

"We're not going anywhere," you said.

"We will."

He kissed your forehead.

"Just in case," he said.

He carried the basket out the door.

You smiled and followed him.

[iressasmailbox]

ooooohhh!!! i have an idea! what would the akotsk men think if reader wore a lingerie as a regular top when they went out. i alr know imma be a hoe for this🫪

Wearing a lingerie as a top infront of Akotsk men

thank you for the request pythius <3 it did take me awhile to post this so i do apologize! i hope you enjoy. and if there’s anything else, my box is open!

hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr

mdni 18+

Aerion - Aerion was in the middle of a council meeting when you walked past the open door innocently. You weren't trying to be seen, well maybe a little bit but you were just going to the library. The door just happened to be open, and the hallway was well lit, and your top was... not a top.

It was a scrap of black lace, sheer enough to leave nothing to the imagination. Your breasts were barely covered, the nipples visible through the fabric. A delicate chain draped across your collarbone.

Aerion's quill snapped.

The other lords looked up. He was already on his feet, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

"Meeting adjourned," he growled, and strode out before anyone could respond.

He caught you in the corridor, his hand closing around your wrist.

"What are you wearing?"

"A top."

"That's not a top."

"It's comfortable. And it’s hot outside.”

He stared at you. His violet eyes were dark, hungry, furious. His jaw was tight.

"You walked through the castle like this?"

"No one saw."

"I saw." He pulled you into an alcove, pressing you against the wall. His body was hard against yours, his breath hot on your neck.

"Every man in that room saw. Every servant. Every guard." His hand slid down, gripping your hip. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Made you angry?"

"Made me hard."

He pressed his hips against you, letting you feel him. His cock was thick, straining against his breeches.

"We're going back to our chambers," he said. "And you can wear it freely."

"And then?"

He kissed your neck, hard, biting.

"And then I'm going to ruin you."

He took your hand and pulled you down the corridor.

The door had barely closed before he had you against it. His mouth was on your neck, his hands shoving your skirt up around your waist.

"You have no idea," he growled, "what it took not to bend you over that council table."

"You would have?”

"In front of all those lords?" He bit down on your shoulder. "Yes. I would have."

He spun you around, pressing your cheek to the cool wood. His fingers hooked into the scrap of lace at your hips and tore it. The sound of ripping fabric made you gasp.

"Aerion!- I- I liked those."

"I'll buy you more."

He fumbled with his belt, and then his cock was pressing against your entrance.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this. Please Aerion-"

He pushed inside you in one rough stroke. You cried out, your fingers scrabbling against the door. He didn't wait. Didn't go slow. Just fucked you hard and fast, his hips slapping against your backside.

"This is what you wanted," he said, his voice ragged. "Walking around in that little nothing. You wanted me to lose control."

Could he blame you? It was hot outside and… well... what was the harm in teasing? You hadn't expected him to snap quite like this. You were definitely hoping, though.

"You're so tight," he groaned. "So fucking wet."

His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. His thrusts deepened, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

"I'm going to fill you up," he said. "And then I'm going to fuck you again. And again. Until you forget why you ever thought wearing clothes was a good idea."

You came first. screaming, clenching around him. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.

He didn't pull out. Just stayed there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to your back.

"You're never wearing that in public again."

"Never?"

He pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh.

"Never. Only for me."

He scooped you up and carried you to the bed. Good luck.

Daeron - Daeron had been sober for months. He was proud of that. But when he saw you walking toward him in the garden, wearing a pale pink lace top that barely covered your breasts, he felt the sudden, desperate need for a drink. He needed something to cool the fire in his blood.

You smiled at him, seemingly oblivious. "Good morning."

His jaw dropped and he choked on air.

"That's... what are you wearing?"

"A top. Do you like it?"

He couldn't look away. The lace was thin, almost transparent. He could see the circles of your nipples, the soft swell of your breasts. A matching scrap of lace peeked above your skirt.

"You can't wear that outside."

"Why not?"

"Because-" He swallowed. "Because I can't think when you look like that."

You stepped closer, your hand resting on his chest.

"Maybe I don't want you to think."

He groaned, low and desperate. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him.

He kissed you and when he pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark.

"We're going inside."

"Now?"

"Now." He took your hand, his fingers trembling. "Before I take you right here in the garden."

He led you toward the castle, his pace hurried. You laughed. He didn't. He was too busy imagining all the ways he was going to make you moan.

He kicked the door shut and pressed you against it, his mouth on your neck.

"I've been trying so hard," he said between kisses. "To be good. To be patient."

"You have been."

"It's not enough." His hands slid under the lace, cupping your breasts. "Not when you look like this."

He pushed the straps down, and the top fell away. He stared at your bare chest, his breath catching.

"You're so beautiful."

He lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to the bed and laid you down, climbing over you.

"I need to be inside you," he said. "Please."

You reached down and guided him to your entrance. He pushed inside slowly, his forehead pressed to yours.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, fuck."

He moved gently at first, far too gently. You wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him deeper.

"Harder," you said.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

He let go. His thrusts became faster, deeper, his moans muffled against your neck. His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit.

"That's it," he said. "That's it, love. Cum for me."

You did. Your body clenched around him, and he followed, spilling inside you with a broken groan.

He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in your hair.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He pulled out and rolled onto his back, dragging you against his chest.

"You're keeping that top," he said.

"Am I?"

"Yes. But you're only wearing it for me."

You smiled and kissed his chest.

"Deal."

Duncan - Duncan was mending a fence by the stables when you came to find him. He looked up, smiling, ready to ask about your day.

Then he saw your top.

It was blue, his favorite color and made of lace so fine it looked like spun sugar. Your breasts were barely contained, the fabric clinging to every curve.

"What's that?" he asked, straightening.

"A top."

"That's not a top." He set down the hammer, his ears turning red. "That's... that's underclothes."

"It's comfortable."

He stared at you. His mouth was dry. His big, calloused hands hung uselessly at his sides.

"You can't wear that out here."

"Why not?"

"Because-" He looked around. No one was nearby. Just the horses, the fence, and you.

"I can see your..."

"My what?"

He gestured vaguely at your chest. "Your... everything."

You smiled. "Is that a problem?"

He stepped closer, his large frame blocking the sun. His hand came up, fingers tracing the edge of the lace.

"You're trying to kill me," he said.

"Is it working?"

He pulled you against his chest, his heart pounding beneath your ear.

"We're going inside," he said. "And you're going to explain to me why you thought this was a good idea."

"And if I don't?"

He lifted you easily, carrying you toward the castle.

"Then I'll just have to guess."

He laid you on the bed and stood back, looking at you. The lace top had shifted, baring one breast. Your skirt was bunched around your thighs.

"You're so beautiful," he said.

"You're staring."

"I can't help it."

He pulled off his tunic, then his breeches. His cock was already hard, thick, pressing against his belly.

"Come here," you said.

He crawled onto the bed, covering your body with his. He was so big, warm, solid, overwhelming.

"I've never wanted anyone the way I want you," he said.

He pushed your skirt up the rest of the way and settled between your thighs. His cock pressed against your entrance.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this."

He pushed inside you slowly. You both groaned. He was thick, stretching you, filling you.

"Gods," he breathed. "You feel so good."

He moved with deep, languid thrusts that made your toes curl. His hand found your clit, rubbing in time with his movements.

"That's it," he said. "That's it, sweetheart."

You came, clenching around him. He followed a moment later, burying himself as deep as he could and spilling inside you with a groan.

He collapsed on top of you, his face buried in your neck.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He rolled off, pulling you against his chest.

"You're never wearing that outside again."

"Never?"

"Only for me. In private. With nobody around, in fact, not even the horses get to see-"

You cut him off with a smooch. He was quite happy.

Valarr - Valarr was reading in his study when you walked in. He didn't look up at first because he was deep in a text about dragon migration patterns. But then you sat on the edge of his desk, and the movement caught his eye.

He looked up.

His book slipped from his fingers.

The top was crimson, the color of a dragon he was just reading about (nerd), made of lace so delicate it looked like it might tear if he breathed on it. Your breasts were full and soft beneath the fabric, the peaks visible through the pattern. A thin ribbon tied at your throat.

"Valarr?"

He didn't answer. He just stared, his mismatched eyes wide.

"Do you like it?"

He stood. Crossed the room. Took your face in his hands.

"Where did you get this?"

"I made it."

"You made it?"

"From an old dress. I wanted to surprise you."

His thumbs stroked your cheeks. His breathing was shallow.

"You're wearing this... out?"

"Just to your study."

"No one else saw?"

"No one else."

He exhaled. Then he kissed you. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

"You're not leaving this room."

"I wasn't planning to."

He lifted you onto the desk, pushing papers aside. His hands slid under the lace, cupping your breasts.

"I'm going to take my time," he said. "And when I'm done, you're going to make another one of these."

"Why?"

He kissed your neck. "So I can tear it off you again."

He pulled the ribbon loose, and the lace fell away. His mouth followed.

He kissed down your chest, taking one nipple into his mouth. You gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair. His other hand pushed your skirt up, fingers sliding beneath the lace at your hips.

"You've been teasing me all day," he said against your skin. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"I wasn't teasing."

"You were." He looked up at you, his mismatched eyes dark. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

Okay, did you sit on his lap multiple times before this to distract him from his book? Yes. Did you get bored and try on this top to help distract him further? Also yes.

He pushed your underwear aside and slid two fingers inside you. You were already wet.

"You're ready," he said.

"I've been ready."

He withdrew his fingers and unfastened his breeches. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking.

He lifted you off the desk and turned you around, bending you over the edge. His chest pressed to your back, his lips brushing your ear.

"I want to watch myself fuck you," he said. "In the mirror."

There was a large mirror on the far wall. You could see both of you, him, tall and broad, you, bent over the desk, your lace top bunched around your ribs.

He pushed inside you slowly, watching your face in the mirror.

"Look," he said. "Look at how beautiful you are."

You watched as he fucked you, his hips slapping against yours. His hand found your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

"Cum for me," he said. "I want to see you fall apart."

Your body clenched around him, your mouth open in a silent scream. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan.

He stayed buried deep, panting.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He pulled out slowly and turned you around, pulling you against his chest.

"You're keeping that top," he said.

"Am I?"

"Yes. But you're only wearing it for me."

He kisses your forehead, covered you with a spare cloak, and took you by the hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To bed.”

[iressasmailbox]

Do you think you’ll ever make a part 2 to “Akotsk men when you unexpectedly go into labor” it was so good

i think i would! im not sure what characters to write though. let me know who you wanna see :)

[iressasmailbox]

just thinking of valarr and the neck kisses he would give. ugh

[iressasmailbox]

Hiii I love your posts, they are so good. Your writing about the akotsk men reacting to their wife in labor made me think, how would they react if their wife were to suddenly and unexpectedly go into labor when they didn't know she was pregnant. Think of like a cryptic pregnancy and the moment and space where she goes into labor is also kinda unfortunate.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on that but if you aren't comfortable with that, that's ofc totally okay ♡

Akotsk men when you unexpectedly go into labor

this reminds me of a show i used to watch when i was little, and i think it was called “i didn’t know i was pregnant” it was really cool, but being in that situation is sooo scary. thank you for the request! if you wanna see different characters, shoot me another req!

hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr

Aerion - Aerion had been in a foul mood all day. Someone had looked at him wrong at breakfast. He threatened to have their tongue. Someone else breathed too loudly in the corridor. He threatened to have their lungs. You were used to it.

Then your back seized.

You were in the armory, of all places, watching him sharpen a sword. The pain was sudden, deep, and nothing like a cramp. You doubled over, knocking a helm off its stand.

Aerion looked up, annoyed. "What?"

"I don't-" Another wave hit. You gasped, your knees buckling.

He caught you before you hit the floor. "You're pale. What's wrong?"

"I don't know. It hurts."

"Where?"

You grabbed his hand and pressed it to your lower belly, normal, flat, unchanged, but something was happening deep inside. His eyes narrowed.

"That's not a stomachache."

"Maybe I’m bloated."

He stared at you. Then at your stomach. Then back at you. His jaw tightened.

"Stay here."

"I can't move."

"I'll carry you." He scooped you up, ignoring your protests, and strode toward the door. A servant appeared. Aerion barked, "Get the maester. Now. If he's not here in five minutes, I'll have his fingers."

The servant ran.

You were halfway to your chambers when another contraction hit. You screamed, digging your nails into his shoulder. He stumbled but didn't drop you.

"What is happening to me?" you sobbed.

"I don't know." His voice was strained. "But you're not dying. I won't allow it."

He kicked open the door to your chambers and laid you on the bed. Your dress was soaked, not with blood, but with something clear. He stared at the wet patch, then at your face.

"Did you just-"

"I don't know!"

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "The maester needs to be here. Where is he? I'm going to kill him."

"Please don't kill the maester."

"He's late."

Another contraction. You screamed again. Aerion froze, then knelt beside the bed, grabbing your hand.

"Breathe," he said. "Like this." He demonstrated. But his breathing was too fast, panicked, not helpful at all.

"That's not helping."

"I'm trying!" He looked at the door. "If that maester isn't here in thirty seconds, I'm going to-"

The door opened. The maester stumbled in, out of breath, followed by two handmaidens carrying supplies.

Aerion pointed at you. "Fix her."

The maester took one look at you, at your soaked dress, your clenched jaw, your hands gripping the sheets and his eyes went wide.

"My prince, I believe your wife is in labor."

Aerion blinked. "That's impossible."

"It's not. She's having a baby."

"She's not pregnant. I would know, SHE would know."

"She is now."

Aerion turned to you. "Did you know about this?"

"I didn't!" you shouted, another contraction stealing your breath.

The maester gently examined you, then looked up. "The baby is coming. It will still be some hours, but-"

"Hours?" Aerion's voice cracked. "She's been in pain for hours already."

"That's normal, my prince."

"Normal?" He grabbed the maester by the collar. "Nothing about this is normal."

The maester pried his hands off. "I need you to step back, your grace. Let us work."

Aerion’s jaw tightens again, then he stepped back. For about ten seconds. Then he was at your side again, holding your hand, glaring at anyone who came near.

The hours passed. You screamed. You cried. You threatened to kill him. He took it all.

When the maester finally announced it was time to push, Aerion tried to move between your legs.

"Let me catch it."

"No, my prince."

"I said-"

"It's not done, my prince. Please. Stay with her."

He stayed. He held your hand as you pushed, his knuckles white, his jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack.

And then a cry. High and thin and furious. You never felt more relieved in your life. Aerion let out a breath he’d been holding in since you got here.

The maester lifted a tiny, squalling infant, blood slick and indignant.

"It's a boy," he said.

Aerion stared. He didn't move. Didn't speak.

You tugged his hand. "Aerion."

He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the baby.

"That's ours," he said.

"Yes."

He reached out, took the baby from the maester's arms way too fast, too clumsy, but the maester didn't dare protest. He held his son against his chest, the cord still trailing to you.

"He's screaming," Aerion said.

"That's what babies do."

He looked at you, his violet eyes wet. "He's perfect."

The baby screamed louder.

"He has your lungs," you said.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I’m proud of you."

Daeron - Daeron had been sober for three months. It was hard, every day was hard, but he was doing it. For you. One of his new hobbies? Reading.

You collapsed in the middle of the library.

He was reading (trying to read, anyway.) when you gasped, dropped a stack of books, and sank to your knees. He was beside you instantly.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I don't-" You clutched your lower belly. "It's like... something's moving."

He pushed your hair back from your face. "Moving how?"

"I don't know. Like-" Your eyes went wide. "Like something's trying to get out."

His face went pale. "That's not possible."

Another contraction. You cried out, doubling over. He caught you, lowering you to the floor.

"We need the maester," he said.

" Daeron-"

"Stay here. Don't move." He ran to the door, yelled for a servant, then ran back to you. His hands were shaking.

You grabbed his arm. "I'm scared."

"I know." He pulled you into his lap, cradling you against his chest. "I'm scared too."

The maester arrived within minutes and didn’t even take a minute to diagnose you.

"She's in labor."

Daeron stared. "She's not pregnant."

"The signs are unmistakable."

You looked down at your flat stomach. "How can I be in labor if there's no baby?"

The maester knelt beside you, pressing gently on your lower abdomen. His eyes widened.

"The baby is positioned very deep in the pelvis. It's possible you never developed a visible bump."

Daeron's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"So there's a baby. Inside her. Right now."

"Coming out, my prince. Soon."

Daeron looked at you. You looked at him.

"I didn't know," you whispered.

"I know." He took your hand, brought it to his lips. "Neither did I."

He stayed by your side for every contraction, holding you, wiping your forehead, telling you it would be okay. Was he tempted to drink? Yes. Did he? Not once.

The hours dragged. The maester and handmaidens came and went, checking you, adjusting pillows, bringing water. Daeron never left.

When it was finally time to push, he held you upright, his chest against your back, his arms around your ribs.

"You can do this," he said.

"I can't."

"You can. You're the strongest person I know."

You pushed. Screamed. Pushed again.

And then a cry. The maester held up a tiny, wriggling baby.

"A girl," he said.

Daeron stared. His mouth opened. Closed.

"A girl," he repeated.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek. She grabbed his finger and held on.

"She's strong," he said.

"Like her father."

Daeron bursts into tears after this.

Duncan - You and Duncan had been on the road for three days. A simple journey to a neighboring holdfast, nothing urgent, just a chance to get away from the castle. The first day, you passed a small shepherd's hut where an old woman and her husband offered you bread and cheese. You thanked them and moved on.

By the second day, you started feeling strange. Tired. Achy in your lower back. You blamed the walking.

By the third day, you couldn't ignore it anymore.

You were on a narrow forest path when your body seized. The pain was like nothing you'd ever felt deep, rolling, pressing from the inside out. You dropped your pack and doubled over, gasping.

Duncan was at your side in an instant. "What is it?"

"I don't-" Another wave hit. You clutched his arm. "It hurts."

"Where?"

You pressed his hand to your lower belly. His brow furrowed.

"That can’t be normal."

"I know."

He looked around. Trees. Rocks. No houses. No people. The shepherd's hut was half a day's walk behind you.

"I'm carrying you back," he said.

"You can't. It's too far."

"I can."

He lifted you like you weighed nothing bridal style, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. You buried your face in his neck as he started walking.

The pain came in waves. You cried out. He held you tighter.

"How far?" you gasped.

"Half a day. Maybe less."

"That's too long."

"Then I'll walk faster."

He did. His pace was steady, relentless. Sweat dripped down his temples, but he didn't stop. Didn't slow. Just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

The sun was low when the hut came into view. Smoke curled from the chimney. Duncan kicked the door open.

The old woman looked up from her stew. Her eyes went wide.

"Help her," Duncan said. “Please.”

The woman took one look at your soaked dress, your clenched jaw, the way your body was straining. Her face softened.

"Put her on the bed. Husband, boil water."

The old man shuffled to the fire. The woman knelt beside you, her hands gentle.

"You're having a baby," she said.

You laughed hysterically, shaking your head. "I'm not pregnant."

"You are now." She pushed up your skirts and examined you. "The babe is deep. No bump. I've seen it before." She looked at Duncan. "You didn't know?"

"We didn't know."

She nodded. "Well, you're about to know."

The hours passed. The old woman talked you through each contraction, her voice low and steady. Duncan never left your side. He held your hand, fed you broth, told you stories about nothing.

When it was finally time, the old woman guided you through it. Duncan stayed at your head, his big hand cupping your cheek.

"You're almost there," he said.

One last push.

The old woman lifted a baby and laid it on your chest.

"A boy," she said.

"That's ours," he said.

"That's ours."

He touched the baby's tiny hand with one finger. The baby grabbed on.

He laughed and kissed your forehead.

The old woman cleaned the baby while Duncan held you. The old man brought tea. The fire crackled.

"I didn't know," you whispered.

"Neither did I." He pulled the blanket up around your shoulders. "But I know now."

Valarr - You had always loved snow. Valarr knew this. So when the first flakes fell, he surprised you with a trip to a small lodge in the northern hills with just the two of you.

The lodge was warm. A fire crackled in the hearth. The windows were thick with frost. You spent the first day drinking spiced wine and watching the storm build outside.

On the second day, something changed.

You were standing by the window, marveling at the snowdrifts, when a strange pressure bloomed low in your belly. You shifted, uncomfortable. Then it came again but worse. You put a hand on the windowsill.

Valarr looked up from the fire. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Something feels... different."

He crossed to you, his brow furrowed. "Different how?"

Before you could answer, another wave hit. You gasped, your knees buckling. He caught you, lowering you to the rug by the hearth.

"You're pale," he said. His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking.

"I don't know what's happening."

He looked at the window, at the snow still falling, thick and relentless. The wind howled. The road would be buried.

"The maesters can't get here," he said. "Not until the storm stops."

"I know."

He knelt beside you, his mismatched eyes wide. He was trying to stay calm. You could see him trying.

He called for the lodge keeper. The man came, he was old, grey-bearded, his hands rough.

"My wife needs help," Valarr said. "Hot water. Towels. Any clean cloth you have."

The lodge keeper nodded and disappeared. Valarr turned back to you.

"I need to look," he said. "May I?"

You nodded.

He pushed up your skirts carefully, his movements gentle. He looked. His face went very still.

"What?" you asked.

He met your eyes. "You're... opening. Down there."

"What does that mean?"

He took your hand. "I think you're having a baby."

You stared at him. "That's not possible."

"I don't know how else to explain it."

Another wave of pain. You cried out. He caught your hand, holding it tight.

"I'm going to take care of you," he said. "I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm not leaving."

The lodge keeper returned with a basin of hot water, a stack of towels, and a bundle of clean cloth. He set them down, looked at you, then at Valarr.

"I've never..." the old man started.

"I know," Valarr said. "Just stay nearby. In case we need more."

The lodge keeper nodded and retreated to the other room.

Valarr washed his hands in the hot water, just like he'd seen the maesters do. Then he sat behind you, letting you lean against his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you steady.

"Breathe," he said. "Just breathe."

The hours passed. The storm raged. Valarr talked to you about nothing, about everything, about the first time he saw you, about the snow, about anything to keep your mind off the pain.

When the pressure became unbearable, you tried to look down. He gently turned your face back.

"Don't," he said. "You'll panic. Trust me."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm panicking enough for both of us."

You almost laughed. Almost.

"I can see more now," he said after a while. "It's working. You're doing so well."

"I don't feel like I'm doing well."

"You are." He kissed your temple. "You're my wife. You're the strongest person I know. And you're doing it."

The pain built. Your body started pushing on its own. Valarr moved between your knees, his hands hovering.

"I see something," he said.

"What?"

He looked up at you, his face pale but steady.

"It's a head. You're almost there."

With one more push, Valarr caught the baby with shaking hands. A girl.

He laid her on your chest and sat back, his shoulders trembling.

"My love," he said. His voice cracked. "Good job."

You looked down at the tiny, wriggling creature. "We made that."

"We did." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I can’t believe I didn’t know."

"Neither did I."

The lodge keeper came in with more towels. Valarr cleaned the baby with careful hands, wrapped her in cloth, and placed her back in your arms.

"You're stuck with us now," you said.

He smiled.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

He lay down beside you, his arm over your waist, his hand on the baby's back.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

[iressasmailbox]

Hii i saw you taking requests and i was wondering if i could ask for one with AKOTSK men with a clueless maid!reader pls 👀?

Akotsk men crushing on you; a clueless maid

once again the anons are coming in clutch w some really good reqs. THANK YOUUU!! also i wasn’t sure who you wanted so i just defaulted to the four. i have a speech on wednesday im so nervous i hate public speakin

hcs of aerion, daeron, duncan, valarr

Aerion - You had been serving Aerion for three moons now, and you still hadn't figured him out.

He was cruel to everyone, snapping at servants, mocking courtiers, glowering at his own brothers. But with you, he was different. He called you to his chambers more often than necessary. He found excuses to touch you, adjusting your sleeve, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his fingers linger on your wrist when you handed him his wine.

You thought nothing of it. He was a prince. Princes were strange, so were Targaryens in general.

Tonight, you were making his bed. Fluffing the pillows, smoothing the sheets, tucking the corners tight. He stood by the window, watching you.

"You missed a spot," he said.

You looked around. "Where, my prince?"

"Here." He walked to the bed and sat down, patting the space beside him. "Come. Fix it."

You knelt on the mattress, leaning over to smooth the fabric near his thigh. Your hair brushed his leg. He inhaled sharply.

"You're doing it again," he muttered.

"Doing what, your grace?"

"Being utterly oblivious."

You sat back on your heels, confused. "I'm sorry, my lord. I don't understand."

He grabbed your wrist. Holding you in place.

"I've been trying to seduce you for three months," he said. "Three. Months."

You blinked. "Seduce me?"

"Yes. Seduce you." His jaw tightened. "The touches. The lingering looks. The way I dismissed every other maid so you'd be the only one in my chambers. Did you not notice any of that?"

"I thought you just didn't like the others, my lord."

He stared at you. His violet eyes were dark, frustrated, burning.

"I don't like anyone," he said. "Except you."

Your heart stuttered. "Me?"

"Yes, you. You impossible, infuriating, beautiful girl."

He pulled you closer until you were straddling his lap, your hands braced on his shoulders.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he said. "And if you don't want it, you have three seconds to leave."

You didn't leave.

He kissed you hard and desperate, like he'd been holding back for years. When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving.

"Do you understand now?" he asked.

You nodded, breathless.

"Good." He laid you back on the bed. "Because I'm not stopping this time."

Daeron - You had been assigned to help him to bed, a task no one else wanted because he tended to cry and cling. And an apparent handful after visiting the tavern.

But you didn't mind. He was gentle, even when his words slurred.

"Stay," he said, catching your hand as you tried to leave.

"I have other duties, my prince."

"No, you don't." He tugged you toward the bed. "I'm the prince. I say your only duty is to stay."

You sat on the edge of the mattress, letting him hold your hand. He pressed his face into your palm.

"You're so soft," he mumbled. "So warm. Why are you so nice to me?"

"Because it's my job, my lord."

"It's not your job. That’s optional.” He looked up at you, his violet eyes wet. "No one else is nice to me. Just you."

You didn't know what to say. You just sat there, stroking his hair.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your wrist.

"I want to marry you," he said.

You laughed, thinking it was the wine. But it was never about the wine. "You're drunk, your grace."

"I'm not that drunk." He sat up, his face inches from yours. "I've wanted you since the first day you brought me breakfast."

"My prince-"

"Daeron." He cupped your face. "Please. Just... let me hold you. One night."

You should have said no. You were a maid. He was a prince. But his eyes were so sad, and his hands were so gentle.

So, you stayed.

Duncan - Duncan was not subtle. He’s the least subtle person when it comes to romance.

He brought you wildflowers every morning. He carried heavy baskets for you without being asked. He smiled at you across the courtyard like a lovesick puppy.

You thought he was just being friendly.

"Thank you, ser," you said, taking the flowers. "You're very kind."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not trying to be kind."

"Oh? What are you trying to be?"

He stared at you. His ears went red.

"Courting you," he said.

You tilted your head. "Courting me?"

"Yes. Courting. You know... flowers. Walks. Holding hands." He gestured vaguely. "All of it."

"But you're a knight."

"And you're a maid. I don't care."

You stared at him. He stared back.

"I thought you were just being nice," you said.

His shoulders slumped. "I've been trying to court you for two months."

"Two months?"

"I brought you flowers every day. I carried your baskets. I asked about your family." He ran a hand through his hair. "What did you think was happening?"

You thought about it. "I thought you were just... friendly."

He let out a pained sound, half laugh, half groan.

He stepped closer, taking your hands.

"I'm not good with words," he said. "So I'm going to say this plainly. I want to be with you. Not as your knight. As your... whatever you'll let me be."

You looked down at your hands in his.

"I don't know what to say," you admitted.

"Say you'll think about it."

"I'll think about it."

He smiled, wide, bright, hopeful.

"That's all I ask."

Valarr - Valarr had been patient. He actually doesn’t know how he went on for this long.

For months, he had watched you work, dusting his books, cleaning his hearth, pouring his wine. He had left little gifts on your cart: a ribbon, a piece of honeycomb, a note folded small.

You always thanked him politely and went back to work.

Tonight, he found you in his chambers, stoking the fire. He stood in the doorway, watching the flames flicker across your face.

"You're beautiful," he said.

You looked up. "Thank you, my lord."

"Do you know why I keep you as my personal maid?"

"Because I'm efficient?"

He crossed the room and knelt beside you. "No. Because I'm in love with you. I always have.”

Your hand froze on the poker.

"Your grace-“

"Valarr." He took the poker from your hand and set it aside. "I've been trying to tell you for weeks. The gifts. The notes. The way I look at you."

You frowned. "I thought you were just being polite."

He laughed. "Polite?"

"You're a prince. Princes are polite."

He took your face in his hands. His mismatched eyes were soft, exasperated, adoring.

"I am not being polite," he said. "I am being desperately, pathetically in love with you."

You stared at him. "But I'm a maid."

"I don't care."

"You should care. You’re a prince.”

"I don't." He pressed his forehead to yours. "The only thing I care about is you."

You sat there, frozen, as he stroked your cheeks with his thumbs.

"Say something," he whispered.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll stay. Not as my maid. As mine."

You looked into his mismatched eyes, and he looked into yours, searching for your reaction.

"Yes," you said.

He kissed you. Soft. Sweet. Full of months of waiting.

"Finally," he breathed against your lips.

He pulled you into his lap and held you there, the fire crackling beside you.

"I'm never letting you go," he said.

And he didn’t.

[iressasmailbox]

please please please do the pregnancy sex one with dunk i beg uuu 🙏🙏🙏😭😭😭

Duncan the tall x Reader, pregnancy sex

Content/Warnings: reader is demanding, pregnancy sex (2nd trimester), oral sex, cunnilingus, face sitting, fingering, piv, foreplay, lube usage cuz dunk is a big boy

n: love this sm anon. thank you for waiting once again. im so glad to be back on writing! disclaimer im probs still gonan be a lil slower with reqs cause studies.

mdni 18+

You were six months pregnant, and you were horny.

Not the gentle kind of horny. The desperate, aching, need-to-be-touched kind. Your body felt like it wasn't your own, heavy, swollen, changing in ways you hadn't expected. But the one thing that hadn't changed? How much you wanted Duncan.

He was lying on his back beside you, one arm behind his head, his broad chest bare. His cock was already half hard against his thigh, thick and heavy even soft. He had been watching you toss and turn for the better part of an hour.

"Can't sleep?" he asked.

"No."

"What do you need?"

You rolled toward him, your belly pressing against his side. Your hand slid down his stomach, fingers wrapping around his cock. He was already getting harder.

"You," you said. "I need you."

He groaned, voice strained. He wanted this as much as you do, but he’s careful. "You're pregnant."

"I know."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't." You squeezed gently, and his hips bucked. "Please, Duncan. I need to feel good."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he rolled onto his side, facing you, his hand sliding down your body to the waistband of your shift.

"Lift your hips," he said.

You did. He pushed the fabric up to your ribs, baring your belly, your thighs, the dark thatch of hair between your legs. You were already wet, had been wet for hours, and he saw it.

"Gods," he breathed. "You're soaked."

"Told you. I need you."

He reached for the small jar of oil on the bedside table, sweet smelling, meant for massages and other things. He poured some onto his fingers, warming it between his palms.

Then he touched you.

His fingers slid through your folds, slick and easy, circling your clit. You gasped, your back arching.

"That's it," he murmured. "Just relax."

He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them, finding that spot that made your vision go white. His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing in slow circles.

"Oh, fuck-" You grabbed his wrist, holding on tight for purchase.

"You like that?"

"Yes. Yes. Don't stop."

He didn't. He fingered you slowly, deliberately, watching your face. Your hips rolled against his hand, chasing the pressure, and when you came, it was with a cry, your body clenching around his fingers.

He kept moving, gentler now, letting you ride out the waves.

When you finally stilled, he pulled his fingers out and brought them to his lips. Sucked them clean.

"Sweet," he said. "Always so sweet."

You were still catching your breath when he shifted, lying on his back and pulling you on top of him.

"Come here," he said. "Sit on my face."

"What?-"

"I want to taste you. And you need another one before I give you my cock."

You were too needy to argue. You straddled his chest, then shifted forward, your knees on either side of his head. He gripped your hips and pulled you down.

His tongue was sliding through your folds, licking up the wetness, sucking your clit between his lips. You moaned, your hands bracing against the headboard.

"Ride my face," he said, the words vibrating against your cunt.

You did. You rocked your hips, grinding against his mouth, and he groaned like he was the one getting pleased. His tongue pushed inside you, then pulled out to lick up to your clit. He sucked. Nibbled. Licked again.

You came undone on his tongue, your thighs shaking, your cry muffled by your own arm.

He didn't let you stop. Kept licking, kept sucking, until you were whimpering from oversensitivity.

"Please," you begged. "Please, Duncan, I need your cock."

He lifted you off his face and laid you on your back, propping a pillow under your hips. Your belly was round and full, your breasts heavy, your nipples dark.

"You're so beautiful," he said, pouring more oil onto his cock. He was huge, thick and long, the head flushed and leaking. "Like this. Carrying my baby."

He positioned himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

"Tell me if it's too much.”

"It won't be."

He pushed inside you slowly. Inch by inch. You both groaned.

"Oh, fuck!-" Your nails dug into his shoulders.

"You're so tight," he breathed. "So warm. Squeezing me."

He bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, and stayed there. Letting you adjust. His forehead dropped to yours.

"You okay?"

"More than okay. Move."

He pulled out and thrust back in. Slow at first, building rhythm. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb pressing against your clit.

"That's it," he said. "Take it. Take all of it."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He sped up, his hips slapping against yours, the bed creaking beneath you.

"I'm close," you gasped.

"Cum for me. I want to feel you."

You did. Your body clenched around him, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his hips stuttering.

He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a low growl, his face buried in your neck.

He stayed there, heavy and spent, his weight braced on his elbows so he wouldn't crush you.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He kissed your forehead and rolled onto his side, pulling you against his chest. His hand rested on your belly, palm flat, fingers spread.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For letting me do that. For trusting me."

You pressed a kiss to his chest. "Always."

He held you tighter and didn't let go.

[iressasmailbox]

im coming back from my trip later, once i get my assignments done for school and finish up my speech, ill get to the reqs!!!

[iressasmailbox]

heads up im getting a little busy this weekend !! im not ignoring reqs, waiting for the moment to pour my heart and soul in it

[iressasmailbox]

their suits!

seeing their actors in these is a MUST. i know it would look so delectable

[credits to etheral_da on tt]

[iressasmailbox]

Hii i love your Akostsk men drabbles so much, could you possibly do one where they find out that reader self harms? I completely understand if you are not comfortable writing it, thank you so much♡

[Dunk, baelor, valarr, lyonel, maekar, aerion, daeron]

Akotsk men when they find out you self harm

this is definitely something different than my usual, thanks for the req anon! let me know what you think. also, little reminder everyone, if you’re going through something, the best thing to do is to talk about it. my things are always open as well. love u guys

warnings/content: self harm, angst, emotional distress, descriptions of injuries, but nothing in explicit detail. do not read if these make you uncomfortable.

hcs of aerion, baelor, daeron, duncan, lyonel, maekar, valarr

Aerion - Aerion has been watching you for quite some time. The long sleeves in summer. The way you flinched when he touched your arms. The way you disappeared to your chambers at odd hours. He wasn't stupid. He just didn't know what to do.

Then the maids came to him. Worried. They had seen blood on your sheets, on your towels. They were afraid for you.

He waited until you were at dinner, then searched your room.

It didn't take long. The blade was under your pillow. The bloodstained cloths were at the bottom of your wardrobe.

He was sitting on your bed when you came back.

You stopped in the doorway. Your heart dropped.

"Aerion-"

"Come here."

You couldn’t move, your legs trembling.

He stood up. Crossed the room. Took your hands.

"I'm not angry," he said. "I'm not going to yell."

"Then what are you going to do?"

He pushed up your sleeves. Looked at your arms. His jaw tightened, but he didn't look away.

"I'm going to stay with you," he said. "Every night. Every day. Until you don't need to do this anymore."

You started to cry. He pulled you against his chest.

"You're not allowed to be alone anymore," he said. "That's the rule."

Baelor - You were avoiding him. Not obviously. Not rudely. But you were slipping away. You were always on your way to do something, fetching a book, checking on the horses, taking a walk in the gardens. Every time he reached for you, you had somewhere else to be.

Tonight, you excused yourself from dinner early. A headache, you said. You needed air. He nodded, told you to rest, and waited exactly three minutes before following.

He found you in a small alcove off the main corridor, your back to the wall, your sleeve pushed up. You were staring at your arm like it was no longer apart of you.

He didn't announce himself. Just stepped into the light.

You looked up. Your face went pale.

"Baelor-" You panicked, choking up.

"I'm not angry." His voice was soft. Gentle. "I'm not going to yell."

You pulled your sleeve down. Your hands were shaking.

"How long have you known?"

He crossed the room slowly, giving you time to retreat. You didn't.

"I've suspected for a while," he said. "You've been... distant. Pained. I didn't want to believe it."

You looked at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching. "Can I see?"

You hesitated. Then you pushed up your sleeve.

He looked at them for a long time.

"How long have you been doing this?" he asked.

"A while."

"Why?"

You couldn't answer. Your throat was too tight.

He reached out, slowly, and took your hand. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, avoiding the cuts, gentle as a breath.

"You don't have to tell me tonight," he said. "But I need you to know something."

You looked up at him.

"You are not alone. You have never been alone. And I will not let you carry this by yourself any longer."

Tears spilled down your cheeks. He pulled you into his arms, solid and safe. Most importantly, comforting.

"We'll find someone to help," he said. "A maester. A septa. Whoever you trust. But I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Promise me you'll come to me. When it's hard. When you want to hurt yourself. Come to me first."

You nodded against his chest. "I promise."

He kissed the top of your head and held you until you stopped shaking.

Daeron - Daeron was drunk again, no surprise there. It wasn’t too bad tonight, though. You had gone to the tavern to fetch him, like you always did, and you were half carrying him back to his chambers. Love you," he mumbled. "Love you so much."

"I know." You shifted his weight, trying to get the door open.

"S'true. You're the best thing that ever-" He grabbed your arm for balance. His thumb caught your sleeve. Pushed it up.

He froze.

You looked down. The scars. The fresh cuts. All of it exposed in the light for him to see.

"Daeron-"

He wasn't drunk anymore. If that was even possible, it was as if he sobered up. You’d never seen him like this. His eyes were clear, focused, staring at your arm.

"What are those?"

You pulled your sleeve down. "Nothing, it was just-”

"Don't." His voice was sharp. "Don't lie to me."

You didn't answer. He pushed open the door, guided you inside, and sat you down on the bed.

"How long?"

"A while."

He knelt in front of you. Took your hands.

"I'm not going to drink anymore," he said.

"You couldn’t-"

"I can." His voice was steady. "Because you need me sober. And I need you alive. I need you as you.”

He pressed his forehead to yours.

"We're going to get through this. Together."

Duncan - Duncan hadn't noticed at first. You still laughed. Still smiled. Still made him feel like the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms. But something was off. You didn't reach for his hand anymore. You didn't lean into him when he wrapped his arm around your shoulders. When he suggested swimming in the lake, your favorite thing to do together, you made an excuse. Too tired. Too cold. Maybe tomorrow.

Tomorrow never came.

He told himself you were just tired. Stressed. That it would pass. But weeks turned into months, and you still flinched when he touched you. Still pulled away when he tried to hold you.

Tonight, he decided to do something about it. He filled the bath with hot water, added the oils you liked, and came to find you.

"Close your eyes," he said, trying to sound playful.

You did. He took your hand and led you toward the bathing chamber.

"I've got a surprise," he said. "You're going to love it."

You laughed, a genuine one, and Duncan noticed it sounded different than your other laughs. For a moment, everything felt normal.

"Can I look now?"

"Not yet."

He led you to the edge of the tub, the steam rising around you. The room smelled like lavender and honey.

"Okay," he said. "Now."

You opened your eyes. Saw the bath. Saw the candles flickering. Saw the petals scattered on the water.

"Dunk..."

"I wanted to make you smile." He reached for your wrist, gently tugging you toward the tub. "Come on. Get in."

His large fingers enclosed your wrist, pressing against your fresh cuts through your sleeve.

You gasped. Jerked your arm back. A sharp cry escaped your throat before you could stop it.

Duncan froze. His hand hung in the air where your wrist had been.

"What-" He looked at his fingers. There was blood. Not much. Just a smear. But it was there.

Your sleeve had ridden up when you pulled away. He saw everything. The old scars. The fresh wounds. The ones that were still healing and the ones that weren't.

His face went pale.

"Let me see," he said.

You shook your head, backing away.

"Please."

You didn't move. He stepped closer, slow, careful, like you were a wounded animal.

"I'm not going to grab you," he said. "I'm not going to pull. Just... let me see."

You held out your arm. He took it gently, his thumb avoiding the cuts, his other hand pushing your sleeve up to your elbow.

He looked at your arm for a long time. His jaw was tight. His eyes were wet.

"Why?" he asked.

You couldn't answer. You just stood there, shaking, waiting for him to leave.

He didn't leave.

He pulled you into his arms, carefully, so carefully, and held you against his chest.

"We're going to figure this out," he said. "You and me. I don't care how long it takes."

You buried your face in his tunic and cried.

He held you until you stopped. Then he helped you into the bath, washed you himself, and carried you to bed.

You fell asleep in his arms, while he didn't sleep at all. Just watched you, his hand resting on your back, making sure you were still breathing.

Lyonel - Lyonel was trying all night to get you to dance. Not in a pushy way, he was just naturally playful, the way he used to be when you first met. He grabbed your hand, spun you around, laughed when you stumbled.

"Come on," he said, grinning. "One dance. For old times' sake."

You didn't smile back.

He tried again. Pulled you closer. Dipped you low. The old tricks that used to make you giggle.

You pulled away.

"Lyonel, stop."

He blinked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just don't want to dance."

"You love dancing."

"Not tonight."

He reached for your wrist again. "Just one!-"

You yanked your arm back. Hard. Your sleeve rode up. He saw the cuts.

His smile died.

"What are those?"

You pulled your sleeve down. "Nothing."

"That's not nothing." He stepped closer, his blue eyes dark. "Let me see."

"No."

He didn't push. Didn't grab. Just stood there, staring at your arm, his chest heaving.

"How long?"

You didn't answer. You turned and walked away.

He followed.

You stormed down the corridor, your boots loud on the stone floor. He didn't call your name. Didn't try to stop you. Just followed, his footsteps steady behind you.

You pushed open the door to your chambers. He came in after you.

"Talk to me," he said.

"I don't want to talk."

"I don't care what you want." His voice was rough. Not angry. Desperate. "I need to know you're okay."

"I'm not okay."

"Then let me help you."

You turned to face him. Your eyes were wet. Your jaw was tight.

"You can't help me."

"Watch me."

He crossed the room and pulled you into his arms. You fought him at first, shoving at his chest, trying to pull away, but he didn't let go, even when you hit his chest.

"I'm not leaving," he said. "I don't care if you scream at me. I don't care if you hate me. I'm not leaving."

You stopped fighting. Collapsed against his chest.

He held you there, one hand on your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

"We're going to get through this," he said. "Together."

Maekar - Maekar had been in your chambers for an hour. Your room was quiet. Peaceful. His own chambers were too big, too cold, too full of servants asking questions. Here, he could think.

He was looking for a quill. Yours were better than his, sharper, the ink didn't smudge. He pulled open your desk drawer, rummaging through papers and dried flowers and..

His hand closed around something small. Wrapped in cloth.

He unwrapped it.

A blade. Small, sharp, stained.

He stared at it. His chest went tight. "Fuck," he muttered. Then louder: "Fucking- fuck."

He pulled open another drawer. More cloth. More blades. He cursed under his breath, slamming the drawer shut.

You heard him from the corridor. His voice was raised, you thought he was yelling at somebody, so you pushed open the door.

"What's wrong?"

He was standing at your desk, his back to you, his hands braced on the wood.

"Maekar?"

He turned. His face was pale. His jaw was tight. In his hand, he held a blade wrapped in bloodstained cloth.

"What are these?" he asked.

Your stomach dropped. "I can explain-"

"Can you?" His voice was rough, but not angry. Not at you. "Can you tell me why I just found a dozen of these in your drawers?"

You couldn't look at him. You stared at the floor.

"I didn't know," he said. "I didn't know."

"I didn't want you to."

He crossed the room. Took your face in his hands. His palms were warm, rough, shaking.

"I'm not angry at you," he said. "I'm angry at myself. For not seeing it."

"It's not your fault."

"It's not yours either."

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you. You stood there, frozen, waiting for him to let go.

He didn't.

"I'm here," he said quietly. "I'm not leaving. We'll get through this. Together."

You started to cry. He held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head.

He didn't speak. Didn't curse. Just held you, steady and solid, until your tears slowed and your breathing evened out.

When you finally pulled back, he wiped your cheeks with his thumbs.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you something to drink."

He kept your hand in his as he led you out of the room.

Valarr - You knew something was wrong the moment you walked into your chambers. Valarr was sitting on the edge of the bed. Not reading. Not writing. Just sitting, his hands folded in his lap, his mismatched eyes fixed on the door. Waiting for you. You stopped in the doorway.

"We need to talk," he said.

Your stomach dropped, and all of a sudden you could barely breathe. "About what?"

He didn't answer. Just patted the bed beside him.

You sat. Your heart was pounding. You couldn't remember the last time he had looked at you like this, calm, but not relaxed. Steady, but not at ease.

"I've noticed," he said, "that you've been... pulling away."

"I haven't-"

"Please." His voice was soft. "Let me finish."

You closed your mouth.

"You don't let me hold you anymore. You flinch when I touch your wrists. You've been wearing long sleeves in weather that doesn't call for them." He turned to face you, his knee brushing yours. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just... worried."

You stared at your hands. "I'm fine."

"You're not." He reached out, slowly, and took your hand. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist. "I've been watching you waste away, and I didn't know how to ask. So I'm asking now. Please. Tell me what's going on."

Your throat was tight. Your eyes burned.

"I can't," you whispered.

"You can." He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your palm. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm not going to run."

You sat there for a long time. He didn't rush you. Didn't push. Just held your hand and waited.

Finally, you pushed up your sleeve.

The scars caught the candlelight. Pale and silver, some of them. Pink and raised, others. Fresh cuts, still healing.

Valarr didn't gasp. Didn't flinch. He just looked at your arm, his thumb still stroking your wrist.

"How long?" he asked.

"A while."

He nodded. "Does it help?"

You blinked. "What?"

"The pain. Does it help?"

You weren't expecting that. No one had ever asked.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "For a little while."

He lifted your arm and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over the scars.

"I wish you had told me," he said. "Not because I'm angry. Because I could have been here. Holding you. Helping you find another way."

"I didn't want you to see me like this."

He looked at you, his mismatched eyes soft.

"I want to see all of you," he said. "Even the parts you're ashamed of."

You started to cry. He pulled you into his arms and held you.

"We'll figure this out," he said. "Together. You and me."

You nodded against his chest. He kissed the top of your head.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

[iressasmailbox]

hiii thank youuu for writing my request again it was sooo delicious and incredible 🤤✨️🤭

you're doing god's work bless you 🙏🙏🙏

i will be coming back with more requests if that's ok with you 😇🌸

OF COURSE!! so glad you love them, looking forward to the next ahaaa

[iressasmailbox]

What do you think of doing stories of spooning pregnant sex with the Targaryen royals x reader ( akotsk) . I don’t know how you will feel about that but I loved your last series where the reader was naked . If not just something with them and a pregnant reader in any situation.

Pregnant Sex with Akotsk Targ Men

honestly i love anything regarding pregnancy, i think it’s so cute and also smexy. THANK YOU FOR WAITING!! patience is so much appreciated. my summer classes just started and im having a rough time, but being able to write makes me feel way better. enough yap, i hope you enjoy

hcs of aerion, baelor, daeron, maekar, valarr

mdni 18+

Aerion - You were four months gone. Your belly had finally popped, small but it was definitely there, a firm little swell beneath your nightgown. And you were absolutely going feral.

It felt like weeks since Aerion had touched you, but in reality it was only a few days. Not because he was cruel, not this time. You just assumed he'd gotten what he wanted. An heir. A dragon in the womb. Why would he keep fucking you now that the deed was done?

So you suffered in silence. Tossing and turning. Pressing your thighs together. Biting your lip while he slept beside you, oblivious.

Tonight, you couldn't take it anymore.

You were on your side, facing away from him, your back pressed to his chest. He was asleep, or so you thought. His arm was draped over your waist, his palm resting on the curve of your belly.

You rolled your hips back. Just a little. Just enough to feel him. A little wouldn’t hurt, right?

He was hard.

You froze. Your face burned.

"Thought you were asleep," you whispered.

"I was." His voice was rough, groggy. "Until you started grinding on me like a cat in heat."

Your whole body went hot. "I wasn't-"

"You were." His hand slid down from your belly to your hip, gripping it. "You've been doing this for weeks. Tossing and turning. Making those little sounds." His lips brushed your ear. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

You swallowed. "I thought you didn't want-"

"I always want." He pushed your nightgown up to your waist and pushed your smallclothes down. His cock, already hard, slid between your thighs from behind. "I've been waiting for you to ask. Didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

"I didn't know how."

He bit your shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to make you gasp.

"You're carrying my child," he said. "You don't have to ask. You just have to spread your legs."

He pushed inside you. Slow. Careful. Different from before, no more brutal, frantic fucking. He moved like he was afraid of hurting you, of hurting the baby.

"Faster," you begged.

"No."

"Please-"

"You're pregnant. I'm not going to fuck you like a whore."

You whined. He laughed. But this was no laughing matter.

"Desperate little thing," he murmured. "All those hormones making you needy."

He sped up. Just a little. His hand slid around your waist, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow circles.

"You're so wet," he said. "So fucking wet. Is this all for me?"

"All for you."

He fucked you like that, slow and deep, his chest pressed to your back, his hand on your belly. When you came, you bit your lip to keep from screaming. He came a moment later, spilling inside you, his groan muffled against your neck.

"Next time," he said, still catching his breath, "speak up."

Baelor - The feast was your idea. Baelor had been putting it off for weeks, afraid of overwhelming you, afraid of the noise, the crowds, the endless parade of lords and ladies wanting to congratulate him on the heir you were carrying. It made him so nervous with you being surrounded by so many people, while you were pregnant with his child. But you were feeling good now. The morning sickness had faded for now. Your belly was round and firm, and you had that glow people talked about. So you told him it was fine. You wanted to celebrate.

Now you were standing in the great hall, your hand resting on your stomach, surrounded by well wishers, along with many, many guards. Baelor watched you from across the room. He had been watching you all night.

You laughed at something a lady said. You accepted a cup of water from a servant. You turned, your gaze finding his across the crowd, and you smiled.

His chest ached. Anything you did had him struck.

You were beautiful. You always were but it’s different like this, you’re radiant, glowing, carrying his child. Every time you touched your belly, his cock twitched. Every time you laughed, he wanted to drag you out of the hall.

He crossed the room. Took your hand. Pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

"Is everything alright, my love?" you asked.

"Fine." His voice was rough. "I need you."

Your eyes widened. "Now?"

"Now."

You didn't argue. You let him lead you out of the hall, down the corridor, to your chambers. The door had barely closed before he was on you.

"Baelor-"

"I've been watching you all night." He pushed your gown off your shoulders, baring your breasts. "Touching your belly. Smiling at everyone." His mouth found your neck. "Do you know what that does to me?"

"Tell me."

"Makes me want to fuck you."

You gasped as he lifted you onto the bed, laying you on your side, your belly propped on a pillow. He shed his tunic, his breeches, and climbed in behind you, his chest pressing to your back.

"You're so beautiful," he said, pushing your gown up to your waist. "Carrying my child. Glowing."

His cock pressed against your entrance. You pushed back, trying to take him inside, but he held your hip still.

"A-ah-"

"Shh." His hand slid around your waist, fingers finding your clit. "Let me take care of you."

He pushed inside you slowly. Inch by inch. You both groaned.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so good. So warm."

He moved slow. Deep. His hand never left your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. His other hand splayed across your belly, feeling the curve of it beneath his palm.

"I'm so proud of you," he murmured against your ear. "So proud."

You turned your head, just enough to kiss him. He kissed you back reverently.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He sped up. His hips slapped against yours, the bed creaking beneath you. You came undone around him, crying out, and he followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan.

"We should have feasts more often, if it gets to end like this" you said.

He kissed your shoulder and held you tighter. "Any night will end like this, just ask me."

Daeron - Daeron hadn't touched a drop of wine since the day you told him you were pregnant. EVERYONE cannot believe it, genuinely. Not because anyone asked him to. Not because he made some grand declaration. He just stopped. One day, after you first shared the news, he was excited, reaching for his cup, and he looked at you, at the way you smiled at him like he wasn't a complete disaster and he put the cup down.

He never picked it back up.

But he needed something. An outlet. Without the wine, he was restless. Fidgety. He followed you around the castle like a lost puppy, showing up in your solar, your chambers, the gardens. He held your hand at meals. He pressed his face into your hair when you were reading. He was everywhere.

You didn't mind. You'd rather have him drunk off you anyway.

Tonight, you were in bed. Your belly was round at five months, and you were lying on your side, facing away from him, because it was the only way to get comfortable. Daeron was behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his arm draped over your waist. His hand rested on your belly, palm flat, fingers spread.

He was painfully hard.

You could feel him, his cock pressing against your backside, thick and insistent. He wasn't trying to hide it. He wasn't grinding on you either. Just... existing. Letting you feel what you did to him.

"Daeron," you said.

"Mm?"

"You're hard."

"I know."

"Are you going to do something about it?"

He was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced circles on your belly.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want me to."

You turned your head, just enough to see his face. His violet eyes were dark, earnest, a little desperate.

"I always want you to. And the maesters said I should be fine.”

He exhaled shakily and relieved, pushing your nightgown up to your waist.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he admitted, his hand sliding down your hip. "Watching you. The way you move now. The way you touch your belly."

You reached back, gripping his thigh, pulling him closer. "Then stop thinking and do it."

He pushed inside you slowly. Careful. His forehead dropped to the back of your neck, and he groaned.

"You feel so good," he breathed. "So fucking good."

He moved slow at first. Deep. His hand found your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you arched your back, pressing into him.

"Faster," you demanded.

"You're pregnant-"

"I'm not made of glass, Daeron. Fuck me. Please.”

He laughed breathlessly and sped up. His hips slapped against yours, the bed creaking beneath you. His hand never left your clit.

You came first, clenching around him, your face buried in the pillow. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan, his body shaking against yours.

He kissed your shoulder. "I'm going to be a good father."

"You already are."

"I'm going to be sober. For them. For you."

Your heart fluttered and you reached back and threaded your fingers through his hair. "I know."

Maekar - You were close. So close. The maesters said any day now, and Maekar was losing his mind.

He had always been stern, prickly, quick to snap. But this was different. This was constant. He yelled at the servants for not scrubbing the floors hard enough. He yelled at the maesters for not washing their hands thoroughly enough. He hovered in your chambers, pacing, his hand never leaving his sword hilt.

"For fuck's sake," he snarled at a passing servant who looked at you wrong. "Get the fuck out of her sight."

The servant fled.

You bit back a smile.

"Stop laughing," he said.

"I'm not laughing."

"You're thinking about laughing."

You reached out and took his hand. He was tense, his fingers rigid, his knuckles white.

"You need to relax," you said.

"I'll relax when the baby is here and you're not in danger."

"That's weeks away."

"Fucking-" He stopped. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know."

You tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the bed. He followed, because he always followed, even when he was being difficult.

"Lie down," you said.

"I'm not tired."

"I didn't ask if you were tired. Lie down."

He glared at you. You glared back. He did as you asked.

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, your round belly pressing against his stomach. His hands came up automatically, settling on your waist.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Calming you down."

"This isn't calming."

Total lie, and his cock was already hard. You could feel it pressing against your thigh through his breeches. His breath hitched when you rolled your hips.

"Maekar."

"What."

"Kiss me."

He did. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling you down, and he kissed you hard. Desperate. Like he was trying to pour all his fear and frustration and want into the shape of his mouth against yours.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

"We need to change positions," he said.

"Why?"

"Because you're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm not-"

"I'm not taking that risk."

He sat up slowly, his hands on your waist, guiding you. He kissed you again carefully, so carefully, turned you both until you were lying on your side, facing away from him. Your belly rested on a pillow. His chest pressed to your back.

"Better," he murmured.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're pregnant."

He pushed your nightgown up to your waist. His cock, still hard, pressed against your entrance.

"Tell me if it hurts," he said.

"It won't."

"Tell me anyway."

He pushed inside you slowly. Inch by inch. You both groaned.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel so good."

He moved slow. Deep. His hand slid around your waist, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. His other hand splayed across your belly, feeling the curve of it beneath his palm.

"I love you," he said. "I'm going to be a wreck until this baby comes out."

"I know."

"I'm going to yell at everyone."

"I know."

"I'm going to yell at the baby."

"You're not going to yell at the baby."

He laughed, finally. His hips stuttered, and he buried his face in your neck.

"Just stay here," he said. "Don't move. Don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere."

He fucked you like that, slow and deep, his body curled around yours until you came undone around him, clenching, crying out. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan, his face buried in your hair.

"The maesters need to be cleaner," he mumbled. Still lodged inside you.

"I know."

"I'm going to write a decree. Mandatory hand-washing. Before and after every birth."

"That's a good idea."

He kissed your shoulder. "I'm terrified."

"Imagine how I feel."

"But I'm also happy."

You turned your head, just enough to see his face. His purple eyes were soft, vulnerable, nothing like the stern prince everyone else saw. It WILL be okay.

Valarr - You were seven months pregnant, and you were miserable.

Your back ached. Your feet were swollen. You couldn't sleep, couldn't get comfortable, couldn't even roll over without feeling like a beached whale. The baby kicked your ribs constantly, and you were pretty sure your hips were going to split in half.

Valarr did everything he could. He massaged your lower back every night, his thumbs working the knots out of your muscles. He brought you water, tea, whatever you craved. He helped you in and out of the bath, washing your hair, scrubbing your back, even though the maids could have done it. He wanted to do it. He insisted.

He also made you eat better. More greens, more protein, less of the sugary nonsense you kept trying to sneak past him. "For the baby," he said. "And for you." You rolled your eyes but ate the vegetables.

Tonight, you were lying on your side, facing away from him, your belly propped on a pillow. You felt huge. Grotesque. Your hips were wider, your thighs thicker, and there were stretch marks creeping across your belly that made you want to cry.

Valarr's hand landed on your hip.

"You're quiet," he said.

"I'm tired."

"Something else."

You didn't answer. His hand slid from your hip to your belly, palm flat, fingers spread.

"You've been avoiding my touch," he said.

"I have not."

"You have. Every time I try to hold you, you shift away." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Talk to me."

You swallowed. Your throat was tight.

"I feel disgusting," you whispered.

His hand stilled. "What?"

"Look at me. I'm huge. I have stretch marks. I can't even see my feet. How could you possibly-" You stopped. Your voice broke.

Valarr sat up. Gently, carefully, he turned you onto your back. He knelt beside you, his mismatched eyes soft, his jaw set.

"Can I show you something?" he asked.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He pushed your nightgown up to your ribs. Your belly was round and taut, marked with faint silver lines. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the curve of it.

"I love this," he said.

"You have to say that."

"I don't have to say anything." He kissed your belly again. Then your hip. Then the soft swell of your thigh. "I love the way your body has changed. I love knowing that you're carrying our child."

He kissed a stretch mark. Then another. His lips traced the silver lines, soft and reverent.

"You're not disgusting," he said. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You were crying now. Quiet tears sliding down your cheeks. He kissed them away.

"Can I touch you?" he asked.

"Yes."

He laid you back on your side, settled behind you, and pushed your nightgown up to your waist. Pulling your smallclothes down, and his hand slid between your thighs. You were already wet, embarrassingly so but you craved this, and he groaned against your neck.

"You're so responsive," he murmured. "So ready."

"I've been needing you," you admitted. "I just didn't know how to ask."

"You don't have to ask. You just have to let me in."

He pushed inside you slowly. Carefully. You both groaned.

"Oh," you breathed. "Oh, that's-"

"Good?"

"So good."

He moved slow. Deep. His hand found your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and you arched your back, pressing into him.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said. "Carrying my child. Letting me love you."

You came undone around him, crying out, your body clenching. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan, his face buried in your hair.

He didn't pull out. Just stayed there, holding you, his hand on your belly.

"I love you, you’re doing so well.” he said.

"I love you too."

He kissed your shoulder. "You're not allowed to feel disgusting anymore."

And he is absolutely right.

[iressasmailbox]

save a dragon, ride a targaryen. giddy up im getting my saddle

[iressasmailbox]

tears running doing my fucking legs oh my gosh. i think maekar sent aerion to the backrooms as punishment for losing the trial of the 7.