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18+ content mdni
smut (â„) - angst (âŸ) - fluff (â) - humour (â) ; series (â) - completed (â) - in progress (â)
â°Â BAELOR âBREAKSPEARâ TARGARYENÂ â± in progress
summary :Â the realm calls you the silver dragon with the voice of a siren that could seduce any man even the heir to the throne. the only problem with that is, you're the second born and eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen
âžÂ be a good baby (modern AU) : â„ ; ⟠; â ; â ; â in progress
âž coming soon
âž coming soon
âžÂ coming soon
Drabbles :Â
â°Â VALARR âTHE YOUNG PRINCEâ TARGARYENÂ â±
â the silver red thread : â„ ; â ; â ; â in progress
(desktop masterlist) ; (ao3)
summary :Â With your little sister's name day fast approaching, your father reveals it will also be a tourney for your favor. In which...Pride meets prejudice, but not all is what it seems under miscommunications...And Prince Valarr finds himself intrigued in the most unlikely of matches.
I havenât written anything since January so I might be a little rusty but hereâs a sneak peek of a draft Iâm working on for my new Jacaerys x reader fic!
Left is reader version! . . . And right is original character version!
Itâs a fix it comfort, romance fic between Jace and reader/her. where he possibly doesnât die
Ormund Hightower is the kind of man who has no shame during the wedding night ceremony. He would casually reassure you about ignoring having the Septons' eyes on you, almost resulting in arrogance and unintentionally making you insecure. But then, when you're lying down under him, with the fabric of your dress up over your hips and him between your legs, he would use a firm tone, inviting you to focus on him, to relax and praising you using words and caring gestures. He would touch your body in the right places to make you wet enough to avoid feeling much pain while he takes you for the first time.
The game starts with harmless jokes, but quickly shifts to focus on you and Harry as the tweets call out your intense on-camera chemistry and mutual attraction.
MATERIALIST
The moment the production team announced that the next promotional video would involve reading thirst tweets, the cast divided instantly: half looked delighted, and the other half looked terrified.
You fell firmly into the second category. Unfortunately, Harry fell into the first.
"It's going to be funny," he insisted while you both waited to be called onto the set.
"It's going to be a disaster."
"Same thing."
The confidence disappeared about twenty minutes later. The format was simple enough: everyone sat in a semicircle, took turns pulling tweets from a bowl, and read them aloud.Â
The first few rounds went exactly as planned. Tom pulled out a tweet declaring that a particular character âAlicent had absolutely no business looking that attractive while committing treason," prompting the entire room to dissolve into laughter. Another read one comparing dragons to oversized emotional support animals, while someone else had to fight through a tweet ranking every member of the cast purely on who looked best covered in fictional medieval dirt. The first few were harmless, but then it was your turn.
You unfolded the card and immediately covered your face. "No."
The room erupted. "Oh, it's bad." "Read it!"
Slowly lowering the card, you cleared your throat. "'The way Harry looks at y/n in interviews makes me feel like I'm interrupting something private.'"
As the room exploded with laughter, you pointed accusingly at the producers. "You're encouraging them."
"We're documenting them," a producer called out.
"That's worse."
Harry was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his microphone. The next tweet you drew wasn't much better: "'Every time they sit next to each other during interviews, I feel like a Victorian parent accidentally walking in on courtship.'" Phia actually slid out of their chair laughing at the specificity.
Unfortunately, Harry's turn arrived immediately afterward. He unfolded his card, read the first line, and sighed. "Oh, come on. I'm not reading this."
"You absolutely are!" the cast shouted.
He glanced at you before finally giving up. "'I don't ship them anymore. Shipping implies uncertainty. At this point I just feel like I'm waiting for an announcement.'"
The room lost its mind. Tom stood up, yelling, "They've promoted themselves from a ship to an administrative process!" You laughed despite yourself, while Harry looked equally horrified and amused.
"Read another one," someone demanded, shoving a fresh card into Harry's hand.
Harry unfolded it and immediately regretted it. Looking toward the ceiling as if searching for divine intervention, he finally read it aloud: "'If he looked at me the way he looks at her, I'd fold faster than a lawn chair.'"
The reaction was instant, with several cast members collapsing into giggles. "See? That's what I've been saying!" one pointed dramatically between the two of you.
"I don't even know what that means," Harry muttered, still staring at the tweet.
"Yes, you do!"
Then came the tweet that doomed the entire video. You picked up your next card, expecting another joke, but your eyes widened. You looked at Harry, then back at the card, then back at Harry again.
"Oh no," a Beth whispered.
You finally read it aloud. "'The real slow burn isn't their characters. It's whatever's happening in every interview where they spend ten minutes pretending they don't know they're obsessed with each other.'"
Silence. The entire room froze.
It wasn't because the tweet was inappropriate; it was because it felt accurate enough to make everyone uncomfortable. Ewan slowly lowered their drink, another looked deliberately away, and even the crew suddenly seemed unusually interested in their equipment.
You laughed first, mostly because the alternative was panicking. "Well."
Harry smiledâa small, quiet smile that somehow made the situation worse. "That's... specific."
The room immediately erupted again.
"HE DOESN'T DENY IT!"
"HE NEVER DENIED IT!"
"You're all impossible," you protested, pointing at the cast.
"And yet, we're not wrong."
The filming eventually ended, but that particular clip spread across social media within hours. Fans clipped the heavy silence, Harry's quiet smile, and the fact that neither of you had actually disagreed with the tweet. By the following morning, millions had watched the moment, summarized perfectly by the top comment:
"The thirst tweets weren't the problem. The problem was that one accidentally turned into an observation."
I kind of want to do a series of different types of interviews like the lie detector, vogues`s questions, gq "ten things I can't live without... that stuff but with the hotd actors, would that be great??
cw: 18+(mdni), monsterfucking!!, fluff, tail humping, scenting, possessiveness, slight workaholic baelor, praise, dirty talk, p in v, knotting, oral(f!receiving), oral(m!receiving), nesting!!, breeding, cock-warming, overstimulation if u squint, tail fucking(?).
a/n: OUR BIG DRAGON IS FINALLY HERE!! i might've gone overboard with this one oops. but alas, i put my whole freakussy into this!!! apologies for any mistakes, and thank you for being patient about this one! i appreciate it a lot < 3
⧠LOOKS
‷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tail is on the thicker side. heavy, long, and very sturdy. it's missing any membrane, with the scales smooth and hard along its length. nothing fancy, nothing that'll catch people's eyes when it swishes and curls behind baelor. the end of it is pointy, and could definitely hurt someone if aimed at a more vulnerable part of their bodies, which the prince keeps in mind, but rarely uses, if ever. he likes knowing that, if no weapons are at his disposal, he has an ace up his sleeve that he could use, and with full control as well. that's the thing about baelor: he has near full control of his dragonic side, having exercised it since he was a boy. rarely losing control, rarely having the kingsguard to get a hold of him to stave off any outbursts. but of course, he doesn't use his tail only in perilous situations. baelor also enjoys exploiting it for your own benefit: grabbing things for you, steering you in the right direction when you are next to him, wrapping it around any part of your body for contactâas long as it's proper, of course, if in public settingsâto soothe you or himself, when court weights too hard on his shoulders or you get rather overwhelmed at feasts. he likes to stroke your skin with the tip of his tail, just soft, rhytmic brushes that lull you back into comfort.
‷ baelor's talons are not the sharpest, but not the dullest either. as said prior, he likes knowing he has ways of besting his opponents if need be or defend himself if by any chance he gets attacked. we have to remember he is next in line to the throne, which means he needs to stay alive and well long enough to have the crown placed upon his brow. he cannot and will not take any chances of being caught defenseless. he might have the kingsguard around, but even then, the odds of being hurt are never zero. dragon hybrid!baelor sharpens his talons just enough to prick at skin if dug into with intent, but never enough to injure if he just scratches lightly at skin, which he does often when you're near. he never draws blood with you, hates to see any of his dragonic features ever being used to hurt you in any way, shape, or form. if it wasn't for you, his talons would be sharp enough to draw blood forthwith, but alas, he takes measures for that never to happen unless willed by him towards people who wish him harm.
‷ his scales are scarlet in color. they look akin to rubies in the sun, shifting and glittering with the rays of warmth. baelor does not particularly care to show them off, but makes sure they are visible, especially in court meetings or when he is called upon in some corner of the realm on princely duties. he wants people to know he is blood of the dragon, which runs so deep in his veins that even his features took after the ancient beasts people so feared. that is what he wants, for people to make the connection between what once was and what is now, that he is the closest thing to the dangerous, ruthless beasts of time long gone and fit to rule; strong enough to do it. the scaly plates encompass the whole width of his shoulders, swirling up the length of his nape and disappearing into the fine hairs there. they dip along his spine, a cluster of them, like freshly spilled blood, ending in that sturdy, glorious tail. you love the ones along his navel that travel slowly towards the base of his cock; it always makes your pupils dilate with want just at the sight. but you're not so crass as to not appreciate the reddish scales that dust his temples and ears, even a few stray ones here and there down his chest.
‷ dragon hybrid!baelor has horns, but not in the way you might think. they're almost entirely of solid bone, with a cluster of scales at the bottom from where they sprout on either side of his head. the horns are extremely sturdy and rather sharp at the end. in the beginning of your courtship, baelor was worried at times that he might accidentally nip or hurt you with them, but with time, he learned to maneuver around you in such a way that the threat of them towards you is very minimal. it's quite bothersome for him to wear helmets, which is why he asked for one that allows for his horns to sit comfortably inside the steel without hurting him, or simply, to have two gaps at the top for the horns to pop out outside the helmet. baelor ended up wanting both. he wears the latter at tournaments and jousts to intimidate his opponents a little. it's the one time where he can prance around and preen, not weighted down by duty and crown.
‷ his wings are kept against his back, but not all the way. they're ruddy and wide, the membrane thick and vibrant, expanding way past his body when unfurled fully. baelor commands a room quietly, without raising his voice, without making a fuss. the dominance is in the way he holds himself: the way he walks, looks, and comports himself. he uses the wings to his advantage, letting them unfurl just enough to shroud his broad back and the width of his shoulders, but not more than that. it's calculated, and it works wonders at letting him take up space and be imposing when he walks into a room, without even needing to speak. sure, he is the heir to the iron throne, and the title demands obedience, but how long would a mere legacy hold courtiers in check if he didn't have proof that he could fill the role waiting for him? having people stepping aside to make room for him fills baelor with pride; of his house, his name, and the man-beast he is.
‷ baelor's eyes are slitted, like any dragon's. he tries his best not to make it known when he has been slighted, especially in court, but his pupils always give him away. they thin so, so much when something gets on his nerves, even if otherwise his body gives no sign of his irritation. but, in the same measure, when he looks at something he likes, something he loves, something that pleases him, his eyes turn to almost black with the way his pupils expand and widen, overwhelmed by the warmth he feels in his chest.
‷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tongue is slitted, but just a bit at the end. does not like to showcase such a detail, unless it's with you, and only for your viewing. but there are times when a lord or sycophant says something too daring or out of place in court, and baelor would lick at his lips, letting the tip of his split tongue slither out just a bit, enough to be seen, with the barest hiss, before addressing the offender. it works like a charm in making himself heard and obeyed.
⧠BEHAVIOUR
‷ dragon hybrid!baelor is all about control and appearance. to the outside world, at least. he needs to appear like he is in control of himself and his dragonic side, especially when members of the court are around. proving oneself does not leave room for mistakes, and no matter how kind and benevolent he is, one slip could crumble it all away. baelor has the favor of the small folk and lordlings alike, and wants to keep it that way until he can feel the cold touch of the crown upon his brow and have the realm at his fingertips. until then, restraint and impeccable etiquette must be exercised every moment of the day in the presence of others. not that it does not come naturally to baelor, but some days are harder than others, and reigning in his more baser, primal instincts proves to be a challenge.
‷ as the heir to the iron throne, baelor is very busy and well known to be a bit, or more of a workaholic. he dislikes it because it keeps him away from you, his mate, for too long at times. perhaps from an outside perspective, he might seem like a serious, kind husband who will tend to his wife as duty demands, but not much more. that could not be further from the truth, for he craves you even when you are right next to him. you are a balm to his senses, softening the hard edges that come with the incessant demands of duty he is subjected to every single day. there is no better cure for his self-destructive ways of working himself to the bone than a stern look from you or a plea for respite. it shatters every shackle that binds him to his solar, his desk, his stack of letters and reports, and guides him right back to you, where he belongs.
‷ unfortunately, there are days when he cannot simply disregard duty and has to lock himself in his solar for hours on end, at times the whole day, just to be able to make a dent in all the stacks of papers he has lying around on his desk. it unnerves him, because he is aware that it makes you lonely. a wife should never go too long without the presence of her husband, and he would be remiss in letting you wallow in too much solitude. so, he comes up with a solution that will allow you to be close to him and grant him the possibility of working on his princely duties. he builds nests for you in his solar.
‷ as a dragon, the urge to provide his mate with a nest is as old as time, and baelor knows how much you love the one he had built for you in your shared chambers, so why not... give you more? he makes sure the necessary materials are the softest gold can buy, from silks to wool to rich cotton, all just for your comfort. the way your face lights up when he offers the idea makes his chest rattle with a pleased rumble, knowing he has made his mate happy. the nests are placed in his solar a fortnight after: one close by the windowsill so you can soak up the sun while you read and knit, one in a more secluded corner, where the temperature drops just a bit, ideal for taking naps and resting, and baelor's favorite, one right under his desk, tucked beneath it, as close to him as possible.
‷ despite what the realm might think, baelor craves you like no other; needs to be close to you as much as duty allows, and will do anything to make it happen. he loves it when you just curl up onto the nest under his desk, fingers gripping onto the hem of one pant leg or holding onto his tail. it's a heady feeling, having his mate seek him, wanting a point of contact even like this. the beast prowling in his chest almost purrs with delight when he feels you tug as much of his tail as you can towards yourself to cuddle it, cheek pressing against scales as you use it as a pillow while you slumber. baelor always takes a couple of minutes just to watch you, the tip of his tail slowly caressing your sleep-flushed cheek so, so tenderly, unable to help himself from touching, his heart skipping a beat when you unconsciously lean into the contact.
‷ but, that is not the only way he uses his tail, especially when he has you so close to him, so sweet and warm. spending time next to him, just watching him pore over documents and work himself to the bone, bores you at times, as much as you want to wave it off and continue being a supportive wife. many a time have you enticed him to give in to less... princely endeavours, using all the weapons at your disposal to make his resolve crack bit by bit. a flutter of your lashes here, a whine there, a tug on his tail or breeches, all in favour of his attention, if even just for a few moments. and baelor, your dear dragon, your ever dutiful husband, was powerless to resist for too long, especially when you leaned back fully into the nest, parting your thighs while you slowly inched your skirts up to your waist, showing off your smallclothes, or at times, lack thereof. always wet, folds glistening with your arousal, calling to him like a siren song, he was too enamored of a man to resist.
‷ do not think that baelor would push his chair back and crawl under his desk after you. no, not at all. work could not wait, now could it? so, he used his tail to give his pretty, needy wife what you so sought after, hands still busy writing letters and grain reports, delighting himself in the sounds of your moans and pleasured sights from under his desk. it was so easy to brush the tip of his tail upwards along the soft skin of your thigh, slow and steady, letting you feel him, building the anticipation before giving you what you wanted, swiping through sodden folds and drenching his scales in your slick. baelor always loved that sharp, breathy intake you took whenever the tip of his tail finally flicked against your clit, circling the sensitive nub in relentless motions, before tapping against it enough to make you gasp but never enough to sting, unless you asked for it nicely. it always reminded you of how your husband loved doing the same thing with the head of his cock whenever you fucked. mimicking the action with the tip of his tail always made you heady and bashful with lust.
‷ flicking and playing with your clit, dipping his tail just a bit into your wet hole to tease, ever careful not to hurt you, swiping through your folds again and again. baelor does anything to get you to cum as much as you want, multitasking between continuing his work and drawing out the most delicious sounds from your plush lips, letting you soak his tail to your heart's delight, happy that he's able to offer you release. at times, you get so overwhelmed, fingers grasping at his tail, needing something to ground yourself to, ending up pressing the scaly muscle against your soaked cunt and grinding against it, humping it eagerly to get yourself off, whining high in your throat at the feel of the bumps and ridges against your clit. your dragon always finds it so endearing, making sure to curl his tail just right, helping you chase that delicious heat, wanting his wife to never want for nothing.
‷ he loves to croon at you, even if he cannot see you. "feels good, my sweet?" baelor would hum as he continued writing, a small, pleased smile curling onto his lips as your moans got a little higher at the sound of that rumbled tone of his. "that's it, that's it. good girl." his praise washes over you in waves, bringing warmth to your skin and more slick between your thighs, only getting you to hump his tail faster. "you're dirtying me, my love," your dragon would continue, but not as a reprimand, the candor of his voice too gratified to sound like a reproach. "are you marking me, hm? getting that sweet honey all over my scales? is that how you scent your dragon, sweetling?"
‷ it gives both of you a sort of thrill. you're under his desk, in a nest he crafted for you, and he cannot see you, the wood obscuring everything you are doing. but he can hear all the sounds, all the whines, everything. the wet noises your cunt makes when the tip of his tail prods at your sopping hole. the rustle of your skirts as you grind your hips. the way your feet and elbows sometimes hit against the side of the desk, making the wood rattle just a bit, his handwriting skittering against paper, making him huff. never angry, always pleased. baelor cannot see you, but he can feel you around his tail, onto it, and hear every single sound your body makes; you make. it's maddening.
‷ and you have a perfect view of how hard his cock gets. how he spreads his thighs just a bit to relieve some of the pressure, the length tenting his breeches obscenely, making you even wetter. you try not to fall prisoner to the pull in your gut that tells you to move closer, to assist your husband the way he does you. but how could you ever, when you see his cock twitch every time your moans pitch higher because of the way the tip of his tail taps wetly against your clit? how could you not sit up and crawl between his legs, dipping your head to mouth and mewl along his clothed thigh, rubbing your cheek against the hard print of his cock insistently, offering him the friction he so craves?
‷ he's weak for you, forgoing his papers in favour of petting at your hair, humming as he watches you paw at his crotch, mouth open, tongue licking at him through his breeches. you're so eager, and he's never felt more powerful than in that moment, with his pretty wife between his thighs, willing to offer him pleasure in return. your fingers make quick work of his breeches, whining impatiently until you can get your mouth onto his cock, lips stretched around the girth of him, muffling your noises. "good?" baelor rumbles, letting his talons scrape and pet at your hair, tender and soothing, lulling you along as you suckle and lick at his cock. the expression on your face is serene, almost peaceful, and your husband knows what you need. "rest on my thigh," he coaxes. "hm, yes, like that, my love. good, good. stay like that for me." and you do, mouthing at his cock, swirling your tongue around the length, cockwarming it while it rests inside your mouth. baelor knows this is relaxing for you, even if it takes a lot out of him not to thrust inside that perfect, wet warmth enveloping him, but he holds back, petting your hair, brushing your cheek and crooning soft praise as your eyes lower, half-lidded and drowsy, mouthing at his cock lazily, suckling occasionally. he makes sure to rub your back with his tail, wanting you as pliant and melting as possible.
‷ of course, your mouth is not the only one being used for pleasure, for there are days when he hauls you from under the desk, placing you flush atop of hardwood, not caring about the papers and ink spilled for once, needing one thing and one thing only: to service you with his mouth. baelor is uncaring if he rips your skirts a little or not as he hikes them up your thighs, revealing your pussy to him, wasting no time in smushing his face right into the slick heat of you, inhaling the musk into his lungs and letting it fester, growling deeply into sodden folds. long tongue, the forked end of it lapping at you with fervor as he holds you against his mouth, tail wrapping around your waist to press you as close as possible, feasting to his heart's content. your juices coat his beard, nose, and chin, the pepper-salt hairs glistening with your slick in the candlelight. he preens at the way you arch off the desk, your fingers threading through his hair to press him further into you, grinding against his tongue until you cum. your husband is more than delighted to pull as many orgasms out of you as possible until you're spent and boneless.
‷ he doesn't wash off the scent of you from his beard. baelor leaves it there until the morrow, way past when the council has finished, loving the thought of having your scent clinging to him, just as his is all over you, for he had nuzzled you incessantly before leaving your bed that morning. your husband never lets you leave his side until you reek of him, wanting every single courtier that comes into contact with you to smell him in you first, and then your sweet scent warping around his own. a dragon needs to protect his treasure, to hoard it close and deter any grubby paws from touching it. baelor always leans close and sniffs at you at the end of the day, when you both retire to your chambers, nose pressing to skin and clothes and hair, making sure there are no other scents cling to you. only his. only ever his.
‷ scenting you so thoroughly ties into the need for him to breed you every time he fucks you. rutting into you deep and slow, too frustrated from working so late into the night, sometimes knotting the air, too eager and wound up, his body not having the patience to be all the way inside. but then again, having the pleasure to stuff you full, nudging his fat knot inside of your wet hole, groaning "shh, i know, sweet girl, i know." as the girth stretches you wide, one broad palm smoothing down your back soothingly to coax you to relax. "s' too big, hm? but you can take it, my love. just a bit more." when he's finally all the way to the hilt, your walls squeezing around his knot so deliciously, he can't help but blanket you with his body as he fills you again and again with every snap of his hips. "so good. gods, you're so warm, my heart. just right for my clutch to grow."
‷ and a clutch will eventually grow, for baelor is sure to keep his cock inside you as deep as it'll go, his knot keeping all his seed where it needs to be: in your womb.
‷ as much as he loves the heated moments, your dragon also wouldn't trade the tender ones for the world. the way you ask the maesters to prepare oils and creams for his scales and horns, your gentle fingers rubbing them in so carefully, making sure to get the salves in all the ridges and crevices. baelor's scales are so shiny afterwards, making him preen with delight when you fawn over them, admiring the way your dragon looks, all pampered and taken care of. you love helping him like this, making sure he looks impeccable for court, for the realm, feeling warmth in your chest when you see how regal and powerful your husband is, scales glistening in the light like rubies.
‷ even as busy as he is, baelor would always put you first, the realm is his duty, but you are his heart. he cannot imagine not having you close as his wife, his mate. having you close is no longer a need, but a constant in his life. wrapping himself around you as you sleep, tail curled around your waist or thighs, pressing you flush to him as he scents and sniffs at your throat and hair, whispering how much he loves you, how blessed he is to have one such as you next to him. his duty to the realm is, by extension, his duty to you, as well. baelor wants to make the seven kingdoms a better place so you can live and exist in a better place, safer, happier, less concerned by misfortunes. he truly wishes no harm to befall you and will do everything in his power to make sure that one day his wife breathes with less weight on her shoulders because he willed it so.
thinking about sitting behind maekar on his horse. having your arms wrappped around his waist and smooshing your face into the broad expanse of his back. him occasionally looking back over his shoulder to make sure youre okay, slowing his horse if theyre going to fast for your liking.
also thinking about sitting infront of baelor on his horse. his broad frame and arms enclosed around you keeping you safe and warm. speaking lowly into your ear, pointing out trees or animals you pass and telling you facts about them. keeping you pressed tightly against his chest and kissing at your hairline.
okay i cant stop thinking about this now because what if its an agreed upon thing that rhaenyra's daughter will marry gwayne just on the basis of peacemaking.
before the dance, she had a fling with luthor, but they ended things when she had to leave for dragonstone. she was younger then, its almost a criston cole and rhaenyra situation but instead of him being like "lets go sell oranges" he's accepts it easier. he had always been kind of aware that their relationship couldn't be permanent. its very much a dad's best friend situation. plus theres an obvious class difference, princess of the realm and commander of the city watch? doesn't usually fly.
he spends the years that pass afterwords and the beginning of the dance still in love with her, but shes out of his reach so he tries to move on.
in the event that the dance has a happier ending, less death, rhaenyra surviving and what not, he ends up finding out that she's betrothed to gwayne hightower for the sake of mending the rifts between their houses.
she is obviously against it privately but she's a princess, she knows her duty and she's silently resigned to it in public. gwayne isn't wicked, he is kind and he courts her and respects her. but between them is still their family's fight.
both are grieving their respective families. their relationship is never outright enemies to lovers, its condescension and performance. who will break the act first. it's the ultimate test of wits, gwayne is honor incarnate and she is a princess trained her entire life in diplomacy, charisma, and maneuvering.
even with the pain that the other's presence gives them, they do enjoy the back and forth game for a while (neither would admit it though.) for a while, she has begun to believe that loving gwayne would not be difficult.
but luthor reenters her life. he is made a lord for his service to her mother. suddenly there is advanced proximity. gwayne can sense the familiarity between them like a bloodhound, even if neither of them are acting on anything. all he needs to see is one too many prolonged pauses and lingering eyes, and he knows.
and he thinks, 'of course.' why wouldn't she want a seven foot tall knight who served her mother faithfully in the war against the hightowers, his family.
luthor is older and taller and knows so much about her without even trying. gwayne watches as they blend back together as though they were never parted, talking like old friends. it isn't romantic but gwayne feels their connection and envies it. he has spent so long earning her trust and affection.
and luthor is able to walk in with the familiarity that gwayne can only dream of. and of course her father loves luthor, hes one of his oldest friends. daemon despises gwayne and would never let him forget it.
even though their betrothal is meant to mend broken ties between houses, gwayne is still very much an outsider in the court because rhaenyra is queen. nobody says it outright for the sake of peace, but she did win. the hightowers are still leered at, and gwayne sees how much of his power comes from rhaenyra's daughter and her attentions.
he is the moon, and she the sun. he only shines when she turns to face him.
i'm also thinking that instead of rhaenyra's daughter this could work better as rhaenyra's sister just for the sake of ages/timelines, but i'd have to look at that to check
cw: hotd season 3 spoilers, fix-it fic!, heavy angst, hurt/BIG comfort, fluff so much fluff, mention of violence, mourning but no death, yearning, kissing, jacaerys loves his wife more than anything, (3.8kw).
synopsis: He promised. To you, to himself, right before giving the order. "I will come back to you," Jacaerys whispered, pressing warm lips to wood, as if sealing his silent vow through the door.
a/n: mama will hold ur hand through this. it'll ALL be okay! bawled my eyes out at this but god i needed it. translations for the high valyrian used at the end!
He had never felt so cold before.
A chill seeping into the marrow of his bones and encrusting muscle and tissue, making it hard to move; to breathe.
His eyes battled the shroud of darkness, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldnât halt the certainty, which in that instant appeared like his end. Not slumber, not unconsciousness, but his demiseâs unyielding grip curled around him like a serpent and squeezed until it wrung every bit of life out of him.
Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldnât name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.
The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.
He hopes youâll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.
Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesnât already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment youâve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?
Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.
You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.
He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, wonât get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when youâre face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.
Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he wonât have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.
But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all youâve lost; of all heâs made you lose.
It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.
Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.
The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.
But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.
He wishes he wouldâve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesnât feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He wouldâve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.
Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.
If his promise wouldâve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it wouldâve knocked the air out of you both. He wouldâve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing itâll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like heâs your whole world.
May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.
He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys wouldâve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldnât. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.
And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?
Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.
So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure itâs real.
Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Donât dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again andâ
âI shall watch him,â your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you â âYou need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.â
My Queen? Mother?
The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.
A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.
Were you crying? He couldnât bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.
Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.
He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didnât matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.
Please.
Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.
Please.
One last time is all he asks.
If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.
He knows heâs begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.
Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heartâ
Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldnât fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he mustâve brought you.
But he is wrong.
You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.
Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.
If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he couldâve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.
He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.
"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want toâ"
Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then whyâ
"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.
Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?
Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."
The Maesters? What ever could you mean?
Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?
"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wakeâ"
And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.
It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"
His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.
But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."
Breathing life back into you.
Does that meanâ
But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?
Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.
Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.
"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.
A laugh.
Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.
You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."
Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.
"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrÄeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you againâ"
He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.
And Gods, you do.
Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.
He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.
Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.
"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dÄrilaros ñuha."
Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.
He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.
"Avy jorrÄelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrÄelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, forâ"
But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."
Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.
He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."
Oh.
In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.
"But I haveâ"
"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."
"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.
You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.
He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.
"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.
And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.
tag list: @silkaurum @oldtowrs @mademoisellepetite @dreamgirlevill @0nlybitt3r4may @rhaenyras-crown @ghostlybfgf @pinkdoeweirdo
ser duncan the tall x wife!reader, +18 (mdni), domesticity, manhandling, size difference, praise praise praise!!, pussy pronouns, intercrural sex, dry humping, dirty talk, strength kink, dunk is so in love!!, cuddling, (3.5k).
divider credits @strangergraphics
a/n: i believe dunk calls his wife m'lady when he wants to have his way with her(maybe calls her pussy that too oops)!!! i'm sorry for any mistakes i wrote this out of nowhere in the dead of night lol!! i might rewrite this one if i find i still feel like it's not good enough but maybe im just overthinking!!
dunkâs embrace was warmer than the embers from the hearth could ever be. your husband, broad, solid, and sturdy against your back, muscled arms like vices around your middle as he held you securely on his lap.
it has been a ritual of sorts between you two: to hold one another tightly at the end of the day, undisturbed by anything but the crackling of the fire and the whispers of your voices as you discussed the chores that needed to be handled tomorrow around your humble abode.
you felt so safe in your husbandâs arms. gods, there was no better place to laze around and get drowsier than wrapped up in him after a tiring day spent puttering around your shared home. he runs as hot as a furnace, your duncan. there was never a need for a blanket, for if you were cold, his big, calloused hands would rub and massage the chill away, so gently and tenderly, melting you even further into the cradle of his arms.
like now, those same broad palms were pressing into the give of your hips, slowly dimpling the clothed skin as he listened to you list off the livestock that needed to be taken towards the hills for grazing. his face was tucked into the crook of your neck, nuzzling the skin there, taking slow lungfuls of your scent, nosing along your throat, pleased to find remnants of lavender and soap from your earlier bath still clinging to the flesh.
âyâ smell so nice, my lady,â he rumbled against your skin, pressing closer, muscles and sinew tightening around your middle, perching you higher onto his lap until you are flush against his broad chest, your rear snug on top of his crotch. âi ought to buy more of those fancy bath oils for yâr pretty skin.â
my lady. even after some moons of being each otherâs in front of the gods, your duncan still called you my lady. not all the time, no.
only when he felt the need to fuck you.
you thought it was endearing. your duncan, so big, so broad, as tall as oaks and as strong as steel, getting so overcome by the feeling of want, of need for you, that he blurts out such formalities still.
the sweet name rolls off his tongue anew, just a few after, more a strangled noise than anything, akin to a wounded beast as you feel a familiar thickness poking against the small of your back, barely grazing between your clothed buttocks.
it was truly a blessing how easily dunk got aroused. you hadnât even meant to do anything to entice him, but it seemed just having you close was enough to have him hard and wanting under you.
with a soft sigh, you lean your head back, his broad shoulder cushioning your nape as you peer up at him sweetly, voice but a whisper as you coax, testing the waters. âdo you wish for me, husband?â
the swiftness with which callouses bite into the fat of your hips was all the confirmation you needed. your duncan was so precious, so easily unraveled. it made you smile.
âgâgods, donât,â the rasp of his voice almost broke like a boyâs, already overwhelmed, slowly losing his composure. âi oughta not, mâlady. yâre tired, i know of it. you spent all day puttinâ those gentle hands of yours to work. i cannot justââ
and it was the truth. you were tired, but that was the last thing on your mind, especially when your eyes trailed down your husbandâs flushed cheeks, the sweat beading his temple, the veins in his neck pulsating with restraint.
âyou can,â you insisted, fingers lifting to cradle his chiseled jaw and lure his gaze towards yours, letting him see the same ardent desire reflecting back at him. the touch was tender but purposeful, making sure he could not look anywhere else but at you as you spoke. âfor i wish it, too.â
his pupils blew wide, the baby blues you so loved now darker, dropping to your mouth, as if debating on closing the distance, of tasting the words you spoke with his tongue and teeth to make sure you spoke truth.
you could tell the restraint was still warring within him, the concern regarding your fatigue from the labor of the day not quite vanquished. but it was no trouble, for you were as stubborn as he was, and even more relentless.
slowly, your hands touched his, soft against rough, guiding them up your knees, under your chemise, pressing broad palms against your thighs, letting him feel the warmth there as it beckoned him higher, towards the heat between them.
dunkâs jaw ticked, something akin to equal despair and desperation twisting his expression as he realized his resistance was crumbling. you could feel the harsh exhale through his nose against the top of your head, a hiss of surrender as his fingers squeezed at the flesh of your thighs, dimpling it as he hoisted you flush against him. his chest rumbled, the sound reverberating from the top of your spine and down to your very toes, something animal and carnal that brought gooseflesh all over your skin.
âyou arenât even ready fâme, mâlady,â your duncan exhaled shakily against your throat, the sound almost a moan as his fingers itched higher towards the apex of your thighs, where slickness already pooled unbidden. âyour pretty cuntâs not loose enough to take me yet. you ought to know i have to stretch her out fâ me.â
and you knew it to be true. your husbandâs cock was too big for you to take without the help of his fingers first, no matter how wet you were and how much you whined thatâ
âitâll fit,â tumbled from your lips, getting impatient as your thighs parted for dunkâs warm hands, urging him to touch you, to take what you both wanted so avidly. âbe gentle, and itâll fit, husbandââ
but your duncan would never put himself in the position to hurt you. no matter how molten the heat in the pit of his stomach got or how incessant your need to throw caution to the wind and see how well your pussy can stretch around his girth was.
his lips pressed fervently to your temple in an open-mouthed kiss, panting against the skin as he trailed more down to your rosy cheek, your jaw, placating you, trying to keep himself and you from doing something reckless.
âsânot right, mâlady,â dunk croaked against your jaw, lips still mouthing at the skin. ââs already late and ya need to rest. you were moments from finding respite on me just a few ago.â
his words might protest, but his hands tell another story entirely, rough fingers caressing higher until theyâre brushing against the slickness smeared onto the inside of your thighs, making him pause for a tense moment.
dunk is so still, your gaze turning to him just as a groan parts his lips, the sound torn painfully from somewhere deep in his chest. âyouâreâmâlady, I,âgods, yâre drenchinâ yourself already.â
you feel heat flood your cheeks at his crude words, tilting your face up until it's pressed into his throat, a tad bashful at being caught so undone by your duncan. but who could blame you? having his solid frame hold you so tightly, hands roaming, and mouth kissing heated paths down your skin was enough to have your core slick and throbbing.
and yet, he was still trying to do right by you, by his lady, for his fingers were stagnant now, just rubbing into the soft flesh of your thighs in desperate strokes, the tips barely grazing against your soaked cunt.
it drove you mad, this husband of yours. always thinking about your wellâbeing, even when you could feel his cock give pathetic little twitches between your buttocks, the chemise the only barrier between your bodies.
âmhm, all for you, my love,â you encouraged, your hips rolling into the phantom of his touch, making your rear grind against the bulge in his breeches. you felt the way his throat bobbed until under lips, the vibration of yet another groan making you hum. your duncan was slowly giving in, slowly letting go.
as much a man of honor as he was, he could never deny you for too long, especially with how good it felt to have you grinding back onto his lap like this, the ridge of his cock humping the cradle of your rear again and again, making his mind turn to mush. his hands dug into the fat of your slick thighs, broad hands encompassing each one, guiding you properly against his crotch, moving you slowly back and forth, making your body slide lightly against his broad chest.
a gasp slipped past your lips, core throbbing at the feeling of your husband using his strength in such a way. gods, it made you wetter than a maiden on her first night, no matter how many times your duncan moved you as he pleased, his brawn being used for pleasure instead of fighting.
he was getting pent up, puffs of air rustling the top of your head, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your thighs as he ground you faster against his crotch, the friction delicious and raw, like animals rutting together in their carnal desires. his grip was so strong, so steady, that you didnât even have to move anymore, letting him push and pull you against him, melting like drizzling honey into his strength.
dunk could barely think like this, with the whisper of her heat brushing against his clothed crotch, her chemise being damned to all hell for keeping the warmth he knew resided between those thighs. in his desperation, he kept one hand anchored to her, the other one fumbling with his breeches enough to free his aching cock from its confines, a sigh of relief following.
you wasted no time in hitching up your chemise, letting it pool around your hips, letting his glazed, unfocused eyes feast on the dampness between your legs, the folds of your pussy drooling slick along your thighs where his fingers still gripped.
âgods, look at that,â came rasped against your ear, punched out, the words thick in his throat. âmâlady is so wet fâ me.â
and the way his gaze was fixated on your mound made you believe he was addressing your cunt, not you in that moment, which only made you wetter, to have your duncan call your pussy in such a way.
his hand rejoined the other, gripping higher up your thighs, at the apex of them, his thumbs now brushing over the dripping folds, making your breath hitch noisily, hips chasing the touch helplessly, begging silently for more.
the touch was reverent. thick, calloused thumbs outlining the flesh, parting it lewdly to reveal your puffy clit and fluttering hole, bringing a rosy flush of embarrassment to your face. your duncan loved seeing how much you wanted him, the pads of his fingers exposing you even more, letting cool air brush against your cunt, like a caress.
âlook at her,â he whispered against your jaw, his chin now hooked onto your shoulder to have a better view of how his thumbs were spreading you open. âsâthrobbing for me, isnât she? mâlady gets dirty so fast. i barely touched her anâ look.â
he juts his chin lightly, coaxing your gaze to shyly flit down to where his is, and a whine falls from your lips as his words ring true. you were so wet, already making his fingers glisten with your juices as he slowly starts to rub along your folds, gathering more, greedy with the feel of the smooth slide.
âbut sheâs not ready for me,â your duncan tuts, so soft and breathy it doesnât even sound like a reproach as his touch lingers onto your clit, swiping over it gently, giving you a smidge of the pleasure you seek. âsheâs too small to take me right. canât hurt you.â
it is too late to care for such things. you are desperate for more, already overwhelmed from his slow touches, rolling your hips to encourage him to rub your clit faster, to give you anything but this torturous indulgence.
âneed to feel you, duncan. want your cock, my sweet,â you plead, resuming the grind of your hips, feeling the thickness of him under you fully now, only fueling the molten heat in your veins. heâs so hard against your buttocks, and you shuffle enough to perch against his navel instead, letting his cock spring free between your thighs, bobbing against your slick flesh obscenely.
it makes you gasp, and you hear an even louder one above you. no wonder your husbandâs eyes are glued to the way the thick length looks framed by lush, slick flesh on either side. the tip of it is oozing precum along heated flesh, and you watch with bated breath as it gives little throbs and twitches.
you have half of your mind to not seem frenzied with lust, but your body has no such qualms. one of your hands moves to palm his cock, lining it flush against your wet slit, folds parting against the girth of it, plump and soft. it looks sinful, clawing a groan out of your husband, whose hands now grip hard enough to leave marks behind on the fat of your hips, wishing to hold you in place, to still the hunger in your movements.
âcâcanât, mâlady, canât, wonâtââ
but you are done listening, squeezing your thighs, cushioning his cock between the apex of them, snug and so, so wet with slick, glistening, and beckoning towards sin.
the sound that tumbles from your husbandâs mouth is more beast than man, his grip trembling now to hold you, moments from tipping over the edge of something delicious and heated, something you both desire so ardently. âgods, aâah, donâtââ your duncan is trying his hardest to keep his wits about him and failing miserably, just as you want him, just as you need him.
he was so hard and throbbing in the cradle of your thighs, encouraging you to squeeze his cock between them again, slow, hips rolling upwards, until only the flushed tip was poking through, your folds gliding wetly over the length.
âfeels good, husband,â you croon, words sickly sweet and wanton, your head falling back against his broad chest with a moan as your hips moved again. âgive it to me like this, my love, please. mâmake it good for your lady.â
those words seemed to melt the last frayed ounce of restraint your duncan had. with rasped cursesâsounding almost angry, at the end of his patienceâhis broad palms circled your hips, so big his fingers spanned across your belly, and yanked you down against his lap.
tandem moans fell from both of your mouths as his cock slid between your thighs with the motion, your hand keeping it snug against your mound, the drooly tip bumping against your puffy clit with every upward rut of your husbandâs hips.
your duncan was moving you on its own, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were nothing but a feather in his grasp, bound to bend to his will. and gods, did you love it. you loved when dunk manhandled you, when he forgot just how strong he was, how much he could do with the muscles and sinew he possessed, bouncing you effortlessly onto his lap, his cock sliding between your tightly squeezed thighs from base to tip.
once again, his gaze was trained solely onto where the cockhead poked between your plush flesh, making a mess of both of your juices, coating your thighs, making the rock of his hips smoother. âmâladyâs so hungry for it. câcouldnât wait until the morrow,â it sounded like he was chiding you, but the dampness of his breath against your neck as he groaned and moaned unabashed told otherwise. he loved it. he loved it when you wanted him so much that all sense of propriety flew out the window, and all that remained was his lady. his lady, who would do anything to get her way.
âyouâll have me on the morrow as well,â you declared, demanding and whiny, as if it was not up for discussion. âyouâll give me your cock properly, as a husband should.â
a punched out moan fell from his lips, nodding feverishly as he whined, face aflame and a little drool at the corner of his mouth from having his lips parted by pleasure. âaâanything mâlady wants. anything, anything. gâgods, iâll give you anything yâwant, my sweet lady, pretty ladyââ
the slide felt so good. he started babbling, praise so sweet it pooled in the pit of your belly, rapid and curling. your hand never straying from keeping his length flush against your slick folds, loving to watch the way they parted around the girth, the way the flushed tip grazed your clit with each rock of duncanâs hips.
you were pliant and melting in his hold, letting him do all the work, to bounce you harder and faster along his cock, feeling the way it throbbed and twitched, already close to his peak. your poor duncan.
dunkâs grip onto you was like a man clinging to the edge of something sinful, fingers flexing firmly against your flesh, squeezing more with each bounce, rhythm starting to falter the closer he got.
his lips were drooly and wet as they met the skin of your temple, your cheek, your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses, desperate and frantic. âmy perfect, precious lady,â he would moan, pitched and breathy, praise falling from his lips without preamble. âsâgood for me, always so good to me. lettinâ me have you like this. gâgods, i love you sâmuch.â
all you could do was smile, dopey and soft, turning towards his kisses, catching his lips with yours, letting your moans mingle between your tongues as you chased your peaks together.
âlove you so much,â you mewled against his mouth, tongue swiping the roof of it, eliciting a wounded, whining sound, his hips stuttering. so, so close to the edge. âare you close, my sweet?â
your duncan could only nod, fervent and clumsy, barely able to reciprocate your kiss from how hard he was panting and keening against your lips. ânot gonnaâ last. feels sâgood. mâladyâs so warm and wet,â he continued, voice thinning with each syllable. âmâsorry, mâlady, godsââ
âgive it to me, my love. your lady wants it,â you urged, coaxing him into it as your thighs squeezed once, twiceâ
and then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum coating your skin as his cock twitched, an undignified sound ripping from his throat that wouldâve probably shamed him if the sensation of your thighs squeezing around him, milking him through it didnât feel so heavenly. you didnât let up either, letting your husband clumsily bounce you a few more times, his throbbing cock sliding against your folds and clit so perfectly, enough for you to tip over the edge as well with his name on your lips, wanton and heated.
breathing seemed like a luxury now, both of you so spent and sweaty, your body melting against his sturdy, broad chest, thighs shaking with the remnants of your climax, small, pitiful whines falling from your lips as you settled.
your duncan had to catch his breath, before he slowly maneuvered you, hands easing up around your hipsânow massaging the flesh like an apology for being rough, for using his strength in such a manner, for leaving behind marks etched into your fleshâand tucked you against his chest, turning you gently so you were facing him, your legs dangling over the side of the armchair.
head tucked under his chin, ear pressed to his chest, the sound of his heart loud and slowing from the heat that transpired between you. âmy sweet wife,â he whispered, so achingly loving, pressing small kisses to the top of your head, before nuzzling close, nosing along your hair. âmy darlinâ lady,â he continued, and you couldnât help but smile, bashful and content, snuggling closer to to the warmth of his frame, turning your head enough to press a smooch against where his heart was beating. "thank you, thank youâ,"
your duncan was so lovely, especially spent and tender like this, broad hands easing you into drowsiness as he murmured sweet nothings into your hair, as if he hadn't taken you apart moments prior.
sighing softly, you hoped he would hold up his end of the bargain and take you properly tomorrow, or you would have to take what you wanted again.
(for the next couple of weeks â including other hcs and asks ofc đ) these are literally just fics i have ready to be typed up :))
BABY BLUES â maekar targaryen x wife!reader
â In which, amid the happiness and chaos of welcoming your newborn, your husband feels a sense of jealousy and neglect on not being able to be alone with you for longer than five minutes. And he makes an effort to act on it. (smut, fluff)
THE STRANGEST THING â blind!baelor targaryen x wife!reader
â After the events of the trial of Ashford, Baelor is left mortally wounded and without his sight. As he regains memory and the ability to walk, he relearns you and your family all over again, and yet itâs as if nothing had ever changed. (angst, fluff)
THE GHOST ON THE SHORE â maekar targaryen x baelorâs wife!reader / baelor targaryen x wife!reader
â You and your brother in law are both haunted by the death of the one person who meant the most to you in your lives. Now you are left to pick up the pieces together, a new future, a new marriage, and something new blossoming under the surface. (angst, fluff, potential smut)
THE SHAME OF LIFE â bfâs dad!simon foster x reader
â When Tom starts neglecting you, his girlfriend, spending more time out late at night without a single text, his father finds ways to comfort you. Because who else better? (smut)
SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT â maekar targaryen x wife!reader, aegon âeggâ targaryen / mother!reader, ser duncan / reader
â Weeks after the arrival back to Summerhall, you and Maekar are left with a decision to wait for your youngest sonâs and his hedge knightâs arrival without a single word, or search for him yourself. And going to find him on your own, the pair of you ended up with more than bargained for. AKA the time you and your husband end up on the road with Dunk and Egg. (fluff, minor angst)
A LITTLE RESPECT â ser duncan the tall x targaryen!reader, aerion targaryen x sister!reader (one sided)
â Dunk intends to prove how much he loves you, adores you, worships you, even if that means a certain someone in between you both, has to watch. (smut)
â â
A/N: ps let me know if youâd like to be tagged for any of these sexies đđ
im twitching in anticipation for your obsession au LIKE THIS IS SERIOUS TO ME (not to pressure u or anything!) but the concept eats so bad and ur writing has alw been chefs kisses so i have no doubt ! đ»đ»đ»
no pressure at all love, in fact it only makes me more excited to write!! so hereâs a snippet đ
TO HAVE AND HOLD (WIP)
It was supposed to work out in his favour. To do exactly what he had asked it to do. For you to be his more than anyone else in the realm. And he had been plagued for so long, too long, made to live a life so troubled and pathetic.
But it was going to be different, because he found a cure. It was meant to him what he wanted, and what he wanted was you.
The witch must have cursed him, tricked him into another means in his desperation, because it twisted itself into something far different.
It will enhance what is there, leaving only the truth. Her words still ring loudly in his head, pulsing in his temples with every moment that passes. Love shall grow deeper, desire will burn, and obsession. Well, it overflows.
And denial is a cruel mistress. One that comes back to bite those that arenât careful, and he denied it even now, but Aerion had fallen into its trap. Because you did not feel what he had, desire and lust and want wasnât your emotion.
It was his.
The idea angers him. That you would have been anything else but his the way he wanted you to be. It makes him tick to imagine you elsewhere but at his side, a rage so raw it pumps tight in his veins along with whatever else has planted itself inside.
His hand collides with the marbled basin, hard and fast, stone cracking under force. A pained groan leaves his throat, eyes flickering to catch his face in the reflection from the dimly lit candles behind. The expression he finds undoes him, wide eyes and crazed, deep violets blown a deep black, rimmed a bloodshot crimson at the edges from lack of sleep, rendering him almost lifeless.
âWhat the fuck is this.â Aerion isnât certain who heâs talking to, but it comes out a lowly whisper, the pain pricking hard up his fingers. He attempts to flex them but they only freeze his grip, stiffening like the aching in his back. The muscles of his chest stretch in the glow as he straightens, watching his hand intently. He doesnât go to aid it, nor bathe it in the warm water below, he just stares. Allows himself to feel the tingling sensation run up his arm.
And thatâs when it replaces itself. Like a sudden snap of a tree branch underfoot.
A new feeling washes over him all at once, one that takes the pain away and the angst with it. His eyes squint at his skin, focusing on the broken skin of his knuckle. And suddenly it breaks him open much like the wound, the confusion fading.
Why is he questioning it? Why not just let it happen? The questions differ from the old ones. He no longer wants to ask why itâs happening, or what is.This is purpose, this is what he had asked for, and pride would not let him falter.
No, he wouldnât let it.
If the potion was strong enough to come to fruition, to bring him closer to you, heâd give into it. It wasnât doing harm, it was the divine, the way it should be. And now heâd let it take over, and continue his advances like he had planned to all along, this time harder.
